The dwarves and men met on the southernmost hill above Prince Mallen’s camp. The prince turned his horse and cantered over to Tungdil, dismounted and held out his hand. Save for a nick in his forearm and some damage to his armor, he seemed to be unscathed. “Tungdil Goldhand,” he said respectfully. “Praise the gods for your safe arrival.”
It wasn’t often that an ordinary dwarf was greeted so courteously by a human king. Tungdil grinned and took Mallen’s hand. “Another decisive victory for the men and the dwarves.” They gazed down at the battlefield; every last orc had been destroyed. “The good folk of Gauragar can sleep easy tonight.”
The prince’s face darkened. “Some are sleeping an eternal slumber. We saw plundered villages and burned-out houses on our way.” He turned his face to the darkening sky and stared at the glittering stars. “You’re right, though. The people of Gauragar need fear no more.”
“Trust the long-uns to start without us,” grumbled Boïndil in a voice that, while quieter than usual, was loud enough for the prince to hear. “You can’t startle the runts with your horses and expect them to put up a fight!” Slowly, he crossed his powerful arms in an exaggerated movement in front of his chest and glared accusingly at the riders.
Mallen knew how to handle the hot-blooded warrior. Realizing that Boïndil hadn’t intended him to hear, he decided not to argue. “We’ll wait for you next time,” he promised. “It’s a shame you were late.”
“Late?” echoed Boïndil indignantly, sticking his chin in the air and setting his beard aquiver. “It’s a wonder we got here at all! The confounded earthquake caused havoc in the tunnels. Warped rails, boulders on the line—some of them bigger than a troll’s backside! Just be thankful we—”
“That’s enough, Boïndil,” ruled Tungdil, interrupting the warrior’s outburst. “He’s right, you know: We were late.” He turned to the prince and rolled his eyes apologetically, signaling that Mallen should let the matter lie. “Luckily for us, it didn’t make any difference: We triumphed in the end.”
Tungdil could see the amusement in the ruler’s eyes. “What a victory for Girdlegard,” agreed Mallen with an earnest nod. “We’d still be fighting if it weren’t for the dwarves.” It was unusual for him to tolerate rudeness, but no one had overheard the conversation, and Boïndil was a special case.
Boïndil considered the prince’s conciliatory words and perked up considerably. He pulled off his helmet, letting his long black plait unfurl down his back, and rubbed his stubbly cheeks. Sweat was trickling down his face. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “We had our fun with the orcs, and Vraccas will be happy with us for wiping out the beasts.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry about my temper, Mallen,” he mumbled, forgetting that it was customary to address a prince with more respect.
“Apology accepted,” the ruler of Idoslane said magnanimously. He pointed to the collection of tents where his army was camped. “I see the supply wagons have arrived. There’s plenty of dark ale for everyone; perhaps you’ll join us in celebrating the destruction of the beasts?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Boïndil, setting off toward the tents. His thirst led him straight to the beer barrels, which were several times the standard size. The other dwarves looked questioningly at Tungdil, who nodded for them to follow. Mallen’s men, buoyed by the prospect of a night without marching, hurried back to camp.
Mallen and Tungdil lingered on the hilltop, watching the victorious warriors gather around the campfires to eat and make merry.
“A cycle ago I was an exile,” the prince said slowly. “I never thought I’d wear the crown of my forefathers. And I never imagined the rulers of Girdlegard would join together in an alliance of men, elves, and dwarves.”
Tungdil thought about all that had happened to him. After traveling across Girdlegard on an errand for his magus, he had been nominated against his wishes as the high king’s successor and journeyed to the Blacksaddle without realizing that Vraccas had chosen him to wield Keenfire and kill Nôd’onn on behalf of the dwarves. “Adversity brought us together. A cycle ago my kinsfolk were ready to wage war on the elves.”
Mallen laughed grimly. “At least Nôd’onn was good for something: He put an end to our feuding.”
Tungdil nodded. “Nôd’onn gave us the spark of solidarity, but it’s our responsibility to keep it alive.” He leaned forward, resting his weight on Keenfire. “We need an everlasting flame in which the bonds between us can be reforged.” He looked down at the feasting and merriment below. “How many did you lose?”
“Fifty men and as many horses,” said Mallen. “More were wounded, but we were heavily outnumbered. It could have been worse.”
“We were lucky—a few gashes and a couple of broken bones, but nothing to speak of. I think Vraccas wanted us to live. He lost so many of his children at the Blacksaddle that his smithy must be full.”
The prince laid a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “Come, Tungdil Goldhand, we should celebrate our victory before the long journey home.”
Tungdil knew he was right. Tomorrow he would set off through the tunnels, pack up his things at the secondling kingdom, and head west to the firstlings in the Red Range.
From there he would journey north with the dwarves who had elected to join him, and set up home in the ancient fifthling kingdom. In time, a new folk, descended from Borengar, Beroïn, and Goïmdil, would populate the Gray Range and Tungdil’s promise to Giselbert Ironeye, founding father of the fifthlings, would be fulfilled.
He knew it wouldn’t be easy. While the Stone Gateway was open, there was nothing to stop orcs and other beasts crossing into Girdlegard and taking up residence in the abandoned dwarven halls.
Don’t let there be too many of them, he begged his creator as he walked down the hillside with Mallen. We can’t keep fighting forever.
They were still some distance away when they heard Boïndil’s voice. He was singing a ballad that their dead companion Bavragor Hammerfist had often sung.
At least Boïndil will be happy if we’re overrun with beasts.
Tungdil took the beer offered to him by Mallen, and they clinked tankards to the warriors’ claps and cheers. Tungdil was well pleased: It seemed the friendship pledged at the Blacksaddle had become a reality for the dwarves and men.
He watched as the assorted warriors sat around the fires and tucked into something that smelled tantalizingly of roasted meat and soup. Conversation focused on the recent victory. The men described how they felled an orc or killed a bögnil, waving their spoons as they talked. When they were done, the dwarves laughed appreciatively, lifted their bowls to slurp their soup and shared some good-humored banter with their new friends.
To think it took Nôd’onn to bring us together! Tungdil smiled and picked his way between the groups. He heard deep dwarven voices describing the beauty of their mountain homelands. A few paces further, a couple of Mallen’s soldiers were teaching battle songs to a cluster of dwarves.
He watched and listened contentedly. If only Balyndis were here as well… Balyndis, the expedition’s comely smith, had kindled the fires of his furnace, filling him with longing and desire. At least I’d be able to—
“I’m telling you, it’s not just one,” he heard a soldier say softly. The urgency in his voice distracted Tungdil from his thoughts. “It’s spreading. I’ve seen three of them already.”
Tungdil stopped beside him. “What’s spreading?” he asked. “Three of what?” He noticed the badge on the man’s lightweight leather armor; he was a scout.
“Dead glades,” the man said hesitantly. “At least, that’s what I call them.” He pointed to the hills and ran a hand over the stubby blades of new grass. “It’s like this: The Perished Land lost its power when Nôd’onn died. Palandiell blessed the earth and gave it new life, but the evil is buried below the surface.” He glanced at the little group of men and dwarves who were putting away their food with varying regard to politeness. Everyone was listening attentively, especially the dwarves. “You haven’t seen what I’ve seen,” he continued. “There are pockets of Girdlegard where the evil has taken root.”