The War of the Dwarves
DWARVES
I
n front of the gateway, the lead orcs were locked in combat with the dwarves, who were fighting valiantly but ineffectually
against the invaders.
Meanwhile, some of the smaller orcs were trying to sneak past and attack from behind, trapping the defenders between two fronts.
Tungdil glanced at the orcish leader. “It’s time he went,” he said, deciding that a change of tactics was in order. “We need
to kill their chief.”
Ireheart, brown eyes glinting manically, had fought himself into a frenzy. At the mercy of his fiery spirit, he threw himself
on the enemy, windmilling his axes at incredible speed.
“Boïndil!” shouted Tungdil. “I said we need to kill their chief!” He had to repeat himself several more times before Boïndil
finally heard.
The group set off toward Runshak, who spotted the approaching threat and turned to the älfar, hoping to enlist their bows
in his defense. Suddenly his grin froze, his mouth falling open in horror.
Tungdil saw the fear on his ugly green face and turned to discover its source.
BY MARKUS HEITZ
The Dwarves
The War of the Dwarves
Copyright © 2004 by Piper Verlag GmbH, Munich
English translation copyright © 2010 by Sally-Ann Spencer
Excerpt from
Best Served Cold
copyright © 2009 by Joe Abercrombie
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written
permission of the publisher.
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ISBN: 978-0-316-09759-8
Contents
For those who understand the grandeur of the dwarven folks
“At the battle of the Blacksaddle, trolls were wailing, orcs whimpering, and our battle-hardened warriors were close to despair,
but I never saw a dwarf lose heart.”
—Palduríl, personal guard to Liútasil of Âlandur, lord of the elves.
“On the Nature of Dwarves. Commonly found in gloomy mountain caverns, these diminutive creatures will fell an Orcus Gigantus
with a single blow of their deadly axes, for no weapon in Girdlegard can match the finely fashioned ax of the dwarves. Afterward,
they will drink beer by the barrelful without discernible effect. Such is the resilience of the dwarven female…”
—From “Notes on the Races of Girdlegard: Singularities and Oddities” from the archive of Viransiénsis, Kingdom of Tabaîn,
compiled by the Master of Folklore M.A. Het in the 4299th Solar Cycle.
“Death came for the dwarf and tried to take him, whereupon the warrior squared his shoulders, dug his heels against the granite
floor, and told him to go. Death turned around and left.”
—Apologue from the southern provinces of Sangpûr.
Prologue
Borengar’s Folk,
Eastern Border of the Firstling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
S
wirling and dancing like giddy ballerinas, snowflakes tumbled from the sky. Carried by the wind, they scattered over the mountains
and came to rest among their fellows, covering the Red Range like a great white cloth.
Snow had been falling for many orbits, and the gray clouds continued to unburden themselves, burying the slopes. Some of the
drifts were deep enough for ten dwarves to stand on each other’s shoulders and disappear from view.
From his vantage point on the second highest of nine towers, Boëndal Hookhand of the clan of the Swinging Axes gazed out to
the east.
Dressed in chain mail and a thick fur coat to protect him from the cold, the secondling warrior from Beroïn’s folk was standing
watch in East Ironhald. The stronghold, built by the firstlings on the eastern border of their kingdom, was protected by twin
ramparts as wide as houses that rose out of the mountainside, enclosing eight watchtowers connected by bridges at a dizzying
height. Further back, the ninth tower stood alone. A single bridge, broad enough to accommodate a unit of dwarves, led into
the mountainside where the firstlings had made their home. The western flanks of the Red Range were protected by another stronghold
almost identical in structure. The formidable defenses of West Ironhald were a bulwark against the orcs and other creatures
seeking entry from the Outer Lands.
Boëndal, stranded for orbits in the firstling kingdom, was impatient to leave.
How much longer, Vraccas?
He fought back a yawn. On clear nights, the white slopes shimmered prettily in the moonlight, but Boëndal was inured to the
view. Besides, there was something menacing about the glistening blanket of snow. Battlements, watchtowers, and bridges had
to be cleared on a regular basis to protect the masonry from its crippling weight. The stronghold had been built to withstand
the fury of invading trolls, boulders the size of an orc, and battering rams powered by ogres, but no one had reckoned with
so much snow.
“Weather’s coming from the west,” muttered one of the sentries, peering balefully at the sky. His breath turned to miniature
clouds that froze against his bushy beard and covered his whiskers in a layer of ice. Sniffing loudly, he walked to the brazier
and filled his tankard from the vat of spiced beer that was simmering at the perfect temperature—pleasantly warm, but not
hot enough for the alcohol to boil away.
In no time, the tankard was empty. The sentry burped, refilled the vessel, and offered it to Boëndal. “With a storm like this,
you’d expect the weather to be coming from the north.”
Boëndal clasped the tankard gratefully. On crisp winter nights, warm beer was the best antidote against the creeping chill.
His chain mail shifted noisily over his leather jerkin as he lifted his arm to drink. He winced. The wounds in his back were
healing nicely, but the slightest movement had him gasping with pain.
The sentry shot him an anxious look. “Are you all right? I’ve heard stories about älvish arrows—they leave terrible wounds.”
“The pain is a reminder that I’m lucky to be alive. Vraccas had his work cut out to save me.” The events of that orbit were
vivid in his mind. He and his companions had been riding toward East Ironhald when the älfar attacked from behind. Two black-fletched
älvish arrows had ripped through his chain mail, tunneling into his back. The physicians had struggled for hours to stem the
blood.
“I owe my life to Vraccas and your kinsmen. They took me in and tended my wounds.” There was a brief silence before he enquired,
“How about you? Have you ever done battle with an älf?”
“I’ve fought orcs and ogres, but we seldom see älfar in these parts. Is it true that they look like elves?”
Boëndal nodded. “They’re the spitting image of their cousins—tall, slender, and fleet-footed—but their hearts are full of
hate.”
“We should have killed the ones who brought you down. It won’t be easy for your friends with a pair of älfar on their tail.”
The firstling shifted his gaze to the northeast. The dwarves’ last hope, the Dragon Fire furnace, was burning in the fifthling
kingdom, where Boëndal’s companions were forging a weapon to kill the dark magus, whose tyranny had bought Girdlegard to its
knees.
“Tungdil will manage,” Boëndal assured him. “My twin brother Boïndil and the rest of the company will forge the ax and kill
Nôd’onn.”
“I’ve heard of Keenfire, but what use is an ax against a wizard?” The firstling’s voice was tinged with doubt.
“Keenfire has the power to destroy demonic spirits. It says in an ancient book that the blade will slay Nôd’onn and kill the
evil inside him. Nature’s order will be restored.” Boëndal looked the firstling in the eye. “We can’t fail, and we won’t.
Vraccas created us to protect the people of Girdlegard—and we won’t let him down.” He took a sip of spiced beer and felt the
warmth spreading through him. “What of your queen?” he asked to dispel the silence. “Is there news of Xamtys?”
Orbits earlier, the firstling queen had set off on an underground journey through Girdlegard. The five dwarven kingdoms were
connected by a network of tunnels with wagons that ran on metal rails. The system, a masterpiece of ancient dwarven engineering,
enabled the folks to travel at speed in any direction by means of artificial gradients, switching points, and ramps.
“We don’t know where she is,” the firstling muttered unhappily, pulling on his beard. “She left here for a meeting, not to
do battle with Nôd’onn. We’re praying to Vraccas that she and our kinsmen are safe.” He continued to tug on his beard while
his left hand rested lightly on the parapet. “I can’t stand the waiting.” He looked at Boëndal. “But who am I telling? You’re
here every time I’m on watch: morning, noon, and night. Don’t you sleep?”
Boëndal gulped down the rest of the beer. “My companions are risking their lives to save Girdlegard; I couldn’t sleep if I
wanted to.” He returned the tankard to the firstling. “Thank you. It’s given me strength and warmth.”
He pulled his fur cloak around him and gazed at the unbroken expanse of snow. His eyes settled on the gully, the only route
into the stronghold from Girdlegard. Secretly he hoped that if he looked carefully he would see his brother and the rest of
the company hurrying toward him through the snow.
The most important mission in history, and they had to go without me
, he thought gloomily. The wounds in his back and the blood loss had conspired to keep him to his bed, and by the time he
recovered, his friends had departed. It was too late to chase after them now.
Boëndal, who was famous for his skill with a crow’s beak, knew his strength would be missed in the battle against Nôd’onn.
You wanted me to stay here, didn’t you, Vraccas?
He clenched his fists.
I expect you’ve got your reasons, but I’d rather be with Boïndil.
Closing his eyes, he pictured his friends.
First he saw Bavragor Hammerfist, the one-eyed mason who liked to drink and sing. Bavragor had tricked his way into the company
with customary cheek. Then came little Goïmgar Shimmerbeard, the nervous fourthling diamond cutter whose beard glittered brightly
with the dust of countless gems. The company’s leader was Tungdil, the kind-hearted, brown-haired outsider, whom Boëndal and
his brother had befriended when he was a foundling with a scraggy beard. The twins had taught him how to be a proper dwarf,
and the three of them were very close. After a rocky start, Tungdil had proven himself as an able leader. Boëndal didn’t know
much about their new smith, Balyndis Steelfinger, a firstling who had joined the expedition while he was ill. And the fifth
dwarf was his twin brother, Boïndil Doubleblade, known as Ireheart because of his hot blood. Boïndil was thickset and muscular
with shaven cheeks, a black beard, and long hair that reached to his knees in a plait. Most of the time he seemed a little
crazy. His fiery spirit gave him formidable strength on the battlefield, but it was also a curse.
