The War of the Dwarves (71 page)

Much thought had gone into deciding which parts of Djer
n’s mail lent themselves to being refashioned into smaller, dwarf-sized
items. He had begun by making detailed drawings, showing the positioning of the intarsia and runes. Only then had he started
to break apart the breastplate, spaulders, and greaves.

“How are you getting along?” asked Boëndal, who, along with his brother, the village smith, and the smith’s apprentices, was
helping out in the forge. The men were very impressed by Tungdil, who wielded the hammer with uncommon precision, power, and
speed.

“We’re nowhere near ready,” sighed Tungdil. “The tools aren’t up to scratch and the hearth doesn’t draw very well. I wish
the flames were hotter…” The hammer swooped down, forcing the metal into shape. “I haven’t got time to customize the armor
properly. I’m afraid it’s going to pinch.”

“I don’t care if it rubs all the flesh from my bones, so long as I’m safe from the avatars’ magic,” growled Boïndil. He finished
stamping a rune into a finished section of armor and weighed it critically in his hand. “We won’t be able to move as fast
as usual. It weighs a ton.” He turned to his brother. “From now on, anyone who throws his only weapon will owe me a sack of
gold,” he said, remembering how his brother had cast his crow’s beak at Djer
n’s assassin. “There’s simply no excuse.”

Nine orbits had passed since they started their journey through snow-covered Gauragar. They had buried Djer
n, still clad
in his chain mail and helmet, in Dsôn Balsur. After a little persuasion, Boïndil had agreed not to peek behind his visor,
and the giant warrior had taken his secret to the grave.

Since then, Tungdil, Ondori, Rodario, Furgas, and the twins had been marching as fast as possible toward Porista. The main
army was following at a distance, with Narmora to protect it from magical assault.

Boëndal tapped his weapons belt. “Point taken,” he said. “You don’t need to lecture
me
about throwing my only weapon: I’ve got an ax in reserve.” He waved his tongs at Tungdil. “You’ll get your gold from our
scholar, I’ll warrant.”

Tungdil peered at the breastplate emerging from the beaten metal. He threw some water onto his sweaty face and shook the soot
from his long brown beard. He was too busy thinking about his work and worrying about Balyndis to pay attention to the twins.

He hadn’t been especially talkative over the past few orbits. He couldn’t stop turning things over in his mind and trying
to gauge his feelings. After giving his heart to two dwarf-women and being let down, he didn’t know what to think. Myr had
betrayed him, then saved him from Salfalur’s hammer, and Balyndis had spurned him in favor of Glaïmbar, yet she hadn’t stopped
loving him—nor he her. He had twice gone from happiness to despair, and in quiet moments he succumbed to a creeping melancholy
that prevented him from taking pleasure in anything around him. Deep down he wanted to rail against Vraccas for making him
suffer.

Pain and loss had accompanied him on every step of his journey, and sometimes—in his darkest moments—he found himself wishing
that he would die in battle so that his soul could be gathered to Vraccas’s smithy.

“Is something the matter, scholar?” asked Boëndal, concerned.

Tungdil shook the water from his beard. “I’m fine,” he said, forcing himself to smile. He untied his leather apron and pulled
it over his head. “I could do with a bite to eat and something to oil my throat.”

“I’m dying for some good, strong beer,” agreed Boïndil. He sighed. “Why do the long-uns brew such watery rubbish?”

They left the forge and strolled to their lodgings. Klinntal didn’t have a hostelry, so they were staying in a farmhouse.
A smell of roast meat and freshly baked bread wafted toward them.

Inside, Furgas was dozing on the bench by the table, and Ondori was relaxing by the fire.

The meat came courtesy of the älf and her bow. According to the villagers, there was never any game to be had in winter, but
Ondori always found something, a deer or a brace of hares. She was a formidable hunter who treated all living creatures as
prey—in her eyes, men, orcs, and wild animals were little better than vermin.

She didn’t look up to acknowledge the dwarves. Her sharp knife was sculpting limbs and carving faces for movable figures made
from the remains of her prey. Earlier, she had made a flute for the farmer’s daughter, and everyone agreed that it produced
a pleasant sound.

Tungdil suspected that she was more accustomed to working with the bones of men, elves, and dwarves. It made him queasy to
think that somewhere an älf would be making music on a dwarven shinbone.

But it didn’t stop him or the twins from feasting on the meat. Hammering metal was hungry work, and the best way of maintaining
their strength without proper dwarven victuals was to eat a lot of meat.

Furgas woke up, stretched, and glanced over at Rodario, who was studying Ondori and taking notes. “An interesting character,”
the impresario murmured. “She’s helping the others because she wants to kill them herself. It adds an excellent twist to the
plot. It’s very suspenseful!” He flipped the notebook shut.

“This isn’t one of your plays, you know,” said Furgas, who saw it as his duty to keep reminding his friend of the seriousness
of the task ahead.

“I’m aware of that, thank you,” retorted Rodario. “No rehearsals, no prompts, no audience, and worst of all, no coin.” The
farmer’s wife came in, set down a stewpot, and left in a hurry, unnerved by the presence of the älf. Rodario helped himself
to a mug of herbal tea. “If anyone had predicted that I’d be roped into fighting the forces of darkness instead of setting
up my theater, seducing women, and following my calling on the stage, I would have thought they were mad.” He sighed and breathed
on the steaming tea. “The curtain went up, and I found myself at the heart of a drama that could cost me my life.”

“Feeling sorry for yourself, Rodario?” teased Boëndal.

“It’s probably the weather. Too much gray isn’t good for the soul.” He jabbed a finger at Tungdil. “He’s no better. I don’t
think he’s said a word since we got here. Has anyone got a good joke? You didn’t finish the one about the orc and the dwarf.”

Tungdil sipped his warm beer. “I’m sorry I haven’t been more lively.”

Boïndil clinked tankards with him. “It’s all right, scholar. It stands to reason that you’re more worried about Balyndis than
anyone else. True love never rusts, as they say.” He checked himself, realizing that he was hardly improving the mood. “Why
do I have to be so tactless?”

“Honesty is a virtue,” said Tungdil.
There’s no denying that I love her,
he thought, waiting for his inner demon to contradict him. But the taunting voice was silent now that he had stopped lying
to himself.
I love her and I always will. It wouldn’t be right to join the iron band with another maiden when my heart belongs to someone
else. No dwarf-woman will ever hold a candle to her.
He took another draft of beer, stood up, and picked up his tankard. “There’s work to be done.”

It took two orbits to finish the breastplates to a reasonable standard. After a further four orbits, the spaulders, greaves,
and helmets were ready as well. The gauntlets still needed to be assembled, but they decided to do it en route.

They walked fast and stopped seldom, racing across Gauragar until at last they spied Porista.

Even from a distance, it was obvious that the city had changed hands.

White banners with strange symbols fluttered from the palace and tents had mushroomed in the streets, overshadowing the houses.
Soldiers were patrolling the borders and stopping anyone wanting to enter or leave.

“They’ve got it all worked out,” commented Furgas, pointing to the cranes that were swinging their long jibs over the city.
It seemed the building work was making good progress in spite of the new regime. “The fake avatars have obviously taken a
liking to my machines.”

He was about to make another comment when the ground moved beneath their feet. At first it was only a slight tremble, but
it soon became so vigorous that snow rained down from the trees. The shaking stopped abruptly.

Tungdil looked over his shoulder at the ground behind him.

As he watched, a ripple ran through the earth, spreading outward from Porista, like the movement caused by a pebble in a lake.
Tungdil spotted branches swinging crazily in the distance, shedding their coating of snow. At last the ground was still. “They’ve
found the wellspring,” he said. “The question is, how much damage will they do?”

Boïndil wiped the clumps of snow from his shoulders. He wasn’t wearing a gorget, so most of it slipped down his neck, melting
against the warmth of his skin. “A little tremor like that won’t do much harm.”

“I’d rather they didn’t interfere with the force fields at all,” said his brother. He turned expectantly to Rodario and Furgas.
“It’s time for the long-uns to make themselves useful. Show us how to get in.”

Furgas pointed north. “We started building a new sewage system. The old drains collapsed in the quake, so we dug them out
and strengthened the walls. The first section is complete—it starts outside the city and runs five hundred paces toward the
marketplace.”

“Is there a door or something at this end?” asked Tungdil, adjusting his suit of armor. It was oppressively tight, and even
the helmet restricted his view. The twins were suffering as well.

“I don’t know how old buckethead put up with it,” came a hollow voice. Boïndil had put his helmet on. “Blasted thing! I’ve
trapped my beard. I won’t have any whiskers left at this rate.”

“We didn’t want predators coming into the city from the drains, so we built a hidden entrance with a wooden door. The avatars
won’t have found it, I’m sure.” He started to move off, but Ondori barged ahead.

“I’ll go first,” she said, nocking an arrow to her bow and stealing forward. The others followed at a distance of ten paces.

“My dear little warriors,” hissed Rodario when they were approximately halfway to the door. “Anyone would think you were trying
to attract attention. I’ve never heard so much squeaking, clattering, and jangling. Did you forget to oil your joints?”

“Speaking of which,” said Boïndil, pushing back his visor. “How did Djer
n move so quietly in a full suit of metal?”