The War of the Dwarves (7 page)

The plan made little sense to Salafur, who didn’t mind airing his concerns. “What use is the stronghold, Your Majesty? If
it’s the tunnels you’re interested in, we’ve got access to them here.”

Lorimbas smiled. “The tunnels… exactly. Remember when we first heard how our stronghold had been taken over by the dwarven
army? I sent our scholars to do some digging in the archives. They came back with some fascinating information about the Blacksaddle.
Our dwarven cousins have no idea.”

Salfalur sipped his beer and looked at the king intently. “They’ve been ensconced in the stronghold for orbits. How can you
be sure?”

“Trust me, faithful warrior, they know nothing. If our cousins had discovered the Blacksaddle’s secret, every dwarf in Girdlegard
would know of it by now. News like this travels fast, and our eyes and ears are everywhere. Our spies tell us everything—and
they’re more subtle than Bislipur.” He handed Salfalur the archivists’ findings: a packet of manuscripts tied with a ribbon
and a stack of engraved tablets.

The commander-in-chief glanced at them briefly and waved his hand dismissively. “They’re in the old tongue,” he snapped. “I
can’t read them.”

Lorimbas stared at Salfalur’s bloodshot left eye, the distinguishing feature of the Red Eye clan, and nodded in satisfaction.
“That’s the beauty of it—hardly anyone can read the ancient script. The Blacksaddle will be in our hands before anyone fathoms
its secret.”

“True,” said Salfalur slowly. He took a deep breath. “But how will we persuade the other folks to leave the stronghold? To
fight them would be—”

“None of our kinsmen will lose their lives.” The king laughed cruelly and leaned back in his chair. “We won’t be doing the
fighting. We’ll get someone to do it for us.”

“Who would fight for the thirdling cause?”

“King Bruron of Gauragar.”

Salfalur’s bushy brown eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “This is worthy of Bislipur,” he said reprovingly. “I thought
we’d agreed that scheming is useless. So far I can’t see the merit of the plan.” He wrapped his hands around the haft of his
hammer, an imposing weapon that almost matched him in height.

“I should have explained myself more clearly from the start,” the king said soothingly. “Our archives turned out to be most
instructive. The scholars found an ancient treaty dating back to the end of the 4000th cycle. It seems our ancestors signed
a pact with Gauragar, which grants our kingdom everlasting ownership of Cloudpiercer in payment for our help.”

“You mean, the Blacksaddle?” Salfalur knew the stories about the mountain’s history. According to legend, the Blacksaddle
was once a mighty peak named Cloudpiercer, the summit of which stretched thousands of paces into the sky. Cloudpiercer stood
taller and prouder than any other peak in Girdlegard. It was tipped with snow throughout the seasons and its loftiest flanks
were made of pure gold. After trying and failing to mine the treasure, the people of Gauragar had called on the dwarves to
help them.

“Are you saying our kinsmen helped the humans to mine the gold, just like the legend says?”

“Exactly. The dwarves of Lorimbur were the first to send a delegation to Gauragar.” Lorimbas gestured to the map. “They arrived
at Cloudpiercer and succeeded in burrowing their way through the mountain and digging a tunnel to the top. They hollowed out
the mountain and carried off the gold. In return for their help, they demanded a share of the treasure and ownership of the
mountain. The king of Gauragar signed a treaty to that effect.”

Salfalur knew the rest from a song that his aunt had taught him as a child. The dwarves and men had quarreled over the gold,
prompting Cloudpiercer to erupt in fury and shake the miners from its core. The rest of the mountain was riddled with tunnels
and the peak collapsed. From that moment on, the mountain simmered with hatred and harbored a murderous grudge against the
races of dwarves and men.

“What if the mountain recognizes us and tries to bury us under its weight?” he asked nervously.

“That part of the story is almost certainly hogwash, but we’ll be careful all the same.” The king was still staring at the
map. “Bruron should receive my missive in the next few orbits.”

“Bruron is a man without principles. He’ll never honor the word of his ancestors,” Salfalur predicted dourly. “Besides, without
the help of the other folks, his kingdom would have fallen to the magus. He’ll deny all knowledge of our agreement rather
than risk the anger of the dwarves.”

“Humans will do anything for gold; it’s simply a case of scale. A single coin won’t buy a sovereign’s loyalty, so I’m offering
two full chests. How can he refuse? His kingdom was ransacked by orcs and his people will be hungry. He needs money to buy
grain.” Lorimbas sat back and folded his hands across his chest. “You see, Salfalur, I can fight with my head as well as my
mace. I can outscheme poor Bislipur.”

Salfalur’s tattoos snaked across his face as he ground his teeth. “I don’t doubt it, Your Majesty. But what did Bislipur
achieve
?”

“Patience, old friend. The first stage of the plan deals only with Bruron.”

“Where would you strike next?”

Lorimbas’s finger hovered over the map and landed on the kingdom of Idoslane. “Orcs are marauding through Mallen’s kingdom.
He’ll want to destroy them, or drive them into Toboribor. We’ll wait until he’s busy; then we’ll pay him a visit.”

“Mallen and Goldhand are friends. All the money in Girdlegard won’t change his allegiance.” The commander-in-chief frowned.
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but scheming won’t get you further than poor Bislipur.”

“You’d rather we went to war,” the king said coldly, fixing his commander with his dark brown eyes. “I don’t doubt that the
odds have never seemed better. Our army is strong, and the others are weak from their battle with Nôd’onn.” He broke off and
raised a warning finger. “But numbers count for nothing while the alliance still holds. We need to kindle the hatred between
our cousins and the elves. Once we’ve stoked the fires of enmity, we’ll forge new wedges—wedges that will isolate Gandogar
and the others from the humans and the elves.”

It took more than flashing eyes and a raised voice to intimidate Salfalur. “I wish you every success,” he said, undaunted.
“What are my orders?”

“Tell our mercenaries to listen for the codeword
Lorimbur’s Revenge
. When the time comes, they must lay down their arms and fight only in self-defense. Tell them not to be tempted by offers
of gold.” The king rested his chin on his hands and fell silent. Dark thoughts forced their way into his mind, swamping him
with fear, self-doubt, and despair.

“Are you worried about your daughter?”

Lorimbas sat up sharply, startled from his thoughts. Salfalur was right; he was worried about his daughter, who had been missing
for half a cycle. “Still no news,” he said with a shake of the head. There had been no message, no sighting, not the slightest
indication of where she was or whether she was alive. “I’d sooner carry all the peaks in Girdlegard than endure this silence.”

“Have faith, Lorimbas. She’s a good daughter, and an excellent wife.” Salfalur’s face softened for the first time that orbit.
“I trained her in the art of combat, and you taught her to dissemble; she won’t let us down.” He stared at the fireplace,
watching the flickering flames. “It’s time she sent word.” His left hand clenched into a fist, his gauntlet creaking.

Lorimbas sighed.
A single word, a single syllable would calm our fears…
“It’s hard, I know. I miss my daughter, you miss your wife—but what choice did we have? No one else could achieve our purpose
without arousing their suspicions.” He was trying to drown out the voice of his conscience, which reminded him that he was
endangering his youngest daughter by sending her on a mission that relied on total secrecy. He bowed his head and closed his
eyes. “I had no choice,” he whispered.

Beroïn’s Folk,

Secondling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th/6235th Solar Cycle

I
t’s still a horse—just a small one, that’s all,” grumbled Boïndil, sliding down from the pony’s saddle. He gave himself a
good shake, showering sand from his clothes and beard. “If Vraccas had wanted us to be riders, he would have given us better
padding.” He winced as he rubbed his backside.

“You’d be complaining about your blisters if we’d walked,” retorted Tungdil with a smile. Like Boïndil, he was coated from
head to toe with sand, fine grains of which had snuck through his garments, clinging to the fabric and rubbing against his
skin. He dismounted and ran a hand over his pony’s mane. “Don’t listen to the old curmudgeon,” he told the pony. “You did
an excellent job.”

They were standing on the outermost terrace of Ogre’s Death, one of the most imposing strongholds in Girdlegard, home to the
secondling dwarves. Its keep had been hewn into the rock, with battlements extending down the mountainside in four separate
terraces.

Until recently, no one had believed that Ogre’s Death would ever be conquered, but Nôd’onn had proved that the defenses could
be breached. With the help of the treacherous Bislipur, the magus’s beasts had stormed the stronghold and laid waste to the
secondlings’ halls.

Now the stronghold was a hive of activity. Cranes were lifting, wheels turning, winches hoisting, and saws slicing through
the rock. Dust filled the air, and the Blue Range echoed with a thousand hammers and chisels as hordes of industrious masons
rebuilt what the beasts had destroyed. The rubble from the ruined battlements had been carted away and the fortifications
were rising again, only this time the defenses would be bigger, heavier, stronger. Soon the secondlings would be safe from
invaders once more.

It’s good to see order returning to the kingdom,
thought Tungdil, trying to overcome his nagging fears.
I shouldn’t worry so much…

Boïndil interrupted his thoughts. “Ha, look at Ogre’s Death, rising from the ruins,” he said proudly. “The secondling flags
are flying from the stronghold, and the bones of the invaders have been scattered across the range. They thought they’d destroyed
us, but our spirit can’t be crushed.” Quickening his pace, he made straight for the vast gateway, eight paces wide and ten
paces high, leading from the uppermost terrace to the underground halls.

Tungdil looked up at the flagpoles. On the last stage of their journey through Sangpûr, the flags had been visible as tiny
squares of cloth, but now he could make out the details. The colors of the firstlings and fourthlings flew proudly beside
the crests of the seventeen secondling clans.

He tapped his forehead.
The assembly meeting!
It had slipped his mind entirely. “By my beard, Boïndil,” he called out to the secondling, who was practically at the gateway.
“Another orbit, and we would have missed the coronation.”

Boïndil stopped in his tracks. “To think a pack of orcs and bögnilim could make us forget a thing like that! It wouldn’t have
happened if Boëndal had been with us.” A look of consternation crossed his face and he sniffed the air anxiously. “It’s all
right,” he declared. “We haven’t missed anything important. They haven’t brought out the food.”

The other dwarves caught up and they set off together through the gateway, into the secondling kingdom. The passageway delved
through the mountain, leading to ornately carved chambers supported by soaring columns. Ahead of them towered an enormous
stone statue of Beroïn seated on a white marble throne. They filed between his feet and entered the corridor leading to the
assembly hall.

“Remember what happened last time?” Boïndil asked softly.

“How could I forget?” Every detail of that orbit was etched on Tungdil’s mind. On arriving at Ogre’s Death, he and the twins
had entered the great hall to find the delegates warring among themselves. Soon after, he had embarked on a long journey—a
journey that turned him into a proper dwarf.

“It’s a mercy to be out of the light,” said Boïndil, whose hair had been bleached by the harsh desert sun. “We belong in the
mountains, as Vraccas intended.” He gave his plait a good shake to dislodge the sand. “Do you think the delegates will be
arguing again?”

Tungdil shook his head. “Gandogar is the legitimate heir, and no one could dispute his right to the throne. He proved his
character as soon as he freed himself from Bislipur’s wiles.”

The secondling grinned. “Not as much as you proved yours.”

“I don’t want to be high king, Boïndil. My calling lies elsewhere.” Raising his hand decisively, he knocked three times, took
a deep breath, and pushed open the mighty stone doors.

Light streamed toward them. Blinking, Tungdil gazed in horror at the ruins of the hall.

Barely half of the towering cylindrical columns had survived the beasts’ invasion, and it was only thanks to the secondlings’
expert masonry that the ceiling hadn’t collapsed.

Tungdil’s heart sank as he looked at the desecrated tablets and bas-reliefs on the walls. The orcs had attacked the artwork
with clubs and cudgels, smashing the marble and destroying the carefully chiseled chronicle of past victories and heroic deeds.

Glancing at his companion, he saw the secondling’s expression change from horror to fury. Boïndil, already a ferocious orc-slayer,
was planning his revenge.

Lanterns and braziers lit the chamber, casting a warm glow over five magnificent chairs, one for each folk, arranged in a
semi-circle around a marble table.

Tungdil spotted Gandogar Silverbeard, ruler of the fourthlings and head of Goïmdil’s line. Seated beside him were Xamtys II
of the clan of the Stubborn Streaks, queen of the firstlings and ruler of Borengar’s folk, and Balendilín Onearm of the clan
of the Strong Fingers, former counselor to Gundrabur Whitecrown, the late high king. Balendilín had been crowned king of the
secondlings after Gundrabur’s death. The remaining delegates—chieftains and elders from the firstling, secondling, and fourthling
kingdoms—had taken their places in the elegantly carved pews behind their leaders and were talking among themselves.