The War of the Dwarves

THE WAR OF THE

DWARVES

In front of the gateway, the lead orcs were locked in combat with the dwarves, who were fighting valiantly but ineffectually against the invaders.

Meanwhile, some of the smaller orcs were trying to sneak past and attack from behind, trapping the defenders between two fronts.

Tungdil glanced at the orcish leader. “It’s time he went,” he said, deciding that a change of tactics was in order. “We need to kill their chief.”

Ireheart, brown eyes glinting manically, had fought himself into a frenzy. At the mercy of his fiery spirit, he threw himself on the enemy, windmilling his axes at incredible speed.

“Boïndil!” shouted Tungdil. “I said we need to kill their chief!” He had to repeat himself several more times before Boïndil finally heard.

The group set off toward Runshak, who spotted the approaching threat and turned to the älfar, hoping to enlist their bows in his defense. Suddenly his grin froze, his mouth falling open in horror.

Tungdil saw the fear on his ugly green face and turned to discover its source.

BY MARKUS HEITZ

The Dwarves

The War of the Dwarves

Copyright

Copyright © 2004 by Piper Verlag GmbH, Munich

English translation copyright © 2010 by Sally-Ann Spencer

Excerpt from Best Served Cold copyright © 2009 by Joe Abercrombie

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN: 978-0-316-09759-8

Contents

The War of the Dwarves

Copyright

PART ONE

Prologue

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

PART TWO

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Dramatis Personae

Acknowledgments

Extras

Meet the Author

A Preview of BEST SERVED COLD

For those who understand the grandeur of the dwarven folks

“At the battle of the Blacksaddle, trolls were wailing, orcs whimpering, and our battle-hardened warriors were close to despair, but I never saw a dwarf lose heart.”

—Palduríl, personal guard to Liútasil of Âlandur, lord of the elves.

“On the Nature of Dwarves. Commonly found in gloomy mountain caverns, these diminutive creatures will fell an Orcus Gigantus with a single blow of their deadly axes, for no weapon in Girdlegard can match the finely fashioned ax of the dwarves. Afterward, they will drink beer by the barrelful without discernible effect. Such is the resilience of the dwarven female…”

—From “Notes on the Races of Girdlegard: Singularities and Oddities” from the archive of Viransiénsis, Kingdom of Tabaîn, compiled by the Master of Folklore M.A. Het in the 4299th Solar Cycle.

“Death came for the dwarf and tried to take him, whereupon the warrior squared his shoulders, dug his heels against the granite floor, and told him to go. Death turned around and left.”

—Apologue from the southern provinces of Sangpûr.

PART ONE

Prologue

Borengar’s Folk,

Eastern Border of the Firstling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle

Swirling and dancing like giddy ballerinas, snowflakes tumbled from the sky. Carried by the wind, they scattered over the mountains and came to rest among their fellows, covering the Red Range like a great white cloth.

Snow had been falling for many orbits, and the gray clouds continued to unburden themselves, burying the slopes. Some of the drifts were deep enough for ten dwarves to stand on each other’s shoulders and disappear from view.

From his vantage point on the second highest of nine towers, Boëndal Hookhand of the clan of the Swinging Axes gazed out to the east.

Dressed in chain mail and a thick fur coat to protect him from the cold, the secondling warrior from Beroïn’s folk was standing watch in East Ironhald. The stronghold, built by the firstlings on the eastern border of their kingdom, was protected by twin ramparts as wide as houses that rose out of the mountainside, enclosing eight watchtowers connected by bridges at a dizzying height. Further back, the ninth tower stood alone. A single bridge, broad enough to accommodate a unit of dwarves, led into the mountainside where the firstlings had made their home. The western flanks of the Red Range were protected by another stronghold almost identical in structure. The formidable defenses of West Ironhald were a bulwark against the orcs and other creatures seeking entry from the Outer Lands.

Boëndal, stranded for orbits in the firstling kingdom, was impatient to leave. How much longer, Vraccas? He fought back a yawn. On clear nights, the white slopes shimmered prettily in the moonlight, but Boëndal was inured to the view. Besides, there was something menacing about the glistening blanket of snow. Battlements, watchtowers, and bridges had to be cleared on a regular basis to protect the masonry from its crippling weight. The stronghold had been built to withstand the fury of invading trolls, boulders the size of an orc, and battering rams powered by ogres, but no one had reckoned with so much snow.

“Weather’s coming from the west,” muttered one of the sentries, peering balefully at the sky. His breath turned to miniature clouds that froze against his bushy beard and covered his whiskers in a layer of ice. Sniffing loudly, he walked to the brazier and filled his tankard from the vat of spiced beer that was simmering at the perfect temperature—pleasantly warm, but not hot enough for the alcohol to boil away.

In no time, the tankard was empty. The sentry burped, refilled the vessel, and offered it to Boëndal. “With a storm like this, you’d expect the weather to be coming from the north.”

Boëndal clasped the tankard gratefully. On crisp winter nights, warm beer was the best antidote against the creeping chill. His chain mail shifted noisily over his leather jerkin as he lifted his arm to drink. He winced. The wounds in his back were healing nicely, but the slightest movement had him gasping with pain.

The sentry shot him an anxious look. “Are you all right? I’ve heard stories about älvish arrows—they leave terrible wounds.”

“The pain is a reminder that I’m lucky to be alive. Vraccas had his work cut out to save me.” The events of that orbit were vivid in his mind. He and his companions had been riding toward East Ironhald when the älfar attacked from behind. Two black-fletched älvish arrows had ripped through his chain mail, tunneling into his back. The physicians had struggled for hours to stem the blood.

“I owe my life to Vraccas and your kinsmen. They took me in and tended my wounds.” There was a brief silence before he enquired, “How about you? Have you ever done battle with an älf?”

“I’ve fought orcs and ogres, but we seldom see älfar in these parts. Is it true that they look like elves?”

Boëndal nodded. “They’re the spitting image of their cousins—tall, slender, and fleet-footed—but their hearts are full of hate.”

“We should have killed the ones who brought you down. It won’t be easy for your friends with a pair of älfar on their tail.” The firstling shifted his gaze to the northeast. The dwarves’ last hope, the Dragon Fire furnace, was burning in the fifthling kingdom, where Boëndal’s companions were forging a weapon to kill the dark magus, whose tyranny had bought Girdlegard to its knees.

“Tungdil will manage,” Boëndal assured him. “My twin brother Boïndil and the rest of the company will forge the ax and kill Nôd’onn.”

“I’ve heard of Keenfire, but what use is an ax against a wizard?” The firstling’s voice was tinged with doubt.

“Keenfire has the power to destroy demonic spirits. It says in an ancient book that the blade will slay Nôd’onn and kill the evil inside him. Nature’s order will be restored.” Boëndal looked the firstling in the eye. “We can’t fail, and we won’t. Vraccas created us to protect the people of Girdlegard—and we won’t let him down.” He took a sip of spiced beer and felt the warmth spreading through him. “What of your queen?” he asked to dispel the silence. “Is there news of Xamtys?”

Orbits earlier, the firstling queen had set off on an underground journey through Girdlegard. The five dwarven kingdoms were connected by a network of tunnels with wagons that ran on metal rails. The system, a masterpiece of ancient dwarven engineering, enabled the folks to travel at speed in any direction by means of artificial gradients, switching points, and ramps.

“We don’t know where she is,” the firstling muttered unhappily, pulling on his beard. “She left here for a meeting, not to do battle with Nôd’onn. We’re praying to Vraccas that she and our kinsmen are safe.” He continued to tug on his beard while his left hand rested lightly on the parapet. “I can’t stand the waiting.” He looked at Boëndal. “But who am I telling? You’re here every time I’m on watch: morning, noon, and night. Don’t you sleep?”

Boëndal gulped down the rest of the beer. “My companions are risking their lives to save Girdlegard; I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to.” He returned the tankard to the firstling. “Thank you. It’s given me strength and warmth.”

He pulled his fur cloak around him and gazed at the unbroken expanse of snow. His eyes settled on the gully, the only route into the stronghold from Girdlegard. Secretly he hoped that if he looked carefully he would see his brother and the rest of the company hurrying toward him through the snow.

The most important mission in history, and they had to go without me, he thought gloomily. The wounds in his back and the blood loss had conspired to keep him to his bed, and by the time he recovered, his friends had departed. It was too late to chase after them now.

Boëndal, who was famous for his skill with a crow’s beak, knew his strength would be missed in the battle against Nôd’onn. You wanted me to stay here, didn’t you, Vraccas? He clenched his fists. I expect you’ve got your reasons, but I’d rather be with Boïndil.

Closing his eyes, he pictured his friends.

First he saw Bavragor Hammerfist, the one-eyed mason who liked to drink and sing. Bavragor had tricked his way into the company with customary cheek. Then came little Goïmgar Shimmerbeard, the nervous fourthling diamond cutter whose beard glittered brightly with the dust of countless gems. The company’s leader was Tungdil, the kind-hearted, brown-haired outsider, whom Boëndal and his brother had befriended when he was a foundling with a scraggy beard. The twins had taught him how to be a proper dwarf, and the three of them were very close. After a rocky start, Tungdil had proven himself as an able leader. Boëndal didn’t know much about their new smith, Balyndis Steelfinger, a firstling who had joined the expedition while he was ill. And the fifth dwarf was his twin brother, Boïndil Doubleblade, known as Ireheart because of his hot blood. Boïndil was thickset and muscular with shaven cheeks, a black beard, and long hair that reached to his knees in a plait. Most of the time he seemed a little crazy. His fiery spirit gave him formidable strength on the battlefield, but it was also a curse.

Boëndal opened his eyes. It was reassuring to think that his battle-hardened twin was with Tungdil. Vraccas, lend them your strength.

Wind gusted over the mountains, circling the battlements with a high-pitched whistle, through which Boëndal detected a jangling of chain mail. Someone was hurrying toward them.

He turned to see a messenger running along the battlements. It was obvious from his labored breathing that he had raced to the top of the watchtower to deliver the news.

“It’s over!” he shouted through the snow, his voice swelling with excitement and pride. “The news just arrived from the Blacksaddle. Our warriors routed Nôd’onn’s army with the help of the elves and men.”

On hearing the good tidings, the other sentries abandoned their posts and crowded around the messenger. “Nôd’onn and his demon are dead, and the curse of the Perished Land has been lifted.” He scanned the sentries’ faces and discovered Boëndal in the crowd. “They said to tell you that Tungdil and your brother are on their way. Tungdil wants you both to go to the Gray Range. You’re to rebuild Giselbert’s kingdom for the dwarves.”

Gripping the parapet, Boëndal blinked back tears of relief. For a moment he just stood there, thanking Vraccas with all his heart for helping the dwarves to prevail. Then, remembering the warm beer, he snatched a tankard from the frame above the brazier and dipped it into the vat.

“Three cheers for the dwarves!” he shouted excitedly. The others joined in and helped themselves to beer, the last of the sentries picking up the vat and draining it enthusiastically so that nothing would go to waste.

“Three cheers for the children of the Smith! Three cheers for the dwarves who killed Nôd’onn and banished the evil from our lands!” shouted Boëndal. The sentries banged the hafts of their axes against the battlements, clinked tankards, and downed the last of their beer.

The messenger smiled. “There’ll be plenty of time for celebration when Her Majesty is home. I’ve seen the proclamation: She wants us to feast and make merry for three orbits as soon as she returns.”

“I’ve got nothing against that kind of order,” laughed the sentry whom Boëndal had talked to earlier. He stepped back to his post and winked at Boëndal. “You should get some sleep. The messenger said your brother is safe and well.”

The worry was gone, replaced by tiredness. A mantle of fatigue weighed on Boëndal’s shoulders, and he longed for his bed. “Yes, I suppose I should get some rest,” he said smilingly. He took a last look eastward, imagining where his brother might be. “At least all the suffering was worthwhile. Tungdil and the others have been through such a lot.” He filled his lungs with cold air. It tasted somehow purer and better than before. “Do you know what’s strange? I always thought Tungdil would do it, but now that it’s actually over… I suppose it takes a while to digest.”

The sentry nodded. “I know what you mean. It’s like setting out every orbit to fight a dragon, only to wake up one morning and find that he’s dead. I don’t know how you celebrate a thing like that.” He rested his back against the tower and smiled. “Although a bit of drinking and feasting won’t go amiss.”

“I wonder what will happen to Girdlegard,” said Boëndal after a time. “Maybe we’ll see a new era of friendship. With the elves and the dwarves on the same side, we’ve never been more united. A victory like this could put a stop to our feuding.”

A look of skepticism crossed the sentry’s bearded face. He rubbed his nose doubtfully. “And rabbits might fly,” he said in a low voice.

“Girdlegard would be stronger if we were united,” countered Boëndal. “Tion’s beasts have been plaguing our borders for cycles. Just because Nôd’onn has been defeated doesn’t mean our kingdoms are safe.” He smiled at the sentry. “It’s not as if we’d move in with them or anything—perish the thought! I’m just saying we ought to talk to them, maybe meet with them every cycle. It might help us get along.”

The sentry burped and spat over the wall. A blob of saliva flew through the air, turning into a tiny ball of ice as soon as it left his mouth, and plopping into the snow-covered fortifications below. “I suppose so,” he said hesitantly. “But the high king can take care of it. I don’t want to meet any pointy-ears. They’re too—”

“Arrogant? Conceited?” suggested Boëndal.

“Girly,” said the sentry, pleased to have found the right word. “The humans think the elves are so creative, so arty, but what’s the point of being arty if you can’t defend your forests from an älf?” He thumped Boëndal on the back. “You and I are made of rock. We’re the opposite of girly. The pointy-ears wouldn’t have stood a chance at the Blacksaddle if it hadn’t been for us.”

Boëndal was about to venture a different opinion when he glimpsed something in the distance. He peered through the snow: A comet, no bigger than a coin, was shooting toward them from the east, blazing a trail through the sky.

“Look,” he said to the sentry. The comet was getting closer and closer, changing from white to pink as it hurtled their way. Suddenly it flared up, dazzling them with bright red light, then burst apart. Nothing remained except a cluster of crimson dots that faded and were swallowed gradually by the dark night sky.

Boëndal was reminded of spattered blood.

“Was it a good omen or a bad omen, do you think?” asked the sentry uncertainly.

“Well, it didn’t hit us,” said Boëndal dryly, “which in my book makes it a good omen. Maybe Vraccas sent a spark from the eternal smithy to…”

Just then a second comet shot into view. Whooshing toward them from the east, it arced through the sky, falling toward the firstling kingdom. This time it didn’t burst apart.

“By the fire of Vraccas,” stammered the sentry, gripping his shield as if a rectangle of wood and metal could protect him from a blazing orb. “Are you sure they’re sparks from Vraccas’s smithy and not Tion’s revenge?”

“Look!” shouted another sentry, alarmed. “It’s falling! The burning star is falling!”

“It’s the sun!” a dwarf cried fearfully. “She’s rolled out of her cradle—we need to wake her up!” He brought his ax against his shield, banging frantically.

The comet, which seconds ago had been no bigger than a coin, grew to the size of a leather pouch. In no time at all, it was larger than a windmill with vanes ablaze.

With a roar, the comet burned through the cloud, swooping toward the stronghold in an arc of crimson light and bathing everything beneath it—walls, watchtowers, and dwarves—in a strange red glow. In the fearsome heat, dancing snowflakes turned to raindrops and froze where they fell.

Before the dwarves could draw breath, the battlements, bridges, and staircases were glazed with thick ice.

“Run for cover!” shouted Boëndal, diving across the flagstones. A sheet of ice had formed on his chain mail, fusing his helmet to his back; it shattered with a high-pitched tinkle.

Skidding on his stomach across the ice, he grabbed hold of a corner of the brazier and came to a halt. The scars on his back were telling him to be careful, but he cursed them impatiently and gritted his teeth.

Some of the dwarves followed his example and dived for cover, while others stared at the sky in horrified fascination, unable to move or look away. A few of the sentries, convinced that the sun had fallen from its cradle, banged their weapons against their shields to rouse the burning orb.

In a shower of sparks, the shooting star sped toward them, screeching and thundering through the sky. Boëndal braced himself for the impact, but the comet swooped over the stronghold and disappeared beyond the mountains to the west.

But the danger hadn’t passed.

The tail of the comet blazed red in the sky, showering debris large enough to crush a human house. The dwarves heard a drawn-out whistle, then an ear-splitting bang. The ground shook and trembled like a frightened beast. Plumes of snow shot upward, looming like luminous towers in the dark night sky. The air hissed and angry clouds of moisture rose from the vaporizing snow. Thick white fog wrapped itself around Boëndal like a blindfold.

“To the stronghold!” he commanded, realizing that watchtowers and battlements were no match for celestial might. “We’ll be safer inside!” Bracing himself against the brazier, he tried to get to his feet; a moment later, one of the sentries was beside him, pulling him up.

Boëndal lost his bearings in the strange-smelling fog, but his companion knew the way without seeing. They ran, skidding and sliding every few paces until they resigned themselves to crawling and pulling themselves forward on their axes. “Quick, we need to…”

Boëndal’s command was cut off by a droning from above. He knew exactly what it meant: The battlements were about to be hit by a volley of burning rock.

There was no time to shout a warning. The fog had already turned a muddy orange, darkening to black-streaked red as an unbearable screeching filled the air.

Vraccas protect us! Boëndal closed his eyes as a gigantic slab of burning rock hurtled toward him. A moment later, it slammed into the solid stone walkway. Boëndal heard faint shrieks as dwarves in front of him tumbled to their deaths. He couldn’t see where the rock had landed because of the fog.

“Turn back!” shouted Boëndal, crawling away from the shattered stone. Hampered by his injured back, he longed for his old agility. “To the northern walkway!”

Flagstones quaked beneath their feet as the colossal towers swayed like reeds in the breeze. Cracks opened in the groaning masonry and sections of battlement plummeted to the ground.

The bombardment continued as they hurried along the northern walkway to the highest tower. Skidding and sliding, they came to a halt at the bridge. The single-span arch construction was the only way into the kingdom and the safety of the firstling halls. Beneath the bridge was a yawning chasm, two hundred paces deep.

A gusty wind swept the watchtowers, chasing away the mist. At last they could see the gates leading into the mountain—and safety.

“Vraccas forfend!” cried one of the sentries, who had turned and was pointing back at the lifting mist.

The fortifications of East Ironhald were in ruins.

Only four of the nine towers were still standing; the rest had been crushed, toppled or flattened, leaving five rings of masonry protruding like rotten tooth stumps from the ground. The mighty ramparts, hewn from the mountain by dwarven masons, were riven with cracks wide enough for a band of trolls to breach the defenses with ease.

“Keep moving!” Boëndal urged them. “You can worry about the ramparts as soon as we’ve got to safety. Walls can be rebuilt.”

He and the others had barely set foot on the bridge when they heard a low rumbling like distant thunder. Then the earth moved again.

The falling boulders from the comet’s tail had shaken the fortifications and caused the walkways to quake, but this time the tremor was deeper and more powerful, causing walls, towers, dwarves, peaks, and ridges to shudder and sway.

The Red Range had stood firm for thousands of cycles, but nothing could withstand the violent quake.

Most of the dwarves were knocked off their feet, hitting the flagstones in a jangling of chain mail. Axes flew through the air and clattered to the ground, while helmets collided with stone. Two of the surviving towers collapsed with a deafening bang, raising clouds of dust that shrouded the rubble.

Boëndal thought of the vast orb that had passed overhead. He had only one explanation for the tremor: The comet had landed in the mountains to the west, sending shockwaves through the ground. He tried not to imagine what was happening in the underground halls and passageways; how many firstlings were dying, how many dead.

The rumbling grew fainter, the quaking subsided, and at last it was still. The dwarves held their breath, waiting for what was next.

An acrid smell burned their throats. The air was thick with dust from the ruined masonry, and smoke rose from scattered fires.

The fearsome heat had passed with the comet, and it was snowing again. From a distance, the stillness could have been mistaken for tranquility, but it was born of destruction. Death had visited the Red Range and ravaged the firstlings’ home.

“Vraccas have mercy,” whispered Boëndal’s companion, his voice as sorrowful and defenseless as a child’s.

Boëndal knew what he was thinking. Dwarves were fearless: They threw themselves into battle regardless of the odds and defended Girdlegard against the invading hordes. Their axes and hammers brought death to the most monstrous of Tion’s beasts, but no dwarven weapon could match a foe like this. “We couldn’t have stopped it,” he told him. “Even Vraccas can’t catch a falling star.”

Leaning over the bridge, he realized that the base of the tower was seriously unstable. Cracks, each as wide as an outstretched arm, had opened in the stone and were spreading through the masonry. He could almost hear it breaking. “Quick, before the tower collapses and takes us with it!” He set off quickly across the bridge, followed by a handful of survivors.

They were almost halfway when a large clump of snow struck Boëndal on the neck. What a time to play stupid games… He brushed away the snow and kept walking.

The second snowball hit his left shoulder, showering him with snow. He whirled round to confront the hapless prankster. “By the hammer of Beroïn, I’ll—”

Before he could finish, the dark sky opened up and pelted him with clumps of snow. Powdery snowballs hit the bridge, his helmet, and the other dwarves. Boëndal heard a faint rumbling and the bombardment intensified; he knew what it was.

The mountains, not his companions, had started the assault.

Boëndal’s stomach lurched as he scanned the peaks around him. Although the comet had hit the ground many miles to the west, it had called forth a monster that lurked above the dwarven halls. Boëndal had seen it hundreds of times while standing watch in the secondling kingdom. The White Death, roused by the rain and the tremors, had mounted its steed near the summit and was galloping down the slopes. In the space of two breaths it filled the mountainside, crushing and consuming everything in its path.

Like a vast wave, the snow rolled down the mountain, throwing up powdery spray. Everything before it was toppled, stifled, and dragged on its downward plunge.

“Run!” shouted Boëndal. His legs seemed to move of their own accord. After a few paces, he slipped over, but someone grabbed him by the plait and he stumbled to his feet. Two dwarves slotted their hands under his armpits and pulled him on. Driven by fear, they stumbled over the bridge, more skating than running.

Even as the gates swung back to admit them, the White Death reeled them in.

Hurling itself triumphantly over the precipice, it fell on the dwarves like a starving animal. Its icy body smacked into the bridge, knocking them into the chasm.

Boëndal’s shouts were drowned out by the roaring, thundering beast. His mouth filled with snow. He clutched at the air until his right hand grabbed a falling shield, which he clung to as if he were drowning.

His descent was fast—so fast that his stomach was spinning in all directions. He had no way of orienting himself in the snow, but the shield cut through the powder like a spade.

Tiring of the dwarf, the White Death dumped him and covered him over. The weight of the cold beast’s body pushed the air from his lungs.

A little while later Boëndal blacked out. Night descended on his consciousness and his soul was ready to be summoned to Vraccas’s smithy. At least it would be warm.

I

300 Miles North of Mt Blacksaddle,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th/6235th Solar Cycle

A rivulet of sweat left his greasy hair, slid down his forehead, and slithered over his soot and lard-slathered skin, zigzagging past clumps of solid dirt. It ran down the bridge of his green nose, dribbled onto his upper lip, and was licked up greedily by his thick black tongue. His vile mouth stayed open as he panted for breath, exposing the full length of his tattooed tusks, a sign of high rank. His vast jaws twitched.

“Runshak!” he thundered, gesturing for his henchman to join him.

The troop leader, putting on a burst of speed to overtake the column of marching orcs, left the path to reach the mound where his chieftain was waiting.

The long march north had started at the Blacksaddle, where the orcs had been defeated by an alliance of dwarves, elves, and men. They were heading for their new homeland in the Gray Range: Eight hundred and fifty torturous miles still separated them from the Stone Gateway at the border with the Outer Lands.

For now they were intent on destroying their cousins, who were somewhere on the road ahead.

Runshak marched up the slope and came to a halt in front of his chieftain, the great Prince Ushnotz, one-time commander of a third of Toboribor, the southern orcish kingdom. “Are we catching them?”

“Look,” boomed Ushnotz, pointing to a flat expanse of grassland amid the rolling hills. The field, a mile and a half across, was scarred with thin black lines—narrow channels cut by melt water that ran toward the eastern corner, seeping gradually into the soil. Although the field was grassing over, the trees and bushes were still bare, offering little protection from the wind—or shelter from enemies.

Hordes of tiny black figures had taken up residence on the usually peaceful land.

Runshak estimated their numbers at more than two thousand. They had set up camp and were going about their business as if they had nothing to fear. Dead wood and branches had been stacked in large pyres from which smoke was rising in thick black columns, clearly visible in the cloudless sky.

Ushnotz raised a hand to his massive forehead, shielding his eyes as he focused on the activity below. Most of the milling figures were orcs; the others, shorter and less powerful, bögnilim. What they lacked in stature, they made up for in speed, but bögnilim were cowardly creatures that had to be whipped into shape. “Northern orcs and bögnilim,” he grunted scornfully. “An alliance of fools.” The northern orcs, summoned by Nôd’onn to secure the human kingdoms, had demonstrated a fatal lack of discipline at the Blacksaddle, scrapping like wolves, while Ushnotz’s troopers, no less ferocious or powerful, obeyed his orders like well-trained dogs. The orcish chieftain despised the northerners, but bögnilim were worse. “Prepare to attack. We’ll strike when they’ve filled their fat bellies and they’re snoring by the fire.”

Runshak nodded and charged down the slope, barking orders at the pack leaders, who relayed them in similarly boorish fashion. With a clunking of armor and jangling of chain mail the mighty army of five thousand orcs rearranged itself into smaller units. The archers made their way to the back; those bearing spears and lances stood shoulder to shoulder at the front.

The orcish chieftain followed the preparations approvingly, his thick black lips curling back to reveal his magnificent tusks. He was well pleased with what he saw. A growly laugh sounded from his throat.

He took a deep breath and let out an almighty roar. The shuffling and stomping came to a halt. Nobody said a word.

“Nôd’onn broke faith with us and abandoned us to our fate. The fleshlings think we’re going south, but our route will take us north—to found a new kingdom,” he proclaimed, confident that the prospect of a new homeland would make them forget their tiredness and spur them into battle. He drew his notched sword and pointed at the enemy below. “Nôd’onn’s northern lapdogs are in our way. We had to flee our homes because of those cretins. Destroy them, and the Gray Range will be ours. We’ll be in our new kingdom before the fleshling soldiers are in sight of the peaks.” He laughed malevolently. “I hope they send their cavalry after us—we could do with some meat.”

His troopers grunted and snarled excitedly, pounding the hafts of their spears on the ground and banging swords against shields.

He raised his arm and the noise stopped abruptly. The silence was broken by a question. “Couldn’t we march past the northerners instead?”

Ushnotz, who had excellent hearing, knew at once which of the five thousand troopers had spoken the treasonous words. Kashbugg was a troublemaker who took after his father, Raggshor.

Raggshor had met his death shortly before the battle of the Blacksaddle in circumstances not dissimilar to these, after questioning the wisdom of laying siege to a mountain. Ushnotz had thought him an excellent tactician, but criticism—especially when voiced in public—was not to be tolerated. Besides, Ushnotz made the decisions and he always knew best. He had killed Raggshor on the spot, and he was contemplating a similar fate for Kashbugg.

“Silence!” he bellowed, throwing back his head in an intimidating roar.

The display made little impression on the offending orc, who stepped forward, sword in hand, shield raised defensively. “Why not march past them and get there first? We can occupy the halls while they dash out their brains on the gates.” He stood with his legs apart, bracing himself for the blow that was bound to follow. “It’s time we did things differently, Ushnotz. After what happened at the Blacksaddle, we’re not as strong as we were. Maybe if you’d listened to my father, we’d be back in our kingdom by now.”

Several orcs grunted approvingly.

For Ushnotz, the interruption was unwelcome: The sweet smell of victory had soured, replaced by the reek of rebellion. He drew himself up to his full height, bared his tusks and tensed his muscles. Then he took off, bounding down the slope, and thundering to a stop in front of Kashbugg.

“I’ve got a better plan,” he snarled, squaring his shoulders. There was a nasty glint in his yellow eyes. He made a feint with his sword; then, ducking beneath Kashbugg’s raised shield, he whipped out his dagger, rammed it into the trooper’s armpit and pierced his heart. Green blood gushed from the wound and the insolent trooper thudded to the ground. “My plan is this: Kashbugg dies first, just like his know-it-all father at the Blacksaddle.” He glared at the others, challenging them to object. “Anyone else want to talk tactics?”

He wasn’t surprised when no one stepped forward. The real shock came a moment later when the dead orc stood up. Kashbugg reached to his armpit and touched the wound with his claws; it healed straightaway.

Ushnotz got over his confusion faster than Kashbugg, who was clearly amazed to be alive. He rammed his sword horizontally into the injured orc’s torso. The trooper sat down heavily and stared at the blood. He still showed no signs of dying.

“I’m sick of your troublemaking!” shrieked Ushnotz, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him to his feet. “How dare you defy orders? I told you to die!” The notched sword cut into the trooper’s torso, but the damage was far from fatal. Kashbugg opened his mouth, dribbling blood and saliva; then he laughed.

Straightening up, he gave the chieftain a shove. “Tion has made his choice. Why else would he make me immortal? My father’s death must be avenged!” He raised his shield and sword. “Tion wants me to lead the orcs to victory; the northern kingdom will be mine!”

“Why would Tion favor a boneheaded simpleton like you?” growled Ushnotz, preparing to fight. None of his troopers dared to take sides: Orcs were always arguing, but this was different. “You’re hiding something, aren’t you?”

“He drank dark water from the ditch!” called one of the troopers.

“It was hallowed water; I knew as soon as I saw it!” said Kashbugg, thumping the leather container on his belt. “I filled my pouch with it.” He struck out at the chieftain, who blocked the blow and smashed the hilt of his sword into his face. Kashbugg stumbled backward, groaning.

“Dark water?” barked Ushnotz. He had noticed it as well: murky puddles on either side of the track. Nothing would have induced him to drink it.

“It’s the blood of the Perished Land,” said his challenger. “And I, Kashbugg, was elected to find it!” He sprang forward, swinging his sword.

Ushnotz flung himself to the ground and drove both boots into the trooper’s knees, smashing the joints. Kashbugg screeched. The noise ended suddenly as Ushnotz dealt a long sweeping blow to his neck. The trooper’s head fell one way, his body the other. This time Kashbugg was dead.

Ushnotz bent over the corpse, unhooked the water pouch and signaled to one of his underlings. “Here, drink this,” he said. The trooper took the pouch.

Screwing up his face in disgust, he took a sip. Black water dribbled from his mouth, and he coughed. “It tastes like the smell of troll’s piss, only wor—”

Ushnotz stabbed him, ramming the dagger into his heart. He watched impassively as the trooper fell to the ground. The blade was still embedded in his flesh. After a while, his eyelids fluttered and he raised his head. The blood stopped pouring from his chest.

“Well?” asked Ushnotz suspiciously.

“I’m… I’m alive,” said the orc, his voice a mixture of horror and pain. Then he realized his newfound power. Roaring with triumph, he bared his tusks and brandished the pouch. “I’m alive! The dark water made me—”

Ushnotz took hold of his dagger, pulled it out of the screaming orc’s chest, and lopped off his head. He caught the pouch quickly and raised it to his lips, draining its contents. Then he hurled it to the ground. He didn’t feel any different, but he was certain of the effect. As a former prince of Toboribor, he deserved to be immortal. A leader like me needs an indestructible army. He decided to obtain more of the water for his troops.

Leaving the troopers without a word, he lumbered up the slope to survey the enemy camp and wait for an opportunity to attack.

The northern orcs were gorging themselves on human flesh. Ushnotz, his stomach rumbling, breathed in the smell of roasting meat. He and his troopers had been nourishing themselves on whatever crossed their path—animals, snails, and beetles. Fleshlings were a rare delicacy because the northerners seldom left anything in their wake. The inhabitants of three villages, a small town, and a hamlet had been slaughtered and eaten by the marauding troops.

Ushnotz was surprised at their pillaging; it was bound to provoke the fury of the fleshling kings.

The fleshlings on their own weren’t much of a threat—Ushnotz thought them feeble and clumsy—but it was imperative for his troops to reach the Gray Range before the united army of Girdlegard noticed and hunted them down. If it came to a battle, he wanted to be protected by the sturdy defenses of a dwarven stronghold at the heart of a mountain range. With any luck, the other princes of Toboribor would keep Girdlegard’s warriors busy for a while.

The sun, tired from another long orbit, was dropping toward the horizon. Soon she would retire to bed, making way for the stars to populate the heavens. The time for battle was approaching. Ushnotz bellowed for Runshak and briefed him on the plan of attack.

Just then the wind changed, blowing a new smell to the hilltop where Ushnotz and Runshak were stationed. They sniffed enquiringly, their broad nostrils flaring until at last they were sure. The air smelled of horses, armor, and sweat—fleshling sweat.

“They’re coming from the south,” snarled Runshak, turning to face the string of hills to their right. “Confounded fleshlings.”

The united army! Although Ushnotz could smell but not see the new arrivals, he knew at once that his troopers were outnumbered. Even as he resigned himself to beating a hasty retreat he realized that the enemy was hounding a different quarry. “We’ll wait,” he said.

“You mean, they haven’t seen us?” asked Runshak, surprised.

“It’s not us they’re looking for; they’re after the orcs who left those tracks.” He grinned. A few miles earlier, he had decided to stop tailing the northerners and lead his troopers across a river. The fast-flowing water had washed away their scent. Clearly, the fleshling scouts hadn’t thought to look for two separate armies or his troopers would surely have been attacked. He congratulated himself on his guile.

Runshak growled uneasily and raised his nose to the wind. “The smell’s getting stronger. They’re still advancing; it won’t be much longer until they attack.” He looked expectantly at Ushnotz. “As soon as they’ve started fighting, we’ll jump in and teach those fleshlings a lesson.”

“No,” said Ushnotz. “The northerners can deal with them. We’ll see how they fare.” He took a silent decision to resume the march that night if the united army proved victorious. It suited his purposes for the soft-skinned fleshlings to believe that this part of Girdlegard had been purged of his race.

He would never admit as much to Runshak, but Kashbugg had been right in one respect. The battle of the Blacksaddle had weakened his army. It was time to change tactics, but Ushnotz knew how to develop his own strategies without a jumped-up trooper telling him so.

“We’ll stay out of sight. The fleshlings won’t know we’re here, and they’ll head south. As soon as it’s safe, we’ll march north and find more of that water—enough for all of us. No army will be powerful enough to defeat us and when we’re ready, we’ll claim the lives that we spared tonight.”

He turned his head, looking over the fat-encrusted surface of his epaulette. His yellow eyes focused on the troublemaker’s corpse and he grunted contentedly. Kashbugg and the ill-fated victim of his experiment with the water would be the only troopers to die that night.

Prince Mallen was waiting with his cavalry fifty or so paces from the brow of the hill.

The enemy was camped on the other side, watched by two of his scouts who were crouched on the hilltop, assessing the size of the army, which had been known to them only by the boot prints on the ground.

Mallen had decided to hunt down the fleeing orcs and bögnilim and put a stop to their pillaging. From what he had seen over the past few orbits, the beasts had lived too long already. They left nothing but carnage in their wake.

The first of the scouts crawled backward down the hillside to make his report. “Two thousand of them, Prince Mallen. They’ve been feasting, by the looks of it, and now they’re dozing around their fires.”

“So there aren’t five thousand as we thought?” said Mallen, sitting upright in the saddle. His mount snorted gratefully, glad of the shift in weight. After a long ride without any rest to speak of, the horses were wearier than the men.

Until that moment, the wind had been blowing toward them, but now it buffeted them from behind. The air was mild and smelled of the coming spring.

“The ground was muddy, remember,” said the scout. “The soil is soggy with melting snow; you sink deeper than usual. Besides, the green-hided beasts are bigger than us and their armor is heavy.” His eyes swept the rows of horsemen. “Two thousand of them, Prince Mallen—no more than two thousand and no fewer.”

The Ido flag, carried proudly by one of Mallen’s riders, was fluttering in the wind, betraying the southerly change. Mallen cursed. Orcs had an excellent sense of smell and could sniff out their victims from a distance; they were bound to detect the waiting men.

Mallen’s finely crafted armor, engraved with the insignia of the Ido, gleamed in the light of the setting sun. He unbuckled his old-fashioned helmet from his belt, set it on his head and fastened the chinstrap. His careful handling of the headpiece showed his respect for the royal crest, which had been in his family for generations, surviving the centuries unchanged.

His riders, seeing the prince’s blond hair disappear beneath his helmet, prepared themselves for battle. Mallen heard the clunking of weaponry and jangling of armor behind him and gave the order to attack.

“Archers to the front,” he said resolutely. “Advance to the hilltop, but stay out of sight. Foot soldiers go with them.” He turned to the right. “First unit ride in and attack. Slash, jab, and do whatever you can to bait them—but turn and flee as soon as they fight back. The dolts will follow, and we’ll be waiting for them. Don’t let any escape.”

He nodded briskly, and the first 150 riders charged up the hill, exploding over the crest and careering down the other side to blast through the enemy camp like a hoofed gust of death.

Eyes closed, Mallen listened to their progress. He heard pounding hooves, cries of terror from the orcs and high-pitched screams from the cowardly bögnilim. A moment later, swords met with armor and shields.

The clamor intensified. One hundred voices became a thousand as the excited beasts threw themselves wildly on the small band of riders who had ventured foolishly into their camp.

The thundering horseshoes grew louder, accompanied by shouts and jeers from the pursuing beasts.

Mallen raised his arm, lifting his sword high in the air. He heard the archers nock their arrows and level their bows.

The first beasts had yet to crest the hill when Mallen brought his sword down sharply and three hundred arrows soared through the air, falling steeply over the hilltop and raining vertically on the startled wave of orcs and bögnilim.

The first flurry was followed by a second and a third. Mallen listened in satisfaction to the beasts’ dying screams. Meanwhile, the riders galloped back and took their place among the ranks.

“Ride!” he shouted. “Death to the beasts of Tion! Ride!” Opening his eyes, he took a deep breath. “For Ido and for Girdlegard!” He reached back to tap his horse with the flat of his sword, and they galloped away.

The whinnying steed was joined by five hundred others. The prince’s cavalry poured over the hill in a stream of glittering silver. The drumming of two thousand hooves shook the earth, striking fear into the hearts of the approaching beasts.

The orcs and bögnilim turned tail and fled, but there was no escape from the onslaught of spears, armored horses, and steel. The stragglers were the first to die; the rest were trampled a few paces later. The air was wet with green blood, but neither the screams of the dying nor the sight of the wounded could slow the riders’ advance.

He could have waited for us,” grumbled Boïndil Doubleblade of the clan of the Swinging Axes. The secondling warrior was making his way to the surface with incredible speed. “The cavalry has attacked; I can hear the horses.” He gripped the metal rungs with his powerful fingers, climbing hand over hand. The only light in the shaft came from chinks around the doorway. It was barely enough to illuminate the ladder, but Boïndil—like all dwarves—was accustomed to seeing in the gloom. “What if the long-uns finish them off before we get there?” he said anxiously.

Tungdil Goldhand, climbing behind him, tried not to laugh. He knew that his friend was desperate to fight. The hot-blooded Boïndil, known to his kinsfolk as Ireheart, pursued his enemies with a vengeance and was bent on waging war. “I had a word with Prince Mallen; he promised to leave some for you.”

Ireheart snorted, his long black plait swinging across his back. “You shouldn’t make fun of me,” he called back grouchily, climbing faster than before. He let out an excited shriek. “I think they’re right above us; I can smell their stinking armor!” The weight of his chain mail, shield, and axes seemed not to bother him. One hand was already reaching for the door; a moment later, he found the bolt and opened the hatch. He poked his helmed head tentatively into the open.

“What can you see?” panted Tungdil, whose muscles were tiring. “Any sign of the orcs?”

“We’ve died and gone to Vraccas’s smithy,” whooped Boïndil. With a bloodcurdling “oink”, he catapulted himself out of the shaft like a dwarven cannonball. “Stand clear, you little runts, I’m coming!”

Craning his neck, Tungdil looked up and saw the secondling silhouetted against the light. He seemed to be brandishing both axes as he flew through the air. Tungdil turned back to the others. “Quick, after him!” He hauled himself out of the shaft.

He hadn’t expected the situation to be good, but it was worse than he had imagined. He was standing in an encampment of shrieking bögnilim and angry orcs. Tungdil’s notion of the eternal smithy was rather different.

As soon as he was clear of the shaft, he reached behind him and drew his ax from the sheath on his back. The diamond-encrusted blade glittered fiercely in the crimson light of the dying sun.

At the sight of Keenfire, the orcs pulled up abruptly, grunting and shuffling back. They knew they were dealing with no ordinary warrior. Every beast in Girdlegard had heard how Tungdil Goldhand had slain the dark magus and sliced the demon in half with a glittering blade.

Crafted by the best dwarven artisans, with a blade made from the purest steel and forged in the fieriest furnace, encrusted with diamonds and inlaid with precious metals and tionium, Keenfire was a weapon of untold power and strength. The beasts were right to be afraid.

Summoning his courage, an orc stepped forward to challenge its bearer. He swung his cudgel with a snarl.

“Ah, a hero,” growled Tungdil, dodging the blow. He hoisted Keenfire above his head, whirled round, and drew the ax across the orc’s belly. The blade sliced through the fat-smeared armor as if it weren’t there, spilling green gore and intestines. The disemboweled orc groaned and toppled to the ground. Tungdil raised his ax. “Any more takers?”

The orcs shrank away and hollered for their archers.

The dwarves behind Tungdil seized their chance and clambered out of the shaft. Soon there were thirty of them standing shoulder to shoulder in a circle, weapons hefted and ready to counter an enemy attack.

Meanwhile, Ireheart was rampaging through the hordes. He darted and bounded between the orcs and bögnilim, felling beast after beast. Tungdil lost sight of him, but he could hear the secondling’s frenzied laughter as he baited the enemy by oinking like a runt.

Glancing up, Tungdil caught sight of Prince Mallen’s cavalry approaching from the north. The riders were charging down the hillside in a line measuring five hundred paces across. Beasts and bögnilim were trampled to the ground.

“Get back, Boïndil!” he shouted anxiously. Behind him, the last of the dwarves were clambering out of the shaft: Tungdil’s troop of a hundred warriors was complete.

“Aren’t you coming?” called Boïndil cheerfully from somewhere in the scrum. His voice was barely audible amid the sound of buckling armor and the shrieks of the dying beasts.

Tungdil gripped the haft of Keenfire with both hands and squared his shoulders. His eyebrows knitted together in a determined frown. “I’m coming,” he murmured softly. Then he raised his voice to a shout. “Drive them forward!”

His warriors let out a fearsome battle cry and fanned out, brandishing their hammers and axes as they threw themselves on the startled beasts. Tungdil and Keenfire led the attack. Nothing could stop the formidable blade as it sang through the air, slicing shields, hewing armor and chain mail, severing limbs, and killing strings of orcs with every blow.

The dwarves carved a path through the hordes, undeterred by the stinking blood and the vile smell of their enemies’ grease-encrusted armor. Green gore splashed from gushing wounds, and dismembered limbs thudded to the ground to be trampled underfoot by the indomitable dwarves. Soon the warriors at the rear were clambering over enemy corpses, but they pressed on regardless, determined to free Girdlegard from the pestilent orcs.

The resistance soon dried up. The bravest beasts died in combat, while those of a less courageous nature fled at the sight of the grim-faced dwarves.

“After them!” shouted Tungdil. The strategy paid off: Driven forward by the dwarves, the orcs and bögnilim collided with their comrades, who were running from Mallen and his men. The beasts were doomed.

Swinging his ax, Tungdil took aim at a couple of orcs. Even as the blade swung toward them, the beasts keeled over, felled by an invisible hand. To Tungdil’s astonishment, Ireheart popped up from behind the corpses. He was soaked with the blood of countless orcs and his eyes were glinting dangerously.

“I was wondering where you’d got to,” he said cheerfully. “What kept you? Don’t tell me you were having trouble with the runts.”

“I was yelling at you to come back,” scolded Tungdil, shaking his head.

“Oh,” said Boïndil. “I assumed you were talking to them.” He pointed to the fleeing beasts. Sighing contentedly, he contemplated the battle. “A good end to the orbit, eh?” He raised his gore-spattered axes. “Come on, we’re not finished yet.” Suddenly a shadow crossed his face. “To be honest, scholar, it isn’t much fun without my brother. The two of us would have wiped the floor with the runty little beasts. The next twenty are for him…” He charged off, bellowing ferociously at the top of his voice.

“His fiery spirit will be the death of him,” murmured the dwarf next to Tungdil. Soon he too was slashing his way through the orcs.

Please, Vraccas, prayed Tungdil. Don’t let Boïndil come to any harm. He dropped back a few paces and placed the bugle to his lips, playing a sequence of notes that Mallen would recognize as a signal that the dwarves had arrived and were closing in from the opposite side. There was a danger that Mallen’s archers would loose their deadly arrows at the dwarven warriors, who were hard to spot from a distance, especially when surrounded by orcs. He waited for Mallen’s bugle to reply, then caught up with the rest of his company, and launched himself into the fray.

The dwarves were still fighting at sundown and Mallen’s infantry joined the action, which didn’t please Boïndil at all. Some of the orcs and bögnilim were intent on escaping, but Mallen was ready for them, and the attempt to leave the battlefield was blocked by a unit of riders with lances.

By nightfall, there was barely room to step around the corpses and the channels of melt water were awash with green blood.

The dwarves and men met on the southernmost hill above Prince Mallen’s camp. The prince turned his horse and cantered over to Tungdil, dismounted and held out his hand. Save for a nick in his forearm and some damage to his armor, he seemed to be unscathed. “Tungdil Goldhand,” he said respectfully. “Praise the gods for your safe arrival.”

It wasn’t often that an ordinary dwarf was greeted so courteously by a human king. Tungdil grinned and took Mallen’s hand. “Another decisive victory for the men and the dwarves.” They gazed down at the battlefield; every last orc had been destroyed. “The good folk of Gauragar can sleep easy tonight.”

The prince’s face darkened. “Some are sleeping an eternal slumber. We saw plundered villages and burned-out houses on our way.” He turned his face to the darkening sky and stared at the glittering stars. “You’re right, though. The people of Gauragar need fear no more.”

“Trust the long-uns to start without us,” grumbled Boïndil in a voice that, while quieter than usual, was loud enough for the prince to hear. “You can’t startle the runts with your horses and expect them to put up a fight!” Slowly, he crossed his powerful arms in an exaggerated movement in front of his chest and glared accusingly at the riders.

Mallen knew how to handle the hot-blooded warrior. Realizing that Boïndil hadn’t intended him to hear, he decided not to argue. “We’ll wait for you next time,” he promised. “It’s a shame you were late.”

“Late?” echoed Boïndil indignantly, sticking his chin in the air and setting his beard aquiver. “It’s a wonder we got here at all! The confounded earthquake caused havoc in the tunnels. Warped rails, boulders on the line—some of them bigger than a troll’s backside! Just be thankful we—”

“That’s enough, Boïndil,” ruled Tungdil, interrupting the warrior’s outburst. “He’s right, you know: We were late.” He turned to the prince and rolled his eyes apologetically, signaling that Mallen should let the matter lie. “Luckily for us, it didn’t make any difference: We triumphed in the end.”

Tungdil could see the amusement in the ruler’s eyes. “What a victory for Girdlegard,” agreed Mallen with an earnest nod. “We’d still be fighting if it weren’t for the dwarves.” It was unusual for him to tolerate rudeness, but no one had overheard the conversation, and Boïndil was a special case.

Boïndil considered the prince’s conciliatory words and perked up considerably. He pulled off his helmet, letting his long black plait unfurl down his back, and rubbed his stubbly cheeks. Sweat was trickling down his face. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “We had our fun with the orcs, and Vraccas will be happy with us for wiping out the beasts.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry about my temper, Mallen,” he mumbled, forgetting that it was customary to address a prince with more respect.

“Apology accepted,” the ruler of Idoslane said magnanimously. He pointed to the collection of tents where his army was camped. “I see the supply wagons have arrived. There’s plenty of dark ale for everyone; perhaps you’ll join us in celebrating the destruction of the beasts?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Boïndil, setting off toward the tents. His thirst led him straight to the beer barrels, which were several times the standard size. The other dwarves looked questioningly at Tungdil, who nodded for them to follow. Mallen’s men, buoyed by the prospect of a night without marching, hurried back to camp.

Mallen and Tungdil lingered on the hilltop, watching the victorious warriors gather around the campfires to eat and make merry.

“A cycle ago I was an exile,” the prince said slowly. “I never thought I’d wear the crown of my forefathers. And I never imagined the rulers of Girdlegard would join together in an alliance of men, elves, and dwarves.”

Tungdil thought about all that had happened to him. After traveling across Girdlegard on an errand for his magus, he had been nominated against his wishes as the high king’s successor and journeyed to the Blacksaddle without realizing that Vraccas had chosen him to wield Keenfire and kill Nôd’onn on behalf of the dwarves. “Adversity brought us together. A cycle ago my kinsfolk were ready to wage war on the elves.”

Mallen laughed grimly. “At least Nôd’onn was good for something: He put an end to our feuding.”

Tungdil nodded. “Nôd’onn gave us the spark of solidarity, but it’s our responsibility to keep it alive.” He leaned forward, resting his weight on Keenfire. “We need an everlasting flame in which the bonds between us can be reforged.” He looked down at the feasting and merriment below. “How many did you lose?”

“Fifty men and as many horses,” said Mallen. “More were wounded, but we were heavily outnumbered. It could have been worse.”

“We were lucky—a few gashes and a couple of broken bones, but nothing to speak of. I think Vraccas wanted us to live. He lost so many of his children at the Blacksaddle that his smithy must be full.”

The prince laid a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “Come, Tungdil Goldhand, we should celebrate our victory before the long journey home.”

Tungdil knew he was right. Tomorrow he would set off through the tunnels, pack up his things at the secondling kingdom, and head west to the firstlings in the Red Range.

From there he would journey north with the dwarves who had elected to join him, and set up home in the ancient fifthling kingdom. In time, a new folk, descended from Borengar, Beroïn, and Goïmdil, would populate the Gray Range and Tungdil’s promise to Giselbert Ironeye, founding father of the fifthlings, would be fulfilled.

He knew it wouldn’t be easy. While the Stone Gateway was open, there was nothing to stop orcs and other beasts crossing into Girdlegard and taking up residence in the abandoned dwarven halls.

Don’t let there be too many of them, he begged his creator as he walked down the hillside with Mallen. We can’t keep fighting forever.

They were still some distance away when they heard Boïndil’s voice. He was singing a ballad that their dead companion Bavragor Hammerfist had often sung.

At least Boïndil will be happy if we’re overrun with beasts.

Tungdil took the beer offered to him by Mallen, and they clinked tankards to the warriors’ claps and cheers. Tungdil was well pleased: It seemed the friendship pledged at the Blacksaddle had become a reality for the dwarves and men.

He watched as the assorted warriors sat around the fires and tucked into something that smelled tantalizingly of roasted meat and soup. Conversation focused on the recent victory. The men described how they felled an orc or killed a bögnil, waving their spoons as they talked. When they were done, the dwarves laughed appreciatively, lifted their bowls to slurp their soup and shared some good-humored banter with their new friends.

To think it took Nôd’onn to bring us together! Tungdil smiled and picked his way between the groups. He heard deep dwarven voices describing the beauty of their mountain homelands. A few paces further, a couple of Mallen’s soldiers were teaching battle songs to a cluster of dwarves.

He watched and listened contentedly. If only Balyndis were here as well… Balyndis, the expedition’s comely smith, had kindled the fires of his furnace, filling him with longing and desire. At least I’d be able to—

“I’m telling you, it’s not just one,” he heard a soldier say softly. The urgency in his voice distracted Tungdil from his thoughts. “It’s spreading. I’ve seen three of them already.”

Tungdil stopped beside him. “What’s spreading?” he asked. “Three of what?” He noticed the badge on the man’s lightweight leather armor; he was a scout.

“Dead glades,” the man said hesitantly. “At least, that’s what I call them.” He pointed to the hills and ran a hand over the stubby blades of new grass. “It’s like this: The Perished Land lost its power when Nôd’onn died. Palandiell blessed the earth and gave it new life, but the evil is buried below the surface.” He glanced at the little group of men and dwarves who were putting away their food with varying regard to politeness. Everyone was listening attentively, especially the dwarves. “You haven’t seen what I’ve seen,” he continued. “There are pockets of Girdlegard where the evil has taken root.”

“You mean the Perished Land is lurking below the surface?” said Tungdil, all other thoughts forgotten.

The scout nodded. “I talked to the locals near one of the glades. They told me about a few poor devils who strayed among the trees. Only three came back, and they attacked their neighbors, fighting and raging with the strength of ten until the villagers chopped off their heads. King Bruron heard about it and issued a decree. Now the dead glades are blocked with palisades, walls, and moats. No one can enter or leave—on punishment of death.” He reached for his tankard. “Mark my words: It’s spreading through the land.”

Tungdil opened his mouth to reply but was rudely interrupted.

“There you are, scholar! Still moping about?” boomed Boïndil. At the sight of his friend, Tungdil stopped worrying about the insidious powers of the glades.

“You’re not thinking about womenfolk, are you?” continued Boïndil. “I must say, for someone who doesn’t know a thing about dwarf-women, you’ve bagged yourself a lovely lass!” He clinked tankards with Tungdil. “To the finest firstling smith! May she bring you true happiness.” He paused, and when he continued, his voice was tinged with sadness. “I reckon you deserve it.”

“You’ll find someone who makes you happy soon enough,” said Tungdil, remembering his friend’s tragic past. He raised his tankard. “How about a toast to Boëndal? I dare say I miss him as much as you do. He must be fit for battle by now.”

Boïndil gulped down the rest of his beer. “I killed my happiness,” he said slowly, his left hand tightening around the haft of his ax. “I killed it with my own hands.” He stared absently into the fire. The flames flickered over his furrowed features, revealing his inner torment. “Now all I can do is fight.”

They sat in silence until Boïndil started singing. One by one, the other dwarves joined in. It was another of Bavragor’s songs.

On they march the orc invaders

Driven by greed and lust

Tion loves to plague our borders

It was ever thus

But the dwarves are here to fight them

It was ever thus

Dwarven axes, dwarven hammers

Smash their skulls and spill their blood

Until the orcs are slain and vanquished

It was ever thus

Tirelessly we guard our borders

Doughty children of the Smith

And when our kinsmen fall in battle

It was ever thus

Our souls are summoned to Vraccas’s smithy

It was ever thus

Eternal warmth, eternal fire

It was ever thus

We seek no praise, we need no thanks

It was ever thus

We do our duty, we do it gladly

It was ever thus

Our ax is sharp, our chain mail glistens

It was ever thus

No beast can breach the dwarves’ defenses

It was ever thus.

Mallen’s men sat in hushed silence while the deep sonorous voices sung of honor, loyalty, and service to Girdlegard. The men, although ignorant of the dwarven language, had no trouble understanding the music, which seemed to come straight from the soul.

The chorus of voices echoed over the hills, carried across the valleys and soared to the stars.

The singing stirred the hearts and minds of everyone in the camp. Tungdil’s thoughts were still buzzing when he made his way to bed. He remembered the scout’s description of the dead glades. What new evil is this, Vraccas? It seems our worries aren’t over yet. He decided to investigate further as soon as he had the chance. A moment later, he was asleep.

The next morning, it was time for the men and dwarves to part.

Tungdil and his warriors would travel underground through the network of tunnels to the secondling kingdom, while Mallen’s men would make their way on foot, in carriages or on horseback to Idoslane.

The dwarves tramped through the battlefield and lowered themselves into the shaft, glad to get away from the circling ravens and the overwhelming stench.

Boïndil led the way. With every rung of the ladder he seemed to shed a little of the sorrow from the previous night. He was looking forward to the journey and to being reunited with his brother whom they had left in the care of the firstlings to recover from the älfar attack.

“It’s the longest we’ve ever been parted,” he said as Tungdil reached the bottom of the ladder. They set off toward the wagons that would carry them through the underground network.

“How are you coping?”

Boïndil tugged his braided beard and pulled out a stray leaf that didn’t belong there. “It’s hard,” he admitted with a sigh. “You curb my temper better than anyone except Boëndal, but I’m calmer when he’s around.” He thought for a moment. “It’s like hobbling around on one leg: I can manage, but part of me is missing. Boëndal knows what I’m thinking before I do. I’m not the same without him—even fighting doesn’t help.”

Tungdil sensed that he was holding back. “What is it, Boïndil? Something was bothering you last night.”

“I… I’m not sure how to describe it,” said Boïndil, considering. “I’ve got a bad feeling, almost like a chill. The worst of the winter is over, but my insides are frozen. What if Boëndal is in danger?”

They turned a corner and stopped abruptly. Tungdil, forgetting what he was about to say, gaped at the devastation. The roof of the tunnel had caved in, and a wall of rubble blocked their way. Worse still, their wagons were buried beneath the rock.

Growling indignantly, Boïndil bent down and reached for a scrap of metal protruding from the mess. He pulled on it casually; then, muscles tensing, he gave it an almighty tug. The warped piece of wagon came away in his hand. “It was their blasted horses,” he said irritably. “Their stupid clodhopping made the tunnel collapse.” He tossed the metal away carelessly.

Tungdil suspected that the real blame lay with the quake. After Nôd’onn’s defeat, the Blacksaddle had been hit by a terrible tremor that, judging by reports from the allies’ scouts, had shaken every village in Girdlegard. It stood to reason that the ancient network of tunnels would be damaged.

I hope the dwarven kingdoms fared better. “Change of plan,” he said to the others. He gestured to the surface. “We’ll have to look for another entrance.”

His confident manner belied his concern. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t safe to travel through the tunnels until the structure had been checked. Certain sections of the network could be negotiated only by swooping downhill, and a collision would result in certain death.

Maybe we should do the whole journey on foot or by pony trap, he thought as they clambered to the surface.

It was three hundred miles to the Blacksaddle and another six hundred to the secondling kingdom in the Blue Range. Traveling underground, the distance could be covered in a matter of orbits; walking would take an eternity.

Does someone want to stop us getting to the firstlings? Is Girdlegard in danger? His vague misgivings hardened into an unshakable sense of dread that yesterday’s victory could do nothing to allay. At last they reached the surface and he hauled himself out of the shaft. “I want everyone moving as fast as possible. Get together in pairs or groups to carry the wounded. It’s time we got home.”

They used the sun to find their bearings and headed east. On reaching the crest of a hill above the battlefield, they came to a sudden halt.

“By Beroïn’s beard, it’s a camp!” exclaimed Boïndil, peering down the far slope. He sniffed the air and examined the ground; the earth had been churned up by thousands of boots. “Another army of runts,” he growled. He set off at a run, followed by the others, and stopped at the bottom of the hill. Bending down, he ran a hand over the footprints, sniffed the soil and spat. “I’ll give them a taste of my axes,” he vowed, fixing his eyes on the broad channel of muddy earth that the orcish troopers had left in their wake. “They’re heading north.”

Tungdil looked in vain for evidence of a campfire. Two of his warriors called to him from a knoll; there were more orcish footprints and a couple of dead troopers under a tree. Ravens had clustered over the bodies and were squawking and fighting for their share of the prey. Judging by the evidence, the orcs had been killed the previous orbit. The birds had ripped away the dark green flesh, exposing the bone.

“They were watching us,” said Tungdil, praying that Boïndil wouldn’t chase after them. “They must have waited up here while their cousins were dying. They saw which way the battle was going, and left.”

“Miserable cowards,” snapped Ireheart, aiming a kick at one of the corpses. The nearest raven hopped away awkwardly, flapping its wings. “Trust the runty villains to hide from us. I wouldn’t have minded a proper fight.” He turned to Tungdil. “Four thousand of them, minimum. They’re on their way north.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” said Tungdil, baffled. He picked up an empty water pouch and dropped it hurriedly because of the awful smell. “The odds were in their favor; you’d expect them to attack.” He paused, deciding what to do. “I want to see what they’re up to,” he announced, knowing that his plan would meet with the secondling’s approval. “We’ll follow them.” Dwarves weren’t particularly fleet of foot and orcs were naturally faster, but it was probably worth a shot.

“Huzzah!” whooped Ireheart. “Five score of us, four thousand of them: that’s four hundred for every…” He broke off, remembering his brother in the firstling kingdom. Their reunion would be delayed. His face dropped.

“Hang on,” said Tungdil. “We’re not going to fight them; we’re going to see what they’re up to.” He dispatched a couple of messengers to chase after Mallen and tell him the news. Another twenty warriors were instructed to spread out in all directions and warn the villagers of Gauragar about the orcish army. “Tell them to take to the hills or seek refuge in the towns,” Tungdil instructed them.

“Do you see that?” said Boïndil, pointing at the orcish corpses. “Whoever beheaded them was wasting his time. They were stabbed to death first.”

“I expect their chief was making an example of them,” reasoned Tungdil. “He probably wanted to bring his troopers into line.”

“Maybe,” Boïndil said doubtfully, “but this one was stabbed three times before they chopped off his head. A chief would kill with a single strike.” He raised his arm and made a noise like a whooshing ax. “It’s a sign of strength—and precision.”

“I suppose you’ve got a better explanation,” said Tungdil.

Boïndil was unconvinced by Tungdil’s theory, but he couldn’t think how else to explain the troopers’ wounds. The discussion ended there.

They set off toward the north of Gauragar, the terrain becoming craggier and more barren with every mile. Green meadows gave way to bare earth, rocks, and the occasional tuft of grass. Thankfully, the orcs had left an unmistakable trail of food scraps and boot prints, which saved the dwarves the trouble of checking their route.

“I wonder if we’ll see a dead glade,” murmured Tungdil. “Did you hear what Mallen’s scout was saying?”

Boïndil looked at him blankly. “A dead glade? Sounds like something to be avoided.”

Tungdil filled him in on what the scout had said. “Dead glades are patches of forest inhabited by the Perished Land. King Bruron banned his subjects from approaching them because the evil affects their brains. You can tell a dead glade by the color of the trees—they’re completely black.”

“I thought the Perished Land had retreated,” growled Boïndil. “We can’t let it hide in the trees.”

Tungdil kept his eyes on the churned-up path. “I’ll ask Andôkai to deal with it. The Perished Land is a canker. Who knows how far it might spread?”

Slowing his pace, the secondling fell back and instructed the rest of the company to look out for black trees. Anything suspicious should be reported to King Bruron.

During the second orbit of marching, the tracks turned sharply to the east, heading straight for the highest hill. The sudden change in direction and the unnecessary ascent indicated that the orcs had left their original course.

On the third orbit of marching, the dwarves, defying the odds, succeeded in closing on the longer-legged, faster orcs. They watched from a distance of barely two miles as the beasts swarmed up a hill and disappeared over the crest.

“Oink, oink!” grunted Boïndil in excitement.

Tungdil shot him a warning look. “We’re not going to fight them,” he said, laying a restraining hand on the secondling’s arm. “We wouldn’t stand a chance.”

They set off in pursuit, this time taking care to stay hidden. They ascended the steep, stony slope and stopped just short of the crest.

Tungdil took off his helmet and his long brown hair billowed in the breeze. Keeping low to the ground, he edged forward and lifted his head slowly so that only his eyes and his crown were visible over the summit. Boïndil crawled across the trampled ground to join him.

Their excitement turned to alarm. The orcs were streaming into a dark, wooded area. Tungdil stared at the trees with their black trunks and bare branches. The beasts were heading for a pool of water, the inky content of which was lapping against the stony shore and staining it black.

Tungdil had a fair idea what he was looking at. “A dead glade,” he whispered. “It stands to reason, I suppose.”

Boïndil peered at the orcs incredulously. “What are they doing? Surely they don’t mean to stay there? Even by orcish standards it’s a hellhole.”

Tungdil could tell that his friend was itching for a fight. “We’re not going in,” he said sternly. “We’ll tell King Bruron that we’ve found another dead glade. He’ll make sure that the orcs stay where they are—they won’t be leaving here alive.”

Raising his head a little, he surveyed the bare treetops and tried to gauge the size of the glade. It measured at least a mile in each direction, a vast blotch of foreboding and death. Just then a familiar odor came to him on the wind. He wrinkled his nose in disgust; it was the smell of brackish water that had permeated the drinking pouch, but this time it was coming from the sinister pool. “Fancy a sip?”

Boïndil made retching noises. “I’d sooner die than drink it.”

Tungdil broke into a cold sweat as he remembered what the scout had said. The humans who strayed into the dead glades were beheaded by their fellow men. He stared at the inky pool. What if the two dead orcs had drunk the fetid water and gone mad? Was that why they were stabbed and beheaded? For want of an answer, he stopped worrying and crawled down the slope to make his report to the other dwarves. After a long wait, a delegation of Bruron’s men arrived and Tungdil gave them a detailed account of what he had witnessed.

“It’s time we went home,” he announced. Even Boïndil was happy with the change of plan. The prospect of seeing his brother outweighed the appeal of another battle, and he was looking forward to a solid dwarven meal, washed down with a tankard of Girdlegard’s finest beer.

They set off on the long journey home.

Lorimbur’s Folk,

Thirdling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th/6235th Solar Cycle

Bislipur overreached himself,” said a deep voice. The lofty walls threw back the words as a toneless echo, then it was quiet in the chamber. Only the fire continued to spit and crackle. An armored hand balled itself into a fist, the articulated fingers creaking as the spikes on the knuckles rose menacingly. “Cycles of plotting, and for what? I knew it would come to nothing.”

“The other folks are weak, Your Majesty. Hundreds died at the Blacksaddle. The situation can still be turned to our advantage.” The red glow from the fire accentuated the terrible scars on his gleaming scalp. Contrary to appearances, the lines had been cut by a thirdling tattooist, not an enemy sword. The sequence of dwarven runes spelled death and destruction to the enemies of his kingdom, and his artfully chiseled skull was fearsome to behold. “They lost their best warriors in the battle with Nôd’onn’s hordes. It left them crippled and toothless.”

His kinsman leaned forward. His long black hair was streaked with gray and braided into three plaits that sat neatly against his scalp. “We’re not ready for open warfare.”

The thirdling commander-in-chief shrugged, causing his tunic—a finely crafted shirt of interlocking plates and chain mail—to jangle. “Name me a better time, Lorimbas Steelheart. We haven’t been as strong as this in two hundred cycles.”

“My plan is more subtle, Salfalur Shieldbreaker,” replied the thirdling king. His beard was stiff with dye, hanging like an overstarched pennant from his chin. Even when he talked, the red, gray, and brown whiskers stayed perfectly rigid. He leaned over the table and studied a map of Girdlegard. “Bislipur’s mistake was to move too slowly. My goal shall be achieved within a decade.” He rose from his marble chair and signaled for his commander-in-chief to follow. The hall where they held their briefings was dimly lit, with specks of iron pyrite glittering weakly in the dark stone walls. The two dwarves seemed to be walking through nothingness with only a smattering of sparkling stars.

A line of triangular pillars hewn from the flesh of the mountain stretched toward a set of stairs. Lorimbas ascended them quickly and threw open the doors to reveal a golden shrine.

Lorimbur, founding father of the thirdlings, rested here. His coffin stood upright, his marble likeness staring out from the lid. Dwarven runes made of diamonds, precious stones, and gems praised his deeds and exhorted his descendants to avenge and destroy.

Lorimbas bowed his head respectfully. “Too long have we endured their scorn,” he muttered absently. He reached out with his right hand and caressed the cold effigy. “Too many times have we failed in our duty to avenge the injustices suffered by our founder. The time is ripe, thirdling father. Your bidding will be done, and your faithful son, Lorimbas Steelheart of the clan of the Stone Grinders, ruler of your children, will drive the descendants of Beroïn, Borengar, Goïmdil, and Giselbert from their kingdoms.” He kneeled down, unhooked a three-flanged mace from his belt, and held it toward the dead king. “This I promise on my life.”

Salfalur joined him at the coffin and dropped to his knees. There was no need for him to speak: Lorimbas had given full expression to the passion that burned wordlessly in his soul. Head bowed, with the lethal spike of his double-headed hammer inclined respectfully to the coffin, Salfalur vowed silently to uphold the thirdling cause.

Hours passed as they prayed together, so absorbed in their devotion that their aching arms and bruised knees barely registered in their minds.

At last Lorimbas rose, kissed the sacred boots of his ancestor and locked the shrine.

Salfalur lingered for a moment, gazing at the shimmering gold doors. Like all thirdlings, he loved the founder of his kingdom better than Vraccas, who had forsaken his bold-minded son.

Lorimbur’s crime was to insist on his right to choose his own name. The flint-willed dwarf, who possessed a special measure of that dwarven quality referred to as obduracy, had argued until he achieved his purpose, but in so doing he displeased the dwarven god. His brothers each received a talent, but Lorimbur was condemned to mediocrity, and his descendants never fully mastered the dwarven arts.

Salfalur leaned forward and studied the doors. In his eyes, the inscriptions looked beautiful, but a firstling would compare the metalwork to the imperfect efforts of a human smith.

They’ll pay for their arrogance, he vowed darkly, flexing his muscles. He wore heavy vambraces equipped with knives to protect his arms in battle. “What did you have in mind, Your Majesty?” he asked, bowing his head as he descended backward from the shrine.

The king followed him down the steps and they returned to the marble table to study the map. “We’ll drive a wedge between them and shatter their alliance,” said the king, reaching for a pitcher and filling their silver tankards with beer. The index finger of his right hand hovered over the Blacksaddle. “The thirdlings built that stronghold, and I intend to get it back. It’s ours by right.” He raised his tankard. “To our cousins, for restoring its defenses.” He drank thirstily and replaced the tankard on the table with a noisy clunk. “Well?” he prompted, eying his silent commander. “What do you say?”

The plan made little sense to Salafur, who didn’t mind airing his concerns. “What use is the stronghold, Your Majesty? If it’s the tunnels you’re interested in, we’ve got access to them here.”

Lorimbas smiled. “The tunnels… exactly. Remember when we first heard how our stronghold had been taken over by the dwarven army? I sent our scholars to do some digging in the archives. They came back with some fascinating information about the Blacksaddle. Our dwarven cousins have no idea.”

Salfalur sipped his beer and looked at the king intently. “They’ve been ensconced in the stronghold for orbits. How can you be sure?”

“Trust me, faithful warrior, they know nothing. If our cousins had discovered the Blacksaddle’s secret, every dwarf in Girdlegard would know of it by now. News like this travels fast, and our eyes and ears are everywhere. Our spies tell us everything—and they’re more subtle than Bislipur.” He handed Salfalur the archivists’ findings: a packet of manuscripts tied with a ribbon and a stack of engraved tablets.

The commander-in-chief glanced at them briefly and waved his hand dismissively. “They’re in the old tongue,” he snapped. “I can’t read them.”

Lorimbas stared at Salfalur’s bloodshot left eye, the distinguishing feature of the Red Eye clan, and nodded in satisfaction. “That’s the beauty of it—hardly anyone can read the ancient script. The Blacksaddle will be in our hands before anyone fathoms its secret.”

“True,” said Salfalur slowly. He took a deep breath. “But how will we persuade the other folks to leave the stronghold? To fight them would be—”

“None of our kinsmen will lose their lives.” The king laughed cruelly and leaned back in his chair. “We won’t be doing the fighting. We’ll get someone to do it for us.”

“Who would fight for the thirdling cause?”

“King Bruron of Gauragar.”

Salfalur’s bushy brown eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “This is worthy of Bislipur,” he said reprovingly. “I thought we’d agreed that scheming is useless. So far I can’t see the merit of the plan.” He wrapped his hands around the haft of his hammer, an imposing weapon that almost matched him in height.

“I should have explained myself more clearly from the start,” the king said soothingly. “Our archives turned out to be most instructive. The scholars found an ancient treaty dating back to the end of the 4000th cycle. It seems our ancestors signed a pact with Gauragar, which grants our kingdom everlasting ownership of Cloudpiercer in payment for our help.”

“You mean, the Blacksaddle?” Salfalur knew the stories about the mountain’s history. According to legend, the Blacksaddle was once a mighty peak named Cloudpiercer, the summit of which stretched thousands of paces into the sky. Cloudpiercer stood taller and prouder than any other peak in Girdlegard. It was tipped with snow throughout the seasons and its loftiest flanks were made of pure gold. After trying and failing to mine the treasure, the people of Gauragar had called on the dwarves to help them.

“Are you saying our kinsmen helped the humans to mine the gold, just like the legend says?”

“Exactly. The dwarves of Lorimbur were the first to send a delegation to Gauragar.” Lorimbas gestured to the map. “They arrived at Cloudpiercer and succeeded in burrowing their way through the mountain and digging a tunnel to the top. They hollowed out the mountain and carried off the gold. In return for their help, they demanded a share of the treasure and ownership of the mountain. The king of Gauragar signed a treaty to that effect.”

Salfalur knew the rest from a song that his aunt had taught him as a child. The dwarves and men had quarreled over the gold, prompting Cloudpiercer to erupt in fury and shake the miners from its core. The rest of the mountain was riddled with tunnels and the peak collapsed. From that moment on, the mountain simmered with hatred and harbored a murderous grudge against the races of dwarves and men.

“What if the mountain recognizes us and tries to bury us under its weight?” he asked nervously.

“That part of the story is almost certainly hogwash, but we’ll be careful all the same.” The king was still staring at the map. “Bruron should receive my missive in the next few orbits.”

“Bruron is a man without principles. He’ll never honor the word of his ancestors,” Salfalur predicted dourly. “Besides, without the help of the other folks, his kingdom would have fallen to the magus. He’ll deny all knowledge of our agreement rather than risk the anger of the dwarves.”

“Humans will do anything for gold; it’s simply a case of scale. A single coin won’t buy a sovereign’s loyalty, so I’m offering two full chests. How can he refuse? His kingdom was ransacked by orcs and his people will be hungry. He needs money to buy grain.” Lorimbas sat back and folded his hands across his chest. “You see, Salfalur, I can fight with my head as well as my mace. I can outscheme poor Bislipur.”

Salfalur’s tattoos snaked across his face as he ground his teeth. “I don’t doubt it, Your Majesty. But what did Bislipur achieve?”

“Patience, old friend. The first stage of the plan deals only with Bruron.”

“Where would you strike next?”

Lorimbas’s finger hovered over the map and landed on the kingdom of Idoslane. “Orcs are marauding through Mallen’s kingdom. He’ll want to destroy them, or drive them into Toboribor. We’ll wait until he’s busy; then we’ll pay him a visit.”

“Mallen and Goldhand are friends. All the money in Girdlegard won’t change his allegiance.” The commander-in-chief frowned. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but scheming won’t get you further than poor Bislipur.”

“You’d rather we went to war,” the king said coldly, fixing his commander with his dark brown eyes. “I don’t doubt that the odds have never seemed better. Our army is strong, and the others are weak from their battle with Nôd’onn.” He broke off and raised a warning finger. “But numbers count for nothing while the alliance still holds. We need to kindle the hatred between our cousins and the elves. Once we’ve stoked the fires of enmity, we’ll forge new wedges—wedges that will isolate Gandogar and the others from the humans and the elves.”

It took more than flashing eyes and a raised voice to intimidate Salfalur. “I wish you every success,” he said, undaunted. “What are my orders?”

“Tell our mercenaries to listen for the codeword Lorimbur’s Revenge. When the time comes, they must lay down their arms and fight only in self-defense. Tell them not to be tempted by offers of gold.” The king rested his chin on his hands and fell silent. Dark thoughts forced their way into his mind, swamping him with fear, self-doubt, and despair.

“Are you worried about your daughter?”

Lorimbas sat up sharply, startled from his thoughts. Salfalur was right; he was worried about his daughter, who had been missing for half a cycle. “Still no news,” he said with a shake of the head. There had been no message, no sighting, not the slightest indication of where she was or whether she was alive. “I’d sooner carry all the peaks in Girdlegard than endure this silence.”

“Have faith, Lorimbas. She’s a good daughter, and an excellent wife.” Salfalur’s face softened for the first time that orbit. “I trained her in the art of combat, and you taught her to dissemble; she won’t let us down.” He stared at the fireplace, watching the flickering flames. “It’s time she sent word.” His left hand clenched into a fist, his gauntlet creaking.

Lorimbas sighed. A single word, a single syllable would calm our fears… “It’s hard, I know. I miss my daughter, you miss your wife—but what choice did we have? No one else could achieve our purpose without arousing their suspicions.” He was trying to drown out the voice of his conscience, which reminded him that he was endangering his youngest daughter by sending her on a mission that relied on total secrecy. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. “I had no choice,” he whispered.

II

Beroïn’s Folk,

Secondling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th/6235th Solar Cycle

It’s still a horse—just a small one, that’s all,” grumbled Boïndil, sliding down from the pony’s saddle. He gave himself a good shake, showering sand from his clothes and beard. “If Vraccas had wanted us to be riders, he would have given us better padding.” He winced as he rubbed his backside.

“You’d be complaining about your blisters if we’d walked,” retorted Tungdil with a smile. Like Boïndil, he was coated from head to toe with sand, fine grains of which had snuck through his garments, clinging to the fabric and rubbing against his skin. He dismounted and ran a hand over his pony’s mane. “Don’t listen to the old curmudgeon,” he told the pony. “You did an excellent job.”

They were standing on the outermost terrace of Ogre’s Death, one of the most imposing strongholds in Girdlegard, home to the secondling dwarves. Its keep had been hewn into the rock, with battlements extending down the mountainside in four separate terraces.

Until recently, no one had believed that Ogre’s Death would ever be conquered, but Nôd’onn had proved that the defenses could be breached. With the help of the treacherous Bislipur, the magus’s beasts had stormed the stronghold and laid waste to the secondlings’ halls.

Now the stronghold was a hive of activity. Cranes were lifting, wheels turning, winches hoisting, and saws slicing through the rock. Dust filled the air, and the Blue Range echoed with a thousand hammers and chisels as hordes of industrious masons rebuilt what the beasts had destroyed. The rubble from the ruined battlements had been carted away and the fortifications were rising again, only this time the defenses would be bigger, heavier, stronger. Soon the secondlings would be safe from invaders once more.

It’s good to see order returning to the kingdom, thought Tungdil, trying to overcome his nagging fears. I shouldn’t worry so much…

Boïndil interrupted his thoughts. “Ha, look at Ogre’s Death, rising from the ruins,” he said proudly. “The secondling flags are flying from the stronghold, and the bones of the invaders have been scattered across the range. They thought they’d destroyed us, but our spirit can’t be crushed.” Quickening his pace, he made straight for the vast gateway, eight paces wide and ten paces high, leading from the uppermost terrace to the underground halls.

Tungdil looked up at the flagpoles. On the last stage of their journey through Sangpûr, the flags had been visible as tiny squares of cloth, but now he could make out the details. The colors of the firstlings and fourthlings flew proudly beside the crests of the seventeen secondling clans.

He tapped his forehead. The assembly meeting! It had slipped his mind entirely. “By my beard, Boïndil,” he called out to the secondling, who was practically at the gateway. “Another orbit, and we would have missed the coronation.”

Boïndil stopped in his tracks. “To think a pack of orcs and bögnilim could make us forget a thing like that! It wouldn’t have happened if Boëndal had been with us.” A look of consternation crossed his face and he sniffed the air anxiously. “It’s all right,” he declared. “We haven’t missed anything important. They haven’t brought out the food.”

The other dwarves caught up and they set off together through the gateway, into the secondling kingdom. The passageway delved through the mountain, leading to ornately carved chambers supported by soaring columns. Ahead of them towered an enormous stone statue of Beroïn seated on a white marble throne. They filed between his feet and entered the corridor leading to the assembly hall.

“Remember what happened last time?” Boïndil asked softly.

“How could I forget?” Every detail of that orbit was etched on Tungdil’s mind. On arriving at Ogre’s Death, he and the twins had entered the great hall to find the delegates warring among themselves. Soon after, he had embarked on a long journey—a journey that turned him into a proper dwarf.

“It’s a mercy to be out of the light,” said Boïndil, whose hair had been bleached by the harsh desert sun. “We belong in the mountains, as Vraccas intended.” He gave his plait a good shake to dislodge the sand. “Do you think the delegates will be arguing again?”

Tungdil shook his head. “Gandogar is the legitimate heir, and no one could dispute his right to the throne. He proved his character as soon as he freed himself from Bislipur’s wiles.”

The secondling grinned. “Not as much as you proved yours.”

“I don’t want to be high king, Boïndil. My calling lies elsewhere.” Raising his hand decisively, he knocked three times, took a deep breath, and pushed open the mighty stone doors.

Light streamed toward them. Blinking, Tungdil gazed in horror at the ruins of the hall.

Barely half of the towering cylindrical columns had survived the beasts’ invasion, and it was only thanks to the secondlings’ expert masonry that the ceiling hadn’t collapsed.

Tungdil’s heart sank as he looked at the desecrated tablets and bas-reliefs on the walls. The orcs had attacked the artwork with clubs and cudgels, smashing the marble and destroying the carefully chiseled chronicle of past victories and heroic deeds.

Glancing at his companion, he saw the secondling’s expression change from horror to fury. Boïndil, already a ferocious orc-slayer, was planning his revenge.

Lanterns and braziers lit the chamber, casting a warm glow over five magnificent chairs, one for each folk, arranged in a semi-circle around a marble table.

Tungdil spotted Gandogar Silverbeard, ruler of the fourthlings and head of Goïmdil’s line. Seated beside him were Xamtys II of the clan of the Stubborn Streaks, queen of the firstlings and ruler of Borengar’s folk, and Balendilín Onearm of the clan of the Strong Fingers, former counselor to Gundrabur Whitecrown, the late high king. Balendilín had been crowned king of the secondlings after Gundrabur’s death. The remaining delegates—chieftains and elders from the firstling, secondling, and fourthling kingdoms—had taken their places in the elegantly carved pews behind their leaders and were talking among themselves.

Scanning the ranks of the firstlings, Tungdil found Balyndis and gave her a special smile. Then it was time to address the assembly. Orbits earlier, he had reached a decision regarding his future, and he intended to see it through.

His eyes lingered on the two unoccupied chairs and the empty pews behind them.

One of the chairs was reserved for the king of the thirdlings, although none of their number was likely to attend. The other belonged to the late king of the fifthlings, whose folk were no more.

If everything went to plan, one of the chairs would soon be filled.

“Monarchs, elders, chieftains,” he began loudly, although his heart was beating furiously in his chest. “I salute the assembly.”

“Can’t you talk normally?” hissed Boïndil, rolling his eyes. He was secretly in awe of his friend, who spoke with the authority and facility of a king. Tungdil’s sixty cycles in Lot-Ionan’s school had expanded his mind and honed his reason, making him wiser and more knowledgeable than most dwarves twice his age.

“The finest and best dwarves of the three dwarven folks are gathered here for the second time in four hundred cycles to elect a new high king.” Tungdil stepped away from the doors and took up position in front of the table where the dwarven rulers were seated. He kept his right hand on Keenfire to steady his nerves. “This time there won’t be any last-minute challenges—at least not from me.”

A faint smile crossed Balendilín’s timeworn features, and downy-cheeked Xamtys raised her eyebrows in surprise. To everyone’s relief, Gandogar laughed good-humoredly, allowing the other delegates to chuckle as well.

Tungdil pointed to the empty chair belonging to the fifthlings. “Most of you know by now that I’m a thirdling. I’d give anything not to be descended from Lorimbur, but a dwarf can’t choose his lineage. My heart doesn’t burn with vengeance, and maybe, Vraccas willing, there are other thirdlings like me who weren’t born with hatred in their blood. I feel a bond with my fellow dwarves—one of them, especially.” He turned to look at Balyndis and allowed himself to bask for a moment in her dazzling smile. Then he strode to the empty chair on Gandogar’s right.

“Some of you think I belong in the thirdling kingdom,” he continued, placing his hands on his diamond-studded weapons belt, a gift from Giselbert Ironeye. He paused for a moment, remembering his parting conversation with the fifthling monarch. “But I see my place elsewhere.”

Leaving the chair, he made his way to the fifthling benches and stepped onto the front pew for everyone to see him.

“I made a promise to Giselbert Ironeye. He asked me to drive the orcs from his kingdom and rebuild his halls.” Pausing, he allowed the delegates a few moments to imagine the revival of the fifthling folk. “Giselbert gave me this belt in remembrance of the fifthlings, who defended their kingdom to the last. Their spirit was stronger than the curse of the Perished Land, and they served the Smith in death and beyond. For a thousand cycles they tended the Dragon Fire furnace and kept its flames alive. Without the fifthlings, Keenfire would never have been forged.” He drew the ax and held it aloft for the delegates to see. “Your Majesties,” he began, turning to the dwarven rulers, “you promised me enough masons and warriors to rebuild the fifthling kingdom and seal the Northern Pass. It was a truly generous offer, but no dwarf should be forced to leave his kingdom at his monarch’s command. Those who wish to remain with their clansfolk should do so, but those who want to join me will be welcomed with open arms.”

He sat down on the pew, placing Keenfire in front of him. The ax head jangled against the marble, echoing through the hall.

He wasn’t surprised to see Boïndil striding purposefully toward him. The secondling plumped down beside him, and a moment later, Balyndis took a seat on his right.

Tungdil was thrilled to see one delegate after another stand up and join him. At last, half of the fifthling pews were taken. Among Tungdil’s new companions were seven chieftains, who promised to ask the rest of their clansmen to make their homes in the fifthling halls.

Balendilín sat up in his chair, the marble trinkets in his graying beard clinking softly. “Tungdil Goldhand, your wisdom is proof, if proof be needed, that you belong among Girdlegard’s monarchs, not on the pews. I know that you are not inclined to push yourself forward, but the dwarves of the fifthling kingdom will recognize your qualities. At our next meeting, you will be seated among the rulers, I’m sure.” He turned to the delegates, his long gray hair curling about his shoulders like silvery wool. “We are gathered here today to settle a matter of great importance. Gundrabur Whitecrown, the late high king, was called to Vraccas’s smithy, leaving an empty throne. The new high king must be a strong leader who will set our course through good times and bad.” He unfurled a roll of parchment with his one good hand. “Gandogar Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, ruler of the fourthlings and head of Goïmdil’s line, are you ready to assert your claim to the high king’s throne?” he asked, repeating the words that he had spoken at an earlier assembly, many orbits ago.

The fourthling monarch rose. “Unyielding as the rock from which we were created and keen as this blade is my will to defend our race against its foes,” came his solemn reply. “Bislipur cast a shadow over my mind, but I have driven out the darkness. With a clear heart and mind I swear loyalty to the dwarven folks whose welfare will be my guiding concern. Let Vraccas and the dwarven monarchs witness my oath.”

Balendilín nodded. “Gandogar Silverbeard has asserted his claim.” He raised his voice. “Will anyone challenge him?”

“What are you waiting for?” hissed Boïndil, prodding Tungdil in the ribs. “Another of your fancy speeches, and the throne will be yours.”

The one-armed king dropped the parchment onto the table. “The succession is uncontested: Gandogar shall be crowned.” He sounded his bugle, producing a long, drawn-out tone.

The doors opened, and a procession of warriors from the folks of Beroïn, Borengar, and Goïmdil marched into the hall, bearing the crown and ceremonial hammer on an ornamental shield. Studded with gemstones, etched with magnificent runes, and inlaid with intarsia of vraccasium, silver, and gold, the hammer brought together the finest artisanship from all the folks, symbolizing the high king’s power.

The procession stopped in the middle of the hall and the warriors got down on one knee. Balendilín walked over to them and signaled for Gandogar to approach. “Chosen by the united will of the folks to reign over us,” he said solemnly, lowering the crown gently onto the fourthling’s head. “Gandogar Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, ruler of the fourthlings, head of Goïmdil’s line—dwarf of all dwarves.” He signaled for Gandogar to take the hammer.

Reverently, the new high king reached forward and wrapped his fingers around the handle. The hammer was heavier than he had expected, and it took both hands to pick it up.

The delegates left their pews and dropped on one knee, raising their weapons and hailing the new king as they had once hailed King Gundrabur.

Tungdil listened to the jangling chain mail and scanned the faces of the delegates, his kinsfolk, the children of the Smith, united as never before. He felt a shiver of excitement.

Gandogar raised the hammer and brought it down sharply against the marble, signaling for the delegates to rise. “Monarchs, chieftains, and elders, you have heard my oath. If, in time, my actions give the lie to my intentions, I call on you to remind me of these words.”

He left the table and stopped at the place where five marble tablets bearing Vraccas’s commandments had been destroyed by Bislipur’s ax. “That which was brought down by treason will rise again in an era of unity and peace.” He ascended the dais and sat on his throne. “Together we will rebuild our kingdoms—but first we must celebrate. Let the feasting begin!”

The assembled dwarves erupted in cheers and applause, shouting their approval and banging their weapons against their shields. The jubilation showed no sign of stopping, but at last the clamor gave way to hearty laughter, spontaneous singing, and a round of toasts as stewards arrived with pitchers and platters, and the rest of the secondling folk poured into the hall.

Horns sounded, and the music began, the drummers beating out a lively rhythm. The exuberance was catching, and soon heavy-booted Boïndil was tapping his feet in time with the songs. For once he forgot all thought of battle and stopped worrying about his brother in the distant Red Range. Tankard in hand, he watched the festivities and enjoyed the brief respite.

Tungdil looked around for Balyndis. “They’re dancing the gloomy memories from their souls,” said a voice behind him.

“It’s time they enjoyed themselves, don’t you think?” said Tungdil, looking into Balendilín’s worried eyes. Balendilín was a new king, but an old dwarf, and his face was worn with care. “Maybe you should join them.”

Balendilín chuckled softly and stroked his beard. “Why not? The orcs were kind enough to leave me both legs—I’ll find myself a maiden and twirl her around the dance floor like a freshly hewn dwarf.”

“What’s the matter?” asked Tungdil. “Bad news from abroad?”

“No news,” said the king, sighing. He glanced in Boïndil’s direction to make sure he wasn’t listening. “I haven’t heard anything from the Red Range in orbits. It’s possible that the tunnels are blocked, but…” He left the sentence hanging, but it was clear that he suspected something worse.

Balyndis, overhearing their conversation, looked alarmed. “Are you talking about Nôd’onn?” She searched their faces. “He warned us about a danger in the west.” She took a deep breath, forcing down her fear. “It’s all right, though—West Ironhald is unassailable. Nothing will cross the border with my kinsmen standing guard.”

Tungdil reached for her hand. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said, trying to mask his trepidation. “The firstlings are strong enough to see off any threat.” Balyndis saw through his attempt to reassure her, but she was comforted that he had tried.

There was silence for a moment. Everyone was remembering how Nôd’onn, after killing four magi and terrorizing all Girdlegard, had spoken with terror of the threat from the west.

“Queen Xamtys will leave for the Red Range tomorrow,” said Balendilín at last. “She’s worried as well.”

“We’ll go too,” decided Tungdil. He gave Balyndis’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Her Majesty will be glad of some company, and it’s a chance for us to recruit any firstlings who want to follow their chieftains to the Gray Range.”

There was a third reason for accompanying Xamtys that he didn’t mention to the others. He wanted to be on hand with Keenfire in case the firstling kingdom was really in danger. The diamond-encrusted blade had proved its worth against Nôd’onn, and he was sure that it would make short work of any threat.

Balyndis looked at him gratefully and gave him a quick kiss while Balendilín wasn’t looking.

“You can’t fool me,” said Boïndil, joining the little group. “You’re worried about something. It’s the Red Range, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” asked Balyndis anxiously.

“It was this, um… It was the thing that fell from the sky.” Boïndil put his tankard to his lips. Dark beer trickled down his beard, mingling with the dust from the journey. “Something happened that night.” His voice was so low that the others could barely hear him through the music and laughter. “Boëndal is my twin; I can tell if he’s in trouble.”

Balyndis didn’t want to hear any more, but she found herself asking, “What sort of trouble?”

Boïndil took another draft of beer. “He was fine at first—the firstlings looked after him well, and the arrow wounds were healing.” He put down the empty tankard and wiped the froth from his lips. “That was before the comet.” He paused and swallowed. “I don’t know what’s happened to him; I just feel cold.”

Balyndis gasped. “Vraccas protect us.”

Tungdil was angry with himself for not having listened more carefully when Boïndil brought up the subject before. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he asked him, laying a hand on his shoulder. Boïndil’s chain mail felt strangely cold.

“We had to see off the runts. Vraccas knows I wanted to go to Boëndal, but our duty lay elsewhere. I’ve been too worried to sleep, too worried to think—and now the beasts have been dealt with and we’re free to go.” A shadow crossed his face. “At least we’ll know for certain before too long.” Excusing himself with a nod, he picked up his tankard and went in search of beer to wash away his gloomy thoughts.

Balendilín gazed after him anxiously. “Knowledge can be worse than uncertainty. I hope his fears prove unfounded.” He laid a hand on Tungdil’s wrist. “Do you need anything for the journey?” he asked more brightly. “The orcs spoiled most of our provisions, but I’m sure I can find you a bit of cheese, some pickled camla-moss, and a few dried pharu-mushrooms to keep you going.” His brown eyes settled on Balyndis, and he smiled at her encouragingly.

Tungdil decided it was time to tell the others about the orcs who had escaped the allied army. He described the dead glade. “It was almost as if they were being drawn there. What if the Perished Land is gathering its troops?”

“They must have a reason for stopping there,” the secondling king said doubtfully. “You’d think they’d find themselves a better hiding place—it’s too small for an army of orcs, and there can’t be much food. Bruron’s men will starve them out in no time. The beasts would be better off in Toboribor, holed up in their caves.”

“I don’t see the sense in it either,” admitted Tungdil. “Mallen’s scout said that dead glades have the power to drive humans insane. If I didn’t have the fifthling kingdom to worry about, I’d look into it myself.”

Balendilín shook his head. “Bruron and Mallen can take care of the orcs. The beasts are their concern; the Gray Range is yours.” He took his leave.

Balyndis sighed. “I thought killing Nôd’onn would put an end to our problems, but Vraccas hasn’t finished with us yet.”

Tungdil smiled and ran a hand tenderly over her face. Like all dwarf-women, she had a fine layer of down on her cheeks. It generally got thicker and more noticeable with age. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you. I dreamed about you while I was away.” He paused. “To be honest, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” He noticed that she was wearing a new necklace, a finely forged chain of steel links studded with tiny gold balls. He knew at once who had made it.

“You obviously weren’t as busy as me,” she said with a smile, watching the slow, stately movements of twelve dwarves who were performing a dance in honor of the dwarven miner. “We had the furnaces roaring from morning till night; I barely left the anvil.” She raised an arm. “See those muscles? They’re twice their usual size. The orcs made such a mess that I could stay a hundred cycles and still have work to do. I haven’t had time for dreaming.”

He pointed to her necklace. “Oh, really,” he said teasingly. “But you found a few spare seconds to forge yourself a chain?”

She smiled. “You noticed!” The krummhorns fell silent and Balyndis joined the enthusiastic applause.

Tungdil laid an arm around her shoulders. “I’d rather you didn’t spend the next hundred cycles at the secondlings’ anvils; I need you in the Gray Range with me.” He looked her in the eye. “I’m not asking because I need a good smith; I’m asking because I need you. The past few orbits have made me realize that I never want to be away from you again.”

Balyndis, unaccustomed to such frankness, searched his face. “Tungdil Goldhand, what you’re proposing isn’t to be taken lightly.”

“I know,” he said, meeting her gaze. “But think of the memories we share already—and our adventures aren’t over yet. I want us to still be talking and remembering in four hundred cycles’ time. And of course we’ll tell the stories to our children, who’ll think we’re making it up.” He kissed her on the top of the head. “Balyndis Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers, daughter of Borengar and smith of the firstling kingdom, what would you say if a thirdling of unknown origin and no proper dwarven upbringing were to ask you to be joined with him by the iron band?”

Balyndis was so overwhelmed that she took a while to answer. “We’ll never be apart again,” she said at last. “Our hearts are joined already—they’ve been joined for a while.”

She started forward and threw her arms around him. Hugging her close, Tungdil pressed his face against her skin, filling his nostrils with her scent. He was still hugging her, eyes shut and perfectly contented, when he heard her say, “Yes, Tungdil Goldhand. I want to be with you always.”

It wouldn’t have mattered if the great hall had caved in on him or all the beasts in Girdlegard had torn him apart or a hundred arrows had pierced his chest; he would have died a happy dwarf.

23 Miles Southwest of Dsôn Balsur,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th/6235th Solar Cycle

Looking out from the top of the highest watchtower, Liútasil surveyed row upon row of brightly colored tents, ordered strictly by unit and rank. He ran a comb through his hair. The filigree teeth, inlaid with mother-of-pearl to stop them snagging on his fine auburn hair, separated the long shimmering strands, easing the occasional tangle.

The elven lord had ordered his warriors to pitch their tents and put up a palisade around the camp’s perimeter, bounded by a moat seven paces deep and seven paces wide. Here, on the outskirts of the älfar kingdom, neither man nor elf would sleep soundly unless every measure had been taken to make the camp secure.

The allied strategy had been decided at the Blacksaddle. Mallen was to deal with the orcs and bögnilim, using the superior speed of his cavalry to chase the fleeing beasts, while Liútasil and the other human generals marched north to attack the elves’ dark cousins in Dsôn Balsur and drive them out of Girdlegard.

The lord of Âlandur monitored the activity in the camp. His sharp ears picked up snatches of conversation carried to him by the wind, and his sensitive nostrils detected the odor of humans and horses, mixed with smoke from campfires where men and women were roasting meat. Some of the soldiers were preparing for battle, whetting swords, sharpening lances, and dipping arrowheads into animal excrement to ensure that every missile, whether it pierced a heart, grazed a shoulder, or nicked an ankle, had a chance of causing death. A few of the men, desperate to forget their fear of the älfar, were swigging wine, while others lolled drunkenly on their bedrolls.

“Humans,” he said pityingly, putting away his comb. Elves knew better than to waste their strength before a battle, but human soldiers did everything in their power to incapacitate themselves.

Without them, though, the campaign would never succeed. The elves were outnumbered by the älfar, and they didn’t have the means to conquer Dsôn Balsur on their own.

Liútasil knew how much he owed to the humans and his traditional enemies, the dwarves. Before the battle of the Blacksaddle, no one had doubted that Âlandur would fall to the älfar, but now, with the enemy retreating, his kingdom was safe. The last few skirmishes had been rearguard actions on the part of the älfar, summoned to Dsôn Balsur to defend their home.

Sitalia, grant me patience, he prayed. Down below, a group of men were brawling over the last skin of wine. Order was restored when their superior had them beaten into their tents by his guards.

On occasions such as this, Liútasil despaired of his new allies, who had nothing in common with the elves. He sometimes questioned the wisdom of fighting side by side with humans and dwarves, but Sitalia seemed to approve of the alliance. I’ll trust in your will…

He left the wooden platform and swiftly descended the ladder. On reaching the ground, he strode past the rows of canvas toward the purple assembly tent to debrief his scouts.

Seated at the conference table were the military commanders of Gauragar, Tabaîn, Weyurn, Sangpûr, Urgon, and Rân Ribastur. The generals were waiting in silence, sipping tumblers of water served by their guards. Liútasil was thankful that none were drinking wine or brandy.

Three elves in leather armor were standing in a corner of the tent. They were scouts, newly returned from the field. The filth of Dsôn Balsur clung to their boots, and their lightweight armor was torn and bloodied. News of the älfar didn’t come cheap.

Liútasil greeted the generals with a nod and signaled that he was ready. The scouts began their report in elvish and he summarized the intelligence for the men. “Our enemies have withdrawn to the heart of their kingdom. Traps are in place to hinder our advance. The Perished Land has taken root around Dsôn Balsur and the trees are black with malice. Our first challenge is to pass through the forest unharmed.”

“I say we wait,” interrupted the commander of Sangpûr’s army. “The Perished Land is retreating from Girdlegard and the forest may yet recover. A march through whipping branches and twisting trunks would be a disaster for the men’s morale. I can’t put them through it.” The other generals nodded in agreement.

“I understand your concerns,” said Liútasil, sitting down and resting his arms on the table. “But I know the forest in question. The land once belonged to my people, and the trees are too old. Even if the soil recovers, the forest has been drinking the poison for hundreds of cycles, and the evil has blackened its soul. With the defeat of the Perished Land, the forest is dying and turning to stone, but it’s a slow process and we can’t afford to wait. We routed the älfar at the Blacksaddle; we need to attack straightaway.”

His speech met with silence from the generals. Realizing they needed time to consider and reach a decision, Liútasil left them and asked a few final questions of his scouts before entrusting them to the care of a physician, who was waiting to dress their wounds.

He accompanied them outside and stood in the doorway, leaning against a tent pole and gazing at the dark night sky.

Hidden in the stars were the faces of his forebears—wise, brave, clear-sighted elves whom Sitalia had elevated to the firmament to watch over their descendants and send them visions and signs.

Liútasil focused on the face of Fantur, second ruler of Âlandur and brother of Veïnsa, one-time mistress of the Golden Plains. I need your help, he prayed, tracing the invisible lines of the constellation. Tell me how to dissuade them from delaying. He returned to the conference table. “What is your decision?”

“The trees in this forest,” began the commander of Rân Ribastur’s army. “Are they made of ordinary wood?”

Liútasil nodded.

“In that case,” continued the general, “we can burn them. I say we blaze a path to the heart of their kingdom.”

“They’ll know exactly where we are,” objected Liútasil. “We’d be a sitting target for their arrows. We’d lose hundreds and hundreds of—”

The man shrugged. “Who cares if they know where we are? Our army is vastly superior; we’ll show them our strength. If they’re too scared to fight us, we’ll raze their accursed kingdom to the ground. I don’t think anyone will be sorry to see the Perished Land in flames.”

The other generals thumped the table and grunted their support.

Liútasil realized that they were unlikely to be dissuaded from the plan. “Maybe the dwarves will have a better suggestion,” he said lightly. “I’ve sent a party of scouts to meet them, and one of my best elves, Shanamil, is guiding them here as we speak. They’ll be with us in a couple of orbits.”

“Dwarves are fine for tunneling and fighting underground,” said one of the generals. “Palandiell knows they’re brave and their axes are lethal—but they don’t know a thing about fighting in the open. I’m in favor of burning the forest.” He looked at the others. “Who’s with me?” Most of the other generals raised their hands in support.

“Let’s see what the dwarves have to say,” ruled Liútasil, friendly but unyielding. “Go to bed. The new dawn might bring us better counsel.”

The men filed out, leaving Liútasil alone. He untied his red hair, letting it fall freely around his shoulders.

He couldn’t help feeling uneasy about the campaign. Älfar liked to ambush their enemies, killing ruthlessly without exposing themselves to counterattack. Blazing a path through a forest was a dangerous tactic—as the generals would surely discover to their cost.

He picked up the map and calculated the distance from the outskirts of the forest to the capital of Dsôn Balsur—fifty-one miles. In the best-case scenario, they would lose fifty men for every mile. I tried to warn them.

32 Miles Southwest of Dsôn Balsur,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th/6235th Solar Cycle

Trust the long-uns and the pointy-ears to forge ahead without us. They should have waited!” grumbled Gisgurd, looking from Bundror to Gimdur. “It’s not our fault that it’s taken an age to get here. We’d have made it to camp orbits ago if the tunnels hadn’t caved in.”

“I hope you didn’t say pointy-ears,” scolded Bundror with a twinkle in his eye. “We’re one big family, remember.”

Gimdur tore off two large strips of dried mushroom and stuck them together with a morsel of cheese that was melting over the fire. “Since when are we supposed to like our families? My sister and I can’t get on.” He turned to Gisgurd and took a bite of his snack. “You should be grateful they made it to camp before we did,” he said, mumbling through his mouthful. “They’ll have dug their own trenches and saved us some work.”

“Elves can’t dig trenches,” said Bundror scornfully. “They can’t lift their shovels higher than their boots! They’re good on the lute and not bad with their arrows, but when it comes to handling a shovel… And they don’t know a thing about food—not to mention proper beer!”

Gisgurd clapped him on the back. “Too right!” he agreed enthusiastically. “When all’s said and done, they’re elves.” He paused for a moment, hoping Bundror would notice that he had referred to their confederates by their proper name. “I know we’re on the same side, but how are we supposed to trust them? We hated each other for cycles. You can’t just bury the past.”

“No one’s asking you to bury the past, master dwarf,” said a singsong voice from the shadows. “For my part, I’m looking forward to a future of peace and friendship.” A figure stepped out of the darkness toward the three dwarves. The firelight revealed a slender elf, her dark hair blowing in the breeze. “I’m glad it didn’t take long to find you, although next time you camp near Dsôn Balsur you might want to post a few sentries. Your campfire is visible for miles.”

Already Gisgurd, Bundror, and Gimdur were on their feet, axes raised and ready to strike. A shout went up, waking the rest of the unit. Three hundred dwarves prepared to fight.

“The älfar don’t scare us,” Gisgurd said grimly. “We gave them a good thrashing at the Blacksaddle.” He eyed the stranger suspiciously, his distrust deepening when nine others appeared at her side. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“My name is Shanamil, sent by Lord Liútasil to bring you to him. He wants us at the camp by dawn.”

“Nice try,” growled the dwarf. “And my name is Balyndis Steelfinger, sent by Vraccas to forge the mighty blade. Prove you’re telling the truth or I’ll…” He stopped short, realizing that if the stranger was who she said she was, he was likely to cause offense.

Gimdur was only too happy to take over. “You pointy-ears all look the same in the dark. How do we know you’re not an älf?”

She unfastened her necklace and showed them a gold pendant bearing the seal of Lord Liútasil. “I’m his envoy,” she said, throwing the pendant to Gisgurd and taking a seat by the fire. “Kill me if you don’t believe me. I’m sure Lord Liútasil will understand.”

Bundror positioned himself next to Gisgurd and examined the seal. “It’s elven, all right. One of the bowmen at the Blacksaddle was wearing one just like it. A bögnil killed him and tried to make off with his chain—I buried my ax in his back.”

Shanamil inclined her head toward him. “Thank you for avenging my kinsman. Your forebears would have danced on his grave.” Her gray eyes rested on him kindly.

Bundror, convinced of her integrity, lowered his weapons. “I’ll vouch for them,” he whispered to Gisgurd. “They’re elves from Âlandur.”

Gisgurd and Gimdur inspected the maiden’s companions, studying their armor, their weapons, their slender faces, as pure as they were fair. The dwarves relaxed their guard.

“Fine,” said Gisgurd finally. “We’re prepared to believe that Liútasil sent you—but don’t expect us to trust you properly until we’ve seen your eyes in the light. When the sun rises over the plains tomorrow, we’ll know if you’re monsters or elves.”

The elf maiden took the speech with good grace. “You’re right to be wary,” she said calmly. “It would be just like the älfar to trick you into trusting them. A unit of ten älfar could kill three hundred warriors by slitting their throats in the dark.” She motioned for her companions to sit beside her at the fire. “No, I don’t blame you at all. It’s a good thing the älfar won’t be around for much longer—you’ll know who you’re dealing with when you meet an elf at night.” She reached for her drinking flask. “How were you planning to find the allied camp?”

Gisgurd sat down, and Bundror and Gimdur followed suit. “We thought we’d head for the spot where the sun is at its zenith. I think we were roughly on course; it’s not easy finding our bearings on the surface.”

“I’d be lost underground,” she said with a smile that revealed two rows of even white teeth.

Gisgurd felt a deep, almost physical aversion toward her. Her beauty offended his eyes. The elves were created from earth, dew, and sunlight, which explained why he found her abhorrent; sunlight was anathema to the deep-dwelling dwarves. It confirmed his belief that he could never really be friends with one of her kind. But at least the maiden didn’t seem as arrogant as the rest of the elves, an observation that he shared with her candidly.

“I suppose we’re all reviewing our opinions,” she said. She produced a hunk of bread from her bag and started eating. “To be honest, I was expecting a rowdy pack of stinking, drunken groundlings, not a disciplined unit of warriors with a healthy distrust of strangers.” She smiled. “Although I still think a few sentries wouldn’t go amiss.” She tore off another hunk of bread and her companions unpacked their victuals. “Balyndis Steelfinger isn’t your real name, is it?” she asked suddenly, turning to Gisgurd.

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 through 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,

Eastern Border of the Firstling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

Tungdil looked searchingly at the firstling queen. Muffled in warm furs and perched reluctantly on a pony, Xamtys was staring at the snowy peaks of the Red Range. She was looking for a sign, a hint of a threat, evidence of a catastrophe that had occurred in her absence and shrouded the stronghold in silence.

The snow-covered mountains towered into the sky, sometimes vanishing behind the fast-moving cloud. Here and there, a gentle ray of spring sunshine broke through the cloud and caressed the flanks of the mountain, revealing patches of fiery red rock where the snow had melted.

“They’re still here,” said Tungdil. “The mountains are still standing, Your Majesty.”

She turned to face him. “I can’t rejoice until I’ve seen my kinsmen,” she said anxiously. “Remember the state of the tunnels? Who knows what damage has been done to my halls.”

The tunnels to the east of the firstling kingdom had collapsed, hence the reason for traveling overland. It had taken sixty orbits to make the journey on foot. In some places the snow was too deep, in others too soft and sticky. The roads and tracks were covered in slush, and the dwarves and ponies had disappeared up to their knees, which slowed their progress and sapped their strength. Tungdil, Balyndis, and Boïndil were accustomed to the rigors of marching, but the rest of the company had struggled with the difficult terrain.

“It looks too peaceful,” murmured Boïndil, who was marching at Tungdil’s side, having turned down the offer of a pony. “I’m not going to let the mountains trick me into thinking everything is all right.” With a loud splash, his right foot landed in a puddle. Cursing, he pulled it out and wiped it on the grass. “Smooth floors and nice solid ceilings, that’s what I want,” he grumbled.

“We’re nearly there, Boïndil,” said Balyndis, pointing to the mouth of a narrow gully that snaked toward one of the peaks. “See the entrance over there?”

They suddenly became aware of a gray mist that seemed to thicken as they approached, swirling around them until they could barely see. It was almost as if it wanted them to lose their bearings.

Tungdil pictured the six fortified walls that intersected the gully, blocking the entrance and each of its sweeping curves. At the far end of the gully lay the imposing firstling stronghold and its nine soaring towers.

“I can’t see a thing,” he said, disappointed. “I was hoping to see East Ironhald in full…” He tailed off as the mist lifted to reveal a landscape littered with vast slabs of stone. Some were black with soot, others had fractured or crumbled.

Xamtys tugged on the reins, and her pony snorted and stopped. “Vraccas be with us,” she cried, staring at the remains of the defenses. Anyone wishing to enter the gully had once been obliged to scale a wall forty paces high or read the password inscribed on the metal door, which required a good knowledge of dwarfish. Neither the wall nor the door was still standing.

Three paces from the queen’s feet, the ground dropped away, and a yawning black crater filled the path. There was no sign of the cause, but something had evidently hit the ground with tremendous force, crushing the masonry, scorching the rock, and turning the imposing door into an unremarkable scrap of warped metal.

“It’s not possible,” whispered Balyndis. Even the most powerful siege engine, designed by the best dwarven engineer to fell the most monstrous of Tion’s beasts, was incapable of causing damage such as this. “What could have…? Maybe it’s magic. Do you think Nôd’onn somehow…” She suddenly remembered what she and Tungdil had seen on the night of the battle. “The comet!”

Boïndil let out an ear-piercing shriek and charged into the mist, which, it now dawned on them, smelled strongly of scorched earth. Calling his brother’s name, the hot-blooded dwarf dispensed with caution and vanished in the direction of the firstling stronghold, desperate to find his twin.

“Come back!” shouted Xamtys.

Tungdil knew that his friend was in no mood to listen. Fearing that there might be dangers lurking in the fog, he chased after him. Balyndis followed without hesitation.

They relied on their ears to guide them. The sound of Boïndil’s jangling chain mail and the rattling of his helmet echoed noisily through the otherwise silent gully, which made the business of locating him very easy indeed.

But the devastation around them filled them with fear.

The gully was pitted with craters, some the size of wagon wheels, others large enough to accommodate eight ponies side by side. The ground had proven the weaker element in the encounter and some of the indentations were seven paces deep. For the dwarves, it meant lowering themselves into potholes and climbing out the other side. The snow was gone from this part of the mountain, and there was no sign of melt water, just a thin layer of frozen crystals. It was as if the snow had vaporized, leaving a revolting smell.

Hurrying as best they could, Tungdil and Balyndis followed the jangling chain mail, eventually reaching the end of the gully where the stronghold would normally come into view.

They took another few steps and felt snow beneath their boots. Suddenly, the fog lifted to reveal Boïndil, standing at the foot of a mound of recrystallized snow that towered above him, too high and sheer to climb. The mist cleared further, revealing the full extent of the tragedy.

Of the stronghold’s nine towers, only one was visible above the snow. The avalanche had swept away its parapet, but the tower itself was standing.

The other eight towers had disappeared entirely. The twin ramparts and cleverly designed lifts and pulleys lay buried beneath the gray mound of snow—together with the ruins of East Ironhald and, as the three dwarves suspected, the bodies of the dead.

Balyndis peered at the tower, looking for the bridge that led to the stronghold. “It’s gone,” she said tremulously. “The White Death has swallowed the bridge.”

Tungdil was too horrified to speak.

Hooves approached from behind; the rest of the company had arrived. The sight of the ruined stronghold drew curses, cries of horror, and wails of grief from the stricken dwarves.

Xamtys dismounted and walked to the mound. She reached out and thrust her hand into the snow to pull out a battered helmet. The headwear, made of the strongest dwarven metal, evidently hadn’t protected its owner from the weight of the snow.

“Worthy Vraccas, your children have paid dearly for the salvation of Girdlegard,” she said gravely and without a hint of reproach. “Or is this the beginning of a new and unknown threat?” Her brown eyes settled on the surviving tower and tears trickled down her cheeks, rolling through her wispy hair and plumping onto her armored chest. “My tears mark the passing of those who died here. You have my word that nothing will stop me rebuilding my ravaged kingdom. This time the stronghold will be more imposing, more splendid than before, and evil will never triumph against us—not now, not ever, not even if I have to rebuild East Ironhald on my own.” She held the helmet on high. “May the memory of the dead stay with us forever. Long live the children of the Smith!”

“The children of the Smith!” came the shout from a hundred different throats. The words were still echoing when a bugle call replied.

“The side entrance!” Balyndis told Tungdil. “It means they’ll meet us at the side entrance!”

“Which side entrance?” demanded Boïndil with a glint in his eyes that Tungdil knew and feared. The secondling warrior seized Balyndis roughly by the hand. “What are you waiting for? Lead the way!”

Balyndis didn’t usually take orders from Boïndil, or anyone else for that matter, but she had witnessed his temper before. Taking heed of Tungdil’s silent warning, she set off without a murmur, while Boïndil and the others followed close behind.

They picked their way around the edges of the avalanche and came to what looked like a sheer wall.

“It’s in case of a siege—we wanted to be able to attack on the flank,” explained Balyndis. “It’s never been used.”

“Until now,” said Tungdil, watching as cracks appeared in the rock, forming the outlines of a door four paces high and four paces wide. It swung open, revealing a dozen waiting dwarves. Tungdil glanced nervously at Boïndil and prayed that Vraccas had held his protective shield over his twin. Boïndil will finish what the White Death started if Boëndal has come to any harm.

The secondling stepped forward. “Where’s my brother?” he demanded. Naturally, the firstlings were more interested in welcoming their queen and took a moment to respond. Ireheart grabbed the nearest sentry by the collar and shook him roughly. “Where’s Boëndal?” he roared, tightening his grip until the sentry’s face went purple.

Tungdil laid a hand on Ireheart’s arm. “You’ll hurt him!”

“Boëndal?” gasped the poor sentry. “He’s in bed. We dug him out of the snow, but…”

“But what?” asked Boïndil sharply, letting go of his jerkin. “For the sake of Vraccas, speak clearly.”

“We can’t wake him. His skin feels like ice and it’s a wonder that his heart is still beating. It might stop at any moment,” said the firstling, backing away quickly until he was out of the warrior’s reach.

Boïndil’s eyebrows formed an angry black line. “Where is he?” he asked.

In the interests of averting an incident, Xamtys overlooked his rude behavior and ordered one of the firstlings to show him to his brother’s bed. Tungdil and Balyndis followed, while the queen stayed behind to quiz the guards.

The party of four dwarves strode through plain-walled corridors connecting the side entrance to the stronghold proper. The design was entirely functional—unlike the secondlings, the firstlings took little interest in fancy masonry and left the walls of little-used tunnels unadorned, preferring to focus their efforts on metalworking.

“The damage was devastating,” said the guard when they asked about the quake. “We think the falling star was to blame. It came from the east, raining burning boulders from its tail. Most of our fortifications were razed to the ground—then the White Death came and swallowed the rest.”

“How many were killed?” asked Balyndis. “What about the Steel Fingers?”

“They’re fine, I think, but we haven’t heard anything from the clans on the western border, closest to where the comet fell.” The firstling led them to a wooden platform connected to a pulley system. They got on, and the lift shot up, whizzing past hundreds of steps before stopping to let them out in the eastern halls of the kingdom. “I’m just pleased that our queen has returned. Four hundred of our kinsmen lost their lives in the disaster, but Xamtys will give us the strength to carry on.”

They saw straightaway that the dwarf’s description of the damage was no exaggeration. The passageways were riven with cracks, some no wider than a whisker, others big enough for Tungdil to slot his fingers inside. He noticed that the metal bridges, sturdy enough to carry hundreds of dwarves across rivers and chasms, had buckled in places.

“We lost one hall entirely and the ceiling in the throne room is sagging,” said the sentry. “It nearly buried our precious sculptures and statues. It was terrible.”

They ascended a staircase and reached the chamber where they had left the wounded Boëndal many orbits earlier on their way to the Dragon Fire furnace. He was lying in much the same position, swaddled in blankets, in a marble bed with a thick mattress.

Boïndil threw himself on his brother and flung his arms around him. He lowered his ear to his chest and listened to his heart. “He’s cold as a fish,” he said softly. “Anyone would think he was…” He tailed off and a smile spread across his careworn face. “A heartbeat! A good, strong heartbeat!” His joy evaporated. “Nothing again…”

“It’s what I was trying to explain,” whispered the firstling. “We think his blood might be frozen. His poor heart is pumping ice through his veins.”

A firstling appeared at the door with a tray. “He wasn’t the only one we found in the snow, but the others weren’t so lucky.” She put down a pot of steaming tea by the bed.

“Lucky?” said Tungdil, shaking his head. “He’s barely alive.”

“Some of our kinsmen looked like they’d been flattened by a giant hammer when we pulled their poor, crushed bodies from the snow. The rest died from lack of air. Boëndal survived, which goes to show that Vraccas wanted him to live.”

She stood at Boëndal’s bedside, decanted the piping hot tea into a leather drinking pouch, and raised it to his half-open lips. Boïndil stopped her and laid a muscular hand on the pouch. “What are you giving him?”

“A herbal infusion. It will thaw his insides,” she said. She went to raise the pouch, but Boïndil tightened his grip.

“An infusion? A tankard of warm beer will thaw his insides faster than a bunch of herbs.”

“No,” she said firmly. “The herbs have a medicinal effect, especially in combination with hot water.”

“Wouldn’t it be more effective to give him a bath?” threw in Tungdil. He had read about methods for treating hypothermia in one of Lot-Ionan’s books. The author was principally concerned with reviving humans who had fallen into lakes, but there was no reason why the remedy wouldn’t work on a dwarf.

“An excellent suggestion,” she said brusquely. “But I’m afraid we tried it and it didn’t work.” She snatched the pouch away from Boïndil. “You’re a warrior and I’m a physician. You do your job, and I’ll do mine. I wouldn’t dream of telling you how to use an ax.” Boïndil complied begrudgingly, but refused to leave his brother’s side.

“I scoured our archives, and the infusion is our only hope. Nothing else will work.”

Tungdil knew that she was holding something back. “Is there something we can try?” he probed. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. I owe my life to Boëndal.”

The firstling looked away. “It’s a legend, nothing more.”

“Listen to me,” shouted Boïndil, as if he were interrogating a spy. “By the beard of Vraccas, I’ll do anything—anything—to rekindle my brother’s furnace and make his spirit burn as brightly as before.” The glint in his dark brown eyes testified to his determination to make his brother well.

“The oldest records in our archives were chiseled by the ancients on tablets of stone. They’re thousands of cycles old,” said the firstling. “According to one of the tablets, it’s possible to fire up the soul of a frozen dwarf by kindling the embers of his furnace with white-hot sparks.”

“What do you think it means?” asked Balyndis. “Surely you can’t use real fire to warm a soul?” She turned to Tungdil. “Do you think we should cut him open and put sparks in his heart?”

“The wound would kill him,” said Tungdil. The legend reminded him of something, but he couldn’t quite make the connection.

“Trust a blacksmith to come up with a stupid idea like that,” growled Boïndil. “We can’t feed him with fire or put lava into his veins.”

The firstling glared at him. “For your information, the tablets came from Giselbert’s folk. I’ve told you what I know, and besides, it’s just a legend.”

“Dwarven legends are usually true,” said Balyndis, who wasn’t prepared to give up on the idea, no matter how unlikely it sounded. “So you’ve tried warm baths and hot drinks. How else can you warm his blood?”

The firstling stared at the floor. “I can’t. All I can do is keep giving him the infusion and praying to Vraccas to make him well.”

“Can’t?” Boïndil was so incensed by the plight of his frozen twin that his fiery spirit was burning out of control. “Isn’t there any proper medicine in this joke of a kingdom?”

“Dragon Fire!” broke in Tungdil, who had finally worked out the connection between the legend and its provenance. “A white-hot spark! It’s a reference to the fieriest furnace in Girdlegard!” He saw his friends’ puzzled faces. “I think the Dragon Fire furnace might be able to help. It was lit by the mighty Branbausìl, remember?”

Neither he nor Balyndis would ever forget the power of the furnace: In all their experience of the smithy, they had never encountered such tremendous heat. The white-hot flames of Dragon Fire were powerful enough to melt any metal, from pure white palandium, made by Palandiell, to the black element of tionium, created by Tion, and the red metal of vraccasium, element of the dwarves.

“That’s all very well,” said the physician, “but how would it work?” She put down the pouch and laid a hand on her patient’s forehead. “We’d need proper instructions.”

Tungdil looked at the secondling’s rigid body. “The key to the legend lies in the fifthling kingdom. My friends and I are going there anyway, and we’ll take Boëndal with us.” He turned to the physician. “You’ve done everything you can for him, but he won’t get better here.” After a short silence, he went over to Boïndil. “I’m not giving up on him,” he said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Vraccas cured him of the arrow wounds and rescued him from the avalanche, and now it’s our task to wake him from his sleep. You mark my words: The Dragon Fire furnace holds the answer, and I’ll scour the fifthlings’ archives to find out how. The old Boëndal will be back before you know it.”

Boïndil took his hand and squeezed it gratefully. “We’re lucky to have a scholarly friend like you.” He loosened his grip and stroked his brother’s cheek. Then he fetched a stool and settled down to wait.

“You should get some rest,” said Tungdil, following Balyndis out of the room.

“So should you,” she said firmly. She asked the physician to fetch some provisions for Boïndil and make sure he had somewhere to sleep. “Come on,” she said to Tungdil. “Let’s get some food and go to bed.”

“Not until we’ve spoken to Xamtys.”

Balyndis’s plaits whirled around in circles as she shook her head vigorously. “The queen will send for us when she needs us. Her advisors will be briefing her on the damage to the stronghold and it won’t be long before she retires to bed. The rest can wait till the morning.” She pulled him through the corridors to her chamber.

It was the first time that he had seen her quarters in the firstling kingdom. Someone had obviously taken care of the cleaning in her absence because the chamber was neat and tidy. Balyndis took a couple of blankets from the closet and laid them over the bed.

Then they kneeled in front of the shrine that Balyndis had erected in Vraccas’s honor in the corner of her room. After praying to the Smith on Boëndal’s behalf, they took off their heavy mail shirts, undressed to their undergarments, and lay down in bed.

Balyndis looked at Tungdil, her eyes filled with love. He gazed back at her tenderly, returning her unspoken affection with a kiss on the lips.

“They’re talking about us, you know,” she said with a tired smile.

“No wonder—we’re famous.”

She burst out laughing. “Not because of that. They’re talking about us because we don’t hide our love.” She realized from his expression that he didn’t understand. “I think the twins may have forgotten a couple of things when they were teaching you to be a dwarf. Our union hasn’t been sanctioned, Tungdil. We’re not supposed to show affection for one another until we’ve been melded. Any word or gesture that oversteps the bounds of friendship is a violation of our mores. Strictly, you shouldn’t be here at all.”

He grinned at her. “It’s all right, Balyndis, the rules are different for heroes. Besides, it won’t be long until we’re joined by the iron band.”

Balyndis wasn’t the least reassured. “Even heroes are bound by our mores. It’s a serious matter, and that’s why my kinsfolk are talking. Besides, no one shows affection in public—it isn’t the dwarven way.”

“I don’t remember the twins saying anything about that,” said Tungdil, nestling closer. “Let them gossip, if they want to; we’ll soon be melded.”

They snuggled up to each other and fell asleep.

It was exactly as Balyndis had predicted.

Queen Xamtys II allowed them to sleep off their tiredness and sent word that she expected them in the throne room in the course of the following orbit.

In the meantime, they took the opportunity to have a long bath—in separate bathtubs because they hadn’t been melded. Tungdil didn’t care if his kinsfolk gossiped about them, but he tried not to cause a scandal for Balyndis’s sake.

Later, she cooked for him and, in the course of conversation, it came out that she had almost been melded to someone else. Her clan had picked a partner for her, but the poor dwarf had fallen in battle before they could forge the iron band. It was lucky for Tungdil because a dwarven union was permanent unless both parties agreed to break the band, which, as far as Balyndis could remember, had never happened in the history of the dwarves.

“And then you turned up and stole my heart,” she said, turning her attention to the stove. After orbits of dried food, she couldn’t wait to have a proper dwarven meal. Soon their plates were piled high with steaming potatoes in mushroom ragout. Fried fudi-fungi slices and cranberry compote were served on the side. After a while Balyndis noticed that Tungdil had hardly touched his food. “Isn’t it spicy enough?”

“It tastes delicious,” he said quickly, “but I’m not accustomed to dwarven food.” He glanced round the kitchen. “I was thinking of adding a pinch of that cheese.”

She glared at him in disbelief. “You mean the stinking cheese that the twins always eat? It tastes as bad as it smells!”

“I like it,” he said, offended that she was sneering at the one dwarven victual that he actually liked. He headed off an argument by changing the subject. “So your clansfolk don’t know that we’re…”

“No. How was I supposed to tell them? I’ll talk to them when I see them.”

He scratched his beard. “You don’t think they’ll mind?” Tungdil, who had been living quite happily in ignorance of dwarven sensitivities, saw himself up against all kinds of awkward rules.

“That’s another matter,” she conceded, helping herself to a potato. “Maidens aren’t supposed to choose their partners. Widows are allowed to, but I’m only half a widow at best.”

Tungdil took another serving of mushroom ragout to show that he appreciated Balyndis’s food. A horrible thought had occurred to him, and he simply had to ask. “What if your clansfolk refuse?”

Balyndis put down her spoon and reached for his hand. “Listen to me, Tungdil: I’m coming with you to the Gray Range, whatever they say.” She looked at him gravely. “But we can’t be melded if my clansfolk won’t allow it. I can’t disgrace the good name of my clan.”

“But if we can’t be melded…?”

“I’d still be your friend.”

Tungdil stopped chewing and gasped, nearly choking on his mushroom. Why didn’t anyone warn me that dwarven mores are so complicated?

He imagined what it would be like to see Balyndis every orbit and never come close to her again. Their kinsfolk would frown at them for holding hands like they were doing now.

A brisk handshake, a formal embrace—that was the most he could hope for. She would never again press her lips against his. His heart wept at the thought that another dwarf could take his place and enjoy the rights that went with the iron band. It would be agony.

He was so distressed that he stopped worrying about Boëndal, all thought of the Gray Range and the orcs at the Stone Gateway forgotten. He finished the ragout in silence.

“What’s the matter?” asked Balyndis, squeezing his hands. “Have I spoiled things? I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He raised his eyes from his plate. The sight of Balyndis was so comforting that his mood brightened like the morning sun. “It’s all right,” he told her. “We’ll be a wonderful couple. Just think, we’ll have lots of lovely children and they’ll all be splendid smiths.” He kissed the back of her hand and she ruffled his hair. The bad dream was over.

Some time later, a steward knocked at the door and escorted them to the throne room. They passed through the imposing doorway and entered the octagonal hall, the walls of which shimmered warmly with beaten gold.

The quake had shown little respect for the time-honored room, and great cracks had opened in the ceiling, proving that solid rock was no defense against the force of a speeding comet.

Tungdil didn’t take long to spot the new columns, added for purely structural reasons. The firstling masons had done their best to match them to the rest of the room, adorning them with intricate carvings inlaid with gold, silver, vraccasium, and other precious metals, but for all their efforts, it was obvious that the pillars were a late addition. Glancing up, Tungdil noticed that the majestic mosaics had been damaged and several tiles had fallen to the floor.

“There’s a lot to be done,” said Xamtys, noticing their glances. She greeted them from her metal throne.

Tungdil and Balyndis inclined their heads, but the queen held up a hand before they could kneel before her throne. “Let’s dispense with formality. We’ve got business to attend to.” She paused for a moment while a steward brought stools for her guests to be seated. “Tungdil, I think you should leave for the Gray Range right away. Girdlegard won’t be safe until you’ve closed the Stone Gateway. We need you and as many of our kinsfolk as possible guarding the Northern Pass. On top of that, there’s the quake damage to consider. If the fifthling stronghold was hit half as badly as we were, you’ll have to work flat out to rebuild it. We know the orcs vandalized the fortifications; the quake may have flattened them completely.”

“I was thinking the same,” he said. “But you’ll need every pair of hands to repair the firstling halls. Why not send your volunteers later, when the work has been done?”

She considered him intently. The golden rings of her mail shirt shimmered in the light of the braziers, bathing her plump face in light. Her expression was serious. “Your generosity does you credit, Tungdil, but your new compatriots should leave at once. It’s in Girdlegard’s interest that they go.” She turned to Balyndis. “The Steel Fingers arrived bearing news from the western border of the kingdom. The falling star continued its trajectory and crashed to earth on the far side of the range to the west. Since then, flames have been sighted every night on the horizon. According to the guardians of the Red Gateway, it looks as though a fire is raging throughout the Outer Lands.” She looked from Tungdil to Balyndis. “I’ve sent word to the elves and men. Andôkai should hear the news within the next few orbits. It’s a pity we can’t tell them more.”

Tungdil was busy trying to work out whether there was any connection between what the sentries had seen and Nôd’onn’s warning of a threat from the west. The magus, insistent that Girdlegard was in danger, had pleaded with Andôkai to spare his life. “I dread to think what happened when the star crashed to earth,” said Tungdil, remembering the craters formed by falling debris from the comet’s tail. “The damage was bad enough here, but the impact of a rock of that size… Surely nothing could survive.”

“Do you think the fire is connected with Nôd’onn’s warning?” asked Balyndis, catching on.

Tungdil shrugged. “Somehow it doesn’t seem likely. No good ever came of fretting, although I dare say we’ll fret anyway—there won’t be much else to distract us on the long march ahead.” He thought for a moment. “Your Majesty, perhaps you could propose a council of the most learned minds in Girdlegard,” he suggested. “Together, we stand a better chance of finding a solution.” He smiled. “Why shouldn’t a dwarven queen be the first to remind the other rulers of the newly pledged solidarity between dwarves, elves, and men? Your Majesty would have the honor of leading an initiative devoted wholly to the common good.”

Xamtys returned his smile. “Wise words from our scholar. Giselbert chose the right dwarf to rebuild his kingdom.” She turned to Balyndis. “You’re free to go—the Steel Fingers are impatient to see you.”

They bowed respectfully and hurried into the corridor where Balyndis’s clansfolk were waiting.

Tungdil appraised the delegation of dwarves. The women among them, four in total, were dressed in traditional brown leather bodices and woolen skirts. Some of their male companions wore heavy chain mail and had weapons in their belts. They were warriors in the firstling army, proud to be chosen by Vraccas to fight for their folk. Although Tungdil was standing right in front of them, they acted as if he weren’t there.

Balyndis threw herself on the tallest, stateliest warrior and hugged him tight.

“Ah, my intrepid daughter,” he greeted her, laughing heartily. He laid his hands on her face. “I hear you fought the hordes at the Blacksaddle! Thanks be to Vraccas that you’re safe.”

Although he and Balyndis were thrilled to see each other, their reunion was dignified and restrained. Tungdil had been half expecting them to jump up and down with elation, but dwarves didn’t go in for the effusiveness common among humankind. Besides, there was no need for it; the affection between father and daughter was evident in their smiling faces and shining eyes.

“How are the others?” asked Balyndis. Her expression darkened. “I heard the comet…”

“Missed us entirely!” said her father. “Vraccas was merciful and diverted the falling debris away from our halls. Boulders landed either side of us, and a few of our chambers were damaged by the quake, but everyone’s safe. We’re looking forward to hearing about your adventures—but first there’s some more good news.”

“More good news? And I was so worried about you!” exclaimed Balyndis, making her way through the ranks of the Steel Fingers and greeting each in turn. At last she signaled for Tungdil to join her. “Father, this is Tungdil Goldhand. He led the expedition to forge Keenfire and kill the dark magus.” She squeezed his arm. “He’s a good friend and, with your consent, we’d like to be melded.”

Tungdil held out his hand to the warrior and met his steely gaze. “My name is Tungdil Goldhand—of what clan, I cannot say, but I’m a child of the Smith and a—”

“You’re of Lorimbur’s line,” said the warrior, cutting him short. He ignored Tungdil’s outstretched hand. “Bulingar Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers, child of the Smith and warrior of Borengar,” he introduced himself. “No daughter of mine will ever be melded to a dwarf whose founding father swore eternal vengeance on the other folks. I know you fought valiantly at the Blacksaddle, but you’re a thirdling, and that’s all there is to it as far as I’m concerned.”

Tungdil would rather have been beaten over the head with a cudgel, stabbed through the heart, or pushed into a chasm than suffer the harshness of Bulingar’s words. His vision of a shared future with Balyndis shattered into a thousand jagged shards, leaving him with a gut-wrenching feeling of emptiness.

“Believe me, I’ve never wanted to kill another dwarf,” he said, hoping to change the firstling’s mind. “All my life, I’ve longed to—”

“All your life?” interrupted Balyndis’s father. “A dwarf of sixty cycles is practically a child! How would you know if you wanted to kill us? You were found by a magus and brought up by men. It stands to reason that you didn’t hate us in Ionandar, but after a few cycles in a dwarven kingdom, your true disposition will come to the fore. What if the golden warrior is made of gilded tin?”

Balyndis’s eyes flashed angrily. “Don’t his actions count for anything?” she protested, struggling to control her temper. “A dwarf intent on destroying our kinsfolk wouldn’t risk everything to save the dwarven kingdoms. It doesn’t make—”

“Silence!” thundered Bulingar. “There’s nothing to discuss! You won’t be getting melded to Tungdil because we’ve found someone else.”

Balyndis took a step back. Her cheeks, which seconds ago had been filled with color, turned a sickly white. “Someone else?” she stammered, turning to Tungdil and begging him silently to forgive her for what would surely follow.

“Cheer up, child,” said a skirted personage whom Tungdil guessed was Balyndis’s aunt. “We know you were upset about not getting melded, so we found you a worthy suitor. Most dwarves aren’t good enough for our Balyndis, but we found one in the end.”

She clapped her hands and a figure stepped out of a side passage. The warrior was everything that a dwarven hero should be: tall, powerfully built, with a thick black beard, and finely crafted armor.

Tungdil, gazing at the mail shirt in wonder, decided that he was looking at Borengar’s second-best smith. No, he prayed, hoping that the warrior would decide to walk away. He clenched his fists.

The other paid no attention to Tungdil’s silent pleading. Solemnly, he turned to Balyndis. “My name is Glaïmbar Sharpax of the clan of the Iron Beaters, a child of your folk.” He pointed to his armor. “I’m a smith as well as a warrior, and this,” he held out his hand and offered Balyndis a beautiful gold ring inlaid with gleaming vraccasium, “I made for you. It’s an honor to be considered worthy of a Steel Finger; I won’t let your clansfolk down.”

Tungdil didn’t know whether to shriek or weep. His instinct and reason were pulling in different directions, the one telling him to challenge the rival, the other warning that fighting Glaïmbar would upset Balyndis and prove her father right. He didn’t want to be classed as a dwarf hater, after all. While his mind continued to chafe against his fate, his heart was weeping and his soul was lamenting his loss.

She won’t turn him down; she can’t. Defying the wishes of the clan was as heretical as breaking Vraccas’s laws. In dwarven society, clan was second only to family. Deep down, Tungdil knew this, but he refused to give up hope.

If the situation had been reversed, he would have rejected the unwelcome suitor and turned his back on the clan.

It was different for Balyndis. She had grown up in a dwarven kingdom, surrounded by family, clan, and folk. These were the dwarves who had fed, protected, and trained her in warfare and metalwork for thirty-five cycles—and she was expected to defer to their desires. If Balyndis neglected her duty and followed her heart, her family would disown her, and she would be a dwarf without clansfolk, a pebble banished from the flanks of the mountain, lonely and forlorn.

Balyndis turned to face him. Tears trickled down her cheeks, collecting on her chin and merging into a single, diamond-like droplet. “My heart belongs to you,” she mouthed before turning to Glaïmbar and accepting his gift with trembling hands. With that it was settled: Balyndis and Glaïmbar would forge the iron band.

“It’s time you were melded,” her father told her, visibly relieved. “The future of the Steel Fingers is safe in your hands. You’re young and strong, and you’ll have plenty of children. And you, Glaïmbar Sharpax of the clan of the Iron Beaters, you’re a fine addition to our clan. Our elders will be delighted to hear my daughter’s decision.” He stood between them and laid a hand on their backs, propelling them down the corridor away from Tungdil. “Come, let’s eat together and make plans for the biggest celebration in history. The bride is a heroine, after all.”

The Steel Fingers lined up on both sides of the corridor to let the trio pass. Balyndis turned around to look at Tungdil, but one of her clansfolk stepped between them, his helmet blocking their view. The others joined the back of the procession, and Balyndis was lost among the crowd. A moment later, the Steel Fingers rounded a corner, their jangling mail and stomping boots fading away.

Tungdil stared after them, feet welded to the ground. He tried calling himself to order, but his thoughts were spinning in all directions, hopelessly out of control.

Incapable of formulating a single clear idea, he took the only course of action left to him and wandered aimlessly through the passageways of the firstling kingdom, blind to the beautiful friezes and inscriptions on the walls. Mind in a fever, he crossed suspension bridges and wandered through grottos, stumbling from hall to hall, not knowing or caring where he was or whom he encountered on the way; all he could see was Balyndis’s face. After a while he lost all sense of time.

At last, he came to rest in a dimly lit cavern and pressed his sweat-drenched forehead to the floor. Droplets splashed from the ceiling, calling the name of his beloved as they dropped to the ground. In the distance, a pickax was hammering against the rock, and the noise joined the chorus of droplets. Every sound that came to his ears seemed to echo with her name.

No, he whimpered, closing his eyes and curling into a ball. Leave me alone.

But the noises persisted until tiredness overcame him, numbing his tormented mind. Before he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, he had a vision of Bulingar and Glaïmbar looming over him, and hatred and anger took hold of his heart.

Porista,

Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

Surely he can’t have destroyed all Girdlegard’s famuli? thought Andôkai as she made her way through the sunlit arcades of the palace in Porista. Sighing, she remembered how Nôd’onn had rooted out his rivals’ apprentices, killing them with his magic or putting them to the sword.

In place of her customary leather armor she wore a close-fitting dress of crimson cloth. The skirt was slit at the sides and the low neck emphasized her figure, lending her a femininity absent from her angular face.

For orbits she had been focusing her energies on finding apprentices to school in the art of magic. Nôd’onn can’t have killed them all. Her legs, clad in soft suede boots, strode purposefully over the beautiful mosaic floor. The last of the sun’s rays filtered through the vaulted glass roof, illuminating the passageway and causing the white marble columns to shine like beacons.

She reached the base of the second-highest tower and descended the steps to the vaults, where the flow of energy was strongest. Located at the heart of Girdlegard, the former realm of Lios Nudin was the source of the force fields, a wellspring of magic energy supplying the other enchanted realms.

Andôkai sat on the floor of the carpeted room. She turned her focus inward and felt for the invisible force, sensing at once how the energy had been changed. Nôd’onn, drawing on knowledge given to him by the Perished Land, had contaminated the force fields, making them dangerous for other wizards to use.

Andôkai was an exception. Her chosen deity was Samusin, god of equilibrium, champion of darkness and light. She was a conduit for good—but also for forces commonly described as evil, which was why she could channel the tainted energy without succumbing to the poison. A practitioner of white magic would not be so lucky.

Senses keyed, she checked for signs that the force fields were recovering, but even with Nôd’onn dead and the Perished Land defeated, the magic energy flowing from Porista was under the magus’s spell.

She rose to her feet. How long will it take the force fields to cleanse themselves of Nôd’onn’s evil? A hundred cycles or even a thousand? If they ever recover at all…

She ascended the stairs, left the palace through the main doors and came to a halt on the steps leading down to the courtyard.

The sun was resting on the horizon, creating a shimmering tableau of color, cloud, and light. The warmth of the sunset reached as far as Porista, steeping the palace in its reddish glow and transforming the sable turrets to vibrant amber. Andôkai felt the breeze and smelled the aroma of freshly turned soil. Birds were soaring and dipping in pursuit of buzzing insects. It looked the picture of harmony and order.

Andôkai was reminded of past occasions when she and the other magi had lingered on the palace steps, waiting for the sun to set and knowing that it would rise again in a blaze of light to announce the new dawn.

While she had little doubt that the sun would continue to put on its twice-daily spectacle, she was beginning to wonder whether she would be the last maga in Girdlegard to admire the fiery orb.

For two thousand cycles the council of the magi had met in Porista, but Nôd’onn had turned his palace into a slaughterhouse, sending four of Girdlegard’s magi to their deaths, killing their famuli, and destroying the magic girdle. Andôkai had barely escaped with her life.

Now, with Nôd’onn defeated, she had returned to the palace, the only building untouched by the inferno that had raged through Porista.

Andôkai had little affection for the city where her colleagues had met their deaths, but she had elected to live there for one simple reason: It was the best place to instruct apprentices in the magic arts.

She surveyed the ruined houses and rubble beyond the palace walls. Little remained of the eight thousand dwellings that had once stood proudly on Lios Nudin’s plains. Faced with an army of revenants, Prince Mallen had razed the city to the ground.

On hearing of Nôd’onn’s death, the first brave souls had returned to the city, and more had followed, reassured by the sight of Andôkai’s pennants flying from the flagpoles. Porista had a new mistress, who through no desire of her own, had come to preside over six enchanted realms.

Looking up, she gazed at the ever-darkening sky, watching her pennants rippling on the breeze. Samusin, god of equilibrium, master of winds, I need apprentices. Send me famuli, old or young, with the ability to learn. If the danger is as great as Nôd’onn foretold, I won’t be strong enough to combat it on my own.