by Markus Heitz
“Precisely my point.” Tungdil nodded. “We’ll be outnumbered. That’s why Rodario, Furgas, and Andôkai will pretend to be mercenaries who helped Narmora to capture us. Djerůn will have to stay here; his presence would give us away.”
“It’s a risky strategy, but it might just work,” Andôkai said earnestly. “I’m in favor.”
Rodario tapped his lip pensively. “Haven’t I read something like that before?”
“Do you mean The Death of Herengard? In the story the heroes need to kill the evil monarch. They use the same tactic and it works,” explained Tungdil, owning up to his source.
“You mean you borrowed it from a book?” Boïndil protested, aghast. “But you can’t —”
“Remember what I told you when we met? Reading is important!” Tungdil clapped the warrior on the back. “Maybe you’ll believe me now. Let’s have a show of hands.”
The motion was passed with only one objection. Offended at not being listened to, Boïndil sulked in silence, not even cheering and whooping when the wagon plunged downhill.
Tungdil chose not to mention the end of the story: King Herengard’s valiant killers had been slain by his guards. It was a good strategy nonetheless.
Once again their journey took them deep below the surface of Girdlegard. They were headed for the Blacksaddle, where Nôd’onn was mustering his army of orcs and other vile beasts.
Little did they know that the tunnel was preparing to surprise them again.
On rounding a corner, they saw upturned wagons and mounds of orcish corpses piled on both sides of the rail. There must have been at least two hundred bodies in all. They couldn’t stop because of the momentum, so they leaned out of the wagon to get a better look.
“By my beard, this is the work of axes if ever I saw it,” growled Boïndil. “You can bet they were slaughtered by dwarves. Our kinsfolk must be doing better than we thought.”
“It seems funny to be fighting in the tunnels when there’s a perfectly good stronghold in the Blacksaddle. Why haven’t they ensconced themselves there?” Tungdil dangled over the side to inspect the corpses, which were stacked neatly away from the rail. Someone wanted to make sure that nothing and no one got in our way. He was instantly reminded of the spirits whom they had encountered twice before. “The ghosts! They helped us in the fifthling kingdom, remember?”
Balyndis pointed to a niche in the tunnel, where a small figure lay contorted on the floor. An orcish spear protruded from its side. “That’s not a ghost!” she said. “Ghosts don’t have corpses.”
“I wonder if there’s such a thing as tunnel-dwelling dwarves,” speculated Furgas. “It struck me a while ago that the rail looked nice and shiny. Someone’s been using it regularly, I’d say.”
Tunnel-dwelling dwarves? The network had been abandoned for such a long time that a band of dwarves could easily have settled in the tunnels. Tungdil could only guess at an explanation. They must have been banished by the ancient folks.
He was gripped by excitement. It was entirely plausible that outcasts from the various clans and folks had learned of the tunnels and founded their own community many cycles ago. Perhaps they didn’t want to go back to their kingdoms?
“Quick, lend me your quill, Rodario!” he said, grabbing the ink and parchment and scribbling a hurried thank-you letter. His handwriting was almost illegible because of the juddering wagon. They sped past a stalagmite, and he pinned the note on top.
“Can spirits read?” inquired Andôkai.
“They’re not spirits,” he answered. “If my suspicions are correct, they’re dwarves — outcasts from the five kingdoms who claimed the tunnels for themselves. We’ve been trespassing on their territory.” He gave a quick explanation. “Remember how they kept warning us? The hammering, the collapse of the tunnel, the faces in the cavern. They were trying to make us leave.”
“Fascinating, fascinating,” said Rodario. “And when the orcs turned up, they decided to help their kinsfolk instead of scaring them away. Blood is thicker than water, I suppose.” Rodario snatched back his quill. “I’ll add it to my notes.”
“We’ve seen so many new things — good as well as bad,” murmured Balyndis. “I hope the good outweighs the bad when it’s over.”
“It will,” Tungdil said confidently. As they rattled around the next corner, he took a last look at the stalagmite. Unless he was much mistaken, a small figure was clutching his note.
Their arrival in the former realm of Lios Nudin gave Andôkai an opportunity to replenish her powers. She closed her eyes and waited. Almost immediately the walls of the tunnel began to glow, revealing the veins and pockmarks in the rock. Andôkai’s breathing quickened; the light became brighter and intensified to a dazzling glare, then faded abruptly.
Slowly the maga opened her eyes, turned to the right, and vomited over the side of the wagon.
“What’s the matter?” Tungdil was about to pull on the brake, but she stopped him with a wave.
“It’s nothing; just keep going. Nôd’onn corrupted the force fields.” She leaned back, and Balyndis handed her a pouch of water. “I channeled some of the energy, but it would probably kill me if I took any more.” Her mouth snapped shut as she struggled to contain the next wave of nausea.
After traveling for two orbits they reached a set of points and continued alongside another rail. Suddenly a second wagon rolled up and drew level with theirs. Its passengers, a dozen or so orcs, seemed just as surprised as they were.
Ireheart was the first to recover from the shock. He reacted true to type.
“Oink, oink! Come here, you runts,” he screeched excitedly, whipping out his axes. He glared at the others. “Leave them to me.”
Before anyone could stop him, he had launched himself out of the wagon and landed ax-first among the startled beasts. In his battle-crazed fury, he accidentally killed the driver, leaving no one in charge of the brakes. The wagon hurtled through the tunnel while the scuffle continued inside.
Ireheart spotted a row of stalactites ahead and used them to his advantage. Maneuvering skillfully, he tricked a careless orc into dodging his ax and colliding face-first with the hanging calcite. There was an explosion of gore and a peal of maniacal laughter; then the dwarf pushed the headless creature over the side.
The runts struggled to defend themselves as Ireheart slashed through their ranks; the suddenness of the attack and the cramped circumstances worked in his favor, and his frenzied cackles, along with the shrieks and howls of his victims, vied with the noise of the wagons. Soon he reached the last of the orcs, a muscular beast whose armor was superior to his companions’.
“Stop! Don’t kill their leader!” shouted Tungdil. “I want to interrogate him.”
But the warrior was in the grip of his fiery spirit. Brandishing his axes, he charged toward the orc, who didn’t stand a chance of deflecting both blades at once.
Andôkai barked an order, and Djerůn seized the doomed beast by the scruff of his neck. Like the boom of a crane, the giant’s metal-plated arm swung toward the company’s wagon and deposited the creature at the rear. The orc stopped struggling as soon as he felt the giant’s sword against his throat.
“Hey! That’s cheating!” Undaunted, Boïndil leaped back into their wagon, still intent on hacking the orc to pieces, but Andôkai barred the way.
“Don’t be foolish, Boïndil,” she warned him coldly. “I’ve replenished my powers, remember. Stop of your own accord, or I’ll make you. Tungdil’s right; we need to find out what we’re up against.”
Reason and fury struggled for mastery of the warrior’s mind. Panting for breath, he returned to his seat: Good sense had triumphed. “Question him if you must. I’ll kill the other runts when we get to the mountain.”
Tungdil turned to the orc and looked at him keenly. “What’s Nôd’onn doing at the Blacksaddle?” he asked in orcish.
“I’m not telling you anything, groundling.”
“Maybe you’d prefer to tell my friend.”
He reached toward the seated giant and flipped back his visor. Violet light bathed the hideous features of the prisoner, who looked away in horror and fear. Tungdil took care not to look at Djerůn; what he had glimpsed in the desert village would haunt him forever. “Or do you want him to bite off your arms?”
The orc squealed something that Tungdil couldn’t understand, then said more clearly, “No, don’t let him touch me!”
“What are you doing at the Blacksaddle?”
“We’re besieging the groundlings,” the orc answered, his voice cracking with fear. “They tried to hide from us, but Nôd’onn wants them dead.”
“Why?”
“How should I know?”
“Is he there?”
The orc fell silent but kept a wary eye on Djerůn.
Tungdil could practically smell his fear. “Is the magus at the Blacksaddle?” he repeated. When nothing happened, the giant seized the initiative. His head sped forward, and they heard a loud crunch.
Screaming, the orc stared at the mangled stump where his arm had once been. “You’re right, you’re right,” he cried, howling with pain. “The magus is at the Blacksaddle!”
“When is he going to attack?” Tungdil asked pitilessly.
“I don’t know. I was ordered to be there in four orbits.” The beast groaned, trying to stop the gushing blood with his other hand. Green gore spurted through his fingers. “That’s all I —”
Djerůn hadn’t eaten for ages, and the sight of a fresh meal was too tempting to resist. Without consulting Andôkai or Tungdil, he seized the orc, killed it, and devoured its twitching corpse. His back was turned, so none of the dwarves could see his face.
At the sound of the maga’s voice, he dropped the body like a shot, closed his visor, and sat back down. Drops of green blood trickled from his helmet and there was a sickening smell of orc guts.
“Throw the rest away,” Andôkai ordered. Djerůn dropped the remains of the beast over the side of the carriage.
“By the hammer of Vraccas, if we didn’t need the giant for our mission…” Ireheart broke off his threat. “He’s a monster — a tame one, but a monster all the same.” He glanced at the maga. “I hope your god doesn’t get tired of you and turn the brute against us.” His axes disappeared back into his belt. “I’m here if you need me; just say the word.”
Andôkai declined to comment.
So Samusin’s son devours his father’s creatures. Tungdil stared in fascination at the demonic visor. Djerůn’s helmet was still glowing violet as if an eternal fire were blazing inside his head. Tungdil caught Narmora’s eye. “The orcs were supposed to be there in four orbits. We’ve got a new deadline.” He turned to face the front and felt a rush of air that cleared his nostrils of the smell of dead orc. Girdlegard will soon be free of evil — or forever in its thrall.
Underground Network,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
Later on they came across another fifty orcs whose bodies had been stacked to the side of the track. Their mysterious protectors had been at work again, although they continued to hide themselves from view.
The rest of their journey was uneventful, and they surfaced in the former kingdom of Gauragar, not far from the Blacksaddle.
Tungdil recognized the area straightaway. “It’s this way,” he told them, leading them to the hill from which he had first seen the Blacksaddle. Crouching low, they scrambled to the top, hoping not to be spotted by sentries. They weren’t ready to don their disguises yet.
“Vraccas almighty, we’re not a moment too soon,” he whispered.
The murky forest of conifers was gone, replaced by a ring of wooden structures whose platforms were crawling with miniature figures that looked like orcs. The towers were already dizzyingly high, but the beasts were adding extra stories in the hope of storming the stronghold from the summit or the upper slopes. They must have tired of banging their heads against the solid base of the Blacksaddle or perhaps the growling mountain had shaken them from its flanks.
It looks more sinister than ever without the trees.
Every now and then black torrents cascaded from the hidden stronghold, forcing the besiegers to flee the steaming liquid or perish in its flow. Elsewhere, fiery projectiles rained down on the army from chinks in the rock, landing among the beasts and dousing them in oil. Countless troopers were incinerated in the blaze.
They’ve resurrected the old defenses.
But despite their losses, Nôd’onn’s soldiers continued undeterred. The beasts were swarming like ants around the base of the Blacksaddle, scouring the flat ground for anything that could be used in their assault on the flanks.
A detachment of ogres had been put to work splitting tree trunks and building siege engines. The defenders focused on toppling the towers or setting light to them before the orcs could climb high enough to pose a threat; but it did nothing to discourage the ogres, who collected the debris and started again. Their smaller comrades milled about impatiently, desperate for the attack to begin.
“It’s strange, isn’t it?” said Tungdil to his dwarven companions. He kept his eyes fixed on the mountain ahead. “The thirdlings built the stronghold to wipe out the other dwarves, but now it’s the only thing protecting us from Nôd’onn.” He suddenly remembered the runes that he had found on his first visit to the mountain. Roused by the thirdlings / Against the will of the thirdlings. / Drenched again / In blood, / The blood / Of all their / Line. He wondered what it could mean.
“I’ve never seen so many of them,” said Balyndis, staring wide-eyed at the beasts below.
The enemy had pitched their tents in a circle around the mountain about a mile from its base. Their shelters barely looked sturdy enough to withstand the snow and winter winds. Here and there black puffs of smoke rose skyward.
“Eighty thousand at a guess,” Boïndil said evenly. He thumped Tungdil on the back. “I’m not saying you were right about books, but I’d need more than my axes to deal with a rabble like that. Your plan will work better after all.”
Rodario pointed west. “Do you think those are Nôd’onn’s quarters?” He indicated a stately tent, far larger than the others and draped in malachite-colored cloth. “I’d certainly want a tent like that if I were the magus. Canvas is all very well for the riffraff, but a man of authority deserves something better.”
Furgas sighed. “Thank goodness you weren’t born a nobleman. Your subjects would have strung you up cycles ago.”
“Not if you were around to invent a slower way of killing me.” They smiled at each other companionably.
“Speaking of inventions.” Furgas gestured away from the main battleground and pointed to a band of ogres who were constructing a rolling siege engine. It towered two hundred paces above the ground and looked far more robust than its foregoers. “That should do the trick for them. They’ve used tiles on the outside to make it less flammable.”
Hundreds of orcs descended on the contraption, swarming over its many platforms, arming it with crossbows and catapults, and stocking the slings with missiles and spears. The ogres finished the building work and bent down to push the tower toward the mountain. Bugles were sounded, heralding an all-out attack.
“It’s time we did something,” ruled Tungdil. “Narmora, bring the prisoners to Nôd’onn.”
She nodded resolutely and donned her disguise.
A few moments later they were faced with one of the deadliest creatures in Tion’s creation. The transformation went deeper than the change of clothes; with each piece of älf armor, Narmora looked crueler and more menacing, her face hardening and paling. As she straightened up, her voice sounded oddly sinister. “And now for the most important part…” The whites of her eyes darkened, leaving nothing but fathomless blackness, the distinguishing feature of the älfar by day.
If I didn’t know better… To Tungdil, she looked exactly like a real älf, which was precisely what they needed for their
plan to succeed. “Perfect,” he praised her.
Andôkai got out the dark blue amulet that belonged to the dead älf in the desert and hung it around Narmora’s neck. “The crystal will ward off Nôd’onn’s magic,” she said. “I want you to wear it in case we get separated and you find yourself fighting on your own.”
Narmora smiled at her. “Wait here. I’ll fetch the armor for my mercenaries.” She slipped away noiselessly and disappeared.
Tungdil noticed that Balyndis had reached for her ax. “She’s… she’s changed,” the dwarf said defensively. “She’s all sinister and threatening, just like a real älf.”
“What if her dark side takes over?” asked Boïndil, who didn’t mind voicing his doubts. “She’ll have Keenfire and we can’t kill Nôd’onn without it. The maga won’t be able to hurt her because of the amulet. How are we supposed to stop her if she turns against us?”
Furgas rushed to his mistress’s defense. “She’s still Narmora, you know,” he said fiercely. “Don’t forget that she’s an actress. No matter what she says or does, you mustn’t doubt her. She’s had plenty of opportunity to —”
Narmora returned with an armful of bloodied armor belonging to some careless sentries. She threw the garments into the snow. “You’ll have to wipe them clean,” was all she said.
Once Rodario had taken some “special precautions,” as he mysteriously referred to them, the company began the most perilous phase of their journey yet.
Tungdil, Gandogar, Balyndis, and Boïndil took their places at the heart of the group, surrounded by their captors, whose faces were hidden by their foul-smelling helmets. Narmora had swaddled Keenfire in rags and was carrying the weapon on her back. Djerůn stayed behind, poised to charge down the hillside and cut down the enemy if his mistress should signal for help.
Boïndil found it especially difficult to be separated from his beloved axes. Worse still, his hands were bound, a circumstance he tolerated only because they couldn’t get to Nôd’onn by any other means. A worrying thought occurred to him. “Tell me again how the story ended.”
Rodario opened his mouth to enlighten him, but Tungdil cut him off. “Happily,” he said firmly. He locked gazes with the impresario, pleading with him to let the falsehood stand. Rodario rolled his eyes, but refrained from comment.
