by Markus Heitz
“What prompted you to build the defenses?” he asked.
“Many cycles ago we had a problem with trolls. Tion tried to sneak them in through the back entrance. Our forefathers built the walls to keep them at bay and eventually the beasts were defeated.” She glanced up at the sentry, who gave the all clear. “Looks like the älfar have retreated. Why were they following you?”
“That’s something I’ll have to discuss with your queen,” said Tungdil, lowering his eyes to avoid her probing stare.
“A dwarven queen!” exclaimed Rodario. “I wonder how the women came to wear the breeches.” He sighed. “If only my blasted ink hadn’t frozen. I’m never going to remember it all. Was it a female revolution?”
Balyndis laughed. “A revolution? No, it’s all very peaceable here. I thought men and women always shared the work.”
Djerůn had stopped carrying Andôkai and was stumbling at the back of the group. On reaching the final set of gates, he came to a halt and leaned against the wall.
He’s badly hurt, thought Tungdil in alarm. In a way, he felt responsible because the giant had sustained his original injury in Sovereignston while fighting on his behalf.
“It’s not far now,” the guardswoman reassured them. “I’ll send for our healers as soon as we’re inside.” It didn’t seem to occur to her that Djerůn was far taller than any ordinary man.
“That won’t be necessary,” Andôkai said quickly. “You go ahead, and I’ll see to his injuries. He’s too far gone for a physician; only my art can save him.” The giant slid down the wall and slumped into the snow. Andôkai knelt beside him. She was exhausted from her confrontation with the älfar, but she summoned the last of her strength. “We’ll catch up with you,” she said sharply. “Just go!” Her companions complied.
So this is the firstling kingdom. Tungdil gazed up at the mountain’s red flanks. Hewn into the lower slopes was a stronghold with nine giddy towers. The architectural style was different from that of Ogre’s Death, the lines more flowing and not as angular and severe, although the building was similarly sturdy. Curiously, Borengar’s masons had dispensed with ornamentation altogether.
Abandoning their ponies, they made their way onto a wooden platform at the base of a tower. “Try to keep still. It’ll probably feel a bit funny at first.” Balyndis threw back a lever and up they shot, racing toward the top of the tower, past a narrow spiral staircase that led up to the battlements.
On the way up, Tungdil heard the rattle of chains uncoiling and scraping over metal. Some kind of pulley system, but for passengers, not supplies. “You don’t like stairs, then?”
The guardswoman smiled, and Tungdil thought she looked awfully pretty. “It’s less effort like this,” she said.
They drew level with the top of the tallest tower and walked out onto a parapet that led toward the main entrance via a single-span arch bridge.
On either side of the walkway was a two-hundred-pace drop. Crows and jackdaws circled overhead and the chill wind blew stronger than ever. Narmora kept a hand on her head scarf to stop it from flying away.
The vast gates, ten paces wide and fifteen paces high, remained closed as they approached. Instead, Balyndis led them into the great hall via a separate door.
Bavragor glanced around and smiled smugly. “Just as I thought…” He didn’t have to elaborate: His assessment of the masonry was sufficiently clear.
The stronghold made little impression on the master mason, but Furgas, Narmora, and Rodario were blown away.
“You hear stories about vast halls hewn into the mountain, but I never thought they were true,” said Furgas, lowering his voice to a reverential whisper.
“We’ll have to build a new theater,” the impresario told him. “A bigger stage will give the audience a better sense of the splendor.” He reached out to touch the stone. “It’s real, all right. I almost suspected it was cardboard. Ye gods, it’s incredible, nay, miraculous!”
The copper statues and bronze friezes proved popular, especially with the dwarves, who delighted in their intricacy. The artwork commemorated battles against Tion’s minions, immortalizing great firstling warriors such as Borengar, founding father of the kingdom, and other great heroes and heroines of his folk.
“This way,” called their guide, hurrying ahead of the dawdling group toward the next of the kingdom’s wonders, a series of breathtaking bridges.
This time Bavragor was forced to admit that in matters of engineering, the firstlings were unsurpassed. There was insufficient rock to span the plummeting chasms, so gleaming plates of metal had been added to straddle the gaps, the sides secured with wrought-iron balustrades tipped with silver.
When they came to the last of the bridges, their hobnailed boots rang out against the metal, each plate creating a different tone. The notes echoed through the cavernous passageway in a simple but pleasing tune.
“I give in,” said Rodario, overwhelmed by the magnificence of it all. “We’ll go back to performing idiotic farces and forget the whole idea. No illusion in the world could do justice to this.”
“Nonsense,” Furgas said briskly. “We can do it, but it’ll cost a bit of coin.”
They slowly began to thaw out, the snow and ice melting from their garments and running down their mail, leaving them feeling immensely tired but warm.
At length Balyndis came to a halt and knocked on a vast door. A shaft of gold shone through the crack, heralding the glories within.
The rectangular chamber was clad from top to bottom in beaten gold. Warm light emanated from countless candles and lamps, reflecting off the burnished walls. The statues were cast from gold, silver, vraccasium, and rare precious metals quarried from the heart of the mountain. Each gleaming figure was draped with trinkets that could be swapped around at will.
The queen was seated twenty paces away on a throne of pure steel. Guards of both sexes, all dressed in gold-plated mail, watched over her. The ceiling sparkled with ornate mosaics made of beaten silver, gold, and vraccasium tiles.
“Did I say a bit of coin?” Furgas whispered to Rodario. “I meant, a lot.”
“Borengar’s folk welcomes you,” the queen said benevolently, signaling for them to approach.
They filed into the hall, with Tungdil at the head of the procession. He bowed courteously, then sank to one knee. The other dwarves followed, but the players contented themselves with a bow. Tungdil introduced them, not forgetting Andôkai, Djerůn, and the absent twins.
“As for me,” he concluded, hoping that his speech conformed to protocol, “I’m Tungdil Goldhand of Goïmdil’s folk. A matter of grave importance brings us to your court.”
“Thank you, Tungdil Goldhand. My name is Xamtys Stubbornstreak the Second of the clan of the Stubborn Streaks, ruler of the Red Range for thirty-two cycles. Your visit intrigues me. I have been without news of my royal cousins and their kingdoms for a good long while.” Her mail was made of golden rings and she carried a four-pronged mace as a scepter. Her brown eyes regarded them keenly but kindly.
They were offered refreshments: beakers of piping-hot drink. Rodario sipped contentedly, sighing as the warmth returned to his body for the first time in orbits.
“You say you were brought here by a matter of grave importance?”
“I’m afraid it’s bad news,” said Tungdil, launching into an account of the danger threatening Girdlegard, the deaths of the magi, the high king’s frailty, and the trouble surrounding the succession. At last he turned to the purpose of their mission.
“Which is why we’re here, Your Majesty. We need you to lend us your most talented smith, a smith who can forge the blade by which Nôd’onn will fall. Help us, Queen Xamtys,” he implored her. “Help us and save your folk.”
The firstling queen turned her brown eyes upon him and stroked the fair down on her cheeks. Suddenly she stopped fiddling and sat up straight. “It seems from your report that Girdlegard is in danger,” she said thoughtfully. “We haven’t seen the other candidate,
which makes me fear the worst. The älfar are accomplished marksmen, and perhaps Gandogar’s expedition wasn’t blessed with such protection…”
“Pardon me, Your Majesty,” Goïmgar broke in indignantly. “King Gandogar has Vraccas’s blessing. He’s the high king’s rightful heir!”
“It isn’t my place to judge,” the queen said kindly before returning her attention to Tungdil. “I shall be happy to help. What better time than now to renew the bonds between our folks.” She lowered her mace and pointed to Balyndis. “This is your new companion. Not only is Balyndis the firstlings’ best warrior, she’s also our finest smith.”
“I don’t mean to speak out of turn,” interrupted Rodario, “but I was wondering if Her Majesty could tell us how she came to be queen. I thought the line of succession was always male…”
“The long-un has an inquisitive mind, I see. Very well, he shall have his explanation. It all began with a quarrel. Boragil, my father, valued my mother’s advice, but considered her incapable of ruling the kingdom on her own. That angered my mother, who demanded to be given the opportunity to try. After much argument, it was decided that my mother should govern the firstlings’ destiny for a period of fourteen orbits. It was during this time that the trolls attacked, but my mother had no intention of relinquishing the crown. Instead she marched at the head of the army and defeated the enemy with a combination of cunning and military skill. In so doing, she proved to be a more proficient ruler than my father, and when the fourteen orbits were over she reneged on their agreement and refused to step down. The clans stuck by her and that was that.” She rose. “My mother died thirty-two cycles ago, and I ascended the throne.”
“I thank Her Majesty for indulging a humble dramatist’s curiosity. I shall write her a magnificent part in my play.”
An attendant entered the hall with news that Boëndal was seriously hurt. The maga had rushed to his bedside and was doing her best to treat his wounds.
The three dwarves were filled with dread.
“Someone will show you to your quarters so you can get some rest. Our tailors will provide you with warm clothes and fur coats to keep out the cold. I assume you mean to continue your journey tomorrow?” She didn’t wait for a response. “In any event, I’ll show you the way to the tunnels once you’ve recovered your strength.”
“You know about the tunnels?” Tungdil said, surprised. He was so tired that he could barely suppress his yawns. “Why haven’t you used them?”
“My mother wasn’t sure what the other rulers would think about a dwarven queen. She kept quiet for fear of conflict and I did the same.”
“In that case, Your Majesty, you must send a delegation to Ogre’s Death,” Tungdil said urgently. “In the name of the assembly, I invite you to join the other rulers and chieftains in deciding our future. You spoke of renewing the bonds between the folks; this is your chance.”
“The situation is every bit as serious as he says,” Rodario seconded him. “The Perished Land is a formidable foe. I’ve seen with my own eyes what the orcs have done to Girdlegard, and without your kinsfolk, Nôd’onn will prevail. Speak to the other folks and don’t worry about what they might say. This isn’t a time for caution.”
Tungdil looked at him gratefully. Who would have thought it?
Xamtys tapped her scepter firmly against her throne. “As soon as you and your company have commenced your journey to the Gray Range, I shall lead a delegation of firstlings to Ogre’s Death and the folks shall be reunited after many long cycles.” She smiled at them munificently. “You are right: There is no time to lose.”
I know you’re only trying to help,” said Boëndal, gritting his teeth with pain, “but I don’t want your magic. The wounds will get better by themselves.”
The firstlings had laid him in a warm chamber, removed his mail, and exposed the afflicted flesh. He had already bled through the first set of bandages and was waiting for the next.
Andôkai, her face as ashen as her patient’s, was leaning over him, inspecting the damage. His body was struggling to cope with the puncture wounds: Some of his internal organs had been damaged and he was rapidly losing blood. “I know a great deal about injuries, and quite frankly, I can’t share your optimism,” she said candidly, her blue eyes clouded with concern. “Put aside your pride, Boëndal, and think of the mission.”
“Pride? This isn’t about pride!” protested his brother from across the bed. He was determined to keep an eye on things and had refused all offers of refreshment, barely stopping to take off his coat. “It’s your sorcery that’s the problem. It’s not right! Your wretched Samusin might conjure some devilry into his soul.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped.
Boëndal closed his eyes, his breath coming in shallow gasps. “Leave… me… alone!”
“By rights you should be dead,” she said coolly. “If it weren’t for your dwarven constitution, you wouldn’t have made it this far. Sheer bloody-mindedness is keeping you going, but your life is in the balance. I need to help while I still have the power. My magic is waning.”
Boëndal was in no state to answer. His brother nodded to the door. “Save your hocus-pocus for your own patient, maga. We dwarves can take care of ourselves.”
Andôkai got up, one hand resting lightly on the pommel of her sword, and walked silently to the door.
“He didn’t mean to offend you,” Boëndal whispered. “We appreciate your offer, really we do, but Vraccas will see me through this.”
Andôkai flung her cloak over her shoulders. “I hope for your sake that he does.” The door slammed and silence descended on the chamber.
“Perhaps she’s right…” ventured Boëndal.
“That’s enough,” Boïndil shushed him. “Vraccas has seen your plight and he’ll keep you alive for many more cycles. If either of us deserves to die, it won’t be you, so stop fussing and get some rest.” He gave his brother another sip of water and hurried to see why the physicians were taking so long with the dressings.
His armor seemed a thousand times heavier than usual and his legs were bowing beneath the overwhelming weight. All he could think about was his brother. “Vraccas be with him,” he muttered, remembering Boëndal’s deathly pale face. His twin was languishing on the threshold of the eternal smithy and what the maga had said about dwarven resilience and stubbornness was true: A human would never have survived such injuries, and whether or not a dwarf could withstand them, only time would tell.
On his way down the corridor, he bumped into Tungdil, who was hurrying to visit the wounded dwarf. “How is he?” Tungdil asked anxiously.
“Sleeping. He needs new bandages. The first lot are drenched already,” said the warrior, visibly distressed. The crazed spark in his eyes had given way to profound concern.
“What about Andôkai? Can’t she do anything for him?”
“We don’t want her sort of help,” Boïndil shut him off. “I always said magic was no good, but Samusin’s magic is worse.” He hurried away, calling out to the physicians, who came running with bandages.
Tungdil knew it was pointless to argue; the twins had made up their minds. Determination was a virtue, whereas intransigence… Boëndal would rather die than be healed by the maga.
He tiptoed into the chamber and saw Boëndal lying waxen-faced in the bed, seemingly dead but for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. The physicians washed away the dried blood and carefully sewed the gaping flesh together, then applied a compress of moss to ease the pain.
“We’ll have to go on without him,” Tungdil said softly. “He won’t last more than a hundred paces in his present state.”
“I’ll be fine, scholar,” came a faint but determined whisper from the bed. Boëndal looked at him pleadingly and reached for his hand. “Another few orbits, and I’ll be back on my feet. It’s just a couple of scratches, that’s all.”
Tungdil glanced at one of the physicians, who promptly shook his head. “It’s out of the question. The wounds
are deeper than they look and there’s the internal damage to consider. Any movement will make things worse and he’ll die in agony. He’s not fit to go anywhere.”
“I’m sorry, Boëndal,” Tungdil told him, heavy-hearted, “but you have to stay here and rest. You’ve done your bit for now; just be sure you’re back with us when it comes to the great battle against Nôd’onn.”
“I’m coming, like it or not,” Boëndal threatened. “Boïndil and I stick together! Forging Keenfire is the most important mission in dwarven history and I won’t —” He tried to sit up but had barely succeeded in moving when he gave a low groan, his fresh dressings flushing crimson with blood. “I suppose that settles it,” he said through gritted teeth. He looked up at his twin. “It’s up to you now to protect Tungdil and the rest of the company.”
Boïndil was standing stiffly by the bed, searching for the right thing to say. “All our lives we’ve been together,” he said thickly, “and now I’m leaving you behind. It won’t be the same fighting without you.” He squeezed Boëndal’s hand. “The first hundred runts will be for you.”
“You’ve got great plans, then,” said his brother, smiling weakly. “Don’t overreach yourself, Boïndil; I won’t be there to watch your back.” They embraced, tears streaming down their bearded cheeks. Never before had they faced a parting such as this.
“You’ll have to keep a better check on your temper when I’m not around. Promise you won’t let it run away with you?”
Boïndil gave his solemn word. “Get some rest now, brother.” He and Tungdil left the chamber. “When do we leave?”
“As soon as possible. Andôkai has done her best to patch up Djerůn with her magic and he’s fit to travel. He might be too big for the wagon, though.”
“We’ll be cramped as it is. There’s the three long-uns, Andôkai and her pet warrior, Hammerfist and Shimmer-beard, not to mention the materials for Keenfire — we’ll need a couple of wagons at least.”
