The Dwarves (33 page)

The first orcs were paces away from their target when the tempest was unleashed. Lightning crackled to earth, striking the
front line of orcs and splitting their skins like sausages in boiling water. The dazzling flashes blinded those farther back,
and the assault on the summit faltered and stopped altogether.

A wind whipped up, raging among the beasts and knocking them over like skittles. Pitching into one another, the orcs were
hurled against trees or dragged to their deaths by the gusts.

Meanwhile, Boëndal had skewered the magus on his crow’s beak and was pinning him to the ground. Ireheart leaped to his brother’s
aid, raining four fearsome blows on the magus’s neck and cleaving his vertebrae. Nôd’onn’s head rolled across the grass, and
foul-smelling black blood spilled from the gushing stump.

Ireheart opened his breeches and was about to sprinkle the corpse with dwarven water, but was stopped by his brother. “The
artifacts!” Boëndal reminded him sternly, pulling him away.

A moment earlier, Tungdil had summoned his remaining strength for an all-out assault on the orc who was guarding his bags.
He let his instinct, combined with his recently acquired knowledge, guide his ax. The beast fell sooner than he expected,
the speed of his victory taking him by surprise.
I can hold my own without the twins,
he thought, gratified, quickly grabbing the bags.

Boëndal ran up, his plait swinging vigorously as if it were alive. “We did it! Girdlegard is free of the traitor.”

They hurried off, with Tungdil and Boëndal in the lead and Ireheart covering their backs. “It was child’s play,” he boasted,
taking the opportunity to slay another couple of orcs. “We showed the traitor who’s…” Ireheart’s eyes shifted sideways and
he let out a terrible howl of rage. “By the beard of Beroïn, I thought we’d…”

Nôd’onn was rising to his feet. His headless body straightened, and he stretched out a hand, beckoning to his skull, which
flew toward him and settled on his severed neck. Not a scar remained to show where Ireheart’s axes had raged. The magus seemed
as strong and alert as ever. He ordered the remaining orcs to deal with Tungdil and his companions, then turned to the hill
to destroy his magical foe.

“Seize the artifacts and the books,” he boomed through the darkness. “And kill the dwarves!”

The onyx on the end of his staff throbbed with light as he raised his hand toward the knoll. The ground quaked, a deep furrow
opening in the earth and burrowing toward the figure on the hill. Bolts of lightning shot from the dark clouds, only to melt
harmlessly into the protective shield that cocooned Nôd’onn’s body.

I knew it! Ordinary weapons can’t harm him.
Tungdil grabbed his companions. “This way,” he panted. “The path leads south.”

The trio raced off, slipping into a ditch to throw off their pursuers. They listened to the heavy trample of boots as the
orcs charged past without seeing them.

“We should have stood our ground,” Boïndil whispered crossly.

“And been killed!” Tungdil pushed himself deeper into the warm soil of the trench. “Didn’t you see what he did back there?
He got up, even though you’d beheaded him! It proves he’s more powerful than the Perished Land.” He pointed to the leather
pouch that they’d managed to salvage. “The key to his destruction is in that bag.”

“You’re the scholar,” Boëndal told him. “Find a way of killing him and leave the rest to us. It’s time we got back to Ogre’s
Death. Our kingdoms are in danger and we need to warn the assembly of Nôd’onn’s plans. You might be the only one who can stop
him.”

“I don’t know about that.” Tungdil’s hopes were centered on their mysterious rescuer, who had fought magic with magic, thereby
saving their lives.
Please, Vraccas, let it be Lot-Ionan,
he prayed, unable to fight his tiredness any longer as he drifted off to sleep.

Beroïn’s Folk,

Secondling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

… and I was following them into the woods when they suddenly disappeared,” said the gnome in conclusion. He tugged at the
leather collar that had left him with a weal around his throat. “I had to get out of there quickly because the orcs were on
my tail.”

Bislipur was already deep in thought. Sverd’s news obliged him to rethink his plans. “They’re on their way here, then,” he
muttered to himself.

“Who? The orcs or the dwarves?” When Bislipur didn’t answer, Sverd tried another tack. “You’re not going to keep the news
to yourself, are you? Didn’t you hear what I said? The magus wants to
attack
the dwarven kingdoms! Only a real scoundrel would —”

Bislipur limped to the door. “Wait here,” he ordered. “Don’t show yourself unless I tell you.”

“Yes, cruel master.” With a sigh, the gnome settled on a stool, his short legs dangling above the floor.

* * *

B
islipur rapped on Gandogar’s door. “It’s me,” he shouted. “Put your cloak on. We’ve got business to attend to.”

Gandogar stepped out into the corridor and gave his adviser a bewildered look. “Wouldn’t you rather come inside?”

“The exercise will do us good. Besides, there’s enough gossip about me already. Apparently, I spend my time behind closed
doors, plotting against the high king.” He snorted derisively. “They’re welcome to see us talking, if that’s what they want.”

Gandogar threw a light cloak over his mail and followed Bislipur through the stone labyrinth that was Ogre’s Death.

All around them were carvings and ornaments. The secondlings had sculpted great artworks out of the humble stone, but the
masonry was all the more striking because of its lack of pretension. Gandogar marveled at its simple beauty, but his reverie
was cut short.

“I was just saying,” Bislipur repeated softly, “that everything will be ruined if they keep us waiting any longer. The high
king is an obstinate fool.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“I’ve consulted with the other chieftains. They think we should defeat the elves before the Perished Land gets there first.”

At last he had Gandogar’s attention. “Then let the Perished Land defeat them. It would solve the problem for us.”

“Actually, Your Majesty, it would make our task harder. Remember what the Perished Land does to the fallen? They rise again!
Our warriors would never prevail against an army of undead elves. The Perished Land is immensely powerful, remember.” Bislipur’s
mail clunked slightly as he limped beside his king. “And what if the elves were to flee the threat and ensconce themselves
somewhere quite unreachable? Their crimes against the dwarves would go unpunished and your father and brother would never
be avenged.”

Despite the urgency in his voice, Bislipur was careful to speak softly. Anyone who saw them talking would assume they were
preparing for the coming assembly — which was exactly what he intended.

“It’s time you were made high king and led the folks against Âlandur. The Perished Land has lain dormant for some time. If
it stirs, we must be back in our stronghold so we can wait in safety until the trouble has passed.”

“You heard what Gundrabur said,” the fourthling sovereign reminded him. “The laws were written by our forefathers, and I can’t
and won’t defy them.”

Their path led them to a beautiful sunlit valley whose verdant slopes were dotted with sheep and goats. Rocky peaks towered
on either side with clouds stacked above them. To Gandogar, it seemed as if the mountains had impaled the bad weather on their
summits to clear the skies for the pastures below.

“How peaceful it is here,” he sighed, lowering himself onto a boulder. “I wish our assemblies were as harmonious as this.”

Bislipur’s cold eyes scanned the grassy slopes. “If you ask me, the other dwarves are exactly like sheep. They flock together,
bleat until they get their food and beer, then fall into a self-satisfied slumber.” He laid a hand on the monarch’s shoulder.
“You’re a true king, Your Majesty, and you shouldn’t be made to wait while some guttersnipe of a dwarf strolls across Girdlegard
to challenge what’s yours. Force a decision and the delegates will support you; I’ll make sure of it.”

“You’re asking a great deal, Bislipur.” The king rose, and they strolled back to the tunnel that led into the mountain and
deep inside the Blue Range.

At length they came to a series of stone bridges whose backbones arched over dark, fathomless chasms. These were the ancient
mine shafts, now empty and abandoned. The secondlings had plundered the mountain’s riches and left deep gashes in its flesh.

Bislipur walked in silence, allowing the king to reflect.

“But what of the laws?” muttered Gandogar, turning the matter over in his mind. “I can’t force another vote without challenging
the laws of our forefathers and defying the high king’s decision.”

“It would take courage, the courage to do what’s best for our race. You need to act now, Your Majesty. You’ve never been afraid
to take a stand.”

The passageway led over one of the kingdom’s many quarries, where sheets of smooth marble were being hewn from the rock. A
river meandered peacefully to the right of the stoneworks. The king and his adviser stopped on a bridge 180 paces above the
laborers and gazed at the bustle below.

“Gundrabur might die at any moment,” said Bislipur, still pressing for a decision. “Surely you don’t mean to make us wait
until the stranger arrives and the hustings have been held? What if the Perished Land attacks while the throne is vacant?
Without a high king, there’d be no one to organize our defenses and lead us to victory. The folks would squabble among themselves
and our race would be destroyed.”

Gandogar pretended to ignore him, but the speech resonated with his own deliberations. He had been pondering the same questions,
although he was still no closer to deciding what to do.
The laws come from Vraccas, but should we stick to them slavishly? What if it means forfeiting opportunities and exposing
ourselves to danger?
He gave up and focused on the laborers below. They were working with incredible care and precision, handling the stone with
as much consideration as if it were alive. Each sheet of marble was measured painstakingly before being prized from the mountain
with pick axes, crowbars, hammers, and chisels. Water mills powered the blades of the enormous saws.

Dust hung in the air like gray mist and the laborers wore cloths to protect their mouths and noses. A thick layer of powdered
stone covered any piece of equipment not in regular use.

It made Gandogar proud to think that he would soon be king of the dwarven folks. The children of Vraccas had their differences,
but they were dwarves — united by ancestry, heritage, and a common foe.

Should we suffer because of our laws?
He pictured the faces of his father and brother who had been felled by elvish arrows.
They were killed in cold blood.
His fists clenched and his face darkened.

He had made up his mind. “Very well, Bislipur, we shall act. I am the one who is destined to unite the children of Vraccas
and what better way of strengthening the bonds between our kingdoms than a joint campaign against the elves? Victory over
our enemies will pave the way for a new united future and put an end to this feuding and quarreling.”

“And your name will be linked forever with the start of a glorious era,” Bislipur added approvingly, relieved that his constant
sermonizing had eventually paid off.

“We’ve wasted enough time already. I shall tell Gundrabur that he has thirty orbits to hold a vote in which my succession
will be confirmed.”

“And if he dies before then? He’s old and infirm…”

“Then I’ll be crowned, whether the mountebank has got here or not. Let’s go back. I’m tired and hungry.”

Privately, Bislipur was already working on his next assignment, unwittingly conferred on him by the king.

A great deal can happen in thirty orbits,
he thought grimly. Murder was not the worst of his crimes, and a little more skulduggery would be neither here nor there.
But this time he needed to do everything right.

“Coming, Your Majesty,” he replied. Leaning over the parapet, he peered into the open quarry.
Anyone who had the misfortune to plummet from such a height would never be seen again.
He had just the assignment for Sverd.

Enchanted Realm of Ionandar,

Girdlegard,

Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

C
ome on, scholar, time to get up,” a voice whispered in his ear. A wiry beard scratched his throat and he was roused from his
carefree dreams.

Boëndal and Boïndil were peering out of the ditch, scanning the woods for roaming orcs, but the beasts had continued their
search elsewhere. Tungdil and the others were free to head south toward the secondling kingdom.

What a mess,
he thought glumly. Things had turned out worse than he could have imagined. His errand had seemed simple enough, but now
he was caught up in a succession crisis and everyone he had known and loved was dead, leaving him and his two companions to
flee for their lives across Girdlegard while a crazed magus waged war on their kingdoms and tried to steal his bags.
And I don’t even know what’s inside them
.

Tungdil pulled the twigs and foliage out of his hair and beard. He was still fretting over Nudin’s threat: The magus had declared
war on all Girdlegard, men and elves included, and was planning to do battle with the dwarves.

“You look as though something’s bothering you,” said Boïndil, handing him some bread and cheese. He pointed to the woods.
“Come on, you can eat on the way.”

Tungdil fell in behind them. “Warning the dwarven kingdoms is a big risk. Nudin wouldn’t mention the invasion unless he thought
he could win.”

Boïndil snorted. “Ha, that was before we chopped off his head!”

“Not that it had much effect,” his brother reminded him gravely. “What did you make of it, scholar? Is it normal for magi
to survive a mortal wound?”