The Dwarves (51 page)

As the mist continued to clear, the outlines of a corral made of tree trunks loomed into view. The unicorns had been rounded
up and slaughtered.

“They hunted them down,” Bavragor said, aghast. “Aren’t unicorns almost extinct?” he asked Tungdil.

“There used to be just over a dozen of them,” Tungdil answered shakily. Even in death, the unicorns looked dignified, peaceful,
and pure; they must have been exceptionally beautiful before their mauling by the vilest of beasts. “There can’t be more than
a couple of them left.”

“Girdlegard is in a bad way,” Boëndal said sadly. “It’s time we got a move on and bought a pony. Nothing except Keenfire can
stop Nôd’onn from taking innocent lives.” Setting aside their sorrow, they scrambled over the stockade and set off through
the forest.

How many more deaths?
The sight of the murdered unicorns reminded Tungdil of how much he wished Lot-Ionan, Frala, and her daughters were still
alive.

Boïndil was still brandishing his axes, hoping to encounter an orcish war band and work off his pent-up rage. Suddenly a strange
look came over him and he smiled. His brother reached silently for his crow’s beak.

“Smell that?” Ireheart whispered excitedly. “Oink, oink!”

The next moment, the rancid odor of fat-smeared armor reached Tungdil’s nostrils too. It smelled doubly repugnant among the
fresh moss, damp earth, and fragrant pines. “We can’t stop now, Boïndil. We’re going straight to the settlement.”

“Not until I’ve split their ugly skulls,” Boïndil growled defiantly. His fiery spirit had been trapped for so long that his
inner furnace had overheated, driving him to open mutiny. “Come out, you runts! Come here and be slaughtered!” He threw back
his head and let out a long, drawn-out grunt.

His call was answered by grunting and snarling amid the dense trees.

Goïmgar shrank back, disappearing behind his shield. “Shut up, you lunatic!” he hissed fearfully. “They’re…”

The clunking and jangling of armor was getting closer all the time. Eyes closed, Ireheart listened in rapt concentration.
“They’ve climbed the stockade,” he told them. “There must be” — he listened intently — “oh, twenty of them at least!” He swung
his axes impatiently. “They’ve found us. They’re picking up speed!”

His eyes flew open and he was off, grunting and oinking as he ran. With an apologetic glance at the others, Boëndal chased
after him. There was a short pause, then the sound of steel impacting steel. The woods echoed with the din.

It was all too much for Tungdil.
If he’s not careful, his inner furnace will melt his mind
.

“Well,” Bavragor asked quizzically, “aren’t we going to help them?” He raised his war hammer.

“I should think not!” snapped Goïmgar. “It’s their fault for starting it. Let them finish it themselves.”

“No, we’ll fight together,” ruled Tungdil. “And after that, we’re heading for the settlement as fast as we can.”

They hurried off. Charging ahead, Bavragor hurled himself on the nearest orc with a bloodcurdling howl. The beasts were too
busy surrounding the twins to spot the new arrivals and were taken off guard. Their response was predictably poor.

Moments later, two dozen orcish corpses littered the forest floor — no thanks to Goïmgar, who had avoided all contact with
the enemy by hiding behind the mason’s back.

Ireheart was responsible for most of the carnage, but Boëndal and Bavragor had fought with such ferocity that Tungdil had
barely had a chance to land a blow.

“Serves them right, the stupid runts,” laughed Boïndil, mopping his sweaty brow. “They won’t be killing any more unicorns
now!” He kicked out at one of the corpses. “That’s for Tion,” he told the dead orc. “Be sure to give it to him with my regards.”

“Shush,” Goïmgar hushed him. “Did you hear that? There’s more!” He raised his shield and sneaked fearful glances over the
top.

Boïndil nudged his brother boisterously. “Look, a two-legged shield!” He turned in the direction of their new adversaries
and grinned. “This is my lucky orbit!” Listening attentively, he tried to calculate the number of approaching orcs. “One,
two, three…” His voice became more measured and less exuberant. “… four, five.” His carefree expression was gone. “One, two,
three…” His eyes widened and he squared his shoulders defiantly. “This is a challenge worthy of a dwarf.”

By now they could hear the clunking of armor.

“Exactly how many are there?” Tungdil demanded. He had a bad feeling about Boïndil’s idea of a challenge.

“Five plus two,” Ireheart said laconically. “Most of them are advancing head-on, but a smaller party is closing in from the
right.”

“Only seven?” Goïmgar breathed a sigh of relief and emerged a little from behind his shield.

“Five dozen infantry, plus two on horseback,” Boëndal explained.

Tungdil grabbed Ireheart by the shoulders. “That’s not a challenge; it’s lunacy. We need to get ourselves safely behind those
walls.” Goïmgar didn’t hang around for the discussion; he fled toward the town.

Ireheart refused to budge.

“This time you’ll do as I say,” Tungdil ordered him. “You’ve had your fun. You need to put our mission first.”

The warrior fidgeted moodily. “All right, all right. Those runts don’t know how lucky they are — but they’d better not catch
up with us, or I’ll show them what for!” He turned on Bavragor. “As for you, keep your confounded hammer away from my orcs.
If I wanted your help, I’d ask for it.”

“My help?” scoffed the mason. “I was helping your brother, not you. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than seeing you
sliced down the middle by an orcish sword!”

“Not now,” Tungdil scolded them, setting off at a jog.

They raced through the forest, crashing through branches, snapping twigs, and doing everything they could to throw off their
pursuers. There was no sign of Goïmgar, who had disappeared ahead.

From the sound of the bugles, it was obvious that the orcs were fanning out to hunt them down, but the dwarves’ smaller stature
worked to their advantage, allowing them to slip through the undergrowth while the beasts blundered and stumbled behind them.

Soon they reached the fringes of the forest where the trees grew farther apart.

Panting and wheezing, Tungdil risked a glance over his shoulder and realized that the dark silhouettes of their pursuers looked
bigger than before.
It’s going to be close,
he thought.

Once out of the forest, they settled into a steady trot. Salvation lay half a mile away in the shape of the settlement’s walls:
Goïmgar was almost halfway there already.

What in the name of…
Tungdil blinked, not trusting his eyes. The dark forest seemed to be keeping pace with them, advancing on either side. Then
he heard the jangle of chain mail and the clatter of armor and realized the truth:
We’re in the middle of a raid
.

A division of orcs left the shelter of the trees. There were a thousand of them or more, all advancing toward the settlement
in a living line of weaponry. The line became a circle as orcs closed in from every direction. The town was surrounded — and
so were the dwarves.

“Run!” Tungdil urged the others. “Run for your lives!”

Enchanted Realm of Oremaira,

Girdlegard,

Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle

G
oïmgar reached the protective walls of the settlement and hammered on the locked gates. Faces peered down at him from the
battlements. “Let me in!” he shrieked. “In the name of Vraccas the Eternal Smith, save me from these beasts!”

“You’d think he’d put in a good word for the rest of us,” snorted Bavragor, as he and the others struggled to catch up.

A panel opened in the gates and Goïmgar pushed his way through. The door slammed behind him. It remained closed, even when
his companions arrived.

“Hey! What about us?” Bavragor bellowed.

Not again,
cursed Tungdil.
Surely he won’t abandon us out here?

The orcs were dangerously close. Arrows whined toward them and landed just short.

Raising his axes, Boïndil turned to face the oncoming hordes. “Looks like I’ll get my battle after all,” he said, bringing
the polls of his axes together in a loud, ringing beat. “Oink, oink!”

“Open the door!” shouted Tungdil. “We’re dwarves! Dwarves like the other fellow. We’re on the same side!”

There was no response.

The first beasts were already upon them. Ireheart dealt with them swiftly and bloodily, but their agonized howls brought orcish
reinforcements to the scene.

The twins got down to business, fighting so savagely that the floor was awash with green blood. None of the orcs came within
striking distance of Bavragor and Tungdil, who were standing at the back. After a while, Ireheart took an arrow to the leg,
but he stood his ground, laughing manically and sending orcs to their deaths.

At least a dozen of the beasts had been massacred before the door finally opened to let them in.

Ireheart, still intent on slaying his opponents, had to be dragged inside. Boëndal talked to him in a low, soothing voice
until the crazed glimmer left his eyes.

Bavragor gave Tungdil a satisfied look. “What did I tell you? He’s a nutcase! A dangerous, unpredictable lunatic.”

Tungdil made no reply.

Their reception committee was made up of thirty heavily armed and armored men. The soldiers eyed them suspiciously, not sure
what to make of the dwarves. Goïmgar was waiting by the door, his face a deathly shade of pale.

The captain stepped forward. “Who are you and what do you want?” he asked gruffly.

Tungdil introduced them by name. “We’re dwarves on a mission to track and kill orcs,” he explained. “It’s our Vraccas-given
duty. We heard Girdlegard was in terrible danger, and we’re trying to help the humans as best we can.”

“Killing orcs is our specialty, as you probably noticed,” added Ireheart. “I wanted to stay and flay the beasts alive, but
the others were worried about being outnumbered.”

Boëndal knelt down to inspect the damage to his brother’s leg. The arrow had passed through the flesh without hitting the
bone, so he snapped off the arrowhead and extracted the shaft from the opposite side. His brother endured his ministrations
uncomplainingly, wincing only slightly when an herbal dressing and bandage were applied.

The captain was impressed by his stoicism. “In that case, Mifurdania welcomes you,” he said. “The present moment augers well
for orc hunters, but less favorably for our town. You’ll have plenty to do here. Report to me when you’re ready to join our
ranks.”

He hurried away. Ten of his soldiers stayed behind to barricade the door, placing a steel panel across the gates and securing
it with sturdy bolts. There was a clattering and banging as the orcs laid siege to the gates, but after a time they retreated,
defeated by the steel.

“That was close,” Bavragor said to one of the guards. “Why didn’t you open up earlier?”

The man glanced at the pale-faced Goïmgar, who was cowering in a corner. “He said to bolt it behind him,” he told them. “You’d
better ask him.”

With that, the soldier turned away and returned to his comrades who were reinforcing the steel cladding with all available
means. The gates were required to withstand the impact of a battering ram, hence the need for supporting struts and bars.

“That’s not what I s-said,” stammered Goïmgar. “I told him to bolt it after
you
.” Bavragor took a menacing step toward him, and the artisan sidled out of the gate tower, ready to flee through Mifurdania’s
streets.

“You’ve been nothing but trouble since we set out,” the mason accused him, waving his mighty fists in Goïmgar’s face. “I’ll
beat you to a pulp, you miserable liar.”

“And I’ll shave off your shimmering whiskers with my axes,” added Boïndil.

That did it. Picturing himself bruised and beardless, Goïmgar fled, vanishing into the bustling town.

“Stop!” Tungdil shouted after him, but the artisan didn’t look back.
I should have known this would happen.
Tungdil fixed Bavragor and Boïndil with a stony glare. “Congratulations,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “How extraordinarily
helpful of you both! We’re on an urgent mission and thanks to your childish taunting, a vital member of our company has taken
to his heels. Perhaps a nice game of hide-and-seek will take our minds off the fact that
we’re surrounded by orcs
.” This time Tungdil didn’t bother to conceal his rage; he wanted them to know how furious he was.

Bavragor and Boïndil stared sheepishly at the floor.

“He nearly got us killed,” ventured Bavragor.

“Says who?” snapped Tungdil. “You didn’t let him finish. You had only the guard’s word for what happened and you threatened
to beat him up.”

“Why else would he take off like that?” protested Boïndil. “If that’s not the sign of a guilty conscience, I don’t know what
is!”

“Unbelievable: The one time you’re in agreement, and it has to be this. Once we’ve tracked down Goïmgar, we’ll get to the
bottom of the matter — by discussing it
calmly
.” He scanned the streets and spotted a tavern. “I want the two of you”— he nodded at Bavragor and Boïndil —“to take yourselves
over there and wait at a table for Boëndal and me to return. Don’t get into any arguments — and remember what I told you about
dealing with humans.”

Bavragor scratched his beard. “But where are you going?”

“To find Goïmgar, of course! Do you think he’d show himself in front of you? You scared the living daylights out of him.”
Tungdil hurried off, signaling to Boëndal to follow.

Bavragor and Boïndil did as instructed and found themselves a table in the tavern. They ordered a hot meal to fill their bellies
and a tankard of beer to while away the time.

The other drinkers stared in open amazement at the two dwarves whose mail was covered in orcs’ blood. Stone-faced, the pair
returned their glances and focused grimly on their meal.

At last Boïndil emptied his tankard and took the first step toward ending their feud. “Listen, about what happened between
me and —”