The Dwarves (50 page)

“I’m really sorry,” he said apologetically. “My lame leg is a curse on these slippery floors. Still, I managed to save everything
except one of the tankards.”

It took a moment for the attendant to recover. He got up shakily and looked at the debris. “Er, actually, the tankard was
for you. I’ll go and fetch a —”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Bislipur interrupted. “I wasn’t thirsty anyway. You may as well clear up the mess.”

The attendant stooped and gathered the pieces into his apron. “All done,” he said, straightening up again. “Now, if you pass
me the other tankards and the beer…”

Bislipur hesitated and gave the pitcher a little shake, watching the layer of white foam slop back and forth without mingling
with the beer. “Light on top and dark below,” he said thoughtfully. He returned the vessels to the waiter. “Let’s hope light
will triumph over darkness in Girdlegard as well. You’d better hurry; the high king is thirsty.”

Humming contentedly, he set off to find the fourthling delegation, while the attendant continued down the corridor toward
the great hall.

Underground Network,

Girdlegard,

Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle

T
he next downward pitch gave the wagon a burst of speed that sent them careering through the tunnel. For the first time Tungdil
was obliged to pull sharply on the brake.
Any faster, and we’ll come flying off the rail.
There was a flurry of sparks and a terrible squealing and screeching.

“It’s worse than Bavragor’s singing,” Boïndil objected, shouting above the noise. Obligingly, the mason burst into song, thereby
adding to the din. Boïndil rolled his eyes despairingly.

The tunnel opened out and they found themselves inside a natural grotto, shooting along an enormous bridge hewn from stone.
A river raged beneath them, drowning out the squealing of brakes. Tendrils of spray splashed against the sides of the wagon;
then they were back in the tunnel and racing on.

“Did you see that?” marveled Tungdil.

“How could we miss it?” Goïmgar said unhappily. “We could have fallen in and died.”

Tungdil was bubbling with enthusiasm. “What a spectacular bridge! Our forefathers must have been incredible masons.”

If Bavragor had been in the driver’s seat, he would have turned back to take another look. “I bet it was sculpted by secondlings,”
he said proudly. “We’re the only folk who could build a bridge like that.” He paused, waiting for someone to contradict him.
“In that case, I propose a toast…” Suddenly the wagon started to judder and rattle. “Steady on, Tungdil! You’re spilling my
drink and we don’t want Goïmgar spewing all over the place.”

Tungdil was less inclined to joke. “There’s gravel on the track. I’m worried we’ll —”

They felt a terrible jolt and the wagon tilted dangerously to the right. Orange sparks shot to the ceiling.

Before the dwarves could react, the wagon lurched, turned over, bounced, turned over, and crashed to a halt. The tunnel ahead
was blocked with fallen stone.

Tungdil was catapulted into the air and had to curl into a ball to preserve his limbs. He hit the ground with a thud, grazed
his face on the rock, and whacked his helmet against something unyielding.
I suppose it was bound to end this way.
He sat up groggily, looking for the others.

The twins were already on their feet. Like Tungdil, they had scuffed and torn their breeches, but seemed otherwise unharmed.

Bavragor picked himself up with a groan, clutching his hip. Only Goïmgar was lying still beside the battered wagon. His breath
was coming in faint gasps.

“Vraccas have mercy!” Tungdil made his way unsteadily toward the stricken dwarf. Much to everyone’s relief, Boëndal and Boïndil
took charge of the examination and declared the artisan to be intact.

“We’ll have you up in no time,” said Bavragor, administering a sip from his pouch. “I hope you appreciate the sacrifice I’m
making.”

The fragile fourthling wasn’t much of a brandy drinker and came to with a splutter. Sitting up sharply, he yelped and clutched
his right shoulder. He grimaced in pain. “It’s broken, I know it is!” Boëndal bent down to take a closer look, but Goïmgar
waved him away. “No! You’ll only make it worse!”

“Keep acting like that and
I’ll
make it worse,” Boïndil growled menacingly.

“Come on, Goïmgar,” Tungdil pleaded. “Boëndal and Boïndil are warriors. They know about injuries.”

“Cuts and bruises, maybe, but not broken bones,” said Goïmgar, shrinking away. Groaning loudly, he struggled to his feet,
his right arm dangling limply. “I’ve broken my collarbone,” he whined. “I can’t move my arm.”

“Here, have a sip of this to ease the pain,” said Bavragor, tossing him the pouch. Goïmgar reached out and caught it with
both hands. The others turned on him accusingly.

“You lava-livered liar!” barked Boïndil. “Stringing us along, were you?”

“I thought it was broken,” Goïmgar protested hastily. “But I guess it was, er… dislocated! What a stroke of luck! I put it
into joint when I moved. Did you hear it click?” He lifted his arm gingerly and feigned discomfort. “Hmm, it’s still quite
sore, but I should be able to put up with it.” He returned the pouch to Bavragor. “You can keep your rotgut. It tastes like
poison.”

“Next time I’d advise you to try a bit harder,” fumed Boïndil. “Hoodwink us again, and I’ll wallop your backside until it’s
redder than a forge.”

If only I hadn’t chosen him in the first place,
Tungdil thought ruefully.
I didn’t realize I was hanging a millstone around my neck.
He could see now why the fourthling monarch had let him pick Goïmgar: The artisan was a pest.
From now on I won’t believe a single word he says.

Tungdil decided to focus on their immediate plight: The tunnel leading west to the firstlings was completely blocked by an
avalanche of rock, and the ingots and gems for Keenfire were scattered across the floor. He beckoned to Bavragor. “When do
you think the roof collapsed?”

The one-eyed mason inspected the rockfall, clambered all over it, and ran his fingers over the fractured stone. At length
he returned. “Quite recently. There’s a fair bit of dust about, but it must have come down with the ceiling. See how shiny
these edges are?” He patted the warped chassis of the wagon. “We were lucky the wagon derailed itself when it did. If we’d
hit this lot at full tilt…”

“Do you think it was sabotage?”

Bavragor rubbed the dust from his one good eye. “I can’t say for sure, but it wouldn’t surprise me.” He stroked the wall lovingly.
“It seems strange that the tunnel would collapse of its own accord after all these cycles.”

“It was probably your singing that did it,” Goïmgar said witheringly. “Your singing and the idiot’s lunatic yells.”

“You’re the one who keeps whining. If I were the mountain, I’d cave in on myself rather than listen to your voice,” the mason
retorted.

“You’re both wrong,” said Boïndil, not wanting to be outdone. “The tunnel split its sides laughing because of Goïmgar’s size.”

The artisan opened his mouth to protest, but Tungdil ordered them to pile up the ingots and cover the treasure with rocks.
“We’re going up to the surface,” he decided. “The next hatch isn’t far from here. We’ll leave the underground network, find
a settlement, and buy a pony.” He unfurled the map. “We can reenter the tunnel here. It’s only eighty miles overland.”

“That’s all very well, but what are we going to do without a wagon?” asked Boëndal.

“If we don’t find a wagon when we get to the tunnel, we’ll buy a couple of extra ponies and ride the last two hundred miles.”
Tungdil rolled up the map and helped the others to stack the heavy ingots. He put the wood in his pack.

He sneaked a sideways glance at his four companions.
All this squabbling is bad for the mission. I need to make them work together or I won’t have a company to lead at all. Help
me, Vraccas.

They bowed their heads and delivered a quick vote of thanks to their creator for saving their lives, then marched back through
the tunnel. At last they came to a narrow flight of steps that zigzagged steeply to the surface.

Bavragor led the way, but Goïmgar refused to follow. “Where are we?” he demanded suspiciously.

“According to the map, we’ll be entering Oremaira,” said Tungdil. “It used to be ruled by Maira the Life-Preserver, but there’s
no telling what’s happened since Nôd’onn took charge.”

“Not another enchanted realm,” moaned Boïndil. He laid his hands on the hafts of his axes. “Still, it might be a chance to
slay a few runts. I just hope the magus doesn’t plague us with any of his tricks.”

The rest of the company nodded in mute agreement.

A
fter a long and arduous ascent the five dwarves reached a door inscribed with runes. Weapons at the ready, they prepared themselves
for the outside world.

The stairway led out into a cave some four paces high and seven paces wide. The noise of a waterfall roared in their ears.
Water was streaming past the mouth of the cavern and tumbling down the mountainside, sending showers of spray that spattered
their dusty mail, helms, and cloaks. Faint rays of sunshine sloped through the watery curtain, forming pools of light on the
dank rock floor.

“Bloody typical,” shouted Boïndil, straining to drown out the noise. “I’ll wash when I’m good and ready, not because of some
blasted waterfall.”

His brother laughed. “And when might that be?”

They found a narrow path that led past the waterfall toward a rocky plateau.
With a bit of luck, we’ll be able to see for miles,
thought Tungdil.

“Come on,” he chivvied the others, “let’s see where we are.”

One by one they edged past the cascading water, treading carefully because of the slippery stone. None of them escaped without
a good soaking and Goïmgar was nearly knocked off his feet.

It was around about noon when they emerged into the autumn sunshine. A rainbow was shimmering in the waterfall and the air
smelled fresh and moist. They reached the edge of the plateau and peered down at the fifty-pace drop. The firs, pines, and
spruces formed a dark green mass of bristling spears. Judging by the gathering clouds, they were about to be rained on.

To the west, a vast lake shimmered on the horizon, but in the north they could see a collection of houses ringed by a wall.
The settlement lay on the other side of the forest, and beyond that were fields.

Tungdil was heartened by its proximity.
It shouldn’t take more than an orbit to get there.
“Vraccas has been merciful,” he told the others. “We’ll have our pony in no time.”

“A town full of long-uns,” Goïmgar said glumly. “What if they don’t like us?”

“Stop whining! We don’t need the hillside caving in on us as well,” snapped Boïndil. “I don’t know why you’re worried about
long-uns. They might be tall, but I’m strong.”

“Let me do the talking,” said Tungdil, alarmed. “I’ve dealt with humans all my life.”

The others saw no reason to argue, so they set off to find a way down from the plateau, taking a narrow path that led through
the forest below.

There wasn’t much light beneath the canopy of conifers. The mist, fine and wispy in the upper branches, thickened toward the
ground, forming a dense milky layer around the dwarves’ waists. Their eyes needed time to adjust to the sunlight and they
were grateful for the gloom.

“Maira turned these woods into a sanctuary for unicorns,” Tungdil told them. He felt a rush of excitement at seeing the forest
that he had read so much about. “If we’re lucky, we’ll see one.”

Boïndil looked at him blankly. “What’s the good of that? We can’t ride them, can we?”

“No, but they’re beautiful creatures and they’re rare. The älfar hunted them almost to extinction.”

“Quiet, isn’t it?” said Bavragor. “You’d think no one else lived here. Maybe I should sing something. The unicorns might show
themselves if they know we’re here.”

“Unicorns are timid animals. Singing —”

“Isn’t
caterwauling
the word you’re looking for?” Boëndal chimed in softly.

“Either way, making a noise won’t help. Legend has it that they only approach young virgins,” explained Tungdil.

“Young virgins, eh?” said Bavragor. “That’s me out, then. I don’t suppose any of you…?” He look slyly at Tungdil, who tried
desperately not to blush.

Just then Boïndil stumbled into something and came to a halt in the fog.

“What do we have here?” he said in surprise, feeling his way through the mist with one of his axes. The blade met something
soft and came up tinged with blood. “Here, give me that,” he said, grabbing Goïmgar’s shield and waving it back and forth
until the bloodied body appeared through the mist.

“It’s a horse,” exclaimed Bavragor, staring at the white-coated mount. “At least… Hang on a minute, it’s not a unicorn, is
it?”

Tungdil knelt beside the dead animal. Its throat hung in shreds, chunks were missing from its flesh, and its beautiful horn
had been wrenched from its skull.

“It
was
a unicorn,” he said sadly, stroking the animal’s white flank. Lot-Ionan’s books described the unicorns as pure creatures,
incapable of malice or evil, but their gentle nature had done nothing to save them from their fate. “Nôd’onn’s hordes must
have got here first.”

“Do you think they’re still around?” Boïndil asked hopefully. “They might be lurking in the bushes.”

Goïmgar retreated hastily, only to fall over backward in the mist.

For a moment he was lost; then he reappeared, shrieking. His hands were stained with blood. “There’s another one,” he shouted,
sheltering behind the others. “I need my shield! Give it back to me this instant!”

Boïndil strode off and fanned away the mist where Goïmgar had fallen. A light wind gusted through the milky swathes and helped
to clear their view.

They stared in silence at the gruesome sight. Strewn across the ground were twelve dead unicorns and three times as many orcs.
The fabled mounts had been brought down by arrows and slashed to pieces, but not before they had gored their attackers with
their fearsome horns and hooves.