by Markus Heitz
Hosjep surveyed the slaughter, eyes welling with tears of helpless rage. Ye gods, have mercy. They’ve killed them all… Try as he might, he couldn’t see a single dead älf. How could you forsake your children, Palandiell?
Down below, an älf was riding over the bodies. Her mount, a bull with monstrous horns, wore a metal visor, and its eyes emitted a fearsome red glow. She shouted an order, whereupon a band of älfar waded through the corpses, slitting their throats and collecting their blood. Meanwhile, another band threw pitch and petroleum over the frames of the mangonels.
I’ve got the choice of being slaughtered or burning to death, thought Hosjep wretchedly. Given the options, he decided to wait until the älfar torched the mangonels, then pull the arrow from his leg and stab himself through the heart. I’d sooner kill myself than fall into their hands.
Just then the bull raised its head, looked straight at him, and snorted impatiently. Its rider followed its gaze.
She was wearing a mask and a black gauze veil that obscured her features. Hosjep watched as she raised her quarterstaff and barked an order. An archer raised his bow and took aim at the mangonel.
The arrow hit him in the left shoulder. He lost his grip, rolled off the throwing arm, glanced off a strut, and landed on the soft carpet of bodies below.
“Get back! Get back, you devils!” he wailed, floundering among the corpses. Already an älf was beside him. Snatching up a sword, Hosjep thrust it forward, stabbing the älf in the guts.
The älf stayed standing.
Then to Hosjep’s horror, he took hold of the sword and pulled it from his torso. Dark, almost black blood poured from the wound, but within an instant the flow dried up.
He healed himself. Hosjep wriggled backward. No wonder I couldn’t see any älvish casualties… Palandiell, what have we done to be punished like this?
“Listen, wight,” said the älf on the bull. “Your gods took mercy on you and spared your life. Return to your kingdom and tell your monarch what you’ve seen. The immortal siblings wish it to be known that the älfar will not yield. Tion has blessed us with new powers.” The bull took a step closer. “I’m sure you can testify to their effect—unless you’d like another demonstration…”
“No!” Hosjep shrank away from her. “I’ll do as you say and tell Prince Mallen.”
“Then go,” she commanded.
Hosjep struggled to his feet and ran for his life, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and leg.
Turning her bull, Ondori congratulated her warriors.
The little band had passed the test. After drinking the dark water, the warriors had ridden into battle and survived their wounds. Sitalia’s fairies will be next, she thought grimly. landur, prepare to meet your doom…
She looked down at the trampled bodies, imagining the wonderful sculptures that she would make from the skeletons. Any leftover bones would be transported to the capital and added to Nagsor and Nagsar’s tower.
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle
The autumn weather refused to smile on Tungdil and Myr. Most of their overland journey was spent in the pouring rain.
Myr, fearing they would catch a chill from sleeping outside in damp clothes, insisted on gathering herbs for an infusion to protect them from the cold. Knowing that they couldn’t afford to lose time to illness, Tungdil knocked back cup after cup of the stuff.
Unfortunately, he started the regimen too late and developed a nasty cough that left him tired and weak. The pair had no choice but to break their journey at an inn, where they could sleep on a dry mattress out of the rain until the first big storm had passed.
The innkeeper’s wife could barely conceal her astonishment at the appearance of two such unusual guests. “I’ll make you some hearty broth, Mr. Goldhand,” she promised when he was safely tucked up in bed. “I’ve got plenty of herbs in the kitchen. They work wonders against coughs and colds.”
“Really?” said Myr enthusiastically. “I’ll make an infusion. We’ll have him back on his feet in no time.” She snuffed out all but one of the lights, placing the remaining candle in a holder, which she left on the table by his bed. “I’ll be back soon,” she said soothingly, bending down to kiss him. “Try to get some sleep.” In the doorway, she stopped and looked at him with an odd expression.
Tungdil lay on his back, sinking into his mattress of wool and straw, and looked sleepily at the shadows cast by the candle on the whitewashed walls.
The more he looked at them, the more menacing they became, closing in on him steadily like wild beasts as he lay, unarmed and unarmored, between the sheets. It felt like he were at the mercy of a vague, intangible evil, like the sinister fog in the Outer Lands.
“Confounded candle,” he grumbled, reaching over to snuff it out. His fingers, weak from the fever, groped clumsily for the wick, brushing against it without extinguishing the flame.
Though he had barely touched the candle, it was sitting so loosely in the holder, that it toppled over, landed on the floor, and rolled, still burning, under his bed. A moment later, the straw poking out beneath the mattress was on fire.
“Damn and double damn.” Tungdil tried to get up, but succeeded only in falling out of bed. He watched as the mattress went up in flames.
“Myr!” he shouted. “Myr, the bed’s on fire!”
Silence.
“Fire!” His shouts turned to coughs. Glowing embers flew in all directions, spiraling through the chamber and settling on the floor and furniture, spreading the blaze. Soon the room was unbearably hot. “Fire!” he shouted desperately. Exhausted and feverish, he lay on the rough floorboards, unable to move.
The crackling grew louder and the fire began to hiss and roar. The whole room had become an oven, and still no one came to his aid.
Do you want me to die here, Vraccas?
At last the door flew open. Tongues of fire licked greedily toward him, fanned by the rush of air. “Mr. Goldhand?” called a gruff male voice. “Are you there?”
“I’m here!” he croaked. “Here, by the bed!”
A bucket of water arced through the air, sloshing against the floor, and spattering Tungdil’s beard. A moment later a muffled figure wearing a dripping blanket charged into the chamber, grabbed Tungdil by the wrist, and dragged him out of the inferno to the safety of the landing.
“Tungdil!” At once Myr was beside him, crouching over him anxiously. She seemed more upset by the incident than he was. Upset and slightly guilty. “What happened?”
“It was my fault,” he whispered in a rasping voice. “I knocked the candle…”
“Take Mr. Goldhand downstairs,” interrupted the sooty-faced man. “I need everyone out of the corridor so I can put out the flames.”
The innkeeper’s wife helped Myr to carry Tungdil downstairs to the main tavern. “This is for you and your husband,” said Myr, handing the woman a gold coin. “I can’t thank you enough. Tungdil would have burned to death without you.” Black smoke was still billowing from the landing. “We’ll pay for the damage, whatever it costs.” The woman thanked her and hurried away to help her husband.
“What am I to do with you, Tungdil Goldhand?” said Myr. “I leave you alone for two seconds, and you set fire to the bed!” She hugged him tightly. “You gave us both a nasty shock.”
“Where were you?” he asked, wrapping his sooty arms around her.
“We were preparing the infusion. The housemaid was making such a din with the pots and pans that we didn’t realize that the room was on fire until the innkeeper shouted for help.” She swallowed and buried her head in his chest. “Get some sleep,” she said tearfully. “I’m never going to leave you alone again. Not ever.” You’re all I care about. I’ve learned my lesson. Thank goodness you didn’t die. She hugged him tenderly.
IV
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle
The fire was put ou
t before the flames could consume the rest of the inn. Only the roof above the upstairs chamber and the chamber itself were destroyed in the blaze.
Two orbits later, after plenty of rest, regular doses of Myr’s herbal infusion, and generous helpings of the landlady’s broth, Tungdil was ready to start walking again. Myr knew of a secret entrance to the underground network, and they covered the final miles of the journey at breathtaking speed.
On arrival in Trovegold, they went straight to the stronghold to make their report to the king.
Sanda Flameheart was with Gemmil when they were ushered into the room. She seemed delighted to see Tungdil, but her relief turned to trepidation when he recounted the news from Porista. From time to time she glanced suspiciously at Myr, who ignored her steadfastly, perhaps because she hadn’t noticed or because she didn’t care.
“Our realm is in great danger,” judged Gemmil. “If we don’t leave our cities, the thirdlings will take them by force.”
“Glaïmbar said that you’re welcome to join the fifthlings,” Tungdil told him. “Your warriors saved his kingdom from the orcs. He said it’s the least he can do to give you passage and assistance over the northern pass. He knows the fifthlings can’t repay their debt, but they’ll do what they can to help.”
Gemmil could tell from Tungdil’s tone that he doubted the wisdom of the proposal. He also realized Tungdil had spoken of the fifthlings as if they weren’t his folk. It probably wasn’t deliberate, but Gemmil suspected that he didn’t consider himself a fifthling anymore. Tungdil had rebuilt the fifthling halls, as Giselbert had requested, but the Gray Range had ceased to be his home.
“You think we shouldn’t leave Girdlegard,” said Gemmil, tackling the matter head-on.
“I think leaving would be a mistake,” said Tungdil forthrightly. He proceeded to list the key points of his speech to Gandogar and the delegates.
This time his arguments didn’t fall on deaf ears. “Those are all good points,” said Gemmil. “Still, you can’t know for sure that Romo was lying. How are you going to stop the thirdlings from poaching our strongholds without putting Girdlegard at risk?”
“I can do it—with your help,” replied Tungdil. “Think of the thirdlings’ proposal as an ordinary business deal. Would you pay for something without asking to see it first? Lorimbas is asking us to buy a diamond in a poke.” He could tell from the king’s face that he agreed. “Wouldn’t it be better to verify that the item exists? We need to know that the thirdlings are capable of stopping the avatars. If they aren’t, Girdlegard will need every warrior at her disposal. We’ll be sealing her fate if we leave.”
Gemmil turned to Sanda. “What do you think?”
“Sixty cycles is the blink of an eye in dwarven history,” she said slowly. “No one mentioned a secret archive when I was in the Black Range. We talked a lot about the Blacksaddle because our ancestors are buried in its chambers, but there was never any mention of an archive or a weapon. Lorimbas’s story doesn’t ring true.”
“A great deal can happen in sixty cycles,” argued Myr. “Think how much has changed in Trovegold in the past sixty orbits. You can’t presume to know what the thirdlings are thinking or doing. We need better evidence than that.” She eyed Sanda scornfully before turning to Gemmil. “I think you should be careful. For all we know, Lorimbas could be telling the truth.”
Tungdil was taken aback. “Whose side are you on?” he said indignantly.
“Yours, of course,” she said soothingly, taking his hand. “Fearlessness and daring are excellent qualities in a warrior, but an overhasty decision could be the ruin of Girdlegard, not just the dwarves.” She gave his fingers a little squeeze. “I’m your very own voice of reason. I’ll offer good counsel and be right behind you, whatever you decide.”
“There’s another thing you should consider,” said Sanda. “Are you prepared for a life like mine? If you defy the high king, you’ll be punished. You won’t be Tungdil Goldhand, hero of the Blacksaddle; you’ll be an outcast. This isn’t a minor infraction of the rules; it’s rank disobedience, possibly treason. Your sentence will be harsh.” She took a deep breath. “They could banish you for good. You might never be allowed back to the fifthlings.”
Tungdil smiled at Myr. “As soon as I arrived here, I felt like Trovegold was my home. I like being with dwarves who follow Vraccas without enslaving themselves to petty rules. Besides, my heart is melded to Myr’s.” Though he spoke with conviction, he couldn’t help thinking of Balyndis. She made her decision; I made mine, he added defensively before his inner demon could comment.
You don’t fool me, a small voice mocked him.
Gemmil looked him in the eye. “You seem to know what you’re getting yourself into,” he said levelly. “Why don’t you tell us what you propose? You can count on the freelings to play their part.”
Tungdil told them his plan.
Borengar’s Folk,
Eastern Border of the Firstling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Early Winter, 6235th Solar Cycle
It was snowing again. In no time the nine towers and twin ramparts of East Ironhald, recently rebuilt by the firstlings, were covered in glittering white.
Everyone, no matter how young or old, had helped to clear the debris and restore the stronghold to its former glory. Even the gully leading up to the stronghold boasted six new fortified gates.
The masons had learned from the mistakes of their predecessors, and the fortifications, including the towers and bridges, were designed to withstand three times the previous winter’s snowfall.
Barriers had been erected further up the mountainside. Thick stone slabs and long mounds of rubble protruded from the slope, ready to trap the White Death before it smothered the dwarves below.
At the base of the gully, the first of the six gates, built to withstand snow and ice, formed a formidable defense against invaders, including Lorimbas Steelheart and his dwarves.
Tasked with searching the portal for a lever, handle, or secret mechanism, Salfalur could find only a freshly polished block of stone that had once bidden visitors—friendly visitors—to enter. The inscription had been chiseled off.
“No luck,” he called out to Lorimbas. He and his warriors were wearing thick woolen cloaks, hats, and scarves over their armor to protect them from the biting cold. The king, as a mark of his status, had draped a fur stole over his shoulders and was wearing the royal helmet. “The gates won’t open,” explained Salfalur. “We’ll have to climb over.”
“Confounded firstlings,” thundered the king, his voice echoing through the valley. “They did it to spite us.”
The heavyset commander trudged through the snow toward him, sinking deeper with every step. “It’s only a minor setback, Your Majesty. Xamtys’s stronghold will soon belong to Lorimbur.” He shouted for ropes and grappling hooks to be brought to the base of the gates.
Climbing equipment wasn’t usually to be found in dwarven kit bags, not least because dwarves weren’t suited to dangling from ropes, but after receiving reports from two of his units, Salfalur had come prepared.
According to the bulletins from the north and northeast of Girdlegard, the gates to Glaïmbar and Gandogar’s kingdoms had been locked. The entrances had been barricaded so thoroughly that not even a mouse could get through.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” muttered Lorimbas angrily. “Xamtys will have copied the others, I bet.” He was already expecting to receive news from the south that the secondling stronghold was impregnable too. It was like forging hot metal on an anvil, only to have the hammer snatched from his hand. Even more frustratingly, there weren’t any dwarves for him to kill.
“Normally I’d ask Vraccas to guide your hand and bless your hammer, but I know how little you care about the Smith,” called a loud voice that seemed to come from the mountain. Just then a dwarf appeared on the parapet above the gates. “I’ll keep it short. Greetings, King Lorimbas Steelheart of the clan of the Stone Grinders, ruler of the thir
dlings.”
Salfalur recognized the figure immediately and signaled to Lorimbas, who clenched his fists in fury. “Tungdil Goldhand, I presume. You murdered my nephew.”
“Your nephew tried to kill an innocent dwarf,” retorted Tungdil. “He chose his own fate. Ask Lotrobur’s murderer if you like.”
“I’ll skin you alive,” thundered Lorimbas, drawing his ax.
“You’ll have to catch me first,” said Tungdil, laughing. “In case you hadn’t noticed, shouting won’t open the gates.” He leaned over the parapet confidently, reminding Lorimbas that he had the upper hand. “Incidentally, you might want to keep your voice down. The White Death will come thundering down the mountainside if it hears you screeching like a hairless orc.” He made a show of scanning the surrounding peaks. “I didn’t realize the Red Range was so dangerous. How many warriors have you brought? Five thousand? And where’s the famous weapon that you promised the men and elves?”
“It’s none of your business. Get out of my kingdom!”
“I’m the one on the inside; the kingdom belongs to me. I’ll open the gates on one condition: that you show me the weapon and tell me how it works.”
The thirdling king raised his ax menacingly. “We had an agreement! Gandogar will be furious when he hears about this. He’ll hew your miserable—”
“I’m a thirdling,” said Tungdil, undaunted. Drawing his ax, he pointed it at Salfalur. “Ask him, if you don’t believe me. He killed my mother and father and threw me into a chasm, but Vraccas saved me and brought me here to save Girdlegard from your lies.” Tungdil clasped his ax in both hands and drew himself up to his full height, standing tall and proud like a true custodian of the gates. “Where’s the weapon, Lorimbas?”
Salfalur gave a signal, and a band of thirdlings prepared to scale the walls.
Tungdil smiled. “Is that how you’re going to fight off the avatars, with climbing ropes and grappling hooks?” He paused. “There’s something you should know: I’m not alone.” Boïndil appeared at his left, and Boëndal on his right, weapons aloft, and faces grimly determined.
