by Markus Heitz
Two orbits later, after plenty of rest, regular doses of Myr’s herbal infusion, and generous helpings of the landlady’s broth, Tungdil was ready to start walking again. Myr knew of a secret entrance to the underground network, and they covered the final miles of the journey at breathtaking speed.
On arrival in Trovegold, they went straight to the stronghold to make their report to the king.
Sanda Flameheart was with Gemmil when they were ushered into the room. She seemed delighted to see Tungdil, but her relief turned to trepidation when he recounted the news from Porista. From time to time she glanced suspiciously at Myr, who ignored her steadfastly, perhaps because she hadn’t noticed or because she didn’t care.
“Our realm is in great danger,” judged Gemmil. “If we don’t leave our cities, the thirdlings will take them by force.”
“Glaïmbar said that you’re welcome to join the fifthlings,” Tungdil told him. “Your warriors saved his kingdom from the orcs. He said it’s the least he can do to give you passage and assistance over the northern pass. He knows the fifthlings can’t repay their debt, but they’ll do what they can to help.”
Gemmil could tell from Tungdil’s tone that he doubted the wisdom of the proposal. He also realized Tungdil had spoken of the fifthlings as if they weren’t his folk. It probably wasn’t deliberate, but Gemmil suspected that he didn’t consider himself a fifthling anymore. Tungdil had rebuilt the fifthling halls, as Giselbert had requested, but the Gray Range had ceased to be his home.
“You think we shouldn’t leave Girdlegard,” said Gemmil, tackling the matter head-on.
“I think leaving would be a mistake,” said Tungdil forthrightly. He proceeded to list the key points of his speech to Gandogar and the delegates.
This time his arguments didn’t fall on deaf ears. “Those are all good points,” said Gemmil. “Still, you can’t know for sure that Romo was lying. How are you going to stop the thirdlings from poaching our strongholds without putting Girdlegard at risk?”
“I can do it—with your help,” replied Tungdil. “Think of the thirdlings’ proposal as an ordinary business deal. Would you pay for something without asking to see it first? Lorimbas is asking us to buy a diamond in a poke.” He could tell from the king’s face that he agreed. “Wouldn’t it be better to verify that the item exists? We need to know that the thirdlings are capable of stopping the avatars. If they aren’t, Girdlegard will need every warrior at her disposal. We’ll be sealing her fate if we leave.”
Gemmil turned to Sanda. “What do you think?”
“Sixty cycles is the blink of an eye in dwarven history,” she said slowly. “No one mentioned a secret archive when I was in the Black Range. We talked a lot about the Blacksaddle because our ancestors are buried in its chambers, but there was never any mention of an archive or a weapon. Lorimbas’s story doesn’t ring true.”
“A great deal can happen in sixty cycles,” argued Myr. “Think how much has changed in Trovegold in the past sixty orbits. You can’t presume to know what the thirdlings are thinking or doing. We need better evidence than that.” She eyed Sanda scornfully before turning to Gemmil. “I think you should be careful. For all we know, Lorimbas could be telling the truth.”
Tungdil was taken aback. “Whose side are you on?” he said indignantly.
“Yours, of course,” she said soothingly, taking his hand. “Fearlessness and daring are excellent qualities in a warrior, but an overhasty decision could be the ruin of Girdlegard, not just the dwarves.” She gave his fingers a little squeeze. “I’m your very own voice of reason. I’ll offer good counsel and be right behind you, whatever you decide.”
“There’s another thing you should consider,” said Sanda. “Are you prepared for a life like mine? If you defy the high king, you’ll be punished. You won’t be Tungdil Goldhand, hero of the Blacksaddle; you’ll be an outcast. This isn’t a minor infraction of the rules; it’s rank disobedience, possibly treason. Your sentence will be harsh.” She took a deep breath. “They could banish you for good. You might never be allowed back to the fifthlings.”
Tungdil smiled at Myr. “As soon as I arrived here, I felt like Trovegold was my home. I like being with dwarves who follow Vraccas without enslaving themselves to petty rules. Besides, my heart is melded to Myr’s.” Though he spoke with conviction, he couldn’t help thinking of Balyndis. She made her decision; I made mine, he added defensively before his inner demon could comment.
You don’t fool me, a small voice mocked him.
Gemmil looked him in the eye. “You seem to know what you’re getting yourself into,” he said levelly. “Why don’t you tell us what you propose? You can count on the freelings to play their part.”
Tungdil told them his plan.
Borengar’s Folk,
Eastern Border of the Firstling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Early Winter, 6235th Solar Cycle
It was snowing again. In no time the nine towers and twin ramparts of East Ironhald, recently rebuilt by the firstlings, were covered in glittering white.
Everyone, no matter how young or old, had helped to clear the debris and restore the stronghold to its former glory. Even the gully leading up to the stronghold boasted six new fortified gates.
The masons had learned from the mistakes of their predecessors, and the fortifications, including the towers and bridges, were designed to withstand three times the previous winter’s snowfall.
Barriers had been erected further up the mountainside. Thick stone slabs and long mounds of rubble protruded from the slope, ready to trap the White Death before it smothered the dwarves below.
At the base of the gully, the first of the six gates, built to withstand snow and ice, formed a formidable defense against invaders, including Lorimbas Steelheart and his dwarves.
Tasked with searching the portal for a lever, handle, or secret mechanism, Salfalur could find only a freshly polished block of stone that had once bidden visitors—friendly visitors—to enter. The inscription had been chiseled off.
“No luck,” he called out to Lorimbas. He and his warriors were wearing thick woolen cloaks, hats, and scarves over their armor to protect them from the biting cold. The king, as a mark of his status, had draped a fur stole over his shoulders and was wearing the royal helmet. “The gates won’t open,” explained Salfalur. “We’ll have to climb over.”
“Confounded firstlings,” thundered the king, his voice echoing through the valley. “They did it to spite us.”
The heavyset commander trudged through the snow toward him, sinking deeper with every step. “It’s only a minor setback, Your Majesty. Xamtys’s stronghold will soon belong to Lorimbur.” He shouted for ropes and grappling hooks to be brought to the base of the gates.
Climbing equipment wasn’t usually to be found in dwarven kit bags, not least because dwarves weren’t suited to dangling from ropes, but after receiving reports from two of his units, Salfalur had come prepared.
According to the bulletins from the north and northeast of Girdlegard, the gates to Glaïmbar and Gandogar’s kingdoms had been locked. The entrances had been barricaded so thoroughly that not even a mouse could get through.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” muttered Lorimbas angrily. “Xamtys will have copied the others, I bet.” He was already expecting to receive news from the south that the secondling stronghold was impregnable too. It was like forging hot metal on an anvil, only to have the hammer snatched from his hand. Even more frustratingly, there weren’t any dwarves for him to kill.
“Normally I’d ask Vraccas to guide your hand and bless your hammer, but I know how little you care about the Smith,” called a loud voice that seemed to come from the mountain. Just then a dwarf appeared on the parapet above the gates. “I’ll keep it short. Greetings, King Lorimbas Steelheart of the clan of the Stone Grinders, ruler of the thirdlings.”
Salfalur recognized the figure immediately and signaled to Lorimbas, who clenched his fists in fury. “Tungdil Goldh
and, I presume. You murdered my nephew.”
“Your nephew tried to kill an innocent dwarf,” retorted Tungdil. “He chose his own fate. Ask Lotrobur’s murderer if you like.”
“I’ll skin you alive,” thundered Lorimbas, drawing his ax.
“You’ll have to catch me first,” said Tungdil, laughing. “In case you hadn’t noticed, shouting won’t open the gates.” He leaned over the parapet confidently, reminding Lorimbas that he had the upper hand. “Incidentally, you might want to keep your voice down. The White Death will come thundering down the mountainside if it hears you screeching like a hairless orc.” He made a show of scanning the surrounding peaks. “I didn’t realize the Red Range was so dangerous. How many warriors have you brought? Five thousand? And where’s the famous weapon that you promised the men and elves?”
“It’s none of your business. Get out of my kingdom!”
“I’m the one on the inside; the kingdom belongs to me. I’ll open the gates on one condition: that you show me the weapon and tell me how it works.”
The thirdling king raised his ax menacingly. “We had an agreement! Gandogar will be furious when he hears about this. He’ll hew your miserable—”
“I’m a thirdling,” said Tungdil, undaunted. Drawing his ax, he pointed it at Salfalur. “Ask him, if you don’t believe me. He killed my mother and father and threw me into a chasm, but Vraccas saved me and brought me here to save Girdlegard from your lies.” Tungdil clasped his ax in both hands and drew himself up to his full height, standing tall and proud like a true custodian of the gates. “Where’s the weapon, Lorimbas?”
Salfalur gave a signal, and a band of thirdlings prepared to scale the walls.
Tungdil smiled. “Is that how you’re going to fight off the avatars, with climbing ropes and grappling hooks?” He paused. “There’s something you should know: I’m not alone.” Boïndil appeared at his left, and Boëndal on his right, weapons aloft, and faces grimly determined.
“This is definitely in breach of the agreement,” said Salfalur. “I know those two; they’re secondlings!”
“Not any more,” chimed in Boïndil, twirling his axes impatiently. He was clearly spoiling for a fight. “We’re freelings now.”
Gemmil appeared on the parapet. “They’re with me.”
On Gemmil’s signal, the rampart filled with dwarves carrying shields, clubs, axes, and other weapons. Some of them deposited rocks on the edge of the parapet, ready to hurl them at the thirdlings in the event of an attack.
“A few of my warriors from Trovegold,” explained Gemmil. “The battalions from Gemtrove and the other cities are guarding the stronghold. Ten thousand dwarves, six gates, twin ramparts, nine towers, and a bridge lie between you and Xamtys’s halls.”
“You’ll have me to reckon with as well,” said a crimson-cloaked Narmora, stepping up to the parapet.
“And me,” called Rodario grandly, trying to look as imposing as possible. He was wearing a magnificent new robe for the occasion. “My name is Rodario the Fablemaker, apprenticed to the mighty Narmora the Unnerving, and second only to the maga in skill and power.”
Tungdil swung his ax above his head. “King Lorimbas, the choice is yours: Attack, and expose your warriors to dwarven bombardment and the wrath of a maga and her famulus, against whose magic no mortal army can prevail, or show us the weapon and explain how it works.”
The king scanned the ranks of the defenders. “The weapon isn’t here,” he said, scowling. “Our first priority is to take possession of our territory and secure our position.”
“Fine, but you and your warriors will have to wait until you’ve convinced us that the weapon really works. I hope for your sake that it doesn’t take long—it’s cold outside.” He pointed to the right. “There’s a cave over there. It should be big enough for half your army. The others will have to make do with blankets.”
“Psst, scholar,” whispered Boïndil. “How are we going to know if the weapon really works?”
Tungdil grinned. “Did you see the look on Lorimbas’s face? I thought Salfalur was going to scale the gates and tear me to pieces!”
Boïndil looked at him blankly. “So what?”
“In other words,” whispered Boëndal, “Lorimbas and Salfalur are furious with us for seeing through their scam.” He smiled, relieved that their decision to follow Tungdil had been rewarded. “You were right, scholar. Lorimbas lied to the other rulers. The weapon doesn’t exist.”
Tungdil took little satisfaction in his victory, knowing that the news augured badly for Girdlegard as a whole. “Narmora is our only hope. She’ll have to delay the avatars while we raise an army of innocents to fight them. The dwarven rulers and other monarchs must be informed.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourselves,” shouted Lorimbas from below. “I’ll have the weapon for you in two orbits. Prepare yourselves for a surprise.”
“We’re happy to wait—if waiting will save our homeland,” Tungdil called back. He lowered his voice so that only his friends could hear. “They’re bound to attack. They’re going to use the time to find a way of breaking our defenses. Tell the sentries to be vigilant. We need to brace ourselves for an assault.”
Boïndil banged his axes together. “I’m not afraid of them. I don’t like the notion of spilling dwarven blood, but what choice do we have? Vraccas forgive us for raising our axes against his creation, but the thirdlings have brought it on themselves.”
“Clansfolk!” Lorimbas’s voice cut through the mountain air. “Thirdling clansfolk who have strayed from the Black Range, deserters like Sanda Flameheart who left the thirdling ranks, your crimes will be forgiven. Turn back to the thirdlings before it’s too late.”
“More lies, Lorimbas?” called Tungdil. “Your trickery won’t work.” Out of the corner of his eye he watched as Sanda glanced nervously from Gemmil to Myr, but her face betrayed no emotion. He couldn’t help recalling Myr’s warning. “Fine, Lorimbas, you’ve got two orbits. I can’t wait to see the secret weapon that can destroy a band of demigods.”
He backed away from the parapet until he was out of sight, with Narmora and the others following suit. He didn’t know whether to feel satisfied that his strategy had proven successful, or dismayed that his worst suspicions had been confirmed. All along he had been secretly hoping that Lorimbas would surprise him by unveiling a mighty weapon capable of saving Girdlegard from destruction.
He was joined by Narmora, who seemed to guess what he was thinking. “What are we going to do now?” she asked. “We can’t fight a battle on two fronts.” Her dark, almost fathomless, eyes gazed toward the west. “After orbits of calm, the past few nights have been worse than ever. Judging by the fire on the horizon, the avatars are dangerously close.” She was glad that she hadn’t brought her daughter with her. There could be no doubt that Dorsa would be safer with Rosild in the palace than with her parents in the western range, but it didn’t make the separation any easier to bear.
“Can you stop the avatars?” asked Tungdil.
She gave a wry laugh. “What can anyone do against eleven miniature deities?” She looked crushed. “Andôkai studied for over a hundred cycles and never attained the skill and knowledge she sought. I was her apprentice for half a cycle.” She lowered her voice. “No one knows how to stop them. We know nothing about them, except that they’re lethal. Nôd’onn was right, Tungdil. He warned us about the avatars, and we killed him. The only magus with the power to destroy the avatars is dead.” She took a deep breath. “We won’t have many peaceful orbits like this. We shouldn’t spoil it with gloomy thoughts.” She turned to leave. “I’ll tell Furgas to load the catapults.”
“Tell the sentries in West Ironhald to inform us of any developments,” he said. “I only hope we can resolve things with Lorimbas before the avatars reach the border and Xamtys and her clansfolk are burned to death.”
Narmora nodded and took her leave.
“She cured Furgas even though she said she couldn’t,” Myr said t
houghtfully. “Her powers must be increasing, don’t you think?”
“I hope she can handle it. We need her to be strong in spirit.” Tungdil took her in his arms. “What will become of us, Myr? Will we be killed by Lorimbas or Salfalur, or reduced to ashes by a band of demigods? Is this the end of our adventure?”
She stroked his cheeks. “I’m a medic, not a seer. I can’t foretell the future, but I’ll always be right behind you. After what happened last time, I won’t be letting you out of my sight. You could have died because of me, and nothing is going to stop me being there if you need me—not Salfalur, not the avatars, nothing.” She looked at the dwarves thronging back to the warmth of East Ironhald. “I’ll make sure my medicine bag is properly stocked. I’ll need it, if Lorimbas attacks.”
“They won’t breach the gates.”
“What if they don’t have to?”
She glanced across at Sanda, who was giving orders to the guards behind the fortified wall.
“She’ll ruin everything,” murmured Myr. “Someone needs to keep an eye on her, and it had better be me.”
The two orbits were over in no time.
Tungdil, Narmora, and the twins took up position on the ramparts and waited for Lorimbas to spin them another story or launch an attack. “Any idea what they’ve been doing?” Tungdil asked a sentry.
“Singing—standing right here, and singing. Songs about battles, songs about the other dwarves, most of them highly offensive… They wouldn’t shut up.” It was clear from his tone that the lyrics had incensed him. “We couldn’t sleep because of the noise. But the main thing is, they couldn’t bring down the gates with their voices.”
“They’ve started again,” said Boëndal, pointing to the crowds of thirdlings emerging from the cave. “They’re singing their hearts out.”
The thirdling warriors lined up in rows, the front row as long as the gates were wide. Still singing, they marched toward the mouth of the gully with Lorimbas at their head. He came to a halt some thirty paces from the gates.