by Markus Heitz
Tungdil watched as they stole forward, Boïndil relying on his diminutive size, while the half älf sprang between the rocks with the elegance of a dancer. There were no telltale noises from the snow beneath her feet; she seemed barely to land at all, skimming across the ground as light as a feather. Boïndil’s chain mail, by contrast, made a terrible racket, even through his thick fur coat.
Narmora was the first to reach the gates. She pressed herself against the wall, listening intently to the darkness before slipping inside. Her silhouette melted into the gloom and she disappeared from sight.
Furgas fiddled determinedly with his gloves. “Sometimes I wish she wasn’t so daring,” he whispered.
“Don’t worry, old chap,” Rodario soothed him. “Narmora is a woman who knows her talents and isn’t afraid to use them. You know the sort of thing she got up to before the three of us were a troupe. This is child’s play by comparison.”
“I’d rather not talk about Narmora,” Goïmgar chipped in hurriedly. “She’s scary enough as it is.”
Boïndil had also reached the gates to the fifthling kingdom, conquered over a thousand cycles earlier by the Perished Land. He stopped, apparently undecided, and looked about, but the coast was clear.
At that moment, Narmora emerged from the enormous tunnel. The black shadows stuck to her like cobwebs, wrapping themselves around her lovingly, reluctant to set her free. She waved to them, her relaxed manner signaling that there was nothing to fear.
“How did she do that?” Goïmgar whispered nervously. “It was like she was covered in ink.”
“Half magic,” came the maga’s answer. “It’s something she was born with. Älfar are children of darkness.”
“She’ll swap sides as soon as we meet any of her kind,” Goïmgar predicted darkly. “Blood is thicker than water.”
“And love is stronger than both,” Furgas countered firmly. “Narmora would rather die than betray me, and I’d give my life to protect her from harm.”
The puny dwarf grumbled unintelligibly and followed the others to the gateway. He held his shield in front of him, ready to ward off an attack.
“All clear,” said Narmora, not bothering to lower her voice. “They seem to have contented themselves with knocking down the defenses and vandalizing the gates to the point where they can’t be closed.”
“So where are all the runts?” demanded Boïndil, whirling his axes over his head.
“At the Stone Gateway, I expect — and for our sake, I hope they stay there,” said Tungdil, who remembered the stronghold’s layout from a book he’d once read. He turned to the archway. “Time to relight the great furnace of Dragon Fire!”
It was with reverence, apprehension, and a good deal of emotion that he took his first careful step into the tunnel, knowing that no dwarf had set foot in the stronghold since the fifthlings’ defeat.
Life flooded back to the kingdom as Rodario and Furgas lit their lamps. The walls reflected the light so radiantly that they hastily damped the flames.
At last they could see that they were standing in a passageway whose walls were clad with polished palandium. A thousand cycles of neglect had done nothing to subdue the metal’s white sheen. The likeness of dwarven kings had been etched into the polished panels and a row of bearded rulers gazed benevolently at the visitors, their shiny red axes of cast vraccasium raised in greeting.
“Such majesty,” murmured Rodario.
Filled with wonderment, the dwarves sank to their knees and prayed to Vraccas. Even the soulless Bavragor was awed by his surroundings, but every word of his prayer was uttered with immense concentration as the evil within him strove to break his will and seize control of his thoughts and beliefs. It hadn’t reckoned with his resolve and the legendary stubbornness of the dwarven mind.
Andôkai, Djerůn, and the players waited patiently.
At length Tungdil rose and breathed deeply. The passageway smelled old, dusty, and venerable; it had retained its character in spite of the invasion of orcs and other beasts. “We’ll have to do some exploring if we’re going to find Flamemere.” He set off with Boïndil at his side.
Their boots raised clouds of dust, and from time to time a small creature scurried to safety. The ground was littered with fragments of bone, shields, and mail.
They proceeded in silence until they reached a second archway. The door had been ripped from its hinges, allowing them to enter the many-columned hall. Leading out from the vast pentagonal chamber were fifteen passageways. The stone signposts had been smashed to smithereens.
“There’s such a thing as too much choice,” Rodario said glumly. “Especially when we haven’t got all day to scamper around like mice until we find the right tunnel.”
“We could pick the one with the least footprints,” proposed Tungdil. “I can’t imagine orcs are frequent visitors to Flamemere. There’s no reason for them to go there.”
“Good idea,” agreed Boïndil, making a beeline for one of the passageways. Narmora, Djerůn, and Andôkai set about inspecting the others, while the rest of the company found a less exposed corner of the hall to sit and rest.
Rodario scribbled a few thoughts, then shared a meal with Furgas, while Bavragor stayed standing and stared emptily ahead. Goïmgar took shelter behind his shield, chewing nervously on a strip of cured meat and scanning the room for threats. The thought of fifteen passageways converging on his resting place did nothing to help him relax.
“He must be wondering what’s happened to Gandogar,” Balyndis said softly to Tungdil.
“He’s not the only one. We’ve come all this way and no one’s said anything about another group of dwarves. Your folk hadn’t seen him either. I hope nothing dreadful’s happened,” he said, concerned. He closed his eyes, only to open them suddenly and unbutton his fur coat. It was much warmer in the hall than outside and the heat was making him tired.
“Get some sleep,” Balyndis told him. “I’ll keep watch and wake you as soon as there’s anything to report.”
“I’m your leader; I’m not supposed to sleep.”
“Tired leaders make mistakes,” she said firmly, pushing on his shoulders until he capitulated and lay down. “There, that’s much better. Now you can dream of rescuing our kingdoms.” Smiling, she pushed a wayward lock of hair behind her ear and turned to get a better view of the hall.
Sitting next to him like that, her gaze watchful and one hand resting confidently on her ax, she looked every inch the warrior.
It’s definitely this way.” To nobody’s great surprise, Boïndil, his mind made up, had no intention of listening to anyone else.
“Fine,” said Tungdil, signaling for them to start moving, “we’ll start with this one and if it doesn’t work out, we’ll try Andôkai’s next.”
They had snatched a few moments’ sleep to recover their strength in preparation for facing the dragon, but now it was time to move on.
“Argamas is the mate of Branbausíl,” Tungdil explained to Balyndis. “Branbausíl lived in the Gray Range until Giselbert’s folk stole his fire, killed him, and plundered his lair. Argamas fled to Flamemere…”
“… never to be seen again,” Goïmgar finished gladly. “Let’s hope the fire-breather stays there. I can’t say I’m particularly convinced by our strategy. Dragon scales are as hard as steel.”
“We don’t need to kill her, only to steal her fire,” said Andôkai, unconcerned. “I thought you’d be happy about that.”
“Happy?” chimed in Boïndil. “It’s a waste! Why do we have to let her live? Argamas is the biggest beast in Girdlegard, or thereabouts, and I’m not allowed to kill her!” From the injured look on his face, it was obvious that the warrior felt cruelly misunderstood. He tried again. “Name me one other place where I can find a real dragon! It would be scandalous to pass up an opportunity like this!”
“I’m afraid the Estimable Maga is right,” said Rodario.
“That’s exactly the kind of reaction I’d expect from a coward like you
,” Boïndil told him dismissively. “Balyndis, what do you say the two of us —”
“Quiet,” cautioned Tungdil. There was a smell of sulfur in the air and the temperature was rising. Their route had taken them down countless flights of stairs and through endless shafts, and now at last they were closing in. “Not another word until we know what’s out there. We don’t want Argamas leaving her lava bath until we’re absolutely ready.”
Goïmgar shrank behind his shield. “Maybe we should ask her to help. Dragons aren’t stupid, you know, and she might be quite reasonable.”
“You can’t ask the dragon to give us her fire,” Boïndil blazed up angrily. “Are you determined to ruin everything? You’ve got to take it! Take it, do you hear?”
“Goïmgar, Argamas’s mate was killed by dwarves. I hardly think she’ll be willing to help us,” said Tungdil, shaking his head. “Our priority is to stay alive, so we’ll settle for stealing her fire.” He patted the stash of torches on his belt. “We need to bait her, nothing more.”
“Unbelievable,” grumbled Boïndil. “Why does everyone have to spoil my fun?”
They stepped out of the passageway and were bathed in an intense yellow glare. There was a pervading smell of rotten eggs and it was difficult to breathe, but the view made up for the other unpleasantness.
A wave of heat rose toward them as they approached the seething lake. The molten lava was alive with bubbles, some swelling and showering incandescent droplets as they burst, others collapsing meekly, while new pockets formed on the surface in a boiling, churning mass.
Tungdil couldn’t be sure of the lake’s exact proportions, but the expanse of simmering lava measured at least four thousand paces across. Islands of solid rock rose above the surface and strange basalt columns hung from the cavern’s ceiling, where cycle after cycle of spitting magma had cooled. Everything was suffused with the lake’s yellow glow.
“Is that where the dragon lives?” asked Goïmgar, who was staring with the others in amazement. “Thank goodness we’re not going to fight her. Any creature tough enough to survive in that inferno won’t be slain by our blades.”
Djerůn raised his sword to direct his mistress’s attention to something a thousand paces farther along the shore. “You can stop worrying about Argamas,” said Andôkai. “Take a look over there.”
To their horror they saw a gigantic skeleton, which, judging by its size and shape, was all that was left of Branbausíl’s mate.
VII
Giselbert’s Folk,
Fifthling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
Boïndil prodded the enormous skeleton with his boot. Broken arrow shafts, lances, spears, and smaller bones lay in and around the dragon’s remains. “Orcs. From the look of the bones, they killed her a good few cycles ago.” He appraised the fossil critically and a look of distant longing passed over his face. “What a fight it must have been.”
Goïmgar snorted and shrugged. “We’re wasting our time here. We may as well go home. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to be in my own kingdom with my own clansfolk when Nôd’onn comes banging on the gates.”
“A fat lot of use you’d be,” Boïndil said scornfully. “You can’t even fight!” He gave one of the ribs an experimental kick. The bone stood firm.
“I didn’t say anything about fighting,” Goïmgar corrected him. “If we’re all going to die, I’d rather be back in my kingdom, that’s all. I don’t want to meet my end in the company of an ax-happy lunatic, an impostor, and an undead drunk.” He glanced at the smith. “No offense, Balyndis, I’ve got nothing against you.”
“Couldn’t we light the furnace with ordinary fire?” asked Furgas.
Tungdil looked out across the lava. “We may as well give it a shot. It’s better than giving up and doing nothing while Nôd’onn lays waste to Girdlegard. We don’t stand a chance of stopping him otherwise.” He wiped the sweat from his eyes and peered at the tongues of fire licking across the lake. He had seen flames of all kinds and colors in his smithy, but these looked somehow different. “Is it my imagination,” he said to Balyndis, who was similarly knowledgeable when it came to fire, “or are those flames unusually bright?”
“They’re unusually bright,” she said, guessing his thoughts. She pulled out a torch and held the end above the twisting flames. The wood flared up with incredible intensity.
“Perhaps you could put it out for us, Narmora,” said the maga.
The half älf nodded and focused her mind. Her eyes closed and opened again a moment later, but the torch was still alight. “I can’t do it,” she said, surprised. “Normally it’s no —”
“Precisely.” The maga laughed in relief. “There’s your proof, Tungdil. Argamas left her fiery legacy in the lake.”
The excitement was too much for Balyndis, who planted an exuberant kiss on Tungdil’s cheek. He smiled shyly. “In that case we’ve got what we came for,” he declared. “We’ll light the torches and get going. The fifthlings’ furnace is waiting to be kindled back to life.” With that he set off toward the mouth of the tunnel.
“Bravo, bravo,” gushed Rodario. “Thank goodness it’s so warm down here. My ink has never flown so freely. Such emotion! Such excitement! The scene is positively begging to be recorded in my notes!” He was still scribbling furiously as he walked. “Furgas, my dear friend and worthy associate, the sheer scale of this adventure will soon exceed the limits of any conventional play. We could open our doors in the morning,” he suggested. “Hire some extras, double the ticket price. What do you think?”
Furgas took one last look at Flamemere before commencing the ascent through the passageway. “We should probably leave out the lava,” he ruled. “We won’t be able to afford enough coal to simulate the heat.”
“Good thinking. We need to be careful with the costs. Besides, we can’t have our valued spectators vomiting because of the smell.”
“They’ll vomit anyway if they have to put up with your acting,” said Boïndil, handing him a torch. “Take this. Since you won’t be fighting, you may as well make yourself useful. And woe betide you if you let it go out!”
“I swear by all four winds and every conceivable divinity, even the evil ones, that if, in spite of my best efforts and the intervention of all the relevant weather systems and supernatural powers, I was to suffer such a mishap, then I would, no matter what the circumstances or the extent of my guilt, lay the blame, fair and square, at your door.”
Boïndil, who had been nodding in satisfaction, stopped short. “Very funny,” he growled as Rodario and Goïmgar fell about laughing. “I’ll wipe the smiles from your faces.”
Bavragor’s behavior had become increasingly erratic.
Since entering the fifthling kingdom, he hadn’t said a word, his one eye rolling wildly as he walked. Every now and then he growled or groaned for no apparent reason and the leather strap around his wrists tightened with a menacing snap. Djerůn maintained a safe distance between him and the others.
Meanwhile, Boïndil was unhappy about the light from the torches, which he said drew attention to their presence and played into the enemies’ hands — but no one could think of a workable alternative.
He was right, though. The fierce flames lit up the passageways, the panels of vraccasium, palandium, gold, and silver gleaming with light, rendering even the smallest details visible from a distance of twenty paces and making the company equally easy to spot.
Tungdil ran a hand over the panels. They must have known we’d be in need of precious metals. At the risk of angering the dead fifthlings, he decided to break off sections of the portraits for use in making the ax. Djerůn snapped the metal with ease and soon they had enough of each material for the inlay. All that was missing was the iron for the blade. He glanced at the ax that Lot-Ionan had given to him. I could smelt it, I suppose.
The company had been marching through the lost kingdom for some time when Boïndil signaled for them to stop
. “There’s something ahead,” he said, tensing in anticipation. “Beasts of some kind, but not orcs.”
Tungdil sniffed the air and detected the odor too. “They’re in front of us.” He turned to Narmora, who nodded briefly and set off to investigate.
“Come here, you cowards,” thundered a deep voice from somewhere along the passageway. “It takes more than that to scare a dwarf!” A moment later, blades crashed against shields and high-pitched squeals rent the air. “I may be the last one standing, but I’ll slay at least four dozen of you before you cut me down. Vraccas is with me!”
I know that voice, thought Tungdil. He was still trying to place it when someone got there first.
“King Gandogar!” shouted a jubilant Goïmgar. “Stand firm, Your Majesty, I’m on my way!” Discarding his heavy cloak, he grabbed his shield, whipped his sword from its sheath, and stormed forth.
“Such courage!” exclaimed Rodario. “What’s got into old Shimmerbeard? I never thought he had it in him.”
“Me neither,” said Boïndil. “All the same, we shouldn’t let him fight alone.” The prospect of clashing blades with Tion’s beasts filled him with visible euphoria. “As for you,” he threatened, nodding at Djerůn, “you know the rules. Keep an eye on our undead mason. I don’t want him stabbing me in the back.” He threw off his cumbersome cloak and looked expectantly at Tungdil.
The company’s leader hefted his ax, having already decided that the fourthling monarch deserved their aid. “Stand by our rivals like true children of the Smith,” he told them, preparing to charge. “Death to our enemies!”
They barreled along the corridor and found themselves in a small, dimly lit hall filled with hairy, hunchbacked bögnilim. Clad in armor several sizes too big for them and wielding maces and notched swords, the squawking creatures were shoving their way up a stone staircase at the top of which towered a statue of Vraccas cast in gold.
Blocking their path was Gandogar, as godlike in his heavy armor as the sculpture he was protecting. Gripping his double-bladed ax with both hands, he mowed down the first wave of aggressors with a single swipe. His diamond-studded helmet showered the walls and pillars with dappled light, adding to his heavenly aura.
