The Dwarves (38 page)

Tungdil shuddered as the älf muttered unintelligibly in his own dark tongue. At any moment the spear would reach his heart
and put an end to his life.

Before the weapon could penetrate farther, a shadow fell over them and something whirred through the air. The älf dove to
safety, only this time the maneuver was anything but elegant. He hit a tent, the canvas collapsing around him.

Djerůn strode past the stricken dwarf and went after the älf. Using the lower edge of his shield as a knife, he beat down
on the muffled body, first with his shield, then his ax, until the bloodied canvas lay still. Three orcs tried to stop him
but were slain on the spot.

Tungdil wondered whether he was hallucinating when he saw what happened next.

The giant, whose back was turned to Tungdil, opened his visor — or so the dwarf concluded from the movement of his arm — and
tore a chunk of flesh from an orcish corpse. He raised the dripping meat toward his face.

What is he doing?
Grunting with pain, Tungdil lifted himself onto his knees, leaned on his ax for support, and called to the giant.

Djerůn whirled round in surprise and pushed down his visor.

In the light of the burning tents, Tungdil caught a brief glimpse of a skull with wide jaws, long fangs, and slits for eyes.
The helmet clicked into place and violet light glimmered through the demon’s eyes. The chunk of flesh had vanished, but it
was obvious from the mutilated corpse and the green blood dripping from Djerůn’s gauntlet that something extraordinary had
occurred.

He’s not an orc or an ogre, so what kind of creature is he?

Djerůn gestured with his ax in the direction from which he had come. Tungdil followed his lead, relying on the giant to slay
the orcs who barred their path. He was finding it difficult enough to walk with his injuries.

Before they were out of the maze of tents, Boïndil rushed toward them, a panicked look on his face. His lips twitched and
his jaw tightened when he saw the blood on Tungdil’s shirt; he didn’t need to be told that the giant had saved his charge’s
life.

The trio hurried on, arriving in time to see Andôkai drive her sword through the neck of a dying älf who was flailing at her
feet. She snatched up the amulet that had warded off her magic power. Her leather armor seemed to strain at the seams as she
gasped for breath, her physical strength exhausted.

She greeted Tungdil with a brief nod, then led the company out of the village on a southerly bearing. Between them, Djerůn,
the twins, and the maga had put pay to three älfar.

Boëndal stoically ignored the blood trickling down his neck. It took more than a blow to the head to make a dwarf complain.

Tungdil gritted his teeth and followed at the rear. His wounds could be bandaged just as soon as they had got the books to
safety, which meant throwing off Nôd’onn’s henchmen and making their way to Ogre’s Death as quickly as they could.

Three orcish sentries were waiting for them at the top of a dune. Djerůn drew his sword.

“That’s enough from you, long-un!” In no time Ireheart was at his side, hacking savagely at the beasts. The rage he felt at
neglecting his duty to Tungdil was channeled into his blows and he cut down two of the beasts in the time it took Djerůn to
slay one.

“At least I’m faster than you,” he told the giant.

D
own in the village, the noise of the battle was fading. From the jeering and grunting it was obvious that the orcs had prevailed
against the inhabitants of the desert’s lone oasis. Flames were spreading from tent to tent and the orcs were loading chopped-up
corpses onto carts. A band of runts spotted the travelers on the crest of the dune and set off in pursuit. Two dozen beasts
scrambled up the sandy slope behind them.

“You’d think they’d have the sense to give up.” Andôkai waited until they were almost upon them, then raised her arms and
uttered an incantation.

A tearing wind swept out of nowhere, gusting and circling until it formed a tornado four paces in diameter, becoming stronger
and fiercer with the maga’s every word. Sand, scree, and boulders were sucked into its midst; then, on Andôkai’s command,
the gale unleashed its force on the orcs, who were hanging back in confusion.

The wind and debris peeled the skin from their bones. Grunting and yelping, the orcs fled the lethal gust.

“Carry on without me,” Andôkai told the dwarves. “I’ll keep the orcs busy for a while.”

The trio resumed their march and soon the maga was back in their midst, with Djerůn behind them, on the lookout for any attacks
from the rear.

This time, though, the orcs let them go. Unlike the älfar, they weren’t equipped to deal with magic, and the night of looting
and destruction had been profitable enough.

Beroïn’s Folk,

Secondling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Early Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle

I
call on the assembly to decide the matter without further delay,” said Gandogar loudly, his voice ringing out across the great
hall. With the intention of cutting a regal figure, he had put on full mail and was wearing his diamond-encrusted helmet.
“Thirty orbits have passed, thirty orbits in which…”

He continued his address, the chieftains and elders listening in silence.

Gundrabur’s eyes were closed and the ceremonial hammer was resting on the arms of his marble throne. His counselor was following
the speech without visible emotion. He had not succeeded in uncovering any evidence to incriminate Bislipur or Sverd, and
worse still, the mood among the delegates was tipping in favor of war.

“You saw the smoke! It came from a village across the border with Sangpûr.” Turning slowly, Gandogar scanned the semicircle
of dwarves; he knew he had to make eye contact if he wanted to win their trust. “The settlement was razed to the ground by
orcs. Tion’s runts are marauding through the countryside, brazenly attacking the races of Girdlegard. We can’t
afford
not to know who our next leader will be. Every orbit brings new dangers. According to the traders, strange things are happening
in the enchanted realms and Âlandur is in turmoil. Some say that the elves have abandoned their kingdom and are scouting for
land elsewhere. We must act!”

“Here or in Âlandur?” said a bewildered voice from the benches.

“Here
and
in Âlandur!” bellowed Bislipur, before Gandogar had a chance to reply. His dwarven blood was boiling over with impatience
and he couldn’t endure the prospect of another interminable speech. “Âlandur must be invaded before the pointy-ears give us
the slip and vanish Vraccas knows where!” He raised a clenched fist. “Destroy the elves and avenge our murdered kin!”

The call was taken up by most of the delegates, although a few of their number abstained from the general excitement, some
signaling their disagreement by frowning or shaking their heads.

Gandogar’s gaze settled on a chieftain who was wearing his withered elf’s ear with pride. The call to arms had been resoundingly
successful, but there was still the matter of the succession, and the elderly monarch showed no sign of preparing to vacate
the throne.

At that moment, Gundrabur’s eyes opened wearily. “Silence!” he commanded. “Baying for blood like beasts… You should be ashamed
of yourselves!” He raised a gnarled hand and pointed to the dwarf who was sporting the grisly trinket. “Get rid of it!”

The chieftain looked to Gandogar for support.

Seizing the hammer, the high king rose from the throne and made his way from the dais to confront the disobedient dwarf. His
wrinkled fingers gripped the chain and snapped it from the delegate’s neck. The shriveled ear dropped to the floor.

“I’m not dead yet, and while I’m your high king, I shall set our course,” he thundered. “The assembly will wait!”

“No,” Gandogar contradicted him, “we have waited long enough. Beyond these walls, orcs are laying waste to Girdlegard and
the elvish villains are getting away. I will sit and wait no longer!”

Balendilín stepped down from the platform and strode over to the fourthling monarch. “You forget yourself,” he said, hand
resting lightly on his belt. “The high king deserves your respect.” The reprimand was delivered without any of the usual formalities
behooving Gandogar’s rank.

“The high king has been wearing the crown for too many cycles to know what’s best for our folks!” Gandogar snapped back. “I
won’t put up with this nonsense any longer. Why should I sit back and do nothing when we should be seizing our opportunity
and getting vengeance on the elves? Âlandur is as good as defeated! We need to attack while we can, not sit here, wasting
our energy on pointless discussions. Orbit after orbit, all we ever do is talk and drink!”

Balendilín squared his shoulders. “Think carefully before you continue, King Gandogar. Our laws were not made to be broken
by you.” He pointed to the stone stelae engraved with the sacred commandments of the dwarves. “They’re the very basis of our
existence. Defy them, and you’ll be endangering the fragile unity of the folks. Why not take a hammer to the tablets if that’s
your intention? By all means, write your own laws, but remember: History will be your judge.”

Hand on his ax, Bislipur stepped forward, positioning himself at Gandogar’s side. The atmosphere in the great hall was unbearably
tense; for the first time it seemed that the difference of opinion was going to end in blows.

Suddenly, the doors swung open.

“Get out!” Gandogar shouted furiously. “We don’t need more confounded beer!”

But this time the interruption wasn’t the fault of attendants bearing tankards. A herald walked in. “The second candidate
has arrived!” he announced.

The delegates whirled round and stared excitedly at three squat figures silhouetted in the doorway. Behind them stood a human
female and an armored giant. A buzz of whispers filled the room.

“Let me speak with him,” said a visibly relieved Gundrabur. “The assembly is dismissed.” Balendilín helped him back to the
throne and they waited for the delegates to leave the hall.

The departing dwarves cast curious glances at the stranger standing between the twins, but no one dared to address him. Then
Bislipur drew level.

He stopped and took a menacing step toward Tungdil. “You’re not one of us,” he said scornfully. “Go back to Lot-Ionan and
leave us to settle our own affairs. You needn’t have bothered coming; we’ve decided on a successor already.”

“Oh really? Let’s hope he’s as good as this one,” Boëndal said coolly. He stepped in front of his charge. “Didn’t you hear
what Gundrabur said? The assembly is dismissed.”

Boïndil joined him and flashed the fourthling adviser an insolent smile. “Looking for trouble, are you? I’ll shave your miserable
chin with my axes, you see if I don’t.” Bislipur merely snorted and left. The doors closed behind him, shutting Andôkai and
Djerůn outside.

The high king motioned for the trio to approach. He and his counselor looked at Tungdil warmly. “The lost dwarf has returned
to his kinsfolk,” he said, rising to clap a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks be to Vraccas for bringing you here.”

Tungdil bowed his head, overcome with emotion. He wanted to say something, but his throat was dry with excitement. He felt
sweaty and grubby, and his body ached all over in spite of Boïndil’s efforts to treat his wounds. In fact, the shoulder that
the high king was gripping was particularly sore. All in all, he was too tired and disheveled to appear before Gundrabur,
but the king of all dwarves generously refrained from commenting on his state.

The monarch turned to the twins. “You’ve done yourselves and the secondlings proud. Ogre’s Death boasts no finer warriors
than you,” he lauded them. “You can be sure of my gratitude. Retire to your chambers and get some rest.”

Boïndil stared at the floor, uncomfortable at being praised. He hadn’t forgiven himself for what had happened in the desert
oasis when Tungdil had nearly been killed. It was mortifying to think that his charge would have died without Djerůn. Gloomily,
he left the hall with his twin.

“You’ll hear our side of the story in a moment,” promised Balendilín, “but why don’t you tell us about your journey first?”

This was the moment that Tungdil had been waiting for. He tried to swallow his nerves, but it was hard not to be distracted
by the great hall’s monumental galleries, pillars, and statues. It was all so very
dwarven
.

“Gladly,” he said, “but what of Andôkai and Djerůn? They were loyal protectors during our travels. I trust they will be provided
for?” Without really meaning to, he had adopted a more flowery way of speech, perhaps because of his magnificent surroundings.

Balendilín gave his word that the maga and her companion would be taken care of, so Tungdil launched into his account, beginning
with Lot-Ionan, the vaults, and his errand, then proceeding by means of the Blacksaddle, Greenglade, the fate of the magi,
the treachery of Nudin (or Nôd’onn, as he called himself), his run-in with the bounty hunters, Gorén’s mysterious books, and
the älfar’s attempts to track them down, then concluding with the magus’s threat to the dwarven kingdoms and his plans to
bend Girdlegard to his will.

Soon his cheeks were flushed with talking, but he tried to state the facts plainly, without glossing over the horror or embellishing
his report.

He spoke without faltering, save for one occasion when he was understandably thrown. It happened when three serving girls
opened the doors and walked into the hall. Tungdil, who yearned to become acquainted with the fairer sex, was transfixed by
the mysterious creatures who had colonized his imagination for as long as he could remember. They were a little shorter than
he was and not as broadly built, but their ample robes betrayed an unmistakable fullness of figure. Fine, almost imperceptible
fluff covered their plump faces from the cheekbones to the lower jaw. The wispy down matched the color of their hair and,
unlike his own bristly whiskers, their furry skin seemed soft and smooth. This then was the origin of the myth about bearded
women. Tungdil found them utterly beguiling.