The Dwarves (14 page)

Bashkugg scratched his chin doubtfully. “Didn’t the älf tell us not to —”

“The southern lands are our business, not theirs. Besides, this wasn’t part of the deal. The älf told us to conquer new territory;
this is ours already.” He smiled slyly.

“The fleshlings skewered my troopers’ skulls on their palisades; I want revenge!” roared Kragnarr, his breastplate jangling
as he thumped his brawny chest. “No älf can stop me from punishing them.”

“At dawn, then?” proposed Bashkugg to a chorus of approving grunts.

Tungdil let the twigs spring back and retreated slowly along the branch. He had heard enough to know that Girdlegard was in
serious danger, but before he could warn Lot-Ionan about Nôd’onn’s designs he had to sound the alarm in Goodwater and deliver
the bag to Gorén. The magus would know what to do about the threat; he would probably call a meeting of the council or, better
still, summon the rulers of the human kingdoms as well.

It seemed to Tungdil that it was time for the magi and the human sovereigns to join forces against the Perished Land. They
could even ask the dwarves to help them: A combined army, bolstered by his kinsfolk, would surely be victorious.

Tungdil waited until all but a handful of orcs were asleep, but even then there was no guarantee that his escape would be
successful: Three dozen orcs had been posted around the camp’s perimeter to keep watch for intruders.

The dwarf took a deep breath and decided on his route, picking a particularly bored and sleepy-looking sentry who had propped
himself on his rusty spear and was fighting to stay awake.

After a good deal of deliberation he resolved to take his packs with him. In view of his recent bad luck, it seemed too risky
to leave them in the tree. The orcs would only discover them, and the last thing he needed was to lose the precious artifacts
and admit his failure to Lot-Ionan and Gorén.

An eternity seemed to pass as Tungdil abandoned his hiding place as quietly as possible. Even the rustling of a branch would
seal his fate.

He kept hold of the firm bark with both hands, sliding down gradually and taking care to avoid the light of the fire. Every
now and then a twig would snag on his chain mail, but he succeeded in prizing himself free without a telltale snapping of
wood.

At last he was back on solid ground, pressing his face into the grass and filling his nostrils with its fresh dewy scent.
It was a welcome antidote to the pungent stench of orc.

Stealth had never been his strong point, so it seemed best to proceed on his belly like a caterpillar, pushing the bags in
front of him while endeavoring to keep his posterior out of sight.

It turned out to be much harder than he’d hoped. The haft of his ax was forever jamming between his legs, his chain mail jangled
with the slightest movement, and his boots struggled to find purchase on the slippery grass. His nerves were in tatters.

I knew I was a terrible climber, but trying to be quiet is worse,
he thought, stopping to mop the sweat from his brow. Vraccas had intended the dwarves to fight in open combat. They took
deliberate strides to get wherever they were going and built staircases when the gradient dictated. There was none of this
sneaking around.

Barely ten paces separated the dozing sentry from Tungdil as he slithered past. Every feature of the trooper’s hideous countenance
was visible in the moonlight. Its face was crisscrossed with war paint and ceremonial scars and milky saliva dribbled out
of its mouth and down its protruding tusks, dripping onto its fat-slavered armor. The nostrils in its flat nose flared from
time to time.

The dwarf was tempted to bury his ax in the beast’s oafish head, but he doubted his proficiency and in any case, one dead
orc would scarcely save Goodwater from attack.

Relieved to be out of the camp, he crawled through the grass until he reached an irrigation channel at the edge of the field
and slipped inside, disappearing from view.

The ditch allowed him to reach the fringes of a wood without being seen and at last it was safe to stand up.
Now, that was an adventure by anyone’s standards.
His clothes were coated in mud, but he had other, more pressing concerns. As far as he could recall, the wood was fairly
small and the best course was to cut straight through it. He hoped to goodness that he wouldn’t lose his way.

Having put a decent distance between himself and the orcs, Tungdil stopped worrying about trying to move quietly. Provided
he could get to the village fast enough, there was still a chance that lives could be saved.

He settled into a steady trot and reached the edge of the wood in short order. With a sigh of relief he stepped out into the
open.

Vraccas almighty!
He froze at the sight.

Four hundred paces from the wood was another orc encampment, three times larger than the first. The field was carpeted with
sleeping beasts. No fires were alight to alert him to the danger.

Tungdil retreated quickly before he was spotted. In spite of his best efforts, he failed to find an alternative route: If
he wanted to reach the settlement, he would have to sneak past the sleeping bodies. Soon his misgivings were replaced by dwarven
obstinacy. Determined to warn the villagers of the coming danger, he crept along the edge of the wood, trying to stay hidden
while he picked out the best path through the camp.

Suddenly his boot met with resistance and he heard a faint click. Leaves swirled into the air and a metal jaw snapped shut,
trapping his left calf just below the knee. The ground opened and Tungdil plummeted downward, landing head-first. Everything
went dark.

I
t was the pain that woke him.

When Tungdil came to, there was an excruciating throbbing in his left leg. Groaning, he struggled into a sitting position
and gazed up at the dark earthen walls. Gleaming green fronds framed the opening of the pit; it was dawn already.

Clamped to his leg and strangling his blood supply was a contraption whose purpose he knew only too well. Villagers set traps
like these to catch wolves. The metal teeth had pierced his leather breeches, leaving a crust of dark red blood around the
wound. His calf throbbed dully.

Tungdil did not bother to prize the trap apart but took up his ax, gritted his teeth, and set about hammering the thin pins
at the heart of the spring.

Every blow to the trap was a blow to his leg and he moaned softly in pain. Trying not to flinch, he worked on the metal determinedly
until the jaws fell open and the pressure was released.

With cautious movements he removed the trap, then flung it away furiously. Using the loamy wall to support himself, he stood
up and placed his injured leg gently on the ground. Pain seared through his calf. Running was out of the question; hauling
himself out of the pit was going to be difficult enough.

His concern for the people of Goodwater gave him the necessary strength. After tossing his knapsack out of the pit, he slung
the leather pouch over his shoulder and wound his fingers around the roots protruding from the soil. Gasping, he hauled himself
up and, with a final burst of energy, swung himself onto the grass, where he lay panting for air.

I’ll be more careful where I put my feet in the future,
he thought grimly. After a while he crawled to the edge of the wood. The fresh scent on the spring breeze was all the evidence
he needed that the orcs had moved on. The field was deserted.

There could be little doubt where they had gone: Smoke was rising in the distance, gathering like a storm cloud in the sky.
Tungdil scrambled up, shouldered his knapsack, and hurried off, shaking the dead leaves and mud from his hair.

Anger and loathing dulled the pain, driving him faster and faster until he realized that he was running after all. He wanted
to be there with the people of Goodwater since his clumsiness had prevented him from warning them in time.

Such was his resolve that he paid no heed to the voice of reason that bade him take more care. Nothing could stop him from
racing toward the settlement, spurred on by the ever-growing column of dark smoke.

That afternoon, sweat-drenched, he reached the top of the hill and looked down on the settlement.

Goodwater was ablaze. Breaches several paces across had opened in the palisades and there were two large gaps where the wooden
defenses had been razed to the ground. Mutilated limbs and bodies littered the perimeter.

He soon spotted the remains of the mercenaries, heads impaled on their spears. Their unseeing eyes stared down from the watchtower
as the fire raged unchecked through the settlement, reducing the houses to charred shells.

There were no cries for help, no shouted orders to fetch water or quench the blaze. All Tungdil could hear was the crackling
of flames, the roar of burning wood, and the crash of collapsing roofs and walls. There was no sign of life.

Clutching his ax, Tungdil marched toward the burned-out settlement.
Maybe I’ll find a few survivors trapped among the ruins.
He gripped his weapon a little tighter as he passed through the gates and turned onto the high street, limping as he walked.

The warm wind smelled of scorched flesh, and flames were shooting out of the houses where panes of glass had shattered in
the heat. The whole settlement was on fire.

Human corpses were strewn across the streets and pavements, bodies piled up like dead vermin. Some of the women were naked,
the flesh of their breasts and buttocks gouged with bite marks and scratches. There was no mistaking their particular fate.

Shuddering, Tungdil stepped over the slaughtered villagers and listened intently for the slightest sign that anyone was still
alive. It was deathly quiet.

All the while the heat was intensifying. The surviving walls acted like a furnace, trapping the fire and raising the temperature
dangerously. The dwarf had no choice but to leave the dying settlement.

Back on the hilltop, Tungdil sat down and made himself watch Goodwater’s final moments.
It’s my fault
. He buried his bearded chin in his hands and wept in despair. Long moments passed before the tears of anger and helplessness
began to slow.

Now he could see why his kinsfolk stood guard at Girdlegard’s passes: Humans were powerless to defend themselves against the
brutal beasts. Tungdil looked down through his tears at the burned-out settlement. Nowhere should ever be made to look like
that.

He dried his salt-streaked cheeks and wiped his hands on his cloak. His calf was throbbing so painfully that he decided to
delay his departure until the following orbit. Curling up on the hillside, he pulled his cloak over him and watched the flames
flicker as evening drew in.

The fire raged long into the night until there was nothing left to burn. Red glimmers illuminated the ashes and Tungdil was
reminded of the shadow mares’ menacing eyes.
So much evil in such a short space of time,
he thought sadly.

Tomorrow he would press on with his errand and deliver the pouch. Then it would be time for him to persuade Lot-Ionan to take
action before the orcs and älfar grew any more powerful.

W
hen Tungdil woke the next morning, he was forced to concede that the sacking of Goodwater was not, as he had hoped, just a
dream.

Gray clouds obscured the sun and the smell of rain hung in the air. There was nothing left of the settlement besides smoking
embers, rubble, and burned-out houses whose scorched girders rose starkly into the sky like blackened skeletons.

The fields and orchards were covered with a white mist that advanced over the remains of Goodwater, hiding it from view. The
land was mourning the villagers, laying a shroud over the settlement that only an orbit earlier had bustled with life.

The sight was too much for Tungdil to bear, so he gathered his packs and set off. As he hobbled on his way, he tried to eat
a little something from his provisions, but the bread he had bought in Goodwater stuck in his throat. There was a cloying
taste of death and guilt. He stowed the loaf away.

The gashes in his calf were angry and painful. If he left the wound untreated, he ran the risk of infection or even gangrene,
which could cost him his leg or, worse still, his life.

That aside, the journey passed without incident and he crossed back into Gauragar and camped that evening beneath the now-familiar
oak. Its leafy canopy sheltered him from the downpour that started that night, only easing late the next morning.

By the fifth orbit the skin surrounding the crusty wound felt hot to the touch and thick yellow pus oozed from the scab. Gritting
his teeth, Tungdil walked on.

There was no use waiting for help by the wayside. Instead he kept going, trailing his injured leg through the fine drizzle
that was rapidly transforming the trail into a mud bath. At last he reached a small hamlet numbering six farmhouses. His forehead
was burning.

A fair-haired woman in simple peasant dress, a milk pail in either hand, spotted the staggering figure. She stopped in her
tracks.

Tungdil could barely make out her features; she was just a faint shadow. “Vraccas be with you,” he murmured, then toppled
over, landing face-first in the mud, his arms too weak to break his fall.

“Opatja!” the woman called urgently, setting down her pails. “Come quickly!”

There was the sound of hurrying footsteps; then Tungdil was rolled onto his back.

“He’s feverish,” said a blurry, misshapen figure, his voice echoing oddly in the dwarf’s ears. Someone was examining his leg.
“He doesn’t look good. It’s gangrenous. We’ll have to move him to the barn.” Tungdil felt himself hovering in midair. “He’ll
need an herbal infusion.”

“He looks funny,” said a childish voice. “What is he?”

“He’s a groundling,” the woman answered.

“You told me they live in the ground! What’s he doing up here?”

“Not now, Jemta. Take your brothers and sisters inside,” the man said impatiently.

The air was warm and smelled of hay. Tungdil could hear mooing. The rain seemed to stop and the light dimmed. “Goodwater,”
he said weakly. “Goodwater has fallen to the orcs.”