The War of the Dwarves (6 page)

I hope the dwarven kingdoms fared better
. “Change of plan,” he said to the others. He gestured to the surface. “We’ll have to look for another entrance.”

His confident manner belied his concern. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t safe to travel through the tunnels until the structure
had been checked. Certain sections of the network could be negotiated only by swooping downhill, and a collision would result
in certain death.

Maybe we should do the whole journey on foot or by pony trap
, he thought as they clambered to the surface.

It was three hundred miles to the Blacksaddle and another six hundred to the secondling kingdom in the Blue Range. Traveling
underground, the distance could be covered in a matter of orbits; walking would take an eternity.

Does someone want to stop us getting to the firstlings? Is Girdlegard in danger?
His vague misgivings hardened into an unshakable sense of dread that yesterday’s victory could do nothing to allay. At last
they reached the surface and he hauled himself out of the shaft. “I want everyone moving as fast as possible. Get together
in pairs or groups to carry the wounded. It’s time we got home.”

They used the sun to find their bearings and headed east. On reaching the crest of a hill above the battlefield, they came
to a sudden halt.

“By Beroïn’s beard, it’s a camp!” exclaimed Boïndil, peering down the far slope. He sniffed the air and examined the ground;
the earth had been churned up by thousands of boots. “Another army of runts,” he growled. He set off at a run, followed by
the others, and stopped at the bottom of the hill. Bending down, he ran a hand over the footprints, sniffed the soil and spat.
“I’ll give them a taste of my axes,” he vowed, fixing his eyes on the broad channel of muddy earth that the orcish troopers
had left in their wake. “They’re heading north.”

Tungdil looked in vain for evidence of a campfire. Two of his warriors called to him from a knoll; there were more orcish
footprints and a couple of dead troopers under a tree. Ravens had clustered over the bodies and were squawking and fighting
for their share of the prey. Judging by the evidence, the orcs had been killed the previous orbit. The birds had ripped away
the dark green flesh, exposing the bone.

“They were watching us,” said Tungdil, praying that Boïndil wouldn’t chase after them. “They must have waited up here while
their cousins were dying. They saw which way the battle was going, and left.”

“Miserable cowards,” snapped Ireheart, aiming a kick at one of the corpses. The nearest raven hopped away awkwardly, flapping
its wings. “Trust the runty villains to hide from us. I wouldn’t have minded a proper fight.” He turned to Tungdil. “Four
thousand of them, minimum. They’re on their way north.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” said Tungdil, baffled. He picked up an empty water pouch and dropped it hurriedly because of the
awful smell. “The odds were in their favor; you’d expect them to attack.” He paused, deciding what to do. “I want to see what
they’re up to,” he announced, knowing that his plan would meet with the secondling’s approval. “We’ll follow them.” Dwarves
weren’t particularly fleet of foot and orcs were naturally faster, but it was probably worth a shot.

“Huzzah!” whooped Ireheart. “Five score of us, four thousand of them: that’s four hundred for every…” He broke off, remembering
his brother in the firstling kingdom. Their reunion would be delayed. His face dropped.

“Hang on,” said Tungdil. “We’re not going to fight them; we’re going to see what they’re up to.” He dispatched a couple of
messengers to chase after Mallen and tell him the news. Another twenty warriors were instructed to spread out in all directions
and warn the villagers of Gauragar about the orcish army. “Tell them to take to the hills or seek refuge in the towns,” Tungdil
instructed them.

“Do you see that?” said Boïndil, pointing at the orcish corpses. “Whoever beheaded them was wasting his time. They were stabbed
to death first.”

“I expect their chief was making an example of them,” reasoned Tungdil. “He probably wanted to bring his troopers into line.”

“Maybe,” Boïndil said doubtfully, “but this one was stabbed three times before they chopped off his head. A chief would kill
with a single strike.” He raised his arm and made a noise like a whooshing ax. “It’s a sign of strength—and precision.”

“I suppose you’ve got a better explanation,” said Tungdil.

Boïndil was unconvinced by Tungdil’s theory, but he couldn’t think how else to explain the troopers’ wounds. The discussion
ended there.

They set off toward the north of Gauragar, the terrain becoming craggier and more barren with every mile. Green meadows gave
way to bare earth, rocks, and the occasional tuft of grass. Thankfully, the orcs had left an unmistakable trail of food scraps
and boot prints, which saved the dwarves the trouble of checking their route.

“I wonder if we’ll see a dead glade,” murmured Tungdil. “Did you hear what Mallen’s scout was saying?”

Boïndil looked at him blankly. “A dead glade? Sounds like something to be avoided.”

Tungdil filled him in on what the scout had said. “Dead glades are patches of forest inhabited by the Perished Land. King
Bruron banned his subjects from approaching them because the evil affects their brains. You can tell a dead glade by the color
of the trees—they’re completely black.”

“I thought the Perished Land had retreated,” growled Boïndil. “We can’t let it hide in the trees.”

Tungdil kept his eyes on the churned-up path. “I’ll ask Andôkai to deal with it. The Perished Land is a canker. Who knows
how far it might spread?”

Slowing his pace, the secondling fell back and instructed the rest of the company to look out for black trees. Anything suspicious
should be reported to King Bruron.

During the second orbit of marching, the tracks turned sharply to the east, heading straight for the highest hill. The sudden
change in direction and the unnecessary ascent indicated that the orcs had left their original course.

On the third orbit of marching, the dwarves, defying the odds, succeeded in closing on the longer-legged, faster orcs. They
watched from a distance of barely two miles as the beasts swarmed up a hill and disappeared over the crest.

“Oink, oink!” grunted Boïndil in excitement.

Tungdil shot him a warning look. “We’re not going to fight them,” he said, laying a restraining hand on the secondling’s arm.
“We wouldn’t stand a chance.”

They set off in pursuit, this time taking care to stay hidden. They ascended the steep, stony slope and stopped just short
of the crest.

Tungdil took off his helmet and his long brown hair billowed in the breeze. Keeping low to the ground, he edged forward and
lifted his head slowly so that only his eyes and his crown were visible over the summit. Boïndil crawled across the trampled
ground to join him.

Their excitement turned to alarm. The orcs were streaming into a dark, wooded area. Tungdil stared at the trees with their
black trunks and bare branches. The beasts were heading for a pool of water, the inky content of which was lapping against
the stony shore and staining it black.

Tungdil had a fair idea what he was looking at. “A dead glade,” he whispered. “It stands to reason, I suppose.”

Boïndil peered at the orcs incredulously. “What are they doing? Surely they don’t mean to stay there? Even by orcish standards
it’s a hellhole.”

Tungdil could tell that his friend was itching for a fight. “We’re not going in,” he said sternly. “We’ll tell King Bruron
that we’ve found another dead glade. He’ll make sure that the orcs stay where they are—they won’t be leaving here alive.”

Raising his head a little, he surveyed the bare treetops and tried to gauge the size of the glade. It measured at least a
mile in each direction, a vast blotch of foreboding and death. Just then a familiar odor came to him on the wind. He wrinkled
his nose in disgust; it was the smell of brackish water that had permeated the drinking pouch, but this time it was coming
from the sinister pool. “Fancy a sip?”

Boïndil made retching noises. “I’d sooner die than drink it.”

Tungdil broke into a cold sweat as he remembered what the scout had said.
The humans who strayed into the dead glades were beheaded by their fellow men.
He stared at the inky pool.
What if the two dead orcs had drunk the fetid water and gone mad? Was that why they were stabbed and beheaded?
For want of an answer, he stopped worrying and crawled down the slope to make his report to the other dwarves. After a long
wait, a delegation of Bruron’s men arrived and Tungdil gave them a detailed account of what he had witnessed.

“It’s time we went home,” he announced. Even Boïndil was happy with the change of plan. The prospect of seeing his brother
outweighed the appeal of another battle, and he was looking forward to a solid dwarven meal, washed down with a tankard of
Girdlegard’s finest beer.

They set off on the long journey home.

Lorimbur’s Folk,

Thirdling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th/6235th Solar Cycle

B
islipur overreached himself,” said a deep voice. The lofty walls threw back the words as a toneless echo, then it was quiet
in the chamber. Only the fire continued to spit and crackle. An armored hand balled itself into a fist, the articulated fingers
creaking as the spikes on the knuckles rose menacingly. “Cycles of plotting, and for what? I knew it would come to nothing.”

“The other folks are weak, Your Majesty. Hundreds died at the Blacksaddle. The situation can still be turned to our advantage.”
The red glow from the fire accentuated the terrible scars on his gleaming scalp. Contrary to appearances, the lines had been
cut by a thirdling tattooist, not an enemy sword. The sequence of dwarven runes spelled death and destruction to the enemies
of his kingdom, and his artfully chiseled skull was fearsome to behold. “They lost their best warriors in the battle with
Nôd’onn’s hordes. It left them crippled and toothless.”

His kinsman leaned forward. His long black hair was streaked with gray and braided into three plaits that sat neatly against
his scalp. “We’re not ready for open warfare.”

The thirdling commander-in-chief shrugged, causing his tunic—a finely crafted shirt of interlocking plates and chain mail—to
jangle. “Name me a better time, Lorimbas Steelheart. We haven’t been as strong as this in two hundred cycles.”

“My plan is more subtle, Salfalur Shieldbreaker,” replied the thirdling king. His beard was stiff with dye, hanging like an
overstarched pennant from his chin. Even when he talked, the red, gray, and brown whiskers stayed perfectly rigid. He leaned
over the table and studied a map of Girdlegard. “Bislipur’s mistake was to move too slowly. My goal shall be achieved within
a decade.” He rose from his marble chair and signaled for his commander-in-chief to follow. The hall where they held their
briefings was dimly lit, with specks of iron pyrite glittering weakly in the dark stone walls. The two dwarves seemed to be
walking through nothingness with only a smattering of sparkling stars.

A line of triangular pillars hewn from the flesh of the mountain stretched toward a set of stairs. Lorimbas ascended them
quickly and threw open the doors to reveal a golden shrine.

Lorimbur, founding father of the thirdlings, rested here. His coffin stood upright, his marble likeness staring out from the
lid. Dwarven runes made of diamonds, precious stones, and gems praised his deeds and exhorted his descendants to avenge and
destroy.

Lorimbas bowed his head respectfully. “Too long have we endured their scorn,” he muttered absently. He reached out with his
right hand and caressed the cold effigy. “Too many times have we failed in our duty to avenge the injustices suffered by our
founder. The time is ripe, thirdling father. Your bidding will be done, and your faithful son, Lorimbas Steelheart of the
clan of the Stone Grinders, ruler of your children, will drive the descendants of Beroïn, Borengar, Goïmdil, and Giselbert
from their kingdoms.” He kneeled down, unhooked a three-flanged mace from his belt, and held it toward the dead king. “This
I promise on my life.”

Salfalur joined him at the coffin and dropped to his knees. There was no need for him to speak: Lorimbas had given full expression
to the passion that burned wordlessly in his soul. Head bowed, with the lethal spike of his double-headed hammer inclined
respectfully to the coffin, Salfalur vowed silently to uphold the thirdling cause.

Hours passed as they prayed together, so absorbed in their devotion that their aching arms and bruised knees barely registered
in their minds.

At last Lorimbas rose, kissed the sacred boots of his ancestor and locked the shrine.

Salfalur lingered for a moment, gazing at the shimmering gold doors. Like all thirdlings, he loved the founder of his kingdom
better than Vraccas, who had forsaken his bold-minded son.

Lorimbur’s crime was to insist on his right to choose his own name. The flint-willed dwarf, who possessed a special measure
of that dwarven quality referred to as obduracy, had argued until he achieved his purpose, but in so doing he displeased the
dwarven god. His brothers each received a talent, but Lorimbur was condemned to mediocrity, and his descendants never fully
mastered the dwarven arts.

Salfalur leaned forward and studied the doors. In his eyes, the inscriptions looked beautiful, but a firstling would compare
the metalwork to the imperfect efforts of a human smith.

They’ll pay for their arrogance
, he vowed darkly, flexing his muscles. He wore heavy vambraces equipped with knives to protect his arms in battle. “What
did you have in mind, Your Majesty?” he asked, bowing his head as he descended backward from the shrine.

The king followed him down the steps and they returned to the marble table to study the map. “We’ll drive a wedge between
them and shatter their alliance,” said the king, reaching for a pitcher and filling their silver tankards with beer. The index
finger of his right hand hovered over the Blacksaddle. “The thirdlings built that stronghold, and I intend to get it back.
It’s ours by right.” He raised his tankard. “To our cousins, for restoring its defenses.” He drank thirstily and replaced
the tankard on the table with a noisy clunk. “Well?” he prompted, eying his silent commander. “What do you say?”