by Markus Heitz
“Those were the days when you could travel from one dwarf kingdom to another in the blink of an eye,” enthused Fidelgar, sending up a perfect smoke ring. He apparently had had a lot more practice at this than Baigar. “The cars would fly along the rails and the wind would whistle in your hair and beard and tickle your stomach.”
“So you traveled that way?” asked the astonished Baigar.
“Yes, I was there when Queen Xamtys II left for the secondling kingdom and we fought Nôd’onn’s hordes. That was a battle!” He blew at the glowing tip of the smoke roll so that the tobacco would not go out. “I can see it as if it were yesterday, how we—”
Baigar raised his hand abruptly. “Hush!” He listened at the black tunnel entrances. “Thought I heard something.” He removed his smoke roll and put it on the stone table.
“Could be. The work gang must still be out and—”
They heard a terrible scream coming from the furthest left of the four tunnels.
Fidelgar recognized the sound of death. A dwarf had that moment died. Then came the second scream, followed by cries of panic. “Come with me!” He jammed the smoke roll in the side of his mouth. It had been expensive and he did not want to let it go to waste. Hastily he grabbed his shield and ax and strode over to the tunnels.
Baigar took up his bag of tools and two flaming torches and ran after Fidelgar. In the old days he would have immediately thought of an orc attack, but now he assumed there must have been an accident.
They both ran into the straight passageway meant to let the wagons brake safely before reaching the halls at the end of their journey.
The shouts were getting nearer, and the rattlings and clankings of machinery could be heard. It sounded to Baigar like winding gear running, cogwheels spinning and then the dwarves’ stone-mill grinding. But he had never heard all those sounds at the same time before now.
Ahead they discerned a glow of light, in the middle of which a monstrous creature was rearing up, completely blocking the tunnel. It was whirling its many shining claws and bronze-colored arms, while the dwarves of the work gang were desperately attempting to hold it back. But their picks had not the slightest effect on the skin of this monster, and the handles broke like matchwood.
Every time a claw hit home there was a bloodcurdling scream from the victim. Dwarves flew through the air to lie motionless on the passage floor.
“Vraccas, help us! What on earth is this?” Horrified, Fidelgar had to watch as a hideous claw penetrated one dwarf, exiting on the other side of his body; then the arm was withdrawn, pulling the quivering prey close enough to reach with another set of claws. The living dwarf was quartered as he lay and torn to shreds.
Only one of the work squad was still alive, and badly injured, lying groaning on the ground, trying to crawl to safety. Meanwhile the monster made its way forward.
“We must help him,” said Baigar, running to the injured dwarf. Fidelgar had no hesitation in following.
As the pair approached the monster they realized their error. This was not some creature of flesh and blood but a diamond-shaped thing advancing, point foremost.
Its skin was a covering of riveted armour plating. The arms, a good two paces in length, were made of metal, too, ending in blades and toothed claws, which were grabbing and snapping shut randomly. They could not see the monster’s means of locomotion. Below, there was a metal skirt protecting the mechanism from attack.
“This is not a living beast,” cried Baigar in horror, staring at the victims’ blood that dripped from the claws and coated the metal surfaces. He could make out runes on the plating, and their meaning sent shudders through him. He needed to get out alive to report to his queen.
“Mind out!” Fidelgar pulled him back by the sleeve, so that a grabbing claw missed him by a beard-hair’s breadth. He stumbled backwards. “We need to get out. Here, take hold.” The two dwarves lifted the injured man up and helped him along.
The thing hissed and covered them with a cloud of steam that stank of oil, making breathing impossible. Coughing and spluttering, they dragged their comrade back with them away from the machine come alive that was following them.
The beast had no intention of giving up, but thrust its bloody claws into the heavy repair vehicle that carried the tools and the portable forge, simply pushing it backwards along the rails.
“Stop it!” called Fidelgar, jumping into the wagon and pulling hard on the brake. At once the advance of their unearthly opponent was slowed but the wagon was still moving relentlessly on. The strength of the thing was enormous.
“That should give us enough of a start,” said Fidelgar and he hopped out of the wagon on his way back to Baigar and the injured dwarf. They hurried along the tunnel as fast as they could with their burden.
When they had reached the open hall, Baigar prepared to leave them. Fidelgar handed him his smoke roll. “I’ll maneuver another wagon into the tunnel,” he explained breathlessly. “Get him to a healer as quickly as you can and alert more of the guards.” He made one of the wagons fast with an iron hook attached to a chain that they used for the giant pulley. Because it would take too long to start the steam engine that normally dealt with the heavy lifting, he had to rely on the strength of his own muscles. He used the emergency winding gear; the chain clanked slowly into place and took up the slack.
“Tell them to bring long iron rods,” he called after Fidelgar.
The guard dragged the wounded dwarf out. “What shall I say when they ask what sort of monster it is?”
“Tell them it is a new fiendish device of the thirdlings’ design,” answered Baigar.
Fidelgar could not believe it. “How can that—”
“I saw dwarf runes on the armour plating.” Baigar was sweating heavily from the exertion and just managed to lift the wagon with the help of a pulley. “Beaten but not destroyed, we bring destruction,” he quoted through gritted teeth. “It can only be the thirdlings. Tell the queen this for me if I should die.” The muscles of his arms and upper body swelled and flexed as he pushed the heavy wagon over to the rails.
In the nick of time. Hissing sounded out of the passage and a white cloud flew out through the mouth of the tunnel, signaling the murderous monster’s approach.
“Off you go!” yelled Baigar. “I don’t know how long it can be held back!” He made ready to let the wagon down.
“Vraccas protect you!” Fidelgar nodded, took the wounded dwarf over his shoulder and ran off.
He had never moved faster in his life and for the first time it struck him that the vast extent of the dwarf kingdoms was not an advantage. He shouted out to attract attention. The other dwarves left their work and rushed to arm themselves, so that he had soon collected fifty warriors about him. He left the wounded dwarf in someone’s care and then hastened back to the hall with his companions.
Yet they arrived too late.
The wagons lay overturned on the rails blocking the tunnel mouth diagonally like a barricade. They had prevented the monster from passing into the hall and thus into the firstling kingdom.
But they could not find the courageous Baigar—only part of his leg, a scrap of his jerkin and the blood-soaked smoke roll. It was impossible to make out where the rest of him was amongst the remains of the other dwarf corpses, in scattered heaps against the walls and piled up to the roof.
Fidelgar looked back along the tunnel but could see no sign of the monster.
Their new enemy had retreated and must be waiting in one of the passages, ready to attack. The thirdlings had declared war on their brothers and sisters again after an armistice that had lasted five cycles. He would inform the queen of this himself, as Baigar had asked.
Girdlegard,
The Gray Range on the Northern Border of the Fifthling Kingdom,
Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle
Tungdil set out on his way through Glaïmbar’s kingdom toward the Stone Gateway, on the same road as before, when he had traveled with Balyndis and Boïndil.
/> The beauty of the landscape distracted him from his usual worries, and from the discontent that had insinuated itself into his mind. But not from the pain which waited in some corner of his brain ready to pounce like a vicious animal; all too often it emerged, fixing its cruel claws into the most vulnerable part of his being, into his very soul. Ever since that fateful day the two had been his constant companions: discontent and pain.
The slight distraction that let him forget momentarily was shattered when his ear caught the sound of a child’s carefree laughter. It cut through his heart and tore at his soul so that it bled afresh until Tungdil stilled the bleeding with alcohol. But beer was too fluid a bung to stop the loss and it had to be constantly topped up. That was how habits started.
Swaying slightly, Tungdil reached the great gate with its two huge doors that only once had been breached by treachery. Apart from that one time the doors had withstood all monster attacks for thousands of cycles.
And that was how it would be again. The damage had been repaired by the stonemasons; the five bolts were in place, only to be moved when the secret password was spoken.
“If you had only one eye and were singing I’d take you for Bavragor Hammerfist,” bawled a voice behind him, jolting him out of his reverie.
“One dead man speaks about another?” he replied, whirling round too quickly for his own feet. Two strong arms held him fast to save him from falling.
“Well, Scholar, does a dead man look like this?”
Tungdil took in every detail of the muscular, stocky build. The dwarf’s long black hair had been shaved away at the sides of his head and a plait hung down his back; the beard of the same color reached to the buckle of his belt. Chain mail shirt, jerkin, boots and helmet completed the warrior look. A hooked crow’s beak war hammer with a spur as long as a forearm was propped next to him on the rock, handle against his hip.
“Boïndil?” he whispered incredulously. “Boïndil Doubleblade!” he called out in delight, pulling his friend toward him. They had not seen each other for five long cycles. He was not ashamed of his tears, and the loud snuffles by his ear told him that even the other veteran fighter was not holding back his feelings.
“At the grave of my brother Boëndal at the High Gate—that was the last time we met.” Boïndil was crying with joy.
“Then too we wept in each other’s arms,” said Tungdil, clapping him on the back. “Boïndil! How I’ve missed you!” He released the friend with whom he had shared bold adventures; they had gone through so much together—good things and bad, sadness and wonder.
The warrior twin wiped away the tears that were coursing down his beard like drops running off a bird’s plumage. “I keep oiling the beard, you know,” he said, grinning. “Scholar, I have missed you.” Tungdil looked for signs of the furious madness that slept within the dwarf and sometimes escaped to the surface. But the brown gaze was friendly and warm with no trace of wildness. “Death changes the living, too, you told me once.” He patted Tungdil’s chain shirt. “But if you go on like this when you’re alive, the change will be your death,” he teased. “Does Balyndis brew you such good beer?”
“Our beer is bought from traders, and it’s nowhere near as good as the dwarf beer. Same effect, though, and a worse hangover the next day.” Tungdil did not take offence at the remarks about the size of his belly.
But his friend’s thick eyebrows were raised in remonstration. “In other words, you’ve turned into a drinker, like Bavragor,” he summed up. He noted the strong smell of sweat, the matted hair and the face, old before its time. “You have let yourself go, my fat hero. What has happened?”
“We haven’t seen each other for over five cycles and you’re preaching a sermon,” complained Tungdil. “Why don’t you tell me what’s brought you here to the High Gate?” He looked around and saw all the fighting men, arrayed in ranks behind them, ready to practice their combat techniques.
“Nothing has driven me here. I no longer lust after battle and the fire in my blood has lessened. It was the Great King himself who asked me to go with you. Somebody’s got to look after you, after all.” He touched the handle of his crow’s beak. “And somebody must see that my brother’s memory is honored. The hammer spur wants to fight, even if I don’t. It is burning to sink itself into a snout-face’s belly.”
A thirdling was running up and down in front of the ranks of warriors; the black tattoos on his face told of his origins and of the skilled profession he followed. A few cycles earlier this thirdling and these very dwarves he now commanded had faced each other as opponents on the field of battle. That boundless hatred was no longer around. Not everywhere.
Boïndil followed his gaze. “I’m still amazed,” he admitted. “Apart from a few exceptions,” he laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder, “I really can’t stand thirdlings. I can’t forget that some of them vowed to destroy us, to annihilate us. I am afraid of their deviousness.”
“Yes. But there’s only a handful of them now, not a whole tribe any more like in Lorimbas’s day. The misguided ones will die out,” pronounced Tungdil confidently. “Are these my men?” He walked over to the group, his friend following him.
The thirdling noticed them approaching. “Greetings, Tungdil Goldhand and Boïndil Doubleblade,” he said, bowing. “I am Manon Hardfoot of the Death Ax clan. Here are the two dozen warriors I have trained for the excursion into the Outer Lands.” His brown eyes displayed conviction. “They are afraid of nothing.”
Boïndil gave a friendly laugh, “Believe me, Manon, there is always something that can make a warrior afraid. Which is not saying that it cannot be overcome.”
Manon grinned in challenge. “Then my troops will show you that there are dwarves without fear.”
“We won’t find anything except rubble and stones,” replied Tungdil calmly. “When can we set off?”
“As soon as you want,” Manon responded.
“Tomorrow, then, at daybreak,” Tungdil decided, walking over to the tower. He climbed up to the top and went out onto the ramparts above the gate. Boïndil remained at his side.
Together they contemplated the Outer Lands bathed in the clear light of late afternoon. In front of the gate was the abandoned plain from whence in past times monsters and other fiendish creatures had regularly launched their onslaughts on these walls.
“It’s hard to believe they’ve given up their attacks,” said Tungdil quietly. He relished the feel of the cold wind clearing his head from the last effects of the beer. The air was icy sharp and pure: no trace of monsters here. “Only these ancient mountains can still remember how the armies of Tion’s accursed followers advanced on us in relentless assaults.”
“It will have been the Star of Judgment,” supposed his friend. “It didn’t merely eradicate evil in Girdlegard, but beyond the mountain boundaries as well.” He gave a sigh. “Imagine it, Scholar. Peace.” The tone of his voice revealed that he did not dare to believe it wholeheartedly.
“I remember that day.” The magic wave of light that had rolled over Girdlegard, summoned by the eoîl, had burned all the evil to ashes and captured its energy in the form of a diamond. Anyone possessing this artifact and able to use its magic powers would be the most powerful being ever in existence. For safety’s sake the dwarves had made meticulously crafted copies and sent them out to the various dwarf kingdoms; Tungdil held such a stone himself, not knowing if it were real or false. One of the stones had got lost. He asked Boïndil about it.
“It remains a mystery. The stone destined for Queen Isika of Rân Ribastur disappeared completely. To this very day no one has found the messenger or the escort sent to protect the diamond. The stone itself never turned up.” He looked up at the cloud-hung summit of the Dragon’s Tongue; no artist could have rendered the beauty of the mountain slopes as they reflected the setting sun. Shadows were lengthening and the breeze grew icier with each breath. “All investigations were fruitless.”
“That was five whole cycles ago,” reflected T
ungdil, shivering. “Have attempts been made on any of the other stones?”
“Not as far as I know,” said Boïndil. He shook his head. The long plait of black hair swayed like a rope down his back. “Girdlegard has neither magus nor maga now, so there is none that could ever use the power.”
“Except for the handful of initiates serving the traitor Nôd’onn,” Tungdil corrected him.
“They have no powers. The eoîl dried up the magic source, they say. Where would the famuli draw their strength? And they did not even complete their training. What can they achieve, Scholar?”
Tungdil did not trouble to reply. When growing up, he had been through the school of the magus Lot-Ionan; he was familiar with the power of magic. But since nothing untoward had occurred for such a long time, he was prepared to share his friend’s optimism. There could be too much dwelling on dark thoughts. It wasn’t good for you. “Let’s go down. Spring is a long time coming here at the Northern Pass.” He took a last look at the majestic ridges where the wind was blowing the snow from the rocks in long white banners. “I could do with a warm beer with mead.” They went down the steps.
“How is Balyndis?” enquired Boïndil as they left the tower to go to the tunnels. “Girdlegard’s best smith?”
“She’s in mourning,” said Tungdil bitterly. And his response was so adamant that the warrior did not dare to repeat his question. Not yet. In silence they walked over side by side to find their quarters for the night.
“Psst! Tungdil Goldhand!” came a whisper through the crack of an open door. “Have you got a minute?”
Boïndil wrinkled his brow. “What’s all the secrecy for?” He pushed open the door, one hand on the crow’s beak hammer he carried. “Show yourself, if your intentions are honest!” A woman yelped in fright; she had not seen the dwarf-twin approach. “You can come in, Scholar. She is harmless,” he said over his shoulder.
Tungdil stepped past him and entered the room where a female dwarf was standing. She was wearing simple clothing and must have seen all of three hundred cycles in her time. “What do you want?”
