by Markus Heitz
“It stands to reason, doesn’t it? Escaping across the Northern Pass is the perfect solution for the orcs. Ushnotz lost a decisive battle, and the allied army is waiting for him to return to Toboribor. If you were a lava-livered runt, you wouldn’t go home either.”
“I think you’re right about them leaving Toboribor,” said Tungdil, nodding. He joined Boïndil at the weathered battlements, leaning over the parapet and running his fingers over grooves and pockmarks created by cycles of rain, wind, sun, and snow. Straightening up, he fixed his gaze on the legendary peaks of the Gray Range. “But if you ask me, they don’t intend to leave Girdlegard: They’re planning to settle here.”
“What?” growled his friend. “In our mountains?” He spat on the fallen orc. “May Vraccas beat your soul with a red-hot hammer and torture your spirit with burning tongs!”
Thinking about it, Tungdil felt certain that Ushnotz had intended to occupy the fifthling kingdom. It’s lucky we got here first. He doubted that he and his warriors could have liberated the stronghold from an army of orcs.
It was difficult to know what the troopers had been doing at the gateway. Trying to close it or destroy it? He wondered whether the orcish chieftain had been planning to charge a levy for crossing into Girdlegard. A toll system would be an excellent way of securing weaponry and supplies. Ushnotz struck him as the type to exploit a situation for maximum gain.
Tungdil, having made the connection between Ushnotz, the dead glade, and the revenants, realized with a sinking feeling that he and the others were soon to be visited by some very unwelcome guests. How big was the orcish army? Four thousand, at least…
His gaze swept the mountains, valleys, and ravines and came to rest on the mighty summit of the Dragon’s Tongue.
“I promised to win back the fifthling kingdom for the dwarves,” he murmured softly. “The orcish invaders brought misery on Girdlegard. I don’t care how many necks we have to sever, we won’t let the Stone Gateway fall to the beasts.”
Boïndil nodded. “Well said, scholar. To blazes with the orcs! If they’re the same lot we saw in Gauragar, they’ll be stronger in numbers: The odds aren’t impossible—but it’s a sizable challenge.”
“We’ll have to behead them, don’t forget. Undead orcs are four times more difficult to kill—we lost a lot of warriors today. We won’t defeat them on our own.” He thought for a moment. “We can’t ask the firstlings—they won’t get here in time.”
“What about the elves?”
“They’re too busy reclaiming landur and destroying the älfar. We can’t rely on their help.”
“Hmm.” Boïndil stared at the sheer flanks of the Great Blade. “Who can we ask?” His eyes lit up as he thought of the perfect solution.
“The outcasts,” said Tungdil, thinking the same.
“Look!” shouted a dwarven warrior, peering across the border to the Outer Lands. A milky fog had descended on the mountains, shrouding the Northern Pass in mist. “There’s something down there! I saw movement on the track.”
Tungdil frowned. He and his warriors were in no position to defend themselves against an army of beasts. Considering how many had been killed or injured already, they could scarcely hope to hold the gateway for longer than a peal of orcish laughter would take to echo across the pass. “Be quiet while I listen,” he commanded.
They strained their ears, listening for noises in the thickening fog. The tension showed on their faces. Boïndil peered into the mist, chewing absentmindedly on his braids.
Thick tendrils of fog crept toward the gateway, slipping nervously through the opening as if afraid that the doors would close.
After listening for a while longer, Tungdil breathed out. “You must have been mistaken,” he said, relieved.
“I knew I shouldn’t have got my hopes up,” grumbled Boïndil, letting his arms hang limply by his side.
A muffled jangling sounded from below, its source obscured by the thick veil of fog. In an instant, the tension returned.
“Sounds to me like badly forged armor,” said Boïndil. He turned to the four dwarves who had captured the orcish prisoner. “You checked the gateway for survivors, didn’t you?”
They looked at each other uncertainly.
“I think so,” said one of them, but he didn’t sound sure.
“Which is to say, we might have missed one,” surmised Tungdil, realizing that the boulders on either side of the path were plenty big enough to hide an orc. It wasn’t a reassuring thought. “We’d better check.”
“Let’s catch him before he tells everyone in the Outer Lands that the border is open,” said Boïndil, jiggling his axes. “For all we know, he might be a northern trooper, not one of Ushnotz’s scouts.”
Tungdil had no desire to fight off an invasion from the north, especially with Ushnotz marching on the kingdom from the other side. He signaled for Boïndil to follow him and picked out three dwarves who had acquitted themselves well in the previous skirmish. “You lot come with me, while the others keep watch.” He and his warriors hurried down the stairs.
Porista,
Former Realm of Lios Nudin,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
Take that, Nôd’onn, you traitor!” boomed a heavily armored man, leaping somewhat inelegantly out of the shadows to challenge the cloaked figure in the middle of the room. His voice was muffled by a helmet, which made it sound like he was speaking from inside a bucket. He struck a heroic pose. “Your cruel campaign against Girdlegard is over. With this ax I shall slay your inner demon and bring peace to these lands. Prepare to meet your death!” He raised a shimmering ax and swung it above his head. The blade left a trail of red light in the air, whereupon smoke filled the room.
Yelping, Nôd’onn backed away; the valiant warrior lurched after him, armor tinkling unheroically. The magus retaliated by bombarding him with fiery sparks.
“Your dark arts can’t save you,” prophesied the warrior, sparks rebounding from his breastplate. Lunging forward, he wobbled slightly before raising his weapon to deliver the final strike. Even as the ax slammed into Nôd’onn’s torso, an almighty explosion sounded from somewhere, filling the room with blinding light.
When the glare finally faded, Nôd’onn had vanished, and the warrior was stamping frantically on the smoldering remains of his cloak. It wasn’t until the flames were well and truly extinguished that he turned to face the front.
“And that, worthy spectators, is how your hero, the fabulous Rodario…” He broke off and fumbled unsuccessfully with his visor. After a time, he yanked it impatiently, and the clasp came away in his armored hand. “Of all the confounded—”
Dropping his ax, which planted itself in the floorboards a hairsbreadth away from his foot, he raised both hands to his helmet and pulled with all his might. When that failed, he flung out his arms theatrically, causing his armor to emit an ear-splitting screech.
“As I was saying,” he started again. “I, the fabulous Rodario, assisted by Andôkai the Tempestuous and my loyal helpers, the dwarves, rescued Girdlegard from Nôd’onn’s clutches and restored our kingdoms to their rightful rulers. Thank you for your indulgence, worthy spectators. Donations will be collected at the door.”
He stepped forward to take a bow, stood on a wobbly floorboard, and tumbled off the makeshift stage. The orchestra pit, usually packed with musicians and technicians, was empty. His armored body clattered to the floor.
The audience of two burst out laughing and hurried to help him up. “Congratulations,” said Narmora dryly. “Do you think you can repeat it on the night?”
“Get me out of this helmet,” came Rodario’s muffled voice. “I can’t breathe!”
Furgas, chief theater technician at the Curiosum, examined the broken clasp. “You’ve ruined the mechanism. It won’t be easy.” He got to work on the visor and a few moments later, Rodario’s aristocratic features were revealed. His pointed beard had suffered terribly from his unconventional exit from
the stage. In fact, his whiskers were sticking out in all directions as if to express their shock.
“Thank you,” he said gratefully. He turned to Narmora and looked at her expectantly. “What did you think?”
“A hero must wear his armor convincingly or the audience will boo him off the stage. You were swaying from side to side.”
“Don’t you know anything about tactics?” said Rodario sniffily. “A good warrior wrong-foots his opponents.”
“Narmora has a point; you need more practice,” chimed in Furgas. He was dressed in tight black clothes and his hair was specked with powder. He tried to shake it out. “For my part, I need to work on the effects. Another flash of light like that, and our audience will be blinded. On the whole it was good, though.” He thumped Rodario’s armored back. “Oh, one last thing—why was Andôkai’s costume so skimpy?”
“Skimpy? The Estimable Maga likes to flaunt her figure. I can’t be blamed for portraying her as she is.”
“Of course not,” said Narmora sweetly. “But what possessed you to cast her as your mistress?” Her smile became decidedly arch. “I hope you haven’t forgotten she’s sending Djern to watch the play. You remember Djern, don’t you? Three paces tall, bristling with weaponry and strong as ten men… Oh, and he’s fast as an arrow as well.”
The impresario turned to Furgas. “I don’t like to tell you this,” he said in a wounded tone, “but your wife is a heartless harridan who takes pleasure in other people’s misfortunes.”
“Only in yours,” Narmora corrected him with a smile. “Anyway, you should be grateful to me. Don’t say you weren’t warned.”
He narrowed his eyes and cast her a scornful glance. “My dear Narmora, I’m using my artistic freedom. Even the Estimable Maga must submit to the playwright’s pen.” He turned again to Furgas. “Since your wife has no compassion, perhaps you, as a caring father-to-be, will have the goodness to free me from this metal dungeon…” He stuck his arms out tentatively and managed to lift them as far as his waist. “How can anyone fight in this get-up?”
“Most warriors manage to stay upright,” said Furgas dryly. “Wait here while I fetch my tools. You’ve twisted everything out of shape.”
Narmora went with him to the cramped workshop where he designed and tested all kinds of incredible theatrical effects. Furgas could build props, make fireworks, cause flames to appear from nowhere, and create illusions worthy of a magus, for which he was rewarded by the audience’s gasps and cheers.
He gathered up a hammer, a pair of dainty pliers, a chisel, and a crowbar, while Narmora examined his latest drawings.
“A crane on wheels,” she said admiringly.
“It saves the effort of taking it to pieces and moving it by cart. We can roll it wherever it’s needed.” He beamed. “We’re making good progress. It won’t be long before Porista rises from the rubble, a hundred times more splendid than before.”
Narmora kissed him impulsively. “Our child will grow up in a city built by its father,” she said proudly. “Think what you’ve achieved here!”
“I’m glad you persuaded me to work for the maga.” He put his arms around her tenderly, taking care not to squash her belly. “If it weren’t for you, I might have turned down the chance to rebuild Porista. I had another offer from Girdlegard’s leading actor. He wanted to reopen the Curiosum in Mifurdania, you know.”
“Girdlegard’s leading actor—do I know him?” quipped Narmora, ruffling Furgas’s spiky black hair. “I’m proud of what you’re doing. You’re too talented for the theater.”
“I heard that!” came an indignant shout from the stage. “I heard everything! Stop delaying him, you poison-tongued witch! You’ll be sorry if I expire!”
Furgas laughed and stroked Narmora’s face. “The theater has its attractions—but the maga pays better.” He pressed his lips to hers. “Why don’t you go ahead? The hero of Girdlegard needs a hand with his armor.”
Narmora unwrapped her arms from his neck, walked to the back door and opened the latch. Turning, she watched as he hurried out with his tools to rescue his friend.
Even as she stood there, she knew that Furgas meant more to her than anything in the world. Andôkai could offer her all the money and power in Girdlegard, but it wouldn’t match their love. Maybe the maga is right, and the gift of magic lies within me, but I’m happy to let it slumber.
Her gaze fell on a sheet of foolscap half-hidden by a pile of drawings. She pulled it out and gasped. It was a design for the most beautiful cradle she had ever set eyes on. How sweet of him to hide it from me. She slipped out quietly and closed the door.
Inside, Furgas was attending to the trapped impresario. He worked a chisel between the buckled plates and pried apart the armor. “I don’t believe there’s a warrior in Girdlegard who could damage his armor as thoroughly as you.”
Rodario nodded modestly. “Excellence comes naturally.”
Screeching in protest, the plates returned to their original position. Furgas took up the pliers to straighten the hasps. “I’m glad you moved the Curiosum to Porista.”
“What choice did I have? I needed my brilliant Furgas to dazzle the audience with his fireworks. The Curiosum depends on your jaw-dropping, purse-opening tricks.” Realizing that he had furnished his friend with grounds for a pay rise, the impresario bit his lip. “It’s a shame the people of Porista aren’t especially wealthy,” he added hastily. “A few lucky souls are on the maga’s payroll, but the rest of us make do with what we’ve got.”
Furgas smiled to himself. “I’m sure you won’t live in penury for long. You own the best theater in the bright new city of Porista at the heart of Girdlegard’s only enchanted realm—and the playhouse was a gift from Andôkai, don’t forget.” The pliers battled with a steel fastening, forcing it into shape. Furgas finished the job with his fingers by unhooking the breastplate deftly. “There you go.”
“Excellent work, my dear Furgas.” The impresario pulled off his helmet, shook his hands free of his gauntlets and smoothed his tousled beard. “It was getting hot in there. Why would anyone want to be a warrior? Thank the gods that acting is a talent that appeals to women as well as lovers of the arts.”
“It didn’t work on Andôkai,” commented Furgas, gathering his tools and setting off for his workshop.
Rodario picked up his armor and hurried after him. “O cruel Furgas,” he wailed. “You break my heart with the mention of her name.” He flung out his right arm dramatically. “Look, there it lies, broken into a thousand pieces. How will I find the strength to make it whole again? Have you no pity?”
“You seem to have forgotten we’re not rehearsing anymore,” said the prop master, returning the hammer, chisel, and pliers to their proper places. “Leave the armor on the workbench. I’ll take a look at it tomorrow.”
The heartbroken Rodario forgot his sorrows and deposited the armor happily on the bench. “My dear friend, an actor must exercise his talents. My words must flow freely and effortlessly like water in a stream.”
“Perhaps you’d like to divert your waterway to the tavern; I’m sure the gentlewomen of Porista and their daughters will find it most refreshing.” Furgas extinguished all the lamps but one, locked the back door, and propelled his friend through the theater. “Be careful about flowing too freely. We don’t want hordes of husbands, fiancés, fathers, and brothers banging on our door. Remember what happened in Sovereignston?”
Rodario silenced him with an imperious wave. “I don’t water every blossom,” he said dismissively. He turned on his heels, picked up his cloak and tossed it over his shoulder theatrically. “But if they incline their petals prettily toward me… I’m too well mannered to refuse.”
The Curiosum was four hundred or so paces from the palace and even closer to the market. They left through the front entrance. Furgas padlocked the door and held out his hand. “Good night, you old charmer. Sooner or later your little Rodario will end up on the end of a pitchfork or dangling from a flagpole.”
“Even then its prodigious size will put other men to shame.” Rodario winked at him roguishly. “I appreciate your concern.” He pointed to the brightly lit windows of a tavern. “How about a beverage? I’d be flattered if the architect of the new Porista would buy me a glass of wine.” His proposal was rejected. “In that case, I’ll meander among the flowerbeds of Porista.” He raised his left hand and placed his right on his heart. “Don’t worry; I’ll stick to the path.”
Furgas smiled and started on his usual route home. He and Narmora had found an abandoned house near the marketplace, within easy reach of the many building sites under his jurisdiction. The physical labor was accomplished by those who were builders by trade; his job was to make their work as easy and efficient as he could. Andôkai the Tempestuous wasn’t known for her patience, and she was depending on Furgas to rebuild the city overnight.
For his part, he suspected that her interest in restoring Porista had little to do with the good of its citizens. More buildings meant more people, and more people meant a greater chance of finding suitable candidates to train in the art of magic, which would spare the maga a troublesome journey in search of apprentices.
Just then a shadowy figure leaped out of the rubble and barred his path. A dagger glinted in the darkness. “Your money or your life!”
Northern Pass,
Fifthling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
Tungdil set off in pursuit of the orc, followed by Boïndil and the trio of warriors. They were halfway down the stairs when they found themselves knee-deep in fog. Thick clammy air swirled around their legs like fast-flowing water. Tungdil hesitated for a moment, reluctant to venture any further. Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself sternly.