by Markus Heitz
Narmora? Surely not… He went back into the hut and closed the door. Something very strange is going on…
VIII
Western Entrance to the Fourthling Kingdom,
Kingdom of Urgon,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6235th/6236th Solar Cycle
Captain Vallasin stomped through the ever-deepening snow. Clad in leather armor, with a woolen cloak wrapped tightly around his shoulders, he headed for the nearest sentry. “Well?” he called from a distance, to save himself the walk. “Any news?”
“No, captain,” shouted the soldier. “The gates won’t budge.”
Vallasin’s spirits sank even lower. He stopped in his tracks, raised a hand, and returned to his tent, where a mug of hot tea was waiting for him by the fire.
The same ritual had unfolded every few hours for more than forty orbits, and there was still no progress. Every time he went out, the sentry would tell him that the gates were still closed.
He glanced around the tent, hung his cloak on a hook, and plonked himself onto a folding chair. His aide-de-camp handed him a mug of tea. Even with the fire, it was cold inside the thin tent walls, and a fierce wind gusted continually through even the slightest gap in the canvas.
“Have they—” The aide-de-camp stopped mid-question, guessing from the captain’s expression that the news wasn’t good.
“It can’t go on like this!” exploded Vallasin. “Ten thousand men camped outside a deserted dwarven kingdom, and we can’t get past the doors!”
He took a sip of tea and stared glumly at the stack of letters from Pendleburg. Scarcely an orbit went by without Belletain asking for news of the campaign. So far the captain’s response had always been the same: no progress.
Vallasin was aware that his career was at stake. He had worked hard to attain his rank, but the unhinged king of Urgon could easily decide to entrust the mission to someone else. “There has to be a way.”
“Our technicians can’t get to the hinges,” his aide-de-camp reminded him politely. “Levers, chisels… Nothing will work.”
Vallasin held up a royal letter. “His Majesty won’t take no for an answer.” He got up and paced angrily from the tent pole to the door. “What am I supposed to tell the poor beggars freezing off their backsides in the snow? Forty-seven dead! Forty-seven! And why? Because of a broken promise and a pair of locked gates.”
According to a treaty between Belletain and Lorimbas, the thirdlings were supposed to clear the way for Vallasin’s soldiers to search the dwarven stronghold and carry off the gold. Instead their path was blocked by a pair of solid granite gates that withstood the force of battering rams and blunted the strongest pick.
I’m sick of bloody waiting. Vallasin had marched his men to the Brown Range on Belletain’s orders and readied the troops for attack. A thirdling relief army had materialized soon afterward, and the two armies had waited impatiently outside the locked gates until the dwarves had packed up and left without a word. Vallasin saw no point in waiting, but orders were orders, and Belletain wanted them to stay.
He heard the clip-clop of hooves outside the tent.
“Another letter from Belletain,” he growled. “How many more times does he want to hear that we’re stuck in the cold?”
A rider entered the tent. He was covered from head to toe in powdery snow, and his breath had frozen against his scarf, forming a sheath of ice around his face. He took a sealed leather cylinder from his saddlebag and handed it to the captain. “For you, sir.”
Vallasin signaled for his aide-de-camp to give the frozen rider a hot mug of tea while he broke the seal and took out the parchment.
He was about to add it to the pile without reading it and return the cylinder to the rider with a pre-prepared report when he noticed that the letter was longer than usual.
Judging by the first few lines, he wasn’t being demoted, as he had feared.
“What’s this?” he murmured. “New orders from our esteemed king. Belletain wants us to leave.” Relieved and heartened, he summoned his officers to the tent.
“Gentlemen,” he said, when everyone was present, “King Belletain has advised me that the situation has changed. As you know, Lorimbas Steelheart broke his promise, so our alliance with the thirdlings is over.” He rolled up the parchment. “It’s time to break camp and leave this inhospitable range. I want everyone out of here by dawn tomorrow.”
“Where are we going, sir?” asked one of the officers.
“South,” he replied, pointing to a map. He traced a route through Idoslane. “King Belletain wants us to take the enemy by surprise. They won’t be expecting us.”
“Poor them,” observed one of the men, raising a laugh from the others.
“All the better for us,” said Vallasin, pleased to see their enthusiasm. Personally, he was of the opinion that it wouldn’t be easy, especially once they left the safety of Urgon, but at least they could take a shortcut through Idoslane. Prince Mallen was unlikely to object, and it was by far the quickest route. “The march will be tiring—we need to move fast.”
After dismissing the officers, he sat down and composed a brief letter to the king. This time he was sure that he and his little army would chalk up a victory in his name. The odds were in his favor—provided he acted before it was too late.
10 Miles from Porista,
Former Realm of Lios Nudin,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6235th/6236th Solar Cycle
Balyndis fought her way out of the darkness that had settled over her mind. Looking up, she expected to see the vast copper dome of the conference chamber, a sight that no longer filled her with awe. After everything she had endured, she felt like taking a sledgehammer to the gleaming cooper roof.
Slowly, it dawned on her that the ceiling was made of white canvas. The sun was high in the sky, so it was almost midday.
Bewildered, she looked around and saw a shock of brown hair on the bedspread. Its owner was snoring lightly, and she knew at once who it was. Tungdil…
Reaching out, she laid a hand gently on his head so as not to wake him. She realized that he had been keeping vigil by her bedside. Vraccas heard my prayers.
She lifted up the sheets and blankets and peered at her chest. A shimmering layer of balm covered a rash of angry burn marks. Narmora must have fixed my broken bones. She ran a hand reverently over her limbs, remembering how the bones had protruded through the skin.
Tungdil sat up with a start. A smile spread over his face when he realized that Balyndis was awake. She thought he looked somehow older and more serious, and she guessed that whatever had happened since their last meeting had taken its toll
“How are you?” he asked gently, squeezing her hand.
“The maga is a miracle worker,” she whispered. “The pain is almost gone.” She pulled him toward her and hugged him tight. Silently, they clung to each other until he freed himself gently.
“I’m forever in your debt,” she said solemnly.
“I did what any friend would do,” he replied. “Balyndis, I’m really sorry about how I treated you before.” He had thought long and hard about what he wanted to say. “I could blame it on wounded pride or jealousy, but there’s no excuse for acting like a spoiled gnome.” He took her hand again. “Can we be friends?”
“I’ve always seen you as a friend, Tungdil Goldhand,” she said, moved by the honesty of his apology. “Nothing will ever change that.”
“No, I suppose it won’t,” agreed Tungdil with a wry smile. He gazed into her eyes and they looked at each other lovingly. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t rescue you single-handedly—you’ve got Boëndal, Boïndil, and Furgas to thank as well.” He told her of their daring incursion into the palace and their successful escape.
Balyndis stroked her shorn head. “This älf… The one who came with you…” she began, voice shaking with rage. “I’m willing to bet she’s the villain who killed my friends and tied me to the tree for the avatars to find me.” She
quickly recounted all that had happened. “Not long after the älfar had gone, a dwarf untied me from the tree. I was so relieved to see a dwarven face that I dropped my guard and said too much. The dwarf turned into an avatar. After that, they took me to Porista and tried to make me talk.” She stopped, eyes welling with tears. “But Vraccas gave me the strength to keep the secret.” She let out a muffled sob. “I couldn’t have lasted much longer, Tungdil.”
He held her in his arms and stroked her shorn head until the sobs subsided. “It’s over now, Balyndis. You’re safe.” He was willing to bet that Ondori was still alive. She must have foreseen that alliances would count for nothing as soon as Balyndis made her report.
“What’s so special about Djern’s armor?” She listened intently to Tungdil’s explanation. “In that case, I need to get back to the Gray Range,” she said without a thought for her weakened state.
“The Gray Range?” echoed Tungdil. “What for?”
She rapped her fingers against his breastplate. “The armor can only be forged in the Dragon Fire furnace. I made the alloy with tionium and palandium. There isn’t another furnace hot enough to meld the two.”
Tungdil considered the situation: The Gray Range was hundreds of miles away, conditions were atrocious, and Balyndis was weak from her ordeal. “It can’t be done,” was his bleak conclusion. “Nine orbits from now the eoîl or chief avatar or whatever his name is will destroy the force fields. We need to storm the city before it’s too late.”
She looked at him sadly, knowing that the task ahead was full of dangers for her friend. “I suppose it’s up to you and the twins to stop them.” She noticed an imperfection in his armor and frowned. “Tungdil Goldhand, is this your workmanship?” she demanded.
“I was in a hurry,” he protested, hoping to be excused.
She got up, threw on some clothes—human garments hastily tailored to dwarven proportions—and donned a cap. She held out a hand and beckoned to him. “Come on, then!”
“Where to? You’re supposed to be in bed!”
“I’ve never seen such shoddy metalwork,” she told him, smilingly. “Fetch the twins. I’ll soon have you shining brighter than an avatar. You can’t fight the eoîl in second-rate armor.”
Laughing, he took her hand and led her to the makeshift forge, stopping off to collect the twins, who were delighted to see Balyndis back on her feet.
The heat of the forge, the high-pitched ring of the hammer, the weight of the tongs, and the clang of the chisel brought Balyndis’s talent to the fore. Tungdil shared her pleasure at being back at the anvil, their hammers rising and falling in unison as they beat the imperfections out of the metal blow by blow.
Boïndil sang in time with the beat of their hammers, and his brother joined in, whereupon Tungdil and Balyndis raised the tempo. The solemn hymn became faster and faster until the twins dissolved into laughter.
For a brief moment, surrounded by the smell of hot metal and the warmth of the forge, the four friends enjoyed each other’s company without worrying about the avatars and the eoîl.
Soon they realized that the dwarves outside had taken up their song.
The freelings and the firstlings were singing a verse in turn, belting out the words and trying to outdo each other in volume and tempo.
The competition ended in enthusiastic applause, and a single voice, deep and melancholy, cut through the noise of the camp.
Above the dark mountain
A star aches with longing in a sky full of
Stars that he could call to
But he can’t
Stars that he could turn to
But he can’t
Stars that he could join with
But he can’t
The dark mountain, the jealous mountain
Won’t let him cross the sky.
The light-hearted atmosphere was gone.
Tungdil realized that the singer was one of Lorimbas’s dwarves. He was reminded of something that Sanda had said about the thirdlings. Some of them aren’t born with hatred in their hearts. He considered the words of the song. I wonder if the dark mountain stands for Lorimbas and the other thirdling kings who perpetuated the feud? He prayed to Vraccas that he might live to see the orbit when dwarves from all five ranges would come together in friendship and peace.
“What a sad song,” commented Boïndil. “I feel like drinking myself to death.” He fastened his greaves to his shins and nodded approvingly. “They don’t pinch anymore.”
“Two more orbits, and you’ll be ready,” Balyndis assured him. “The avatars don’t deserve to live a moment longer than necessary, but the armor is worth the wait.”
“It certainly is,” agreed Boëndal, checking the fit of his spaulders. “Besides, nothing can save the eoîl.” He was visibly impressed by Balyndis’s workmanship, especially since she was still recovering from her ordeal.
“I don’t like it when they use their flamethrowers,” complained Boïndil, stroking his braided beard. “It gets confounded hot in my suit. I might dip my whiskers in water to stop them from catching alight. I’d be sorry to scorch them.”
“There you are,” said Rodario, stepping into the forge. “Three feisty dwarves, preparing to save Girdlegard from the forces of evil. Hmm, strictly speaking, the avatars are trying to do the same.” He paused and hooked a finger around his chin. “The audience will never understand. How am I supposed to explain that the dwarves, which is to say, the forces of good, are fighting their enemies—also on the side of good—to stop them destroying evil?”
“You’ll think of something,” Tungdil assured him. “Any useful information from the prisoner?”
“Not really…” He picked up a pair of tongs and twirled them in his hand. “I’ve been thinking about what she said earlier. According to Lirkim, the eoîl is convinced that the evil spirit that corrupted Nudin is still alive.”
“What?” gasped Balyndis, staring at him aghast.
“It’s been bothering me as well,” said Tungdil. He raised his beautifully forged but otherwise unremarkable ax. “We can’t fight the spirit without Keenfire, and the älfar won’t give it back. To be honest, it’s hard to see how the eoîl could be right. You were there when I destroyed the spirit, and nothing was left.”
“It can’t be very strong or it would have shown itself. The dark water is all that remains of the Perished Land’s power.” Rodario set down the tongs. “All the same, I’m worried. You’ll have to take the eoîl alive.”
Boïndil roared with laughter. “He’s their leader, remember? He’s stronger and more powerful than the rest.”
“I took my avatar alive—and I wasn’t wearing fancy armor,” retorted Rodario, omitting to mention that Lirkim had been neither sober nor conscious.
“Why do you want us to spare him?” asked Boëndal, more diplomatically.
Rodario decided to tell the whole truth. “Lirkim told me that the eoîl knows how to find the spirit.”
“So you did find out something…” Tungdil mulled the situation over. “Maybe the avatars’ invasion is a blessing in disguise. With the eoîl’s help, we’ll be able to find the spirit and destroy it for good.” He nodded. “You’re right, Rodario, the eoîl must be taken alive.”
“Why didn’t he explain himself properly from the start?” complained Boïndil, turning the grinding wheel to sharpen his axes. “It’s all very well capturing the eoîl, but what are we supposed to do with him—put him on a leash and let him drag us through Girdlegard until he tracks the spirit down?” He hooked his fingers into his belt. “We’ll find the spirit lurking in a pool of dark water,” he predicted. “Either that, or in a dead glade. Remember what the humans told us about people going mad? It could be the spirit of the Perished Land infecting their minds.”
“Let’s focus on taking Porista and defeating the avatars,” said Tungdil. “The other business can wait.” He picked up his vambraces and the other finished items and walked to the door. Smithing was a hungry business, and
it was time for some food.
Later they were summoned to the assembly tent, where Queen Xamtys was waiting to share some good news.
“Balendilín, Gandogar, and Glaïmbar are back in their strongholds—they’re sending troops to Porista. Prince Mallen is drumming up volunteers, and King Belletain has cleared his fuddled mind and fired his thirdling doctor. He’s sending an army through Idoslane as well. Unfortunately, none of the reinforcements—except maybe Belletain’s ten thousand warriors—will get here in time.”
“Ten thousand warriors should do the trick,” said Tungdil confidently. “Furgas has promised us some formidable siege engines. We’ll start the bombardment in four orbits’ time. First we’ll focus on their army and cut it down to size; then we’ll smash our way into the city. Two entry points should be sufficient—Furgas and Rodario know the weak points in Porista’s defenses.”
“We’d rebuilt it all so nicely,” wailed Rodario. “You’d better not hit the Curiosum.” He stood up. “I’m going to check on Lirkim.” He pulled back the thick pelt that served as a door. “Maybe I can persuade her to…”
Just then a bright light pierced the evening sky, and a gray sun shot out of the winter clouds, plummeting toward them.
Alerted by the sentries, dwarves poured out of the tents, brandishing weapons and shields. Narmora stood among them, arms raised, as she muttered an incantation to deflect the fiery ball.
The spell came too late.
The sun turned a deep shade of green and paled a little, before smashing into the collier’s hut. Malachite flames shot out of the door and windows, towering to a height of four spears. The rickety shed collapsed.
A moment later, dwarves were on the scene, dousing the blazing wreckage with buckets of snow to save the nearby tents.
Rodario stared at the inferno and knew at once that his prisoner was dead. “Lirkim,” he whispered, dismayed. He seldom brought happiness to the women he met.
Lirkim’s death proved that the enemy wasn’t to be trifled with; the eoîl was capable of detecting and punishing treason beyond the city’s walls. Thereafter, the dwarves and their allies poured all their energy into building the siege engines. Furgas had designed them so that the throwing arm was strong enough to hurl spliced tree trunks, boulders, and blocks of wood spiked with nails. They didn’t have petroleum or oil, so they were counting on flattening the enemy instead.