The Dwarves (25 page)

There was something almost mesmerizing about the two dark pits in her face. Tungdil hesitated. “But I —”

“Everything I loved has been taken from me: Gorén, my beauty, my home, my glade.” She raised her left hand and poked a finger
gingerly into her empty eye sockets. “Look, even tears are denied me. Have pity on me.”

Her face and voice spoke so eloquently of her sorrow that Tungdil had no option but to comply. He rose to his feet, took a
few shaky steps toward her, and swung his ax. As the elf’s head rolled through the debris, her skeletal body slumped to the
ground. The lady of the glade was dead.

The trees around them gave a piteous groan, the crackling and rustling mingling with the sounds of a raging battle. Tungdil
remembered with a start that the twins were locked in combat with the älf.

They still don’t realize!
he thought in alarm, quickly pulling himself together.
If we don’t decapitate the corpses, they’ll rise up and attack us.

Meanwhile, Boëndal and Boïndil had discovered that their opponent had no intention of playing by their rules. The älf was
nimble as a cat, ducking, skipping, and leaping to evade their blows. But for all her agility she had yet to penetrate the
dwarves’ heavy mail.

“Over here!” Tungdil lunged forward and hurled his ax. The älf spotted the missile just in time and stepped aside briskly.

Suddenly Gorén loomed up behind her, swinging a plank. She heard the wood whistling toward her, but it was too late to move.

The plank connected with her back, catapulting her forward. With a cackle of frenzied laughter, Boïndil rushed up and took
aim at her thinly armored thighs. “Fight on my level, no-eyes!”

The axes sliced deep into her flesh and the älf shrieked in agony, only to be winded by Boëndal, who rammed the butt of his
crow’s beak into her belly. Before she could make another sound, Boïndil raised his blades and hewed her neck.

“What did you do that for?” he asked the wizard indignantly. “Couldn’t you see we almost had her?” Puzzled, he stared as Gorén
staggered toward him. “Hang on, shouldn’t he be dead?”

“He won’t die unless you behead him!” Tungdil called out to him. “This is the Perished Land. You’ve got to chop his head off!”

“Well, if you insist…” Boïndil dodged the wizard’s clumsy attempts to fell him and sliced off his head with a single strike
of his ax. Gorén was no more.

“Seeing as we’re here, we should probably take care of the rest,” said Boëndal, nodding in the direction of the ruins.

Brought back to life by the dark power, the charred corpses of the orcs and the elves were beginning to stir. The Perished
Land made no distinction between its own soldiers and those who had died at their hands, so the twins were obliged to execute
their task with utmost rigor, fighting and beheading every single revenant in order to deliver them from their fate. Tungdil
chose to watch.

“They could have tried a bit harder,” complained Boïndil when the gory business was over at last. “At least it’s out of my
system, though.” Sure enough, the glint in his eyes was slowly fading. “Shall we go?”

They set off on a southerly bearing, quickly leaving the ravaged village behind them.

Perhaps the trees wanted to do a last favor to those who had slain one of the despoilers of the peaceful glade, but in any
event they made no attempt to block their path. Creaking and groaning, the leafless boles and boughs swayed menacingly, stooping
low and swinging above their heads, but allowing them to pass.

The only other sound was the crackling of dry leaves beneath their boots. They saw no sign of the forest’s many animals; even
the birds were too afraid to sing.

“There’s been a change of plan,” Tungdil informed the twins, recounting his promise to the elf. “Ionandar is far enough west
to be safe from the Perished Land and Toboribor’s orcs. We need to tell Lot-Ionan about Greenglade and give him the books.
The elf maiden seemed to think at least one was important.”

“But we won’t get back to Ogre’s Death for ages!” objected Boëndal. “We’re late enough as it is, without walking an extra
six hundred miles.”

“I’m afraid there’s no choice,” Tungdil said firmly. “It’s either that or ask to see the council in Lios Nudin.”

“That’s the spirit,” chuckled Boïndil. “Cussed as a dwarf!”

Boëndal relented. “All right, we’ll go to Lios Nudin. The high king has seen so many cycles that he won’t begrudge us the
odd orbit here or there. Vraccas will keep his fires burning.” He took a sip from his water pouch.

His brother turned the conversation to Tungdil’s fighting prowess. “You didn’t do too badly, considering you haven’t been
taught,” he commended him. “But there’s one thing you need to remember: Never throw your ax unless you’ve got another one
in reserve. Of course your technique needs a bit of working on, but I’ll soon have you fighting like a proper dwarf. Mark
my words, Tungdil: The runts will be as scared of you as they are of me.”

Tungdil could see the sense in being tutored by Boïndil. “The sooner we get started, the better.” He nodded.

They walked until the light faded and they were obliged to stop and rest. After a while Boëndal launched into a dwarven ballad
about the age-old feud between their kinsfolk and the elves. When he saw the look of dismay on Tungdil’s face, he trailed
off into silence: The last thing they needed was a song about destruction and death.

“What do you know about my folk?” Tungdil asked.

“The fourthlings?” Boëndal scratched his beard and unpacked a wedge of cheese to melt above the fire. “Goïmdil’s folk are
made up of twelve clans and they tend to be shorter, scrawnier, and weaker than the rest of us — typical gem cutters and diamond
polishers, I suppose.” He looked Tungdil up and down and nodded. “I’ve never heard of any fourth-ling scholars, but in terms
of your build… Actually, you’re a bit too big. Your shoulders are too broad.” He thought for a moment. “I’m not trying to
offend you, you know,” he said simply. “Vraccas made us just the way we are.”

“What else do you know?” persisted Tungdil, who found the answer too vague to be revealing.

The brothers looked at each other and shrugged.

“You’d best see for yourself once we get there. It’s been hundreds of cycles since the folks had anything to do with each
other,” Boëndal explained. “I’ll tell you what, though: We may not know much about Goïmdil’s dwarves, but you can ask us anything
about the secondlings. Our seventeen clans boast the finest masons in all the dwarven kingdoms, and the mightiest human stronghold
isn’t a patch on Ogre’s Death. It’ll take your breath away, you’ll see.”

Boëndal talked and talked, waxing lyrical about the fortifications and ornaments that were the envy of the other folks, while
Tungdil listened contentedly, eagerly anticipating the moment when he would see his kinsfolk’s architecture for himself.

Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

T
he orbits wore on as the three dwarves journeyed to Porista to request an audience with the council.

At Boïndil’s insistence, they had taken the precaution of walking through the undergrowth parallel to the road, but by the
fourth orbit they were tired of scratching themselves on branches, finding thorns in their chain mail, and avoiding twigs
that seemed determined to poke Tungdil in the nose or eye. They rejoined the dusty road, keeping an eye out for other travelers.

Tungdil still bore the scars of his recent ordeals. His sleep was haunted by nightmares and on stopping to fill his pouch
from a stream, he noticed that the reflection looking back at him was older, more weathered, and more serious than before.
The horrors he had witnessed were inscribed on his face.

Determined not to fall victim to the orcs, Tungdil applied himself to his daily training sessions with Boïndil. He was a fast
learner — uncannily fast, his tutor said. While the two of them practiced fighting, parrying, and feinting, Boëndal sat and
watched them, smoking his pipe and keeping his thoughts to himself.

From time to time they came upon wayfarers or a settlement and Tungdil was always sure to mention Greenglade and warn anyone
from venturing too close to the Perished Land.

The long line of carts rolling into Lios Nudin reinforced his advice. With war bands of orcs terrorizing Gauragar, people
preferred to trust Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty rather than rely on King Bruron to protect them.

It was midafternoon when Tungdil fell back a few paces. Guessing that he wanted to answer a call of nature, the twins walked
ahead.

When Tungdil set off again, feeling much relieved, he came to a junction, only to find that Boëndal and Boïndil were nowhere
to be seen. A signpost pointed east to Porista, so he set off at a jog.

A short distance along the road was a wooden caravan, its sides painted gaily with pictures of scissors, knives, axes, and
other implements. The horses had been unhitched and the driver had abandoned his vehicle in a hurry.

“Hello?” The rear door was ajar, allowing Tungdil to peer into the darkness within. There was something odd about the situation.
“Is everything all right in there?”

He drew his ax, just in case. If runts had ambushed the caravan, they might be hiding nearby.
Where are Boëndal and Boïndil when I need them?

“Hello?” he called again, climbing the two narrow wooden rungs that led up to the door. He pushed it open with the poll of
his ax and glanced around the little workshop. Drawers had been turned out, cupboards pulled open, and in the far corner a
pair of shoes poked out from under a cabinet.

He stepped inside. “Hello in there! Is something the matter?” The smell of metal was mixed with a sweeter, almost sickly,
odor.
Blood.
Tungdil had seen enough to suspect that the wearer of the shoes was no longer among the living.
I knew it!
There could be only one explanation for the string of calamities unfurling around him: His journey was cursed.

Hooking his ax on his belt, he bent down and gave the feet a shake. “Are you injured?” On receiving no response, he lifted
the cabinet to free whoever was trapped underneath. It was a dwarf, or rather, the body of a dwarf. His throat had been cut
and his head was missing. A ring of crimson gore encircled his neck, indicating that he hadn’t been dead for long.

“What in the name of Vraccas is going on?” Tungdil was so perturbed by the sight of the dead dwarf that he let go of the cabinet,
dropping it onto the corpse. As he stepped away, he tried to think logically. The poor victim was obviously an itinerant dwarf
whose smithy had been ransacked by highwaymen. His death was an unfortunate consequence of the dreadful human greed for precious
metals and coin.

No one deserves to be left like that.
Tungdil grabbed the feet again and was dragging the corpse from beneath the cabinet when something clattered to the floor.

On closer inspection, the object turned out to be a blood-encrusted dagger, and although there wasn’t much light inside the
caravan, he was sure he had seen it before: It belonged to the brigand whose horse he had shod several weeks earlier.

Just then he heard the
clip-clop
of hooves. Peering warily out of the narrow window, he uttered a strong dwarven oath. Five armed bandits had come to a halt
beside the caravan. He flattened himself against the wall and hid behind the door: Concealment was his only hope of survival
against a band of seasoned warriors. Unlike Boëndal and Boïndil, he wasn’t ready to fight five against one.

Heavy footsteps approached, the ladder groaned, the caravan wobbled, and a shadow blotted out the sunlight falling through
the door.

Tungdil gripped his ax with both hands.

A man entered, mumbling indistinctly, and knelt beside the corpse. “Someone’s been in,” he called to the others. “He wasn’t
lying like this before.” He scrabbled around for his knife. “Don’t let anyone near the caravan, and hide the darned honey
pot,” he ordered. “The last thing we need is for people to ask what we’re doing with the head of an ugly groundling.”

“Stands to reason what we’re doing. Earning our money like everyone else,” said one of the company, laughing coarsely.

“No need to shout about it,” snapped the murderer. “The little fellows are hard enough to get hold of, without every last
Tom, Dick, or Harry competing for the loot. Ah, here it is!” He picked up the dagger, wiped the blade on the corpse’s jerkin,
and returned it to its sheath.

Straightening up, he stood for a moment in the light of the window, his mail reflecting the sun. A beam hit Tungdil’s blade
and rebounded. “What in the…” The murderer whirled round.

Tungdil had to act while the element of surprise was with him. Rushing forward, he drove his ax into the man’s boots, cutting
through the leather and cleaving the bone. In his panic he struck with such force that the blade embedded itself in the wooden
floor. It took all his strength to pull it out.

The brigand bellowed in pain. If his companions hadn’t noticed the commotion, they were certainly aware of it now.

“It’s no worse than you deserve!” Tungdil grabbed his ax and fled. Whooping and yelling to spook the horses, he leaped out
onto the road.

The panicked animals shied away, unseating their riders, who had dropped their stirrups and were preparing to dismount.

Tungdil didn’t wait for them to recover, heading instead for the dense forest to the right of the highway. He knew there was
no room between the trunks for the men to pursue him on horseback and the undergrowth would slow their progress if they chased
him on foot. For once his diminutive stature was an advantage. Besides, daylight faded quickly beneath the thick canopy of
leaves and his eyes were accustomed to seeing in the dark.

“Catch the dwarfish bastard,” the company’s leader commanded. “We’ll get a fortune for his head.”

Tungdil tore through the forest, stopping occasionally to listen. Loud curses and snapping branches informed him of the brigands’
dogged pursuit, but the gap between them was growing. After a time, their heavy footsteps faded entirely, and he knew that
he had given them the slip.