by Markus Heitz
One of the dwarves thumped the ground with the poll of his ax. “Yet you handed the Blacksaddle to our enemies while we were fighting on your behalf. Is that how you show gratitude? I call it disloyal and underhanded, and I don’t mind telling you that I expected better from a human king.”
Bruron looked pained. “Those are harsh accusations, master dwarf—especially as I had no choice. I agreed to take over the watch when your kinsfolk left the Blacksaddle, but I had no way of knowing that a centuries-old agreement would force me to—”
“Betray your allies,” the dwarf finished for him, the creases on his forehead deepening into furrows.
Prince Mallen studied the wagons of grain. “An agreement, you say?”
“Many cycles ago, the house of Gauragar signed a treaty with Lorimbur’s folk, according to which the Blacksaddle was ceded to the thirdlings—for perpetuity and with no recourse.”
“Are you sure the document is genuine?” asked Mallen.
Bruron inclined his gray head. “I’m afraid so. My archivists scoured our deepest vaults and highest towers—and the evidence confirms the terms of the agreement. The thirdlings helped my forebears to mine Cloudpiercer’s riches, and the Blacksaddle was their reward.” He turned to the dwarves. “The stronghold belongs to the thirdlings,” he said apologetically. “What was I supposed to do?”
“Refuse?” suggested one of the dwarves.
“My forefathers signed a treaty with the thirdlings, and it behooves me to uphold its terms. Surely the dwarves, with their fondness for tradition, can understand the situation?” His tone had undergone a sudden change, becoming sharper and more impatient; it was obvious that he considered the matter closed. “The Blacksaddle belongs to the thirdlings; I’m not thrilled about it either, but the honor of Gauragar is at stake.”
Mallen looked at him squarely. “I won’t presume to judge you, Bruron, but in your position I would have advised my allies of the treaty and looked for a better solution.”
“I didn’t have the luxury of—”
“You could have requested more time—a few extra orbits to check the treaty’s terms,” cut in Mallen. “Instead you allowed the dwarf killers to seize a stronghold that poses a strategic threat to our friends. We’ll soon find out how Lorimbas intends to use his advantage.” He locked gazes with the monarch, smiling coolly as the other looked away. It was obvious that Bruron had been offered some inducement to remind him of the treaty’s terms. “I see what this is about,” he whispered in the king’s ear.
“You have no idea,” hissed Bruron. “My subjects are starving. Grain costs money, and I’m spending a fortune to keep them alive! If my allies would waive the cost of the—”
“It’s rude to whisper,” boomed one of the dwarves. “We won’t inconvenience you any longer—we’re needed in Dsôn Balsur. But don’t worry, King Bruron; we’ll be sure to tell our kinsfolk what you said. No doubt the high king will reach his own conclusions about your obligations.”
The three dwarves raised their hands and took their leave with a gesture that could have passed for an obscenity or a wave.
“So you sold it,” said Mallen angrily as soon as they were out of earshot. “You traded the Blacksaddle for gold.”
“No,” snapped Bruron. “My forebears signed a treaty; I kept to the terms.”
“And risked the wrath of the dwarves? What if they cut their ties with the human kingdoms?” Mallen shook his head bitterly. “I said before that I wouldn’t judge you, but I’ve changed my mind. You’re a fool for ceding the Blacksaddle to the thirdlings.”
The king turned on him angrily. “How dare you—”
“I speak only the truth,” broke in Mallen, weary of Bruron’s excuses. “Even a king must be censured if he errs. Don’t you realize what’s happening in Dsôn Balsur? The dwarves lost three hundred warriors in a night! They were murdered in their sleep—duped by älfar who claimed to be envoys from Liútasil. And now a strategically crucial stronghold, complete with weaponry and supplies, is in the hands of the dwarf killers. How do you think our friends will react?”
Bruron’s self-assurance vanished. “I hadn’t heard,” he said, concerned. “I’ll tell my advisors to find a way of annulling the treaty.”
“You do that, King Bruron. New friendships are easily sundered. The dwarves are valuable allies; we can’t afford to lose them.” He paused, deciding that he had said enough. “By the way, I came to tell you that we’ve started setting fire to the forests around Dsôn Balsur. The trees are harder to burn than we thought, and we’ll need more pitch—but it’s working. The assault on the älfar’s black kingdom will soon begin.”
“I have news for you as well, Prince Mallen,” said the king. He hesitated. “The thirdlings want to speak with you. Their spokesman is in the capital, waiting for you to send word.” He gave Mallen the name of a boarding house. “I’ve met a few groundlings in my time, but these ones are…” He checked himself and tried to mask his disquiet. “In any case, you’re more experienced at handling them than me.”
Mallen swung himself onto his horse. “I’ve nothing to say to the thirdlings. We’re leaving this very orbit. A couple of orcish commanders are limping back to Toboribor and I intend to destroy their troops.” He raised his hand in farewell.
“Palandiell be with you and your men,” said Bruron sincerely.
“May the alliance hold strong,” replied Mallen. At his command, the cavalrymen formed a guard around him and they left the storeroom in the direction they had come.
The king of Gauragar lowered his yellow-flecked eyes and examined the lists that his stewards had prepared. After a moment’s consideration, he reached a decision—for the good of his kingdom.
The three cases of gold that would arrive in the capital in nine orbits’ time would allow him to purchase further supplies. There was no point in throwing the thirdlings out of the Blacksaddle until he had accumulated enough gold to secure his kingdom’s future.
Bruron was certain that Mallen and the dwarves would think differently if they knew the suffering of his people. No other kingdom was ravaged as badly as Gauragar. After orbits of eating moldering wheat, my subjects shall have fresh bread. Happier times are ahead for my kingdom.
“See to it that the silos are emptied,” he told his stewards. “Tell the farmers in the northern provinces to till every inch of fertile land. And order another nine thousand drums of barley from Tabaîn. I won’t have my subjects eating crumbs.”
I’m sorry I wasn’t in when you called.”
The deep voice sounded from near Mallen’s feet. The prince, unaccustomed to being addressed in such an irreverent manner, stopped admiring the red-tinged clouds above Richemark and looked down to identify the speaker. It was a heavily armed dwarf, who had slipped past his guards.
“I didn’t call,” he said coldly. “There was nothing to discuss.” He raised a hand to reassure his guards, fearing that any action on their part would result in blood-shed.
The dwarf’s armor was unlike anything that Mallen had seen. His reinforced spaulders were fitted with finger-length spikes, sharp blades glistened on his vambraces, and his gauntlets boasted sharp metal studs. Even without drawing his weapons he could wound or kill a man.
“If you don’t have a name,” said Mallen, “I’d be happy to choose one for you—although it might not meet with your approval.”
“In which case, I’d knock you out of the saddle—and I’m loath to hurt your splendid horse.” The dwarf smiled unpleasantly, the black tattoos on his cheeks rearranging themselves briefly. “If you care for your mount, you’d do well to call me Romo—Romo Steelheart of the clan of the Stone Grinders, descendant of Lorimbur, and nephew of King Lorimbas. I’m here on my uncle’s business.”
Mallen’s gaze traveled over the dwarf, taking in his breastplate, the steel plates protecting his thighs, and the three-chained morning star on his belt. “You’re dressed for war, not business. With a tongue like yours, you’re bound to find ene
mies, I suppose.”
“My enemies are your allies, and our war has been raging since the creation of the dwarves.” He reached down and pulled a sealed leather roll from his boot. “From my uncle—he told me to bring him your reply.” He held out the roll for Mallen to take.
It seemed to the prince that he should read the missive; if nothing else, it would apprise him of the thirdlings’ intentions. He broke the seal, opened the roll, and pulled out the parchment.
He was expecting some form of blackmail, which was exactly what the letter contained. It referred to an ancient treaty between the house of Ido and the thirdlings in which the latter agreed to provide assistance in combating Toboribor’s orcs.
The arrangement still stood. Idoslane’s defenses depended on the dwarves’ undying hatred of orcs. Dwarven warriors, renowned for their toughness, staffed the outposts in parts of the kingdom most vulnerable to the marauding hordes, but it was difficult to know which of them were thirdlings because, unlike Romo, they looked no different to ordinary dwarves.
According to the letter, the thirdlings’ services were conditional on Mallen sticking to the terms of an agreement signed by his forefathers. It was the first he had heard of such a deal.
“I’m afraid your king is mistaken,” he said firmly, lowering the parchment. “Tell him I don’t like his scheming. First he seizes the Blacksaddle; then he tries to turn Idoslane against her allies. Nothing can induce me to pick a fight with the fourthlings.” He dropped the letter, watching as it floated toward a pile of horse dung. “King Gandogar is more than an ally; he’s a friend.”
“How touching,” scoffed Romo, seemingly unsurprised by his refusal. “Perhaps my uncle can take his place in your affections. We demand that you keep to the terms of the agreement. Your forebears signed the treaty of their own free will.”
“I won’t be held to ransom by your uncle. My forefathers weren’t allied to the fourthlings and their adherence to the treaty was never tested. In fact, I can’t recall any reference to an agreement with the thirdlings; it wouldn’t surprise me if the document were a fake.” He leaned forward in his saddle. “Tell King Lorimbas that bribery worked on Bruron, but it won’t work on me. He can keep his gold.”
“We didn’t bribe Bruron; we paid him.” Romo poked the letter with his boot, watching as the parchment sank into the brown, soggy dung. “You must be very proud of your kingdom, Prince Mallen. I suppose your cavalry is strong enough to deal with the orcs—provided you’ve got enough mercenaries watching your borders.”
“Is that a threat?”
“A threat?” echoed Romo, feigning surprise. “My uncle merely said to tell you—”
Mallen didn’t wait to hear the rest. Dropping the leather holder into the mud, he kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks and rode away. He had said everything he wanted to say.
The cavalrymen, noticing their monarch’s displeasure, took their leave from the dwarf without ceremony. Their places were taken by the traders and citizens of Richemark, who trampled the dung-soaked parchment underfoot.
Romo watched Mallen’s departure with a contemptuous grunt. He’ll see the consequences of his obstinacy soon enough. The dwarf was pleased that the passers-by were careful not to crowd him; they were nervous of dwarves, and his demeanor did nothing to calm their fears.
Mallen’s refusal to ally himself with the thirdlings meant that Romo was obliged to continue his journey in a northeasterly direction. He could be sure that his advances would be looked on more sympathetically there.
A group of children ventured closer, stopping a few paces away and staring at him with open curiosity.
“Are you a dwarf as well?” asked the eldest among them. “Why do you look so funny?”
“For the same reason you look so ugly,” he growled. Then he realized the implications of the child’s words. “Of course I’m a dwarf, a very special dwarf—a warrior, if you must know.” He smiled a crooked smile. “Are more of my kind in town?”
The children jumped up and down, nodding eagerly.
“What a wonderful coincidence. Can you tell me where I might find them?” He took a coin from his leather purse and threw it to the tallest boy. His right hand closed around the metal haft of his morning star. He intended to end his business in Richemark on a high.
IV
Southern Entrance to the Fifthling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
It hasn’t changed since last time,” said Boïndil, gazing at the crumbling ramparts and fallen towers that were all that remained of the stronghold’s glory. He, Tungdil, Balyndis, and a group of twenty handpicked warriors were marching ahead to survey the land. The gateway to the fifthling kingdom lay before them, tall as a house and tantalizingly close. The doors had been smashed to pieces. Boïndil looked back at the steep path leading down the mountainside. The remaining dwarves were about a mile away, working their way to the top with their belongings and supplies. “They’re moving too fast,” he muttered. “They need to be more careful with Boëndal’s stretcher—and they shouldn’t be making so much noise.” He dispatched a warrior to pass on the message.
Tungdil left the little group, ducked behind the weathered ruins, and darted toward the gateway, moving as quietly as he could. Mindful of the possible dangers, he had taken his ax from his belt and was ready to strike at a moment’s notice. A few paces from the gateway, he stopped and crouched behind a pile of rubble.
“Hey, that wasn’t the deal,” growled Ireheart, setting off after him. “What are you playing at, scholar? The first ten orcs belong to me.” He ducked down, charging from rock to rock and sheltering behind the ruined ramparts, now almost fully visible beneath the melting snow. Balyndis and the others ran after him, rattling and clunking like an army of tinkers.
Tungdil rolled his eyes. “You couldn’t be more obvious if you were singing dwarven war songs,” he hissed irritably. “I’ve a good mind to make you take off your chain mail.” He focused his attention on the dark gateway leading into the mountain; everything was still.
The silence was broken by dripping water. All around them, stalactites were melting, and not far from the gateway, a waterfall, free at last from its icy prison, was cascading down the slope. Spray rose into the air, lingering in a haze of iridescent mist.
“I’d sooner shave off my beard than take off my chain mail,” protested Boïndil. “I’m naked without it.” He flared his nostrils, sniffing the air for orcs. “Not a whiff of them—or their rancid armor.” He turned to Tungdil and Balyndis. “Remember the orcs in the smelting works?” His eyes lit up with the memory. “They were packed in so tightly, just waiting to be killed. I couldn’t swing my axes without disemboweling a dozen of them by accident. Do you think—”
“Quiet!” ordered Tungdil, conscious that Balyndis was looking at him.
She had been true to her word and joined the expedition—not as his fiancée, but as a friend. At her side was Glaïmbar Sharpax, to whom she would soon be melded.
Tungdil didn’t know how to behave around her. In the space of an orbit, he had gone from being a lover to a friend, but his tortured heart refused to accept the change. “I’ll go first,” he said.
Stooping low, he darted off and stopped to the side of the gateway, pressing his ear to the wall and listening for sounds from within. Hearing nothing, he slipped inside and disappeared into the gloom.
Boïndil jiggled his axes impatiently. “I can’t stand it!” he spluttered. His inner furnace was overheating, stoked by his fiery spirit and concern for his brother’s life. “We should be seizing the Dragon Fire furnace and making my brother well. I’m going straight to the fifthling smithy, and no one can stop me—not you or a hundred orcs!” Throwing caution to the wind, he jumped up and ran through the gateway. Balyndis, swearing softly, hurried after him, followed by the others.
The tread of their boots on the rock sounded different in the tunnel. Balyndis found herself imagining that she was run
ning across the roof of a cavern, but she pushed the thought aside.
A moment later, she and the others almost barreled into Tungdil, who had come to a halt at the end of the tunnel. “Forget what I said about keeping down the noise,” he said testily. “They’re bound to have heard us by now.” He gripped Keenfire with both hands. “It’s time to find out whether Tion’s beasts are still squatting in our stronghold or whether they’ve found themselves another home.”
“That’s more like it,” said Boïndil cheerily. “Dwarves don’t hold with sneaking and skulking; it’s cowardly and underhanded.” He flashed them a ferocious grin. “Show me where the runts are hiding—I’m dying for a fight.”
“How unusual,” said Balyndis, cross with him for breaking rank.
They set off through the passageways, Tungdil, Balyndis, and Boïndil, who knew the stronghold from their previous visit, leading the way. The likenesses of dead fifthling chieftains greeted them, axes hefted, from gleaming palandium panels on the walls.
They soon found evidence of orcish activity: a trail of dirt and muddy prints—some booted, others unshod—leading toward the exit. It seemed the beasts had marched through the stronghold on their way to the Blacksaddle.
On reaching a many-columned pentagonal chamber, they took the passageway to the Dragon Fire furnace.
Tungdil’s memories came flooding back. He heard Gandogar’s booming voice taunting Nôd’onn’s hordes, he saw images of his dead friends, and he braced himself for grunting orcs and squawking bögnilim—but the halls were deathly still.
“Botheration! It’s empty as an ogre’s skull,” cursed Boïndil as they reached the smelting works adjoining the furnace. The fires had gone out beneath the blast furnaces, the chamber was cold, and the air stank of excrement and orc. “They’ve abandoned the halls,” said Boïndil, striding toward the door. “What are you waiting for? To the Dragon Fire furnace! What’s the betting it’s still alight?”
Tungdil realized it was useless to reprimand his reckless friend. Consumed with worry about his brother, Boïndil was at the mercy of his temper. Finding some orcs would give him an outlet for his anger, and stop him harming the rest of the group.