The Dwarves (16 page)

Plate armor,
thought Tungdil, blinking nervously.

A solid man of around thirty cycles was leaning against the outside wall of the forge, arms folded in front of his armored
chest. Despite the various weapons about his person, he had no uniform or insignia to identify him as a soldier.

“Were you looking for me, sir?” asked Tungdil, stepping out of the tub. Water streamed from his clothes, drenching the sandy
floor.

“Are you the smith?”

“I’m standing in for him at the moment. Is there something you’d like repaired?” The dwarf did his best to be polite even
though he had taken an instant dislike to the man. The stranger’s gray eyes bored into him as if to read his innermost thoughts.

“Two of our horses need shoeing. Are you up to it?”

That was enough to turn Tungdil against him forever. “I should hope so. What else would I be doing in a forge? I may as well
ask you if you know how to ride!” The dwarf left the bath, trying to look as dignified as possible while leaving a trail of
water behind him and making squelching noises as if he were tramping through a bog. His hair hung limply down his back.

Waiting outside on the narrow rutted road were six horses and four men in what looked like full battle dress. One of the horses
was laden with kitchen utensils, leather packs, and two rolled-up nets.

The men were conversing in low tones but fell silent when Tungdil approached. They looked at him oddly but made no remark.

The dwarf instructed one of the men to work the bellows. Air hissed into the furnace, fanning the glowing coals until flames
licked around them, quivering and flickering above the burning fuel. Tungdil was enveloped in heat, his hair and clothes drying
in no time. He was in his element.

“Are you mercenaries?” he asked the fellow on the bellows. Unhurriedly, he chose a hammer and some nails while another man
led in the lame horse. Tungdil held the shoe against the hoof; the fit was right.

“You could say that,” came the curt reply. “We hunt orcs and criminals with a price on their head.”

Tungdil placed the shoe among the burning embers and waited. “I suppose business is good at the moment,” he probed. “What
of the orcs who razed Goodwater?”

“Gauragar is a big place and Bruron’s soldiers can’t be everywhere at once. We’ve enough to keep us busy,” the leader of the
company said brusquely.

The conversation was over.

Working in silence, Tungdil hammered the horseshoe into shape and fitted it to the hoof. A cloud of yellowish smoke filled
the forge. When the job was done, he demanded twice his usual price. The mercenaries paid without objecting and rode away.
Tungdil watched them go and dismissed them from his mind.

The next orbit flew by and already it was time for him to leave. The children in particular were disappointed; they had grown
fond of the stocky little fellow who showered them with metal trinkets.

Tungdil thanked his hosts profusely. “Without your healing powers a festering wound like that could have killed me.” He dug
out the extra money that he had taken from the mercenaries and handed it to Opatja.

“We can’t accept this,” the villager objected.

“That’s your business, but I won’t be taking it back. It’s not often that a dwarf agrees to part with money.” He was so insistent
that the coins eventually found their way into Opatja’s purse.

Rémsa gave him a pouch of herbs. “Lay them on your wounds before you go to sleep. Soon your leg will be as good as new.” They
all shook hands and he went on his way. The children followed him until the sky grew darker and rain clouds gathered overhead.

“Will you come and see us on your way home?” Jemta asked mournfully.

“Of course, little one. It’s an honor to have made your acquaintance. Keep practicing, and you’ll make a fine smith.” He offered
her his hand, but she darted forward and hugged him instead.

“Now we’re friends,” she said, waving and running back toward the hamlet. As she rounded the corner she shouted: “Don’t forget
to come back!”

Tungdil was so surprised that he stood there for a moment, hand outstretched, in the middle of the road. “Well, well, who
would have thought I could win over a girl-child so easily?” He marched off in good spirits, thinking fondly of the people
left behind.

The spring weather had taken a turn for the worse: Dark clouds covered every inch of sky and rain had settled for the duration.
After a while, even his boots were soaked, his feet cold and swollen inside the sopping leather.

In spite of the unpleasant conditions, Tungdil was making good progress, but the thought of the orcs and the incursion of
the Perished Land, as foretold by the älfar, preyed on his mind.

He remembered what Lot-Ionan had told him about the invasion of the northern pestilence. The Perished Land extended six hundred
and fifty miles across Girdlegard, swallowing the whole of the former fifthling kingdom and much of the northern border besides
and reaching another four hundred miles southward, where it tapered to approximately half that breadth.

Tungdil reached the shelter of a rocky overhang and examined his map. In his mind’s eye he pictured the insidious evil as
a wedge forcing itself into Girdlegard, its tip grinding against the magi’s magic barrier and leveling off, unable to advance
any farther.

Now it seemed that the Perished Land’s ruler, the mysterious Nôd’onn, was intent on extending his dominion. And he was undoubtedly
making progress, in spite of the magi’s girdle. In the east, the älfar kingdom of Dsôn Balsur was eating its way into Gauragar
like a festering sore, covering an area two hundred miles long by seventy miles wide. And while the Stone Gateway remained
open, there was nothing to stop further armies of foul beasts from entering Girdlegard from the north.

The magi will have their work cut out now that Toboribor has allied itself with the northern blight
. The wizards were powerful, but they could only be in one place at a time.

At least they’ll be forewarned
. According to his calculations, the message would have reached Lot-Ionan by now.

All around him, the varied landscape of Gauragar was doing its best to recompense him for the dreadful events at the start
of his trip. Even the rain could not dull the vibrant springtime colors, although Tungdil was too focused on his journey to
pay much attention to the lush splendor of the knolls, woods, and meadows. At length he came to an abandoned temple, a small
edifice dedicated to Palandiell. Light streamed through manifold windows, illuminating carvings that symbolized fertility
and long life.

Palandiell commanded the loyalty of most humans, but she was too soft and indecisive for Tungdil’s taste. He was a follower
of Vraccas, to whom temples had been constructed in some of the larger cities — or so he had read in Lot-Ionan’s books.

Some humans preferred Elria, the water deity, while others prayed to the wind god Samusin, who regarded men, elves, dwarves,
and beasts as creatures of equal standing and strove for an equilibrium between evil and good. Tion, dark lord and creator
of foul beasts, was more feared than admired in Girdlegard.
I don’t know anyone who would worship him,
Tungdil thought in relief. Lot-Ionan’s household, Frala included, prayed to Palandiell.

Tungdil had erected his own special altar and dedicated it to the god of the dwarves who had hewn the five founding fathers
from unyielding granite and brought them to life. From time to time he smelted gold in his furnace as an offering: For all
he knew, he was the only dwarf in Girdlegard to follow such a custom, but he wanted to give Vraccas a share of the best.

His brown eyes surveyed the ivy-covered walls of the derelict temple.
Perhaps men will have greater cause to pray to Palandiell in the future,
he mused.

Later he stood aside as a unit of well-armored cavalry-men rode by. Their mail, embellished with the crest of King Bruron,
clunked noisily and mud sprayed from the horses’ hooves, spattering his cloak. He counted two hundred riders in all.
Will that be enough to defeat a war band of orcs?

From then on Tungdil regularly encountered patrol groups. By the look of things, news of the marauding hordes in Idoslane
had traveled fast. Rather than relying on Tilogorn to put a stop to the destruction, King Bruron of Gauragar was taking steps
of his own to hunt down the orcs.

It pleased Tungdil to see that the humans had heeded his warning. History would hardly remember the actions of Tungdil Bolofar,
a dwarf without clan or folk who had alerted Gauragar to the danger by calling on a peasant family to send word to the authorities
that Goodwater had been destroyed. What mattered was that
he
knew about it and it filled him with pride.

Most nights Tungdil slept beneath the stars, although occasionally he made his bed in a barn and once he allowed himself the
luxury of a room at an inn. It seemed prudent to save the dwindling contents of his purse.

After nine orbits his leg was fully mended. The rigors of the journey had made a lasting impression on his girth and his belt
sat two holes tighter than usual. Walking was good for his stamina and he no longer panted when he journeyed uphill. Even
his feet had become accustomed to the daily toil. At night he sometimes dreamed of Goodwater, the horrors he had seen there
still present in his mind.

It took another few orbits of marching before the Black-saddle finally loomed into view. The mountain looked almost exactly
like the model that Opatja had irreverently fashioned from cheese, except its sides were pitch-black.

Sunlight glistened on the deep gulleys running vertically down the mountain’s sheer flanks. The forbidding rock jutted out
of the landscape like an abandoned boulder and was surrounded by a murky forest of conifers. The trees looked small and fragile
by comparison, although the smallest among them was fifty paces high.

In times gone by, it must have been a proper mountain with a summit towering miles above the ground
.
Perhaps the gods snapped it off as a punishment and left the base like a tree stump in the soil.

There was something vaguely sinister about the mountain. Tungdil couldn’t define it exactly, but he knew he would never have
gone there by choice. He could only assume that Gorén prized his solitude more than most.

Brushing aside these misgivings, Tungdil hefted his bags and continued along the gravel road that wound past the forest half
a mile to the east. He kept looking for a path or a gap in the trees, but at sundown he was back where he had started and
none the wiser for it all.

What a strange forest. Tomorrow I’ll have to cut my way through the undergrowth if the trees won’t let me pass
. He could feel the tiredness in his limbs, so he set up camp by the roadside and lit a fire, keeping a watchful eye on the
forest for predators.

Soon afterward he was joined by two peddlers who seemed thoroughly relieved not to be spending the night on their own. They
stopped their covered wagons by his fire and unhitched their mules. Their consignment of pots and pans rattled and jangled
louder than a battalion of armed men.

“Is there room at the fire?” asked the first, introducing himself and his companion. Hîl and Kerolus were everything Tungdil
expected of the human male: tall and unshaven with long hair, plain apparel, and needlessly loud voices. They laughed, joked,
and passed the bottle of brandy back and forth, but their jollity seemed forced.

“I don’t mean to be nosy,” said Tungdil, “but you seem a little on edge.”

Hîl stopped laughing abruptly. “You’re observant, groundling.”

“Dwarf. I’m a dwarf.”

“A dwarf. I see. I didn’t know there was a difference.” “There isn’t; but the proper term is dwarf. Just as you prefer to
be called humans and not grasslings or beanpoles.”

Hîl grinned. “My mistake.”

“We’re afraid of the mountain and of the creatures in the woods,” said Kerolus. “That’s the truth of the matter. We wouldn’t
normally stop here, but our poor old nags are beat.” He broke four eggs into a frying pan and invited Hîl and the dwarf to
share in his meal.

“So what’s wrong with the mountain?” asked Tungdil, dipping a crust into the egg yolk.

Kerolus looked at him incredulously. “I thought every groundling, er, dwarf, knew about the Blacksaddle. Very well, I shall
tell you the story of the mount that lost its peak…”

Hîl settled down by the fire and his companion began his tale.

Many cycles ago there was a mountain called Cloud-piercer, whose summit towered high into the sky. Taller and prouder than
any other peak in Girdlegard, it was tipped with snow throughout the seasons and its loftiest pitches were made of pure gold.

Everyone could see the mountain’s riches, but no one could reach them. The golden crown rested on impossibly sheer and unyielding
slopes and the glare from the snow and the precious metal blinded any who looked at the summit for too long.

But the people’s desire for the gold was overwhelming and they summoned the dwarves to their aid.

A delegation came to Gauragar to examine the golden mountain and set about it with pickaxes, chisels, and spades.

Owing to the superior quality of their tools, they succeeded in burrowing their way into the mountain and digging a tunnel
to the top. They hollowed out the mountain and carried away its treasures without being dazzled by the gold.

Of course, the people of Gauragar were furious and demanded to be given a portion of the trove. While the men and dwarves
were quarreling, the mountain came to life, quaking with fury and bent on shaking the plunderers from its core. By then, of
course, its flesh was riddled with shafts and tunnels, and the tip of the mountain fell in on itself, crushing the looters
beneath its weight.

And now you know the story of how Cloudpiercer lost its summit and its glory.

Since then the denuded mountain has simmered with murderous hatred, its treacherous slopes darkening with malice as it plots
its revenge against the races of men and dwarves.