The War of the Dwarves (9 page)

Balyndis sighed. “I thought killing Nôd’onn would put an end to our problems, but Vraccas hasn’t finished with us yet.”

Tungdil smiled and ran a hand tenderly over her face. Like all dwarf-women, she had a fine layer of down on her cheeks. It
generally got thicker and more noticeable with age. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you. I dreamed about you while
I was away.” He paused. “To be honest, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” He noticed that she was wearing a new necklace,
a finely forged chain of steel links studded with tiny gold balls. He knew at once who had made it.

“You obviously weren’t as busy as me,” she said with a smile, watching the slow, stately movements of twelve dwarves who were
performing a dance in honor of the dwarven miner. “We had the furnaces roaring from morning till night; I barely left the
anvil.” She raised an arm. “See those muscles? They’re twice their usual size. The orcs made such a mess that I could stay
a hundred cycles and still have work to do. I haven’t had time for dreaming.”

He pointed to her necklace. “Oh, really,” he said teasingly. “But you found a few spare seconds to forge yourself a chain?”

She smiled. “You noticed!” The krummhorns fell silent and Balyndis joined the enthusiastic applause.

Tungdil laid an arm around her shoulders. “I’d rather you didn’t spend the next hundred cycles at the secondlings’ anvils;
I need you in the Gray Range with me.” He looked her in the eye. “I’m not asking because I need a good smith; I’m asking because
I need
you
. The past few orbits have made me realize that I never want to be away from you again.”

Balyndis, unaccustomed to such frankness, searched his face. “Tungdil Goldhand, what you’re proposing isn’t to be taken lightly.”

“I know,” he said, meeting her gaze. “But think of the memories we share already—and our adventures aren’t over yet. I want
us to still be talking and remembering in four hundred cycles’ time. And of course we’ll tell the stories to our children,
who’ll think we’re making it up.” He kissed her on the top of the head. “Balyndis Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers,
daughter of Borengar and smith of the firstling kingdom, what would you say if a thirdling of unknown origin and no proper
dwarven upbringing were to ask you to be joined with him by the iron band?”

Balyndis was so overwhelmed that she took a while to answer. “We’ll never be apart again,” she said at last. “Our hearts are
joined already—they’ve been joined for a while.”

She started forward and threw her arms around him. Hugging her close, Tungdil pressed his face against her skin, filling his
nostrils with her scent. He was still hugging her, eyes shut and perfectly contented, when he heard her say, “Yes, Tungdil
Goldhand. I want to be with you always.”

It wouldn’t have mattered if the great hall had caved in on him or all the beasts in Girdlegard had torn him apart or a hundred
arrows had pierced his chest; he would have died a happy dwarf.

23 Miles Southwest of Dsôn Balsur,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th/6235th Solar Cycle

L
ooking out from the top of the highest watchtower, Liútasil surveyed row upon row of brightly colored tents, ordered strictly
by unit and rank. He ran a comb through his hair. The filigree teeth, inlaid with mother-of-pearl to stop them snagging on
his fine auburn hair, separated the long shimmering strands, easing the occasional tangle.

The elven lord had ordered his warriors to pitch their tents and put up a palisade around the camp’s perimeter, bounded by
a moat seven paces deep and seven paces wide. Here, on the outskirts of the älfar kingdom, neither man nor elf would sleep
soundly unless every measure had been taken to make the camp secure.

The allied strategy had been decided at the Blacksaddle. Mallen was to deal with the orcs and bögnilim, using the superior
speed of his cavalry to chase the fleeing beasts, while Liútasil and the other human generals marched north to attack the
elves’ dark cousins in Dsôn Balsur and drive them out of Girdlegard.

The lord of Âlandur monitored the activity in the camp. His sharp ears picked up snatches of conversation carried to him by
the wind, and his sensitive nostrils detected the odor of humans and horses, mixed with smoke from campfires where men and
women were roasting meat. Some of the soldiers were preparing for battle, whetting swords, sharpening lances, and dipping
arrowheads into animal excrement to ensure that every missile, whether it pierced a heart, grazed a shoulder, or nicked an
ankle, had a chance of causing death. A few of the men, desperate to forget their fear of the älfar, were swigging wine, while
others lolled drunkenly on their bedrolls.

“Humans,” he said pityingly, putting away his comb. Elves knew better than to waste their strength before a battle, but human
soldiers did everything in their power to incapacitate themselves.

Without them, though, the campaign would never succeed. The elves were outnumbered by the älfar, and they didn’t have the
means to conquer Dsôn Balsur on their own.

Liútasil knew how much he owed to the humans and his traditional enemies, the dwarves. Before the battle of the Blacksaddle,
no one had doubted that Âlandur would fall to the älfar, but now, with the enemy retreating, his kingdom was safe. The last
few skirmishes had been rearguard actions on the part of the älfar, summoned to Dsôn Balsur to defend their home.

Sitalia, grant me patience
, he prayed. Down below, a group of men were brawling over the last skin of wine. Order was restored when their superior had
them beaten into their tents by his guards.

On occasions such as this, Liútasil despaired of his new allies, who had nothing in common with the elves. He sometimes questioned
the wisdom of fighting side by side with humans and dwarves, but Sitalia seemed to approve of the alliance.
I’ll trust in your will…

He left the wooden platform and swiftly descended the ladder. On reaching the ground, he strode past the rows of canvas toward
the purple assembly tent to debrief his scouts.

Seated at the conference table were the military commanders of Gauragar, Tabaîn, Weyurn, Sangpûr, Urgon, and Rân Ribastur.
The generals were waiting in silence, sipping tumblers of water served by their guards. Liútasil was thankful that none were
drinking wine or brandy.

Three elves in leather armor were standing in a corner of the tent. They were scouts, newly returned from the field. The filth
of Dsôn Balsur clung to their boots, and their lightweight armor was torn and bloodied. News of the älfar didn’t come cheap.

Liútasil greeted the generals with a nod and signaled that he was ready. The scouts began their report in elvish and he summarized
the intelligence for the men. “Our enemies have withdrawn to the heart of their kingdom. Traps are in place to hinder our
advance. The Perished Land has taken root around Dsôn Balsur and the trees are black with malice. Our first challenge is to
pass through the forest unharmed.”

“I say we wait,” interrupted the commander of Sangpûr’s army. “The Perished Land is retreating from Girdlegard and the forest
may yet recover. A march through whipping branches and twisting trunks would be a disaster for the men’s morale. I can’t put
them through it.” The other generals nodded in agreement.

“I understand your concerns,” said Liútasil, sitting down and resting his arms on the table. “But I know the forest in question.
The land once belonged to my people, and the trees are too old. Even if the soil recovers, the forest has been drinking the
poison for hundreds of cycles, and the evil has blackened its soul. With the defeat of the Perished Land, the forest is dying
and turning to stone, but it’s a slow process and we can’t afford to wait. We routed the älfar at the Blacksaddle; we need
to attack straightaway.”

His speech met with silence from the generals. Realizing they needed time to consider and reach a decision, Liútasil left
them and asked a few final questions of his scouts before entrusting them to the care of a physician, who was waiting to dress
their wounds.

He accompanied them outside and stood in the doorway, leaning against a tent pole and gazing at the dark night sky.

Hidden in the stars were the faces of his forebears—wise, brave, clear-sighted elves whom Sitalia had elevated to the firmament
to watch over their descendants and send them visions and signs.

Liútasil focused on the face of Fantur, second ruler of Âlandur and brother of Veïnsa, one-time mistress of the Golden Plains.
I need your help
, he prayed, tracing the invisible lines of the constellation.
Tell me how to dissuade them from delaying
. He returned to the conference table. “What is your decision?”

“The trees in this forest,” began the commander of Rân Ribastur’s army. “Are they made of ordinary wood?”

Liútasil nodded.

“In that case,” continued the general, “we can burn them. I say we blaze a path to the heart of their kingdom.”

“They’ll know exactly where we are,” objected Liútasil. “We’d be a sitting target for their arrows. We’d lose hundreds and
hundreds of—”

The man shrugged. “Who cares if they know where we are? Our army is vastly superior; we’ll show them our strength. If they’re
too scared to fight us, we’ll raze their accursed kingdom to the ground. I don’t think anyone will be sorry to see the Perished
Land in flames.”

The other generals thumped the table and grunted their support.

Liútasil realized that they were unlikely to be dissuaded from the plan. “Maybe the dwarves will have a better suggestion,”
he said lightly. “I’ve sent a party of scouts to meet them, and one of my best elves, Shanamil, is guiding them here as we
speak. They’ll be with us in a couple of orbits.”

“Dwarves are fine for tunneling and fighting underground,” said one of the generals. “Palandiell knows they’re brave and their
axes are lethal—but they don’t know a thing about fighting in the open. I’m in favor of burning the forest.” He looked at
the others. “Who’s with me?” Most of the other generals raised their hands in support.

“Let’s see what the dwarves have to say,” ruled Liútasil, friendly but unyielding. “Go to bed. The new dawn might bring us
better counsel.”

The men filed out, leaving Liútasil alone. He untied his red hair, letting it fall freely around his shoulders.

He couldn’t help feeling uneasy about the campaign. Älfar liked to ambush their enemies, killing ruthlessly without exposing
themselves to counterattack. Blazing a path through a forest was a dangerous tactic—as the generals would surely discover
to their cost.

He picked up the map and calculated the distance from the outskirts of the forest to the capital of Dsôn Balsur—fifty-one
miles. In the best-case scenario, they would lose fifty men for every mile.
I tried to warn them
.

32 Miles Southwest of Dsôn Balsur,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th/6235th Solar Cycle

T
rust the long-uns and the pointy-ears to forge ahead without us. They should have waited!” grumbled Gisgurd, looking from
Bundror to Gimdur. “It’s not our fault that it’s taken an age to get here. We’d have made it to camp orbits ago if the tunnels
hadn’t caved in.”

“I hope you didn’t say
pointy-ears
,” scolded Bundror with a twinkle in his eye. “We’re one big family, remember.”

Gimdur tore off two large strips of dried mushroom and stuck them together with a morsel of cheese that was melting over the
fire. “Since when are we supposed to
like
our families? My sister and I can’t get on.” He turned to Gisgurd and took a bite of his snack. “You should be grateful they
made it to camp before we did,” he said, mumbling through his mouthful. “They’ll have dug their own trenches and saved us
some work.”

“Elves can’t dig trenches,” said Bundror scornfully. “They can’t lift their shovels higher than their boots! They’re good
on the lute and not bad with their arrows, but when it comes to handling a shovel… And they don’t know a thing about food—not
to mention proper beer!”

Gisgurd clapped him on the back. “Too right!” he agreed enthusiastically. “When all’s said and done, they’re
elves
.” He paused for a moment, hoping Bundror would notice that he had referred to their confederates by their proper name. “I
know we’re on the same side, but how are we supposed to trust them? We hated each other for cycles. You can’t just bury the
past.”

“No one’s asking you to bury the past, master dwarf,” said a singsong voice from the shadows. “For my part, I’m looking forward
to a future of peace and friendship.” A figure stepped out of the darkness toward the three dwarves. The firelight revealed
a slender elf, her dark hair blowing in the breeze. “I’m glad it didn’t take long to find you, although next time you camp
near Dsôn Balsur you might want to post a few sentries. Your campfire is visible for miles.”

Already Gisgurd, Bundror, and Gimdur were on their feet, axes raised and ready to strike. A shout went up, waking the rest
of the unit. Three hundred dwarves prepared to fight.

“The älfar don’t scare us,” Gisgurd said grimly. “We gave them a good thrashing at the Blacksaddle.” He eyed the stranger
suspiciously, his distrust deepening when nine others appeared at her side. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“My name is Shanamil, sent by Lord Liútasil to bring you to him. He wants us at the camp by dawn.”

“Nice try,” growled the dwarf. “And my name is Balyndis Steelfinger, sent by Vraccas to forge the mighty blade. Prove you’re
telling the truth or I’ll…” He stopped short, realizing that if the stranger was who she said she was, he was likely to cause
offense.

Gimdur was only too happy to take over. “You pointy-ears all look the same in the dark. How do we know you’re not an älf?”

She unfastened her necklace and showed them a gold pendant bearing the seal of Lord Liútasil. “I’m his envoy,” she said, throwing
the pendant to Gisgurd and taking a seat by the fire. “Kill me if you don’t believe me. I’m sure Lord Liútasil will understand.”