The Dwarves (81 page)

“I’m not saying that I
like
the pointy-ears,” whispered Balyndis, sneaking a sideways glance at the tiles, “but their artwork’s pretty good.”

“Houses made of trees.” Boïndil shook his head doubtfully. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable. I’d rather have good solid rock above
me. It protects you from the elements and it doesn’t burn.”

“What about volcanoes?” Rodario asked “Volcanoes don’t burn; lava does,” Tungdil corrected him.

“What do you think lava is…” The impresario dried up under Narmora’s fierce glare. “There’s no point arguing with a dwarf,”
he finished.

The appearance of the company drew stares from the elves in the hall. It was the first time that a child of the Smith had
visited their kingdom, and most of them had never seen a dwarf before.

“They all look the same to me,” said Boïndil, voicing his thoughts as freely as ever. Luckily he chose to speak in dwarfish.
“Long faces, cheeks as smooth as babies’, and so conceited you wouldn’t believe. I bet they think Girdlegard should be thankful
that they live here at all.” He gave his head a little shake and his black plait bounced on his shoulders. “I know it’s not
their fault that the fifthlings were conquered, but I’m not ready to trust them yet.” The smith nodded in agreement.

Tungdil sighed and stuck his thumbs in Giselbert’s belt. He was glad that Lot-Ionan had raised him: Unlike his companions,
he was able to surmount his antipathy to the elves.

Liútasil sat down on a wooden throne, the back and arms of which were decorated with rich intarsia of palandium and gold.
Amber and semiprecious gems added to the opulence. Stools were brought for the guests, but Djerůn had to stand.

Rodario’s quill moved tirelessly across the page as he took notes, made sketches, and complimented the elves effusively. Furgas
stared reverently at his surroundings, while Narmora’s älf ancestry made it hard for her to relax. Her lips were pressed together
in a thin line and she clung to her stool, appearing agitated and unwell.

Liútasil gave an order, and his attendants brought out bread, water, and other offerings, which they served with visible reluctance
to Tungdil and friends. The dwarves, whose presence in Âlandur had obviously caused an upset, weren’t familiar with most of
the victuals, but felt obliged to eat. Boïndil was the first to take a wary bite.

“I don’t care what it tastes like; you’d better not complain or spit it out,” Tungdil warned him sharply.

The look of disgust that was beginning to take shape on the warrior’s face mutated into a wonky smile. Boïndil forced down
his mouthful, swallowed noisily, and reached for some water to wash away the taste. “Don’t touch the yellow stuff,” was his
whispered advice to Balyndis, after which he restricted himself to bread.

More elves arrived in the course of the meal and took their places on carved chairs to either side of their monarch. They
eyed the dwarves with interest.

Rodario added a little water to his last remaining drops of ink. “That should do the trick,” he said, smiling.

“Perhaps we could speak of the purpose of your visit,” began the elven lord. “I shan’t be able to reach a decision until you’ve
told me all that has gone before. Speak only the truth; we will know if you try to deceive us.”

It’s my job to convince them
. Tungdil glanced at the others and rose to his feet. He looked into the waiting faces of the elves. Until recently, Liútasil
and his kind had been under suspicion of the most heinous betrayal, but the fifthlings’ story had cleared the way for a new
beginning. It was up to Tungdil to forge the alliance that the high king had dreamed of.
Speak with a scholar’s wisdom and authority,
he told himself. More nervous than ever, he took a sip of water, stuck his hands in Giselbert’s belt, and commenced his account
of their journey.

As he talked and talked he saw the stars wander above the glittering mosaics and watched as the dark sky turned a deep shade
of blue, the moon paling as the horizon glowed red. Finally, as the sun rose above Girdlegard, sending its rays through the
banks of snow-laden cloud, he concluded his report.

Liútasil’s blue eyes had not left him for an instant: He had listened to every word. “I see,” he said slowly. “So it started
as a contest for the succession and became a mission of far greater consequence. I can see from your faces that the journey
has been testing.”

“Indeed it has, Lord Liútasil. The dangers were many, but we survived, and now we’re here.” Andôkai rose, eyes flashing impatiently,
her stormy temperament unwilling to tolerate further delay. “We’re running out of time. You’ve heard what we have to say;
make your decision while we still have the choice. Girdlegard will be lost if we don’t act soon.” She took a step forward,
knowing full well how imposing she looked. “What have you decided, Liútasil?” Her eyes searched his handsome face. “What have
the elves decided?”

Underground Network,

Elven Kingdom of Âlandur,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle

U
nbelievable!” Boïndil had no intention of letting the matter go. He sat down heavily in a wagon. “How can they need more time?
Time to think about what? I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous! They’ll be sorry when Nôd’onn rules Girdlegard and the
älfar chop down their forest to make a bonfire! They won’t need time for thinking then!” He thumped the handrail angrily.
“I’d like to slice four of those elv— er, orcs — in two!”

What a blow for Gundrabur,
thought Tungdil disappointedly. He took a seat beside the warrior. “I know how you feel,” he confessed. “I thought Liútasil
would overrule the doubters, but obviously I was wrong.”

Furgas, who had been examining the track, took a few steps into the tunnel to assess the condition of the rail. “It looks
pretty solid. There’s a bit of rust, but nothing serious. It’s almost as good as new.” Satisfied, he returned to the wagon
and sat down beside Narmora. “Let the journey begin.”

The company had stayed the night in the forest while the elves were conferring. Âlandur’s beds were the softest in Girdlegard,
which suited the humans very well. The dwarves, unaccustomed to such luxury, had slept badly and woken up with sore backs.
After a simple breakfast, they had packed their things and set out in search of the tunnel. The trapdoor, built into a boulder
and camouflaged by a thicket of ferns, had opened without a hitch. Once inside, they had discovered four empty wagons and
a ramp.

“Finished,” said Rodario, putting away his quill. “You’ll be pleased to know that the elves play a none-too-courageous role
in this epic.” He beamed at them. “Girdlegard will hear how the warriors of Âlandur declined to come to its rescue.”

“At least we found the entrance to the tunnel,” Balyndis said brightly, trying to lift the mood.

Boïndil ran his finger experimentally along his blades. “I suppose that’s something. The question is, will we reach our destination,
or end up being ambushed and eaten by a war band of orcs?” A menacing smile crept over his face. “Don’t worry, my axes will
take care of them. I’m longing to slit their runty throats.” As always on such occasions, he glanced sharply at Djerůn to
remind him not to interfere.

Tungdil turned to Narmora, who seemed calmer now that they were leaving. “How are you feeling?”

She smiled. “Better. It was hard for me in the forest, surrounded by so much elvishness. I’ve got my mother to blame for that.”

He cleared his throat. “Are you nervous?”

“About the showdown with Nôd’onn?” She squeezed Furgas’s hand. “No, not really — although once the magus is standing in front
of me it will be a different story. Still, I’ve rehearsed what to do, so it should be all right.”

“Of course it will be all right!” roared Boïndil. “We’ll pop up behind the army and plow through the ranks. Before the runts
know what’s hit them, you’ll whip out Keenfire and strike the magus in the back. He’ll die, and Girdlegard will be saved!”

Narmora smiled. “A fine plan, but I’d like to try something a little more daring. How about I pretend to be an älf? I can
play the part to perfection. I’ll be able to get past Nôd’onn’s guards and apprentices without arousing suspicion.”

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Andôkai said doubtfully, “but why would Nôd’onn be interested in an ordinary älf? You’ll never
get close enough.”

Narmora rearranged her head scarf. “I’ll think of something.”

Of course!
Tungdil broke into a grin. He had just remembered a story from one of Lot-Ionan’s books. The heroes had used a simple but
effective trick that could work for them as well. “He’ll be interested, all right, when you deliver the hostages that he’s
been waiting for.”

“What kind of hostages?” asked Boïndil. Then it dawned on him. “What? You want us to give ourselves up?” he protested. “No,
we’ll fight our way through like I said!”

“My dear fellow,” Rodario interrupted sweetly, “I don’t wish to reawaken painful memories, but remember what happened in the
fifthling kingdom? Your axes made little impression on the hordes of baying beasts.”

“Precisely my point.” Tungdil nodded. “We’ll be outnumbered. That’s why Rodario, Furgas, and Andôkai will pretend to be mercenaries
who helped Narmora to capture us. Djerůn will have to stay here; his presence would give us away.”

“It’s a risky strategy, but it might just work,” Andôkai said earnestly. “I’m in favor.”

Rodario tapped his lip pensively. “Haven’t I read something like that before?”

“Do you mean
The Death of Herengard
? In the story the heroes need to kill the evil monarch. They use the same tactic and it works,” explained Tungdil, owning
up to his source.

“You mean you borrowed it from a book?” Boïndil protested, aghast. “But you can’t —”

“Remember what I told you when we met? Reading is important!” Tungdil clapped the warrior on the back. “Maybe you’ll believe
me now. Let’s have a show of hands.”

The motion was passed with only one objection. Offended at not being listened to, Boïndil sulked in silence, not even cheering
and whooping when the wagon plunged downhill.

Tungdil chose not to mention the end of the story: King Herengard’s valiant killers had been slain by his guards. It was a
good strategy nonetheless.

O
nce again their journey took them deep below the surface of Girdlegard. They were headed for the Blacksaddle, where Nôd’onn
was mustering his army of orcs and other vile beasts.

Little did they know that the tunnel was preparing to surprise them again.

On rounding a corner, they saw upturned wagons and mounds of orcish corpses piled on both sides of the rail. There must have
been at least two hundred bodies in all. They couldn’t stop because of the momentum, so they leaned out of the wagon to get
a better look.

“By my beard, this is the work of axes if ever I saw it,” growled Boïndil. “You can bet they were slaughtered by dwarves.
Our kinsfolk must be doing better than we thought.”

“It seems funny to be fighting in the tunnels when there’s a perfectly good stronghold in the Blacksaddle. Why haven’t they
ensconced themselves there?” Tungdil dangled over the side to inspect the corpses, which were stacked neatly away from the
rail.
Someone wanted to make sure that nothing and no one got in our way.
He was instantly reminded of the spirits whom they had encountered twice before. “The ghosts! They helped us in the fifthling
kingdom, remember?”

Balyndis pointed to a niche in the tunnel, where a small figure lay contorted on the floor. An orcish spear protruded from
its side. “That’s not a ghost!” she said. “Ghosts don’t have corpses.”

“I wonder if there’s such a thing as tunnel-dwelling dwarves,” speculated Furgas. “It struck me a while ago that the rail
looked nice and shiny. Someone’s been using it regularly, I’d say.”

Tunnel-dwelling dwarves?
The network had been abandoned for such a long time that a band of dwarves could easily have settled in the tunnels. Tungdil
could only guess at an explanation.
They must have been banished by the ancient folks.

He was gripped by excitement. It was entirely plausible that outcasts from the various clans and folks had learned of the
tunnels and founded their own community many cycles ago.
Perhaps they didn’t want to go back to their kingdoms?

“Quick, lend me your quill, Rodario!” he said, grabbing the ink and parchment and scribbling a hurried thank-you letter. His
handwriting was almost illegible because of the juddering wagon. They sped past a stalagmite, and he pinned the note on top.

“Can spirits read?” inquired Andôkai.

“They’re not spirits,” he answered. “If my suspicions are correct, they’re dwarves — outcasts from the five kingdoms who claimed
the tunnels for themselves. We’ve been trespassing on their territory.” He gave a quick explanation. “Remember how they kept
warning us? The hammering, the collapse of the tunnel, the faces in the cavern. They were trying to make us leave.”

“Fascinating, fascinating,” said Rodario. “And when the orcs turned up, they decided to help their kinsfolk instead of scaring
them away. Blood is thicker than water, I suppose.” Rodario snatched back his quill. “I’ll add it to my notes.”

“We’ve seen so many new things — good as well as bad,” murmured Balyndis. “I hope the good outweighs the bad when it’s over.”

“It will,” Tungdil said confidently. As they rattled around the next corner, he took a last look at the stalagmite. Unless
he was much mistaken, a small figure was clutching his note.

T
heir arrival in the former realm of Lios Nudin gave Andôkai an opportunity to replenish her powers. She closed her eyes and
waited. Almost immediately the walls of the tunnel began to glow, revealing the veins and pockmarks in the rock. Andôkai’s
breathing quickened; the light became brighter and intensified to a dazzling glare, then faded abruptly.

Slowly the maga opened her eyes, turned to the right, and vomited over the side of the wagon.