“There’s a lot to be done,” said Xamtys, noticing their glances. She greeted them from her metal throne.
Tungdil and Balyndis inclined their heads, but the queen held up a hand before they could kneel before her throne. “Let’s dispense with formality. We’ve got business to attend to.” She paused for a moment while a steward brought stools for her guests to be seated. “Tungdil, I think you should leave for the Gray Range right away. Girdlegard won’t be safe until you’ve closed the Stone Gateway. We need you and as many of our kinsfolk as possible guarding the Northern Pass. On top of that, there’s the quake damage to consider. If the fifthling stronghold was hit half as badly as we were, you’ll have to work flat out to rebuild it. We know the orcs vandalized the fortifications; the quake may have flattened them completely.”
“I was thinking the same,” he said. “But you’ll need every pair of hands to repair the firstling halls. Why not send your volunteers later, when the work has been done?”
She considered him intently. The golden rings of her mail shirt shimmered in the light of the braziers, bathing her plump face in light. Her expression was serious. “Your generosity does you credit, Tungdil, but your new compatriots should leave at once. It’s in Girdlegard’s interest that they go.” She turned to Balyndis. “The Steel Fingers arrived bearing news from the western border of the kingdom. The falling star continued its trajectory and crashed to earth on the far side of the range to the west. Since then, flames have been sighted every night on the horizon. According to the guardians of the Red Gateway, it looks as though a fire is raging throughout the Outer Lands.” She looked from Tungdil to Balyndis. “I’ve sent word to the elves and men. Andôkai should hear the news within the next few orbits. It’s a pity we can’t tell them more.”
Tungdil was busy trying to work out whether there was any connection between what the sentries had seen and Nôd’onn’s warning of a threat from the west. The magus, insistent that Girdlegard was in danger, had pleaded with Andôkai to spare his life. “I dread to think what happened when the star crashed to earth,” said Tungdil, remembering the craters formed by falling debris from the comet’s tail. “The damage was bad enough here, but the impact of a rock of that size… Surely nothing could survive.”
“Do you think the fire is connected with Nôd’onn’s warning?” asked Balyndis, catching on.
Tungdil shrugged. “Somehow it doesn’t seem likely. No good ever came of fretting, although I dare say we’ll fret anyway—there won’t be much else to distract us on the long march ahead.” He thought for a moment. “Your Majesty, perhaps you could propose a council of the most learned minds in Girdlegard,” he suggested. “Together, we stand a better chance of finding a solution.” He smiled. “Why shouldn’t a dwarven queen be the first to remind the other rulers of the newly pledged solidarity between dwarves, elves, and men? Your Majesty would have the honor of leading an initiative devoted wholly to the common good.”
Xamtys returned his smile. “Wise words from our scholar. Giselbert chose the right dwarf to rebuild his kingdom.” She turned to Balyndis. “You’re free to go—the Steel Fingers are impatient to see you.”
They bowed respectfully and hurried into the corridor where Balyndis’s clansfolk were waiting.
Tungdil appraised the delegation of dwarves. The women among them, four in total, were dressed in traditional brown leather bodices and woolen skirts. Some of their male companions wore heavy chain mail and had weapons in their belts. They were warriors in the firstling army, proud to be chosen by Vraccas to fight for their folk. Although Tungdil was standing right in front of them, they acted as if he weren’t there.
Balyndis threw herself on the tallest, stateliest warrior and hugged him tight.
“Ah, my intrepid daughter,” he greeted her, laughing heartily. He laid his hands on her face. “I hear you fought the hordes at the Blacksaddle! Thanks be to Vraccas that you’re safe.”
Although he and Balyndis were thrilled to see each other, their reunion was dignified and restrained. Tungdil had been half expecting them to jump up and down with elation, but dwarves didn’t go in for the effusiveness common among humankind. Besides, there was no need for it; the affection between father and daughter was evident in their smiling faces and shining eyes.
“How are the others?” asked Balyndis. Her expression darkened. “I heard the comet…”
“Missed us entirely!” said her father. “Vraccas was merciful and diverted the falling debris away from our halls. Boulders landed either side of us, and a few of our chambers were damaged by the quake, but everyone’s safe. We’re looking forward to hearing about your adventures—but first there’s some more good news.”
“More good news? And I was so worried about you!” exclaimed Balyndis, making her way through the ranks of the Steel Fingers and greeting each in turn. At last she signaled for Tungdil to join her. “Father, this is Tungdil Goldhand. He led the expedition to forge Keenfire and kill the dark magus.” She squeezed his arm. “He’s a good friend and, with your consent, we’d like to be melded.”
Tungdil held out his hand to the warrior and met his steely gaze. “My name is Tungdil Goldhand—of what clan, I cannot say, but I’m a child of the Smith and a—”
“You’re of Lorimbur’s line,” said the warrior, cutting him short. He ignored Tungdil’s outstretched hand. “Bulingar Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers, child of the Smith and warrior of Borengar,” he introduced himself. “No daughter of mine will ever be melded to a dwarf whose founding father swore eternal vengeance on the other folks. I know you fought valiantly at the Blacksaddle, but you’re a thirdling, and that’s all there is to it as far as I’m concerned.”
Tungdil would rather have been beaten over the head with a cudgel, stabbed through the heart, or pushed into a chasm than suffer the harshness of Bulingar’s words. His vision of a shared future with Balyndis shattered into a thousand jagged shards, leaving him with a gut-wrenching feeling of emptiness.
“Believe me, I’ve never wanted to kill another dwarf,” he said, hoping to change the firstling’s mind. “All my life, I’ve longed to—”
“All your life?” interrupted Balyndis’s father. “A dwarf of sixty cycles is practically a child! How would you know if you wanted to kill us? You were found by a magus and brought up by men. It stands to reason that you didn’t hate us in Ionandar, but after a few cycles in a dwarven kingdom, your true disposition will come to the fore. What if the golden warrior is made of gilded tin?”
Balyndis’s eyes flashed angrily. “Don’t his actions count for anything?” she protested, struggling to control her temper. “A dwarf intent on destroying our kinsfolk wouldn’t risk everything to save the dwarven kingdoms. It doesn’t make—”
“Silence!” thundered Bulingar. “There’s nothing to discuss! You won’t be getting melded to Tungdil because we’ve found someone else.”
Balyndis took a step back. Her cheeks, which seconds ago had been filled with color, turned a sickly white. “Someone else?” she stammered, turning to Tungdil and begging him silently to forgive her for what would surely follow.
“Cheer up, child,” said a skirted personage whom Tungdil guessed was Balyndis’s aunt. “We know you were upset about not getting melded, so we found you a worthy suitor. Most dwarves aren’t good enough for our Balyndis, but we found one in the end.”
She clapped her hands and a figure stepped out of a side passage. The warrior was everything that a dwarven hero should be: tall, powerfully built, with a thick black beard, and finely crafted armor.
Tungdil, gazing at the mail shirt in wonder, decided that he was looking at Borengar’s second-best smith. No, he prayed, hoping that the warrior would decide to walk away. He clenched his fists.