by Markus Heitz
Beroïn’s Folk,
Secondling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
No sooner were the wagons rolling along the rail than Balendilín and Xamtys encountered the next setback. Nôd’onn’s troops had already started to occupy the tunnels and barricade the tracks.
They managed to speed past the first band of waiting orcs, but a little farther along the tunnel they were pelted with stones by ogres and trolls while the second band of orcs charged onto the rail.
The ambush cost them four wagons, but the remaining carriages turned off at a junction, only now they were heading north and not west.
Before they reached the next corner, Xamtys signaled for them to halt. She made her way to the king’s wagon to confer with Balendilín. “They’ve blocked the rail to my kingdom,” she said, clenching her jaw in frustration. “It’s too dangerous for us to use the tunnels. For all we know, the orcs have sabotaged the tracks and we’ll plunge straight into a chasm.”
“Bislipur must have told them about the tunnels some time ago,” said Balendilín. His attendants saw their chance and redressed his wound. It doesn’t bear thinking about. The dwarves built these tunnels for the protection of Girdlegard and now Tion’s creatures are using them to conquer our kingdoms.
“We can’t go overland, Balendilín.” Xamtys inspected his wound and shook her head. “It’s winter and we won’t find anything to eat on the way. None of us are equipped to trudge through snow and ice. We’d be lucky if half of us survived without freezing or starving.” She took off her helmet and two plaits unfurled, draping themselves over her shoulders. “We’ll have to come up with another idea. The Red Range —”
“No, Xamtys.” He stopped short, gasping with pain. His strong hand gripped the side of the wagon while the dressing was removed. “The Red Range is out of the question.” He pulled out a map and placed his finger over a dot at the heart of Girdlegard. “This is where we’ll go. It’s a somber place, I know, and a curse hangs over its history, but it’s our only safe bet.”
She ran a hand over her face as if to wipe away the dark thoughts and tiredness. “What makes you so sure?”
“It’s not connected to the tunnels and there’s no other way in. We’ll have to cover a few miles overland, but once we’re there, the women and children will be out of danger. The surrounding area is flat and easy to survey. We’ll be safe until Tungdil or Gandogar finds us.” He cursed Bislipur silently; he could barely move because of the wound in his chest, and he felt dangerously weak.
“Girdlegard is a big place. We can’t count on sending messengers.” Xamtys studied the section of map beneath Balendilín’s hovering finger. “I’ve never heard of the place.”
“We won’t need messengers. Provided we make sure everyone knows where we’re going, our two friends will find us in the normal course of events. They’re bound to realize that the orcs have seized the tunnels and they’ll start making inquiries.”
“Hmm.” The queen didn’t seem entirely convinced. “But then the beasts will be able to find us too. Is that what we want?”
“Absolutely.” He nodded vigorously, his brown eyes gazing earnestly. “That’s exactly my intention. I want Nôd’onn to lead his army to us.”
Xamtys looked at him as if he were out of his mind. “He’ll never show up in person, and if he does, we’ll be dead. If you want a swift end, Balendilín, you should have stayed in the Blue Range. We needn’t have bothered to escape.”
“No, Nôd’onn must come to us. He’s been scouring Girdlegard for the books and relics. If he thinks we’ve got them, he’ll gather his hordes and attack us in person.”
“But why would we want him to attack us?” She leaned over the side of the wagon and looked at him imploringly. “Balendilín, I need to know why I should lead my warriors to certain death.”
He met her worried gaze. “We need to draw Nôd’onn close to us so Gandogar and Tungdil can find him. Otherwise he’ll barricade himself somewhere in the depths of Girdlegard and we won’t get a chance to use Keenfire against him.”
At last the queen saw the logic of the plan. “So we’ll act as bait. Of course, the only drawback is that no one knows when Gandogar or Tungdil will arrive.”
“Or if they’ll make it at all,” he admitted frankly, closing his eyes. The loss of blood was sapping his strength, making him dizzy. “But it’s our only hope.”
“Very well.” Xamtys let go of the wagon. “But I must warn my subjects first.”
“It’s too late for that. The orcs know all about the tunnels; they’ll be there already. It’s the obvious thing to do.” He gripped her hand. “Your Majesty, we must resign ourselves to being the last dwarven army in these lands. The task of destroying Nôd’onn falls to us alone.”
She took a deep breath and stared at his chapped hand. “To think that they’re butchering my folk and I can’t even stop them.” A tear trickled down her soft cheek. “We must avenge ourselves a thousand times over, Balendilín. The fields of Girdlegard will be awash with orcish blood, and I shall pursue our enemies tirelessly, stopping only when my royal mace shatters on an ogre’s skull.” Balendilín could see from a glance that her weapon would never break. Suddenly Xamtys looked concerned. “But what if Nôd’onn defeats us before either expedition returns?”
He smiled at her, trying to look more confident than he felt. “We won’t let him,” he said firmly.
Xamtys held her head high, her brown eyes scanning the rows of anxious, determined faces in the wagons. Some of the children were crying, their wails rising above the clunking armor and weaponry as the other passengers fidgeted in their seats. The air smelled stuffy and old.
“As you wish, Balendilín. I will follow your lead.” She shook his hand and returned to her wagon.
The news of their destination spread like wildfire through the carriages. The secondlings had left their kingdom with misgivings, but on hearing where Balendilín was taking them, they reacted with disbelief, horror, and, in a few cases, unmitigated fear.
Roodacre,
Kingdom of Tabaîn,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
Once again the company passed the sentries’ muster without anyone remarking on Djerůn’s great size.
Roodacre was a vast place. The population was listed as seventy thousand in one of Lot-Ionan’s books, but the study had been written some time ago and the city was still expanding.
“I don’t blame the orcs for not touching it,” commented Boïndil. “I’ll wager that Roodacre could rally thirty thousand trained defenders, not to mention the rest.”
“It won’t take long for the orcs to gather an army to rival them,” said Andôkai. “Either that, or the älfar will capture the city by stealth.” Mifurdania had taught them that nowhere was safe from Tion’s hordes. “If all else fails, Nôd’onn will send one of his famuli to tear down the walls and let the orcs in. Once they’re inside the settlement, Roodacre will be lost. Humans are no match for orcs.” She pointed to a tavern where a light was still burning in the bar. “Shall we go in?”
“I wouldn’t want to live in a place as flat as this,” Bavragor said to Balyndis. “How are you supposed to hide from the sun when there isn’t any shade? It must be baking in the summer.”
“I’ve nothing against warmth, provided it comes from my forge,” said the smith, ushering him in front of her.
“Yes, there’s nothing better than smiting red-hot iron on the anvil and letting the hammer sing.” Tungdil sighed. “I miss my smithy.”
“Your smithy?” echoed Balyndis, surprised. “I thought you were a fourthling. Aren’t Goïmdil’s dwarves supposed to be gem cutters?”
“Exactly,” said Goïmgar in an I-told-you-so tone of voice. “Gem cutters and diamond polishers. But he’s not one of —”
“I’m a fourthling, all right, but I’ve always felt more of an affinity for a craft beloved of all our folks,” Tungdil cu
t in.
“He’s not one of us,” Goïmgar continued dismissively. “He’s just a foundling. He lived with the long-uns until someone talked him into thinking he was a fourthling, and then he took it upon himself to steal the crown.”
“Oh,” she said in confusion, “but if you were raised by men, who taught you to love the smithy?”
“I’ve always loved metalwork,” he confided. “Even with sweat pouring into my eyes, arms as heavy as lead, and sparks singeing my beard, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than at the anvil.”
Her eyes lit up as she laughed. “I know what you mean.” She rolled up her mail shirt to show him the scar on her right arm. “Look, that’s what Vraccas did to me when I tried to forge a sword. He doesn’t approve of dwarves fashioning anything but axes and maces. He sent a message through the anvil, and I’ve never been tempted to make another one since.”
Tungdil pulled off his glove enthusiastically and held out his left palm, which was marked by a deep red scar. “It was a horseshoe. I knocked it off the anvil and put my hand out to catch it before it landed in the dirt. It was my best-ever horseshoe, and I wasn’t about to see it ruined.”
Balyndis was swept away by Tungdil’s hitherto unsuspected passion for the forge. Soon they were deep in conversation about the particulars of metalwork and had quite forgotten their companions.
Andôkai called them to order by clearing her throat. “There’ll be plenty of time for talking later. First we need to find somewhere to stay.”
Tungdil glanced around for the first time and saw that they were in a large room of staring humans. Djerůn towered above them like a statue. The enormous warrior would have looked more at home on a plinth outside the town hall than in the front room of a tavern.
The innkeeper lodged them in a dormitory usually used by traveling merchants. Because of the threat facing Girdlegard, trade between towns had practically ceased, and so Tungdil and his friends had the place to themselves at no extra cost. None of them felt like talking to the locals, so they ordered their meal to be brought to their room.
Feeling sidelined by Balyndis’s and Tungdil’s enthusiasm for the smithy, Bavragor tried to interest Balyndis in the art of masonry, with only moderate success.
He was a few notes into a traditional song of the Hammer Fists when Tungdil delved into his knapsack and brought out the sigurdaisy wood. Balyndis saw him inspecting it and leaned over to get a closer look. The melody stopped abruptly, ending in an unintelligible grunt.
“Is it metal?” The firstling frowned as she stared in fascination at the surface. “I’ve never seen anything like it. We don’t have it in our kingdom.”
Tungdil gave her a brief account of the wood and its purpose and handed her the relic. “The trees were all chopped down, so this is the last piece in Girdlegard — except Gandogar’s, of course. Without it, we’d never be able to make Keenfire.”
She ran her hands over it reverently, trying to feel the details with her fingers. Bavragor looked on jealously.
“Ha, look at him stare!” cackled Goïmgar, hiccuping with glee. “His one eye is falling out of its socket! Don’t you get it?” he jeered. “She’s not interested in you anymore. You’re a stone splitter, not a fancy smith! It’s too bad you’ve got the wrong gift.” He stopped to fill his pipe, then jabbed the stem toward Tungdil. “Charlatans are in the habit of taking what doesn’t belong to them.”
Tungdil’s cheeks reddened with anger and shame. “That’s enough from you, Goïmgar,” he said harshly. “Don’t you see that spitefulness doesn’t do you any favors?”
“Oh, I’m fine, thanks for asking,” he hissed back. “How would you feel with everyone picking on you all the time?”
“Why can’t you see that this isn’t about Gandogar or the succession? We’re here to stop Nôd’onn because —” Tungdil was about to launch into yet another explanation, but opted instead for the truth. “But you know that, don’t you? You don’t want to understand. You like being the one with a grievance!”
“What I think is my business, not yours! Anyhow, I was forced to join this expedition against my will and I don’t see why I should suffer in silence. It wasn’t my idea to come on this mission, and I’m going to keep reminding you of that.”
“Actually, Goïmgar, you’re not. No more insults, no more snide comments, no more cussed remarks, or I’ll solder your lips together with red-hot metal. Do you understand? We need your hands and your craftsmanship, not your poisonous tongue.” Eyes flashing, he turned to Bavragor and Boïndil. “As for you two, you’re to leave him in peace. The teasing stops now.”
Goïmgar puffed furiously on his pipe, sending clouds of blue smoke shooting toward the ceiling. He got up and walked to the door. “Don’t worry, I’m not running away,” he said scornfully when he saw the alarmed expression on Tungdil’s face. “I’m going outside so I can walk up and down and be as insulting, snide, and cussed as I like — and you’d better not get in my way!”
He marched out, letting the door slam behind him.
Rodario was the first to break the silence. “Would anyone like the last of this delectable sausage?” he inquired. “I’m still a little hungry, but good manners dictate that…” He broke off when no one showed any sign of responding, and decided that the lack of interest entitled him to help himself. Having finished the sausage with gusto, he dipped his hands in the tub of warm water provided by the publican and lathered the soap in preparation for a wash.
He was watched by Boïndil, who sighed incredulously to communicate his opinion of washing and water in general. The secondling stared up at Djerůn, who had taken his place on the floor while Andôkai stood at the window and drew the rudimentary curtains. She had taken off her cloak. “Well, long-un,” he said to the giant, “you and I are both dying to slay a dozen runts, but don’t forget: If we come across a pack of them, the first ten belong to me.”
Djerůn maintained his customary silence.
Boïndil shrugged, went to the window, and climbed out onto the roof. He soon spotted Goïmgar. “You should see this,” he called out to the others. “The artisan is marching up and down the street.”
“Tell him to come back in,” said Tungdil, who was poring over the map. The city walls did nothing to assure him of their safety. We’ve had proof enough that the älfar can slip past sentries with ease. If their enemies had spies anywhere near the city, they would know by now that the odd-looking group had found its way to Roodacre. They’ll come for us and they won’t give in until they’ve seen their mission through.
“He says he won’t,” Boïndil bellowed through the window.
“Pretend you’ve seen an älf,” suggested Bavragor, offering a morsel of genuine dwarven cheese to Balyndis. “That should do the trick.” Andôkai wrinkled her nose in disgust at the smell, but said nothing.
Sure enough, a few moments later they heard the rush of footsteps on the stairs; then the artisan burst into the dormitory, banging the door behind him and dropping the heavy oak panel into the latch.
Boïndil abandoned his post and climbed back inside, his chain mail clinking softly. “You were lucky,” he said gravely. He curled his long plait into a pillow and lay down. “The älf was right behind you.”
Goïmgar turned a deathly shade of pale.
VI
Roodacre,
Kingdom of Tabaîn,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
Tungdil was woken by the sound of scraping metal. He opened his eyes.
Djerůn had got to his feet and drawn his mighty sword. He was holding the weapon outstretched in his right hand, blade angled toward the door. Andôkai, still in bed, was wide-awake too. She signaled to Tungdil, instructing him to keep quiet and lie still.
They watched as a thin strip of wood slipped through the doorframe and rose toward the latch, pushing the oak beam noiselessly out of the catch. Little by little the door came open. Faint light sloped into the dormitory from the corridor, illumina
ting the outline of a stocky figure.
The intruder was roughly the size of a dwarf. He was wearing a helmet and, judging from his silhouette, was blessed with an exceptionally bushy beard. In his left hand he was clutching a sack. The sight of Djerůn stopped him in his tracks. Andôkai gave the command.
The giant shot forward to seize the intruder, but his phenomenal speed was not enough. Ducking away, the little fellow surprised them all by darting in instead of out.
“Stop right there!” Tungdil sprang out of bed and barred his path. He made to grab him, but the dwarf proved astonishingly agile, leaving the startled Tungdil with a clump of whiskers in his hand.
The intruder leaped nimbly onto the windowsill, hurled his sack at his pursuers, and fled across the roof. The bag smacked Tungdil in the chest, spilling its contents across the roughly hewn tiles.
The clattering and jangling woke the others. Boïndil was up like a shot, running around the room, brandishing his axes and bellowing for the orcs to fight him if they dared. The rest of the company reached for their weapons.
Balyndis, dressed only in her undergarments, had taken up position on her bed and was gripping her ax with both hands. A shaft of moonlight slanted through the curtains, exposing her curves. It occurred to Tungdil that she probably didn’t realize how much she was revealing, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away.
“Where did they go?” demanded Boïndil, spoiling for a fight.
“We had an uninvited guest,” said Andôkai, leaning out of the window to see where the fellow had got to. “A dwarf. There must have been something funny about him because he didn’t respond to my spell. And now he’s gone.”
“Gold,” exclaimed Tungdil in surprise, finally noticing the shiny coins on the floor. He bent down and scooped them up. Some of them were stuck together and left damp traces on his hands.
“And a dagger,” observed Goïmgar, who was cowering in a corner.
Boïndil picked it up and eyed it carefully. “Forged on a dwarven anvil,” he said slowly, handing it to Balyndis. “You’re the expert. What do you reckon?”
