by Markus Heitz
He turned away, ignoring Tungdil’s pleas. Pulling the tent flap back angrily, he disappeared outside.
“Let him be,” advised Balyndis. “It’s no wonder he can’t think straight when his heart is full of grief. Give him some time.”
The physician cleared his throat to get their attention. “I’m afraid there’s a shard of metal in your bone. I’ll have to get it out.” He handed his patient a metal bar wrapped in leather. Tungdil smiled and tried to give it back, but the physician shook his head. “You’ll need it. It’s a painful business.”
Tungdil put the bar between his teeth and Balyndis squeezed his hand while the physician’s assistants exposed the bone by pulling back the flesh with metal hooks. A pair of tongs closed around the shard and the physician began to pull. Tungdil didn’t have time to clamp his jaws around the bar; his mind had shut down.
Porista,
Former Realm of Lios Nudin,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6235th/6236th Solar Cycle
The citizens found a use for the fissures resulting from the quakes and saved themselves the effort of breaking open the frozen earth to bury the enemy dead.
The avatars’ soldiers were tossed unceremoniously into the trenches and packed down with rubble from the palace, of which nothing remained intact.
Faraway from the men, the fallen dwarves were laid to rest in individual graves. Firstlings were buried next to thirdlings, and thirdlings next to freelings, a fitting end for the comrades-in-arms. Tungdil refused to believe that Vraccas would close his smithy to honorable dwarves of any provenance who upheld his commandments. For the first time in history, the folks were at peace.
Boëndal Hookhand of the clan of the Swinging Axes would return to the Blue Range as a hero, but not in the way that Boïndil and Tungdil had hoped. Too severely burned for the healers to help him, the plucky secondling had died of his wounds.
Boïndil and Tungdil laid him on a shield and carried him, still dressed in his imposing armor as befitted a warrior, through the encampment and into Porista. The funeral procession came to a halt on the southern outskirts of the city. A group of firstlings had volunteered to help Boïndil carry his twin to the secondling kingdom where he would be laid to rest in his beloved Blue Range.
“I couldn’t bury him here,” said a broken-hearted Boïndil. The loss of his twin was a blow from which he would never recover. Part of his soul had died. “He wanted to be buried at the High Pass. He’ll always be keeping watch over Girdlegard and protecting our kingdom from Tion’s hordes.”
Bowing his head, Tungdil looked sorrowfully at his dead friend and touched his cold, scorched fingers. He wasn’t afraid to shed a tear. Forgive me for missing your funeral, he apologized. I’ll visit your grave when my work is done. I hope to bring good news… He turned to Boïndil and embraced him as they mourned the loss of the brother and companion with whom they had shared so much.
“Who’s going to calm my fiery furnace now?” sniffed his twin forlornly. Salty tears rolled down his cheeks, adding to the glistening pearl at the bottom of his beard.
“I’ll join you again soon,” promised Tungdil in a choked voice. “We’ll drink a tankard or two to Boëndal and remember the old times. He’s in the smithy, you know, with Sanda and all the others who died in the fight against the avatars. Vraccas will have given him a proper hero’s welcome.”
They bade each other farewell; then Boïndil signaled to the firstlings to help him lift the shield. Tungdil made his way dolefully back to his tent, where an anxious Rodario was waiting for him.
“He’s gone,” he sighed.
“I know,” said Tungdil. “He left just now.”
The impresario shook his head. “I mean Furgas, not Boïndil. The best prop master in Girdlegard has vanished without trace.” He shrugged sadly. “I don’t know what to do.”
Tungdil poured himself and his guest some tea. “With the Curiosum?”
“Who cares about the Curiosum!” snorted Rodario. “Admittedly, the special effects won’t be the same without him, but Furgas was my friend.” He took a sip of his tea. “The poor fellow has been through such a lot. First he was attacked and poisoned, then his son died before he woke up from the coma, and now, half a cycle later, he’s had to bury his baby daughter and as for Narmora… there’s nothing left but ash. Both dead in a single orbit!” He sighed again, this time more deeply. “Can a heart survive such sorrow? What if he tries to…”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” said Tungdil, doing his best to sound convincing. “If he wanted to take his own life, he’d have done it in Porista, where his children and his wife met their end. I expect he’s gone away for a while to clear his mind.”
Rodario hoped fervently that the dwarf was right. “Fine, I’ll go with your theory, hero of Porista. It’s cheerier than mine.”
“Do you know what, Rodario?” confessed Tungdil. “I’m tired of being a hero. Furgas was upset and he said a few things that got me thinking.” He reported their exchange and took another sip of tea. “The thing is, he was probably right: maybe I should have helped the avatars rather than oppose them,” he concluded sadly.
“I beg to differ,” said Rodario, watching the steam rise from his tea. “It must have slipped my friend’s mind that five towns were destroyed when the avatars marched on Dsôn Balsur. Five towns, and forty thousand men, women, and children! Think how many would have died if they’d marched on Toboribor and Borwôl as well! Besides, the so-called avatars wanted to carve up Girdlegard among themselves. Lirkim said they’d be mightier than kings, omnipotent and invincible. We wouldn’t have lasted more than a couple of orbits with them at our helm.” He sipped his tea. “No, Tungdil, we did the only thing we could. We saved our homeland and we rid the people in the Outer Lands of a band of tyrannical magi, not to mention an unhinged eoîl.” He nodded at Tungdil and smiled. “Furgas was right to be angry, but he was wrong to be angry with you. Girdlegard is indebted to Tungdil Goldhand and the dwarves; there isn’t enough gold in these ranges to repay you.”
Applause sounded from the door. The dwarven monarchs—Balendilín, Gandogar, Gemmil, Glaïmbar, and Xamtys—were gathered at the entrance to the tent, accompanied by Prince Mallen.
“Well said,” agreed the ruler of Idoslane. “Actors are prone to exaggeration, but it’s impossible to speak too highly of the dwarves. The men and women of Girdlegard won’t forget their obligation to the children of the Smith.”
“To some of his children,” Tungdil corrected him. He studied the faces of the four dwarven kings and the firstling queen. His mood was somber. “The freelings and the thirdlings defended Girdlegard in our darkest hour, and the firstlings played their part as well, but the rest of you allowed yourselves to be fooled into leaving Girdlegard. A dwarven king should be strong enough and wise enough to stand his ground.”
Gandogar bowed his head. “Tungdil is right; I shouldn’t have ceded to the thirdlings. I won’t fail the dwarves again.”
He left the doorway and walked to the center of the tent. Everyone took a seat. After all that had happened, the dwarven rulers had plenty to discuss, and Mallen had indicated that he wanted to share some news as well.
“Before we start, I’d like to ask Tungdil Goldhand to be my counselor,” said Gandogar solemnly. “We’ve all seen the folly of ignoring your advice.”
Tungdil was flattered by the offer; the king of all dwarves wanted him, a thirdling, an exile, and a foundling to be his personal counselor. But the Nôd’onn-slaying, eoîl-killing hero had other things to accomplish before he could consider accepting such an offer. The high king agreed to let him think the matter over.
It was Mallen’s turn to speak. “The tidings I bring will please some and grieve others, but mostly, I think, you’ll be shocked.” He paused, looking gravely at the circle of expectant faces. “When King Belletain requested permission for his troops to cross my land, I knew his help would be welcomed in Porista and, not realizing his intentions, I agreed. As y
ou know, his army never got here.” He took a deep breath. “Instead of heading west to Porista, Belletain’s army went east—toward the Black Range.” He produced a crumpled letter from his robe. “When I realized what had happened, I demanded an explanation, and Belletain wrote to tell me that King Lorimbas had failed to honor his treaty with Urgon, and he, Belletain, had been deprived of the fourthlings’ gold. By way of compensation, he ordered his soldiers to raid the thirdlings’ stronghold and carry off their gold.” He handed the letter to Gandogar. “King Gandogar, there was an alliance between Belletain and Lorimbas—an alliance against you.”
“Are the soldiers still there?” asked Xamtys, while the high king stared at the letter in shocked disbelief.
Mallen shook his head. “I sent scouts to the Black Range. The gates were open when they got there and the watchtowers were deserted. Inside, the corridors and halls were strewn with the corpses of dwarf women and children. Belletain had ordered his soldiers to show no mercy to Lorimbas’s folk.”
Tungdil didn’t want to believe what he was hearing. “There must have been some survivors,” he said hopelessly.
“Dwarven kingdoms are full of passageways and secret vaults,” said Xamtys with conviction. “The thirdlings are probably in hiding.”
To the dwarves’ dismay, Mallen shook his head. “My scouts reported that most of the passageways have collapsed. The kingdom was all but destroyed in the quake. I’m not saying there weren’t survivors, but their number will be small.”
“A whole folk, all but wiped out,” murmured Tungdil. He had always dreamed of a time when the dwarves could live together without fear or suspicion. But not like this, Vraccas. He turned to Gandogar. “You asked me to be your counselor, Your Majesty. My advice would be to send an army to guard the Black Range. Without Lorimbas and his warriors, the Eastern Pass is open to attack.”
“I’m sure the surviving thirdlings will welcome your help,” said Gemmil. “It could be the beginning of a new era, an era of peace for the dwarves. The most zealous dwarf killers are dead and buried in Porista—the others can’t afford to continue the feud.”
“Belletain’s treachery won’t go unpunished,” said Mallen. “The rulers of Girdlegard shall hear of how he turned his back on the allies for the sake of some gold. The mad king of Urgon must be stopped before he takes it into his addled head to invade another dwarven kingdom.”
The dwarves agreed wholeheartedly.
“There’s something I’d like to tell you,” said Tungdil. “I haven’t mentioned it until now because the fewer who know, the better.” He produced a small leather pouch containing the diamond and placed it on the table. “As kings and queens, you deserve to hear the truth.” He took out the stone. “This is the last remaining source of magic in Girdlegard. The diamond is powerful enough to turn a magus into a deity. The eoîl was in the process of channeling its magic when Rodario and I cut him down.”
“I was merely the sidekick,” demurred Rodario with a smile.
Everyone crowded around to examine the twinkling surface of the beautiful gem.
Gandogar, king of the gem-cutting fourthlings, was an authority on diamonds. “It’s magnificent,” he said admiringly. “The craftsmanship is dwarven in quality, but a gem like this would be mentioned in our chronicles. The technique is different too.” He picked it up carefully and held it in front of the candle. The flame, seemingly enamored by the flawless surface, leaned toward the diamond, which caught and amplified the light.
The awed silence was broken by Tungdil. “The eoîl spoke of undergroundlings. He probably got the diamond from dwarves in the Outer Lands.”
Gandogar set down the stone.
“You say it would give a magus almost limitless power,” said Mallen, frowning. “With luck, none of our enemies will learn of its existence, but it needs to be under constant guard.”
“Exactly,” said Tungdil. He turned to Gandogar. “You’ve had a look at the stone, and I’ve made a few drawings.” He got up, walked to his desk, and picked up a sheet of parchment. “I’ve written down the exact measurements and sketched the cut. I propose we make copies and give them to the rulers of Girdlegard. The seven human monarchs, the dwarven rulers, and Liútasil will each receive a diamond to guard.” He looked at them earnestly. “Build vaults, set traps, employ sentries—do whatever is necessary to ensure the stone is safe.” Tungdil’s plan met with approval.
“How will we know which of us is guarding the original?” asked Xamtys.
“We won’t—that’s the idea. I’ll keep the diamond until Gandogar has made the replicas. Then we’ll put them in a pouch, add the original, and shake them together. After that, we’ll trust to Vraccas and draw the stones at random. You might draw a replica, you might draw the original, but neither you, nor I, nor anyone who chances to learn of the stone’s existence will be able to tell.” He turned away from Xamtys to address the other monarchs. “This is Girdlegard’s biggest secret. Only the members of this council, Lord Liútasil, and the other human rulers must know of the stone.”
Balendilín stroked his beard. “Without the diamond, we’ll never have another magus or maga. The only magic in Girdlegard is hidden in the stone. How long do you propose we hide it?”
“I don’t know, but maybe in time we’ll entrust the diamond to a human, an elf, or a dwarf and start a new line of magi. The right individual would know how to identify the stone.” He returned the diamond to its pouch and stowed it behind his belt. “If you ask me, we’ll be better off without any magic for a while.” No one was inclined to disagree.
Next they made arrangements for sending an allied army to the ruined thirdling kingdom with the dual purpose of rescuing survivors and sealing the Eastern Pass. In future, the dwarves would have to travel between the ranges on foot because the underground network had been destroyed by the quakes.
The meeting ended late that night. Prince Mallen was the first to leave, followed by Queen Xamtys and the dwarven kings. King Glaïmbar stayed behind to talk to Tungdil.
The fifthling monarch held out his hand. “How can I ever repay you, Tungdil Goldhand? First you saved my life in the Gray Range, then you rescued Balyndis from the avatars.”
Tungdil shook hands with him gladly. He couldn’t bring himself to hate Glaïmbar for stealing Balyndis; it seemed wrong to harbor grudges when fortune had treated others more harshly. “I came to the aid of a dear friend. You would have done the same.”
“If I were to ask you what you wished for more than anything, what would you say?” asked Glaïmbar levelly, looking him in the eye.
“I would ask you to give up Balyndis so she could follow her heart,” he answered honestly. “But since it’s not in your power, I won’t.” He gripped the king’s hand. “My greatest wish is that you look after her, honor her, and make her happy.”
“You’re a better dwarf than me, Tungdil Goldhand,” said Glaïmbar, shaking his head in wonder. He turned to leave, then stopped and looked back at Tungdil. “They should have made you king,” he said sincerely. The tent flap closed behind him.
Tungdil gazed after him, deep in thought. “Perhaps,” he murmured, smiling. “But I was the one who turned down the crown.” He poured himself another mug of tea.
He knew it was time for bed. Before he could take the diamond to Gandogar in the fourthling kingdom he had to travel north to landur and east to Dsôn Balsur. A good deal of snow, sludge, and mud would pass beneath his boots before the coming of spring.
He smiled, remembering how Rodario had looked at him in horror when he announced his intention to travel alone to the älfar’s kingdom.
“What in the name of Palandiell do you want in that confounded place? Don’t tell me you want to look for survivors! You saw for yourself that the stone of judgment worked.”
Tungdil had told him that he wasn’t interested in the älfar; he was after his ax.
He carried his tea to his mattress, removed his fur cloak, and slipped beneath the covers.
Before he fell asleep, he got up again to throw a few logs on the camp stove to banish the winter chill. It’s my duty to see this through, he thought sleepily, closing his eyes.
X
Elven Kingdom of landur,
Girdlegard,
Winter/Spring, 6236th Solar Cycle
Tungdil peered up at the lofty branches laden with snow. All winter the boughs had bowed and sagged beneath the extra weight, proudly refusing to break. With the worst of the winter over, the sun was strengthening, freeing the trees from the snow.
Springtime beckoned, and soon Girdlegard would be awash with color. His old friend Frala used to love the first orbits of spring.
So many of my friends are dead, he thought gloomily as he made his way between the mighty trunks.
On his previous visit to landur, he and his company had been given a cool reception by the elves, but this time his presence seemed to go unnoticed.
He hadn’t seen a soul since he first set foot in the elven kingdom two orbits ago, following the narrow path deeper and deeper among the trees. He wondered when he was going to be met by Liútasil, the elven lord with claret-colored hair.
The answer came sooner than expected.
On rounding a corner, he came to the end of the path and entered a clearing. In front of him was a vast green tent that seemed to be made of satin. An elven archer was posted at each of the corners, and Liútasil, dressed in ceremonial robes, hailed him from the door. Smiling warmly, he shook the dwarf’s hand.
“Congratulations, Tungdil Goldhand. Everyone in Girdlegard must have heard of your victory.” He gestured for Tungdil to enter the tent. “Come in. We thought you might like somewhere to rest your weary legs.”
Tungdil bowed to the elven lord. “Thank you.” Stepping inside, he was struck by the splendor of the tent.
Dwarves and humans built their tents with canvas and plain wooden poles, but Liútasil’s shelter was made of satin and elegant pillars of aromatic wood, each carved with intricate hunting scenes and embellished with runes. Tungdil wondered how he could bear to dismantle such a beautifully crafted tent.
