The War of the Dwarves (5 page)

It wasn’t often that an ordinary dwarf was greeted so courteously by a human king. Tungdil grinned and took Mallen’s hand.
“Another decisive victory for the men and the dwarves.” They gazed down at the battlefield; every last orc had been destroyed.
“The good folk of Gauragar can sleep easy tonight.”

The prince’s face darkened. “Some are sleeping an eternal slumber. We saw plundered villages and burned-out houses on our
way.” He turned his face to the darkening sky and stared at the glittering stars. “You’re right, though. The people of Gauragar
need fear no more.”

“Trust the long-uns to start without us,” grumbled Boïndil in a voice that, while quieter than usual, was loud enough for
the prince to hear. “You can’t startle the runts with your horses and expect them to put up a fight!” Slowly, he crossed his
powerful arms in an exaggerated movement in front of his chest and glared accusingly at the riders.

Mallen knew how to handle the hot-blooded warrior. Realizing that Boïndil hadn’t intended him to hear, he decided not to argue.
“We’ll wait for you next time,” he promised. “It’s a shame you were late.”

“
Late?
” echoed Boïndil indignantly, sticking his chin in the air and setting his beard aquiver. “It’s a wonder we got here at all!
The confounded earthquake caused havoc in the tunnels. Warped rails, boulders on the line—some of them bigger than a troll’s
backside! Just be thankful we—”

“That’s enough, Boïndil,” ruled Tungdil, interrupting the warrior’s outburst. “He’s right, you know: We were late.” He turned
to the prince and rolled his eyes apologetically, signaling that Mallen should let the matter lie. “Luckily for us, it didn’t
make any difference: We triumphed in the end.”

Tungdil could see the amusement in the ruler’s eyes. “What a victory for Girdlegard,” agreed Mallen with an earnest nod. “We’d
still be fighting if it weren’t for the dwarves.” It was unusual for him to tolerate rudeness, but no one had overheard the
conversation, and Boïndil was a special case.

Boïndil considered the prince’s conciliatory words and perked up considerably. He pulled off his helmet, letting his long
black plait unfurl down his back, and rubbed his stubbly cheeks. Sweat was trickling down his face. “I suppose you’re right,”
he said. “We had our fun with the orcs, and Vraccas will be happy with us for wiping out the beasts.” He cleared his throat.
“Sorry about my temper, Mallen,” he mumbled, forgetting that it was customary to address a prince with more respect.

“Apology accepted,” the ruler of Idoslane said magnanimously. He pointed to the collection of tents where his army was camped.
“I see the supply wagons have arrived. There’s plenty of dark ale for everyone; perhaps you’ll join us in celebrating the
destruction of the beasts?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Boïndil, setting off toward the tents. His thirst led him straight to the beer barrels, which were
several times the standard size. The other dwarves looked questioningly at Tungdil, who nodded for them to follow. Mallen’s
men, buoyed by the prospect of a night without marching, hurried back to camp.

Mallen and Tungdil lingered on the hilltop, watching the victorious warriors gather around the campfires to eat and make merry.

“A cycle ago I was an exile,” the prince said slowly. “I never thought I’d wear the crown of my forefathers. And I never imagined
the rulers of Girdlegard would join together in an alliance of men, elves, and dwarves.”

Tungdil thought about all that had happened to him. After traveling across Girdlegard on an errand for his magus, he had been
nominated against his wishes as the high king’s successor and journeyed to the Blacksaddle without realizing that Vraccas
had chosen him to wield Keenfire and kill Nôd’onn on behalf of the dwarves. “Adversity brought us together. A cycle ago my
kinsfolk were ready to wage war on the elves.”

Mallen laughed grimly. “At least Nôd’onn was good for something: He put an end to our feuding.”

Tungdil nodded. “Nôd’onn gave us the spark of solidarity, but it’s our responsibility to keep it alive.” He leaned forward,
resting his weight on Keenfire. “We need an everlasting flame in which the bonds between us can be reforged.” He looked down
at the feasting and merriment below. “How many did you lose?”

“Fifty men and as many horses,” said Mallen. “More were wounded, but we were heavily outnumbered. It could have been worse.”

“We were lucky—a few gashes and a couple of broken bones, but nothing to speak of. I think Vraccas wanted us to live. He lost
so many of his children at the Blacksaddle that his smithy must be full.”

The prince laid a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “Come, Tungdil Goldhand, we should celebrate our victory before the long journey
home.”

Tungdil knew he was right. Tomorrow he would set off through the tunnels, pack up his things at the secondling kingdom, and
head west to the firstlings in the Red Range.

From there he would journey north with the dwarves who had elected to join him, and set up home in the ancient fifthling kingdom.
In time, a new folk, descended from Borengar, Beroïn, and Goïmdil, would populate the Gray Range and Tungdil’s promise to
Giselbert Ironeye, founding father of the fifthlings, would be fulfilled.

He knew it wouldn’t be easy. While the Stone Gateway was open, there was nothing to stop orcs and other beasts crossing into
Girdlegard and taking up residence in the abandoned dwarven halls.

Don’t let there be too many of them
, he begged his creator as he walked down the hillside with Mallen.
We can’t keep fighting forever
.

They were still some distance away when they heard Boïndil’s voice. He was singing a ballad that their dead companion Bavragor
Hammerfist had often sung.

At least Boïndil will be happy if we’re overrun with beasts.

Tungdil took the beer offered to him by Mallen, and they clinked tankards to the warriors’ claps and cheers. Tungdil was well
pleased: It seemed the friendship pledged at the Blacksaddle had become a reality for the dwarves and men.

He watched as the assorted warriors sat around the fires and tucked into something that smelled tantalizingly of roasted meat
and soup. Conversation focused on the recent victory. The men described how they felled an orc or killed a bögnil, waving
their spoons as they talked. When they were done, the dwarves laughed appreciatively, lifted their bowls to slurp their soup
and shared some good-humored banter with their new friends.

To think it took Nôd’onn to bring us together!
Tungdil smiled and picked his way between the groups. He heard deep dwarven voices describing the beauty of their mountain
homelands. A few paces further, a couple of Mallen’s soldiers were teaching battle songs to a cluster of dwarves.

He watched and listened contentedly.
If only Balyndis were here as well
… Balyndis, the expedition’s comely smith, had kindled the fires of his furnace, filling him with longing and desire.
At least I’d be able to—

“I’m telling you, it’s not just one,” he heard a soldier say softly. The urgency in his voice distracted Tungdil from his
thoughts. “It’s spreading. I’ve seen three of them already.”

Tungdil stopped beside him. “What’s spreading?” he asked. “Three of what?” He noticed the badge on the man’s lightweight leather
armor; he was a scout.

“Dead glades,” the man said hesitantly. “At least, that’s what I call them.” He pointed to the hills and ran a hand over the
stubby blades of new grass. “It’s like this: The Perished Land lost its power when Nôd’onn died. Palandiell blessed the earth
and gave it new life, but the evil is buried below the surface.” He glanced at the little group of men and dwarves who were
putting away their food with varying regard to politeness. Everyone was listening attentively, especially the dwarves. “You
haven’t seen what I’ve seen,” he continued. “There are pockets of Girdlegard where the evil has taken root.”

“You mean the Perished Land is lurking below the surface?” said Tungdil, all other thoughts forgotten.

The scout nodded. “I talked to the locals near one of the glades. They told me about a few poor devils who strayed among the
trees. Only three came back, and they attacked their neighbors, fighting and raging with the strength of ten until the villagers
chopped off their heads. King Bruron heard about it and issued a decree. Now the dead glades are blocked with palisades, walls,
and moats. No one can enter or leave—on punishment of death.” He reached for his tankard. “Mark my words: It’s spreading through
the land.”

Tungdil opened his mouth to reply but was rudely interrupted.

“There you are, scholar! Still moping about?” boomed Boïndil. At the sight of his friend, Tungdil stopped worrying about the
insidious powers of the glades.

“You’re not thinking about womenfolk, are you?” continued Boïndil. “I must say, for someone who doesn’t know a thing about
dwarf-women, you’ve bagged yourself a lovely lass!” He clinked tankards with Tungdil. “To the finest firstling smith! May
she bring you true happiness.” He paused, and when he continued, his voice was tinged with sadness. “I reckon you deserve
it.”

“You’ll find someone who makes you happy soon enough,” said Tungdil, remembering his friend’s tragic past. He raised his tankard.
“How about a toast to Boëndal? I dare say I miss him as much as you do. He must be fit for battle by now.”

Boïndil gulped down the rest of his beer. “I killed my happiness,” he said slowly, his left hand tightening around the haft
of his ax. “I killed it with my own hands.” He stared absently into the fire. The flames flickered over his furrowed features,
revealing his inner torment. “Now all I can do is fight.”

They sat in silence until Boïndil started singing. One by one, the other dwarves joined in. It was another of Bavragor’s songs.

On they march the orc invaders

Driven by greed and lust

Tion loves to plague our borders

It was ever thus

But the dwarves are here to fight them

It was ever thus

Dwarven axes, dwarven hammers

Smash their skulls and spill their blood

Until the orcs are slain and vanquished

It was ever thus

Tirelessly we guard our borders

Doughty children of the Smith

And when our kinsmen fall in battle

It was ever thus

Our souls are summoned to Vraccas’s smithy

It was ever thus

Eternal warmth, eternal fire

It was ever thus

We seek no praise, we need no thanks

It was ever thus

We do our duty, we do it gladly

It was ever thus

Our ax is sharp, our chain mail glistens

It was ever thus

No beast can breach the dwarves’ defenses

It was ever thus.

Mallen’s men sat in hushed silence while the deep sonorous voices sung of honor, loyalty, and service to Girdlegard. The men,
although ignorant of the dwarven language, had no trouble understanding the music, which seemed to come straight from the
soul.

The chorus of voices echoed over the hills, carried across the valleys and soared to the stars.

The singing stirred the hearts and minds of everyone in the camp. Tungdil’s thoughts were still buzzing when he made his way
to bed. He remembered the scout’s description of the dead glades.
What new evil is this, Vraccas? It seems our worries aren’t over yet
. He decided to investigate further as soon as he had the chance. A moment later, he was asleep.

T
he next morning, it was time for the men and dwarves to part.

Tungdil and his warriors would travel underground through the network of tunnels to the secondling kingdom, while Mallen’s
men would make their way on foot, in carriages or on horseback to Idoslane.

The dwarves tramped through the battlefield and lowered themselves into the shaft, glad to get away from the circling ravens
and the overwhelming stench.

Boïndil led the way. With every rung of the ladder he seemed to shed a little of the sorrow from the previous night. He was
looking forward to the journey and to being reunited with his brother whom they had left in the care of the firstlings to
recover from the älfar attack.

“It’s the longest we’ve ever been parted,” he said as Tungdil reached the bottom of the ladder. They set off toward the wagons
that would carry them through the underground network.

“How are you coping?”

Boïndil tugged his braided beard and pulled out a stray leaf that didn’t belong there. “It’s hard,” he admitted with a sigh.
“You curb my temper better than anyone except Boëndal, but I’m calmer when he’s around.” He thought for a moment. “It’s like
hobbling around on one leg: I can manage, but part of me is missing. Boëndal knows what I’m thinking before I do. I’m not
the same without him—even fighting doesn’t help.”

Tungdil sensed that he was holding back. “What is it, Boïndil? Something was bothering you last night.”

“I… I’m not sure how to describe it,” said Boïndil, considering. “I’ve got a bad feeling, almost like a chill. The worst of
the winter is over, but my insides are frozen. What if Boëndal is in danger?”

They turned a corner and stopped abruptly. Tungdil, forgetting what he was about to say, gaped at the devastation. The roof
of the tunnel had caved in, and a wall of rubble blocked their way. Worse still, their wagons were buried beneath the rock.

Growling indignantly, Boïndil bent down and reached for a scrap of metal protruding from the mess. He pulled on it casually;
then, muscles tensing, he gave it an almighty tug. The warped piece of wagon came away in his hand. “It was their blasted
horses,” he said irritably. “Their stupid clodhopping made the tunnel collapse.” He tossed the metal away carelessly.

Tungdil suspected that the real blame lay with the quake. After Nôd’onn’s defeat, the Blacksaddle had been hit by a terrible
tremor that, judging by reports from the allies’ scouts, had shaken every village in Girdlegard. It stood to reason that the
ancient network of tunnels would be damaged.