by Markus Heitz
“Why won’t you show your face?” he demanded. “Only cowards hide behind a mask.”
“My mask shall remain in place until my murdered parents are avenged,” she told him, looking at him with pure hatred. “You’ll see my face before you die.”
“I killed your parents, did I?”
“You killed my mother in Greenglade—you and the warrior twins.”
Tungdil twisted away as the scythe-like weapon slashed toward him.
“My father you killed at the Blacksaddle,” she continued, slashing at him again. This time she drew blood. She eyed his wounded throat with satisfaction. “My loss shall be avenged.”
Tungdil kept his eyes on the scythe, waiting for her to strike. “I can’t bring them back, but I’d be happy to help you join them,” he retorted, ducking under the swooping blade and using his momentum to ram the ax head toward her.
Once again, the intarsia flared up, but the älf avoided the red-hot suspiration, only for the sigurdaisy haft to slam into her face. The mask slipped over her eyes and her veil caught alight, flames shooting through the gauze and singeing the ends of her long brown hair. Dazed by the blow and blinded by the mask, she stumbled toward him.
In less time than it takes a drop of sweat to vaporize in a red-hot furnace, Tungdil was beside her, ramming his dagger through her armor. It embedded itself to the hilt. Tungdil bent down to claim Keenfire, but he was stopped by a shout from Balyndis. Looking around, he saw the cause.
Glaïmbar was on the ground, and standing over him was a badly wounded orc. Screaming with pain, the beast raised his notched sword and prepared to smite the dwarf.
Tungdil cursed roundly, wishing he could let his rival die. Instead, he picked up the ax that Boïndil had given him and hurled it at the beast. Whirling end over end, the ax struck the orc beneath the armpit. Green blood gushed from the wound, spattering the sprawled Glaïmbar.
The orc stumbled, dropping his rusty sword.
In an instant, Glaïmbar was on his feet, ramming the spiked end of his ax into his enemy’s neck. He slit the beast’s throat and raised a hand to thank his rescuer. Tungdil, who had no intention of acknowledging his rival, looked away.
You fool, the voice inside him whispered. You should have let him die.
Tungdil gave himself a little shake. “Where was I?” he said, turning back to finish off the älf, but she and Keenfire were gone. A trail of blood led into the heart of the battle, losing itself among the mass of dwarves and orcs. The masked älf had escaped to live another orbit and Keenfire was in her hands. I’ll never find her now.
Tungdil remembered what she had said about her parents. Sinthoras was her father, he thought. He picked up an abandoned ax and threw himself on the remaining orcs, drawing strength from his frustration at losing Keenfire for a second time.
Hoping against hope that he would find the älf, he cleaved through the beasts.
But the ax and the älf had disappeared.
It was late afternoon when the battle ended. The dwarves had won a decisive victory, but the mood was subdued.
They gathered the headless bodies of their enemies and threw them into the basin, where they floated among hundreds of spluttering orcs. After killing the survivors by pelting their heads with rocks, the dwarves decided to drain the basin and let the sun do its work. Later, the bleached bones would be strewn around the Stone Gateway as a warning to invading beasts.
Tungdil stood on the plateau and scanned the mountainside below.
It seemed to him that a small dot was moving rapidly across the horizon toward the southeast. He felt sure it was the älf, in which case it was futile to think of chasing her by pony, let alone on foot.
It’s Glaïmbar’s fault, he told himself, kicking the ground angrily. A stone skittered down the mountainside. I had the älf where I wanted her. Keenfire was mine.
“I wanted to thank you properly, Tungdil Goldhand,” said the object of his curses.
“Any dwarf would intervene to save his king,” he replied. Too frustrated to hide his hostility, he kept his back turned. “I forfeited Keenfire,” he said pointedly.
“I know,” said Glaïmbar, sighing. He stood next to Tungdil. “I suppose it isn’t possible to forge a replacement. Boïndil seems to think we can.”
“Keenfire is irreplaceable,” said Tungdil, happy to twist the knife a little further. “We could forge a new blade, but the haft was fashioned from the last remaining fragment of sigurdaisy wood in Girdlegard.” He turned to face the king. “I don’t fancy fighting the threat from the west without our strongest weapon. If the älfar join forces with the new invaders, Keenfire could be used against us. Who knows how we’ll fare…”
“Vraccas will give us the strength to prevail,” said Balyndis, positioning herself at Glaïmbar’s side. She looked at Tungdil reprovingly.
“Besides, you won’t be fighting alone,” chimed in Myr, overhearing the conversation. “You’ll have our warriors as well.” She finished tending to a wounded dwarf and took her place next to Tungdil.
The battle lines were drawn.
To Tungdil’s satisfaction, Balyndis looked put out.
“It’s time we met properly,” said Myr. “I’m Myrmianda Alabaster from the freeling folk. Tungdil battled his way to our realm to remind us that we dwarves were hewn from the same rock.” She shook hands with Balyndis and Glaïmbar. “I’m here at the request of King Gemmil, who raised the army of two thousand warriors that helped you today.”
Glaïmbar bowed. “Tell King Gemmil that he saved our kingdom from the orcs. It was only a matter of time before they launched their next assault. We owe our lives to your king.”
Tungdil surveyed the dwarves who had come from all corners of Girdlegard to defend the Northern Pass. The comrades-in-arms were working together to gather their dead.
Four hundred warriors from the fifthling kingdom had fallen in battle. Their bodies would be laid in the great hall for the fifthlings to pay their respects. After an orbit, the fallen warriors would be placed in the burial vaults. The freelings had suffered heavy losses as well, and barely a thousand of Gemmil’s warriors had survived. The others would rest in peace beside their fifthling comrades.
“How many are planning to stay?” asked Tungdil.
“You’d better ask her,” said Myr, pointing to an armor-clad warrior almost twice her size. “Sanda Flameheart is Gemmil’s wife.” She called her over.
As Sanda approached, the others noticed the dark lines and menacing runes on her face. Her whole visage was covered in intricate tattoos, the like of which Tungdil, Balyndis, and Glaïmbar had never seen. The symbols spelled out terrible threats against the other dwarven folks.
Glaïmbar’s fingers tightened around his ax.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Myr hastened to reassure him. “Sanda was born a thirdling, but she’s served our army for over two cycles. She’s a popular queen and a respected commander—and she’s certainly not a dwarf hater, in spite of her tattoos.” She greeted Sanda with a hug. “Thank goodness you got here when you did. We weren’t expecting you so soon.”
“We came through the underground network. Some of the tunnels were damaged, but Vraccas kept us safe.” She laughed. “Gemmil couldn’t wait to get rid of us—he was convinced we’d be late.”
“He was right to worry,” said Glaïmbar, trying not to stare at her tattoos. “We owe our victory to you.” His eyes were riveted on her face.
Sanda smiled broadly, answering his unspoken doubts with a warmth and friendliness at odds with the sinister runes. “I know what you’re thinking, King Glaïmbar. It’s no wonder you’re confused. Here I am, talking to you as an ally, with the promise of your destruction etched across my face.” She held out her hand. “I’m a thirdling on the outside, but at heart, I’m a child of the Smith. I wasn’t born to hate.”
Glaïmbar hesitated briefly before taking her outstretched hand. “Lineage isn’t everything,” he said firmly, as if to convince himself.
“Tungdil Goldhand has shown us that.”
“Tungdil and I aren’t the only thirdlings who weren’t born to hate the other dwarves. My story is long in the telling, but later, when we’ve raised our tankards to slain enemies and lost friends, I’ll tell you how I came to leave the kingdom of my birth.”
“Sanda, this is the hero of the Blacksaddle,” said Myr. She cast a sideways glance at Balyndis. “Tungdil is a dear friend of mine already.”
Balyndis bristled visibly, as Myr had hoped she would.
“We were wondering how long you were planning to stay,” continued Myr. “King Glaïmbar and the future queen, Balyndis, have invited the freelings to join their folk.”
Sanda laid a powerful hand on her weapons belt. “We’ll stay until the danger has passed.” She turned to Glaïmbar. “Too many dwarves were killed in the battle. You could do with reinforcements at the gateway, I imagine?” She smiled as he nodded. “As for moving to the fifthling kingdom… None of my warriors intend to stay at present, but they’re free to change their minds. Who knows, maybe the fifthling kingdom will gain a thousand extra axes.” She looked at him levelly. “Naturally, anyone who chooses to join the fifthlings will submit to your command. As regards the rest of us, we’d like to be treated as guests.”
Tungdil could tell that she meant what she said. The freelings were happy to help, but they wanted their independence.
“Could you spare a moment later?” he asked Sanda. “I was hoping you might know something about my parents.”
“With pleasure,” she promised. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to attend to my troops.” She hurried away, the others watching in silence.
“I can’t pretend that it’s easy for me to trust her,” admitted Glaïmbar. He turned to Myr. “When did you say she arrived in your realm?”
“Two cycles ago. I don’t blame you for being wary, but Sanda is an upstanding dwarf.” She shifted her weight, nudging closer to Tungdil and allowing their arms to touch. Tungdil pretended not to notice and stood his ground, willing Balyndis to see that he too had forged a bond with another dwarf.
“Those who seek to become freelings must submit to certain tests,” continued Myr. “Sanda passed with flying colors and she’s proven her worth on countless occasions.”
“She’s obviously popular with your king,” observed Balyndis. “It seems to me that Glaïmbar is right to be suspicious. If I were a thirdling spy, I’d make friends with my enemies before I betrayed them.”
Myr’s face hardened. “Don’t let Sanda hear you talking like that, or she’ll challenge you to a duel. Warriors are very particular about their honor… Besides, she’s my friend.” Her red eyes bored into Balyndis like daggers; from now on, it was war.
“I hope Vraccas helps me to conquer my doubts,” said Glaïmbar, sighing. “I daresay we’re honored to have the freelings as our guests.” He decided to steer the conversation to safer ground. “Tell me, Tungdil: Is Djern here for a reason?”
Tungdil reached for the leather cylinder hanging from his shoulder and pulled out a scroll. Andôkai’s bodyguard had waited until the end of the battle to hand him a letter. Since then, he had been standing patiently by the waterfall, his armor gleaming majestically in the setting sun.
Tungdil unfurled the roll of parchment and began to read aloud:
Dearest Tungdil,
The purpose of this letter is to secure the services of the finest smith in Girdlegard.
Djern requires a new suit of armor and a tunic of chain mail. Enclosed are his measurements and the composition of the alloy, for the attention of Balyndis Steelfinger.
When she comes to fitting the armor, Balyndis must bind her eyes and gauge the fit with her fingers. Make her promise to remain blindfolded until Djern is fully clad in his armor. This I ask for her own safety: No one must look on Djern’s face.
As for the cost, tell her to name a sum and I will pay.
Djern will be heading west across the Red Range. His instructions are to assess the situation in the Outer Lands and determine the nature of the threat. If the danger is real and not a figment of Nôd’onn’s imagination, we need to know what to expect.
By the time you receive this letter, Narmora and I will be in Weyurn, where we hope to find record of migrants from the Outer Lands. Perhaps they will tell us something about their homeland.
Vraccas be with you,
Andôkai
Tungdil lowered the letter and handed Balyndis the notes regarding the giant’s measurements and the composition of the alloy. “It’s lucky that Djern turned up when he did,” he observed. “He couldn’t have arrived at a better time. Thank goodness Andôkai worships Samusin. Her bodyguard restored the equilibrium.”
The smith scanned the list of metals and glanced at the giant. “How will he know what I’m saying? I can’t speak his tongue.”
“Andôkai will have thought of that,” replied Tungdil.
Balyndis turned to leave, but he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Hang on,” he said, pulling her back. “I need you to promise not to look at Djern’s face.”
“I wouldn’t look at his face for all the gold in Girdlegard,” she retorted sharply, shaking him off.
Tungdil watched as she hurried away, followed by Glaïmbar. They exchanged a few words before Glaïmbar took charge of the clean-up operation and Balyndis attended to Djern. Tungdil gazed at her sadly. He wanted to call out and apologize for his childish behavior. He was already sorry for his rudeness: For some reason, he couldn’t keep a check on his thoughts and emotions when Balyndis was around. If he was honest with himself, he still loved her, in spite of his growing feelings for Myr.
Do I really like Myr? Or am I just trying to punish Balyndis for choosing Glaïmbar? Sometimes he wished that he were back in Lot-Ionan’s school; life had been simpler then.
Myr seemed to guess what he was thinking. She slipped her hand into his. “Isn’t it time we went to see your friend?” she asked. “I’d like to help him if I can.”
Tungdil was too wrapped up in his thoughts to realize whom she meant, but then it dawned on him. “Come on,” he said, squeezing her hand impulsively. “Let’s see what you can do for Boëndal.”
They hurried through the passageways of the fifthling kingdom and arrived in the forge.
Boïndil was sitting on a stool beside the Dragon Fire furnace, regaling his frozen brother with stories about the battle against the orcs. Every now and then he thumped a battered helmet that he had stolen from an enemy head.
“But it wasn’t the same without you. Nothing’s the same without you,” he finished sadly, noticing Tungdil and Myr.
Boïndil had been trying to stay cheerful for the sake of his twin, but found it impossible to hide his feelings from the others. The truth was, it smote his soul to see Boëndal in a death-like sleep. He stood up and smoothed his black beard. What he was about to say didn’t come easily to a warrior. “Myr,” he began, “I saw you tending to the wounded on the battlefield, and I saw you cure Tungdil. You’re the best doctor I’ve ever known.” He swallowed. “I’m begging you: Bring Boëndal back to life. Cure my brother, and I’ll protect you with my life. Nothing and no one will ever hurt you.” He made room for her at Boëndal’s bedside.
“I’d be honored to help,” Myr said simply. “You don’t need to promise anything in return.” Perching on the secondling’s bed, she laid a hand on his forehead, then lifted his eyelids to look at his pupils. “I can’t examine him properly in his clothes,” she told the others. “Let’s get everything off except his apron. I need to see if the blood is still flowing to his limbs.”
Tungdil and Boïndil stripped the sleeping dwarf. The next hour passed in silence as Myr examined every inch of her patient’s body. Nothing escaped her scrutiny. “Your brother was blessed by Vraccas,” she pronounced. “His limbs are cold, but not frozen, and his skin looks healthy enough.”
“So he’s basically all right,” said Boïndil eagerly.
“I was worried h
e might have frostbite.” She lowered her head to listen to Boëndal’s heart and breathing. “It tends to affect the toes and fingers—the digit freezes, blackens, and eventually falls off. Sometimes the patient is too numb to realize what’s happening. It’s a nasty condition and impossible to treat.” She listened intently. “Extraordinary! His heart is beating, his lungs are working, but his body has slowed right down. His inner furnace must be burning very low.” A smile spread over her face. “That’s it! Fetch me a tub of warm water—and some beeswax!”
“Warm water?” queried Boïndil doubtfully. “We tried that before. It didn’t work.”
“Patience,” she said mysteriously.
The tub was brought in. Myr produced a strip of leather, rolled it up to make a tube, and secured it with some cord. She placed an end between Boëndal’s blue lips and sealed his mouth and nose with warm wax, forcing him to breathe through the tube. “Right,” she declared purposefully. “Let’s get him into the water.”
Soon the dwarf was submerged in the tub, his arms and legs weighed down with lead.
“This will thaw him out and melt the ice in his brain,” she explained, fetching a shovel load of glowing coals from Dragon Fire. The hot coals hissed as they splashed into the water, warming the bath. Myr was careful not to let them fall on Boëndal.
Tungdil checked the temperature with his hand. “It’s pretty hot already.”
Boïndil leaned over, frowning anxiously. “You’ll boil him like a sausage if you’re not careful.” He glared at Myr as she stepped forward to empty another load of coals into the tub. “Put them back, Myr. You’ll stew him alive.”
“I thought you wanted me to cure him,” she retorted. “Hot water won’t hurt him. He has to be immersed completely or his brain will clog with ice. I know what I’m doing, Boïndil.”