The Dwarves (44 page)

“Is that how you’re planning to persuade the firstlings to lend us their best smith?” the mason asked derisively. “They’ve
probably never heard of the magus or the Perished Land.”

Tungdil looked from Bavragor to Goïmgar and back again. “Why are the two of you so keen to make problems before we’ve even
started?” he asked frankly.

Bavragor scratched his beard. “I’m not the one who’s sitting here chatting,” he retorted. “But if you want my opinion, we’ll
need more than Vraccas’s blessing if we’re to forge the blade and make it back across Girdlegard.”

“Then take it from me that he’ll give us his blessing and more. If you’d experienced half the adventures that I went through
on my journey, you wouldn’t be so skeptical. And remember, Bavragor, we’re not doing this for me, we’re doing it for Girdlegard
and the dwarves.”
And for Lot-Ionan, Frala, Sunja, and Ikana,
he added silently. He smiled. “Just think: If we’re lucky, we’ll find some gold.”

“Well, I’d drink to that, but I need some more beer,” said the mason. He lumbered out of the room.

Tungdil turned to Goïmgar. “What about you? Do you see why we’re doing this?”

“Absolutely. For Girdlegard, like you said.” The flippant response did little to satisfy Tungdil, who tried to look him in
the eye. Goïmgar stared fixedly at the bookshelves that lined the walls from floor to ceiling.

It wasn’t long before Bavragor returned with an even larger tankard, having drunk at least half of its contents on the way.
“To the next high king!” he said loudly, omitting to stipulate which of the candidates he had in mind. “I hope he achieves
all his goals.” He downed the rest of his drink.

“He hasn’t even stopped for breath,” Boïndil said in astonishment. “There must be a lake of the stuff inside him.”

Bavragor wiped the froth from his beard. “Back in a minute,” he said, rising to leave.

“Stop!” commanded Tungdil in a firm but friendly voice. “You can drink all you like as soon as we’ve finished.” Bavragor sat
down sullenly, dropping the empty tankard to the floor. The hallowed library echoed with the noise. “Our first stop is the
Red Range. If the firstlings haven’t heard about Nôd’onn, we’ll tell them of the danger and ask for the loan of a smith. Then
we’ll continue through the tunnels to our next stop, the Gray Range.”

He picked up another map and laid it out in front of the dwarves. “This is an ancient map from the 5329th solar cycle, showing
the main paths through the fifthling kingdom.”

Boëndal peered at the yellowing parchment. “Look, there’s Flamemere. That’s where we’ll find our dragon.”

“And then what?” Goïmgar inquired weakly.

Tungdil leaned back on his chair. “The way I see it, there’s no need to actually fight the beast when all we need is a bit
of its fire. Boïndil, if you dance around on its tail for a while, the rest of us can wait until it spews flames, at which
point we’ll jump out, light our torches, and hurry to the furnace.”

“Can I slay it, or am I only allowed to dance on its tail?” asked Boïndil, practically bursting with excitement. Goïmgar gave
him a sideways look.

“If it makes you happy, you can slay it — but only
after
we’ve got the fire,” his brother instructed him firmly. “Dead dragons don’t breathe flames.”

“The furnace is near the entrance to the stronghold.” Tungdil gave Boïndil a stern look. “I know you’re looking forward to
killing some orcs, but the fifthling kingdom will be crawling with them. If you take them on, neither you nor the rest of
us will come out of there alive. You’re going to have to be reasonable.”

“Fine,” Boïndil said obstreperously. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I won’t kill the stinking orcs — yet. I’ll
slaughter the lot of them when it comes to the showdown with Nôd’onn.” He glared at the others. “And let’s get this straight:
If we run into orcs on the journey, the first ten are mine. You can fight among yourselves for the others.”

“Not on your nelly,” muttered Goïmgar, just loud enough for Tungdil to hear.

He changed the subject. “Goïmgar and Bavragor, have either of you had much experience of humans?” They shook their heads.
“I’ll give you some tips on dealing with them in case we end up traveling overland for part of the way. But first you should
get some sleep. We’ll be leaving in the morning.”

Bavragor and Goïmgar set off in the direction of their chambers.

“What about us?” asked Boëndal.

“We’ve got some exploring to do.” Tungdil and the twins followed a stairway that wound deeper and deeper inside the mountain,
taking them toward the ancient tunnels that had carried their forefathers through Girdlegard at incredible speed.

Tungdil walked in front with the map, while Boïndil and Boëndal trailed behind, staring wide-eyed at galleries and passageways
whose existence they had never suspected. None of their folk had entered this part of the kingdom since it had been contaminated
by sulfur hundreds of cycles before.

The air smelled dank and a little staler than usual, but there was no hint of gas. From time to time they came across a skeleton
of a sheep or a goat that had lost its way and died a slow and painful death of thirst.

They followed the stairway for what seemed like hours. Broad-backed bridges of stone carried them over plunging chasms whose
depths shone with a mysterious yellow glow. They passed mighty waterfalls and many-columned chambers as splendid as their
own great hall. Overcome with wonderment, they walked in silence, hearing only the tread of their boots and the sound of rushing
water. Soon the path sloped upward again.

“To think these shafts have been here all the time,” said Boïndil, unable to keep quiet any longer.

“It’s what happens when things aren’t used. They get forgotten. I bet it’s been free of poisonous gases for ages,” his brother
remarked.

“Aha!” Tungdil pointed to a door measuring four paces wide and three paces high and inlaid with golden runes. “This must be
it.”

They held up their oil lamps and scraped away at centuries of accumulated grime until they could read the runes. The inscription
was written in an ancient dwarven dialect, and it took a bit of concentration for Tungdil to work it out. At last he recited
the lines to the twins:

Whether finding friends

Or fighting foes,

May Vraccas be with you

And bring you safely home.

As he uttered the last syllable, the door creaked back, allowing the three dwarves to enter. Inside was a vast chamber filled
with all manner of cogs, their teeth meshing vertically and horizontally in a confusion of rust and verdigris. Various rods
connected them to a series of cauldronlike vessels and the apparatus was topped with chimneys of all shapes and sizes. There
were hatches below.

Boëndal studied the machinery with interest. “To think the three of us have restored to life a forgotten miracle of science,”
he said reverently.

“Not yet we haven’t.” Tungdil took a closer look at the cauldrons and discovered slim tubes of glass, each with a single leaden
ball. The tubes were calibrated and the cauldrons marked with the dwarven symbol for water. He knelt down to look inside the
hatches and came across traces of ash. He laughed and thumped the sheet of metal. “Bavragor would say it’s a distillery, but
I reckon it’s some kind of engine.”

“How does it work, scholar?” asked Boëndal, while his brother disappeared behind the array of cauldrons and crankshafts.

Tungdil had seen diagrams of similar devices in Lot-Ionan’s books. “Think of it as a kind of mill,” he explained. “The gears
turn and drive the equipment.”

“Look at this!” called Boïndil from the far side of the machinery. “There’s more stuff over here!” They followed.

At the center of the chamber was a starting ramp with eight metal rails sloping gently toward eight closed doors. The uppermost
end of four of the rails terminated in a wooden barrier, slung over with decaying sacks of straw.

“Those must be tracks for the wagons,” said Boëndal.

Tungdil nodded. “We’ll be gliding along a monorail. It’s a hundred percent safe.”

“Try telling that to Goïmgar,” joked Boëndal.

Tungdil glanced across at Boïndil, who had discovered a depot of a hundred or so wagons in a corner of the hall. “Let’s take
a look.”

There were various different designs of wagon. Some boasted ten narrow benches, while others had a single seat and were obviously
meant for freight.

Near the front of each vehicle was a lever. Tungdil took hold of one and jiggled it gently. There was a squeaking sound from
below. He peered beneath the carriage. “Brakes,” he announced. “If you pull on the lever, the wagon slows down. We’ll have
to scrape off the rust, though.”

“Hang on, scholar,” said Boëndal. “How do you propose to lift the wagons onto the rails?” He glanced at the starting ramp,
which was two paces high at its uppermost end. “They’re too heavy for us to carry.”

“True.” Tungdil pointed to the ceiling. “But look up there.”

“Hoists! We can use the hooks to raise the wagons and place them on the rails. I say we give it a go and see what happens.”

They collected some leftover charcoal and set light to it with their oil lamps. Next they set out to fill at least one cauldron,
which they did by drawing water from a pool at the bottom of a nearby waterfall.

“What now?” Boïndil asked eagerly.

“We wait,” said Tungdil.

They dozed for a while, worn out from their exertions, until Boïndil woke up and grabbed Tungdil’s arm. “Look!” he shouted.
“The lead ball just moved!”

Tungdil sat up. The ball had risen and was dancing excitedly halfway up the glass tube. Hot steam shot from two of the vents.

“Well, well,” exclaimed Boëndal, watching attentively to see what happened next.

The crankshaft turned on its axis and the first of many gears screeched into action, achieving half a rotation before grinding
to a halt. A third valve opened and a hiss of air escaped.

“It’s powered by steam,” explained Tungdil, full of admiration for the engineers who had designed the contraption millennia
ago. “It’s like a water wheel, except it’s turned by steam instead of water.” The twins looked at him blankly. “Surely you
must have tried holding a lid on a boiling pan?”

“What do you think I am?” Boïndil said testily. “A cook?”

His brother understood what Tungdil was getting at. “The steam turns the gears and the gears power the hoist, so the wagons
can be lifted onto the rails without us breaking our backs!” He looked at the thicket of rods and wheels. “It’ll take more
than just one cauldron of water to get that going.”

“It shouldn’t be a problem,” said Tungdil. “We’re leaving tomorrow morning and by then we’ll —”

Boïndil spun round and glared at the door. “Did you hear that?” he growled, already keyed up for a fight.

“An orc by the sounds of it,” teased Tungdil. “You’d better go and look.”

“Too right!” He set off at a jog, stopping to peer both ways at the door. Picking up a stone, he weighed it in his hands and
turned to the right, only to whirl round and cast his missile into the shadows.

There was a loud squeal, then the rapid patter of footsteps in the darkness. Tungdil saw a small yet somehow familiar silhouette
dart past the entrance where Ireheart was waiting, ax in hand. The creature was too quick for him.

“What was it?” Tungdil asked Boëndal. “Did you see anything?”

“No, but from the way it took off, I shouldn’t think it was a threat.” He watched his brother traipse back dejectedly.

“Shame it wasn’t an orc,” he grumbled. “I would have killed the little critter if it hadn’t been so fast.”

“We’re nearly done here anyway,” said Tungdil. He pointed to the row of eight doors. “We can head back once we’ve had a look
at these.”

“Even I know what’s behind them,” protested Boïndil, who had been longing to whet his ax on a worthy opponent. “Rails, that’s
what.”

There were eight levers at the top of the starting ramp. Tungdil pulled the one next to the first rail and the corresponding
door swung open. The rail continued through the opening, into utter darkness.

“It’s going to be quite some journey,” said Boïndil. “We’ll be as good as blind in there. It’s darker than a troll’s backside.”

His brother laughed. “Stop exaggerating. You know perfectly well that we don’t have any trouble seeing in the dark.” Even
so, he had to concede that the tunnel would pose a considerable challenge. Visibility was limited to about ten paces. “The
long-uns would need torches,” he said.

“We should use torches as well,” Tungdil told them. “If we get too accustomed to the darkness, we’ll be dazzled by the least
bit of light. What happens if there’s a cleft in the rock? Even the tiniest chink of sunshine would blind us.”

Boïndil, always the intrepid explorer, disappeared through the opening and took a few paces along the rail. Tungdil read the
inscription chiseled into the wall.

“It leads to the firstling kingdom,” he announced for the benefit of the twins. He was beginning to understand how the underground
network had worked.

Four of the rails carried outgoing passengers away from Ogre’s Death, and the other four were for wagons returning home. The
wooden barriers and straw sacking served to absorb the impact in case the brakes failed.

He turned the matter over in his mind and paced along the row of doors. “Look at this,” he exclaimed, stopping suddenly. “There’s
even a tunnel to the thirdling kingdom!”
Maybe the folks were more united back then. Why else would they build a tunnel to Lorimbur’s dwarves?

“It’s probably so we could attack them,” boomed a hollow voice inside the tunnel. “By the beard of Vraccas, it’s pretty tight
in here,” cursed Boïndil. “No more than a dwarf’s breadth either side of the wagon, I reckon.”

Tungdil ignored Boïndil’s typically warlike explanation of the tunnel’s purpose and chivvied him along. “It’s time to get
going!”

“Hang on, I’m nearly at the end and… Whoa, the tunnel goes straight down! We’d better not tell Goïmgar or he’ll die of fright.”
Boïndil’s muffled laughter grew louder as he finished his reconnoiter and returned. “Look at the state of me!” He was covered
from head to toe in spiderwebs, the desiccated corpses of countless insects sticking to his beard. He fished the cobwebs from
between the rings of his tunic and dusted his whiskers.