The Dwarves (62 page)

“You can trust us with your lives,” Rodario declared expansively, seizing the opportunity to introduce the troupe in characteristically
florid style. “We know all about Keenfire, of course. In fact,” he said, waving his arms extravagantly, “we rescued these
future heroes, these champions of legends as yet unwritten, from a fate most foul by plucking them from the claws and swords
of a pack of vicious bögnilim. We’re completely reliable, most Estimable Maga.”

Under normal circumstances his smile had the power to melt the thickest ice and soften the hardest stone, but this time it
failed: Andôkai was unmoved.

“You
made
me come back,” she said accusingly, glaring at Tungdil. “It’s your fault for hounding me about my duty. Everything you said
kept running through my head until I couldn’t take it any longer. My conscience wouldn’t let me abandon Girdlegard and so
I returned. Besides, there are a thousand reasons why Nôd’onn deserves to die.”

Her face seemed less severe in the flickering light of the fire, her features somehow softer, more feminine. Rodario couldn’t
take his eyes off her and was hanging on her every word. He seemed to regard her forbidding charm and stern manner as a challenge
to his seductive powers.

“So I went back to Ogre’s Death and took another look at the passage that I hadn’t been able to make sense of. You remember,
don’t you? The only remaining uncertainty in the plan…” Gazing into the flames, she motioned with her hand, marshaling the
sparks into the script of the common tongue. One by one the words flared up and faded in an instant.

Rodario read them aloud: “Keenfire must be forged by the undergroundlings, then wielded by the undergroundlings’ foe.” He
snatched up a piece of charred wood. “I need to write it down before I forget. What use is a quill without ink? I could kick
myself for letting it freeze.”

“You write, and I’ll kick,” Bavragor said magnanimously.

“The gods save me from your hulking boots,” exclaimed Rodario, shooing him away. “Wait and see, we’ll have the best play ever
performed in Girdlegard!” His hand moved busily across the page. “They’ll be fighting to get through the door!” He was about
to launch into another effusive speech, but Furgas jabbed him in the ribs.

“The undergroundlings’ foe,” murmured Tungdil, unable to mask his disappointment.
What could it mean?

Boëndal couldn’t make sense of it either. “We’ve got no shortage of foes. Ogres, for example” — he cast a sideways glance
at Djerůn — “not to mention orcs, bögnilim, and all the other beasts created by Tion to plague the kingdoms of men, elves,
and dwarves. Come on, scholar, surely you can think of something. A bit of book-learning might be exactly what we need.”

Bavragor took a swig of his brandy. “We could have a bit of fun with this. Why don’t we catch an orc and torture him until
he agrees to clobber Nôd’onn? Or maybe we could talk an ogre into taking a swipe at him with our ax.”

“I guess that’s the end of the expedition, then,” said Goïmgar, readily accepting defeat. He suddenly paled. “Who’s going
to tell the others? King Gandogar doesn’t know!”

Tungdil expelled his breath in a long sigh. “Are you absolutely sure of the meaning?” he asked slowly.

The maga nodded. “I’m afraid so. I read it over and over again.”

“Do you have any suggestions?” He glanced at Djerůn. She smiled. “Djerůn isn’t your foe, if that’s what you’re thinking. He
can’t do it.”

Tungdil scratched his beard, which had grown to something approaching its former length. “Then we’re facing a considerable
obstacle.” He looked into the faces of his companions. “I don’t know what to suggest.” He lay down and pulled up his blanket.
“Maybe Vraccas will send me some inspiration in the night. Get some rest; we’re bound to need our strength for whatever lies
ahead.”

They settled down by the fire while Djerůn kept watch.

I have to think of something. I’m in charge,
thought Tungdil, tossing and turning restlessly.
If I don’t come up with a solution to the riddle, Girdlegard will be doomed
. It wasn’t the sort of thought that would lull anyone to sleep.

* * *

T
ungdil still hadn’t received divine inspiration by the time they broke camp at first light. They decided to carry on regardless:
With a bit of luck, one of them would think of something on the way, and if not, there was always a chance that the firstlings
would be able to help.

We’ll get there in the end,
Tungdil told himself firmly, slipping his freshly oiled and rust-free mail shirt over his leather jerkin.

Andôkai rode with Rodario. The impresario had imagined himself sitting behind her on the saddle, with his arms wrapped chivalrously
around her waist, but she insisted on riding bareback to give them both more space. Not only that, she forced him to take
his place in front of her while she held the reins — much to Furgas’s amusement.

More snow had fallen overnight, adding to the existing coating by the length of a forearm or so. The horses had to plow a
path for the short-legged ponies to follow, and so they proceeded in single file with Djerůn trudging behind them. From a
distance it looked as if one of the marble deities had left the tedium of the temple and joined the procession instead.

The going was tough for the unusual band of travelers. Winter slowed their progress considerably, and Tungdil realized the
advantage of traveling underground. They needed to get to the Gray Range as fast as possible, and by foot, or even on horseback,
the journey would take too long. In a week, they advanced two hundred miles, a distance that could be covered in one or two
orbits on the underground rail.

That afternoon, while they rested their horses, he pestered Andôkai to tell him how she had tracked the company down.

“It was no great challenge,” she said dryly. “I left the Outer Lands, went back to Ogre’s Death, and persuaded the secondlings
to show me the tunnels. We came up near Mifurdania, Djerůn found your tracks, and the rest was easy. People tend to notice
a group of traveling dwarves. It wouldn’t have been hard for the älfar to find you either.”

Tungdil glanced at Narmora, who was helping Furgas shovel snow into a pan and melt it over the fire.

The maga’s gaze settled on Rodario. “These actors… How did you meet them?” Tungdil recounted the story. “Aha,” laughed the
maga on hearing how Narmora had got them out of Mifurdania by picking the locks, “so she’s a woman of many talents. Have you
seen their play?’

“I certainly have! The production was a sellout. It’s called
The Truth About Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty and the Grisly Circumstances Leading to His Reincarnation as Nôd’onn the Doublefold
and Resulting in Girdlegard’s Demise
.”

“A snappy title,” she observed.

For the first time Tungdil saw the corners of her mouth turn upward and it occurred to him that smiling suited her better
than her usual stern expression. Rodario chose precisely that moment to look over his shoulder and naturally assumed that
the friendly smile was meant for him. He beamed back delightedly.

“And that’s the star of the show, the fabulous Rodario. According to the others, he keeps a mistress in every town.”

“I don’t doubt it. Who plays me?”

“I’m afraid I left early, Estimable Maga. I had to chase a thief.” He beckoned to Rodario. “You’ll have to ask him.”

The impresario bounded over to be cross-examined by the maga. “My players are the most accomplished in all Girdlegard. Your
role was played by the talented Narmora, who alone could emulate your prowess with a sword.” At her request he embarked on
an explanation of the plot, but she cut him short when he was halfway through.

“The rise of the Perished Land, Nôd’onn’s visitation, his compact with evil — what gave you the idea?”

“I listened to the rumors, combined them with some ancient legends, and added a dash of inspiration of my own.” He looked
at her brightly. “Does it meet with your approval?”

“It’s incredibly accurate, at least as far as Nudin’s transformation is concerned.”

“Really?” Rodario seemed genuinely surprised. “But then, truth is at the heart of all great art, wouldn’t you say?”

“Thank you, Rodario, you can go now,” Andôkai told him briskly. “And don’t forget to rewrite my part in your play. I’m not
dead yet.”

“My dear maga, you’re positively blooming,” he said, turning on the charm and gazing seductively into her clear blue eyes.
“No man could —”

“I’m busy,” she informed him, turning back to Tungdil.

Rodario’s magnificent smile was wiped off his face. His pointed beard seemed to droop in dismay. “I respect your wishes,”
he said in a dignified tone.

“The maga has sent the peacock packing,” chuckled Bavragor, who had followed the little scene. “Poor Rodario, his magnificent
feathers are trailing on the ground. I’d advise him to back off now while he’s still in possession of his plumage.” He rummaged
around for his drinking pouch and started humming a ballad under his breath.

“No chance,” said Furgas. He lay back in the snow. “When Rodario’s got his eye on a woman, he never gives up. Her sternness
will only encourage him.” He kissed Narmora and pulled her close. “One day he’ll stop playing the field and settle down.”

“If he doesn’t get beaten to death by a pack of angry husbands,” put in Boïndil, guffawing. “He must be pretty good at running
because he certainly can’t fight.”

After a short rest, it was time for the company to continue. Tungdil and Andôkai broke off their conversation and Djerůn bent
down on one knee, joining his hands to create a chair for the maga. The crestfallen Rodario was consigned to riding alone.

In the orbits that followed they battled through Weyurn’s snowdrifts, sometimes struggling to find a safe path. Whenever the
lead horse sank up to its belly, they knew for certain that the ponies would never get through. Djerůn, burdened with the
weight of the maga, spent much of his time hip-deep in cold snow.

On several occasions they were forced to retrace their steps and seek another route, but at last the Red Range was firmly
in their sights. The mountains towered before them, guiding them on their way, the red slopes blazing like fire whenever the
winter sun scored a hard-fought victory against the somber clouds.

At last they reached the mouth of a narrow gully that meandered toward a blood-red peak. The entrance to the gully was sealed
by a wall, as were each of its five sweeping curves. The firstlings had taken extensive precautions to secure their kingdom
against unwanted guests.

“Well, we made it,” Tungdil said happily. He rubbed his beard, dislodging a collection of tiny icicles that had formed beneath
his nose. He was tired, his feet were numb, he felt cold to the core, and he couldn’t risk touching his chain mail for fear
that his hand would stick to the frozen steel.
It’s nothing a tankard of dwarven beer won’t fix
. “Look,” he told them, “there’s the entrance.”

The twins followed his gaze, taking note of the six stone barriers in their path. “It makes you wonder what all the fortifications
are for,” said Boëndal, giving voice to their concern. His plaited hair was wrapped around his neck like a scarf to protect
him from the cold. “Anyone would think Tion’s hordes were approaching from this side and not the western pass.”

“My dear fellows, couldn’t we save the discussion for another
warmer
time?” pleaded the shivering impresario. “I’m in danger of losing my toes to frostbite.” He too was growing stalactites from
his nose.

Bavragor looked at him scornfully. “You’re as bad as a girl — or as bad as Shimmerbeard, which comes to the same thing.”

“Take another slug of brandy,” Goïmgar hissed angrily. “With any luck, you’ll trip over and freeze to death. I’ve got a feeling
you won’t be much use to us anyway. With your shaky hands, it’ll be a miracle if the spurs ever fit.”

“I’m surprised that someone as yellow-bellied as you can feel anything except the warm sensation in your pants,” Bavragor
said scathingly, not bothering to look round.

Following Boëndal’s advice, they fanned out in an arc formation, weapons at the ready, and rode cautiously into the gully
toward the first of the defenses, forty paces away. The wall of weathered stone rose high into the wintry sky, the only way
past it through a metal door inscribed with runes. The bricks themselves were just roughly hewn blocks of stone; the firstlings
hadn’t lavished much attention on the masonry.

Tungdil spelled out the runes, the metal glowed, and the door swung open, allowing them to pass. “I wish everything were that
easy. If it were all down to metalwork and reading, Nôd’onn would soon be dead.” The company set off again.

“Reading doesn’t come naturally to everyone,” said Boëndal from the back of the procession. “It’s just as well we’ve got a
scholar with us. Without your —” The links of his mail shirt tinkled softly and he stopped, eyes widening in alarm. “W-what
in the name of Vraccas…” he stammered, reaching behind him.

A black arrow was embedded in his back. Before he could alert the others, a second missile sang toward him, passing through
his hand, piercing his armor, and tunneling into his back. By the time it came to a halt, the arrowhead had passed right through
him and was protruding from his chest. Boëndal groaned and slid out of the saddle.

“Wait!” the impresario shouted frantically, calling to his companions to stop. He tugged on the reins and felt a rush of air
near his throat. The arrow whizzed past him and hit his horse in the neck. With a loud whinny, the animal crashed to the ground,
sending the impresario tumbling through the snow.

Djerůn whipped round, only to be hit. The long arrow missed Andôkai and pierced Djerůn’s armor with a curious sound. Even
now, the giant gave no audible sign of pain. Without hesitating, he turned away from the archer, putting himself between the
maga and their foe.

Andôkai cursed volubly and invoked a spell.

“What is it?” cried Furgas, who was staring in confusion with the remainder of the group.