Boïndil was driven by hatred for Tion’s creation, which made him a fearsome warrior—and a danger to others and himself. Unless he vented his rage, the flames of his furnace would burn higher and higher until he threw himself on whoever had the misfortune to be in his way. His fiery nature was a blessing and a curse.
They entered the Dragon Fire furnace, and immediately noticed a change in temperature.
Twenty hearths and eighty anvils were arranged around the central furnace. The vast room was filled with an odor so foul that the dwarves, covering their noses, tried not to gag. Decaying corpses lay strewn across the floor—orcs, bögnilim, a handful of älfar, and even three trolls. This was the work of Bavragor Hammersmith and the undead fifthlings who had given their lives so that Tungdil and the others could escape.
“By the beard of Beroïn, what a battle it must have been!” murmured Boïndil respectfully. “I never thought the merry minstrel had it in him.”
They sifted through the bodies, hoping to give a proper burial to their friends, but nothing remained except chain mail and cloth; the valiant warriors had been overpowered and torn to pieces.
“Look!” said Balyndis, pointing her ax at the main furnace. “It’s still burning!”
Tungdil breathed out in relief. With Dragon Fire, his worries about forging weaponry, armor, and other equipment for the kingdom were instantly solved. “Fan the flames! Giselbert’s kingdom belongs to the dwarves!”
The dwarves shoveled coal onto the furnace, taking care not to extinguish the flickering flames. Then they pulled on the chains connected to the giant bellows and breathed new life into Dragon Fire’s heart. Tungdil sent Boïndil and nine others to relay the good news to the rest of the company and guide them through the passageways.
In the meantime, Balyndis set about opening the vents to the flue. The fifthlings had sabotaged the mechanism to stop the orcs following Tungdil and the others through the chimney. She looked up at the ceiling, eighty paces above. A stone staircase led to the flue, which was blocked by a pair of solid metal plates.
“I’ll need a bit of time, but I can fix it,” she said, raising her voice so that Tungdil, who was standing nearby, would have to respond. “The chain came down because they destroyed the main sprocket. I’ll have the mechanism working in less than an orbit.”
Tungdil nodded but didn’t turn round. “It shouldn’t take long to clear up the forge. The bodies can go in the furnace—we’ll find a use for the melted armor.” He bent down and discovered tongs, hammers, chisels, files, and other tools hidden beneath the rotting remains. “We’ll soon have the smithy ringing with the sound of our hammers. The fifthling kingdom has been waiting for hundreds of cycles to hear the music of the forge.”
Glancing round to check no one was watching, Balyndis strode over to Tungdil and grabbed him by the arm. “Tungdil Goldhand, what did I do to deserve this?” she demanded, her brown eyes smoldering as fiercely as the furnace.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, scanning the hall intently, as if he were planning the details of the clean-up operation. Balyndis’s powerful fingers, accustomed to toiling at the anvil, refused to let him go.
“Are you ignoring me as a punishment? You shouldn’t treat me this way—I’m your friend!”
“My friend?” erupted Tungdil. “We were in love, Balyndis, we wanted to be joined by the iron band! And then you decided to pledge yourself to a stranger, just because he’s a Sharpscythe or a Bluntax or whatever…” He broke off and looked at her hopefully. “You haven’t finished with him, have you?”
She closed her eyes. “No, Tungdil. It’s the law. I have to obey my clan.”
“Even at the cost of your happiness?” My happiness, he corrected himself.
“Yes,” she said simply. “There’s nothing more sacred, nothing we prize more highly than tradition. Tradition has kept our society together for thousands of cycles; it allows us to live in harmony; it keeps our clans alive. Sometimes it means we have to make sacrifices, but it’s all for the greater good. You’ll understand when you’ve lived in a dwarven kingdom for a while; at least I hope you will.” She let go of his arm and went to stroke his cheek, but he jerked away.
“Don’t do this to me,” he said bitterly. “You’re making it worse.” Too choked to talk, he turned away and hurried out of the forge, where he bumped into Boïndil, who was leading the procession to the furnace. The four dwarves carrying his frozen brother were just behind.
Glad of anything that might distract him from his thoughts, Tungdil set about sorting the dwarves into groups and sending them into the passageways to scour the stronghold for hidden orcs.
Over the course of the journey, Boëndal’s stretcher had been strapped to a pony or, when the terrain was uneven, carried by his fellow dwarves. They walked the stretcher to the middle of the room and set it down by the furnace. The flames were becoming brighter and fiercer all the time.
“What now?” enquired Boïndil, eying his brother’s pale face. “Do you think he’ll wake up?”
Tungdil laid a hand on Boëndal’s brow. It felt cold and dry. “No change yet, but the furnace isn’t up to temperature—we’ll wait a bit longer for the pure white flames.”
“And then what?” demanded Boïndil. He reached for his brother’s hand and clasped it tight. “We could fill a tankard with glowing coal, add some beer, and pour it down his throat,” he said hopefully.
Tungdil shook his head. “I can’t make sense of the riddle, but I promise you this: We’ll ransack the fifthlings’ archives until we find a solution.” He got up and signaled for the physicians to attend to Boëndal. “Come on,” he said, thumping Boïndil’s broad back. “There’s work to be done.”
The two dwarves left the forge, leaving Balyndis to stare after them sadly.
The following orbits saw the peaceable takeover of the kingdom continue apace.
The secondling masons lost no time in beginning the restoration work on the badly damaged chambers and corridors, with everyone lending a hand when it came to transporting the stone.
The firstling smiths fired up the blast furnaces and forged metal strips and bands to reinforce the gateways and doors. Their constant hammering echoed through the underground halls, reminding the mountain of the activity within it, six thousand cycles before.
In the early stages of the project, there wasn’t any call for diamond cutting or gem polishing, so the fourthlings helped wherever they were needed and set about exploring every passageway, chamber, nook, and cranny of the kingdom.
But no matter how hard they searched, there was still no sign of a tablet or document containing the key to Dragon Fire’s power. And so the orbits passed, and Boëndal continued to lie by the fire, his inner furnace cold and weak.
Tungdil and the others were barely aware of the passing time. New treasures were discovered every orbit, and the fifthlings’ craftsmanship became a source of continual delight. The firstlings, who had hitherto considered themselves experts in the art of working gold and other precious metals, readily admitted that the smiths of Giselbert possessed skills in excess of their own.
After orbits of searching, Tungdil decided that nothing in the halls and chambers would help them to revive the frozen dwarf. He gathered an advance party of warriors and set off in the direction of the Stone Gateway, hoping to find something there.
If he were honest, it was also a way of escaping Balyndis, who was torturing him with her beautiful smile, her loveable manner, and her irresistible curves.
The idea of Balyndis living side by side with Glaïmbar Sharpax, her Iron Beating kinsman, was enough to make his spirit plummet deeper than the darkest mine. Worse still, it encouraged his thoughts in untoward directions, and he found himself wishing that Glaïmbar would die.
He allowed his mind to ponder the prospect. His death would solve everything, wouldn’t it? said a voice in his ear. If Balyndis were widowed, no one would object to her taking a suitor, whoever he was.
T
ungdil bristled. If Balyndis took a new suitor, it would obviously be him.
Everyone would be happier, whispered the demon inside his head.
Tungdil, shocked at himself, banished the voice.
He was so withdrawn and miserable that Boïndil, who had insisted on joining the expedition, couldn’t help but notice.
“I suppose there’s a downside to being a dwarf,” commented the secondling when they stopped to rest their legs. They were sitting on the rocky banks of an underground stream, far enough away from the band of fifty dwarves for their conversation to go unheard. It gave Boïndil the courage to speak freely. “I’m no scholar,” he said, puffing vigorously on his pipe until the tobacco caught light. “I don’t have a knack with words, but I can listen; it doesn’t take much brains.” He crossed his arms and leaned back against the rock, waiting. “It’s time we talked.”
“About what?”
“Whatever’s bothering you.” He prodded Tungdil’s chain mail with the stem of his pipe. “I can shout her name until you tell me,” he threatened.
Sighing loudly, Tungdil cut himself a slice of dried mushroom to go with his cheese. “It’s not fair,” he said succinctly. Then his pent-up anguish came out in a torrent of words. “I thought we could still be friends,” he said finally. “I wasn’t expecting it to be so hard.” His appetite gone, he put down the mushroom and took a long draft of brandy instead.
“I’d go easy on the drinking,” warned Boïndil, still puffing noisily on his pipe. “You wouldn’t be the first to drown yourself in brandy. I don’t like seeing you like this—especially when me and Boëndal are to blame.”
“How do you figure that?” asked Tungdil, running a hand over his beard to wipe away the drops.
“Remember all the things we talked about on the long march to Ogre’s Death?” his friend said earnestly. “You asked about our customs, but I guess we forgot the most important ones—or maybe we should have explained them better. It’s all about family, clan, and folk. The laws are there to keep order, to protect us, to keep us safe. Without them, everything, er…”
“Falls apart,” supplied Tungdil, realizing that Boïndil was struggling.
“Exactly! So Balyndis didn’t have a choice, do you see?”
“I grew up in a human realm…”
“Do humans choose their partners willy-nilly, with no regard for their families?” demanded Boïndil.
“No,” conceded Tungdil, “but love comes first. I thought dwarves would be the same.” He leaned back against the rock next to his friend. “Look, I’ve been thinking—the fifthlings should choose a new leader.”
“What for? You’re the one they want: Tungdil Goldhand, hero of the Blacksaddle, rightful heir to Giselbert’s belt, and the only dwarf who can kindle the power of Keenfire.”
“They need a dwarf who grew up with our lore, someone who knows the traditions and respects them. There aren’t many of us, and we’re miles from the other kingdoms; our future depends on us pulling together. Keenfire and I will fight if we’re needed—I don’t have to be leader as well.”
Boïndil removed his pipe and blew smoke rings through his mouth. He waited for the blue smoke to disperse. “I understand what you’re saying, scholar. I’ve never known anyone so wise,” he said admiringly.
Tungdil reached into the bubbling stream and scooped a handful of water into his mouth. It was wonderfully clear—slightly metallic, but delicious. It tasted a hundred times better than any overland spring or river, and it slaked the thirst at once. “Is it wrong of me to wish him dead?” he asked softly, damping his hair with his hands.
“Who? Glaïmbar Sharpax?” Boïndil roared with laughter. “I’ve been wishing him dead since I met him; anyone who makes my best friend unhappy and pilfers his girlfriend deserves as much.” On seeing Tungdil’s shock, he laughed again. “What’s the matter? I’m crazy, remember? My inner furnace has melted my mind.” He made an effort to be serious. “Honestly, Tungdil, I’d challenge Sharpax to a duel if I thought it would do any good, but rules are made for a reason. One rash deed leads to another, and before you know it, it’s a bloodbath.” He thumped Tungdil on the knee. “Chin up, scholar. You’ll find another maiden who’ll give you a place in her heart and her bed—you’ll forget about Balyndis.”
“No,” said Tungdil.
“It’s the only way,” his friend advised sharply. “You can’t store up your anger forever. Believe me, I know.” He handed his pipe to Tungdil, who took it gratefully.
Long moments passed as they sat in silence by the stream.
If it weren’t for Glaïmbar, you and Balyndis would be happy, said the fiendish voice in Tungdil’s head. She’ll be miserable with Glaïmbar. Do her a favor, and kill him when you have a chance.
“How will you do it?”
“Do what?” asked Tungdil guiltily, sure that Boïndil could read his thoughts.
“Tell them you don’t want to be leader. How will they know whom to choose?”
“Oh… I’ll say what I said to you,” he said carelessly. “They should pick a leader of proper dwarven stock.”
He fell silent because Boïndil was on his feet, sniffing the air excitedly. His axes flew to his hands. “You can’t say the Gray Range doesn’t look after us; it gives us everything we ask for: water for our gullets—and orcs for our blades.” His eyes glinted as he grinned at Tungdil. “Can’t you smell the stinking runts?” He pointed to a passageway on the right. “This way—down the tunnel!”
The tunnel was labeled with an ancient inscription to signpost the route. It led upward, toward the Stone Gateway.
Their brief rest was over.
Hurriedly they packed their things and lined up for battle, with the warriors at the front. The masons, more accustomed to splitting granite than crushing orc skulls, brought up the rear with their chisels, hammers, and other tools.
The unit of dwarves moved off down the corridor at a jog. By now Tungdil could smell the beasts’ acrid perspiration and the rancid fat on their armor. The foul odor was anathema to any dwarf.
“I knew they’d turn up sometime,” said Boïndil gleefully as he jogged at Tungdil’s side. “Nôd’onn or no Nôd’onn, they can’t keep away from our borders. Girdlegard is too tempting for a band of hungry orcs.”
Tungdil spotted light in the distance—they were nearing the end of the tunnel. The Stone Gateway, a miracle of dwarven masonry, awaited them on the surface, along with an unknown number of enemy troops.
“Word won’t have got out that the dwarves have recaptured the fifthling kingdom,” said Boïndil, tossing his black plait over his shoulder. “I reckon we can kill at least a hundred before they catch on. We’ll storm out and take them by surprise.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” his friend told him sternly. “I want to see who we’re dealing with.” He tiptoed to the end of the passageway and peered outside.
Two dozen or so orcs were standing in a huddle on the site of the ruined gateway. The portal was wide open, the five powerful bolts that had once protected Girdlegard from invasion in pieces on the ground. At some point during the orcish occupation, the beasts had pried the metal from the doors.
The leader of the band pointed to a flight of stairs leading up to a watchtower. They didn’t seem in a particular hurry, and Tungdil had the impression they were studying the defenses.
As if to confirm his suspicions, one of the orcs bent down to inspect a fragment of bolt, while the rest set about climbing the stairs.
“How many are there?” asked Boïndil eagerly, banging his axes together. “A hundred? Two hundred? How many runts can I kill?”
Tungdil described the group.
“What? Only two dozen?” spat Boïndil. He gave the others a threatening look. “Don’t even think about it! These are for me! You’ll have to find your own orcs.”
“They’re acting strangely,” said Tungdil. He quickly explained his hunch. “If you ask me, they’re scouts. They must have been sent ahead to find a
means of destroying the defenses forever.”
It was all the encouragement Boïndil needed. “Hurrah! In that case, we’d better stop them!” He sprinted off, heading straight for the watchtower. Bounding up the stairs, he caught up with the orcs and killed three in quick succession. Only then did the rest of the troopers realize they were under attack.
Muttering under his breath, Tungdil ran to the base of the tower and stopped. Dead orcs tumbled down the stairs, landing in a heap by the door. His help wasn’t needed.
By the time the rest of the dwarves caught up, twenty or so orcs had died by Ireheart’s hand. The watchtower was too narrow and the orcs too broad-shouldered for close combat with a raging dwarf. At last, Boïndil started to make his way down the staircase, stepping over the muddle of dead orcs, whose efforts had been hampered by their cumbersome swords, clubs, and axes.
“Quick, I want him alive,” said Tungdil, pointing to the orc who had stopped to inspect the bolt. His chance of interrogating any of the troopers would be lost if Boïndil got there first. “Four of you capture the beast; everyone else, come with me—we’ll meet Boïndil halfway.”
They climbed the bloodied stairs, squeezing past bodies, taking care not to slip, and steering clear of falling corpses.
Suddenly a clawed hand reached out and grabbed Tungdil by the ankle. Growling and snarling, the orc lunged toward him, but Tungdil struck out, burying his ax in the creature’s right shoulder.
With a pained grunt, the orc pulled on Tungdil’s ankle, knocking him off his feet. Toppling backward, Tungdil landed in the arms of the dwarf behind him, and the orc, still attached to Keenfire, came too.
He should be dead by now, thought Tungdil, noticing the wounds inflicted by Boïndil’s axes. Summoning his strength, he wrenched his blade from his antagonist’s shoulder and kicked him in the kneecap to stop him getting up. Then, swinging Keenfire as savagely as the confines of the watchtower permitted, he took aim at his neck. The orc’s head hit the wall and bounced down the stairs; the rest of him slumped to the floor and showed no sign of movement.