“You mean the Perished Land is lurking below the surface?” said Tungdil, all other thoughts forgotten.
The scout nodded. “I talked to the locals near one of the glades. They told me about a few poor devils who strayed among the trees. Only three came back, and they attacked their neighbors, fighting and raging with the strength of ten until the villagers chopped off their heads. King Bruron heard about it and issued a decree. Now the dead glades are blocked with palisades, walls, and moats. No one can enter or leave—on punishment of death.” He reached for his tankard. “Mark my words: It’s spreading through the land.”
Tungdil opened his mouth to reply but was rudely interrupted.
“There you are, scholar! Still moping about?” boomed Boïndil. At the sight of his friend, Tungdil stopped worrying about the insidious powers of the glades.
“You’re not thinking about womenfolk, are you?” continued Boïndil. “I must say, for someone who doesn’t know a thing about dwarf-women, you’ve bagged yourself a lovely lass!” He clinked tankards with Tungdil. “To the finest firstling smith! May she bring you true happiness.” He paused, and when he continued, his voice was tinged with sadness. “I reckon you deserve it.”
“You’ll find someone who makes you happy soon enough,” said Tungdil, remembering his friend’s tragic past. He raised his tankard. “How about a toast to Boëndal? I dare say I miss him as much as you do. He must be fit for battle by now.”
Boïndil gulped down the rest of his beer. “I killed my happiness,” he said slowly, his left hand tightening around the haft of his ax. “I killed it with my own hands.” He stared absently into the fire. The flames flickered over his furrowed features, revealing his inner torment. “Now all I can do is fight.”
They sat in silence until Boïndil started singing. One by one, the other dwarves joined in. It was another of Bavragor’s songs.
On they march the orc invaders
Driven by greed and lust
Tion loves to plague our borders
It was ever thus
But the dwarves are here to fight them
It was ever thus
Dwarven axes, dwarven hammers
Smash their skulls and spill their blood
Until the orcs are slain and vanquished
It was ever thus
Tirelessly we guard our borders
Doughty children of the Smith
And when our kinsmen fall in battle
It was ever thus
Our souls are summoned to Vraccas’s smithy
It was ever thus
Eternal warmth, eternal fire
It was ever thus
We seek no praise, we need no thanks
It was ever thus
We do our duty, we do it gladly
It was ever thus
Our ax is sharp, our chain mail glistens
It was ever thus
No beast can breach the dwarves’ defenses
It was ever thus.
Mallen’s men sat in hushed silence while the deep sonorous voices sung of honor, loyalty, and service to Girdlegard. The men, although ignorant of the dwarven language, had no trouble understanding the music, which seemed to come straight from the soul.
The chorus of voices echoed over the hills, carried across the valleys and soared to the stars.
The singing stirred the hearts and minds of everyone in the camp. Tungdil’s thoughts were still buzzing when he made his way to bed. He remembered the scout’s description of the dead glades. What new evil is this, Vraccas? It seems our worries aren’t over yet. He decided to investigate further as soon as he had the chance. A moment later, he was asleep.
The next morning, it was time for the men and dwarves to part.
Tungdil and his warriors would travel underground through the network of tunnels to the secondling kingdom, while Mallen’s men would make their way on foot, in carriages or on horseback to Idoslane.
The dwarves tramped through the battlefield and lowered themselves into the shaft, glad to get away from the circling ravens and the overwhelming stench.
Boïndil led the way. With every rung of the ladder he seemed to shed a little of the sorrow from the previous night. He was looking forward to the journey and to being reunited with his brother whom they had left in the care of the firstlings to recover from the älfar attack.
“It’s the longest we’ve ever been parted,” he said as Tungdil reached the bottom of the ladder. They set off toward the wagons that would carry them through the underground network.
“How are you coping?”
Boïndil tugged his braided beard and pulled out a stray leaf that didn’t belong there. “It’s hard,” he admitted with a sigh. “You curb my temper better than anyone except Boëndal, but I’m calmer when he’s around.” He thought for a moment. “It’s like hobbling around on one leg: I can manage, but part of me is missing. Boëndal knows what I’m thinking before I do. I’m not the same without him—even fighting doesn’t help.”
Tungdil sensed that he was holding back. “What is it, Boïndil? Something was bothering you last night.”
“I… I’m not sure how to describe it,” said Boïndil, considering. “I’ve got a bad feeling, almost like a chill. The worst of the winter is over, but my insides are frozen. What if Boëndal is in danger?”
They turned a corner and stopped abruptly. Tungdil, forgetting what he was about to say, gaped at the devastation. The roof of the tunnel had caved in, and a wall of rubble blocked their way. Worse still, their wagons were buried beneath the rock.
Growling indignantly, Boïndil bent down and reached for a scrap of metal protruding from the mess. He pulled on it casually; then, muscles tensing, he gave it an almighty tug. The warped piece of wagon came away in his hand. “It was their blasted horses,” he said irritably. “Their stupid clodhopping made the tunnel collapse.” He tossed the metal away carelessly.
Tungdil suspected that the real blame lay with the quake. After Nôd’onn’s defeat, the Blacksaddle had been hit by a terrible tremor that, judging by reports from the allies’ scouts, had shaken every village in Girdlegard. It stood to reason that the ancient network of tunnels would be damaged.
I hope the dwarven kingdoms fared better. “Change of plan,” he said to the others. He gestured to the surface. “We’ll have to look for another entrance.”
His confident manner belied his concern. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t safe to travel through the tunnels until the structure had been checked. Certain sections of the network could be negotiated only by swooping downhill, and a collision would result in certain death.
Maybe we should do the whole journey on foot or by pony trap, he thought as they clambered to the surface.
It was three hundred miles to the Blacksaddle and another six hundred to the secondling kingdom in the Blue Range. Traveling underground, the distance could be covered in a matter of orbits; walking would take an eternity.