by Markus Heitz
“You said to forget her,” said Tungdil weakly.
“I said to forget about getting melded to her,” barked the warrior, who obviously deemed it unnecessary to lower his voice. “Not about everything else! Doesn’t duty mean anything to you?”
“Duty?” exclaimed Tungdil. “I’m tired of hearing about duty. Everyone wants to talk about duty—Lot-Ionan, the late high king, the dwarven assembly, and now you. I’ve had enough! From now on, I’ll decide what I’m going to do, and the kings, the chieftains, and the clans can—”
“Oh really?” interrupted Boïndil heatedly. “Is that what you’ve learned from the outlaws and thieves? I suppose you don’t know any better—you didn’t grow up in a dwarven kingdom. You’re not a proper…” He bit off another section of skewer and clamped his mouth shut. Wood splintered between his teeth.
It was too late already; Tungdil knew exactly what his friend had intended to say. He glared at him angrily. “Go on, Boïndil. You may as well say it to my face. I know what my kinsfolk say about me in private.” When no answer was forthcoming, he carried on. “Tungdil Goldhand is a thirdling, a foundling raised by men, a warrior who only became a hero because he alone could wield the ax.” He stared into the flames. “If the late high king hadn’t sent for me, I wouldn’t be here at all. If it weren’t for him, I’d be shoeing horses for the humans or earning my keep as a freeling smith. It’s not my fault you’re saddled with me.”
Boïndil was already regretting his words. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, hoping to repair the damage. “Without you, Girdlegard would be ruled by Nôd’onn and…” He gave up and tried another tack. “Forget what I said,” he pleaded. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”
Tungdil smiled sadly and laid a hand on his shoulder. “No, Boïndil, you spoke from the heart and so did I.” He got up and walked away from the fire. His friend started to follow, but Myrmianda signaled that she would go.
She found him under a tree, passing a pebble from hand to hand.
“I didn’t realize that being a hero was so difficult,” she said, sitting next to him on the grass. “I heard what Boïndil said: You were in love with a maiden and it didn’t work out.”
He sighed. Now she’ll get the wrong idea… “Her name was Balyndis Steelfinger. She and I were going to get melded and live together in the Gray Range.”
“But she broke off the engagement because her clansfolk disapproved,” finished Myr. “Listen, Tungdil, you’ll get over her eventually,” she soothed him. Her fingers reached for the pebble, and for a moment, they held hands. “Maybe I can mend your heart,” she whispered, withdrawing her fingers slowly.
“Myr, I’ve been meaning to tell you…” Tungdil felt suddenly sick with nerves as if he were traveling through the tunnels of the underground network at breakneck speed.
Myr shuffled over until she was facing him and laid a slender finger on his lips. “It’s all right, Tungdil. I’m not promised to anyone, and the decision is mine to make as I please. I’ve never met anyone who knows half as much as you. I don’t care a jot about your lineage; I like you for who you are. Besides, I’ve met plenty of thirdlings who are perfectly decent dwarves.” Moonlight shimmered on her pale hair and downy cheeks, bathing her in silvery light, and her red eyes sparkled alluringly. “Don’t be afraid to let your heart bleed—it’s nature’s way of cleaning the wound.” She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his brow. “Wait until you’re sure that healing, not vengeance, is what you yearn for. If the warmth you feel is more than a passing spark, come to me, and I will nurse your broken heart.” She sat back on her heels and looked up at the sky.
Together they contemplated the starry firmament above the Gray Range. “Thank you,” said Tungdil after a while.
“I was only telling you how I feel,” she said simply.
“Yes, but you’re so understanding. You’ve done so much for me,” he said fervently. “I’m really glad you’re here.”
“My pleasure,” replied Myr with a tinkling laugh that charmed Tungdil’s ears. “It’s not often that I meet a dwarf like you—educated, battle-hardened, and handsome.”
He lowered his head bashfully.
“Oh goodness, I’ve embarrassed you,” she apologized. “Maybe we should talk about something else like Boïndil suggested—the älfar, or Keenfire, or even about the Outer Lands. The two of you have been there, haven’t you? What’s it like?”
“Foggy,” said Tungdil with a wry smile. His mind traveled back to their expedition to the Northern Pass and he described how he and Boïndil had left the safety of Girdlegard and wandered for hours in the fog. A shiver ran down his back.
Myr hunched her shoulders as if she too could feel the sinister fog. “I don’t know how you kept your cool in such a dreadful place—I would have charged around in a panic and tumbled into a crevasse. It’s a shame we don’t know more about the dwarves who live there. What did you call them? Undergroundlings?”
“They’re hardly mentioned in our records.” Tungdil looked at her intently. “How old are you, Myr? You know an awful lot.”
She beamed. “I’m still young—104 cycles. I can’t really remember my parents—they were killed by rockfall when I was a child. My adoptive parents were new to the realm. They brought a lot of books from their kingdom. Miraculously, the volumes survived the journey through the pond, and that’s how I learned to read. I studied those books until I knew every line and every rune by heart.”
“No wonder you know so much.”
“That was just the start,” she said, smiling. “After that, I wanted to read more. I must have knocked on every door in the city, asking for books. I was so busy reading that it didn’t occur to me that dwarves are supposed to be metalworkers and warriors.” She laughed. “There goes Myr, carrying her books,” she said, putting on a mocking voice. “Isn’t she skinny?” She gave him a dig in the ribs. “Imagine my satisfaction when I found myself stitching the wounds of the dwarves who teased me for reading. I took my time with those stitches, I can tell you.” She mimed pulling the needle very slowly through the skin.
“Ouch!” exclaimed Tungdil. “But tell me, did your real parents have… I mean, did you get your…” He broke off, wondering how to frame the question.
Myr seemed to know what he meant. “Did my parents look like albino rabbits? Yes, my parents and my grandparents were freelings—they were born in our realm. I think the paleness comes from—”
“… generations of living underground,” chimed in Tungdil excitedly, pleased to see his hypothesis confirmed. “Salamanders are the same.” It occurred to him belatedly that the comparison was likely to cause offense. Fearing that Myr would be angry, he fell over himself to explain.
“I expect you’re right,” she said, sharing his excitement. “Most of my kinsfolk never venture to the surface. Why would they? Our realm is more than big enough. We’re not accustomed to living in traditional dwarven strongholds. It’s a good thing the fifthling kingdom is just around the corner—I can hardly wait to find out what it’s like.”
“Right now, it’s unfinished,” said Tungdil, thinking of the construction work. He was more interested in talking about the freelings’ realm. “What’s your architecture like?”
“You’d like our cities—lots of multistoried stone buildings in great big grottos, with skies of rock and twinkling gems. We’ve got lakes as well, and some of my kinsfolk can fish from their windows. They set up their rods and wait for a bite.”
Tungdil couldn’t begin to imagine what life would be like with the freelings. Still, it was good that Myr had spoken of cities in the plural: Gemmil had more than one settlement in his realm. “How many dwarves—”
Laughing, she got to her feet and held out her hand. “Come on, the others will be wondering where we’ve got to. I’ve given away too many of our secrets—you’ll have to visit us if you want to learn more.”
Tungdil clasped her hand and allowed her to pull him up. She was stronger than she l
ooked. It probably comes from carrying stacks of books.
At the campfire, Boïndil was sitting watch. He nodded as they approached.
Tungdil went over and gave him a warrior’s hug. Boïndil, relieved to be forgiven, thumped him on the back. “I always talk nonsense when I’ve been eating cheese,” he growled. “Next time you see me with cheese in my mouth, remember not to listen.”
“Thanks for the tip,” said Tungdil, laughing. “I’m glad we’re friends again.” He lay down beside the fire and glanced at Myrmianda, who had been watching them through the flames. She smiled at him, just as Balyndis had smiled at him across another campfire, not so long ago.
Southern Entrance to the Fifthling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
The orc touched down on the other side of the boulder and ducked out of sight. A light northerly wind blew toward him from the gateway. Flaring his nostrils, he sniffed the air.
Nothing untoward.
He peered out from behind the boulder to get a better look. The gates were wide open and unguarded. He could walk right in without anyone trying to stop him or sound the alarm.
With a satisfied grunt, he straightened up and lumbered toward the tunnel, picking his way between the scattered boulders and ruined masonry. Of the two routes into the groundlings’ kingdom, the southern approach was more direct.
The other route entailed leaving Girdlegard and entering the kingdom from the Outer Lands, which Ushnotz was reluctant to do.
The orc smiled. The prince would be well pleased with him for finding the southern entrance before the other scouts.
Splashing carelessly through puddles of melt water, he stopped at the gateway, poked his head into the tunnel, and sniffed the air for groundlings.
His lips drew back in a smile. Stepping away from the gates, he unhooked his horn and sounded a long, clear signal that echoed through the range.
The prince’s bugle sounded in reply, telling the scout to keep watch at the entrance until the troops arrived.
The orc decided to take a break. By locating the southern entrance, he had spared the troops a testing march over snowfields and glaciers, and it was time he had a rest.
Grunting contentedly, he retreated to the shadow of the peaks, sat down on a boulder and rummaged through his bag, bringing out a hessian sack containing the remains of a fleshling. The man had been unusually tall, too tall for one sitting, so he had saved his shanks for the journey. His mouth began to water at the festering smell; spoiled meat was particularly flavorsome.
He sank his teeth into the left shank, ripping off a sizable chunk, which he chomped through with gusto.
The taste of fleshling brought back memories of the recent feast in Gauragar when Bruron’s army had tried to trap them in a glade. On Ushnotz’s instructions, the orc and his fellows had drunk the dark water from the pond, broken down the barricades and run riot through the fleshlings’ ranks. The victory had kept them in meat for orbits.
He tore off another strip of flesh and swallowed greedily, forgetting to chew. The meat slipped halfway down his gullet and came to a halt. Cursing, he whacked himself on the back, but the meat refused to budge. By now he was coughing and spluttering quite violently, so he reached for his drinking pouch, which slipped through his fingers and dropped to the ground. The pouch rolled down the hillside, with the orc chasing after it, taking wild, ungainly bounds. After a few seconds he gave up and raced to the clear blue pool at the bottom of the waterfall.
Throwing himself onto his belly, he lowered his head to the surface and drank. Cool water streamed down his throat, clearing his gullet.
He took another gulp and realized that he was lying on a flat slab of rock above a trough measuring half a pace across. It looked like a conduit or a drain.
Having no interest in waterworks or dwarven engineering, he lowered his head for another sip. This time he stopped in surprise, transfixed by his reflection. Staring back at him was a wrinkled face with a bushy blond beard, a silver helmet, and long wavy hair.
There was only one explanation: The pool was under the curse of the groundling god. I shouldn’t have drunk the water, he thought frantically. It’s turned me into a groundling. He squawked in terror. Ushnotz will kill me on the spot.
His panicked mind was still whirring when the watery face began to smile. A moment later, it stuck out its tongue.
The orc stopped howling and leaned toward the surface. Ugh! He wrinkled his nose in disgust. I even smell like a filthy groundling!
Eyes fixed on the gently rippling water, he stared at his reflection. To his astonishment, a second dwarven head appeared on his shoulders and, above that, two brawny arms and an ax.
A proper entrance,” grunted Ushnotz in satisfaction. He climbed onto a flat-topped boulder to get a better view. “Fastok has done us proud.”
Runshak took up position beside him and surveyed the sloping ground—a few boulders and some crumbling fortifications, but no cover to speak of. His brow furrowed as he spotted Fastok reclining near a waterfall, helmet pulled low over his eyes and legs stretched out comfortably. “The bungling idiot’s gone to sleep,” he grunted, picking up a fist-sized stone to hurl at the dozing scout. The missile missed its target, flying past Fastok’s privates and landing near his feet. “Hey!” bellowed Runshak. “Why aren’t you keeping watch, you soft-skinned fleshling?”
“Get the troops into formation,” commanded Ushnotz, encouraged by the hush. “Advance with caution until we know what’s what.”
His troop leader, a broad-chested orc who stood two paces tall, drew himself up and relayed the orders to the troopers, who were strung out along the track behind him like an enormous metallic snake. “The plateau’s too small,” he observed. “They’ll have to advance in waves.”
“So this is our new kingdom,” muttered the orcish chieftain, lifting his head to survey the mighty peaks. “It isn’t as homely as Toboribor, but it’s better than being hounded by Mallen and his men.”
His plan was foolproof: First his army would occupy the abandoned kingdom and secure the old defenses, then half of the troopers would stay behind to guard the gateways while the remaining units paid a visit to the settlements in nearby Gauragar. Ushnotz needed provisions, and he was counting on the fleshlings to hand them over quietly. The king of Gauragar wasn’t likely to come to his subjects’ rescue; his army was weaker than Mallen’s, and his troops were tied up in Dsôn Balsur, which lay within the kingdom’s bounds. While the älfar remained undefeated, Ushnotz would be free to consolidate his empire without interference from the fleshlings. Afterward, neither the allies nor the älfar would be able to oust him from the mountains and he would reign victorious until the end of time.
He had taken measures to ensure that the dark water wouldn’t run out. Every trooper was carrying a full drinking pouch, and his quartermasters were bringing additional barrels and kegs. Ushnotz intended to empty the contents into an underground basin and create his own lake. The water was actually quite palatable, and a single sip sufficed to renew the effect.
He watched as his troopers filed onto the plateau and lined up before the gates. “My new kingdom,” he said proudly, whinnying with laughter. The troopers saluted their leader, cheering, banging their shields, and raising their weapons. In spite of the commotion, Fastok was still asleep. Snarling angrily, Runshak bore down on the unfortunate scout.
“Hey!” he shouted, kicking him in the ribs. When Fastok failed to respond, he ground the heel of his boot against one of his shins. No creature could sleep through such agony, but Fastok didn’t stir. Runshak frowned, his ugly features contorting suspiciously as he bent down and snatched the helmet from Fastok’s head.
The scout would never rise again. His skull had been spliced from the crown to the bridge of his nose by a weapon that Runshak judged to be an ax. A second blow had parted his head from his shoulders. The killer had positioned the corpse over a crack in the rock, allowing the dark green bl
ood to drain away. With the helmet off, the head rested loosely against the neck, rocking gently from side to side.
Runshak leaped up. “On guard!” he yelled. “We’re not—”
A lone dwarf appeared in the gateway. “Come no closer,” he warned him. “Vraccas’s children protect these mountains. Turn back or face their wrath.” He set a bugle to his lips, sounding a pure, deep note that resonated loudly through the range.
There was a loud crack and the mountain seemed to shudder beneath the orcs’ feet. Ushnotz watched in horror as thin black lines zigzagged across the plateau at lightning speed, creating a network of fractures that augured badly for the orcish troops.
The ground shook again, as if struck by an almighty hammer, and the plateau caved in, taking with it a thousand or so orcs. Shrieking and snarling, they disappeared from view.
A loud splash indicated that they had landed in water. Three paces below the ground, the dwarves had extended the plunge pool beneath the waterfall to create a deep basin with precipitous sides.
The orcs were trapped. Ushnotz watched as his troopers sank beneath the surface, dragged down by their armor. Some were hit by falling debris, while others clutched at the sides of the basin, claws scraping helplessly against the slippery rock. The dark water had made them immortal, but it couldn’t stop them sinking over and over again.
Since when is the Gray Range back in the groundlings’ hands? thought Ushnotz, shaking with shock and displeasure. The only way around the basin was via a narrow path, barely four paces across. On the far side, directly in front of the gateway, stood Runshak. He was a tough orc, made tougher by the dark water, but he couldn’t be expected to hold out against the groundlings while the rest of the army advanced four-abreast around the pool.
The groundlings were waiting for us. It occurred to Ushnotz that he might never set foot in the groundlings’ kingdom, let alone claim it for himself. Of the orcs on the plateau, barely a hundred had survived, and they were looking to him nervously, reluctant to advance in case they met the same fate as their comrades.