Slungandi awoke early and knew that he had several days’ walk ahead of him. He did not take the road that joined the Giants’ Highway to the south, but set off northwards. There were few roads to the north of the Dagnath Nebren and the country was wild. Once there had been many Gangri dwelling peacefully in scattered houses. There had even been some settlements of the Kabdath, but now all were gone, except for one small clan of Kabadri, who owed allegiance to no one and scorned the friendship of their southern kin.
These were the Metalsmiths, the Zengri of Hlund. They dwelt in the same northerly mountains as the Melainë, but at the furthest possible remove, holding little friendship for them either. But as they had to make a living, the wondrous, useful, and precious things that they fashioned — from pots and pans and knives to jewels and rings and armlets — were conveyed south, east, and west, and the food and drink and other commodities that they themselves needed were brought back in return.
In past days, when the lands were unsafe because of the wars, Slungandi had helped this trade along; and so, though they did not care greatly for him, they trusted him more than most outsiders. The chief of all the Smiths of Hlund was one Nozdusombath. He was acknowledged to be the most skilful workman in the settlement, and for this reason he was also recognized as its chieftain.
After many days Slungandi struck a road again, the road of the northern Kabdath, which wound its way into the heart of the mountains, the Dagnath Bróven. This range of lofty peaks stretched far to the west and east. Perched on a great outcrop of rock beneath one of the highest mountains stood the fortress of Hlund, the stronghold of the Zengrath Kabadri. He climbed the winding path until he arrived at the gates. There, a bearded guard challenged him with the point of his outstretched spear.
‘Who are you, and what do you seek in Hlund?
Strangers are not welcome; spies we deem them.’
Slungandi replied:
Slungandi I, sometimes titled
Drumster of Deep. In the dark epoch
I merited thanks from the thanes of Hlund
For wafting wares through warring lands
To their rich markets. Your wrightsmiths may
Remember me, for merchandise sake!
The guard replied:
‘Oh, aye, I recognize you now. You were a useful ally.
With which of us is your business, then?’
Slungandi said:
I need the help of Nozdusombath.
A small matter of a mighty sword!
And with that, he swung Gantzor from behind him, and the guard stepped back as he plunged the brightly glinting icemetal blade into the rock of the mountainside.
‘Go in, then. I warrant you know where to find him.
But mind, he may not be in a mood to help.’
As Slungandi walked up a street bordered by the workshops of the Hlundika Kabdath, he could hear on all sides the sound of hammers clanging upon anvils and the puffing of bellows. This was the source of the metalwork of the Midworld, and without the labours of these Kabadri, life in the Southlands would be hard to maintain. Yet few Hyûvandri knew from whence their tools and utensils came.
Slungandi entered a huge cavernous workshop that seemed gouged from the rocks, dark, but lit by several forge fires. There stood Nozdusombath, stripped to the waist, glistening with sweat, and almost shrouded in his enormous black beard, hammer in one hand, tongs in the other. He peered closely at Slungandi. His face was grim, but it held the hint of a smile. Then he said:
‘So the Drumster of the Deep has come dawdling back!
What boon begs Slungandi the slippery one?’
Slungandi said:
Ho! Nozdu Knifewright, Needle-mender:
I need forged quickly, in foes’ despite,
A sharp shearer, not short of spells.
Then again he swept the coldsword from his back, held it up before Nozdusombath’s eyes, and thrust it deep into a stone anvil that stood between them.
Lo, Gantzor, dealer of death by frost:
Canst breed him a brother to baffle many:
A twin that folk will mistake for him?
Canst prune his point to pierce a stone?
Nozdusombath said:
A fine blade you bring! That bright icemetal
Must be the death-dealer that Dreygan boasts of.
You want a copy, so craftily wrought, that cunning swordsmen
Can see no difference till they deal a blow?
Slungandi said:
Nozdu, quickly you catch meaning.
Not even Nozdu, most knowing smith
Could reforge Gantzor, Firungwáfi’s spaul,
Drake’s droolings. But that dire one
Now dwells in death — like Dreygan Icesmith.
Nozdusombath said:
Dreygan dead now? His doom is just.
Now tell me why I should toil a great while
To forge a counterfeit? What compensation comes?
Slungandi said:
No stores I bring, nor savoury stuffs.
Your payment, life and Hlund’s liberty.
I show these shoulders to assure Nozdu
That Negobith rises to rule Midworld.
And with this Slungandi pulled aside the neck of his shirt to reveal the purple mark of the Yoke of Negobith.
Already Kalípo has been lent his yoke.
Have a care, Kabdath. His claw is long.
His overweening, which has wounded him,
Gives brief respite ere he bursts forth anew.
Nozdusombath showed no feelings but was silent for some time. Then he said:
’Tis hard to argue with the mark you carry.
I guess you could tell whether you travelled here to warn
Or to trick Hlund into taking the Yoke.
Slungandi said:
Slungandi sells for a sword’s value
These true tidings, that you may take or leave.
He tricks truthless and trades in sleight
But faithful friend need fear him not.
Nozdusombath said no more. He began to pile fuel on the fire of his greatest forge, and shouted to the young Kabadri who served him to bring more and stand ready. He took a key from a hidden place and went to a storeroom, which he unlocked. He reached inside and brought out a strange spiky grey mass and placed it in the midst of the fire. He said:
Though I make this hot, when its heat cools
Twill freeze like icemetal and bite like frost.
We name it Firungil in the freefolk’s tongue.
Runes we will rime on it, rimes of piercing,
And a curse of binding will dwell within it.
So set up your drum, and beat away dreams!
Then Slungandi took Brandubur and began to beat out the wordless runesong, the same that had accompanied the forging of Gantzor, while Nozdusombath applied his hammer to the metal on the anvil.
Dûmbâ dâbun dûbunda bâbunda
Dâbun dûbunda bâbunda dûmbâ
Dûbunda bâbunda dûmbâ dâbun
Bâbunda dûmbâ dâbun dûbunda
And so they continued through the night. At midnight, Nozdusombath carried the half formed mass of firungil outside and showed it to the moon and stars, which were shining intensely in the wintry sky. Then he brought it back and continued until the sun rose. As the first rays peeped between the mountains, he held up the finished blade, and then with a sudden thrust buried it almost to the hilt in the stone anvil that had tasted Gantzor the day before. Slungandi ceased his drumming.
Nozdusombath said:
Behold Daganarth, the mountain-blade.
Belated twin of Gantzor the great,
As cold to touch, and as keen to pierce.
Slungandi bowed his approval.
Then Nozdusombath went on:
Now Slungandi, sleightmaster, slip that sword
From its hiding place, by the hilts swiftly.
So Slungandi grasped the hilt of Daganarth and pulled with all his might: but he could not move it. Nozdusombath laughed, and said:
He only can draw forth who drove him in last.
So Daganarth shall all doubt disperse.
Slungandi smiled with satisfaction at this binding, which perfectly met his intentions.
Then he inspected Daganarth, and saw that it was hilted and embellished in just the same way as Gantzor. Laid side by side, they appeared identical. There was but one small token upon Daganarth that made it distinctive to the eye of one who knew it.
And Slungandi stayed with the Hlundika Zengri for several days before returning south again.
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