"I'm sure her subjects would welcome the change. The calm after the storm-isn't that what they say?"
"Still waters run deep," she informed him with a playful sparkle in her gray-brown eyes. Kingdom of Gauragar, Girdlegard, Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle Tungdil's sharp dwarven vision soon adapted to the darkness. The walls around him had been hewn cleanly from the dark flesh of the mountain and polished to a sheen. Smooth surfaces were the hallmark of dwarven masonry; he couldn't imagine a human laborer going to such lengths.
The chilling legend of Cloudpiercer had sounded convincing at the time, but he no longer gave it much credence. From the evidence around him, it seemed likely that the mountain had served as a dwelling, not a mine.
Tungdil clambered up a short flight of steps and came to an open portcullis. Beyond the raised grating, a heavy oak door reinforced with metal hasps and steel plating stood ajar. He knew there would be no way out if the door slammed behind him.
"Hello? Is that you, Master Gorйn? Is there anyone there?"
For a while he listened to the dull echo of his shouts; then the deathly hush returned. He went in.
"Master Gorйn, can you hear me?" he called. "My name is Tungdil. I'm here on an errand for Lot-Ionan." The last thing he needed was to be mistaken for an intruder. Hidden behind the door was a set of levers with which the portcullis could be raised or lowered. It made a dreadful racket, as he discovered by trying it out.
"Sorry," he shouted, hurrying on. It was time he found Gorйn.
The tunnel delved deeper and deeper inside the mountain. After a while Tungdil could almost convince himself that he had stumbled on a dwarven stronghold. Staircases and passageways wound into the core of the enduring rock and for the first time he had a clear idea of what it would be like to live with his kinsfolk in one of Girdlegard's ranges. At length he came to the kitchen, a large chamber neatly hollowed from the rock, equipped with stoves and kitchenware that had not been used for some time.
"Master Gorйn?" Tungdil sat down, lowered his packs, and waited awhile. A terrible thought occurred to him. Who's to say that Gorйn isn't dead? Galvanized into action, he put aside his reticence and began to search the place for anything that might lead him to the wizard.
He flung open one of the doors and strode along a corridor. It took him to another chamber of vast dimensions, at least two hundred paces long by forty paces wide and full of plants. The allotment had been laid out in accordance with horticultural lore, but the plot had been sorely neglected and was overgrown with weeds. Despite the musty air, a system of mirrors provided the plants with adequate light, while slits in the ceiling took care of the watering, allowing rain to seep through and plop to the earth in a steady stream of drops.
Tungdil battled his way through the rampant vegetation, rejoined the corridor, and came to a study. The chaos inside was all too familiar: Every surface, including the floor, was littered with loose sheets of parchment, closely written manuscripts, and abandoned books.
"Surely he can't have written all this?" he marveled aloud. There was enough material to fill a good-sized library. Gingerly he riffled through the papers, looking for clues.
Most of the dusty tomes were written in a scholarly script known only to the magi and their senior famuli. He flicked through them, but their contents remained a mystery. What was Gorйn working on? Longevity? Perpetual health? Prosperity? Reminding himself that it was none of his business, he focused on the task in hand: reuniting the artifacts with their rightful owner.
He continued the search, reaching behind a cabinet to pull out a bundle of letters. Two scholars had been in correspondence with Gorйn about the nature, form, and guises of demonic possession, including known instances of men being inhabited by other beings and whether it was possible to be controlled by a spirit.
It seemed likely that one of the correspondents was a scholar of some distinction since his part in the discussion was written in scholarly script. The letters of the other, whom Tungdil judged to be a high-ranking famulus, were devoted to describing how an unnamed person had changed in character and appearance. Nothing in the correspondence gave him any indication as to Gorйn's whereabouts.
The dwarf resumed his quest, searching the adjoining rooms and venturing farther and farther from the mountain's core as he rummaged through small laboratories, libraries whose contents had been partially cleared, and storerooms of potions and ingredients.
He turned the situation over in his mind. Although Gorйn no longer seemed to be in residence, there was still the matter of the artifacts. Tungdil had promised Lot-Ionan that he would deliver them, so deliver them he would. A dwarf's word was binding. And until I find him, Jolosin can keep peeling potatoes…
Tungdil's eye was caught by a series of inscriptions that were unmistakably dwarven in nature. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he read. Carved into the rock were tirades of terrible loathing and murderous hatred. Whoever had wielded the chisel was bent on heaping dire accusations and dreadful curses on four of the dwarven folks and their clans.
Tungdil knew immediately what it meant: The mountain had once been home to Lorimbur's dwarves. Here in the human kingdom of Gauragar he had stumbled upon a chapter of dwarven history that was missing from most books.
He remembered the runes at the entrance to the tunnel. Erected against the fourthlings, it fell against the fourthlings. So Lorimbur's dwarves had built a stronghold in the heart of Girdlegard. But for what purpose? Had they intended to wage war on the other folks? Assuming he had interpreted the inscription correctly, the thirdlings had been defeated. In any event, a curse had been placed on the Blacksaddle to ensure that the stronghold was never used again: Cursed by the fourthlings, then abandoned by all five.
He could imagine the sequel. Gorйn must have learned of the maze of tunnels in the mountain and decided to make his home there. As a wizard, he commanded the necessary expertise to lift the dwarven curse and turn the stronghold into a refuge where he could study in peace. Built with blood, it was drenched in blood. A famulus would never allow himself to be intimidated by such threats.
A sudden whisper caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. The walls were talking to him, muttering and whispering, animated by a ghostly presence that seemed to be closing in.
You're imagining things, he told himself.
There was a ringing and clattering of axes, chain mail jangled, and warriors shouted and wailed. The din grew louder and louder until a battle was raging around him, the shrieks of the maimed and wounded echoing intolerably through the rock.
"No!" bellowed Tungdil. He pressed his hands to his ears. "Get away from me!" But the clamor only intensified, becoming fiercer and more menacing. At last he could stand it no longer and took to his heels. Nothing could keep him in the mountain: His only desire was to escape from the Blacksaddle and its ghosts.
The whispers, screams, and crashing blades faded as he raced away.
Tungdil was not the sort to scare easily, but his courage had never been put to such a test. He would sooner endure scorching sun or pouring rain than spend a night in this place. Now that he knew the mountain's frightful secret he could already imagine the ghosts of his ancestors crowding round his bed.
He went back to scouring the tunnels and searched for hours without finding proof of Gorйn's fate. The only clues to his whereabouts were love poems he had written to a certain elven beauty and the name of a forest that was circled on various crumbling maps. Tungdil surmised therefore that Gorйn had moved to Greenglade.
For the dwarf to get there, his legs would have to carry him an extra three hundred and fifty miles on a northwesterly bearing. Greenglade lay at the edge of the Eternal Forest in the elven kingdom of Вlandur. According to legend, it was a uniquely tranquil place where the trees blossomed continually, irrespective of the seasons.