by Markus Heitz
Bundror roared with laughter. “Well spotted,” he said, shaking his head. He proceeded to tell her how Tungdil Goldhand and his companions had traveled to the Gray Range, overcoming innumerable obstacles to reach the fifthlings’ smithy and forge Keenfire while the enemy was pounding on the door.
“Just orcs, or älfar as well?” asked the elf.
“Both,” he said, explaining how Tungdil and the secondling twins had killed their first älf in Greenglade, long before the expedition proper had begun. Later, they had put an end to two of their dogged pursuers, Sinthoras and Caphalor. “They were the most dangerous älfar in the whole of Dsôn Balsur.”
The elf clapped her hands appreciatively and Bundror’s companions, who had listened attentively to his narrative, joined the applause. “You’re an excellent storyteller,” she praised him. “But soon tales about fighting the älfar will be a thing of the past.”
“More’s the pity,” murmured Gisgurd to the others’ amusement.
Gimdur ran a hand through his thick black hair. “I’ve always wondered how the älfar were created. Perhaps you can tell us…”
Shanamil nodded, crossed her legs, and looked from one dwarf to the next. In spite of their venerable age and wrinkled skin, there was something childlike about their upturned faces.
Inàste was the daughter of Elria the Helpful, who ruled over the water.
Inspired by the beautiful creatures fashioned by Sitalia, daughter of Palandiell, Inàste set to work. Taking dew, soil, and light, she called into being a new race of elves.
But Palandiell, afraid that Sitalia’s work would be eclipsed, seized the new elves and threatened to destroy them.
Inàste pleaded with Elria to intervene, but her mother was unbending. After a furious argument, Inàste swore eternal vengeance on her mother and Palandiell.
Turning her back on the other deities, she opened her chamber to Samusin, and bore him a son, a beautiful baby who resembled an elf in appearance but who burned with his mother’s hatred of Palandiell and Elria.
In time, he grew up to become the first älf, and Inàste gave him weapons and sent him to live among the elves.
Palandiell lost patience with the murdering, treacherous älf, and cast him over the mountains to the north where he took up with Tion’s creatures, spreading his seed throughout the Outer Lands.
Patiently, he bided his time, waiting for a chance to cross the border and wage war against his cousins. Since then, he and his descendants have served the Perished Land devotedly, driven by their determination to wipe out the elves.
No one clapped.
It wasn’t because the dwarves hadn’t appreciated the story; on the contrary, they were under the legend’s spell. Enchanted by the elf’s soft, singsong voice, they waited in vain for her to continue. Shanamil stayed silent and bowed her head.
“I see,” said Gisgurd after a while. He cleared his throat. “So Inàste and Samusin are to blame for the älfar.”
“What about Palandiell, Elria, and Sitalia?” objected Bundror. “They shouldn’t have argued with Inàste.” He shook his head vigorously, making his beard swing from side to side. “Vraccas would never have behaved like that. Nothing good ever comes of a quarrel.”
“It’s a legend, remember,” said Gimdur. “An interesting legend—but I bet if you asked the älfar, they’d tell you a different story and say the elves were to blame.” He looked at the envoy. “What do you say to that?”
Shanamil looked at him evenly. “I’ve told you our version of the story, and I believe it—just as you believe that the dwarves were hewn from the mountain by Vraccas. Anyway, it’s as well you’re made of the hardest granite,” she said, changing the subject. “Our army could do with your strength and persistence. What of the dwarven heroes you spoke of? Are they here?”
“You mean Tungdil and his companions?” Bundror laughed. “No, he hasn’t got time to bother with Dsôn Balsur’s pointy-ears.” He stopped suddenly, realizing what he’d said. Frowning, he looked at the maiden. “You don’t mind if I call them pointy-ears, do you?” He took her smile as permission to refer to the älfar as he pleased.
“Mind?” growled Gimdur. “I’m sorry, elf, but I’m not going to stop insulting my enemies just because they’re related to my friends.” He got out his pipe and stuffed it with tobacco, still grumbling under his breath.
“In any case,” said Bundror, picking up his thread. “Our task is to help Lord Liútasil and the human generals in the struggle against Inàste’s pointy-ears.” He lingered over the words, relishing the chance to use the insult—especially in combination with his newly acquired knowledge about the älfar’s origins. “Tungdil and the others are heading north.”
“What a pity,” said Shanamil. “I should have liked to meet him. I’m surprised he’s not here. If we had a warrior with a legendary weapon, we’d send him wherever he was needed most.”
“That’s why he’s gone north,” said Gimdur. He dropped a glowing ember into the bowl of his pipe and waited for the tobacco to catch light. Clouds of dark blue smoke rose into the air. “He’s going to rebuild the fifthling halls and seal the Stone Gateway.”
“On his own?” asked the maiden. “I’m impressed.” The dwarves roared with laughter.
“Of course not! The best warriors and artisans from Beroïn, Borengar, and Goïmdil are going to help,” explained Gimdur, puffing away on his pipe. “And some of his old companions will be there too.” He jabbed the stem of his pipe at Shanamil’s chest. “Not a single beast will pass through the gateway while our kinsfolk are keeping watch. You can bet on it.”
In the silence that followed, Gisgurd rose to his feet. “I don’t mean to be discourteous, but my warriors need some sleep.” He dispatched a dozen dwarves to stand guard with their shields and axes around the makeshift camp and protect the sleeping unit from invaders. He didn’t want another set of visitors that night.
“We’ll need to be up early if we’re to cover the rest of the journey by dawn,” said Shanamil. “If you don’t mind, we’ll sleep here as well. You can ask one of your sentries to keep an eye on us—unless you’ve decided to trust us, of course.” She lay down on her side, facing the fire. With a flick of her wrist, she threw her cloak over her body and drew it around her like a blanket. “We’re scouts—we sleep in the open all the time.” Her companions settled down for the night as well.
“They’re not very demanding, are they?” whispered Bundror. “I’d never have thought an elf would consent to sleeping on the ground.”
“Where did you think they’d sleep?” enquired Gisgurd. “On perfumed sheets with satin pillows and embroidered quilts?”
“We forgot to bring our pillows with us,” said Shanamil, who had overheard the whispered conversation. “And we didn’t have room for our four-poster beds.” She closed her eyes, but her lips were smiling.
“Blast,” muttered Bundror. “Their ears are sharp as well as pointy.”
The hours wore on. After a time, the moon reached its highest point, bathing the camp in light and turning the dwarves into silvery statues.
Only Bundror, twitching and moaning in his sleep, was plagued by nightmares. He woke with a start.
Terrible images lingered in his mind. The camp had been overrun with älfar and the dwarves had fallen one by one. He too had looked into a pair of cruel, empty eyes and felt the lethal blade of a sword swishing toward his unprotected throat. Mercifully, he had woken in the instant before he died.
His heart was still pounding. He raised a hand to his face and realized that sweat was pouring from his forehead and trickling into his beard.
It’s because we’re so close to Dsôn Balsur, he told himself firmly. At home in the fourthling kingdom he was never haunted by such visions.
He threw off his blankets and sat up. The fire had burned low and his comrades were sleeping peacefully. You can bet they’re not dreaming of älfar, he thought wryly. Mindful of his bladder, he got up, collected his ax, and stomped t
hrough the narrow corridor of bodies.
A few paces beyond the perimeter of the camp he found a suitable bush and stopped to relieve himself. Dwarven water cascaded to the ground.
Just then he was struck by a worrying thought.
For the most part, peoples’ ideas about dwarves are false, but occasionally some of the folklore is based on fact. No one who has been in the vicinity of a sleeping dwarf would deny that dwarven breathing is curiously loud. A human would refer to the phenomenon as snoring; in elven forests, it was practically unknown. But among Bundror’s kinsfolk, it was as natural and inevitable as swallowing one’s food.
He frowned and strained his ears, hearing the patter of his water, the creaking of his boots, and the jangling of his mail. Beyond that, there was nothing—no coughing, no throat clearing, not even the familiar, reassuring chorus of snores.
The crease in his brow deepened to a furrow. He buttoned his breeches, raised his ax, and scanned his surroundings, looking for an explanation for the unnatural hush.
Tightening his grip on the ax, he tiptoed to the left toward a sentry. The dwarf was gazing over the moonlit plains. His loose hair was blowing in the wind, but he was otherwise still.
“Anything unusual to report?” enquired Boëndal. “It’s horribly quiet without their snoring.” The sentry paid him no attention.
“I know you’re on duty,” said Bundror irritably, “but if a comrade asks a question, it’s polite to reply.” He pushed past the dwarf, stopped abruptly, and raised his weapon with a terrible curse.
The sentry wasn’t standing of his own accord.
Someone had rammed a branch through his chain mail and into his chest, skewering him through the middle and preventing him from falling. Propped up by the blood-soaked stake, the dwarf looked almost alive, but his unseeing eyes stared at the ground and his features were etched with suffering. He had witnessed untold horrors in the instant before his death.
There was no smell of orcs, from which Bundror surmised that the sentry had been murdered by älfar. He raised his shield, drumming against it with all his might to sound the alarm and wake his sleeping comrades.
The others slept on, seemingly oblivious to the ear-splitting noise. Even the elves showed no sign of stirring.
“Wake up, wake—” He broke off, his throat constricting with panic as a terrible thought entered his mind.
Darting over to the nearest dwarf, he seized him by the shoulder, rolled him onto his back, and cried out in horror. The dwarf’s body came away from his head, which lay motionless on the ground, neck and beard cleft neatly in two. Bundror’s gaze settled on the pool of blood glimmering darkly in the moonlight.
“Save yourself the effort, groundling,” whispered a voice to his left. “You won’t raise your comrades—unless you can raise the dead.”
Bundror whirled round, striking out with his ax as he turned. His blade connected with something hard—his blow had been parried by a quarterstaff of black metal.
Before he knew it, the lower end of the quarterstaff was speeding toward his helmet. He took a blow to the nose guard. The metal cut into his face, pressing against his nose and breaking the bone with an audible crack.
Eyes watering and warm blood pouring down his face, Bundror stumbled away. Dazed, he took another step back and tumbled over the corpse of a comrade. “Come on, then!” he shouted furiously, still clutching his ax. He straightened up, braced his legs, and looked around for his assailant. “Try that again, älf, and I’ll cut you in two!”
The challenge met with no response. The älf had melted into the darkness and the moon wasn’t strong enough, or maybe brave enough, to deliver the shadowy figure to the dwarf’s vengeful eyes.
Bundror was under no illusions. The älf’s knowledge of dark arts exceeded his axmanship, but he was spurred on by hatred for the villain who had murdered his comrades.
The next blow came from nowhere. Hearing a low swish, Bundror ducked just in time. The quarterstaff slashed the air above him, only to swing round suddenly and knock him off his feet. A blade cut into his forearm, and pain stabbed through his arm, forcing his fingers apart. His heavy ax, his only protection against the murderous älf, fell from his grip.
He looked up to see the sole of a narrow boot. A moment later, he felt the pressure on his throat.
“Did you really think you were a match for me, groundling?”
Gasping for breath, he peered up and saw a tall, slim figure clad in armor. A mask of tionium covered the top half of the älf’s face, and a veil of black gauze covered the nose, mouth and chin. The älf’s features were framed by a hood attached to a dark gray cape.
“Count yourself lucky,” he spat back, struggling for breath. “If you hadn’t lurked in the shadows like a coward, I’d have cut you in two.”
“You want to fight me, do you?” laughed the voice behind the veil. The black gauze rippled gently. “Is that your dying wish?”
“Yes,” he spluttered.
The boot lifted from his throat. “Granted.”
Bundror staggered to his feet, reached for his ax, and saw blood streaming from the gash in his forearm. Hiding his pain determinedly, he gritted his teeth and squared his shoulders. From the voice, he guessed that his antagonist was female, but the mask, cloak, and armor made it impossible to tell. “Vraccas will give me the strength to prevail.” He glanced round hurriedly, but there was no sign of an älvish army. Surely there must be others? How could she kill a whole unit by herself? Can she work magic?
“You’ll see my warriors when they want to be seen,” she said coldly, as if he had spoken aloud. She windmilled her quarterstaff. “I’m waiting, groundling.”
He charged toward her and hurled his ax—only for her to deflect it with her staff.
Still, the tactic worked; it gave him a fraction of a second in which to act.
Bending down, he borrowed a less cumbersome ax from one of his dead companions and snatched up a shield. Thus equipped, he charged again at the älf, hoping that the lighter weapon would lend him the necessary speed.
The duel that unfolded among the corpses of his companions was hopelessly one-sided.
Both ends of the quarterstaff seemed to jab toward Bundror at once, striking him here and there, clattering against his wooden shield, slamming into his chain mail, forcing the air from his lungs, and breaking the occasional rib. He fought back whenever he had the opportunity, which was seldom enough—and each time the agile älf parried the blow or batted away his weapon, leaving him to grunt in frustration.
Bundror soon realized that it was hopeless and he was destined to die. He decided to try another, very dwarven, approach. Vraccas be with me. He hurled the ax toward her, forcing her to skip aside, then picked up his shield with both hands and sprinted in her direction, hollering at the top of his voice.
The unconventional tactic took her by surprise. The shield slammed into her, and he heard a thud as he knocked her, groaning, to the ground.
“Take that, you pointy-eared scumbag!” he shouted, his voice mingling hatred and delight. “I’ll cleave your head from your shoulders.” He bounded through the air and hurled himself at her chest, the lower edge of his shield pointing toward her throat.
Just then two things happened.
From her supine position, the älf managed to plant the lower end of the quarterstaff into the ground and point it toward him like a lance. Under other circumstances, Bundror would have done his utmost to avoid it, but a large black shadow swept toward him and he was caught.
He heard a gravelly roar and saw a pair of glimmering red eyes. The creature opened its mighty jaws, enveloping him in foul-smelling breath. Even as he realized that the teeth were impossibly close, something rammed into his belly, passed through the links of his chain mail, and exited the other side. His mind closed down.
The corpse-strewn field was bobbing around him, and he felt himself rising and falling as if he were impaled on a moving palisade. His helmet flew off, followed by his
shield, weapons belt, and one of his boots. He felt the jerk of something leaving his belly, and he was free.
He flew through the air and landed on a corpse. Through a haze of blood he saw that it was Gisgurd.
It won’t be long, my friend. Fire up the furnace, I’m on my way. He rolled over. His mouth filled with a coppery-tasting liquid that seeped into his beard and fell in thick, viscous drops onto his chest. I must warn the others.
His fingers scrabbled over Gisgurd’s rucksack and, summoning the last of his strength, he lifted the mighty bugle and put it to his shredded lips. The effort of drawing breath caused his lungs to fill with blood, but nothing could turn him from his purpose.
A single, piercing note left the bugle of the butchered dwarf and echoed over the hills. His lifeblood trickled into the instrument, and silence returned. Bundror hoped that the elves in Liútasil’s camp would recognize the signal and sound the alarm.
The heavy bugle fell from his hand as his strength ebbed away. He looked up to see the tionium mask of his antagonist. “You won’t achieve anything by attacking our allies,” he spluttered determinedly. “They’ve been warned.”
“Perhaps, but they won’t have heard your bugle in the Gray Range.” She bent down and lifted her mask to reveal her face. It was the elf maiden who had sat and conversed with them by the fire. “Look at me,” she said menacingly. “Ondori is your death, and I will take your life as your kinsfolk killed my parents. May your soul wander helplessly for the rest of time.” A scythe-like blade glinted in the light of the stars, and the älf muttered something in a low, sinister voice.
Bundror guessed the meaning of the incantation and prayed for help.
He was still begging Vraccas to gather him to the eternal smithy when the blade slashed his throat, severing his last fragile link to the world of the living.
III
Borengar’s Folk,
