The Dwarves (55 page)

At his feet was the villain who had stolen Tungdil’s pack. The thief was lying on the cobbles, bleeding from a dozen stab
wounds, while his killer rummaged eagerly through the bag.

Tungdil’s instincts told him something was wrong. In height and build the stranger looked less like a man than an älf.
Vraccas be with me,
he murmured.

The knapsack’s new owner buckled the lid, grabbed the straps with his left hand, and hid the bag beneath his cape. Groaning
in agony, the thief rolled onto his back and clutched the ground. His assassin was unmoved by his suffering and strolled away
without looking back.

“Excuse me! That’s my bag,” shouted Tungdil.

The stranger whipped round and his cape flew open, obscuring his face. Tungdil was still trying to get a proper look at him
when two heavy objects collided with his chest. The throwing knives glanced off his chain mail, clattering to the cobbles.

Before Tungdil could recover, his crafty assailant had taken off down the alleyway and rounded the next bend. The dwarf was
at a disadvantage because of his stumpy legs, and by the time he reached the corner, the stranger was nowhere in sight.

Tungdil stepped back into the shadows and leaned against a wall to catch his breath.
One blasted misfortune after the next! What have I done to displease you, Vraccas?

He felt an arm wrap itself around his neck. A narrow blade flashed in front of his face and came to rest against his bare
throat.

“It’s your knapsack, is it?” whispered a voice in his ear. “In that case, you must be Tungdil. We weren’t expecting you here.
A friend of mine has been longing to make your acquaintance ever since you murdered his companion in Greenglade.”

Tungdil tried to prize away the arm, but the pressure on his neck increased.

“Keep still,” the voice commanded. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”

“I’m not telling you anything,” Tungdil said defiantly, now certain that the stranger was one of Nôd’onn’s älfar.

“We’ll see about that.” His attacker stepped backward, dragging Tungdil beneath a covered archway at the front entrance to
a house. Total darkness engulfed them. “Where are you taking the relic?”

The dwarf maintained a stubborn silence.

“Talk or I’ll kill you.”

“You’ll kill me anyway. What difference does it make?”

The älf laughed. “The difference between a quick death and an agonizing end. Let’s try again. Are you alone?”

Footsteps hurried along the alleyway, accompanied by clunking mail. Two figures rounded the corner. The älf fell silent.

By some vindictive twist of fortune, Boëndal and Goïmgar chose precisely that moment to make their appearance.

Boëndal was doing his best to reassure the wary artisan that neither Bavragor nor Boïndil had any intention of carrying out
their threats. Tungdil heard him vow to protect Goïmgar from any rash acts of vengeance; then he and the fourthling disappeared
from sight.

“Very well,” the älf whispered, “so there are five of you. What is the purpose of your journey?”

“To foil you, your master, and all of your ilk!” Tungdil said loudly, choosing that moment to make his escape. He made a grab
for the knife and threw his weight backward, hoping to ram his captor against the wall. The älf stepped aside, and Tungdil
barreled into the brickwork, still struggling ferociously to fend off the blade.

The noise was enough to alert the other dwarves. They rushed to his aid.

“Is that you, scholar?” Boëndal skidded to a halt in front of the archway, leveled his crow’s beak, and barred the way. Skulking
behind him was Goïmgar, doing a convincing impression of a two-legged shield.

The älf thrust his knee into Tungdil’s nose guard, forcing the metal into his face. Tungdil’s eyes watered, blurring his vision;
then the knife tore a gash in his unprotected left arm. The älf set about making his escape.

I don’t think so!
Tungdil darted after the knapsack and managed to catch hold of the flap. He clung to it, growling, and aimed his ax at his
antagonist’s wrist.

The älf whipped his hand away and the blade missed, slicing through the air, hitting the knapsack, and slitting the canvas.
The flap came away in Tungdil’s hands, and he lost his balance and fell.

“I’ve got what I came for.” The situation was too perilous for the älf and he turned to leave, trying to wrong-foot the experienced
Boëndal, who saw through the feint and timed his attack to perfection. The deadly tip of the crow’s beak passed through the
leather armor, penetrating deep into the flesh.

The älf uttered an unintelligible curse and staggered sideways, stepping into a lone shaft of light. His deep blue eyes became
two dark pits.

But that was only the beginning of his transformation. Thin lines appeared on his pale skin, and in no time his face and throat
were patterned with what looked like tiny cracks. Clutching his wounded side, he stumbled down the alleyway, the knapsack
bouncing on his back.

“He’s not going anywhere!” Boëndal was about to sprint after him when Tungdil called him back.

“Let him go. For all we know, it might be a trap.”

“But he’s got the knapsack!”

Tungdil wiped the blood from his nose, then proudly produced the sigurdaisy relic. “This is what he was after, and it’s right
here with me!”

“How did he find you in the first place?”

“I’ll explain on the way. We’d better get back to the others.” He gave a quick nod to Goïmgar. “Don’t worry, those hotheads
won’t hurt you.”

“I told them to close the door
after
you,” the artisan said softly. “Honestly, I did.”

“It’s all right, Goïmgar,” Tungdil reassured him, although deep down he wasn’t sure what to believe. The fourthling had forfeited
his right to be trusted, and there was still no sign of him understanding what the mission was all about.

“We ought to warn the guards that at least one älf has found his way inside the gates,” Boëndal reminded him. “Whichever way
you look at it, it’s bad news for Mifurdania. It’s probably a trick to open the settlement to the orcs.”

“They know we’re here now,” Goïmgar pointed out. “Do you think they’ll come after us?”

“They’ve been after us all along,” Tungdil told him bluntly. “It’s a shame they had to find us. We need to get back to the
tunnel as soon as we can. The älfar don’t know about the underground network.”

The trio hurried through the streets until they reached the southern gates, where Tungdil told the sentries of his brush with
the älf. Then they set off toward the alehouse where Bavragor and Boïndil had been instructed to wait.

T
hey were still some distance from the rundown tavern when the sound of Ireheart’s ranting reached their ears. They heard cracking
wood, then a chorus of screams.

“Bavragor and Boïndil! The älfar must have found them!” Boëndal charged ahead to save his twin.

Just then glass sprayed everywhere as a narrow window shattered and a man hit the cobbles with a thud. The next unfortunate
was ejected from the tavern together with the door. Bruised and bleeding, he picked himself up and fled.

The three dwarves rushed inside to be met with a scene of devastation. It looked as if a tornado had hit the bar. Nothing
was in its proper place, the chairs, tables, and benches broken or upturned and the floor strewn with groaning bodies. All
had taken a beating, some more severely than others.

At the heart of the carnage was Boïndil, glowering like a dwarven god of vengeance. He was busy ridding a man, hair by hair,
of his mustache. There was no sign of Bavragor.

“What’s got into you?” his brother asked incredulously, staring at the mess. “Is this your doing?”

Ireheart turned to face them, and they saw his singed beard. “You’d better believe it!” he slurred. “The long-uns set fire
to my whiskers, so I gave them a good walloping.” He giggled and plucked out another hair. “This ruffian started it. I only
meant to punish him for ruining my beard, but the others piled in. I suppose I should thank them, really; it made a better
fight.”

“Tell him I’m sorry,” groaned his victim. “It was a misunderstanding. I was offering him a light for his pipe, that’s all.
I’m begging you, make him stop hurting me.”

Ireheart seized him by the ears and looked at him blurrily. “Will you never, ever burn another hole in a dwarf’s bearded glory?”

“Never,” the man whimpered.

“Then swear it!” The man complied and was released.

“Get out of my sight,” barked Boïndil. As a parting shot, he grabbed another clump of hair and aimed a kick at the man’s behind.
He sat down on the table, laughing, and reached for his tankard. He took a noisy slurp. “I haven’t had this much fun in ages,”
he burped. Just then he spotted Goïmgar. “Ah, there’s our little flower.”

“He’s drunk as a skunk,” said his brother, pursing his lips.

“Where’s Bavragor?” asked Tungdil.
Keeping tabs on this lot is worse than herding cats,
he thought crossly. “Don’t tell me we’ll have to look for him too.”

“Oh, him… He’ll be back in a moment. He went to buy a pony so we can fetch the ingots from the —”

“Boïndil!” His brother snatched away the tankard and pulled him down from the table. “What in the name of Vraccas are you
thinking? We’re in a strange town, the orcs are at the gates, and all you can do is drink yourself silly. You’re as bad as
Bavragor!”

“So that’s the thanks I get for buying two ponies,” came an offended voice from the door. “He’s the one who’s been beating
up locals, not me!”

“I told you he’d be back!” Boïndil said happily. He seized the tankard from Boëndal and knocked it back. “There, try taking
it from me now!” He grinned and burped again.

“Orcs!” They heard the shout even before the guard rushed in. “To arms! To arms! The southern gates have fallen and the enemy
has invaded! To arms, good people of Mifurdania, to arms!” He stopped short, noticing the bodies strewn around the room. “What
in the name of…”

“To arms!” shouted Boïndil excitedly. “Let’s get the runts! Oink, oink!” He drew his axes and stumbled to the door. His brother
pulled him back and gave him a good talking to.

“Boëndal didn’t mean what he said,” Tungdil told Bavragor, hoping that the comment wouldn’t spark another feud.

“Old Hookhand can say what he likes; he’s usually right,” the mason said mildly. “You’ll find a couple of ponies waiting for
us outside. I got them cheap, but they’re sturdy little beasts.”

“We need to get out of here,” muttered Tungdil, deciding to save the story of what had happened in the theater until they
were safely out of town — not that he had the faintest idea as to how they would escape. “The älfar are after me.”

“In that case, we need a plan,” observed Bavragor.

“I’ve been thinking, scholar,” said Boëndal. “Our enemy will be focusing on the main gates, so all we need is a side exit.
Once we’re out, we can hack our way through the fringes of the battle.” He glanced at his brother, whose uncharacteristic
silence was explained by the fact that he was snoring in the doorway. “Obviously, the circumstances aren’t ideal,” he finished
with a sigh.

Goïmgar shuddered. “Through the battle?” In his mind’s eye he was already fleeing from snarling orcs, grunting bögnilim, and
nimble-footed älfar, while arrows rained down on him and swords, spears, and pikes slashed and jabbed all around. “Are you
sure that’s wise?”

“I don’t suppose you can fly, can you?” asked Bavragor. The artisan shook his head wretchedly. “In that case, we don’t have
a choice.”

There was a loud crash behind them. Ireheart had gone down like a felled oak and was lying inert on the floor. His loud snores
were the only indication that he hadn’t been smitten by Vraccas’s hammer.

“A fat lot of use he is,” Goïmgar said accusingly. “Just when we could do with a bloodthirsty warrior, he knocks himself out
on beer. Think of how many orcs he could have butchered for us.”

“I know.” Bavragor nodded, helping Boëndal to drape the unconscious Boïndil over one of the ponies. “It beats me how he got
into this state. The long-uns’ beer is no better than flavored water.”

“He drank five whole tankards of it,” Goïmgar told him. He looked at the mason in sudden amazement. “You’re not saying…”

“I had seven, not counting the two at the market.” He winked at the smaller dwarf and passed him both sets of reins. “Here,
look after the ponies.”

Hefting his mighty war hammer, he took up position at the rear of the procession. Boëndal and Tungdil took the lead.

From time to time they heard the clatter of swords, but they avoided trouble by taking frequent detours and keeping out of
sight. The tactic was to Goïmgar’s taste.

People were charging past them in every direction, some armed and rushing to defend the town, others clutching their children
and possessions and hoping to find refuge in passageways and backstreets that hadn’t yet fallen to the orcs.

Another doomed settlement,
thought Tungdil, remembering the charred wreckage of Goodwater. He knew what the orcs would do to Mifurdania and he was tempted
to forget about the mission and rush to the townspeople’s aid. They were desperately in need of a few extra axes. He wondered
whether to declare a change of plan.

What if one of us gets killed? If we don’t forge Keenfire, Girdlegard will be lost.
He agonized for a moment and decided that he had to put the mission first, regardless of how hard it was to leave the Mifurdanians
to their fate.
May the gods preserve you,
he thought bleakly, lowering his head.

Boëndal laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. It was clear from his expression that he shared Tungdil’s torment.

At length they reached the eastern battlements and discovered a small door watched over by a pair of sentries. Moments later,
a bugle sounded and the sentries grabbed their spears and raced to the northern gates. The streets and marketplaces echoed
with the sounds of fighting as the orcs advanced through Mifurdania, beating back the defenders.