“It looks too peaceful,” murmured Boïndil, who was marching at Tungdil’s side, having turned down the offer of a pony. “I’m not going to let the mountains trick me into thinking everything is all right.” With a loud splash, his right foot landed in a puddle. Cursing, he pulled it out and wiped it on the grass. “Smooth floors and nice solid ceilings, that’s what I want,” he grumbled.
“We’re nearly there, Boïndil,” said Balyndis, pointing to the mouth of a narrow gully that snaked toward one of the peaks. “See the entrance over there?”
They suddenly became aware of a gray mist that seemed to thicken as they approached, swirling around them until they could barely see. It was almost as if it wanted them to lose their bearings.
Tungdil pictured the six fortified walls that intersected the gully, blocking the entrance and each of its sweeping curves. At the far end of the gully lay the imposing firstling stronghold and its nine soaring towers.
“I can’t see a thing,” he said, disappointed. “I was hoping to see East Ironhald in full…” He tailed off as the mist lifted to reveal a landscape littered with vast slabs of stone. Some were black with soot, others had fractured or crumbled.
Xamtys tugged on the reins, and her pony snorted and stopped. “Vraccas be with us,” she cried, staring at the remains of the defenses. Anyone wishing to enter the gully had once been obliged to scale a wall forty paces high or read the password inscribed on the metal door, which required a good knowledge of dwarfish. Neither the wall nor the door was still standing.
Three paces from the queen’s feet, the ground dropped away, and a yawning black crater filled the path. There was no sign of the cause, but something had evidently hit the ground with tremendous force, crushing the masonry, scorching the rock, and turning the imposing door into an unremarkable scrap of warped metal.
“It’s not possible,” whispered Balyndis. Even the most powerful siege engine, designed by the best dwarven engineer to fell the most monstrous of Tion’s beasts, was incapable of causing damage such as this. “What could have…? Maybe it’s magic. Do you think Nôd’onn somehow…” She suddenly remembered what she and Tungdil had seen on the night of the battle. “The comet!”
Boïndil let out an ear-piercing shriek and charged into the mist, which, it now dawned on them, smelled strongly of scorched earth. Calling his brother’s name, the hot-blooded dwarf dispensed with caution and vanished in the direction of the firstling stronghold, desperate to find his twin.
“Come back!” shouted Xamtys.
Tungdil knew that his friend was in no mood to listen. Fearing that there might be dangers lurking in the fog, he chased after him. Balyndis followed without hesitation.
They relied on their ears to guide them. The sound of Boïndil’s jangling chain mail and the rattling of his helmet echoed noisily through the otherwise silent gully, which made the business of locating him very easy indeed.
But the devastation around them filled them with fear.
The gully was pitted with craters, some the size of wagon wheels, others large enough to accommodate eight ponies side by side. The ground had proven the weaker element in the encounter and some of the indentations were seven paces deep. For the dwarves, it meant lowering themselves into potholes and climbing out the other side. The snow was gone from this part of the mountain, and there was no sign of melt water, just a thin layer of frozen crystals. It was as if the snow had vaporized, leaving a revolting smell.
Hurrying as best they could, Tungdil and Balyndis followed the jangling chain mail, eventually reaching the end of the gully where the stronghold would normally come into view.
They took another few steps and felt snow beneath their boots. Suddenly, the fog lifted to reveal Boïndil, standing at the foot of a mound of recrystallized snow that towered above him, too high and sheer to climb. The mist cleared further, revealing the full extent of the tragedy.
Of the stronghold’s nine towers, only one was visible above the snow. The avalanche had swept away its parapet, but the tower itself was standing.
The other eight towers had disappeared entirely. The twin ramparts and cleverly designed lifts and pulleys lay buried beneath the gray mound of snow—together with the ruins of East Ironhald and, as the three dwarves suspected, the bodies of the dead.
Balyndis peered at the tower, looking for the bridge that led to the stronghold. “It’s gone,” she said tremulously. “The White Death has swallowed the bridge.”
Tungdil was too horrified to speak.
Hooves approached from behind; the rest of the company had arrived. The sight of the ruined stronghold drew curses, cries of horror, and wails of grief from the stricken dwarves.
Xamtys dismounted and walked to the mound. She reached out and thrust her hand into the snow to pull out a battered helmet. The headwear, made of the strongest dwarven metal, evidently hadn’t protected its owner from the weight of the snow.
“Worthy Vraccas, your children have paid dearly for the salvation of Girdlegard,” she said gravely and without a hint of reproach. “Or is this the beginning of a new and unknown threat?” Her brown eyes settled on the surviving tower and tears trickled down her cheeks, rolling through her wispy hair and plumping onto her armored chest. “My tears mark the passing of those who died here. You have my word that nothing will stop me rebuilding my ravaged kingdom. This time the stronghold will be more imposing, more splendid than before, and evil will never triumph against us—not now, not ever, not even if I have to rebuild East Ironhald on my own.” She held the helmet on high. “May the memory of the dead stay with us forever. Long live the children of the Smith!”
“The children of the Smith!” came the shout from a hundred different throats. The words were still echoing when a bugle call replied.
“The side entrance!” Balyndis told Tungdil. “It means they’ll meet us at the side entrance!”
“Which side entrance?” demanded Boïndil with a glint in his eyes that Tungdil knew and feared. The secondling warrior seized Balyndis roughly by the hand. “What are you waiting for? Lead the way!”
Balyndis didn’t usually take orders from Boïndil, or anyone else for that matter, but she had witnessed his temper before. Taking heed of Tungdil’s silent warning, she set off without a murmur, while Boïndil and the others followed close behind.
They picked their way around the edges of the avalanche and came to what looked like a sheer wall.
“It’s in case of a siege—we wanted to be able to attack on the flank,” explained Balyndis. “It’s never been used.”
“Until now,” said Tungdil, watching as cracks appeared in the rock, forming the outlines of a door four paces high and four paces wide. It swung open, revealing a dozen waiting dwarves. Tungdil glanced nervously at Boïndil and prayed that Vraccas had held his protective shield over his twin. Boïndil will finish what the White Death started if Boëndal has come to any harm.
The secondling stepped forward. “Where’s my brother?” he demanded. Naturally, the firstlings were more interested in welcoming their queen and took a moment to respond. Ireheart grabbed the nearest sentry by the collar and shook him roughly. “Where’s Boëndal?” he roared, tightening his grip until the sentry’s face went purple.
Tungdil laid a hand on Ireheart’s arm. “You’ll hurt him!”
“Boëndal?” gasped the poor sentry. “He’s in bed. We dug him out of the snow, but…”
“But what?” asked Boïndil sharply, letting go of his jerkin. “For the sake of Vraccas, speak clearly.”