The Dwarves (79 page)

The finished blade was lying on the central anvil, shimmering enigmatically in the bright light of Dragon Fire. The diamonds
twinkled, the inlay glistened, and the runes shone with the fierce glow of the furnace, brought to life by the roaring flames.

“To think that Vraccas gave us the means to accomplish this.” Tungdil gazed in awe at the result of their joint labor. “Balyndis,”
he said solemnly, “attach the blade.” She picked up the grip and inserted it into the long metal shaft of the blade. Her face
paled.

“Vraccas forfend, it doesn’t fit,” she said hoarsely. “See how loose it is? The blade will fly off as soon as Narmora swings
the ax. But how could we have made the grip too narrow? I’m sure it —”

One by one the runes lit up. The shaft glowed, then the wood seemed to swell. Crackling and straining, it expanded to fill
the gap, until the grip and the shaft were one.

Tungdil took it as a sign that Vraccas was happy with their work. He ran his fingers over the blade, cherishing the feel of
the metal. Deep down, he wished he could wield the ax himself, and he held on to it for a moment before handing it to Narmora.

Giselbert stepped forward. “May I?” he asked tremulously.

“Of course. If it weren’t for you and the others, it would never have been forged.”

The ancient king grasped the ax, gazing at it reverently before trying a few swings. He entrusted it ceremoniously to the
half älf.

“So this is it,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “The agony of the undead, all those cycles of waiting, of fighting…
There was a reason for it all.” He shook hands with each of the company in turn, lingering when he came to Tungdil. “Don’t
abandon my kingdom to the creatures of Tion. Free Girdlegard and drive out the pestilence, then come back and rebuild my kingdom
for the dwarves. Will you promise me that, Tungdil Goldhand?” He fixed him with a piercing stare.

Tungdil could do nothing but nod, rendered speechless by the zeal in the fifthling’s eyes.

Giselbert unfastened his diamond-studded weapons belt and laid it around Tungdil’s waist. “Wear this in memory of my folk
and let it be known that we defended our kingdom to the last, in death as well as life.”

Tungdil swallowed. “Your gift is too generous.”

“From what I have come to know of you, it is no less than you deserve.” They embraced as friends; then it was time for the
company to leave.

“Let’s get going,” said Tungdil, looking up at the narrow staircase leading into the gloomy chimney. He glanced back at the
doors, where the last of the fifthlings were locked in bitter combat with the orcs.

“But what will become of you?” Boïndil asked the fifthling king.

Giselbert stood tall, eyes fixed on the doors. “My warriors will hold them back while you get yourselves out of here. We’ll
fight until they chop off our heads and put an end to our undead existence,” he said proudly. “Now go! The steps are shallower
in the upper reaches of the chimney. Djerůn will have to take care.”

It was decided that Narmora, as the nimblest among them, should lead the way and test the stairs. The humans and dwarves lined
up behind her, with the giant at the rear. Bavragor stayed by the furnace, a new war hammer in his hand.

“Aren’t you coming with us?” Tungdil asked cautiously.

He shook his head. “I said from the beginning that I’d never go home. I set out to die a glorious death and so I shall. This
is what I wanted.” A profound calm had descended on him, allowing his mind, which had been battling against his undead state,
to find peace. He turned his one eye toward Tungdil. “Thank you for bringing me here and for letting me be part of this.”

“I gave you my word.”

“You could have gone back on it. No one would have blamed you. They warned you about the merry minstrel, but you honored your
promise.” He took a step forward and looked him in the eye. “I shall die in the knowledge that my hands carved the most important
bit of masonry in the history of the dwarves. No mason will trump it — not unless Girdlegard needs another Keenfire, which
I sincerely hope it never will.”

“Is there anything I can say to persuade you?”

The mason chuckled, and something about his laughter reminded Tungdil of the cheerful ballad singer and joker of old. “Persuade
me? Tungdil, I’m a dwarf! I made my decision orbits ago.” He nodded toward the door. “They need my help and I shall fight
alongside them. There could be no greater honor than to die side by side with the founding dwarves of the fifthling kingdom,
the most ancient and venerable of our kin.” His calloused fingers gripped Tungdil’s hand. “You’re a good dwarf and that’s
what matters, not your lineage. Be sure to remember me — and old Shimmer-beard as well.”

They embraced, and Tungdil let the tears course down his cheeks. Another friend was being taken from him, and he wasn’t afraid
to show his grief.

“As if I could ever forget you, Bavragor Hammerfist! I shall remember you always.” He turned to look at Goïmgar’s grave. “I’ll
never forget either of you.”

Smiling, Bavragor hurried to join the fifthlings in the battle against the hordes. After a couple of paces he stopped and
looked across at Boïndil. “Tell him that I forgive him for what he did,” he said softly.

Tungdil stared at him in amazement. “I can’t tell him that,” he protested. “He’d think I was making it up to make him feel
better about himself.”

“Then tell him I knew he loved my sister as much as I did, but I couldn’t stand losing her. I was filled with hatred, and
I couldn’t hate death for taking her, so I hated the one who swung the blade. Hatred helped to silence the pain and the sorrow,
and it was easier to live that way. Deep down I knew he loved her and he never meant to kill her.” He chuckled gently. “Death
has made me wiser, Tungdil. May Vraccas protect Boïndil and the others, but especially you.”

He turned and, belting out a rousing melody, hurled himself into the unequal battle. His hammer smashed into an orcish knee,
then crushed a beast’s skull, and still he kept singing.

Tungdil swallowed and hurried after his companions, who were rushing up the steps. Narmora had already reached the entrance
to the flue.

As they ascended, Bavragor’s voice accompanied them through the darkness until Giselbert set the machinery in motion to close
the vents. There was a whirr, then a rattling of metal as chains unfurled and tumbled to the floor. The mechanism had been
destroyed.

When the noise settled, Bavragor’s singing could still be heard, softer and more muffled, but still audible.

There was no talking among them as they listened to his songs of dwarven heroism and glorious victories over the orcs. He
was mocking the vast army, provoking his antagonists, luring them to their deaths.

Then everything was quiet.

T
here’s no one here,” Narmora called down to the others. “Just me and the mountains.” Tungdil looked up at her slim black form
silhouetted against the pale sky. She disappeared from view.

One by one they clambered to the surface. The flue terminated in a crater large enough to swallow a fair-sized house.

Tungdil ascended the final paces with weary, leaden legs. At three thousand steps he had stopped counting the soot-stained
stairs that wound their way up the chimney’s walls. There had been no moments of panic, no tripping, stumbling, or teetering
on the edge, and the ascent had passed without incident, even for Djerůn in his cumbersome mail.

We made it
. Tungdil emerged from the shelter of the rock to find himself on a snow-capped mountain at the heart of the Gray Range. An
icy wind whipped about them, whistling through his beard and making him shiver with cold.

Looking down, he was filled with wonderment at the mighty valleys and gorges below. All around them were mountains: the towering
summit of the Great Blade, the great pinnacle of the legendary Dragon’s Tongue, and the sheer sides of Goldscarp. Clad in
snow and buffeted by wind, the peaks rose majestically toward the clouds, enduring and eternal. Few had seen the range from
such a privileged vantage point, and Tungdil was loath to tear himself away.

He sent the half älf ahead as their scout. The decision caused him considerable heartache: On the one hand, he wanted to protect
Narmora because of her role in the mission; on the other, he knew that she stood the best chance of leading the company to
safety. Furgas was sick with worry on her behalf, but she struck out confidently through the snow, allowing the others to
tread in her footsteps.

Their path took them over shimmering bridges of ice, through sheer-sided chasms, and past deep gulleys. From time to time
they clambered over snow-covered scree and through stone archways that seemed liable to collapse.

They walked in silence, their tongues stayed by tiredness and all that had gone before. It was enough to focus on putting
one foot in front of the other without tripping.

Tungdil’s thoughts drifted back to Giselbert and Bavragor. He could imagine them defending the gates against the enemy hordes,
and if he closed his eyes for a second, he could almost hear the mason singing.
The merry minstrel,
he thought sadly.

Later, as daylight faded and the wind picked up, they sheltered inside a cave, huddling around the torchlight. Boïndil didn’t
seem to mind the cold, but Andôkai brushed the snow from her cloak, pulled it close, and leaned back wearily against the bare
rock. She lowered her blue eyes and cursed.

“I need to find a force field,” she said, putting an end to the silence. “The sooner we’re back on charmed land, the better.
My powers are exhausted. I never thought this would happen and it’s not an experience I’d choose to repeat.”

“Quite apart from that, we’re bound to need your magic before too long.” The shivering Tungdil produced his map of the underground
network. “I get the feeling that Nôd’onn knows about the underground network. He’ll guess we’re heading for Ogre’s Death,
and he’ll probably be lying in wait.” He scanned the map attentively, his eyes coming to rest at a point two hundred miles
from their present location.
He’ll never think of looking there!
“We’ll go to Âlandur.”

“To Âlandur?” blustered Boïndil, who was carefully plucking ice from his beard. “Whatever for?”

“There’s a shaft leading down to the network,” he told him, pointing to the map. “There’s a good chance that this part of
the kingdom won’t have fallen to the älfar. We’ll ask the elves to join us and take up the fight against Nôd’onn, just as
the high king proposed. Unless you’ve got a better suggestion, of course.”

“Er, no…” the secondling conceded. “But I can’t help… I mean, it takes a while to get used to the idea. Elves are our enemies,
our sworn rivals.”

“I can’t imagine it either,” admitted Balyndis, nodding in agreement. She stretched her hands to the burning torch.

“How extraordinarily easy it is for one to dislike something,” said Rodario philosophically. He clutched his stomach just
as it growled in protest. Like the others, he was ravenously hungry. Desperation drove him to break off an icicle and pop
it in his mouth.

“The gods made us too dissimilar. Sitalia created the elves to love the skies and forests. Vraccas gave us our caverns and
underground halls.” Balyndis hugged her knees to her chest. “They look down on us for not being beautiful like them. They
despise us.”

“Consequently, you despise them,” the impresario divined. “Well, if one of you could see fit to stop despising the other,
neither side would have reason to continue the feud. A whole history of hostility, resolved just like that.” He laughed, then
gripped his injured side. “Blasted orcs! Do you happen to have any other enmities that I can put to rights?”

“There’s always Lorimbur’s folk,” Boïndil said slowly. “You heard what Glandallin said about the thirdlings. But it’s no good
trying to reconcile me with them.” He clenched his fists. “To think that they betrayed the fifthlings!”

Rodario propped himself upright against the wall. “What was the origin of the quarrel? We humans know shamefully little about
dwarves.” He took up his quill. “Keep it short, if you will. My ink is running low.”

Balyndis grinned. “We hate each other.”

His pen froze. “That was a little
too
short, worthy metal-worker of Borengar.” He flashed her a winning smile.

“I was afraid you’d say that.” Without further ado, she launched into the tale.

The five founders of the dwarven folks were created by Vraccas, who gave each of them a name. The father of the thirdlings
cast off his Vraccas-given name and called himself Lorimbur, which is how he has always been known.

The other dwarves each received a particular talent for their folks, and so the smiths, the masons, the gem cutters, and the
goldsmiths were born. But when it was Lorimbur’s turn, Vraccas told him: “You chose your own name, so you must choose your
own talent. Teach yourself a trade, for you can expect nothing from me.”

Lorimbur tried to teach himself a trade and apprenticed himself to each of his brothers in turn, but his efforts went unrewarded.
The iron cracked, the stone split, the gems shattered, and the gold burned.

And so it was that Lorimbur came to envy his brothers and his spiteful heart was filled with eternal hatred for all dwarves.

Determined to excel at something, he applied himself secretly to the art of combat. His aim was not merely to defeat his enemies,
but to kill every dwarf in Girdlegard so that none of his kin could overshadow him again.

Rodario was hurriedly taking notes. “This is wonderful,” he murmured. “Enough to keep me going for a hundred cycles or more.”

Balyndis cleared her throat. “Do you see why we’re afraid of Lorimbur’s folk? They’re not to be trusted.”

Andôkai changed position, trying to get comfortable on the rocky floor. “The thirdlings aren’t the ones we should be worrying
about. How are we going to convince the elves of our intentions? Lord Liútasil is known for his reluctance to forge new friendships.
I hardly think he’ll rush to the aid of a company of dwarves.”