by Markus Heitz
“I suppose you’ve got a better explanation,” said Tungdil.
Boïndil was unconvinced by Tungdil’s theory, but he couldn’t think how else to explain the troopers’ wounds. The discussion ended there.
They set off toward the north of Gauragar, the terrain becoming craggier and more barren with every mile. Green meadows gave way to bare earth, rocks, and the occasional tuft of grass. Thankfully, the orcs had left an unmistakable trail of food scraps and boot prints, which saved the dwarves the trouble of checking their route.
“I wonder if we’ll see a dead glade,” murmured Tungdil. “Did you hear what Mallen’s scout was saying?”
Boïndil looked at him blankly. “A dead glade? Sounds like something to be avoided.”
Tungdil filled him in on what the scout had said. “Dead glades are patches of forest inhabited by the Perished Land. King Bruron banned his subjects from approaching them because the evil affects their brains. You can tell a dead glade by the color of the trees—they’re completely black.”
“I thought the Perished Land had retreated,” growled Boïndil. “We can’t let it hide in the trees.”
Tungdil kept his eyes on the churned-up path. “I’ll ask Andôkai to deal with it. The Perished Land is a canker. Who knows how far it might spread?”
Slowing his pace, the secondling fell back and instructed the rest of the company to look out for black trees. Anything suspicious should be reported to King Bruron.
During the second orbit of marching, the tracks turned sharply to the east, heading straight for the highest hill. The sudden change in direction and the unnecessary ascent indicated that the orcs had left their original course.
On the third orbit of marching, the dwarves, defying the odds, succeeded in closing on the longer-legged, faster orcs. They watched from a distance of barely two miles as the beasts swarmed up a hill and disappeared over the crest.
“Oink, oink!” grunted Boïndil in excitement.
Tungdil shot him a warning look. “We’re not going to fight them,” he said, laying a restraining hand on the secondling’s arm. “We wouldn’t stand a chance.”
They set off in pursuit, this time taking care to stay hidden. They ascended the steep, stony slope and stopped just short of the crest.
Tungdil took off his helmet and his long brown hair billowed in the breeze. Keeping low to the ground, he edged forward and lifted his head slowly so that only his eyes and his crown were visible over the summit. Boïndil crawled across the trampled ground to join him.
Their excitement turned to alarm. The orcs were streaming into a dark, wooded area. Tungdil stared at the trees with their black trunks and bare branches. The beasts were heading for a pool of water, the inky content of which was lapping against the stony shore and staining it black.
Tungdil had a fair idea what he was looking at. “A dead glade,” he whispered. “It stands to reason, I suppose.”
Boïndil peered at the orcs incredulously. “What are they doing? Surely they don’t mean to stay there? Even by orcish standards it’s a hellhole.”
Tungdil could tell that his friend was itching for a fight. “We’re not going in,” he said sternly. “We’ll tell King Bruron that we’ve found another dead glade. He’ll make sure that the orcs stay where they are—they won’t be leaving here alive.”
Raising his head a little, he surveyed the bare treetops and tried to gauge the size of the glade. It measured at least a mile in each direction, a vast blotch of foreboding and death. Just then a familiar odor came to him on the wind. He wrinkled his nose in disgust; it was the smell of brackish water that had permeated the drinking pouch, but this time it was coming from the sinister pool. “Fancy a sip?”
Boïndil made retching noises. “I’d sooner die than drink it.”
Tungdil broke into a cold sweat as he remembered what the scout had said. The humans who strayed into the dead glades were beheaded by their fellow men. He stared at the inky pool. What if the two dead orcs had drunk the fetid water and gone mad? Was that why they were stabbed and beheaded? For want of an answer, he stopped worrying and crawled down the slope to make his report to the other dwarves. After a long wait, a delegation of Bruron’s men arrived and Tungdil gave them a detailed account of what he had witnessed.
“It’s time we went home,” he announced. Even Boïndil was happy with the change of plan. The prospect of seeing his brother outweighed the appeal of another battle, and he was looking forward to a solid dwarven meal, washed down with a tankard of Girdlegard’s finest beer.
They set off on the long journey home.
Lorimbur’s Folk,
Thirdling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th/6235th Solar Cycle
Bislipur overreached himself,” said a deep voice. The lofty walls threw back the words as a toneless echo, then it was quiet in the chamber. Only the fire continued to spit and crackle. An armored hand balled itself into a fist, the articulated fingers creaking as the spikes on the knuckles rose menacingly. “Cycles of plotting, and for what? I knew it would come to nothing.”
“The other folks are weak, Your Majesty. Hundreds died at the Blacksaddle. The situation can still be turned to our advantage.” The red glow from the fire accentuated the terrible scars on his gleaming scalp. Contrary to appearances, the lines had been cut by a thirdling tattooist, not an enemy sword. The sequence of dwarven runes spelled death and destruction to the enemies of his kingdom, and his artfully chiseled skull was fearsome to behold. “They lost their best warriors in the battle with Nôd’onn’s hordes. It left them crippled and toothless.”
His kinsman leaned forward. His long black hair was streaked with gray and braided into three plaits that sat neatly against his scalp. “We’re not ready for open warfare.”
The thirdling commander-in-chief shrugged, causing his tunic—a finely crafted shirt of interlocking plates and chain mail—to jangle. “Name me a better time, Lorimbas Steelheart. We haven’t been as strong as this in two hundred cycles.”
“My plan is more subtle, Salfalur Shieldbreaker,” replied the thirdling king. His beard was stiff with dye, hanging like an overstarched pennant from his chin. Even when he talked, the red, gray, and brown whiskers stayed perfectly rigid. He leaned over the table and studied a map of Girdlegard. “Bislipur’s mistake was to move too slowly. My goal shall be achieved within a decade.” He rose from his marble chair and signaled for his commander-in-chief to follow. The hall where they held their briefings was dimly lit, with specks of iron pyrite glittering weakly in the dark stone walls. The two dwarves seemed to be walking through nothingness with only a smattering of sparkling stars.
A line of triangular pillars hewn from the flesh of the mountain stretched toward a set of stairs. Lorimbas ascended them quickly and threw open the doors to reveal a golden shrine.
Lorimbur, founding father of the thirdlings, rested here. His coffin stood upright, his marble likeness staring out from the lid. Dwarven runes made of diamonds, precious stones, and gems praised his deeds and exhorted his descendants to avenge and destroy.
Lorimbas bowed his head respectfully. “Too long have we endured their scorn,” he muttered absently. He reached out with his right hand and caressed the cold effigy. “Too many times have we failed in our duty to avenge the injustices suffered by our founder. The time is ripe, thirdling father. Your bidding will be done, and your faithful son, Lorimbas Steelheart of the clan of the Stone Grinders, ruler of your children, will drive the descendants of Beroïn, Borengar, Goïmdil, and Giselbert from their kingdoms.” He kneeled down, unhooked a three-flanged mace from his belt, and held it toward the dead king. “This I promise on my life.”
Salfalur joined him at the coffin and dropped to his knees. There was no need for him to speak: Lorimbas had given full expression to the passion that burned wordlessly in his soul. Head bowed, with the lethal spike of his double-headed hammer inclined respectfully to the coffin, Salfalur vowed silently to uphold the third
ling cause.
Hours passed as they prayed together, so absorbed in their devotion that their aching arms and bruised knees barely registered in their minds.
At last Lorimbas rose, kissed the sacred boots of his ancestor and locked the shrine.
Salfalur lingered for a moment, gazing at the shimmering gold doors. Like all thirdlings, he loved the founder of his kingdom better than Vraccas, who had forsaken his bold-minded son.
Lorimbur’s crime was to insist on his right to choose his own name. The flint-willed dwarf, who possessed a special measure of that dwarven quality referred to as obduracy, had argued until he achieved his purpose, but in so doing he displeased the dwarven god. His brothers each received a talent, but Lorimbur was condemned to mediocrity, and his descendants never fully mastered the dwarven arts.
Salfalur leaned forward and studied the doors. In his eyes, the inscriptions looked beautiful, but a firstling would compare the metalwork to the imperfect efforts of a human smith.
They’ll pay for their arrogance, he vowed darkly, flexing his muscles. He wore heavy vambraces equipped with knives to protect his arms in battle. “What did you have in mind, Your Majesty?” he asked, bowing his head as he descended backward from the shrine.
The king followed him down the steps and they returned to the marble table to study the map. “We’ll drive a wedge between them and shatter their alliance,” said the king, reaching for a pitcher and filling their silver tankards with beer. The index finger of his right hand hovered over the Blacksaddle. “The thirdlings built that stronghold, and I intend to get it back. It’s ours by right.” He raised his tankard. “To our cousins, for restoring its defenses.” He drank thirstily and replaced the tankard on the table with a noisy clunk. “Well?” he prompted, eying his silent commander. “What do you say?”
The plan made little sense to Salafur, who didn’t mind airing his concerns. “What use is the stronghold, Your Majesty? If it’s the tunnels you’re interested in, we’ve got access to them here.”
Lorimbas smiled. “The tunnels… exactly. Remember when we first heard how our stronghold had been taken over by the dwarven army? I sent our scholars to do some digging in the archives. They came back with some fascinating information about the Blacksaddle. Our dwarven cousins have no idea.”
Salfalur sipped his beer and looked at the king intently. “They’ve been ensconced in the stronghold for orbits. How can you be sure?”
“Trust me, faithful warrior, they know nothing. If our cousins had discovered the Blacksaddle’s secret, every dwarf in Girdlegard would know of it by now. News like this travels fast, and our eyes and ears are everywhere. Our spies tell us everything—and they’re more subtle than Bislipur.” He handed Salfalur the archivists’ findings: a packet of manuscripts tied with a ribbon and a stack of engraved tablets.
The commander-in-chief glanced at them briefly and waved his hand dismissively. “They’re in the old tongue,” he snapped. “I can’t read them.”
Lorimbas stared at Salfalur’s bloodshot left eye, the distinguishing feature of the Red Eye clan, and nodded in satisfaction. “That’s the beauty of it—hardly anyone can read the ancient script. The Blacksaddle will be in our hands before anyone fathoms its secret.”
“True,” said Salfalur slowly. He took a deep breath. “But how will we persuade the other folks to leave the stronghold? To fight them would be—”
“None of our kinsmen will lose their lives.” The king laughed cruelly and leaned back in his chair. “We won’t be doing the fighting. We’ll get someone to do it for us.”
“Who would fight for the thirdling cause?”
“King Bruron of Gauragar.”
Salfalur’s bushy brown eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “This is worthy of Bislipur,” he said reprovingly. “I thought we’d agreed that scheming is useless. So far I can’t see the merit of the plan.” He wrapped his hands around the haft of his hammer, an imposing weapon that almost matched him in height.
“I should have explained myself more clearly from the start,” the king said soothingly. “Our archives turned out to be most instructive. The scholars found an ancient treaty dating back to the end of the 4000th cycle. It seems our ancestors signed a pact with Gauragar, which grants our kingdom everlasting ownership of Cloudpiercer in payment for our help.”
“You mean, the Blacksaddle?” Salfalur knew the stories about the mountain’s history. According to legend, the Blacksaddle was once a mighty peak named Cloudpiercer, the summit of which stretched thousands of paces into the sky. Cloudpiercer stood taller and prouder than any other peak in Girdlegard. It was tipped with snow throughout the seasons and its loftiest flanks were made of pure gold. After trying and failing to mine the treasure, the people of Gauragar had called on the dwarves to help them.
“Are you saying our kinsmen helped the humans to mine the gold, just like the legend says?”
“Exactly. The dwarves of Lorimbur were the first to send a delegation to Gauragar.” Lorimbas gestured to the map. “They arrived at Cloudpiercer and succeeded in burrowing their way through the mountain and digging a tunnel to the top. They hollowed out the mountain and carried off the gold. In return for their help, they demanded a share of the treasure and ownership of the mountain. The king of Gauragar signed a treaty to that effect.”
Salfalur knew the rest from a song that his aunt had taught him as a child. The dwarves and men had quarreled over the gold, prompting Cloudpiercer to erupt in fury and shake the miners from its core. The rest of the mountain was riddled with tunnels and the peak collapsed. From that moment on, the mountain simmered with hatred and harbored a murderous grudge against the races of dwarves and men.
“What if the mountain recognizes us and tries to bury us under its weight?” he asked nervously.
“That part of the story is almost certainly hogwash, but we’ll be careful all the same.” The king was still staring at the map. “Bruron should receive my missive in the next few orbits.”
“Bruron is a man without principles. He’ll never honor the word of his ancestors,” Salfalur predicted dourly. “Besides, without the help of the other folks, his kingdom would have fallen to the magus. He’ll deny all knowledge of our agreement rather than risk the anger of the dwarves.”
“Humans will do anything for gold; it’s simply a case of scale. A single coin won’t buy a sovereign’s loyalty, so I’m offering two full chests. How can he refuse? His kingdom was ransacked by orcs and his people will be hungry. He needs money to buy grain.” Lorimbas sat back and folded his hands across his chest. “You see, Salfalur, I can fight with my head as well as my mace. I can outscheme poor Bislipur.”
Salfalur’s tattoos snaked across his face as he ground his teeth. “I don’t doubt it, Your Majesty. But what did Bislipur achieve?”
“Patience, old friend. The first stage of the plan deals only with Bruron.”
“Where would you strike next?”
Lorimbas’s finger hovered over the map and landed on the kingdom of Idoslane. “Orcs are marauding through Mallen’s kingdom. He’ll want to destroy them, or drive them into Toboribor. We’ll wait until he’s busy; then we’ll pay him a visit.”
“Mallen and Goldhand are friends. All the money in Girdlegard won’t change his allegiance.” The commander-in-chief frowned. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but scheming won’t get you further than poor Bislipur.”
“You’d rather we went to war,” the king said coldly, fixing his commander with his dark brown eyes. “I don’t doubt that the odds have never seemed better. Our army is strong, and the others are weak from their battle with Nôd’onn.” He broke off and raised a warning finger. “But numbers count for nothing while the alliance still holds. We need to kindle the hatred between our cousins and the elves. Once we’ve stoked the fires of enmity, we’ll forge new wedges—wedges that will isolate Gandogar and the others from the humans and the elves.”
It took more than flashing eyes and a raised voice to intimidate Sal
falur. “I wish you every success,” he said, undaunted. “What are my orders?”
“Tell our mercenaries to listen for the codeword Lorimbur’s Revenge. When the time comes, they must lay down their arms and fight only in self-defense. Tell them not to be tempted by offers of gold.” The king rested his chin on his hands and fell silent. Dark thoughts forced their way into his mind, swamping him with fear, self-doubt, and despair.
“Are you worried about your daughter?”
Lorimbas sat up sharply, startled from his thoughts. Salfalur was right; he was worried about his daughter, who had been missing for half a cycle. “Still no news,” he said with a shake of the head. There had been no message, no sighting, not the slightest indication of where she was or whether she was alive. “I’d sooner carry all the peaks in Girdlegard than endure this silence.”
“Have faith, Lorimbas. She’s a good daughter, and an excellent wife.” Salfalur’s face softened for the first time that orbit. “I trained her in the art of combat, and you taught her to dissemble; she won’t let us down.” He stared at the fireplace, watching the flickering flames. “It’s time she sent word.” His left hand clenched into a fist, his gauntlet creaking.
Lorimbas sighed. A single word, a single syllable would calm our fears… “It’s hard, I know. I miss my daughter, you miss your wife—but what choice did we have? No one else could achieve our purpose without arousing their suspicions.” He was trying to drown out the voice of his conscience, which reminded him that he was endangering his youngest daughter by sending her on a mission that relied on total secrecy. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. “I had no choice,” he whispered.
II
Beroïn’s Folk,
Secondling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th/6235th Solar Cycle
It’s still a horse—just a small one, that’s all,” grumbled Boïndil, sliding down from the pony’s saddle. He gave himself a good shake, showering sand from his clothes and beard. “If Vraccas had wanted us to be riders, he would have given us better padding.” He winced as he rubbed his backside.