by Markus Heitz
"You could say that," came the curt reply. "We hunt orcs and criminals with a price on their head."
Tungdil placed the shoe among the burning embers and waited. "I suppose business is good at the moment," he probed. "What of the orcs who razed Goodwater?"
"Gauragar is a big place and Bruron's soldiers can't be everywhere at once. We've enough to keep us busy," the leader of the company said brusquely.
The conversation was over.
Working in silence, Tungdil hammered the horseshoe into shape and fitted it to the hoof. A cloud of yellowish smoke filled the forge. When the job was done, he demanded twice his usual price. The mercenaries paid without objecting and rode away. Tungdil watched them go and dismissed them from his mind.
The next orbit flew by and already it was time for him to leave. The children in particular were disappointed; they had grown fond of the stocky little fellow who showered them with metal trinkets.
Tungdil thanked his hosts profusely. "Without your healing powers a festering wound like that could have killed me." He dug out the extra money that he had taken from the mercenaries and handed it to Opatja.
"We can't accept this," the villager objected.
"That's your business, but I won't be taking it back. It's not often that a dwarf agrees to part with money." He was so insistent that the coins eventually found their way into Opatja's purse.
Rйmsa gave him a pouch of herbs. "Lay them on your wounds before you go to sleep. Soon your leg will be as good as new." They all shook hands and he went on his way. The children followed him until the sky grew darker and rain clouds gathered overhead.
"Will you come and see us on your way home?" Jemta asked mournfully.
"Of course, little one. It's an honor to have made your acquaintance. Keep practicing, and you'll make a fine smith." He offered her his hand, but she darted forward and hugged him instead.
"Now we're friends," she said, waving and running back toward the hamlet. As she rounded the corner she shouted: "Don't forget to come back!"
Tungdil was so surprised that he stood there for a moment, hand outstretched, in the middle of the road. "Well, well, who would have thought I could win over a girl-child so easily?" He marched off in good spirits, thinking fondly of the people left behind.
The spring weather had taken a turn for the worse: Dark clouds covered every inch of sky and rain had settled for the duration. After a while, even his boots were soaked, his feet cold and swollen inside the sopping leather.
In spite of the unpleasant conditions, Tungdil was making good progress, but the thought of the orcs and the incursion of the Perished Land, as foretold by the дlfar, preyed on his mind.
He remembered what Lot-Ionan had told him about the invasion of the northern pestilence. The Perished Land extended six hundred and fifty miles across Girdlegard, swallowing the whole of the former fifthling kingdom and much of the northern border besides and reaching another four hundred miles southward, where it tapered to approximately half that breadth.
Tungdil reached the shelter of a rocky overhang and examined his map. In his mind's eye he pictured the insidious evil as a wedge forcing itself into Girdlegard, its tip grinding against the magi's magic barrier and leveling off, unable to advance any farther.
Now it seemed that the Perished Land's ruler, the mysterious Nфd'onn, was intent on extending his dominion. And he was undoubtedly making progress, in spite of the magi's girdle. In the east, the дlfar kingdom of Dsфn Balsur was eating its way into Gauragar like a festering sore, covering an area two hundred miles long by seventy miles wide. And while the Stone Gateway remained open, there was nothing to stop further armies of foul beasts from entering Girdlegard from the north.
The magi will have their work cut out now that Toboribor has allied itself with the northern blight. The wizards were powerful, but they could only be in one place at a time.
At least they'll be forewarned. According to his calculations, the message would have reached Lot-Ionan by now.
All around him, the varied landscape of Gauragar was doing its best to recompense him for the dreadful events at the start of his trip. Even the rain could not dull the vibrant springtime colors, although Tungdil was too focused on his journey to pay much attention to the lush splendor of the knolls, woods, and meadows. At length he came to an abandoned temple, a small edifice dedicated to Palandiell. Light streamed through manifold windows, illuminating carvings that symbolized fertility and long life.
Palandiell commanded the loyalty of most humans, but she was too soft and indecisive for Tungdil's taste. He was a follower of Vraccas, to whom temples had been constructed in some of the larger cities-or so he had read in Lot-Ionan's books.
Some humans preferred Elria, the water deity, while others prayed to the wind god Samusin, who regarded men, elves, dwarves, and beasts as creatures of equal standing and strove for an equilibrium between evil and good. Tion, dark lord and creator of foul beasts, was more feared than admired in Girdlegard. I don't know anyone who would worship him, Tungdil thought in relief. Lot-Ionan's household, Frala included, prayed to Palandiell.
Tungdil had erected his own special altar and dedicated it to the god of the dwarves who had hewn the five founding fathers from unyielding granite and brought them to life. From time to time he smelted gold in his furnace as an offering: For all he knew, he was the only dwarf in Girdlegard to follow such a custom, but he wanted to give Vraccas a share of the best.
His brown eyes surveyed the ivy-covered walls of the derelict temple. Perhaps men will have greater cause to pray to Palandiell in the future, he mused.
Later he stood aside as a unit of well-armored cavalrymen rode by. Their mail, embellished with the crest of King Bruron, clunked noisily and mud sprayed from the horses' hooves, spattering his cloak. He counted two hundred riders in all. Will that be enough to defeat a war band of orcs?
From then on Tungdil regularly encountered patrol groups. By the look of things, news of the marauding hordes in Idoslane had traveled fast. Rather than relying on Tilogorn to put a stop to the destruction, King Bruron of Gauragar was taking steps of his own to hunt down the orcs.
It pleased Tungdil to see that the humans had heeded his warning. History would hardly remember the actions of Tungdil Bolofar, a dwarf without clan or folk who had alerted Gauragar to the danger by calling on a peasant family to send word to the authorities that Goodwater had been destroyed. What mattered was that he knew about it and it filled him with pride.
Most nights Tungdil slept beneath the stars, although occasionally he made his bed in a barn and once he allowed himself the luxury of a room at an inn. It seemed prudent to save the dwindling contents of his purse.
After nine orbits his leg was fully mended. The rigors of the journey had made a lasting impression on his girth and his belt sat two holes tighter than usual. Walking was good for his stamina and he no longer panted when he journeyed uphill. Even his feet had become accustomed to the daily toil. At night he sometimes dreamed of Goodwater, the horrors he had seen there still present in his mind.
It took another few orbits of marching before the Blacksaddle finally loomed into view. The mountain looked almost exactly like the model that Opatja had irreverently fashioned from cheese, except its sides were pitch-black.
Sunlight glistened on the deep gulleys running vertically down the mountain's sheer flanks. The forbidding rock jutted out of the landscape like an abandoned boulder and was surrounded by a murky forest of conifers. The trees looked small and fragile by comparison, although the smallest among them was fifty paces high.
In times gone by, it must have been a proper mountain with a summit towering miles above the ground. Perhaps the gods snapped it off as a punishment and left the base like a tree stump in the soil.
There was something vaguely sinister about the mountain. Tungdil couldn't define it exactly, but he knew he would never have gone there by choice. He could only assume that Gorйn prized his solitude more than most.
> Brushing aside these misgivings, Tungdil hefted his bags and continued along the gravel road that wound past the forest half a mile to the east. He kept looking for a path or a gap in the trees, but at sundown he was back where he had started and none the wiser for it all.
What a strange forest. Tomorrow I'll have to cut my way through the undergrowth if the trees won't let me pass. He could feel the tiredness in his limbs, so he set up camp by the roadside and lit a fire, keeping a watchful eye on the forest for predators.
Soon afterward he was joined by two peddlers who seemed thoroughly relieved not to be spending the night on their own. They stopped their covered wagons by his fire and unhitched their mules. Their consignment of pots and pans rattled and jangled louder than a battalion of armed men.
"Is there room at the fire?" asked the first, introducing himself and his companion. Hоl and Kerolus were everything Tungdil expected of the human male: tall and unshaven with long hair, plain apparel, and needlessly loud voices. They laughed, joked, and passed the bottle of brandy back and forth, but their jollity seemed forced.
"I don't mean to be nosy," said Tungdil, "but you seem a little on edge."
Hоl stopped laughing abruptly. "You're observant, groundling."
"Dwarf. I'm a dwarf."
"A dwarf. I see. I didn't know there was a difference."
"There isn't; but the proper term is dwarf. Just as you prefer to be called humans and not grasslings or beanpoles."
Hоl grinned. "My mistake."
"We're afraid of the mountain and of the creatures in the woods," said Kerolus. "That's the truth of the matter. We wouldn't normally stop here, but our poor old nags are beat." He broke four eggs into a frying pan and invited Hоl and the dwarf to share in his meal.
"So what's wrong with the mountain?" asked Tungdil, dipping a crust into the egg yolk.
Kerolus looked at him incredulously. "I thought every groundling, er, dwarf, knew about the Blacksaddle. Very well, I shall tell you the story of the mount that lost its peak…"
Hоl settled down by the fire and his companion began his tale. Many cycles ago there was a mountain called Cloudpiercer, whose summit towered high into the sky. Taller and prouder than any other peak in Girdlegard, it was tipped with snow throughout the seasons and its loftiest pitches were made of pure gold.
Everyone could see the mountain's riches, but no one could reach them. The golden crown rested on impossibly sheer and unyielding slopes and the glare from the snow and the precious metal blinded any who looked at the summit for too long.
But the people's desire for the gold was overwhelming and they summoned the dwarves to their aid.
A delegation came to Gauragar to examine the golden mountain and set about it with pickaxes, chisels, and spades.
Owing to the superior quality of their tools, they succeeded in burrowing their way into the mountain and digging a tunnel to the top. They hollowed out the mountain and carried away its treasures without being dazzled by the gold.
Of course, the people of Gauragar were furious and demanded to be given a portion of the trove. While the men and dwarves were quarreling, the mountain came to life, quaking with fury and bent on shaking the plunderers from its core. By then, of course, its flesh was riddled with shafts and tunnels, and the tip of the mountain fell in on itself, crushing the looters beneath its weight.
And now you know the story of how Cloudpiercer lost its summit and its glory.
Since then the denuded mountain has simmered with murderous hatred, its treacherous slopes darkening with malice as it plots its revenge against the races of men and dwarves.
The fire crackled loudly. Kerolus threw on another log to keep the flames going and drive out the darkness.
I knew there was something sinister about it, thought Tungdil. He wondered what it said about Gorйn's character that he had chosen to make his home there: It seemed a strange place to live.
"Folk say that wayfarers who venture into the woods are set upon by monsters," the peddler added. "The mountain lures the creatures to it with the promise of easy prey. Sometimes hunger drives them out of the forest and into the towns. They eat anything, man or beast." He shuddered.
"Well, it's good to have company," Tungdil said sincerely, steeling himself for the next morning's march among the trees. At least he had his ax for protection. "Wait till you hear my story."
He started to tell of his recent experiences, of his night in Goodwater and the meeting between the дlfar and the orcs, but his account tailed off when he came to describing the destruction of the settlement. The memories were still too fresh.
Retreating into silence, he tried to get some sleep, but the trees had set themselves against him, creaking and groaning as soon as he closed his eyes. The forest seemed to take pleasure in keeping him awake.
Hоl and Kerolus were oblivious to the noise. Belatedly, it dawned on Tungdil why the men had partaken so freely of the brandy: Their senses had been dulled so completely that nothing could rouse them from their sleep. The task of watching over the camp and their lives was left to the unfortunate Tungdil.
With the coming of dawn, the rustling in the forest finally subsided and the peddlers packed their wagons, wished the dwarf a safe journey, and rode away, refreshed and alert. Tungdil hadn't slept a wink.
He gazed glumly at the forest, peering into the murk. Fretting wasn't going to get him anywhere and he had to press on. Gorйn lived in the Blacksaddle, probably in the ruins of the dwarven tunnels, if Kerolus's story was to be believed.
Monsters or no monsters, I'm coming through. He gripped his ax with both hands and stepped among the trees. At once his whole being was assailed by malice and spite: There was no mistaking the mountain's displeasure at his approach.
Tungdil walked on regardless, intent on delivering the artifacts to Gorйn so he could return to the comfort of Lot-Ionan's vaults. The sooner he accomplished his errand, the sooner he would be home. Who knows, maybe the secondlings have replied to the letter already, he thought brightly.
At length his obstinacy and determination paid off and he reached the foot of the mountain with the forest behind him and not a monster in sight. Maybe the beasts attacked only after nightfall; in any event, he had made it unscathed.
The sheer sides of the Blacksaddle towered above him, steep, dark, and unmistakably hostile. For a moment he was tempted to run away.
Even as he stood there, a volley of rocks sped toward him and he dove for cover just in time, the final boulder missing him by the span of a hand. Each one of the rocks had been big enough to kill him, but he refused to be daunted. He had to find Gorйn.
Tungdil circled the base of the mountain without discovering any indication of a dwelling or path. He took to calling the wizard's name in the hope that he would hear him but was met with no response.
Muttering under his breath, he set out a second time around the mountain. This time as he scanned the dark fissured walls, he spotted a narrow flight of stairs hewn skillfully into the rock. The breadth of the steps suited him exactly, but a big-booted man would have struggled to keep his footing on the narrow stone slabs,
A hundred paces, two hundred paces, three hundred paces: Tungdil ascended the mountain, crawling on all fours and clinging to the sculpted steps; there was nothing else to hold on to.
From time to time the mountain cast stones at him or loosed an avalanche of scree. Pebbles grazed his hands and face, and a rock glanced off his forehead, tearing a gash in his skin. Feeling suddenly dizzy, Tungdil pressed himself against the flank of the mountain, letting go only when the world stopped spinning. He wiped the blood from his eyes, gritted his teeth, and climbed on.
"You can't shake me off that easily! Vraccas created the dwarves from rock so we would rule the mountains. I'll conquer you yet!" he bellowed.
He could tell from the angle of his shadow that the sun had passed its zenith and was sinking in the sky. A cold wind whistled around him, tugging at his bags. With every step his situation
was becoming more perilous and he hardly dared consider the descent, but at last he mustered the courage to glance down at the fair land of Gauragar, four hundred paces below.
He had never seen such an incredible display of color and light. The sun and clouds were playing on the landscape, casting fleeting shadows over the meadows, fields, and forests. If he strained his eyes, he could make out settlements in the distance, the individual buildings resembling tiny blocks of stone. Rivers wound their way through the countryside like shimmering veins and the air smelled of spring.
The view was so spectacular that it almost stopped his breath. It gave him a sense of power and majesty, as if he himself were a mountain. He could see now why the dwarves had chosen to make their homes in Girdlegard's ranges.
He continued his ascent, climbing with new vigor and courage, until at last he reached a recess in the flank of the mountain some five hundred paces above the ground. It seemed as good a place as any to spend the night.
The alcove was large enough to shelter him from the fierce winds and protect him from further attempts on the part of the Blacksaddle to pelt him with rocks. He crawled inside cautiously. Tomorrow will take care of itself.
The sinking sun bathed the gloomy walls of his simple shelter in reddish light, playing on the textured rock. Tungdil stared at the fissured surface; there was something about the markings that reminded him of runes.
He blinked. Surely not? He ran his hand over the rock. There's definitely something there. Time and nature had worn away at the rock, but his searching fingertips found the shallow furrows of chiseled runes.
Tungdil had a sudden thought. Opening his tinderbox, he kindled a flame and scorched the haft of his ax. Taking the map from his pack, he laid it facedown against the wall and ran the charred wood across the parchment.
At first the improvised charcoal wouldn't stick to the paper, but at length he succeeded in shading over the runes. The symbols appeared on the parchment, pale remnants of an ancient script.
Long moments passed while Tungdil studied the markings, struggling to make sense of the strange, cumbersome formulations. At last, when he had translated the runes into modern dwarfish, he was able to divine the meaning of the lines. Built with blood, It was drenched in blood. Erected against the fourthlings, It fell against the fourthlings. Cursed by the fourthlings, Then abandoned by all five. Roused by the thirdlings Against the will of the thirdlings. Drenched again In blood, The blood Of all their Line.