The Dwarves (63 page)

“Over there!” Narmora pointed to a tall, fair-haired figure at the mouth of the gully. Even as they looked, the älf nocked
a fifth arrow to his bow. It hurtled toward them, this time heading straight for Tungdil.

Hurrying to escape the feathered missile, he caught his foot in the stirrups and was trapped. Suddenly he was out of time.
The arrow was only a finger length away when it stopped in midflight, suspended in the air. Its tip was pointed directly at
his heart. Tungdil shuddered.

“Quick, get Boëndal out of here,” the maga panted. “We need to ride on. I can’t maintain the charm for much longer.”

Boïndil’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Accursed älfar!” he shrieked dementedly. “Look, there’s another one! Leave them to me!”
He made to spur on his pony.

“Stop!” Tungdil peered at the mouth of the valley. Two älfar were standing side by side, waiting for the spell to break. “They’ll
shoot you dead as soon as you leave the maga’s protection. Think of your brother, not revenge.” He made a grab for Boïndil’s
reins.

“Out of my way!” raged Ireheart, staring at him without a glimmer of recognition. He raised his arm to strike.

“No, Boïndil!” shouted his brother, kneeling in the crimson snow. “You can’t let it happen again!” He tried to lever himself
up with his crow’s beak, but one hand was still pinned to his back by the arrow. Eyes watering with pain, he mumbled something
and keeled over.

Boïndil let out a terrible howl and leaped from the saddle. “Please, Vraccas, he can’t be dead. He just can’t.” He crouched
beside him. “His heart’s still beating,” he told them, breaking off the shafts of the arrows and gathering his brother into
his arms. “We need to get him to the stronghold.”

They tied the unconscious Boëndal to his startled pony and dragged the pair of them toward the next set of gates.

Tungdil felt a knot of fear in his stomach when he saw the trail of blood in the fresh white snow.
Even warriors aren’t safe on a mission like this.

He risked a glance over his shoulder. The fair-haired älf looked remarkably like Sinthoras. Tungdil thought back to their
last encounter in the desert village.
Somehow, Sinthoras must have survived Djerůn’s attack.
The tenacious älf had returned to avenge himself and his mistress, whom the twins had slain in Greenglade.

Sinthoras yanked something from his neck, wound it around an arrow, and took aim. There were 250 paces between the archer
and his target, but Tungdil didn’t doubt for a second that the deadly missile would cover the distance and more. The älf released
the string and a moment later a second shot followed from his companion’s bow.

“Look out!” Tungdil yelled to the others, promptly losing sight of the arrows, which were speeding toward them at an impossible
rate.

The air crackled as the first arrow hit Andôkai’s protective shield, ripping through the magic barrier and allowing the second
arrow to embed itself in Djerůn’s back.

This time a dull moan sounded from the visor as the arrow penetrated the giant’s armor and a jet of yellow fluid spurted from
the wound. It was as if the tip had lanced a festering blister.

Tungdil had seen the substance once before in Sovereignston when Djerůn had saved his life.
He came to my aid and got hurt in the process.
The giant swayed, shook his head sluggishly, and walked on, his pace considerably slowed. “We need to keep moving!” someone
shouted.

They hurried on, running or riding accordingly, toward the second set of gates. Tungdil gave the command, they slipped through,
and the door closed behind them; they no longer felt quite so exposed.

“Hurry!” shouted Boïndil, spurred on by the circle of blood spreading from his brother and soaking the pony’s coat.

Meanwhile, the fluid seeping from Djerůn’s wound was turning from yellow to dark gray and his movements were increasingly
labored.

They scrambled down the gentle slope toward the third set of gates. Man, dwarf, or pony, it made no difference; they were
floundering to their waists in snow.

The landscape reminded Tungdil of a hill near Lot-Ionan’s vaults where he used to go sledding with Frala and Sunja. He had
an idea. Snatching the shield away from Goïmgar, he turned it over and laid it flat. “Put Boëndal on top. You’ll get there
faster like this.”

They placed the wounded dwarf on the shield, his brother squatted next to him, and the pair of them swooped down the white
slope, speeding toward the third door, which opened mysteriously as they approached.

The smooth underside of the shield raced over the snow, gathering speed all the time, but Boïndil could neither steer nor
brake. He looked up to find himself heading straight for a group of sentries who had gathered in the gateway, weapons at the
ready.

Tungdil cupped his hands to his mouth. “We’re from the secondling kingdom,” he bellowed, his warm breath hanging in the air.
“In the name of Vraccas, lower your axes!”

The firstlings recognized that the intruders were dwarves and stepped aside just in time. The strange craft hurtled past,
spraying glistening snow in all directions. Incredibly, no one was hurt.

Panting and coughing, the rest of the company sprinted to the gates, only to be stopped by the guards. Dressed from head to
toe in armor and wrapped up warmly against the cold, the firstlings looked at them suspiciously through a narrow chink in
their cladding of metal and fur. They leveled their spears, axes, and war hammers at the ragged group.

“May Vraccas our creator bless you and may the flames of your furnace never die. My name is Tungdil Goldhand,” he introduced
himself, gasping for breath and glancing back to check for älfar. “These are my friends and companions. We were sent here
by the dwarven assembly on a mission regarding the safety of Girdlegard. I need to speak with your king.”

The thicket of metal parted to reveal a dwarf in chain mail, leather breeches, and a particularly striking cloak of white
fur. “Many cycles have passed since we were visited by our cousins from the other ranges. Call me cynical, but isn’t it strange
that a collection of dwarves and long-uns should enter our kingdom just as Girdlegard is being threatened by the Perished
Land?” The voice was unusually high-pitched for that of a man.

“A fine sort of welcome this is!” growled Bavragor. He took a step forward, towering over the speaker by at least a head.
“Look here, dwarf-with-no-name, I’m Bavragor Hammerfist of the clan of the Hammer Fists, a child of the Smith, a descendant
of Beroïn, and your equal in merit and birth. Is this what the firstlings’ hospitality has come to?”

“Now, that’s what I call a proper dwarven voice,” said the other. The scarf was pulled away, unmasking the speaker’s identity.

Tungdil gasped in surprise. The face looked distinctly feminine. There was no beard, the features were soft and delicate,
and the cheeks were covered in soft down that grew thicker and darker toward the hairline.

“My name is Balyndis Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers,” she told them, not in the least bit intimidated. “I’m
in charge of these gates, and I make no apology for vetting our visitors before I let them in.”

Borengar’s Folk,

Firstling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle

I
t’s a woman,” said Bavragor, clearly nonplussed.

“Oh, well spotted, Master Hammerfist,” she teased smilingly. “What sharp eyes, I mean,
eye,
you have!” Turning to her guards, she gave orders for the injured Boëndal to be taken care of. Four firstlings shouldered
the shield and carried it like a stretcher to the next set of gates. After waiting for Tungdil to nod his assent, Boïndil
hurried after them.

“The rest of you come with me. Her Majesty will be waiting in the great hall.” The guardswoman looked Tungdil up and down
curiously, then turned and led the way. No sooner had Tungdil warned her about the älfar than she instructed a group of warriors
to take up position by the trebuchets and ballistae on the third rampart.

“What prompted you to build the defenses?” he asked.

“Many cycles ago we had a problem with trolls. Tion tried to sneak them in through the back entrance. Our forefathers built
the walls to keep them at bay and eventually the beasts were defeated.” She glanced up at the sentry, who gave the all clear.
“Looks like the älfar have retreated. Why were they following you?”

“That’s something I’ll have to discuss with your queen,” said Tungdil, lowering his eyes to avoid her probing stare.

“A dwarven queen!” exclaimed Rodario. “I wonder how the women came to wear the breeches.” He sighed. “If only my blasted ink
hadn’t frozen. I’m never going to remember it all. Was it a female revolution?”

Balyndis laughed. “A revolution? No, it’s all very peaceable here. I thought men and women always shared the work.”

Djerůn had stopped carrying Andôkai and was stumbling at the back of the group. On reaching the final set of gates, he came
to a halt and leaned against the wall.

He’s badly hurt,
thought Tungdil in alarm. In a way, he felt responsible because the giant had sustained his original injury in Sovereignston
while fighting on his behalf.

“It’s not far now,” the guardswoman reassured them. “I’ll send for our healers as soon as we’re inside.” It didn’t seem to
occur to her that Djerůn was far taller than any ordinary man.

“That won’t be necessary,” Andôkai said quickly. “You go ahead, and I’ll see to his injuries. He’s too far gone for a physician;
only my art can save him.” The giant slid down the wall and slumped into the snow. Andôkai knelt beside him. She was exhausted
from her confrontation with the älfar, but she summoned the last of her strength. “We’ll catch up with you,” she said sharply.
“Just go!” Her companions complied.

So this is the firstling kingdom.
Tungdil gazed up at the mountain’s red flanks. Hewn into the lower slopes was a stronghold with nine giddy towers. The architectural
style was different from that of Ogre’s Death, the lines more flowing and not as angular and severe, although the building
was similarly sturdy. Curiously, Borengar’s masons had dispensed with ornamentation altogether.

Abandoning their ponies, they made their way onto a wooden platform at the base of a tower. “Try to keep still. It’ll probably
feel a bit funny at first.” Balyndis threw back a lever and up they shot, racing toward the top of the tower, past a narrow
spiral staircase that led up to the battlements.

On the way up, Tungdil heard the rattle of chains uncoiling and scraping over metal.
Some kind of pulley system, but for passengers, not supplies.
“You don’t like stairs, then?”

The guardswoman smiled, and Tungdil thought she looked awfully pretty. “It’s less effort like this,” she said.

They drew level with the top of the tallest tower and walked out onto a parapet that led toward the main entrance via a single-span
arch bridge.

On either side of the walkway was a two-hundred-pace drop. Crows and jackdaws circled overhead and the chill wind blew stronger
than ever. Narmora kept a hand on her head scarf to stop it from flying away.

The vast gates, ten paces wide and fifteen paces high, remained closed as they approached. Instead, Balyndis led them into
the great hall via a separate door.

Bavragor glanced around and smiled smugly. “Just as I thought…” He didn’t have to elaborate: His assessment of the masonry
was sufficiently clear.

The stronghold made little impression on the master mason, but Furgas, Narmora, and Rodario were blown away.

“You hear stories about vast halls hewn into the mountain, but I never thought they were true,” said Furgas, lowering his
voice to a reverential whisper.

“We’ll have to build a new theater,” the impresario told him. “A bigger stage will give the audience a better sense of the
splendor.” He reached out to touch the stone. “It’s real, all right. I almost suspected it was cardboard. Ye gods, it’s incredible,
nay,
miraculous!
”

The copper statues and bronze friezes proved popular, especially with the dwarves, who delighted in their intricacy. The artwork
commemorated battles against Tion’s minions, immortalizing great firstling warriors such as Borengar, founding father of the
kingdom, and other great heroes and heroines of his folk.

“This way,” called their guide, hurrying ahead of the dawdling group toward the next of the kingdom’s wonders, a series of
breathtaking bridges.

This time Bavragor was forced to admit that in matters of engineering, the firstlings were unsurpassed. There was insufficient
rock to span the plummeting chasms, so gleaming plates of metal had been added to straddle the gaps, the sides secured with
wrought-iron balustrades tipped with silver.

When they came to the last of the bridges, their hobnailed boots rang out against the metal, each plate creating a different
tone. The notes echoed through the cavernous passageway in a simple but pleasing tune.

“I give in,” said Rodario, overwhelmed by the magnificence of it all. “We’ll go back to performing idiotic farces and forget
the whole idea. No illusion in the world could do justice to this.”

“Nonsense,” Furgas said briskly. “We can do it, but it’ll cost a bit of coin.”

They slowly began to thaw out, the snow and ice melting from their garments and running down their mail, leaving them feeling
immensely tired but warm.

At length Balyndis came to a halt and knocked on a vast door. A shaft of gold shone through the crack, heralding the glories
within.

The rectangular chamber was clad from top to bottom in beaten gold. Warm light emanated from countless candles and lamps,
reflecting off the burnished walls. The statues were cast from gold, silver, vraccasium, and rare precious metals quarried
from the heart of the mountain. Each gleaming figure was draped with trinkets that could be swapped around at will.

The queen was seated twenty paces away on a throne of pure steel. Guards of both sexes, all dressed in gold-plated mail, watched
over her. The ceiling sparkled with ornate mosaics made of beaten silver, gold, and vraccasium tiles.