by Markus Heitz
“Some of the runts have fled to Toboribor,” said the secondling. “I suppose it’s a bit far for our armies… Do you think Mallen can handle them himself?”
“Without your axes?” Tungdil shook his head in despair. “I can’t help wondering when you’ll finally tire of killing orcs. At this rate you’ll still be chasing runts when you’re a frail old dwarf of seven hundred cycles.”
“I’ll be dead by then,” he said in a matter-of-fact way that chilled his friend’s blood. “A spear or an arrow will see to that. It’s all right, scholar,” he added, noticing Tungdil’s expression, “I don’t want to die. When I lost Smeralda, I prayed to Vraccas to kill me on the spot, but now I give thanks for every orbit. When my time is up, I want to go out as a hero, like Bavragor did.” He raised his tankard to Tungdil and emptied it in a single draft. “To Bavragor Hammersmith and all those who died for Keenfire and Girdlegard.”
“Vraccas preserve the rest of us from joining them too soon,” added Tungdil, downing his beer. Don’t worry, he promised his fallen friends. Keenfire won’t be lost forever. A plan was taking shape in his mind. When the battle was over, he would come back with a big net and sweep the bottom of the pond—and if that failed, he would retrieve the ax from Dsôn Balsur as soon as the allies defeated the älfar. Either way, he would get the ax back, but the coming battle would be fought without it. Its loss could cost us dear. The beer tasted suddenly bitter in his mouth.
Pendleburg,
Southwest Urgon,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
You opened my eyes to the dishonesty of the dwarves,” said King Belletain. “Palandiell must have sent you.” He was sitting in bed, his back propped up with countless cushions. His leather armor had been exchanged for a loose purple robe.
Three physicians attended his every move, dabbing continuously at his fractured skull. Pink, viscous fluid seeped into their sponges.
Belletain pointed to the trio and snorted derisively. “Look at those crows! They circle me all the time—they’re hoping I’ll die.” The physician standing closest to him received a violent shove. The man stumbled, bowl, sponge, and fluid dropping to the floor. “Confounded crows,” the king screamed, his face flushing red. “Caw-caw, caw-caw!” He flapped his arms up and down. “I’m not your carrion! I’m not dead yet! I’m the eagle of Urgon, I’m master of you all!”
Ha, he’s lost his mind. The dwarf was careful not to show a reaction. What a stroke of luck. He’ll do exactly as I say…
Belletain lowered his arms. “I have news for your uncle, Romo Steelheart. I think it will please you.” He assumed an air of mystery and beckoned for the dwarf to approach. “Come here, and I’ll whisper in your ear. I don’t want the crows to hear us.”
Romo, leaning in to listen, smelled the odor of rotten gums on his breath.
“They’re watching me all the time,” the king continued. “I can’t get rid of them, you know.” He laid an arm around Romo’s shoulder and tapped his index finger against the dwarf’s armored chest. “It will be our secret—a secret between me, the eagle of Urgon, and you, my little falcon with the beard.” He chuckled like a child. “Your king and I are going to get on famously. We’ll throw the fourthlings out of their stronghold!” His eyes rolled back in his head. “The Brown Range is mine! Mine, do you hear? The fourthlings should be paying me, and they’re squatting on my land. You were right, Romo: It’s time I threw them out. My soldiers will…”
“Please, Your Majesty,” ventured one of the physicians, “you should be resting. Too much excitement will add to the swelling in your brain. Here, this infusion will lower your blood pressure.” Concerned, he examined a crack in the king’s skull. The blood was flowing faster than ever.
“Caw-caw, caw-caw,” chortled Belletain, raising a hand to his mouth.
The second physician tried to maneuver him back into position, hoping to make him sit upright and stem the flow of blood. Belletain punched him in the stomach. “Get back, winged devil,” he raved.
“We’re trying to help you, Your Majesty,” the bruised attendant soothed him. “Your mind will clear when you’ve had some sleep. Gandogar isn’t—”
“Eavesdropper!” screeched Belletain. He lunged forward and before Romo could stop him, he had seized the dwarf’s morning star and smashed the three metal balls into the physician’s head, shattering his skull. “No more cawing,” he said triumphantly. He tossed the weapon back to Romo. “Come, little falcon, help your new friend to get rid of the other nasty crows.” A malevolent smile spread over his face as he looked at the remaining attendants.
Romo weighed the morning star in his hand.
“Don’t listen to him,” begged one of the men. “The king hasn’t been himself since the ogre cracked his skull. He won’t survive without our—”
Belletain pressed his hands to his ears. “Stop their cawing! I can’t bear it any longer, my little falcon. I need new birds—birds that sing!”
The dwarf took a step forward and the attendants backed away. “It’s all right,” he said reassuringly. “I wouldn’t dream of hurting you.” Just then he swung the morning star into the crotch of the man on his left and sent his spiked fist into the belly of the man on his right. They slumped to the floor, writhing in pain. “But a king’s word is law.” He raised the morning star and brought it down forcefully. After two brutal blows, the whimpering stopped. The three attendants lay motionless beside their monarch’s bed, their heads a pulpy mess of gore and shattered bone.
“My loyal falcon,” squealed the king. “The crows have stopped cawing.”
“I’ll send some new attendants from our kingdom,” promised the dwarf, wiping his dripping weapon on the dead men’s clothes. “They’ll banish the pain from your skull, and they won’t make a peep.”
“Good,” sighed the king, slumping contentedly onto his pillows. “No more cawing—what a blessing.” He gazed out of the window at the grassy slopes. The sun was shining and the fields looked green and lush; there would be plenty of straw by the autumn. “Lothaire’s death will be a-ven-ged,” he chanted, fitting the words to the tune of a traditional Urgonese folk song. “And Gandogar’s treachery will be re-ven-ged…” He turned and looked Romo in the eye. “Rivers of blood and mountains of gold; that’s the price they’ll pay,” he declared firmly. “Tell your uncle that we have an agreement: If he can come up with a strategy, my warriors will do the rest. They’re experienced in warfare and fleet of foot. The highest peaks, the narrowest paths, the steepest chasms—nothing can make them fall. They will go where the eagle commands them. And when they hear the truth about my beloved nephew’s death, their hearts will burn with fury.”
Romo bowed. “I’m glad you’ve heeded my warnings. Lesser rulers have been fooled by the reputation of the other dwarven folks. You’re a wise king indeed.” He backed away toward the door.
“Send a few lackeys to take away the bodies. I’ll feed them to the other crows.” He stretched out his arms cheerfully. “I can feel the wind beneath my wings. The eagle is soaring, thanks to his little friend, the falcon.” He waved him away. “Come back soon. We need to finalize our plans.”
“You have my word, Your Majesty.” The dwarf stepped out of the chamber, closed the door carefully and let out a hearty laugh. It had cost considerable effort to hide his amusement. The next step was to surround the king with thirdling physicians, and Belletain would be welded to him for life.
My uncle will be well pleased. He set off through the corridors, whistling. He was anxious to leave at once, not least because he wanted to know if Mallen had been brought to his knees by the orcs.
Porista,
Former Realm of Lios Nudin,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
Xamtys’s message to the rulers of Girdlegard confirmed Andôkai in her determination to make a maga of Narmora as quickly as possible. The firstling kingdom crushed by a shooting star, the Outer Lands engulfed i
n flames… Samusin, god of equilibrium, what danger is gathering in the west?
At least Xamtys’s news wasn’t all bad. Under her leadership, the firstlings were rebuilding their stronghold and repairing the damage inflicted by the meteor and the avalanche. Xamtys had vowed to repair the fortifications in record time so that her warriors would be ready to fight off the threat. Her tone was somber but quietly confident.
Is she right to be hopeful? Can the threat be contained by an army of dwarves? The maga left the letter on the table and went to find her pupil, whom she had sent to the library to familiarize herself with scholarly script.
The half älf had a natural gift for magic, but it wasn’t the same as the maga’s knowledge of spells and charms. Narmora’s magic derived from single syllables and an innate ability that had nothing to do with Andôkai’s art.
Her älf mother had taught her a few simple formulae, but she had never encountered symbols and runes. Mornings were spent studying in the library, while afternoons and evenings were given over to practical exercises. The final hour before bedtime was reserved for Furgas. Every night she sat by his bedside, holding his hand, crying tears of rage, and vowing to wreak terrible vengeance on the villains who had reduced him to this state.
Andôkai strode into the library. The chamber was lined from floor to ceiling with stacks containing books, manuscripts, atlases, and compendia. Some of the shelves were bowing dangerously under the weight of the recorded knowledge.
It’s all a question of quantity, she thought to herself. With enough sheets of parchment, you could kill a troll. She swept past the stacks in search of her famula.
Narmora, who had swapped her armor for loose-fitting robes that accommodated her rounded form, was sitting by a narrow window. The light shone directly on the pages of a hefty book. Particles of dust shimmered in the sun.
“It’s time for some fresh air,” announced the maga, suddenly aware of the musty smell. The library was the biggest of its kind in Girdlegard, and it smelled of parchment, leather, glue, and dust. Andôkai, who preferred to devote her time to refining her combat skills, had almost forgotten the odor of books. Half an orbit in the stuffy library was enough to make her restless. “How are you getting on?”
“Some of the runes are easy to remember,” said Narmora without looking up from the page. “But they stop me from learning anything else. It’s as if they don’t want me to forget them.” She stood up. “I can’t do it, maga. Half a cycle isn’t enough.”
“You need only learn the basics,” said Andôkai reassuringly. “Thanks to your natural talent, you’re ten cycles ahead of most famuli.” She stopped short, realizing that the plate of food on Narmora’s desk was untouched. “You’re supposed to be looking after yourself,” she scolded. “How do you think the baby will grow if you’re not eating? You mustn’t starve yourself.”
Narmora looked at the meat, vegetables, and bread in surprise. “I’m sorry, maga, I got distracted…” She picked up the plate and set off behind the maga, eating as she went. “You look worried. Has something happened?”
Andôkai stopped in front of a bookcase, climbed the ladder and pulled out a book from the row of battered spines. “The firstlings have spotted something strange,” she called from the top of the ladder. “The Outer Lands are on fire.” She leafed through the book, closed it impatiently and took another volume from the shelf. “It appears that the magi have been regrettably short-sighted in their quest for knowledge. Every known fact about the kingdoms of Girdlegard and the art of magic is archived in the library, but I can’t find a single book about the land beyond our borders.” She gave up and left the volume on the top rung of the ladder. “The Outer Lands barely get a mention—except in relation to the explorers who ventured over the mountains. Most of them never came back.”
“Surely there must be merchants who’ve been there,” said Narmora, gazing at the rows of books. “Didn’t any of the explorers keep a journal?”
They left the library.
“I think the only solution is to scour the other archives,” said Andôkai, unhappy at the prospect of leaving her realm. “I’m sorry to put you through this in your condition, but I’m afraid you’ll have to come too. We should be able to find what we’re looking for in the universities of Weyurn. The archivists keep detailed records of every occurrence, no matter how unremarkable, in the history of the realm.”
They emerged into the courtyard. The sun was high in the sky, so they retreated to the shade of the arcades and Andôkai prepared to start the lesson.
Narmora came to a halt and put down her plate. “We’ll have to take Furgas with us.” It was clear from her tone that she considered the matter settled.
The maga had other ideas. “The roads of Girdlegard are full of potholes. How is Furgas supposed to rest when the carriage is tipping from side to side like a boat?”
“Someone will have to look after him. You can’t expect Djern to nurse him to health.”
“No, but I’m sure his best friend Rodario will jump at the chance to sleep in my chamber, regardless of whether I forbid it, which, needless to say, I will.”
Narmora stared at her incredulously. “Estimable Maga, the impresario is an old friend, and I’m familiar with his talents: acting, orating, and philandering. On stage he makes a wonderful physician, but he isn’t the real thing. Quite frankly, I’d sooner trust Djern than him.”
“Djern won’t be here; he’s going on a mission to the Outer Lands. We need to know what we’re up against and prepare ourselves accordingly. At present, our only intelligence is the firstlings’ description of a fire.” The maga had constructed her case in advance, realizing that she would have to persuade her famula of the merit of the plan. “Don’t worry about Furgas; I’ll renew the charm, and every third orbit Rodario will change the sheets. There won’t be anything else for him to do.” She pointed to the far end of the arcade. “Stand over there—we’re going to try something new.”
The half älf took up position, but she wasn’t prepared to concede defeat. “Are you sure the charm will be strong enough? What if it wears off before we’re back?”
Andôkai raised her arms and traced silvery syllables above her head. “Furgas would die,” she said candidly, casting the charm toward Narmora, who held out her palms defensively and uttered a simple incantation.
The glittering jet of light turned a deep shade of green, slowed down and changed its trajectory, swooping upward and boring its way through the roof. The sky appeared through the marble.
The maga could hardly believe her eyes. “You changed the energy,” she said in astonishment. “How did you do it?”
Narmora smiled. “I suppose I must have muddled up the runes.”
A crack appeared in the ceiling and fragments of marble showered to the ground. Crackling and hissing, a green bolt of lightning swooped toward Andôkai. The charm had returned and was pursuing its target with grim determination. The maga disappeared in a cloud of dust.
A fragment of marble struck Narmora on the shoulder. Just then a searing pain ripped through her womb, stopping her breath.
She doubled over and sank to her knees, clutching her belly. Looking down, she watched in horror as a dark tide washed over her robes; warm fluid was seeping from her body, drenching the cloth.
No! She touched the sticky fabric with her hands and stared at her crimson fingers. Heat washed through her, but she was shivering with cold. “You’ve taken Furgas; spare me my child!” she pleaded helplessly. Her eyes turned the color of coal and dark lines appeared like cracks on her face, revealing her lineage.
She held on to a column and tried to pull herself up, but her bloodied fingers slid over the polished marble and she sprawled against the floor. Her stomach landed on a splinter of stone.
This time she knew for certain that something had burst. She curled up on the floor and screamed despairingly as she clutched her belly with shaking fingers, water streaming from her womb.
No one paid much
attention to the leper in the corner whose ravaged features were hidden almost wholly by yellowed dressings. Sometimes a bronze coin flew through the tavern in his direction, whereupon he rose to his feet, bowed several times and collected it gratefully.
“Here, eat this and be on your way,” said the publican, depositing an ancient plate and a battered tankard on the table. He was careful not to touch the man’s hands, having noticed the rips in his gloves. Later, he would throw away the plate, tankard, and cutlery and scrub the bench and table with precious vinegar solution. It pained him to think of the cost, but the price of refusing charity to a leper was infinitely higher—the sick and infirm were under Palandiell’s protection, and she was dangerous in her wrath.
The man bowed and made an incomprehensible whimpering noise; it seemed the disease had eaten away at his tongue, rendering him mute.
Further along the bench, two women and a man, all dressed in plain garments, were talking so quietly that no one could divine the subject of their discussions. They treated the leper as if he weren’t there.
“How am I supposed to know who paid them?” snapped the fair-haired woman.
“That’s what I thought.” The man nodded. “No one at the guild knows anything about it. Frud and Granselm wanted the money for themselves.” He poured himself a goblet of wine and emptied it greedily. A look of satisfaction crept over his face. “Much good it did them, the greedy bastards.”
“It’s the giant’s fault,” grumbled the brown-haired woman. “The guardsmen you can hide from, but the giant always knows where you are. If you ask me, there’s something unnatural inside that armor.”
“It goes without saying,” agreed the fair-haired woman. “I mean, how many men do you know who are three paces tall?” She glanced at the leper who was dozing with his back to the wall. Her eyes came to rest on his pouch of coins.
“Not here,” hissed the man. “Are you crazy? If someone were to—”
“I know, I know,” she said carelessly. “I’m not suggesting we should actually… But if any of us were to meet him in an alleyway… Well, he’s practically dead already; I’m sure he won’t object.” She whinnied with laughter, and the others seemed to share the joke. “By the way,” she said, suddenly serious. “Have you heard that the maga is looking for secret supporters of Nudin?”
