by Markus Heitz
“You’d be complaining about your blisters if we’d walked,” retorted Tungdil with a smile. Like Boïndil, he was coated from head to toe with sand, fine grains of which had snuck through his garments, clinging to the fabric and rubbing against his skin. He dismounted and ran a hand over his pony’s mane. “Don’t listen to the old curmudgeon,” he told the pony. “You did an excellent job.”
They were standing on the outermost terrace of Ogre’s Death, one of the most imposing strongholds in Girdlegard, home to the secondling dwarves. Its keep had been hewn into the rock, with battlements extending down the mountainside in four separate terraces.
Until recently, no one had believed that Ogre’s Death would ever be conquered, but Nôd’onn had proved that the defenses could be breached. With the help of the treacherous Bislipur, the magus’s beasts had stormed the stronghold and laid waste to the secondlings’ halls.
Now the stronghold was a hive of activity. Cranes were lifting, wheels turning, winches hoisting, and saws slicing through the rock. Dust filled the air, and the Blue Range echoed with a thousand hammers and chisels as hordes of industrious masons rebuilt what the beasts had destroyed. The rubble from the ruined battlements had been carted away and the fortifications were rising again, only this time the defenses would be bigger, heavier, stronger. Soon the secondlings would be safe from invaders once more.
It’s good to see order returning to the kingdom, thought Tungdil, trying to overcome his nagging fears. I shouldn’t worry so much…
Boïndil interrupted his thoughts. “Ha, look at Ogre’s Death, rising from the ruins,” he said proudly. “The secondling flags are flying from the stronghold, and the bones of the invaders have been scattered across the range. They thought they’d destroyed us, but our spirit can’t be crushed.” Quickening his pace, he made straight for the vast gateway, eight paces wide and ten paces high, leading from the uppermost terrace to the underground halls.
Tungdil looked up at the flagpoles. On the last stage of their journey through Sangpûr, the flags had been visible as tiny squares of cloth, but now he could make out the details. The colors of the firstlings and fourthlings flew proudly beside the crests of the seventeen secondling clans.
He tapped his forehead. The assembly meeting! It had slipped his mind entirely. “By my beard, Boïndil,” he called out to the secondling, who was practically at the gateway. “Another orbit, and we would have missed the coronation.”
Boïndil stopped in his tracks. “To think a pack of orcs and bögnilim could make us forget a thing like that! It wouldn’t have happened if Boëndal had been with us.” A look of consternation crossed his face and he sniffed the air anxiously. “It’s all right,” he declared. “We haven’t missed anything important. They haven’t brought out the food.”
The other dwarves caught up and they set off together through the gateway, into the secondling kingdom. The passageway delved through the mountain, leading to ornately carved chambers supported by soaring columns. Ahead of them towered an enormous stone statue of Beroïn seated on a white marble throne. They filed between his feet and entered the corridor leading to the assembly hall.
“Remember what happened last time?” Boïndil asked softly.
“How could I forget?” Every detail of that orbit was etched on Tungdil’s mind. On arriving at Ogre’s Death, he and the twins had entered the great hall to find the delegates warring among themselves. Soon after, he had embarked on a long journey—a journey that turned him into a proper dwarf.
“It’s a mercy to be out of the light,” said Boïndil, whose hair had been bleached by the harsh desert sun. “We belong in the mountains, as Vraccas intended.” He gave his plait a good shake to dislodge the sand. “Do you think the delegates will be arguing again?”
Tungdil shook his head. “Gandogar is the legitimate heir, and no one could dispute his right to the throne. He proved his character as soon as he freed himself from Bislipur’s wiles.”
The secondling grinned. “Not as much as you proved yours.”
“I don’t want to be high king, Boïndil. My calling lies elsewhere.” Raising his hand decisively, he knocked three times, took a deep breath, and pushed open the mighty stone doors.
Light streamed toward them. Blinking, Tungdil gazed in horror at the ruins of the hall.
Barely half of the towering cylindrical columns had survived the beasts’ invasion, and it was only thanks to the secondlings’ expert masonry that the ceiling hadn’t collapsed.
Tungdil’s heart sank as he looked at the desecrated tablets and bas-reliefs on the walls. The orcs had attacked the artwork with clubs and cudgels, smashing the marble and destroying the carefully chiseled chronicle of past victories and heroic deeds.
Glancing at his companion, he saw the secondling’s expression change from horror to fury. Boïndil, already a ferocious orc-slayer, was planning his revenge.
Lanterns and braziers lit the chamber, casting a warm glow over five magnificent chairs, one for each folk, arranged in a semi-circle around a marble table.
Tungdil spotted Gandogar Silverbeard, ruler of the fourthlings and head of Goïmdil’s line. Seated beside him were Xamtys II of the clan of the Stubborn Streaks, queen of the firstlings and ruler of Borengar’s folk, and Balendilín Onearm of the clan of the Strong Fingers, former counselor to Gundrabur Whitecrown, the late high king. Balendilín had been crowned king of the secondlings after Gundrabur’s death. The remaining delegates—chieftains and elders from the firstling, secondling, and fourthling kingdoms—had taken their places in the elegantly carved pews behind their leaders and were talking among themselves.
Scanning the ranks of the firstlings, Tungdil found Balyndis and gave her a special smile. Then it was time to address the assembly. Orbits earlier, he had reached a decision regarding his future, and he intended to see it through.
His eyes lingered on the two unoccupied chairs and the empty pews behind them.
One of the chairs was reserved for the king of the thirdlings, although none of their number was likely to attend. The other belonged to the late king of the fifthlings, whose folk were no more.
If everything went to plan, one of the chairs would soon be filled.
“Monarchs, elders, chieftains,” he began loudly, although his heart was beating furiously in his chest. “I salute the assembly.”
“Can’t you talk normally?” hissed Boïndil, rolling his eyes. He was secretly in awe of his friend, who spoke with the authority and facility of a king. Tungdil’s sixty cycles in Lot-Ionan’s school had expanded his mind and honed his reason, making him wiser and more knowledgeable than most dwarves twice his age.
“The finest and best dwarves of the three dwarven folks are gathered here for the second time in four hundred cycles to elect a new high king.” Tungdil stepped away from the doors and took up position in front of the table where the dwarven rulers were seated. He kept his right hand on Keenfire to steady his nerves. “This time there won’t be any last-minute challenges—at least not from me.”
A faint smile crossed Balendilín’s timeworn features, and downy-cheeked Xamtys raised her eyebrows in surprise. To everyone’s relief, Gandogar laughed good-humoredly, allowing the other delegates to chuckle as well.
Tungdil pointed to the empty chair belonging to the fifthlings. “Most of you know by now that I’m a thirdling. I’d give anything not to be descended from Lorimbur, but a dwarf can’t choose his lineage. My heart doesn’t burn with vengeance, and maybe, Vraccas willing, there are other thirdlings like me who weren’t born with hatred in their blood. I feel a bond with my fellow dwarves—one of them, especially.” He turned to look at Balyndis and allowed himself to bask for a moment in her dazzling smile. Then he strode to the empty chair on Gandogar’s right.
“Some of you think I belong in the thirdling kingdom,” he continued, placing his hands on his diamond-studded weapons belt, a gift from Giselbert Ironeye. He paused for a moment, remembering his parting conversation with the fifthling
monarch. “But I see my place elsewhere.”
Leaving the chair, he made his way to the fifthling benches and stepped onto the front pew for everyone to see him.
“I made a promise to Giselbert Ironeye. He asked me to drive the orcs from his kingdom and rebuild his halls.” Pausing, he allowed the delegates a few moments to imagine the revival of the fifthling folk. “Giselbert gave me this belt in remembrance of the fifthlings, who defended their kingdom to the last. Their spirit was stronger than the curse of the Perished Land, and they served the Smith in death and beyond. For a thousand cycles they tended the Dragon Fire furnace and kept its flames alive. Without the fifthlings, Keenfire would never have been forged.” He drew the ax and held it aloft for the delegates to see. “Your Majesties,” he began, turning to the dwarven rulers, “you promised me enough masons and warriors to rebuild the fifthling kingdom and seal the Northern Pass. It was a truly generous offer, but no dwarf should be forced to leave his kingdom at his monarch’s command. Those who wish to remain with their clansfolk should do so, but those who want to join me will be welcomed with open arms.”
He sat down on the pew, placing Keenfire in front of him. The ax head jangled against the marble, echoing through the hall.
He wasn’t surprised to see Boïndil striding purposefully toward him. The secondling plumped down beside him, and a moment later, Balyndis took a seat on his right.
Tungdil was thrilled to see one delegate after another stand up and join him. At last, half of the fifthling pews were taken. Among Tungdil’s new companions were seven chieftains, who promised to ask the rest of their clansmen to make their homes in the fifthling halls.
Balendilín sat up in his chair, the marble trinkets in his graying beard clinking softly. “Tungdil Goldhand, your wisdom is proof, if proof be needed, that you belong among Girdlegard’s monarchs, not on the pews. I know that you are not inclined to push yourself forward, but the dwarves of the fifthling kingdom will recognize your qualities. At our next meeting, you will be seated among the rulers, I’m sure.” He turned to the delegates, his long gray hair curling about his shoulders like silvery wool. “We are gathered here today to settle a matter of great importance. Gundrabur Whitecrown, the late high king, was called to Vraccas’s smithy, leaving an empty throne. The new high king must be a strong leader who will set our course through good times and bad.” He unfurled a roll of parchment with his one good hand. “Gandogar Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, ruler of the fourthlings and head of Goïmdil’s line, are you ready to assert your claim to the high king’s throne?” he asked, repeating the words that he had spoken at an earlier assembly, many orbits ago.
The fourthling monarch rose. “Unyielding as the rock from which we were created and keen as this blade is my will to defend our race against its foes,” came his solemn reply. “Bislipur cast a shadow over my mind, but I have driven out the darkness. With a clear heart and mind I swear loyalty to the dwarven folks whose welfare will be my guiding concern. Let Vraccas and the dwarven monarchs witness my oath.”
Balendilín nodded. “Gandogar Silverbeard has asserted his claim.” He raised his voice. “Will anyone challenge him?”
“What are you waiting for?” hissed Boïndil, prodding Tungdil in the ribs. “Another of your fancy speeches, and the throne will be yours.”
The one-armed king dropped the parchment onto the table. “The succession is uncontested: Gandogar shall be crowned.” He sounded his bugle, producing a long, drawn-out tone.
The doors opened, and a procession of warriors from the folks of Beroïn, Borengar, and Goïmdil marched into the hall, bearing the crown and ceremonial hammer on an ornamental shield. Studded with gemstones, etched with magnificent runes, and inlaid with intarsia of vraccasium, silver, and gold, the hammer brought together the finest artisanship from all the folks, symbolizing the high king’s power.
The procession stopped in the middle of the hall and the warriors got down on one knee. Balendilín walked over to them and signaled for Gandogar to approach. “Chosen by the united will of the folks to reign over us,” he said solemnly, lowering the crown gently onto the fourthling’s head. “Gandogar Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, ruler of the fourthlings, head of Goïmdil’s line—dwarf of all dwarves.” He signaled for Gandogar to take the hammer.
Reverently, the new high king reached forward and wrapped his fingers around the handle. The hammer was heavier than he had expected, and it took both hands to pick it up.
The delegates left their pews and dropped on one knee, raising their weapons and hailing the new king as they had once hailed King Gundrabur.
Tungdil listened to the jangling chain mail and scanned the faces of the delegates, his kinsfolk, the children of the Smith, united as never before. He felt a shiver of excitement.
Gandogar raised the hammer and brought it down sharply against the marble, signaling for the delegates to rise. “Monarchs, chieftains, and elders, you have heard my oath. If, in time, my actions give the lie to my intentions, I call on you to remind me of these words.”
He left the table and stopped at the place where five marble tablets bearing Vraccas’s commandments had been destroyed by Bislipur’s ax. “That which was brought down by treason will rise again in an era of unity and peace.” He ascended the dais and sat on his throne. “Together we will rebuild our kingdoms—but first we must celebrate. Let the feasting begin!”
The assembled dwarves erupted in cheers and applause, shouting their approval and banging their weapons against their shields. The jubilation showed no sign of stopping, but at last the clamor gave way to hearty laughter, spontaneous singing, and a round of toasts as stewards arrived with pitchers and platters, and the rest of the secondling folk poured into the hall.
Horns sounded, and the music began, the drummers beating out a lively rhythm. The exuberance was catching, and soon heavy-booted Boïndil was tapping his feet in time with the songs. For once he forgot all thought of battle and stopped worrying about his brother in the distant Red Range. Tankard in hand, he watched the festivities and enjoyed the brief respite.
Tungdil looked around for Balyndis. “They’re dancing the gloomy memories from their souls,” said a voice behind him.
“It’s time they enjoyed themselves, don’t you think?” said Tungdil, looking into Balendilín’s worried eyes. Balendilín was a new king, but an old dwarf, and his face was worn with care. “Maybe you should join them.”
Balendilín chuckled softly and stroked his beard. “Why not? The orcs were kind enough to leave me both legs—I’ll find myself a maiden and twirl her around the dance floor like a freshly hewn dwarf.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Tungdil. “Bad news from abroad?”
“No news,” said the king, sighing. He glanced in Boïndil’s direction to make sure he wasn’t listening. “I haven’t heard anything from the Red Range in orbits. It’s possible that the tunnels are blocked, but…” He left the sentence hanging, but it was clear that he suspected something worse.
Balyndis, overhearing their conversation, looked alarmed. “Are you talking about Nôd’onn?” She searched their faces. “He warned us about a danger in the west.” She took a deep breath, forcing down her fear. “It’s all right, though—West Ironhald is unassailable. Nothing will cross the border with my kinsmen standing guard.”
Tungdil reached for her hand. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said, trying to mask his trepidation. “The firstlings are strong enough to see off any threat.” Balyndis saw through his attempt to reassure her, but she was comforted that he had tried.
There was silence for a moment. Everyone was remembering how Nôd’onn, after killing four magi and terrorizing all Girdlegard, had spoken with terror of the threat from the west.
“Queen Xamtys will leave for the Red Range tomorrow,” said Balendilín at last. “She’s worried as well.”
“We’ll go too,” decided Tungdil. He gave Balyndis’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Her Majesty
will be glad of some company, and it’s a chance for us to recruit any firstlings who want to follow their chieftains to the Gray Range.”
There was a third reason for accompanying Xamtys that he didn’t mention to the others. He wanted to be on hand with Keenfire in case the firstling kingdom was really in danger. The diamond-encrusted blade had proved its worth against Nôd’onn, and he was sure that it would make short work of any threat.
Balyndis looked at him gratefully and gave him a quick kiss while Balendilín wasn’t looking.
“You can’t fool me,” said Boïndil, joining the little group. “You’re worried about something. It’s the Red Range, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” asked Balyndis anxiously.
“It was this, um… It was the thing that fell from the sky.” Boïndil put his tankard to his lips. Dark beer trickled down his beard, mingling with the dust from the journey. “Something happened that night.” His voice was so low that the others could barely hear him through the music and laughter. “Boëndal is my twin; I can tell if he’s in trouble.”
Balyndis didn’t want to hear any more, but she found herself asking, “What sort of trouble?”
Boïndil took another draft of beer. “He was fine at first—the firstlings looked after him well, and the arrow wounds were healing.” He put down the empty tankard and wiped the froth from his lips. “That was before the comet.” He paused and swallowed. “I don’t know what’s happened to him; I just feel cold.”
Balyndis gasped. “Vraccas protect us.”
Tungdil was angry with himself for not having listened more carefully when Boïndil brought up the subject before. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he asked him, laying a hand on his shoulder. Boïndil’s chain mail felt strangely cold.
“We had to see off the runts. Vraccas knows I wanted to go to Boëndal, but our duty lay elsewhere. I’ve been too worried to sleep, too worried to think—and now the beasts have been dealt with and we’re free to go.” A shadow crossed his face. “At least we’ll know for certain before too long.” Excusing himself with a nod, he picked up his tankard and went in search of beer to wash away his gloomy thoughts.
