Balyndis didn’t want to hear any more, but she found herself asking, “What sort of trouble?”
Boïndil took another draft of beer. “He was fine at first—the firstlings looked after him well, and the arrow wounds were healing.” He put down the empty tankard and wiped the froth from his lips. “That was before the comet.” He paused and swallowed. “I don’t know what’s happened to him; I just feel cold.”
Balyndis gasped. “Vraccas protect us.”
Tungdil was angry with himself for not having listened more carefully when Boïndil brought up the subject before. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he asked him, laying a hand on his shoulder. Boïndil’s chain mail felt strangely cold.
“We had to see off the runts. Vraccas knows I wanted to go to Boëndal, but our duty lay elsewhere. I’ve been too worried to sleep, too worried to think—and now the beasts have been dealt with and we’re free to go.” A shadow crossed his face. “At least we’ll know for certain before too long.” Excusing himself with a nod, he picked up his tankard and went in search of beer to wash away his gloomy thoughts.
Balendilín gazed after him anxiously. “Knowledge can be worse than uncertainty. I hope his fears prove unfounded.” He laid a hand on Tungdil’s wrist. “Do you need anything for the journey?” he asked more brightly. “The orcs spoiled most of our provisions, but I’m sure I can find you a bit of cheese, some pickled camla-moss, and a few dried pharu-mushrooms to keep you going.” His brown eyes settled on Balyndis, and he smiled at her encouragingly.
Tungdil decided it was time to tell the others about the orcs who had escaped the allied army. He described the dead glade. “It was almost as if they were being drawn there. What if the Perished Land is gathering its troops?”
“They must have a reason for stopping there,” the secondling king said doubtfully. “You’d think they’d find themselves a better hiding place—it’s too small for an army of orcs, and there can’t be much food. Bruron’s men will starve them out in no time. The beasts would be better off in Toboribor, holed up in their caves.”
“I don’t see the sense in it either,” admitted Tungdil. “Mallen’s scout said that dead glades have the power to drive humans insane. If I didn’t have the fifthling kingdom to worry about, I’d look into it myself.”
Balendilín shook his head. “Bruron and Mallen can take care of the orcs. The beasts are their concern; the Gray Range is yours.” He took his leave.
Balyndis sighed. “I thought killing Nôd’onn would put an end to our problems, but Vraccas hasn’t finished with us yet.”
Tungdil smiled and ran a hand tenderly over her face. Like all dwarf-women, she had a fine layer of down on her cheeks. It generally got thicker and more noticeable with age. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you. I dreamed about you while I was away.” He paused. “To be honest, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” He noticed that she was wearing a new necklace, a finely forged chain of steel links studded with tiny gold balls. He knew at once who had made it.
“You obviously weren’t as busy as me,” she said with a smile, watching the slow, stately movements of twelve dwarves who were performing a dance in honor of the dwarven miner. “We had the furnaces roaring from morning till night; I barely left the anvil.” She raised an arm. “See those muscles? They’re twice their usual size. The orcs made such a mess that I could stay a hundred cycles and still have work to do. I haven’t had time for dreaming.”
He pointed to her necklace. “Oh, really,” he said teasingly. “But you found a few spare seconds to forge yourself a chain?”
She smiled. “You noticed!” The krummhorns fell silent and Balyndis joined the enthusiastic applause.
Tungdil laid an arm around her shoulders. “I’d rather you didn’t spend the next hundred cycles at the secondlings’ anvils; I need you in the Gray Range with me.” He looked her in the eye. “I’m not asking because I need a good smith; I’m asking because I need you. The past few orbits have made me realize that I never want to be away from you again.”
Balyndis, unaccustomed to such frankness, searched his face. “Tungdil Goldhand, what you’re proposing isn’t to be taken lightly.”
“I know,” he said, meeting her gaze. “But think of the memories we share already—and our adventures aren’t over yet. I want us to still be talking and remembering in four hundred cycles’ time. And of course we’ll tell the stories to our children, who’ll think we’re making it up.” He kissed her on the top of the head. “Balyndis Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers, daughter of Borengar and smith of the firstling kingdom, what would you say if a thirdling of unknown origin and no proper dwarven upbringing were to ask you to be joined with him by the iron band?”
Balyndis was so overwhelmed that she took a while to answer. “We’ll never be apart again,” she said at last. “Our hearts are joined already—they’ve been joined for a while.”
She started forward and threw her arms around him. Hugging her close, Tungdil pressed his face against her skin, filling his nostrils with her scent. He was still hugging her, eyes shut and perfectly contented, when he heard her say, “Yes, Tungdil Goldhand. I want to be with you always.”
It wouldn’t have mattered if the great hall had caved in on him or all the beasts in Girdlegard had torn him apart or a hundred arrows had pierced his chest; he would have died a happy dwarf.
23 Miles Southwest of Dsôn Balsur,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th/6235th Solar Cycle
Looking out from the top of the highest watchtower, Liútasil surveyed row upon row of brightly colored tents, ordered strictly by unit and rank. He ran a comb through his hair. The filigree teeth, inlaid with mother-of-pearl to stop them snagging on his fine auburn hair, separated the long shimmering strands, easing the occasional tangle.
The elven lord had ordered his warriors to pitch their tents and put up a palisade around the camp’s perimeter, bounded by a moat seven paces deep and seven paces wide. Here, on the outskirts of the älfar kingdom, neither man nor elf would sleep soundly unless every measure had been taken to make the camp secure.
The allied strategy had been decided at the Blacksaddle. Mallen was to deal with the orcs and bögnilim, using the superior speed of his cavalry to chase the fleeing beasts, while Liútasil and the other human generals marched north to attack the elves’ dark cousins in Dsôn Balsur and drive them out of Girdlegard.
The lord of Âlandur monitored the activity in the camp. His sharp ears picked up snatches of conversation carried to him by the wind, and his sensitive nostrils detected the odor of humans and horses, mixed with smoke from campfires where men and women were roasting meat. Some of the soldiers were preparing for battle, whetting swords, sharpening lances, and dipping arrowheads into animal excrement to ensure that every missile, whether it pierced a heart, grazed a shoulder, or nicked an ankle, had a chance of causing death. A few of the men, desperate to forget their fear of the älfar, were swigging wine, while others lolled drunkenly on their bedrolls.
“Humans,” he said pityingly, putting away his comb. Elves knew better than to waste their strength before a battle, but human soldiers did everything in their power to incapacitate themselves.
Without them, though, the campaign would never succeed. The elves were outnumbered by the älfar, and they didn’t have the means to conquer Dsôn Balsur on their own.