by Markus Heitz
"Very well," said Tungdil, unthreading the leather strap from Goпmgar shield. He bound Bavragor's hands behind his back.
"Tighter," growled the mason. "You don't have to worry about my blood flow: My heart stopped beating when I died." He seemed tense and agitated, but once the bonds had been tightened to his satisfaction, he relaxed a little and turned to Tungdil. "I want you to behead me as soon as my work is done. I don't want to serve the Perished Land for eternity and patrol the abandoned fifthling galleries, massacring innocents and spreading the pestilence."
"No dwarf will ever serve the Perished Land," Tungdil promised. "You have my word."
"As for you," the mason snapped at Boпndil, "take my advice and stay away. I want nothing better than to sink my teeth into your gullet and tear you to shreds." He squared his shoulders and his chestnut eye glimmered cruelly before he looked down and stared at the snow. He took a first step, then another. "Hurry, I don't want to be a soulless corpse for a moment longer than necessary."
On a signal from the maga, Djerun assumed the role of Bavragor's keeper, walking close behind him so the others were shielded from his jaws by a solid metal frame.
Time wore on, orbit after orbit, as they trudged across the never-ending flats of Tabaоn. The Breadbasket, as the fertile fields were nicknamed in summer, was so inhospitably cold that it was essential to keep moving in order not to freeze.
Tungdil had read somewhere that light reflected by the snow could harm the eyes and cause permanent damage. To protect his companions from blindness, he ordered them to bind cloth around their faces and look out through tiny slits.
Their journey was slow and laborious. The only members of the company who didn't seem to mind the march were Djerun and the undead mason, who plowed their way impassively through the snow. Since their provisions were frozen solid, they had the onerous task of thawing their food by the fire every evening before they could eat. Without the warm garments given to them by Xamtys, they would surely have perished in the cold.
At length Boпndil became more restless, his fighting instincts ever harder to repress, while Bavragor had been stripped of the very things that made him who he was; he didn't drink, didn't sing, didn't laugh, just stared into the distance. On one occasion he took the edge off his hunger with a mountain hare. Ripping it from a metal trap, he ate it alive, leaving nothing but bones and fur. The sound of his frenzied eating and the cracking of bones made Goпmgar, whose hand rested permanently on his sword, more nervous than ever.
The Gray Range edged closer and closer. Its peaks seemed almost in touching distance, yet still they struggled through the snowdrifts of Tabaоn, finally crossing the border into Gauragar and, after an exhausting march of many orbits, reaching the slate-gray foothills of the range.
On their way they encountered neither orcs nor any other beasts, although they occasionally saw their tracks. Great armies were advancing southward, but fortunately for the company, their paths never crossed.
At last they neared the stronghold's outermost defenses. Even from a distance they could see that no one had been posted to defend the ramparts against intruders from Girdlegard's interior.
The beasts from the north had torn stone from stone, destroying walls and toppling towers until nothing remained of the stronghold's former splendor. Their work had been done so thoroughly that Tungdil and the others were hard-pressed to imagine how the kingdom had looked during Giselbert Ironeye's era. Fragments of stonework testified to the fifthling masons' skill, but the glorious ramparts were nothing but ruins. It was a harrowing sight for the dwarves.
Although the defenses seemed deserted, the company approached the gates with caution.
"Stay here and don't make a sound," Boпndil told them as they struggled to the top of a steep pathway. "Narmora and I will check for sentries."
The pair slipped away, darting between the gray rocks and hiding behind sections of masonry that loomed out of the snow. Their goal was an open gateway, as tall as a house, leading straight inside the mountain.
Tungdil scanned their surroundings and listened intently. A chill wind whistled through the cracked ramparts, producing high-pitched notes that rolled together in a tune. Icicles hung like glassy stalactites from the mountain ledges, and fifty paces to their left, a waterfall had stopped midstream in a frozen sculpture of ice.
No orcs, no ogres, no дlfar, nothing.
"Did you hear what he said?" Goпmgar smiled bitterly. "He told us to be quiet! If only he could hear himself."
"He's not exactly graceful," agreed the impresario, "although the comparison with the delightful Narmora certainly doesn't help."
Tungdil watched as they stole forward, Boпndil relying on his diminutive size, while the half дlf sprang between the rocks with the elegance of a dancer. There were no telltale noises from the snow beneath her feet; she seemed barely to land at all, skimming across the ground as light as a feather. Boпndil's chain mail, by contrast, made a terrible racket, even through his thick fur coat.
Narmora was the first to reach the gates. She pressed herself against the wall, listening intently to the darkness before slipping inside. Her silhouette melted into the gloom and she disappeared from sight.
Furgas fiddled determinedly with his gloves. "Sometimes I wish she wasn't so daring," he whispered.
"Don't worry, old chap," Rodario soothed him. "Narmora is a woman who knows her talents and isn't afraid to use them. You know the sort of thing she got up to before the three of us were a troupe. This is child's play by comparison."
"I'd rather not talk about Narmora," Goпmgar chipped in hurriedly. "She's scary enough as it is."
Boпndil had also reached the gates to the fifthling kingdom, conquered over a thousand cycles earlier by the Perished Land. He stopped, apparently undecided, and looked about, but the coast was clear.
At that moment, Narmora emerged from the enormous tunnel. The black shadows stuck to her like cobwebs, wrapping themselves around her lovingly, reluctant to set her free. She waved to them, her relaxed manner signaling that there was nothing to fear.
"How did she do that?" Goпmgar whispered nervously. "It was like she was covered in ink."
"Half magic," came the maga's answer. "It's something she was born with. Дlfar are children of darkness."
"She'll swap sides as soon as we meet any of her kind," Goпmgar predicted darkly. "Blood is thicker than water."
"And love is stronger than both," Furgas countered firmly. "Narmora would rather die than betray me, and I'd give my life to protect her from harm."
The puny dwarf grumbled unintelligibly and followed the others to the gateway. He held his shield in front of him, ready to ward off an attack.
"All clear," said Narmora, not bothering to lower her voice. "They seem to have contented themselves with knocking down the defenses and vandalizing the gates to the point where they can't be closed."
"So where are all the runts?" demanded Boпndil, whirling his axes over his head.
"At the Stone Gateway, I expect-and for our sake, I hope they stay there," said Tungdil, who remembered the strong hold's layout from a book he'd once read. He turned to the archway. "Time to relight the great furnace of Dragon Fire!"
It was with reverence, apprehension, and a good deal of emotion that he took his first careful step into the tunnel, knowing that no dwarf had set foot in the stronghold since the fifthlings' defeat.
Life flooded back to the kingdom as Rodario and Furgas lit their lamps. The walls reflected the light so radiantly that they hastily damped the flames.
At last they could see that they were standing in a passageway whose walls were clad with polished palandium. A thousand cycles of neglect had done nothing to subdue the metal's white sheen. The likeness of dwarven kings had been etched into the polished panels and a row of bearded rulers gazed benevolently at the visitors, their shiny red axes of cast vraccasium raised in greeting.
"Such majesty," murmured Rodario.
Filled with won
derment, the dwarves sank to their knees and prayed to Vraccas. Even the soulless Bavragor was awed by his surroundings, but every word of his prayer was uttered with immense concentration as the evil within him strove to break his will and seize control of his thoughts and beliefs. It hadn't reckoned with his resolve and the legendary stubbornness of the dwarven mind.
Andфkai, Djerun, and the players waited patiently.
At length Tungdil rose and breathed deeply. The passageway smelled old, dusty, and venerable; it had retained its character in spite of the invasion of orcs and other beasts. "We'll have to do some exploring if we're going to find Flamemere." He set off with Boпndil at his side.
Their boots raised clouds of dust, and from time to time a small creature scurried to safety. The ground was littered with fragments of bone, shields, and mail.
They proceeded in silence until they reached a second archway. The door had been ripped from its hinges, allowing them to enter the many-columned hall. Leading out from the vast pentagonal chamber were fifteen passageways. The stone signposts had been smashed to smithereens.
"There's such a thing as too much choice," Rodario said glumly. "Especially when we haven't got all day to scamper around like mice until we find the right tunnel."
"We could pick the one with the least footprints," proposed Tungdil. "I can't imagine orcs are frequent visitors to Flamemere. There's no reason for them to go there."
"Good idea," agreed Boпndil, making a beeline for one of the passageways. Narmora, Djerun, and Andфkai set about inspecting the others, while the rest of the company found a less exposed corner of the hall to sit and rest.
Rodario scribbled a few thoughts, then shared a meal with Furgas, while Bavragor stayed standing and stared emptily ahead. Goпmgar took shelter behind his shield, chewing nervously on a strip of cured meat and scanning the room for threats. The thought of fifteen passageways converging on his resting place did nothing to help him relax.
"He must be wondering what's happened to Gandogar," Balyndis said softly to Tungdil.
"He's not the only one. We've come all this way and no one's said anything about another group of dwarves. Your folk hadn't seen him either. I hope nothing dreadful's happened," he said, concerned. He closed his eyes, only to open them suddenly and unbutton his fur coat. It was much warmer in the hall than outside and the heat was making him tired.
"Get some sleep," Balyndis told him. "I'll keep watch and wake you as soon as there's anything to report."
"I'm your leader; I'm not supposed to sleep."
"Tired leaders make mistakes," she said firmly, pushing on his shoulders until he capitulated and lay down. "There, that's much better. Now you can dream of rescuing our kingdoms." Smiling, she pushed a wayward lock of hair behind her ear and turned to get a better view of the hall.
Sitting next to him like that, her gaze watchful and one hand resting confidently on her ax, she looked every inch the warrior.
It's definitely this way." To nobody's great surprise, Boпndil, his mind made up, had no intention of listening to anyone else.
"Fine," said Tungdil, signaling for them to start moving, "we'll start with this one and if it doesn't work out, we'll try Andфkai's next."
They had snatched a few moments' sleep to recover their strength in preparation for facing the dragon, but now it was time to move on.
"Argamas is the mate of Branbausнl," Tungdil explained to Balyndis. "Branbausнl lived in the Gray Range until Giselbert's folk stole his fire, killed him, and plundered his lair. Argamas fled to Flamemere…"
"… never to be seen again," Goпmgar finished gladly. "Let's hope the fire-breather stays there. I can't say I'm particularly convinced by our strategy. Dragon scales are as hard as steel."
"We don't need to kill her, only to steal her fire," said Andфkai, unconcerned. "I thought you'd be happy about that."
"Happy?" chimed in Boпndil. "It's a waste! Why do we have to let her live? Argamas is the biggest beast in Girdlegard, or thereabouts, and I'm not allowed to kill her!" From the injured look on his face, it was obvious that the warrior felt cruelly misunderstood. He tried again. "Name me one other place where I can find a real dragon! It would be scandalous to pass up an opportunity like this!"
"I'm afraid the Estimable Maga is right," said Rodario.
"That's exactly the kind of reaction I'd expect from a coward like you," Boпndil told him dismissively. "Balyndis, what do you say the two of us-"
"Quiet," cautioned Tungdil. There was a smell of sulfur in the air and the temperature was rising. Their route had taken them down countless flights of stairs and through endless shafts, and now at last they were closing in. "Not another word until we know what's out there. We don't want Argamas leaving her lava bath until we're absolutely ready."
Goпmgar shrank behind his shield. "Maybe we should ask her to help. Dragons aren't stupid, you know, and she might be quite reasonable."
"You can't ask the dragon to give us her fire," Boпndil blazed up angrily. "Are you determined to ruin everything? You've got to take it! Take it, do you hear?"
"Goпmgar, Argamas's mate was killed by dwarves. I hardly think she'll be willing to help us," said Tungdil, shaking his head. "Our priority is to stay alive, so we'll settle for stealing her fire." He patted the stash of torches on his belt. "We need to bait her, nothing more."
"Unbelievable," grumbled Boпndil. "Why does everyone have to spoil my fun?"
They stepped out of the passageway and were bathed in an intense yellow glare. There was a pervading smell of rotten eggs and it was difficult to breathe, but the view made up for the other unpleasantness.
A wave of heat rose toward them as they approached the seething lake. The molten lava was alive with bubbles, some swelling and showering incandescent droplets as they burst, others collapsing meekly, while new pockets formed on the surface in a boiling, churning mass.
Tungdil couldn't be sure of the lake's exact proportions, but the expanse of simmering lava measured at least four thousand paces across. Islands of solid rock rose above the surface and strange basalt columns hung from the cavern's ceiling, where cycle after cycle of spitting magma had cooled. Everything was suffused with the lake's yellow glow.
"Is that where the dragon lives?" asked Goпmgar, who was staring with the others in amazement. "Thank goodness we're not going to fight her. Any creature tough enough to survive in that inferno won't be slain by our blades."
Djerun raised his sword to direct his mistress's attention to something a thousand paces farther along the shore. "You can stop worrying about Argamas," said Andфkai. "Take a look over there."
To their horror they saw a gigantic skeleton, which, judging by its size and shape, was all that was left of Branbausнl's mate.
VII
Giselbert's Folk, Fifthling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle Boпndil prodded the enormous skeleton with his boot.
Broken arrow shafts, lances, spears, and smaller bones lay in and around the dragon's remains. "Orcs. From the look of the bones, they killed her a good few cycles ago." He appraised the fossil critically and a look of distant longing passed over his face. "What a fight it must have been."
Goпmgar snorted and shrugged. "We're wasting our time here. We may as well go home. I don't know about you, but I'd like to be in my own kingdom with my own clansfolk when Nфd'onn comes banging on the gates."
"A fat lot of use you'd be," Boпndil said scornfully. "You can't even fight!" He gave one of the ribs an experimental kick. The bone stood firm.
"I didn't say anything about fighting," Goпmgar corrected him. "If we're all going to die, I'd rather be back in my kingdom, that's all. I don't want to meet my end in the company of an ax-happy lunatic, an impostor, and an undead drunk." He glanced at the smith. "No offense, Balyndis, I've got nothing against you."
"Couldn't we light the furnace with ordinary fire?" asked Furgas.
Tungdil looked out across the lava. "We may as well give it a shot. It's better th
an giving up and doing nothing while Nфd'onn lays waste to Girdlegard. We don't stand a chance of stopping him otherwise." He wiped the sweat from his eyes and peered at the tongues of fire licking across the lake. He had seen flames of all kinds and colors in his smithy, but these looked somehow different. "Is it my imagination," he said to Balyndis, who was similarly knowledgeable when it came to fire, "or are those flames unusually bright?"
"They're unusually bright," she said, guessing his thoughts. She pulled out a torch and held the end above the twisting flames. The wood flared up with incredible intensity.
"Perhaps you could put it out for us, Narmora," said the maga.
The half дlf nodded and focused her mind. Her eyes closed and opened again a moment later, but the torch was still alight. "I can't do it," she said, surprised. "Normally it's no-"
"Precisely." The maga laughed in relief. "There's your proof, Tungdil. Argamas left her fiery legacy in the lake."
The excitement was too much for Balyndis, who planted an exuberant kiss on Tungdil's cheek. He smiled shyly. "In that case we've got what we came for," he declared. "We'll light the torches and get going. The fifthlings' furnace is waiting to be kindled back to life." With that he set off toward the mouth of the tunnel.
"Bravo, bravo," gushed Rodario. "Thank goodness it's so warm down here. My ink has never flown so freely. Such emotion! Such excitement! The scene is positively begging to be recorded in my notes!" He was still scribbling furiously as he walked. "Furgas, my dear friend and worthy associate, the sheer scale of this adventure will soon exceed the limits of any conventional play. We could open our doors in the morning," he suggested. "Hire some extras, double the ticket price. What do you think?"
Furgas took one last look at Flamemere before commencing the ascent through the passageway. "We should probably leave out the lava," he ruled. "We won't be able to afford enough coal to simulate the heat."
"Good thinking. We need to be careful with the costs. Besides, we can't have our valued spectators vomiting because of the smell."