by Markus Heitz
What brought them here? he wondered feverishly. Lesinteïl’s occupation ended cycles ago. It was too far north for älfar scouts, especially when their troops were in action on the fringes of landur and Dsôn Balsur. Tungdil could think only that they knew of some secret weapon in the fallen kingdom that they were hoping to use against the elves.
The rustling increased as if hundreds of älfar were swarming through the meadow. During his long crawl toward the pond Tungdil heard five more agonized screams.
Seized by fury, he felt like drawing Keenfire and confronting his pursuers, but common sense convinced him otherwise, thereby prolonging his life. The älfar were expert marksmen, and neither mail shirts nor solid armor could halt the arrows that sped from their bows. A dwarf, stationary or moving, was an easy target, and Tungdil knew better than to break his cover. He hoped to Vraccas that his surviving companions would stay out of sight.
Just then Samusin, commander of winds and god of equilibrium, noticed the outnumbered dwarves. The wind changed direction, blowing across the pond toward the dwarves and their pursuers.
Tungdil decided to get out his tinderbox and set light to the grass.
“Burn the meadow!” he shouted, rejoicing at the sight of the dancing flames working their way up the dry stalks and spreading like lightning. A moment later, several other columns of smoke appeared above the field. The breeze fanned the flames, sweeping them toward the älfar.
Protected by the smoke, grass, and flames, Tungdil kept crawling until he reached the edge of the pond. Glancing around, he spotted two of his companions; of the others, including Boïndil, he saw no sign.
Before he could instruct his companions to dive into the water, a shadow fell over them and a vast creature emerged from the field.
The saddled bull was barely ten paces away. It was wearing a helmet of gleaming tionium and its horns were sheathed in metal. Smoke rose from its coat, and its hooves were singed, as Tungdil could tell from the acrid odor.
There could be no doubt of its intentions. It turned to face the dwarves, lowering its broad head, scraping its hooves against the ground, and snorting aggressively. Its tail swept from side to side.
“Quick, to the pier,” commanded Tungdil, drawing Keenfire. Deep down, he knew the ax could do nothing to stop the charging bull. The beast weighed at least a quarter of a ton and was made of pure muscle without an ounce of fat. “Dive into the water—it’s our only chance!” They started running.
The bull watched them with fiery red eyes. Opening its jaws, it let out a bloodcurdling roar, showed them its jagged incisors and broke into a trot, accelerating as it thundered behind them, churning up the ground. Tungdil realized that the beast would be upon them before they reached the pier.
“Hey, over here, you cud-chewing brute!” A split-second later, Ireheart shot out of the grass. Grabbing the bull by its tail, he dug his heels into the churned-up soil and pulled back with all his might.
The bull charged onward, dragging Boïndil, whose boots carved two deep furrows in the ground. Suddenly it stopped and whipped around to glower at the intrepid warrior hanging off its tail.
“I’ll teach you to eat my friends,” shouted Ireheart, pulling one of his axes from his belt. The blade cut a deep gash in the bull’s behind. “Keep going, scholar. I’ve got your back.”
Tungdil peered into the raging wall of flames that separated the pond from the meadow, but the älfar were nowhere to be seen. After assuring himself that the coast was clear, he signaled for the others to follow and hurried onto the pier. Thereafter they were in full view of any lurking archers. From the corner of their eyes they watched as Boïndil jabbed at the raging bull with one hand and clung to its tail with the other. Bucking and turning, the beast tried to shake itself free, but Boïndil’s grip was like iron and he stayed out of reach.
“I’ve killed bigger beasts than you,” the dwarf warned him. “What are you, an oversized cow? You won’t be around much longer.” Swinging his ax rapidly, he hacked at the creature’s legs. Crimson blood flowed from countless gashes, then the hind legs caved in, and the bull bellowed with helpless fury. “Now for your ribs,” roared Boïndil.
“Watch out! They’re—” With a final shriek, the dwarf next to Tungdil toppled over, a second arrow piercing his back as he fell. Gurgling incoherently, he convulsed and died.
“Älfar!” shouted Tungdil, stowing away his ax and grabbing his dead companion by the shoulders. He hoisted the body into the air and held it in front of him like a shield.
Unable to see anything, he took a step back, only to hear his other companion fall prey to the älfar’s arrows. Five times he heard the same sequence of noises—a soft whirr, a jangle of chain mail, and the terrible sound of metal burrowing through sinew and flesh. The dead dwarf splashed into the water.
Tungdil didn’t dare raise his head above the corpse to look for his attackers. Instead he stumbled backward toward the end of the pier. “Listen to me, Boïndil,” he ordered, doing his best to shout. “You can’t risk the pier: You’ll have to wade in from the side.”
Boïndil was standing beside the bull, both hands on his ax and aiming for the creature’s sturdy neck. “I’m not getting in that water!” he shouted, swinging his ax. “This cow needs to be—”
Just then the bull tensed its mighty muscles and its head jerked around. Its horns hit the dwarf’s belly, knocking him off his feet.
Boïndil flew four paces through the air and splashed into the somber water of the pond. His weapon followed a split-second later, disappearing with a gentle gurgle. Bubbles floated to the surface, but neither dwarf nor ax reappeared.
Tungdil decided that his friend’s unexpected flight was the work of Vraccas. He was preparing to launch himself after him when footsteps hurried down the pier.
Even as he lowered the corpse to gauge the distance, his right shoulder was hit by an arrow.
The strength drained out of his arm and his makeshift shield slipped even lower, exposing more of his body.
The älf dispatched another missile, this time hitting Tungdil’s chest. He crashed to the ground. Groaning, he tried to crawl out from under the corpse. Whether or not he reached the end of the pier was no longer of importance; his only chance of survival was to enter the water as fast as he could.
His pursuers were getting closer.
Glancing up, he saw a female älf wearing a half mask, her features veiled by a strip of black gauze. She was running toward him, calling something at the top of her voice. Without stopping, she raised a sickle-like weapon not dissimilar to Narmora’s and hurled it at his chest.
“My life is in your hands,” he muttered to Vraccas as he snapped the shaft of the arrow and rolled off the side of the pier. “I hope Bramdal wasn’t lying.”
He let himself fall.
The dark surface of the pond came closer and closer; then, just as he was approaching the water, he came to a sudden halt.
Someone had grabbed his weapons belt.
Pendleburg,
Southwest Urgon,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
My uncle, King Lorimbas Steelheart of the clan of the Stone Grinders, ruler of Lorimbur’s folk, sends his heartfelt condolences for the loss of your nephew. Urgon has been deprived of an exceptional king,” said Romo Steelheart, inclining his head in a gesture that was barely a bow.
He was standing at the foot of a throne, and the throne was in a modest palace—in Romo’s opinion, a humble fort. It was situated on the tallest of the three hills that made up Pendleburg, the capital of Urgon.
Wood was a rarity in the mountainous kingdom, and so the people of Urgon built their houses of stone. From a distance, it looked as if the city were made of thousands of colored cubes. There were no tiled roofs, only flat stone slabs on which laundry, fruit, and meat were laid to dry.
Pendleburg owed its colorfulness to the different types of rock available to the masons, who created mosaics and bold geometric pattern
s from the contrasting hues. Romo felt at home among the solid walls and soaring mountains, which bore comparison with the peaks of his native range.
“I didn’t want to be king,” said the man on the throne. He was probably about forty-five cycles old, small and rather portly. He pointed to a portrait of a young man with long fair hair. “Lothaire was a true king of Urgon…” His voice cracked and he broke off, burying his lopsided face in his hands. Tears seeped between his fingers.
Romo, who couldn’t abide weakness, masked his scorn by staring at the ceiling until the sobs had subsided.
“Forgive me,” said King Belletain, wiping the salty tears from his clipped brown beard. “The loss is still very fresh. My dear brother, Lothaire’s father, died seven cycles ago in the war against the trolls, and as for me…” He raised his hand and tapped his helmet. “I took a blow to the head. Since then I’ve had a face like a lopsided pumpkin, and I have to wear this helmet or my skull will fall apart. I thought I’d suffered enough, but the gods stole my nephew. I loved him like a son.”
That was Romo’s cue. From what he had seen so far, the king of Urgon would be easier to deal with than Mallen. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Your Majesty,” he ventured, knowing that if he hit the right note, Belletain would dance to his tune, “but the gods didn’t kill Lothaire. It was the dwarves.”
The king raised his head wearily and stared at his visitor. “Your kinsmen killed my nephew?” His hand reached for his sword. “Kneel in front of me, dwarf. Lothaire’s death must be avenged!”
“Not my kinsmen,” said Romo hastily. “I was referring to the fourthlings, the dwarves of Goïmdil whose stronghold lies to the northeast of your kingdom, the dwarves who live off the treasures of the Brown Range—treasures that belong to you.” Romo took a step toward the invalid on the throne. The king’s face was empty and unresponsive. “The fourthlings stood by while your nephew took arms against the magus. If they’d fought at Porista like they did at the Blacksaddle, Lothaire would have lived.”
“Tell me about your folk. Don’t they call you the dwarf haters?”
“Indeed, Your Majesty, which leaves me at liberty to expose their deceit,” he said quickly, determined to steer the conversation to less treacherous ground. “Remember the ax that killed Nôd’onn? It was in the fourthlings’ possession all along. They kept it back because they wanted to be Girdlegard’s saviors. It was their intention that the human armies should be crushed.” He leaned forward. “They could have defeated Nôd’onn whenever they wanted, but they let your nephew die.”
Belletain gave him a long look, then roared with laughter. “I’m not falling for this nonsense. Why in the name of Palandiell would they—”
“Glory,” cut in Romo. “Glory, and power. The way they saw it, the human kingdoms weren’t showing enough gratitude for their defense of Girdlegard’s borders. And now they’re heroes, thanks to their scheming. They set themselves up as Girdlegard’s saviors because they wanted to take the reins. Thousands of humans died because of the fourthlings, and you thanked them for their treachery. Girdlegard is ruled by the dwarves; you welcomed them into your kingdoms, and even Lord Liútasil has fallen for their tricks.” He glanced at Lothaire’s portrait. “Thankfully, the thirdlings are loyal guardians of your people. We don’t want to rule your kingdoms—it’s enough to guard the gates.”
His speech had struck a chord, as he could tell by the expression on the king of Urgon’s face.
“I need to think,” said Belletain wretchedly. “If what you’re saying is true… It hurts my head to imagine what…” He broke off and raised a hand to his helmet. Even the light pressure of his fingers caused the broken sections of his skull to move apart. “Leave me a while. I’ll call for you when I’m…” He cried out, clutching the arms of his throne, and slumped to the side.
The doors flew open, admitting three physicians who set about reviving the king. One held his head, the other loosened his helmet, exposing his bandaged head, while the third unwrapped the dressing and inserted a needle into his skull. Romo watched in amazement as pale pink fluid spurted from Belletain’s brain, splashing into a bronze bowl.
“Wait in your quarters,” said one of the healers, whose efforts were focused on holding together his ruler’s crown. “His Majesty will be incommoded for some time.”
The dwarf assented with a growl, turning and leaving the chamber. Once outside, he smiled: Belletain would side with the thirdlings, and a wedge would be driven between the dwarves and their allies, just as his uncle had planned.
Porista,
Former Realm of Lios Nudin,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
Narmora raced through the corridors of the palace with little thought for the unborn baby in her womb. The person whose life she valued more than any other was critically ill.
She stopped and clutched her side, gasping for breath and feeling her lack of condition. The baby was still kicking in protest at the sudden burst of speed.
Her path was barred by Djern, who was standing guard outside the chamber where Andôkai was tending to the two wounded men.
“Let me through,” she said sharply, reaching for the handle. The metal giant stood firm, blocking the doorway entirely with his bulk. “Andôkai,” shouted Narmora angrily, “tell your bodyguard to let me in or I’ll force my way past him, I swear.”
A muffled answer sounded from the chamber, and Djern snapped out of his paralysis, allowing her to pass. Narmora heard his armor creaking and groaning as if the metal were under tremendous stress.
She rushed forward and burst through the double doors. The maga was bending over Furgas’s bed. His eyes were closed, his forehead shiny with perspiration, and the sheets looked damp.
Narmora hurried over. “Furgas,” she whispered fearfully. “His lips… They’re blue.” Glancing down, she saw the blood-soaked bandages around his abdomen. “He’s not…”
“No,” said Andôkai quickly. “Keep your voice down; he needs absolute quiet or he won’t recover from his wounds. The blade was poisoned; with what, I don’t know. It’s lucky the watchmen found him and brought him straight here. Samusin saved him.”
The half älf kneeled before her, sobbing with relief. “Thank you, Estimable Maga. I don’t know how to repay you.”
Andôkai signaled for her to rise. “You won’t be so eager to thank me when I’ve finished,” she said darkly. “My magic is strong enough to keep him alive, but I don’t have the power to cure him.” Her clear blue eyes searched Narmora’s face. “Furgas was poisoned by someone with knowledge of dark magic. The men who attacked him weren’t highwaymen; they were famuli of Nôd’onn’s. Furgas was brought here with a blade in his belly. It was stamped with Nôd’onn’s crest.”
Narmora straightened up and took hold of his cold, clammy hand, warming his fingers in hers. “Famuli? Why would the magus’s famuli ambush Furgas?” She stroked his pale face. “He knows nothing of magic.”
“No, but he works for me, and that’s enough. Nôd’onn’s famuli thought that the palace would pass to them; in their eyes, I’m a usurper.” She laid a hand on Narmora’s shoulder. “While the servants of evil are at large, Porista is in danger, and no one in Girdlegard is safe. Nôd’onn’s famuli must be defeated before it’s too late.” She paused. “Listen, Narmora, I need an apprentice—someone I can rely on, someone whom I can trust with my life. What if I were to die in the struggle against the magus’s supporters? Who would continue in my stead? When I’m gone, the enchanted realms of Girdlegard will fall to Nôd’onn’s disciples.”
Narmora closed her eyes. “If I were to help, could we heal him?” she asked hoarsely.
Andôkai interpreted the question as a pledge of support. “I’m sure of it,” she said, visibly relieved. “Together, you and I can make him well—but Furgas must be healed in half a cycle, or the poison will be his death. Your apprenticeship will be intensive.” She laid a hand on the half älf’s rounded belly. “Ca
n you cope?”
“Yes,” came the determined reply. “No child should be born to a dead father and a grief-stricken mother.” She let go of Furgas’s hand and clenched her fists. The whites of her eyes darkened and fine lines spread like cracks across her narrow face. “My nursery songs will chronicle the passing of those who conspired against Furgas. No punishment can be too great.”
On the other side of the room, Rodario watched the scene in silence. His bandaged head was pounding horribly from its encounter with the highwayman’s cudgel, which counted among the least enjoyable experiences of his life. He was keenly aware that Narmora hadn’t looked in his direction, but he magnanimously forgave her. The father of her child was in a coma, and she had other things on her mind.
After the attack, Andôkai’s guardsmen had carried him to the palace while he watched in a daze as the ruined streets of Porista passed before his eyes. In spite of his wooziness, he knew for a fact that Andôkai hadn’t deemed his condition worthy of a charm or a spell. After a while, someone had cleaned his wounds and bandaged his head; he could picture the hands, but not the face.
Andôkai glanced over. “Feeling better, Rodario?”
Not wishing to appear a weakling, he mustered a valiant smile.
“Excellent,” she said briskly, “I’m sure you’re in a hurry to get home.”
His smile became a pout. “Fine,” he said proudly. “You’ve made it perfectly obvious that you don’t want me here.” He sat up cautiously, expecting his head to start spinning, but instead he felt irritatingly well. Sighing, he slipped his feet into his buckled shoes, stood up slowly and went over to Furgas’s bedside.
In the meantime, Narmora had composed herself and the signs of her älvish heritage, brought on by the emotional intensity of the situation, had disappeared from her face. Her eyes returned to their usual color, and her skin was flawless again. She looked the model of an expectant mother. “Rodario,” she said apologetically, laying a hand on his arm. “You mustn’t think I’m ignoring you. It’s just I’m a bit…”