by Markus Heitz
Tungdil sensed that something was bothering her. Either she didn’t want him to visit the realm of the freelings, or she was embarrassed to be seen with him, or she was worried about him leaving the fifthling folk. Maybe she blames herself…
“I won’t regret it,” he said after a while. He kept walking, eyes fixed on the horizon as the sun sank lower and lower, bathing Girdlegard in fierce red light. “You don’t think I left because of you, do you?”
“Left the kingdom, or left Balyndis?”
Tungdil had to think for a moment. “Left Glaïmbar and Balyndis,” he said firmly. “At any rate, it wasn’t because of you—which isn’t to say you don’t matter to me. You’re different to other dwarf maidens; you’re a breath of air for my scholarly soul.” He turned his head and they gazed at each other for a moment. Her red eyes were full of hope.
“I need time, Myr. I can’t make sense of what I’m feeling because my heart and mind are so confused.” He smiled wryly. “It will do me good to get away. It’s why I left the fifthling kingdom—to figure out what I want. Besides, I’m curious to see how the freelings live.”
She averted her gaze, focusing on a point in the distance. They had been marching toward the pond for orbits. “It’s all right,” she said, nodding slowly. “I can wait.”
Tungdil’s train of thought was interrupted by a sudden noise. He turned round to see Boëndal doubled up with laughter, arms braced against his thighs, howling with mirth. Tears were streaming from his eyes.
Tungdil smiled. “I haven’t seen anyone laugh like that since the joke about the orc who wanted directions from a dwarf. What did you say to him?”
Boïndil shrugged. “Nothing. I was telling him about the realm of the freelings and he laughed in my face,” he reported in a slightly wounded tone. “I explained how we had to jump into a p—”
His words were drowned out by another roar of laughter as Boëndal sank to his knees, shaking with mirth. For a moment, conversation was impossible.
“Look what you’ve done to me,” spluttered Boëndal. “I was nearly frozen to death, and now you’ve practically killed me with your jokes.” He stood up and brushed the dirt from his breeches. “A pond!” he muttered, still hiccoughing with laughter. “As if a dwarf would dip a toe in Elria’s accursed water!” Wiping the tears from his eyes, he looked up and saw their faces. At last it dawned on him that Boïndil was serious. “No,” he said, horrified. “We’re not really going to…? I mean, all the way to the bottom?” He was too traumatized to say the words “water” or “pond”.
Boïndil clapped him on the back. “It’s all right, brother. Tungdil and I jumped in last time, and it’s over before you know it. If you get scared, just look at the fish.”
Boëndal cast a skeptical look at Myr. “It can’t be the only way into your realm,” he said suspiciously. “How are your warriors going to get home? Don’t tell me they’re going to jump into the water like an army of frogs.”
She grinned, showing her pearly white teeth. “There are other entrances, but Gemmil told us to keep them secret. I took Tungdil and your brother by a different route, but they were blindfolded first.” She returned the pot of ointment to her pack and led them into the woods surrounding the pond. “I’m sorry, Boëndal, but you’re going to have to take the plunge. It’s not as bad as it sounds.”
“No,” said Boïndil crossly. “It’s much, much worse. I had brackish water in my ears for orbits, and Elria was laughing in my head.”
“At least it proves that dwarves don’t necessarily drown in deep water,” said Tungdil, trying to make them see the bright side.
Boëndal frowned, all trace of amusement vanishing from his face. His mood was grim as they marched through the forest that was formerly home to Lesinteïl’s elves, and he continued to scowl as they stole through the meadow on the lookout for enemies. By the time they discovered the bleached bones of their murdered comrades, his brow was creased in a permanent frown.
The party collected the scattered remains and buried them under a pile of stones. With the skeletons laid to rest, the dead dwarves would be free to warm their souls in Vraccas’s smithy.
It was dusk when they stepped onto the pier. Each of them held a chunk of granite as large as a dwarven head—Myr had advised them to use the debris from the elves’ ruined temple to speed their journey to the bottom of the pond. They gathered at the end of the pier.
“I’ll go first,” said Myr, beaming at Boëndal, who was eying the water suspiciously. She stepped off the pier and disappeared into the darkness below.
“She’s gone,” he said anxiously. “Are you sure we should…”
“Ha, you were brave enough to fight Nôd’onn, and now you’re scared of a pond,” his brother said airily.
“Weren’t you thrown into the water by a bull?” asked Tungdil, raising an eyebrow.
Boïndil waved a hand dismissively. “That was last time.” He stepped to the edge of the pier and looked down at the water with distaste. “Accursed pond. It’s dark and cold,” he grumbled, leaping into the air and landing in the water with an almighty splash. He disappeared.
“I suppose I’ve got no choice,” sighed Boëndal, resigning himself to his fate. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and held his nose. A moment later, he was gone.
It was left to Tungdil to bring up the rear. The water closed over his head and he found himself staring into inky blackness. It was only because of the pressure in his ears that he knew that he was sinking, pulled down by the weight of his armor, his ax, and the granite.
He heard the sound of a waterfall, and a moment later he was falling with the cascading water, which pushed him under the surface of the pool. The current brought him up again and deposited him on the bank.
Coughing and spluttering, he clambered to his feet. The twins were there too, and he could tell from their noisy expiration that their lungs were filled with water. Myr was tightening her belt, which had loosened when she jumped.
“Next time I’m going a different way,” spluttered Boëndal, shaking himself vigorously and spraying water in all directions. He and the others were soaked through, and water was streaming from their undergarments and collecting on the floor. “How am I going to dry my chain mail?” he growled, running a hand over his chest. “You’d better have some good oil.”
Myr ran a hand through her bedraggled hair and laughed. “We’ll find you some warm clothes,” she promised, striding to a vast oak door with thick iron bands. She knocked loudly. “And I’m sure I can get you some oil.”
A panel opened and a pair of red eyes peered at Myr and the others. The dwarf disappeared, then the bolts slid back and the door swung open, admitting them to the freelings’ realm.
In the next chamber, Gemmil was waiting to greet them. He shook hands with them one by one, although the twins seemed a little wary.
“Did Sanda and her army get there in time?” he asked anxiously. Myr gave a brief account of how the orcs had been defeated. “And the fifthlings have repaired the Stone Gateway,” she recounted. “For the first time in a thousand cycles, the northern border is secure.”
“My heart weeps for our fallen comrades,” the freeling leader said gravely. “Before you go, we’ll raise a tankard to our victory and remember the dead.” He pointed to a pile of blankets. “Wrap yourselves in those. You’ll catch a chill.”
“Clothes would be more practical,” grumbled Boïndil.
“You’ll find clean outfits in your lodgings,” the king told him, opening a door at the back of the room. Outside a wagon was waiting for them. Tungdil and the others clambered in, and they set off, juddering and rattling, along the underground rail. Some time later the wagon stopped and everyone got out. The king led them through a magnificent hall to a double door.
“Follow me,” he said, pressing his ring against the runes engraved in the door. The symbols pulsed with light and the doors swung open, spilling pale light toward them. “Enter, friends. Welcome to the realm of
the freelings.”
Tungdil and the twins stepped forward and found themselves on a broad ledge, from which a flight of steps led down to Gemmil’s realm. Tungdil heard an awed “Vraccas almighty” from Boëndal behind him. They stared down in amazement.
Below them was a vast city with buildings of all sizes lined up in a grid of symmetrical streets, alleyways, and squares. By Tungdil’s reckoning, it covered two square miles, and the roof of the cavern was at least a mile and a half high.
On the outskirts of the city, two waterfalls fell from a height of four hundred paces into a reservoir that supplied a network of canals, some of which led to gardens and allotments, others disappearing into openings in the rock.
From above, the city’s inhabitants looked tiny, no bigger than cave ants. Tungdil, straining his ears, heard a soft murmur of voices, the sharp ring of countless hammers, and other noises that he knew from human cities.
Rows of houses shaped like cubes lined the gentle slope at the far end of the cavern, at the top of which sat a small, but ornately fashioned stronghold. Light came from shimmering moss that covered the walls of the cavern, bathing the city in a gentle, brown glow. There were burning buckets of coal suspended from masts at various points throughout the settlement, with polished sheets of metal reflecting the light of the fiery flames.
“It’s incredible,” said Tungdil to Gemmil, who was standing at his side. “I never imagined your realm would be so big.”
The king pointed down at the city. “Trovegold is one of five—”
“Five?” interrupted Boïndil in astonishment.
“One of five major cities,” Gemmil continued proudly. “Five thousand freelings inhabit this place, five thousand souls living in freedom, unencumbered by the rules of family and clan, blessed by Vraccas, and bound only by the will of the Smith.”
Boïndil puffed out his cheeks, but Tungdil signaled to him to keep quiet. “Where will we be staying?” he enquired.
Gemmil pointed to a house in the city center. “Those are your quarters,” he said. “You’ll be staying with Myr. Her house is in the thick of things so you’ll get a proper taste of city life. Sanda and I live in the stronghold, but I’ll call for you tomorrow and show you around.” He nodded to Myr and bade them good night.
“Follow me,” she said to the others, starting down the steps. “It’s an honor to have you as my guests.”
Tungdil and the twins brought up the rear.
With every step, the city increased in size, and soon the neat grid of streets became a maze of roads and buildings, although Tungdil could still detect an underlying symmetry. A fresh wind swept the smoke away from the smithies and workshops and provided the city with good, clean air.
Soon they were walking through streets and alleyways. Dwarven ballads echoed from inside a couple of taverns, and on the pavements, freeling traders were hawking anvils, tools, jewelry, and other wares. A steel statue of Vraccas towered ten paces above the ground, glittering with gold and vraccasium and studded with sparkling gems.
No one stopped or questioned them. Their presence went almost unnoticed, except for the occasional greeting directed at Myr.
“Have you seen their funny beards?” whispered Boïndil. “I swear I saw an old dwarf with a completely naked chin. And they’re wearing perfume—I can smell it.” He wrinkled his nose. “By the hammer of Vraccas, they’ll soon be speaking elvish and growing pointy ears.”
“Where are their weapons?” hissed Boëndal. “Most of them aren’t wearing mail. It’s a rum sort of place.”
“Why would anyone wear mail?” asked Myr, stopping in front of her house. “Our realm is safe from orcs and other beasts. Wearing mail is completely unnecessary. It drags you down.”
“Unnecessary?” snorted Boïndil, turning to his companions. “What kind of dwarf goes without chain mail and axes? It’s like walking around with no breeches or boots!”
“For you, maybe, but not for us.” For the first time Myr sounded put out. It was hard not to be offended by Boïndil’s gruff and forthright manner. In fact, his tactless comments were liable to cause as much damage as his blades.
She unlocked the door and stepped inside. “Come in and go straight upstairs—I don’t want you ruining my carpets,” she said, shooting Boïndil an angry look. She disappeared into another room.
“Carpets?” muttered Boïndil incredulously. “What next? Scented water for our hands?”
“Don’t be rude,” said Tungdil. “We’re guests here, remember?” He led the way up a flight of stone steps to their quarters. As Gemmil had promised, there was a selection of dry clothes.
They picked out the right sizes and peeled off their wet undergarments.
As soon as Tungdil was changed, he took a closer look at their quarters and found another, narrower staircase. He went up the steps and came to a hatch. A moment later, he was standing on Myr’s roof.
Amid the noise from the city he heard scraps of conversation. Mostly it was boring, like complaints about the price of vegetables, but every now and then someone would mention the new arrivals or start a discussion about the other kingdoms.
As far as Tungdil could tell, the majority of freelings weren’t enamored with the idea of reestablishing contact with a traditional dwarven kingdom. They were outlaws, after all.
It works both ways, I suppose, he thought, somehow comforted by the realization that both sides had their doubts. He took a step forward to get a proper look.
Some of the dwarves had pale hair and pale skin, others looked no different to Tungdil and the twins. They greeted each other respectfully, exchanged pleasantries, and went their separate ways.
After a while, an octagonal temple caught his eye. It was situated near the statue of Vraccas, and its five tall chimneys released plumes of white smoke, infusing the air with a smell of herbs and hot metal that dispersed on the wind. Tungdil guessed that the priests were conducting a ceremony in honor of the Smith.
The pale smoke reminded him of the strange mist that had surrounded them in the caves of the Outer Lands where he had discovered the mysterious rune. I wonder if the undergroundlings pray to Vraccas as well?
“We’re in time for evening prayers,” said Myr, behind him.
Startled, he took a step forward, coming dangerously close to the edge of the roof. Myr reached out and grabbed him. He swayed backward, knocked into her, and flung out his arms to stop her falling.
For the time it takes a drop of beer to fall to the floor, they were locked together in a tight embrace. Tungdil, feeling the warmth of her body and the curve of her breasts, was glad that he had taken off his mail.
He cleared his throat and stepped away. “Evening prayers?” he queried casually. Turning to look at the temple, he saw the doors fly open.
Five dozen dwarves dressed in the garb of the Smith filed out and took up position on the steps; their places had clearly been allocated in advance. Everyone seemed to know exactly where to stand. The last dwarf, carrying a steel sledgehammer, came to a halt beside an anvil of pure vraccasium.
“It’s how we praise Vraccas at the end of an orbit,” she explained. “I told the twins to come up and watch.”
Boïndil squeezed through the hatch. He wasn’t wearing his precious chain mail, but his axes were dangling from his belt. “The best seats are taken, are they? In that case, I’ll stand at the back.” He peered at the temple. “What are they doing?” he asked, staring at the priests. Myr explained the ritual. “Oh,” he said. “In our kingdom we pray on our own. We give thanks together only on special occasions.”
“It’s pretty well organized,” remarked Boëndal, stepping onto the roof. “What happens next?”
A horn sounded, its deep, rich tone echoing through the streets and summoning the citizens of Trovegold to the statue in the square.
The crowd kept swelling until the square was full of bobbing heads, some dark, others white as snow. Tungdil spotted more dwarves on top of the other buildings, which were flat roof
ed like Myr’s. Everyone in the city stopped what they were doing and turned to face the statue. Myr and the others looked expectantly at the priests.
The dwarf behind the anvil lifted the sledgehammer into the air, holding it above his head as if it weighed nothing at all. “Vraccas, hear our prayers of praise and adoration,” he called loudly, lowering his arms to smite the anvil.
The metal rang out, producing a clear, high note, and gleaming sparks flew through the air, leaving comet-like trails and landing in braziers on either side of the steps. The staircase lit up with bright white flames.
The priest in the middle of the group tilted back his head and began to sing. His voice was rich and vibrant. When the first verse was over, a second priest joined in, and so on and so forth until half the priests were singing.
What started as a solo became a stirring chorus of many singers, which swelled again as the hammer struck the anvil and the remaining priests joined in. Tungdil, who had never heard the like of it, felt a shiver run down his spine.
The hymn of thanks stirred the heart of every dwarf in Trovegold, including Boëndal and Boïndil, who had lumps in their throats. Forgetting their reservations, they dropped to their knees and adopted the freelings’ collective method of prayer.
Thrilled by the atmosphere, Tungdil watched in awed silence, wishing the singing would last forever, and knowing that it would end.
The priests finished the final verse and fell silent. The hymn reverberated through the cavern, returning as a faint echo that gradually melted away. The priest struck the anvil for a third and final time, the choir filed back into the temple, and the congregation rose to their feet. The spell was broken.
“So that’s that,” whispered Boïndil as the temple doors closed. “What about morning prayers?” he enquired hopefully, turning to Myr.
The firstling smiled. “You’ll have to lead your own prayers in the morning. The next service takes place tomorrow at dusk.” She shooed him downstairs. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going straight to bed after dinner. You should probably get as much rest as you can. Gemmil will want to show you every last alleyway in Trovegold; he’s very proud of our city.”
