The Revenge of the Dwarves

I

Girdlegard,

The Gray Range on the Southern Boundary of the Fifthling Kingdom,

Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle

The last time I was here everything lay in ruins, Keen-Ears. But this… I’d never have expected this.” Tungdil Goldhand ruffled his gray pony’s mane. Amazed, he took the last bend in the mountain track, stopped and looked up to the top of the five-cornered tower that reached, imposing and impregnable, into the sky. “Not after just five sun cycles.” He used the impromptu halt to put his drinking flask, now nearly empty, to his parched mouth, letting the last few drops of brandy trickle down his throat. The alcohol stung his cracked lips.

Passing the immense building that would have made even an ogre look small, he reached the plain in front of the entrance to the fifthling kingdom, ruled by the descendants of Giselbart Ironeye.

It seemed only yesterday that he had led the twenty-strong reconnaissance troop here with his friend Boindil and his current life-partner, Balyndis.

On that journey they had made their way through a devastated landscape of ruins and moss-covered stones. Most of the fifthlings’ fortifications had been turned to rubble.

Today a completely different scene met his eyes, a scene to gladden the proud heart of any child of the Smith.

He was riding now past where they had drowned some of Ushnotz’s orc army. He saw that the pit had been filled in and covered over with black marble slabs bearing inscriptions in gold and in vraccasium to commemorate the glorious battle and honor the fallen dwarves. Each one of them a hero, they lived on in songs about the war.

Nowhere was there the slightest trace of the weathered ruins Tungdil had once struggled through. All the old stones had been moved elsewhere. Blocks of light-colored granite and dark basalt rock formed a continuous encircling wall the height of twenty paces: a protective arm surrounding the entrance itself.

Three towers of black basalt rose above the main structure; from the platforms the dwarves could overlook the length of the steep winding path and could see probably a hundred miles in the other direction into the kingdom of Gauragar. The banner of the fifthlings-a circle of vraccasium chain-links to represent the work of the goldsmiths and the unity of the people-was flying from the flagpole to show who was on guard.

Tungdil felt moisture on his face. Turning his head he looked over at the nearby waterfall, still crashing and thundering as it had five cycles ago. The white cascade with its clouds of vapour sparkled and shimmered like crystal in the spring sunshine. All in all, the view was spectacular.

The pony Keen-Ears snorted, looking for grazing at the foot of the forbidding fortress, but found nothing to his liking on the bare rock. He pawed the ground impatiently.

“I know. You’re hungry. They’ll let us in soon.” Tungdil did not get a chance to stand around admiring the skill of the secondling stone masons in the construction of this impressive building.

Tall as a house, the two doors of the great portal opened slowly. Iron plating had been fixed to the outside of the gate to withstand attacks with battering rams and other siege engines.

A dwarf came out, his helmet sparkling like diamonds. Tungdil knew who wore elaborate headgear like that. The high king, Gandogar Silverbeard of the Clan of the Silver Beards of the fourthling folk, had come out in person and was hastening forward to welcome him.

“King Gandogar.” Tungdil fell on one knee and reached for the ax called Keenfire to proffer to the king in the time-honored dwarven greeting. This was the silent renewal of the vow, pledging one’s life for the sake of all dwarves and for Girdlegard.

Gandogar stopped him with a gesture. “No, Tungdil Goldhand. Do not kneel to me. Let me shake your hand. You are our greatest hero. Your deeds are beyond measure. It should be I who-”

Tungdil rose to his feet, grasping the king’s hand and interrupting the flow of praise. As he and the high king shook hands, Tungdil’s rusty chain mail grated.

Gandogar concealed his sense of shock as best he could. Tungdil was looking old, older than he really was. The brown eyes were dull, as if all simple joy of life were lost. His face was swollen, beard and hair matted and unkempt. The change in him could not all be from the long journey. “It should be I who kneel before you,” he finished.

“Don’t praise me so much,” smiled Tungdil. “You are embarrassing me.” The one-time rivals had become friends.

“Let us go in so you can see with your own eyes what the best of the firstlings, secondlings and fourthlings have achieved.” Gandogar hoped that his surprise at Tungdil’s state had not been too obvious, as he gestured toward the entrance. “After you, Tungdil.”

“And the thirdlings, king? What have they contributed?” asked Tungdil as he untied his pony to lead behind him.

“Apart from your own contribution, you who made everything possible?” returned Gandogar. It was not easy for him to see in Tungdil the dwarf of five sun cycles ago. If a child of the Smith ever let his chain mail rust it was a bad sign. There would be a chance later on to speak of that. Not now. He took off his helmet, revealing his long dark brown hair. “The thirdlings do what they do best: training us in warfare. And they are unbelievable at it.” He smiled. “Come. We have a surprise for you.”

They strode through the gate.

On the other side a rousing reception awaited him, with dwarves of all ages lining the way into the mountain, their laughing faces aglow. They were celebrating his visit, honoring him, applauding. There were musicians in the crowd and up on the towers and the walls. Flutes and crumhorns sounded out and the rhythm was given by the dwarves beating on their shields. The enthusiasm was palpable; it was all in his honor, and the crowd’s welcome flowed round him like liquid gold.

“Word got round quickly that you were on your way,” grinned Gandogar. He was pleased at the success of the surprise welcome. “They’ve been longing to see their great hero.”

“By Vraccas!” Tungdil was so moved by the reception that his throat went dry. “Anyone would think I was returning in victory from a great battle.” His gaze swept over the crowd, noting the laughing faces of men, women and children who had turned out eagerly to meet him. And they had come despite his five-cycle absence away in the vaults of his foster-father. On the other hand, for a dwarf five solar cycles were not long.

He waved at them all, responding to their hearty welcome as he strode at the high king’s side through their ranks. “My thanks,” he called joyfully. “Thanks to you all.”

The applause swelled and he heard his name shouted.

He could easily have been running the gauntlet of their disapproval, it struck him. For his wife Balyndis was once married to Glaimbar Sharpax from the Iron Beater clan of Borengar’s people: the same man who now held no less a title than ruler of all the fifthlings.

Meeting Glaimbar would be the biggest challenge. The people of the Gray Range had seemingly forgiven him for being with Balyndis now, but did there have to be so many of them? He smiled at them bravely and breathed a sigh of relief when safely within the enormous corridor that led inside the mountain.

Gandogar stopped at the entrance; he noticed that Tungdil’s joy was not unmixed. “Are you all right?”

The dwarf did not answer at first. “It’s strange. On the one hand my heart sings like sounding iron smitten on the smith’s anvil. But on the other…” He broke off, fell silent, then cleared his throat. “I think it’s just that I am not used to having so many dwarves around me all at once, Gandogar.” He smiled, lifting his hand in excuse. “Normally it’s just the one dwarf, my wife.”

“I understand. In part,” responded Gandogar. “How you can live so isolated, far from any company-that’s a mystery to me. All those strangers around one can be frightening.” He winked. “I know what it is like. My wife’s clan is enormous. I’m always terrified of their family visits.”

Tungdil laughed. Meanwhile one of the dwarves had taken the reins of his loyal pony, promising the best of grooming and care. Tungdil and the high king progressed through the corridors, passages and rooms; the music and the sounds of rejoicing from the crowds grew quieter now.

Tungdil recalled… Here he and his comrades had encountered nothing but dust and rubbish. After the defeat of the fifthlings, Tion’s monsters had ruled in these mountains for hundreds of cycles.

But now it was over. Delegations of all the dwarf folk had come and brought new life after the victory. The Gray Range pulsated; Tungdil could hear children’s laughter. What pain he felt at that sound.

“We haven’t been content merely to make good the damage to the stonework on the walls and in the rooms,” he heard a man’s voice in the adjacent passageway. A dwarf came out with his retinue. “We have created new halls. New halls for the children growing up in the light of the sun that rises up over the Dragon’s Tongue, the Great Blade and the other mountain peaks.”

Tungdil recognized the impressive figure and the characteristic voice at once; he would have preferred not to meet this dwarf until later on. “Greetings, King Glaimbar Sharpax,” he said, bowing. He was surprised to see a female dwarf in an embroidered brown robe standing behind the ruler, a newborn baby on her arm. “May I congratulate you on the birth of your child?”

Glaimbar, taller and more solid in stature than Gandogar, ran a hand over his luxuriant black beard. “My thanks, Tungdil Goldhand, and welcome to my kingdom.” He pointed to the baby. “These are the true fifthlings. The rest of us will keep their kingdom safe until they are old enough to defend it for themselves.” He held out his hand; the metal plates on his elaborate armor clinked as he moved. “I can see the concern in your eyes, Tungdil. We shall let bygones be bygones. My heart has found another and I harbor no grudge, neither against you nor against Balyndis. Tell her so when you return.”

In spite of the many adventures he had experienced in his short life, and the many lucky escapes from perilous situations, Tungdil had seldom felt so strong a sense of relief as now. He grasped the king’s hand in both his own, shaking it so vigorously that Gandogar restrained him. “Stop, my friend. Glaimbar will need that arm again,” he laughed indulgently; he knew the history these two shared.

A swift glance at Glaimbar’s face showed Gandogar that the king of the fifthlings was also taken aback by the lack of care in Tungdil’s appearance. This was not how a hero should look, even if he had withdrawn from society and lived away from them all for such a long time.

“Sadly, I don’t need my arms for fighting anymore,” added Glaimbar after a pause. “It has grown quiet on the Northern Pass.”

“Be content, King Glaimbar,” said Tungdil. He felt as if a leaden weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Following on from the rapturous welcome he’d been met with, here were words of forgiveness from a former rival; two of his greatest fears were resolved. But still he warned himself not to be too trusting. Until he saw deeds to back up the words of reconciliation, he must remain on his guard. “Your arms will soon be tired from rocking the child.”

“Come. I will show you the new treasures of our flourishing dwarf kingdom.” Gandogar, Glaimbar and Tungdil walked away together to explore the fortress.

Each dwarven folk had contributed the finest of its handiwork and skills. The secondling stonemasons had executed immaculate repairs and excavated new accommodation quarters and halls, forming pillars and bridges of stone with an accuracy that beggared belief.

The smithies of the firstlings had supplied decorative strengthening girders, fretted screens, metal furniture and fencing, lamps and other articles.

The fourthlings brought the arts of their colleagues to perfection by studding them with precious stones, polished for sparkle.

Together with artistic murals in gold and vraccasium and other precious metals from the devastated remains of the vanquished fifthling realm, the new occupants had created the finest of dwarf kingdoms. Here, all the best had been brought together.

Glaimbar enjoyed the admiration he saw in the eyes of his high-ranking guests. “You see how the whole of the Gray Range territories have become a center of excellence. And the cream of the thirdling warriors are training us in new methods of combat, so we may better protect our wealth and the land of Girdlegard,” he concluded as they completed their tour and made for the assembly hall.

Tungdil remembered this unusual room clearly; it was constructed like a theater with a circular floor area, twenty paces across. The walls had a broad ledge at waist height-about four paces wide-then continued in the vertical plane.

Here was the place he had made the proposal that Glaimbar should be crowned king. Here it was he had renounced his own claim. What would have happened if I had been king of the fifthlings? he wondered, gazing at the empty rows. Would things have turned out better, or worse?

There was to be no voting in the chamber today. Instead, the clan leaders were waiting to feast with them. They were all sitting in the center of the first level at a long table that seemed to bear every dish the dwarven cuisines could offer.

When the three stepped into the room, conversations ebbed away and all those present got to their feet. Knees were bent in homage, swords held aloft, heads bowed. It was the silent pledge, a promise to give life and limb for the high king. “Rise and eat,” spoke Gandogar, taking his place at the end of the table. “Let us enjoy our meal. I am hungry from our walk. Thirsty, too. Let us talk later.” Tungdil sat at his left side, Glaimbar at his right. The meal began and the musicians struck up.

Tungdil partook of the feast with delight, his palate enchanted by the variety of tastes: spiced root jelly, roast goat meat, kimpa mushrooms, sour cheese with herbs, and steaming hot dumplings made of root flour. The feast was such a contrast to the simple fare of his life in the mines-neither he nor Balyndis were accomplished cooks-the other thing was that he liked the food of humans, but she preferred a more traditional diet. The compromises usually tasted rather disappointing.

He wiped his fingers on his dirty beard. So enthusiastically was he attacking his food that he missed the horrified glances of the clan leaders. They were disturbed at his lack of grooming.

Gandogar passed him a tankard of beer. “Here, taste this. You don’t have stuff like that back home, do you?”

It won’t have been meant unkindly, but it made its mark through the wafer-thin mental armor. His expression clouded over. “I am content with what I have.” He took a helping of the roast, sinking his teeth into the goat flesh; brownish-red gravy dripped through his matted beard as if it were blood trickling down. His abrupt movements were at odds with his words.

“Do you have any children yet?” asked Glaimbar, not knowing that this was another sensitive area. “Who knows when we will need the next heroes, and if your children-”

Tungdil threw down the piece of meat, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his mail shirt and gulped down his beer. Then he motioned to a dwarf standing by to bring him more. “Please, tell me why you have summoned me, King Gandogar,” he said, changing the subject so emphatically that even the simplest of minds got the point.

Glaimbar and the high king exchanged looks. “As I said before, it is all very quiet now, Tungdil,” said the king, continuing to eat. “This makes me uneasy.”

“Rightly so,” agreed the other. “For a whole cycle now we’ve been seeing a lot of orc activity in the Brown Ranges; they’re all surging over the pass as if the forces of goodness were pursuing them.” He was served dessert. “But at the Stone Gate it’s as quiet as the grave.”

“These last four cycles we could have safely left the gates open and nothing would have happened,” added Glaimbar.

Tungdil recognized the pudding at once and took some. It was a light sweet cream that he’d had before, back with the freelings of Trovegold-in the house of the dwarf Myr, who had betrayed him and paid for it with her life. The woman he had loved.

The choice of dessert was a mistake. The first spoonful brought back the bitter-tasting memories that wrecked his appetite. He reached for the beer again.

“That is strange indeed,” he grunted rather than said. He cleared his throat and swallowed down the images of the past. A lot of beer would be needed to keep those pictures in their place. “Have you sent out scouts?”

“No,” answered Glaimbar. “We didn’t want to waken any sleeping ogres until we had completed and extended our defenses.”

“That’s why you are here. We thought of sending out a small party and we thought of you, Tungdil Goldhand, to lead it.” Gandogar took over. “You’ve been to the Outer Lands, I hear.” He pointed to the hero’s ax, resting next to his chair. “You have the ax Keenfire to overcome all adversaries. You are the best choice for such an undertaking.”

Tungdil pushed his full plate away and asked for a third tankard of beer. He was stilling his hunger with the barley now. As so often in the recent past. “Yes, Your Majesty. I have been to the Outer Lands. I stayed about the length of an orbit. It was foggy; I lost three men to the orcs and in one of the caves I discovered a rune that I couldn’t decipher. It wasn’t worth going.” He poured the beer down his throat, clanged the tankard down and suppressed a belch. “You must admit, it’s not a lot of experience.”

“Nevertheless, we need to find out what’s happening there.” The high king did not sound as if he would accept a refusal on Tungdil’s part, not even an implied one. “I want you to set off tomorrow for the Stone Gate. You’ll take a group of our best warriors with you to the Outer Lands, and you’ll see what’s what.”

Tungdil had started on the fourth tankard, but put it back down on the table. “It’ll be foggy, king, that’s what. You know what fog is like. How many shades of gray do you want me to describe when I get back?”

“Hang on, Goldhand,” warned Glaimbar, delicately eating his dessert. “You may have to offer the high king an apology if you see hordes of monsters assembling there to attack us.”

Tungdil turned back to his beer and then looked at Glaimbar. So he was keen to send him to the Outer Lands, was he? Perhaps the mooted reconciliation hadn’t been so genuine, after all? He was ashamed of harboring this uncharitable thought. He was as suspicious as a gnome.

Cursing, he put down his beer. “Excuse my surly tone, King Gandogar,” he said quietly. “Of course I will go to the Northern Pass.” Turning to Glaimbar, “I’ll be happy to encounter Tion’s creatures. And if I die in battle, I don’t care! Because…” He pressed his lips together. “Forgive me. I am too tired to be good company.” He got up, bowed to the two rulers, grabbed the tankard and left the dining hall.

The dwarves all followed him with their eyes, chewing their food in silence. No one spoke. No one wanted to voice the growing doubts about their hero.

Gandogar regarded Tungdil’s uneaten food with concern. “Something has changed him.”

“Changed him?” echoed Glaimbar. “I’m sure it’s to do with Balyndis.”

“He will find someone at the Stone Gate he can talk to about it. Someone that’s closer to him than we are.” Gandogar took a mouthful of beer, while Glaimbar stared at him.

“ He is coming?”

“No,” the king’s answer rang hollow in the tankard. Gandogar blinked over the rim, set the tankard down, swirled the remaining liquid round the sides to clear the froth and downed the rest of the beer in one. “He is already here, my good Glaimbar.”

Girdlegard,

In the Red Mountains on the Eastern Border of the Firstling Kingdom

Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle

F idelgar Strikefast, a well-built dwarf with a bright yellow beard, sat down, took the small metal box out of his rucksack and placed it in front of him on the stone table. He had completed his first round and was granting himself a rest in the extensive cavern whose high roof rested on stone pillars. In the old days there had been wagons running here on the rails, but in recent cycles there had been little call for them. His task was to check out the passages, and they were all long.

Baigar Fourhand, working away with a hammer and a hook at an upturned wagon, turned to look at him. He had draped the braids of his brown beard over his shoulder to keep them out of the way of the red-hot forge. Next to him there was a portable smithy as used by traveling craftsmen. It was large enough to let him carry out minor repairs. “Everything nice and quiet?” he asked and looked at the box with curiosity.

“Now that I’ve killed four orcs and wiped out a troll, yes,” he joked, taking out two beakers and a flask engraved with the sign for gold. “No, it’s all quiet.”

Now Baigar put his tools on one side and nosed his way forward. “What have you got there?”

“A Trovegold novelty.” Fidelgar stroked the edges of the little box, opened the clasps and lifted the lid with care. The smell of spices and brandy wafted out. Baigar saw some brown objects inside that were about the size and shape of a finger. “Smoke rolls.”

“From Trovegold? The city where the freelings live?”

“Exactly. One of their traders passed through. I just had to buy some.” He took a smoke roll out and held it out to Baigar. “Rolled tobacco leaves stored in spices. Or maybe they put the spices in.”

As Baigar sniffed at the smoke roll his beard braids slid back down over his chest. “So you cut a bit off and stick it in your pipe?”

“No. You don’t need a pipe. The freelings have thought up something to save time.” Fidelgar stood up, went over to the forge and used the tongs to extract a red-hot coal. He put one end of the smoke roll in his mouth and held the other end to the glowing coal. There was a hissing sound as the tobacco caught. “Then you drag on it like with a pipe,” he explained indistinctly. Several quick puffs and he was closing his eyes in pleasure. It smelled good, like vanilla and honey and some other aromas he could not name.

“That looks like a great idea.” Baigar took a roll out and copied what the other dwarf had done. The smoke was stronger-tasting, and hotter, than what he was used to from his pipe. And the effect was more powerful. His head was spinning. “I would never have thought that trading with the freelings would bring us so many advantages.” He waved the glowing smoke roll in the air. “And I don’t just mean this thing here. What about gugul meat? And then their herbs are really useful, I’m told.”

Fidelgar moved his smoke roll to the side of his mouth and opened the flask, pouring a clear liquid into the two beakers. “And they have this Trovegold goldwater. It’s a liquor with flakes of gold in it.” He nodded encouragingly. “Tastes great.”

“Flakes of gold? In liquor?” Baigar sipped at it, trying out the thin flakes on his tongue. “Tastes like…” He smacked his lips as he searched for the right word. “Gold… Nothing else can describe that exquisite taste.” He gave a contented sigh. “Incredible. I can feel it coursing through me; the tiredness is disappearing and my mood is lifting. Seems like a miracle cure.”

“The gold or the alcohol?” Fidelgar grinned. “They can adapt the taste according to which spirits you have and what type of gold you use. You can’t get nearer to gold than that, now can you?” He took another mouthful of it and pulled on the smoke roll again. He took a look around. “Incredible how peaceful everything is.”

Baigar puffed away and tried making smoke rings. “Sure about that? No rock gnomes?”

“Would I be sitting here smoking?” Fidelgar glanced at the broken wagon Baigar had been working at. “Why bother mending the cars if we don’t use the tunnels anymore?”

“You never know,” replied Baigar. “And anyway, we do use them. We send out the building squads in them to do repairs. And why do you do your guard rounds if there are no monsters left in Girdlegard?”

“Because you never know,” laughed Fidelgar. He pointed to the four tunnels the rails ran into. “It’s a shame. Just when our dwarf folks are united, these underground networks are still lying useless. Curse that earthquake the Judgment Star caused.”

“Never fear. Vraccas is on our side.” Baigar shook his head. “We’re getting round to mending the main tracks. Just yesterday one of the gangs managed to clear a good half-mile of tunnel.” He sighed. “The rubble is just the half of it. It’s an enormous job renewing the rails that were damaged in the rockfalls. Some of the rails have to be forged new on site.” He pointed over to the wagon. “If you have rails that are bent like that then the axles get out of shape. That’s happening all the time when the work squads use them. All means more work for me.”

“Those were the days when you could travel from one dwarf kingdom to another in the blink of an eye,” enthused Fidelgar, sending up a perfect smoke ring. He apparently had had a lot more practice at this than Baigar. “The cars would fly along the rails and the wind would whistle in your hair and beard and tickle your stomach.”

“So you traveled that way?” asked the astonished Baigar.

“Yes, I was there when Queen Xamtys II left for the secondling kingdom and we fought Nod’onn’s hordes. That was a battle!” He blew at the glowing tip of the smoke roll so that the tobacco would not go out. “I can see it as if it were yesterday, how we-”

Baigar raised his hand abruptly. “Hush!” He listened at the black tunnel entrances. “Thought I heard something.” He removed his smoke roll and put it on the stone table.

“Could be. The work gang must still be out and-”

They heard a terrible scream coming from the furthest left of the four tunnels.

Fidelgar recognized the sound of death. A dwarf had that moment died. Then came the second scream, followed by cries of panic. “Come with me!” He jammed the smoke roll in the side of his mouth. It had been expensive and he did not want to let it go to waste. Hastily he grabbed his shield and ax and strode over to the tunnels.

Baigar took up his bag of tools and two flaming torches and ran after Fidelgar. In the old days he would have immediately thought of an orc attack, but now he assumed there must have been an accident.

They both ran into the straight passageway meant to let the wagons brake safely before reaching the halls at the end of their journey.

The shouts were getting nearer, and the rattlings and clankings of machinery could be heard. It sounded to Baigar like winding gear running, cogwheels spinning and then the dwarves’ stone-mill grinding. But he had never heard all those sounds at the same time before now.

Ahead they discerned a glow of light, in the middle of which a monstrous creature was rearing up, completely blocking the tunnel. It was whirling its many shining claws and bronze-colored arms, while the dwarves of the work gang were desperately attempting to hold it back. But their picks had not the slightest effect on the skin of this monster, and the handles broke like matchwood.

Every time a claw hit home there was a bloodcurdling scream from the victim. Dwarves flew through the air to lie motionless on the passage floor.

“Vraccas, help us! What on earth is this?” Horrified, Fidelgar had to watch as a hideous claw penetrated one dwarf, exiting on the other side of his body; then the arm was withdrawn, pulling the quivering prey close enough to reach with another set of claws. The living dwarf was quartered as he lay and torn to shreds.

Only one of the work squad was still alive, and badly injured, lying groaning on the ground, trying to crawl to safety. Meanwhile the monster made its way forward.

“We must help him,” said Baigar, running to the injured dwarf. Fidelgar had no hesitation in following.

As the pair approached the monster they realized their error. This was not some creature of flesh and blood but a diamond-shaped thing advancing, point foremost.

Its skin was a covering of riveted armour plating. The arms, a good two paces in length, were made of metal, too, ending in blades and toothed claws, which were grabbing and snapping shut randomly. They could not see the monster’s means of locomotion. Below, there was a metal skirt protecting the mechanism from attack.

“This is not a living beast,” cried Baigar in horror, staring at the victims’ blood that dripped from the claws and coated the metal surfaces. He could make out runes on the plating, and their meaning sent shudders through him. He needed to get out alive to report to his queen.

“Mind out!” Fidelgar pulled him back by the sleeve, so that a grabbing claw missed him by a beard-hair’s breadth. He stumbled backwards. “We need to get out. Here, take hold.” The two dwarves lifted the injured man up and helped him along.

The thing hissed and covered them with a cloud of steam that stank of oil, making breathing impossible. Coughing and spluttering, they dragged their comrade back with them away from the machine come alive that was following them.

The beast had no intention of giving up, but thrust its bloody claws into the heavy repair vehicle that carried the tools and the portable forge, simply pushing it backwards along the rails.

“Stop it!” called Fidelgar, jumping into the wagon and pulling hard on the brake. At once the advance of their unearthly opponent was slowed but the wagon was still moving relentlessly on. The strength of the thing was enormous.

“That should give us enough of a start,” said Fidelgar and he hopped out of the wagon on his way back to Baigar and the injured dwarf. They hurried along the tunnel as fast as they could with their burden.

When they had reached the open hall, Baigar prepared to leave them. Fidelgar handed him his smoke roll. “I’ll maneuver another wagon into the tunnel,” he explained breathlessly. “Get him to a healer as quickly as you can and alert more of the guards.” He made one of the wagons fast with an iron hook attached to a chain that they used for the giant pulley. Because it would take too long to start the steam engine that normally dealt with the heavy lifting, he had to rely on the strength of his own muscles. He used the emergency winding gear; the chain clanked slowly into place and took up the slack.

“Tell them to bring long iron rods,” he called after Fidelgar.

The guard dragged the wounded dwarf out. “What shall I say when they ask what sort of monster it is?”

“Tell them it is a new fiendish device of the thirdlings’ design,” answered Baigar.

Fidelgar could not believe it. “How can that-”

“I saw dwarf runes on the armour plating.” Baigar was sweating heavily from the exertion and just managed to lift the wagon with the help of a pulley. “ Beaten but not destroyed, we bring destruction,” he quoted through gritted teeth. “It can only be the thirdlings. Tell the queen this for me if I should die.” The muscles of his arms and upper body swelled and flexed as he pushed the heavy wagon over to the rails.

In the nick of time. Hissing sounded out of the passage and a white cloud flew out through the mouth of the tunnel, signaling the murderous monster’s approach.

“Off you go!” yelled Baigar. “I don’t know how long it can be held back!” He made ready to let the wagon down.

“Vraccas protect you!” Fidelgar nodded, took the wounded dwarf over his shoulder and ran off.

He had never moved faster in his life and for the first time it struck him that the vast extent of the dwarf kingdoms was not an advantage. He shouted out to attract attention. The other dwarves left their work and rushed to arm themselves, so that he had soon collected fifty warriors about him. He left the wounded dwarf in someone’s care and then hastened back to the hall with his companions.

Yet they arrived too late.

The wagons lay overturned on the rails blocking the tunnel mouth diagonally like a barricade. They had prevented the monster from passing into the hall and thus into the firstling kingdom.

But they could not find the courageous Baigar-only part of his leg, a scrap of his jerkin and the blood-soaked smoke roll. It was impossible to make out where the rest of him was amongst the remains of the other dwarf corpses, in scattered heaps against the walls and piled up to the roof.

Fidelgar looked back along the tunnel but could see no sign of the monster.

Their new enemy had retreated and must be waiting in one of the passages, ready to attack. The thirdlings had declared war on their brothers and sisters again after an armistice that had lasted five cycles. He would inform the queen of this himself, as Baigar had asked.

Girdlegard,

The Gray Range on the Northern Border of the Fifthling Kingdom,

Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle

T ungdil set out on his way through Glaimbar’s kingdom toward the Stone Gateway, on the same road as before, when he had traveled with Balyndis and Boindil.

The beauty of the landscape distracted him from his usual worries, and from the discontent that had insinuated itself into his mind. But not from the pain which waited in some corner of his brain ready to pounce like a vicious animal; all too often it emerged, fixing its cruel claws into the most vulnerable part of his being, into his very soul. Ever since that fateful day the two had been his constant companions: discontent and pain.

The slight distraction that let him forget momentarily was shattered when his ear caught the sound of a child’s carefree laughter. It cut through his heart and tore at his soul so that it bled afresh until Tungdil stilled the bleeding with alcohol. But beer was too fluid a bung to stop the loss and it had to be constantly topped up. That was how habits started.

Swaying slightly, Tungdil reached the great gate with its two huge doors that only once had been breached by treachery. Apart from that one time the doors had withstood all monster attacks for thousands of cycles.

And that was how it would be again. The damage had been repaired by the stonemasons; the five bolts were in place, only to be moved when the secret password was spoken.

“If you had only one eye and were singing I’d take you for Bavragor Hammerfist,” bawled a voice behind him, jolting him out of his reverie.

“One dead man speaks about another?” he replied, whirling round too quickly for his own feet. Two strong arms held him fast to save him from falling.

“Well, Scholar, does a dead man look like this?”

Tungdil took in every detail of the muscular, stocky build. The dwarf’s long black hair had been shaved away at the sides of his head and a plait hung down his back; the beard of the same color reached to the buckle of his belt. Chain mail shirt, jerkin, boots and helmet completed the warrior look. A hooked crow’s beak war hammer with a spur as long as a forearm was propped next to him on the rock, handle against his hip.

“Boindil?” he whispered incredulously. “Boindil Doubleblade!” he called out in delight, pulling his friend toward him. They had not seen each other for five long cycles. He was not ashamed of his tears, and the loud snuffles by his ear told him that even the other veteran fighter was not holding back his feelings.

“At the grave of my brother Boendal at the High Gate-that was the last time we met.” Boindil was crying with joy.

“Then too we wept in each other’s arms,” said Tungdil, clapping him on the back. “Boindil! How I’ve missed you!” He released the friend with whom he had shared bold adventures; they had gone through so much together-good things and bad, sadness and wonder.

The warrior twin wiped away the tears that were coursing down his beard like drops running off a bird’s plumage. “I keep oiling the beard, you know,” he said, grinning. “Scholar, I have missed you.” Tungdil looked for signs of the furious madness that slept within the dwarf and sometimes escaped to the surface. But the brown gaze was friendly and warm with no trace of wildness. “Death changes the living, too, you told me once.” He patted Tungdil’s chain shirt. “But if you go on like this when you’re alive, the change will be your death,” he teased. “Does Balyndis brew you such good beer?”

“Our beer is bought from traders, and it’s nowhere near as good as the dwarf beer. Same effect, though, and a worse hangover the next day.” Tungdil did not take offence at the remarks about the size of his belly.

But his friend’s thick eyebrows were raised in remonstration. “In other words, you’ve turned into a drinker, like Bavragor,” he summed up. He noted the strong smell of sweat, the matted hair and the face, old before its time. “You have let yourself go, my fat hero. What has happened?”

“We haven’t seen each other for over five cycles and you’re preaching a sermon,” complained Tungdil. “Why don’t you tell me what’s brought you here to the High Gate?” He looked around and saw all the fighting men, arrayed in ranks behind them, ready to practice their combat techniques.

“Nothing has driven me here. I no longer lust after battle and the fire in my blood has lessened. It was the Great King himself who asked me to go with you. Somebody’s got to look after you, after all.” He touched the handle of his crow’s beak. “And somebody must see that my brother’s memory is honored. The hammer spur wants to fight, even if I don’t. It is burning to sink itself into a snout-face’s belly.”

A thirdling was running up and down in front of the ranks of warriors; the black tattoos on his face told of his origins and of the skilled profession he followed. A few cycles earlier this thirdling and these very dwarves he now commanded had faced each other as opponents on the field of battle. That boundless hatred was no longer around. Not everywhere.

Boindil followed his gaze. “I’m still amazed,” he admitted. “Apart from a few exceptions,” he laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder, “I really can’t stand thirdlings. I can’t forget that some of them vowed to destroy us, to annihilate us. I am afraid of their deviousness.”

“Yes. But there’s only a handful of them now, not a whole tribe any more like in Lorimbas’s day. The misguided ones will die out,” pronounced Tungdil confidently. “Are these my men?” He walked over to the group, his friend following him.

The thirdling noticed them approaching. “Greetings, Tungdil Goldhand and Boindil Doubleblade,” he said, bowing. “I am Manon Hardfoot of the Death Ax clan. Here are the two dozen warriors I have trained for the excursion into the Outer Lands.” His brown eyes displayed conviction. “They are afraid of nothing.”

Boindil gave a friendly laugh, “Believe me, Manon, there is always something that can make a warrior afraid. Which is not saying that it cannot be overcome.”

Manon grinned in challenge. “Then my troops will show you that there are dwarves without fear.”

“We won’t find anything except rubble and stones,” replied Tungdil calmly. “When can we set off?”

“As soon as you want,” Manon responded.

“Tomorrow, then, at daybreak,” Tungdil decided, walking over to the tower. He climbed up to the top and went out onto the ramparts above the gate. Boindil remained at his side.

Together they contemplated the Outer Lands bathed in the clear light of late afternoon. In front of the gate was the abandoned plain from whence in past times monsters and other fiendish creatures had regularly launched their onslaughts on these walls.

“It’s hard to believe they’ve given up their attacks,” said Tungdil quietly. He relished the feel of the cold wind clearing his head from the last effects of the beer. The air was icy sharp and pure: no trace of monsters here. “Only these ancient mountains can still remember how the armies of Tion’s accursed followers advanced on us in relentless assaults.”

“It will have been the Star of Judgment,” supposed his friend. “It didn’t merely eradicate evil in Girdlegard, but beyond the mountain boundaries as well.” He gave a sigh. “Imagine it, Scholar. Peace.” The tone of his voice revealed that he did not dare to believe it wholeheartedly.

“I remember that day.” The magic wave of light that had rolled over Girdlegard, summoned by the eoil, had burned all the evil to ashes and captured its energy in the form of a diamond. Anyone possessing this artifact and able to use its magic powers would be the most powerful being ever in existence. For safety’s sake the dwarves had made meticulously crafted copies and sent them out to the various dwarf kingdoms; Tungdil held such a stone himself, not knowing if it were real or false. One of the stones had got lost. He asked Boindil about it.

“It remains a mystery. The stone destined for Queen Isika of Ran Ribastur disappeared completely. To this very day no one has found the messenger or the escort sent to protect the diamond. The stone itself never turned up.” He looked up at the cloud-hung summit of the Dragon’s Tongue; no artist could have rendered the beauty of the mountain slopes as they reflected the setting sun. Shadows were lengthening and the breeze grew icier with each breath. “All investigations were fruitless.”

“That was five whole cycles ago,” reflected Tungdil, shivering. “Have attempts been made on any of the other stones?”

“Not as far as I know,” said Boindil. He shook his head. The long plait of black hair swayed like a rope down his back. “Girdlegard has neither magus nor maga now, so there is none that could ever use the power.”

“Except for the handful of initiates serving the traitor Nod’onn,” Tungdil corrected him.

“They have no powers. The eoil dried up the magic source, they say. Where would the famuli draw their strength? And they did not even complete their training. What can they achieve, Scholar?”

Tungdil did not trouble to reply. When growing up, he had been through the school of the magus Lot-Ionan; he was familiar with the power of magic. But since nothing untoward had occurred for such a long time, he was prepared to share his friend’s optimism. There could be too much dwelling on dark thoughts. It wasn’t good for you. “Let’s go down. Spring is a long time coming here at the Northern Pass.” He took a last look at the majestic ridges where the wind was blowing the snow from the rocks in long white banners. “I could do with a warm beer with mead.” They went down the steps.

“How is Balyndis?” enquired Boindil as they left the tower to go to the tunnels. “Girdlegard’s best smith?”

“She’s in mourning,” said Tungdil bitterly. And his response was so adamant that the warrior did not dare to repeat his question. Not yet. In silence they walked over side by side to find their quarters for the night.

“Psst! Tungdil Goldhand!” came a whisper through the crack of an open door. “Have you got a minute?”

Boindil wrinkled his brow. “What’s all the secrecy for?” He pushed open the door, one hand on the crow’s beak hammer he carried. “Show yourself, if your intentions are honest!” A woman yelped in fright; she had not seen the dwarf-twin approach. “You can come in, Scholar. She is harmless,” he said over his shoulder.

Tungdil stepped past him and entered the room where a female dwarf was standing. She was wearing simple clothing and must have seen all of three hundred cycles in her time. “What do you want?”

She bent her gray head in greeting. “Forgive me for addressing you, but… Is it true what I’ve heard? That you are going to the Outer Lands?”

“It is no secret.”

“I am Saphira Ironbite.” She hesitated and cast her eyes down. “May I request a favor?”

“You want him to bring you a souvenir?” mocked the dwarf-twin.

“Bring me my son, if you find him,” she blurted out, grasping Tungdil’s hand in desperation. “I beg you, look out for him! His name is Gremdulin Ironbite of the Iron Biters clan. He is of your height and wears a helmet with a golden moon on the front…”

“I thought no scouts had gone out?” Tungdil’s curiosity was roused. He was skeptical now. He would not have been surprised if Glaimbar were sending him into a trap, perhaps from delayed revenge for his having carried Balyndis off so far away from all the dwarven customs.

“He was not a scout, he was a guard at the gate,” she responded quietly, fighting with her emotions. “His friends told me he heard a suspicious noise and went off to investigate.”

“At the gate itself?” Boindil broke in.

“No, the noise had come from above. A loose stone rolling or something.” There were tears in her eyes. “That’s the last they saw of him.”

Tungdil was touched, but not unduly affected. He did not even know the dwarf they were talking of. “When was this?”

“Half a sun cycle ago,” she sobbed. “Tion’s monsters have him, I am sure. Tungdil Goldhand, if any dwarf can free him, it is you.” She kissed his hand. “I beg you, for the sake of Vraccas. Save him if you can.” She wept, sinking down on her knees at his feet.

Boindil regretted his harsh words, so swiftly spoken. He had wrongly assumed she was approaching his friend with some trivial request. “We shall keep our eyes peeled, good Saphira. Forgive me.”

Tungdil helped her up. “Don’t kneel to me. There is no need to beg for help. I will do what any dwarf would do.”

She smiled at him and wiped the tears from her wrinkled cheeks. “May Vraccas bless you, Tungdil Goldhand.” She drew a golden amulet from her pocket and hung it round his neck. “This belongs to my son. He will know that I have sent you. And if you cannot find him, keep it still, for having tried. He would be proud to know a hero was wearing it.”

The pendant showed a silver moon in front of golden mountains. “I thank you. How is it that the king did not send to search for your son?”

Fire sparked in her eyes. “He had them searching half a cycle long. They found his shield up by a deep ravine and they presumed that he had fallen there.”

“What makes you so sure that this is not the case?” Boindil stared at her. “Not, of course, that I wish him dead.”

“A mother feels it when her own child dies.” She gave a faint smile. “He is not dead. I know he lives and is in need of help.”

Tungdil gave a start when he heard her words, as if pierced by an alfar arrow. He turned away. “Trust her feeling,” was all he said to Boindil. Then he left the chamber, turning once more at the doorway. “We shall bring you back your son. Dead or alive.”

N ext morning the small band left the safety of the dwarf lands and marched to the Northern Pass, where biting winds awaited. The icy gusts sang many-voiced along the edges of the cliffs. Tungdil wondered if the wind was mocking them or issuing a warning.

“The wind is good. It will blow away the mist,” said Boindil, muttering into the scarf he had wrapped around his face. He peered out, even if it felt as if his eyes might turn to balls of ice in the cold.

“Out here it will,” corrected Tungdil. “As soon as we reach the tunnels we’ll meet the wretched fog. I’m sure of it.” He fell silent for a while and looked up at the walls. “I wonder what the monsters want with Gremdulin.”

“They’ll want the password from him,” Boindil guessed. “The snout-faces are getting cleverer. But it won’t help them. Only the king and two of his closest men know the words that will unlock the bolts.”

“They are welcome to that.” Tungdil pointed to the cliffs. “Can you think of a creature that doesn’t fly and still can survive on rocks like that? And if it’s orcs, why didn’t more of them climb up along there, take over the ramparts and let down ropes for the others?” His brown gaze swept searching over the grass that bore patches of snow in places. “Boindil, something’s not right here.”

“A new adventure, Scholar,” grinned Boindil. “Like the old days.”

“No,” replied Tungdil, shaking his head. Then he took a mouthful of brandy from his leather flask. “Not like the old days. It will never be like the old days. Too many of our comrades have died.” Hastening his pace, he took over the head of the contingent.

“Was Tungdil Goldhand always… like that?” asked Manon cautiously. He had moved up to march at Boindil’s side.

“What do you mean?” thundered the dwarf-twin.

“Don’t get me wrong. He will be a good leader for us, but… the men are surprised at him. We have heard tales of his deeds. We had heard of his appearance.” He looked over at Tungdil carefully. It was hard for him to voice the concerns his troops had spoken of. “The way he looks-it’s not like the hero they imagined. And there are rumors going round about the way he behaved at the high king’s feast. They say he is drunk all the time.” Manon let his gaze fall. “My men think these rumors are not unfounded.”

They are not alone in that, thought Boindil to himself. “Call them to order,” he growled. “They shouldn’t be spreading gossip like washerwomen. You will soon see that Tungdil is a hero still.” He could only hope his words were true. Silently he wished for strength for his friend, so that he could again be the dwarf he once had been. A dwarf like Vraccas had intended.

Manon nodded and returned to his place in the troop.

After more than half an orbit they entered a passage, which filled up with fog when they had hardly gone a hundred paces.

Boindil nodded. “This is the right place. I remember it exactly.” He sniffed at the murky air. “That’s the one: damp, cold, revolting.”

“Only the orcs missing,” said Tungdil quietly and he motioned to his companions to draw their weapons. “Take care. In this pea-souper you won’t see the enemy until he’s right in front of you. And be quiet. The more noise we make, the more you’re telling them about your whereabouts.”

They crept along in the fog. It brought back memories for Tungdil and Boindil. “There were three of the snout-faces,” whispered Ireheart. “Two we finished off, but one escaped, remember?”

Indeed, how could he have forgotten that sight of mutilated dwarf corpses? The orc that got away had laid about himself horrifically, mowing down their comrades. “Be quiet!”

“Perhaps that orc is still around?” murmured Boindil, and drew back: his companion’s breath was heavy and sour with alcohol. “Oh, you know what? Maybe I do feel like a fight, after all.”

“Boindil! Just keep quiet, for once!”

“All right. I won’t say another word. Until we find the orc, that is.” He wielded his war hammer in a trial move. He had missed this sense of excitement.

They made their tortuous way through the mist that was dampening their beards and hair; drops of moisture had collected on their armor. The dwarves pricked up their ears to listen for sounds in the gray murk; you could detect nothing but the steps of the dwarf directly ahead, or the one behind you. The monsters were not showing themselves, which was not making progress any easier.

“When’s this fog going to stop? I’d rather face an attack and use my crow’s beak to slash through. I can’t stand this creeping around,” Boindil complained.

“Have you seen an orc?” asked the wraithlike figure of Tungdil bad-temperedly.

“No, why?”

“Then why are you talking about it?”

Ireheart fell silent again and he heard Tungdil take another draft from his flask; there was a smell of brandy.

After endless walking they discovered they had reached a cave. They felt their away round the walls. Tungdil located the rune and then they found a tunnel leading deeper into the Outer Lands. Nobody dared raise his voice. Now they were really in a place no dwarf had been before.

Suddenly, round a turning, the fog thinned as if a wet gray curtain had been torn away and discarded.

The quiet made them nervous. The dwarves would have been keen to hear the slightest sound, any sound to indicate life here in the tunnels-it didn’t matter if it came from friend or foe.

“This is a ruddy labyrinth.” Manon spoke. “There are more and more forks to the path.”

“I know,” replied Tungdil. “And someone has been here before us.” He pointed to scratches on the rock wall that no one else had noticed. “It’s an orc rune from Girdlegard. It stands for gr. We’ve been following the marks for some time.”

“We’re on the tracks of the pig-face that escaped us that time!” Boindil nodded to Manon as if to say, You see? This is a fine leader we have. “Wonder where it’s taking us?”

Tungdil shrugged his shoulders and moved on. The runes he found now were less carefully scratched, and soon they petered out altogether. Tungdil led the troop along the passage, leaving his own marks on the wall as he went.

“A cave,” he said after the last turning. He pointed. In front of them slanting light filtered through, shining on the bones that covered the floor. They entered the chamber cautiously.

“Ho, so somebody doesn’t like orcs,” said Ireheart, looking at the remains scattered around. He crouched down to examine his finds. “They’ve been dissected. The kind of monster that pulls an orc apart is my kind of monster,” he joked. He spat on the bones. “They’ve been here for some time, it looks like.”

“This may be why there’ve been no more attacks on the gate,” chipped in Manon, picking up a thigh bone and checking out the knife marks on it.

“There are too many orcs. Nothing could eat all of them,” said Boindil doubtfully.

Manon looked at the huge cavern and held his hand out in a beam of light. “What if it’s a really big monster? A dragon?”

“I don’t think so,” contradicted Tungdil. “We would have seen tracks: marks on the rock, discarded scales, broken teeth.” He had located the way out.

“And a dragon could never have got through the narrow passageways.”

“There used to be smaller dragons in the old days,” objected Manon.

“I know. I’ve seen the books and the drawings. I’ve studied them all.” Tungdil wanted to show the thirdling that he was indeed the educated dwarf here. “That is why I am dismissing the possibility of a dragon.” He turned and walked on.

The others followed him to the next tunnel and then they got to a further cave that had a stream running through it. The dwarves spread out. It was clear from the tracks on the ground that there had been an encampment here. And a very big one, at that.

The number of fires that had been lit here in the past indicated to Boindil that perhaps two thousand people had made camp here. “They were here for quite some time,” he said, looking at the marks. “And they haven’t been gone long.” He ran his gloved hands through the ash. “Cold, but fairly fresh.”

“The question is, were they orcs or something else entirely for whom our deadly enemies are food?” Tungdil pointed over to the opening of a wide naturally formed tunnel. “That way. Let’s see if we can find more clues as to where they’ve gone.”

They moved on, weapons at the ready, and muscles tensed. Just because a creature had developed a taste for orc flesh did not mean that a dwarf would be considered a friend.

The tunnel ended at a heap of stones blocking their path.

Tungdil looked up, then at the stones in front of him. “These boulders haven’t fallen from the roof. They’ve been piled here on purpose to close off the tunnel.” He looked at Boindil. “Maybe the army camping here did this to cover its retreat.”

“Or perhaps they were trying to stop more monsters coming through,” suggested Manon.

“It’s all very peculiar,” was Ireheart’s view. “Easier in the old days, wasn’t it, Scholar? The pig-faces came, we wiped them out, all done, finished.” He sat down on a rock ledge, and slipped off his helmet, scratching his head; it was one of the few days he wore his hair unbraided, and it looked strange on him. “Now we’re right back at square one.”

“Except we know now that someone has a fancy for orc flesh,” Manon chipped in. “I’m sticking to my dragon theory. We’re in the Outer Lands here…”

“No. There are no more dragons. Or they’re never seen nowadays.” Tungdil sat down, too, and ordered the troops to take a rest; they all relaxed and had something to eat. “No dragon would take the trouble to collect its prey together in this way.” His clothing stuck to him; he was dripping with sweat. He was not used to the exertion of a long march any more.

“Those beasts are clever. They would never put orc-snout flesh in their mouths,” laughed Boindil, as he bit into his bread and stinking cheese. All of a sudden his gaze fastened on the heap of stones behind Tungdil. “What’s that? Isn’t there something catching the light?” Boindil jumped to his feet and began to pull away the rubble. He called five of the warriors over and got them to dig. He was too tired.

It took quite some time before the hidden object was revealed. Rubble kept slipping back down over where they were working whenever they removed a sizeable boulder, and there was dust everywhere by now. Finally Tungdil was handed a flattened helmet. A helmet with a golden moon on the front; black bloodied hairs stuck still to the rim.

“So that will be her son we have found,” said Ireheart under his breath.

Tungdil put the helmet in his pack. “It’s his helmet we’ve found. Not him. Don’t make the same mistake as the search party the king sent out. They might have placed the helmet there on purpose, so it gets found and it’s assumed that he’s dead.”

“Why on earth would anyone do that?”

“Exactly. Why? Orcs would never have taken the trouble. It must have been something with a brain,” insisted Tungdil.

Ireheart leaned back and looked at the stone barricade. “Are you thinking of dismantling it to find out?”

Tungdil shook his head. “No. I’m sure that would be a waste of effort. We-”

They all heard the clinking noise that traveled out along the tunnel toward them from the cave; metal had come into contact with stone.

“So we are not alone,” whispered Boindil, stuffing his food back into his knapsack.

“Let’s go and see,” agreed Tungdil, getting the troop to assemble.

While they crept silently back through the tunnel to the cave they picked up that same sound again. It was nearer now.

Tungdil, Boindil and Manon took a cautious look out of the tunnel mouth. At first glance there was little to see. The cave was empty and abandoned. Dust circulated in the air, and there in the center of the cave was a pile of rubble that had not been there before.

“A ghost?” Ireheart mouthed to Tungdil.

“Well, we are in the Outer Lands, but I wouldn’t jump to conclusions like that,” he said thoughtfully. “Whatever it is, it’s-”

“Up there!” called Manon, pointing out a dwarf-sized form up by the roof.

“Who can that be?” Tungdil asked him.

Ireheart looked up. “What, by all the gods, is he doing up there?”

To all intents and purposes the dwarf seemed to have hauled himself up on a pulley hoist attached by chain to the top of the rocks. Now he was settled in a leather bucket-seat arrangement, working away with a long iron chisel.

Manon shook his head. “He’s not one of ours. I’ve heard nothing about any other missions, and I haven’t got the faintest idea what he’s up to up there. Or how on earth he got there.”

The stranger positioned the iron bar, pulled a hammer out of his belt and whacked it on the end, pushing the tip of the chisel into the rock. Large chunks of rock splintered off, falling noisily to the ground, with granite dust clouding after. Now they knew what had caused the new pile of rubble they had seen.

Boindil cursed. “Look at the roof,” he called out in alarm. “There are cracks everywhere.”

“Can you do all that with an iron bar?” laughed Manon in disbelief.

“False granite,” explained Ireheart. “I’m a secondling, and even if I was never much good at handling stone, I know my minerals better than a thirdling.” He indicated the place where the clumps of stone had collected. “See how the chunks break open when they fall? Looks like granite, but it’s nowhere near as hard. The older the stone the more porous it gets.”

“That fellow is trying to bring down the whole cave!” Tungdil turned. “Let’s get out of here, or we’ll have no way back!” The others followed him at speed.

The dwarf working overhead had noticed the approach of the uninvited newcomers and was redoubling his efforts. One last mighty blow with the hammer and a boulder the size of a house broke free. It crashed to the floor and sent a great cloud of dust right up to the roof of the cave.

Immediately, the unknown dwarf shimmied down the chain and disappeared in the dry cloud of powdered stone. Only visible as a vague shape, he ran off in front of Tungdil and his troop as they coughed their way through the dust cloud to reach the safety of the side tunnel.

Above them the work of destruction continued. Perhaps the best comparison is with a vaulted roof whose keystone has been kicked out by the actions of a madman. There was no support left in place to take the immense weight of the massive ceiling and to transfer the pressure to the side walls.

More huge stones fell; two of the warriors were buried, crushed under the stone slabs as if they had been soft kashti mushrooms. Their helmets rolled between the legs of the remaining soldiers, tripping one of them up. His comrade was just in time to pull him back onto his feet. Not even the largest monster could have withstood this rockfall; perhaps even a full-grown dragon would have been brought to its knees.

The fine granite dust got into the dwarves’ airways and lungs and made it impossible for them to breathe properly. The cliff shook under them, cracking and roaring. The mountain screamed its distress out loud, outraged at the destruction.

“The bastard,” spluttered Manon as he rushed past Tungdil and Boindil to try to catch the dwarf who had brought the roof of the cave thundering down. “I’ll kill the bastard!”

Tungdil did not doubt the earnestness of Manon’s words. The thirdling had lost two of his men for no good reason.

“No, Manon!” he wanted to call out, but from his dust-stopped throat he could only produce a croak in protest. The only way to stop a murder now was to run after the two of them himself.

In the tunnel they ran into the air was clear; no clouds of dirt obscured their view. They hastened after one another as if they were threaded like pearls on a string: the dwarf first, then Manon and last of all, Tungdil, losing ground all the time. He was out of condition and had no energy left.

“Stop,” he groaned, spitting out saliva that could well have served as mortar. “Manon, wait for me! He could be leading you into a trap.” He set off again in pursuit, with the rest of the troop and Boindil following behind. “What a hothead!”

As they reached the cave where they had first seen the orc bones they caught sight of Manon disappearing down another tunnel they had not noticed before.

The chase continued.

Tungdil had a terrible stitch in his side. He gasped and his breath whistled like an old kettle; even the older Ireheart, who had bidden farewell to battles and other exertions now at his advanced age, had more stamina than he did. “Run on ahead,” he panted, falling back to a walking pace. “I’ll be along shortly. I don’t want to hold you up.”

“No need, Scholar,” said Boindil, pointing to a fork in the tunnel.

There Manon lay, his drawn sword in his left hand. He sported a bad cut just below the eye. Ireheart and Tungdil bent down to help him while the warriors provided cover. Of the dwarf they had been chasing there was no trace.

Tungdil checked the jugular vein. “He’s not dead,” he reported with a huge sigh of relief.

Boindil was holding up a stone the size of a small egg that had the thirdling’s blood dripping from it. “They got him with a slingshot!”

“Begone!” A voice echoed round the tunnel. “There is nothing here for you to find.” They could make out something the size of a dwarf, wearing nothing but a loincloth and a chain mail shirt. In its right hand the figure held a large hammer aloft. The smoke from its torch made it hard to distinguish facial features.

Tungdil stood up and made his way to the front of the band, while two of the warriors saw to Manon. “Who are you? And why did you bring down the cave-?”

Behind the figure a huge shadow filled the entire cave. Cogwheels grated and whirred loudly, mechanical parts screeched. The thing was getting closer.

“Get away from here!” the figure called to them, dropping the torch and hurling the hammer at them.

One of the warriors fielded the missile, catching it on his shield, which deflected it to crash against the low stone roof.

The events of the cave were repeated: great fragments of false granite fell onto the rock floor, and the passageway split open with a gaping hole several paces wide.

“Back! It’s too dangerous to try anything here.” In frustration, Tungdil clenched his fists. This time he stood no chance of discovering the secret of the Outer Lands.

Boindil and three warriors grabbed the unconscious Manon and ran for their lives. Not all of them escaped the fatal rain of stones. Two more were buried under the false granite and the rest managed by the skin of their teeth, coughing and gasping, to reach the cave of bones. Behind them the tunnel collapsed and belched out a fountain of deadly dust that covered the dwarves.

And that was not all.

The mountain shook in rage as if angry at what was happening within; it seemed to want to punish those who were inside it. Above their heads they could hear cracking and twisting noises, as splinters of rock started to fall.

“What have we done to make Vraccas so angry? This chamber won’t hold much longer,” guessed Ireheart, worried about his friend. “Can you go on?” he asked the gasping Tungdil.

“I’ll have to,” he groaned, fighting for breath as he struggled to his feet. “I never wanted to die like this.” He thought about the strange shape he had seen behind the figure of the dwarf. “What was that thing he had with him?”

“I don’t know. Whatever it was, he would have set it on us if the tunnel hadn’t collapsed.” Boindil shook the dust out of his beard, which had turned gray. “You’re the scholar, Tungdil. Have you ever seen anything like that before?”

On the opposite side of the cave, parts of the walls were starting to burst, with stone shrapnel flying hundreds of feet through the air. One of the warriors was hit in the face. Blood shot out of the wound on his cheek.

Tungdil did not answer, but gave the signal for them to set off. Things were no longer clear at all.

They hurried back through the fog-filled tunnel, while the stone under their feet shook and would not come to rest. Tungdil was convinced that the rock was furious at the intrusion: the insides of the mountain had been vandalized, and its caves destroyed.

But they escaped the anger of the mountain, finally reached the Northern Pass and made their way home through the frost and fog. Hoar frost formed on their helmets, their chain mail, their shields, and their beards, turning the dwarfs completely white.

When they arrived back at the gate, they were expected.