The War of the Dwarves (48 page)

“Spare me your barbs, and think of Girdlegard. Some of us are relying on the maga to save us from our foes.” He stepped smartly
into the corridor and closed the door.

Narmora sat down beside Furgas. Slipping her right hand into her bodice, she felt for the gemstone hanging from her neck.
She had been wearing the pendant since the battle of the Blacksaddle.

If only Rodario knew my power…
Still clasping the gemstone with her right hand, she placed her left hand on Furgas and ran her fingers over his stab wounds.
As she closed her eyes, a green glow suffused his bandages, permeating the fabric and irradiating the flesh below. The glow
intensified, shining brightly over the infected flesh, and leaving healthy pink skin that grew back over the wound, leaving
no sign of inflammation or scarring.

Narmora took a deep breath. It was beyond her means to revive her husband from his coma, but she knew how to heal his wounds.
She left the bandages in place so that the maga wouldn’t notice.

“Thank you,” she whispered gratefully, letting go of the stone. “Our time will come, you’ll see.” She hurried away to resume
her schooling.

The transition was practiced and flawless; with every step toward the library, Narmora became the obedient student whom the
maga had come to trust.

Trovegold,

Underground Network,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

T
ungdil was sitting cross-legged on Myr’s roof, sipping a tankard of beer and looking down at the statue of Vraccas.

Another busy and inspiring orbit was drawing to a close. Since arriving in Trovegold, Tungdil had experienced all manner of
new things, and he was looking forward to seeing more. He used the pre-dinner lull to sip his beer and review what he had
learned about the underground realm.

As Myr had predicted, the king had insisted on guiding Tungdil and the twins through every street and alleyway in Trovegold
to show them the richness of freeling life. They had visited allotments, workshops, and smithies, and walked the length of
the irrigation system, which was fed by a pair of waterfalls.

Since then, they had made the acquaintance of numerous freelings, some new to Trovegold, others born in the city, but all
unstinting in their praise of Gemmil’s realm. Tungdil had searched their faces for signs of melancholy or sadness, but almost
everyone seemed genuinely content. He could see why they were drawn to Trovegold, which was more than could be said for the
twins. Boëndal and Boïndil were looking forward to returning to the fifthling kingdom with its familiar customs and laws.

He heard heavy footsteps behind him. Jangling chain mail identified the visitor as one of the twins. Unlike Tungdil, they
insisted on wearing armor wherever they went.

“You’re thinking of staying, aren’t you?” said Boëndal, sitting down next to him and putting his tankard on the floor.

Tungdil sighed. “Is it that obvious?”

His friend chuckled. “Even my brother has started to realize that you might not come home. For him—well, for us, really—staying
isn’t an option. He threw up his hands. “Yes, I know we’re all hewn from the same rock,” he said, preempting Tungdil’s objections.
“But the freelings are
outcasts
.” He paused to take a glug of beer. “Outcasts and thirdlings,” he added in a muted but truculent voice. “I’m sorry, Tungdil,
but it isn’t a place for upstanding dwarves.”

“You’re impatient to leave, I know,” said Tungdil, refusing to enter into a discussion about outcasts and thirdlings, a category
to which he belonged. “Your brother’s inner furnace is overheating. He won’t be happy until he’s worked off his temper on
a couple of orcs. He can’t hunt gugul forever.”

Boëndal grinned. “He’s been catching them with his hands. You wouldn’t want to be bitten by a gugul—their teeth are pretty
sharp. The other hunters respect him, even though they think he’s mad.” He raised his tankard to the statue. “Here’s to Vraccas
for steering our path to Trovegold. I’m glad we’ve seen a freeling city, but Boïndil and I want to leave.” He looked at Tungdil
intently. “The sooner the better,” he said firmly. “We’re worried.”

“You mean about the dispute with the elves? It shouldn’t have happened, I agree. Broken trust is difficult to repair, but
I’m sure they’ll find a way. It might delay the conquest of Dsôn Balsur by a cycle, but we’ll triumph in the end. The älfar
are surrounded—there’s nowhere for them to go.”

“What?” exclaimed Boëndal, astonished. “Don’t you want to be out there, fighting with them? Think what a difference it would
make if the hero of the Blacksaddle were to lead an army of dwarves against the älfar! You could make peace with the elves,
win back Keenfire, and—”

“Confounded Glaïmbar,” cut in Tungdil irritably. “I wouldn’t have lost the ax again if it weren’t for him. To think the king
of the fifthlings couldn’t defend himself against a wounded orc! I don’t know how you expect me to get it back. The älf could
be anywhere by now.” He didn’t like to be reminded about Keenfire and he wished the others would stop mentioning it all the
time.

Boëndal looked at him thoughtfully. “Anyone would think you were ready to spend the rest of your life telling stories about
the battles you fought in the good old cycles when you were a hero. You’re not old yet, Tungdil. What about the future?”

Tungdil swallowed his irritation. “I’ve done my bit for Girdlegard,” he said calmly. “From now on, I want to be a regular
dwarf who does regular things. I don’t intend to sit by the fire; I’d like to work in a forge or find a way of using my knowledge.”

“Like Myr you mean? Is that what’s keeping you here? Nothing kills the spirit of adventure like a maiden, they say.”

Tungdil took a deep breath. “I don’t know,” he said sadly. “Myr isn’t a bit like Balyndis. We talk for hours and hours about
books and ideas. I couldn’t have that kind of conversation with Balyndis—she isn’t scholarly at all. But it’s her I dream
about, not Myr.”

He looked his friend in the eye. “What if I do something awful to drive Balyndis and Glaïmbar apart? I don’t want to be a
schemer or murderer like Bislipur and the other thirdlings. I’m scared of hurting Glaïmbar and becoming just like them.” He
emptied his tankard and set it down with a thud. “I need to forget about Balyndis so I can stop hating Glaïmbar. I think it’s
better for everyone if I stay here with Myr.”

His friend nodded sympathetically. “Very well, scholar. If you’re sure… But I can’t promise that Boïndil won’t try to abduct
you.” He and Tungdil laughed briefly, but their hearts weren’t in it.

“What if Girdlegard were in trouble?” asked Boëndal. “Would you come if I asked you to?”

“Of course,” said Tungdil simply. “But I can’t see it happening. When will you leave?”

“Tomorrow morning before sunrise. Andôkai has summoned the leaders of Girdlegard to a meeting in Porista.” He produced a roll
of parchment. “According to Glaïmbar, you, me, and Boïndil have been chosen for the high king’s entourage.”

“I’m sure Gandogar will manage with you and Boïndil,” said Tungdil emphatically. “What’s the meeting about?”

Boëndal shrugged. “No one knows. It’s confidential, apparently, but the maga probably wants to haul everyone over the coals.
To be honest, I don’t blame her—we pledged an oath of friendship, and now we’re killing each other…” He laid a hand on his
friend’s shoulder. “Farewell, Tungdil Goldhand. May Vraccas bless you and bring peace to your soul. I hope you live happily
in Trovegold.” They stood up and clasped each other affectionately.

“I’m not looking forward to telling my brother,” Boëndal said gloomily. “Maybe Myr should sprinkle some herbs on his dinner
to calm him down.”

“It’s all right, I’ll tell him myself,” promised Tungdil. They went downstairs to the kitchen and found Boïndil at Myr’s shoulder,
watching hungrily as she prepared the meal. Two gugul were laid out on the kitchen table, gutted and ready to cook.

“Caught with my own fair hands,” he said, beaming. He rolled back his sleeves for his scratches to be admired. “I didn’t use
axes, just wrung their necks. I tried telling myself they were orcs to make it more exciting—but it didn’t really work.” He
saw their glum expressions. “What’s wrong? No bubbles in your beer?”

“You and Boëndal are leaving tomorrow,” said Tungdil simply. “I’m staying because…”

Boïndil frowned, lowering his head and squaring his shoulders aggressively. “I’ll knock you down and drag you away if I have
to. This had better be a joke.”

“No, I’m staying in Trovegold…” began Tungdil. “For the time being, at least,” he continued, alarmed by the look on Boïndil’s
face. “I’m hoping to persuade Gemmil to send freeling troops to Dsôn Balsur. I can’t ask for his help and run away.”

Boïndil harrumphed and crossed his arms belligerently. “Why not? Maybe I should talk to him.”

“Not on your life!” laughed Tungdil. “Although your natural charm would probably settle the matter quickly.”

“Especially with a bit of help from your axes,” added Boëndal with a smile. “Come on, brother, leave the negotiations to our
scholar. Gandogar needs us in Porista.”

Boïndil strode up to Tungdil and smothered him with a hug. “Look after yourself—and don’t keep me waiting.”

“I won’t,” promised Tungdil halfheartedly. He glanced at Boëndal, who was staring fixedly at the disemboweled gugul. He was
obviously uncomfortable with the charade.

Myr, guessing that the others were keeping something from Boïndil, couldn’t help smiling at the thought of having Tungdil
to herself. “I’ll cook a proper feast tonight,” she promised. “The twins will need plenty of energy for the journey.” She
tied an apron around her waist. “Maybe Gemmil will let you use the tunnels to save a bit of time. I can ask him, if you like.”

Boïndil grabbed the beetles by the tail and lowered them into the vat of bubbling broth. “Not until we’ve eaten,” he ruled.

Trovegold,

Underground Network,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

T
ungdil got up the next morning to find two empty beds. His friends had left without waking him.

Myr was waiting with a special breakfast to fuel his inner furnace: pancakes with cranberry syrup, warm gugul, and a variety
of smoked meats.

“You just missed them,” she said when he asked about the twins. “They had breakfast, packed some provisions, and that was
that.” She sat down beside him and watched him eat. In the end, she couldn’t help herself: A question was burning a hole in
her soul. “You’ve decided to stay in Trovegold, haven’t you? You told Boïndil you’d catch up with them later because you didn’t
want to cause a scene.”

“Yes, Myr, I’ve decided to stay.” He searched her inscrutable red eyes. “I’d like to stay with you, if I may.”

“Have you reached a decision?” she asked eagerly. “Do you want me to heal your heart?”

He gazed at her beautiful face, the silvery down on her cheeks, and her plumps lips.
She wants me to kiss her
, he realized.

“I need more time.” He jumped to his feet, seized with a sudden urge to leave the house. His brusqueness took him by surprise.
“I’m going to the allotments—I’ve been thinking of ways to improve the irrigation.” Stopping briefly to kiss her forehead,
he hurried from the room.

You idiot
, he cursed himself. He wished he were a proper dwarf who could fall in love with the maiden selected by his clan.
I’d be a lot happier
, he thought dismally.
Balyndis is happy—isn’t she?

He took the path leading to the waterfalls, visible from the other side of town. He watched them cascade into the basin, garlanded
with spray. Droplets of water splashed against the surrounding rocks.

On reaching the sluice system that regulated the flow to the canals, he spotted Sanda Flameheart, Gemmil’s companion and commander-in-chief
of the freeling army. Sanda was talking to the dwarves in charge of monitoring the water level and adjusting the sluice. Tungdil
stopped for a moment.

The king’s muscular consort finished briefing the workers and turned to leave, but, noticing Tungdil, raised a hand in greeting
and hurried up the hill to meet him.

The menacing tattoos on her forehead were unmistakable proof of her dwarf-killing past. Not even her billowing fair hair could
soften the menace of the runes.

“May Vraccas keep the flames of your furnace burning,” she greeted him warmly. She didn’t seem the least out of breath, despite
marching uphill in a leather bodice, plated mail, and a skirt-like arrangement of metal tassets that reached almost as far
as her ankles.

“Vraccas be with you,” he replied. “Are you going to battle? I thought no one wore armor in Trovegold.”

She smiled, but the overall effect was more menacing than cheering. “I’m a warrior, Tungdil. I don’t feel comfortable without
my mail—I’m sure your friends felt the same. Besides, Trovegold isn’t as safe as sweet little Myr would have you believe.
Cave trolls and bögnilim have a habit of getting caught in the tunnels.” She laid a hand on her ax. “Thanks to my warriors,
they never pass our gates.”

He noticed that her downy cheeks were streaked with gray, indicating that she was older than he had thought. “You haven’t
lived here long, have you?”

“Just over two cycles—it’s no big secret.” She looked at him shrewdly. “You don’t know what to make of me, do you? You and
I are both thirdlings, but we’ve chosen not to kill our own kind.”

“I’ve never killed a dwarf in my life.”

“I have,” she said frankly, “but I didn’t much enjoy it. I was a dwarf killer because I grew up with dwarf killers, and killing
was all I knew. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t right.” She sat down on the soft carpet of moss and gazed at the city. Tungdil
sat beside her. “In the end, I had to make a choice.”

“So you chose banishment?”

“I chose death. If my clansfolk were to find me, they’d kill me on the spot. I used to be a high-ranking warrior, as you can
probably tell from my tattoos, but I forfeited the respect of the thirdlings. In their eyes, I’m the enemy—another dwarf for
them to kill.” She gazed up at the stronghold. “Trovegold is my home now. I found someone who was willing to take me for who
I am. Starting over is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I’ve made a new life with the freelings.” She turned to Tungdil.
“You wanted to ask me about your parents. What were their names?”