The Dwarves (32 page)

“If only Vraccas would hurry up and smite the high king with his hammer,” muttered Bislipur on returning to the chamber where
he was staying as the secondlings’ guest. He lowered himself crossly onto his bed.
I’m not making any progress
. Some of the fourthling delegates were starting to doubt the wisdom of going to war.
That blasted Balendilín is ruining everything. The sooner I take care of him, the…

“Master, I bring news for you,” a reedy voice announced from under his bed. “Not that I’d
choose
to tell you anything. In fact, I didn’t want to come at all.”

Bislipur stood up and kicked the bedpost. “Come out from there, you wretched gnome!” Sverd had barely emerged from his hiding
place when Bislipur’s calloused hand closed round his neck and lifted him into the air. He shook the gnome vigorously, like
a cat would stun its prey, then tossed him roughly into the corner. “You’re not to sneak into my chamber without my permission,
do you understand?”

Sverd rose groggily and straightened his red jacket. “I wasn’t sneaking, master. You weren’t here, so I hid in a place where
no one would find me, like you said.” He tugged his hemp shirt over his rounded belly, covering his hairy green skin. His
pointed ears stuck upward, as if pinning his cap to his head. There were few of his kind left in Girdlegard.

“Shall I tell you the news, master?” asked Sverd, his large round eyes filled with mock innocence. Streaks of mud and dirt
covered his saggy breeches and his buckled shoes. He had tramped for many miles. “And if I do, will you let me go?”

“You’ll go when I’ve finished with you.” Bislipur rested his hand threateningly on the magical silver wire that allowed him
to tighten Sverd’s collar from any distance. “Talk or I’ll strangle you.”

“I wish I’d never tried to steal your hoard,” the gnome whined piteously. “I regret it, really, I do.” He looked at the dwarf
expectantly, hoping to see a flicker of pity in the stony face.

“No wonder your kind is dying out if they’re all as weak and pathetic as you.” Gandogar’s adviser stayed as cold and unbending
as the many valuable trinkets that he wore. He tugged on the wire, tightening the leather band around the neck of his slave.

Sverd struggled to loosen the magic collar, but with no more success than at any other time during his forty-three cycles
of bondage. The choker contracted and he sank to his knees, wheezing and panting. Bislipur waited until he was almost unconscious
before slackening the leash.

“Thank you, master. Thank you.” The gnome coughed. “Another joyous orbit at your side. How can I repay you?” He sank onto
a stool. “Your pernicious plan failed. By all reports, the heir to the throne is still alive. Sadly, the same can’t be said
for our bounty hunters. There were no other takers for your cowardly mission and I didn’t have time to start a proper search.
Girdlegard is changing.”

Bislipur took no notice of his reluctant henchman’s sneers. From the beginning of his enslavement, Sverd had been trying to
provoke him into killing him, but Bislipur chose to ignore him. The gnome deserved to suffer. “What happened?”

“I trailed the dwarf and the secondlings to Lot-Ionan’s vaults. They were attacked by orcs…”

Enchanted Realm of Ionandar,

Girdlegard,

Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

T
he beasts’ approach could be heard from a hundred paces. Suddenly the clunking of their armor was interrupted by a clamor
of snarls and grunts: The orcs had discovered the lifeless revenant.

On rounding a bend in the passageway, the three dwarves found themselves face-to-face with their foes. The exit to the vaults
lay fewer than three hundred paces ahead, but it seemed to Tungdil that every inch of that distance was filled with orcs.
A bristling thicket of weaponry blocked their escape.

“What fun!” enthused Ireheart, squaring his shoulders. “See how narrow the tunnel is? We’ll have the pleasure of killing every
last runt!” His whirled his axes energetically. “Oink, oink! By the hammer of Vraccas, this is excellent sport!”

“The three of us will fight in formation,” his brother told Tungdil soberly. “I know you’ve never done this before, but stand
back-to-back with us and make sure you can feel us behind you. That way we’ll all be safe.” His brown eyes sought Tungdil’s.
“Trust us to watch your back, and we’ll trust you. You’re a child of the Smith, remember.”

Tungdil took up position, wedging his back against the twins’.
Trust in the others,
he reminded himself, his heart thumping wildly.
Stand by me, Vraccas
. He swallowed and forgot about his fear.
For Lot-Ionan, Frala, and Girdlegard!

“No more talking now!” Ireheart snapped at them, his eyes flashing wildly. “We’ve got skulls to cleave and shins to splinter!”

As the twins commenced their dance of death, Tungdil did his best to keep pace with them, nearly tripping over himself in
his eagerness not to ruin their guard.

D
uring the first few rotations, Tungdil could still see most of his surroundings. He glimpsed leering orc faces, saw green-hided
flesh encased in various types of armor, spotted pillars among the jumble of legs, and occasionally sighted a whirling black
plait.

But soon they were moving so fast that it all became a blur. Swords, daggers, and cudgels swooped toward him and he focused
on dodging or parrying the blows. From time to time his ax met with resistance and after a while his blade was coated in glistening
green, leading him to suppose that some of his blows had struck true.

It was the same basic strategy that the twins had used in the Eternal Forest. Back-to-back, the dwarves spun onward, boring
their way through the enemy ranks, striking out furiously and never stopping for an instant, making it impossible for the
beasts to land a proper blow.

Tungdil was glad of his chain mail. He lacked the secondlings’ experience and was unable to field every strike, but his metal
tunic protected him from the worst of it. He was willing to endure bruises, grazes, and even broken bones if it meant staying
alive and saving the artifacts from Nôd’onn’s fleshy hands.

He could hear Boïndil laughing behind him, his frenzied cackles competing with the orcs’ dying shrieks. Boëndal was far less
vocal, preferring to conserve his breath.

After a while the strain was beginning to tell on Tungdil’s arms, but the battle was far from over. In addition to the orcs
in front of them, there was also the problem of the survivors who were attacking from behind. In his despair, Tungdil came
up with an alternative solution.

“The struts!” he yelled, straining to lift his voice above the jangling steel. “Cut down the struts!”

“Good thinking, scholar.” Boëndal checked a blow, then rammed the offender with the butt of his crow’s beak. A few moments
later his weapon powered into a wooden pillar.

The force of the blow sent a strut crashing to the floor, followed by a shower of stone and dirt. The three dwarves repeated
the maneuver until the unsupported ceiling collapsed behind them. Tion’s minions disappeared under an avalanche of debris
as ton after ton of rock blocked the tunnel, securing their rear.

The surviving orcs ran for the exit, afraid of being buried alive. Ireheart chased after them, swinging his axes furiously
and felling all in his path. He stopped just short of the exit and waited for his companions.

“Come on,” he urged them breathlessly. “There’s another twenty of these runts waiting outside. It would be a shame not to
kill them.”

They closed ranks again. For all his hatred of orcs, Tungdil secretly hoped that the surviving beasts had seized their chance
and fled. His weary arms were reluctant to lift much higher than his belt.

Spinning in formation, they whirled out of the tunnel and into the darkness outside. The stars cast a silvery shimmer over
the waiting orcs. A hundred pairs of green eyes glinted menacingly in the moonlight. The beasts were growling and snarling
under their breath.

“I thought you said twenty?” Tungdil muttered accusingly, his heart quailing at the sight.

“Like I told you, some challenges are bigger than others,” Boïndil assured him, glossing over his mistake. “This is one of
the bigger ones.”

“Should we go right or left?” asked Tungdil, who was keen to establish their strategy.

“Straight through the middle. If they start slaying one another by accident, we’ll have a better chance of making it unscathed.
I’ll deal with their chieftain, and when we’re out the other side, we’ll attack the flanks and hew down the rest.”

“Tungdil is new to this, remember,” his brother put in. “The high king told us to bring him back to Ogre’s Death, not to purge
the countryside of runts.”

Tungdil was profoundly relieved. He hadn’t wanted to say anything for fear of disappointing the twins, but Boëndal was less
reckless than his brother and his sharp eyes had noted his exhaustion.

“Oh, all right, then,” conceded Boïndil a little indignantly. “We’ll go straight through the middle and forget about the flanks.”

The plan established, they decided to act, not wanting to give the orcish archers an opportunity to use their bows. At first
their tactic worked perfectly and they were mowing their way toward freedom at a tremendous rate when the enemy received unexpected
support.

The ranks thinned around them as the orcs backed away, clearing a path.

“Hey! Come back here, you pug-faced monsters!” bellowed Ireheart, venting his frustration at the retreating beasts. “I’m not
finished with you yet!”

The orcs continued to back away from them, and a lone man stepped forward instead. Tungdil knew the bloated figure from the
apparition that had conversed with the famulus. The dark green robes cloaking the swollen body belonged to Lot-Ionan’s killer.

The wizard looked doubly repulsive in the flesh. Blood trickled down his cheeks and his skin hung in flabby folds, occluding
his features. He smelled as if he had been rolling in a pile of rotting rubbish.

“You’ve done well to get this far, but enough is enough,” he purred. Fixing his gaze on Tungdil, he extended a bloated hand.
“Give me the artifacts and the books you stole from Greenglade. After that, you can go.”

Tungdil gripped his ax stubbornly. “These items belong to my master and I’ll be damned if I’m giving them to you.”

Nôd’onn chuckled. “How terribly valiant of you.” He took a step toward them. “The artifacts belong to me. I’m in no mood for
a discussion.” The end of his staff struck the ground and he leveled the onyx-encrusted tip at Tungdil.

No sooner had he done so than the knapsack and the leather bag jerked away from Tungdil, struggling against him and trying
to wrest themselves from his grip. He hung on to the straps as best he could, but his efforts were no match for the wizard’s
sorcery. The leather ripped and slipped from his fingers. He brought his foot down on one of the drawstrings just in time.

“I’ll destroy the pouch and everything in it,” he threatened, raising his ax.

“Be my guest. It would save me some work.” Nôd’onn held his right arm on high, splayed his fingers, then clenched them into
a fist.

The bags left the ground with such force that Tungdil could do nothing to stop them. Their flight ended when they dropped
into the arms of an enormous orc, who clutched them to his chest with a grunt.

The magus was seized by a coughing fit. Blood leaked from his nostrils and he wiped it hastily away. “Go back to your kingdom,
dwarves, and tell your ruler that I require his land. He can give it to me willingly, or my allies will take it by force.
The choice is his.” He gestured in Tungdil’s direction. “Take him with you. I don’t need him.”

The two brothers said nothing. Gripping their weapons with steely determination, they were biding their time for an opportunity
to attack. When the requisite diversion presented itself, they would hurl themselves on Nôd’onn and cut him to ribbons, but
it was no good attacking while they were under the surveillance of the wizard and his hordes.

Suddenly there was confusion in the ranks. Beasts were pushing and shoving, and angry words were exchanged; then a particularly
strapping specimen drew his sword against his neighbor and, snarling furiously, buried it up to the hilt in his gut. Within
the space of a few heartbeats, the orcs were slaughtering one another.

Ireheart squared his shoulders, a sure sign that he was preparing to attack. His brown eyes were fixed on Nôd’onn’s knees.

“Tungdil, you chop up his staff,” he ordered in dwarfish. “The fatso won’t stand a chance against the three of us.” As always,
he showed not a flicker of self-doubt.

“Ordinary weapons won’t harm him.” Tungdil glanced out of the corner of his eye at the iron-clad beast who was guarding the
knapsack and the artifacts. “Our priority is to get the bags. Nôd’onn seems determined to destroy them, so they’re obviously
important.”

Ireheart nodded. “You know what to do, Tungdil. On my signal…” The dwarves were preparing to leap into action when someone
got there first.

From the crest of a nearby hill, a bolt of lightning flashed toward the magus and struck him in the side. Gasping, he dropped
his staff and crumpled to the right.

The next bolt sped toward the orcs, reducing ten of their number to charred metal and flesh. The remaining beasts snarled
in confusion, looking for the source of the attack. Spotting the figure at the top of the hill, they closed ranks and charged.

Nôd’onn raised his head and stretched out his right palm; the staff sprang into the air and flew into his hand.

This was the opportunity that the dwarves had been waiting for. Shrieking, Ireheart bore down on him, planting his axes into
his legs, while Boëndal swung his crow’s beak above his head and rammed it into Nôd’onn’s broad back. He raked the blade upward,
and the magus slumped to the ground.

The wizard’s orcish protectors were too distracted by the arrival of the powerful new adversary to notice his plight. As they
raced up the hill, black clouds formed above them, and a roll of thunder announced the coming storm.