The Dwarves (46 page)

Tungdil stared at him in surprise. All of a sudden the one-eyed dwarf was bubbling with enthusiasm and confidence. Balendilín
had been right: The mason’s mood was unpredictable. “Good work, Bavragor; those are excellent suggestions,” he said approvingly.

“I know.” Grinning, the mason rewarded himself with another draft of beer.

The combined efforts of the tinker and his apprentices, assisted by the women from the brewery, resulted in the cauldrons
being repaired to the point where they could withstand the build-up of steam for long enough to get the machinery going.

It took a further two orbits to undo the rest of the damage. At last the cauldrons were filled with water and fired from below,
the gears moved smoothly, and the hoists did as instructed. By the afternoon of the third orbit their wagon was stationed
on its new rail, ready to begin its journey into the unknown.

Tungdil and Boïndil sat at the front, with Bavragor and Goïmgar on the next bench and Boëndal at the rear. Their luggage,
including comestibles, equipment, and the materials for Keenfire, was shared among them and stowed at their feet.

Tungdil turned round and scanned the faces of his companions. There was no telling what awaited them at the bottom of the
first steep drop or how much of an advantage Gandogar had gained. Everyone looked understandably grave.

“Trust in Vraccas,” he said, shifting his gaze to focus on the door ahead. His left hand grasped the lever beside the rail.
He pulled it back and the door swung open, clearing their passage into the darkness ahead.

“And now to save Girdlegard…” He let up on the brakes and the wagon rolled gently down the ramp toward the tunnel.

“What if Gandogar sabotaged the rail?” Goïmgar asked anxiously. “Or what if we’re too heavy and fly off the side?”

“Let’s hope we don’t find out!” There was a crazed glint in Boïndil’s eyes as they rushed toward the final pitch. “Here we
come!”

Gathering speed, the wagon reached the point where the tunnel took a sudden plunge. Its passengers held on tightly as the
vehicle tipped over the edge and careered into the abyss.

Ireheart whooped in excitement, Boëndal held on for dear life, Bavragor burst into song, and Goïmgar petitioned Vraccas, while
Tungdil wondered whether any of his companions were sane.

Underground Network,

Girdlegard,

Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle

T
he windswept dwarves sped through the tunnel, hair and beards streaming behind them as the wagon thundered along the rail,
swooping and juddering at an incredible rate. The speed of the descent pinned them to their seats, and Tungdil felt himself
being pushed and pulled in ways he had never thought possible.

Bavragor had stopped singing after choking on something that had flown into his mouth, leaving Boïndil to whoop and bellow
with untrammeled enthusiasm, exhilarated by the stomach-turning ride.

Goïmgar was praying with his eyes closed and beseeching Vraccas to protect him from harm. His mortal terror betrayed a lack
of confidence in Gandogar’s sense of fair play.

The carefully hewn walls flashed past so rapidly that all they could see was a blur of polished stone. After a while the tunnel
opened out, becoming at least as wide as the wagon was long.

“You’ll burst my eardrums if you keep yelling like that,” Boëndal told his twin. “It’s even noisier at the back because of
the wind.”

Boïndil roared with laughter. “Isn’t this
fun?
It’s a million times faster than boring old ponies. I’d like to shake our forefathers by the hand!”

“I don’t know,” grumbled Bavragor, wiping brandy from his eyes. “They could have made it a bit easier for me to drink.”

Tungdil smiled quietly. Being with other dwarves almost made up for the ordeals he had suffered since leaving Ionandar, and
he had no regrets about visiting Ogre’s Death, even though it meant embarking on another trip. At least this time he wouldn’t
be traveling alone. “If only it weren’t for their blasted feuding… ,” he said, not realizing that he was speaking aloud.

“Blasted what?” Boïndil bellowed. “Speak up! I can’t hear you!” Tungdil gave a helpless shrug.

Their steep slide into darkness ended as abruptly as it had begun and they continued at a more agreeable pace, with a few
gradual climbs and the occasional gentle downhill.

They clattered over two junctions without being thrown off the rail.

“I hope we’re on the right track,” called Boëndal from the rear. “Has anyone seen any signposts?”

“I saw some levers before both sets of points,” Tungdil shouted back. “There was dust and lichen all over them. I don’t think
anyone’s used them for some time.” He hoped to goodness he was right.

The tunnel stopped widening, and the view, now that they had slowed enough to see it, was disappointingly monotonous. Save
for the odd patch of lichen or moss, the walls were smooth and unchanging. Twice they spotted stalagmites on the rail; then
the wagon ran over them, snapping them in two.

“There’s your proof that Gandogar didn’t come this way,” said Bavragor, uncorking his leather drinking pouch and using the
leisurely tempo to drink a few sips before the next descent. “Do you think they might have switched the points?”

“No,” Tungdil said firmly. “The levers definitely hadn’t been touched.”
Where else could they have gone, though?

“Maybe they lifted the wagon across the rails so we wouldn’t be able to tell,” surmised Boïndil.

Tungdil didn’t argue, but privately he was wondering whether Gandogar’s company had taken an entirely different route.
What if they’ve found another tunnel that will get them there more quickly?
It was conceivable that Gandogar had come into possession of a proper map that showed more than just entrances and exits.
Then again, maybe Bavragor was right and the points had been changed so that he and the others had been tricked into traveling
in the wrong direction while Gandogar and his companions raced west. He decided not to mention his concerns.

Meanwhile, the wagon was purring along the rail as if it had been making the journey every orbit for a hundred cycles. In
time the tunnel widened again and they reached a vast hall that served as an interchange with three other rails. They rolled
to a halt.

Tungdil jumped down stiffly. “Come on, you lot, let’s see where we go from here.” He was glad of the chance to stretch his
legs after hours of sitting down.

Between them, they explored the hall and discovered an array of hoists and cauldrons similar to the setup in the secondling
kingdom.

“It’s a kind of junction,” murmured Boëndal, shouldering his crow’s beak. He scanned the hall to make sure nothing had taken
up residence in the underground network without the dwarves’ knowledge.

“Hey, Shimmerbeard! What are you doing?” boomed Boïndil.

The fourthling sprang away from the wall, revealing a tablet of light gray granite. It was roughly the height and width of
a gnome and held in place with long rusty nails. “I was…” He cleared his throat. “I was wiping the dust away,” he said defiantly.
“I wanted to see what it said.”

“It looks like a map,” said Tungdil, hurrying over. “Well done, Goïmgar. You’ve got sharp eyes.”

He knew the fourthling didn’t deserve his praise: Goïmgar had been scratching out the lines with his dagger to disadvantage
the expedition and allow the fourthling king to get ahead. Tungdil had no means of actually proving it, so he kept the observation
to himself and made a quick sketch of the map.
I’ll have to keep an eye on him.

“Look, Tungdil,” Bavragor said cheerfully. “We’re on the right track; it’s this way.”

“That’s all we need: directions from a one-eyed dwarf,” muttered Goïmgar just loud enough for Bavragor to hear.

The mason turned on him, snarling with rage. His right hand shot out, his fingers winding their way into the artisan’s wavy
beard and pulling him close.

“Come here, you pathetic excuse for a dwarf,” he growled, raising his free hand and peeling back his left eyelid to expose
the shriveled remains of an eye. A shard of rock was impaled at its center. “You think I’m blind, do you? Ha! Let me tell
you about my eye. One orbit the mountain tired of my masonry and exacted its revenge. A splinter of rock as sharp and fine
as a needle flew up and robbed me of my sight, but Vraccas took pity on me and made the other eye ten times as strong. That’s
ten times,
Shimmerbeard. My one eye sees more clearly than ten!” He pushed the delicate artisan away and laughed grimly. “It sees the
slightest flaw in the rock, the pores of your skin, and the fear in your eyes; what do you have to say about that?”

Goïmgar backed away from the mason’s mighty hands and rubbed his chin. He had endured the humiliation silently, but now that
Bavragor had released him, he felt brave enough to vent his fury in a threat. “You’ll regret this, Hammerfist. Just wait until
Gandogar is high king: The mountain won’t be the only one to exact revenge!”

“That’s right, run to Gandogar! You’re a coward as well as a weakling.”

“Let’s call it quits now,” Tungdil said sharply. “You’ve both said more than enough.” In fact, Goïmgar’s threat about Gandogar
being high king was proof that he intended the expedition to fail. “I don’t want to hear another insult from either of you.
In any case, it’s time to go.”

He strode back to the wagon, the other four following in silence. The strained atmosphere was a worrying portent for the company’s
future.

What happens when I can’t stop them from quarreling?
His spirits sank lower when he remembered that Bavragor and Goïmgar weren’t the only ones at loggerheads: Boïndil and Bavragor
couldn’t stand each other either. Only the calm and practical Boëndal hadn’t made any enemies.
Who knows how long that will last? It’s not easy being a leader,
he thought gloomily.
Vraccas give me strength.

Boïndil, ever hopeful of finding someone or something to fight, wandered over to the mouth of the tunnel. He opened the door
and peered inside. “It goes straight down. The wagon will need a bit of a push; then the slope will take care of the rest.”

The next leg of the journey awaited them. They hauled their vehicle to the top of the ramp and jumped aboard, save for Boëndal,
who waited a moment longer to give them a final shove. Soon they were hurtling westward, squeaking and rattling through the
tunnel to the kingdom of Borengar’s folk.

Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle

T
he scouts returned on horseback with news that Porista was going about its usual business, untroubled by the twin-flanked
advance of forty thousand soldiers under the command of Girdlegard’s finest human warriors.

Gentle sunshine bathed the lush green countryside, bringing out the rich autumn hues of the trees. Everywhere the foliage
was putting on a last show of splendor before the winter frosts.

All the same, the air was decidedly chilly, so Tilogorn and Lothaire had erected an assembly tent to guard against the winds.
They stood outside and listened to the scouts’ report.

The first envoy sent to Porista to negotiate on their behalf had returned with a list of preposterous demands, not to mention
tidings of the magi’s deaths. Many orbits had passed since then, but the brief exchange had taught them that Nôd’onn was the
real enemy and would have to be destroyed.

Clasping flasks of hot tea, the kings of Idoslane and Urgon studied the sketched map of fortifications and marveled at Porista’s
meager defenses. A single wall protected the city from attack.

Tilogorn was wearing plain but solid armor. He was heartened to see Porista’s vulnerability: There were villages in his kingdom
that were better defended than the capital of Nôd’onn’s realm. “Victory will be swift, provided the magus doesn’t jinx us.
We made the right decision in not waiting for reinforcements.”

“Between us we’ll bring the villain to his knees. He can’t be in two places at once: One of the gates will fall and Porista
will be ours,” Lothaire said confidently, checking the buckles on his lightweight leather mail.

Each was wearing armor in keeping with the style of combat in his kingdom. In Idoslane, Tilogorn was accustomed to fighting
heavily armed and powerful orcs, which called for heavy-duty protection against axes and swords, whereas a solid suit would
be impractical in Urgon because of the lakes and hills. Agility and speed were of the essence when death was the likely consequence
of stumbling on a narrow mountain pass.

The mismatched sovereigns were in command of an army that was similarly diverse. Each of the seven human kingdoms had sent
units to Porista, but the other monarchs were content to let Tilogorn and Lothaire direct the motley troops. Another forty
thousand soldiers were already on their way, ready for the next stage in the campaign: the assault on Dsôn Balsur.

Queen Umilante had sent her lightly armored and sparely clad warriors to line up with Queen Wey IV’s waterguards and Queen
Isika’s guerrillas, whose favored territory was the forest. Not a soldier among them had ever stormed a city, and so it fell
to Lothaire’s and Tilogorn’s units, who, along with King Nate’s cavalry, formed the mainstay of the army, to show them what
to do.

It’s a good thing we’re attacking Porista first. The men could use the experience before they cross blades with the älfar.
Lothaire pointed to the city gates. “Tilogorn, you attack the northern gate; I’ll approach from the south. The catapults
and ladders are ready and waiting.” He held his head high. “I’ll go in first. Take up position with your twenty thousand men,
but don’t advance straightaway. As soon as you see my signal, charge through the other gate and attack the palace from the
north.”

“Agreed.” Tilogorn reached for his helmet. “Then let’s rid Girdlegard of Nôd’onn. After that we can focus on routing the älfar
and the orcs. May Palandiell be with us.”