He set off bad-temperedly toward the gateway, but the rescue mission came to a precipitous end.
In the heat of the battle, he had forgotten to look out for the älf. A slender figure appeared out of nowhere and alighted beside him. Looking up, he saw Keenfire speeding toward his head.
VIII
Blacksaddle,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
The diamonds on the high king’s helmet glinted in the sun. Gandogar knew that even the most shortsighted sentry would notice his approach, but he held his head high; he wanted to be seen. In all his 299 cycles he had never set eyes on the thirdling king, and his arrival at the court of Lorimbas marked a turning point in the history of the dwarves.
Pushing the brown hair away from his eyes, he looked up at the Blacksaddle and watched as sun and shadow strove for mastery over its slopes. The gullies and couloirs were shrouded in inky darkness, but the flanks of the mountain were gilded with light.
For Gandogar, there was something menacing about the flat-topped mountain where countless dwarves, elves, and men had lost their lives.
The battle has left its mark on this place. He shook the reins and the pony moved off. The powerful dwarf and his mount were suffering from their long journey through Sangpûr’s deserts. Particles of sand had found their way into Gandogar’s beard, slipped through the rings of his mail, and sneaked inside his leather jerkin, rubbing against his skin in the tenderest places. His poor pony had fared no better. There was no escape from Sangpûr’s sand.
Now, as they rode through southern Gauragar, the temperature was cooler, but the air was thick with menace. The banners flying from the top of the Blacksaddle warned the high king and his fifty armed warriors that the stronghold was in the hands of its makers, the children of Lorimbur.
Bones crunched beneath the ponies’ hooves. No one had buried the dead beasts after the battle; their corpses had been eaten by predators or piled up and burned. Sun, rain, and snow would take care of their skeletons, but for now their remains lay strewn at the base of the mountain, warning travelers not to linger in this place.
Second in the procession was Balendilín, king of Beroïn’s folk. He had joined the expedition after Gandogar accepted his offer of advice and support. His gaze was fixed on the mountain ahead. “Should we mourn our fallen comrades or celebrate the joint victory of dwarves, elves, and men?” he asked pensively. “There’s never been a battle like it: The massed ranks of Nôd’onn’s army against the armies of Girdlegard, with the dwarves at the fore.”
“Let’s hope the alliance lasts,” said Gandogar fervently.
“We can’t let the thirdlings shatter our newly forged bonds.” With a sigh, the one-armed king looked up at the fluttering banners. “I wonder how the mountain feels about the return of the dwarves who plundered its gold.”
“Bruron had no choice but to cede the stronghold to Lorimbas,” replied Gandogar evenly. “According to his envoy, Gauragar was bound by the terms of an ancient treaty.”
“No choice?” objected Balendilín. “What does Bruron owe the thirdlings? Mallen is reliant on thirdling mercenaries, but he refused to surrender to Lorimbas’s demands. I’d wager my one good arm that Bruron was bribed.”
Gandogar tugged on the reins, steering the pony to the right of an ogre skull that was blocking their path. The stripped bone bristled with broken spears and arrow shafts, and the crown of the head provided the birds with a useful platform as they scanned the path for dung.
“You’re probably right,” said the king of all dwarves. “And that’s precisely why a diplomatic solution is called for. Girdlegard won’t be at peace until we put an end to this senseless feud.” He glanced at Balendilín. “I thought you were supposed to be the voice of reason. Are you suggesting we kill him?”
“Vraccas would roast my soul in his furnace if such a thought were to enter my mind,” said the secondling, laughing. His expression became grave. “No, Gandogar, neither of us are dwarf killers, although I can’t say Lorimbas deserves our mercy—his machinations are undermining our alliance with the elves and men.” He held the king’s gaze. “The question is, how are you going to stop him? We haven’t spoken to the thirdlings for hundreds of cycles, so the usual sanctions won’t work.”
“That’s why we need to talk to them,” said Gandogar firmly. “I understand your reservations, but Lorimbas and I will find a way of making peace.”
A door came into view at the base of the mountain. In earlier cycles, it had been concealed by conifers, each standing fifty paces tall, but the orcs had cut down the forest to make siege engines and ladders. After the battle, the wood had served as kindling for the biggest funeral pyre in Girdlegard’s history, on which the corpses of the beasts had been burned. All that remained was a multitude of stumps.
“I’m not naïve enough to think we’ll ever be friends with the thirdlings,” continued Gandogar, realizing that the secondling leader was unconvinced. “But it’s time we put a stop to the feuding and treated each other with a little respect.”
Balendilín clicked his tongue doubtfully. “By the hammer of Vraccas, I wish I could knock some sense into their heads.”
They drew up outside the door. Barring their way were twenty warriors with long-handled pikes, the tips of which were pointing menacingly at the riders.
“Stop,” commanded a broad-chested thirdling, fingering his morning star. His face was covered in tattoos. “My name is Romo Steelheart of the clan of the Stone Grinders, nephew of King Lorimbas.” He measured the high king with his gaze. “I suppose you must be Gandogar,” he said, denying him the usual courtesies extended to a dwarven king.
Balendilín studied the thirdling’s face. Tattooed runes spoke of his eternal hatred of the four dwarven folks, promising death and damnation to the descendants of Beroïn, Borengar, Giselbert, and Goïmdil. The sinister effect of the tattooist’s artwork was heightened by the hostility in Romo’s eyes. Balendilín had no doubt that he was looking at the face of a zealous dwarf killer.
“My name is Gandogar Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, head of Goïmdil’s line,” said the high king. “My business is with your—”
Romo snorted derisively, and a globule of snot hit the ground by Gandogar’s feet. “Gandogar can come in. The rest of you, wait outside.”
Balendilín was unmoved. “The high king goes nowhere without his escort. If this is your tone, you can forgive our suspicions.”
Romo shrugged, armor clunking. “It’s him or no one,” he said sharply. “Those are my orders. If you don’t like them, you can leave.” A sneer spread over his face. “Oh, I should have realized: Poor Gandogar is scared of my uncle. Don’t worry; Lorimbas has given his word of honor that your king will leave our stronghold in the condition that he arrived.” He stared at the high king insolently. “Is your heart made of granite or pumice?”
Gandogar ignored the warning looks from his advisor and jumped down from his pony. “I’m the high king of the dwarves, and my business is with Lorimbas Steelheart,” he said firmly, striding toward the guards, who raised their pikes to let him pass. The metal tips lowered, separating Balendilín and the others from the king.
“My, my,” said Romo, leading Gandogar into the cavernous heart of the mountain. “It’s astonishing how a feeble fire can produce a spark of courage. You’re a typical fourthling—scrawny and small.”
“Brain is more important than brawn,” countered Gandogar patiently. “It’s better to have a sharp mind than a sharp blade.”
Romo turned into a side passageway, picking his way confidently through the maze of corridors and stairs. He and his kinsmen were new to the Blacksaddle, but he plainly knew his way around. “A nice theory,” he said, laughing. “But an ogre’s cudgel can blunt the sharpest wit.”
“On the contrary,” replied Gandogar firmly, keeping his eyes fixed on Romo’s back. “Ogres are particularly easy to outsmart.”
/> His gaze fell on a beautifully crafted scabbard hanging from the thirdling’s belt. It looked awfully familiar. In fact, he had last seen it on the belt of a warrior who was fighting with the allies in Dsôn Balsur. The chances of a smith forging two such scabbards were remote.
“I met him and two others in Richemark,” said Romo, when the high king enquired about its owner. “They’re dead.” He shot a hostile glance at Gandogar. “You can have it, if you like—but you’ll have to fight me first.”
Gandogar clenched his fists. It wasn’t easy to keep his composure when Romo was bragging about killing three dwarves. The thirdling talked about murder in the way other dwarves talked of masonry or metalwork. “With pleasure,” he muttered darkly, setting his jaw.
Romo hiccoughed with laughter. “What are you going to do?” he asked scornfully. “Sprinkle me with gold dust or throw diamonds in my face?”
It occurred to Gandogar that his faith in diplomacy was possibly misplaced, but he wasn’t prepared to leave without trying—if only to satisfy his conscience and prove to the allies that he wasn’t to blame for the feud.
Without a word, he followed Romo into the great hall where the final battle against Nôd’onn had taken place.
Lorimbas Steelheart was standing in the middle of the room. His attention was focused on a recently repaired staircase that gave access to the walkways overhead. At last he turned to greet the new arrivals. “What have I done to deserve the honor?” he sneered.
Romo smiled and positioned himself at his side.
Gandogar looked intently at the thirdling monarch. His long black hair was streaked with gray and braided against his scalp in three tight plaits. Gandogar noticed that his beard had been dyed in three different colors, which was probably a mark of something, although he didn’t know what. He also saw that Lorimbas, unlike the other thirdlings, hadn’t been tattooed.
“I want a truce,” he said simply, outlining his reasons for the visit. “A cessation of hostilities until the älfar have been defeated.”
“That’s a new one,” scoffed Lorimbas. “The hostilities haven’t started, and you’re asking me to stop. I didn’t realize our cousins were so soft.”
“Don’t be too harsh on him, uncle,” chipped in Romo. “He might soil his breeches.”
“I was referring to your efforts to turn the humans against us,” said Gandogar evenly, ignoring the snickering Romo. “Open warfare we can deal with, but your tactics are pernicious and underhanded. We know what your envoy said to Prince Mallen and we know that a dwarf was seen at King Belletain’s court. He wasn’t there on my authority, so I assume he was sent by you.”
“Mallen is a shortsighted fool,” Lorimbas said breezily. “He’ll soon see the error of his ways. He turned down my nephew’s assistance out of misguided loyalty, but the loss of his dwarven mercenaries will come as a blow. I shouldn’t wonder if he’s ruing his decision already.” He let his eyes travel over the ceiling. “It’s a wonderful thing to be standing here after all this time. My forefathers lived in this stronghold until you drove them out. A new era is dawning for Girdlegard.” He snapped out of his reverie and glowered at Gandogar. “The decline of Beroïn, Borengar, and Goïmdil has begun.” He strode toward the high king, stopping only when their noses were practically touching. “You won’t weather this storm. The wind of change is blowing through the dwarven kingdoms, sweeping through the narrowest shafts and tiniest caverns. You and your subjects will be scattered, and my warriors will seize your halls.” His spiked gauntlet thumped his armored chest. “The children of Lorimbur will stand guard at the gates of Girdlegard and your folks will be forgotten.” He took a step back and drew his weapon. “I swear it on Lorimbur’s ax.”
“Is this how the thirdlings negotiate?” asked Gandogar. “I—”
Lorimbas cut him short. “Negotiate? Who said we wanted to negotiate?” He raised his ax. “I have news for you, Gandogar: Your orbits in Girdlegard are numbered—and there’s nothing you can do.”
Gandogar’s patience, which had withstood countless indignities, suddenly snapped, allowing his pent-up fury to erupt into words. The king and his nephew had pushed him to the brink. “Vraccas won’t abandon his loyal children to the murderous wiles of Lorimbur’s unholy dwarves,” he shouted, clinking blades with Lorimbas. “I dare you to fight us fairly, you backstabbing coward.”
“Get out!” bellowed Lorimbas, forcing Gandogar’s blade to the ground. “No one threatens me in my stronghold! You’re lucky I promised to let you go unharmed. I’ve a mind to kill you anyway.”
“Can I do it for you?” asked Romo hopefully.
Lorimbas trembled with silent fury; he was fighting the urge to plant an ax in the high king’s head. “Lorimbur’s children won’t negotiate with the other dwarves. Your destruction is assured.”
“All right, gem cutter,” said Romo, gripping Gandogar’s shoulder. “It’s time you went home to polish your jewels.” He steered him through the door in the manner of a bailiff escorting a drunk.
The high king shrugged him off angrily. “Lay a finger on me again, and you’ll regret it, dwarf killer,” he growled. When Romo spat on the floor and grabbed his shoulder, he seized the thirdling’s gauntlet and swung his ax against his wrist, shattering the bone. Romo’s face contorted with pain, then he reached with his uninjured arm for his morning star, swinging back to strike. A bald-headed dwarf stepped in front of him and made a grab for his arm. The three-balled weapon thudded to the floor.
“Salfalur!” he exclaimed in surprise. “What—”
“Silence or I’ll break your other wrist,” the dwarf snapped. He turned to Gandogar. “That’s the first and last time I’ll save one of your kind. I want to be clear about this: Your life counts for nothing, but Romo promised not to harm you, and Lorimbas would punish him for breaking his word.”
Gandogar nodded. His eyes were drawn to his rescuer’s massive arms and chests. Dwarves were stocky and powerful, the fourthlings less so than most, but even the slightest dwarf was a good deal stronger than a man. Salfalur, though, had muscles to rival the battle-crazed Boïndil. Like the other thirdlings, he was tattooed, the dark runes covering his face and his gleaming skull.
Gandogar met his eye. “At least let me thank you for—”
“I want nothing from you,” growled Salfalur. “I’d sooner die in the deserts of Sangpûr than drink water from your pouch. Follow me, I’ll show you out.” He strode away and Gandogar fell in behind him.
Salfalur’s route through the passageways of the Blacksaddle took them past chambers filled with provisions, bunkrooms accommodating hundreds of dwarves, and crowded forges echoing with constant hammering.
Some of the smiths were fashioning weapons, others were working on strange pieces of metal that served no obvious purpose. Gandogar knew that no one would volunteer the information, so he saved himself the trouble of asking and studied the objects carefully, intending to describe them to the firstling smiths.
At last they reached the door leading out of the stronghold.
“Stay away from here,” Salfalur advised him coldly. “If we meet again, Lorimbas will be delighted to receive your head on a plate.”
He opened the door for the high king to rejoin his anxious companions.
After enduring the company of the thirdlings, Gandogar was glad to leave the stronghold and step into the sunshine, which usually hurt his eyes. He caught himself looking forward to the dreaded pony ride home.
“Well?” asked Balendilín.
Gandogar shook his head and gave a brief account of the meeting.
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” said Balendilín with a sigh. “They’re thirdlings, after all.”
Under the steely gaze of the sentries, they turned their ponies and rode toward the south. “Lorimbas must be very sure of himself to speak so openly of his intentions,” observed Balendilín, wondering what the thirdlings had in mind. Lorimbas’s bold predictions augured badly for the dwarves.
J
udging by Gandogar’s report, the thirdlings were planning something far more serious than Bislipur’s treacherous scheming. This time, the whole thirdling kingdom was ready to mobilize against the other dwarves.
Balendilín glanced back at the sinister mountain. What we need is a spy.
Southern Entrance to the Fifthling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
Tungdil did the first thing that came to mind. As the älf loomed over him, he dropped the ax that Boïndil had given to him and reached up to block the blow.
Grabbing Keenfire with both hands, he wrapped his fingers around the sigurdaisy haft and dropped to one knee, muscles straining and joints creaking. The blade hovered above his head.
Stooped over him, the älf threw all her weight behind the diamond-studded blade, arms trembling as she pushed against him. Her breath came in labored gasps.
But Keenfire seemed to sense that the second set of hands belonged to Tungdil, its rightful bearer. The intarsia shimmered, and a tongue of fire licked over the ax head, reaching for the älf’s mask. Moving and twisting, she stayed out of harm’s way.
“You’re not getting away from me again,” she gasped, kicking Tungdil in the chest.
Still clutching the shaft, he tumbled backward, and the älf, determined not to lose Keenfire, came with him.
She used her momentum to launch herself into the air, all the while gripping the ax. The soles of her boots sped toward him. He turned in time, rolling to the side as she landed beside him, missing his throat.
“Vraccas brought you here to give me Keenfire,” he spluttered. His right hand shot up, punching her in the belly. Uncurling his fist, he reached for her left foot, bringing her to the ground. Her black veil lifted as she fell, revealing her chin and left cheek. There was no sign of a scar or deformity that would warrant the wearing of a mask.
Each had a hand on Keenfire’s haft, and neither was prepared to let go.
They stumbled to their feet, and Ondori, reaching behind her, drew another weapon—a scythe-like blade that Tungdil recognized from their encounter on the pier. Whipping out his dagger, he squared his shoulders and waited for a weakness in her guard. Slowly they circled each other, the thickset dwarf at one end of the ax, the willowy älf at the other, separated by the length of the sigurdaisy haft. The ax head was on Tungdil’s side and he could see the intarsia flickering, as if Keenfire were waiting for the opportunity to strike.