The Dwarves (3 page)

He was the last but one to take his place in the doorway. Already the others had closed ranks and were holding their shields
in front of their bodies, their axes held aloft.

Shoulder to shoulder they formed a low wall of flesh against the tide of orcs, ogres, trolls, and riders. Forty against forty
thousand.

The enemy hung back, fearing an ambush. Never before had the gates opened to allow their passage.

Glandallin’s gaze swept the front line of monstrous beasts, shifting back to survey the second, third, fourth, fifth, and
countless other grunting rows, all poised for the attack. He glowered from under his bushy eyebrows, forehead furrowing into
a frown.

G
iselbert lost no time in reversing the incantation. At the sound of his voice, the gates submitted to his authority, swinging
back across the pathway but moving too slowly to stop the breach. Giselbert strode behind his troops, laying a hand on each
shoulder. The gesture was a source of solace as well as strength, calming and rallying the last defenders of the gates.

Trumpets blaring, the riders ordered the attack. The orcs and ogres brandished their weapons, shouting to drown out their
fear, and the army advanced with thundering steps.

“The path is narrow. Meet them line by line and give them a taste of our steel!” Glandallin called to his kinsfolk. “Vraccas
is with us! We are the children of the Smith!”

“The children of the Smith!” the fifthlings echoed, feet planted firmly on the rocky ground beneath.

Four dwarves were chosen to form the final line of defense. Throwing down his shield, the king took an ax in each hand and
led the surge toward the enemy. The dwarves, all that remained of Giselbert’s folk, charged out to slay the invaders.

Ten paces beyond the gateway, the armies met. The fifthlings tunneled like moles through the vanguard of orcs.

With only one ax with which to defend himself, Glandallin struck out, slicing through the thicket of legs. He did not stop
to kill his victims, knowing that the fallen bodies would hinder the advancing troops.

“No one gets past Glandallin!” he roared. Stinking blood streamed from his armor and helm, stinging his eyes. When his ax
grew heavy, he clasped the weapon with both hands. “No one, do you hear!” His enemies’ bones splintered, splattering him with
hot blood. Twice he was grazed by a sword or a spear, but he battled on regardless.

The prize was not survival but the closing of the gates. Girdlegard would be safe if they could stave off the invasion until
the passageway was sealed.

Until this hour his ax had defended him faithfully, but now the magic of its runes gave out. Glancing to his right, Glandallin
saw a comrade topple to the ground, skull sliced in half by an orc’s two-handed sword. Seething with hatred, and determined
to fell the aggressor, Glandallin lunged once, twice, driving his ax into the creature’s belly and cleaving it in two. A shadow
loomed above him, but by then it was too late. He made a last-ditch attempt to dodge the ogre’s sweeping cudgel, but its rounded
head swooped down and struck his legs. Bellowing in pain he toppled against an orc, severing its thigh as he fell, before
tumbling onward through the army of legs. He lashed out with his ax until there were no more orcs within his reach.

“Come here and fight, you cowards!” he snarled.

The enemy paid him no attention. Fired by an insatiable hunger, they streamed past him toward the gateway. They had no need
of stringy dwarf flesh when there were tastier morsels in Girdlegard.

Trembling with pain, Glandallin rose up on his elbows. The rest of his kinsfolk were dead, their mutilated bodies strewn on
the ground, surrounded by scores of enemy corpses. The diamonds on Giselbert’s belt sparkled in the sunlight, marking the
place where the fifthling father had fallen, slain by a trio of ogres. At the sight of him, Glandallin’s soul ached with sorrow
and pride.

The sun rose above the mountains, flooding through the gateway and dazzling Glandallin with its light. He raised a hand to
his sensitive eyes, straining to see the gateway.
Praise be to Vraccas! The gates were closed!

A blow from behind sent pain searing through his chest. For the duration of a heartbeat the tip of a spear protruded through
his tunic, then withdrew. He slumped, gasping, to the ground. “What in the name of… ?”

The assassin stepped round his body and knelt beside him. The smooth elven face was framed by fine fair hair that shimmered
in the sunlight like a veil of golden threads. But the vision bore a terrible deformity; two fathomless pits stared from almond-shaped
holes.

The creature wore armor of black metal that reached to its knees. Its legs were clad in leather breeches and dark brown boots.
Burgundy gloves protected its fingers from grime, and its right hand clasped a spear whose steel tip, sharp enough to penetrate
the fine mesh of dwarven chain mail, was moist with blood.

The strange elf spoke to the dwarf.

At first the words meant nothing to Glandallin, but their morbid sound filled him with dread.

“My friend said: ‘Look at me: Sinthoras is your death,’ ” a second voice translated behind him. “ ‘I will take your life,
and the land will take your soul.’ ”

Glandallin coughed, blood rushing from his mouth and coursing down his beard.

“Get out of my sight, you pointy-eared monster! I want to see the gates,” he said gruffly, brandishing his ax to ward away
the beast. The weapon almost flew from his grip; his strength was ebbing fast. “Out of my way or I’ll cut you in two like
a straw, you treacherous elf!” he thundered.

Sinthoras laughed coldly. Raising his spear, he inserted the tip slowly between the tight rings of mail.

“You are mistaken, my friend. We are the älfar, and we have come to slay the elves,” the voice said softly. “The gates may
be closed, but the power of the land will raise you from the dead and from that moment on, you will be one of us. You know
the incantation; you will open the door.”

“Never! My soul belongs to Vraccas!”

“Your soul belongs to the land, and you will belong to the land until the end of time,” the velvety voice cut him short. “Die,
so you can return and deliver Girdlegard to us.”

The spear’s sharp tip pierced the flesh of the helpless, dying dwarf. Pain stopped his tongue.

Sinthoras raised the weapon and pushed down gently on the battered body. The final blow was dealt tenderly, almost reverently.
The creature waited for death to claim its prey, watching over Glandallin’s pain-ravaged features and drinking in the memory.

Finally, when he was certain that the last custodian of the gateway had departed, Sinthoras left his vigil and rose to his
feet.

Enchanted Realm of Ionandar,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle

A
volley of raps rang out as the hammer danced on the glowing ore. With each blow the metal took shape, curving into a crescent
as the iron submitted to the blacksmith’s strength and skill.

Suddenly the jangling ceased and a pair of tongs swooped down and tossed the metal back into the furnace. The blacksmith gave
a grunt of displeasure.

“What do you think you’re doing, Tungdil?” the waiting man demanded impatiently. Eiden, a groom in the service of Lot-Ionan
the magus, stroked the horse’s nose. “The nag can’t wait forever, you know. She’s supposed to be pulling the plow.”

Tungdil dipped his hands into a pail of water and used the brief hiatus to wash away the grime. The dwarf wore leather breeches
and a brown beard clipped close to his chin. He was naked from the waist up, save for a leather apron. Running his brawny
fingers through his long dark hair, he shook out the sweat and let the drops of cool water trickle across his scalp.

“The shoe would never have fit,” came his brief response. He pumped the bellows, producing a tortured hiss like the breath
of a wheezing giant. The air breathed red-hot life into the glowing coals. “Nearly there now.”

He repeated the procedure, this time to his satisfaction, and fitted the shoe to the nag. A foul-smelling cloud of yellowish
smoke enveloped Tungdil as the iron singed the horny sole. He dunked the shoe into the pail, allowing the metal to cool, then
held it to the hoof again and drove nails through the holes. Setting the hind leg down gingerly, he retreated hastily. The
animal, a strong, broad-backed gray, was too big for his liking.

Eiden sniggered and stroked the plow horse. “How do you like your new shoe?” he asked her. “The smith’s a midget, granted,
but at least he knows his stuff. Just watch you don’t trip over him.” He hurried from the forge and marched the horse toward
the fields.

The dwarf stretched and gave his powerful arms a shake as he strolled to the furnace. The groom’s jibes did not rile him;
teasing, affectionate or otherwise, was something he was inured to, having grown up in Ionandar, the only dwarf in a human
realm.

He stood more chance of finding gold by the wayside than encountering another of his kind.

All the same, I should like to meet one,
he thought. His gaze swept the orderly forge, taking in the rows of tongs and hammers hanging neatly from the walls.
I’d ask about the five dwarven folks.

The light in the forge was dim, but Tungdil liked it that way because it brought out the beauty of the fiery coals. He worked
the bellows, chasing sparks into the chimney as he fanned the flames. For a moment his face lit up as he imagined the glowing
red dots flitting through the sky and taking their place in the firmament to shine brightly as stars. It was the same satisfaction
that he derived from letting his hammer bounce up and down on the red-hot metal.
Do real dwarven smiths do things differently?
he wondered.

“Why is it always so dark in here?” Without warning, Sunja, the eight-year-old daughter of Frala the kitchen maid, appeared
at his side. A bright child, she was refreshingly untroubled by Tungdil’s appearance.

The dwarf’s kindly face creased from ear to ear. It was astonishing how quickly human children grew; the girl would soon be
taller than he was. “You’re as bad as cats, you children, sneaking up on me like that! I’ll tell you all about it if you help
me heat the iron.” He tossed a lump of metal into the furnace.

Eagerly, the fair-haired girl joined him at the bellows. As ever, he pretended to let her take over, allowing her to believe
that she was compressing the firm leather pouch with her strength alone. Soon the metal took on a reddish glow.

“Do you see now?” Reaching forward with the tongs, he gripped the nugget of iron and laid it on the anvil. “It’s not for nothing
that I work without light. A blacksmith needs to know when the metal has reached the right temperature. Left to slumber in
its toasty bed of coals, the iron overheats, but raised too soon, the brittle metal can’t be forged.” Tungdil was rewarded
with an earnest nod. The child looked exactly like Frala.

“My mother says you’re a master blacksmith.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he protested, laughing. “I’m just good at my job.” He winked at her and she smiled.

What Tungdil didn’t mention was that he had never received instruction in his trade. Watching his predecessor at work had
been all the training he’d needed. Whenever the man set down his tools, Tungdil had seized his chance to practice, mastering
the essentials in no time. Now, thirty solar cycles later, no job was too big or too difficult for him.

Lost in their thoughts, Tungdil and Sunja watched as the flames changed color: first orange, then yellow, red, white, and
blue… The glowing coals sputtered and crackled.

Just as the dwarf was about to inquire what Cook would be serving for luncheon, a man appeared in the doorway, black against
the rectangle of light.

“You’re needed in the kitchens, Tungdil,” came the imperious voice of Jolosin, a famulus in the fourth tier of Lot-Ionan’s
apprentices.

“Well, since you asked so nicely…” Tungdil turned to Sunja: “Be sure not to touch anything.” On his way out, he pocketed a
small metal object and then followed the apprentice into the vaults of Lot-Ionan’s school.

Two hundred or so students of all ages had been selected to learn the secrets of sorcery from the magus. To the dwarf’s mind,
magic was a slippery, unreliable occupation. He felt more at home in his forge, where he could hammer as loudly as he pleased.

Jolosin’s dark blue robes billowed as he walked, his combed hair bobbing about his shoulders. Tungdil eyed the youth’s fine
garments and coiffure and grinned.
The vanity of the boy!
They entered a large room and an appetizing smell wafted toward them. Sure enough, cooking pots were simmering and bubbling
above two hearths.

Tungdil saw at once why his services were required. The pots were suspended on chains from the ceilings, but one of them had
slipped its pulley and was sitting in the flames.

Lifting the vessel required more strength than a woman could muster and none of the apprentices were willing to help. They
considered themselves a cut above kitchen work, refusing to dirty their hands or burn their fingers when others, such as smiths,
could do the work.

The cook, a stately woman of impressive girth, hurried over. “Hurry,” she cried anxiously, reaching up to stay her escaping
hairnet. “My goulash will be spoiled!”

“We can’t have that. I’m starving,” said Tungdil. Without wasting time, he marched over to the hearth, touched the chain lightly
to gauge its temperature, then seized the rusty links. Cycle after cycle at the anvil had strengthened his muscles until even
the heaviest hammer felt weightless in his arms. A pot of goulash on a pulley was nothing by comparison.

“Here,” he said to Jolosin, proffering him the grimy chain, “hold this while I fix it.”

The young man hesitated. “Are you sure it’s not too heavy for me?” he asked nervously.

“You’ll be fine,” Tungdil reassured him. He grinned. “And if you’re half as good at magic as you say you are, you can always
make it lighter.” He pressed the chain into the apprentice’s hands and let go.