by Markus Heitz
She laughed. “How do you think the kings and queens of Girdlegard will like the idea of sharing their confidences with an impresario? Not everyone wants to be featured in your plays.”
He jogged to catch up with her. “That’s easily solved,” he said brightly. “You’ll tell them I’m your famulus.” He raised his right hand and looked at her solemnly. “Think of the benefits—I can help with your lines. Listen, Narmora,” he said sincerely, “I want to be your friend. You need someone you can trust, someone you can share your thoughts with. I’m offering you my help.”
They hurried through the arcades in silence. At the door to the conference chamber, Narmora stopped and turned to Rodario. “You’re right, a friend is exactly what I need.” She smiled, and for a few heartbeats she was the old Narmora, leading lady of the Curiosum. “Come on, it’s time to save Girdlegard.” She threw open the doors and walked in.
The leaders of the other kingdoms were waiting for her. Only the dwarves were missing. In the interests of Girdlegard, they had agreed to absent themselves from the assembly, as per Romo’s churlish instructions. Narmora had promised to brief them later.
The half älf sat down on the throne belonging to Andôkai, while Rodario claimed the chair beside her and tried to look the part. “This is my famulus, Rodario,” she introduced him. “The late maga discovered his talent for magic and schooled him in the mystic arts. He will continue his studies under me.”
Rodario rose and gave a deep bow. The combination of his aristocratic features and fine robes would have dazzled a lesser audience. “My gifts as an actor are well known, but Andôkai made a secret of my apprenticeship. I’m delighted to announce that my growing skill as a weaver of enchantment will be placed in the service of our new maga, Narmora the Unnerving, as she leads the fight against Tion’s fiery avatars. With my help—”
“A fat lot of good he’ll do,” jeered Romo, cutting short the impresario’s speech. He glanced at Narmora. “She won’t defeat the avatars either. Not even the famous Andôkai could halt their advance.” He stood up, crossed the chamber and came to a halt beneath the copper dome, armor glistening in the intersecting rays of sunlight from the lofty windows. His companion, a taciturn, almost man-high dwarf, watched impassively from his seat.
Prince Mallen of Idoslane leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “And I suppose Lorimbas is the only one who can stop them?”
Romo bowed. “Greetings, Prince Mallen. My uncle was wondering how your kingdom was faring. We saw the smoke rising over Idoslane from our watchtowers across the border. It must be hard without our mercenaries to beat back Toboribor’s orcs.”
“Enough of this childishness,” snapped Narmora. “We’re here to listen to your proposal—although, frankly, it seems a waste of time.”
The thirdling bridled and was about to retaliate when someone hammered on the door.
Remembering the last interruption, Narmora rose uneasily from her throne and walked to the door.
“The hero of the Blacksaddle!” exclaimed Rodario, who had followed her. He couldn’t contain his surprise. “What an honor!”
Narmora held out her hand and Tungdil clasped it warmly.
“I wish the circumstances were more favorable, but it’s good to see you,” he said with a smile. He was accompanied by the twins and a pale dwarf with white hair and red eyes. “This is Myrmianda Alabaster, my spouse,” he said briefly. “I’m here for a reason. I’d like to take part in the discussions on behalf of the dwarven folks.”
“No,” growled Romo, his face contorting with rage. His tattoos looked darker and more menacing than ever as he glowered at the unknown dwarf. “The terms are clear: The descendants of—”
“I’m a thirdling,” said Tungdil politely, raising the ax in his right hand. “If I understand correctly, the dwarves of Lorimbur aren’t excluded from the proceedings.” He rapped his weapon against the floor, the metal ax head clattering against the flagstones. “Either the meeting is open to thirdlings, or you and your companion are barred as well.” He stared fearlessly into the eyes of the furious dwarf. “Very well,” he said, claiming the chair previously occupied by Gandogar. “The three of us will stay. I hope I haven’t missed much. Tell me, Romo, how exactly is your uncle going to stop the avatars?”
Mallen, eyes sparkling with amusement, gave his friend an encouraging nod. He and the other rulers, with the exception of Belletain, were heartened by Tungdil’s early victory in the war of words.
Romo, though, had regained his composure. “I see you haven’t brought Keenfire,” he said, hoping to humiliate his new adversary. “I heard a rumor that it was stolen.”
“It’s on loan to a mortal enemy,” said Tungdil lightly. “She’s sworn to kill me, so I know she’ll bring it back.” He cocked his head. “I thought you said Keenfire couldn’t help us?”
Mallen chuckled.
“It can’t,” Romo growled. He let his gaze travel over the faces of the assembled rulers. “My uncle saw the comet in the firmament and knew at once that the avatars were here. I expect you were wondering why we retook the Blacksaddle. Our archives are hidden in the stronghold, and we wanted them back. It was worth it: We learned from our forefathers’ writings how the avatars can be destroyed. There’s a secret weapon.”
“Little maids,” interjected Belletain, his dull eyes fixed on the thirdling. “Sharpen their heads, that’s the important bit. Take as many as you like.”
“No, worthy Belletain, there’s no need to sacrifice the maidens of Urgon,” said Romo. “As you know, my folk were created by Vraccas, but we despise the rest of his creation, including the avatars, who were brought into being by the hammer of the Smith. The Vraccas-hewn, Tion-bodied demigods must be destroyed.”
Queen Wey cleared her throat. “In the name of Elria, how?”
“If I were to tell you, you’d defeat them, and where would be our reward? With Lorimbas’s help, Girdlegard can defeat the avatars. That’s all you need to know.” He waited in silence for the protests to die down.
“What kind of reward did you have in mind?” enquired Tungdil, looking at Romo through narrowed eyes. He feared the worst.
“Nothing too unreasonable,” replied Romo. The men and elves leaned forward in anticipation, but Romo’s words were addressed to Tungdil alone. “The dwarves of Beroïn, Borengar, Giselbert, and Goïmdil must leave these lands without delay. Once they’re gone, the thirdlings will save Girdlegard from the avatars and send warriors to defend the gates of the other four kingdoms. Our folk is numerous and powerful.” He smiled maliciously. “The children of Vraccas must decide whether Girdlegard shall be destroyed.”
III
Porista,
Former Realm of Lios Nudin,
Girdlegard,
Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle
The thirdlings are crafty,” said Gandogar, looking into the worried faces of the other dwarven monarchs. “It’s not war they’re after. They want to kick us out of Girdlegard by other means.”
Boïndil clenched his fists. “I’d like to give Romo a taste of my axes.”
“It wouldn’t help,” Tungdil reminded him.
“No, but it would make me feel better.” The warrior snorted impatiently. “I’m angry enough to kill an army of runts and stamp on their plug-ugly—”
“Shush,” said Boëndal. “Some of us are trying to think.”
Gandogar and the rest of the dwarven delegation were seated at a table in one of the palace’s many rooms. Laid out before them was a map of Girdlegard. Hours had passed since they started discussing what to do about Romo’s proposal, and still no one had come up with a viable solution. They had until dusk to reach a decision, and the light was fading fast.
“Why didn’t he want us there when he told them about the weapon?” asked Balyndis.
At the sound of the smith’s voice, Tungdil reached for Myr’s hand as if to prove to himself that he loved her. He felt as if he were dangling over an open mineshaft, with only Myr to s
top his fall. Looking up, he saw that Balyndis was holding hands with Glaïmbar. I’ve moved on, he told himself firmly, although he couldn’t help thinking that Balyndis looked pretty. His heart sped up a little. Because I’m agitated, he reasoned. He was furious at the thirdlings for exploiting Girdlegard’s predicament for their own ends.
“I expect he was hoping to win over the elves and men before Narmora had time to warn us,” said the one-armed king of the secondlings. “Neither he nor his uncle reckoned with Tungdil’s appearance.”
“One–nil to the children of Vraccas,” commented Boïndil confidently, running a hand through his sleek-looking beard. He had greased it with leftover fat from Myr’s kitchen, and he didn’t seem bothered by the residual smell of meat.
“It’s not over yet,” warned the high king, feeling the weight of his crown. He rested his chin on his hands. “We underestimated Lorimbas. He’s a hundred times more dangerous than Bislipur. Unless you can come up with a better solution…” He paused, looking hopefully at Balendilín, who was silent. “In that case, Vraccas forgive me, but I’ll have to give the order for our kingdoms to be cleared.”
“Never!” protested Boïndil, smashing his fist against the table. “If you banish us to the Outer Lands, the thirdlings will steal our strongholds and—”
“Girdlegard will be saved,” said Gandogar in a commanding voice. “Boïndil Doubleblade, I know how you feel. I don’t want to give our strongholds to the thirdlings either, but what of our Vraccas-given mission?” He looked each of them in the eye. “I want you to remember the Smith’s first commandment: Our duty is to protect the inhabitants of Girdlegard. If we’re obliged to leave our kingdoms, so be it.”
The high king’s speech was followed by a long silence as everyone searched for an alternative.
“Couldn’t we attack the thirdlings and seize the secret weapon?” suggested Queen Xamtys.
Balendilín shook his head. “The Black Range is uncharted territory. None of us could lead an army safely through the passageways and tunnels. There isn’t time to plan an attack, even if the elves and the men were to help. Besides, Lorimbas would be ready for us—and some of his warriors are garrisoned at the Blacksaddle. If we march on the Black Range, he’ll attack us from behind.”
“Perfect timing on their part,” observed Tungdil, leaning back in his chair. “They probably think we’ve got no choice.” He smirked.
“What’s this?” queried Gandogar, sitting up. “Is Tungdil Goldhand proposing another act of heroism?”
“Not exactly. I was thinking the thirdlings could help us.”
Boëndal and Boïndil exchanged glances, guessing what their friend had in mind. Balyndis looked at them questioningly, and Boïndil flashed her a confident smile.
Tungdil stroked the coin-shaped patch of gold embedded in his hand; it shimmered in the light of the setting sun. “I got to know the freelings during my stay in their capital. Some are thirdlings like me, and, like me, they aren’t possessed of Lorimbur’s murderous hatred.” As he said the word “hatred”, his gaze settled briefly on Glaïmbar. “They know their way around the thirdling kingdom,” he finished, looking away.
“I’m sure they’d be happy to help,” agreed Myr. “They could lead…” She trailed off, discouraged by the delegates’ response.
Everyone around the table was staring at her with open curiosity.
She was a pale aberration, a dwarf without chain mail, whose smooth white skin was unlike anything in Vraccas’s creation. It was true in some respects that she resembled alabaster, but the comparison wasn’t favorable. Alabaster was soft, crumbly, and practically useless. It had nothing in common with the granite from which the founding fathers had been hewn.
“How can we be sure the thirdlings in Trovegold are any better than Romo?” someone demanded grimly. The others were thinking the same, but it was Balyndis who voiced their concern. “Don’t take it personally, Tungdil. Your loyalty is beyond question, but we know you. We can’t trust thirdlings whom we’ve never set eyes on.”
“What about Sanda? She’s the queen consort,” he protested. Before he could continue, he was silenced by a kick from Myr. Given her distrust of the freeling commander, it seemed prudent to leave the matter there.
“I know plenty of thirdlings,” volunteered the pale-skinned medic. “I’d trust them with my life.” She knew from their scornful looks that she was wasting her breath.
“We can’t stake our future on the dubious loyalties of thirdlings,” decided Gandogar, ruling against the proposal.
“Your Majesty, the thirdlings in Trovegold are an invaluable asset,” ventured Balendilín, hoping to change the high king’s mind. In his view, Tungdil’s suggestion was their only hope. “With knowledgeable guides, we could launch a surprise attack.”
Tungdil nodded gratefully at the one-armed secondling. “Gemmil’s realm is vast—much bigger than I’d imagined. The number of freeling cities defies belief.” He rose to his feet, knowing that the next words he uttered could change the dwarves’ course. “The freelings came to our aid and defended the fifthling kingdom against hordes of orcish revenants. Two thousand warriors battled for our cause. It took King Gemmil a matter of orbits to send an army to the range.” Tungdil looked at Gandogar beseechingly. “They can help us, Your Majesty. They’re a force to be reckoned with.”
Gandogar bowed his head, closed his eyes, and covered his face with his hands. No one could tell whether he was praying or deep in thought.
Silence descended on the chamber. Myr squeezed Tungdil’s hand and smiled at him nervously.
At last Gandogar uncovered his face and sighed. “We’re leaving,” he said evenly.
Boïndil let out a shriek. “Leaving? We can’t give up our kingdoms without a fight!”
“Are you sure, Your Majesty?” persisted Balendilín. “We’ll be leaving our strongholds in the midst of winter. What about the womenfolk and children? Our losses will run to hundreds before we encounter the first band of orcs. What kind of future awaits us in the Outer Lands? Even the fog is dangerous.”
“I know,” sighed Gandogar. “I’m aware of the risks. I’m condemning our kinsfolk to a perilous march over icy passes and narrow ridges and treacherous winter snow. Believe me, Balendilín, I’ll mourn the death of every dwarf. Vraccas will hold me accountable.” His eyes welled with tears. “But our sacrifice won’t be in vain. We’ll leave in the knowledge that Girdlegard is safe—our kingdoms will still be standing when we return.”
“The thirdlings won’t relinquish our strongholds,” objected Balendilín. “It’s war either way. If we fight them now, we might prevail, but later… The thirdlings will wipe us out, Your Majesty. They’ll ensconce themselves in our strongholds and bombard us with boiling pitch, boulders, and arrows. We’ll perish at the bottom of our own defenses.” He leaned over the map and placed a finger on the Black Range. “Strike now, and—”
Gandogar rose to his feet, trembling with rage. “Enough!” he bellowed. “I’m the high king and I’ve made my decision. We can’t risk a war with the thirdlings, do you hear? The avatars are wily and powerful—they killed the maga, and they’ll strike again. The decision stands: We’re leaving Girdlegard.” He raised the ceremonial hammer and brought it down so heavily that a crack appeared in the table. “Tungdil,” he said, his voice still edged with anger. “Go back to the conference chamber and tell Romo we accept the deal.”
Tungdil got up, bowed, and left the room with Myr. “It’s all wrong,” he muttered to himself. I don’t know why Gandogar thinks the avatars are so wily. Why target Andôkai when the thirdlings are the threat?
“What’s the matter?” asked Myr. “Do you think it’s a mistake for the dwarves to leave?”
Tungdil stopped mid-stride, as if colliding with a wall. He turned to Myr and kissed her fervently. The satisfied expression on his face seemed at odds with his earlier despondency.
“What’s the matter?” she asked breathlessly, puzzled by the rush of aff
ection.
“I’ll tell you later,” he promised. She waited outside while Rodario opened the door and ushered Tungdil to his chair.
Romo had ordered a tankard of beer and was slurping noisily. His companion peered intently at Tungdil. A look of astonishment crossed his face, and he averted his eyes.
“If it isn’t King Gandogar’s message boy!” exclaimed Romo with a malicious laugh. He wiped his beard on the back of his sleeve. “Has the high king reached a decision?”
“Yes,” replied Tungdil levelly. “King Gandogar wishes it to be known that he agrees to the unscrupulous terms laid down by your uncle.” He heard gasps from the other delegates, some of whom seemed relieved, while others were clearly shocked and saddened that the dwarves were being blackmailed into giving up their kingdoms. Tungdil left his chair and, drawing himself up to his full height, stopped in front of Romo. “Know this, Romo Steelheart: If Girdlegard falls, you and your uncle will die by my hand,” he threatened, tilting his ax toward him.
Lorimbas’s nephew saw at once that it would be foolish to provoke his challenger. To the astonishment of the delegates, Tungdil’s threat met with something akin to respect.
“Tell King Gandogar that his decision has been noted and will be conveyed to my uncle. Your fears about Girdlegard’s future are unfounded. Once the thirdlings are in control of the ranges, nothing will breach our defenses.” He took his morning star from the table. “We’ll keep out the vermin—the avatars, the beasts, and the Vraccas-loving dwarves.” He got up, hooked the weapon over his belt, and set off toward the doors, followed by his taciturn companion, who glanced over his shoulder at Tungdil. Romo stopped in the doorway. “The thirdling annexation of the dwarven kingdoms begins in eighty orbits. After that time, any dwarves in our ranges will be killed.” He cast a roll of parchment to the floor. “Here’s a list of chattels. The items in question must be left at our disposal. Tell Gandogar we’ll deal with his kingdom first.”
