by Markus Heitz
Even as he sat up, his attacker came at him again. The glare from the fire was so bright that Tungdil could only see his silhouette. Too small for an älf, too big for a dwarf.
The weapon whizzed toward him again, but this time he saw it and made no attempt to parry the blow. Nothing could stop a powerful war hammer. It flew past his head as he dropped to the ground.
Tungdil recognized the weapon, but its owner was dead. He fell at Porista.
Sliding his ax across the mud, Tungdil took aim at his attacker’s right ankle. The blade met with resistance and Tungdil heard a groan. “Salfalur?” he asked incredulously.
He paid for his success with a blow to the chest. His breastplate, much stronger than his usual chain mail, protected his ribs and saved him from death.
“Well guessed, Tungdil,” came the reply. “You should have known better than to believe I was dead. I swore to kill you, remember?” The hammer swung into view, on course for Tungdil’s head. Tungdil jerked away at the last moment and the hammer smashed into the ground, spattering him with mud. He crawled back quickly, bracing himself against the side of the crater. “It wasn’t easy to find you, Tungdil, but I never break my word.”
Struggling upright, Tungdil faced his enemy. The thirdling was holding his war hammer in both hands and the runes on his face seemed to come alive in the flickering flames. Tungdil decided to save his breath; Salfalur would show no mercy, and neither would he.
Before the thirdling could strike, Tungdil swung his ax. Thanks to Keenfire, he felt confident of winning the duel, although his tired body seemed less certain.
Salfalur parried the blow with the haft of the hammer, let go with one hand and smashed his armored fist into Tungdil’s face.
The spurs on Salfalur’s knuckles tore through his skin and for a moment Tungdil saw stars, but he didn’t let go of his ax, gripping it tightly even as the thirdling punched him a second time. Tungdil didn’t have time to avoid the fist and it hit the left of his face, grazing his eye. Pain seared his mind and his vision went pink with blood.
Bellowing with rage, he thrust Keenfire forward, jerking it under the thirdling’s chin.
Salfalur jumped away, only to swing his hammer and go back on the attack. Tungdil was hit in the chest again, but this time his breastplate caved in, pushing against his ribcage and making him gasp for breath. The combined power of Salfalur and his mighty weapon sent him flying several paces through the air. At last he hit the ground, panting frantically.
He heard Salfalur rush forward, ready to attack. In the glow of the fire, the thirdling looked like a living spark from the furnace of a vindictive god. His face was contorted with rage.
The sight of the furious thirdling gave Tungdil the will to fight.
I’m not dying here in Dsôn. Stubbornly, he hauled himself up on his ax and, flinging his arm out to the side, set off at a run toward his antagonist. The pain was excruciating, but he shut it out.
Shouting, they charged toward each other, each determined to deliver a fatal blow.
At last they met, weapons colliding with a steely clatter, the blade of Tungdil’s ax snagging on the hammer. The joint force of the two blows sent both weapons spinning out of the antagonists’ hands.
Keenfire flew to the right, the hammer to the left. Tungdil stumbled to fetch his ax, while Salfalur ran after his weapon.
Tungdil bent down, picked up the ax and turned, determined not to lose sight of his enemy. For the third time the hammer slammed into his chest. Salfalur had got there first.
The head of the hammer found the dell in his breastplate, and his sternum cracked. Pain shot through him as he flew through the air and dropped to the ground, flailing on his back like a beetle. His mind dimmed and a chill came over him, even though the crater was filling with warmth from the burning city.
Footsteps hurried toward him. “Ha, look at the dirty thirdling who betrayed his own folk. It was worth dragging myself out of the mud in Porista and following you all those miles.” The thirdling’s shadow fell over him. “You deserve to die in agony, but this will do. Myr has been avenged at least.”
“The dwarf killers have been wiped out,” gasped Tungdil. “Your kinsfolk are dead. You’ll be more alone than I ever was.”
Salfalur kneeled beside him in the mud. “We haven’t been wiped out, Tungdil. Our eyes and ears are in every clan in every kingdom and none of your friends know they’re there. As soon as they get my summons, they’ll join me in their hundreds and we’ll found a new kingdom and seize the Black Range.” He grabbed Tungdil’s chin. “But you won’t be around to see us throw your friends out of our stronghold. The children of Lorimbur will continue the feud, but your line is dead. It’s time you joined your mother and father.”
Tungdil tried to clear his mind. He was on the cusp of blacking out, but he couldn’t allow himself to sink into eternal sleep. “You seem to have forgotten something,” he mumbled, struggling to speak with the thirdling’s hand around his mouth.
The smooth, tattooed skull came closer and Salfalur peered at him mockingly. Behind him, a house collapsed in a blaze of flames and sparks shot out, dancing around the thirdling’s head and giving him a demonic look. “Hmm, let me think… You’re lying in the mud, dying of your wounds. What could I possibly have forgotten?”
“The warrior’s first commandment,” gasped Tungdil. “Never let go of your ax.” He sat up with a jerk, raising his right hand and striking with all his might. Keenfire bit horizontally into the skull of the startled Salfalur, embedding itself in the bone.
The thirdling went down as if felled by an arrow. His body twitched frantically, determined not to die, but his glazed, bloodied eyes showed that his soul had already departed.
Boïndil taught me well. Unable to rise, Tungdil lay in the mud, racked with pain.
Looking up at the stars and with one hand on Keenfire, he waited for death to claim him from the burning älvish city.
But death never came.
Tungdil, still sprawled on the path, listened as the flames retreated from the edge of the crater and returned to the city in search of wood.
He could sense that death was watching him like a scavenger hoping for food, but something was holding the darkness at bay.
Little by little the pain subsided until he felt confident enough to fall asleep without worrying that he might never wake up.
When he opened his eyes, the sun had barely moved in the sky and he felt rested but hungry. He sat up as best he could in his buckled armor, then unfastened the straps and took off his breastplate.
Carefully he touched his chest. The bones were intact and the pain had gone. His fingers came into contact with the pouch containing the diamond. He pulled out the stone and held it to the light.
Was I saved by the grace of Vraccas or by the diamond? He glanced at Salfalur’s corpse and was surprised by its rotten state. Birds and maggots had stripped the flesh from his face, and his body was bloated with gas as if death were mocking the once proud warrior. How long have I been asleep? He got up and staggered backwards.
Dsôn had vanished.
Every last building in the city had been razed to the ground, leaving nothing but ash. Stone foundations were the only indication of where the älfar’s gruesome tower had once stood.
There was no sign of smoke and the roaring fire had fallen silent. He prodded the ash gingerly with his finger: It was cold.
Gathering his damaged armor, he hurried up the path. The mud had hardened to dirt, and he felt strong and healthy, his wounds completely healed. He decided that Vraccas had kept his inner furnace burning while he was asleep. The stone can’t work magic on its own, and I’m certainly no magus.
On emerging from the crater, he spotted an army of humans and elves approaching the city from the south, no doubt alarmed by the smoke. Sunlight glittered on their banners and armor.
There’s nothing left for them to do, he thought. Rather than wait for them to arrive, he struck out at once on a northeaste
rly bearing.
The journey to the Brown Range took many orbits.
Tungdil enjoyed the solitude and had plenty of time to think. He thought about Balyndis and Myr and what had happened between them, the thirdlings, the future, and where he wanted to go—to the freelings, to the fifthlings, or to Gandogar.
As he crossed the border into the hills of Urgon, his plan took shape.
His march through Urgon coincided with the preparations for the coronation. The fate of King Belletain was the talk of the boarding houses where Tungdil sought shelter and food. The mad king’s betrayal of the allied army had cost him the support of his subjects, and lost him his throne.
Tungdil was pleased to be back among humans. It reminded him of happier times in Lot-Ionan’s school when he had been nothing but an ordinary dwarf with a love of books and a talent for metalworking.
The journey through Urgon took him through green valleys, over lofty summits, and through narrow mountain passes that tested his agility as well as his endurance. At last he arrived at the fourthling kingdom. The sentries took him straight to Gandogar.
The fourthlings’ talent for cutting and polishing gemstones was on full display in the stronghold. The passageways were decorated with pictures composed of brightly colored gems: blood-red rubies, deep blue sapphires, moss-green emeralds, black tourmaline, pink quartz, finely worked agate… Every inch of the fourthling stronghold seemed to sparkle and shimmer with precious stones.
Tungdil, disheveled from his journey through Gauragar and Urgon, his clothes dusty and his boots worn, entered the throne room and inclined his head, revealing his sun-bleached hair.
“Tungdil Goldhand!” Gandogar hailed him from his throne of pure quartz. He seemed exceedingly relieved. “Thank Vraccas you’re alive. How are you?” He signaled for him to sit. “Salfalur turned up in Porista,” he continued, while stewards hurried in with refreshments for the tired and thirsty dwarf. “He killed a dozen of our warriors before he disappeared. We were worried he…”
Tungdil emptied his tankard in a single draft. “He’s dead, Your Majesty,” he interrupted. “He came after me and ambushed me in Dsôn.” He pulled Keenfire from its sheath and rapped his knuckles against the ax head. “I claimed what was mine from the älfar. Dsôn is a dreadful place and they’d hidden the ax in a tower of bones. After I’d found it, I…” It occurred to him that it might be better to keep the details of his duel with Salfalur to himself. “Well, I came back here.”
“You were gone a long time. Every orbit we kept waiting and hoping for news, but spring went by and no one knew where you were.”
Tungdil tried not to show his surprise. “Urgon is a kingdom after my heart, I thought I’d see a bit of the land…” He decided to change the subject. “I suppose you’ve finished the replicas?”
“You made an excellent job of the drawings.” Gandogar called for his master jeweler, who carried in the diamonds on a crystal tray lined with black velvet. The gems were beautifully arranged as if strung together on a necklace. To Tungdil’s untrained eye, they looked identical. They seemed to resemble each other in every detail.
He took out the real diamond and placed it among the others. “It’s impossible to tell the difference.” He counted the gems: fourteen in total. “You’ve made too many,” he said. “Seven human monarchs, five dwarves, and Liútasil—thirteen.”
The fourthling king and the master jeweler compared the diamonds and nodded. “They’re perfect,” declared Gandogar. “But we haven’t made too many, Tungdil. Five for the dwarven monarchs, including one for the future king of the thirdlings—and an extra one for you. If anyone is worthy of the diamond, it’s you. Don’t feel obliged to accept—we can destroy it if you’d rather.”
“No,” he said quickly. “I’d be honored.”
Gandogar picked up the corners of the velvet cloth, allowing the diamonds to slide into the middle. Tungdil lost sight of the eoîl’s diamond among its lesser fellows. The high king gathered the corners and shook the cloth, allowing the diamonds to jostle for position. At last he let go of one end and the stones bounced onto the tray. “Summon the messengers,” he commanded.
The doors to the throne room flew open, and an elf, seven men, and four dwarves were ushered in. One by one they stepped forward to choose a diamond. Some barely glanced at the tray, while others took their time as if they hoped to pick the magic diamond.
Two stones remained on the tray. Gandogar asked the master jeweler to offer them to Tungdil. “I’d like you to choose,” he said.
Tungdil reached for the right-hand stone, wavered for a moment, then picked it up.
Gandogar took the last diamond. “These gifts are a sign of our unity,” he said, turning to the messengers. “Take them to your rulers and tell them these words: Like these stones, so will be our thoughts. Remember these diamonds in times of trouble and honor the alliance. Henceforth, our hearts shall beat as one for Girdlegard.” He waved them away. The messengers bowed and took their leave, and the doors closed behind them with a bang.
“Right, I’ve got a question for you, Tungdil Goldhand.” The high king signaled for Tungdil to be seated. “You’ve had some time to reflect on your journey. Will you be my counselor?”
Kingdom of Idoslane,
Girdlegard,
Summer, 6236th Solar Cycle
Tungdil didn’t need to tell his legs where to take him; he had traveled this way a hundred times before. The journey was full of memories, sad memories.
Summer had brought the promise of an excellent harvest to Idoslane. The fields were full of vegetables and crops, and bees buzzed between brightly colored flowers. A warm wind caressed the lush green meadows where the cows were grazing. They turned their big brown eyes toward the wayfarer, before lowering their heads to focus on the grass.
It looks exactly the same. Tungdil rounded the final bend in the road and came to a halt. Even from a distance, he could see the wreckage of Lot-Ionan’s gates. Strewn among the bushes were scraps of rusty armor and gnawed bone, all that was left of the orcs who had done battle with Tungdil and the twins on their previous visit. No, he thought somberly. Some things have changed.
The orcs were gone for good. Judging by their remains, they had infested the kingdom, but the stone of judgment had put an end to their evil souls. Prince Mallen had sent an army into the caves of Toboribor and his men had struggled through the hot, dark passageways without finding a single orc.
Guarding Girdlegard isn’t easy. He thought of his dead friends and of Boëndal buried at the High Pass. He had visited the secondling’s grave with Boïndil and they had wept for their lost companion and twin. Boïndil’s inner furnace seemed to have cooled and the glint in his eye had gone. It seemed to Tungdil that he resembled his brother more closely, and even his speech was calmer and more considered. Death leaves its mark on the living as well.
He approached the dark entrance to the tunnel, climbing over the wreckage of the gates and entering the cool, earthy passageway.
After a few paces, he stopped. The tunnel was still blocked where he and the twins had cut away the struts and brought down the roof on the heads of the furious orcs who were baying for their blood. Tons of rock had crashed to the ground, barricading the tunnel. The only way into the school was to burrow through.
Tungdil stroked the frayed neckerchief that he wore around his wrist. It was a present from Frala, the warm-hearted kitchen maid who had been like a sister to him, and who had died in the orcish massacre with her daughters, Sunja and Ikana.
A lump came to his throat and he forced himself to swallow, but the sadness was lodged inside him. It’s time I cleared up around here.
It was a monumental task. Orbit after orbit passed as he inched his way forward with a pick and a shovel, carting out the rubble and building new struts. He threw the crushed remains of the orcs into a pile and burned their bones, allowing their ashes to scatter on the wind. A single skull marked the site of the battle, a reminder of the dwarven victo
ry and a warning to future invaders.
At last he reached a section of tunnel that had survived the skirmish with the orcs. The struts and the walls looked perfectly stable, so he continued on his way.
From time to time he found an orcish skeleton. Falling debris accounted for most of the casualties, but some of the beasts had starved amid the rubble. Tungdil guessed from their gnawed bones that they had resorted to eating each other, though one of the skeletons bore no signs of damage. He eyed the creature’s skull with distaste. You were the last orc standing, were you? Even feasting on your comrades didn’t save you in the end.
He dragged the bones out of the tunnel and lit another fire, determined that nothing should remain of Nôd’onn’s hordes. Next he began a search for the skeletons of the men and women who had lived at the school, but all he found was a small collection of bones, which he decided to bury on top of a little mound opposite the gates. He found a boulder and sculpted it into a tombstone, then forged their names in metal letters and hammered them into the stone.
Laying down his tools, he sat on the mound and gazed at the hills and the human settlements. Never had the kingdom of Idoslane looked so peaceful. He wiped the sweat and tears from his eyes.
A familiar figure came into view, hurrying down the path, spotting him on the mound and running to meet him.
He got up to welcome the visitor. “I wasn’t expecting you,” he said, giving Balyndis a powerful hug. “I suppose they sent you to talk me into settling in one of the kingdoms. Did Gandogar think I’d agree to be his counselor if you asked on his behalf?”
Balyndis let her backpack slide to the ground and sat down on the mound. Sighing, she rubbed her ankles. “I should have brought a pony. It’s a long way on foot.” Noticing the tombstone, she gave Tungdil another hug. There was no need for words.
They sat in silence, watching the clouds as the blue sky turned red, then black and the first stars appeared overhead.