The War of the Dwarves (36 page)

“Oink, oink,” snorted Ireheart, darting forward. He slashed a path through the hordes, allowing Tungdil, Myr, and the others
to follow.

Thanks to his sterling efforts, the group made rapid progress and axes whirred in all directions, felling orc after orc. Killing
the beasts posed a problem because they had to be beheaded, which wasn’t easy, especially since the dwarves were fighting
several orcs at a time. After a while they took to working in pairs, the first dwarf felling their opponents and the second
dwarf driving his ax through their necks. All of a sudden, the gateway seemed much closer.

The defending dwarves, eager to help their former leader, sallied forth to meet him.

“Get back!” shrieked Tungdil as the älfar leveled their bows. “Hold your shields above your heads. They’ll…”

Black arrows sang through the air, finding cracks in the wall of shields and homing in on unprotected flesh. Five dwarves
fell to the ground and disappeared under the boots of the snarling orcs, who surged into the space, forming a living barrier
between the gateway and the rest of the group.

The defenders’ maneuver had failed, leaving a handful of dwarves at the entrance of the tunnel, while the others fought frantically
to keep the orcs at bay. Dwarven archers raised their crossbows and fired bolts at the beasts, but the advance continued undeterred.
The bolts were lethal for ordinary warriors, but not for a rabble of undead orcs.

“We should have brought warriors, not masons and smiths,” growled Ireheart, whirring his axes at giddying speed in an effort
to reach the beleaguered defenders. He was splattered from head to toe with green blood, which had an intimidating effect
on the beasts. “Either that, or artisans who can fight!” His axes struck again; his victim, backing away nervously, took a
blow to the neck.

Tungdil tried to count the dwarves at the entrance to the tunnel. As far as he could tell, almost everyone in the kingdom
had come out to beat back the invaders, but the orcs were still advancing and had nearly reached their goal. Tungdil spotted
Glaïmbar and Balyndis fighting side by side.

He pointed to the survivors of the ill-advised sally. “Head toward them,” he commanded. “If we band together, we’ll make it
to the gates.” Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Myr and the exiles were holding their own against the orcs. In
fact, the dainty medic was fighting with tenacity and strength.

Soon Tungdil’s party joined the band of defenders, but their path was blocked.

The beasts surged forward, spurred on by Runshak, who was bawling orders at the top of his voice. The älfar feathered the
troopers with arrows, driving them on from behind. Yelping with pain, the orcs advanced; victory was in their grasp.

In front of the gateway, the lead orcs were locked in combat with the dwarves, who were fighting valiantly but ineffectually
against the invaders. Meanwhile, some of the smaller orcs were trying to sneak past and attack from behind, trapping the defenders
between two fronts.

Tungdil glanced at the orcish leader. “It’s time he went,” he said, deciding that a change of tactics was in order. “We need
to kill their chief.”

Ireheart, brown eyes glinting manically, had fought himself into a frenzy. At the mercy of his fiery spirit, he threw himself
on the enemy, windmilling his axes at incredible speed.

“Boïndil!” shouted Tungdil. “I said we need to kill their chief!” He had to repeat himself several more times before Boïndil
finally heard.

The group set off toward Runshak, who spotted the approaching threat and turned to the älfar, hoping to enlist their bows
in his defense. Suddenly his grin froze, his mouth falling open in horror.

Tungdil saw the fear on his ugly green face and turned to discover its source.

A colossal figure loomed into view. Brandishing a sword in one hand and an ax in the other, the metal-clad giant towered over
the boulder where the älfar were stationed with their bows. The orcs in the vicinity squealed in terror and scattered in all
directions, falling over each other in their eagerness to escape.

A demonic visage stared out from the giant’s visor, the eyeholes emitting a bright purple light. Even from a distance, Tungdil’s
eyes were dazzled. The giant let out a dull, menacing roar that caused the ground to quake. Tungdil’s hair stood on end.

Alerted to the danger, the älfar raised their bows, but Djer
n was already upon them, sword and ax slashing through the air,
severing bowstrings, cleaving arrows, and slicing through sinew and bone. In no time the boulder was strewn with bloodied
armor and gory remains.

Only one of the älfar succeeded in evading Djer
n’s blades, but the colossal warrior had no intention of letting him escape.
Jumping onto the boulder, he pushed off and launched himself into the air, landing on the shoulders of the fleeing älf, who
crumpled screaming to the ground. Without stopping to use his weapons, Djer
n stamped on his head, squashing it like a plum.

A tense silence descended on the plateau; both sides had watched the encounter with bated breath.

This is our chance!
Wrenching his eyes away from Djer
n, Tungdil aimed his ax at the orcish chieftain and hurled it at his head.

Runshak heard the weapon whir toward him and turned in time for the blade to miss the back of his helmet and land between
his jaws, slicing cleanly through his head. The newly appointed chieftain was dead.

“For Vraccas and Girdlegard!” shouted Tungdil, breaking the hush. “Behead the brutes! Long live the children of the Smith!”

The orcs had heard and seen enough.

After losing their unbidden allies, not to mention Runshak and the prince, the beasts were ready to admit defeat. Forgetting
their undead powers, they forfeited their advantage and fled.

The panic was so great that some of them jumped on top of their spluttering comrades in the pool, while others stampeded down
the mountainside, bowling over the troopers who were toiling to the top.

“You never learn, do you, scholar?” scolded Boïndil, handing Tungdil one of his axes. “What was the first thing I taught you?
Never throw your ax unless you’ve got another in reserve!” He grinned. “Still, there’s nothing wrong with your aim.” Oinking
ferociously, he threw himself on the fleeing troopers, slaying orc after orc.

Cries of astonishment went up from both sides as a second battalion of dwarves appeared on the far side of the plateau. The
new arrivals threw themselves on the invaders, squeezing the orcs between two fronts.

Tungdil noticed that some of the warriors had white hair and pale skin.
The freelings,
he thought, relieved. Although the tide had turned in favor of the defenders, there was a chance that the orcs would remember
their immortality and lay siege to the gates. Gemmil’s warriors couldn’t have arrived at a better time.

This is the crunch
, he thought, glancing to where Glaïmbar and Balyndis were fighting.

The king and his fiancée were defending the gateway against a handful of orcs whose fury outweighed their fear. Far gone in
bloodlust, the beasts threw themselves against the defenders’ axes, hammers, and clubs.

Most of Tungdil’s comrades were too busy chasing the fleeing army to realize that the gateway’s last defenders were dangerously
overextended.

Tungdil paused, his thoughts in turmoil as he watched his rival parry blow after blow. The attack redoubled, but Glaïmbar
was holding his own.
Just.

It’s nothing to do with you
, whispered a devilish voice in his head.
So what if he falls? He’ll die a hero, and Balyndis will be free.

The chosen leader of the fifthlings took a step backward and came up against a wall. For a second, he was distracted, and
an orcish sword made contact with his wrist.

Glaïmbar can take care of himself
, the voice whispered.
He’s a great warrior; let him prove his worth. Hurry up and find Boïndil.

Tungdil had almost decided to rejoin his group when Balyndis caught his eye. She was surrounded by orcs, and she looked at
Tungdil pleadingly, her brown eyes begging him to go to Glaïmbar’s aid.

“Botheration,” he grumbled, gripping the haft of his ax. “What a pity it was his wrist, not his chest.”

He set off bad-temperedly toward the gateway, but the rescue mission came to a precipitous end.

In the heat of the battle, he had forgotten to look out for the älf. A slender figure appeared out of nowhere and alighted
beside him. Looking up, he saw Keenfire speeding toward his head.

Blacksaddle,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

T
he diamonds on the high king’s helmet glinted in the sun. Gandogar knew that even the most shortsighted sentry would notice
his approach, but he held his head high; he wanted to be seen. In all his 299 cycles he had never set eyes on the thirdling
king, and his arrival at the court of Lorimbas marked a turning point in the history of the dwarves.

Pushing the brown hair away from his eyes, he looked up at the Blacksaddle and watched as sun and shadow strove for mastery
over its slopes. The gullies and couloirs were shrouded in inky darkness, but the flanks of the mountain were gilded with
light.

For Gandogar, there was something menacing about the flat-topped mountain where countless dwarves, elves, and men had lost
their lives.

The battle has left its mark on this place
. He shook the reins and the pony moved off. The powerful dwarf and his mount were suffering from their long journey through
Sangpûr’s deserts. Particles of sand had found their way into Gandogar’s beard, slipped through the rings of his mail, and
sneaked inside his leather jerkin, rubbing against his skin in the tenderest places. His poor pony had fared no better. There
was no escape from Sangpûr’s sand.

Now, as they rode through southern Gauragar, the temperature was cooler, but the air was thick with menace. The banners flying
from the top of the Blacksaddle warned the high king and his fifty armed warriors that the stronghold was in the hands of
its makers, the children of Lorimbur.