by Markus Heitz
The prince’s face darkened. “Some are sleeping an eternal slumber. We saw plundered villages and burned-out houses on our way.” He turned his face to the darkening sky and stared at the glittering stars. “You’re right, though. The people of Gauragar need fear no more.”
“Trust the long-uns to start without us,” grumbled Boïndil in a voice that, while quieter than usual, was loud enough for the prince to hear. “You can’t startle the runts with your horses and expect them to put up a fight!” Slowly, he crossed his powerful arms in an exaggerated movement in front of his chest and glared accusingly at the riders.
Mallen knew how to handle the hot-blooded warrior. Realizing that Boïndil hadn’t intended him to hear, he decided not to argue. “We’ll wait for you next time,” he promised. “It’s a shame you were late.”
“Late?” echoed Boïndil indignantly, sticking his chin in the air and setting his beard aquiver. “It’s a wonder we got here at all! The confounded earthquake caused havoc in the tunnels. Warped rails, boulders on the line—some of them bigger than a troll’s backside! Just be thankful we—”
“That’s enough, Boïndil,” ruled Tungdil, interrupting the warrior’s outburst. “He’s right, you know: We were late.” He turned to the prince and rolled his eyes apologetically, signaling that Mallen should let the matter lie. “Luckily for us, it didn’t make any difference: We triumphed in the end.”
Tungdil could see the amusement in the ruler’s eyes. “What a victory for Girdlegard,” agreed Mallen with an earnest nod. “We’d still be fighting if it weren’t for the dwarves.” It was unusual for him to tolerate rudeness, but no one had overheard the conversation, and Boïndil was a special case.
Boïndil considered the prince’s conciliatory words and perked up considerably. He pulled off his helmet, letting his long black plait unfurl down his back, and rubbed his stubbly cheeks. Sweat was trickling down his face. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “We had our fun with the orcs, and Vraccas will be happy with us for wiping out the beasts.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry about my temper, Mallen,” he mumbled, forgetting that it was customary to address a prince with more respect.
“Apology accepted,” the ruler of Idoslane said magnanimously. He pointed to the collection of tents where his army was camped. “I see the supply wagons have arrived. There’s plenty of dark ale for everyone; perhaps you’ll join us in celebrating the destruction of the beasts?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Boïndil, setting off toward the tents. His thirst led him straight to the beer barrels, which were several times the standard size. The other dwarves looked questioningly at Tungdil, who nodded for them to follow. Mallen’s men, buoyed by the prospect of a night without marching, hurried back to camp.
Mallen and Tungdil lingered on the hilltop, watching the victorious warriors gather around the campfires to eat and make merry.
“A cycle ago I was an exile,” the prince said slowly. “I never thought I’d wear the crown of my forefathers. And I never imagined the rulers of Girdlegard would join together in an alliance of men, elves, and dwarves.”
Tungdil thought about all that had happened to him. After traveling across Girdlegard on an errand for his magus, he had been nominated against his wishes as the high king’s successor and journeyed to the Blacksaddle without realizing that Vraccas had chosen him to wield Keenfire and kill Nôd’onn on behalf of the dwarves. “Adversity brought us together. A cycle ago my kinsfolk were ready to wage war on the elves.”
Mallen laughed grimly. “At least Nôd’onn was good for something: He put an end to our feuding.”
Tungdil nodded. “Nôd’onn gave us the spark of solidarity, but it’s our responsibility to keep it alive.” He leaned forward, resting his weight on Keenfire. “We need an everlasting flame in which the bonds between us can be reforged.” He looked down at the feasting and merriment below. “How many did you lose?”
“Fifty men and as many horses,” said Mallen. “More were wounded, but we were heavily outnumbered. It could have been worse.”
“We were lucky—a few gashes and a couple of broken bones, but nothing to speak of. I think Vraccas wanted us to live. He lost so many of his children at the Blacksaddle that his smithy must be full.”
The prince laid a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “Come, Tungdil Goldhand, we should celebrate our victory before the long journey home.”
Tungdil knew he was right. Tomorrow he would set off through the tunnels, pack up his things at the secondling kingdom, and head west to the firstlings in the Red Range.
From there he would journey north with the dwarves who had elected to join him, and set up home in the ancient fifthling kingdom. In time, a new folk, descended from Borengar, Beroïn, and Goïmdil, would populate the Gray Range and Tungdil’s promise to Giselbert Ironeye, founding father of the fifthlings, would be fulfilled.
He knew it wouldn’t be easy. While the Stone Gateway was open, there was nothing to stop orcs and other beasts crossing into Girdlegard and taking up residence in the abandoned dwarven halls.
Don’t let there be too many of them, he begged his creator as he walked down the hillside with Mallen. We can’t keep fighting forever.
They were still some distance away when they heard Boïndil’s voice. He was singing a ballad that their dead companion Bavragor Hammerfist had often sung.
At least Boïndil will be happy if we’re overrun with beasts.
Tungdil took the beer offered to him by Mallen, and they clinked tankards to the warriors’ claps and cheers. Tungdil was well pleased: It seemed the friendship pledged at the Blacksaddle had become a reality for the dwarves and men.
He watched as the assorted warriors sat around the fires and tucked into something that smelled tantalizingly of roasted meat and soup. Conversation focused on the recent victory. The men described how they felled an orc or killed a bögnil, waving their spoons as they talked. When they were done, the dwarves laughed appreciatively, lifted their bowls to slurp their soup and shared some good-humored banter with their new friends.
To think it took Nôd’onn to bring us together! Tungdil smiled and picked his way between the groups. He heard deep dwarven voices describing the beauty of their mountain homelands. A few paces further, a couple of Mallen’s soldiers were teaching battle songs to a cluster of dwarves.
He watched and listened contentedly. If only Balyndis were here as well… Balyndis, the expedition’s comely smith, had kindled the fires of his furnace, filling him with longing and desire. At least I’d be able to—
“I’m telling you, it’s not just one,” he heard a soldier say softly. The urgency in his voice distracted Tungdil from his thoughts. “It’s spreading. I’ve seen three of them already.”
Tungdil stopped beside him. “What’s spreading?” he asked. “Three of what?” He noticed the badge on the man’s lightweight leather armor; he was a scout.
“Dead glades,” the man said hesitantly. “At least, that’s what I call them.” He pointed to the hills and ran a hand over the stubby blades of new grass. “It’s like this: The Perished Land lost its power when Nôd’onn died. Palandiell blessed the earth and gave it new life, but the evil is buried below the surface.” He glanced at the little group of men and dwarves who were putting away their food with varying regard to politeness. Everyone was listening attentively, especially the dwarves. “You haven’t seen what I’ve seen,” he continued. “There are pockets of Girdlegard where the evil has taken root.”
“You mean the Perished Land is lurking below the surface?” said Tungdil, all other thoughts forgotten.
The scout nodded. “I talked to the locals near one of the glades. They told me about a few poor devils who strayed among the trees. Only three came back, and they attacked their neighbors, fighting and raging with the strength of ten until the villagers chopped off their heads. King Bruron heard about it and issued a decree. Now the dead glades are blocked with palisades, walls, and moats. No one can enter or leave—
on punishment of death.” He reached for his tankard. “Mark my words: It’s spreading through the land.”
Tungdil opened his mouth to reply but was rudely interrupted.
“There you are, scholar! Still moping about?” boomed Boïndil. At the sight of his friend, Tungdil stopped worrying about the insidious powers of the glades.
“You’re not thinking about womenfolk, are you?” continued Boïndil. “I must say, for someone who doesn’t know a thing about dwarf-women, you’ve bagged yourself a lovely lass!” He clinked tankards with Tungdil. “To the finest firstling smith! May she bring you true happiness.” He paused, and when he continued, his voice was tinged with sadness. “I reckon you deserve it.”
“You’ll find someone who makes you happy soon enough,” said Tungdil, remembering his friend’s tragic past. He raised his tankard. “How about a toast to Boëndal? I dare say I miss him as much as you do. He must be fit for battle by now.”
Boïndil gulped down the rest of his beer. “I killed my happiness,” he said slowly, his left hand tightening around the haft of his ax. “I killed it with my own hands.” He stared absently into the fire. The flames flickered over his furrowed features, revealing his inner torment. “Now all I can do is fight.”
They sat in silence until Boïndil started singing. One by one, the other dwarves joined in. It was another of Bavragor’s songs.
On they march the orc invaders
Driven by greed and lust
Tion loves to plague our borders
It was ever thus
But the dwarves are here to fight them
It was ever thus
Dwarven axes, dwarven hammers
Smash their skulls and spill their blood
Until the orcs are slain and vanquished
It was ever thus
Tirelessly we guard our borders
Doughty children of the Smith
And when our kinsmen fall in battle
It was ever thus
Our souls are summoned to Vraccas’s smithy
It was ever thus
Eternal warmth, eternal fire
It was ever thus
We seek no praise, we need no thanks
It was ever thus
We do our duty, we do it gladly
It was ever thus
Our ax is sharp, our chain mail glistens
It was ever thus
No beast can breach the dwarves’ defenses
It was ever thus.
Mallen’s men sat in hushed silence while the deep sonorous voices sung of honor, loyalty, and service to Girdlegard. The men, although ignorant of the dwarven language, had no trouble understanding the music, which seemed to come straight from the soul.
The chorus of voices echoed over the hills, carried across the valleys and soared to the stars.
The singing stirred the hearts and minds of everyone in the camp. Tungdil’s thoughts were still buzzing when he made his way to bed. He remembered the scout’s description of the dead glades. What new evil is this, Vraccas? It seems our worries aren’t over yet. He decided to investigate further as soon as he had the chance. A moment later, he was asleep.
The next morning, it was time for the men and dwarves to part.
Tungdil and his warriors would travel underground through the network of tunnels to the secondling kingdom, while Mallen’s men would make their way on foot, in carriages or on horseback to Idoslane.
The dwarves tramped through the battlefield and lowered themselves into the shaft, glad to get away from the circling ravens and the overwhelming stench.
Boïndil led the way. With every rung of the ladder he seemed to shed a little of the sorrow from the previous night. He was looking forward to the journey and to being reunited with his brother whom they had left in the care of the firstlings to recover from the älfar attack.
“It’s the longest we’ve ever been parted,” he said as Tungdil reached the bottom of the ladder. They set off toward the wagons that would carry them through the underground network.
“How are you coping?”
Boïndil tugged his braided beard and pulled out a stray leaf that didn’t belong there. “It’s hard,” he admitted with a sigh. “You curb my temper better than anyone except Boëndal, but I’m calmer when he’s around.” He thought for a moment. “It’s like hobbling around on one leg: I can manage, but part of me is missing. Boëndal knows what I’m thinking before I do. I’m not the same without him—even fighting doesn’t help.”
Tungdil sensed that he was holding back. “What is it, Boïndil? Something was bothering you last night.”
“I… I’m not sure how to describe it,” said Boïndil, considering. “I’ve got a bad feeling, almost like a chill. The worst of the winter is over, but my insides are frozen. What if Boëndal is in danger?”
They turned a corner and stopped abruptly. Tungdil, forgetting what he was about to say, gaped at the devastation. The roof of the tunnel had caved in, and a wall of rubble blocked their way. Worse still, their wagons were buried beneath the rock.
Growling indignantly, Boïndil bent down and reached for a scrap of metal protruding from the mess. He pulled on it casually; then, muscles tensing, he gave it an almighty tug. The warped piece of wagon came away in his hand. “It was their blasted horses,” he said irritably. “Their stupid clodhopping made the tunnel collapse.” He tossed the metal away carelessly.
Tungdil suspected that the real blame lay with the quake. After Nôd’onn’s defeat, the Blacksaddle had been hit by a terrible tremor that, judging by reports from the allies’ scouts, had shaken every village in Girdlegard. It stood to reason that the ancient network of tunnels would be damaged.
I hope the dwarven kingdoms fared better. “Change of plan,” he said to the others. He gestured to the surface. “We’ll have to look for another entrance.”
His confident manner belied his concern. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t safe to travel through the tunnels until the structure had been checked. Certain sections of the network could be negotiated only by swooping downhill, and a collision would result in certain death.
Maybe we should do the whole journey on foot or by pony trap, he thought as they clambered to the surface.
It was three hundred miles to the Blacksaddle and another six hundred to the secondling kingdom in the Blue Range. Traveling underground, the distance could be covered in a matter of orbits; walking would take an eternity.
Does someone want to stop us getting to the firstlings? Is Girdlegard in danger? His vague misgivings hardened into an unshakable sense of dread that yesterday’s victory could do nothing to allay. At last they reached the surface and he hauled himself out of the shaft. “I want everyone moving as fast as possible. Get together in pairs or groups to carry the wounded. It’s time we got home.”
They used the sun to find their bearings and headed east. On reaching the crest of a hill above the battlefield, they came to a sudden halt.
“By Beroïn’s beard, it’s a camp!” exclaimed Boïndil, peering down the far slope. He sniffed the air and examined the ground; the earth had been churned up by thousands of boots. “Another army of runts,” he growled. He set off at a run, followed by the others, and stopped at the bottom of the hill. Bending down, he ran a hand over the footprints, sniffed the soil and spat. “I’ll give them a taste of my axes,” he vowed, fixing his eyes on the broad channel of muddy earth that the orcish troopers had left in their wake. “They’re heading north.”
Tungdil looked in vain for evidence of a campfire. Two of his warriors called to him from a knoll; there were more orcish footprints and a couple of dead troopers under a tree. Ravens had clustered over the bodies and were squawking and fighting for their share of the prey. Judging by the evidence, the orcs had been killed the previous orbit. The birds had ripped away the dark green flesh, exposing the bone.
“They were watching us,” said Tungdil, praying that Boïndil wouldn’t chase after them. “They must have waited up here while their co
usins were dying. They saw which way the battle was going, and left.”
“Miserable cowards,” snapped Ireheart, aiming a kick at one of the corpses. The nearest raven hopped away awkwardly, flapping its wings. “Trust the runty villains to hide from us. I wouldn’t have minded a proper fight.” He turned to Tungdil. “Four thousand of them, minimum. They’re on their way north.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” said Tungdil, baffled. He picked up an empty water pouch and dropped it hurriedly because of the awful smell. “The odds were in their favor; you’d expect them to attack.” He paused, deciding what to do. “I want to see what they’re up to,” he announced, knowing that his plan would meet with the secondling’s approval. “We’ll follow them.” Dwarves weren’t particularly fleet of foot and orcs were naturally faster, but it was probably worth a shot.
“Huzzah!” whooped Ireheart. “Five score of us, four thousand of them: that’s four hundred for every…” He broke off, remembering his brother in the firstling kingdom. Their reunion would be delayed. His face dropped.
“Hang on,” said Tungdil. “We’re not going to fight them; we’re going to see what they’re up to.” He dispatched a couple of messengers to chase after Mallen and tell him the news. Another twenty warriors were instructed to spread out in all directions and warn the villagers of Gauragar about the orcish army. “Tell them to take to the hills or seek refuge in the towns,” Tungdil instructed them.
“Do you see that?” said Boïndil, pointing at the orcish corpses. “Whoever beheaded them was wasting his time. They were stabbed to death first.”
“I expect their chief was making an example of them,” reasoned Tungdil. “He probably wanted to bring his troopers into line.”
“Maybe,” Boïndil said doubtfully, “but this one was stabbed three times before they chopped off his head. A chief would kill with a single strike.” He raised his arm and made a noise like a whooshing ax. “It’s a sign of strength—and precision.”
