by Markus Heitz
Tungdil clasped her hand and allowed her to pull him up. She was stronger than she looked. It probably comes from carrying stacks of books.
At the campfire, Boïndil was sitting watch. He nodded as they approached.
Tungdil went over and gave him a warrior’s hug. Boïndil, relieved to be forgiven, thumped him on the back. “I always talk nonsense when I’ve been eating cheese,” he growled. “Next time you see me with cheese in my mouth, remember not to listen.”
“Thanks for the tip,” said Tungdil, laughing. “I’m glad we’re friends again.” He lay down beside the fire and glanced at Myrmianda, who had been watching them through the flames. She smiled at him, just as Balyndis had smiled at him across another campfire, not so long ago.
Southern Entrance to the Fifthling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
The orc touched down on the other side of the boulder and ducked out of sight. A light northerly wind blew toward him from the gateway. Flaring his nostrils, he sniffed the air.
Nothing untoward.
He peered out from behind the boulder to get a better look. The gates were wide open and unguarded. He could walk right in without anyone trying to stop him or sound the alarm.
With a satisfied grunt, he straightened up and lumbered toward the tunnel, picking his way between the scattered boulders and ruined masonry. Of the two routes into the groundlings’ kingdom, the southern approach was more direct.
The other route entailed leaving Girdlegard and entering the kingdom from the Outer Lands, which Ushnotz was reluctant to do.
The orc smiled. The prince would be well pleased with him for finding the southern entrance before the other scouts.
Splashing carelessly through puddles of melt water, he stopped at the gateway, poked his head into the tunnel, and sniffed the air for groundlings.
His lips drew back in a smile. Stepping away from the gates, he unhooked his horn and sounded a long, clear signal that echoed through the range.
The prince’s bugle sounded in reply, telling the scout to keep watch at the entrance until the troops arrived.
The orc decided to take a break. By locating the southern entrance, he had spared the troops a testing march over snowfields and glaciers, and it was time he had a rest.
Grunting contentedly, he retreated to the shadow of the peaks, sat down on a boulder and rummaged through his bag, bringing out a hessian sack containing the remains of a fleshling. The man had been unusually tall, too tall for one sitting, so he had saved his shanks for the journey. His mouth began to water at the festering smell; spoiled meat was particularly flavorsome.
He sank his teeth into the left shank, ripping off a sizable chunk, which he chomped through with gusto.
The taste of fleshling brought back memories of the recent feast in Gauragar when Bruron’s army had tried to trap them in a glade. On Ushnotz’s instructions, the orc and his fellows had drunk the dark water from the pond, broken down the barricades and run riot through the fleshlings’ ranks. The victory had kept them in meat for orbits.
He tore off another strip of flesh and swallowed greedily, forgetting to chew. The meat slipped halfway down his gullet and came to a halt. Cursing, he whacked himself on the back, but the meat refused to budge. By now he was coughing and spluttering quite violently, so he reached for his drinking pouch, which slipped through his fingers and dropped to the ground. The pouch rolled down the hillside, with the orc chasing after it, taking wild, ungainly bounds. After a few seconds he gave up and raced to the clear blue pool at the bottom of the waterfall.
Throwing himself onto his belly, he lowered his head to the surface and drank. Cool water streamed down his throat, clearing his gullet.
He took another gulp and realized that he was lying on a flat slab of rock above a trough measuring half a pace across. It looked like a conduit or a drain.
Having no interest in waterworks or dwarven engineering, he lowered his head for another sip. This time he stopped in surprise, transfixed by his reflection. Staring back at him was a wrinkled face with a bushy blond beard, a silver helmet, and long wavy hair.
There was only one explanation: The pool was under the curse of the groundling god. I shouldn’t have drunk the water, he thought frantically. It’s turned me into a groundling. He squawked in terror. Ushnotz will kill me on the spot.
His panicked mind was still whirring when the watery face began to smile. A moment later, it stuck out its tongue.
The orc stopped howling and leaned toward the surface. Ugh! He wrinkled his nose in disgust. I even smell like a filthy groundling!
Eyes fixed on the gently rippling water, he stared at his reflection. To his astonishment, a second dwarven head appeared on his shoulders and, above that, two brawny arms and an ax.
A proper entrance,” grunted Ushnotz in satisfaction. He climbed onto a flat-topped boulder to get a better view. “Fastok has done us proud.”
Runshak took up position beside him and surveyed the sloping ground—a few boulders and some crumbling fortifications, but no cover to speak of. His brow furrowed as he spotted Fastok reclining near a waterfall, helmet pulled low over his eyes and legs stretched out comfortably. “The bungling idiot’s gone to sleep,” he grunted, picking up a fist-sized stone to hurl at the dozing scout. The missile missed its target, flying past Fastok’s privates and landing near his feet. “Hey!” bellowed Runshak. “Why aren’t you keeping watch, you soft-skinned fleshling?”
“Get the troops into formation,” commanded Ushnotz, encouraged by the hush. “Advance with caution until we know what’s what.”
His troop leader, a broad-chested orc who stood two paces tall, drew himself up and relayed the orders to the troopers, who were strung out along the track behind him like an enormous metallic snake. “The plateau’s too small,” he observed. “They’ll have to advance in waves.”
“So this is our new kingdom,” muttered the orcish chieftain, lifting his head to survey the mighty peaks. “It isn’t as homely as Toboribor, but it’s better than being hounded by Mallen and his men.”
His plan was foolproof: First his army would occupy the abandoned kingdom and secure the old defenses, then half of the troopers would stay behind to guard the gateways while the remaining units paid a visit to the settlements in nearby Gauragar. Ushnotz needed provisions, and he was counting on the fleshlings to hand them over quietly. The king of Gauragar wasn’t likely to come to his subjects’ rescue; his army was weaker than Mallen’s, and his troops were tied up in Dsôn Balsur, which lay within the kingdom’s bounds. While the älfar remained undefeated, Ushnotz would be free to consolidate his empire without interference from the fleshlings. Afterward, neither the allies nor the älfar would be able to oust him from the mountains and he would reign victorious until the end of time.
He had taken measures to ensure that the dark water wouldn’t run out. Every trooper was carrying a full drinking pouch, and his quartermasters were bringing additional barrels and kegs. Ushnotz intended to empty the contents into an underground basin and create his own lake. The water was actually quite palatable, and a single sip sufficed to renew the effect.
He watched as his troopers filed onto the plateau and lined up before the gates. “My new kingdom,” he said proudly, whinnying with laughter. The troopers saluted their leader, cheering, banging their shields, and raising their weapons. In spite of the commotion, Fastok was still asleep. Snarling angrily, Runshak bore down on the unfortunate scout.
“Hey!” he shouted, kicking him in the ribs. When Fastok failed to respond, he ground the heel of his boot against one of his shins. No creature could sleep through such agony, but Fastok didn’t stir. Runshak frowned, his ugly features contorting suspiciously as he bent down and snatched the helmet from Fastok’s head.
The scout would never rise again. His skull had been spliced from the crown to the bridge of his nose by a weapon that Runshak judged to be an ax. A second blow had parted his head from
his shoulders. The killer had positioned the corpse over a crack in the rock, allowing the dark green blood to drain away. With the helmet off, the head rested loosely against the neck, rocking gently from side to side.
Runshak leaped up. “On guard!” he yelled. “We’re not—”
A lone dwarf appeared in the gateway. “Come no closer,” he warned him. “Vraccas’s children protect these mountains. Turn back or face their wrath.” He set a bugle to his lips, sounding a pure, deep note that resonated loudly through the range.
There was a loud crack and the mountain seemed to shudder beneath the orcs’ feet. Ushnotz watched in horror as thin black lines zigzagged across the plateau at lightning speed, creating a network of fractures that augured badly for the orcish troops.
The ground shook again, as if struck by an almighty hammer, and the plateau caved in, taking with it a thousand or so orcs. Shrieking and snarling, they disappeared from view.
A loud splash indicated that they had landed in water. Three paces below the ground, the dwarves had extended the plunge pool beneath the waterfall to create a deep basin with precipitous sides.
The orcs were trapped. Ushnotz watched as his troopers sank beneath the surface, dragged down by their armor. Some were hit by falling debris, while others clutched at the sides of the basin, claws scraping helplessly against the slippery rock. The dark water had made them immortal, but it couldn’t stop them sinking over and over again.
Since when is the Gray Range back in the groundlings’ hands? thought Ushnotz, shaking with shock and displeasure. The only way around the basin was via a narrow path, barely four paces across. On the far side, directly in front of the gateway, stood Runshak. He was a tough orc, made tougher by the dark water, but he couldn’t be expected to hold out against the groundlings while the rest of the army advanced four-abreast around the pool.
The groundlings were waiting for us. It occurred to Ushnotz that he might never set foot in the groundlings’ kingdom, let alone claim it for himself. Of the orcs on the plateau, barely a hundred had survived, and they were looking to him nervously, reluctant to advance in case they met the same fate as their comrades.
From the pool came high-pitched wails as the orcs continued to flounder in the water, unable to die. The noise redoubled as a battalion of dwarves poured out of the gateway, their shouts and cheers echoing between the peaks.
Blind panic descended on the remaining orcs.
At the sight of the grimly determined, ax-wielding dwarves, they turned tail and fled, forgetting that the dark water had given them unnatural strength. In their headlong charge to safety, they collided with the next orcish unit, which was making its ascent. Unsettled by the noise from above and the sight of their fleeing comrades, the next wave of troopers took off down the mountainside as well. In the chaos, the shouts of the orcish lieutenants went unheeded.
Ushnotz liked to think of himself as a cunning tactician. He was about to give the order to pull back and regroup when a slender figure detached itself from the rocks.
“You’re not scared of a handful of groundlings, are you?” demanded a female älf. She was wearing a half mask and a veil of black gauze. “I count two hundred groundlings to your five…” She paused and glanced at the flailing troopers in the pool. “Sorry, four thousand orcs.”
Ushnotz rounded on her. “What’s it to you?” he snapped. “Have they kicked you out of Dsôn Balsur already? Well, the Gray Range is mine.” He pointed down the mountainside. “Get out of my sight before I show you what happens to älfar who trespass on my land.”
“Your land? As far as I can see, the Gray Range belongs to the groundlings,” she said with a scornful laugh. “You’re lucky I’m here to help.” Reaching over her shoulder, she drew an ax.
Ushnotz saw the glittering diamonds on the blade and stepped back with a snarl, almost losing his balance.
“You’re familiar with the ax, I see,” observed Ondori, holding Keenfire aloft. “Groundlings of the Gray Range,” she called, her clear voice and the shimmering gems on the ax commanding the dwarves’ attention. “Your fabled weapon is in the hands of Dsôn Balsur’s älfar. Its bearer is dead.”
The announcement had the desired effect. The charging dwarves stopped in their tracks.
“Well?” said Ondori to Ushnotz. “This is your chance: Send in your troopers and finish them off.”
Ushnotz hesitated. “What if they’ve laid another—”
Ondori responded so swiftly that the orcish chieftain didn’t have time to raise his sword. Keenfire whirred through the air, hewing his neck in a single blow. His head, complete with helmet, hit the boulder, bounced, and rolled down the mountainside. As if in defiance of the älf, Ushnotz stayed standing, blood gushing from his neck. Ondori kicked him in the chest, and the rest of his body followed his head.
The gory blade rose through the air, tip pointing toward the startled Runshak, who had witnessed the death of his chieftain from afar. “Orc,” Ondori called out to him. “You’re their leader now. Next time I won’t be so merciful: Tell your troopers to attack.”
Runshak immediately gave orders for the army to attack and the orcs advanced cautiously.
Ondori bounded down from the boulder, alighting in front of the dwarves, who drew back, eyes riveted on the legendary ax. They were talking in hushed tones and their bearded faces were stamped with dismay.
The älf felt a wave of revulsion. “I killed your hero,” she told them coldly. “Tungdil Goldhand and his companions met their deaths in the lonely woods of Lesinteïl, and you…” She tilted the ax toward one of the dwarves. “You’ll die as they did, killed by the weapon that you forged.”
Four dwarves stormed toward her, but their bravery was in vain. A flurry of arrows ripped through the air, and the warriors toppled backward into their comrades’ arms. It was clear from the black shafts protruding from their chain mail that the älf was not alone. A unit of älvish archers was hidden among the boulders, ready to loose fire on the dwarves.
As if the dwarves weren’t sufficiently intimidated, Ondori raised the ax and slashed at the nearest warrior. The blade passed effortlessly through the hastily raised shield, cleaving the arm behind it. The wounded warrior stared at his bleeding shoulder, paralyzed with shock.
“Groundlings are gifted metalworkers,” she said, laughing vindictively. “See how cleanly the weapon slices through your flesh.” The air quivered, and five dwarves fell to the ground.
Runshak grunted an order and the orcs charged at the defenders, weapons raised.
Ondori stepped aside, not wishing to be sandwiched between the troopers and the dwarves. The main part of the mission was over; she had staked a claim to the underground halls.
Watching in satisfaction, she saw that the groundlings were already losing ground. It was exactly as the immortal siblings had predicted: The news of their hero’s death was more crushing than the sight of five thousand orcs. Without their usual confidence, they would be hard pressed to resist the invaders’ superior might.
Meanwhile, orcish reinforcements were surging onto the plateau and stampeding toward the gateway, their fears forgotten now that victory was in sight.
Ondori jumped onto the rocks where her companions were unleashing their feathered missiles at the defenders. Their aim was deadly; each of the arrows killed or wounded one or more dwarves.
Slowly but surely the defenders fell back. At last their front line regrouped to form a semi-circle barely ten paces from the gateway. A unit of dwarves bearing crossbows stepped out of the tunnel.
Ondori realized that the dwarves were preparing to close the gates. “Look,” she said, alerting her archers. “Feather them with arrows before they lock themselves inside.”
The älfar took aim, drew back their bowstrings, and sent a flurry of missiles over the heads of the invaders. The bombardment stopped when the last dwarven archer went down.
Ondori waved angrily at Runshak. “What are you waiting for? Get your troopers through the gates!
” Once closed, the gates could only be opened with the help of siege engines, so everything depended on storming the tunnel before it was too late.
She leaned forward and followed the battle. It seemed to her that the groundlings were intent on beheading the invading orcs. Usually they concentrated on slashing their legs and shattering their kneecaps, allowing the maimed beasts to thrash about in agony and trip up their fellows. But this time they were definitely aiming for their necks.
She watched in amazement as orc after orc picked himself up from the ground and fought on. What’s going on? Are the beasts immortal? She glanced at Ushnotz’s corpse. Is the Gray Range back in the grip of the Perished Land?
Another bugle sounded.
This time the call came from a small band of dwarves emerging from a narrow opening near the waterfall. Ondori recognized their leader at once. What’s this? I saw him drown…
“That’s right,” bellowed Tungdil, his deep voice carrying over the din of clashing blades. “I’ve come to reclaim my property and avenge my friends. I won’t rest until you’re dead.”
The dwarves, seeing their hero, were filled with new courage. The strength returned to their arms and they fought back determinedly. The orcs responded by renewing their attack. It was clear to both sides that the battle had entered a crucial stage.
“We’ll see who gets vengeance,” replied Ondori, trembling with rage. “You’ll die by the ax that you forged!” Signaling to her companions to secure her path, she jumped into the melee of orcs.
Porista,
Former Realm of Lios Nudin,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
Narmora kneeled down and drew her right hand over the loose, moist soil, then packed it down firmly. “Taken from me at birth,” she whispered, tears leaking from her closed eyes. “You started life together, and now you’re alone. We won’t forget you, I promise.”
Wiping her cheeks with her sleeve, she opened her eyes and began to cover the little grave with stones.