Markus Heitz - The Dwarves

Tungdil thanked his hosts profusely. "Without your healing powers a festering wound like that could have killed me." He dug out the extra money that he had taken from the mercenaries and handed it to Opatja.

"We can't accept this," the villager objected.

"That's your business, but I won't be taking it back. It's not often that a dwarf agrees to part with money." He was so insistent that the coins eventually found their way into Opatja's purse.

Rйmsa gave him a pouch of herbs. "Lay them on your wounds before you go to sleep. Soon your leg will be as good as new." They all shook hands and he went on his way. The children followed him until the sky grew darker and rain clouds gathered overhead.

"Will you come and see us on your way home?" Jemta asked mournfully.

"Of course, little one. It's an honor to have made your acquaintance. Keep practicing, and you'll make a fine smith." He offered her his hand, but she darted forward and hugged him instead.

"Now we're friends," she said, waving and running back toward the hamlet. As she rounded the corner she shouted: "Don't forget to come back!"

Tungdil was so surprised that he stood there for a moment, hand outstretched, in the middle of the road. "Well, well, who would have thought I could win over a girl-child so easily?" He marched off in good spirits, thinking fondly of the people left behind.

The spring weather had taken a turn for the worse: Dark clouds covered every inch of sky and rain had settled for the duration. After a while, even his boots were soaked, his feet cold and swollen inside the sopping leather.

In spite of the unpleasant conditions, Tungdil was making good progress, but the thought of the orcs and the incursion of the Perished Land, as foretold by the дlfar, preyed on his mind.

He remembered what Lot-Ionan had told him about the invasion of the northern pestilence. The Perished Land extended six hundred and fifty miles across Girdlegard, swallowing the whole of the former fifthling kingdom and much of the northern border besides and reaching another four hundred miles southward, where it tapered to approximately half that breadth.

Tungdil reached the shelter of a rocky overhang and examined his map. In his mind's eye he pictured the insidious evil as a wedge forcing itself into Girdlegard, its tip grinding against the magi's magic barrier and leveling off, unable to advance any farther.

Now it seemed that the Perished Land's ruler, the mysterious Nфd'onn, was intent on extending his dominion. And he was undoubtedly making progress, in spite of the magi's girdle. In the east, the дlfar kingdom of Dsфn Balsur was eating its way into Gauragar like a festering sore, covering an area two hundred miles long by seventy miles wide. And while the Stone Gateway remained open, there was nothing to stop further armies of foul beasts from entering Girdlegard from the north.

The magi will have their work cut out now that Toboribor has allied itself with the northern blight. The wizards were powerful, but they could only be in one place at a time.

At least they'll be forewarned. According to his calculations, the message would have reached Lot-Ionan by now.

All around him, the varied landscape of Gauragar was doing its best to recompense him for the dreadful events at the start of his trip. Even the rain could not dull the vibrant springtime colors, although Tungdil was too focused on his journey to pay much attention to the lush splendor of the knolls, woods, and meadows. At length he came to an abandoned temple, a small edifice dedicated to Palandiell. Light streamed through manifold windows, illuminating carvings that symbolized fertility and long life.

Palandiell commanded the loyalty of most humans, but she was too soft and indecisive for Tungdil's taste. He was a follower of Vraccas, to whom temples had been constructed in some of the larger cities-or so he had read in Lot-Ionan's books.

Some humans preferred Elria, the water deity, while others prayed to the wind god Samusin, who regarded men, elves, dwarves, and beasts as creatures of equal standing and strove for an equilibrium between evil and good. Tion, dark lord and creator of foul beasts, was more feared than admired in Girdlegard. I don't know anyone who would worship him, Tungdil thought in relief. Lot-Ionan's household, Frala included, prayed to Palandiell.

Tungdil had erected his own special altar and dedicated it to the god of the dwarves who had hewn the five founding fathers from unyielding granite and brought them to life. From time to time he smelted gold in his furnace as an offering: For all he knew, he was the only dwarf in Girdlegard to follow such a custom, but he wanted to give Vraccas a share of the best.

His brown eyes surveyed the ivy-covered walls of the derelict temple. Perhaps men will have greater cause to pray to Palandiell in the future, he mused.

Later he stood aside as a unit of well-armored cavalrymen rode by. Their mail, embellished with the crest of King Bruron, clunked noisily and mud sprayed from the horses' hooves, spattering his cloak. He counted two hundred riders in all. Will that be enough to defeat a war band of orcs?

From then on Tungdil regularly encountered patrol groups. By the look of things, news of the marauding hordes in Idoslane had traveled fast. Rather than relying on Tilogorn to put a stop to the destruction, King Bruron of Gauragar was taking steps of his own to hunt down the orcs.

It pleased Tungdil to see that the humans had heeded his warning. History would hardly remember the actions of Tungdil Bolofar, a dwarf without clan or folk who had alerted Gauragar to the danger by calling on a peasant family to send word to the authorities that Goodwater had been destroyed. What mattered was that he knew about it and it filled him with pride.

Most nights Tungdil slept beneath the stars, although occasionally he made his bed in a barn and once he allowed himself the luxury of a room at an inn. It seemed prudent to save the dwindling contents of his purse.

After nine orbits his leg was fully mended. The rigors of the journey had made a lasting impression on his girth and his belt sat two holes tighter than usual. Walking was good for his stamina and he no longer panted when he journeyed uphill. Even his feet had become accustomed to the daily toil. At night he sometimes dreamed of Goodwater, the horrors he had seen there still present in his mind.

It took another few orbits of marching before the Blacksaddle finally loomed into view. The mountain looked almost exactly like the model that Opatja had irreverently fashioned from cheese, except its sides were pitch-black.

Sunlight glistened on the deep gulleys running vertically down the mountain's sheer flanks. The forbidding rock jutted out of the landscape like an abandoned boulder and was surrounded by a murky forest of conifers. The trees looked small and fragile by comparison, although the smallest among them was fifty paces high.

In times gone by, it must have been a proper mountain with a summit towering miles above the ground. Perhaps the gods snapped it off as a punishment and left the base like a tree stump in the soil.

There was something vaguely sinister about the mountain. Tungdil couldn't define it exactly, but he knew he would never have gone there by choice. He could only assume that Gorйn prized his solitude more than most.

Brushing aside these misgivings, Tungdil hefted his bags and continued along the gravel road that wound past the forest half a mile to the east. He kept looking for a path or a gap in the trees, but at sundown he was back where he had started and none the wiser for it all.

What a strange forest. Tomorrow I'll have to cut my way through the undergrowth if the trees won't let me pass. He could feel the tiredness in his limbs, so he set up camp by the roadside and lit a fire, keeping a watchful eye on the forest for predators.