“It’s time we went home,” he announced. Even Boïndil was happy with the change of plan. The prospect of seeing his brother outweighed the appeal of another battle, and he was looking forward to a solid dwarven meal, washed down with a tankard of Girdlegard’s finest beer.
They set off on the long journey home.
Lorimbur’s Folk,
Thirdling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th/6235th Solar Cycle
Bislipur overreached himself,” said a deep voice. The lofty walls threw back the words as a toneless echo, then it was quiet in the chamber. Only the fire continued to spit and crackle. An armored hand balled itself into a fist, the articulated fingers creaking as the spikes on the knuckles rose menacingly. “Cycles of plotting, and for what? I knew it would come to nothing.”
“The other folks are weak, Your Majesty. Hundreds died at the Blacksaddle. The situation can still be turned to our advantage.” The red glow from the fire accentuated the terrible scars on his gleaming scalp. Contrary to appearances, the lines had been cut by a thirdling tattooist, not an enemy sword. The sequence of dwarven runes spelled death and destruction to the enemies of his kingdom, and his artfully chiseled skull was fearsome to behold. “They lost their best warriors in the battle with Nôd’onn’s hordes. It left them crippled and toothless.”
His kinsman leaned forward. His long black hair was streaked with gray and braided into three plaits that sat neatly against his scalp. “We’re not ready for open warfare.”
The thirdling commander-in-chief shrugged, causing his tunic—a finely crafted shirt of interlocking plates and chain mail—to jangle. “Name me a better time, Lorimbas Steelheart. We haven’t been as strong as this in two hundred cycles.”
“My plan is more subtle, Salfalur Shieldbreaker,” replied the thirdling king. His beard was stiff with dye, hanging like an overstarched pennant from his chin. Even when he talked, the red, gray, and brown whiskers stayed perfectly rigid. He leaned over the table and studied a map of Girdlegard. “Bislipur’s mistake was to move too slowly. My goal shall be achieved within a decade.” He rose from his marble chair and signaled for his commander-in-chief to follow. The hall where they held their briefings was dimly lit, with specks of iron pyrite glittering weakly in the dark stone walls. The two dwarves seemed to be walking through nothingness with only a smattering of sparkling stars.
A line of triangular pillars hewn from the flesh of the mountain stretched toward a set of stairs. Lorimbas ascended them quickly and threw open the doors to reveal a golden shrine.
Lorimbur, founding father of the thirdlings, rested here. His coffin stood upright, his marble likeness staring out from the lid. Dwarven runes made of diamonds, precious stones, and gems praised his deeds and exhorted his descendants to avenge and destroy.
Lorimbas bowed his head respectfully. “Too long have we endured their scorn,” he muttered absently. He reached out with his right hand and caressed the cold effigy. “Too many times have we failed in our duty to avenge the injustices suffered by our founder. The time is ripe, thirdling father. Your bidding will be done, and your faithful son, Lorimbas Steelheart of the clan of the Stone Grinders, ruler of your children, will drive the descendants of Beroïn, Borengar, Goïmdil, and Giselbert from their kingdoms.” He kneeled down, unhooked a three-flanged mace from his belt, and held it toward the dead king. “This I promise on my life.”
Salfalur joined him at the coffin and dropped to his knees. There was no need for him to speak: Lorimbas had given full expression to the passion that burned wordlessly in his soul. Head bowed, with the lethal spike of his double-headed hammer inclined respectfully to the coffin, Salfalur vowed silently to uphold the thirdling cause.
Hours passed as they prayed together, so absorbed in their devotion that their aching arms and bruised knees barely registered in their minds.
At last Lorimbas rose, kissed the sacred boots of his ancestor and locked the shrine.
Salfalur lingered for a moment, gazing at the shimmering gold doors. Like all thirdlings, he loved the founder of his kingdom better than Vraccas, who had forsaken his bold-minded son.
Lorimbur’s crime was to insist on his right to choose his own name. The flint-willed dwarf, who possessed a special measure of that dwarven quality referred to as obduracy, had argued until he achieved his purpose, but in so doing he displeased the dwarven god. His brothers each received a talent, but Lorimbur was condemned to mediocrity, and his descendants never fully mastered the dwarven arts.
Salfalur leaned forward and studied the doors. In his eyes, the inscriptions looked beautiful, but a firstling would compare the metalwork to the imperfect efforts of a human smith.
They’ll pay for their arrogance, he vowed darkly, flexing his muscles. He wore heavy vambraces equipped with knives to protect his arms in battle. “What did you have in mind, Your Majesty?” he asked, bowing his head as he descended backward from the shrine.
The king followed him down the steps and they returned to the marble table to study the map. “We’ll drive a wedge between them and shatter their alliance,” said the king, reaching for a pitcher and filling their silver tankards with beer. The index finger of his right hand hovered over the Blacksaddle. “The thirdlings built that stronghold, and I intend to get it back. It’s ours by right.” He raised his tankard. “To our cousins, for restoring its defenses.” He drank thirstily and replaced the tankard on the table with a noisy clunk. “Well?” he prompted, eying his silent commander. “What do you say?”
The plan made little sense to Salafur, who didn’t mind airing his concerns. “What use is the stronghold, Your Majesty? If it’s the tunnels you’re interested in, we’ve got access to them here.”
Lorimbas smiled. “The tunnels… exactly. Remember when we first heard how our stronghold had been taken over by the dwarven army? I sent our scholars to do some digging in the archives. They came back with some fascinating information about the Blacksaddle. Our dwarven cousins have no idea.”
Salfalur sipped his beer and looked at the king intently. “They’ve been ensconced in the stronghold for orbits. How can you be sure?”
“Trust me, faithful warrior, they know nothing. If our cousins had discovered the Blacksaddle’s secret, every dwarf in Girdlegard would know of it by now. News like this travels fast, and our eyes and ears are everywhere. Our spies tell us everything—and they’re more subtle than Bislipur.” He handed Salfalur the archivists’ findings: a packet of manuscripts tied with a ribbon and a stack of engraved tablets.
The commander-in-chief glanced at them briefly and waved his hand dismissively. “They’re in the old tongue,” he snapped. “I can’t read them.”
Lorimbas stared at Salfalur’s bloodshot left eye, the distinguishing feature of the Red Eye clan, and nodded in satisfaction. “That’s the beauty of it—hardly anyone can read the ancient script. The Blacksaddle will be in our hands before anyone fathoms its secret.”
“True,” said Salfalur slowly. He took a deep breath. “But how will we persuade the other folks to leave the stronghold? To fight them would be—”
“None of our kinsmen will lose their lives.” The king laughed cruelly and leaned back in his chair. “We won’t be doing the fighting. We’ll get someone to do it for us.”
“Who would fight for the thirdling cause?”
“King Bruron of Gauragar.”
Salfalur’s bushy brown eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “This is worthy of Bislipur,” he said reprovingly. “I thought we’d agreed that scheming is useless. So far I can’t see the merit of the plan.” He wrapped his hands around the haft of his hammer, an imposing weapon that almost matched him in height.