by Markus Heitz
“We’ve brought a stretcher,” said a deep voice behind him. “We’re going to take you to a doctor; Gemmil will deal with you after that.”
Four dwarves with incredibly pale skin stepped into Tungdil’s line of sight. Bending down, they placed him gently on a stretcher.
After studying their faces, Tungdil concluded that they looked like ordinary dwarves, only paler and without the usual dark brown eyes. One of their number was almost entirely colorless: His red eyes smiled at Tungdil from an ashen face.
Boïndil, unnerved by the pallid dwarf, placed a hand on his ax. “I’ll hack them to pieces if they attack us,” he promised, lowering his voice so only Tungdil could hear. He nodded surreptitiously at the back of the colorless dwarf. “Do you think he’s a ghost? It doesn’t seem natural.”
Tungdil had considered the matter already. “On the contrary,” he said, remembering the books about animal life in Lot-Ionan’s library. “I’ve read of cave-dwelling frogs who are born with no eyes. They live in total darkness, and their skin is pure white.”
“I see,” said Boïndil uncertainly. He wrung out his beard and turned his attention to his plait, trailing water as he walked. “But the dwarves in the other kingdoms live in underground halls, so how come—”
“That’s different. They don’t stay underground forever, do they? They come up to the surface to tend their cattle, trade their goods, set out on adventures…” Tungdil hadn’t studied science in detail, but he was sure that the loss of pigment resulted from living in darkness for a considerable time.
They exited the cavern, leaving the thundering waterfall behind them. The corridors reminded Tungdil of ancient waterways carved by rivers through the rock. Straight ahead was a small metal door that led into a simple room. Tungdil’s stretcher was lowered onto a table.
“I was expecting worse,” said a clear, bright voice like the ring of a hammer against an anvil. “Cut away his garments; I need to see the wounds.”
Two dwarves fitted a pair of sharp-edged pliers around the bottom of his mail shirt, while a third dwarf squeezed the handles. Ring by ring, the blades cut through his armor as if it were paper, not metal. The mail shirt fell to the table in two neat halves. Next the dwarves tore open the leather jerkin, exposing his chest.
“Let’s see what the älfar have done to you,” said the voice. Its owner stepped into view: a delicate dwarf with snow-white skin.
The sight of the dazzling stranger sent Tungdil’s memories of Balyndis up in smoke. He had never seen a more beautiful dwarf-woman.
“I’m Myrmianda,” she said. Her red eyes smiled at him, traveling down his face to study the arrow shafts protruding from his naked chest. She was dressed in dark brown robes and a leather apron. A golden circlet rested on her head, holding back her long snowy hair. “Everyone here will vouch for my skill. I’m a medic—I know what I’m doing.”
She leaned closer to examine the flesh around the wounds. Her fingers were remarkably slender and delicate for a dwarf. He breathed in her scent, which was clean and fresh without a hint of sweat or smoke. If anything, he detected an aroma of herbs.
“No discoloration or swelling—Vraccas was on your side,” she told him. Straightening up, she signaled to her assistants, who maneuvered Tungdil into a sitting position, pushing away the remains of his chain mail and slitting open the rest of his jerkin. “The älfar use arrows with detachable heads. We can’t leave anything in the wounds, so it’s no use pulling on the shafts. The only solution is to push them through.”
No sooner had she finished speaking than she placed her middle and index fingers on the broken shafts and pushed the arrows through his flesh.
Tungdil clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together furiously. It felt like red-hot pokers were passing through his shoulder and his chest. Myrmianda reached around him, taking hold of the arrowheads and pulling them from his back.
“Not all my patients are as brave as this,” she said approvingly, casting the arrowheads into a tub of water and washing her bloodied hands. She took some wet moss from a bowl and placed thick compresses on his front and back; then, with the help of her assistants, she bandaged his wounds. “Blue moss,” she told him. “It’s the best way to stop the bleeding. We’ll wait a few hours and change the dressings, and by tomorrow you won’t feel a thing.” She added a powdered substance to a beaker of water, and thrust it into his hand. “Here, this should boost your strength and help against fever.”
“By the hammer of Vraccas, that’s what I call efficient,” Boïndil said to her admiringly. He was almost tempted to get himself injured so that he could profit from her skill.
The medic nodded briskly. “Thank you. I’ve treated a fair few arrow wounds in my time.”
Tungdil was transfixed. Myrmianda spoke educated dwarfish, her accent was faultless, and she was bound to be well read; her delicate stature pointed to cycles of handling parchment rather than laboring in the mines. In short, she was nothing like Balyndis, who was twice as muscular and imposing, as befitted a smith.
He gulped down the contents of the beaker. “I’m Tungdil Goldhand,” he said, pulling himself together. “And this is Boïndil Doubleblade of the clan of the Swinging Axes of Beroïn’s line.”
She dried her hands on a towel and placed it on a little table. “The hero of the Blacksaddle and his trusty companion,” she said, inclining her head toward them. “It’s an honor to meet you. As far as I’m aware, slaying Nôd’onn isn’t against the rules of the dwarven kingdoms, so you must be here by chance. Did you fall into the water when the älfar attacked?”
Tungdil wished that he could be more upfront with Myrmianda, who, apart from being exceptionally beautiful, had treated and bandaged his wounds. “I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly, “we can’t discuss it until we’ve spoken to your king.”
For a moment she seemed disappointed, then she flashed him a smile that brought color to his cheeks. “In that case, I was wrong. You’re here for a reason, whatever it might be.”
Tungdil watched as she packed away her instruments: thin-bladed knives, hooks, surgical saws, and assorted paraphernalia that would be lethal in the hands of a warrior. Myrmianda rolled them up in a cloth, secured each end with a leather strap and took her leave. “I hope you feel better soon.”
A white-haired dwarf appeared at the door. His skin was whiter than white, and his eyes were the loamy brown of fresh soil. He wore a mail tunic, and an ax hung from his belt.
“May your inner furnace burn for many cycles,” he said welcomingly. “My name is Gemmil Callusedhand. I’m the elected sovereign of the freelings’ realm.”
Tungdil and Boïndil introduced themselves. Their names made an immediate impression on the king. “I’m honored by your visit. You bring news from the other kingdoms, I suppose?”
“Bramdal Masterstroke told us about your realm,” said Tungdil, launching into a lengthy explanation. He told Gemmil about the new fifthling kingdom, his meeting with the executioner, his efforts to find the exiles, and the älvish ambush at the pond. “Pardon me,” he said suddenly. “I should have started by thanking you for your assistance in defeating Nôd’onn. Your warriors stopped the orcs from overrunning the underground network, for which the kingdoms of Girdlegard will be forever in your debt.” He bowed as best he could with his bandaged chest. “Boïndil and I have particular cause to thank you—we couldn’t have forged Keenfire without the freelings’ help.”
“It’s as well you left a message in the tunnels,” said Gemmil, smiling. “We’re exiles, but even an exiled dwarf is a child of the Smith. Girdlegard’s safety is our priority; we couldn’t allow the magus to prevail.”
“Perhaps you could tell your subjects—”
“They’re not my subjects,” the king corrected him gently. “The dwarves in this realm are free in word and deed. We elect a king to take decisions on behalf of our community, and, at present, that honor falls to me. In three cycles, my term of office will be over, and we’ll hold another v
ote.”
“You pass the crown between you?” exclaimed Boïndil, laughing out loud. He clearly found the notion quite preposterous. “That’s a fine kind of monarchy!”
“The best,” agreed Gemmil, failing to take offense.
“Your Majesty,” said Tungdil, jumping in before Boïndil could insult the king again. “The freelings came to the aid of Girdlegard when it mattered. Would you be willing to fight with us again?” He summarized what he and Boïndil had seen at the Stone Gateway and outlined his fears about the army of orcish revenants marching north. “We think Ushnotz wants to seize the Stone Gateway. The new fifthling folk won’t survive the invasion of four thousand undead beasts, not to mention an influx of orcs from the Outer Lands, which is exactly what will happen if the missing scout tells his cousins that our defenses are down. Without you and your warriors, the kingdom will fall before our masons can fashion its gates. Only the freelings can reach us in time.”
The king frowned, his eyebrows joining together in a long white line that reminded Tungdil of a ridge of salt. “This is bad news indeed—and the loss of Keenfire makes it all the more serious. If the ax fell into the water, we won’t get it back.”
“If it’s gone, it’s gone,” said Boïndil lightly, knowing that Tungdil would be blaming himself for its loss. “We’ll get Balyndis to make a new one. Keenfire was forged to wipe out evil, so it won’t be much good in the hands of an älf. Besides, their axmanship is atrocious.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” said Tungdil thoughtfully. “Keenfire is a special dwarven weapon, a symbol of our victory over Tion’s hordes. Its loss will do us greater injury than any number of undead orcs.” He turned to the king. “Please, Your Majesty, I entreat you in the name of Glaïmbar Sharpax, king of the fifthlings, don’t let us fight this threat alone. Your warriors will give our kinsmen new courage. A doubting dwarf is easily conquered; your army will make us strong.”
Gemmil came straight to a decision. “I’ll send out messengers to spread the news. As soon as I’ve raised an army, I’ll dispatch it to the fifthling kingdom.” He stroked his white beard. “If the orcs attack before my warriors get there, you’ll have to hold out as best you can—Vraccas willing, it won’t be for long. Go back and tell your king that the freelings will answer his call.”
“How many can we count on?”
“As many as I can find,” said Gemmil with a shrug. His eyes settled on Tungdil’s bandages. “You won’t survive another run-in with the älfar. Take Myr, some of her assistants, and a few of my warriors. I can’t have you traveling alone.” He turned to leave.
“Can I ask a question, Gemmil?”
The king stopped at the door and nodded for Tungdil to continue.
“Our intention is to rebuild the kingdom in Giselbert’s name. Would any of you like to join us?”
“And swap our freedom for the unbending laws of a dwarven kingdom?” Gemmil paused. “It’s a charitable offer, Tungdil Goldhand, but we should focus on winning the battle against the orcs. After that, I’d like you to visit us properly so you can see the difference between the freelings and the other folks. I think you’ll understand why most of us would prefer to stay here.”
“What nonsense!” trumpeted Boïndil. “I’ve never heard such foolishness from a king.” He stomped toward the door, stopped in front of Gemmil, and looked him in the eye. “We’re just as free as you are!”
“I suppose you’re allowed to do whatever you please?”
“Too right we are,” said Boïndil stubbornly.
“So you wouldn’t have a problem disobeying your chieftain’s orders if you thought he was wrong?”
Boïndil was momentarily thrown. “Our chieftains are always right,” he snapped testily, looking to Tungdil for support. The argument wasn’t going as he had intended, but he was too hotheaded to back down.
“I’m glad to hear it. Wise chieftains never engage in pointless feuds about long-forgotten grievances.”
“Our chieftains never forget a grievance,” growled Boïndil.
“I’m sure they don’t,” said Gemmil. “And I expect they’re happy for you to meld the maiden of your choice…”
The disgruntled warrior said nothing, folding his hands in front of his chest.
“I’m not trying to score points,” said Gemmil earnestly. “I was merely suggesting that your laws aren’t always fair.”
Looking at the monarch’s face, Tungdil was convinced of his integrity, and even Boïndil was appeased.
“Change isn’t welcome in the old dwarven kingdoms,” the king continued. “The chieftains and elders are too attached to the power inherited from their forefathers. I can introduce you to dwarves who campaigned for greater freedom and were banished from their kingdoms. They’re freelings now, of course.”
Boïndil, who had been racking his brains for a comeback, spotted a weakness in Gemmil’s argument. “Let’s not forget that you accept all kinds of outcasts into your realm—murderers, troublemakers, and the like. Not all of them were banished for speaking out of turn. Surely it can’t be good to have criminals in your ranks?”
The king seemed suddenly eager to put an end to the debate. “We never ask why a dwarf was banished from his kingdom; all that matters is that he accepts our ethos and contributes to the common good.” He stepped backward into the corridor. “You’d do well to remember that some of our so-called criminals will soon be defending your kingdom against the orcs. Whatever their misdeeds, dwarves who risk their lives for the good of Girdlegard won’t be made to hump coals in Vraccas’s smithy. Our god will forgive their sins.”
The door closed behind him with a bang.
“Ha, did you hear that?” cackled Boïndil smugly. “He didn’t answer my question. Maybe he’s not so clever after all!”
“You shouldn’t have provoked him,” scolded Tungdil, who secretly agreed with Gemmil on a number of points. “We need his help, remember.” He slid down from the stretcher and walked over to his friend, who draped a blanket over his shoulders. “At least we’ve got what we came for; our poor companions won’t have died in vain.”
They kneeled down in front of the hearth, feeling the comforting warmth of the little fire. Closing their eyes, they prayed to Vraccas to bless their fallen companions and summon them to his smithy.
Tungdil’s thoughts turned to the freelings.
He was especially keen to see one of their cities. I wonder if they’ve got their own architecture, he mused. This question and a dozen others would remain unanswered until the last army of orcs had been chased out of Girdlegard, but Tungdil was determined to return one orbit and see how the freelings lived. I’d like to stay for long enough to understand their customs.
Tungdil was thrilled by the thought of seeing new things and discovering different ways of life. While dwarves like Boïndil were happiest in their kingdoms, Tungdil longed to know as much as possible about the wider world. He was interested, for example, in how Myr’s assistants had cut through his chain mail. The sharp-edged pliers were like nothing he had seen.
Boïndil finished praying and made his way to the corner of the room where the freelings had left them some food. He shoved a hunk of bread into his mouth and beckoned to Tungdil.
“Dig in,” he instructed him between mouthfuls, spraying his beard with crumbs. “It’s going to be a tough march with your injuries, but at least Myrmianda can help.”
I’m glad I was wounded, thought Tungdil, picturing the freeling’s face. Even the soft down on her cheeks was the color of snow with a faint hint of silver…
He felt a pang of guilt, and the vision of Myr morphed into Balyndis. He remembered how he had given her his heart. It doesn’t count anymore, he told himself. She’s melded to Glaïmbar. “We’ll be in capable hands,” he said casually. He strolled over to join Boïndil in the corner.
“Their food tastes nice enough,” said the secondling grudgingly. He could barely talk because his cheeks were fit to burst. “Still, I’m not s
ure I like the idea of fighting shoulder to shoulder with criminals. How do we know they weren’t banished for murdering other dwarves?” He helped himself to a wedge of cheese that smelled strong enough to asphyxiate a band of orcs. “Dwarves don’t get banished for no reason.” He stopped munching and looked at Tungdil questioningly. “Their kinsfolk were right to banish them, weren’t they, scholar?”
Tungdil nodded briefly and pretended to be swallowing a mouthful of bread. He reached for the jug of dark ale.
Gemmil’s criticisms of the dwarven kingdoms had struck a chord.
He wasn’t prepared to admit as much to Boïndil, but he could see the sense in the freelings’ ideals. He had been brought up in a school where opinions were exchanged freely and nothing was exempt from scholarly consideration. Tungdil had been taught that ideas were fluid and ever-changing, but the outlook of the dwarves resembled their kingdoms: rigid, inflexible, and unyielding.
Boïndil stopped gulping down his food and stared absentmindedly at the wall. He seemed to be lost in thought. “Which way round is it?” he said slowly. “Does Vraccas want us to carry the spark of change to the fifthlings’ furnace, or is he testing our faith?”
Tungdil could barely mask his surprise; he hadn’t expected Boïndil, who was usually very traditional, to ponder such things. “It’s a tricky question and I don’t know the answer,” he replied. He leaned forward abruptly and picked up his tankard. Pain coursed through him, reminding him of his punctured shoulder and chest. He set down the tankard with a curse. “They’re going to help us, and that’s the main thing. The rest will take care of itself.”
Boïndil wiped his mouth and burped. “How big is their realm? Ten square miles? Fifty square miles? How many warriors do you think they can send?” He helped himself to some beer and refilled Tungdil’s tankard. “I’ll wager three hundred at most.”
“Three hundred might be enough. We’ll wait until Ushnotz and his troopers set their ladders against our walls; then we’ll tip them over and shower them with stones.” He clinked tankards with Boïndil. “With Gemmil’s help, we’ll put an end to the beasts once and for all.”
