by Markus Heitz
Balendilín gazed after him anxiously. “Knowledge can be worse than uncertainty. I hope his fears prove unfounded.” He laid a hand on Tungdil’s wrist. “Do you need anything for the journey?” he asked more brightly. “The orcs spoiled most of our provisions, but I’m sure I can find you a bit of cheese, some pickled camla-moss, and a few dried pharu-mushrooms to keep you going.” His brown eyes settled on Balyndis, and he smiled at her encouragingly.
Tungdil decided it was time to tell the others about the orcs who had escaped the allied army. He described the dead glade. “It was almost as if they were being drawn there. What if the Perished Land is gathering its troops?”
“They must have a reason for stopping there,” the secondling king said doubtfully. “You’d think they’d find themselves a better hiding place—it’s too small for an army of orcs, and there can’t be much food. Bruron’s men will starve them out in no time. The beasts would be better off in Toboribor, holed up in their caves.”
“I don’t see the sense in it either,” admitted Tungdil. “Mallen’s scout said that dead glades have the power to drive humans insane. If I didn’t have the fifthling kingdom to worry about, I’d look into it myself.”
Balendilín shook his head. “Bruron and Mallen can take care of the orcs. The beasts are their concern; the Gray Range is yours.” He took his leave.
Balyndis sighed. “I thought killing Nôd’onn would put an end to our problems, but Vraccas hasn’t finished with us yet.”
Tungdil smiled and ran a hand tenderly over her face. Like all dwarf-women, she had a fine layer of down on her cheeks. It generally got thicker and more noticeable with age. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you. I dreamed about you while I was away.” He paused. “To be honest, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” He noticed that she was wearing a new necklace, a finely forged chain of steel links studded with tiny gold balls. He knew at once who had made it.
“You obviously weren’t as busy as me,” she said with a smile, watching the slow, stately movements of twelve dwarves who were performing a dance in honor of the dwarven miner. “We had the furnaces roaring from morning till night; I barely left the anvil.” She raised an arm. “See those muscles? They’re twice their usual size. The orcs made such a mess that I could stay a hundred cycles and still have work to do. I haven’t had time for dreaming.”
He pointed to her necklace. “Oh, really,” he said teasingly. “But you found a few spare seconds to forge yourself a chain?”
She smiled. “You noticed!” The krummhorns fell silent and Balyndis joined the enthusiastic applause.
Tungdil laid an arm around her shoulders. “I’d rather you didn’t spend the next hundred cycles at the secondlings’ anvils; I need you in the Gray Range with me.” He looked her in the eye. “I’m not asking because I need a good smith; I’m asking because I need you. The past few orbits have made me realize that I never want to be away from you again.”
Balyndis, unaccustomed to such frankness, searched his face. “Tungdil Goldhand, what you’re proposing isn’t to be taken lightly.”
“I know,” he said, meeting her gaze. “But think of the memories we share already—and our adventures aren’t over yet. I want us to still be talking and remembering in four hundred cycles’ time. And of course we’ll tell the stories to our children, who’ll think we’re making it up.” He kissed her on the top of the head. “Balyndis Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers, daughter of Borengar and smith of the firstling kingdom, what would you say if a thirdling of unknown origin and no proper dwarven upbringing were to ask you to be joined with him by the iron band?”
Balyndis was so overwhelmed that she took a while to answer. “We’ll never be apart again,” she said at last. “Our hearts are joined already—they’ve been joined for a while.”
She started forward and threw her arms around him. Hugging her close, Tungdil pressed his face against her skin, filling his nostrils with her scent. He was still hugging her, eyes shut and perfectly contented, when he heard her say, “Yes, Tungdil Goldhand. I want to be with you always.”
It wouldn’t have mattered if the great hall had caved in on him or all the beasts in Girdlegard had torn him apart or a hundred arrows had pierced his chest; he would have died a happy dwarf.
23 Miles Southwest of Dsôn Balsur,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th/6235th Solar Cycle
Looking out from the top of the highest watchtower, Liútasil surveyed row upon row of brightly colored tents, ordered strictly by unit and rank. He ran a comb through his hair. The filigree teeth, inlaid with mother-of-pearl to stop them snagging on his fine auburn hair, separated the long shimmering strands, easing the occasional tangle.
The elven lord had ordered his warriors to pitch their tents and put up a palisade around the camp’s perimeter, bounded by a moat seven paces deep and seven paces wide. Here, on the outskirts of the älfar kingdom, neither man nor elf would sleep soundly unless every measure had been taken to make the camp secure.
The allied strategy had been decided at the Blacksaddle. Mallen was to deal with the orcs and bögnilim, using the superior speed of his cavalry to chase the fleeing beasts, while Liútasil and the other human generals marched north to attack the elves’ dark cousins in Dsôn Balsur and drive them out of Girdlegard.
The lord of landur monitored the activity in the camp. His sharp ears picked up snatches of conversation carried to him by the wind, and his sensitive nostrils detected the odor of humans and horses, mixed with smoke from campfires where men and women were roasting meat. Some of the soldiers were preparing for battle, whetting swords, sharpening lances, and dipping arrowheads into animal excrement to ensure that every missile, whether it pierced a heart, grazed a shoulder, or nicked an ankle, had a chance of causing death. A few of the men, desperate to forget their fear of the älfar, were swigging wine, while others lolled drunkenly on their bedrolls.
“Humans,” he said pityingly, putting away his comb. Elves knew better than to waste their strength before a battle, but human soldiers did everything in their power to incapacitate themselves.
Without them, though, the campaign would never succeed. The elves were outnumbered by the älfar, and they didn’t have the means to conquer Dsôn Balsur on their own.
Liútasil knew how much he owed to the humans and his traditional enemies, the dwarves. Before the battle of the Blacksaddle, no one had doubted that landur would fall to the älfar, but now, with the enemy retreating, his kingdom was safe. The last few skirmishes had been rearguard actions on the part of the älfar, summoned to Dsôn Balsur to defend their home.
Sitalia, grant me patience, he prayed. Down below, a group of men were brawling over the last skin of wine. Order was restored when their superior had them beaten into their tents by his guards.
On occasions such as this, Liútasil despaired of his new allies, who had nothing in common with the elves. He sometimes questioned the wisdom of fighting side by side with humans and dwarves, but Sitalia seemed to approve of the alliance. I’ll trust in your will…
He left the wooden platform and swiftly descended the ladder. On reaching the ground, he strode past the rows of canvas toward the purple assembly tent to debrief his scouts.
Seated at the conference table were the military commanders of Gauragar, Tabaîn, Weyurn, Sangpûr, Urgon, and Rân Ribastur. The generals were waiting in silence, sipping tumblers of water served by their guards. Liútasil was thankful that none were drinking wine or brandy.
Three elves in leather armor were standing in a corner of the tent. They were scouts, newly returned from the field. The filth of Dsôn Balsur clung to their boots, and their lightweight armor was torn and bloodied. News of the älfar didn’t come cheap.
Liútasil greeted the generals with a nod and signaled that he was ready. The scouts began their report in elvish and he summarized the intelligence for the men. “Our enemies have withdrawn to the heart
of their kingdom. Traps are in place to hinder our advance. The Perished Land has taken root around Dsôn Balsur and the trees are black with malice. Our first challenge is to pass through the forest unharmed.”
“I say we wait,” interrupted the commander of Sangpûr’s army. “The Perished Land is retreating from Girdlegard and the forest may yet recover. A march through whipping branches and twisting trunks would be a disaster for the men’s morale. I can’t put them through it.” The other generals nodded in agreement.
“I understand your concerns,” said Liútasil, sitting down and resting his arms on the table. “But I know the forest in question. The land once belonged to my people, and the trees are too old. Even if the soil recovers, the forest has been drinking the poison for hundreds of cycles, and the evil has blackened its soul. With the defeat of the Perished Land, the forest is dying and turning to stone, but it’s a slow process and we can’t afford to wait. We routed the älfar at the Blacksaddle; we need to attack straightaway.”
His speech met with silence from the generals. Realizing they needed time to consider and reach a decision, Liútasil left them and asked a few final questions of his scouts before entrusting them to the care of a physician, who was waiting to dress their wounds.
He accompanied them outside and stood in the doorway, leaning against a tent pole and gazing at the dark night sky.
Hidden in the stars were the faces of his forebears—wise, brave, clear-sighted elves whom Sitalia had elevated to the firmament to watch over their descendants and send them visions and signs.
Liútasil focused on the face of Fantur, second ruler of landur and brother of Veïnsa, one-time mistress of the Golden Plains. I need your help, he prayed, tracing the invisible lines of the constellation. Tell me how to dissuade them from delaying. He returned to the conference table. “What is your decision?”
“The trees in this forest,” began the commander of Rân Ribastur’s army. “Are they made of ordinary wood?”
Liútasil nodded.
“In that case,” continued the general, “we can burn them. I say we blaze a path to the heart of their kingdom.”
“They’ll know exactly where we are,” objected Liútasil. “We’d be a sitting target for their arrows. We’d lose hundreds and hundreds of—”
The man shrugged. “Who cares if they know where we are? Our army is vastly superior; we’ll show them our strength. If they’re too scared to fight us, we’ll raze their accursed kingdom to the ground. I don’t think anyone will be sorry to see the Perished Land in flames.”
The other generals thumped the table and grunted their support.
Liútasil realized that they were unlikely to be dissuaded from the plan. “Maybe the dwarves will have a better suggestion,” he said lightly. “I’ve sent a party of scouts to meet them, and one of my best elves, Shanamil, is guiding them here as we speak. They’ll be with us in a couple of orbits.”
“Dwarves are fine for tunneling and fighting underground,” said one of the generals. “Palandiell knows they’re brave and their axes are lethal—but they don’t know a thing about fighting in the open. I’m in favor of burning the forest.” He looked at the others. “Who’s with me?” Most of the other generals raised their hands in support.
“Let’s see what the dwarves have to say,” ruled Liútasil, friendly but unyielding. “Go to bed. The new dawn might bring us better counsel.”
The men filed out, leaving Liútasil alone. He untied his red hair, letting it fall freely around his shoulders.
He couldn’t help feeling uneasy about the campaign. Älfar liked to ambush their enemies, killing ruthlessly without exposing themselves to counterattack. Blazing a path through a forest was a dangerous tactic—as the generals would surely discover to their cost.
He picked up the map and calculated the distance from the outskirts of the forest to the capital of Dsôn Balsur—fifty-one miles. In the best-case scenario, they would lose fifty men for every mile. I tried to warn them.
32 Miles Southwest of Dsôn Balsur,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th/6235th Solar Cycle
Trust the long-uns and the pointy-ears to forge ahead without us. They should have waited!” grumbled Gisgurd, looking from Bundror to Gimdur. “It’s not our fault that it’s taken an age to get here. We’d have made it to camp orbits ago if the tunnels hadn’t caved in.”
“I hope you didn’t say pointy-ears,” scolded Bundror with a twinkle in his eye. “We’re one big family, remember.”
Gimdur tore off two large strips of dried mushroom and stuck them together with a morsel of cheese that was melting over the fire. “Since when are we supposed to like our families? My sister and I can’t get on.” He turned to Gisgurd and took a bite of his snack. “You should be grateful they made it to camp before we did,” he said, mumbling through his mouthful. “They’ll have dug their own trenches and saved us some work.”
“Elves can’t dig trenches,” said Bundror scornfully. “They can’t lift their shovels higher than their boots! They’re good on the lute and not bad with their arrows, but when it comes to handling a shovel… And they don’t know a thing about food—not to mention proper beer!”
Gisgurd clapped him on the back. “Too right!” he agreed enthusiastically. “When all’s said and done, they’re elves.” He paused for a moment, hoping Bundror would notice that he had referred to their confederates by their proper name. “I know we’re on the same side, but how are we supposed to trust them? We hated each other for cycles. You can’t just bury the past.”
“No one’s asking you to bury the past, master dwarf,” said a singsong voice from the shadows. “For my part, I’m looking forward to a future of peace and friendship.” A figure stepped out of the darkness toward the three dwarves. The firelight revealed a slender elf, her dark hair blowing in the breeze. “I’m glad it didn’t take long to find you, although next time you camp near Dsôn Balsur you might want to post a few sentries. Your campfire is visible for miles.”
Already Gisgurd, Bundror, and Gimdur were on their feet, axes raised and ready to strike. A shout went up, waking the rest of the unit. Three hundred dwarves prepared to fight.
“The älfar don’t scare us,” Gisgurd said grimly. “We gave them a good thrashing at the Blacksaddle.” He eyed the stranger suspiciously, his distrust deepening when nine others appeared at her side. “Who are you and what do you want?”
“My name is Shanamil, sent by Lord Liútasil to bring you to him. He wants us at the camp by dawn.”
“Nice try,” growled the dwarf. “And my name is Balyndis Steelfinger, sent by Vraccas to forge the mighty blade. Prove you’re telling the truth or I’ll…” He stopped short, realizing that if the stranger was who she said she was, he was likely to cause offense.
Gimdur was only too happy to take over. “You pointy-ears all look the same in the dark. How do we know you’re not an älf?”
She unfastened her necklace and showed them a gold pendant bearing the seal of Lord Liútasil. “I’m his envoy,” she said, throwing the pendant to Gisgurd and taking a seat by the fire. “Kill me if you don’t believe me. I’m sure Lord Liútasil will understand.”
Bundror positioned himself next to Gisgurd and examined the seal. “It’s elven, all right. One of the bowmen at the Blacksaddle was wearing one just like it. A bögnil killed him and tried to make off with his chain—I buried my ax in his back.”
Shanamil inclined her head toward him. “Thank you for avenging my kinsman. Your forebears would have danced on his grave.” Her gray eyes rested on him kindly.
Bundror, convinced of her integrity, lowered his weapons. “I’ll vouch for them,” he whispered to Gisgurd. “They’re elves from landur.”
Gisgurd and Gimdur inspected the maiden’s companions, studying their armor, their weapons, their slender faces, as pure as they were fair. The dwarves relaxed their guard.
“Fine,” said Gisgurd finally. “We’r
e prepared to believe that Liútasil sent you—but don’t expect us to trust you properly until we’ve seen your eyes in the light. When the sun rises over the plains tomorrow, we’ll know if you’re monsters or elves.”
The elf maiden took the speech with good grace. “You’re right to be wary,” she said calmly. “It would be just like the älfar to trick you into trusting them. A unit of ten älfar could kill three hundred warriors by slitting their throats in the dark.” She motioned for her companions to sit beside her at the fire. “No, I don’t blame you at all. It’s a good thing the älfar won’t be around for much longer—you’ll know who you’re dealing with when you meet an elf at night.” She reached for her drinking flask. “How were you planning to find the allied camp?”
Gisgurd sat down, and Bundror and Gimdur followed suit. “We thought we’d head for the spot where the sun is at its zenith. I think we were roughly on course; it’s not easy finding our bearings on the surface.”
“I’d be lost underground,” she said with a smile that revealed two rows of even white teeth.
Gisgurd felt a deep, almost physical aversion toward her. Her beauty offended his eyes. The elves were created from earth, dew, and sunlight, which explained why he found her abhorrent; sunlight was anathema to the deep-dwelling dwarves. It confirmed his belief that he could never really be friends with one of her kind. But at least the maiden didn’t seem as arrogant as the rest of the elves, an observation that he shared with her candidly.
“I suppose we’re all reviewing our opinions,” she said. She produced a hunk of bread from her bag and started eating. “To be honest, I was expecting a rowdy pack of stinking, drunken groundlings, not a disciplined unit of warriors with a healthy distrust of strangers.” She smiled. “Although I still think a few sentries wouldn’t go amiss.” She tore off another hunk of bread and her companions unpacked their victuals. “Balyndis Steelfinger isn’t your real name, is it?” she asked suddenly, turning to Gisgurd.
