The Dwarves (72 page)

Even the last determined sleepers in the city were torn from their slumber by his shouts. Everyone with two legs and a weapon
found their way onto the street, including the first courageous members of the militia, who came running out of their houses,
having barely stopped to dress.

“Do something, Andôkai,” shouted Tungdil, terrified of what would happen to the citizens of Roodacre if the battle-crazed
Boïndil was to rampage through the city. “We won’t be able to hold them off.”

This time she didn’t turn to sorcery. “Djerůn,” she barked, and issued an unintelligible order.

The giant stepped forward. The torches of the assembled crowd bathed his armor in flickering light, bringing the threatening
visor to life. At that moment the helmet produced a noise unlike anything Tungdil had heard in his life. It was a cross between
a reptilian hiss and the dull, ponderous rumble of an earthquake, a sound so full of aggression and menace that anyone in
earshot knew instantly not to approach. Tungdil felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. He took a nervous step back.

Inside the helmet, the violet glow intensified, streaming out of the eyeholes and outshining the torches. The horrified faces
of the transfixed crowd were steeped in a purple light that was painful to behold.

The second roar was even louder and more terrifying than the first. This time everyone, including the guardsmen, turned in
panic and fled, running back through the streets and alleyways to safety.

The portcullis was almost fully raised. “Let’s g-go,” stuttered Tungdil, still shaken by the sound of Djerůn’s voice.
Assuming it was his voice…

They ran into the night, glancing over their shoulders as they hurried down the snowy road. No one followed. The giant’s performance
had made enough of an impression to dissuade the townspeople from hunting them down.

As for Tungdil, he was more curious than ever about the armored warrior, although he suspected the truth would be less than
reassuring.
It’s not a human, at any rate,
he decided.

The company jogged in silence through the snow. After a while, Bavragor, who had fallen in line behind Goïmgar, pointed to
the artisan’s back. “Where are the ingots?” he panted breathlessly, listening in vain for a response. “Hey, I asked you a
question!”

Goïmgar sped up, intent on getting far enough ahead before he dared to answer. “I lost them,” he said plaintively. “A guardsman
knocked the bag from my hand and I couldn’t reach it in the scrum. I’m sorry, I honestly didn’t mean to —”

“Didn’t mean to…? I’ll give you
didn’t-mean-to,
you worthless little —” Bavragor lunged at him but was restrained by Tungdil from behind.

“It’s all right, Bavragor.”

The mason was beside himself. His chestnut eye glinted angrily. “All right? We’ve lost every single one of the ingots! We
can’t exactly fetch them now!”

“We’ll be in the fifthling kingdom before you know it; we’re bound to find something there,” said Tungdil in a firm, confident
voice that reminded everyone that he was the leader. To his mind, the matter was closed.

“But you said we shouldn’t rely on finding materials on the way,” Bavragor objected stubbornly. “So why —”

“What’s done is done,” Tungdil said sharply. “We’ll have to make the best of things.” He loosened his hold on Bavragor and
clapped him on the back. “No matter what happens, we’re not going to let it stop us. We can’t! No one else is going to forge
the ax and save Girdlegard. It’s up to us.”

“It would be a darned sight easier without Goïmgar,” grumbled Bavragor. “He only drags us down.”

“Vraccas must have made him part of this mission for a reason.” Tungdil noticed that the mason was wheezing. “Steady on, Bavragor,
you’d better stop talking before you get a stitch. Goïmgar’s fitter than you.”

“Cowards always make good runners.” Even as he spoke, there was a jangling noise and he stiffened. Before he could take another
step, his legs buckled and he toppled over, raising a cloud of glistening snow. When the flakes settled, he was buried beneath
a layer of white crystals. Sticking out of his neck was a bolt fired from a crossbow.

The others, with the exception of Djerůn, threw themselves to the ground so as not to fall victim to the archer. Once again,
Andôkai barked an unintelligible command, whereupon the giant scanned their surroundings and set off at a sprint.

It definitely wasn’t an älf,
thought Tungdil. Unlike Djerůn, he could see no sign of their hidden assailant.
Guardsmen? But guardsmen carry torches…

The maga crawled through the snow to examine the mason’s wound. Balyndis wriggled over to join her.

“The tip stopped just short of his spine,” said Andôkai, after a cursory inspection. “If it weren’t for his cloak and the
metal-plated nape of his helmet, it would have penetrated farther.” She gripped the shaft of the bolt resolutely and pulled
it from his flesh. With her right hand she stemmed the blood from the wound. “I hope he’ll forgive me for using my dastardly
magic to save his life.” She closed her eyes in concentration. “I can’t say I’ve had much experience in healing dwarves. I
hope I can do it.”

So do I.
Something whirred past Tungdil, just missing his head; then a third missile rebounded off Goïmgar’s shield. They heard a
high-pitched scream, which stopped abruptly as Djerůn seized his prey.

He cast their tormentor into the snow beside them. A yellowy-green circle sullied the pristine snow around the diminutive
corpse. A head with two long pointed ears plumped beside it.

Goïmgar shrank back in horror. “Sverd!” The dead cross-bowman was Bislipur’s former slave. The artisan looked at the mangled
gnome and shuddered, then stared at the dent in his shield where the third bolt had struck. “But why would he…” He broke off,
not wishing to draw attention to the matter, but Tungdil finished the question for him.

“Why would Sverd be aiming at you?” He stared into the gnome’s unseeing eyes, but Djerůn’s ruthless solution to the problem
had ruled out all hope of an answer. “You were traveling with the wrong party, I suppose.”

He bent down to pick up the now-redundant choker. Sverd was free at last, but not in the way he had hoped. Pensively, he pocketed
the collar, intending to confront Bislipur with the evidence when they next met. As he looked down, he noticed a shiny lump
of butter-yellow metal.
Gold!
There could be no further doubt that the gnome was responsible for the mishaps that had befallen them on their journey.

Boïndil got straight to the point. “Bislipur is the most contemptible dwarf that ever lived.” He wiped the snow furiously
from his thick cloak and beard. “Setting his lackey on us and trying to have us killed! Dwarves don’t assassinate their kinsfolk;
it’s the most dastardly crime a child of Vraccas could commit!”

“The gnome did all his dirty work,” commented Tungdil, his mind still whirring. “Bislipur wasn’t going to kill us himself.
He would have washed his hands of all responsibility.”

“Just wait until I get hold of his wretched king,” threatened Boïndil, praying to Vraccas to hasten their encounter. “I’m
going to beat him black-and-blue.”

Still struggling to digest what had happened, Goïmgar shook his head slowly. “No, Gandogar would never have agreed to it;
he’s not a murderer, whatever you think. Bislipur must have taken it upon himself to…” The artisan lapsed into a helpless
silence, no longer sure what to believe.

“Hang on a minute; you want Gandogar to be high king, don’t you?” Boïndil accused him suspiciously.

“Of course I do! I said so from the start. But to murder a dwarf because of it…” He shuddered. “Bislipur must be mad,” he
murmured, staring at Bavragor’s motionless form. “He must be so desperate for Gandogar to be crowned that he doesn’t know
what he’s doing. He’s insane.”

Balyndis took Bavragor’s hand to comfort him. Slowly the open wound in his neck shriveled until only a small scar was left.
Exhausted, Andôkai sank down and cooled her face on the snow.

“I’ve healed the wound,” she said faintly. “In a moment he’ll…”

“Magic,” Bavragor muttered sleepily. “I’ve been thinking; maybe it’s not so useless after all.” Groggily, but with a profoundly
serious expression, he nodded to the exhausted maga. There was no need for him to thank her in any other way.

A
question if I may, glorious captain of our troupe.” The sun was just rising when Rodario, shivering with cold but gripping
his duffel bag with grim determination, drew alongside Tungdil. The impresario pointed furtively at Djerůn. The events of
the previous night had reminded him and the others that the giant was unlikely to be an unusually tall man. “What kind of
creature is he?” The question was barely audible through the layers of scarf wrapped around his head.

“I have no idea,” Tungdil said frankly without slowing his pace.

Rodario displayed his customary persistence. “No idea? But I thought the lot of you had been traveling together for a while…”

“She told us that he isn’t a monster.” Tungdil suddenly remembered the night in the desert when he had caught a glimpse of
what lay behind the terrifying visor. A shiver ran down his spine.

The impresario blew on his frozen fingers. “Not a monster, eh? Then what in the name of Palandiell is he? I’ve never known
a human to light up a darkened street with the power of his eyes. If it’s a trick, I’d give anything to know the secret; the
audience would love it.”

Hoping that Rodario would give up and go away, Tungdil said nothing and trudged energetically through the snow, glancing at
the map to get his bearings.

“Very well. I’ll have to assume that he’s a creature of Tion.” Looking pretty pleased with himself, Rodario stuck his hands
into the pockets of his fur coat. “It adds a bit of drama to the plot. Ye gods, the play will be brilliant. The whole of Girdlegard
will flock to see it.” He stopped and cursed. “I wish my blasted ink would stop freezing. At this rate, I’ll have forgotten
the best bits before I get a chance to write them down.”

“You should carry the inkwell next to your skin,” Tungdil advised him. “That way the ink will be nice and warm and you can
scribble as much as you like.”

Rodario gave him a friendly pat on the back. “There’s a sharp mind hiding under all that hair, my little friend. I was thinking
the same thing, but thank you nonetheless.”

Not a single footprint marred the snowy road ahead. The wintry weather and marauding orcs had convinced the people of Tabaîn
to stay by their hearths and barricade their doors.

The terrain was so flat that raiding parties could be spotted well in advance. In clear weather the watchtowers commanded
views of over a hundred miles, but no amount of warning could save the settlements from the orcs. The northern hordes could
be stopped only by good swordsmen, and Tabaîn had precious few of those.

Tungdil checked their position against the map. They were closer than ever to the southernmost reaches of the Perished Land.
Who knows how far the pestilence has spread? There’s no way of telling with the landscape blanketed in snow.

“Orcs,” came Boïndil’s warning from the front of the procession. “Twenty miles to the west. They’re… Hang on, they’re turning
east,” he reported, surprised. “They’re moving fast. You don’t think they’re looking for us, do you?”

Bavragor pointed to a hamlet situated in the direction that the beasts had been heading originally. The superior vision in
his remaining eye enabled him to see what the others could not. “That would have been their next stop, but they’ve abandoned
their quarry.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead. A red glow had settled over his face.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Balyndis asked. “You look a bit feverish.”

“What if it’s gangrene?” said Boïndil. “Maybe the hocuspocus hasn’t worked as well as it should.”

The allegation spurred Andôkai into action. She asked the mason to lean forward so she could inspect the wound on his neck.
Boïndil was beside her in a flash. They came to the same conclusion.

“The wound has healed nicely,” he admitted. “I can’t argue with that.”

“I’ve lost a bit of blood, that’s all,” said Bavragor, trying to allay the others’ fears. He was obviously uncomfortable at
being the center of attention, but Balyndis persevered. She pulled off her left glove and laid her hand on his forehead.

“For the love of Vraccas, I could forge a horseshoe on there,” she said in alarm.

“With a skull as thick as his, I don’t suppose it would do much harm,” Tungdil joked. “He’s a tough customer, our Hammerfist.”

“I’m serious, Tungdil, he’s feverish. Either that, or he’s got a nasty cold. We need to get him inside before he loses consciousness
or worse.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” objected Bavragor. “I’m perfectly —” He doubled up in a coughing fit that went on and on until he was
shaking so violently that his legs caved in. Tungdil pulled him upright and steadied him.

“I’d say it’s a cold.” Balyndis scanned the horizon. “He needs a warm bed for the night.”

Tungdil nodded. “We’ll stop at the next hamlet. Sorry, old fellow, but a dead mason won’t be any good to us.”

“A cold!” Goïmgar chuckled maliciously. “So who’s the weakling now? I might not be big, but at least I’m hardy.” He was practically
glowing with satisfaction at not being the underdog anymore. Head held high, he strode past the ailing mason with a smug smile
that prompted Furgas to throw a snowball in his face.

Tungdil soon realized that their efforts to find a bed were destined to fail; there wasn’t a single farmhouse, let alone a
hamlet, between them and the Gray Range. Since Bavragor refused to make a detour, they walked without stopping in order to
reach the entrance to the tunnels as soon as they could.

A nasty surprise awaited them when they finally reached the spot. The mouth of the shaft had transformed itself into a frozen
pond.

“We’ll have to walk, then,” said Bavragor cheerily, doing his best to downplay his illness and seem sprightly despite his
fragile state. His bright red face and the beads of perspiration forming beneath his frozen helmet told a different story.
“I can see the range from here.”