The War of the Dwarves (54 page)

Lorimbas’s nephew saw at once that it would be foolish to provoke his challenger. To the astonishment of the delegates, Tungdil’s
threat met with something akin to respect.

“Tell King Gandogar that his decision has been noted and will be conveyed to my uncle. Your fears about Girdlegard’s future
are unfounded. Once the thirdlings are in control of the ranges, nothing will breach our defenses.” He took his morning star
from the table. “We’ll keep out the vermin—the avatars, the beasts, and the Vraccas-loving dwarves.” He got up, hooked the
weapon over his belt, and set off toward the doors, followed by his taciturn companion, who glanced over his shoulder at Tungdil.
Romo stopped in the doorway. “The thirdling annexation of the dwarven kingdoms begins in eighty orbits. After that time, any
dwarves in our ranges will be killed.” He cast a roll of parchment to the floor. “Here’s a list of chattels. The items in
question must be left at our disposal. Tell Gandogar we’ll deal with his kingdom first.”

The delegates watched as the sturdy figures receded into the distance, their unwieldy armor echoing through the shadowy corridors
long after they disappeared from view.

Led by Gandogar, the dwarves rejoined the discussions as soon as Rodario brought word that Romo and his companion had left
the chamber.

“These are dark times for Girdlegard,” said Mallen, stepping forward to shake hands with the dwarves. “We’re saving our kingdoms
and losing the dwarves. It’s a high price to pay. Perhaps we should fight the thirdlings instead.”

“No,” replied Gandogar firmly. “We can’t waste precious time. The dwarves will return when the danger is over.”

“You can count on our support,” promised Mallen. There were no words to express his gratitude, so he inclined his head respectfully
instead.

“If the thirdlings break their promise, you won’t be the only one after their blood,” said Liútasil to Tungdil. “We’ll kill
them faster than it takes eleven demigods to burn Sitalia’s forests. If the thirdlings have deceived us, the elves will make
them pay.” He turned to Gandogar. “From now on, the selfless dwarves and their noble high king will be immortalized in our
songs. No one in Âlandur will speak ill of the four dwarven folks who sacrificed their kingdoms for our safety.” The lord
of the elves bowed before the dwarf of all dwarves, showing his deference. One by one the monarchs followed his example and
bowed before leaving the room.

“I’ll accompany Romo in person and find out the truth about their weapon,” said Narmora, preparing to leave. “If they’ve lied,
they’ll have an angry maga to deal with as well as a dwarven hero and an elven lord. Gandogar and the other monarchs can take
care of the survivors.” Signaling for Rodario to follow her, she withdrew to her wing of the palace.

The deputations from the dwarven kingdoms took their leave. Most were hoping to drown their sorrows in beer and mead.

At last only Tungdil, the twins, and Balyndis were left.

Boïndil remembered something that had been puzzling him. “Balyndis, how did you know it wasn’t Djer
n?”

“I never forget a piece of metalwork,” she said, smiling. “Especially not a suit of armor like that. The etchings and engravings
on the breastplate weren’t my work—they were passable imitations, but nothing more.” Her face fell. “Unfortunately, I didn’t
spot the forgery in time.” She stepped forward and gave Tungdil a tentative embrace. “May Vraccas bless your melding with
a warm hearth and a casket of gold,” she said in a strained voice. “We won’t see each other for a while, I suppose.”

Closing his eyes, he filled his nostrils with her scent. He hadn’t missed it until now, but it was so familiar, so precious.
He knew it was the last time he would hold her in his arms.

I still love her
, he thought forlornly, clasping her to him and pressing his lips against her brow. “Vraccas be with you,” he murmured, too
choked to say anything else.

For Balyndis it came as a shock to see the truth in his eyes, and Tungdil was startled to see the tenderness and sorrow in
her face. She still loved him; she loved him in spite of the way he had shunned her. He reached for her hand, but she took
a step back and shook her head. “Glaïmbar is waiting,” she said in a smothered voice, turning away.

He watched her go, remembering all the other goodbyes, too many goodbyes. “Myr is waiting too,” he whispered.

“We’re still here, you know, scholar,” said Boïndil with his usual lack of tact. He looked at him intently. “You and Myr should
join our deputation. How about it?”

Boëndal suspected that their friend had other plans. He was sure he had seen a hint of a smile playing on Tungdil’s lips.
“Have you thought of a way to foil the thirdlings?”

“Maybe,” said Tungdil cagily, laying a hand on Boëndal’s shoulder. “I haven’t quite conquered my doubts—but I’ll come straight
to you and Boïndil when I’m ready.”

Boëndal grinned. “I knew you weren’t destined to spend your orbits in an armchair! Vraccas has sent a spark of heroism to
relight your fires. Whatever you’re planning, count us in: We’ll storm the Black Range if we have to.” He set off with his
brother in the direction taken by Balyndis.

Tungdil wandered through the palace, vacillating between confidence and doubt. Soon he was hopelessly lost, but he kept walking,
deep in thought. Balyndis’s farewell was playing on his mind.

His wounds from their separation were as painful as ever. He realized now that scarring wasn’t the same as healing, and even
Myr was a salve, not a cure—she took his mind off the pain, but she couldn’t make it go away. It wasn’t that he didn’t love
her; he just loved the smith more.

How can you think about Balyndis when the future of Girdlegard is at stake?
He shivered at the thought of the decision he had to make.
Vraccas give me wisdom
. It took a while for him to regain his bearings among the endless passageways and chambers of the palace. At last he found
himself outside the conference chamber.

Striding past an archway, he noticed three short figures at the end of a shadowy corridor. One was small and dainty, the next
was broad-shouldered, and the third was noticeably taller and larger.

That sounds like… Myr!
Tungdil stopped in his tracks and hurried back to the corridor. “Hello, Myr!” he called cheerfully. “Don’t tell me you got
lost as well!”

The smallest of the three figures gave the biggest dwarf a shove. Tungdil heard a muffled shriek, followed by a clatter of
weaponry, and a sickening thud.

His warrior’s spirit ignited. Whipping out his ax, he sprinted down the corridor and threw himself between the dainty freeling
and the other dwarves. “Back off,” he said menacingly, noticing the gashes in Myr’s left cheek. Blood was streaming down her
face, streaking her pale complexion.
Now it’s personal…

Romo, holding two thick tomes in one hand, reached for his morning star with the other. His gauntlet shimmered red with Myr’s
blood. “Lorimbur be praised,” he spat. “Not everyone has the privilege of killing Girdlegard’s favorite dwarf.” He threw the
books to his companion. “Take these, Salfalur. My uncle can’t wait to read them.”

Salfalur! The dwarf who killed my parents!
Tungdil stared at the powerful dwarf, who caught the books, and turned to flee. The tattoos made his ferocious features look
doubly sinister, almost demonic.

“No,” shrieked Myr, pulling a dagger from her belt. She launched herself at the brawny thirdling. “Give me back my work!”

Salfalur waited unflinchingly for the dagger to thud against his chain mail. The tip broke off. Raising an armored fist, he
punched the little dwarf’s wounded face. Myr flew back as if struck by Vraccas’s hammer, hit the wall, and slumped to the
ground. “Come on, Romo,” commanded Salfalur. “We’re leaving before the maga and her famulus catch up with us.”

Romo roared with laughter. The chains of his morning star whirred menacingly, the spiked balls circling above his head. “And
let the scumbag live? I’ve never spared a child of Vraccas, and I won’t start now.”

At last Tungdil shook off the paralysis induced by finding Salfalur and seeing Myr hurt. He saw the morning star coming and
ducked.

“You’ve killed your last dwarf, Romo Steelheart,” he growled, ramming the sharp end of his ax into the thirdling’s thigh.
He drew the weapon back and used the momentum to lunge at him with the blade.

Cursing, Romo dodged the blow and hobbled backward. Features distorted by hatred and rage, he stared at his bleeding thigh.
“Die, you traitor!” he thundered, taking the morning star in both hands and swinging it at Tungdil again and again.

Tungdil knew that the haft of his ax, albeit reinforced with steel, was no match for the morning star. Rather than risk losing
his only weapon, he focused on staying out of reach.

The metal balls cannoned into the walls of the passageway, sending shards of marble flying through the air, but Romo’s assault
continued unabated. Cursing and panting, he pursued his adversary with relentless zeal.

Stepping backward, Tungdil stumbled over Myr and was punished for his carelessness by a terrible blow. One of the steel balls
crashed into his arm, while another collided with his broken ribs. Bent double with agony, he focused his energy on keeping
hold of his ax.

“How many blows to fell a hero?” jeered Romo, circling the morning star above his head and preparing to strike. “Two at the
most, I’ll warrant…”

The balls spun toward him.

Tungdil reached up and deflected them with his ax head. They hit a door and crashed through the timber. One of the chains
got stuck in the wood and refused to yield to Romo’s increasingly vigorous efforts to pull it free.

“How many strikes to fell a thirdling?” said Tungdil, dealing a one-handed blow to Romo’s torso. The blade cut through his
chain mail and buried itself in his flesh. Blood spurted from the wound.

Romo had no intention of conceding defeat. Abandoning his morning star, he thrust both gauntlets simultaneously into Tungdil’s
face. Tungdil tumbled to the ground. His eyelids swelled, narrowing his vision, and blood trickled from a gash above his right
eye.

Romo pulled the ax from his torso and held it aloft. “More than you think!” he thundered, preparing to strike.

Harsh yellow light filled the corridor.

“Take that!” shouted a melodramatic voice behind Tungdil. He felt a rush of hot air as flames shot toward Romo, turning him
into a living torch.

The thirdling’s beard was ablaze and his skin was charred and cracked. A nauseating smell of burning flesh filled the air.

Romo made no attempt to extinguish the flames. He took another step toward Tungdil and raised his arm to strike. Just then
a figure cannoned into him from behind and his ax careered sideways. The blade embedded itself in the floor half a hand away
from Tungdil’s chest.

Growling, Romo shook off his assailant.

“Huzzah!” shouted Ireheart, leaping up and brandishing his axes. “Come here so I can give you a taste of my blades!”

“Stop,” called Tungdil. He clambered to his feet and pulled the morning star from the ruins of the door. “He’s mine.”

Romo parried the first blow, but Tungdil struck again, and the metal balls slammed into the thirdling’s head, neck, and throat.
He wobbled, but didn’t fall.

Tungdil landed three hefty strokes in succession until at last Lorimbas’s nephew lay motionless on the floor.
I never wanted to be a dwarf killer
, thought Tungdil, dropping the morning star onto his enemy’s body.
But Romo deserved to die
.

“That was no fun,” complained Ireheart. “He’d been burned to a cinder and injured already. Where’s the challenge in that?”
He glanced around eagerly. “What happened to the chunky one? He’ll put up a better fight.”

Meanwhile, his brother, assisted by Tungdil and Rodario, still glowing from his debut as a famulus, was attending to Myr.

Tungdil, ignoring his own wounds, scooped the unconscious freeling off the cold flagstones and carried her back to their chamber
where he tended to her until Narmora took charge. In short order, the maga restored the dwarf to her former condition, allowing
her skin to grow back as smooth as ever, with no evidence of damage to the silvery down on her cheeks.

Next Narmora turned her healing energies to Tungdil and mended his broken ribs. Lifting his arms gingerly, he discovered that
the pain was gone. “Magic gives me goosebumps,” he said.

“
All
magic, or just Samusin’s magic?” the maga enquired.

“You pray to Samusin?” said Tungdil, surprised.

“I was born of an älf—the other gods won’t have me. Listen, Tungdil, there’s no need to worry about Myr. She’s sound asleep
and she won’t wake before morning. You may as well look for the missing thirdling.”

“Salfalur,” he said grimly, picking up his ax and hurrying over to the twins who were hovering in the doorway with the impresario.
“Thank you for your help back there,” he said to Rodario. “Can you tell us the fastest route out of Porista?”