The Dwarves (66 page)

Beroïn’s Folk,

Secondling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle

B
alendilín was in his chamber, ax in hand. He raised it tentatively and took a few practice swipes to check if he could swing
it one-handed.

“There’s more of them coming, Your Majesty,” came an anxious shout from outside. “You ought to see for yourself.”

Anyone would think Bislipur’s warmongering had lured them to our gates,
he thought darkly, leaving his chamber and striding past row upon row of grim-faced warriors until he reached the highest
battlements of Ogre’s Death and surveyed the land below.

The enemy was everywhere. Black figures, some larger than others, were milling about on the ground, and the air reeked of
rancid fat. An unwholesome stench of orcs wafted over from their encampment a mile from the gates where they were preparing
to attack. The muffled sound of their shouts reached the battlements.

In the distance, gigantic wooden siege engines, each forty or more paces in height, were rolling toward the stronghold.
They’ll be over the first rampart in no time with the help of those things.

To the dwarf’s eyes, the contraptions looked crooked and ungainly, but the beasts cared nothing for the engines’ durability
or elegance, provided that they fulfilled their purpose, which was to breach the outer defenses so the real invasion could
begin. The timber towers had been draped with human skin to protect against firebombs, and the orcs intended to keep them
watered for the duration of the assault.

“I didn’t expect them to attack so soon,” said Bislipur, joining him on the battlements and looking down at the hordes. Dressed
in full armor, he looked every bit the dwarven warrior. “There must be ten thousand of them at least. What a blessing I’d
already sent word to my kingdom and summoned our troops.” He waited for a word of praise, but none came.

“Orcs, bögnilim, a handful of ogres, some trolls, and a contingent of älfar,” enumerated Balendilín, surveying the enemy ranks.
“Nôd’onn is determined to annihilate us, just as Tungdil said.” He watched the combined force of secondlings and fourthlings
take up position behind the first rampart and prepare for the attack.
The magus would never send an army of such proportions without securing the human kingdoms first. There’s something not right
about this.
“If the ramparts fall, we’ll retreat inside the mountain,” he decided.

“Then what?”

“They’ll be lost if they follow us. We know the territory and they don’t.”

“Are you saying we might not hold the ramparts?” Bislipur asked, surprised. “With two armies of five thousand warriors apiece,
we should be able to defend the stronghold for as long as it takes.”

“In these dark times nothing is certain. I’m saying we shouldn’t count on it.” He sent some of his finest warriors to buttress
the troops at the entrance to the underground network.
Just in case,
he thought bleakly.

On ascending the parapet, he obtained his first full view of the invading hordes, a motley collection of beasts, vile products
of Tion’s creation, poised to massacre the dwarves and open the High Pass to their foul kinsfolk in the Outer Lands.

The orcs and bögnilim are wearing armor stolen from Umilante’s men. Her soldiers could do nothing to halt their advance.
Balendilín watched as the enemy troopers marshaled themselves into disorderly groups, ready to launch their assault and test
the dwarves’ defenses. “We need two thousand soldiers behind the main gates,” he commanded firmly. “Be ready to fight!”

He waited until the snarling, grunting orcs had almost reached the rampart; then he signaled for the gates to be opened, and
his warriors sallied forth.

To his satisfaction, the dwarven axes wrought havoc among the brutes who were caught off guard by the counterattack and tried
to flee, only to be rounded up and driven back into battle by the trolls.

By then, the dwarves were safely behind the solid walls of Ogre’s Death. Three dozen of their number had suffered minor injuries,
while several hundred beasts lay dead or dying on the dry earth before the gates. There was great rejoicing among the united
armies of Beroïn and Goïmdil.

“See what a formidable force we are when we fight side by side!” Balendilín shouted down to them proudly. He glanced around
to see if Bislipur had anything to say.

The fourthling was nowhere in sight.

Underground Network,

Kingdom of Weyurn,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle

T
he wagons shot through the tunnels, tearing cobwebs from the walls and ceilings and stirring up clouds of centuries-old dust.
Every now and then a shadow took flight from the rattling, rumbling carriages and scampered out of the torchlight into the
darkness of a side shaft. What life there was beneath the surface of Girdlegard was of a harmless, nervous variety that left
the travelers well alone.

Tungdil and company were approaching the fifthling kingdom from the west. He kept count of the markers on the walls, calculating
that they had traveled 250 miles by the end of the first orbit.

He shared the good news when they stopped for a while and lit a fire. “At this rate, we’ll be there in four orbits. We’re
making excellent progress.”

They were in a large chamber that served as a junction between two rails. The ceiling of the cavern was supported by naturally
formed pillars and carefully hewn arches engraved with runes that testified to their dwarven origins. The wood now spluttering
merrily in the flames had come from a leftover stockpile of moldering timber.

“We’ll never be able to outwit the dragon,” Goïmgar said dismally. “She’ll burn us to cinders with her fire.”

“We could always shove a long-un down her throat; that should do the trick,” retorted Boïndil through a mouthful. “This is
delicious, Balyndis. You firstlings certainly know a thing or two about salting and smoking meat.” He plucked dried herbs
from the rind of the ham and tasted them experimentally.

Bavragor gave Tungdil a nudge. “Isn’t she lovely? I’ve never seen a more handsome — I mean, beautiful — smith.” His chestnut
eye gleamed contentedly. “And look at her chain mail! She’s a master with a hammer.”

“Since when do you know anything about smiths?” teased Tungdil, although he too had been admiring the metalwork. He grinned.
“You’ve changed your tune, haven’t you?”

“That was before our duel,” Bavragor chuckled. “I took a blow to the heart.”

Apparently so.
The pair had bonded from the moment Balyndis had conquered the mason with her ax and they seemed to be getting closer all
the time. Tungdil couldn’t begrudge the one-eyed dwarf his happiness. “I thought she whacked you on the head, not the chest.”

“Don’t talk so fast,” Rodario scolded. “I can barely keep up.” Sprawled next to the fire, the impresario had been eavesdropping
on their whispered exchange and was frantically transcribing every word. “I want the script to be as authentic as possible.”

Meanwhile, Furgas had got up to examine the rail and Narmora was beside him, keeping watch. Djerůn was sitting a few paces
away from the others, his weapons laid out around him. As usual, he kept completely still.

“I wish she’d thumped him a bit harder,” muttered Goïmgar in a voice so low that only Tungdil could hear. “Oh, Gandogar, if
you weren’t my beloved sovereign, I’d hate you for lumbering me with such insufferable companions.” Like most nights, he was
the first to pull up his blankets and settle down to sleep.

The impresario had brought his bag of costumes with him. Bavragor was amused to see that he refused to be parted with them.
“Couldn’t you have left them with the firstlings?”

Rodario gave him a disapproving look. “Absolutely not! There’s no telling when I might need them, and besides, do you know
how much they’re worth?”

He was interrupted by a sudden bang. It sounded like a single rap of a hammer on stone. The echo rumbled through the tunnels,
then faded.

They turned to look at Furgas, who was bent over the rail. “It wasn’t me,” he said quickly. “It came from the next stretch
of tunnel.”

Goïmgar sat up. “I know that noise.” He reached nervously for his shield. “The spirits of the dead masons are haunting us,”
he whispered, cowering behind his steel screen. “Vraccas protect us from their ghosts!”

The sound was familiar to Tungdil too. “We heard the exact same noise just before our wagon was derailed near Mifurdania,”
he said softly.
I wonder if it’s a signal. But what would it be conveying? And to whom?

“Quiet, everyone.” Boïndil’s warlike instincts had been stirred. He got up and jogged to the mouth of one of the tunnels,
while Narmora stood guard by the other. Sticking his head into the darkness, he listened intently. They held their breath
for what seemed like an eternity.

Only Andôkai looked untroubled, rummaging casually for her pipe. She filled it and lit it with a burning splint. Balyndis
smiled broadly and followed suit, picking up a smoldering ember with her gloved hand and holding it to the tobacco. The two
women, who couldn’t have been more different in appearance, disappeared in clouds of smoke.

At length Boïndil returned to the fire. “Nothing,” he reported. “No noises, no smell.”

“We don’t want any more accidents,” Tungdil told them. “We’ll have to be careful.” He settled down to get some sleep.

Furgas and the half älf took their places beside him. “I think we’re not the only ones on the move down here,” Furgas confided
in a whisper. “There’s not a speck of rust on the rail ahead.”

“So the tunnel is being used on a regular basis,” Tungdil conjectured.

“I thought you should know.”

“Thank you, Furgas. I’d rather you didn’t tell the others. We don’t want Goïmgar dying of fright.”

Beroïn’s Folk,

Secondling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle

W
hat can I do for you, Bislipur?” asked one of the two sentries politely as the fourthling approached the door to the underground
network.

“Die,” he said smilingly. “Die nice and quietly.” His ax whipped up and swooped diagonally toward the sentry’s unprotected
throat.

There was no time to escape the double-handed blow and the guardsman succumbed with nothing but a muffled groan.

His companion managed to reach the bugle with his left hand and the hilt of his club with the other, but already the bloodied
ax was slicing through the flesh beneath his chin. The blade jerked upward, cleaving his skull.

Well, that wasn’t too hard.
Bislipur wiped the blood from his face and gave a short whistle, whereupon two hundred of his most loyal soldiers appeared
in the corridor.

“You know what to do,” he said tersely before reciting the runes that opened the door to the tunnels. “Show Gandogar’s enemies
no mercy: They will show none to you.”

Underground Network,

Kingdom of Weyurn,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle

J
ust as they reached the three-hundred-mile marker, disaster struck. Moments earlier they had exited the tunnel and turned
onto a narrow bridge. As far as they could tell, there was nothing but thin air and darkness beneath them.

The first carriage was traveling at full speed when the dwarves felt a sudden judder and the wheels were thrown from the track,
tilting the wagon to the side. Sparks flew everywhere as they skidded along on two wheels, trying to right the wagon before
it tipped too far. The next moment, they hit the ground and flipped over.

There was a screech of brakes as the second wagon stopped just paces from the scattered bodies.

Tungdil, Balyndis, and Boïndil were in luck: They landed on the bridge, tumbled over, rolled for a bit, and slowed to a halt.
Their gloves and armor saved their skin from serious cuts and grazes.

Tungdil discovered to his embarrassment that he was lying on top of Balyndis. His cheeks reddened. She gazed up at him and
seemed about to say something, but swallowed her words and just stared.

The spell was broken by the sound of Goïmgar’s frantic screams. “Sorry,” Tungdil said awkwardly, picking himself up to see
what was wrong.

The little dwarf was dangling from the side of the bridge. His hands clung desperately to the stone coping, but his knapsack
and his armor were exerting an inexorable downward pull. “Somebody do something!” he whimpered desperately. “I’m falling!”
Tungdil broke into a sprint.

Bavragor was lying near the edge of the bridge, a few paces from the stricken artisan. He got up, muttering, groaning, and
clutching his head. “I think an ogre just kicked me.” Suddenly he noticed the plight of his companion and threw himself forward
to grab his arm.

It was too late.

Goïmgar’s panicked face vanished from view, his shrill scream fading rapidly.

“Vraccas forfend,” stuttered the mason. Boïndil, Tungdil, and Balyndis reached the spot a moment later, only to watch helplessly
as the shrinking figure was swallowed by the darkness.

“Move!” Andôkai sped past them, bounded onto the coping, and pushed off forcefully, arms outstretched like a diver. Her scarlet
cloak billowed behind her like a flag; then she too was gone.

The dwarves could hear the swoosh of her cloak but were powerless to intervene. Rodario lit his torch and dangled it into
the gloom, but the light was too weak to cut through the blackness.

Long moments passed and at last they saw a faint blue glow in the murkiness below.

“Do you think she hit the bottom and died?” asked Boïndil. “It might be her soul.”

Tungdil shot a quick glance at Djerůn, who was immobile as ever. He didn’t seem overly concerned about his mistress’s safety,
which gave Tungdil grounds for hope.
I’m sure she knows what she’s doing.