by Markus Heitz
“I said, clear off,” snapped their leader. “We’re stronger than you, and we’re not afraid to prove it.”
Ondori was tempted to put the matter to the test, but an angry mob of humans, emboldened by fury, had summoned the courage to pursue her through the trees. She could tell from the clunking armor, raised voices, and flickering torches that the men were approaching fast.
“Are you thirdlings?” she asked sharply. “Why don’t you send an envoy to Dsôn Balsur? Together we could defeat our common foe.”
“Clear off, or die,” their leader threatened.
Ondori decided that it wasn’t the time or the place to risk her life against four groundlings. Her failure at the Blacksaddle had been redeemed in part by her success on the battlefield, and a foolhardy skirmish with a band of groundlings would do little to improve her stock. Tugging on the reins, she turned and rode off to find the rest of her band, leaving the four dwarves behind her.
Nagsor and Nagsar will welcome the news of the groundlings’ rift.
The thirdlings’ intervention, though unexpected, was welcome. Ondori had no idea what they were plotting, but it was bound to mean trouble for the other dwarven folks. We’ll have to keep an eye on them, she decided. With luck, the children of Inàste will profit from their game.
Porista,
Former Realm of Lios Nudin,
Girdlegard,
Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle
We can’t wait forever, Estimable Maga,” said Narmora, looking up from her reading. “Wasn’t Djern supposed to be home by now? I thought you told him to be back within eighty orbits.”
The fair-haired maga nodded wearily. They were sitting opposite each other in the library, Andôkai with her right elbow propped on the armrest of her easy chair. She rested her forehead on her palm, feeling the weight of the thoughts that had been troubling her since Weyurn. “He’s been gone 132 orbits,” she murmured. “It isn’t like Djern to be late; something must be stopping him…” She stood up fretfully. “I’d understand if he were an ordinary warrior, but Djern is—”
“He’s the king of Tion’s creation,” finished Narmora. “I know the legend. ‘The son of Samusin,’ my people call him. He keeps order among Tion’s beasts, destroying the weak and hunting the cowardly.”
“I keep forgetting your mother was an älf. In that case, I’m sure you understand that whatever is keeping him must be tremendously powerful.”
“How do you… I mean, where did you find him?”
“I saved him from a band of men. I couldn’t bear the thought of a magnificent creature like Djern dying at the hands of fame-seekers and glory-hunters, so I rescued him, and he became my bodyguard. Over a hundred cycles have passed since then…” She snorted angrily, snatched up a candlestick, and hurled it against the shelves. “To blazes with it all! We’ll never find out what’s happening in the Outer Lands.”
“Didn’t Weyurn’s warriors have anything to report?” enquired Narmora, eager to learn the contents of the maga’s correspondence.
Andôkai smiled wryly. “They’ve disappeared, as I said they would.” She took a scroll of parchment from the folds of her crimson robe. “According to Queen Xamtys, they left via the Red Range and haven’t been heard of since. Her sentries are on the lookout for survivors, but it doesn’t look good. Xamtys thinks the fire is spreading in the Outer Lands. There’s a bright red glow across the border, and it’s getting closer all the time.” She pointed to the rows of books. “The combined wisdom of Girdlegard’s scholars, and what does it tell us? Nothing!” She paced to and fro, stopping behind Narmora. “You’ve worked hard,” she said, resting her hands on the half älf’s shoulders. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible that a student could make such progress. We might be strong enough to fight the avatars after all.”
“We don’t know for sure that the avatars are to blame for the fire in the Outer Lands.” Narmora took the letter from the maga and read it, uninvited. “Hmm,” she said thoughtfully. “Queen Xamtys says no one is crossing into Girdlegard from the west. She thinks something must be stopping traders and beasts from leaving the Outer Lands.”
“Which confirms our theory that the avatars are getting closer,” said Andôkai, straightening up and returning to her chair.
Relieved that the maga was no longer standing over her, Narmora gave herself a little shake. She could feel the imprint of Andôkai’s hands on her shoulders, red with the blood of Furgas and her son.
The maga pulled out a sheet of parchment and inked her quill. “I hope to Samusin that Djern is still alive, but I can’t delay any longer. If we don’t hold the meeting now, the dwarves, elves, and men won’t arrive before winter, and they’re bound to get stuck in the snow.”
“They’ll come as soon as they can,” Narmora assured her. “There’s plenty to discuss.” According to reports, cracks were appearing in the great alliance. News had reached Porista of a dispute that had arisen between the elves and dwarves during a battle in Dsôn Balsur. Both sides were refusing to take arms against the älfar until the other apologized, but neither was prepared to accept the blame. The destruction of the siege engines was a further obstacle to the allies’ progress, granting the älfar a dangerous reprieve.
Narmora recalled the rumors about King Belletain’s army. “We’ll have to ask the king of Urgon why his warriors are marching north. There’s speculation that he means to attack the fourthlings, but he’s probably after the trolls. Isn’t his physician a dwarf?”
“Belletain is a cretinous cripple,” pronounced Andôkai, lowering her quill. “He took over from his nephew Lothaire, whom the people loved and admired. Belletain has profited from his nephew’s popularity, although it’s more a case of pity than respect. A mad king and an adoring populace—it’s a dangerous mix.”
“If you don’t mind, I need to check on Dorsa,” said Narmora, straightening up and striding to the door. “I’ll be back in time for my lesson.” She left the library and hurried through the empty corridors of the palace.
Dorsa was tucked up in her cot. For a moment, Narmora feared that the weight of the blankets had crushed her little chest, which was ridiculous, of course. The little girl was sleeping peacefully, tiny arms beside her head. Her breathing was calm and regular, which set Narmora’s mind at ease
“How you’ve grown,” she whispered, stroking the baby’s downy head.
Her daughter was an endless source of comfort, proof that everything would be all right. A single smile from Dorsa was enough to banish all her doubts. Narmora could gaze forever at her sweet dimpled cheeks and tiny mouth, but sometimes another face would haunt her, the face of a tiny, lifeless baby moldering under a pile of stones.
She stooped down to kiss the pointy tip of her daughter’s left ear. Dorsa smiled in her sleep. “Sleep well, my darling,” she whispered softly. “Your brother’s death will be avenged.” She left the nursery on tiptoe and crossed the corridor to Furgas’s room. Hearing the door open, Rodario leaped to his feet, dagger in hand. “Oh, it’s you,” he said shamefacedly. His forehead was lined with creases from the sheets, indicating that he had been asleep.
“Honestly, Rodario,” she said briskly. “What would the maga think if she found you in the palace with a dagger? You’ll have to do better than this; I’m relying on your talents as an actor.” She paused to kiss Furgas and caress his pale cheeks. “Andôkai has called a meeting about the avatars,” she continued.
Rodario sat up straight and ran a hand over his pointed beard. “Listen, Narmora… Do you really mean to kill her?”
She glared at him angrily, so he hastened to elaborate. “She’s our only maga,” he said diplomatically, trying not to rile her. “It won’t make you any friends.”
“No one will know it was me,” she said confidently, wetting a cloth and squeezing it gently over Furgas’s cracked lips. “Andôkai has taught me well; I know how to cover my tracks.”
“Hmm,” said Rodario, unconvinced. He took a moment to find the rig
ht words. “The problem is this: If you avenge yourself on the maga, Girdlegard will be at risk. How are we supposed to defend ourselves if, or more likely, when, we’re attacked?”
She looked at him sadly. “What’s wrong with you, Rodario? You’re shielding the woman who tried to kill your closest friend.”
“Andôkai never intended to kill him, just to put him in a coma.” He slumped into his chair. “Sometimes I think I shouldn’t have told you,” he said, sighing melodramatically. “I don’t wish to incur your fury, myopic angel of death, but Andôkai is our one and only maga.”
“Aren’t you forgetting me?”
“You?” said Rodario incredulously. “I don’t doubt you’re a fast learner, but you’re hardly Andôkai the Tempestuous.” He shook his head. “You’re not ready, Narmora. Wait a few more cycles until your studies are complete. You might feel differently then.”
“I didn’t realize you were an authority on magic,” she sneered. “My son is dead, Furgas is in a coma, and their suffering will be avenged.” She nodded to the door. “Goodbye, Rodario, and thank you for looking after Furgas. I hope you enjoyed the sleep.”
“Spare me your barbs, and think of Girdlegard. Some of us are relying on the maga to save us from our foes.” He stepped smartly into the corridor and closed the door.
Narmora sat down beside Furgas. Slipping her right hand into her bodice, she felt for the gemstone hanging from her neck. She had been wearing the pendant since the battle of the Blacksaddle.
If only Rodario knew my power… Still clasping the gemstone with her right hand, she placed her left hand on Furgas and ran her fingers over his stab wounds. As she closed her eyes, a green glow suffused his bandages, permeating the fabric and irradiating the flesh below. The glow intensified, shining brightly over the infected flesh, and leaving healthy pink skin that grew back over the wound, leaving no sign of inflammation or scarring.
Narmora took a deep breath. It was beyond her means to revive her husband from his coma, but she knew how to heal his wounds. She left the bandages in place so that the maga wouldn’t notice.
“Thank you,” she whispered gratefully, letting go of the stone. “Our time will come, you’ll see.” She hurried away to resume her schooling.
The transition was practiced and flawless; with every step toward the library, Narmora became the obedient student whom the maga had come to trust.
Trovegold,
Underground Network,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle
Tungdil was sitting cross-legged on Myr’s roof, sipping a tankard of beer and looking down at the statue of Vraccas.
Another busy and inspiring orbit was drawing to a close. Since arriving in Trovegold, Tungdil had experienced all manner of new things, and he was looking forward to seeing more. He used the pre-dinner lull to sip his beer and review what he had learned about the underground realm.
As Myr had predicted, the king had insisted on guiding Tungdil and the twins through every street and alleyway in Trovegold to show them the richness of freeling life. They had visited allotments, workshops, and smithies, and walked the length of the irrigation system, which was fed by a pair of waterfalls.
Since then, they had made the acquaintance of numerous freelings, some new to Trovegold, others born in the city, but all unstinting in their praise of Gemmil’s realm. Tungdil had searched their faces for signs of melancholy or sadness, but almost everyone seemed genuinely content. He could see why they were drawn to Trovegold, which was more than could be said for the twins. Boëndal and Boïndil were looking forward to returning to the fifthling kingdom with its familiar customs and laws.
He heard heavy footsteps behind him. Jangling chain mail identified the visitor as one of the twins. Unlike Tungdil, they insisted on wearing armor wherever they went.
“You’re thinking of staying, aren’t you?” said Boëndal, sitting down next to him and putting his tankard on the floor.
Tungdil sighed. “Is it that obvious?”
His friend chuckled. “Even my brother has started to realize that you might not come home. For him—well, for us, really—staying isn’t an option. He threw up his hands. “Yes, I know we’re all hewn from the same rock,” he said, preempting Tungdil’s objections. “But the freelings are outcasts.” He paused to take a glug of beer. “Outcasts and thirdlings,” he added in a muted but truculent voice. “I’m sorry, Tungdil, but it isn’t a place for upstanding dwarves.”
“You’re impatient to leave, I know,” said Tungdil, refusing to enter into a discussion about outcasts and thirdlings, a category to which he belonged. “Your brother’s inner furnace is overheating. He won’t be happy until he’s worked off his temper on a couple of orcs. He can’t hunt gugul forever.”
Boëndal grinned. “He’s been catching them with his hands. You wouldn’t want to be bitten by a gugul—their teeth are pretty sharp. The other hunters respect him, even though they think he’s mad.” He raised his tankard to the statue. “Here’s to Vraccas for steering our path to Trovegold. I’m glad we’ve seen a freeling city, but Boïndil and I want to leave.” He looked at Tungdil intently. “The sooner the better,” he said firmly. “We’re worried.”
“You mean about the dispute with the elves? It shouldn’t have happened, I agree. Broken trust is difficult to repair, but I’m sure they’ll find a way. It might delay the conquest of Dsôn Balsur by a cycle, but we’ll triumph in the end. The älfar are surrounded—there’s nowhere for them to go.”
“What?” exclaimed Boëndal, astonished. “Don’t you want to be out there, fighting with them? Think what a difference it would make if the hero of the Blacksaddle were to lead an army of dwarves against the älfar! You could make peace with the elves, win back Keenfire, and—”
“Confounded Glaïmbar,” cut in Tungdil irritably. “I wouldn’t have lost the ax again if it weren’t for him. To think the king of the fifthlings couldn’t defend himself against a wounded orc! I don’t know how you expect me to get it back. The älf could be anywhere by now.” He didn’t like to be reminded about Keenfire and he wished the others would stop mentioning it all the time.
Boëndal looked at him thoughtfully. “Anyone would think you were ready to spend the rest of your life telling stories about the battles you fought in the good old cycles when you were a hero. You’re not old yet, Tungdil. What about the future?”
Tungdil swallowed his irritation. “I’ve done my bit for Girdlegard,” he said calmly. “From now on, I want to be a regular dwarf who does regular things. I don’t intend to sit by the fire; I’d like to work in a forge or find a way of using my knowledge.”
“Like Myr you mean? Is that what’s keeping you here? Nothing kills the spirit of adventure like a maiden, they say.”
Tungdil took a deep breath. “I don’t know,” he said sadly. “Myr isn’t a bit like Balyndis. We talk for hours and hours about books and ideas. I couldn’t have that kind of conversation with Balyndis—she isn’t scholarly at all. But it’s her I dream about, not Myr.”
He looked his friend in the eye. “What if I do something awful to drive Balyndis and Glaïmbar apart? I don’t want to be a schemer or murderer like Bislipur and the other thirdlings. I’m scared of hurting Glaïmbar and becoming just like them.” He emptied his tankard and set it down with a thud. “I need to forget about Balyndis so I can stop hating Glaïmbar. I think it’s better for everyone if I stay here with Myr.”
His friend nodded sympathetically. “Very well, scholar. If you’re sure… But I can’t promise that Boïndil won’t try to abduct you.” He and Tungdil laughed briefly, but their hearts weren’t in it.
“What if Girdlegard were in trouble?” asked Boëndal. “Would you come if I asked you to?”
“Of course,” said Tungdil simply. “But I can’t see it happening. When will you leave?”
“Tomorrow morning before sunrise. Andôkai has summoned the leaders of Girdlegard to a meeting in Porista.” He produced a rol
l of parchment. “According to Glaïmbar, you, me, and Boïndil have been chosen for the high king’s entourage.”
“I’m sure Gandogar will manage with you and Boïndil,” said Tungdil emphatically. “What’s the meeting about?”
Boëndal shrugged. “No one knows. It’s confidential, apparently, but the maga probably wants to haul everyone over the coals. To be honest, I don’t blame her—we pledged an oath of friendship, and now we’re killing each other…” He laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Farewell, Tungdil Goldhand. May Vraccas bless you and bring peace to your soul. I hope you live happily in Trovegold.” They stood up and clasped each other affectionately.
“I’m not looking forward to telling my brother,” Boëndal said gloomily. “Maybe Myr should sprinkle some herbs on his dinner to calm him down.”
“It’s all right, I’ll tell him myself,” promised Tungdil. They went downstairs to the kitchen and found Boïndil at Myr’s shoulder, watching hungrily as she prepared the meal. Two gugul were laid out on the kitchen table, gutted and ready to cook.
“Caught with my own fair hands,” he said, beaming. He rolled back his sleeves for his scratches to be admired. “I didn’t use axes, just wrung their necks. I tried telling myself they were orcs to make it more exciting—but it didn’t really work.” He saw their glum expressions. “What’s wrong? No bubbles in your beer?”
“You and Boëndal are leaving tomorrow,” said Tungdil simply. “I’m staying because…”
Boïndil frowned, lowering his head and squaring his shoulders aggressively. “I’ll knock you down and drag you away if I have to. This had better be a joke.”
“No, I’m staying in Trovegold…” began Tungdil. “For the time being, at least,” he continued, alarmed by the look on Boïndil’s face. “I’m hoping to persuade Gemmil to send freeling troops to Dsôn Balsur. I can’t ask for his help and run away.”
Boïndil harrumphed and crossed his arms belligerently. “Why not? Maybe I should talk to him.”
