The War of the Dwarves (3 page)

Like a vast wave, the snow rolled down the mountain, throwing up powdery spray. Everything before it was toppled, stifled,
and dragged on its downward plunge.

“Run!” shouted Boëndal. His legs seemed to move of their own accord. After a few paces, he slipped over, but someone grabbed
him by the plait and he stumbled to his feet. Two dwarves slotted their hands under his armpits and pulled him on. Driven
by fear, they stumbled over the bridge, more skating than running.

Even as the gates swung back to admit them, the White Death reeled them in.

Hurling itself triumphantly over the precipice, it fell on the dwarves like a starving animal. Its icy body smacked into the
bridge, knocking them into the chasm.

Boëndal’s shouts were drowned out by the roaring, thundering beast. His mouth filled with snow. He clutched at the air until
his right hand grabbed a falling shield, which he clung to as if he were drowning.

His descent was fast—so fast that his stomach was spinning in all directions. He had no way of orienting himself in the snow,
but the shield cut through the powder like a spade.

Tiring of the dwarf, the White Death dumped him and covered him over. The weight of the cold beast’s body pushed the air from
his lungs.

A little while later Boëndal blacked out. Night descended on his consciousness and his soul was ready to be summoned to Vraccas’s
smithy. At least it would be warm.

300 Miles North of Mt Blacksaddle,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th/6235th Solar Cycle

A
rivulet of sweat left his greasy hair, slid down his forehead, and slithered over his soot and lard-slathered skin, zigzagging
past clumps of solid dirt. It ran down the bridge of his green nose, dribbled onto his upper lip, and was licked up greedily
by his thick black tongue. His vile mouth stayed open as he panted for breath, exposing the full length of his tattooed tusks,
a sign of high rank. His vast jaws twitched.

“Runshak!” he thundered, gesturing for his henchman to join him.

The troop leader, putting on a burst of speed to overtake the column of marching orcs, left the path to reach the mound where
his chieftain was waiting.

The long march north had started at the Blacksaddle, where the orcs had been defeated by an alliance of dwarves, elves, and
men. They were heading for their new homeland in the Gray Range: Eight hundred and fifty torturous miles still separated them
from the Stone Gateway at the border with the Outer Lands.

For now they were intent on destroying their cousins, who were somewhere on the road ahead.

Runshak marched up the slope and came to a halt in front of his chieftain, the great Prince Ushnotz, one-time commander of
a third of Toboribor, the southern orcish kingdom. “Are we catching them?”

“Look,” boomed Ushnotz, pointing to a flat expanse of grassland amid the rolling hills. The field, a mile and a half across,
was scarred with thin black lines—narrow channels cut by melt water that ran toward the eastern corner, seeping gradually
into the soil. Although the field was grassing over, the trees and bushes were still bare, offering little protection from
the wind—or shelter from enemies.

Hordes of tiny black figures had taken up residence on the usually peaceful land.

Runshak estimated their numbers at more than two thousand. They had set up camp and were going about their business as if
they had nothing to fear. Dead wood and branches had been stacked in large pyres from which smoke was rising in thick black
columns, clearly visible in the cloudless sky.

Ushnotz raised a hand to his massive forehead, shielding his eyes as he focused on the activity below. Most of the milling
figures were orcs; the others, shorter and less powerful, bögnilim. What they lacked in stature, they made up for in speed,
but bögnilim were cowardly creatures that had to be whipped into shape. “Northern orcs and bögnilim,” he grunted scornfully.
“An alliance of fools.” The northern orcs, summoned by Nôd’onn to secure the human kingdoms, had demonstrated a fatal lack
of discipline at the Blacksaddle, scrapping like wolves, while Ushnotz’s troopers, no less ferocious or powerful, obeyed his
orders like well-trained dogs. The orcish chieftain despised the northerners, but bögnilim were worse. “Prepare to attack.
We’ll strike when they’ve filled their fat bellies and they’re snoring by the fire.”

Runshak nodded and charged down the slope, barking orders at the pack leaders, who relayed them in similarly boorish fashion.
With a clunking of armor and jangling of chain mail the mighty army of five thousand orcs rearranged itself into smaller units.
The archers made their way to the back; those bearing spears and lances stood shoulder to shoulder at the front.

The orcish chieftain followed the preparations approvingly, his thick black lips curling back to reveal his magnificent tusks.
He was well pleased with what he saw. A growly laugh sounded from his throat.

He took a deep breath and let out an almighty roar. The shuffling and stomping came to a halt. Nobody said a word.

“Nôd’onn broke faith with us and abandoned us to our fate. The fleshlings think we’re going south, but our route will take
us north—to found a new kingdom,” he proclaimed, confident that the prospect of a new homeland would make them forget their
tiredness and spur them into battle. He drew his notched sword and pointed at the enemy below. “Nôd’onn’s northern lapdogs
are in our way. We had to flee our homes because of those cretins. Destroy them, and the Gray Range will be ours. We’ll be
in our new kingdom before the fleshling soldiers are in sight of the peaks.” He laughed malevolently. “I hope they send their
cavalry after us—we could do with some meat.”

His troopers grunted and snarled excitedly, pounding the hafts of their spears on the ground and banging swords against shields.

He raised his arm and the noise stopped abruptly. The silence was broken by a question. “Couldn’t we march past the northerners
instead?”

Ushnotz, who had excellent hearing, knew at once which of the five thousand troopers had spoken the treasonous words. Kashbugg
was a troublemaker who took after his father, Raggshor.

Raggshor had met his death shortly before the battle of the Blacksaddle in circumstances not dissimilar to these, after questioning
the wisdom of laying siege to a mountain. Ushnotz had thought him an excellent tactician, but criticism—especially when voiced
in public—was not to be tolerated. Besides, Ushnotz made the decisions and he always knew best. He had killed Raggshor on
the spot, and he was contemplating a similar fate for Kashbugg.

“Silence!” he bellowed, throwing back his head in an intimidating roar.

The display made little impression on the offending orc, who stepped forward, sword in hand, shield raised defensively. “Why
not march past them and get there first? We can occupy the halls while they dash out their brains on the gates.” He stood
with his legs apart, bracing himself for the blow that was bound to follow. “It’s time we did things differently, Ushnotz.
After what happened at the Blacksaddle, we’re not as strong as we were. Maybe if you’d listened to my father, we’d be back
in our kingdom by now.”

Several orcs grunted approvingly.

For Ushnotz, the interruption was unwelcome: The sweet smell of victory had soured, replaced by the reek of rebellion. He
drew himself up to his full height, bared his tusks and tensed his muscles. Then he took off, bounding down the slope, and
thundering to a stop in front of Kashbugg.

“I’ve got a better plan,” he snarled, squaring his shoulders. There was a nasty glint in his yellow eyes. He made a feint
with his sword; then, ducking beneath Kashbugg’s raised shield, he whipped out his dagger, rammed it into the trooper’s armpit
and pierced his heart. Green blood gushed from the wound and the insolent trooper thudded to the ground. “My plan is this:
Kashbugg dies first, just like his know-it-all father at the Blacksaddle.” He glared at the others, challenging them to object.
“Anyone else want to talk tactics?”

He wasn’t surprised when no one stepped forward. The real shock came a moment later when the dead orc stood up. Kashbugg reached
to his armpit and touched the wound with his claws; it healed straightaway.

Ushnotz got over his confusion faster than Kashbugg, who was clearly amazed to be alive. He rammed his sword horizontally
into the injured orc’s torso. The trooper sat down heavily and stared at the blood. He still showed no signs of dying.

“I’m sick of your troublemaking!” shrieked Ushnotz, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him to his feet. “How dare you
defy orders? I told you to die!” The notched sword cut into the trooper’s torso, but the damage was far from fatal. Kashbugg
opened his mouth, dribbling blood and saliva; then he laughed.

Straightening up, he gave the chieftain a shove. “Tion has made his choice. Why else would he make me immortal? My father’s
death must be avenged!” He raised his shield and sword. “Tion wants me to lead the orcs to victory; the northern kingdom will
be mine!”

“Why would Tion favor a boneheaded simpleton like you?” growled Ushnotz, preparing to fight. None of his troopers dared to
take sides: Orcs were always arguing, but this was different. “You’re hiding something, aren’t you?”

“He drank dark water from the ditch!” called one of the troopers.

“It was hallowed water; I knew as soon as I saw it!” said Kashbugg, thumping the leather container on his belt. “I filled
my pouch with it.” He struck out at the chieftain, who blocked the blow and smashed the hilt of his sword into his face. Kashbugg
stumbled backward, groaning.

“Dark water?” barked Ushnotz. He had noticed it as well: murky puddles on either side of the track. Nothing would have induced
him to drink it.

“It’s the blood of the Perished Land,” said his challenger. “And I, Kashbugg, was elected to find it!” He sprang forward,
swinging his sword.

Ushnotz flung himself to the ground and drove both boots into the trooper’s knees, smashing the joints. Kashbugg screeched.
The noise ended suddenly as Ushnotz dealt a long sweeping blow to his neck. The trooper’s head fell one way, his body the
other. This time Kashbugg was dead.

Ushnotz bent over the corpse, unhooked the water pouch and signaled to one of his underlings. “Here, drink this,” he said.
The trooper took the pouch.

Screwing up his face in disgust, he took a sip. Black water dribbled from his mouth, and he coughed. “It tastes like the smell
of troll’s piss, only wor—”

Ushnotz stabbed him, ramming the dagger into his heart. He watched impassively as the trooper fell to the ground. The blade
was still embedded in his flesh. After a while, his eyelids fluttered and he raised his head. The blood stopped pouring from
his chest.

“Well?” asked Ushnotz suspiciously.

“I’m… I’m alive,” said the orc, his voice a mixture of horror and pain. Then he realized his newfound power. Roaring with
triumph, he bared his tusks and brandished the pouch. “I’m alive! The dark water made me—”

Ushnotz took hold of his dagger, pulled it out of the screaming orc’s chest, and lopped off his head. He caught the pouch
quickly and raised it to his lips, draining its contents. Then he hurled it to the ground. He didn’t feel any different, but
he was certain of the effect. As a former prince of Toboribor, he deserved to be immortal.
A leader like me needs an indestructible army
. He decided to obtain more of the water for his troops.

Leaving the troopers without a word, he lumbered up the slope to survey the enemy camp and wait for an opportunity to attack.

The northern orcs were gorging themselves on human flesh. Ushnotz, his stomach rumbling, breathed in the smell of roasting
meat. He and his troopers had been nourishing themselves on whatever crossed their path—animals, snails, and beetles. Fleshlings
were a rare delicacy because the northerners seldom left anything in their wake. The inhabitants of three villages, a small
town, and a hamlet had been slaughtered and eaten by the marauding troops.

Ushnotz was surprised at their pillaging; it was bound to provoke the fury of the fleshling kings.

The fleshlings on their own weren’t much of a threat—Ushnotz thought them feeble and clumsy—but it was imperative for his
troops to reach the Gray Range before the united army of Girdlegard noticed and hunted them down. If it came to a battle,
he wanted to be protected by the sturdy defenses of a dwarven stronghold at the heart of a mountain range. With any luck,
the other princes of Toboribor would keep Girdlegard’s warriors busy for a while.

The sun, tired from another long orbit, was dropping toward the horizon. Soon she would retire to bed, making way for the
stars to populate the heavens. The time for battle was approaching. Ushnotz bellowed for Runshak and briefed him on the plan
of attack.

Just then the wind changed, blowing a new smell to the hilltop where Ushnotz and Runshak were stationed. They sniffed enquiringly,
their broad nostrils flaring until at last they were sure. The air smelled of horses, armor, and sweat—fleshling sweat.

“They’re coming from the south,” snarled Runshak, turning to face the string of hills to their right. “Confounded fleshlings.”

The united army!
Although Ushnotz could smell but not see the new arrivals, he knew at once that his troopers were outnumbered. Even as he
resigned himself to beating a hasty retreat he realized that the enemy was hounding a different quarry. “We’ll wait,” he said.

“You mean, they haven’t seen us?” asked Runshak, surprised.

“It’s not us they’re looking for; they’re after the orcs who left those tracks.” He grinned. A few miles earlier, he had decided
to stop tailing the northerners and lead his troopers across a river. The fast-flowing water had washed away their scent.
Clearly, the fleshling scouts hadn’t thought to look for two separate armies or his troopers would surely have been attacked.
He congratulated himself on his guile.