The War of the Dwarves (39 page)

Tungdil reached for the leather cylinder hanging from his shoulder and pulled out a scroll. Andôkai’s bodyguard had waited
until the end of the battle to hand him a letter. Since then, he had been standing patiently by the waterfall, his armor gleaming
majestically in the setting sun.

Tungdil unfurled the roll of parchment and began to read aloud:

Dearest Tungdil,

The purpose of this letter is to secure the services of the finest smith in Girdlegard.

Djer
n requires a new suit of armor and a tunic of chain mail. Enclosed are his measurements and the composition of the alloy,
for the attention of Balyndis Steelfinger.

When she comes to fitting the armor, Balyndis must bind her eyes and gauge the fit with her fingers. Make her promise to remain
blindfolded until Djer
n is fully clad in his armor. This I ask for her own safety: No one must look on Djer
n’s face.

As for the cost, tell her to name a sum and I will pay.

Djer
n will be heading west across the Red Range. His instructions are to assess the situation in the Outer Lands and determine
the nature of the threat. If the danger is real and not a figment of Nôd’onn’s imagination, we need to know what to expect.

By the time you receive this letter, Narmora and I will be in Weyurn, where we hope to find record of migrants from the Outer
Lands. Perhaps they will tell us something about their homeland.

Vraccas be with you,

Andôkai

Tungdil lowered the letter and handed Balyndis the notes regarding the giant’s measurements and the composition of the alloy.
“It’s lucky that Djer
n turned up when he did,” he observed. “He couldn’t have arrived at a better time. Thank goodness Andôkai
worships Samusin. Her bodyguard restored the equilibrium.”

The smith scanned the list of metals and glanced at the giant. “How will he know what I’m saying? I can’t speak his tongue.”

“Andôkai will have thought of that,” replied Tungdil.

Balyndis turned to leave, but he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Hang on,” he said, pulling her back. “I need you to promise
not to look at Djer
n’s face.”

“I wouldn’t look at his face for all the gold in Girdlegard,” she retorted sharply, shaking him off.

Tungdil watched as she hurried away, followed by Glaïmbar. They exchanged a few words before Glaïmbar took charge of the clean-up
operation and Balyndis attended to Djer
n. Tungdil gazed at her sadly. He wanted to call out and apologize for his childish
behavior. He was already sorry for his rudeness: For some reason, he couldn’t keep a check on his thoughts and emotions when
Balyndis was around. If he was honest with himself, he still loved her, in spite of his growing feelings for Myr.

Do I really like Myr? Or am I just trying to punish Balyndis for choosing Glaïmbar?
Sometimes he wished that he were back in Lot-Ionan’s school; life had been simpler then.

Myr seemed to guess what he was thinking. She slipped her hand into his. “Isn’t it time we went to see your friend?” she asked.
“I’d like to help him if I can.”

Tungdil was too wrapped up in his thoughts to realize whom she meant, but then it dawned on him. “Come on,” he said, squeezing
her hand impulsively. “Let’s see what you can do for Boëndal.”

They hurried through the passageways of the fifthling kingdom and arrived in the forge.

Boïndil was sitting on a stool beside the Dragon Fire furnace, regaling his frozen brother with stories about the battle against
the orcs. Every now and then he thumped a battered helmet that he had stolen from an enemy head.

“But it wasn’t the same without you. Nothing’s the same without you,” he finished sadly, noticing Tungdil and Myr.

Boïndil had been trying to stay cheerful for the sake of his twin, but found it impossible to hide his feelings from the others.
The truth was, it smote his soul to see Boëndal in a death-like sleep. He stood up and smoothed his black beard. What he was
about to say didn’t come easily to a warrior. “Myr,” he began, “I saw you tending to the wounded on the battlefield, and I
saw you cure Tungdil. You’re the best doctor I’ve ever known.” He swallowed. “I’m begging you: Bring Boëndal back to life.
Cure my brother, and I’ll protect you with my life. Nothing and no one will ever hurt you.” He made room for her at Boëndal’s
bedside.

“I’d be honored to help,” Myr said simply. “You don’t need to promise anything in return.” Perching on the secondling’s bed,
she laid a hand on his forehead, then lifted his eyelids to look at his pupils. “I can’t examine him properly in his clothes,”
she told the others. “Let’s get everything off except his apron. I need to see if the blood is still flowing to his limbs.”

Tungdil and Boïndil stripped the sleeping dwarf. The next hour passed in silence as Myr examined every inch of her patient’s
body. Nothing escaped her scrutiny. “Your brother was blessed by Vraccas,” she pronounced. “His limbs are cold, but not frozen,
and his skin looks healthy enough.”

“So he’s basically all right,” said Boïndil eagerly.

“I was worried he might have frostbite.” She lowered her head to listen to Boëndal’s heart and breathing. “It tends to affect
the toes and fingers—the digit freezes, blackens, and eventually falls off. Sometimes the patient is too numb to realize what’s
happening. It’s a nasty condition and impossible to treat.” She listened intently. “Extraordinary! His heart is beating, his
lungs are working, but his body has slowed right down. His inner furnace must be burning very low.” A smile spread over her
face. “That’s it! Fetch me a tub of warm water—and some beeswax!”

“Warm water?” queried Boïndil doubtfully. “We tried that before. It didn’t work.”

“Patience,” she said mysteriously.

The tub was brought in. Myr produced a strip of leather, rolled it up to make a tube, and secured it with some cord. She placed
an end between Boëndal’s blue lips and sealed his mouth and nose with warm wax, forcing him to breathe through the tube. “Right,”
she declared purposefully. “Let’s get him into the water.”

Soon the dwarf was submerged in the tub, his arms and legs weighed down with lead.

“This will thaw him out and melt the ice in his brain,” she explained, fetching a shovel load of glowing coals from Dragon
Fire. The hot coals hissed as they splashed into the water, warming the bath. Myr was careful not to let them fall on Boëndal.

Tungdil checked the temperature with his hand. “It’s pretty hot already.”

Boïndil leaned over, frowning anxiously. “You’ll boil him like a sausage if you’re not careful.” He glared at Myr as she stepped
forward to empty another load of coals into the tub. “Put them back, Myr. You’ll stew him alive.”

“I thought you wanted me to cure him,” she retorted. “Hot water won’t hurt him. He has to be immersed completely or his brain
will clog with ice. I know what I’m doing, Boïndil.”

She raised the shovel to tip out the coals, but Boïndil made a grab for the handle, forcing her to stop.

“I said
enough
,” he growled, squaring his shoulders to prove he meant business. “I won’t stand by while you turn my brother into broth.
You’ll have to think of another cure.”

Her red eyes stared back at him fearlessly. “I’m the expert on this, Boïndil Doubleblade.” She tried to wrench the shovel
away from him. He hadn’t reckoned with her resistance and pulled back too sharply.