by Markus Heitz
“Not on your life!” laughed Tungdil. “Although your natural charm would probably settle the matter quickly.”
“Especially with a bit of help from your axes,” added Boëndal with a smile. “Come on, brother, leave the negotiations to our scholar. Gandogar needs us in Porista.”
Boïndil strode up to Tungdil and smothered him with a hug. “Look after yourself—and don’t keep me waiting.”
“I won’t,” promised Tungdil halfheartedly. He glanced at Boëndal, who was staring fixedly at the disemboweled gugul. He was obviously uncomfortable with the charade.
Myr, guessing that the others were keeping something from Boïndil, couldn’t help smiling at the thought of having Tungdil to herself. “I’ll cook a proper feast tonight,” she promised. “The twins will need plenty of energy for the journey.” She tied an apron around her waist. “Maybe Gemmil will let you use the tunnels to save a bit of time. I can ask him, if you like.”
Boïndil grabbed the beetles by the tail and lowered them into the vat of bubbling broth. “Not until we’ve eaten,” he ruled.
II
Trovegold,
Underground Network,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle
Tungdil got up the next morning to find two empty beds. His friends had left without waking him.
Myr was waiting with a special breakfast to fuel his inner furnace: pancakes with cranberry syrup, warm gugul, and a variety of smoked meats.
“You just missed them,” she said when he asked about the twins. “They had breakfast, packed some provisions, and that was that.” She sat down beside him and watched him eat. In the end, she couldn’t help herself: A question was burning a hole in her soul. “You’ve decided to stay in Trovegold, haven’t you? You told Boïndil you’d catch up with them later because you didn’t want to cause a scene.”
“Yes, Myr, I’ve decided to stay.” He searched her inscrutable red eyes. “I’d like to stay with you, if I may.”
“Have you reached a decision?” she asked eagerly. “Do you want me to heal your heart?”
He gazed at her beautiful face, the silvery down on her cheeks, and her plumps lips. She wants me to kiss her, he realized.
“I need more time.” He jumped to his feet, seized with a sudden urge to leave the house. His brusqueness took him by surprise. “I’m going to the allotments—I’ve been thinking of ways to improve the irrigation.” Stopping briefly to kiss her forehead, he hurried from the room.
You idiot, he cursed himself. He wished he were a proper dwarf who could fall in love with the maiden selected by his clan. I’d be a lot happier, he thought dismally. Balyndis is happy—isn’t she?
He took the path leading to the waterfalls, visible from the other side of town. He watched them cascade into the basin, garlanded with spray. Droplets of water splashed against the surrounding rocks.
On reaching the sluice system that regulated the flow to the canals, he spotted Sanda Flameheart, Gemmil’s companion and commander-in-chief of the freeling army. Sanda was talking to the dwarves in charge of monitoring the water level and adjusting the sluice. Tungdil stopped for a moment.
The king’s muscular consort finished briefing the workers and turned to leave, but, noticing Tungdil, raised a hand in greeting and hurried up the hill to meet him.
The menacing tattoos on her forehead were unmistakable proof of her dwarf-killing past. Not even her billowing fair hair could soften the menace of the runes.
“May Vraccas keep the flames of your furnace burning,” she greeted him warmly. She didn’t seem the least out of breath, despite marching uphill in a leather bodice, plated mail, and a skirt-like arrangement of metal tassets that reached almost as far as her ankles.
“Vraccas be with you,” he replied. “Are you going to battle? I thought no one wore armor in Trovegold.”
She smiled, but the overall effect was more menacing than cheering. “I’m a warrior, Tungdil. I don’t feel comfortable without my mail—I’m sure your friends felt the same. Besides, Trovegold isn’t as safe as sweet little Myr would have you believe. Cave trolls and bögnilim have a habit of getting caught in the tunnels.” She laid a hand on her ax. “Thanks to my warriors, they never pass our gates.”
He noticed that her downy cheeks were streaked with gray, indicating that she was older than he had thought. “You haven’t lived here long, have you?”
“Just over two cycles—it’s no big secret.” She looked at him shrewdly. “You don’t know what to make of me, do you? You and I are both thirdlings, but we’ve chosen not to kill our own kind.”
“I’ve never killed a dwarf in my life.”
“I have,” she said frankly, “but I didn’t much enjoy it. I was a dwarf killer because I grew up with dwarf killers, and killing was all I knew. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t right.” She sat down on the soft carpet of moss and gazed at the city. Tungdil sat beside her. “In the end, I had to make a choice.”
“So you chose banishment?”
“I chose death. If my clansfolk were to find me, they’d kill me on the spot. I used to be a high-ranking warrior, as you can probably tell from my tattoos, but I forfeited the respect of the thirdlings. In their eyes, I’m the enemy—another dwarf for them to kill.” She gazed up at the stronghold. “Trovegold is my home now. I found someone who was willing to take me for who I am. Starting over is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I’ve made a new life with the freelings.” She turned to Tungdil. “You wanted to ask me about your parents. What were their names?”
“I don’t know,” he said with a shake of the head. “I was a baby when my foster father, Lot-Ionan, bought me from some kobolds who came knocking one night at his school. I can’t remember a thing about my parents. I didn’t realize I was a thirdling until the battle of the Blacksaddle.”
She looked up sharply. “How old are you?”
“Sixty cycles, maybe more. I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”
Sanda was staring at him intently. “I’ve been trying to figure out why your face looks familiar. You look exactly like her!” She turned away, eyes fixed on the city. “Sixty cycles ago something happened that made me leave my clansfolk and flee the fifthling kingdom. It hardly seems possible but…” Her gaze lifted to the statue of Vraccas. “It’s the will of the Smith,” she whispered gratefully. “My decision saved Girdlegard. All my suffering wasn’t in vain!”
Tungdil laid a hand on her shoulder. “What is it, Sanda? Do you know my parents?” he asked, heart beating wildly.
She laid a hand over his and looked at him tenderly. “I knew your father, Tungdil. His name was Lotrobur, and your mother was Yrdiss. They called you Calúngor. Yrdiss was promised to another, and her love for Lotrobur was born of an ill-fated flame, but their feelings were too strong to ignore. You were born in secret. Your father tried to smuggle you out of the kingdom because he knew Yrdiss’s guardian would kill you if he could.” She took a deep breath. “I followed Lotrobur through the tunnels. My orders were to kill father and son.”
“Did you…?”
“No. I caught up with him, we fought, and I won.” Her eyes glazed over as her mind traveled back to the past, and the events of sixty cycles ago came to life. “I raised my ax,” she continued, tapping her weapons belt. “I was going to cleave his skull with this very blade, but I heard you crying. It was a pitiful whimpering, but it softened my resolve. I looked into your father’s eyes and decided that I never wanted to kill another dwarf. It was then I realized that I’d never been a proper dwarf killer.” She lowered her eyes and stroked her weapon. “So I helped him up and told him to hurry.”
Tungdil said nothing, waiting for her to continue.
“When I got back, I told them that Lotrobur had run away. That was when they showed me the corpses—your mother’s body and your father’s head. I wasn’t the only one who’d been ordered to kill them. Yrdiss’s guardian, your great-uncle, had murdered them and thrown you into a chasm. Vracc
as couldn’t save your parents, but he let you live because he knew a glorious future lay ahead of you. He shaped your fate and led you to the magus.” She smiled at him fondly. “And now he’s brought us together, sixty cycles later.”
Tungdil swallowed. “What was my great-uncle called?”
“Salfalur Shieldbreaker, King Lorimbur’s right-hand dwarf. He’s still alive, as far as I know. Your father was his best friend, which is how he met your mother. If things had happened differently, he would have taken over from Salfalur as commander-in-chief. Lotrobur was our second-best warrior, after Salfalur.”
“Is that when you left?”
“I became a mercenary in Idoslane until I met a dwarf who told me about a group of exiles living underground. Every dwarf needs kinsmen, so I made my way to Trovegold.”
Tungdil took her hand and shook it vigorously. “Thank you, Sanda. I can’t tell you how much it means to know the names of my parents—although I wish they hadn’t died because of me.”
“I wish they were alive to meet their famous son,” she said sincerely. “But you’re not to blame for their deaths. The laws are at fault—Lotrobur and Yrdiss loved each other, but she was promised to another against her will. The freelings have done away with forced marriages. That’s another reason why I like this realm.”
Tungdil got to his feet. “Will you drink with me to my parents?”
“It would be an honor,” replied the commander. They made their way to the nearest tavern and raised their tankards to Yrdiss and Lotrobur. Sanda seemed happy to talk about Tungdil’s parents, for whom she had nothing but respect.
Listening to her stories, Tungdil, who had no memory of his parents, felt an overwhelming urge to avenge their deaths. His hatred for Glaïmbar was supplanted by hatred for a thirdling by the name of Salfalur.
After a few tankards, he summoned the courage to ask Sanda to help him with his axmanship. I’ll be the best warrior in the history of the thirdlings, he decided. Salfalur will pay…
Porista,
Former Realm of Lios Nudin,
Girdlegard,
Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle
The maga’s distinguished guests were greeted by the magnificent architecture of the new Porista. Under Rodario’s supervision, the city had risen from the rubble, the ruined buildings restored to their former glory. A bright future lay ahead for the realm.
By the time the last of the delegates reached Porista, the city had begun to resemble a military camp. Flags and banners fluttered above the streets and houses, marking the territory of the different kingdoms. To no one’s surprise, Liútasil’s banners were situated as far away as possible from the crests of the clans in Gandogar’s entourage.
The shops and hostels of Porista welcomed the visitors. For the first time since its destruction, the city was booming. Takings were up, and the streets and alleyways were full of men, elves, and dwarves.
But the tension was palpable.
Everyone had heard about the conflict between the elves and the dwarves, and no one could say for certain whether the old enemies would talk peacefully or go for each other’s throats. A repetition of the incident in Dsôn Balsur would put paid to the great alliance, not to mention the assembly. The other delegates were relying on the threat of the maga’s magic to bring order to the proceedings.
When the appointed orbit dawned, the leaders of Girdlegard descended on the palace. The meeting was to be held in the conference chamber, where the council of the magi had met for the last time. There was no sign of the battle that had claimed the lives of Lot-Ionan, Maira, Turgur, and Sabora. The cracked flagstones and fallen pillars had been cleared away, and the gleaming copper dome and pristine marble testified to the skill of Porista’s artisans. In the eastern corner of the chamber stood Lot-Ionan, whom Nôd’onn had turned to stone.
Waiting to greet the delegates was Narmora, dressed in an embroidered robe that matched her crimson headscarf and went perfectly with her eyes. Andôkai stayed out of sight; by arriving last, she intended to underline her power and signal to the kings and queens of Girdlegard that she outranked them all.
“Scrubs up nicely, doesn’t she, brother?” boomed a voice that Narmora recognized instantly as belonging to Boïndil. It seemed to be coming from somewhere behind the delegation from Weyurn. “It’s nice to know she made an effort on our behalf.”
As the last of the Weyurnians entered the conference chamber, the dwarves came into view. At the head of the procession was King Gandogar, flanked by the twins. Representatives from the four allied kingdoms made up the rest of the deputation.
She welcomed the high king first, then turned to the twins, who shook her hand vigorously. “Do you still dream about me?” she asked Boëndal with a smile.
The dwarf shuddered. “Vraccas protect me from älvish nightmares,” he said, pulling a face. “You look older, Narmora. I thought Andôkai would teach you the secret of everlasting youth.”
“I’ve had a lot on my mind,” she said evasively, unwilling to share her worries with every kingdom in the land. “I’ll tell you about it later.” She spotted Balyndis at the back of the delegation. Standing beside her was a broad-chested warrior whom Narmora didn’t recognize. “Where’s Tungdil?” she asked the twins.
“Tungdil?” said Boïndil. “He’s—”
His brother cleared his throat. “He stayed behind in the fifthling kingdom,” he said, conscious that Gemmil might not thank them for revealing the freelings’ existence. In his opinion, it was a strictly dwarven concern. “He couldn’t join the delegation. Sentry duty, I’m afraid.”
Narmora nodded sagely, although Boëndal was obviously lying. Gandogar, overhearing, avoided her gaze.
“I wouldn’t mention him to Balyndis,” said Boïndil moodily. “They’re not together anymore. She forged the iron band with the king of the fifthlings. It’s a touchy subject.”
I’m not the only one to whom fate has dealt a bad hand… “Thanks for the warning,” she said aloud. “The assembly is about to begin. We’ve put you next to the door—as far away as possible from the elves.” Stepping aside, she ushered them into the hall.
When the last dwarf had taken his seat, she left her post, entered the chamber and closed the doors behind her. The benches and tables were arranged in a semi-circle with Andôkai’s throne-like chair at the center. Narmora sat down on the only remaining seat and waited for her hated mentor.
On the other side of the chamber, Liútasil was talking in hushed tones to two members of his delegation. Every now and then they looked up, glowered in the dwarves’ direction and continued their whispered conversation.
I wonder what they’re plotting, thought Narmora, wishing she could read their thoughts. She watched their lips move soundlessly and discovered to her astonishment that every word, every syllable was perfectly audible inside her head. Unfortunately, she couldn’t make sense of the discussion—elvish was nothing like älvish, and she had never learned the elven tongue.
Just then a powerful gust blew open the double doors.
Everyone in the chamber swiveled round and the dwarves reached for their weapons, prompting the elves to raise their bows.
Andôkai was standing in the doorway. Like Narmora, she was dressed in a crimson robe, but the cut and embroidery were more elaborate. In her left hand she held a sheathed sword.
Proudly she surveyed the assembled delegates. “Rulers of Girdlegard, welcome to Porista,” she called. “Kings and queens of dwarves, elves, and men, I welcome you and your courtiers to my palace.” She swept past the benches to her chair, from which she gazed down at the other rulers. At the back of the chamber, the doors swung shut, as if of their own accord. “I have something to tell you, something that bodes ill for our kingdoms.” She paused for a moment, allowing her words to take effect. “Ten powerful avatars are laying waste to the Outer Lands. They were created from the flesh of Tion, hewn from his body by the red-hot hammer of Vraccas. These creatures see it as their mission to destroy
the darkness created by the god from whom they were born, an objective that most in this room would approve of, were it not for the trail of destruction they leave in their wake. The avatars are demigods, fiery beings who scorch the ground and care nothing for human casualties. At their service is an army of warriors who share their commitment to destroying Tion’s creation, whatever the cost.”
The delegates’ faces mingled fear and alarm.
“I’m sure you all remember the comet that passed over Girdlegard and brought death and destruction to a number of our kingdoms,” continued Andôkai, looking gravely at her audience. “It wasn’t a comet. The ten demigods have a long-lost brother who descended from the skies to join them in the Outer Lands. According to legend, the eleven brothers can only be defeated by beings with pure hearts and noble souls. It seems we must prepare ourselves for an attack.”
Queen Wey, a woman of some fifty cycles dressed in a long blue robe trimmed with diamonds, was the first to speak. “If what you say is true, we need a fighting force more powerful than the allied army at Dsôn Balsur.” She inclined her head toward the maga. “Most of all, we need your help.”
“You shall have it,” promised Andôkai. “But I can’t guarantee that my famula and I can defeat them. An army is exactly what—”
“An army of innocents,” exclaimed Nate, the fur-wrapped king of Tabaîn. His eyes were as green as lily pads, and his thinning hair was the color of ripe corn. “You said they can only be defeated by pure souls,” he continued. “I propose we raise an army of maidens and youths unsullied by the pleasures of the flesh. We can train them to fight.”
“Poppycock,” yapped King Belletain, apparently addressing his goblet. He gave it a playful spin. A dwarf at his side monitored his every movement, watching for early signs of a seizure. “I say we use children. Stick them in a mangonel and fire them at the comet-gods. That should do it.”
“Supposing the men and women were pure to begin with, would they retain their purity if we trained them to fight?” enquired the bronzed queen of Sangpûr. Despite wearing several layers of clothing, Umilante was suffering from the cold. The climate in Porista was decidedly frosty compared to her desert realm.