by Markus Heitz
A few moments later, they were seated around a table of sand-colored rock, ready to sample Myr’s cooking. Some of the dishes were unfamiliar to Tungdil; the twins eyed the food with obvious suspicion.
Myr didn’t seem to mind. “Boiled moss, tuber-leaf salad, and sautéed cutlet in dark beer sauce,” she explained. “They’re traditional dishes from the five dwarven folks—adapted and improved by us.” She gave them each a generous helping, and they tucked in heartily, their appetite overcoming their doubts.
“Mm,” said Boïndil happily, holding out his plate for more. “The meat tastes good. It’s not goat, is it?”
“It’s prime loin of gugul. You won’t find any in Trovegold—we hunt them in the tunnels.”
Boïndil looked at her blankly.
“It’s a type of beetle,” explained Myr. “They’re as long as you’re tall, and pretty nippy. They make a lovely roast.” She pointed to the morsel of cheese on his fork. “Beetle cheese. Gugul milk curdles on contact with air, so it’s simply a question of salting and stretching it.” She gave him another serving and handed back his plate.
Boïndil’s fork was poised in mid air. He stared dumbly at the cutlet, wondering what to do.
“Lost your appetite, have you, brother?” teased Boëndal, taking another mouthful and licking his lips. “It hasn’t done Myr any harm, so it’s hardly going to kill you.” He picked up his tankard and emptied it in a single draft. His burp was unusually restrained; he was on his best behavior because of Myr.
“Do you like our beer?” she enquired eagerly.
“It’s delicious,” he said approvingly, helping himself to more. “It’s got an interesting aftertaste—a hint of malt or spice or something.”
“We spice the beer with—”
Boëndal removed the tankard from his lips and held up a hand to quiet her. “Don’t,” he said. “I’d rather not know if you flavored it with powdered maggot or caterpillar blood or Vraccas knows what. It tastes too good for you to spoil it.” He carried on drinking, and Myr said nothing, smiling to herself.
Dessert was a pale creamy dish that tasted a bit like honey. Tungdil found a husk in his bowl that looked suspiciously like the casing of a maggot, but he finished his serving and kept the discovery to himself.
Boïndil requested seconds, but this time he didn’t enquire what went into the dish. Tired, sated, and slightly tipsy, they swayed up the stairs and tumbled into bed.
“I’m glad we came with you,” murmured Boïndil, loosening his belt and letting out a big belch to make space in his belly. “If we stay much longer, I won’t fit into my mail shirt. Myr’s cooking tastes too good.”
The other two laughed. “I’m glad you came as well,” said Tungdil seriously. “I thought I might be traveling on my own.”
“After all we’ve been through?” exclaimed Boïndil. “We’ll always be here for you—especially if you insist on risking your life among outcasts and criminals. Someone has to watch your back!”
“Outcasts and criminals,” echoed Tungdil thoughtfully. “I haven’t seen or heard anything to suggest that the freelings are any less respectable than the other folks.”
Boëndal yawned and crossed his arms behind his head. “You seem to be forgetting that they were banished from their kingdoms—which means they, or their parents or grandparents, were guilty of a crime.” He gave Tungdil a hard look. “The same goes for Myr.”
“Myr saved your life,” snapped Tungdil testily.
“I know, and I won’t forget it. That’s why Boïndil has sworn to protect her—but it doesn’t change who she is.”
“That’s not the only oath we’ve taken,” said Tungdil, thinking of the vows of friendship pledged after the battle of the Blacksaddle. “We wanted a unified Girdlegard, and that means all men, elves, and dwarves, the freelings included. Gemmil spoke of five main cities—five cities the size of Trovegold! We need to ally ourselves with the freelings for the sake of Girdlegard and the security of our borders.” He met Boëndal’s eye and held his gaze with dwarven tenacity. “It’s our responsibility to find out more about them and their customs before we come to any decisions about whether our differences can be bridged.” He paused, fixing the twins with a steely stare. “To be honest, they seem a good deal more welcoming and forgiving than some dwarves I know.”
Boëndal looked up at the ceiling. “Vraccas will open our eyes to the truth,” he said elliptically, settling down to sleep.
Sighing, Tungdil stared glumly into the darkness. I’d have more luck bending steel than changing a dwarven mind. He was grateful to the twins for coming with him to Trovegold, but he wished they were a little friendlier toward their hosts. Even Boëndal, who was usually quite reasonable, seemed to have ruled out the possibility of forging a lasting bond with Gemmil’s dwarves. Why does it have to be so hard? he thought wearily.
“What are we going to do about Keenfire?” asked Boïndil, breaking the silence. “You’re not going to let the hollow-eyes keep her, are you?”
“Why don’t you ask Glaïmbar?” said Tungdil snidely. He closed his eyes. “I’ll get the ax back. We don’t need it right now, and it won’t be much use to the älfar, but I won’t delay too long: Keenfire belongs with the dwarves.”
“Hurrah,” cheered Boïndil, sensing a new adventure. “You can count me in!”
Kingdom of Dsôn Balsur,
Girdlegard,
Early Summer, 6235th Solar Cycle
Ondori breathed in the smoke billowing over her homeland and shuddered, remembering the red-hot flames that had burned her face. The struggle for Keenfire had left her horribly disfigured and given her another reason to wear a mask.
From her vantage point in the watchtower, originally constructed by the elves of the Golden Plains, she gazed at the thick bank of smoke in the south.
Dsôn Balsur was on the brink of defeat.
Firebombs rained into the dense woodland from allied mangonels, spilling petrol, oil, pitch, and sulfur, and setting light to everything, including the silicified wood of the fossilized trees. Already the allies had burned a wide path through the forest toward the bone palace. They were a fair few miles from Dsôn Balsur, but the remaining distance consisted largely of flat, open land.
Ondori turned to face the capital. Midway between Dsôn Balsur and the forest lay the stronghold of Arviû, from whence reinforcements were marching toward the front. Soon every last älf would be fighting for the kingdom.
She ran a hand over her quarterstaff. We’ll make the allies pay for their victory, she vowed. They’ve had enough of our arrows; let’s see how they like our staffs.
She left the tower and descended the fifty paces to the ground. Every step was slow and considered, her movements hampered by the damage inflicted by Tungdil’s dagger. The pain was a constant, humiliating reminder of her disastrous mission to secure the groundlings’ kingdom. She had failed on all counts: The groundlings were ensconced in their stronghold, her parents’ murderers were still alive, and she had failed to learn the secret of the orcs’ unnatural power. Forced to flee the battlefield, she had stopped only to snatch up a drinking pouch, knowing that wasted hours looking for streams or rivers could lead to capture or death. It was only much later, when she uncorked the pouch, that she realized her mistake: The water was stagnant, brackish, and unpalatable, but she drank it all the same.
The immortal siblings, after hearing how the five-thousand-strong orcish army had been defeated by a handful of dwarves, had banished her to the front, where she was to die in defense of her kingdom. To her relief, the siblings had confiscated Keenfire: She never wanted to touch the accursed weapon again.
Ondori was content with her fate. Death would come as a release, the last chance of heroism at the end of life of abject failure. Although I can’t avenge my parents when I’m dead, she thought bitterly. At least the immortal siblings had granted her a final favor: A hundred warriors, all failures like herself, were at her command.
She emerged from
the base of the tower and swung herself onto her fire bull. Her eyes wandered over the waiting group of älfar—warriors of both sexes whose courage had been found wanting.
“Listen to me, weak-hearted warriors,” she said harshly. “I’m taking you behind enemy lines. Your mission is to kill ten elves, dwarves, or humans before you die. Anyone who flees the battle will be chased by my arrows or Agrass’s horns.” She patted the thick black neck of the fire bull. “Acquit yourselves well: Tion’s judgment awaits you when you get to the other side, and eternal agony is the price of failure. Those who prove themselves worthy will receive the blessing of the immortal siblings, the mark of which I bear.”
She nodded to the warrior at the head of the procession, and the troop set off on a southerly bearing. Ondori rode at the back, keeping a careful watch for defectors.
It took less than an orbit to reach the forest where the allies’ firebombs were whizzing through the trees.
Another mile, and they’ll be marching across the plains, she thought, dismally. She had foreseen the fall of Dsôn Balsur from the watchtower, but the reality of the situation came as a shock. The allies were closer to victory than she had thought.
A warrior in black armor emerged from the trees. “The immortal siblings want you to destroy the mangonels and kill those responsible for the bombardment,” he told her tersely. His manner indicated all too plainly that he considered her unworthy of respect. He handed her a scroll detailing the strategy for the attack. “My band will distract them while you and your troop set light to the oil drums. We’ll figure out the rest from there.” His gaze rested on her mask. “Are you too ugly to show yourself?” he demanded, reaching out to tear off her mask and veil.
Agrass let out a belligerent snort and turned his head so that his left horn grazed the warrior’s chest. The älf paled and took a step back.
“It’s a pity you’re a coward,” Ondori told him coldly. “If you were to see my face, you’d know…” She trailed off, remembering that Keenfire had stolen her looks. “… that I’m ready to die,” she finished lamely.
“No one’s stopping you,” he hissed, disappearing among the trees.
After relaying her orders to the troop, she led them in a westerly direction, looking for a safe route into the forest where they wouldn’t be spotted by enemy guards. Four miles later, they found a suitable place and rested until midnight, before stealing their way toward the camp.
Ondori stopped and cursed. She and her troop were perfectly placed to attack, but the camp was guarded by a battalion of groundlings and elves.
There was a constant screeching and groaning as windlasses turned, tightening the ropes to pull back the wooden catapults. Dripping pouches were placed in the metal cups at the end of each arm and the contents set alight with a burning torch, whereupon the arms were released and a hail of fiery missiles hissed through the night and crashed among the trees. The burning petroleum turned the forest into a sea of twisting flames.
“Tion wants us to die gloriously,” she whispered to the others. “See the groundlings and the tree-loving fairies? Their destruction is our salvation.” She gripped her quarterstaff and held it aloft like a lance. “Prepare for attack. And don’t forget, I’ll be watching you—desertion is punishable by death.”
A few moments later, they heard shouts from the other side of the encampment. Horns sounded the alarm, warning the dwarves and the elves of an älvish incursion. The diversionary tactic seemed to work.
“Now,” she said loudly, and her warriors rushed forward, keeping low to the ground. In the darkness, they were all but invisible, and their boots moved noiselessly across the forest floor. The elves and dwarves, expecting an attack on the opposite flank, were taken by surprise.
Ondori waited until all her warriors were engaged in combat. When she was sure that no one had slipped into the undergrowth, she left her hiding place and threw herself into the scrum.
The elves had no chance to use their bows and were forced into close combat. Dwarves rushed to their aid and surrounded their hated enemies, swinging their axes and hammers with grim determination.
Ondori’s heart sank as she watched the elves and dwarves close ranks to ward off the invaders.
Soon dwarven axes were slashing at the älfar from behind a wall of shields. The elves lined up in rows behind them, ready with their spears. The älfar came to a standstill three hundred paces from the barrels of oil.
“What’s the matter with you?” Ondori shouted angrily, stabbing her quarterstaff into the back of a retreating älf. “Don’t let up!”
Just then a dwarf cried out in agony and sank to his knees, breaking the wall of shields. The tip of an elven spear protruded from his chest.
“Did you see that?” shouted a dwarven voice. “The pointy-eared villain stabbed him in the back!” There was an almighty crash and an elf slumped to the ground, felled by a ferocious blow from a morning star. “Children of the Smith, the pointy-ears have betrayed our vows of friendship!” howled the dwarf, voice cracking with grief and rage. “Death to the traitors!”
Ondori heard an elven curse, and a moment later, an arrow sang through the air and came to rest in a dwarven skull. The sturdy warrior’s face was frozen in astonishment as he fell to the ground. An elf sprawled on top of him, a dwarven ax in his back.
Two dozen dwarves turned as one and advanced toward their supposed allies, who raised their weapons to block the attack. At first the elves parried and checked the dwarven axes, but soon both sides were locked in combat.
Ondori could hardly believe her luck. The dwarves and elves need more than a promise of friendship to bridge an age-old rift… She bellowed at her warriors to resume the attack, and the älfar surged forward, finding the gaps in the allies’ defenses and slaughtering elves and dwarves alike.
Ondori, trusting in Tion to watch over her warriors, left the battlefield and rode toward the undefended encampment. The men loading the mangonels stared at her in horror as she galloped past and seized a burning torch from the hand of a guard.
Lowering his head, Agrass charged into the pile of oil barrels, destroying them with his horns. The burning torch landed in the middle of the spillage, turning the foul-smelling oil into a fiery lake. More barrels exploded, further fuelling the flames.
Ondori didn’t stop to watch. She was busy cutting down the men at the mangonels, none of whom were trained warriors. They put up little resistance to Ondori and her fire bull, and their deaths were painful, but swift.
With one exception.
Unbeknown to Ondori, one of the men had escaped the bloodbath and sheltered behind a mangonel’s wheel. He waited until she rode past, then hurled his spear, hitting her in the back. The tip pierced her heart. Ondori gasped, fighting for breath as she wrenched the weapon from her chest. Slumped in her saddle, she listened to the man’s receding footsteps and waited for death to take her soul.
After a while, the pain in her chest subsided and she was able to sit up. She raised a hand to the exit wound and ran her fingers over her flesh. The wound had closed. I’m not dead, she realized in amazement. Tion has made me immortal like the orcs… In a flash of understanding, she remembered how she had drunk of the orcs’ foul water. Tion be praised, she thought, resolving to tell the immortal siblings of her discovery.
But first she would carry out her orders and destroy the mangonels. Steering Agrass to the edge of the blaze, she lowered her quarterstaff and dragged it across the ground to the mangonels, cutting a furrow through the forest floor. A river of burning liquid flowed toward the wooden siege engines.
Soon flames were licking at the timber and creeping hungrily along the ropes. My work isn’t finished, she thought proudly, pressing gently against the fire bull’s flanks and cantering back to the battle. Let’s find more elvish souls for Tion to torture…
Roaring, Agrass charged through the enemy lines, tossing elves and dwarves into the air like rag dolls. His powerful, metal-sheathed horns pierced everything they en
countered—shields, armor, and guts. Shaking his head furiously, he sank his pointed teeth into his victims’ torsos, ripping out chunks of leather, metal, and flesh.
To Ondori’s astonishment, she and her warriors triumphed over the battalion of elves and dwarves. They brought it on themselves, she thought gleefully, remembering how the allies had turned on each other. She touched the mark on her forehead. Tion is with me.
The flames from the burning mangonels were clearly visible throughout the forest by the time the survivors alerted their allies to their plight. But the humans came too late.
Elves and dwarves lay dead or dying on the battlefield and, on seeing the new arrivals, the remaining älfar slipped into the forest and disappeared among the gloomy boughs. Arrows and crossbow bolts whizzed past them, missing their targets.
A few paces away from the clearing, Ondori stopped and looked in satisfaction at the inferno raging in the enemy camp. Agrass snorted and swung his head to the left. “A fugitive?” she asked. The fire bull raked a metal-plated hoof against the ground. Who could it be? she wondered. An elf for Tion to torture, or a deserter who deserves my wrath?
The bull slunk through the trees. In the faint moonlight, Ondori spotted four squat figures running through the undergrowth. Groundlings, she thought, surprised. It’s not often you see them running from a fight.
A moment later, she was upon them.
Hearing Agrass’s hooves, they turned to face her, weapons raised.
“Clear off, and we’ll spare you,” growled their leader from behind a metal visor. He gave his morning star a menacing swing.
“Spare me?” she spat scornfully. Just then she realized that one of them was holding a bow. The string snapped back and she dodged the arrow, which buried itself in a tree. “A fairy bow?” she exclaimed, confused. “What would a groundling want with a…” Her eyes widened. “A morning star and a fairy bow… It was you! You started the quarrel on purpose.” She peered at the band. “Who are you?”