by Markus Heitz
Ireheart glanced over at Tungdil and thought of the dwarf-hater they had encountered in the Outer Lands. “The thirdlings made this armor?”
Balyndar looked up. “I’m absolutely sure of it.”
“The thirdlings can expect no mercy from us when we’ve defeated the älfar,” growled Boïndil. “Betraying the other tribes like that is unforgivable. They have given away the secrets of the forge.”
“And yet you have a thirdling for your high king.” Tungdil appeared very calm. He pushed the älfar body away from him with his boot. “Did the dwarf-armor help him any? As long as we have the better crossbow bolts the thirdlings can carry on making armor for them.”
Balyndar turned the knife in his hands and ran his fingers over it. “There’s something wrong.” He started to unclothe the älfar bodies.
Tungdil called him back. “What are you doing?”
“I want to take the armor. To investigate it further. I think…”
“No time for that.” The one-eyed dwarf beckoned the band to move off. “Go with Ireheart and help him deal with the night-mares. Then we leave. The patrol will soon reach another garrison belonging to the count and they’ll be reporting what’s happened here.” Balyndar was about to respond but Tungdil raised his hand. “I’m ordering you.” He stared at the fifthling, who shook his head but got up and made off, morning star in hand.
It had not escaped Boïndil’s notice that, unseen by Tungdil, Balyndar had pocketed the knife. “Well, I’ll be off,” he said cheerily and followed Balyndar. But when he heard grinding sounds behind him he turned round. Tungdil was striking the bodies again and again, thrusting his weapon through their chests.
“What are you doing, Scholar?” he called in surprise.
“Making sure,” replied Tungdil, wiping Bloodthirster on the snow and then getting back on his befún. “Hurry up. I want to get to the Gray Mountains.” He let his mount move on so that he could take up the lead.
“He was destroying the runes,” Balyndar said from behind. “Did you see them, too, Doubleblade?”
“Rune?” He came up to the fourthling, whose morning star was covered in blood. The night-mares were no longer alive. “I don’t understand.”
Balyndar drew a shape on the snow with the blood dripping from his weapon. “That’s what I mean. If you look at the left side of your friend’s armor, Doubleblade, you’ll find that same symbol.” He left Ireheart standing there and went back to his pony.
Girdlegard,
Dwarf Realm of the Fifthlings,
Gray Mountains,
Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles
Access into the realm of the fifthlings had changed dramatically. A new stone building rose twenty paces high in front of the gate itself. There were many small apertures in the tower wall; the actual entrance was a relatively narrow door, just wide enough for a befún to pass through.
Ireheart guessed what the apertures were for. If you tip molten pitch and hot coals down you could see off an army.
The gate opened and a messenger and watchtower guards were waiting to greet them in the queen’s name.
There was no rejoicing when they rode in, no fanfares sounded to announce their arrival in the Gray Mountains. The walls had not been adorned to celebrate their coming and there were no flags flying from the battlements. No dwarves had come to welcome them.
Ireheart was angry, but said nothing.
He knew that Balyndar had dispatched a warrior to announce their approach, but the reception was cool in the extreme. Dislike Tungdil’s conduct and demeanor as one might, he was still the dwarves’ high king. Respect for his high office should have made it automatic to show deference to the troops under his command, who would no doubt soon be expected to carry out heroic deeds.
“We’re entering the realm of the fifthlings as if we are some third-rate undesirable merchants,” said Slîn, nudging his pony up next to Boïndil’s. His remark was loud enough for Balyndar and the messenger to hear. “Has the queen forgotten who it is she’ll be receiving?”
“She has not,” replied her son at the front of the train. “Unlike the fourthlings, our dwarves have been faced with an overwhelmingly tough task and are having to fight the kordrion as well as this deadly fever. Both adversaries have weakened us. We have better things to do than to stand in rows,” he said disdainfully, “cheering and waving at heroes from the past. You will be given food and drink and, if you want singing and dancing, let me know. But it might be hard to make jolly hosts out of a tribe that’s in mourning.”
“No need to be so thin-skinned, Balyndar.” Slîn bared his teeth. “I need hardly remind you that this welcome is not in accordance with the dignity of the high king you helped to elect.”
Ireheart sent him a look that said to hold his tongue. “Let it go,” he bade him quietly. “We don’t need quarrels here. You’ll be going into battle together, remember.”
Slîn grinned. “But I shall, of course, be standing behind him,” he said, placing a hand on the stock of his crossbow. “The prerogative of archers.”
They rode through the passages in silence. The corridors were different now. Ireheart did not recognize anything, and they would have been hopelessly lost without their guide.
They were led to a hall, where they left their ponies and the befún and then continued on foot.
Their fifthling contingent peeled off from the troop one by one to return to their own clans, leaving the fourthlings, Tungdil and Ireheart alone with Balyndar.
“Feels a bit like a trap,” whispered Slîn to his companions. He had his crossbow hanging on his back, and wore a nifty ax at his belt. “But, of course, we’re among friends.”
A second messenger joined them and said something quietly to Balyndar.
“My mother is looking forward to meeting the brave dwarves under the command of the High King Tungdil Goldhand,” he announced, and gestured them toward a large simple iron gate guarded by two sentries with halberds. “Wasn’t the throne room on the other side?” asked Ireheart in surprise. “I know there’ve been a lot of changes…”
“You’re right. This is not the old throne room we’re coming to,” Balyndar interrupted. “That was in the region of the Gray Mountains where the fever kept recurring. We don’t go there anymore and won’t make an exception to that rule, even for important visitors.” He preceded them. “This is our new throne room.” He signaled to the sentries to open the double doors.
Cool silvery light fell on them. The whole chamber was dressed out in polished steel. All the furniture shone cold in the lamp glow. Even the tall columns supporting the ceiling seemed to be made of burnished steel, so smooth that it reflected the surroundings perfectly.
Elaborate ornaments had been engraved and decorated to give emphasis to them. Confusing to the eye, the colored patterns seemed to move if you stared at them.
In another place the artist had chiseled likenesses of dwarf-rulers, decorating them with jewels or precious metals. It was obvious that the queen who used this room had once belonged to the tribe of the firstlings, talented smiths and metal-workers just as she was herself.
“It seems the mountain itself gave birth to this room,” murmured one of the fourthlings. “Everything fits together so smoothly—no joins or sharp edges.”
Balyndis Steelfinger was seated on the raised throne before them. Her long dark-brown hair was unbound under her sparkling steel helmet and her scaled armor, of the same material, was so bright that the visitors were forced to narrow their eyelids.
“Unthinkable what the effect would be if she were standing in full sunshine,” Slîn observed. “She’d dazzle anyone within ten paces.”
Balyndis got to her feet and stepped down from her throne. “Enter and be seated at the fifthlings’ table,” she bade them. “I am glad you have come and was pleased to learn all the good news from your messenger. It seems Girdlegard will soon be freed from evil’s oppression. Vraccas will surely be with us.”
Ireheart
did his best to watch Tungdil’s face while the dwarf-queen approached them, hand outstretched. She had previously been Tungdil’s companion for many cycles. They had lived together and she had borne him a son, lost in a terrible accident. This reunion should provide enough tension to set sparks flying. But search as he did for emotion in his friend’s face, he noted none.
There was plenty of emotion, however, to be seen in the queen’s features. “By Vraccas,” Balyndis said with feeling, halting her steps as she came closer to the one-eyed dwarf. “It is true! Really true! You are alive and have come back from the dark!” Tears appeared in the corners of her eyes and trickled down her soft cheeks. The fluff on her face was more pronounced than on the younger females of her race. She stopped in front of Tungdil, visibly moved, her hand still held out toward him.
“Indeed. I have returned from the darkness. But I have brought the shadows with me,” he answered. “I know who you are, Balyndis Steelfinger, queen of the fifthlings, but I do not remember anything of what once bound us together.” In explanation he pointed to the scar on his forehead. “A blow to the head robbed me of much that was precious to me.” Balyndis swallowed and looked at him intently, as if thinking she could wreak a change in him and release those hidden memories. But when she saw that the expression in his brown eye did not alter, she let her arm drop, and knelt before him. “I greet you, High King Tungdil Goldhand,” she said sadly, bowing her head. “May Vraccas bless you and all who follow you in your quest to save Girdlegard.”
“I thank you, Queen Balyndis.” He indicated to her by a touch on the shoulder that she should stand, and then made his way over to the laden table.
Many delicacies had been prepared and were displayed in dishes and on plates; the smell made Ireheart’s mouth water as he realized how hungry he was.
“About time too,” muttered Slîn at his side. “I was ready to start licking the furniture, my stomach was rumbling so.”
They took their seats round the table. Dwarves served the food and ensured that neither plates nor jugs were ever empty. During the course of the meal Tungdil elucidated his mission again. Balyndis made no response apart from the occasional nod.
Ireheart got the impression that she was trying to read Tungdil’s mind to fathom his feelings. I wonder if she’ll have any more luck than I’ve had.
“Enough from me,” his friend said eventually. “Tell me, the fever that broke out here: How long have you and the fifthlings been troubled by it?”
“Over a hundred cycles. It started slowly, so our healers didn’t notice it at first,” she explained, raising her tankard of black beer in a toast to the company. “But soon the incidence of illness increased and it reminded us of the plagues that struck the original fifthlings. We abandoned the tunnels and caves and had them sealed up. I could show you on the map which regions were affected.”
“Did the outbreaks come randomly or is there a pattern to it?” asked Tungdil. He had hardly touched his food and Ireheart was sure he seemed much paler than usual. He studied the map they showed him, concentrating hard.
“We couldn’t find any pattern to it,” answered Balyndis. “We got the freelings to search the places where the highest mortality had occurred, to see if maybe the älfar were targeting us, but no traces were found. And those who were part of the freelings’ expedition all fell ill a few orbits later. They died.”
“How?” asked the one-eyed dwarf.
“They suffocated in their own blood. First they grew feverish and then their lungs filled with blood until they could not breathe.” She shuddered. “An appalling death, Tungdil.”
He pushed the map away and emptied his tankard—the seventh, if Ireheart had not lost count: A considerable amount for a dwarf who had not eaten anything much. Heroic achievement. “Did their limbs change color? Perhaps the tips of their fingers? What about their tongues?”
Balyndis and her son exchanged glances.
“I didn’t tell him,” said Balyndar. “Nobody knows.”
Tungdil shot him a dangerous smile. “I don’t need to be told. I worked it out for myself.” He summoned a fresh tankard. “It’s not a curse. It’s an odorless gas.”
Balyndar rolled his eyes. “No, it’s not! We ruled that out.”
“The methods for investigating the conventional humors exuded by the mountain are useless with this problem, Balyndar. It’s the kordrion. In countless ways it’s been responsible for the deaths in the Gray Range. It doesn’t just eat those who confront it. Its excrement is lethal as well, causing the painful death Balyndis has just described as soon as it meets water.” He took the map in his hand. “Ireheart told me that the kordrion is in the northern part of the Gray Mountains, near the Stone Gateway. That’s your explanation: Rainwater washes the excrement down the slopes and it runs into the rivers that feed the canals, being washed down to the parts of the mountain where the so-called fever turns up.”
“Even its shit is murderous?” exclaimed Ireheart in disbelief. “That’s what I call a really devious monster! Good thing we’re going to get rid of him.”
“We aren’t going to. It will be Lot-Ionan.” He put the next full tankard to his lips and took a long draft. “I think it will take a cycle or two until the toxic effect fades away so that you can return to those regions.” He saw that Balyndar did not believe him. “It is something to do with alchemy, Steelfinger,” he explained. “I grew up in the house and laboratories of a magus. The composition of the kordrion’s excrement is unique; if you like, a kind of dried acid. As soon as it comes into contact with water, the substances mix and a lethal gas is released. I used this several times on the other side of the Black Abyss if a siege wasn’t going well.” He finished his drink. “I don’t give your sick dwarves much of a chance. The lungs won’t recover from the acid burns. They’re for the eternal smithy.”
“I believe you,” said Balyndis, pale now. She indicated where the kordrion was thought to have its eyrie. “Vraccas was good to us and we have always been able to destroy the soft eggs before they hatch. Our scouts report, though, that it’s back in the nest and that the kordrion has learned to keep supplies. If we are out of luck it won’t have to leave the clutch of eggs to get food. That was always our opportunity to make a move.”
“We’ll think up a suitable diversion,” Ireheart said confidently. “Right, Scholar: We go to the nest, grab the eggs and run off through the Gray Range all the way to the entrance to Gauragar?”
“No. We must go over the summits, so that it can follow our tracks. I’ve worked out a route.”
Balyndar’s eyes widened. “In winter? Are you out of your mind?” After a pause he added, “High King.”
Without hesitating, Tungdil recited the names of the summits they would have to cross, specifying places they would rest. “Does that still sound like madness to you,” he asked cuttingly, “or more like a demanding but achievable journey?”
Balyndis nodded. “I’m amazed how much you still remember about my homeland, when there are so many other things you have forgotten.” It was a snide remark, but one she couldn’t resist making. “It seems your mind has concentrated on the scholarly side of your nature and eliminated all feeling. Is that how it is, High King?”
Tungdil turned his brown eye toward her. “That may indeed be so, Queen Balyndis. But it will help us and Girdlegard. I shan’t be complaining.”
“Nor me,” announced Ireheart, still digesting the details of his friend’s strategy. Throughout the whole of the journey so far he had not once seen Tungdil consult a map. His knowledge must be vast. “I suggest we set off as soon as possible before the wretched things hatch out.” “Tomorrow. As soon as the sun is up,” said Tungdil, getting to his feet. “I would like to rest. Queen Balyndis, be good enough to have me shown to my chambers. And tomorrow my ponies must be fresh and ready. And we’ll need provisions. Please arrange that.”
She signaled to one of the dwarves to accompany the ruler of all the dwarf-tribes, and Tungdil left the thron
e room without even bidding farewell.
Slîn and the fourthlings withdrew, leaving Balyndis and her son alone with Boïndil.
They carried on eating in silence and later avoided any mention of Tungdil while they discussed such topics as the Black Abyss and the dangers facing Girdlegard. Ireheart, however, was well aware they couldn’t skirt round the issue forever and, fed up with having constantly to defend the Scholar to others, he eventually took a quick draft of beer and broached the subject of his friend himself. “It may be that I’m mistaken, Balyndis, but there’s a strong resemblance between Tungdil and your son.”
He realized that the question was out of order, potentially problematic and possibly insulting. He was implying that she had deceived her husband, Glaïmbar Sharpax of the clan of the Iron Beaters and king of the fifthlings, passing off another’s child as his son.
But Balyndis took his words with equanimity, relieved almost that it had been mentioned. “It is very obvious, isn’t it?” she said softly. “It was a mistake to send Balyndar to the meeting in the Brown Mountains. All the clan leaders have seen him and his real father together, and will have put two and two together.”
“Will this affect your regency, do you think?” She shook her head. “No one is after my throne, now that Geroïn Leadenring is dead from the fever. He was the brother of Syndalis Leadenring, the king’s second wife; she was rejected in favor of me. Geroïn and some of his clan never forgave me for that. I rule well though, and if the kordrion can be driven off, the tribe of the fifthlings will flourish.” Balyndis started to cough.
“I had forgotten you are unwell,” said Ireheart, in concern.
“It will get better. Now that we know what the cause of the fever and lung disease is.”
“We have found the guilty party but we haven’t found a cure.” Ireheart tried to shut out from his mind the explanation the Scholar had given, in particular those words concerning the inevitable death of the sufferer. “But we’re sure to find something to make it better,” he hastened to say. He felt gloomy. Pull yourself together. She’s not dead yet.
