The weather was treating him kindly. The sun shone benevolently from the sky, a light wind kept him pleasantly cool, and on the few occasions when the warmth threatened to overwhelm him, he retreated to the shade of a tree and waited for the midday heat to pass. His legs were much stronger now than at the start of his journey and he was barely aware of the weight of his mail. The walk was doing him good.
The landscape of Lios Nudin made little impression on the dwarf. It was mainly flat with a few rolling hills, referred to locally as “highlands.” For the most part, fields and meadows stretched as far as the eye could see, dotted with grazing cows and vast numbers of sheep, herded by attentive dogs. Woodland was rare and tended to be sparse, although the trees were of a venerable age. Having succeeded in taking root, they had every intention of standing their ground.
With the exception of Porista, which lay a considerable distance to the north of his route, there were few settlements of note in Lios Nudin, Lamtasar and Seinach being the largest with thirty thousand inhabitants apiece.
However, the proliferation of smaller villages and hamlets made it easy for Tungdil to find work as a smith and he offered his services in return for extra rations of cured meat, bread, and cheese. It was no good asking ordinary country folk to pay him in gold.
For four orbits he had been following the same road on a westerly bearing toward the border, where he would cross back into Gauragar and take a diagonal path northward to Greenglade.
With any luck Gorén won’t have quarreled with his elven mistress and moved away. In his gloomiest moments Tungdil envisaged himself traipsing after Lot-Ionan’s famulus forever, doomed to carry the blasted artifacts until he died. At least the journey was furnishing him with plenty of new experiences and even life on the surface no longer seemed quite such a trial.
Weeks had passed since the attack on Goodwater and the memory of the violence was fading, allowing him to take pleasure in his surroundings. He savored the different smells of the countryside and chatted to the peasants, reveling in their stories and their curious accents and dialects. Girdlegard dazzled him with her infinite variety.
At times he felt lonely and longed for the comfort of Lot-Ionan’s vaults, where everything was reassuringly familiar. Nothing made him feel safer than narrow passageways and low ceilings and he missed his books and his chats with junior apprentices. Most of all, though, he missed Sunja and Frala, whose scarf was still tied to his belt.
Yet deep down he also nourished the hope that his kinsfolk, intrigued by the news of an abandoned dwarf, had sent word to Lot-Ionan and requested to see him. Every orbit he prayed to Vraccas that the magus’s letter wouldn’t be ignored.
It was afternoon when he noticed that the landscape was becoming more wooded. The gaps between the trunks diminished until at last he was in an airy sunlit wood. This was the beginning of the Eternal Forest and he had almost reached his goal.
On consulting his map, he found he was fifty miles west of Lios Nudin and a hundred miles southwest of the Perished Land — safe enough, in other words. It would take a real stroke of bad luck to meet orcs in these parts.
A branch snapped loudly.
Tungdil’s recent exposure to country noises persuaded him that the sound was more than just a cracking twig. A creature of sizable proportions was lurking in the wood. Reaching for the haft of his ax, he peered in the direction of the noise.
Another branch snapped.
“Who goes there?”
The shouted question startled the stag that had been nosing among the trees for the lushest grass. Its white rump bobbed up and down, then vanished from view.
Tungdil shook his head at himself. What did you expect it to be? he chuckled. As he wandered through the forest, a sense of calm and serenity settled over him. There was something incredibly peaceful about the trees and it rubbed off on his mood. Even the birdsong was fresher and more joyful, the forest-dwellers greeting him like an old friend whose visit was long overdue.
The dusty road gave way to a grass track that meandered through the woods like a green ribbon unfurled by nature. Every step felt luxuriously soft and springy and even the hot sun, which had reached an oppressive intensity in recent orbits, seemed pleasant beneath the dappled leaves. A light breeze chased away the muggy summer air and Tungdil felt he could walk forever.
Soon he became accustomed to the sounds of the glade and the rustling and crackling became more frequent. Deer and wild boar tore through the undergrowth at his approach. There were animals everywhere, and like him, they seemed to sense the peacefulness of the forest and feel at home there.
I won’t get too friendly with the elf maiden until I’ve learned more about her, he decided. His race and hers were sworn enemies, but Tungdil saw no sense in hating someone who had done him no harm. I’ll see how she treats me first.
A branch snapped again. Judging by the racket, the culprit was a fair-sized animal, most probably a stag. Tungdil peered ahead, hoping to glimpse its magnificent antlers.
Another branch broke, twigs snapped, and a voice cursed — in orcish.
The harmony of the forest shattered like a bauble beneath a blacksmith’s hammer. Orcs spilled out of the bushes and Tungdil, who moments earlier had been basking in a sense of security, was confronted with the prospect of being eaten alive. A penetrating odor of sweat and rancid fat filled the air.
The first beast, a particularly hideous specimen, stepped onto the path. He was armed to the teeth and nearly twice the height of Tungdil.
“Bloody greenery. We’d move faster if we burned the blasted forest down.” The orc snatched furiously at a twig that had wedged itself in his armor. He still hadn’t seen the dwarf.
The troopers who followed him out of the bushes were more observant. “Hey, Frushgnarr, take a look at that!”
The square-jawed head whipped round. Two small deep-set eyes glared at Tungdil as the orc opened his wide mouth in a blood-curdling shout: “A groundling!” He drew his toothed sword. “I love groundlings!”
“If only the sentiment was mutual.” The dwarf strained to see past him and paled. The orcs were still coming, pouring out of the woods. At thirty he stopped counting. There was no hope of evading them this time. Like a true child of the Smith, he would go down fighting and take an orc with him. He would have liked to prove his credentials before he met his Maker, but at least Vraccas would know that his intentions were sound. “Now you’re here, I’ll have to kill you.”
“You and whose army?” the orc jeered.
Tungdil lowered his bags. It was maddening to know that he had come so close to completing his mission, but he drew unexpected courage from his frustration.
“Army? I don’t need an army when I’ve got my ax!” His inborn hatred of the beasts, common to all dwarves, was awakened by the foul creatures’ odor. An image of Good-water, houses burning and villagers slaughtered, flashed before his eyes. The bookish part of his brain shut down and he threw himself, shrieking, upon the nearest orc.
The beast parried his blow with a shield. “Are you sure you don’t need an army?” he grunted scornfully. Snarling, he took a step forward and lunged.
The dwarf retreated hastily and backed into a tree. At the last second he ducked, the sword whistling past him, almost grazing his head. It buried itself in the bark.
On seeing the orc’s sturdy thigh in front of him, Tungdil swung his ax toward the unprotected flesh. “Take that!” Dark green blood gushed from the wound, streaming down the beast’s shin.
Abandoning his sword in the tree, the orc reached for his dagger to stab the dwarf instead. Tungdil’s mail stopped the blade from penetrating, but the impact sent him reeling. Fighting to stay upright, he tripped over his bags and fell.
“So much for your ax, groundling! Prepare to die!” The orc hurled the dagger at him but missed.
Tungdil, who had succeeded in tangling himself in the straps of his bags, was still trying to free himself when his opponent decided to retrieve his sword, w
renching it out of the tree.
The beast limped toward him, snorting with rage and brandishing his blade. It hurtled through the air.
As the dwarf dove to one side, the bag of artifacts jerked after him, landing on his back just as the blade made contact.
The famulus’s precious possessions absorbed the blow, but the splintering and jangling left Tungdil in no doubt that the artifacts had paid dearly for saving his life. Who knows if they’ll ever get to Greenglade? His fury redoubled.
“I’m not done yet!” Rolling onto his front, he used his momentum to plant his ax in the orc’s right thigh, almost severing his leg.
The beast yelped and fell to the ground beside the dwarf. Tungdil rolled away from him, sprang to his feet, and drove his ax into the creature’s throat. He heard the bone crack. “Who says I need an army?” he panted. For the first time in his life he had slain a beast of Tion. He hoped to goodness that Vraccas would be satisfied since it was likely to be his last.
The band of thirty or so orcs stormed toward him. He knew there was no chance of him surviving the attack.
If I’m going down, one of you is coming with me. Tungdil squared his shoulders and tightened his grip on the ax. He could imagine how the fifthlings had felt when the northern hordes had assailed the Stone Gateway. There was nothing for it but to follow their example and die an honorable death.
The lead orc was only ten paces away when a bright, defiant bugle sounded close by. He heard clattering armor and a peal of colliding blades; then shouts went up as dying orcs tumbled to the ground. To Tungdil’s astonishment, reinforcements had arrived. He was too grateful to worry about who they were.
“The groundling has friends,” roared the chief of the band. “Bring me their flesh!” The green-hided beasts turned away from Tungdil to confront the enemy that had attacked them from behind.
The elf maiden must have sent her warriors. I can’t stand by while they risk their lives on my behalf. He ran after the orcs, darting forward to drive his ax into the back of a dark green knee. The beast toppled like a tree.
That makes two, Tungdil thought grimly.
One of the orcs engaged his blade while the rest piled in on the new arrivals, hiding them from Tungdil’s view.
Tungdil soon realized that his unexpected victories had given him more confidence than was merited by his skill. His third opponent saw through his feints and swiped at him relentlessly.
The dwarf checked five savage blows before his luck ran out. A fierce strike dashed the ax from his hand and it landed in the grass. For want of another weapon, he drew his bread knife. “Come here, you brute!”
“Gladly, groundling!” The orc gave a grunt of delight as he eyed Tungdil’s knife. “What’s that, a toothpick? Just what I need to clean your flesh from my jaws!” He raised his sword.
Kingdom of Urgon,
Girdlegard,
Early Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle
A joint army?” Lothaire laughed out loud. Urgon’s sovereign was a youth of twenty-one cycles. He flicked his long blond hair and gestured for more water. “You want us to fight together against the Perished Land?”
King Tilogorn nodded. At forty cycles, he had a thin, earnest face and shoulder-length brown hair. He had journeyed to Urgon with the sole purpose of forging an alliance, but after four hours of discussion in the gloomy chamber there was no indication that the message had got through. In the meantime, the sun had passed over the mountains of Urgon and was sinking behind their peaks.
“It is rumored that the girdle is weak. If the magic fails, the orcs will attack our lands with a strength and ferocity more devastating than anything that has gone before.” Tilogorn pointed to the map. “The seven human kingdoms of Girdlegard must unite. Your help is vital if I am to persuade Umilante, Wey, Isika, Bruron, and Nate of our cause.”
Lothaire sipped his water and stared at Tilogorn over the rim of the glass. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely. Our survival depends on it.”
“Shouldn’t we leave it to the magi to repair the girdle before we —”
“The magi will take care of the magic, but we must be prepared to fight. I’ve dispatched a messenger to Lios Nudin to request a meeting with the council. I’m expecting word any orbit.”
“Why would the magi deign to meet with mere mortals? Andôkai has never honored me with a visit, despite claiming swathes of my kingdom as her own.”
“Consider yourself fortunate; it’s not for nothing that she’s called the Tempestuous.” He laughed, then became serious. “The magi rarely show themselves, and they tend to keep out of our affairs, but this is different, I assure you. They know their duty.”
Lothaire studied the map, pondering the Perished Land, whose frontier posed no immediate threat to Urgon. “I don’t know, Tilogorn. My kingdom is as tranquil as ever.”
“But will it stay that way?” Tilogorn replied patiently, doing his best to talk Lothaire round. “I know your lands are easier to defend than the plains of Gauragar or Idoslane, but the Perished Land commands orcs, älfar, and other foul creatures. Nowhere is safe.”
“The beasts shall be thrown from my mountains and drowned in my lakes. Their heavy armor will be the death of them,” announced Lothaire with customary haughtiness. “My men are hardened warriors. Every day they seek out trolls in our ranges and put them to the sword. I ride with a single bodyguard, knowing that he will defend me single-handedly against a hundred foes.”
“Do not confuse the älfar with simple-minded trolls. All it takes is a well-aimed arrow and your bodyguard will be dead. The hordes in the north are more numerous than you can imagine; their power is infinite, yours is not.” With a sweep of his hand, Tilogorn gestured to the former elven kingdoms. “They insisted on fighting alone and were conquered. Isn’t it our duty to learn from their mistake? We must fight like with like: Only a vast army can protect us from the beasts.”
“But what of the Perished Land’s curse? Those who die on its territory are said to join its ranks.”
“I’ve heard the stories too. We must burn the corpses so none can return as soulless warriors. We shall create a battalion to follow our army and set fire to the dead.” Tilogorn sensed that Lothaire was almost persuaded. “Then you’ll fight with me, King of Urgon?”
“Our armies shall follow my lead.”
“The command will be shared. Our strengths will complement each other.” Tilogorn paused. “Besides, my men will never take orders from a ruler younger than themselves.” He held out his hand. “Are you with me?”
Lothaire smiled. “Very well. Our army will be the mightiest in the history of Girdlegard, powerful enough to lay waste to Dsôn Balsur and hound the älfar across the Northern Pass. Although maybe we should kill them and be done with it… Yes,” he said excitedly, “we’ll destroy them altogether and then we can deal with the orcs. Peace will return to our kingdoms. It’s a worthy plan.” He shook Tilogorn’s outstretched hand; then an anxious look crossed his face. “Er, there’s one more thing. You remember Prince Mallen of Ido?”
Tilogorn snorted. “How could I forget the last of the great Idos? He lives in your kingdom, does he not?”
“He heads my army,” Lothaire corrected him. “Rest assured, when the time comes to rid your lands of orcs, he will forfeit his command. No one shall accuse Lothaire of Urgon of scheming to plant the last of the Idos on Idoslane’s throne.”
Tilogorn took little comfort from the speech. “What if he incites rebellion in our troops? He is sure to have supporters among your men.”
Lothaire sipped his water. “He’s a reasonable man at heart. Perhaps your powers of persuasion will work on him as effectively as they worked on me.” Before Tilogorn had a chance to reply, the young king rose and walked to the door. “I’ll summon him to you. If you can convince him of our cause, the kings and queens of the other five kingdoms will be no trouble at all.” He disappeared into the corridor.
His guest leaned o
ver the table to study the map.
“Greetings, King of Idoslane,” a voice said sardonically. “Who would have thought that we would ride to battle side by side? Fate plays games with the best of us, irrespective of rank.”
Turning, Tilogorn saw Lothaire reentering the room with the speaker, a man of some thirty cycles, his features nondescript. His finely crafted armor bore the insignia of the Ido and testified to his wealth, although fashions had changed in the meantime.
“Prince Mallen of Ido?” It was less a greeting than an expression of surprise. “I remembered you differently.”
“Yet you recognize the coat of arms to which Idoslane rightfully belongs… Are you comfortable on my throne?”
“You need not worry about my comfort, Prince Mallen. You and your coconspirators have not unseated me yet. The people are clearly fonder of my family than they were of yours. You serve Urgon’s army, I hear?” Tilogorn asked brusquely.
“I am an exile. I have to do something to earn my keep.”
“The Idos have a reputation for fighting — especially among themselves. Your bloodthirsty feuds brought suffering on the people and cost you your throne.” He bit his lip. Barbed comments were hardly going to help his cause. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to —”
“Oh please, King Tilogorn, spare me the history lesson,” Mallen said dismissively. “Tell me something interesting, such as what I can do to aid my country and return a free man.”
“If you wish to help your country, bury our quarrel until Girdlegard is safe,” Tilogorn entreated. “I’m sorry I spoke so harshly.”
“You’re sorry.” Mallen was as distrustful as ever. “Well, we agree on one thing: An invasion of orcs or älfar would only harm Idoslane.” He glanced at the map. “It may surprise you to learn that I’m in favor of a truce between us. I agree to your proposal, on the condition that I can enter Idoslane at will.”
Tilogorn hesitated.
“I miss my country and the few friends loyal to my line,” Mallen said evenly. “There’ll be no more conspiracies, I swear. May Palandiell be my witness.”