by Markus Heitz
And when our kinsmen fall in battle
It was ever thus
Our souls are summoned to Vraccas’s smithy
It was ever thus
Eternal warmth, eternal fire
It was ever thus
We seek no praise, we need no thanks
It was ever thus
We do our duty, we do it gladly
It was ever thus
Our ax is sharp, our chain mail glistens
It was ever thus
No beast can breach the dwarves’ defenses
It was ever thus.
Mallen’s men sat in hushed silence while the deep sonorous voices sung of honor, loyalty, and service to Girdlegard. The men, although ignorant of the dwarven language, had no trouble understanding the music, which seemed to come straight from the soul.
The chorus of voices echoed over the hills, carried across the valleys and soared to the stars.
The singing stirred the hearts and minds of everyone in the camp. Tungdil’s thoughts were still buzzing when he made his way to bed. He remembered the scout’s description of the dead glades. What new evil is this, Vraccas? It seems our worries aren’t over yet. He decided to investigate further as soon as he had the chance. A moment later, he was asleep.
The next morning, it was time for the men and dwarves to part.
Tungdil and his warriors would travel underground through the network of tunnels to the secondling kingdom, while Mallen’s men would make their way on foot, in carriages or on horseback to Idoslane.
The dwarves tramped through the battlefield and lowered themselves into the shaft, glad to get away from the circling ravens and the overwhelming stench.
Boïndil led the way. With every rung of the ladder he seemed to shed a little of the sorrow from the previous night. He was looking forward to the journey and to being reunited with his brother whom they had left in the care of the firstlings to recover from the älfar attack.
“It’s the longest we’ve ever been parted,” he said as Tungdil reached the bottom of the ladder. They set off toward the wagons that would carry them through the underground network.
“How are you coping?”
Boïndil tugged his braided beard and pulled out a stray leaf that didn’t belong there. “It’s hard,” he admitted with a sigh. “You curb my temper better than anyone except Boëndal, but I’m calmer when he’s around.” He thought for a moment. “It’s like hobbling around on one leg: I can manage, but part of me is missing. Boëndal knows what I’m thinking before I do. I’m not the same without him—even fighting doesn’t help.”
Tungdil sensed that he was holding back. “What is it, Boïndil? Something was bothering you last night.”
“I… I’m not sure how to describe it,” said Boïndil, considering. “I’ve got a bad feeling, almost like a chill. The worst of the winter is over, but my insides are frozen. What if Boëndal is in danger?”
They turned a corner and stopped abruptly. Tungdil, forgetting what he was about to say, gaped at the devastation. The roof of the tunnel had caved in, and a wall of rubble blocked their way. Worse still, their wagons were buried beneath the rock.
Growling indignantly, Boïndil bent down and reached for a scrap of metal protruding from the mess. He pulled on it casually; then, muscles tensing, he gave it an almighty tug. The warped piece of wagon came away in his hand. “It was their blasted horses,” he said irritably. “Their stupid clodhopping made the tunnel collapse.” He tossed the metal away carelessly.
Tungdil suspected that the real blame lay with the quake. After Nôd’onn’s defeat, the Blacksaddle had been hit by a terrible tremor that, judging by reports from the allies’ scouts, had shaken every village in Girdlegard. It stood to reason that the ancient network of tunnels would be damaged.
I hope the dwarven kingdoms fared better. “Change of plan,” he said to the others. He gestured to the surface. “We’ll have to look for another entrance.”
His confident manner belied his concern. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t safe to travel through the tunnels until the structure had been checked. Certain sections of the network could be negotiated only by swooping downhill, and a collision would result in certain death.
Maybe we should do the whole journey on foot or by pony trap, he thought as they clambered to the surface.
It was three hundred miles to the Blacksaddle and another six hundred to the secondling kingdom in the Blue Range. Traveling underground, the distance could be covered in a matter of orbits; walking would take an eternity.
Does someone want to stop us getting to the firstlings? Is Girdlegard in danger? His vague misgivings hardened into an unshakable sense of dread that yesterday’s victory could do nothing to allay. At last they reached the surface and he hauled himself out of the shaft. “I want everyone moving as fast as possible. Get together in pairs or groups to carry the wounded. It’s time we got home.”
They used the sun to find their bearings and headed east. On reaching the crest of a hill above the battlefield, they came to a sudden halt.
“By Beroïn’s beard, it’s a camp!” exclaimed Boïndil, peering down the far slope. He sniffed the air and examined the ground; the earth had been churned up by thousands of boots. “Another army of runts,” he growled. He set off at a run, followed by the others, and stopped at the bottom of the hill. Bending down, he ran a hand over the footprints, sniffed the soil and spat. “I’ll give them a taste of my axes,” he vowed, fixing his eyes on the broad channel of muddy earth that the orcish troopers had left in their wake. “They’re heading north.”
Tungdil looked in vain for evidence of a campfire. Two of his warriors called to him from a knoll; there were more orcish footprints and a couple of dead troopers under a tree. Ravens had clustered over the bodies and were squawking and fighting for their share of the prey. Judging by the evidence, the orcs had been killed the previous orbit. The birds had ripped away the dark green flesh, exposing the bone.
“They were watching us,” said Tungdil, praying that Boïndil wouldn’t chase after them. “They must have waited up here while their cousins were dying. They saw which way the battle was going, and left.”
“Miserable cowards,” snapped Ireheart, aiming a kick at one of the corpses. The nearest raven hopped away awkwardly, flapping its wings. “Trust the runty villains to hide from us. I wouldn’t have minded a proper fight.” He turned to Tungdil. “Four thousand of them, minimum. They’re on their way north.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” said Tungdil, baffled. He picked up an empty water pouch and dropped it hurriedly because of the awful smell. “The odds were in their favor; you’d expect them to attack.” He paused, deciding what to do. “I want to see what they’re up to,” he announced, knowing that his plan would meet with the secondling’s approval. “We’ll follow them.” Dwarves weren’t particularly fleet of foot and orcs were naturally faster, but it was probably worth a shot.
“Huzzah!” whooped Ireheart. “Five score of us, four thousand of them: that’s four hundred for every…” He broke off, remembering his brother in the firstling kingdom. Their reunion would be delayed. His face dropped.
“Hang on,” said Tungdil. “We’re not going to fight them; we’re going to see what they’re up to.” He dispatched a couple of messengers to chase after Mallen and tell him the news. Another twenty warriors were instructed to spread out in all directions and warn the villagers of Gauragar about the orcish army. “Tell them to take to the hills or seek refuge in the towns,” Tungdil instructed them.
“Do you see that?” said Boïndil, pointing at the orcish corpses. “Whoever beheaded them was wasting his time. They were stabbed to death first.”
“I expect their chief was making an example of them,” reasoned Tungdil. “He probably wanted to bring his troopers into line.”
“Maybe,” Boïndil said doubtfully, “but this one was stabbed three times before they chopped off his head. A chief would kill with a single strike.” He raised his
arm and made a noise like a whooshing ax. “It’s a sign of strength—and precision.”
“I suppose you’ve got a better explanation,” said Tungdil.
Boïndil was unconvinced by Tungdil’s theory, but he couldn’t think how else to explain the troopers’ wounds. The discussion ended there.
They set off toward the north of Gauragar, the terrain becoming craggier and more barren with every mile. Green meadows gave way to bare earth, rocks, and the occasional tuft of grass. Thankfully, the orcs had left an unmistakable trail of food scraps and boot prints, which saved the dwarves the trouble of checking their route.
“I wonder if we’ll see a dead glade,” murmured Tungdil. “Did you hear what Mallen’s scout was saying?”
Boïndil looked at him blankly. “A dead glade? Sounds like something to be avoided.”
Tungdil filled him in on what the scout had said. “Dead glades are patches of forest inhabited by the Perished Land. King Bruron banned his subjects from approaching them because the evil affects their brains. You can tell a dead glade by the color of the trees—they’re completely black.”
“I thought the Perished Land had retreated,” growled Boïndil. “We can’t let it hide in the trees.”
Tungdil kept his eyes on the churned-up path. “I’ll ask Andôkai to deal with it. The Perished Land is a canker. Who knows how far it might spread?”
Slowing his pace, the secondling fell back and instructed the rest of the company to look out for black trees. Anything suspicious should be reported to King Bruron.
During the second orbit of marching, the tracks turned sharply to the east, heading straight for the highest hill. The sudden change in direction and the unnecessary ascent indicated that the orcs had left their original course.
On the third orbit of marching, the dwarves, defying the odds, succeeded in closing on the longer-legged, faster orcs. They watched from a distance of barely two miles as the beasts swarmed up a hill and disappeared over the crest.
“Oink, oink!” grunted Boïndil in excitement.
Tungdil shot him a warning look. “We’re not going to fight them,” he said, laying a restraining hand on the secondling’s arm. “We wouldn’t stand a chance.”
They set off in pursuit, this time taking care to stay hidden. They ascended the steep, stony slope and stopped just short of the crest.
Tungdil took off his helmet and his long brown hair billowed in the breeze. Keeping low to the ground, he edged forward and lifted his head slowly so that only his eyes and his crown were visible over the summit. Boïndil crawled across the trampled ground to join him.
Their excitement turned to alarm. The orcs were streaming into a dark, wooded area. Tungdil stared at the trees with their black trunks and bare branches. The beasts were heading for a pool of water, the inky content of which was lapping against the stony shore and staining it black.
Tungdil had a fair idea what he was looking at. “A dead glade,” he whispered. “It stands to reason, I suppose.”
Boïndil peered at the orcs incredulously. “What are they doing? Surely they don’t mean to stay there? Even by orcish standards it’s a hellhole.”
Tungdil could tell that his friend was itching for a fight. “We’re not going in,” he said sternly. “We’ll tell King Bruron that we’ve found another dead glade. He’ll make sure that the orcs stay where they are—they won’t be leaving here alive.”
Raising his head a little, he surveyed the bare treetops and tried to gauge the size of the glade. It measured at least a mile in each direction, a vast blotch of foreboding and death. Just then a familiar odor came to him on the wind. He wrinkled his nose in disgust; it was the smell of brackish water that had permeated the drinking pouch, but this time it was coming from the sinister pool. “Fancy a sip?”
Boïndil made retching noises. “I’d sooner die than drink it.”
Tungdil broke into a cold sweat as he remembered what the scout had said. The humans who strayed into the dead glades were beheaded by their fellow men. He stared at the inky pool. What if the two dead orcs had drunk the fetid water and gone mad? Was that why they were stabbed and beheaded? For want of an answer, he stopped worrying and crawled down the slope to make his report to the other dwarves. After a long wait, a delegation of Bruron’s men arrived and Tungdil gave them a detailed account of what he had witnessed.
“It’s time we went home,” he announced. Even Boïndil was happy with the change of plan. The prospect of seeing his brother outweighed the appeal of another battle, and he was looking forward to a solid dwarven meal, washed down with a tankard of Girdlegard’s finest beer.
They set off on the long journey home.
Lorimbur’s Folk,
Thirdling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th/6235th Solar Cycle
Bislipur overreached himself,” said a deep voice. The lofty walls threw back the words as a toneless echo, then it was quiet in the chamber. Only the fire continued to spit and crackle. An armored hand balled itself into a fist, the articulated fingers creaking as the spikes on the knuckles rose menacingly. “Cycles of plotting, and for what? I knew it would come to nothing.”
“The other folks are weak, Your Majesty. Hundreds died at the Blacksaddle. The situation can still be turned to our advantage.” The red glow from the fire accentuated the terrible scars on his gleaming scalp. Contrary to appearances, the lines had been cut by a thirdling tattooist, not an enemy sword. The sequence of dwarven runes spelled death and destruction to the enemies of his kingdom, and his artfully chiseled skull was fearsome to behold. “They lost their best warriors in the battle with Nôd’onn’s hordes. It left them crippled and toothless.”
His kinsman leaned forward. His long black hair was streaked with gray and braided into three plaits that sat neatly against his scalp. “We’re not ready for open warfare.”
The thirdling commander-in-chief shrugged, causing his tunic—a finely crafted shirt of interlocking plates and chain mail—to jangle. “Name me a better time, Lorimbas Steelheart. We haven’t been as strong as this in two hundred cycles.”
“My plan is more subtle, Salfalur Shieldbreaker,” replied the thirdling king. His beard was stiff with dye, hanging like an overstarched pennant from his chin. Even when he talked, the red, gray, and brown whiskers stayed perfectly rigid. He leaned over the table and studied a map of Girdlegard. “Bislipur’s mistake was to move too slowly. My goal shall be achieved within a decade.” He rose from his marble chair and signaled for his commander-in-chief to follow. The hall where they held their briefings was dimly lit, with specks of iron pyrite glittering weakly in the dark stone walls. The two dwarves seemed to be walking through nothingness with only a smattering of sparkling stars.
A line of triangular pillars hewn from the flesh of the mountain stretched toward a set of stairs. Lorimbas ascended them quickly and threw open the doors to reveal a golden shrine.
Lorimbur, founding father of the thirdlings, rested here. His coffin stood upright, his marble likeness staring out from the lid. Dwarven runes made of diamonds, precious stones, and gems praised his deeds and exhorted his descendants to avenge and destroy.
Lorimbas bowed his head respectfully. “Too long have we endured their scorn,” he muttered absently. He reached out with his right hand and caressed the cold effigy. “Too many times have we failed in our duty to avenge the injustices suffered by our founder. The time is ripe, thirdling father. Your bidding will be done, and your faithful son, Lorimbas Steelheart of the clan of the Stone Grinders, ruler of your children, will drive the descendants of Beroïn, Borengar, Goïmdil, and Giselbert from their kingdoms.” He kneeled down, unhooked a three-flanged mace from his belt, and held it toward the dead king. “This I promise on my life.”
Salfalur joined him at the coffin and dropped to his knees. There was no need for him to speak: Lorimbas had given full expression to the passion that burned wordlessly in his soul. Head bowed, with the lethal spike of his double-hea
ded hammer inclined respectfully to the coffin, Salfalur vowed silently to uphold the thirdling cause.
Hours passed as they prayed together, so absorbed in their devotion that their aching arms and bruised knees barely registered in their minds.
At last Lorimbas rose, kissed the sacred boots of his ancestor and locked the shrine.
Salfalur lingered for a moment, gazing at the shimmering gold doors. Like all thirdlings, he loved the founder of his kingdom better than Vraccas, who had forsaken his bold-minded son.
Lorimbur’s crime was to insist on his right to choose his own name. The flint-willed dwarf, who possessed a special measure of that dwarven quality referred to as obduracy, had argued until he achieved his purpose, but in so doing he displeased the dwarven god. His brothers each received a talent, but Lorimbur was condemned to mediocrity, and his descendants never fully mastered the dwarven arts.
Salfalur leaned forward and studied the doors. In his eyes, the inscriptions looked beautiful, but a firstling would compare the metalwork to the imperfect efforts of a human smith.
They’ll pay for their arrogance, he vowed darkly, flexing his muscles. He wore heavy vambraces equipped with knives to protect his arms in battle. “What did you have in mind, Your Majesty?” he asked, bowing his head as he descended backward from the shrine.
The king followed him down the steps and they returned to the marble table to study the map. “We’ll drive a wedge between them and shatter their alliance,” said the king, reaching for a pitcher and filling their silver tankards with beer. The index finger of his right hand hovered over the Blacksaddle. “The thirdlings built that stronghold, and I intend to get it back. It’s ours by right.” He raised his tankard. “To our cousins, for restoring its defenses.” He drank thirstily and replaced the tankard on the table with a noisy clunk. “Well?” he prompted, eying his silent commander. “What do you say?”
The plan made little sense to Salafur, who didn’t mind airing his concerns. “What use is the stronghold, Your Majesty? If it’s the tunnels you’re interested in, we’ve got access to them here.”
