by Markus Heitz
"You're wondering what's behind the visor, aren't you?" said Narmora, recovering her breath. She pressed the canteen of water thirstily to her lips.
He turned to her. "Is there something I should know?"
Narmora leaned against the wall of polished rock, still panting with exertion. Boпndil was a hard taskmaster and the combat sessions left her exhausted. "When I was little, my mother told me stories about a terrifying being, the king among Tion's and Samusin's creatures, the predator of predators, the hunter who hunted his own kind, destroying the weak and fighting the strong to make them stronger-or to kill them if their ascendancy was undeserved." Narmora dabbed the sweat from her brow. "She said that his eyes shone with violet light and that weaker beings fled for their lives at the sight of him. All the beasts are terrified of Samusin's son. She used to scare the living daylights out of me with those stories." She grinned, then averted her gaze, careful not to glance in the giant's direction. "And back then I didn't know that they were true."
The explanation didn't take Tungdil entirely by surprise. Samusin was Andфkai's chosen deity, and she would doubtless feel honored to be traveling with a creature who was said to be his son. Whether or not Djerun was more than just a servant to the maga was a question that Tungdil was reluctant to ponder. "No wonder the bцgnilim bolted."
"Most creatures would run away from him, beasts of Tion or not." Narmora got up to resume her drills.
He watched as Balyndis kindled one of the hearths with ordinary flames. After stripping off her mail and leather jerkin, she donned a leather apron that covered her chest and her midriff, although her undergarments left a good deal of flesh on show. He made his way over to see what she was doing. "What are you up to?"
"Making steel," she said, signaling for him to tie her apron at the back. Standing behind her, he caught his first proper glimpse of female skin. It was pink and covered in wispy down. There hadn't been much opportunity for washing of late, so she had a strong smell about her, but it wasn't unpleasant-not clean, exactly, but still quite arousing. "The blast furnaces are on the other side of the door, so I'm having to smelt the metal by other means. It's a trick of the trade."
Balyndis's apron strings were safely knotted, but Tungdil found himself clasping her sturdy hips. Her skin felt smooth and warm. He stroked the fine hairs.
"Come here so you can see what I'm doing." He did as he was told. "First we have to get rid of the impurities, which is why I'm placing the ore in a shallow pan. The heat will burn them off. Unfortunately, it means we can produce only small quantities of steel at a time, but it should be enough for a blade." She stood there, waiting patiently for the temperature to rise and the iron to melt. "Surely you've done this before?"
"No," he said regretfully. "I was only a blacksmith."
"How many strikes for a horseshoe nail?"
"Seven, if I concentrate. Nine, if I don't."
"Not bad," she said with a smile that made his cheeks flush redder than the molten ore. "It takes me seven strikes too."
"How many for an ax?"
"Seven, if I concentrate; nine, if I don't. Orbits, that is, not strikes. Since time is of the essence right now, I'll work straight through and it should be done in five orbits, without the quality suffering at all." She drew his attention to Giselbert, who was waving at them from the doors. "I think he wants to show you something."
Tungdil raised his hand to indicate that he was coming. "It's hard to believe that he and the others are older than anything we've ever encountered, save the mountains themselves."
"And to think that they're revenants as well. It's so sad that their souls were stolen by the Perished Land. I wish there was something we could do to get them back."
"Only Vraccas can restore their souls, but you're right, it must be awful for them." He hurried over to the anxious Giselbert.
"The beasts are preparing to attack."
Tungdil studied the heavy metal doors. They were reinforced with steel bindings and protected with Vraccas's runes. "I thought you said the forge was safe?"
"It was-until you gave them a reason to breach the doors. They know you're here and they know you're forging a weapon that will bring about their doom. Their priorities have changed." He pointed to a peephole and Tungdil peered through.
In the course of a single orbit the ragged hordes had become an orderly army under the дlfar's command.
A short distance from the doors was a growing pile of pillars and stalactites, torn down and stacked by a unit of ogres. Beyond that, further divisions of beasts were putting the finishing touches on what looked like hoists.
"You're right; it looks serious. I'll have to warn the others. What do we have in the way of defenses?"
Giselbert raised his ax.
"Is that all?"
The fifthling raised another ax and gave a wry smile. "It's not enough, I know. We-"
He was interrupted by muffled shrieks and jangling armor; ogres bellowed, orcs snarled anxiously, bцgnilim yelped in terror.
What's going on out there? Tungdil pressed his face to the peephole just as the fires went out in the encampment. Dwarf-sized warriors with pale faces poured out of the darkness, swarming among the beasts and cleaving through their ranks. They seemed to be deliberately beheading their opponents so that none could be raised from the dead.
The attack was over in moments. The flames were rekindled and the invaders disappeared without a trace.
The spirits of the dead dwarves'. He thought back to the pale figures and their mysterious warning. Tion's hordes had colonized their realm against their wishes, and the vengeful ghosts had made them pay. "What do you know about dwarven ghosts?"
"Ghosts? Nothing…but I'm glad they've decided to help."
Tungdil hurried to tell the others of the imminent attack. Everyone not involved in forging Keenfire was put to work hewing boulders to barricade the doors.
All that mattered for the moment was keeping the beasts at bay. Later they would have to figure out a way of getting themselves and the weapon out of the forge.
The company's faith in Furgas proved well founded. It took him less than an orbit to get to grips with the bellows. According to him, the pulley system worked in much the same way as a stage curtain, a parallel that he found especially apt.
Having located the damage, he repaired it, improvising a solution with the presence of mind and ingenuity befitting a prop master who had rescued plenty of performances from mechanical disaster. He even got the grindstone turning again.
Meanwhile, the others continued their efforts to barricade the doors. The beasts had already launched an initial offensive, which failed because the stalactites shattered against the doors.
When the second orbit dawned, Gandogar began work on the diamonds. The environment could scarcely have been less conducive to his task, but he was fortunate to have use of Goпmgar's tools. Bavragor sat at a table and fashioned the spurs, his hands moving with the mechanical jerkiness of a puppet on strings.
Giselbert prepared the casts for the precious metals, while Balyndis threw herself into forging the blade and its shaft, which itself was the length of a forearm.
She set up her workshop in the middle of the chamber near Dragon Fire. With every sigh of the machine-driven bellows, the coals hissed and crackled, sometimes spitting white flames.
Her work was spread between three anvils of different sizes and shapes. Time after time she reached confidently for the appropriate tool among the rows of rivet tongs, wolf jaw tongs, duck bill tongs, and six dozen or so similar implements, extracted the red hot steel from the fire, hammered it approximately into shape, and replaced it in its fiery bed of coals as soon as the metal cooled.
Tungdil had never seen such a magnificent forge. Whereas he was accustomed to four types of hammer, there was a choice of fifty and all with different heads, not to mention the chisels, files, saws, and other tools that Balyndis employed with obvious skill.
"I could use your help," she said sudd
enly, handing him some tongs. "Draw out the steel to the thickness of a knife blade, halve the metal with your ax, and lay the sections on top of each other."
Tungdil did as instructed, reaching into the furnace with his long-handled tongs. White flames licked the coals, emitting a phenomenal warmth.
The steel was white-hot when he placed it on the anvil. He drew it out quickly and returned it to the flames, waiting for it to glow before transferring it to the anvil, dividing it in half, and hammering the two sections vigorously into a single strip.
It had been so long since he had last stood at the anvil that he felt a rush of elation as he brought down the hammer and tapped out a rhythm. This was the wizardry of the dwarves, their ability to induce metal to perform wondrous miracles that a magus or famulus would never understand.
He glanced at Balyndis happily; without realizing, they were hammering in unison.
At length he laid down his tools. "I ought to go back to shifting boulders before the others start accusing me of ruining the blade. How many layers will it have when it's finished?"
"About three hundred," she replied, still hammering. "It's good steel so it can take it. Thanks for the help."
Tungdil gave her a wave and joined the working party at the doors. The fifthlings hurried back and forth tirelessly, their undead bodies able to function without rest, but Tungdil and Boпndil were only too aware of the importance of conserving their strength. Most of their provisions had been eaten already and the rest would have to be rationed until they left the forge.
"Vraccas must be really farsighted," said Boпndil after a time. "To think that he brought us all together like this!'
"What do you mean?" asked Tungdil, surprised to hear the warrior pondering such matters.
Boпndil, his skin bronzed from orbits in the sun, turned his bearded face toward him. "Each one of us has a vital role to play. We needed you to come up with the plan in the first place, Balyndis and the others to make the blade, the impresario to save us from the runts, Furgas to repair the bellows, and the pointy-eared actress to strike the magus down." He sat down on a rock. "There couldn't be a better team…"
"What about Goпmgar?"
"Er… Well, we needed Goпmgar to save Gandogar."
"Aren't you forgetting the warrior twins? You and your brother wiped out anyone who stood in our way and kept fighting when others would have lost their nerve. We wouldn't have got this far if it weren't for you." He gave him a hearty thump on the back.
Boпndil grinned. "More incredibly, we turned our scholar into a proper, respectable dwarf. Living with the long-uns sent your instincts to sleep, but we've woken them up for you, Tungdil." He made to strike him with his ax. "Truth be told, you're pretty handy with a weapon. You must have been born a warrior."
Born a warrior. Tungdil was painfully reminded that he still knew nothing of his birth.
For once Boпndil picked up on his mood. "Cheer up, Tungdil! If the fourthlings won't have you, you can always live with us," he promised breezily. "I'll swear by the beard of Beroпn that you're the illegitimate cousin of my estranged aunt thirty-four times removed." They both laughed.
Giselbert, who had been peering through the peephole at regular intervals, headed over from the door. His expression was grave. "They've fashioned new battering rams. This time they might actually work."
"Is there any other way out?" asked Tungdil. "Rodario's act won't fool them again." He looked up at the chimney towering above the furnace. "Would that do the trick?"
"Our scholar is full of inspiration," Boпndil said admiringly.
"It might, but the stairs are pretty steep."
"We'll manage," Tungdil assured him. "Nothing can stop us from saving Girdlegard, especially not now that the ax is almost finished."
Just then, an almighty crash shook the walls as if the mountain were collapsing around them.
The doors shuddered, fragments of rock rained all around them, and the metal panels strained and groaned. The attack had begun in earnest.
VIII
Giselbert's Folk, Fiftbling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle For three whole orbits the forge echoed with continual pounding and thudding against the doors and the beasts' persistence began to pay off. The solid iron panels were already bulging in the middle, and the metal showed signs of cracking under the force of the brutal assault.
Tungdil had requisitioned one of the anvils and was frantically forging bars to add to the barricade, but it was obvious that the beasts would eventually force their way in.
Balyndis had almost finished the blade and was about to begin the fine-tuning. The task of engraving the metal was entrusted to Giselbert, who marked the warm steel with runes and patterns for the inlay. Gandogar had cut the diamonds to size and left them on his makeshift workbench. Each gem had been sharpened to a deadly point that would slit the magus open. The spurs, carved by Bavragor from black granite, were as long as a human index finger and were waiting to be attached.
Tungdil, under directions from Narmora, sculpted the grip using a hacksaw, a file, and a grindstone to shape the metallike sigurdaisy wood to fit her hand. He left the sanding to her and went back to reinforcing the doors. On the fourth orbit the heated blade was edged with diamonds and the spurs were put in place.
Balyndis worked with utmost concentration. The metal was unforgiving, and every strike of the hammer was vital: The slightest mistake could cost her the blade, and there wasn't enough time to reforge it. The constant gonglike pounding on the doors was a distraction that they could all have done without.
Giselbert was almost ready to combine the precious metals and create a single alloy, a process made possible by the incredible heat of the dragon fire. The others looked on in fascination as he heated the metals in individual pans: rich gold, shimmering silver, orange vraccasium, white palandium, and a coin-sized lump of black tionium.
One by one he emptied the molten contents into a bell- shaped vessel lined with glass. When it came to pouring the tionium, the black liquid hissed with Tion-like malice, angry at being united with an element as pure as palandium.
Another loud boom shook the hall, followed immediately by a cracking and snapping of metal. A battering ram smashed into the reinforced door, opening a gap half a pace across. In no time a bцgnil had squeezed through and was staring wide-eyed at his surroundings. He squealed in excitement.
"Come here, you ugly piglet!" bellowed Ireheart, whooping exuberantly as he charged. At last he could allow his fury to run riot. "So you think you're brave, do you? Let's see if my axes change your mind!"
"Narmora, you stay here," ordered Tungdil. "Everyone else, after him!" Balyndis, Giselbert, Andфkai, and Djerun rushed to help Boпndil, who shouted at them to go away.
The pounding on the doors became faster and more violent. With victory in sight, the beasts redoubled their efforts. At last the opening was wide enough for an orc to storm through. Arrows ripped through the gap, but inflicted no damage, save the occasional scratch.
Tungdil knew that the breach could not be allowed to open further if he and the others were to stem the attack. We'll drive them back with dragon fire. He ran to the furnace, heaped on some coals, and pumped the bellows until the fire roared with bright white flames.
Hurriedly he shoveled a few loads onto a wheeled anvil and rolled it to the doors. Without wasting a second he filled his spade and hurled its contents over the heads and shoulders of the invaders.
Red-hot coals showered over the beasts, covering them in sparks and coal dust that singed their faces, danced down their collars, and penetrated their chain mail. Loud screams rent the air, increasing in volume when the second fiery hail descended. There was an overwhelming stench of charred flesh, smoldering hair, and scorched leather. The orcs raised their shields above their heads in panic, allowing Tungdil and his companions to plunge their axes and hammers into their unprotected chests.
Furgas kept them supplied with hot coals until the enemy retreated. The
orcs went back to bombarding the forge with arrows.
"Sooner or later they're going to force their way in," predicted Andфkai. "They'll form a shield wall and we won't be able to stop them. It's time we left."
They made a concerted effort to close the doors, but the beasts had been cunning enough to jam them open with wedges.
She's right; we need to get out of here as soon as we can. Tungdil returned to the furnace. "How much longer until the inlay is ready?" he asked Giselbert.
"The tionium and the palandium need to simmer for half an orbit. Once they've melded, the others will follow. After that I'll be able to pour the alloy into the grooves, but then there's the cooling time. Will the doors hold?"
"They'll have to," growled Tungdil, nodding resolutely. "We'll see to it that they do."
From then on, Nфd'onn's servants gave them no respite. The assault on the doors was unrelenting and the beasts proceeded as the maga had predicted: Shields raised above their heads, they advanced in formation, protected from the glowing coals.
Two of the fifthlings were beheaded, never to rise again. Their loss was a serious blow to the defenders, and already the next battering ram was pounding against the doors. The destructive will of the Perished Land was bent on assailing the forge.
It is time." The long and wearying wait ended as Giselbert lifted the vessel containing the mountain's precious metals and poured them into the indented runes and symbols. The alloy's color was strangely indeterminate: somewhere between orange and yellow with a peculiar shimmer and swirling black pinpoints. It streamed through the grooves with the assurance of a river that was familiar with its course, filling the channels without a drop to spare.
"Done," announced Giselbert, heaving a sigh of relief. "In another half an orbit, when the inlay has cooled, we can set the blade on the haft and-"
