Tungdil and the twins stepped forward and found themselves on a broad ledge, from which a flight of steps led down to Gemmil’s realm. Tungdil heard an awed “Vraccas almighty” from Boëndal behind him. They stared down in amazement.
Below them was a vast city with buildings of all sizes lined up in a grid of symmetrical streets, alleyways, and squares. By Tungdil’s reckoning, it covered two square miles, and the roof of the cavern was at least a mile and a half high.
On the outskirts of the city, two waterfalls fell from a height of four hundred paces into a reservoir that supplied a network of canals, some of which led to gardens and allotments, others disappearing into openings in the rock.
From above, the city’s inhabitants looked tiny, no bigger than cave ants. Tungdil, straining his ears, heard a soft murmur of voices, the sharp ring of countless hammers, and other noises that he knew from human cities.
Rows of houses shaped like cubes lined the gentle slope at the far end of the cavern, at the top of which sat a small, but ornately fashioned stronghold. Light came from shimmering moss that covered the walls of the cavern, bathing the city in a gentle, brown glow. There were burning buckets of coal suspended from masts at various points throughout the settlement, with polished sheets of metal reflecting the light of the fiery flames.
“It’s incredible,” said Tungdil to Gemmil, who was standing at his side. “I never imagined your realm would be so big.”
The king pointed down at the city. “Trovegold is one of five—”
“Five?” interrupted Boïndil in astonishment.
“One of five major cities,” Gemmil continued proudly. “Five thousand freelings inhabit this place, five thousand souls living in freedom, unencumbered by the rules of family and clan, blessed by Vraccas, and bound only by the will of the Smith.”
Boïndil puffed out his cheeks, but Tungdil signaled to him to keep quiet. “Where will we be staying?” he enquired.
Gemmil pointed to a house in the city center. “Those are your quarters,” he said. “You’ll be staying with Myr. Her house is in the thick of things so you’ll get a proper taste of city life. Sanda and I live in the stronghold, but I’ll call for you tomorrow and show you around.” He nodded to Myr and bade them good night.
“Follow me,” she said to the others, starting down the steps. “It’s an honor to have you as my guests.”
Tungdil and the twins brought up the rear.
With every step, the city increased in size, and soon the neat grid of streets became a maze of roads and buildings, although Tungdil could still detect an underlying symmetry. A fresh wind swept the smoke away from the smithies and workshops and provided the city with good, clean air.
Soon they were walking through streets and alleyways. Dwarven ballads echoed from inside a couple of taverns, and on the pavements, freeling traders were hawking anvils, tools, jewelry, and other wares. A steel statue of Vraccas towered ten paces above the ground, glittering with gold and vraccasium and studded with sparkling gems.
No one stopped or questioned them. Their presence went almost unnoticed, except for the occasional greeting directed at Myr.
“Have you seen their funny beards?” whispered Boïndil. “I swear I saw an old dwarf with a completely naked chin. And they’re wearing perfume—I can smell it.” He wrinkled his nose. “By the hammer of Vraccas, they’ll soon be speaking elvish and growing pointy ears.”
“Where are their weapons?” hissed Boëndal. “Most of them aren’t wearing mail. It’s a rum sort of place.”
“Why would anyone wear mail?” asked Myr, stopping in front of her house. “Our realm is safe from orcs and other beasts. Wearing mail is completely unnecessary. It drags you down.”
“Unnecessary?” snorted Boïndil, turning to his companions. “What kind of dwarf goes without chain mail and axes? It’s like walking around with no breeches or boots!”
“For you, maybe, but not for us.” For the first time Myr sounded put out. It was hard not to be offended by Boïndil’s gruff and forthright manner. In fact, his tactless comments were liable to cause as much damage as his blades.
She unlocked the door and stepped inside. “Come in and go straight upstairs—I don’t want you ruining my carpets,” she said, shooting Boïndil an angry look. She disappeared into another room.
“Carpets?” muttered Boïndil incredulously. “What next? Scented water for our hands?”
“Don’t be rude,” said Tungdil. “We’re guests here, remember?” He led the way up a flight of stone steps to their quarters. As Gemmil had promised, there was a selection of dry clothes.
They picked out the right sizes and peeled off their wet undergarments.
As soon as Tungdil was changed, he took a closer look at their quarters and found another, narrower staircase. He went up the steps and came to a hatch. A moment later, he was standing on Myr’s roof.
Amid the noise from the city he heard scraps of conversation. Mostly it was boring, like complaints about the price of vegetables, but every now and then someone would mention the new arrivals or start a discussion about the other kingdoms.
As far as Tungdil could tell, the majority of freelings weren’t enamored with the idea of reestablishing contact with a traditional dwarven kingdom. They were outlaws, after all.
It works both ways, I suppose, he thought, somehow comforted by the realization that both sides had their doubts. He took a step forward to get a proper look.
Some of the dwarves had pale hair and pale skin, others looked no different to Tungdil and the twins. They greeted each other respectfully, exchanged pleasantries, and went their separate ways.
After a while, an octagonal temple caught his eye. It was situated near the statue of Vraccas, and its five tall chimneys released plumes of white smoke, infusing the air with a smell of herbs and hot metal that dispersed on the wind. Tungdil guessed that the priests were conducting a ceremony in honor of the Smith.
The pale smoke reminded him of the strange mist that had surrounded them in the caves of the Outer Lands where he had discovered the mysterious rune. I wonder if the undergroundlings pray to Vraccas as well?
“We’re in time for evening prayers,” said Myr, behind him.
Startled, he took a step forward, coming dangerously close to the edge of the roof. Myr reached out and grabbed him. He swayed backward, knocked into her, and flung out his arms to stop her falling.
For the time it takes a drop of beer to fall to the floor, they were locked together in a tight embrace. Tungdil, feeling the warmth of her body and the curve of her breasts, was glad that he had taken off his mail.
He cleared his throat and stepped away. “Evening prayers?” he queried casually. Turning to look at the temple, he saw the doors fly open.
Five dozen dwarves dressed in the garb of the Smith filed out and took up position on the steps; their places had clearly been allocated in advance. Everyone seemed to know exactly where to stand. The last dwarf, carrying a steel sledgehammer, came to a halt beside an anvil of pure vraccasium.
“It’s how we praise Vraccas at the end of an orbit,” she explained. “I told the twins to come up and watch.”
Boïndil squeezed through the hatch. He wasn’t wearing his precious chain mail, but his axes were dangling from his belt. “The best seats are taken, are they? In that case, I’ll stand at the back.” He peered at the temple. “What are they doing?” he asked, staring at the priests. Myr explained the ritual. “Oh,” he said. “In our kingdom we pray on our own. We give thanks together only on special occasions.”
“It’s pretty well organized,” remarked Boëndal, stepping onto the roof. “What happens next?”
A horn sounded, its deep, rich tone echoing through the streets and summoning the citizens of Trovegold to the statue in the square.
The crowd kept swelling until the square was full of bobbing heads, some dark, others white as snow. Tungdil spotted more dwarves on top of the other buildings, which were flat roofed like Myr’s.
Everyone in the city stopped what they were doing and turned to face the statue. Myr and the others looked expectantly at the priests.
The dwarf behind the anvil lifted the sledgehammer into the air, holding it above his head as if it weighed nothing at all. “Vraccas, hear our prayers of praise and adoration,” he called loudly, lowering his arms to smite the anvil.
The metal rang out, producing a clear, high note, and gleaming sparks flew through the air, leaving comet-like trails and landing in braziers on either side of the steps. The staircase lit up with bright white flames.
The priest in the middle of the group tilted back his head and began to sing. His voice was rich and vibrant. When the first verse was over, a second priest joined in, and so on and so forth until half the priests were singing.
What started as a solo became a stirring chorus of many singers, which swelled again as the hammer struck the anvil and the remaining priests joined in. Tungdil, who had never heard the like of it, felt a shiver run down his spine.
The hymn of thanks stirred the heart of every dwarf in Trovegold, including Boëndal and Boïndil, who had lumps in their throats. Forgetting their reservations, they dropped to their knees and adopted the freelings’ collective method of prayer.
Thrilled by the atmosphere, Tungdil watched in awed silence, wishing the singing would last forever, and knowing that it would end.
The priests finished the final verse and fell silent. The hymn reverberated through the cavern, returning as a faint echo that gradually melted away. The priest struck the anvil for a third and final time, the choir filed back into the temple, and the congregation rose to their feet. The spell was broken.
“So that’s that,” whispered Boïndil as the temple doors closed. “What about morning prayers?” he enquired hopefully, turning to Myr.
The firstling smiled. “You’ll have to lead your own prayers in the morning. The next service takes place tomorrow at dusk.” She shooed him downstairs. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going straight to bed after dinner. You should probably get as much rest as you can. Gemmil will want to show you every last alleyway in Trovegold; he’s very proud of our city.”
A few moments later, they were seated around a table of sand-colored rock, ready to sample Myr’s cooking. Some of the dishes were unfamiliar to Tungdil; the twins eyed the food with obvious suspicion.
Myr didn’t seem to mind. “Boiled moss, tuber-leaf salad, and sautéed cutlet in dark beer sauce,” she explained. “They’re traditional dishes from the five dwarven folks—adapted and improved by us.” She gave them each a generous helping, and they tucked in heartily, their appetite overcoming their doubts.
“Mm,” said Boïndil happily, holding out his plate for more. “The meat tastes good. It’s not goat, is it?”
“It’s prime loin of gugul. You won’t find any in Trovegold—we hunt them in the tunnels.”
Boïndil looked at her blankly.
“It’s a type of beetle,” explained Myr. “They’re as long as you’re tall, and pretty nippy. They make a lovely roast.” She pointed to the morsel of cheese on his fork. “Beetle cheese. Gugul milk curdles on contact with air, so it’s simply a question of salting and stretching it.” She gave him another serving and handed back his plate.
Boïndil’s fork was poised in mid air. He stared dumbly at the cutlet, wondering what to do.
“Lost your appetite, have you, brother?” teased Boëndal, taking another mouthful and licking his lips. “It hasn’t done Myr any harm, so it’s hardly going to kill you.” He picked up his tankard and emptied it in a single draft. His burp was unusually restrained; he was on his best behavior because of Myr.
“Do you like our beer?” she enquired eagerly.
“It’s delicious,” he said approvingly, helping himself to more. “It’s got an interesting aftertaste—a hint of malt or spice or something.”
“We spice the beer with—”
Boëndal removed the tankard from his lips and held up a hand to quiet her. “Don’t,” he said. “I’d rather not know if you flavored it with powdered maggot or caterpillar blood or Vraccas knows what. It tastes too good for you to spoil it.” He carried on drinking, and Myr said nothing, smiling to herself.
Dessert was a pale creamy dish that tasted a bit like honey. Tungdil found a husk in his bowl that looked suspiciously like the casing of a maggot, but he finished his serving and kept the discovery to himself.
Boïndil requested seconds, but this time he didn’t enquire what went into the dish. Tired, sated, and slightly tipsy, they swayed up the stairs and tumbled into bed.
“I’m glad we came with you,” murmured Boïndil, loosening his belt and letting out a big belch to make space in his belly. “If we stay much longer, I won’t fit into my mail shirt. Myr’s cooking tastes too good.”
The other two laughed. “I’m glad you came as well,” said Tungdil seriously. “I thought I might be traveling on my own.”
“After all we’ve been through?” exclaimed Boïndil. “We’ll always be here for you—especially if you insist on risking your life among outcasts and criminals. Someone has to watch your back!”
“Outcasts and criminals,” echoed Tungdil thoughtfully. “I haven’t seen or heard anything to suggest that the freelings are any less respectable than the other folks.”
Boëndal yawned and crossed his arms behind his head. “You seem to be forgetting that they were banished from their kingdoms—which means they, or their parents or grandparents, were guilty of a crime.” He gave Tungdil a hard look. “The same goes for Myr.”
“Myr saved your life,” snapped Tungdil testily.
“I know, and I won’t forget it. That’s why Boïndil has sworn to protect her—but it doesn’t change who she is.”
“That’s not the only oath we’ve taken,” said Tungdil, thinking of the vows of friendship pledged after the battle of the Blacksaddle. “We wanted a unified Girdlegard, and that means all men, elves, and dwarves, the freelings included. Gemmil spoke of five main cities—five cities the size of Trovegold! We need to ally ourselves with the freelings for the sake of Girdlegard and the security of our borders.” He met Boëndal’s eye and held his gaze with dwarven tenacity. “It’s our responsibility to find out more about them and their customs before we come to any decisions about whether our differences can be bridged.” He paused, fixing the twins with a steely stare. “To be honest, they seem a good deal more welcoming and forgiving than some dwarves I know.”
Boëndal looked up at the ceiling. “Vraccas will open our eyes to the truth,” he said elliptically, settling down to sleep.
Sighing, Tungdil stared glumly into the darkness. I’d have more luck bending steel than changing a dwarven mind. He was grateful to the twins for coming with him to Trovegold, but he wished they were a little friendlier toward their hosts. Even Boëndal, who was usually quite reasonable, seemed to have ruled out the possibility of forging a lasting bond with Gemmil’s dwarves. Why does it have to be so hard? he thought wearily.
“What are we going to do about Keenfire?” asked Boïndil, breaking the silence. “You’re not going to let the hollow-eyes keep her, are you?”
“Why don’t you ask Glaïmbar?” said Tungdil snidely. He closed his eyes. “I’ll get the ax back. We don’t need it right now, and it won’t be much use to the älfar, but I won’t delay too long: Keenfire belongs with the dwarves.”
“Hurrah,” cheered Boïndil, sensing a new adventure. “You can count me in!”
Kingdom of Dsôn Balsur,
Girdlegard,
Early Summer, 6235th Solar Cycle
Ondori breathed in the smoke billowing over her homeland and shuddered, remembering the red-hot flames that had burned her face. The struggle for Keenfire had left her horribly disfigured and given her another reason to wear a mask.
From her vantage point in the watchtower, originally constructed by the elves of the Golden Plains, she gazed at the thick bank of smoke in the south.
D
sôn Balsur was on the brink of defeat.
Firebombs rained into the dense woodland from allied mangonels, spilling petrol, oil, pitch, and sulfur, and setting light to everything, including the silicified wood of the fossilized trees. Already the allies had burned a wide path through the forest toward the bone palace. They were a fair few miles from Dsôn Balsur, but the remaining distance consisted largely of flat, open land.
Ondori turned to face the capital. Midway between Dsôn Balsur and the forest lay the stronghold of Arviû, from whence reinforcements were marching toward the front. Soon every last älf would be fighting for the kingdom.
She ran a hand over her quarterstaff. We’ll make the allies pay for their victory, she vowed. They’ve had enough of our arrows; let’s see how they like our staffs.
She left the tower and descended the fifty paces to the ground. Every step was slow and considered, her movements hampered by the damage inflicted by Tungdil’s dagger. The pain was a constant, humiliating reminder of her disastrous mission to secure the groundlings’ kingdom. She had failed on all counts: The groundlings were ensconced in their stronghold, her parents’ murderers were still alive, and she had failed to learn the secret of the orcs’ unnatural power. Forced to flee the battlefield, she had stopped only to snatch up a drinking pouch, knowing that wasted hours looking for streams or rivers could lead to capture or death. It was only much later, when she uncorked the pouch, that she realized her mistake: The water was stagnant, brackish, and unpalatable, but she drank it all the same.
The immortal siblings, after hearing how the five-thousand-strong orcish army had been defeated by a handful of dwarves, had banished her to the front, where she was to die in defense of her kingdom. To her relief, the siblings had confiscated Keenfire: She never wanted to touch the accursed weapon again.
Ondori was content with her fate. Death would come as a release, the last chance of heroism at the end of life of abject failure. Although I can’t avenge my parents when I’m dead, she thought bitterly. At least the immortal siblings had granted her a final favor: A hundred warriors, all failures like herself, were at her command.