The War of the Dwarves (24 page)

“For the money, of course,” the executioner said coolly. “I used to be really busy when the Perished Land was still around.
With revenants all over the place, my skills were in demand. Besides, I like to help humans; it’s our Vraccas-given task.”

“Help them?” exclaimed Tungdil. “You’ve made it your business to kill them. How does that make you different to an orc?”

“I’m protecting them from themselves. I don’t kill for the sake of killing; my duty is to clear out the dross. Vraccas wants
us to help the humans, so I rid them of lawbreakers like the eight men and women on the stage. A quick blow to the neck, and
the city is a safer place. Criminals are as dangerous as orcs.”

“What about the widow who didn’t stick to the mourning period? Was she a danger?”

“She broke the law, and that’s the danger. It’s not my place to question their laws,” said Bramdal, emptying his tankard.
“It’s stupid to have too many laws, but it’s important to keep the ones you’ve got. Humans, elves, dwarves—we’re all the same.”
He cocked his head. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said.

“What question?”

“About your lineage.”

“I’m a…” He stopped short, unsure of what to say. The beer and the memory of Balyndis weighed on his heart.

“Only a thirdling would hesitate like that,” observed Bramdal. His voice was calm and non-judgmental. “You’re not obliged
to answer. In any case, lineage doesn’t matter where I come from.”

Tungdil leaned forward. “Do you mean you’ve got thirdlings in your kingdom?”

Bramdal roared with laughter, delighted by Tungdil’s amazement. “Our halls are open to all exiles, regardless of where they
come from—including members of the thirdling kingdom. All we ask is that everyone sticks to the rules; if they don’t…” He
laid his right hand on his ax.

The executioner’s explanation only added to Tungdil’s confusion. He was looking forward to seeing the outcasts’ kingdom for
himself. “How do I get there?” he asked. “I’d like to visit the place you speak of. Are you sure they’ll let me in?”

Bramdal gave him directions to a pond that Tungdil judged to be located near the entrance to the tunnels. “Strap weights to
your ankles and jump into the pool. It’s important to sink to the very bottom—only then will you be admitted to the freelings’
halls.”

“Is that what you call yourselves?”

“Free by nature, free by name.” Glancing up, Bramdal spotted a man sitting two tables to their left. “I’ll be back in a moment,”
he said, picking up his rucksack and limping across the bar. He and the man talked in hushed tones.

Tungdil wasn’t sure what to make of the instructions. Dwarves were famously suspicious of water, regardless of the depth.

He still had painful memories of traveling across Girdlegard with the twins, neither of whom would set foot on a boat, resulting
in constant detours. Like most of their kinsfolk, they believed that contact with water would lead to certain death. In their
opinion, any lake, tarn, river, or stream outside a dwarven kingdom was a threat.

How am I going to get Boïndil to weigh himself down and jump into a pond when he won’t even tread in a puddle?
Tungdil leaned back in his chair and racked his brains. He had to hand it to the outlaws—it was the perfect way of hiding
their existence from the other folks.
It’s going to be a real challenge
. He watched the man push a couple of coins toward Bramdal, in return for which he was handed a small object wrapped in cloth.

“What was that about?” asked Tungdil nosily when the executioner returned.

“You don’t want to know. It’s superstitious human stuff,” replied Bramdal in a tone that was affable but firm.

Rather than press him for details that he probably wouldn’t get, he tried another tack. It had occurred to him that some of
the dwarf-like inhabitants from the Outer Lands might have crossed into Girdlegard, and he wondered whether Bramdal might
have met one. “You’ve been living with the freelings for a while. Have you ever seen an undergroundling in your realm?” He
ran a finger around the rim of his tankard and traced a moist rune on the tabletop. It was the mysterious symbol from the
cave. “Do you know what this means?”

Bramdal raised his eyebrows. “No idea. Undergroundlings, did you say?”

It was too much to hope for
. “It’s just a rumor I’d heard of. Where are you heading now? The roads aren’t safe at the moment. An army of orcs is marching
north toward the Gray Range—we had a run-in with some of their scouts.”

The executioner shook his head, braids flying to the side. “It’s all right, I’m on my way south. I’m needed in the next city:
The prisons are overflowing with criminals and justice must be done.” He held out his hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you,
Tungdil Goldhand,” he said solemnly. “Perhaps our paths will cross again. I hope I’ve been of some assistance. May Vraccas
guide you to your goal.” He shouldered his rucksack and limped to the door. Outside, it was pouring with rain. Bramdal took
a step back, put up his hood, and slipped away.

“Excuse me, but do you happen to know what the executioner sold to that man?” asked Tungdil when the publican collected his
empty tankard. The man bent down and whispered in his ear. Tungdil’s eyes widened: Bramdal was trading in body parts.

“They make excellent talismans,” explained the publican. “Candles from the tallow of murderers will cure most illnesses, and
a thief’s little finger is good against fire. I’ve got one myself.” He raised his hand with the empty tankards and pointed
to the ceiling. A shriveled scrap of blackened flesh was fixed by a nail to the beam. With a bit of imagination, it was possible
to make out the shape of a finger. “This street has been struck by lightning on two occasions, but my tavern has never been
hit.”

Tungdil shuddered and paid up quickly, keen to escape before he was hit on the head by a dead man’s finger. He set off to
tell his friends of his discovery. The outcasts would be easier to find than he had imagined—although there was still the
challenge of persuading his companions to dive into a pond.

As he trudged through the alleyways of Hillchester, he realized that Bramdal hadn’t told him the reason for his banishment.
The word
murder
haunted his thoughts.

A
t last the laughter died down.

Boïndil ran a hand over his eyes to wipe away his tears of mirth, while the others lay back on their beds and struggled for
breath.

“That was a good one, scholar,” chuckled Boïndil. “But, joking aside, how do we get to their realm?”

Tungdil sighed. “I just told you. I was quoting Bramdal exactly.”

Boïndil’s grin disappeared. “Let me get this straight: You’re asking me to jump into a pond.” He leaned forward and sniffed
Tungdil’s breath. “Ha, no wonder! How many tankards have you had? Weights on my ankles, I ask you!” He noticed the grave expression
on Tungdil’s face. “By the hammer of Vraccas, I won’t do it! Elria’s curse is bad enough, but drowning ourselves on purpose…”
He folded his arms in front of his chest and stuck out his chin, black beard aquiver. “Not in a million cycles!”

“How do we know that Bramdal’s not a thirdling?” piped up one of the others. “He could have made up the stuff about the entrance
to trick us into drowning.”

Boïndil whipped around. “Exactly!” he said fiercely. “It’s a trick! We’ll get there, and he’ll be hiding in the bushes, waiting
for us to drown in his confounded pond. I bet he’s dreaming up a way to thieve our armor.”

“There might be dwarf-eating fish in the water,” ventured one of his companions.

Tungdil raised his eyebrows. “All right,” he challenged them. “Name me a dwarf who died by drowning.”

“I’ve heard all kinds of terrible stories,” said Boïndil balefully. “I can’t remember the poor fellows’ names.”

“I’m not talking about
stories
,” persisted Tungdil. “I want names: names of friends, friends of friends, or relatives, who died by drowning. It seems to
me that Elria had plenty of opportunity to kill us on the way to the Blacksaddle, but no one died, as far as I know.” He stared
into their wrinkly faces. “Well?”

No one said a word. Boïndil examined the runes on his axes while the others stared at the ceiling or rearranged their clothes.

“I won’t do it,” said Boïndil at last. “I don’t mind
looking
at the pond, but it had better be shallow. If it’s deeper than my knees, we’ll head for the tunnels, like we said.”

“Fine,” said Tungdil, pulling off his boots. It seemed futile to discuss the matter any further, especially when he himself
was beginning to doubt the wisdom of the scheme. “We’ll get moving as soon as I’ve had a bit of sleep.” He lay down on the
straw mattress and dozed for a while, only to be woken by jangling chain mail. He looked up to see Boïndil standing by his
bed. “I meant to tell you: I spoke to a merchant, and he reckoned he’d seen some orcs.”

Tungdil sat up. “How long ago and where?”

“He said they were coming from the east—from Urgon, he thought. They were marching toward the Gray Range, and he said they
were moving fast.”

Tungdil leaped out of bed, fetched the map from his rucksack and laid it on the floor for the others to see. He traced the
route with his finger.

“They must have turned east around here,” he surmised, pointing midway between the dead glade and Dsôn Balsur. “By sticking
close to the border with Urgon, they slipped past the allied army and the älfar without being seen.” For an orc, Ushnotz was
remarkably cunning. “Where exactly did the merchant say they were?”

Boïndil placed a finger on the map. According to Tungdil’s calculations, the spot was only four hundred miles from the fifthling
kingdom. Gauragar was hilly, but there weren’t any proper mountains or other obstacles to slow them down. The territory suited
the dwarves, but their longer-legged foes would have the advantage. Orcs were formidable marchers.

Tungdil rolled up the map and stowed it into his rucksack. Even if everything went to plan, he couldn’t bank on recruiting
the outcasts in time to save the fifthling kingdom. His boots were still wet, but he pulled them on regardless, and reached
for his cloak.

“We’re leaving,” he told the others. “From now on, we only stop if we have to.”

T
he next orbit, the dwarves had a niggling feeling that something was wrong. It wasn’t tiredness or stomach cramps or any physical
sensation, just a general uneasiness that made them nervous and withdrawn. All around them the grass was getting greener as
if to flaunt its victory over the Perished Land, but the burgeoning vegetation did nothing to ease their trepidation, and
they longed for their mountain homes.

The mood became tenser and the dwarves more irritable, but they kept themselves going with the occasional song. After a time,
the path led into a forest, and the singing dried up. From then, they continued in silence, trudging bad-temperedly along
the overgrown track.

Tungdil had a fair idea what was causing their edginess, but he wasn’t inclined to share the news. The others would hardly
be heartened to know that they were traveling through Lesinteïl, former home of the northern elves.

The älfar had conquered the kingdom many cycles ago and wiped out their cousins, before invading the Golden Plains, killing
the elves, and founding the älfar kingdom of Dsôn Balsur. Only Liútasil’s elves in the dense forests of Âlandur had survived
the älfar’s crusade against their race.

Tungdil suspected that he and his friends had crossed into the first of the fallen elven kingdoms, and that Lesinteïl was
expressing its old antipathy toward the dwarves. Either that, or the land was drenched in the sinister memory of Sitalia’s
slaughtered elves.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t reckoned with eagle-eyed Boïndil, who spotted the remains of a statue half hidden by a thicket of
brambles and creepers.

“By Vraccas, if that isn’t a statue of Sitalia!” he exclaimed, bringing the little procession to a halt. “What’s it doing
in a godforsaken forest like this? Don’t tell me we’re in Âlandur already!”

Needless to say, the whole group looked to Tungdil for guidance. “There’s a chance we’re in Lesinteïl,” their leader conceded
quietly.

“Unbelievable,” snorted Boïndil, aiming a kick at the elegantly sculpted marble. “First you ask us to jump into a pond, and
then you lead us straight to the heart of the pointy-ears’…” He stopped short and corrected himself. “Straight to the heart
of an
elven
kingdom. No wonder I’ve got the shivers; it’s no place for a dwarf.”

“If you’ve finished complaining,” said Tungdil, “I suggest we carry on. You seem to have forgotten that we’re friends with
the elves.”

“Tell that to the forest,” growled Boïndil, setting off behind him. He turned and glared at a nearby tree. “Trip me up, and
I’ll hack you to pieces. Consider yourself warned.”

It was probably coincidence, but at that moment the wind got up, whistling threateningly through the trees.

Boïndil whipped out his axes and banged them together, filling the forest with a high-pitched jangling of metal. “Was that
supposed to scare me?” he shouted defiantly. “Do it again at your peril!”

F
ootsore and tired, the dwarves continued their journey, eating and drinking on the move. At dawn, the tops of the trees were
wreathed in mist. The sun was still rising slowly as they made their way out of the forest and stopped at the edge of a meadow.
The terrain was completely flat, but the grass, a mixture of dead stalks and fresh new blades, came as high as their chests.

Scattered about the meadow was the wreckage of an elven town, and beyond that, a pond, just as Bramdal had described. For
some reason, the executioner had omitted to mention that the water was as black as the night. Devoid of light or sparkle,
its surface swallowed every particle of sunlight. Tungdil was reminded of the dull, forbidding water of the dead glade.

Boïndil wouldn’t stop shaking his head. “I wouldn’t have minded if you could see the bottom, but this…” He pointed to the
pond. “It’s the work of the Perished Land.”