by Markus Heitz
"This isn't what I wanted, but you thwarted my plans with your ridiculous challenge to the succession. Thanks to you and the high king, I had to improvise a little, but I'm not one to mourn what might have been. I wanted a war against the elves, but orcs will do the job just as well-if not better."
Balendilнn tried to see where the voice was coming from, but the echo was deceptive. "I'll kill you for your treachery," he vowed, full of loathing.
His words were met with mocking laughter. "Others have threatened the same, but they've never made good on their promise. You won't either, King Balendilнn, not now that I've deprived you of your subjects and your stronghold."
Balendilнn lingered no longer, rushing instead to join the surviving warriors in the battle for the chamber. At last he risked a glance through an embrasure.
Two-thirds of the bridge had been lowered already and a few of the beasts, unable to restrain themselves, were jumping the gap. Some fell to their deaths, others caught hold of the edge and dangled for a moment before plummeting into the chasm below.
We have to stop them. Balendilнn let out a ferocious battle cry and threw himself against the last remaining orc, driving his ax with all his might into the creature's side. The blade ate its way through the grease-smeared armor, releasing a jet of dark green blood. He pulled out his weapon, parried his antagonist's sword, and struck where he had hit before. After a third blow, the beast staggered and died.
It was only then that Balendilнn caught sight of the twisted levers and broken handles that served to operate the bridge.
"The bridge is down," one of his soldiers reported. "The beasts are storming the kingdom, Your Majesty."
Frozen in horror, Balendilнn stared at the mangled machinery. He grabbed the lever on which the future of his kinsfolk, the future of all Girdlegard, depended, but it was jammed.
"Don't forsake your children, Vraccas," he cried in desperation, leaning against it with all his force. Changing his tactics, he tore out the lever, rammed his blade into the slot, and pulled down on the shaft. He looked out.
It was working! The columns retracted and the walkway dropped a few paces, sagging dangerously in the middle. Balendilнn heard the vast stone slabs snapping and cracking; then the noise was drowned out by screams of terror as the invading beasts realized that nothing could stop them from plunging to their deaths. At that moment the bridge gave way, pulling the creatures with it. The assembled hordes on the far side of the chasm howled in disappointment.
"Your Majesty, you're wounded," said one of his warriors in concern. Balendilнn looked down to see blood seeping from the left side of his torso. There was a huge slit in his chain mail where an orcish sword had struck.
"It's nothing," he mumbled, wrenching his ax from the slot. "We'll finish off the creatures who made it over the bridge, then go back to help the others. We'll deal with the traitor later."
As they battled their way back to the tunnels, it became apparent that the Blue Range was riddled with enemy troops. Every corridor, every passageway, every chamber brought forth more orcs and bцgnilim patrolling the territory in small groups or big gangs.
How much longer will we be able to hold them back? Balendilнn prayed to Vraccas for help.
On approaching the entrance to the tunnels, they heard the bestial cries of dying orcs. From the sound of it, the enemy troops were being massacred.
"I gave the warriors strict instructions not to attack! A pitched battle would be fatal. We'll be outnumbered!" The king and his company hurried to the aid of their comrades, but were greeted by an entirely unexpected-and inexplicable-sight.
Advancing in the opposite direction was a battalion of dwarves who had popped up behind the orcs and taken them by surprise. While the battalion cut its way through the beasts from the rear, Balendilнn's own troops had seized the initiative and launched an offensive, thereby squeezing the enemy between two fronts.
Balendilнn ordered his company to attack, and they joined the fray. At length the two dwarven armies met in the middle, their gleaming axes making quick work of the last orcish troopers.
"I don't like to be late for a battle," declared a warrior in beautifully fashioned mail. The voice was a little high-pitched, the beard on the thin side, and the armor revealed two large bulges that seemed distinctly unmanly. The dwarf was clutching a golden mace, now stained with orcish blood.
"I am Xamtys II of the clan of the Stubborn Streaks, queen of Borengar's folk and commander of the firstlings." She turned one of the corpses over with her foot. "I came here for a meeting of the assembly, and what do I find? Orcs! I suppose it's one way of letting off steam between debates."
Balendilнn quickly recovered from the surprise. "Queen Xamtys, you are most welcome here. Thank you for coming to the aid of your cousins in their hour of need. My name is Balendilнn Onearm of the clan of the Firm Fingers, king of the secondlings. Was it Tungdil or Gandogar who asked you to come?" He prayed silently that it was Tungdil.
"It was Tungdil. He convinced me to put an end to the cycles of silence." She held out her hand and he shook it. "What's going on here?"
He described in as few words as possible the fate that had befallen Ogre's Death and the betrayal of the dwarves by their own. He was interrupted by a messenger bearing news that the main gates were about to fall to the besiegers.
"Leave the range," Xamtys advised him. "If you've been betrayed, they'll know every passageway and every cavern." She placed a hand on his shoulder. "Come to my kingdom and shelter with the firstlings until Nфd'onn has been defeated and the beasts thrown out of your lands."
"I can't," he said quickly.
"King Balendilнn, this is no time for stubbornness," she said gently. "You and your folk will be overwhelmed by the enemy, and for what gain? My warriors will have their work cut out saving Girdlegard without you. I propose that we take the tunnel back to my kingdom and send messages to Tungdil and Gandogar to inform them of the change of plan." She studied Balendilнn's face and saw with relief that he knew she was right.
"Get the womenfolk and children out of here," he instructed his guards. "Squeeze as many of them as possible into the wagons. Anyone left behind will have to wait for our return; lone dwarves will have no trouble concealing them-selves in the mines and quarries. Destroy the key bridges. The orcs will be hard-pressed to track them down."
Withdrawing the troops and abandoning the kingdom amounted to a defeat, but Balendilнn had no choice if his folk were to survive. We wouldn't be in this position if it weren't for Bislipur, he thought bitterly.
He put his mind to organizing the retreat and dispatched volunteers to convey the news to the far reaches of the kingdom and warn the clans that the army had withdrawn. "Tell them it won't be for long," he commanded. "I give my word that I'll be back in a few weeks to kill the orcs."
He hurried away to the great hall, anxious to save the ceremonial hammer from desecration by the beasts. There was no need to worry about the secondlings' hoard: The treasures were protected by a runic password known only to the king.
Balendilнn picked up the hammer from its place beside the abandoned throne and listened to the battering rams thudding against the main gates. The pounding noise went straight through him, heralding the doom of Ogre's Death as clearly as if Tion himself were thumping on the door.
He took a last melancholy look at the throne, the stone pews, the tablets inscribed with Vraccas's laws, the lofty columns, and the beautifully sculpted bas-reliefs. Golden sunshine sloped through the chinks in the ceiling, bathing the hall in warm light. How much of this will be left when I return?
"Surely the king isn't abandoning his realm?"
"Bislipur!" Balendilнn whipped round toward the marble tablets. The traitor stepped out from behind one of them, the stone trinkets in his beard tinkling softly as he walked.
"I was hoping to meet you alone without any of your slavish attendants. It was tiresome of you to destroy the bridge. I was sorry to see it go." He raised his
ax and drove it into one of the sacred tablets, cracking the stone and breaking it apart. "But patience is a virtue. The orcs will destroy your kingdom, just as I will put pay to your laws."
The king descended from the dais. "You can shatter the tablets, but the words will be carved again. You shan't destroy us, Bislipur. The children of the Smith stand united. Haven't you heard? The firstlings have come to our aid, and many of your allies have been slain by their axes."
"They're not allies; they work on my behalf. The orcs are only instruments of my revenge," Bislipur said calmly. He demolished the remains of the tablet. "Enjoy your little victory while you can. You'll never defeat Nфd'onn: He's dangerous in his insanity, and he's far too powerful for you." The second tablet shattered, splinters of polished stone striking the flagstones and scattering across the floor.
"Enough!" Balendilнn was at the foot of the dais and nearly upon the traitor. Without stopping he dropped the hammer and drew his ax from his belt. The fourthling was stronger, he knew, but his lameness made him slow and clumsy. "Tell me why."
"A fine duel this will be," laughed Bislipur. "Two cripples locked in combat."
"This isn't a battle of words," the king said grimly.
Bislipur smiled. "I guess the dwarves of Beroпn will have to find a new leader." His ax hurtled out of nowhere, but Balendilнn ducked, flinging out his arm and using his momentum to strike.
Cursing, Bislipur leaped back, but the metal spike on Balendilнn's ax head caught his unarmored calf, ripping through leather and fabric. Blood oozed from the wound.
"Why are you doing this?" Balendilнn demanded. "Is it because your favorite wasn't elected high king? Are you so obsessed with waging war on the elves that you betrayed your own kin? Is that it?"
Bislipur rushed forward and launched a series of feint attacks, but Balendilнn saw through them and drew back, steeling himself for the real assault. They had crossed the breadth of the vast hall and were battling along a passageway that led to a bridge. The ground was twenty or more paces beneath them.
"The succession never interested me," spat Bislipur. "My only desire was for war. The elves would have destroyed you."
He dealt the blow so forcefully that it was impossible to parry. At the last moment Balendilнn managed to deflect it, but he almost lost his ax.
"It makes no sense, Bislipur. Has Nфd'onn bewitched you? Why would you betray your folk?"
"My folk? The fourthlings aren't my folk! You were closer to the truth than you realized." His ax whistled through the air. Balendilнn blocked it, but the force of the blow numbed his hand.
"I'm too strong, too warlike to be a puny son of Goпmdil. Remember, you said so yourself." He struck again and this time the ax flew out of Balendilнn's fingers and clattered to the bridge. "I'm a child of Lorimbur, and I will go down in history as the thirdling who brought misery on the other dwarven folks," he said darkly. "I have succeeded where all others failed."
Balendilнn grabbed his arm and stopped the next blow, but the traitor head-butted him with his helmet. The king staggered backward, his vision starry and bloodied. Bislipur's cocky laughter rang in his ears.
"What a blow to you that Tungdil is a thirdling or he could have succeeded you on the throne. Oh, he'll weep when he sees the ruins of Ogre's Death. I've a good mind to stick around and ambush him. Killing him and his miserable company would give me pleasure."
"A thirdling? Never." It was all Balendilнn could do not to fall from the bridge.
"I know my kind when I see them. It's an instinct we've got. Trust me: Your protйgй is a thirdling, a dwarf killer. You may as well get used to the idea-before I kill you and feed your entrails to the orcs."
"You lie!" The king leaned back against the parapet, his legs giving way.
Smiling malevolently, Bislipur raised his ax. "What if I do? You're going to die anyway."
The blade swooped down but Balendilнn saw only a fleeting shadow. Underground Network, Kingdom of Tabaоn, Girdlegard, Winter, 6234tb Solar Cycle The sound of falling rock gave Tungdil just enough warning to pull on the brake. Even so, the force of the collision sufficed to throw the wagon from the rail and give its passengers a thorough shaking.
"The spirits need to work on their timing," said Bavragor, wiping the dust from his brow. He turned to Balyndis, who let him wipe her face. "I bet the ceiling was meant to collapse on us." He reached for his drinking pouch and took a sip of brandy.
"It's nothing to worry about." Rodario scowled, springing from the wagon. "Our industrious giant will clear away the debris and we'll soon be on our way." He glanced at Andфkai. "Unless, of course, the Estimable Maga would prefer to blast through the tunnel with one of her gusts." His tone was deliberately sniffy: He was still cross with the maga for spurning his advances in front of the group.
Goпmgar, pale with fear, kept his eyes suspiciously on the ceiling and refused to leave the safety of his seat. Meanwhile, Andфkai was already inspecting the blocked tunnel and giving instructions for the rubble to be cleared. It soon became apparent that the task was too much even for Djerun.
"By the look of things, the ceiling has gone entirely," said Bavragor, who was clambering over the fallen rock and studying the walls. "I'd say someone went to a lot of trouble to organize this."
Furgas hurried to take a closer look. He ran his hands over the rock, then nodded. "You're right. The roof of the tunnel is riddled with holes. Whoever it was wanted to make certain that the ceiling would collapse once the struts were knocked away."
"Ghosts," whispered Goпmgar tremulously. "We should have listened to their warning. They're trying to get us killed."
Boпndil turned on him fiercely. "I never thought I'd say this, but Hammerfist's drunken singing is a thousand times more bearable than your complaining." His inner furnace had been burning high for some time, and he needed to let off steam.
"Keep a check on yourself, Boпndil," Tungdil pleaded. "I know it's hard and it's been a long while, but you mustn't let your temper get the better of you." He rummaged through his knapsack and brought out Xamtys's map. "We have to turn back. There's an exit about a mile from here." He turned to Goпmgar. "The spirits have answered your prayers: We're going back to the surface."
"Whereabouts are we?" asked Andфkai.
"According to my calculations, we're in the southeastern corner of the kingdom of Tabaоn. It shouldn't be too much of a problem to find the next entrance. Tabaоn is dead flat; it's just one vast plain."
"It's not fair," Bavragor grumbled moodily. "Why should cowardly little Shimmerbeard get his way? All that blasted riding was bad enough. I'm not built for traipsing around overland, and I can't say I'm fond of the sun."
"You'll get used to it soon enough," snapped Boпndil. "If you'd taken your turn at the High Pass with the rest of us, you'd know that sunshine can be pleasantly warming."
"It wasn't worth the risk," Bavragor snapped back. "I didn't want to end up like my sister."
Balyndis stiffened. Sensing the sudden tension, she stepped in front of Bavragor to stop things from getting out of hand. He grabbed her arm and pushed her away.
"Be careful," he warned her. "Don't turn your back on him when he's angry. His ax moves faster than his mind."
The warrior's muscles tensed, his hands gripping the hafts of his axes. "Is that right?" he growled, lowering his head belligerently.
"Stop it, both of you!" commanded Tungdil. "The two of you can carry the ingots until you've used up your excess energy. Djerun will take over when you're tired." They reluctantly obeyed.
Tungdil fell into step with Balyndis and briefly recounted the history of the feud. "Neither will give an inch. One of them is overburdened by grief, the other by anger."
"It's sad," she said, her plump face full of compassion. "Sad for both of them."
He dropped his voice, stopped walking, and leaned toward her. "Maybe we'll run into a pack of orcs so Boпndil can work off his anger. I'd rather we didn't have to, but it might be for the
best." Her scent filled his nostrils: She smelled as delectable as fresh oil or polished steel.
"What are you waiting for, Tungdil?" shouted Goпmgar, who had finally left the wagon and was hurrying after the others. "Maybe I'm mistaken, but I thought leaders were supposed to lead…"
"You're absolutely right." He hurried past him and joined Boпndil and Bavragor, who were carrying their burdens in silence. Neither wanted to appear weaker than the other by handing their ingots to Djerun and admitting defeat.
Suddenly they heard a loud rattling ahead. The next instant, a wagon sped down the rail toward them. In the nick of time they leaped aside.
Djerun whipped out his ax and brought it down in one fluid movement. The wagon flipped off the rail and flew into the wall. At once the giant was beside it. He turned it upside down to check for passengers. There were none.
"That's funny. I suppose someone must have left it in a side passage, and now it's worked its way free," said Rodario. "Luckily I've got the reflexes of a panther; otherwise I'd be dead." Furgas responded with an incredulous look.
"The ghosts," whimpered Goпmgar. "They're trying to kill us."
"Don't be ridiculous," Boпndil said witheringly. He set down the ingots, went up to the wagon, and sniffed at it. "Well, it certainly hasn't been near any orcs. I'd be able to smell the fat on their armor." He crawled into the wagon and emerged only when he had something to show for his efforts. "A shoe buckle," he announced, lifting it up for the others to see. "Silver alloy. It's not especially old, but it looks quite worn, judging by the dirt and scratches." He pocketed it.
I've seen that buckle somewhere before, thought Tungdil to himself. "We can't do anything about it now," he told the others. "Let's carry on."
Boпndil scooped up his ingots and the company marched off. Beroпn's Folk, Secondling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle Balendilнn flung himself to the ground. The blade whistled over his head and crashed into the side of the bridge. He kicked up at Bislipur, driving his foot into his groin, then drew his dagger and rammed it into his boot. In an instant, the traitor's groan became a bellow.