by Markus Heitz
“That’s a new one,” scoffed Lorimbas. “The hostilities haven’t started, and you’re asking me to stop. I didn’t realize our cousins were so soft.”
“Don’t be too harsh on him, uncle,” chipped in Romo. “He might soil his breeches.”
“I was referring to your efforts to turn the humans against us,” said Gandogar evenly, ignoring the snickering Romo. “Open warfare we can deal with, but your tactics are pernicious and underhanded. We know what your envoy said to Prince Mallen and we know that a dwarf was seen at King Belletain’s court. He wasn’t there on my authority, so I assume he was sent by you.”
“Mallen is a shortsighted fool,” Lorimbas said breezily. “He’ll soon see the error of his ways. He turned down my nephew’s assistance out of misguided loyalty, but the loss of his dwarven mercenaries will come as a blow. I shouldn’t wonder if he’s ruing his decision already.” He let his eyes travel over the ceiling. “It’s a wonderful thing to be standing here after all this time. My forefathers lived in this stronghold until you drove them out. A new era is dawning for Girdlegard.” He snapped out of his reverie and glowered at Gandogar. “The decline of Beroïn, Borengar, and Goïmdil has begun.” He strode toward the high king, stopping only when their noses were practically touching. “You won’t weather this storm. The wind of change is blowing through the dwarven kingdoms, sweeping through the narrowest shafts and tiniest caverns. You and your subjects will be scattered, and my warriors will seize your halls.” His spiked gauntlet thumped his armored chest. “The children of Lorimbur will stand guard at the gates of Girdlegard and your folks will be forgotten.” He took a step back and drew his weapon. “I swear it on Lorimbur’s ax.”
“Is this how the thirdlings negotiate?” asked Gandogar. “I—”
Lorimbas cut him short. “Negotiate? Who said we wanted to negotiate?” He raised his ax. “I have news for you, Gandogar: Your orbits in Girdlegard are numbered—and there’s nothing you can do.”
Gandogar’s patience, which had withstood countless indignities, suddenly snapped, allowing his pent-up fury to erupt into words. The king and his nephew had pushed him to the brink. “Vraccas won’t abandon his loyal children to the murderous wiles of Lorimbur’s unholy dwarves,” he shouted, clinking blades with Lorimbas. “I dare you to fight us fairly, you backstabbing coward.”
“Get out!” bellowed Lorimbas, forcing Gandogar’s blade to the ground. “No one threatens me in my stronghold! You’re lucky I promised to let you go unharmed. I’ve a mind to kill you anyway.”
“Can I do it for you?” asked Romo hopefully.
Lorimbas trembled with silent fury; he was fighting the urge to plant an ax in the high king’s head. “Lorimbur’s children won’t negotiate with the other dwarves. Your destruction is assured.”
“All right, gem cutter,” said Romo, gripping Gandogar’s shoulder. “It’s time you went home to polish your jewels.” He steered him through the door in the manner of a bailiff escorting a drunk.
The high king shrugged him off angrily. “Lay a finger on me again, and you’ll regret it, dwarf killer,” he growled. When Romo spat on the floor and grabbed his shoulder, he seized the thirdling’s gauntlet and swung his ax against his wrist, shattering the bone. Romo’s face contorted with pain, then he reached with his uninjured arm for his morning star, swinging back to strike. A bald-headed dwarf stepped in front of him and made a grab for his arm. The three-balled weapon thudded to the floor.
“Salfalur!” he exclaimed in surprise. “What—”
“Silence or I’ll break your other wrist,” the dwarf snapped. He turned to Gandogar. “That’s the first and last time I’ll save one of your kind. I want to be clear about this: Your life counts for nothing, but Romo promised not to harm you, and Lorimbas would punish him for breaking his word.”
Gandogar nodded. His eyes were drawn to his rescuer’s massive arms and chests. Dwarves were stocky and powerful, the fourthlings less so than most, but even the slightest dwarf was a good deal stronger than a man. Salfalur, though, had muscles to rival the battle-crazed Boïndil. Like the other thirdlings, he was tattooed, the dark runes covering his face and his gleaming skull.
Gandogar met his eye. “At least let me thank you for—”
“I want nothing from you,” growled Salfalur. “I’d sooner die in the deserts of Sangpûr than drink water from your pouch. Follow me, I’ll show you out.” He strode away and Gandogar fell in behind him.
Salfalur’s route through the passageways of the Blacksaddle took them past chambers filled with provisions, bunkrooms accommodating hundreds of dwarves, and crowded forges echoing with constant hammering.
Some of the smiths were fashioning weapons, others were working on strange pieces of metal that served no obvious purpose. Gandogar knew that no one would volunteer the information, so he saved himself the trouble of asking and studied the objects carefully, intending to describe them to the firstling smiths.
At last they reached the door leading out of the stronghold.
“Stay away from here,” Salfalur advised him coldly. “If we meet again, Lorimbas will be delighted to receive your head on a plate.”
He opened the door for the high king to rejoin his anxious companions.
After enduring the company of the thirdlings, Gandogar was glad to leave the stronghold and step into the sunshine, which usually hurt his eyes. He caught himself looking forward to the dreaded pony ride home.
“Well?” asked Balendilín.
Gandogar shook his head and gave a brief account of the meeting.
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” said Balendilín with a sigh. “They’re thirdlings, after all.”
Under the steely gaze of the sentries, they turned their ponies and rode toward the south. “Lorimbas must be very sure of himself to speak so openly of his intentions,” observed Balendilín, wondering what the thirdlings had in mind. Lorimbas’s bold predictions augured badly for the dwarves.
Judging by Gandogar’s report, the thirdlings were planning something far more serious than Bislipur’s treacherous scheming. This time, the whole thirdling kingdom was ready to mobilize against the other dwarves.
Balendilín glanced back at the sinister mountain. What we need is a spy.
Southern Entrance to the Fifthling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
Tungdil did the first thing that came to mind. As the älf loomed over him, he dropped the ax that Boïndil had given to him and reached up to block the blow.
Grabbing Keenfire with both hands, he wrapped his fingers around the sigurdaisy haft and dropped to one knee, muscles straining and joints creaking. The blade hovered above his head.
Stooped over him, the älf threw all her weight behind the diamond-studded blade, arms trembling as she pushed against him. Her breath came in labored gasps.
But Keenfire seemed to sense that the second set of hands belonged to Tungdil, its rightful bearer. The intarsia shimmered, and a tongue of fire licked over the ax head, reaching for the älf’s mask. Moving and twisting, she stayed out of harm’s way.
“You’re not getting away from me again,” she gasped, kicking Tungdil in the chest.
Still clutching the shaft, he tumbled backward, and the älf, determined not to lose Keenfire, came with him.
She used her momentum to launch herself into the air, all the while gripping the ax. The soles of her boots sped toward him. He turned in time, rolling to the side as she landed beside him, missing his throat.
“Vraccas brought you here to give me Keenfire,” he spluttered. His right hand shot up, punching her in the belly. Uncurling his fist, he reached for her left foot, bringing her to the ground. Her black veil lifted as she fell, revealing her chin and left cheek. There was no sign of a scar or deformity that would warrant the wearing of a mask.
Each had a hand on Keenfire’s haft, and neither was prepared to let go.
They stumbled to their feet, and Ondori, reaching be
hind her, drew another weapon—a scythe-like blade that Tungdil recognized from their encounter on the pier. Whipping out his dagger, he squared his shoulders and waited for a weakness in her guard. Slowly they circled each other, the thickset dwarf at one end of the ax, the willowy älf at the other, separated by the length of the sigurdaisy haft. The ax head was on Tungdil’s side and he could see the intarsia flickering, as if Keenfire were waiting for the opportunity to strike.
“Why won’t you show your face?” he demanded. “Only cowards hide behind a mask.”
“My mask shall remain in place until my murdered parents are avenged,” she told him, looking at him with pure hatred. “You’ll see my face before you die.”
“I killed your parents, did I?”
“You killed my mother in Greenglade—you and the warrior twins.”
Tungdil twisted away as the scythe-like weapon slashed toward him.
“My father you killed at the Blacksaddle,” she continued, slashing at him again. This time she drew blood. She eyed his wounded throat with satisfaction. “My loss shall be avenged.”
Tungdil kept his eyes on the scythe, waiting for her to strike. “I can’t bring them back, but I’d be happy to help you join them,” he retorted, ducking under the swooping blade and using his momentum to ram the ax head toward her.
Once again, the intarsia flared up, but the älf avoided the red-hot suspiration, only for the sigurdaisy haft to slam into her face. The mask slipped over her eyes and her veil caught alight, flames shooting through the gauze and singeing the ends of her long brown hair. Dazed by the blow and blinded by the mask, she stumbled toward him.
In less time than it takes a drop of sweat to vaporize in a red-hot furnace, Tungdil was beside her, ramming his dagger through her armor. It embedded itself to the hilt. Tungdil bent down to claim Keenfire, but he was stopped by a shout from Balyndis. Looking around, he saw the cause.
Glaïmbar was on the ground, and standing over him was a badly wounded orc. Screaming with pain, the beast raised his notched sword and prepared to smite the dwarf.
Tungdil cursed roundly, wishing he could let his rival die. Instead, he picked up the ax that Boïndil had given him and hurled it at the beast. Whirling end over end, the ax struck the orc beneath the armpit. Green blood gushed from the wound, spattering the sprawled Glaïmbar.
The orc stumbled, dropping his rusty sword.
In an instant, Glaïmbar was on his feet, ramming the spiked end of his ax into his enemy’s neck. He slit the beast’s throat and raised a hand to thank his rescuer. Tungdil, who had no intention of acknowledging his rival, looked away.
You fool, the voice inside him whispered. You should have let him die.
Tungdil gave himself a little shake. “Where was I?” he said, turning back to finish off the älf, but she and Keenfire were gone. A trail of blood led into the heart of the battle, losing itself among the mass of dwarves and orcs. The masked älf had escaped to live another orbit and Keenfire was in her hands. I’ll never find her now.
Tungdil remembered what she had said about her parents. Sinthoras was her father, he thought. He picked up an abandoned ax and threw himself on the remaining orcs, drawing strength from his frustration at losing Keenfire for a second time.
Hoping against hope that he would find the älf, he cleaved through the beasts.
But the ax and the älf had disappeared.
It was late afternoon when the battle ended. The dwarves had won a decisive victory, but the mood was subdued.
They gathered the headless bodies of their enemies and threw them into the basin, where they floated among hundreds of spluttering orcs. After killing the survivors by pelting their heads with rocks, the dwarves decided to drain the basin and let the sun do its work. Later, the bleached bones would be strewn around the Stone Gateway as a warning to invading beasts.
Tungdil stood on the plateau and scanned the mountainside below.
It seemed to him that a small dot was moving rapidly across the horizon toward the southeast. He felt sure it was the älf, in which case it was futile to think of chasing her by pony, let alone on foot.
It’s Glaïmbar’s fault, he told himself, kicking the ground angrily. A stone skittered down the mountainside. I had the älf where I wanted her. Keenfire was mine.
“I wanted to thank you properly, Tungdil Goldhand,” said the object of his curses.
“Any dwarf would intervene to save his king,” he replied. Too frustrated to hide his hostility, he kept his back turned. “I forfeited Keenfire,” he said pointedly.
“I know,” said Glaïmbar, sighing. He stood next to Tungdil. “I suppose it isn’t possible to forge a replacement. Boïndil seems to think we can.”
“Keenfire is irreplaceable,” said Tungdil, happy to twist the knife a little further. “We could forge a new blade, but the haft was fashioned from the last remaining fragment of sigurdaisy wood in Girdlegard.” He turned to face the king. “I don’t fancy fighting the threat from the west without our strongest weapon. If the älfar join forces with the new invaders, Keenfire could be used against us. Who knows how we’ll fare…”
“Vraccas will give us the strength to prevail,” said Balyndis, positioning herself at Glaïmbar’s side. She looked at Tungdil reprovingly.
“Besides, you won’t be fighting alone,” chimed in Myr, overhearing the conversation. “You’ll have our warriors as well.” She finished tending to a wounded dwarf and took her place next to Tungdil.
The battle lines were drawn.
To Tungdil’s satisfaction, Balyndis looked put out.
“It’s time we met properly,” said Myr. “I’m Myrmianda Alabaster from the freeling folk. Tungdil battled his way to our realm to remind us that we dwarves were hewn from the same rock.” She shook hands with Balyndis and Glaïmbar. “I’m here at the request of King Gemmil, who raised the army of two thousand warriors that helped you today.”
Glaïmbar bowed. “Tell King Gemmil that he saved our kingdom from the orcs. It was only a matter of time before they launched their next assault. We owe our lives to your king.”
Tungdil surveyed the dwarves who had come from all corners of Girdlegard to defend the Northern Pass. The comrades-in-arms were working together to gather their dead.
Four hundred warriors from the fifthling kingdom had fallen in battle. Their bodies would be laid in the great hall for the fifthlings to pay their respects. After an orbit, the fallen warriors would be placed in the burial vaults. The freelings had suffered heavy losses as well, and barely a thousand of Gemmil’s warriors had survived. The others would rest in peace beside their fifthling comrades.
“How many are planning to stay?” asked Tungdil.
“You’d better ask her,” said Myr, pointing to an armor-clad warrior almost twice her size. “Sanda Flameheart is Gemmil’s wife.” She called her over.
As Sanda approached, the others noticed the dark lines and menacing runes on her face. Her whole visage was covered in intricate tattoos, the like of which Tungdil, Balyndis, and Glaïmbar had never seen. The symbols spelled out terrible threats against the other dwarven folks.
Glaïmbar’s fingers tightened around his ax.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Myr hastened to reassure him. “Sanda was born a thirdling, but she’s served our army for over two cycles. She’s a popular queen and a respected commander—and she’s certainly not a dwarf hater, in spite of her tattoos.” She greeted Sanda with a hug. “Thank goodness you got here when you did. We weren’t expecting you so soon.”
“We came through the underground network. Some of the tunnels were damaged, but Vraccas kept us safe.” She laughed. “Gemmil couldn’t wait to get rid of us—he was convinced we’d be late.”
“He was right to worry,” said Glaïmbar, trying not to stare at her tattoos. “We owe our victory to you.” His eyes were riveted on her face.
Sanda smiled broadly, answering his unspoken doubts with a warmth and friendliness at odds with the sinis
ter runes. “I know what you’re thinking, King Glaïmbar. It’s no wonder you’re confused. Here I am, talking to you as an ally, with the promise of your destruction etched across my face.” She held out her hand. “I’m a thirdling on the outside, but at heart, I’m a child of the Smith. I wasn’t born to hate.”
Glaïmbar hesitated briefly before taking her outstretched hand. “Lineage isn’t everything,” he said firmly, as if to convince himself. “Tungdil Goldhand has shown us that.”
“Tungdil and I aren’t the only thirdlings who weren’t born to hate the other dwarves. My story is long in the telling, but later, when we’ve raised our tankards to slain enemies and lost friends, I’ll tell you how I came to leave the kingdom of my birth.”
“Sanda, this is the hero of the Blacksaddle,” said Myr. She cast a sideways glance at Balyndis. “Tungdil is a dear friend of mine already.”
Balyndis bristled visibly, as Myr had hoped she would.
“We were wondering how long you were planning to stay,” continued Myr. “King Glaïmbar and the future queen, Balyndis, have invited the freelings to join their folk.”
Sanda laid a powerful hand on her weapons belt. “We’ll stay until the danger has passed.” She turned to Glaïmbar. “Too many dwarves were killed in the battle. You could do with reinforcements at the gateway, I imagine?” She smiled as he nodded. “As for moving to the fifthling kingdom… None of my warriors intend to stay at present, but they’re free to change their minds. Who knows, maybe the fifthling kingdom will gain a thousand extra axes.” She looked at him levelly. “Naturally, anyone who chooses to join the fifthlings will submit to your command. As regards the rest of us, we’d like to be treated as guests.”
Tungdil could tell that she meant what she said. The freelings were happy to help, but they wanted their independence.
“Could you spare a moment later?” he asked Sanda. “I was hoping you might know something about my parents.”
“With pleasure,” she promised. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to attend to my troops.” She hurried away, the others watching in silence.
“I can’t pretend that it’s easy for me to trust her,” admitted Glaïmbar. He turned to Myr. “When did you say she arrived in your realm?”
