by Markus Heitz
Needless to say, the whole group looked to Tungdil for guidance. “There’s a chance we’re in Lesinteïl,” their leader conceded quietly.
“Unbelievable,” snorted Boïndil, aiming a kick at the elegantly sculpted marble. “First you ask us to jump into a pond, and then you lead us straight to the heart of the pointy-ears’…” He stopped short and corrected himself. “Straight to the heart of an elven kingdom. No wonder I’ve got the shivers; it’s no place for a dwarf.”
“If you’ve finished complaining,” said Tungdil, “I suggest we carry on. You seem to have forgotten that we’re friends with the elves.”
“Tell that to the forest,” growled Boïndil, setting off behind him. He turned and glared at a nearby tree. “Trip me up, and I’ll hack you to pieces. Consider yourself warned.”
It was probably coincidence, but at that moment the wind got up, whistling threateningly through the trees.
Boïndil whipped out his axes and banged them together, filling the forest with a high-pitched jangling of metal. “Was that supposed to scare me?” he shouted defiantly. “Do it again at your peril!”
Footsore and tired, the dwarves continued their journey, eating and drinking on the move. At dawn, the tops of the trees were wreathed in mist. The sun was still rising slowly as they made their way out of the forest and stopped at the edge of a meadow. The terrain was completely flat, but the grass, a mixture of dead stalks and fresh new blades, came as high as their chests.
Scattered about the meadow was the wreckage of an elven town, and beyond that, a pond, just as Bramdal had described. For some reason, the executioner had omitted to mention that the water was as black as the night. Devoid of light or sparkle, its surface swallowed every particle of sunlight. Tungdil was reminded of the dull, forbidding water of the dead glade.
Boïndil wouldn’t stop shaking his head. “I wouldn’t have minded if you could see the bottom, but this…” He pointed to the pond. “It’s the work of the Perished Land.”
One of the others nodded. “It’s as black as pitch. I’ll be darned if I dip my toe in it, let alone the rest of me.”
“We need to get a proper look,” said Tungdil, tramping through the grass.
Tendrils of ivy twisted playfully over scattered blocks of stone. Unlike the elves of landur, the founders of Lesinteïl had favored solid, imposing buildings, but the weather and the älfar had taken their toll, and it was difficult to imagine how the town had once looked.
“Don’t wait for me—I’ll catch up,” said one of Tungdil’s companions, stopping among the ruins. Bigor Stonecolumn was a stoneworking secondling, who was drawn to masonry of any sort. He ran his calloused fingers over crumbling carvings, cracked sculptures, and once-beautiful friezes, the colors of which had faded in the sun. “Not bad for a bunch of flower-pickers,” he said admiringly.
The dwarf studied the intricate workmanship and found no sign of faulty hammer strikes or careless chisel cuts. In spite of himself, he wished the elven town were still standing so that he could see it in its original glory.
Meanwhile, Tungdil had arrived at the pond. He looked around for Bigor, but the secondling was nowhere in sight. “Bigor?” he called.
“Don’t worry, scholar. He’ll be admiring the ruins,” said Boïndil.
“Or answering a call of nature,” chuckled one of the others. “The grass will be glad of some water.”
Tungdil peered at the pond. In front of him were the sorry remains of a pier, and, further left, a tumbledown shrine, which, according to the worn inscription, was dedicated to Sitalia, goddess of the elves. A flight of stone steps led down to the water.
Right, here goes… He crouched at the water’s edge, pulled off his gloves, and hesitated briefly before lowering his index finger into the liquid darkness. The water felt cold. “It seems harmless enough,” he said to the others. “The pier reaches almost to the middle of the pond. With a proper run-up, we should be able to reach the—”
“Hang on a second, scholar,” interrupted Boïndil. “I’m not in the habit of questioning your decisions, but you can’t seriously be suggesting that we should jump in there.”
Tungdil didn’t like exploiting his friend’s weaknesses, but he was left with no choice. “You’re not scared, are you, Ireheart?” He scooped up some water and threw it at the dwarf. “Ooo,” he teased. “Can you feel it trying to kill you? It’s only water, you know.”
The tactic worked. Boïndil puffed out his chest, wounded honor triumphing over his instincts. “Why would a warrior be afraid of Elria?” he asked proudly. “Look, I’ll dive in and prove it.” He clambered onto the pier, but Tungdil held him back.
“Hold on, we can’t leave without Bigor.” He called the mason’s name and waited in vain for an answer. “We’d better look for him. Everyone spread out.”
“I reckon he’s been kidnapped by the forest,” said Boïndil, pulling out his axes. “Elvish trees can’t stand us dwarves.”
“You threatened them,” commented one of his companions. “What do you expect?”
“For them to behave themselves,” snapped Boïndil, hacking at the high grass to work off his temper.
They spread out and advanced in a line, sweeping the meadow for the missing dwarf, and calling his name.
Next to a marble column, shielded by head-high grass, they found Bigor, or what was left of him.
At once Boïndil and the others formed a defensive ring around Tungdil and the corpse.
Bigor’s mail tunic had been pulled halfway over his head and his leather jerkin ripped to shreds, exposing his torso. His flesh was covered in bite marks and some of his bones were missing, including his ribs. The trampled grass around the body glistened moistly with blood.
“This was the work of an animal,” reported Tungdil.
Boïndil glared furiously at the sea of rippling stems that blocked their view in all directions. “It was a thirdling trap,” he growled. “Your friendly executioner was trying to feed us to his pet.” He shifted his weight, planting both feet firmly on the ground. “The dwarf-eating monster won’t be gobbling any more of our kinsfolk. I’ll deal with the varmint, you’ll see.”
Noticing a wide channel of trampled grass, Tungdil concluded that the predator was by no means small, which led him to wonder why no one had heard it pouncing on Bigor. Judging by the dwarf’s half-eaten remains, the creature had been disturbed mid-meal. It must be lurking nearby, he thought with a shudder. He tried to predict the creature’s next move. There were two possibilities: either it meant to attack them, or it was waiting to finish its meal.
Just then a strong wind gusted through the field. Amid the rustling grass, the hiss of an approaching arrow went unnoticed by the dwarves.
Its arrival was so sudden and unexpected that the dwarf to the right of Boïndil barely realized he was hit. Staggering backward, he raised a hand to his chest and closed his fingers disbelievingly around the black shaft protruding from his mail shirt. Pierced through the heart, he slumped to the ground.
“Älfar!” came the shouted warning from Boïndil. Not wanting to offer an easy target, he threw himself onto his belly. The arrow intended for him sailed over his head and pierced the back of the dwarf behind him. Groaning, the stricken dwarf keeled over. A third dwarf took two arrows to the chest.
Seeing the arrows come thick and fast, Tungdil realized that there was more than one archer. By his reckoning, at least three älfar were hiding in the grass, making it all but impossible for the dwarves to fight and win.
“Get down and crawl,” he ordered, throwing himself to the ground. He lowered his voice. “Make for the pond. We’ll soon see whether Bramdal was telling the truth.”
“Are you blind or something?” barked Boïndil, wriggling through the grass beside him. “This is the Perished Land! We can’t—”
Tungdil grabbed a handful of grass. “Look, it’s green, not gray! The Perished Land has been banished.” An arrow whistled over their heads. “No more talking; I’ll se
e you at the pond.” He pushed himself carefully across the ground, intent on disturbing as few blades as possible. The älfar were bound to be looking for movement in the grass.
What brought them here? he wondered feverishly. Lesinteïl’s occupation ended cycles ago. It was too far north for älfar scouts, especially when their troops were in action on the fringes of landur and Dsôn Balsur. Tungdil could think only that they knew of some secret weapon in the fallen kingdom that they were hoping to use against the elves.
The rustling increased as if hundreds of älfar were swarming through the meadow. During his long crawl toward the pond Tungdil heard five more agonized screams.
Seized by fury, he felt like drawing Keenfire and confronting his pursuers, but common sense convinced him otherwise, thereby prolonging his life. The älfar were expert marksmen, and neither mail shirts nor solid armor could halt the arrows that sped from their bows. A dwarf, stationary or moving, was an easy target, and Tungdil knew better than to break his cover. He hoped to Vraccas that his surviving companions would stay out of sight.
Just then Samusin, commander of winds and god of equilibrium, noticed the outnumbered dwarves. The wind changed direction, blowing across the pond toward the dwarves and their pursuers.
Tungdil decided to get out his tinderbox and set light to the grass.
“Burn the meadow!” he shouted, rejoicing at the sight of the dancing flames working their way up the dry stalks and spreading like lightning. A moment later, several other columns of smoke appeared above the field. The breeze fanned the flames, sweeping them toward the älfar.
Protected by the smoke, grass, and flames, Tungdil kept crawling until he reached the edge of the pond. Glancing around, he spotted two of his companions; of the others, including Boïndil, he saw no sign.
Before he could instruct his companions to dive into the water, a shadow fell over them and a vast creature emerged from the field.
The saddled bull was barely ten paces away. It was wearing a helmet of gleaming tionium and its horns were sheathed in metal. Smoke rose from its coat, and its hooves were singed, as Tungdil could tell from the acrid odor.
There could be no doubt of its intentions. It turned to face the dwarves, lowering its broad head, scraping its hooves against the ground, and snorting aggressively. Its tail swept from side to side.
“Quick, to the pier,” commanded Tungdil, drawing Keenfire. Deep down, he knew the ax could do nothing to stop the charging bull. The beast weighed at least a quarter of a ton and was made of pure muscle without an ounce of fat. “Dive into the water—it’s our only chance!” They started running.
The bull watched them with fiery red eyes. Opening its jaws, it let out a bloodcurdling roar, showed them its jagged incisors and broke into a trot, accelerating as it thundered behind them, churning up the ground. Tungdil realized that the beast would be upon them before they reached the pier.
“Hey, over here, you cud-chewing brute!” A split-second later, Ireheart shot out of the grass. Grabbing the bull by its tail, he dug his heels into the churned-up soil and pulled back with all his might.
The bull charged onward, dragging Boïndil, whose boots carved two deep furrows in the ground. Suddenly it stopped and whipped around to glower at the intrepid warrior hanging off its tail.
“I’ll teach you to eat my friends,” shouted Ireheart, pulling one of his axes from his belt. The blade cut a deep gash in the bull’s behind. “Keep going, scholar. I’ve got your back.”
Tungdil peered into the raging wall of flames that separated the pond from the meadow, but the älfar were nowhere to be seen. After assuring himself that the coast was clear, he signaled for the others to follow and hurried onto the pier. Thereafter they were in full view of any lurking archers. From the corner of their eyes they watched as Boïndil jabbed at the raging bull with one hand and clung to its tail with the other. Bucking and turning, the beast tried to shake itself free, but Boïndil’s grip was like iron and he stayed out of reach.
“I’ve killed bigger beasts than you,” the dwarf warned him. “What are you, an oversized cow? You won’t be around much longer.” Swinging his ax rapidly, he hacked at the creature’s legs. Crimson blood flowed from countless gashes, then the hind legs caved in, and the bull bellowed with helpless fury. “Now for your ribs,” roared Boïndil.
“Watch out! They’re—” With a final shriek, the dwarf next to Tungdil toppled over, a second arrow piercing his back as he fell. Gurgling incoherently, he convulsed and died.
“Älfar!” shouted Tungdil, stowing away his ax and grabbing his dead companion by the shoulders. He hoisted the body into the air and held it in front of him like a shield.
Unable to see anything, he took a step back, only to hear his other companion fall prey to the älfar’s arrows. Five times he heard the same sequence of noises—a soft whirr, a jangle of chain mail, and the terrible sound of metal burrowing through sinew and flesh. The dead dwarf splashed into the water.
Tungdil didn’t dare raise his head above the corpse to look for his attackers. Instead he stumbled backward toward the end of the pier. “Listen to me, Boïndil,” he ordered, doing his best to shout. “You can’t risk the pier: You’ll have to wade in from the side.”
Boïndil was standing beside the bull, both hands on his ax and aiming for the creature’s sturdy neck. “I’m not getting in that water!” he shouted, swinging his ax. “This cow needs to be—”
Just then the bull tensed its mighty muscles and its head jerked around. Its horns hit the dwarf’s belly, knocking him off his feet.
Boïndil flew four paces through the air and splashed into the somber water of the pond. His weapon followed a split-second later, disappearing with a gentle gurgle. Bubbles floated to the surface, but neither dwarf nor ax reappeared.
Tungdil decided that his friend’s unexpected flight was the work of Vraccas. He was preparing to launch himself after him when footsteps hurried down the pier.
Even as he lowered the corpse to gauge the distance, his right shoulder was hit by an arrow.
The strength drained out of his arm and his makeshift shield slipped even lower, exposing more of his body.
The älf dispatched another missile, this time hitting Tungdil’s chest. He crashed to the ground. Groaning, he tried to crawl out from under the corpse. Whether or not he reached the end of the pier was no longer of importance; his only chance of survival was to enter the water as fast as he could.
His pursuers were getting closer.
Glancing up, he saw a female älf wearing a half mask, her features veiled by a strip of black gauze. She was running toward him, calling something at the top of her voice. Without stopping, she raised a sickle-like weapon not dissimilar to Narmora’s and hurled it at his chest.
“My life is in your hands,” he muttered to Vraccas as he snapped the shaft of the arrow and rolled off the side of the pier. “I hope Bramdal wasn’t lying.”
He let himself fall.
The dark surface of the pond came closer and closer; then, just as he was approaching the water, he came to a sudden halt.
Someone had grabbed his weapons belt.
Pendleburg,
Southwest Urgon,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
My uncle, King Lorimbas Steelheart of the clan of the Stone Grinders, ruler of Lorimbur’s folk, sends his heartfelt condolences for the loss of your nephew. Urgon has been deprived of an exceptional king,” said Romo Steelheart, inclining his head in a gesture that was barely a bow.
He was standing at the foot of a throne, and the throne was in a modest palace—in Romo’s opinion, a humble fort. It was situated on the tallest of the three hills that made up Pendleburg, the capital of Urgon.
Wood was a rarity in the mountainous kingdom, and so the people of Urgon built their houses of stone. From a distance, it looked as if the city were made of thousands of colored cubes. There were no tiled roofs, only flat stone slabs on which laundry, fruit, an
d meat were laid to dry.
Pendleburg owed its colorfulness to the different types of rock available to the masons, who created mosaics and bold geometric patterns from the contrasting hues. Romo felt at home among the solid walls and soaring mountains, which bore comparison with the peaks of his native range.
“I didn’t want to be king,” said the man on the throne. He was probably about forty-five cycles old, small and rather portly. He pointed to a portrait of a young man with long fair hair. “Lothaire was a true king of Urgon…” His voice cracked and he broke off, burying his lopsided face in his hands. Tears seeped between his fingers.
Romo, who couldn’t abide weakness, masked his scorn by staring at the ceiling until the sobs had subsided.
“Forgive me,” said King Belletain, wiping the salty tears from his clipped brown beard. “The loss is still very fresh. My dear brother, Lothaire’s father, died seven cycles ago in the war against the trolls, and as for me…” He raised his hand and tapped his helmet. “I took a blow to the head. Since then I’ve had a face like a lopsided pumpkin, and I have to wear this helmet or my skull will fall apart. I thought I’d suffered enough, but the gods stole my nephew. I loved him like a son.”
That was Romo’s cue. From what he had seen so far, the king of Urgon would be easier to deal with than Mallen. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Your Majesty,” he ventured, knowing that if he hit the right note, Belletain would dance to his tune, “but the gods didn’t kill Lothaire. It was the dwarves.”
The king raised his head wearily and stared at his visitor. “Your kinsmen killed my nephew?” His hand reached for his sword. “Kneel in front of me, dwarf. Lothaire’s death must be avenged!”
“Not my kinsmen,” said Romo hastily. “I was referring to the fourthlings, the dwarves of Goïmdil whose stronghold lies to the northeast of your kingdom, the dwarves who live off the treasures of the Brown Range—treasures that belong to you.” Romo took a step toward the invalid on the throne. The king’s face was empty and unresponsive. “The fourthlings stood by while your nephew took arms against the magus. If they’d fought at Porista like they did at the Blacksaddle, Lothaire would have lived.”
