by Markus Heitz
“Oink, oink,” snorted Ireheart, darting forward. He slashed a path through the hordes, allowing Tungdil, Myr, and the others to follow.
Thanks to his sterling efforts, the group made rapid progress and axes whirred in all directions, felling orc after orc. Killing the beasts posed a problem because they had to be beheaded, which wasn’t easy, especially since the dwarves were fighting several orcs at a time. After a while they took to working in pairs, the first dwarf felling their opponents and the second dwarf driving his ax through their necks. All of a sudden, the gateway seemed much closer.
The defending dwarves, eager to help their former leader, sallied forth to meet him.
“Get back!” shrieked Tungdil as the älfar leveled their bows. “Hold your shields above your heads. They’ll…”
Black arrows sang through the air, finding cracks in the wall of shields and homing in on unprotected flesh. Five dwarves fell to the ground and disappeared under the boots of the snarling orcs, who surged into the space, forming a living barrier between the gateway and the rest of the group.
The defenders’ maneuver had failed, leaving a handful of dwarves at the entrance of the tunnel, while the others fought frantically to keep the orcs at bay. Dwarven archers raised their crossbows and fired bolts at the beasts, but the advance continued undeterred. The bolts were lethal for ordinary warriors, but not for a rabble of undead orcs.
“We should have brought warriors, not masons and smiths,” growled Ireheart, whirring his axes at giddying speed in an effort to reach the beleaguered defenders. He was splattered from head to toe with green blood, which had an intimidating effect on the beasts. “Either that, or artisans who can fight!” His axes struck again; his victim, backing away nervously, took a blow to the neck.
Tungdil tried to count the dwarves at the entrance to the tunnel. As far as he could tell, almost everyone in the kingdom had come out to beat back the invaders, but the orcs were still advancing and had nearly reached their goal. Tungdil spotted Glaïmbar and Balyndis fighting side by side.
He pointed to the survivors of the ill-advised sally. “Head toward them,” he commanded. “If we band together, we’ll make it to the gates.” Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Myr and the exiles were holding their own against the orcs. In fact, the dainty medic was fighting with tenacity and strength.
Soon Tungdil’s party joined the band of defenders, but their path was blocked.
The beasts surged forward, spurred on by Runshak, who was bawling orders at the top of his voice. The älfar feathered the troopers with arrows, driving them on from behind. Yelping with pain, the orcs advanced; victory was in their grasp.
In front of the gateway, the lead orcs were locked in combat with the dwarves, who were fighting valiantly but ineffectually against the invaders. Meanwhile, some of the smaller orcs were trying to sneak past and attack from behind, trapping the defenders between two fronts.
Tungdil glanced at the orcish leader. “It’s time he went,” he said, deciding that a change of tactics was in order. “We need to kill their chief.”
Ireheart, brown eyes glinting manically, had fought himself into a frenzy. At the mercy of his fiery spirit, he threw himself on the enemy, windmilling his axes at incredible speed.
“Boïndil!” shouted Tungdil. “I said we need to kill their chief!” He had to repeat himself several more times before Boïndil finally heard.
The group set off toward Runshak, who spotted the approaching threat and turned to the älfar, hoping to enlist their bows in his defense. Suddenly his grin froze, his mouth falling open in horror.
Tungdil saw the fear on his ugly green face and turned to discover its source.
A colossal figure loomed into view. Brandishing a sword in one hand and an ax in the other, the metal-clad giant towered over the boulder where the älfar were stationed with their bows. The orcs in the vicinity squealed in terror and scattered in all directions, falling over each other in their eagerness to escape.
A demonic visage stared out from the giant’s visor, the eyeholes emitting a bright purple light. Even from a distance, Tungdil’s eyes were dazzled. The giant let out a dull, menacing roar that caused the ground to quake. Tungdil’s hair stood on end.
Alerted to the danger, the älfar raised their bows, but Djern was already upon them, sword and ax slashing through the air, severing bowstrings, cleaving arrows, and slicing through sinew and bone. In no time the boulder was strewn with bloodied armor and gory remains.
Only one of the älfar succeeded in evading Djern’s blades, but the colossal warrior had no intention of letting him escape. Jumping onto the boulder, he pushed off and launched himself into the air, landing on the shoulders of the fleeing älf, who crumpled screaming to the ground. Without stopping to use his weapons, Djern stamped on his head, squashing it like a plum.
A tense silence descended on the plateau; both sides had watched the encounter with bated breath.
This is our chance! Wrenching his eyes away from Djern, Tungdil aimed his ax at the orcish chieftain and hurled it at his head.
Runshak heard the weapon whir toward him and turned in time for the blade to miss the back of his helmet and land between his jaws, slicing cleanly through his head. The newly appointed chieftain was dead.
“For Vraccas and Girdlegard!” shouted Tungdil, breaking the hush. “Behead the brutes! Long live the children of the Smith!”
The orcs had heard and seen enough.
After losing their unbidden allies, not to mention Runshak and the prince, the beasts were ready to admit defeat. Forgetting their undead powers, they forfeited their advantage and fled.
The panic was so great that some of them jumped on top of their spluttering comrades in the pool, while others stampeded down the mountainside, bowling over the troopers who were toiling to the top.
“You never learn, do you, scholar?” scolded Boïndil, handing Tungdil one of his axes. “What was the first thing I taught you? Never throw your ax unless you’ve got another in reserve!” He grinned. “Still, there’s nothing wrong with your aim.” Oinking ferociously, he threw himself on the fleeing troopers, slaying orc after orc.
Cries of astonishment went up from both sides as a second battalion of dwarves appeared on the far side of the plateau. The new arrivals threw themselves on the invaders, squeezing the orcs between two fronts.
Tungdil noticed that some of the warriors had white hair and pale skin. The freelings, he thought, relieved. Although the tide had turned in favor of the defenders, there was a chance that the orcs would remember their immortality and lay siege to the gates. Gemmil’s warriors couldn’t have arrived at a better time.
This is the crunch, he thought, glancing to where Glaïmbar and Balyndis were fighting.
The king and his fiancée were defending the gateway against a handful of orcs whose fury outweighed their fear. Far gone in bloodlust, the beasts threw themselves against the defenders’ axes, hammers, and clubs.
Most of Tungdil’s comrades were too busy chasing the fleeing army to realize that the gateway’s last defenders were dangerously overextended.
Tungdil paused, his thoughts in turmoil as he watched his rival parry blow after blow. The attack redoubled, but Glaïmbar was holding his own. Just.
It’s nothing to do with you, whispered a devilish voice in his head. So what if he falls? He’ll die a hero, and Balyndis will be free.
The chosen leader of the fifthlings took a step backward and came up against a wall. For a second, he was distracted, and an orcish sword made contact with his wrist.
Glaïmbar can take care of himself, the voice whispered. He’s a great warrior; let him prove his worth. Hurry up and find Boïndil.
Tungdil had almost decided to rejoin his group when Balyndis caught his eye. She was surrounded by orcs, and she looked at Tungdil pleadingly, her brown eyes begging him to go to Glaïmbar’s aid.
“Botheration,” he grumbled, gripping the haft of his ax. “What a pity it was his
wrist, not his chest.”
He set off bad-temperedly toward the gateway, but the rescue mission came to a precipitous end.
In the heat of the battle, he had forgotten to look out for the älf. A slender figure appeared out of nowhere and alighted beside him. Looking up, he saw Keenfire speeding toward his head.
VIII
Blacksaddle,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
The diamonds on the high king’s helmet glinted in the sun. Gandogar knew that even the most shortsighted sentry would notice his approach, but he held his head high; he wanted to be seen. In all his 299 cycles he had never set eyes on the thirdling king, and his arrival at the court of Lorimbas marked a turning point in the history of the dwarves.
Pushing the brown hair away from his eyes, he looked up at the Blacksaddle and watched as sun and shadow strove for mastery over its slopes. The gullies and couloirs were shrouded in inky darkness, but the flanks of the mountain were gilded with light.
For Gandogar, there was something menacing about the flat-topped mountain where countless dwarves, elves, and men had lost their lives.
The battle has left its mark on this place. He shook the reins and the pony moved off. The powerful dwarf and his mount were suffering from their long journey through Sangpûr’s deserts. Particles of sand had found their way into Gandogar’s beard, slipped through the rings of his mail, and sneaked inside his leather jerkin, rubbing against his skin in the tenderest places. His poor pony had fared no better. There was no escape from Sangpûr’s sand.
Now, as they rode through southern Gauragar, the temperature was cooler, but the air was thick with menace. The banners flying from the top of the Blacksaddle warned the high king and his fifty armed warriors that the stronghold was in the hands of its makers, the children of Lorimbur.
Bones crunched beneath the ponies’ hooves. No one had buried the dead beasts after the battle; their corpses had been eaten by predators or piled up and burned. Sun, rain, and snow would take care of their skeletons, but for now their remains lay strewn at the base of the mountain, warning travelers not to linger in this place.
Second in the procession was Balendilín, king of Beroïn’s folk. He had joined the expedition after Gandogar accepted his offer of advice and support. His gaze was fixed on the mountain ahead. “Should we mourn our fallen comrades or celebrate the joint victory of dwarves, elves, and men?” he asked pensively. “There’s never been a battle like it: The massed ranks of Nôd’onn’s army against the armies of Girdlegard, with the dwarves at the fore.”
“Let’s hope the alliance lasts,” said Gandogar fervently.
“We can’t let the thirdlings shatter our newly forged bonds.” With a sigh, the one-armed king looked up at the fluttering banners. “I wonder how the mountain feels about the return of the dwarves who plundered its gold.”
“Bruron had no choice but to cede the stronghold to Lorimbas,” replied Gandogar evenly. “According to his envoy, Gauragar was bound by the terms of an ancient treaty.”
“No choice?” objected Balendilín. “What does Bruron owe the thirdlings? Mallen is reliant on thirdling mercenaries, but he refused to surrender to Lorimbas’s demands. I’d wager my one good arm that Bruron was bribed.”
Gandogar tugged on the reins, steering the pony to the right of an ogre skull that was blocking their path. The stripped bone bristled with broken spears and arrow shafts, and the crown of the head provided the birds with a useful platform as they scanned the path for dung.
“You’re probably right,” said the king of all dwarves. “And that’s precisely why a diplomatic solution is called for. Girdlegard won’t be at peace until we put an end to this senseless feud.” He glanced at Balendilín. “I thought you were supposed to be the voice of reason. Are you suggesting we kill him?”
“Vraccas would roast my soul in his furnace if such a thought were to enter my mind,” said the secondling, laughing. His expression became grave. “No, Gandogar, neither of us are dwarf killers, although I can’t say Lorimbas deserves our mercy—his machinations are undermining our alliance with the elves and men.” He held the king’s gaze. “The question is, how are you going to stop him? We haven’t spoken to the thirdlings for hundreds of cycles, so the usual sanctions won’t work.”
“That’s why we need to talk to them,” said Gandogar firmly. “I understand your reservations, but Lorimbas and I will find a way of making peace.”
A door came into view at the base of the mountain. In earlier cycles, it had been concealed by conifers, each standing fifty paces tall, but the orcs had cut down the forest to make siege engines and ladders. After the battle, the wood had served as kindling for the biggest funeral pyre in Girdlegard’s history, on which the corpses of the beasts had been burned. All that remained was a multitude of stumps.
“I’m not naïve enough to think we’ll ever be friends with the thirdlings,” continued Gandogar, realizing that the secondling leader was unconvinced. “But it’s time we put a stop to the feuding and treated each other with a little respect.”
Balendilín clicked his tongue doubtfully. “By the hammer of Vraccas, I wish I could knock some sense into their heads.”
They drew up outside the door. Barring their way were twenty warriors with long-handled pikes, the tips of which were pointing menacingly at the riders.
“Stop,” commanded a broad-chested thirdling, fingering his morning star. His face was covered in tattoos. “My name is Romo Steelheart of the clan of the Stone Grinders, nephew of King Lorimbas.” He measured the high king with his gaze. “I suppose you must be Gandogar,” he said, denying him the usual courtesies extended to a dwarven king.
Balendilín studied the thirdling’s face. Tattooed runes spoke of his eternal hatred of the four dwarven folks, promising death and damnation to the descendants of Beroïn, Borengar, Giselbert, and Goïmdil. The sinister effect of the tattooist’s artwork was heightened by the hostility in Romo’s eyes. Balendilín had no doubt that he was looking at the face of a zealous dwarf killer.
“My name is Gandogar Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, head of Goïmdil’s line,” said the high king. “My business is with your—”
Romo snorted derisively, and a globule of snot hit the ground by Gandogar’s feet. “Gandogar can come in. The rest of you, wait outside.”
Balendilín was unmoved. “The high king goes nowhere without his escort. If this is your tone, you can forgive our suspicions.”
Romo shrugged, armor clunking. “It’s him or no one,” he said sharply. “Those are my orders. If you don’t like them, you can leave.” A sneer spread over his face. “Oh, I should have realized: Poor Gandogar is scared of my uncle. Don’t worry; Lorimbas has given his word of honor that your king will leave our stronghold in the condition that he arrived.” He stared at the high king insolently. “Is your heart made of granite or pumice?”
Gandogar ignored the warning looks from his advisor and jumped down from his pony. “I’m the high king of the dwarves, and my business is with Lorimbas Steelheart,” he said firmly, striding toward the guards, who raised their pikes to let him pass. The metal tips lowered, separating Balendilín and the others from the king.
“My, my,” said Romo, leading Gandogar into the cavernous heart of the mountain. “It’s astonishing how a feeble fire can produce a spark of courage. You’re a typical fourthling—scrawny and small.”
“Brain is more important than brawn,” countered Gandogar patiently. “It’s better to have a sharp mind than a sharp blade.”
Romo turned into a side passageway, picking his way confidently through the maze of corridors and stairs. He and his kinsmen were new to the Blacksaddle, but he plainly knew his way around. “A nice theory,” he said, laughing. “But an ogre’s cudgel can blunt the sharpest wit.”
“On the contrary,” replied Gandogar firmly, keeping his eyes fixed on Romo’s back. “Ogres are particularly easy t
o outsmart.”
His gaze fell on a beautifully crafted scabbard hanging from the thirdling’s belt. It looked awfully familiar. In fact, he had last seen it on the belt of a warrior who was fighting with the allies in Dsôn Balsur. The chances of a smith forging two such scabbards were remote.
“I met him and two others in Richemark,” said Romo, when the high king enquired about its owner. “They’re dead.” He shot a hostile glance at Gandogar. “You can have it, if you like—but you’ll have to fight me first.”
Gandogar clenched his fists. It wasn’t easy to keep his composure when Romo was bragging about killing three dwarves. The thirdling talked about murder in the way other dwarves talked of masonry or metalwork. “With pleasure,” he muttered darkly, setting his jaw.
Romo hiccoughed with laughter. “What are you going to do?” he asked scornfully. “Sprinkle me with gold dust or throw diamonds in my face?”
It occurred to Gandogar that his faith in diplomacy was possibly misplaced, but he wasn’t prepared to leave without trying—if only to satisfy his conscience and prove to the allies that he wasn’t to blame for the feud.
Without a word, he followed Romo into the great hall where the final battle against Nôd’onn had taken place.
Lorimbas Steelheart was standing in the middle of the room. His attention was focused on a recently repaired staircase that gave access to the walkways overhead. At last he turned to greet the new arrivals. “What have I done to deserve the honor?” he sneered.
Romo smiled and positioned himself at his side.
Gandogar looked intently at the thirdling monarch. His long black hair was streaked with gray and braided against his scalp in three tight plaits. Gandogar noticed that his beard had been dyed in three different colors, which was probably a mark of something, although he didn’t know what. He also saw that Lorimbas, unlike the other thirdlings, hadn’t been tattooed.
“I want a truce,” he said simply, outlining his reasons for the visit. “A cessation of hostilities until the älfar have been defeated.”