by Markus Heitz
“How do they get that big?” persisted Boïndil, reluctant to let the matter drop. He jiggled his axes, hoping to find some reason that would allow him to test his strength against the giant.
“Um, it’s their mothers… You see, they…” Tungdil tried feverishly to dream up an explanation; almost anything would do. “Straight after birth, the mothers tie ropes to their arms and legs and stretch them as much as they can. They keep doing it, every morning and every night,” he blustered, “and it works, as you can see. They’ve got a fearsome reputation on the battlefield. They actually grow into their armor; they can’t take it off.”
The brothers looked at him incredulously. “Their mothers really do that to them?” Boïndil was shocked. “It’s pretty gruesome, don’t you think?”
“That’s what it says in the books.”
Boëndal looked the warrior up and down. “I’d like to know what he weighs and how much he can lift.”
The three dwarves stared at the giant, trying to work out whether or not he was asleep. His demonic visor shone in the flames, grinning at them mockingly.
Boëndal shrugged. “Sooner or later he’ll show his face. He’ll have to lift his visor when he eats.”
IX
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle
It had been a long time, perhaps thousands of cycles, since Girdlegard had last seen a band of travelers as strange as the company that had been toiling through Ionandar and Gauragar for several orbits.
First to appear over the hilltop was Djerůn, his formidable armored body provoking horrified panic among any peasants who happened to be tending the land.
The dwarves led the way, but their stocky figures took longer to loom into view. Boëndal and Boïndil walked ahead, with Tungdil in the middle and Andôkai and the giant a few paces behind. Djerůn was forced to take miniature strides in order not to outpace his mistress and the dwarves. The maga had offered a farmer a ridiculous number of gold coins to part with his horse, which now bore the weight of her bags and the giant’s spare weaponry.
Tungdil was still trying to work out whether to tell Andôkai about the books. He had no idea what was written in the scholarly tomes, but it was encouraging to know that Nôd’onn feared their contents as much as the artifacts. Who knows if I can stop him, but Andôkai surely can. She’s the last of Girdlegard’s magi. He was determined to do whatever it took to make her stay. Slowing his pace a little, he fell in beside her. “I’ve been thinking about your magic and I can’t figure out why it still works. Didn’t Nôd’onn corrupt the force fields?”
“Why do you ask?”
“It’s important?”
“For you or for me?”
“For Girdlegard.”
“For Girdlegard! Very well, Tungdil, how could I refuse?” She smiled balefully. “I was never as kind-spirited as my fellow magi. My god is Samusin, god of equilibrium, who cherishes darkness as well as light. Thanks to him I have the ability to use both. It’s harder for me to store and use dark magic, but the corruption of the force fields hasn’t really affected my powers. Nôd’onn knows that, but he wasn’t expecting me to survive. Not that he’s got anything to worry about — my art is nothing compared to his.” Shielding her eyes with her hand, she squinted into the distance. “There should be a forest ahead. I can’t stand this sun much longer.”
You’ve got to ask her now, Tungdil told himself. He summoned all his courage. “Maga, suppose there was a way of stopping the traitor. Would you try it?” he asked.
There was silence. Just as the tension was becoming unbearable, Andôkai spoke. “Would this have something to do with the contents of your bags, little man?”
“We found something in Greenglade,” he told her, giving a brief account of what had happened in the woods. “Nôd’onn sent in the älfar, but we got there first.”
“Are you going to show me?”
Tungdil thought for a moment and decided that there was no point leaving the matter half-solved. He slid the package out of his knapsack, removed the wrapping, and handed over the books.
Andôkai opened each of the tomes in turn and leafed through the pages, her face remaining an inscrutable mask.
Tungdil couldn’t help feeling disappointed: He had reckoned with her amazement. Seeing her dispassionate expression made him fear the worst.
At length she returned the volumes. “Was there anything with them?”
“What are they about?” he asked, deciding not to give away anything until he’d found out more.
“They’re anthologies: descriptions of legendary beings and mythical weapons, and an obscure tale about an expedition across the Stone Gateway into the Outer Lands. It says in the preface that a single survivor returned, mortally wounded but bearing manuscripts that are reproduced in the book. Why Nôd’onn should take an interest in the volumes is a mystery. I suppose he’s just as knowledge-lusty as before.”
“What else do they say?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Nôd’onn wouldn’t have sacked Greenglade for nothing! He had us chased by a war band of orcs just to get his hands on the books!” He glared at the maga defiantly. “With respect, maga, I think you’re wrong. There’s something important in those volumes, even if you can’t see it.”
“Are you daring to.…?” The mistress of Brandôkai stopped and erupted into laughter. “Did you hear that, Djerůn? Here I am, traipsing along a dusty road, being corrected by a dwarf who thinks he knows best!”
The giant kept walking, impassive as ever.
“I didn’t mean to cause offense,” said Tungdil, “but at least I’m not as arrogant and sure of myself as you are. I shouldn’t wonder if there’s elfish blood in your veins!”
“Fighting talk, little dwarf!” she said in amusement. She nodded in the direction of the twins. “The other two would have drawn their weapons and settled the matter another way, but you learned from Lot-Ionan, I can tell.” Suddenly she was serious again. “I’ll take a proper look at the volumes tonight. Maybe you’re right and there’s more to them than I thought.”
“Thank you, Estimable Maga.” The dwarf inclined his head respectfully and quickened his pace to catch up with the twins. “We’ll soon find out what the magus wanted with our books,” he announced proudly.
“What? You didn’t tell the wizard-woman about them, did you?” gasped a horrified Boïndil.
“Not only that; I showed them to her.”
The secondling shook his head reprovingly. “You’re too trusting, scholar. It’s time you became a proper dwarf and stopped acting like a human.”
“I see. So you’d like me to splice her skull if she disagrees with me, would you?” said Tungdil, his temper beginning to fray.
“I’d like to see you dare,” Boïndil retorted with venom.
Boëndal quickly squeezed between them. “Stop it!” he said firmly. “Spare your fury for the orcs; I doubt we’ve seen the last of them. For what it’s worth, I think Tungdil was right to tell the maga. I don’t like being hounded because of a couple of books I know nothing about.”
His brother just grunted and surged on.
“I never said traveling with us would be easy,” Boëndal said with a grin.
Tungdil sighed, then burst out laughing.
Dusk was falling when they set up camp. The air had cooled and there was a smell of earth and grass. A band of crickets was chirping its evening concert.
The dwarves divided up their dwindling provisions — the sight of the Blue Range’s summits in the distance reassured them that they would soon be feasting on fresh dwarven treats. Meanwhile, Andôkai kept her word and studied the books.
Not wanting to distract her, Tungdil allowed the maga to read in peace, approaching only to bring Djerůn his supper. Like every other evening, he placed a loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese, and a large slab of meat beside the warrior.
This time he was determined to keep an eye on th
e giant while he ate; so far neither Tungdil nor the twins had seen behind the metal visor.
“Djerůn will sit the first watch,” said Andôkai without looking up from her reading. “The rest of you can get some sleep.”
“Suits me fine,” said Boïndil, then burped. He shook the worst of the crumbs from his beard, coiled his plait into a pillow, and settled down next to the fire. “Listen, long-un,” he told the giant, who was sitting motionless as usual, “don’t forget to wake me if you see any orcs. It’s about time they had a taste of my axes.”
The twins seized the chance to get some sleep, and in no time loud snores were reverberating through the woods, setting the leaves aquiver.
Andôkai slammed down her book. “Now I know why they always take the first watch,” she said irritably. “It’s a wonder their snores never woke me. How am I supposed to concentrate when they’re making such a din?”
Tungdil chuckled. “Imagine what it sounds like in Ogre’s Death.”
“I don’t intend staying long enough to find out.”
Tungdil looked at her rippling muscles as she stretched. She was impressively strong for a woman — stronger even than the scullery maids who were used to hard labor.
“Have you found anything new in the…” Tungdil checked himself. He had resolved not to ask her about the books.
Hugging her knees to her chest, she rested her chin on her hands and turned her blue eyes on him. “You think I’ll change my mind if the books tell us how Nôd’onn can be defeated.”
“Samusin is the god of equilibrium; surely it’s your duty to strive for a balance between darkness and light,” he said, appealing to her faith since honor alone was not enough to persuade her. Her decision to abandon her realm was proof enough of that.
Andôkai laid a hand on one of the leather-bound volumes. “If I could find a spell or a charm that would cause Nôd’onn’s downfall, I would take the traitor on,” she said earnestly, “but the books contain nothing of the kind — just far-fetched stories and myths.”
“So you’re turning your back on Girdlegard?”
“My art is useless against Nôd’onn’s power. I was lucky to escape.” She flicked through the book, opening it at random. “Maybe there is some kind of hidden meaning. All I know is that I don’t have the key.”
Tungdil decided to come clean. He produced the letter that Gorén had written in scholarly script. “This was with the books. I suppose it might help.”
“Is there anything else you’re not telling me, or is this the last of your secrets?”
“It’s the last, I swear.”
Andôkai accepted the sheet of parchment, folded it, and placed it between the pages of one of the books. She rubbed her eyes. “The darkness is hardly conducive to study. I’ll read it tomorrow.” She returned the volumes to their wax paper wrapping, arranged the parcel as a pillow, and nestled her head on top.
“Tomorrow?” Tungdil had been expecting her to read the letter at once. He sighed; the maga was a troublesome person to deal with. He settled down next to the fire and glanced at Djerůn.
The giant was still wearing his helmet, but the food was gone. Tungdil cursed: Talking to Andôkai had distracted him from looking at Djerůn’s visor, although, now that he thought about it, he hadn’t been alerted by a telling clunk of metal. There was something unnerving about the maga’s companion.
Beroïn’s Folk,
Secondling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle
Balendilín barely had a moment to himself. On reaching his chamber, he discovered that two dwarves from the fourthling delegation had requested to see him.
Not a moment too soon. It’s about time Gandogar put a stop to this foolishness. He turned round and hurried to the meadows, where the delegates were expecting him.
The high king’s counselor was feeling remarkably upbeat. For weeks he had poured most of his energy into rebutting the rumors about Gundrabur’s failing health, and rightly so: The high king had a strong heart and an even stronger will, which he employed in persuading the assembly to await the arrival of the other pretender to the throne. Such was his success that there was talk of strengthening the bonds among the folks in more permanent ways.
It’s going almost too well, thought Balendilín, gripped by a sudden apprehension. He stepped out of the passageway and onto a bridge across a chasm fifty paces wide. Deep in thought, he made his way over the disused copper mines two hundred paces below.
It bothered him that Bislipur never seemed to tire of rekindling the passions of those who favored a war against the elves. He and Gundrabur would have achieved much more if it hadn’t been for the fourthling’s inflammatory speeches. He’s a rabble-rouser. You can guarantee his influence is at the heart of Gandogar’s misplaced zeal.
Just then he noticed a movement in the mouth of the tunnel ahead. Bislipur was on the bridge in front of him, his left hand resting lightly on his ax. For a moment Balendilín wondered whether the fourthling could have heard his thoughts through the thick stone walls. There was something threatening about his demeanor. Balendilín stopped and waited. “Were you looking for me?”
“Do you know what they’re calling it?” Bislipur shouted, his voice echoing against the rock. “The quarrel of the cripples: one-armed Balendilín against Bislipur the lame. Is that how you see it?”
Balendilín paused, hoping to hear sounds of other dwarves, but the tunnels were deserted. He and Bislipur were alone. “Quarrel is too strong a word,” he answered. “You have your convictions, I have mine, and we’re both trying to persuade the assembly of our views.” He took a step forward, then another one. Bislipur did the same. “What is it that you want?”
“To serve the dwarves,” Bislipur said, grim-faced.
“What is it you want from me?”
“A change of heart. How can I persuade you that the future of the folks and clans lies with Gandogar and me?”
“If you persist in campaigning for a war against the elves, I will never be able to support your king,” Balendilín said frankly. He stood his ground and Bislipur stopped too. Fifteen paces remained between them.
“Then a quarrel it is,” Bislipur told him harshly. “Until Gandogar has been elected, I shall regard you as an enemy and a danger to the prosperity and safety of our race. The others will come round to my view.” He walked toward Balendilín, who was advancing along the bridge. Only an arm’s length separated the two dwarves. “It’s about time the high king was spared your counsel so he can come to his senses at last.”
By now they were so close that their noses were almost touching.
“To his senses? That’s rich, from you.” Balendilín stared at Bislipur and saw implacable hatred and enmity in his eyes. “Let me tell you this,” he said, trying not to betray his fear, even though Bislipur undoubtedly intended to harm him. “Your war against landur will never happen. Even the fourthling chieftains are having second thoughts.”
“The throne is ours. You’re no match for Gandogar and me.” The words were spat violently, Bislipur’s pent-up fury ready to erupt at any moment.
“I didn’t realize you were bidding for a joint succession.”
Neither flinched as they glared at each other, eyes locked in combat. All of a sudden Bislipur’s air of menace fell away.
“Well, good luck with your lost cause,” he said breezily. “May Vraccas be with you.” He stepped past Balendilín and continued along the bridge.
The high king’s counselor closed his eyes and swallowed. Having resigned himself to a duel, he could scarcely believe that he was going to make it across the chasm without a fight. Bislipur’s whistling reverberated through the tunnel, the simple melody repeating itself and overlapping as he strode away.
It was a relief to leave the bridge and feel solid ground beneath his feet. At least I know he means business, thought Balendilín philosophically. He pressed on, anxious not to keep the fourthling delegates waiting.
The next instant, he heard agitated mooing and thundering hooves. From what he could gather, a herd had been startled on its return from the meadows.
Balendilín scanned his surroundings, searching in vain for a niche that would save him from the cattle’s charge. There was no choice but to regain the bridge, climb over the parapet, and balance on the narrow ledge.
He turned and sped back along the passageway, spurred on by the sound of horns scraping against the polished walls. Panting heavily, he reached the end of the tunnel and the bridge came into view; the animals were right behind him.
Without hesitating, he swung himself over the side and steadied himself on the ledge. The momentum nearly carried him into the abyss, but the daring maneuver paid off and the cows streamed past behind him.
Vraccas be praised!
There was a jolt and the bridge cracked audibly. He could see the first fissures running through the rock.
It was only then that it occurred to him that the bridge was not designed to bear the weight of stampeding cows. It had been built for dwarves, not cattle. The herd exceeded its strength by a matter of tons and the rhythmic pounding of their hooves had a devastating effect.
The first crack opened at the midpoint of the bridge where the stone was at its thinnest. The struts beneath it snapped, heralding the next stage in the disaster.
A section of stone measuring four paces in length gave way, sending a number of cows plummeting into the abyss. From there the destruction spread along the bridge. Slab by slab the stone fell away, cows tumbling to their deaths, their moos becoming fainter and fainter. At the back of his mind Balendilín was aware that there was still no sign that they had hit the bottom.
His position was precarious in the extreme. With the bridge crumbling before his eyes, he was faced with a choice of dying among the cows or casting himself voluntarily into the abyss.
