The Dwarves (80 page)

Tungdil watched the shadows cast by the torch and smiled. “I’ve learned from this journey that nearly everything is possible,
even against the odds. I’m sure the elves will come round.”

At Balyndis’s request, Narmora handed over Keenfire, and the smith took to removing the excess inlay with a file. Tungdil
looked on in fascination while she polished the metal. All of a sudden she put down her tools.

“It’s the cold,” she said apologetically. “My fingers are really numb.”

He glanced at Furgas and Narmora, who were snuggled under a blanket. His mouth went dry. “You can sit a bit closer, if you
like,” he offered nervously.

She sidled over and nestled against him. “Like sitting by a furnace,” she said with a sigh of contentment.

Tentatively he laid an arm across her shoulders. There was something indescribably wonderful about having Balyndis by his
side.

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle

T
hey walked quickly, speeding up to a march as soon as the terrain permitted and descending the southern slopes as fast as
they could. Soon the mighty peaks of the Gray Range were behind them and they found themselves among Gauragar’s hills.

They were all so exhausted that they didn’t have much time to talk. After a while, Tungdil took Boïndil aside and told him
of Bavragor’s last words. The secondling pressed his lips together tightly and said nothing, but his eyes welled with tears.

Where possible, they avoided settlements, although on one occasion Furgas and Rodario were sent to buy provisions from a farm.
Had the decision been left to the impresario, the pair would have posed as impoverished noblemen, but Tungdil, conscious of
the need to keep a low profile, insisted that they pass themselves off as cobblers instead.

The food tasted dreadful. The coming of the Perished Land had spoiled the winter crops and shriveled the apples, and even
the bread was so heavy that it sat in their stomachs like lead. Still, it contained enough energy to restore a little of their
strength. Since the groundwater was unpalatable, they melted snow to quench their thirst.

At length Djerůn hunted down a scrawny doe, which they roasted briefly over the flames and wolfed down hungrily, trying not
to notice the slightly moldy taste.

They hadn’t been troubled by orcs since their escape from the fifthling kingdom, but after seven orbits the company’s relief
turned to puzzlement: The Perished Land had seized Gauragar, but there was no sign of runts or bögnilim.

By rights the roads should be crawling with beasts.
Unable to make sense of it, Tungdil sent Furgas and Rodario to find out what was happening from the inhabitants of a nearby
town.

They returned with alarming news.

“The orcs were called away,” said the impresario, waving his arms to convey the drama of his report. “They’ve abandoned their
encampments. A while ago, thousands of the beasts descended on the human kingdoms to rout the race of men, but now they’re
marching south on Nôd’onn’s orders. The townsfolk said something about besieging a stronghold in a mountain.” He frowned in
concentration. “I’ll remember the name in a moment.”

“Ogre’s Death,” Boïndil shrieked excitedly. “It’s got to be Ogre’s Death. Ha, they need thousands of orcs to attack the dwarves
of Beroïn, do they? I always said the runts were worse than useless. Oh, what I’d give to fight beside my clansmen!”

To the others’ astonishment, Rodario shook his head. “That’s not it,” he said. “Dark… no, brown… no! I’ve always learned my
lines perfectly and now I can’t remember a simple thing like this. It was something to do with leather.” His hands gesticulated
frantically in the air. “With leather and riding…”

“Reins,” suggested Balyndis.

Tungdil made the leap. “The Blacksaddle! They’re besieging the Blacksaddle!”

Andôkai searched her memory. “The name means nothing to me. What is it?”

“A flat-topped mountain. The thirdlings built a stronghold inside it and tried to wage war on the other folks. It’s right
in the middle of Girdlegard.” Tungdil pictured the Blacksaddle’s abandoned chambers and galleries.
So why all the orcs?

“Do you think someone important might be sheltering there?” asked Narmora. “You know, someone Nôd’onn is intent on getting
his hands on, like one of the human kings.”

Tungdil remembered telling Gundrabur and Balendilín about the stronghold, but he couldn’t see why either of them would ensconce
themselves in such a dark, benighted place. “We should probably go there. The Blacksaddle is practically en route.”

They resumed their journey.

T
welve orbits after leaving the fifthling kingdom they sighted Âlandur. There was no need for Tungdil to consult his map; nature
was their guide.

They were trudging through a snow-filled valley when they first spotted a lush forest of beeches, oaks, and maples in the
distance, surrounded by a protective fence of pines. The vibrant colors and thriving trees were proof enough that, contrary
to rumor, the last elven kingdom hadn’t fallen to Nôd’onn’s hordes. This part of Girdlegard was free from the pestilence.

“I never thought I’d live to see the day when I’d welcome the sight of greenery,” muttered Boïndil, whose spirits were suffering
from the long march through the Perished Land. His eyes swept the thick line of trees that formed a natural palisade against
intruders. He reached for his axes. “Looks like we’ll have to chop our way through.”

“And give the elves every reason to wage war on your kingdom?” said Andôkai sharply. “No, we’ll have no need of weapons in
the woods. Besides, they’ll spot us soon enough.” She stared at the forest. “What did I tell you? They’ve seen us already.”
Four tall figures detached themselves from the trees. Their longbows were raised, ready to shoot. “Who’s going to talk to
them?”

“I will,” Tungdil said quickly. He took a step forward, laid his ax on the ground for the elves to see, and walked toward
them with measured steps.

“The woods of Âlandur have seen a great deal,” called the voice of one of the archers, “but never a groundling. Stay where
you are and state your purpose.”

Tungdil looked at the four forest-dwellers. They were clad in white leather armor, with swords hanging from their belts. Each
wore a white fur cloak, and their fair hair hung loose about their shoulders. As far as Tungdil could tell, their perfectly
formed faces were identical. He didn’t like them.

“My name is Tungdil Goldhand of the fourthling kingdom. My companions and I left our homes to forge Keenfire and destroy Nôd’onn
the Doublefold,” he declared firmly. “Good friends of ours have died that we might accomplish our goal. If you will permit
it, we should like to enter your kingdom.”

“There’s no need. You won’t find Nôd’onn here.”

“No, but we’d like to access a tunnel built by our ancestors. The entrance is within your borders. We intend to journey underground
to the Blacksaddle,” he explained briefly. “We heard the magus is there.”

“You’re going to kill him with this Keenfire, are you? You and a handful of warriors?” The elf stared at him incredulously.
“I bet Nôd’onn sent you here!”

“More than likely,” Tungdil said crossly. He felt like boxing the elf’s pointy ears. “What a fabulous plan that would be!
Sending a bunch of dwarves to talk their way into an elven kingdom. He must have known how pleased you’d be to see us. You’d
welcome us into your forests, we’d deliver you up to the magus — and you’d never suspect a thing!”

“Nôd’onn’s a traitor, not an idiot,” muttered Balyndis not quite softly enough.

Tungdil couldn’t help grinning, and a fleeting smile crossed the elf’s slender face. It wasn’t enough to change the dwarf’s
opinion of him. “How can we convince you that we mean no harm?”

The elves conferred in their own tongue. “You can’t. Wait here,” came the unfriendly reply. “Set foot on our land and we’ll
kill you.” With that they disappeared among the mighty trees.

“Ha, we’ve got them worried.” Boïndil grinned and crossed his arms in front of his powerful chest. “That’s something.”

They made a virtue of necessity and tried to get some rest. There were enough fallen branches to make a roaring fire and so
the time passed. The sun was already sinking behind the forest when the sentries reappeared, this time accompanied by twenty
archers and a warrior clad in shimmering palandium, which marked him out as an elf of rank.

“So these are the travelers.” He was handsome, so handsome that he could never look anything but arrogant. Long red hair framed
his face, setting off his dark blue eyes. “A strange group claiming an even stranger purpose. Let me find out the truth.”

He raised his arms, his hands tracing symbols in the air. Andôkai responded immediately with a countercharm.

On seeing the maga, the elf broke off in surprise. “It seems you can use magic. Few among the race of men are capable of that.
We heard Nôd’onn had killed them all.” He studied her intently. “In appearance you resemble the woman once known as Andôkai.”

“I am Andôkai the Tempestuous.” She gave the most cursory of curtsies. “I am weak from our journey, Liútasil, and my magic
is no match for yours.” She tapped the hilt of her sword. “But I have a certain reputation as a swordswoman and if you care
to cross blades with me, I shall prove I am no impostor.”

Tungdil’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Liútasil wasn’t any old warrior; he was lord of Âlandur.

The elf laughed — a kind, gentle laugh, but still somehow superior. “Ah, the tempestuous maga. Very well, Andôkai, I believe
you, but I need to reassure myself. The älfar have played too many tricks on us of late.”

His fingers moved gracefully through the air, conjuring a golden haze that settled over the group. In an instant the tiredness
that had been eating into every fiber of Tungdil’s body lifted and even his hunger disappeared. Beside him Narmora was gasping
with pain and the air was rent by the same terrible noise that Djerůn had made at the gates of Roodacre. The elves nocked
their arrows, spanning their bows, and took aim at the pair. Liútasil lowered his arms. “Andôkai, it can’t have escaped your
attention that two of your traveling companions will never be granted entry to our glades,” he said carefully.

“They’re with us,” Tungdil said quickly. “They may be descended from Tion and Samusin, but we can’t defeat Nôd’onn without
them.” He pointed to the half älf. “Narmora must wield Keenfire, and Djerůn is almost as accomplished a warrior as Boïndil
here.” He hoped the dwarf would appreciate the flattery. “Orcs and bögnilim flee at the sight of him.”

Liútasil pondered the matter while one of the elves advised him in an urgent whisper.

“An unusual company indeed,” the elven lord began. Tungdil could tell from his tone that he had conquered his doubts and decided
in their favor. “Too unusual to be anything but genuine. You may enter Âlandur and proceed through your tunnel.” He turned
to leave.

Tungdil felt sufficiently encouraged to make his next request. “I beg your pardon, Lord Liútasil, but there is something else
we should like to ask. We know the älfar are laying siege to Âlandur and that your kingdom is under threat. You won’t be able
to defend your lands alone. Join us in our fight against Nôd’onn and we will destroy the Perished Land. Afterward you can
reclaim your kingdom with our assistance.”

The elf gazed at him earnestly. “Your generosity does you credit, but it will take more than a few axes to reclaim our lands.”

“He speaks on behalf of the dwarven assembly,” explained Gandogar. “The assistance he promises would come from my folk, the
dwarves of the fourthling kingdom, of which I am king. And I know the secondlings would gladly rid your forests of the älfar.”

“We’ve done it before, you know,” Boïndil hastened to assure him. “We kicked them out of Greenglade.”

Liútasil could no longer disguise his astonishment. “A dwarven king? It gets more and more intriguing.” He beckoned for them
to approach. “Come, you shall explain to me why the dwarves are willing to help their oldest enemies and save Âlandur from
destruction.”

He led the way, and the company followed, escorted on all sides by elven archers.

“Well spoken,” Tungdil said to Gandogar.

The fourthling king smiled. “It was our only hope. Personally, I set no store by my status, but perhaps it will convince the
pointy-ears to give us the loan of their army.”

They walked on, squeezing their way through the palisade of trees. Djerůn struggled at first, encumbered by his armor, but
Liútasil gave an order and the boughs swung back, allowing him to pass.

Once they had crossed the buffer of pine trees, they entered the forest proper. Even in winter, the oaks, beeches, and maples
kept their foliage, and the branches showed no signs of bowing or snapping beneath the heavy snow. The towering trees reminded
Tungdil and Boïndil of the splendor of Greenglade before it had succumbed to the northern pestilence and vented its hatred
on every living thing.

The sheer size of the trunks took the travelers by surprise; even ten grown men with outstretched arms could not have spanned
their girth.

Such was the peacefulness and serenity of the forest that the pain of what they had seen on their journey melted away from
them, and they found an inner calm that deepened with every step.

Dusk was falling by the time they reached a building that was roughly equivalent to a dwarven hall. There were no stone columns,
of course, only trees whose crowns formed a canopy two hundred paces above the forest floor, keeping out the rain and snow.
A profusion of glowworms bathed the interior in welcoming light.

The elves’ elegant architecture was the perfect complement to the beauty of the woods. Tungdil had experienced the same feeling
in Greenglade, where the carved arches, elven inscriptions, and smooth wooden beams had seemed so at one with the trees.

This corner of Âlandur, as yet unconquered by the Perished Land, was the very essence of harmony. Tiny squares of gold and
palandium, each no thicker than gossamer, dangled from the boughs, forming shimmering mosaics that sparkled in the starlight.
As the company progressed through the living hall of trees, they passed a hanging mosaic of elven runes so dazzlingly beautiful
that they gasped in admiration.