The Dwarves (67 page)

“It’s getting closer,” Balyndis shouted excitedly. “It’s flying up.”

A fierce gust blew toward them, propelling two figures out of the chasm below. The current of air carried the maga and her
passenger to the bridge, set them down gently, and died away.

Andôkai’s long blond hair was tousled, and the artisan’s shimmering beard seemed to have been ransacked by mice. His face
was ashen but he wasn’t in the least bit hurt.

“That was incredible, Estimable Maga!” exclaimed Rodario. “Absolutely incredible! How selfless and courageous of you. To think
that you risked your own precious life to save the dwarf!” He turned to Goïmgar apologetically. “Not that your life is any
less precious, of course.”

Andôkai seemed determined not to dwell on the incident. “Have you checked the wagon?” she asked Furgas. She gave her cloak
a tug and set about plaiting her hair. “Can you fix it?”

The prop master walked over to the vehicle and shook his head. “The wheels have buckled. We won’t get them back on the rail.”
He bent down. “Someone’s been busy,” he said. “We’re lucky that the other wagons didn’t meet the same fate.”

“The gold and tionium,” cried Boïndil, who had crawled round to the other side of the wagon to check the cargo. “They’re gone.”

Bavragor gazed gloomily into the chasm. “It’s not hard to guess where they are: on a never-ending journey to the bottom of
the world.” He looked at the maga hopefully.

“No,” she said, dismissing his unspoken request. “We’ll have to think of something else.”

They fell silent. Two key components of the magic weapon had been wrenched from their grasp.

“I knew we’d never make it,” whined Goïmgar, unable to hide his glee.

“A fat lot of use you are,” Boïndil growled. “I say we throw him back down again. We’ve lost half the ingots, so we may as
well get rid of the pesky artisan as well.”

“So what if we’ve lost a few ingots?” said Tungdil, determined to raise their spirits. “We’re on our way to a dwarven kingdom,
remember! We’re bound to find enough gold and tionium to make a solitary ax.”

“Problem solved.” Andôkai nodded, giving her leather armor a final tug.

“Excellent. If we’ve all recovered sufficiently, we may as well get going. Divide yourselves up between the wagons,” ordered
Tungdil, who was beginning to warm to being in command. “We’ll take turns pushing until we reach a downward pitch.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said the maga. She motioned to Djerůn. “Leave it to him.”

Beroïn’s Folk,

Secondling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle

T
his time Nôd’onn’s army attacked from the sides.

Dwarven missiles sped toward the approaching siege engines, passing through the moist cladding of human skin, punching holes
in the timber and shattering the joists. The sheer scale of the invasion ensured that some of the engines approached unscathed.

At length three wooden towers drew alongside the parapets. As the ramps clapped down, hordes of screeching orcs spewed forth,
but the ferocious dwarves stood firm.

Balendilín proved himself an able commander, defending the stronghold so successfully that not a single assailant made it
through the dwarven lines.

“Pour oil on the wood,” he shouted as soon as the first wave of invaders had been repelled. Already the next wave of beasts
was streaming into the towers.

The plan worked. In no time the siege engines disappeared in a blaze of yellow flames. The wood burned like cinder, the flammable
sap fueled the fire, the ropes ignited, and the towers collapsed, raining debris to the ground. The enemy retreated, yelping
with fear.

Victory came at a price. Fourteen dwarves were slain by an älf who concealed himself on the ramp of the third tower and bombarded
them with arrows, showing no regard for the hungry flames. At last his cloak caught alight, but the onslaught continued, ending
only when his bowstring was consumed in the blaze.

In spite of the casualties, the mood was upbeat. There was no reason to believe that Ogre’s Death would fall.

“You fought bravely and well,” Balendilín praised his troops. “Our fallen brothers will live on in our memories and their
names shall be etched in gold in the kingdom’s great hall.” His eyes roamed over the rows of defenders. Their bearded faces
gazed back at him, sweaty but smiling; there was plenty of fight in them yet. “Vraccas gave us —”

“Orcs!” The shout came from a sentry who had turned his back to the gates and was listening to the king. “They’ve got into
the stronghold!”

There were hundreds of them. The snarling, roiling brutes were demolishing anything and anyone in their path. In no time they
had seized the inner rampart. They held up their swords, axes, lances, and shields triumphantly, taunting the assembled dwarven
army.

The tunnels. They must have come up through the tunnels!
“The High Pass must not be breached! Children of the Smith, I call on you to destroy the invaders!” cried Balendilín, rousing
his soldiers from their shock. “Every beast must die!”

The dwarves jolted into action, storming up the mountain-side to fight their ancient foe. Among them was their one-armed king
whose courage and tenacity were an inspiration to them all.

At that moment an ogre emerged from the underground hall, lips pressed to an enormous bugle. His piercing call drew cheers
and roars from the troops outside the stronghold. The second assault on the ramparts began.

Beroïn’s Folk,

Secondling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle

T
hey shouldn’t have got this far. Why weren’t they stopped by the guards?
Balendilín had no time to consider what had happened to the warriors who were guarding the entrance to the tunnels: He and
his army were battling a seemingly endless onslaught of ogres, orcs, and bögnilim. For every beast he felled, two more appeared
before him, and he could always be sure of hewing flesh.

At last Balendilín’s guards managed to turn the tide of the surprise attack and drive the invaders back to the tunnels. The
battle was bloody and cost many dwarven lives, but the king’s troops finally reached the threshold of the hall where the underground
network began. They could advance no farther.

How many more?
Balendilín’s heart sank as he surveyed the waiting beasts. They were trapped in the hall, but by no means defeated, and their
numbers were swelling as the tunnels disgorged more orcs.

A messenger pushed his way through the dwarven ranks, bringing more bad tidings for Balendilín. “The beasts have outmaneuvered
us,” he gasped. “They’ve attacked from the rear. The gates of Ogre’s Death are open and the first two ramparts have been taken.”

By now Balendilín was beginning to suspect that the dwarves had been betrayed. “Flood the ramparts with boiling oil,” he ordered.
“That will —”

“We can’t. They’ve destroyed the vats.”

Destroyed?
A moment ago, he had been confident that the enemy would be defeated; now his faith seemed misplaced.
To destroy the vats they’d have to know where to find them, in which case
… “Give the order to retreat. We’ll defend the stronghold from within. Close the gates and abandon the ramparts.” He clapped
him on the shoulder. “Hurry!”

The messenger nodded and sped away.

Balendilín was certain that the secondlings’ predicament had nothing to do with bad luck. Not only had they been attacked
through tunnels whose existence had been secret for hundreds of cycles, but their defenses had been sabotaged by enemies who
seemed to know the stronghold inside out, and now they were in danger of being outmaneuvered.

Someone with intimate knowledge of Ogre’s Death had helped them to plan the invasion.
What kind of dwarf would do such a thing?
Balendilín could think of no one who would stoop so low as to ally themselves with orcs.
Nôd’onn must have used his sorcery to draw out our secrets.
There was no time to hesitate: He had to act fast.

“I need two hundred warriors. The rest of you stay here and hold back the orcs,” he commanded, turning and marching away.

He was on course for the High Pass, where he intended to destroy the bridge before the orcs got hold of it and allowed fresh
hordes to flood into the stronghold from the Outer Lands. His fury and hatred of Nôd’onn grew stronger with every step.

Underground Network,

Kingdom of Weyurn,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle

S
urely he must be tired by now,” said Rodario, puzzled. “I’d be exhausted if I had to push both wagons.”

“Unlike some people, Djerůn is no stranger to hard work,” the maga said sternly.

The impresario gave her an injured look and stuck out his chin. “Perhaps the Estimable Maga could tell me what I’ve done to
be treated with such contempt?”

She turned her back on him. “Climb in, Djerůn; there’s another downward pitch.”

The armored giant squeezed into the rear wagon, trying to make himself as small as possible so as not to injure the others
or crack his head on any low archways.

“Very well,” said Rodario, refusing to give in. “You can ignore me if you like, but prepare for the consequences. I happen
to be writing a drama in which you play a leading role. You’ll have only yourself to blame if you make a bad impression.”

The maga’s eyes bored into his. “Perhaps Djerůn should attend the first performance. You’ll know from his reaction whether
I like your play. If he raises his ax, you should run.” The impresario held her gaze, but she refused to back down. “It isn’t
because of anything you’ve done, Rodario. Quite frankly, I don’t like your manner. It’s foppish.”

Rodario frowned, his mood completely spoiled. “Why don’t you come straight out and tell me that I’m not a real man? In your
opinion, a man must have muscles, know how to wield a sword, and command the mystic arts.”

“You understand me better than I thought,” she said scathingly. “Since you fail on all three counts, you should stop your
tiresome flirting. It’s getting on everyone’s nerves.”

The maga’s put-down was delivered in her usual strident voice. Rodario went a deep shade of red and was about to retaliate
when the wagon plunged and picked up speed. Ink spilled out of the open bottle, washing over the parchment and onto his clothes.
He fell into a wounded silence.

With one hand resting on the brake, Tungdil peered ahead, hoping to spot any potential obstacles before it was too late. Of
course, if the rail was broken, nothing would save them. Boïndil was sitting beside him, eyes straining into the darkness
too.

There was a generous gap between the two wagons and soon they were traveling at top speed. Suddenly the temperature seemed
to rise, and the warm wind buffeting their faces acquired the sulfurous odor of rotten eggs.

“There’s light ahead,” shouted Boïndil. “It looks orange.”

Shooting out of the tunnel, they raced toward another bridge whose basalt pillars spanned a vast lake, the surface of which
was incandescent with light. Lava twisted and snaked its way along the bottom, causing the crystal-clear water to bubble and
boil. The rising vapors warmed the air and made the atmosphere so humid that sweat started streaming from their pores. Breathing
was difficult, not least because of the stench.

The molten lava lit up the cavern, a vast irregular hollow of two or more miles across, with a ceiling some five hundred paces
above the water.

Their wagons trundled over the long bridge. Tungdil glanced over the side.
A spectacular place, but I’ll be glad to get out of here.

At that moment they heard hammering again.

It began with a single rap, a piercing tone that rose above the gentle bubbling of the water.

Goïmgar’s head whipped back and forth as he strove to locate its source. “It’s the ghosts of our forefathers,” he whispered.
“My great-grandmother told me stories about bad dwarves who trespassed against the laws of Vraccas. They were barred from
the eternal smithy and condemned to roam the underground passageways. They avenge themselves on any mortal who crosses their
path.”

“I suppose you believe the stories about man-eating orcs as well,” said Bavragor with a scornful laugh.

“Oh, those stories are true,” Boïndil growled from the front. “I can vouch for that. His great-grandmother was probably right.”
Goïmgar shrank down farther into the wagon until only his eyes were visible over the side.

“That’s enough, Boïndil,” Tungdil said sharply. Even as he spoke, a second rap echoed through the grotto, reverberating against
the glowing stone walls.

This time it didn’t stop.

The raps grew louder and the intervals briefer until the hammering swelled to a deafening staccato that shook the rock, dislodging
loose stones from the ceiling. Small fragments rained down on them, missing the bridge by a matter of paces and splashing
into the bubbling lake.

“Look!” shrieked Goïmgar, beside himself with fear. “Vraccas have mercy on us! The spirits are coming to drag us to our deaths.”

They looked up to where he was pointing. Figures detached themselves from the rock and stared down at them. Tungdil counted
at least three hundred before he gave up.

Still they kept coming. There was no denying that they looked like dwarves: Some were wearing armor, some dressed in normal
garb, others clad in little more than a leather apron. Male, female, warriors, smiths, and masons, their pale faces stared
accusingly at them and the hammering increased. Suddenly their arms flew up in unison and pointed in the direction the travelers
had come.

“They want us to leave,” whispered Goïmgar. “Turn back, I beg you. Let’s walk across Girdlegard; I’ll fight the orcs, I promise.”

Spirits
. Tungdil’s blood ran cold at the sight of their empty stares. The molten lava stained their ashen faces with its blood-red
glow. He had read about ghosts in Lot-Ionan’s books and now he’d seen the living proof.
I’m not going to let you ruin our mission.