by Markus Heitz
After a while the strain was beginning to tell on Tungdil’s arms, but the battle was far from over. In addition to the orcs in front of them, there was also the problem of the survivors who were attacking from behind. In his despair, Tungdil came up with an alternative solution.
“The struts!” he yelled, straining to lift his voice above the jangling steel. “Cut down the struts!”
“Good thinking, scholar.” Boëndal checked a blow, then rammed the offender with the butt of his crow’s beak. A few moments later his weapon powered into a wooden pillar.
The force of the blow sent a strut crashing to the floor, followed by a shower of stone and dirt. The three dwarves repeated the maneuver until the unsupported ceiling collapsed behind them. Tion’s minions disappeared under an avalanche of debris as ton after ton of rock blocked the tunnel, securing their rear.
The surviving orcs ran for the exit, afraid of being buried alive. Ireheart chased after them, swinging his axes furiously and felling all in his path. He stopped just short of the exit and waited for his companions.
“Come on,” he urged them breathlessly. “There’s another twenty of these runts waiting outside. It would be a shame not to kill them.”
They closed ranks again. For all his hatred of orcs, Tungdil secretly hoped that the surviving beasts had seized their chance and fled. His weary arms were reluctant to lift much higher than his belt.
Spinning in formation, they whirled out of the tunnel and into the darkness outside. The stars cast a silvery shimmer over the waiting orcs. A hundred pairs of green eyes glinted menacingly in the moonlight. The beasts were growling and snarling under their breath.
“I thought you said twenty?” Tungdil muttered accusingly, his heart quailing at the sight.
“Like I told you, some challenges are bigger than others,” Boïndil assured him, glossing over his mistake. “This is one of the bigger ones.”
“Should we go right or left?” asked Tungdil, who was keen to establish their strategy.
“Straight through the middle. If they start slaying one another by accident, we’ll have a better chance of making it unscathed. I’ll deal with their chieftain, and when we’re out the other side, we’ll attack the flanks and hew down the rest.”
“Tungdil is new to this, remember,” his brother put in. “The high king told us to bring him back to Ogre’s Death, not to purge the countryside of runts.”
Tungdil was profoundly relieved. He hadn’t wanted to say anything for fear of disappointing the twins, but Boëndal was less reckless than his brother and his sharp eyes had noted his exhaustion.
“Oh, all right, then,” conceded Boïndil a little indignantly. “We’ll go straight through the middle and forget about the flanks.”
The plan established, they decided to act, not wanting to give the orcish archers an opportunity to use their bows. At first their tactic worked perfectly and they were mowing their way toward freedom at a tremendous rate when the enemy received unexpected support.
The ranks thinned around them as the orcs backed away, clearing a path.
“Hey! Come back here, you pug-faced monsters!” bellowed Ireheart, venting his frustration at the retreating beasts. “I’m not finished with you yet!”
The orcs continued to back away from them, and a lone man stepped forward instead. Tungdil knew the bloated figure from the apparition that had conversed with the famulus. The dark green robes cloaking the swollen body belonged to Lot-Ionan’s killer.
The wizard looked doubly repulsive in the flesh. Blood trickled down his cheeks and his skin hung in flabby folds, occluding his features. He smelled as if he had been rolling in a pile of rotting rubbish.
“You’ve done well to get this far, but enough is enough,” he purred. Fixing his gaze on Tungdil, he extended a bloated hand. “Give me the artifacts and the books you stole from Greenglade. After that, you can go.”
Tungdil gripped his ax stubbornly. “These items belong to my master and I’ll be damned if I’m giving them to you.”
Nôd’onn chuckled. “How terribly valiant of you.” He took a step toward them. “The artifacts belong to me. I’m in no mood for a discussion.” The end of his staff struck the ground and he leveled the onyx-encrusted tip at Tungdil.
No sooner had he done so than the knapsack and the leather bag jerked away from Tungdil, struggling against him and trying to wrest themselves from his grip. He hung on to the straps as best he could, but his efforts were no match for the wizard’s sorcery. The leather ripped and slipped from his fingers. He brought his foot down on one of the drawstrings just in time.
“I’ll destroy the pouch and everything in it,” he threatened, raising his ax.
“Be my guest. It would save me some work.” Nôd’onn held his right arm on high, splayed his fingers, then clenched them into a fist.
The bags left the ground with such force that Tungdil could do nothing to stop them. Their flight ended when they dropped into the arms of an enormous orc, who clutched them to his chest with a grunt.
The magus was seized by a coughing fit. Blood leaked from his nostrils and he wiped it hastily away. “Go back to your kingdom, dwarves, and tell your ruler that I require his land. He can give it to me willingly, or my allies will take it by force. The choice is his.” He gestured in Tungdil’s direction. “Take him with you. I don’t need him.”
The two brothers said nothing. Gripping their weapons with steely determination, they were biding their time for an opportunity to attack. When the requisite diversion presented itself, they would hurl themselves on Nôd’onn and cut him to ribbons, but it was no good attacking while they were under the surveillance of the wizard and his hordes.
Suddenly there was confusion in the ranks. Beasts were pushing and shoving, and angry words were exchanged; then a particularly strapping specimen drew his sword against his neighbor and, snarling furiously, buried it up to the hilt in his gut. Within the space of a few heartbeats, the orcs were slaughtering one another.
Ireheart squared his shoulders, a sure sign that he was preparing to attack. His brown eyes were fixed on Nôd’onn’s knees.
“Tungdil, you chop up his staff,” he ordered in dwarfish. “The fatso won’t stand a chance against the three of us.” As always, he showed not a flicker of self-doubt.
“Ordinary weapons won’t harm him.” Tungdil glanced out of the corner of his eye at the iron-clad beast who was guarding the knapsack and the artifacts. “Our priority is to get the bags. Nôd’onn seems determined to destroy them, so they’re obviously important.”
Ireheart nodded. “You know what to do, Tungdil. On my signal…” The dwarves were preparing to leap into action when someone got there first.
From the crest of a nearby hill, a bolt of lightning flashed toward the magus and struck him in the side. Gasping, he dropped his staff and crumpled to the right.
The next bolt sped toward the orcs, reducing ten of their number to charred metal and flesh. The remaining beasts snarled in confusion, looking for the source of the attack. Spotting the figure at the top of the hill, they closed ranks and charged.
Nôd’onn raised his head and stretched out his right palm; the staff sprang into the air and flew into his hand.
This was the opportunity that the dwarves had been waiting for. Shrieking, Ireheart bore down on him, planting his axes into his legs, while Boëndal swung his crow’s beak above his head and rammed it into Nôd’onn’s broad back. He raked the blade upward, and the magus slumped to the ground.
The wizard’s orcish protectors were too distracted by the arrival of the powerful new adversary to notice his plight. As they raced up the hill, black clouds formed above them, and a roll of thunder announced the coming storm.
The first orcs were paces away from their target when the tempest was unleashed. Lightning crackled to earth, striking the front line of orcs and splitting their skins like sausages in boiling water. The dazzling flashes blinded those farther back, and the assault on the summit fal
tered and stopped altogether.
A wind whipped up, raging among the beasts and knocking them over like skittles. Pitching into one another, the orcs were hurled against trees or dragged to their deaths by the gusts.
Meanwhile, Boëndal had skewered the magus on his crow’s beak and was pinning him to the ground. Ireheart leaped to his brother’s aid, raining four fearsome blows on the magus’s neck and cleaving his vertebrae. Nôd’onn’s head rolled across the grass, and foul-smelling black blood spilled from the gushing stump.
Ireheart opened his breeches and was about to sprinkle the corpse with dwarven water, but was stopped by his brother. “The artifacts!” Boëndal reminded him sternly, pulling him away.
A moment earlier, Tungdil had summoned his remaining strength for an all-out assault on the orc who was guarding his bags. He let his instinct, combined with his recently acquired knowledge, guide his ax. The beast fell sooner than he expected, the speed of his victory taking him by surprise. I can hold my own without the twins, he thought, gratified, quickly grabbing the bags.
Boëndal ran up, his plait swinging vigorously as if it were alive. “We did it! Girdlegard is free of the traitor.”
They hurried off, with Tungdil and Boëndal in the lead and Ireheart covering their backs. “It was child’s play,” he boasted, taking the opportunity to slay another couple of orcs. “We showed the traitor who’s…” Ireheart’s eyes shifted sideways and he let out a terrible howl of rage. “By the beard of Beroïn, I thought we’d…”
Nôd’onn was rising to his feet. His headless body straightened, and he stretched out a hand, beckoning to his skull, which flew toward him and settled on his severed neck. Not a scar remained to show where Ireheart’s axes had raged. The magus seemed as strong and alert as ever. He ordered the remaining orcs to deal with Tungdil and his companions, then turned to the hill to destroy his magical foe.
“Seize the artifacts and the books,” he boomed through the darkness. “And kill the dwarves!”
The onyx on the end of his staff throbbed with light as he raised his hand toward the knoll. The ground quaked, a deep furrow opening in the earth and burrowing toward the figure on the hill. Bolts of lightning shot from the dark clouds, only to melt harmlessly into the protective shield that cocooned Nôd’onn’s body.
I knew it! Ordinary weapons can’t harm him. Tungdil grabbed his companions. “This way,” he panted. “The path leads south.”
The trio raced off, slipping into a ditch to throw off their pursuers. They listened to the heavy trample of boots as the orcs charged past without seeing them.
“We should have stood our ground,” Boïndil whispered crossly.
“And been killed!” Tungdil pushed himself deeper into the warm soil of the trench. “Didn’t you see what he did back there? He got up, even though you’d beheaded him! It proves he’s more powerful than the Perished Land.” He pointed to the leather pouch that they’d managed to salvage. “The key to his destruction is in that bag.”
“You’re the scholar,” Boëndal told him. “Find a way of killing him and leave the rest to us. It’s time we got back to Ogre’s Death. Our kingdoms are in danger and we need to warn the assembly of Nôd’onn’s plans. You might be the only one who can stop him.”
“I don’t know about that.” Tungdil’s hopes were centered on their mysterious rescuer, who had fought magic with magic, thereby saving their lives. Please, Vraccas, let it be Lot-Ionan, he prayed, unable to fight his tiredness any longer as he drifted off to sleep.
Beroïn’s Folk,
Secondling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle
… and I was following them into the woods when they suddenly disappeared,” said the gnome in conclusion. He tugged at the leather collar that had left him with a weal around his throat. “I had to get out of there quickly because the orcs were on my tail.”
Bislipur was already deep in thought. Sverd’s news obliged him to rethink his plans. “They’re on their way here, then,” he muttered to himself.
“Who? The orcs or the dwarves?” When Bislipur didn’t answer, Sverd tried another tack. “You’re not going to keep the news to yourself, are you? Didn’t you hear what I said? The magus wants to attack the dwarven kingdoms! Only a real scoundrel would —”
Bislipur limped to the door. “Wait here,” he ordered. “Don’t show yourself unless I tell you.”
“Yes, cruel master.” With a sigh, the gnome settled on a stool, his short legs dangling above the floor.
* * *
Bislipur rapped on Gandogar’s door. “It’s me,” he shouted. “Put your cloak on. We’ve got business to attend to.”
Gandogar stepped out into the corridor and gave his adviser a bewildered look. “Wouldn’t you rather come inside?”
“The exercise will do us good. Besides, there’s enough gossip about me already. Apparently, I spend my time behind closed doors, plotting against the high king.” He snorted derisively. “They’re welcome to see us talking, if that’s what they want.”
Gandogar threw a light cloak over his mail and followed Bislipur through the stone labyrinth that was Ogre’s Death.
All around them were carvings and ornaments. The secondlings had sculpted great artworks out of the humble stone, but the masonry was all the more striking because of its lack of pretension. Gandogar marveled at its simple beauty, but his reverie was cut short.
“I was just saying,” Bislipur repeated softly, “that everything will be ruined if they keep us waiting any longer. The high king is an obstinate fool.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“I’ve consulted with the other chieftains. They think we should defeat the elves before the Perished Land gets there first.”
At last he had Gandogar’s attention. “Then let the Perished Land defeat them. It would solve the problem for us.”
“Actually, Your Majesty, it would make our task harder. Remember what the Perished Land does to the fallen? They rise again! Our warriors would never prevail against an army of undead elves. The Perished Land is immensely powerful, remember.” Bislipur’s mail clunked slightly as he limped beside his king. “And what if the elves were to flee the threat and ensconce themselves somewhere quite unreachable? Their crimes against the dwarves would go unpunished and your father and brother would never be avenged.”
Despite the urgency in his voice, Bislipur was careful to speak softly. Anyone who saw them talking would assume they were preparing for the coming assembly — which was exactly what he intended.
“It’s time you were made high king and led the folks against landur. The Perished Land has lain dormant for some time. If it stirs, we must be back in our stronghold so we can wait in safety until the trouble has passed.”
“You heard what Gundrabur said,” the fourthling sovereign reminded him. “The laws were written by our forefathers, and I can’t and won’t defy them.”
Their path led them to a beautiful sunlit valley whose verdant slopes were dotted with sheep and goats. Rocky peaks towered on either side with clouds stacked above them. To Gandogar, it seemed as if the mountains had impaled the bad weather on their summits to clear the skies for the pastures below.
“How peaceful it is here,” he sighed, lowering himself onto a boulder. “I wish our assemblies were as harmonious as this.”
Bislipur’s cold eyes scanned the grassy slopes. “If you ask me, the other dwarves are exactly like sheep. They flock together, bleat until they get their food and beer, then fall into a self-satisfied slumber.” He laid a hand on the monarch’s shoulder. “You’re a true king, Your Majesty, and you shouldn’t be made to wait while some guttersnipe of a dwarf strolls across Girdlegard to challenge what’s yours. Force a decision and the delegates will support you; I’ll make sure of it.”
“You’re asking a great deal, Bislipur.” The king rose, and they strolled back to the tunnel that led into the mountain and deep inside the Blue Range.
> At length they came to a series of stone bridges whose backbones arched over dark, fathomless chasms. These were the ancient mine shafts, now empty and abandoned. The secondlings had plundered the mountain’s riches and left deep gashes in its flesh.
Bislipur walked in silence, allowing the king to reflect.
“But what of the laws?” muttered Gandogar, turning the matter over in his mind. “I can’t force another vote without challenging the laws of our forefathers and defying the high king’s decision.”
“It would take courage, the courage to do what’s best for our race. You need to act now, Your Majesty. You’ve never been afraid to take a stand.”
The passageway led over one of the kingdom’s many quarries, where sheets of smooth marble were being hewn from the rock. A river meandered peacefully to the right of the stoneworks. The king and his adviser stopped on a bridge 180 paces above the laborers and gazed at the bustle below.
“Gundrabur might die at any moment,” said Bislipur, still pressing for a decision. “Surely you don’t mean to make us wait until the stranger arrives and the hustings have been held? What if the Perished Land attacks while the throne is vacant? Without a high king, there’d be no one to organize our defenses and lead us to victory. The folks would squabble among themselves and our race would be destroyed.”
Gandogar pretended to ignore him, but the speech resonated with his own deliberations. He had been pondering the same questions, although he was still no closer to deciding what to do. The laws come from Vraccas, but should we stick to them slavishly? What if it means forfeiting opportunities and exposing ourselves to danger? He gave up and focused on the laborers below. They were working with incredible care and precision, handling the stone with as much consideration as if it were alive. Each sheet of marble was measured painstakingly before being prized from the mountain with pick axes, crowbars, hammers, and chisels. Water mills powered the blades of the enormous saws.
Dust hung in the air like gray mist and the laborers wore cloths to protect their mouths and noses. A thick layer of powdered stone covered any piece of equipment not in regular use.
