The Dwarves (64 page)

“Did I say a bit of coin?” Furgas whispered to Rodario. “I meant,
a lot
.”

“Borengar’s folk welcomes you,” the queen said benevolently, signaling for them to approach.

They filed into the hall, with Tungdil at the head of the procession. He bowed courteously, then sank to one knee. The other
dwarves followed, but the players contented themselves with a bow. Tungdil introduced them, not forgetting Andôkai, Djerůn,
and the absent twins.

“As for me,” he concluded, hoping that his speech conformed to protocol, “I’m Tungdil Goldhand of Goïmdil’s folk. A matter
of grave importance brings us to your court.”

“Thank you, Tungdil Goldhand. My name is Xamtys Stubbornstreak the Second of the clan of the Stubborn Streaks, ruler of the
Red Range for thirty-two cycles. Your visit intrigues me. I have been without news of my royal cousins and their kingdoms
for a good long while.” Her mail was made of golden rings and she carried a four-pronged mace as a scepter. Her brown eyes
regarded them keenly but kindly.

They were offered refreshments: beakers of piping-hot drink. Rodario sipped contentedly, sighing as the warmth returned to
his body for the first time in orbits.

“You say you were brought here by a matter of grave importance?”

“I’m afraid it’s bad news,” said Tungdil, launching into an account of the danger threatening Girdlegard, the deaths of the
magi, the high king’s frailty, and the trouble surrounding the succession. At last he turned to the purpose of their mission.

“Which is why we’re here, Your Majesty. We need you to lend us your most talented smith, a smith who can forge the blade by
which Nôd’onn will fall. Help us, Queen Xamtys,” he implored her. “Help us and save your folk.”

The firstling queen turned her brown eyes upon him and stroked the fair down on her cheeks. Suddenly she stopped fiddling
and sat up straight. “It seems from your report that Girdlegard is in danger,” she said thoughtfully. “We haven’t seen the
other candidate, which makes me fear the worst. The älfar are accomplished marksmen, and perhaps Gandogar’s expedition wasn’t
blessed with such protection…”

“Pardon me, Your Majesty,” Goïmgar broke in indignantly. “King Gandogar has Vraccas’s blessing. He’s the high king’s rightful
heir!”

“It isn’t my place to judge,” the queen said kindly before returning her attention to Tungdil. “I shall be happy to help.
What better time than now to renew the bonds between our folks.” She lowered her mace and pointed to Balyndis. “This is your
new companion. Not only is Balyndis the firstlings’ best warrior, she’s also our finest smith.”

“I don’t mean to speak out of turn,” interrupted Rodario, “but I was wondering if Her Majesty could tell us how she came to
be queen. I thought the line of succession was always male…”

“The long-un has an inquisitive mind, I see. Very well, he shall have his explanation. It all began with a quarrel. Boragil,
my father, valued my mother’s advice, but considered her incapable of ruling the kingdom on her own. That angered my mother,
who demanded to be given the opportunity to try. After much argument, it was decided that my mother should govern the firstlings’
destiny for a period of fourteen orbits. It was during this time that the trolls attacked, but my mother had no intention
of relinquishing the crown. Instead she marched at the head of the army and defeated the enemy with a combination of cunning
and military skill. In so doing, she proved to be a more proficient ruler than my father, and when the fourteen orbits were
over she reneged on their agreement and refused to step down. The clans stuck by her and that was that.” She rose. “My mother
died thirty-two cycles ago, and I ascended the throne.”

“I thank Her Majesty for indulging a humble dramatist’s curiosity. I shall write her a magnificent part in my play.”

An attendant entered the hall with news that Boëndal was seriously hurt. The maga had rushed to his bedside and was doing
her best to treat his wounds.

The three dwarves were filled with dread.

“Someone will show you to your quarters so you can get some rest. Our tailors will provide you with warm clothes and fur coats
to keep out the cold. I assume you mean to continue your journey tomorrow?” She didn’t wait for a response. “In any event,
I’ll show you the way to the tunnels once you’ve recovered your strength.”

“You know about the tunnels?” Tungdil said, surprised. He was so tired that he could barely suppress his yawns. “Why haven’t
you used them?”

“My mother wasn’t sure what the other rulers would think about a dwarven queen. She kept quiet for fear of conflict and I
did the same.”

“In that case, Your Majesty, you must send a delegation to Ogre’s Death,” Tungdil said urgently. “In the name of the assembly,
I invite you to join the other rulers and chieftains in deciding our future. You spoke of renewing the bonds between the folks;
this is your chance.”

“The situation is every bit as serious as he says,” Rodario seconded him. “The Perished Land is a formidable foe. I’ve seen
with my own eyes what the orcs have done to Girdlegard, and without your kinsfolk, Nôd’onn will prevail. Speak to the other
folks and don’t worry about what they might say. This isn’t a time for caution.”

Tungdil looked at him gratefully.
Who would have thought it
?

Xamtys tapped her scepter firmly against her throne. “As soon as you and your company have commenced your journey to the Gray
Range, I shall lead a delegation of firstlings to Ogre’s Death and the folks shall be reunited after many long cycles.” She
smiled at them munificently. “You are right: There is no time to lose.”

I
know you’re only trying to help,” said Boëndal, gritting his teeth with pain, “but I don’t want your magic. The wounds will
get better by themselves.”

The firstlings had laid him in a warm chamber, removed his mail, and exposed the afflicted flesh. He had already bled through
the first set of bandages and was waiting for the next.

Andôkai, her face as ashen as her patient’s, was leaning over him, inspecting the damage. His body was struggling to cope
with the puncture wounds: Some of his internal organs had been damaged and he was rapidly losing blood. “I know a great deal
about injuries, and quite frankly, I can’t share your optimism,” she said candidly, her blue eyes clouded with concern. “Put
aside your pride, Boëndal, and think of the mission.”

“Pride? This isn’t about pride!” protested his brother from across the bed. He was determined to keep an eye on things and
had refused all offers of refreshment, barely stopping to take off his coat. “It’s your sorcery that’s the problem. It’s not
right! Your wretched Samusin might conjure some devilry into his soul.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped.

Boëndal closed his eyes, his breath coming in shallow gasps. “Leave… me… alone!”

“By rights you should be dead,” she said coolly. “If it weren’t for your dwarven constitution, you wouldn’t have made it this
far. Sheer bloody-mindedness is keeping you going, but your life is in the balance. I need to help while I still have the
power. My magic is waning.”

Boëndal was in no state to answer. His brother nodded to the door. “Save your hocus-pocus for your own patient, maga. We dwarves
can take care of ourselves.”

Andôkai got up, one hand resting lightly on the pommel of her sword, and walked silently to the door.

“He didn’t mean to offend you,” Boëndal whispered. “We appreciate your offer, really we do, but Vraccas will see me through
this.”

Andôkai flung her cloak over her shoulders. “I hope for your sake that he does.” The door slammed and silence descended on
the chamber.

“Perhaps she’s right…” ventured Boëndal.

“That’s enough,” Boïndil shushed him. “Vraccas has seen your plight and he’ll keep you alive for many more cycles. If either
of us deserves to die, it won’t be you, so stop fussing and get some rest.” He gave his brother another sip of water and hurried
to see why the physicians were taking so long with the dressings.

His armor seemed a thousand times heavier than usual and his legs were bowing beneath the overwhelming weight. All he could
think about was his brother. “Vraccas be with him,” he muttered, remembering Boëndal’s deathly pale face. His twin was languishing
on the threshold of the eternal smithy and what the maga had said about dwarven resilience and stubbornness was true: A human
would never have survived such injuries, and whether or not a dwarf could withstand them, only time would tell.

On his way down the corridor, he bumped into Tungdil, who was hurrying to visit the wounded dwarf. “How is he?” Tungdil asked
anxiously.

“Sleeping. He needs new bandages. The first lot are drenched already,” said the warrior, visibly distressed. The crazed spark
in his eyes had given way to profound concern.

“What about Andôkai? Can’t she do anything for him?”

“We don’t want her sort of help,” Boïndil shut him off. “I always said magic was no good, but Samusin’s magic is worse.” He
hurried away, calling out to the physicians, who came running with bandages.

Tungdil knew it was pointless to argue; the twins had made up their minds. Determination was a virtue, whereas intransigence…
Boëndal would rather die than be healed by the maga
.

He tiptoed into the chamber and saw Boëndal lying waxen-faced in the bed, seemingly dead but for the shallow rise and fall
of his chest. The physicians washed away the dried blood and carefully sewed the gaping flesh together, then applied a compress
of moss to ease the pain.

“We’ll have to go on without him,” Tungdil said softly. “He won’t last more than a hundred paces in his present state.”

“I’ll be fine, scholar,” came a faint but determined whisper from the bed. Boëndal looked at him pleadingly and reached for
his hand. “Another few orbits, and I’ll be back on my feet. It’s just a couple of scratches, that’s all.”

Tungdil glanced at one of the physicians, who promptly shook his head. “It’s out of the question. The wounds are deeper than
they look and there’s the internal damage to consider. Any movement will make things worse and he’ll die in agony. He’s not
fit to go anywhere.”

“I’m sorry, Boëndal,” Tungdil told him, heavy-hearted, “but you have to stay here and rest. You’ve done your bit for now;
just be sure you’re back with us when it comes to the great battle against Nôd’onn.”

“I’m coming, like it or not,” Boëndal threatened. “Boïndil and I stick together! Forging Keenfire is the most important mission
in dwarven history and I won’t —” He tried to sit up but had barely succeeded in moving when he gave a low groan, his fresh
dressings flushing crimson with blood. “I suppose that settles it,” he said through gritted teeth. He looked up at his twin.
“It’s up to you now to protect Tungdil and the rest of the company.”

Boïndil was standing stiffly by the bed, searching for the right thing to say. “All our lives we’ve been together,” he said
thickly, “and now I’m leaving you behind. It won’t be the same fighting without you.” He squeezed Boëndal’s hand. “The first
hundred runts will be for you.”

“You’ve got great plans, then,” said his brother, smiling weakly. “Don’t overreach yourself, Boïndil; I won’t be there to
watch your back.” They embraced, tears streaming down their bearded cheeks. Never before had they faced a parting such as
this.

“You’ll have to keep a better check on your temper when I’m not around. Promise you won’t let it run away with you?”

Boïndil gave his solemn word. “Get some rest now, brother.” He and Tungdil left the chamber. “When do we leave?”

“As soon as possible. Andôkai has done her best to patch up Djerůn with her magic and he’s fit to travel. He might be too
big for the wagon, though.”

“We’ll be cramped as it is. There’s the three long-uns, Andôkai and her pet warrior, Hammerfist and Shimmer-beard, not to
mention the materials for Keenfire — we’ll need a couple of wagons at least.”

“Don’t forget Balyndis,” Tungdil reminded him.

“Who?”

“Our new smith.”

“A woman?”

“You sound as enthusiastic as Bavragor.”

“I’ve got nothing against women, don’t get me wrong. I like a nice well-built lass with plump cheeks and big bosoms, a real
woman who you can hold on to and warm yourself against, but —”

“Come on, Boïndil, you know as well as I do that some of the secondling women are excellent smiths. They can be handy on the
battlefield as well. Smeralda could fight like a —” He checked himself.
Blast.

Boïndil stiffened at the mention of his dead lover’s name. “Fine, we’ll take the woman. If you’ll excuse me, I’m tired.” He
disappeared along the passageway in the direction of his chamber.

Tungdil watched him go.
That was stupid,
he remonstrated with himself.
I need to watch what I say
.

“I’m no stranger to the smithy, believe me,” said a high-pitched voice behind him. He whipped round in surprise. “Sorry, I
didn’t mean to startle you.” Balyndis was still dressed in her mail, and her long dark hair framed her rounded face. “I wanted
to tell you that it’s an honor to be chosen for your mission.”

His heart gave a little leap. He was so taken with the idea of traveling through Girdlegard in the company of the female smith
that he almost forgot his worries about the twins. He gazed into her brown eyes, unable to say a single word.

“I can handle an ax as well as a hammer, you know.”

Tungdil smiled weakly, still incapable of summoning his voice.

Balyndis didn’t know what to make of his silence. “If you don’t believe me, I can show you.”

“Vraccas forbid!” he cried, raising his arms hurriedly. “I believe you, absolutely. I daresay that women are good at fighting
too.”

The new smith seemed to take offense at his words. “In that case, Tungdil, I insist,” she said, reaching for her ax.

Tungdil’s eyes were drawn to the formidable muscles in her arms and chest. “Honestly, Balyndis, I didn’t mean it like that,”
he said, trying desperately to repair the damage. “I was worried you might get hurt.”