by Markus Heitz
“You’re needed in the kitchens, Tungdil,” came the imperious voice of Jolosin, a famulus in the fourth tier of Lot-Ionan’s apprentices.
“Well, since you asked so nicely…” Tungdil turned to Sunja: “Be sure not to touch anything.” On his way out, he pocketed a small metal object and then followed the apprentice into the vaults of Lot-Ionan’s school.
Two hundred or so students of all ages had been selected to learn the secrets of sorcery from the magus. To the dwarf’s mind, magic was a slippery, unreliable occupation. He felt more at home in his forge, where he could hammer as loudly as he pleased.
Jolosin’s dark blue robes billowed as he walked, his combed hair bobbing about his shoulders. Tungdil eyed the youth’s fine garments and coiffure and grinned. The vanity of the boy! They entered a large room and an appetizing smell wafted toward them. Sure enough, cooking pots were simmering and bubbling above two hearths.
Tungdil saw at once why his services were required. The pots were suspended on chains from the ceilings, but one of them had slipped its pulley and was sitting in the flames.
Lifting the vessel required more strength than a woman could muster and none of the apprentices were willing to help. They considered themselves a cut above kitchen work, refusing to dirty their hands or burn their fingers when others, such as smiths, could do the work.
The cook, a stately woman of impressive girth, hurried over. “Hurry,” she cried anxiously, reaching up to stay her escaping hairnet. “My goulash will be spoiled!”
“We can’t have that. I’m starving,” said Tungdil. Without wasting time, he marched over to the hearth, touched the chain lightly to gauge its temperature, then seized the rusty links. Cycle after cycle at the anvil had strengthened his muscles until even the heaviest hammer felt weightless in his arms. A pot of goulash on a pulley was nothing by comparison.
“Here,” he said to Jolosin, proffering him the grimy chain, “hold this while I fix it.”
The young man hesitated. “Are you sure it’s not too heavy for me?” he asked nervously.
“You’ll be fine,” Tungdil reassured him. He grinned. “And if you’re half as good at magic as you say you are, you can always make it lighter.” He pressed the chain into the apprentice’s hands and let go.
With a muttered curse, the famulus threw his weight against the dangling pot. “Ow!” he protested. “It’s hot!”
“That’s my goulash you’re holding!” the cook reminded him darkly. Conceding defeat to her hairnet, she allowed her brown mop to fall across her pudgy face. “I don’t care if you’re a famulus. I’ll take my rolling pin to you if you let go of that chain!” Her plump arms rippled as she balled her fists.
On discovering the source of the problem, Tungdil decided to punish Jolosin by delaying the repair.
“This won’t be easy,” he said in a voice of feigned dismay. Frala raised her pretty green eyes from the potatoes she was peeling, saw what he was up to, and giggled.
At last he made the necessary adjustments and checked the mechanism again. The pulley held and the goulash was safe. “You can let go now.”
Jolosin did as instructed, then inspected his dirty hands. Some of the grime had transferred itself to his precious blue robes. He shot a suspicious look at Frala, who was laughing out loud. His color rose.
“That’s exactly what you were hoping for, isn’t it, you stunted wretch!” He took a step toward Tungdil and raised his fist, then stopped; the dwarf was considerably stronger than he was. Angrily, he stormed away.
Tungdil watched him go and smirked. “If he wants a fight, he shall have one. It’s a pity he lost his nerve.” He wiped his hands on his apron.
Frala fished an apple from the basket beside her and tossed it to him. “Poor Jolosin,” she said with a chuckle. “His fine gown is all soiled.”
“He should have been more careful.” He shrugged and strolled over. Like him, Frala was responsible for the little things that contributed to the smooth running of the school. “But I’ll excuse his clumsiness, just this once.” His kind eyes looked at her brightly from among his laughter lines.
“You two deserve each other,” Frala sighed. “If you’re not careful, someone will come to a bad end because of your feuding.” There was a splash as she dropped a peeled potato into the waiting tub of water.
“What did he expect when he dyed my beard? You know what they say: Make a noise in a mine shaft and you’re bound to hear an echo.” Tungdil ran a hand over his stubbly beard. “I had to shave my chin, thanks to his stupid spell. He must have known we’d be sworn enemies after that!”
“I thought orcs were your worst enemy?” she said archly.
“Well, I’ve made an exception for him. Beards are sacred and if I were a proper dwarf I’d kill him for his insolence. I’m too easygoing for my own good.” He bit into the apple hungrily. With his left hand he took something from the pouch at his waist and pressed it into Frala’s hand. “For you.”
She looked down at her palm and saw three horseshoe nails painstakingly forged together to form a homemade talisman. She stroked the dwarf’s cheek fondly.
“What a lovely gift. Thank you, Tungdil.” She got up, fetched a length of twine, threaded it through the pendant, and knotted it deftly round her neck. The talisman nestled against her bare skin. “Does it suit me?” she asked coyly.
“Anyone would think it had been made for you,” he said, thrilled that Frala was wearing the iron trinket as proudly as if Girdlegard’s finest jeweler had designed and forged the piece.
There was a special bond between the pair of them. The dwarf had known Frala since she was a baby and had watched her mature into an attractive young woman who turned the heads of Lot-Ionan’s apprentices. These days she had two daughters of her own: Sunja and one-year-old Ikana.
Cycles ago, when Frala was still a girl, he had made tin figures for her to play with, showed her around the forge, and let her work the bellows. “Dragon’s breath,” she used to call it as the sparks flew up the chimney, accompanied by her laughter. Frala never forgot the pains he had taken to entertain her, nor how he cared for her daughter.
She shook the remaining potatoes into the tub and topped up the water. As she turned round, her green eyes looked at him keenly. “It’s funny,” she said with a smile. “I was just thinking how you haven’t changed a bit in all the cycles I’ve known you.”
Half of Tungdil’s apple had already disappeared. Still munching, he made himself comfortable on a stool. “And I was just thinking how splendidly we get on together,” he said simply.
“Frala!” the cook shouted. “I’m going for some herbs. You’ll have to stir the goulash.” The ladle, its stem scarcely shorter than Tungdil, changed hands. The cook hurried out. “You’d better not let it stick,” she warned.
A delicious smell of goulash rose from the pot as Frala gave the stew a vigorous stir.
“All the others look older,” she said, “even the magus. But you’ve stayed the same for twenty-three cycles. How do you think you’ll look in another twenty-three?”
The topic was one that Tungdil was reluctant to consider. From what he had read about dwarves, it seemed he was destined to live for three hundred cycles or more. Even now it grieved him to think that he would see the death of Frala and her daughters, of whom he had grown so fond.
With these thoughts in mind, he popped the apple core into his mouth. “Who knows, Frala,” he mumbled, hoping to dismiss the gloomy subject.
The maid had a particular knack for reading his mind that morning. “Can I ask you something, Tungdil?” He nodded. “Do you promise you’ll look after my daughters when I’m gone?”
He choked on the sour apple pips, scratching his throat in the process. “I don’t think we need to worry about that now. Why, you’ll live to be” — he looked her up and down — “a hundred cycles at least. I’ll ask the magus to give you eternal life — and Sunja and Ikana too, of course.”
Frala laughed. “Oh, I’m not
intending to meet Palandiell quite yet.” She kept stirring dutifully, even though her forehead was dripping with perspiration. “But all the same, I’d… Well, I’d feel better if I knew you were there to take care of them.” Her shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug. “Please, Tungdil, say you’ll be their guardian.”
“Frala, by the time you’re summoned to your goddess, Sunja and Ikana will be old enough to look after themselves.” Realizing that she was in earnest, he duly gave his word. “I’d be honored to be their guardian.” He slid from the stool. “If the chain slips again, send Jolosin to find me!” He made his way out with a small bowl of goulash to sustain him until lunch.
On returning to the forge he found Sunja waiting for him with yet another commission from Eiden, two wooden barrels whose iron hoops had split. No sooner had he started work than the plow was brought in, needing urgent repair.
Tungdil relished the work. The fierce flames and physical effort made it a sweaty business, and soon perspiration was trickling down his arms and plopping into the fire with a hiss. Frala’s daughter watched in fascination, passing him tools whenever she was strong enough to lift them and working the bellows with all her might.
The glowing metal yielded to his hammer, letting him shape it as he pleased. At times like this he almost felt like a proper dwarf and not just a foundling raised by humans.
His mind began to drift. He had reached the age of sixty-three solar cycles without seeing another of his kind, which was why he looked forward to being sent away on errands. The occasions when Lot-Ionan required his services as a messenger were regrettably few and far between. There was nothing Tungdil wanted more than to meet one of his own people and learn about his race, but the chances of encountering a traveling dwarf were infinitesimally small.
The realm of Ionandar belonged exclusively to humans. There were a few gnomes and kobolds, but their races were almost extinct. Those that remained lived in remote caves beneath the surface, emerging only when there was something worth stealing — or so Frala said. The last of the elven people lived in landur amid the glades of the Eternal Forest, while the dwarves inhabited the five ranges bounding Girdlegard. Tungdil had almost given up hope of visiting a dwarven kingdom and finding out about his folk.
Everything he knew about dwarves stemmed from Lot-Ionan’s library, but it was a dry kind of knowledge, empty and colorless. In some of the magus’s books, the writers called the dwarves “groundlings” and poked fun at them, while others blamed his people for opening Girdlegard to the northern hordes. Tungdil refused to believe it.
But he could understand why so few of his kind ventured outside their kingdoms; his kinsfolk were almost certainly offended by such prejudice and preferred to turn their backs on humankind.
Tungdil was putting the finishing touches to the first of the iron hoops when Jolosin appeared at the door, wearing, as Tungdil noted with satisfaction, a clean set of robes.
“Hurry,” he spluttered, panting for breath.
“Don’t tell me it’s the goulash again,” said Tungdil, grinning. “Why don’t you run along and hold the chain until I get there?”
“It’s the laboratory…” Barely able to get the words out, Jolosin resorted to gestures. “The chimney… ,” he gasped, turning and hurrying away.
This time it sounded serious. The dwarf set down his hammer in consternation and wiped his hands on his apron. Once Sunja had been dispatched to join her mother in the kitchen, he chased after the famulus through the underground galleries hewn into the stone.
Border Territory,
Secondling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6233rd Solar Cycle
Tens of hundreds of tiny grains of sand pelted their helms, shields, mail, and every inch of unprotected flesh.
Battered by the gusts, the brave band of dwarves struggled onward, mounted on ponies. Scarves muffled their faces but the cloth was no match for the fine desert sand, which worked its way through the fabric, clogging their beards and grinding between their teeth.
“Bedeviled wind,” cursed Gandogar Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, king of the fourthlings’ twelve clans. He tugged at his scarf, pulling it over his nose.
At 298 cycles of age, Gandogar was a respected leader and accomplished warrior. He stood a little over five feet tall and his arms were strong and powerful. His heavy tunic of finely forged mail was worn with pride, despite the trying circumstances. Beneath his diamond-studded helmet his hair and beard were brown and wiry. He led the party unflinchingly through the sand and scree.
“It’s the sand that gets me. I’ve never seen a sandstorm below the surface,” complained Bislipur Surestroke, the friend and mentor riding at his side. He was taller and brawnier than the monarch and his hands and arms were laden with almost as many golden rings and bangles. He looked every inch the warrior, his chain mail bearing the scars of countless battles. The freshest marks were just five orbits old, the result of a skirmish with orcs.
“Vraccas knew what he was doing when he sculpted us from rock. Dwarves and deserts don’t mix.” The verdict was shared by the rest of the troop.
The ponies that had borne them on their long journey to the secondling kingdom snorted and whinnied fractiously, trying to clear their nostrils but blocking them further with all-pervasive sand.
“There’s no other way of getting there,” Gandogar said apologetically. “You’ll be pleased to know that the worst is behind us.”
The band of thirty dwarves was in Sangpûr, a desolate human realm under Queen Umilante’s rule. The landscape consisted of nothing but barren dunes and godforsaken wasteland, a vista so cheerless that the dwarves preferred to stare at the tangled manes of their ponies or the tips of their boots.
Their journey south from the Brown Range had taken them through the lush valleys and steep gorges of the mountainous state of Urgon where Lothaire reigned. From there they had ridden over the gentle plains of King Tilogorn’s Idoslane, where the slightest hillock qualified as a mountain and shady forests gave way to fertile fields.
The passage through Sangpûr was the last and most grueling leg of the journey, a swathe of desert forty miles wide, lying at the foot of the mountains like a moat of fine sand. It was almost as though nature wanted to prevent the rest of Girdlegard, including the fourthlings, from reaching the range.
On occasions, the wind dropped and the veil of sand fell, allowing the mighty peaks to loom before them magically among the dunes. The dwarves felt the call of the snow-capped mountains and longed for cool air, fresh water, and the company of their kin.
Bislipur tightened the scarf around his cheeks and stroked his graying beard. “I’m no friend of magic, but if ever we needed a sorcerer it’s now,” he growled.
“Why?”
“He could command the wretched wind to stop.”
A final gust swirled toward them; then the gales died unexpectedly. Only five miles separated the dwarves from the comb of rock that ran from east to west.
“You’re not a bad sorcerer yourself,” said Gandogar, breathing a sigh of relief. He had never been especially fond of the world outside his kingdom and this latest foray had persuaded him that one epic journey in a lifetime was more than enough. “What did I tell you? We’re almost there.”
Rising out of the gloom of the mountain’s shadows were the imposing walls of Ogre’s Death. The stronghold grew out of the rock, the main keep hewn into the foothills, the battlements extending down the hillside in four separate terraces that were all but impregnable.
Cut into the walls of the uppermost terrace was the stronghold’s entrance, eight paces wide and ten paces high. Like an enormous mouth, thought Gandogar. It looks as though the mountain is yawning.
As the company neared the stronghold, the doors opened welcomingly. Seventeen banners fluttered loftily from the turrets, bearing the insignia of the secondling clans.
“Here at last,” Gandogar said thankfully. “To think we’ve ridden right across Gird
legard.” The other dwarves joined in his grateful laughter. They were his retinue, a heavily armed band who had escorted him throughout the long journey to the secondling kingdom. Between them they were the cream of Goïmdil’s folk, skilled in ax work and craftsmanship, the best warriors and artisans from each of the twelve fourth-ling clans. Many a legend told of the fighting prowess of the dwarves, which explained why the party had not been troubled by a single brigand or thief. They were carrying enough gold to make an ambush more than worth the risk.
Bislipur waved his hand imperiously and his summons was instantly obeyed. A little fellow measuring just three feet in height slid from his pony awkwardly and came running through the sand. He wore a wide belt around his baggy breeches and looked oddly sinewy in appearance, despite the considerable paunch that rounded his hessian shirt. The yellowed undergarment was paired with a red jacket and his blue cap was pulled low over his face, a pointed ear protruding on either side. A silver choker encircled his neck and his buckled shoes kicked up clouds of sand as he scampered through the dunes.
He bowed at Bislipur’s feet. “Sverd at your service, but not of his own accord,” he said peevishly.
“Silence!” thundered Bislipur, raising his powerful fist. The gnome ducked away. “Ride on and announce our arrival. Wait for us at the gates — and don’t touch anything that doesn’t belong to you.”
“Since I don’t have a choice in the matter, I shall do as you say.” The gnome bowed again and hurried to his pony. Soon he was galloping away from the dwarves in the direction of the stronghold.
Even from a distance it was obvious that Sverd was no horseman. He bounced up and down in the saddle, clinging to his cap with clawlike fingers and relying on the pony to set their course.
“He’ll unman himself if he goes any faster. When are you finally going to set him free?” asked Gandogar.
“Not until he’s served his penance,” Bislipur answered tersely. “Let’s not delay.” He pressed his heels into the pony’s broad flanks and the animal set off at an obedient trot.
The fourthlings knew Ogre’s Death from etchings and stories, but now they were seeing it for the first time for themselves.
