by Markus Heitz
On the fifth orbit after the high king’s passing, the taverns, quarries, and workshops of the secondling kingdom were still closed. Thousands of dwarves from the seventeen clans of Beroïn’s folk had gathered in the funeral hall whose vast pillars towered so high and dwindled into the distance.
The focal point was a stone sarcophagus, hewn by the secondlings’ finest masons and decorated with wondrous carvings commemorating Gundrabur’s glorious deeds, not least his last battle at the High Pass where the orcs had been routed.
Carved into the lid of the coffin was a perfect likeness of the monarch in his younger years. The marble Gundrabur was dressed in his finest armor, his right hand clasping the haft of his ax.
Even those at the back of the hall could see the sculpted body resting on the dais, high above the heads of the crowd. Slender rays of sunshine slanted through chinks in the ceiling, converging on the coffin from all points of the compass and bathing the effigy in iridescent light.
The moment of parting has come. Balendilín ascended the steps and stopped at the high king’s feet. Kneeling down, he lowered his head and paid his respects to the fallen monarch. Then he got up and surveyed the secondlings for a final time before he was appointed king.
“Gundrabur sensed the invaders before they were spotted from the watchtowers. He was always the first to detect our enemies and preserve us from harm.” As he spoke, he found himself looking at Bislipur, who was standing with the fourthling delegates at the edge of the crowd. Not even Gandogar’s scheming adviser could excuse himself from an occasion such as this. “Our king was called to Vraccas before he could realize his dream of a united dwarven assembly, but he took the first step toward creating a new and stronger union of the folks. From this moment on, his goals will be mine, and I swear in the name of Vraccas to complete his work before I die.”
Banging the hafts of their axes against the floor, the secondlings signaled their approval. A low roll of thunder rumbled through the mountain.
Balendilín was too choked with emotion to say anything further, so he walked to the head of the coffin, kissed the brow of the marble king, bowed again, and left the dais.
With that, fifty dwarves hurried over and hooked long poles into the metal rings subtly incorporated into the coffin’s design. As soon as the order was given, they lifted the coffin, carried it from the dais, and bore it silently past the rows of dwarves, who bowed a final time as their dead monarch was taken to his resting place in the crypt of kings.
Balendilín walked behind the coffin. He would watch over Gundrabur’s body during the long hours of the night, ending his vigil in the morning, when he would leave the crypt with the secondling crown. In time, he too would be laid to rest with the rulers of his folk.
From the corner of his eye he spotted Bislipur pushing his way to the front of the crowd. The fourthling’s gaze was fixed on him as if to read his thoughts and divine the nature of the vengeance that Balendilín had in mind. You are right to fear me, Bislipur. Your crimes won’t go unpunished. Looking straight ahead, Balendilín didn’t let on that he had seen the brawny dwarf.
At length the pallbearers entered the crypt of kings and placed the coffin on its basalt stand. High above, an opening had been cut out of the mountain, allowing the light of Girdlegard to shine on Gundrabur’s marble face. The attendants filed out of the vast crypt that housed the mortal remains of the secondling kings, twenty-six in all.
Balendilín walked to the far end of the vault, placed the haft of his ax on the floor, and leaned on the ax head. His gaze fell on the sculpted countenance of his friend and sovereign. Fare you well, Gundrabur. As the moments passed, he too became stone, insensible to the passing of time. His eyes stared blankly at the coffin, while his mind relinquished all thought and drifted on a sea of sorrow.
At times it seemed to him that voices were speaking to him in ghostly whispers, but he understood nothing of what they said.
According to secondling legend, Vraccas would open the eternal smithy and release the spirits of the dead kings, who would visit the prospective monarch and pass judgment on his worth. In some cases, the heir to the throne entered the vault and was never seen again.
Balendilín was spared such a fate.
The next morning, tired, aching, and bleary-eyed, he left the crypt to find the waiting dwarves exactly where he had left them many hours before. The secondlings bowed and drummed their axes against the floor, hailing their new king and offering him beer, bread, and ham to restore his strength.
Balendilín took a few mouthfuls, washed them down, and ascended the dais where Gundrabur’s coffin had lain.
“I did not seek this office,” he said in a loud, clear voice. “It was my hope that Gundrabur would reign for another hundred cycles so I could serve him loyally, but Vraccas decided otherwise. Fourteen orcs died by Gundrabur’s ax and four arrows pierced his flesh before our king was gathered to the eternal smithy.” His gaze swept the hall. “He named me as his successor, and so I ask you: Will you have me as your king?”
The crowd chorused a resounding “aye,” wooden hafts pounded the stone, and Balendilín realized with a rush of emotion that the secondlings were chanting his name.
“Beroïn’s folk has chosen. Let us never forget Gundrabur or his dream of uniting our kin. It is our shared duty, irrespective of clan or folk, to defend Girdlegard against all harm.” His eyes sought Bislipur and found him where he had been standing before. “Join me,” he said, extending his hand.
The startled Bislipur limped up the steps to the dais and greeted the new monarch with a nod. His cold brown eyes stared at him uncertainly.
“The death of Gundrabur has robbed our folks of their high king. The succession will not be decided until the fifth and final challenge is complete. As I’m sure you know, Bislipur and I have not seen eye to eye, but I cannot allow a rift to open between our folks. Friendship must not be turned to enmity, which is why I solemnly swear to put aside our differences until one or the other of the candidates has returned.” He drew himself up to his full height. “When dwarf fights dwarf, only our enemies stand to gain. The new high king will set our course and we will obey his orders and submit to his will.” Balendilín held out his hand to Bislipur. “Let us shake on it.”
His antagonist had no choice but to comply. To Balendilín’s astonishment, he seemed neither angry nor resentful.
“I swear that neither of us will promote our separate causes until the new high king has returned,” he promised, choosing his words with care. “We may disagree on certain matters, but we share a common enemy: evil in all its forms. As dwarves, we are committed to wiping out evil wherever it occurs and we shall not tire in our duty.”
A loud cheer went up as the pair shook hands and looked each other in the eye. No one could tell that their gazes were locked in an oath of eternal enmity.
“As a sign of my good faith, I should like to suggest that we begin our crusade against evil this very moment,” announced Bislipur. “Will we stand by while orcs murder and pillage before the gates of this stronghold?” He turned to the crowd and raised his voice to a rallying shout. “We must clear Ogre’s Death of this plague!”
On hearing the cheers, he knew he had judged the mood right. “My messenger is heading through the tunnels to the fourthling kingdom, as I speak. He will return with five thousand of our finest warriors,” he proclaimed to the astonished Balendilín and the crowd. “Together the dwarves of Beroïn and Goïmdil will chase the orcs from these gates. United our folks will prevail!” He threw up his arms and brandished his double-bladed ax, dazzling the dwarves with reflected light. “This is our chance to realize Gundrabur’s dream of a common dwarven army!”
The cheering redoubled and the mountain shook with the drumming of axes.
Balendilín bore the treachery smilingly and gazed intently into Bislipur’s hard face. You don’t fool me, you devious bastard. Are the warriors meant for your protection, or are you after the high king’s throne? Would
you stage a coup so you can have your elven war?
Bislipur stared back, his cold eyes boring into him mercilessly. “May the hunt begin, King Balendilín,” he said, descending from the dais. Balendilín was left to wonder who the quarry might be.
II
Enchanted Realm of Oremaira,
Girdlegard,
Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle
The following morning, after a cold night that heralded the coming of winter, they loaded the ingots onto the ponies and headed west. The smoke had cleared above the deserted streets of Mifurdania and tiny black dots lay unmoving at the foot of the settlement’s walls. Every dot was a corpse and they covered the area in a sea of black.
Tungdil hated Nôd’onn and the orcs more violently than ever. First Goodwater, then Greenglade, and now Mifurdania and all the other villages, hamlets, and farms: Half of Girdlegard has been razed to the ground. He spotted a cloud of dust on the horizon: The army of orcs was heading northwest. I’ll do whatever it takes, he promised himself.
Much to the dwarves’ disgust, their provisions for the journey consisted almost entirely of bread and dried fruit, which they were forced to eat for want of anything else. In their haste to leave Mifurdania, they had forgotten to stock up on victuals and no one was inclined to venture back. They were all the more grateful when Goïmgar found a few wild mushrooms, even though they had to eat them raw.
“Do you really mean to take them with us?” asked Boïndil, casting a quick look over his shoulder at Rodario and his companions, who were bringing up the rear.
“We’ll decide when we get to the tunnel,” said Tungdil. “It’s eighty miles to the next entrance, and if we can’t find it, we’ll continue on foot.”
“On foot? Can’t you buy us each a pony?” demanded Goïmgar.
Boïndil harrumphed. “A bit of exercise might be just the thing for your puny little legs. It’s time you pulled yourself together and started acting like a dwarf. Even the female long-un is tougher than you.”
After two orbits of marching in the pouring rain, they reached a low-lying area bounded to the north by imposing mountains — the Sovereign Stones, as they were labeled on the map. Nestled in the foothills was the human settlement of Sovereignston, which Tungdil remembered was famous for its wealth. It was the fashionable place for Weyurn’s gentry to build their palatial villas and stately homes. The attraction was not so much the mountain air, but the prestige to be gained by living there — and of course, the social whirl.
“We’ll stay only long enough to buy some ponies,” Tungdil told his companions on approaching the gates. “It’ll be cheaper and safer to look for provisions and ponies in the poorer parts of town. We’ll leave the rich folk and their villas well alone.”
“What a terrible pity,” said Rodario in an exaggeratedly aristocratic voice. “It seems churlish not to visit our wealthy neighbors after living on their doorstep all this time.” He was relieved to see that the solid city walls were lined with armed guards: The orcs would never be able to get hold of them once they passed through the gates. He turned to his companions excitedly. “Why don’t we put on a play? Nothing long or complicated — just a short, impromptu performance. We’d earn enough bronze coins to fill our bags with victuals and keep the proverbial wolf from the door.”
“Can’t you speak normally for a change?” growled Boïndil, scratching his stubbly cheeks, which were long overdue for a shave.
“I shall speak in whichever way I choose, master dwarf,” the actor said huffily. “Some people are blessed with communicative talents beyond the level of primitive grunts, burps, and growls. I don’t see why I should disguise the magnificence of my education when you do nothing to hide the paucity of yours.”
“Fine,” Boïndil muttered malevolently. “We’ll see how far your fine words get you when we meet a pack of orcs.”
His brother changed the subject by asking how the impresario had breathed fire at the bögnilim.
Rodario beamed. “You can thank Furgas for that. The trick is to fill a tube with lycopodium spores, put on the dragon mask, and blow through the tube. The spores pass over a burning wick at the mouth of the mask, and the monster spews fire.” He rolled up his sleeves. “I use a smaller version when I’m playing the magus. The tube runs down my forearm, connecting a leather purse of spores at my elbow with a miniature tinderbox just inside my cuff.” He held up his arm and gestured expansively to demonstrate the technique. “I squeeze the purse like so, and the seeds shoot down the tube. Meanwhile, the pressure on the pouch activates a cord that pulls the flint backward and produces a spark. Presto, the seeds are ignited as they exit my sleeve!” His hands mimicked the flight of a fireball. “So there you have it: a magic trick for magic flames.”
Boëndal, who had been following the explanation carefully, shot Furgas an admiring look. “An ingenious invention!” The prop master accepted the compliment with a nod.
They joined the back of a queue of wagons and carriages owned by Mifurdanians and merchants who had fled the unfortunate city.
Sentries were checking the vehicles, noting exactly what they were carrying, and demanding a toll. No distinction was made between farmers, traders, and other travelers, so the city of Sovereignston made a considerable profit from the dwarves. Not only that, but as visitors to the kingdom of Weyurn, Tungdil and the others were restricted to the poorest districts of the city and given the address of a boardinghouse in which they were required to stay.
Thus constrained, they trudged up a narrow street and turned into a passageway that was barely wide enough for single file. Both sides of the alley were crammed with timber houses whose upper stories jutted out dangerously, almost meeting overhead. The uneven cobblestones never saw daylight. All in all, it wasn’t dissimilar to an underground gallery, except for the stench of sewage and detritus. Mounted on one of the bulging walls was a sign showing a prancing pony; they had found their address.
With a shudder of disgust, Rodario searched the pockets of his rain-drenched coat, pulled out a handkerchief, and pressed it to his mouth and nose.
“With all due respect,” he said firmly, “nothing could induce me to sleep in such a hovel.” It was evident from their expressions that Furgas and Narmora felt the same. “Fortunately, I have a solution to our dilemma. My companions and I will spend the night in more salubrious accommodations, and we’ll meet you tomorrow morning at the gates. You’ll have time to buy your ponies and so forth, and we’ll find a venue and put on a play. How does that sound?”
The suggestion was greeted enthusiastically by Boïndil, who was tired of the actor’s voice.
Rodario didn’t wait for further permission, but strode away at once, his vibrant robes flapping around his legs. There was no denying that he looked like a nobleman, but the duffel bag rather ruined the effect. Furgas and Narmora followed him down the alleyway, boots squelching as they trudged through the foul-smelling mud.
“To be honest with you, I think they’ve got a point,” ventured Goïmgar, peering after them regretfully. “I don’t much like the look of it either.”
“We were told to stay here,” Boëndal reminded him, steering the ponies into the barn while the others made for the door. “I’ll see to the ponies and keep an eye on the ingots. They’ll be safer in the stables, I’ll warrant. I’ll sound my horn if I need you.”
“Very well. I’ll order you some food,” Tungdil promised. He pushed open the door and stepped into an impenetrable fog of smoke. Quite apart from the cloud of tobacco, it was evident that the chimney needed a thorough sweep. They made their way through the crowd of drinkers, sat down at a table by the fire, and stretched their soggy boots toward the flames.
“At least we won’t be sleeping outside again,” said Goïmgar, softening. “I can’t stand the rain.” The others nodded in silent agreement: None of them were accustomed to coming into contact with water unless they chose to — which was seldom enough. “If only it were a bit more homely…”
&nbs
p; Tungdil was happy to forgo all other comforts, provided that the roof didn’t leak. The heat from the fire was beginning to dry his leather garments, and he closed his eyes with a contented sigh. Soon the conversation faded to an indistinct hum as he gave into his tiredness and dozed. He woke when the publican arrived with a tray of food and beer ordered by Bavragor. “Do you have a room for us? We’re not fussy, so long as it’s warm and dry.”
The man nodded. “Come this way.” The dwarves grabbed their packs, picked up their plates and tankards, and filed out behind him. They weren’t sorry to be leaving the other drinkers, whose demeanor failed to inspire much trust.
The chamber to which the publican led them was a garret room with a chimneybreast at one end. The warmth exuding from the brickwork was enough to heat the whole room. “Another beer for the gentleman?” Bavragor accepted with a nod.
They hung their clothes to dry on a rope around the chimney, then Boïndil, wearing nothing but chain mail and breeches, left the chamber to take his turn in the stables.
Tungdil waited until Boëndal had joined them, then took off his boots, stood them next to the chimneybreast, and climbed into a little bed. “Time for an afternoon nap,” he told the others, pulling up the sheets. “I’ll go into town and ask about the firstlings later. It would be good to know what to expect.”
“It’s been such a long time since anyone heard from them,” said Bavragor, shaking his tankard and gazing at the swirling beer. “What if something’s happened to them?”
“I expect they’re just loners like you,” Boëndal teased him. He stripped to his chain mail and underwear and climbed into bed.
The mason finished his beer, burped, and polished off the leftovers of Boëndal’s meal. “I’d really like to meet them,” he admitted. “I’ve been asking Vraccas to keep them safe.” He fell silent and stuffed his pipe with tobacco.
Tungdil was staring at the beams overhead. The fine cracks in the paint reminded him of the way the älf’s face had fractured. “He knew my name.”
