by Markus Heitz
Kragnarr responded to the insult by lumbering round to face his challenger. He leaned across until their broad foreheads were touching. Neither moved as they stared at each other, clawed fingers clutching the pommels of their massive swords. Ushnotz proved altogether wilier and took a step backward, waiting to see how the squabble would unfold.
"My master intends to make you equal in rank," announced Sinthoras, straining to make himself heard above the snarling.
"No," growled Kragnarr quickly, promptly followed by Bashkugg.
The дlf cast them a disgusted glance. Even from a distance Tungdil could tell that he would rather kill the princes than negotiate with them, but Nфd'onn had given his orders. It was the first time that Tungdil had heard mention of any name at the source of the evil.
"In that case, my master will grant the office of commander to whosoever conquers the most land." The дlf held his spear loosely, but his taut stance betrayed his distrust of the beasts. His dark-haired companion seemed equally wary.
"Land?" grunted Ushnotz scornfully. "It should be corpses, not land! Whoever gets the most bodies will be commander!" He stroked his belly and the other two princes hastened to agree.
"No," the дlf said firmly. "This is about territory, not corpses."
"Why?" thundered Bashkugg. "Why not corpses? My soldiers have to eat!"
"Content yourselves with killing the armies that are raised against you," the дlf advised him coldly. "You know my master's will."
"Exactly," Ushnotz said slyly. " Your master. We've no obligation to obey him. He doesn't rule the south; we do!"
Sinthoras directed a pitying smile at him. "Not for much longer. My master is advancing from the north with an army of orcs who will seize the south faster than you can fashion cudgels from the trees." He looked each of the princes in the eye. "Give him your allegiance now and he will reward you with land of your own. Toboribor is nothing compared with what will follow. Each one of you will have your own kingdom with humans for slaves. But defy him, and you will cross swords with others of your race."
The threat of a green-hided army from the north with designs on their territory achieved its intended effect. A hush descended as the three princes digested the information, all memory of their quarrel forgotten.
From his post among the branches Tungdil listened and watched in disbelief. Nфd'onn, if that was the name of the Perished Land's lord, was forging all kinds of unholy alliances in order to subjugate the southern lands. The coming cycles would bring untold suffering for men and elves.
"Fine," Ushnotz said finally, although clearly unhappy with the solution. "I shall do as your master proposes – and he shall make me commander in chief."
Kragnarr glowered at him murderously. "Count me in as well," he snarled. "The tribe of the Kragnarr-Shorrs will conquer more land than the two of you put together." He jabbed a clawed finger derisively at the others. "I'll be commander, you'll see!"
"I wouldn't bet on it," Bashkugg retorted angrily. "My troopers will overrun the fleshlings' cities before you've even started!"
"You'll all have a chance to prove yourselves," said Sinthoras, reaching into his belt pouch and producing three plain amulets of blue crystal. He tossed them to the princes. "Leave here and go your separate ways. These are gifts from my master; they offer protection against the magic of our foes. You are to carry them always."
The meeting had almost reached its conclusion when a foolhardy orc sidled up to the дlfar's steeds and sniffed the air hungrily.
Without warning, one of the horses whipped round, jaws opening as it pounced. Sharp teeth closed around the ore's shoulders and ripped out a sizable clump of flesh.
Green blood spurted from the wound as the orc retreated, shrieking. A second orcish trooper drew his sword and made to fell the rabid horse.
Before he could strike, the steed's hind leg lifted and sped into the orc's broad chest. There was a flash of blinding light and the orc was thrown backward, traveling several paces before crashing to the ground.
The trooper had no time to right himself before the second horse was upon him. Its forelegs stove in his chest, hollowing his breastplate. His stomach burst with a sickening bang. In an instant the creature's black jaws were at the orc's unprotected throat. There was a sound of crunching bone and the orc's anguished screaming broke off abruptly.
Tungdil watched in stunned horror as the steed swallowed the mouthful of flesh. The second creature let out a whinny of savage enjoyment.
The fair-haired дlf issued an order in an unintelligible language and the steeds, horses in nothing save appearance, settled down at once, trotting obediently to their masters. The дlfar swung themselves gracefully onto their backs.
"You know what my master expects of you. Make haste and keep to the terms of our agreement," Sinthoras said grimly, turning his steed to leave.
A wide corridor opened before him as the crowd parted hastily, drawing back from the animals' lethal jaws. At length the silence was broken.
The orc with the wounded shoulder shoved his way to the front. "Look what they did to me!" he shouted furiously, waving his gore-encrusted claws in Bashkugg's face. "The pointy-ears killed Rugnarr; the pointy-ears deserve to die!"
The powerfully built chieftain wiped the trooper's blood from his eyes. "Hold your tongue, you cretin!" he thundered, adding a string of foul-mouthed epithets. "They're with us."
"In us, I reckon! We'll eat 'em like we'll eat the fleshlings!" The threat brought grunts of approval from three of his tribe. Emboldened by their support, he nocked an arrow to his bow and took aim at the vanishing riders. "Mmm, what's tastier-дlfar or horse?"
Tungdil knew better than to mistake the mounts for horses. He had read about shadow mares in Lot-Ionan's books. They were creatures of the night, unicorns who had been possessed by evil and stripped of their purity, their white coats, and their horns. They ate flesh and were ferocious hunters, driven by an all-consuming hatred of goodness in any form.
Bashkugg was tired of the trooper's posturing. Drawing his clumsily forged sword, he struck at the wounded orc's throat. The blade sliced halfway through the neck, withdrawing with a vicious jerk. The prince grabbed the second orc and hewed his head from its shoulders, holding it aloft for the others to see. With a terrible warning cry, he bared his fangs and dropped the dripping skull, grinding it into the ground until dark gray brains oozed through splintered bone. The other two orcs who had joined in the rebellion were put to the sword as well. The matter had been resolved in the traditional orcish way.
Cowed by the display of might, the troopers skulked back to their campfires, grunting and snarling, to resume their victory celebrations. The five bloodied corpses of their comrades, one trampled by the shadow mare and four slaughtered by the prince, were abandoned where they lay.
"What now?" Ushnotz wanted to know.
"I'll go south," decided Kragnarr. "You," he said, pointing to Bashkugg, "head west, while Ushnotz takes care of the east." The others nodded their assent. "What do we do about the fleshling settlement?"
"I say we attack together," Ushnotz said greedily. "It's not far and we can get a quick feed before we go our separate ways."
Bashkugg scratched his chin doubtfully. "Didn't the дlf tell us not to-"
"The southern lands are our business, not theirs. Besides, this wasn't part of the deal. The дlf told us to conquer new territory; this is ours already." He smiled slyly.
"The fleshlings skewered my troopers' skulls on their palisades; I want revenge!" roared Kragnarr, his breastplate jangling as he thumped his brawny chest. "No дlf can stop me from punishing them."
"At dawn, then?" proposed Bashkugg to a chorus of approving grunts.
Tungdil let the twigs spring back and retreated slowly along the branch. He had heard enough to know that Girdlegard was in serious danger, but before he could warn Lot-Ionan about Nфd'onn's designs he had to sound the alarm in Goodwater and deliver the bag to Gorйn. The magus would know what to do about
the threat; he would probably call a meeting of the council or, better still, summon the rulers of the human kingdoms as well.
It seemed to Tungdil that it was time for the magi and the human sovereigns to join forces against the Perished Land. They could even ask the dwarves to help them: A combined army, bolstered by his kinsfolk, would surely be victorious.
Tungdil waited until all but a handful of orcs were asleep, but even then there was no guarantee that his escape would be successful: Three dozen orcs had been posted around the camp's perimeter to keep watch for intruders.
The dwarf took a deep breath and decided on his route, picking a particularly bored and sleepy-looking sentry who had propped himself on his rusty spear and was fighting to stay awake.
After a good deal of deliberation he resolved to take his packs with him. In view of his recent bad luck, it seemed too risky to leave them in the tree. The orcs would only discover them, and the last thing he needed was to lose the precious artifacts and admit his failure to Lot-Ionan and Gorйn.
An eternity seemed to pass as Tungdil abandoned his hiding place as quietly as possible. Even the rustling of a branch would seal his fate.
He kept hold of the firm bark with both hands, sliding down gradually and taking care to avoid the light of the fire. Every now and then a twig would snag on his chain mail, but he succeeded in prizing himself free without a telltale snapping of wood.
At last he was back on solid ground, pressing his face into the grass and filling his nostrils with its fresh dewy scent. It was a welcome antidote to the pungent stench of orc.
Stealth had never been his strong point, so it seemed best to proceed on his belly like a caterpillar, pushing the bags in front of him while endeavoring to keep his posterior out of sight.
It turned out to be much harder than he'd hoped. The haft of his ax was forever jamming between his legs, his chain mail jangled with the slightest movement, and his boots struggled to find purchase on the slippery grass. His nerves were in tatters.
I knew I was a terrible climber, but trying to be quiet is worse, he thought, stopping to mop the sweat from his brow. Vraccas had intended the dwarves to fight in open combat. They took deliberate strides to get wherever they were going and built staircases when the gradient dictated. There was none of this sneaking around.
Barely ten paces separated the dozing sentry from Tungdil as he slithered past. Every feature of the trooper's hideous countenance was visible in the moonlight. Its face was crisscrossed with war paint and ceremonial scars and milky saliva dribbled out of its mouth and down its protruding tusks, dripping onto its fat-slavered armor. The nostrils in its flat nose flared from time to time.
The dwarf was tempted to bury his ax in the beast's oafish head, but he doubted his proficiency and in any case, one dead orc would scarcely save Goodwater from attack.
Relieved to be out of the camp, he crawled through the grass until he reached an irrigation channel at the edge of the field and slipped inside, disappearing from view.
The ditch allowed him to reach the fringes of a wood without being seen and at last it was safe to stand up. Now, that was an adventure by anyone's standards. His clothes were coated in mud, but he had other, more pressing concerns. As far as he could recall, the wood was fairly small and the best course was to cut straight through it. He hoped to goodness that he wouldn't lose his way.
Having put a decent distance between himself and the orcs, Tungdil stopped worrying about trying to move quietly. Provided he could get to the village fast enough, there was still a chance that lives could be saved.
He settled into a steady trot and reached the edge of the wood in short order. With a sigh of relief he stepped out into the open.
Vraccas almighty! He froze at the sight.
Four hundred paces from the wood was another orc encampment, three times larger than the first. The field was carpeted with sleeping beasts. No fires were alight to alert him to the danger.
Tungdil retreated quickly before he was spotted. In spite of his best efforts, he failed to find an alternative route: If he wanted to reach the settlement, he would have to sneak past the sleeping bodies. Soon his misgivings were replaced by dwarven obstinacy. Determined to warn the villagers of the coming danger, he crept along the edge of the wood, trying to stay hidden while he picked out the best path through the camp.
Suddenly his boot met with resistance and he heard a faint click. Leaves swirled into the air and a metal jaw snapped shut, trapping his left calf just below the knee. The ground opened and Tungdil plummeted downward, landing headfirst. Everything went dark.
It was the pain that woke him.
When Tungdil came to, there was an excruciating throbbing in his left leg. Groaning, he struggled into a sitting position and gazed up at the dark earthen walls. Gleaming green fronds framed the opening of the pit; it was dawn already.
Clamped to his leg and strangling his blood supply was a contraption whose purpose he knew only too well. Villagers set traps like these to catch wolves. The metal teeth had pierced his leather breeches, leaving a crust of dark red blood around the wound. His calf throbbed dully.
Tungdil did not bother to prize the trap apart but took up his ax, gritted his teeth, and set about hammering the thin pins at the heart of the spring.
Every blow to the trap was a blow to his leg and he moaned softly in pain. Trying not to flinch, he worked on the metal determinedly until the jaws fell open and the pressure was released.
With cautious movements he removed the trap, then flung it away furiously. Using the loamy wall to support himself, he stood up and placed his injured leg gently on the ground. Pain seared through his calf. Running was out of the question; hauling himself out of the pit was going to be difficult enough.
His concern for the people of Goodwater gave him the necessary strength. After tossing his knapsack out of the pit, he slung the leather pouch over his shoulder and wound his fingers around the roots protruding from the soil. Gasping, he hauled himself up and, with a final burst of energy, swung himself onto the grass, where he lay panting for air.
I'll be more careful where I put my feet in the future, he thought grimly. After a while he crawled to the edge of the wood. The fresh scent on the spring breeze was all the evidence he needed that the orcs had moved on. The field was deserted.
There could be little doubt where they had gone: Smoke was rising in the distance, gathering like a storm cloud in the sky. Tungdil scrambled up, shouldered his knapsack, and hurried off, shaking the dead leaves and mud from his hair.
Anger and loathing dulled the pain, driving him faster and faster until he realized that he was running after all. He wanted to be there with the people of Goodwater since his clumsiness had prevented him from warning them in time.
Such was his resolve that he paid no heed to the voice of reason that bade him take more care. Nothing could stop him from racing toward the settlement, spurred on by the ever-growing column of dark smoke.
That afternoon, sweat-drenched, he reached the top of the hill and looked down on the settlement.
Goodwater was ablaze. Breaches several paces across had opened in the palisades and there were two large gaps where the wooden defenses had been razed to the ground. Mutilated limbs and bodies littered the perimeter.
He soon spotted the remains of the mercenaries, heads impaled on their spears. Their unseeing eyes stared down from the watchtower as the fire raged unchecked through the settlement, reducing the houses to charred shells.
There were no cries for help, no shouted orders to fetch water or quench the blaze. All Tungdil could hear was the crackling of flames, the roar of burning wood, and the crash of collapsing roofs and walls. There was no sign of life.
Clutching his ax, Tungdil marched toward the burned-out settlement. Maybe I'll find a few survivors trapped among the ruins. He gripped his weapon a little tighter as he passed through the gates and turned onto the high street, limping as he walked.
The warm wind smelle
d of scorched flesh, and flames were shooting out of the houses where panes of glass had shattered in the heat. The whole settlement was on fire.
Human corpses were strewn across the streets and pavements, bodies piled up like dead vermin. Some of the women were naked, the flesh of their breasts and buttocks gouged with bite marks and scratches. There was no mistaking their particular fate.
Shuddering, Tungdil stepped over the slaughtered villagers and listened intently for the slightest sign that anyone was still alive. It was deathly quiet.
All the while the heat was intensifying. The surviving walls acted like a furnace, trapping the fire and raising the temperature dangerously. The dwarf had no choice but to leave the dying settlement.
Back on the hilltop, Tungdil sat down and made himself watch Goodwater's final moments. It's my fault. He buried his bearded chin in his hands and wept in despair. Long moments passed before the tears of anger and helplessness began to slow.
Now he could see why his kinsfolk stood guard at Girdlegard's passes: Humans were powerless to defend themselves against the brutal beasts. Tungdil looked down through his tears at the burned-out settlement. Nowhere should ever be made to look like that.
He dried his salt-streaked cheeks and wiped his hands on his cloak. His calf was throbbing so painfully that he decided to delay his departure until the following orbit. Curling up on the hillside, he pulled his cloak over him and watched the flames flicker as evening drew in.
The fire raged long into the night until there was nothing left to burn. Red glimmers illuminated the ashes and Tungdil was reminded of the shadow mares' menacing eyes. So much evil in such a short space of time, he thought sadly.
Tomorrow he would press on with his errand and deliver the pouch. Then it would be time for him to persuade Lot-Ionan to take action before the orcs and дlfar grew any more powerful. When Tungdil woke the next morning, he was forced to concede that the sacking of Goodwater was not, as he had hoped, just a dream.