“I should have explained myself more clearly from the start,” the king said soothingly. “Our archives turned out to be most instructive. The scholars found an ancient treaty dating back to the end of the 4000th cycle. It seems our ancestors signed a pact with Gauragar, which grants our kingdom everlasting ownership of Cloudpiercer in payment for our help.”
“You mean, the Blacksaddle?” Salfalur knew the stories about the mountain’s history. According to legend, the Blacksaddle was once a mighty peak named Cloudpiercer, the summit of which stretched thousands of paces into the sky. Cloudpiercer stood taller and prouder than any other peak in Girdlegard. It was tipped with snow throughout the seasons and its loftiest flanks were made of pure gold. After trying and failing to mine the treasure, the people of Gauragar had called on the dwarves to help them.
“Are you saying our kinsmen helped the humans to mine the gold, just like the legend says?”
“Exactly. The dwarves of Lorimbur were the first to send a delegation to Gauragar.” Lorimbas gestured to the map. “They arrived at Cloudpiercer and succeeded in burrowing their way through the mountain and digging a tunnel to the top. They hollowed out the mountain and carried off the gold. In return for their help, they demanded a share of the treasure and ownership of the mountain. The king of Gauragar signed a treaty to that effect.”
Salfalur knew the rest from a song that his aunt had taught him as a child. The dwarves and men had quarreled over the gold, prompting Cloudpiercer to erupt in fury and shake the miners from its core. The rest of the mountain was riddled with tunnels and the peak collapsed. From that moment on, the mountain simmered with hatred and harbored a murderous grudge against the races of dwarves and men.
“What if the mountain recognizes us and tries to bury us under its weight?” he asked nervously.
“That part of the story is almost certainly hogwash, but we’ll be careful all the same.” The king was still staring at the map. “Bruron should receive my missive in the next few orbits.”
“Bruron is a man without principles. He’ll never honor the word of his ancestors,” Salfalur predicted dourly. “Besides, without the help of the other folks, his kingdom would have fallen to the magus. He’ll deny all knowledge of our agreement rather than risk the anger of the dwarves.”
“Humans will do anything for gold; it’s simply a case of scale. A single coin won’t buy a sovereign’s loyalty, so I’m offering two full chests. How can he refuse? His kingdom was ransacked by orcs and his people will be hungry. He needs money to buy grain.” Lorimbas sat back and folded his hands across his chest. “You see, Salfalur, I can fight with my head as well as my mace. I can outscheme poor Bislipur.”
Salfalur’s tattoos snaked across his face as he ground his teeth. “I don’t doubt it, Your Majesty. But what did Bislipur achieve?”
“Patience, old friend. The first stage of the plan deals only with Bruron.”
“Where would you strike next?”
Lorimbas’s finger hovered over the map and landed on the kingdom of Idoslane. “Orcs are marauding through Mallen’s kingdom. He’ll want to destroy them, or drive them into Toboribor. We’ll wait until he’s busy; then we’ll pay him a visit.”
“Mallen and Goldhand are friends. All the money in Girdlegard won’t change his allegiance.” The commander-in-chief frowned. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but scheming won’t get you further than poor Bislipur.”
“You’d rather we went to war,” the king said coldly, fixing his commander with his dark brown eyes. “I don’t doubt that the odds have never seemed better. Our army is strong, and the others are weak from their battle with Nôd’onn.” He broke off and raised a warning finger. “But numbers count for nothing while the alliance still holds. We need to kindle the hatred between our cousins and the elves. Once we’ve stoked the fires of enmity, we’ll forge new wedges—wedges that will isolate Gandogar and the others from the humans and the elves.”
It took more than flashing eyes and a raised voice to intimidate Salfalur. “I wish you every success,” he said, undaunted. “What are my orders?”
“Tell our mercenaries to listen for the codeword Lorimbur’s Revenge. When the time comes, they must lay down their arms and fight only in self-defense. Tell them not to be tempted by offers of gold.” The king rested his chin on his hands and fell silent. Dark thoughts forced their way into his mind, swamping him with fear, self-doubt, and despair.
“Are you worried about your daughter?”
Lorimbas sat up sharply, startled from his thoughts. Salfalur was right; he was worried about his daughter, who had been missing for half a cycle. “Still no news,” he said with a shake of the head. There had been no message, no sighting, not the slightest indication of where she was or whether she was alive. “I’d sooner carry all the peaks in Girdlegard than endure this silence.”
“Have faith, Lorimbas. She’s a good daughter, and an excellent wife.” Salfalur’s face softened for the first time that orbit. “I trained her in the art of combat, and you taught her to dissemble; she won’t let us down.” He stared at the fireplace, watching the flickering flames. “It’s time she sent word.” His left hand clenched into a fist, his gauntlet creaking.
Lorimbas sighed. A single word, a single syllable would calm our fears… “It’s hard, I know. I miss my daughter, you miss your wife—but what choice did we have? No one else could achieve our purpose without arousing their suspicions.” He was trying to drown out the voice of his conscience, which reminded him that he was endangering his youngest daughter by sending her on a mission that relied on total secrecy. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. “I had no choice,” he whispered.
II
Beroïn’s Folk,
Secondling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th/6235th Solar Cycle
It’s still a horse—just a small one, that’s all,” grumbled Boïndil, sliding down from the pony’s saddle. He gave himself a good shake, showering sand from his clothes and beard. “If Vraccas had wanted us to be riders, he would have given us better padding.” He winced as he rubbed his backside.
“You’d be complaining about your blisters if we’d walked,” retorted Tungdil with a smile. Like Boïndil, he was coated from head to toe with sand, fine grains of which had snuck through his garments, clinging to the fabric and rubbing against his skin. He dismounted and ran a hand over his pony’s mane. “Don’t listen to the old curmudgeon,” he told the pony. “You did an excellent job.”
They were standing on the outermost terrace of Ogre’s Death, one of the most imposing strongholds in Girdlegard, home to the secondling dwarves. Its keep had been hewn into the rock, with battlements extending down the mountainside in four separate terraces.
Until recently, no one had believed that Ogre’s Death would ever be conquered, but Nôd’onn had proved that the defenses could be breached. With the help of the treacherous Bislipur, the magus’s beasts had stormed the stronghold and laid waste to the secondlings’ halls.
Now the stronghold was a hive of activity. Cranes were lifting, wheels turning, winches hoisting, and saws slicing through the rock. Dust filled the air, and the Blue Range echoed with a thousand hammers and chisels as hordes of industrious masons rebuilt what the beasts had destroyed. The rubble from the ruined battlements had been carted away and the fortifications were rising again, only this time the defenses would be bigger, heavier, stronger. Soon the secondlings would be safe from invaders once more.