by Markus Heitz
Tungdil rose quietly and paced up and down, listening at the mouths of the tunnels for footsteps or any sound of movement. I wonder what it could have been…
Silence. The underground network was at peace.
Even so, his uneasiness remained. There’s no reason why other creatures shouldn’t have occupied the tunnels. He hoped to goodness that Boïndil’s bluster hadn’t elicited an unfavorable response.
Tungdil waited until they were back in the wagon before telling the others what he and Goïmgar had heard. Boïndil was torn between excitement and pique, thrilled at the thought of possible antagonists, but angry with Tungdil for letting him sleep. He made a show of sulking and refused to say a word.
The wagon tore through the tunnels like the wind, accelerating, slowing, rolling uphill, and swooping back down. Twice they ran out of momentum and had to push the vehicle to the next downward slope.
For Bavragor, the interludes were an excuse to belt out a stirring melody, presumably to lift their spirits while they toiled. To make matters worse, he switched to a mournful love song and succeeded in antagonizing Boïndil so much that he could barely contain his rage.
Anyone would think he was baiting him on purpose. In fact, Tungdil was under the impression that the brawny mason was throwing just a fraction of his weight behind the wagon in order to make Boïndil take the strain. He took Bavragor aside and confronted him with his suspicions.
“Of course I’m doing it on purpose,” the mason said without batting an eyelid. “I want him to suffer every mile of the way.”
Tungdil looked at him reproachfully. “You know that’s not fair.”
Bavragor just shrugged.
“Is it because of your sister?”
The mason glanced back at the twins. Boëndal was handing his heavily perspiring and thoroughly exhausted brother some water. “Yes,” he said slowly, taking out his own drinking pouch and removing the bung. There was an instant smell of brandy. He took a sip and wiped a few stray drops from his jet-black beard. “Yes,” he whispered a second time, staring absently into the distance. He lowered his head.
“What happened between your sister and Boïndil?” Tungdil asked gently.
Bavragor raised his head slowly. His jaw was clenched and a single teardrop leaked from his patch and rolled down his cheek. He couldn’t speak, so he took another draft.
“Is it because of her that you’re drinking yourself to death?”
He put the pouch away. “No, I drink to forget how good I used to be,” he said sadly. “Not that it helps, of course. Every corner of Ogre’s Death is filled with my masonry. My sculptures and engravings look down at me and mock my useless hands.” He leaned back against the wall and let his gaze sweep the room. “Do you know why I came on this mission?” he asked abruptly. Tungdil shook his head. “To get out of Ogre’s Death and never go back.” His hoarse voice was full of drunken earnestness. “I’m tired of being pitied. I want to be remembered as Bavragor Hammerfist, mason extraordinaire who sculpted the spurs for Keenfire and gave his life for the dwarves — not as drunken old Bavragor whose chisel danced over the rock of its own accord.” He smiled wanly. “I promise to do my bit for the dwarves and for Girdlegard, but I won’t return from the fifthling kingdom.” He took another long draft to show that his mind was made up.
Tungdil’s heart went out to the mason. Bavragor wasn’t the noisy, occasionally rude but fundamentally cheerful and resilient character he had taken him for. “We can’t leave you in the fifthling kingdom,” he protested, realizing at once how feeble he sounded. “We’ll need your fists in the fight against Nôd’onn.”
Bavragor reached for his arm and squeezed it tightly. “No, Tungdil, you need warriors like the twins, true fighters whose confidence never falters.” He released his grip. “Don’t worry, my hands are steady enough to sculpt the strongest, most beautiful spurs ever fashioned by a dwarven chisel. I’ll tell you about my sister another time. For now, I’d like a moment with my pouch.”
Tungdil got up and strolled over to the twins, who were snacking on ham and cheese. Poor Bavragor.
Boëndal had observed the conversation from a distance, but refrained from asking questions because he didn’t want Boïndil to get wind of the mason’s distress. He offered Tungdil a morsel of goat cheese. “Well, scholar, only two more orbits and we’ll be in the firstling kingdom — assuming we don’t have any problems with the wagon.”
“Gandogar will be there already,” Tungdil said gloomily.
“For all we know, he might have gone the wrong way.” Boïndil laughed and wiped his glistening brow. “I hope his blasted shortcut leads him straight into a fathomless chasm.” Goïmgar glared at him. “You can stare all you like,” Boïndil told him, rising to the silent reproach. “The king of the dwarves is sitting right here. Your king is a warmonger, a cowardly —”
“That’s enough, Boïndil!” Tungdil interrupted. “I know you’d rather be fighting than trundling along in a wagon, but you’re going to have to keep your temper under control.” He waited until Boïndil had finished growling. “Right, let’s get going. The sooner the first leg of the journey is over, the better.” He stood up and the other four followed him to the wagon. Will they ever stop squabbling?
“I wonder what it’s like in their kingdom,” mused Boëndal, preparing to get the wagon rolling. “The firstlings are supposed to be consummate smiths. Do you think they’ll forge me a weapon to beat my trusty crow’s beak?”
“Good thinking, brother,” his brother applauded him. “Not many axes are as good as mine, but I’ll lay them aside if the firstlings can do better.”
The wagon crept along the rail. Boëndal waited until they were inches from the downward slope, then jumped in and they thundered into the tunnel.
Beroïn’s Folk,
Secondling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle
Bislipur knelt before the high king. “I came because you summoned me,” he said, rising. “Not because you can change my mind.”
His obdurate tone left Gundrabur and his counselor in no doubt that the private meeting in the great hall would come to nothing. They could only hope and pray that Vraccas would knock some sense into Bislipur’s intransigent skull. Gundrabur motioned for the burly dwarf to be seated.
Bislipur appraised him intently. He looks weaker. His fingers are shaking and he can barely lift his arms. Nature is on my side.
“We should have been straight with each other from the beginning,” said Balendilín, taking his place beside the king. “We’re tired of game playing. I know we don’t share the same opinions, but it’s no excuse for scheming like kobolds.”
“Our folks have been offered a unique opportunity, and I’m trying to persuade the assembly to take it. Is that what you mean by scheming?” Gandogar’s adviser retorted.
“His Majesty and I have been wondering what could possibly motivate you to agitate for war,” Balendilín said forth-rightly. “It baffles us that you should wish to lead the children of the Smith against the elves when a battle of far greater magnitude awaits us.”
Bislipur seemed to find the topic too tedious to be worthy of anger. “Your Majesty, there’s nothing to be gained by talking. Your concerns are as unintelligible to me as mine to you. I’ve got better things to do than —”
“Better things?” Balendilín cut in. “Such as what?”
“Private cogitation,” Bislipur answered dourly. Without waiting for the high king to dismiss him, he got up and limped to the door.
“You’re going to cogitate, are you?” Gundrabur called after him. “Well, here’s something for you to consider: None of the fourthlings knows anything about your family.”
The dwarf stopped short, but didn’t turn. “What are you insinuating?”
“I’m not insinuating anything. I thought you should be warned.”
The elderly monarch paused and Balendilín took over. “You questioned Tungdil’s lineage, a
nd you’re entitled to do so. But I’m sure you’ve heard the maxim about scorched dwarves not playing with fire…”
Bislipur strode toward him, his huge hands clenched into fists. “And you dare to accuse me of scheming like a kobold,” he snarled. “What do you want?”
“ Nothing — although, of course, we may find ourselves obliged to share our suspicion that your ancestry is no clearer than that of the high king’s nominated successor,” the counselor said gravely. “Incidentally, the document accusing the elves of treachery was a fake.”
“You’re lying!” Bislipur struck the marble table with a resounding thwack.
“You don’t look like a child of Goïmdil. No other fourth-ling comes close to rivaling your stature. You’ve never been seen polishing diamonds or fashioning trinkets, but your reputation as a strong and talented fighter is known even to the orcs. I learned this from my inquiries,” Balendilín told him coldly. “Anyone with a less charitable mind would be inclined to think you’re one of Lorimbur’s dwarves.”
“I have never heard such scandalous bile in all my life! By my beard, if you weren’t a helpless cripple I’d fight you for insulting my honor with your lies!”
Balendilín listened in satisfaction. He had no evidence for his allegations, but he seemed to have touched a nerve. “This is what we propose: First, that you cease your scheming until one or the other of the companies returns from the expedition; and second, that you make it known that the elves’ involvement in the fall of the fifthling kingdom can’t be proven, since the document was forged. For our part, we’ll say nothing of the doubts surrounding your lineage.”
“The outcome of the expedition must decide the succession,” Gundrabur added. “Are we agreed?”
Jaw clenched, Bislipur nodded curtly.
“How about a beer to seal the truce?” proposed Balendilín.
Bislipur turned away. “Drink all you like. I have matters to attend to.” He smiled balefully. “You needn’t worry: I’ll keep my word and say nothing about the succession. As for the business about the elves, I assume you’ll permit me to convene an assembly so I can explain to the delegates.” He took leave of the high king without bowing. I’ll show you yet, he thought grimly. You’re both mistaken if you think I care about your truce. From now on, I’ll be more discreet about my scheming.
An attendant appeared at the far end of the corridor. He was carrying a pitcher in one hand and three tankards in the other.
Perfect timing, thought Bislipur. The high king’s refreshments. This is my chance. He waited until the dwarf was level with him, then stumbled and clutched at him, knocking him over. Like a shot, Bislipur reached out and caught the pitcher and two of the tankards, allowing the third to shatter on the marble flagstones.
“I’m really sorry,” he said apologetically. “My lame leg is a curse on these slippery floors. Still, I managed to save everything except one of the tankards.”
It took a moment for the attendant to recover. He got up shakily and looked at the debris. “Er, actually, the tankard was for you. I’ll go and fetch a —”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Bislipur interrupted. “I wasn’t thirsty anyway. You may as well clear up the mess.”
The attendant stooped and gathered the pieces into his apron. “All done,” he said, straightening up again. “Now, if you pass me the other tankards and the beer…”
Bislipur hesitated and gave the pitcher a little shake, watching the layer of white foam slop back and forth without mingling with the beer. “Light on top and dark below,” he said thoughtfully. He returned the vessels to the waiter. “Let’s hope light will triumph over darkness in Girdlegard as well. You’d better hurry; the high king is thirsty.”
Humming contentedly, he set off to find the fourthling delegation, while the attendant continued down the corridor toward the great hall.
Underground Network,
Girdlegard,
Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle
The next downward pitch gave the wagon a burst of speed that sent them careering through the tunnel. For the first time Tungdil was obliged to pull sharply on the brake. Any faster, and we’ll come flying off the rail. There was a flurry of sparks and a terrible squealing and screeching.
“It’s worse than Bavragor’s singing,” Boïndil objected, shouting above the noise. Obligingly, the mason burst into song, thereby adding to the din. Boïndil rolled his eyes despairingly.
The tunnel opened out and they found themselves inside a natural grotto, shooting along an enormous bridge hewn from stone. A river raged beneath them, drowning out the squealing of brakes. Tendrils of spray splashed against the sides of the wagon; then they were back in the tunnel and racing on.
“Did you see that?” marveled Tungdil.
“How could we miss it?” Goïmgar said unhappily. “We could have fallen in and died.”
Tungdil was bubbling with enthusiasm. “What a spectacular bridge! Our forefathers must have been incredible masons.”
If Bavragor had been in the driver’s seat, he would have turned back to take another look. “I bet it was sculpted by secondlings,” he said proudly. “We’re the only folk who could build a bridge like that.” He paused, waiting for someone to contradict him. “In that case, I propose a toast…” Suddenly the wagon started to judder and rattle. “Steady on, Tungdil! You’re spilling my drink and we don’t want Goïmgar spewing all over the place.”
Tungdil was less inclined to joke. “There’s gravel on the track. I’m worried we’ll —”
They felt a terrible jolt and the wagon tilted dangerously to the right. Orange sparks shot to the ceiling.
Before the dwarves could react, the wagon lurched, turned over, bounced, turned over, and crashed to a halt. The tunnel ahead was blocked with fallen stone.
Tungdil was catapulted into the air and had to curl into a ball to preserve his limbs. He hit the ground with a thud, grazed his face on the rock, and whacked his helmet against something unyielding. I suppose it was bound to end this way. He sat up groggily, looking for the others.
The twins were already on their feet. Like Tungdil, they had scuffed and torn their breeches, but seemed otherwise unharmed.
Bavragor picked himself up with a groan, clutching his hip. Only Goïmgar was lying still beside the battered wagon. His breath was coming in faint gasps.
“Vraccas have mercy!” Tungdil made his way unsteadily toward the stricken dwarf. Much to everyone’s relief, Boëndal and Boïndil took charge of the examination and declared the artisan to be intact.
“We’ll have you up in no time,” said Bavragor, administering a sip from his pouch. “I hope you appreciate the sacrifice I’m making.”
The fragile fourthling wasn’t much of a brandy drinker and came to with a splutter. Sitting up sharply, he yelped and clutched his right shoulder. He grimaced in pain. “It’s broken, I know it is!” Boëndal bent down to take a closer look, but Goïmgar waved him away. “No! You’ll only make it worse!”
“Keep acting like that and I’ll make it worse,” Boïndil growled menacingly.
“Come on, Goïmgar,” Tungdil pleaded. “Boëndal and Boïndil are warriors. They know about injuries.”
“Cuts and bruises, maybe, but not broken bones,” said Goïmgar, shrinking away. Groaning loudly, he struggled to his feet, his right arm dangling limply. “I’ve broken my collarbone,” he whined. “I can’t move my arm.”
“Here, have a sip of this to ease the pain,” said Bavragor, tossing him the pouch. Goïmgar reached out and caught it with both hands. The others turned on him accusingly.
“You lava-livered liar!” barked Boïndil. “Stringing us along, were you?”
“I thought it was broken,” Goïmgar protested hastily. “But I guess it was, er… dislocated! What a stroke of luck! I put it into joint when I moved. Did you hear it click?” He lifted his arm gingerly and feigned discomfort. “Hmm, it’s still quite sore, but I should be able to put up with it.” He returned the pouch t
o Bavragor. “You can keep your rotgut. It tastes like poison.”
“Next time I’d advise you to try a bit harder,” fumed Boïndil. “Hoodwink us again, and I’ll wallop your backside until it’s redder than a forge.”
If only I hadn’t chosen him in the first place, Tungdil thought ruefully. I didn’t realize I was hanging a millstone around my neck. He could see now why the fourthling monarch had let him pick Goïmgar: The artisan was a pest. From now on I won’t believe a single word he says.
Tungdil decided to focus on their immediate plight: The tunnel leading west to the firstlings was completely blocked by an avalanche of rock, and the ingots and gems for Keenfire were scattered across the floor. He beckoned to Bavragor. “When do you think the roof collapsed?”
The one-eyed mason inspected the rockfall, clambered all over it, and ran his fingers over the fractured stone. At length he returned. “Quite recently. There’s a fair bit of dust about, but it must have come down with the ceiling. See how shiny these edges are?” He patted the warped chassis of the wagon. “We were lucky the wagon derailed itself when it did. If we’d hit this lot at full tilt…”
“Do you think it was sabotage?”
Bavragor rubbed the dust from his one good eye. “I can’t say for sure, but it wouldn’t surprise me.” He stroked the wall lovingly. “It seems strange that the tunnel would collapse of its own accord after all these cycles.”
“It was probably your singing that did it,” Goïmgar said witheringly. “Your singing and the idiot’s lunatic yells.”
“You’re the one who keeps whining. If I were the mountain, I’d cave in on myself rather than listen to your voice,” the mason retorted.
“You’re both wrong,” said Boïndil, not wanting to be outdone. “The tunnel split its sides laughing because of Goïmgar’s size.”
The artisan opened his mouth to protest, but Tungdil ordered them to pile up the ingots and cover the treasure with rocks. “We’re going up to the surface,” he decided. “The next hatch isn’t far from here. We’ll leave the underground network, find a settlement, and buy a pony.” He unfurled the map. “We can reenter the tunnel here. It’s only eighty miles overland.”
