The Dwarves (21 page)

At times he felt lonely and longed for the comfort of Lot-Ionan’s vaults, where everything was reassuringly familiar. Nothing
made him feel safer than narrow passageways and low ceilings and he missed his books and his chats with junior apprentices.
Most of all, though, he missed Sunja and Frala, whose scarf was still tied to his belt.

Yet deep down he also nourished the hope that his kinsfolk, intrigued by the news of an abandoned dwarf, had sent word to
Lot-Ionan and requested to see him. Every orbit he prayed to Vraccas that the magus’s letter wouldn’t be ignored.

It was afternoon when he noticed that the landscape was becoming more wooded. The gaps between the trunks diminished until
at last he was in an airy sunlit wood. This was the beginning of the Eternal Forest and he had almost reached his goal.

On consulting his map, he found he was fifty miles west of Lios Nudin and a hundred miles southwest of the Perished Land —
safe enough, in other words. It would take a real stroke of bad luck to meet orcs in these parts.

A branch snapped loudly.

Tungdil’s recent exposure to country noises persuaded him that the sound was more than just a cracking twig. A creature of
sizable proportions was lurking in the wood. Reaching for the haft of his ax, he peered in the direction of the noise.

Another branch snapped.

“Who goes there?”

The shouted question startled the stag that had been nosing among the trees for the lushest grass. Its white rump bobbed up
and down, then vanished from view.

Tungdil shook his head at himself.
What did you expect it to be?
he chuckled. As he wandered through the forest, a sense of calm and serenity settled over him. There was something incredibly
peaceful about the trees and it rubbed off on his mood. Even the birdsong was fresher and more joyful, the forest-dwellers
greeting him like an old friend whose visit was long overdue.

The dusty road gave way to a grass track that meandered through the woods like a green ribbon unfurled by nature. Every step
felt luxuriously soft and springy and even the hot sun, which had reached an oppressive intensity in recent orbits, seemed
pleasant beneath the dappled leaves. A light breeze chased away the muggy summer air and Tungdil felt he could walk forever.

Soon he became accustomed to the sounds of the glade and the rustling and crackling became more frequent. Deer and wild boar
tore through the undergrowth at his approach. There were animals everywhere, and like him, they seemed to sense the peacefulness
of the forest and feel at home there.

I won’t get too friendly with the elf maiden until I’ve learned more about her,
he decided. His race and hers were sworn enemies, but Tungdil saw no sense in hating someone who had done him no harm.
I’ll see how she treats me first.

A branch snapped again. Judging by the racket, the culprit was a fair-sized animal, most probably a stag. Tungdil peered ahead,
hoping to glimpse its magnificent antlers.

Another branch broke, twigs snapped, and a voice cursed — in orcish.

The harmony of the forest shattered like a bauble beneath a blacksmith’s hammer. Orcs spilled out of the bushes and Tungdil,
who moments earlier had been basking in a sense of security, was confronted with the prospect of being eaten alive. A penetrating
odor of sweat and rancid fat filled the air.

The first beast, a particularly hideous specimen, stepped onto the path. He was armed to the teeth and nearly twice the height
of Tungdil.

“Bloody greenery. We’d move faster if we burned the blasted forest down.” The orc snatched furiously at a twig that had wedged
itself in his armor. He still hadn’t seen the dwarf.

The troopers who followed him out of the bushes were more observant. “Hey, Frushgnarr, take a look at that!”

The square-jawed head whipped round. Two small deep-set eyes glared at Tungdil as the orc opened his wide mouth in a blood-curdling
shout: “A groundling!” He drew his toothed sword. “I love groundlings!”

“If only the sentiment was mutual.” The dwarf strained to see past him and paled. The orcs were still coming, pouring out
of the woods. At thirty he stopped counting. There was no hope of evading them this time. Like a true child of the Smith,
he would go down fighting and take an orc with him. He would have liked to prove his credentials before he met his Maker,
but at least Vraccas would know that his intentions were sound. “Now you’re here, I’ll have to kill you.”

“You and whose army?” the orc jeered.

Tungdil lowered his bags. It was maddening to know that he had come so close to completing his mission, but he drew unexpected
courage from his frustration.

“Army? I don’t need an army when I’ve got my ax!” His inborn hatred of the beasts, common to all dwarves, was awakened by
the foul creatures’ odor. An image of Good-water, houses burning and villagers slaughtered, flashed before his eyes. The bookish
part of his brain shut down and he threw himself, shrieking, upon the nearest orc.

The beast parried his blow with a shield. “Are you sure you don’t need an army?” he grunted scornfully. Snarling, he took
a step forward and lunged.

The dwarf retreated hastily and backed into a tree. At the last second he ducked, the sword whistling past him, almost grazing
his head. It buried itself in the bark.

On seeing the orc’s sturdy thigh in front of him, Tungdil swung his ax toward the unprotected flesh. “Take that!” Dark green
blood gushed from the wound, streaming down the beast’s shin.

Abandoning his sword in the tree, the orc reached for his dagger to stab the dwarf instead. Tungdil’s mail stopped the blade
from penetrating, but the impact sent him reeling. Fighting to stay upright, he tripped over his bags and fell.

“So much for your ax, groundling! Prepare to die!” The orc hurled the dagger at him but missed.

Tungdil, who had succeeded in tangling himself in the straps of his bags, was still trying to free himself when his opponent
decided to retrieve his sword, wrenching it out of the tree.

The beast limped toward him, snorting with rage and brandishing his blade. It hurtled through the air.

As the dwarf dove to one side, the bag of artifacts jerked after him, landing on his back just as the blade made contact.

The famulus’s precious possessions absorbed the blow, but the splintering and jangling left Tungdil in no doubt that the artifacts
had paid dearly for saving his life.
Who knows if they’ll ever get to Greenglade?
His fury redoubled.

“I’m not done yet!” Rolling onto his front, he used his momentum to plant his ax in the orc’s right thigh, almost severing
his leg.

The beast yelped and fell to the ground beside the dwarf. Tungdil rolled away from him, sprang to his feet, and drove his
ax into the creature’s throat. He heard the bone crack. “Who says I need an army?” he panted. For the first time in his life
he had slain a beast of Tion. He hoped to goodness that Vraccas would be satisfied since it was likely to be his last.

The band of thirty or so orcs stormed toward him. He knew there was no chance of him surviving the attack.

If I’m going down, one of you is coming with me.
Tungdil squared his shoulders and tightened his grip on the ax. He could imagine how the fifthlings had felt when the northern
hordes had assailed the Stone Gateway. There was nothing for it but to follow their example and die an honorable death.

The lead orc was only ten paces away when a bright, defiant bugle sounded close by. He heard clattering armor and a peal of
colliding blades; then shouts went up as dying orcs tumbled to the ground. To Tungdil’s astonishment, reinforcements had arrived.
He was too grateful to worry about who they were.

“The groundling has friends,” roared the chief of the band. “Bring me their flesh!” The green-hided beasts turned away from
Tungdil to confront the enemy that had attacked them from behind.

The elf maiden must have sent her warriors
.
I can’t stand by while they risk their lives on my behalf.
He ran after the orcs, darting forward to drive his ax into the back of a dark green knee. The beast toppled like a tree.

That makes two,
Tungdil thought grimly.

One of the orcs engaged his blade while the rest piled in on the new arrivals, hiding them from Tungdil’s view.

Tungdil soon realized that his unexpected victories had given him more confidence than was merited by his skill. His third
opponent saw through his feints and swiped at him relentlessly.

The dwarf checked five savage blows before his luck ran out. A fierce strike dashed the ax from his hand and it landed in
the grass. For want of another weapon, he drew his bread knife. “Come here, you brute!”

“Gladly, groundling!” The orc gave a grunt of delight as he eyed Tungdil’s knife. “What’s that, a toothpick? Just what I need
to clean your flesh from my jaws!” He raised his sword.

Kingdom of Urgon,

Girdlegard,

Early Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

A
joint army?” Lothaire laughed out loud. Urgon’s sovereign was a youth of twenty-one cycles. He flicked his long blond hair
and gestured for more water. “You want us to fight together against the Perished Land?”

King Tilogorn nodded. At forty cycles, he had a thin, earnest face and shoulder-length brown hair. He had journeyed to Urgon
with the sole purpose of forging an alliance, but after four hours of discussion in the gloomy chamber there was no indication
that the message had got through. In the meantime, the sun had passed over the mountains of Urgon and was sinking behind their
peaks.

“It is rumored that the girdle is weak. If the magic fails, the orcs will attack our lands with a strength and ferocity more
devastating than anything that has gone before.” Tilogorn pointed to the map. “The seven human kingdoms of Girdlegard must
unite. Your help is vital if I am to persuade Umilante, Wey, Isika, Bruron, and Nate of our cause.”

Lothaire sipped his water and stared at Tilogorn over the rim of the glass. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely. Our survival depends on it.”

“Shouldn’t we leave it to the magi to repair the girdle before we —”

“The magi will take care of the magic, but we must be prepared to fight. I’ve dispatched a messenger to Lios Nudin to request
a meeting with the council. I’m expecting word any orbit.”

“Why would the magi deign to meet with mere mortals? Andôkai has never honored me with a visit, despite claiming swathes of
my kingdom as her own.”

“Consider yourself fortunate; it’s not for nothing that she’s called the Tempestuous.” He laughed, then became serious. “The
magi rarely show themselves, and they tend to keep out of our affairs, but this is different, I assure you. They know their
duty.”

Lothaire studied the map, pondering the Perished Land, whose frontier posed no immediate threat to Urgon. “I don’t know, Tilogorn.
My kingdom is as tranquil as ever.”

“But will it stay that way?” Tilogorn replied patiently, doing his best to talk Lothaire round. “I know your lands are easier
to defend than the plains of Gauragar or Idoslane, but the Perished Land commands orcs, älfar, and other foul creatures. Nowhere
is safe.”

“The beasts shall be thrown from my mountains and drowned in my lakes. Their heavy armor will be the death of them,” announced
Lothaire with customary haughtiness. “My men are hardened warriors. Every day they seek out trolls in our ranges and put them
to the sword. I ride with a single bodyguard, knowing that he will defend me single-handedly against a hundred foes.”

“Do not confuse the älfar with simple-minded trolls. All it takes is a well-aimed arrow and your bodyguard will be dead. The
hordes in the north are more numerous than you can imagine; their power is infinite, yours is not.” With a sweep of his hand,
Tilogorn gestured to the former elven kingdoms. “They insisted on fighting alone and were conquered. Isn’t it our duty to
learn from their mistake? We must fight like with like: Only a vast army can protect us from the beasts.”

“But what of the Perished Land’s curse? Those who die on its territory are said to join its ranks.”

“I’ve heard the stories too. We must burn the corpses so none can return as soulless warriors. We shall create a battalion
to follow our army and set fire to the dead.” Tilogorn sensed that Lothaire was almost persuaded. “Then you’ll fight with
me, King of Urgon?”

“Our armies shall follow my lead.”

“The command will be shared. Our strengths will complement each other.” Tilogorn paused. “Besides, my men will never take
orders from a ruler younger than themselves.” He held out his hand. “Are you with me?”

Lothaire smiled. “Very well. Our army will be the mightiest in the history of Girdlegard, powerful enough to lay waste to
Dsôn Balsur and hound the älfar across the Northern Pass. Although maybe we should kill them and be done with it… Yes,” he
said excitedly, “we’ll destroy them altogether and then we can deal with the orcs. Peace will return to our kingdoms. It’s
a worthy plan.” He shook Tilogorn’s outstretched hand; then an anxious look crossed his face. “Er, there’s one more thing.
You remember Prince Mallen of Ido?”

Tilogorn snorted. “How could I forget the last of the great Idos? He lives in your kingdom, does he not?”

“He heads my army,” Lothaire corrected him. “Rest assured, when the time comes to rid your lands of orcs, he will forfeit
his command. No one shall accuse Lothaire of Urgon of scheming to plant the last of the Idos on Idoslane’s throne.”

Tilogorn took little comfort from the speech. “What if he incites rebellion in our troops? He is sure to have supporters among
your men.”

Lothaire sipped his water. “He’s a reasonable man at heart. Perhaps your powers of persuasion will work on him as effectively
as they worked on me.” Before Tilogorn had a chance to reply, the young king rose and walked to the door. “I’ll summon him
to you. If you can convince him of our cause, the kings and queens of the other five kingdoms will be no trouble at all.”
He disappeared into the corridor.