by Markus Heitz
“Surely the king isn’t abandoning his realm?”
“Bislipur!” Balendilín whipped round toward the marble tablets. The traitor stepped out from behind one of them, the stone trinkets in his beard tinkling softly as he walked.
“I was hoping to meet you alone without any of your slavish attendants. It was tiresome of you to destroy the bridge. I was sorry to see it go.” He raised his ax and drove it into one of the sacred tablets, cracking the stone and breaking it apart. “But patience is a virtue. The orcs will destroy your kingdom, just as I will put pay to your laws.”
The king descended from the dais. “You can shatter the tablets, but the words will be carved again. You shan’t destroy us, Bislipur. The children of the Smith stand united. Haven’t you heard? The firstlings have come to our aid, and many of your allies have been slain by their axes.”
“They’re not allies; they work on my behalf. The orcs are only instruments of my revenge,” Bislipur said calmly. He demolished the remains of the tablet. “Enjoy your little victory while you can. You’ll never defeat Nôd’onn: He’s dangerous in his insanity, and he’s far too powerful for you.” The second tablet shattered, splinters of polished stone striking the flagstones and scattering across the floor.
“Enough!” Balendilín was at the foot of the dais and nearly upon the traitor. Without stopping he dropped the hammer and drew his ax from his belt. The fourthling was stronger, he knew, but his lameness made him slow and clumsy. “Tell me why.”
“A fine duel this will be,” laughed Bislipur. “Two cripples locked in combat.”
“This isn’t a battle of words,” the king said grimly.
Bislipur smiled. “I guess the dwarves of Beroïn will have to find a new leader.” His ax hurtled out of nowhere, but Balendilín ducked, flinging out his arm and using his momentum to strike.
Cursing, Bislipur leaped back, but the metal spike on Balendilín’s ax head caught his unarmored calf, ripping through leather and fabric. Blood oozed from the wound.
“Why are you doing this?” Balendilín demanded. “Is it because your favorite wasn’t elected high king? Are you so obsessed with waging war on the elves that you betrayed your own kin? Is that it?”
Bislipur rushed forward and launched a series of feint attacks, but Balendilín saw through them and drew back, steeling himself for the real assault. They had crossed the breadth of the vast hall and were battling along a passageway that led to a bridge. The ground was twenty or more paces beneath them.
“The succession never interested me,” spat Bislipur. “My only desire was for war. The elves would have destroyed you.”
He dealt the blow so forcefully that it was impossible to parry. At the last moment Balendilín managed to deflect it, but he almost lost his ax.
“It makes no sense, Bislipur. Has Nôd’onn bewitched you? Why would you betray your folk?”
“My folk? The fourthlings aren’t my folk! You were closer to the truth than you realized.” His ax whistled through the air. Balendilín blocked it, but the force of the blow numbed his hand.
“I’m too strong, too warlike to be a puny son of Goïmdil. Remember, you said so yourself.” He struck again and this time the ax flew out of Balendilín’s fingers and clattered to the bridge. “I’m a child of Lorimbur, and I will go down in history as the thirdling who brought misery on the other dwarven folks,” he said darkly. “I have succeeded where all others failed.”
Balendilín grabbed his arm and stopped the next blow, but the traitor head-butted him with his helmet. The king staggered backward, his vision starry and bloodied. Bislipur’s cocky laughter rang in his ears.
“What a blow to you that Tungdil is a thirdling or he could have succeeded you on the throne. Oh, he’ll weep when he sees the ruins of Ogre’s Death. I’ve a good mind to stick around and ambush him. Killing him and his miserable company would give me pleasure.”
“A thirdling? Never.” It was all Balendilín could do not to fall from the bridge.
“I know my kind when I see them. It’s an instinct we’ve got. Trust me: Your protégé is a thirdling, a dwarf killer. You may as well get used to the idea — before I kill you and feed your entrails to the orcs.”
“You lie!” The king leaned back against the parapet, his legs giving way.
Smiling malevolently, Bislipur raised his ax. “What if I do? You’re going to die anyway.”
The blade swooped down but Balendilín saw only a fleeting shadow.
Underground Network,
Kingdom of Tabaîn,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
The sound of falling rock gave Tungdil just enough warning to pull on the brake. Even so, the force of the collision sufficed to throw the wagon from the rail and give its passengers a thorough shaking.
“The spirits need to work on their timing,” said Bavragor, wiping the dust from his brow. He turned to Balyndis, who let him wipe her face. “I bet the ceiling was meant to collapse on us.” He reached for his drinking pouch and took a sip of brandy.
“It’s nothing to worry about.” Rodario scowled, springing from the wagon. “Our industrious giant will clear away the debris and we’ll soon be on our way.” He glanced at Andôkai. “Unless, of course, the Estimable Maga would prefer to blast through the tunnel with one of her gusts.” His tone was deliberately sniffy: He was still cross with the maga for spurning his advances in front of the group.
Goïmgar, pale with fear, kept his eyes suspiciously on the ceiling and refused to leave the safety of his seat. Meanwhile, Andôkai was already inspecting the blocked tunnel and giving instructions for the rubble to be cleared. It soon became apparent that the task was too much even for Djerůn.
“By the look of things, the ceiling has gone entirely,” said Bavragor, who was clambering over the fallen rock and studying the walls. “I’d say someone went to a lot of trouble to organize this.”
Furgas hurried to take a closer look. He ran his hands over the rock, then nodded. “You’re right. The roof of the tunnel is riddled with holes. Whoever it was wanted to make certain that the ceiling would collapse once the struts were knocked away.”
“Ghosts,” whispered Goïmgar tremulously. “We should have listened to their warning. They’re trying to get us killed.”
Boïndil turned on him fiercely. “I never thought I’d say this, but Hammerfist’s drunken singing is a thousand times more bearable than your complaining.” His inner furnace had been burning high for some time, and he needed to let off steam.
“Keep a check on yourself, Boïndil,” Tungdil pleaded. “I know it’s hard and it’s been a long while, but you mustn’t let your temper get the better of you.” He rummaged through his knapsack and brought out Xamtys’s map. “We have to turn back. There’s an exit about a mile from here.” He turned to Goïmgar. “The spirits have answered your prayers: We’re going back to the surface.”
“Whereabouts are we?” asked Andôkai.
“According to my calculations, we’re in the southeastern corner of the kingdom of Tabaîn. It shouldn’t be too much of a problem to find the next entrance. Tabaîn is dead flat; it’s just one vast plain.”
“It’s not fair,” Bavragor grumbled moodily. “Why should cowardly little Shimmerbeard get his way? All that blasted riding was bad enough. I’m not built for traipsing around overland, and I can’t say I’m fond of the sun.”
“You’ll get used to it soon enough,” snapped Boïndil. “If you’d taken your turn at the High Pass with the rest of us, you’d know that sunshine can be pleasantly warming.”
“It wasn’t worth the risk,” Bavragor snapped back. “I didn’t want to end up like my sister.”
Balyndis stiffened. Sensing the sudden tension, she stepped in front of Bavragor to stop things from getting out of hand. He grabbed her arm and pushed her away.
“Be careful,” he warned her. “Don’t turn your back on him when he’s angry. His ax moves faster than his mind.”
The warrior’s muscles tensed, his hands gripping the hafts of his axes. “Is that right?” he growled, lowering his head belligerently.
“Stop it, both of you!” commanded Tungdil. “The two of you can carry the ingots until you’ve used up your excess energy. Djerůn will take over when you’re tired.” They reluctantly obeyed.
Tungdil fell into step with Balyndis and briefly recounted the history of the feud. “Neither will give an inch. One of them is overburdened by grief, the other by anger.”
“It’s sad,” she said, her plump face full of compassion. “Sad for both of them.”
He dropped his voice, stopped walking, and leaned toward her. “Maybe we’ll run into a pack of orcs so Boïndil can work off his anger. I’d rather we didn’t have to, but it might be for the best.” Her scent filled his nostrils: She smelled as delectable as fresh oil or polished steel.
“What are you waiting for, Tungdil?” shouted Goïmgar, who had finally left the wagon and was hurrying after the others. “Maybe I’m mistaken, but I thought leaders were supposed to lead…”
“You’re absolutely right.” He hurried past him and joined Boïndil and Bavragor, who were carrying their burdens in silence. Neither wanted to appear weaker than the other by handing their ingots to Djerůn and admitting defeat.
Suddenly they heard a loud rattling ahead. The next instant, a wagon sped down the rail toward them. In the nick of time they leaped aside.
Djerůn whipped out his ax and brought it down in one fluid movement. The wagon flipped off the rail and flew into the wall. At once the giant was beside it. He turned it upside down to check for passengers. There were none.
“That’s funny. I suppose someone must have left it in a side passage, and now it’s worked its way free,” said Rodario. “Luckily I’ve got the reflexes of a panther; otherwise I’d be dead.” Furgas responded with an incredulous look.
“The ghosts,” whimpered Goïmgar. “They’re trying to kill us.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Boïndil said witheringly. He set down the ingots, went up to the wagon, and sniffed at it. “Well, it certainly hasn’t been near any orcs. I’d be able to smell the fat on their armor.” He crawled into the wagon and emerged only when he had something to show for his efforts. “A shoe buckle,” he announced, lifting it up for the others to see. “Silver alloy. It’s not especially old, but it looks quite worn, judging by the dirt and scratches.” He pocketed it.
I’ve seen that buckle somewhere before, thought Tungdil to himself. “We can’t do anything about it now,” he told the others. “Let’s carry on.”
Boïndil scooped up his ingots and the company marched off.
Beroïn’s Folk,
Secondling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
Balendilín flung himself to the ground. The blade whistled over his head and crashed into the side of the bridge. He kicked up at Bislipur, driving his foot into his groin, then drew his dagger and rammed it into his boot. In an instant, the traitor’s groan became a bellow.
At last Balendilín’s vision cleared and he could see his antagonist above him — just in time to avoid the furious blow rushing his way. He rolled to the side and the ax hit the bridge.
This time Bislipur was prepared and the weapon rose again, swinging up toward Balendilín. The blade sliced through his chain mail, penetrating his wounded chest. The spike on top of the ax head embedded itself in the metal rings.
“Fly away, you one-armed cripple,” laughed Bislipur. He gripped the ax with both hands and pulled his enemy toward him, only to hurl him against the balustrade. Balendilín slid to the edge of the bridge and saw the chasm beneath him. “That’s if you can fly with one hand.”
“Let’s see if you do any better,” cried the king, reaching out to stab him with his dagger. The blade entered the traitor’s forearm just as Balendilín rolled over the side.
Hanging on to the dagger with all his might, he pulled the screaming Bislipur with him. I’m taking the traitor with me, he vowed.
To his great surprise, his flight ended after only two paces as he slammed onto a ledge that was all that remained of an ancient archway erected beneath the bridge. The dagger tore through his enemy’s arm.
Bislipur shot past him, letting go of the ax to make a grab for the protruding stone. He succeeded in stopping his fall, but dangled by one hand; the dagger had slit his other arm from the wrist to the elbow.
“It isn’t over yet,” he gasped, choking with pain and exertion as he dragged himself onto the ledge. His eyes blazed with hatred. “I only need one hand to strangle you, Balendilín.” He crawled across the stone toward him.
With a terrible shriek, the king seized the ax embedded in his chain mail and tore it out of his chest. “Oh, it’s over, all right,” he shouted, smashing the blade against the traitor’s helmet. There was a cracking and splintering noise as the metal crashed into his skull. Blood streamed down Bislipur’s face. “I promised to kill you, and I’ve kept my word.”
He let go of the haft, thrust his foot into the traitor’s face, and pushed him over the edge. The bleeding body plunged down, hitting the ground twenty paces below with a muffled thud and splattering over the stone.
May your soul smolder forever in Vraccas’s flames. Balendilín closed his eyes and lay down on the ledge. The next moment he blacked out with pain.
They found him barely conscious and dangerously close to falling from the narrow shelf. He was carried to the tunnels, where his wagon was the last to leave.
Kingdom of Tabaîn,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
The snow sparkled for the last time that afternoon as the sun dropped below the flat horizon. Thousands of glittering diamonds studded the immense white plain as daylight faded to dusk.
Suddenly, in the middle of the untouched snow, a boulder began to stir. Cracks opened in its white cladding; then it rolled to one side and a woman struggled out of the ground beneath it. She stood up and took a few paces, cutting a channel through the immaculate blanket of flakes.
“Samusin protect us,” gasped Andôkai as she surveyed the perfectly flat land. In the far distance, dark splodges marked the site of settlements, and each was topped with a column of smoke. She knelt down to make herself less visible and pulled her cloak tighter to keep out the biting cold. “The orcs are here already. They must have invaded from the north.” The winter air, fresh and frosty, filled her lungs and made her cough.
Looking around, she saw black flecks moving across the horizon on their way to a town, village, or hamlet, wherever was next on their mission of destruction.
Andôkai closed her eyes and focused her mind. Almost immediately she sensed the weak force field running through the earth beneath her, its energy harnessed by Nôd’onn for his black art.
“We’re in what’s left of Turguria,” she said slowly. “The enchanted realm was rich in magic energy, but there’s almost nothing left.” All the same, she took the opportunity to replenish her powers, her face contorting with pain as she siphoned the magic from the land.
A helmet popped out of the hole in the snow, followed by a pair of keen brown eyes that flicked to and fro. “The sooner we get out of here, the better,” Boïndil said surlily. He emerged into the open, while the others hurried up the last few steps. “Now I know why I’ve been feeling so peculiar. It’s this magical malarkey; it never did anyone any good.” He gave himself a shake and pushed the boulder back over the hole, thereby concealing the entrance to the underground network. “Let’s go.”
“Wait.” Tungdil had followed Andôkai’s gaze. He shivered. His breath left plump white clouds in the air and his beard was already frozen solid. “You’re right, maga. The orcs must have crossed over from the Perished Land. The hordes from Toboribor could never have got here this quickly.”
“That makes it worse,” commented Goïmgar in his customary whine. “ I —”
“If you
don’t shut up, I’ll make you,” Boïndil threatened. “Can’t you see we’re trying to think?”
“You’re trying to think? You’re not even capable of —”
Ireheart whirled around and threw himself on the artisan with a wild shriek. Goïmgar ducked behind his shield and cried for help.
“Stop that, Boïndil!” The warrior paid no attention. He’ll tear him limb from limb. Tungdil launched himself on Boïndil, and Bavragor followed suit. The three dwarves disappeared in a cloud of snow from which loud curses, the sound of punches, and a great deal of coughing could be heard.
With Djerůn’s help they succeeded in pulling Boïndil away. By some miracle, he had refrained from using his axes, thus sparing the others more serious injuries. Their bloody noses and bruised faces were proof enough of his formidable strength.
“I’m sorry,” panted Boïndil. “It’s my fiery spirit.” He scrabbled in the snow for his helmet and tried to come up with an appropriate excuse. “He provoked me and then I…”
“Let’s forget about it.” The right half of Tungdil’s face was throbbing painfully and he wasn’t in the mood for delivering a lecture. “You’re welcome to slaughter the next lot of orcs by yourself.”
Balyndis took care of their wounds by clumping snow together and pressing it against their bruised and battered limbs. They set off in silence on a northeasterly bearing.
Andôkai drew alongside Tungdil. “There’s no smoke ahead,” she said. “Nôd’onn must have ordered the orcs to quell any resistance in Turguria and the other enchanted realms before taking on the human kingdoms.” She pointed to the east. “There’s a fortified city in Tabaîn, just across the border from here. I vote we find ourselves a room. We’re not dressed for sleeping in the open, especially not when it’s freezing outside. Besides, the citizens will be glad of a few extra swords.”
Tungdil nodded his agreement. It was nighttime when the company reached the gates of a city marked on the map as Roodacre.
