by Markus Heitz
“That’s all very well, but what are we going to do without a wagon?” asked Boëndal.
“If we don’t find a wagon when we get to the tunnel, we’ll buy a couple of extra ponies and ride the last two hundred miles.” Tungdil rolled up the map and helped the others to stack the heavy ingots. He put the wood in his pack.
He sneaked a sideways glance at his four companions. All this squabbling is bad for the mission. I need to make them work together or I won’t have a company to lead at all. Help me, Vraccas.
They bowed their heads and delivered a quick vote of thanks to their creator for saving their lives, then marched back through the tunnel. At last they came to a narrow flight of steps that zigzagged steeply to the surface.
Bavragor led the way, but Goïmgar refused to follow. “Where are we?” he demanded suspiciously.
“According to the map, we’ll be entering Oremaira,” said Tungdil. “It used to be ruled by Maira the Life-Preserver, but there’s no telling what’s happened since Nôd’onn took charge.”
“Not another enchanted realm,” moaned Boïndil. He laid his hands on the hafts of his axes. “Still, it might be a chance to slay a few runts. I just hope the magus doesn’t plague us with any of his tricks.”
The rest of the company nodded in mute agreement.
After a long and arduous ascent the five dwarves reached a door inscribed with runes. Weapons at the ready, they prepared themselves for the outside world.
The stairway led out into a cave some four paces high and seven paces wide. The noise of a waterfall roared in their ears. Water was streaming past the mouth of the cavern and tumbling down the mountainside, sending showers of spray that spattered their dusty mail, helms, and cloaks. Faint rays of sunshine sloped through the watery curtain, forming pools of light on the dank rock floor.
“Bloody typical,” shouted Boïndil, straining to drown out the noise. “I’ll wash when I’m good and ready, not because of some blasted waterfall.”
His brother laughed. “And when might that be?”
They found a narrow path that led past the waterfall toward a rocky plateau. With a bit of luck, we’ll be able to see for miles, thought Tungdil.
“Come on,” he chivvied the others, “let’s see where we are.”
One by one they edged past the cascading water, treading carefully because of the slippery stone. None of them escaped without a good soaking and Goïmgar was nearly knocked off his feet.
It was around about noon when they emerged into the autumn sunshine. A rainbow was shimmering in the waterfall and the air smelled fresh and moist. They reached the edge of the plateau and peered down at the fifty-pace drop. The firs, pines, and spruces formed a dark green mass of bristling spears. Judging by the gathering clouds, they were about to be rained on.
To the west, a vast lake shimmered on the horizon, but in the north they could see a collection of houses ringed by a wall. The settlement lay on the other side of the forest, and beyond that were fields.
Tungdil was heartened by its proximity. It shouldn’t take more than an orbit to get there. “Vraccas has been merciful,” he told the others. “We’ll have our pony in no time.”
“A town full of long-uns,” Goïmgar said glumly. “What if they don’t like us?”
“Stop whining! We don’t need the hillside caving in on us as well,” snapped Boïndil. “I don’t know why you’re worried about long-uns. They might be tall, but I’m strong.”
“Let me do the talking,” said Tungdil, alarmed. “I’ve dealt with humans all my life.”
The others saw no reason to argue, so they set off to find a way down from the plateau, taking a narrow path that led through the forest below.
There wasn’t much light beneath the canopy of conifers. The mist, fine and wispy in the upper branches, thickened toward the ground, forming a dense milky layer around the dwarves’ waists. Their eyes needed time to adjust to the sunlight and they were grateful for the gloom.
“Maira turned these woods into a sanctuary for unicorns,” Tungdil told them. He felt a rush of excitement at seeing the forest that he had read so much about. “If we’re lucky, we’ll see one.”
Boïndil looked at him blankly. “What’s the good of that? We can’t ride them, can we?”
“No, but they’re beautiful creatures and they’re rare. The älfar hunted them almost to extinction.”
“Quiet, isn’t it?” said Bavragor. “You’d think no one else lived here. Maybe I should sing something. The unicorns might show themselves if they know we’re here.”
“Unicorns are timid animals. Singing —”
“Isn’t caterwauling the word you’re looking for?” Boëndal chimed in softly.
“Either way, making a noise won’t help. Legend has it that they only approach young virgins,” explained Tungdil.
“Young virgins, eh?” said Bavragor. “That’s me out, then. I don’t suppose any of you…?” He look slyly at Tungdil, who tried desperately not to blush.
Just then Boïndil stumbled into something and came to a halt in the fog.
“What do we have here?” he said in surprise, feeling his way through the mist with one of his axes. The blade met something soft and came up tinged with blood. “Here, give me that,” he said, grabbing Goïmgar’s shield and waving it back and forth until the bloodied body appeared through the mist.
“It’s a horse,” exclaimed Bavragor, staring at the white-coated mount. “At least… Hang on a minute, it’s not a unicorn, is it?”
Tungdil knelt beside the dead animal. Its throat hung in shreds, chunks were missing from its flesh, and its beautiful horn had been wrenched from its skull.
“It was a unicorn,” he said sadly, stroking the animal’s white flank. Lot-Ionan’s books described the unicorns as pure creatures, incapable of malice or evil, but their gentle nature had done nothing to save them from their fate. “Nôd’onn’s hordes must have got here first.”
“Do you think they’re still around?” Boïndil asked hopefully. “They might be lurking in the bushes.”
Goïmgar retreated hastily, only to fall over backward in the mist.
For a moment he was lost; then he reappeared, shrieking. His hands were stained with blood. “There’s another one,” he shouted, sheltering behind the others. “I need my shield! Give it back to me this instant!”
Boïndil strode off and fanned away the mist where Goïmgar had fallen. A light wind gusted through the milky swathes and helped to clear their view.
They stared in silence at the gruesome sight. Strewn across the ground were twelve dead unicorns and three times as many orcs. The fabled mounts had been brought down by arrows and slashed to pieces, but not before they had gored their attackers with their fearsome horns and hooves.
As the mist continued to clear, the outlines of a corral made of tree trunks loomed into view. The unicorns had been rounded up and slaughtered.
“They hunted them down,” Bavragor said, aghast. “Aren’t unicorns almost extinct?” he asked Tungdil.
“There used to be just over a dozen of them,” Tungdil answered shakily. Even in death, the unicorns looked dignified, peaceful, and pure; they must have been exceptionally beautiful before their mauling by the vilest of beasts. “There can’t be more than a couple of them left.”
“Girdlegard is in a bad way,” Boëndal said sadly. “It’s time we got a move on and bought a pony. Nothing except Keenfire can stop Nôd’onn from taking innocent lives.” Setting aside their sorrow, they scrambled over the stockade and set off through the forest.
How many more deaths? The sight of the murdered unicorns reminded Tungdil of how much he wished Lot-Ionan, Frala, and her daughters were still alive.
Boïndil was still brandishing his axes, hoping to encounter an orcish war band and work off his pent-up rage. Suddenly a strange look came over him and he smiled. His brother reached silently for his crow’s beak.
“Smell that?” Ireheart whispered excitedly. “Oink, oink!”
The next moment, the rancid odor of fat-smeared armor reached Tungdil’s nostrils too. It smelled doubly repugnant among the fresh moss, damp earth, and fragrant pines. “We can’t stop now, Boïndil. We’re going straight to the settlement.”
“Not until I’ve split their ugly skulls,” Boïndil growled defiantly. His fiery spirit had been trapped for so long that his inner furnace had overheated, driving him to open mutiny. “Come out, you runts! Come here and be slaughtered!” He threw back his head and let out a long, drawn-out grunt.
His call was answered by grunting and snarling amid the dense trees.
Goïmgar shrank back, disappearing behind his shield. “Shut up, you lunatic!” he hissed fearfully. “They’re…”
The clunking and jangling of armor was getting closer all the time. Eyes closed, Ireheart listened in rapt concentration. “They’ve climbed the stockade,” he told them. “There must be” — he listened intently — “oh, twenty of them at least!” He swung his axes impatiently. “They’ve found us. They’re picking up speed!”
His eyes flew open and he was off, grunting and oinking as he ran. With an apologetic glance at the others, Boëndal chased after him. There was a short pause, then the sound of steel impacting steel. The woods echoed with the din.
It was all too much for Tungdil. If he’s not careful, his inner furnace will melt his mind.
“Well,” Bavragor asked quizzically, “aren’t we going to help them?” He raised his war hammer.
“I should think not!” snapped Goïmgar. “It’s their fault for starting it. Let them finish it themselves.”
“No, we’ll fight together,” ruled Tungdil. “And after that, we’re heading for the settlement as fast as we can.”
They hurried off. Charging ahead, Bavragor hurled himself on the nearest orc with a bloodcurdling howl. The beasts were too busy surrounding the twins to spot the new arrivals and were taken off guard. Their response was predictably poor.
Moments later, two dozen orcish corpses littered the forest floor — no thanks to Goïmgar, who had avoided all contact with the enemy by hiding behind the mason’s back.
Ireheart was responsible for most of the carnage, but Boëndal and Bavragor had fought with such ferocity that Tungdil had barely had a chance to land a blow.
“Serves them right, the stupid runts,” laughed Boïndil, mopping his sweaty brow. “They won’t be killing any more unicorns now!” He kicked out at one of the corpses. “That’s for Tion,” he told the dead orc. “Be sure to give it to him with my regards.”
“Shush,” Goïmgar hushed him. “Did you hear that? There’s more!” He raised his shield and sneaked fearful glances over the top.
Boïndil nudged his brother boisterously. “Look, a two-legged shield!” He turned in the direction of their new adversaries and grinned. “This is my lucky orbit!” Listening attentively, he tried to calculate the number of approaching orcs. “One, two, three…” His voice became more measured and less exuberant. “… four, five.” His carefree expression was gone. “One, two, three…” His eyes widened and he squared his shoulders defiantly. “This is a challenge worthy of a dwarf.”
By now they could hear the clunking of armor.
“Exactly how many are there?” Tungdil demanded. He had a bad feeling about Boïndil’s idea of a challenge.
“Five plus two,” Ireheart said laconically. “Most of them are advancing head-on, but a smaller party is closing in from the right.”
“Only seven?” Goïmgar breathed a sigh of relief and emerged a little from behind his shield.
“Five dozen infantry, plus two on horseback,” Boëndal explained.
Tungdil grabbed Ireheart by the shoulders. “That’s not a challenge; it’s lunacy. We need to get ourselves safely behind those walls.” Goïmgar didn’t hang around for the discussion; he fled toward the town.
Ireheart refused to budge.
“This time you’ll do as I say,” Tungdil ordered him. “You’ve had your fun. You need to put our mission first.”
The warrior fidgeted moodily. “All right, all right. Those runts don’t know how lucky they are — but they’d better not catch up with us, or I’ll show them what for!” He turned on Bavragor. “As for you, keep your confounded hammer away from my orcs. If I wanted your help, I’d ask for it.”
“My help?” scoffed the mason. “I was helping your brother, not you. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than seeing you sliced down the middle by an orcish sword!”
“Not now,” Tungdil scolded them, setting off at a jog.
They raced through the forest, crashing through branches, snapping twigs, and doing everything they could to throw off their pursuers. There was no sign of Goïmgar, who had disappeared ahead.
From the sound of the bugles, it was obvious that the orcs were fanning out to hunt them down, but the dwarves’ smaller stature worked to their advantage, allowing them to slip through the undergrowth while the beasts blundered and stumbled behind them.
Soon they reached the fringes of the forest where the trees grew farther apart.
Panting and wheezing, Tungdil risked a glance over his shoulder and realized that the dark silhouettes of their pursuers looked bigger than before. It’s going to be close, he thought.
Once out of the forest, they settled into a steady trot. Salvation lay half a mile away in the shape of the settlement’s walls: Goïmgar was almost halfway there already.
What in the name of… Tungdil blinked, not trusting his eyes. The dark forest seemed to be keeping pace with them, advancing on either side. Then he heard the jangle of chain mail and the clatter of armor and realized the truth: We’re in the middle of a raid.
A division of orcs left the shelter of the trees. There were a thousand of them or more, all advancing toward the settlement in a living line of weaponry. The line became a circle as orcs closed in from every direction. The town was surrounded — and so were the dwarves.
“Run!” Tungdil urged the others. “Run for your lives!”
Enchanted Realm of Oremaira,
Girdlegard,
Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle
Goïmgar reached the protective walls of the settlement and hammered on the locked gates. Faces peered down at him from the battlements. “Let me in!” he shrieked. “In the name of Vraccas the Eternal Smith, save me from these beasts!”
“You’d think he’d put in a good word for the rest of us,” snorted Bavragor, as he and the others struggled to catch up.
A panel opened in the gates and Goïmgar pushed his way through. The door slammed behind him. It remained closed, even when his companions arrived.
“Hey! What about us?” Bavragor bellowed.
Not again, cursed Tungdil. Surely he won’t abandon us out here?
The orcs were dangerously close. Arrows whined toward them and landed just short.
Raising his axes, Boïndil turned to face the oncoming hordes. “Looks like I’ll get my battle after all,” he said, bringing the polls of his axes together in a loud, ringing beat. “Oink, oink!”
“Open the door!” shouted Tungdil. “We’re dwarves! Dwarves like the other fellow. We’re on the same side!”
There was no response.
The first beasts were already upon them. Ireheart dealt with them swiftly and bloodily, but their agonized howls brought orcish reinforcements to the scene.
The twins got down to business, fighting so savagely that the floor was awash with green blood. None of the orcs came within striking distance of Bavragor and Tungdil, who were standing at the back. After a while, Ireheart took an arrow to the leg, but he stood his ground, laughing manically and sending orcs to their deaths.
At least a dozen of the beasts had been massacred before the door finally opened to let them in.
Ireheart, still intent on slaying his opponents, had to be dragged inside. Boëndal talked to him in a low, soothing voice until the crazed glimmer left his eyes.
Bavragor gave Tungdil a satisfi
ed look. “What did I tell you? He’s a nutcase! A dangerous, unpredictable lunatic.”
Tungdil made no reply.
Their reception committee was made up of thirty heavily armed and armored men. The soldiers eyed them suspiciously, not sure what to make of the dwarves. Goïmgar was waiting by the door, his face a deathly shade of pale.
The captain stepped forward. “Who are you and what do you want?” he asked gruffly.
Tungdil introduced them by name. “We’re dwarves on a mission to track and kill orcs,” he explained. “It’s our Vraccas-given duty. We heard Girdlegard was in terrible danger, and we’re trying to help the humans as best we can.”
“Killing orcs is our specialty, as you probably noticed,” added Ireheart. “I wanted to stay and flay the beasts alive, but the others were worried about being outnumbered.”
Boëndal knelt down to inspect the damage to his brother’s leg. The arrow had passed through the flesh without hitting the bone, so he snapped off the arrowhead and extracted the shaft from the opposite side. His brother endured his ministrations uncomplainingly, wincing only slightly when an herbal dressing and bandage were applied.
The captain was impressed by his stoicism. “In that case, Mifurdania welcomes you,” he said. “The present moment augers well for orc hunters, but less favorably for our town. You’ll have plenty to do here. Report to me when you’re ready to join our ranks.”
He hurried away. Ten of his soldiers stayed behind to barricade the door, placing a steel panel across the gates and securing it with sturdy bolts. There was a clattering and banging as the orcs laid siege to the gates, but after a time they retreated, defeated by the steel.
“That was close,” Bavragor said to one of the guards. “Why didn’t you open up earlier?”
The man glanced at the pale-faced Goïmgar, who was cowering in a corner. “He said to bolt it behind him,” he told them. “You’d better ask him.”
With that, the soldier turned away and returned to his comrades who were reinforcing the steel cladding with all available means. The gates were required to withstand the impact of a battering ram, hence the need for supporting struts and bars.
