The War of the Dwarves (58 page)

Salfalur gave a signal, and a band of thirdlings prepared to scale the walls.

Tungdil smiled. “Is that how you’re going to fight off the avatars, with climbing ropes and grappling hooks?” He paused. “There’s
something you should know: I’m not alone.” Boïndil appeared at his left, and Boëndal on his right, weapons aloft, and faces
grimly determined.

“This is definitely in breach of the agreement,” said Salfalur. “I know those two; they’re secondlings!”

“Not any more,” chimed in Boïndil, twirling his axes impatiently. He was clearly spoiling for a fight. “We’re freelings now.”

Gemmil appeared on the parapet. “They’re with me.”

On Gemmil’s signal, the rampart filled with dwarves carrying shields, clubs, axes, and other weapons. Some of them deposited
rocks on the edge of the parapet, ready to hurl them at the thirdlings in the event of an attack.

“A few of my warriors from Trovegold,” explained Gemmil. “The battalions from Gemtrove and the other cities are guarding the
stronghold. Ten thousand dwarves, six gates, twin ramparts, nine towers, and a bridge lie between you and Xamtys’s halls.”

“You’ll have me to reckon with as well,” said a crimson-cloaked Narmora, stepping up to the parapet.

“And me,” called Rodario grandly, trying to look as imposing as possible. He was wearing a magnificent new robe for the occasion.
“My name is Rodario the Fablemaker, apprenticed to the mighty Narmora the Unnerving, and second only to the maga in skill
and power.”

Tungdil swung his ax above his head. “King Lorimbas, the choice is yours: Attack, and expose your warriors to dwarven bombardment
and the wrath of a maga and her famulus, against whose magic no mortal army can prevail, or show us the weapon and explain
how it works.”

The king scanned the ranks of the defenders. “The weapon isn’t here,” he said, scowling. “Our first priority is to take possession
of our territory and secure our position.”

“Fine, but you and your warriors will have to wait until you’ve convinced us that the weapon really works. I hope for your
sake that it doesn’t take long—it’s cold outside.” He pointed to the right. “There’s a cave over there. It should be big enough
for half your army. The others will have to make do with blankets.”

“Psst, scholar,” whispered Boïndil. “How are we going to know if the weapon really works?”

Tungdil grinned. “Did you see the look on Lorimbas’s face? I thought Salfalur was going to scale the gates and tear me to
pieces!”

Boïndil looked at him blankly. “So what?”

“In other words,” whispered Boëndal, “Lorimbas and Salfalur are furious with us for seeing through their scam.” He smiled,
relieved that their decision to follow Tungdil had been rewarded. “You were right, scholar. Lorimbas lied to the other rulers.
The weapon doesn’t exist.”

Tungdil took little satisfaction in his victory, knowing that the news augured badly for Girdlegard as a whole. “Narmora is
our only hope. She’ll have to delay the avatars while we raise an army of innocents to fight them. The dwarven rulers and
other monarchs must be informed.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourselves,” shouted Lorimbas from below. “I’ll have the weapon for you in two orbits. Prepare yourselves
for a surprise.”

“We’re happy to wait—if waiting will save our homeland,” Tungdil called back. He lowered his voice so that only his friends
could hear. “They’re bound to attack. They’re going to use the time to find a way of breaking our defenses. Tell the sentries
to be vigilant. We need to brace ourselves for an assault.”

Boïndil banged his axes together. “I’m not afraid of them. I don’t like the notion of spilling dwarven blood, but what choice
do we have? Vraccas forgive us for raising our axes against his creation, but the thirdlings have brought it on themselves.”

“Clansfolk!” Lorimbas’s voice cut through the mountain air. “Thirdling clansfolk who have strayed from the Black Range, deserters
like Sanda Flameheart who left the thirdling ranks, your crimes will be forgiven. Turn back to the thirdlings before it’s
too late.”

“More lies, Lorimbas?” called Tungdil. “Your trickery won’t work.” Out of the corner of his eye he watched as Sanda glanced
nervously from Gemmil to Myr, but her face betrayed no emotion. He couldn’t help recalling Myr’s warning. “Fine, Lorimbas,
you’ve got two orbits. I can’t wait to see the secret weapon that can destroy a band of demigods.”

He backed away from the parapet until he was out of sight, with Narmora and the others following suit. He didn’t know whether
to feel satisfied that his strategy had proven successful, or dismayed that his worst suspicions had been confirmed. All along
he had been secretly hoping that Lorimbas would surprise him by unveiling a mighty weapon capable of saving Girdlegard from
destruction.

He was joined by Narmora, who seemed to guess what he was thinking. “What are we going to do now?” she asked. “We can’t fight
a battle on two fronts.” Her dark, almost fathomless, eyes gazed toward the west. “After orbits of calm, the past few nights
have been worse than ever. Judging by the fire on the horizon, the avatars are dangerously close.” She was glad that she hadn’t
brought her daughter with her. There could be no doubt that Dorsa would be safer with Rosild in the palace than with her parents
in the western range, but it didn’t make the separation any easier to bear.

“Can you stop the avatars?” asked Tungdil.

She gave a wry laugh. “What can anyone do against eleven miniature deities?” She looked crushed. “Andôkai studied for over
a hundred cycles and never attained the skill and knowledge she sought. I was her apprentice for half a cycle.” She lowered
her voice. “No one knows how to stop them. We know nothing about them, except that they’re lethal. Nôd’onn was right, Tungdil.
He warned us about the avatars, and we killed him. The only magus with the power to destroy the avatars is dead.” She took
a deep breath. “We won’t have many peaceful orbits like this. We shouldn’t spoil it with gloomy thoughts.” She turned to leave.
“I’ll tell Furgas to load the catapults.”

“Tell the sentries in West Ironhald to inform us of any developments,” he said. “I only hope we can resolve things with Lorimbas
before the avatars reach the border and Xamtys and her clansfolk are burned to death.”

Narmora nodded and took her leave.

“She cured Furgas even though she said she couldn’t,” Myr said thoughtfully. “Her powers must be increasing, don’t you think?”

“I hope she can handle it. We need her to be strong in spirit.” Tungdil took her in his arms. “What will become of us, Myr?
Will we be killed by Lorimbas or Salfalur, or reduced to ashes by a band of demigods? Is this the end of our adventure?”

She stroked his cheeks. “I’m a medic, not a seer. I can’t foretell the future, but I’ll always be right behind you. After
what happened last time, I won’t be letting you out of my sight. You could have died because of me, and nothing is going to
stop me being there if you need me—not Salfalur, not the avatars, nothing.” She looked at the dwarves thronging back to the
warmth of East Ironhald. “I’ll make sure my medicine bag is properly stocked. I’ll need it, if Lorimbas attacks.”

“They won’t breach the gates.”

“What if they don’t have to?”

She glanced across at Sanda, who was giving orders to the guards behind the fortified wall.

“She’ll ruin everything,” murmured Myr. “Someone needs to keep an eye on her, and it had better be me.”

T
he two orbits were over in no time.

Tungdil, Narmora, and the twins took up position on the ramparts and waited for Lorimbas to spin them another story or launch
an attack. “Any idea what they’ve been doing?” Tungdil asked a sentry.

“Singing—standing right here, and singing. Songs about battles, songs about the other dwarves, most of them highly offensive…
They wouldn’t shut up.” It was clear from his tone that the lyrics had incensed him. “We couldn’t sleep because of the noise.
But the main thing is, they couldn’t bring down the gates with their voices.”

“They’ve started again,” said Boëndal, pointing to the crowds of thirdlings emerging from the cave. “They’re singing their
hearts out.”

The thirdling warriors lined up in rows, the front row as long as the gates were wide. Still singing, they marched toward
the mouth of the gully with Lorimbas at their head. He came to a halt some thirty paces from the gates.

“I thought you were going to show us the weapon, Lorimbas,” called Tungdil sarcastically. “Don’t say you forgot!”

“There never was a weapon, Tungdil Goldhand, you traitor,” bellowed the thirdling king. “Know this before you die. Your wise
dwarven friends, the oh-so-clever humans, and the snotty-nosed elves fell for our ruse. The avatars don’t exist.”

“So now you’re pretending we were never in danger,” scoffed Tungdil, signaling to Gemmil’s warriors to heft their weapons.
“I can’t fault your resourcefulness. What have you lined up next?”

“Your destruction. Right now four thousand warriors are marching on West Ironhald. They’ll storm your defenses from the west,
while I lead the rest of my army to victory from the east. No dwarf, no maga, and no god can stop my conquest of the dwarven
kingdoms. My spies have served me well.”

“Where’s the fat one?” hissed Boïndil suspiciously, scanning the enemy ranks. “I can’t see him anywhere. What’s happened to
the others? There were five thousand of them not so long ago. A thousand are missing at least.”

“You’re right. Something funny is going on.” Tungdil turned back to Lorimbas. “If the avatars don’t exist, how do you explain
the fire burning on the horizon, night after night? Can you do magic, Lorimbas?”

The thirdling king chuckled. “Oh yes, I can do magic, even without your maga’s powers. I can conjure dwarves to the Outer
Lands and harness the power of sulfur to make gullible dwarves like you quake in their boots at the sight of my mighty conflagration.”

“But how did you…”

“A real hero would have explored the Blacksaddle and uncovered its secrets,” Lorimbas taunted him. “You were in our stronghold,
and you never suspected how valuable it was. We’ve got our own system of tunnels, built by our ancestors many cycles ago.
From the Blacksaddle, we can attack in all directions. I heard you were expecting trouble from the west, so I invented a threat.”

“You’re lying, Lorimbas.”

“The whole of Girdlegard is shaking like a leaf because I set off a few fireworks in the Outer Lands,” crowed Lorimbas.

“What about the comet? No catapult in Girdlegard has the power to—”

“The comet was real, all right. A happy coincidence for us. It landed in the Outer Lands and left a big crater. Some of my
spies saw it fall. They didn’t spot an avatar, unless he was made of lava.” He slapped his thigh and shrieked with laughter.
“To think you took the comet as a sign that Nôd’onn was right! You would have done anything I said to protect yourself from
the imaginary threat.”

“You made the dwarves leave their kingdoms,” murmured Tungdil.

“What happens next is up to you. Either open the gates and leave with your lives—or wait for us to cut you down. My warriors
will show no mercy.”

Narmora stared at the thirdling king.
All lies… I lost my child, Andôkai died by my hand, and Furgas was in a coma, all because of his scheming…
Her eyes darkened to fathomless hollows and she lifted her arms, causing the dwarves around her to shrink away. “Lorimbas
Steelheart, you will die for your treachery,” she called menacingly.

“Not as soon as you think, witch,” he retorted, raising his horn to his lips. A moment later, the ground caved in, causing
the fortified wall to collapse.

The defending dwarves crashed to the ground. Most of those on the parapets were crushed by stone blocks the size of a fully
grown dwarf or buried under falling debris.

No sooner had the final block come to rest than the thirdlings surged forward, clambering over the rubble and throwing themselves
on the startled defenders whose leaders had fallen with the gates.

Worse was to come.

Amid the commotion, Trovegold’s warriors heard picks and hammers breaking through the frozen ground behind them. Soon they
were confronted with the missing thirdlings, as one thousand warriors led by the ferocious Salfalur emerged from a hastily
built tunnel and attacked from the rear.

The first battle began.

B
y dusk, the bodies of three thousand defenders lay strewn between the first two gates, and the thirdlings were singing victory
songs to Lorimbur.

Tungdil and the twins had managed to drag the wounded Narmora from the rubble and carry her through the second gate before
the thirdlings noticed. Gemmil, Sanda, and nine hundred badly shaken warriors had also survived the assault.

Eyes closed, Narmora was concentrating on healing her wounds. The skin grew back faster than water rising in a well. She leaped
to her feet. “I’m going to make that treacherous thirdling pay for his—”

“No, Narmora,” said Tungdil. “We’re abandoning the first five gates. I don’t want to lose more of our warriors to the thirdlings’
underhanded tactics. Save your strength for defending the stronghold.”

Narmora was about to reply when Myr ran up. “Come quickly, maga,” she called. “You’ll never guess what the sentries have found
on the western border.”

“More warriors for me to tend?”

“Just one,” said Myr. “It’s Djer
n, Estimable Maga. At least, I think it is…”