The Dwarves (37 page)

Djerůn returned to his former position, cross-legged on the floor. Boëndal’s comment failed to elicit a response from the
giant or his mistress.

The secondling persevered. “The warrior is your business,” he told Andôkai, “but our sentries won’t let him cross the High
Pass unless he’s prepared to show his face and declare his lineage.”

“What kind of foolishness is this?” the maga said irritably, weary of the constant interruptions. “We’ll be leaving Girdlegard!
What does it matter what he looks like or where he comes from? You’d be well advised to focus on your defenses, instead of
interfering in the business of travelers who can’t wait to leave your land.”

“Whether you’re coming or going is of no concern to us,” Boëndal said emphatically. “No beast of Tion will set foot on our
pass.”

“Hang on,” Tungdil told him, “he’s just an elongated —”

Boëndal didn’t let him finish. “I played along to keep the peace, but we’re almost home now.” He looked at Andôkai grimly.
“When we reach the Blue Range, the giant will be bound by the same laws as everyone else. You’re welcome to seek your own
route through the mountains, but you won’t be crossing our kingdom if you’re hiding something dangerous behind that mask.”

“I’ll take my chances,” said the maga, returning to her book.

“Your chances!”
exploded Boëndal. “Do you mean we’ve been traveling all this way with a creature of darkness?”

“That’s not what I said. Besides, I don’t recall there being anything in the creed of Samusin to forbid it.”

“Samusin? I won’t have any truck with
him.
” The dwarf’s face hardened and he rose to his feet, the long shaft of his crow’s beak clasped in one hand. “Tell me what’s
behind the visor.”

“That does it!” Andôkai closed her book with a snap. “Nôd’onn himself could be hiding inside that armor and I wouldn’t tell
you! Djerůn is with me.” If anyone had been wondering how Andôkai the Tempestuous had earned her name, the matter was now
resolved. “Who cares if he’s an ogre or a dark spirit or Tion knows what? He’s the perfect traveling companion and he doesn’t
stink like a pig — which is more than can be said for you and your brother!” Her blue eyes glinted menacingly as she swept
the long blond hair from her face. “He’ll raise his visor when he’s good and ready, and if you don’t like it, too bad!” She
pointed toward the main village. “Did you notice the bathhouse on your way in? I recommend you pay it a visit. It’s a wonder
the birds don’t die of asphyxiation when you’re around.”

She fixed him with an icy stare and opened the second volume with a thud.

The silence that followed was broken by the sound of someone running toward the tent. The next moment, Boïndil burst through
the door.

“ Pointy-ears!” he spluttered. “Pointy-ears from Âlandur! The trader said they —” He noticed the keg of beer abandoned forlornly
on the floor. “I thought you’d be thirsty!” he said, shaking his head in surprise. He pierced the lid with his ax, filled
his tankard, emptied it in a single draft, and burped. “Not bad,” he pronounced, helping himself to more.

“You were saying?” Andôkai reminded him sharply, diverting his attention away from the beer.

“Er, elves!” Boïndil sat down on a leather stool. “I bought the keg from a trader who told me what’s been happening in Âlandur.
He thought we’d be drinking to the ruin of the elves. From what he said, their kingdom is all but done for. He reckoned they
were scouting Girdlegard for new places to live.”

“In Sangpûr?” the maga said incredulously. “Why come this far south when there’s nothing but sand, dust, and stone? It doesn’t
make sense. What would an elf want with a treeless desert?”

Tungdil glanced at Boëndal, who was clearly thinking on similar lines.

It took another sip of beer before his brother caught on. “Are you saying they’re älfar?” he ventured finally. Ideas invariably
took longer to penetrate Boïndil’s mind.

“Nôd’onn wants the books,” Tungdil explained patiently. “A motley company like us doesn’t go unnoticed. They must have followed
us here and waited until nightfall to enter the settlement. As soon as it’s dark, you can’t see their eyes and there’s no
way of telling they’re not elves.”

“In which case, they could be either,” Boëndal pointed out. “I say we post a watch. If they’re älfar, they’ll be after us.
Why else would they be staying in the village, if not to steal the books? From now on, none of us leaves the tent, no matter
what. We’ll let them come to us.”

“Nonsense, we’ll go after them!” Boïndil said fiercely. “If they’re älfar, we’ll kill them, and if they’re elves… we’ll kill
them too! The pointy-ears deserve to die.” It had been a while since he’d last used his axes.

Andôkai listened, then signaled to Djerůn and settled down to sleep.

“No, brother,” ruled Boëndal, “we’ll leave them in peace. The whole village could turn against us if we start a fight. We’re
not in our own kingdom yet, remember. Cool your temper. I’ll take the first watch.”

Tungdil yawned and finished his tankard of beer before lying down on a pile of rugs. His fingers clutched the haft of his
ax, making him feel a little less exposed. He wasn’t sure what to think, but in some ways he was hoping that the älfar would
attack. At least that would persuade Andôkai of the importance of the books.

T
ungdil was just dozing off when a shouted warning woke the desert oasis. The dwarves were on their feet in a flash, weapons
at the ready. Andôkai had drawn her sword and was monitoring the tent flap and the walls.

Ax raised and shield held in front of him, Djerůn knelt by the entrance, blocking it like a wall. His helmet glinted, the
demonic visor coming alive in the dying firelight. For a fraction of a heartbeat, Tungdil thought he glimpsed a purple glow
behind the eyeholes.

Boëndal damped the flames lest their shadows be seen through the canvas. The three dwarves stood back-to-back, the maga beside
them.

For a few moments it was quiet; then agonized screams rent the air. Now sounds could be heard from the other tents as people
emerged from their flimsy shelters, their voices mingling in a clamor of questions as each tried to establish the cause of
the noise. Willowy silhouettes and strange shadows flitted across the canvas walls, while all around there was a clunking
of metal as shields knocked against tent poles, armor was donned, and weapons were unsheathed. Roused abruptly from its slumber,
the village among the dunes was preparing to fight.

“What’s going on?” asked Tungdil in a whisper. “Do you think it’s a trap?”

Just then a human voice cried out in terror, “Orcs!” Swords met in a ringing din. The battle had commenced.

The beasts stopped skulking through the settlement and abandoned all pretense at stealth. Listening to their grunts and snarls,
Tungdil was reminded of Goodwater, of Ionandar, of those who had died…

He was torn between staying in the tent and running to the aid of the people outside. His instinct was to help, but for all
he knew, the älfar were out there, waiting for him and his companions to emerge.

“What do we do?” he asked the battle-hardened twins.

“We wait,” came Boëndal’s strained reply. He tightened his grip on his crow’s beak.

The clash of swords was getting louder and more violent, mingled with the screams of dying men. Sounds of fighting echoed
from every corner of the village. The orcs had evidently surrounded the settlement and were attacking from all sides simultaneously,
making it impossible for anyone to escape.

As the fighting raged around them, Tungdil and the others followed the progress of the battle on the walls of their tent,
men and orcs locked in combat like figures in a shadow theater.

Boïndil held a whispered conference with his brother. At last a decision was reached. “We need to get out of here,” he announced.
“The runts will sack the settlement and we can’t risk Tungdil getting —”

An orc burst through the tent flap, grunting and waving his sword. He ran full tilt into the expanse of unforgiving metal
that was Djerůn’s shield.

Nose gushing with blood, he staggered groggily to the side, only for the giant to hew his collarbone with a downward swipe
of his ax. The force of the blow cleaved armor and bones, slicing the orc diagonally in two. Blood and guts spilled from the
body in a horrible, reeking mess.

“Hey! I thought I told you to leave the runts to me,” protested Boïndil. “The next one’s mine, all right?”

A second orc stormed into the tent, and Andôkai called out to Djerůn, who swung his shield obediently to the side. The beast
ran on unhindered, failing to notice his fallen comrade or the colossal warrior.

“That’s more like it!” Boïndil rushed forward and stopped the beast without ado. Felled by his axes, the orc died with a final
grunt.

“No more tomfoolery, Boïndil,” his brother said sternly. He cut a slit in the rear of the tent and peered through the gap.
“All clear.” The sharp blade of his crow’s beak tore neatly through the canvas and he slipped outside. When he was sure it
was safe, he signaled for the others to follow.

They had taken no more than a few paces when a long, slender shadow appeared in front of Boëndal and attacked.

Only the dwarf’s helmet prevented the sword from cleaving his skull. Even so, the force of the blow brought him to his knees.

“Elf or älf, prepare to die!” His brother hurled himself at the figure with a blood-curdling shriek.

As their assailant stepped back, his cloak fell open to reveal a black metal breastplate that reached to his thighs. His beautiful
face and pointed ears removed any doubts about the identity of their attacker.

Another älf appeared out of nowhere and challenged Djerůn, while a third bore down on Andôkai. Stretching out her hand, the
maga conjured a glimmering black sphere and cast a bolt of lightning in his direction.

Tungdil expected the creature to burst into flames, but his hopes were disappointed. The älf produced an amulet, which intercepted
the spluttering charm, absorbing the magic and leaving the target unharmed. Cursing, the maga drew her sword.

Tungdil glanced round, looking for a possible fourth attacker. To his horror an älf leaped from a nearby cart and landed in
front of him. His eyes took in the crimson gloves, long spear, and golden hair… It was one of the two älfar who had parleyed
with the orcs near Goodwater.
Sinthoras!
His lips appeared to be moving.

“Speak up!” commanded Tungdil, dwarven bloody-mindedness conquering his fear. He had no intention of surrendering.

“Look at me: Sinthoras is your death,”
the fair-haired älf whispered softly.
“I will take your life as I have taken the life of every groundling before you.”

“We’ll see about that. Vraccas helped us to kill one of your kind in Greenglade and he’ll help us again.” Tungdil decided
not to wait for the älf to attack. “For Lot-Ionan and Frala!” Raising his ax, he charged.

Sinthoras laughed, easily evading the energetic but poorly planned attack. Realizing at once that he was dealing with a novice,
he decided to have some fun with his victim before dealing the fatal blow.

His spear flashed forward, its long, tapered point boring through Tungdil’s mail shirt and passing through his under-garments.
The tip pierced his left shoulder, deep enough to hurt him but too shallow for serious harm. The wound enraged the dwarf further
and he redoubled his efforts, little realizing that the älf was toying with him.

Slowly but surely Sinthoras drew his victim away from his companions, leading him into the jumble of tents. While the älf
skipped and danced ahead, Tungdil blundered among the guy ropes and tent pegs, grimly focused on staying on his feet.

The älf’s weapon approached with such speed that Tungdil gave up trying to block its attack. One moment the creature would
be in front of him; the next his spear would be buried in his back. He was losing blood from myriad perforations that smarted
abominably.

At last Tungdil looked round and realized his mistake. Amid the confusion of ropes and tents he had lost sight of the others
and even the giant was gone. A moment later, Sinthoras vanished as well. The älf was enjoying his murderous little game.

Wherever Tungdil looked, men were fighting with a courage born of despair, knowing with grim certainty that the orcs would
show no mercy. Meanwhile, the beasts kept coming at them, more determined than ever to sink their teeth into the traders and
their wares.

A number of tents had been pulled to the ground and the canvas caught fire. Flames and glinting swords reflected in the surface
of the lake, the watery image of destruction warped by rippling waves.

“Where are you hiding?” Tungdil was learning to his cost that älfar were harder to deal with than orcs. He decided to rejoin
his friends while he still had the chance.

But Sinthoras wasn’t finished with him.

“Over here!” The älf loomed up behind him, thrusting his spear violently into the dwarf’s right shoulder.

Something seemed to tear inside Tungdil’s arm, the pain surging through him like liquid fire. His hand opened and the ax fell
from his grasp.

The dwarf’s tormentor pulled his legs from under him, tipping him face-first to the ground. Crouching over him, Sinthoras
threaded the spear through his mail shirt on a level with his heart. The metal spike ground against the rings.

“What did I tell you?” said a whisper in Tungdil’s ear. “
Sinthoras is your death
. It would have been wiser to leave the books in Greenglade, but it’s too late for that now.”

“Go ahead and kill me, but answer me one thing: What do you want with the books?”

Sinthoras laughed. “Only a groundling could be so simple-minded! To think that you’ve been lugging around the volumes, and
you don’t even know what they are!” He thought for a moment. “They’re precious, more precious than anything you can imagine.
A single syllable is worth a sack of gold. They could make you the wealthiest being in Girdlegard — or the most powerful,
if you kept the secret to yourself. Acting on their contents would make you a hero beyond compare.” He leaned on his spear
and lowered his voice to a malicious whisper. “All this you had — but you lost it. I’ll take even more pleasure in killing
you now.”