by Markus Heitz
They settled down by the fire while Djerůn kept watch.
I have to think of something. I’m in charge, thought Tungdil, tossing and turning restlessly. If I don’t come up with a solution to the riddle, Girdlegard will be doomed. It wasn’t the sort of thought that would lull anyone to sleep.
* * *
Tungdil still hadn’t received divine inspiration by the time they broke camp at first light. They decided to carry on regardless: With a bit of luck, one of them would think of something on the way, and if not, there was always a chance that the firstlings would be able to help.
We’ll get there in the end, Tungdil told himself firmly, slipping his freshly oiled and rust-free mail shirt over his leather jerkin.
Andôkai rode with Rodario. The impresario had imagined himself sitting behind her on the saddle, with his arms wrapped chivalrously around her waist, but she insisted on riding bareback to give them both more space. Not only that, she forced him to take his place in front of her while she held the reins — much to Furgas’s amusement.
More snow had fallen overnight, adding to the existing coating by the length of a forearm or so. The horses had to plow a path for the short-legged ponies to follow, and so they proceeded in single file with Djerůn trudging behind them. From a distance it looked as if one of the marble deities had left the tedium of the temple and joined the procession instead.
The going was tough for the unusual band of travelers. Winter slowed their progress considerably, and Tungdil realized the advantage of traveling underground. They needed to get to the Gray Range as fast as possible, and by foot, or even on horseback, the journey would take too long. In a week, they advanced two hundred miles, a distance that could be covered in one or two orbits on the underground rail.
That afternoon, while they rested their horses, he pestered Andôkai to tell him how she had tracked the company down.
“It was no great challenge,” she said dryly. “I left the Outer Lands, went back to Ogre’s Death, and persuaded the secondlings to show me the tunnels. We came up near Mifurdania, Djerůn found your tracks, and the rest was easy. People tend to notice a group of traveling dwarves. It wouldn’t have been hard for the älfar to find you either.”
Tungdil glanced at Narmora, who was helping Furgas shovel snow into a pan and melt it over the fire.
The maga’s gaze settled on Rodario. “These actors… How did you meet them?” Tungdil recounted the story. “Aha,” laughed the maga on hearing how Narmora had got them out of Mifurdania by picking the locks, “so she’s a woman of many talents. Have you seen their play?’
“I certainly have! The production was a sellout. It’s called The Truth About Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty and the Grisly Circumstances Leading to His Reincarnation as Nôd’onn the Doublefold and Resulting in Girdlegard’s Demise.”
“A snappy title,” she observed.
For the first time Tungdil saw the corners of her mouth turn upward and it occurred to him that smiling suited her better than her usual stern expression. Rodario chose precisely that moment to look over his shoulder and naturally assumed that the friendly smile was meant for him. He beamed back delightedly.
“And that’s the star of the show, the fabulous Rodario. According to the others, he keeps a mistress in every town.”
“I don’t doubt it. Who plays me?”
“I’m afraid I left early, Estimable Maga. I had to chase a thief.” He beckoned to Rodario. “You’ll have to ask him.”
The impresario bounded over to be cross-examined by the maga. “My players are the most accomplished in all Girdlegard. Your role was played by the talented Narmora, who alone could emulate your prowess with a sword.” At her request he embarked on an explanation of the plot, but she cut him short when he was halfway through.
“The rise of the Perished Land, Nôd’onn’s visitation, his compact with evil — what gave you the idea?”
“I listened to the rumors, combined them with some ancient legends, and added a dash of inspiration of my own.” He looked at her brightly. “Does it meet with your approval?”
“It’s incredibly accurate, at least as far as Nudin’s transformation is concerned.”
“Really?” Rodario seemed genuinely surprised. “But then, truth is at the heart of all great art, wouldn’t you say?”
“Thank you, Rodario, you can go now,” Andôkai told him briskly. “And don’t forget to rewrite my part in your play. I’m not dead yet.”
“My dear maga, you’re positively blooming,” he said, turning on the charm and gazing seductively into her clear blue eyes. “No man could —”
“I’m busy,” she informed him, turning back to Tungdil.
Rodario’s magnificent smile was wiped off his face. His pointed beard seemed to droop in dismay. “I respect your wishes,” he said in a dignified tone.
“The maga has sent the peacock packing,” chuckled Bavragor, who had followed the little scene. “Poor Rodario, his magnificent feathers are trailing on the ground. I’d advise him to back off now while he’s still in possession of his plumage.” He rummaged around for his drinking pouch and started humming a ballad under his breath.
“No chance,” said Furgas. He lay back in the snow. “When Rodario’s got his eye on a woman, he never gives up. Her sternness will only encourage him.” He kissed Narmora and pulled her close. “One day he’ll stop playing the field and settle down.”
“If he doesn’t get beaten to death by a pack of angry husbands,” put in Boïndil, guffawing. “He must be pretty good at running because he certainly can’t fight.”
After a short rest, it was time for the company to continue. Tungdil and Andôkai broke off their conversation and Djerůn bent down on one knee, joining his hands to create a chair for the maga. The crestfallen Rodario was consigned to riding alone.
In the orbits that followed they battled through Weyurn’s snowdrifts, sometimes struggling to find a safe path. Whenever the lead horse sank up to its belly, they knew for certain that the ponies would never get through. Djerůn, burdened with the weight of the maga, spent much of his time hip-deep in cold snow.
On several occasions they were forced to retrace their steps and seek another route, but at last the Red Range was firmly in their sights. The mountains towered before them, guiding them on their way, the red slopes blazing like fire whenever the winter sun scored a hard-fought victory against the somber clouds.
At last they reached the mouth of a narrow gully that meandered toward a blood-red peak. The entrance to the gully was sealed by a wall, as were each of its five sweeping curves. The firstlings had taken extensive precautions to secure their kingdom against unwanted guests.
“Well, we made it,” Tungdil said happily. He rubbed his beard, dislodging a collection of tiny icicles that had formed beneath his nose. He was tired, his feet were numb, he felt cold to the core, and he couldn’t risk touching his chain mail for fear that his hand would stick to the frozen steel. It’s nothing a tankard of dwarven beer won’t fix. “Look,” he told them, “there’s the entrance.”
The twins followed his gaze, taking note of the six stone barriers in their path. “It makes you wonder what all the fortifications are for,” said Boëndal, giving voice to their concern. His plaited hair was wrapped around his neck like a scarf to protect him from the cold. “Anyone would think Tion’s hordes were approaching from this side and not the western pass.”
“My dear fellows, couldn’t we save the discussion for another warmer time?” pleaded the shivering impresario. “I’m in danger of losing my toes to frostbite.” He too was growing stalactites from his nose.
Bavragor looked at him scornfully. “You’re as bad as a girl — or as bad as Shimmerbeard, which comes to the same thing.”
“Take another slug of brandy,” Goïmgar hissed angrily. “With any luck, you’ll trip over and freeze to death. I’ve got a feeling you won’t be much use to us anyway. With your shaky hands, it’ll be a miracle if the spurs ever fit.”
/> “I’m surprised that someone as yellow-bellied as you can feel anything except the warm sensation in your pants,” Bavragor said scathingly, not bothering to look round.
Following Boëndal’s advice, they fanned out in an arc formation, weapons at the ready, and rode cautiously into the gully toward the first of the defenses, forty paces away. The wall of weathered stone rose high into the wintry sky, the only way past it through a metal door inscribed with runes. The bricks themselves were just roughly hewn blocks of stone; the firstlings hadn’t lavished much attention on the masonry.
Tungdil spelled out the runes, the metal glowed, and the door swung open, allowing them to pass. “I wish everything were that easy. If it were all down to metalwork and reading, Nôd’onn would soon be dead.” The company set off again.
“Reading doesn’t come naturally to everyone,” said Boëndal from the back of the procession. “It’s just as well we’ve got a scholar with us. Without your —” The links of his mail shirt tinkled softly and he stopped, eyes widening in alarm. “W-what in the name of Vraccas…” he stammered, reaching behind him.
A black arrow was embedded in his back. Before he could alert the others, a second missile sang toward him, passing through his hand, piercing his armor, and tunneling into his back. By the time it came to a halt, the arrowhead had passed right through him and was protruding from his chest. Boëndal groaned and slid out of the saddle.
“Wait!” the impresario shouted frantically, calling to his companions to stop. He tugged on the reins and felt a rush of air near his throat. The arrow whizzed past him and hit his horse in the neck. With a loud whinny, the animal crashed to the ground, sending the impresario tumbling through the snow.
Djerůn whipped round, only to be hit. The long arrow missed Andôkai and pierced Djerůn’s armor with a curious sound. Even now, the giant gave no audible sign of pain. Without hesitating, he turned away from the archer, putting himself between the maga and their foe.
Andôkai cursed volubly and invoked a spell.
“What is it?” cried Furgas, who was staring in confusion with the remainder of the group.
“Over there!” Narmora pointed to a tall, fair-haired figure at the mouth of the gully. Even as they looked, the älf nocked a fifth arrow to his bow. It hurtled toward them, this time heading straight for Tungdil.
Hurrying to escape the feathered missile, he caught his foot in the stirrups and was trapped. Suddenly he was out of time. The arrow was only a finger length away when it stopped in midflight, suspended in the air. Its tip was pointed directly at his heart. Tungdil shuddered.
“Quick, get Boëndal out of here,” the maga panted. “We need to ride on. I can’t maintain the charm for much longer.”
Boïndil’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Accursed älfar!” he shrieked dementedly. “Look, there’s another one! Leave them to me!” He made to spur on his pony.
“Stop!” Tungdil peered at the mouth of the valley. Two älfar were standing side by side, waiting for the spell to break. “They’ll shoot you dead as soon as you leave the maga’s protection. Think of your brother, not revenge.” He made a grab for Boïndil’s reins.
“Out of my way!” raged Ireheart, staring at him without a glimmer of recognition. He raised his arm to strike.
“No, Boïndil!” shouted his brother, kneeling in the crimson snow. “You can’t let it happen again!” He tried to lever himself up with his crow’s beak, but one hand was still pinned to his back by the arrow. Eyes watering with pain, he mumbled something and keeled over.
Boïndil let out a terrible howl and leaped from the saddle. “Please, Vraccas, he can’t be dead. He just can’t.” He crouched beside him. “His heart’s still beating,” he told them, breaking off the shafts of the arrows and gathering his brother into his arms. “We need to get him to the stronghold.”
They tied the unconscious Boëndal to his startled pony and dragged the pair of them toward the next set of gates.
Tungdil felt a knot of fear in his stomach when he saw the trail of blood in the fresh white snow. Even warriors aren’t safe on a mission like this.
He risked a glance over his shoulder. The fair-haired älf looked remarkably like Sinthoras. Tungdil thought back to their last encounter in the desert village. Somehow, Sinthoras must have survived Djerůn’s attack. The tenacious älf had returned to avenge himself and his mistress, whom the twins had slain in Greenglade.
Sinthoras yanked something from his neck, wound it around an arrow, and took aim. There were 250 paces between the archer and his target, but Tungdil didn’t doubt for a second that the deadly missile would cover the distance and more. The älf released the string and a moment later a second shot followed from his companion’s bow.
“Look out!” Tungdil yelled to the others, promptly losing sight of the arrows, which were speeding toward them at an impossible rate.
The air crackled as the first arrow hit Andôkai’s protective shield, ripping through the magic barrier and allowing the second arrow to embed itself in Djerůn’s back.
This time a dull moan sounded from the visor as the arrow penetrated the giant’s armor and a jet of yellow fluid spurted from the wound. It was as if the tip had lanced a festering blister.
Tungdil had seen the substance once before in Sovereignston when Djerůn had saved his life. He came to my aid and got hurt in the process. The giant swayed, shook his head sluggishly, and walked on, his pace considerably slowed. “We need to keep moving!” someone shouted.
They hurried on, running or riding accordingly, toward the second set of gates. Tungdil gave the command, they slipped through, and the door closed behind them; they no longer felt quite so exposed.
“Hurry!” shouted Boïndil, spurred on by the circle of blood spreading from his brother and soaking the pony’s coat.
Meanwhile, the fluid seeping from Djerůn’s wound was turning from yellow to dark gray and his movements were increasingly labored.
They scrambled down the gentle slope toward the third set of gates. Man, dwarf, or pony, it made no difference; they were floundering to their waists in snow.
The landscape reminded Tungdil of a hill near Lot-Ionan’s vaults where he used to go sledding with Frala and Sunja. He had an idea. Snatching the shield away from Goïmgar, he turned it over and laid it flat. “Put Boëndal on top. You’ll get there faster like this.”
They placed the wounded dwarf on the shield, his brother squatted next to him, and the pair of them swooped down the white slope, speeding toward the third door, which opened mysteriously as they approached.
The smooth underside of the shield raced over the snow, gathering speed all the time, but Boïndil could neither steer nor brake. He looked up to find himself heading straight for a group of sentries who had gathered in the gateway, weapons at the ready.
Tungdil cupped his hands to his mouth. “We’re from the secondling kingdom,” he bellowed, his warm breath hanging in the air. “In the name of Vraccas, lower your axes!”
The firstlings recognized that the intruders were dwarves and stepped aside just in time. The strange craft hurtled past, spraying glistening snow in all directions. Incredibly, no one was hurt.
Panting and coughing, the rest of the company sprinted to the gates, only to be stopped by the guards. Dressed from head to toe in armor and wrapped up warmly against the cold, the firstlings looked at them suspiciously through a narrow chink in their cladding of metal and fur. They leveled their spears, axes, and war hammers at the ragged group.
“May Vraccas our creator bless you and may the flames of your furnace never die. My name is Tungdil Goldhand,” he introduced himself, gasping for breath and glancing back to check for älfar. “These are my friends and companions. We were sent here by the dwarven assembly on a mission regarding the safety of Girdlegard. I need to speak with your king.”
The thicket of metal parted to reveal a dwarf in chain mail, leather breeches, and a particularly striking cloak of white fur. “Many cycles have pas
sed since we were visited by our cousins from the other ranges. Call me cynical, but isn’t it strange that a collection of dwarves and long-uns should enter our kingdom just as Girdlegard is being threatened by the Perished Land?” The voice was unusually high-pitched for that of a man.
“A fine sort of welcome this is!” growled Bavragor. He took a step forward, towering over the speaker by at least a head. “Look here, dwarf-with-no-name, I’m Bavragor Hammerfist of the clan of the Hammer Fists, a child of the Smith, a descendant of Beroïn, and your equal in merit and birth. Is this what the firstlings’ hospitality has come to?”
“Now, that’s what I call a proper dwarven voice,” said the other. The scarf was pulled away, unmasking the speaker’s identity.
Tungdil gasped in surprise. The face looked distinctly feminine. There was no beard, the features were soft and delicate, and the cheeks were covered in soft down that grew thicker and darker toward the hairline.
“My name is Balyndis Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers,” she told them, not in the least bit intimidated. “I’m in charge of these gates, and I make no apology for vetting our visitors before I let them in.”
IV
Borengar’s Folk,
Firstling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
It’s a woman,” said Bavragor, clearly nonplussed.
“Oh, well spotted, Master Hammerfist,” she teased smilingly. “What sharp eyes, I mean, eye, you have!” Turning to her guards, she gave orders for the injured Boëndal to be taken care of. Four firstlings shouldered the shield and carried it like a stretcher to the next set of gates. After waiting for Tungdil to nod his assent, Boïndil hurried after them.
