announced. Even Boïndil was happy with the change of plan. The prospect of seeing his brother
outweighed the appeal of another battle, and he was looking forward to a solid dwarven meal, washed down with a tankard of
Girdlegard’s finest beer.
They set off on the long journey home.
Lorimbur’s Folk,
Thirdling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th/6235th Solar Cycle
B islipur overreached himself,” said a deep voice. The lofty walls threw back the words as a toneless echo, then it was quiet
in the chamber. Only the fire continued to spit and crackle. An armored hand balled itself into a fist, the articulated fingers
creaking as the spikes on the knuckles rose menacingly. “Cycles of plotting, and for what? I knew it would come to nothing.”
“The other folks are weak, Your Majesty. Hundreds died at the Blacksaddle. The situation can still be turned to our advantage.”
The red glow from the fire accentuated the terrible scars on his gleaming scalp. Contrary to appearances, the lines had been
cut by a thirdling tattooist, not an enemy sword. The sequence of dwarven runes spelled death and destruction to the enemies
of his kingdom, and his artfully chiseled skull was fearsome to behold. “They lost their best warriors in the battle with
Nôd’onn’s hordes. It left them crippled and toothless.”
His kinsman leaned forward. His long black hair was streaked with gray and braided into three plaits that sat neatly against
his scalp. “We’re not ready for open warfare.”
The thirdling commander-in-chief shrugged, causing his tunic—a finely crafted shirt of interlocking plates and chain mail—to
jangle. “Name me a better time, Lorimbas Steelheart. We haven’t been as strong as this in two hundred cycles.”
“My plan is more subtle, Salfalur Shieldbreaker,” replied the thirdling king. His beard was stiff with dye, hanging like an
overstarched pennant from his chin. Even when he talked, the red, gray, and brown whiskers stayed perfectly rigid. He leaned
over the table and studied a map of Girdlegard. “Bislipur’s mistake was to move too slowly. My goal shall be achieved within
a decade.” He rose from his marble chair and signaled for his commander-in-chief to follow. The hall where they held their
briefings was dimly lit, with specks of iron pyrite glittering weakly in the dark stone walls. The two dwarves seemed to be
walking through nothingness with only a smattering of sparkling stars.
A line of triangular pillars hewn from the flesh of the mountain stretched toward a set of stairs. Lorimbas ascended them
quickly and threw open the doors to reveal a golden shrine.
Lorimbur, founding father of the thirdlings, rested here. His coffin stood upright, his marble likeness staring out from the
lid. Dwarven runes made of diamonds, precious stones, and gems praised his deeds and exhorted his descendants to avenge and
destroy.
Lorimbas bowed his head respectfully. “Too long have we endured their scorn,” he muttered absently. He reached out with his
right hand and caressed the cold effigy. “Too many times have we failed in our duty to avenge the injustices suffered by our
founder. The time is ripe, thirdling father. Your bidding will be done, and your faithful son, Lorimbas Steelheart of the
clan of the Stone Grinders, ruler of your children, will drive the descendants of Beroïn, Borengar, Goïmdil, and Giselbert
from their kingdoms.” He kneeled down, unhooked a three-flanged mace from his belt, and held it toward the dead king. “This
I promise on my life.”
Salfalur joined him at the coffin and dropped to his knees. There was no need for him to speak: Lorimbas had given full expression
to the passion that burned wordlessly in his soul. Head bowed, with the lethal spike of his double-headed hammer inclined
respectfully to the coffin, Salfalur vowed silently to uphold the thirdling cause.
Hours passed as they prayed together, so absorbed in
outweighed the appeal of another battle, and he was looking forward to a solid dwarven meal, washed down with a tankard of
Girdlegard’s finest beer.
They set off on the long journey home.
Lorimbur’s Folk,
Thirdling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th/6235th Solar Cycle
B islipur overreached himself,” said a deep voice. The lofty walls threw back the words as a toneless echo, then it was quiet
in the chamber. Only the fire continued to spit and crackle. An armored hand balled itself into a fist, the articulated fingers
creaking as the spikes on the knuckles rose menacingly. “Cycles of plotting, and for what? I knew it would come to nothing.”
“The other folks are weak, Your Majesty. Hundreds died at the Blacksaddle. The situation can still be turned to our advantage.”
The red glow from the fire accentuated the terrible scars on his gleaming scalp. Contrary to appearances, the lines had been
cut by a thirdling tattooist, not an enemy sword. The sequence of dwarven runes spelled death and destruction to the enemies
of his kingdom, and his artfully chiseled skull was fearsome to behold. “They lost their best warriors in the battle with
Nôd’onn’s hordes. It left them crippled and toothless.”
His kinsman leaned forward. His long black hair was streaked with gray and braided into three plaits that sat neatly against
his scalp. “We’re not ready for open warfare.”
The thirdling commander-in-chief shrugged, causing his tunic—a finely crafted shirt of interlocking plates and chain mail—to
jangle. “Name me a better time, Lorimbas Steelheart. We haven’t been as strong as this in two hundred cycles.”
“My plan is more subtle, Salfalur Shieldbreaker,” replied the thirdling king. His beard was stiff with dye, hanging like an
overstarched pennant from his chin. Even when he talked, the red, gray, and brown whiskers stayed perfectly rigid. He leaned
over the table and studied a map of Girdlegard. “Bislipur’s mistake was to move too slowly. My goal shall be achieved within
a decade.” He rose from his marble chair and signaled for his commander-in-chief to follow. The hall where they held their
briefings was dimly lit, with specks of iron pyrite glittering weakly in the dark stone walls. The two dwarves seemed to be
walking through nothingness with only a smattering of sparkling stars.
A line of triangular pillars hewn from the flesh of the mountain stretched toward a set of stairs. Lorimbas ascended them
quickly and threw open the doors to reveal a golden shrine.
Lorimbur, founding father of the thirdlings, rested here. His coffin stood upright, his marble likeness staring out from the
lid. Dwarven runes made of diamonds, precious stones, and gems praised his deeds and exhorted his descendants to avenge and
destroy.
Lorimbas bowed his head respectfully. “Too long have we endured their scorn,” he muttered absently. He reached out with his
right hand and caressed the cold effigy. “Too many times have we failed in our duty to avenge the injustices suffered by our
founder. The time is ripe, thirdling father. Your bidding will be done, and your faithful son, Lorimbas Steelheart of the
clan of the Stone Grinders, ruler of your children, will drive the descendants of Beroïn, Borengar, Goïmdil, and Giselbert
from their kingdoms.” He kneeled down, unhooked a three-flanged mace from his belt, and held it toward the dead king. “This
I promise on my life.”
Salfalur joined him at the coffin and dropped to his knees. There was no need for him to speak: Lorimbas had given full expression
to the passion that burned wordlessly in his soul. Head bowed, with the lethal spike of his double-headed hammer inclined
respectfully to the coffin, Salfalur vowed silently to uphold the thirdling cause.
Hours passed as they prayed together, so absorbed in
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