The Dwarves (68 page)

They swept into the next tunnel, away from the cavern, the lake, and the spirits. After a while the hammering faded too.

Beroïn’s Folk,

Secondling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle

I
t was just as Balendilín had feared.

On reaching the High Pass, he and his warriors found dead dwarves strewn across the ramparts, blood trickling across the stone.
They hadn’t had time to draw their weapons and defend themselves, which seemed to suggest that the murderer had been a friend.
A friend bewitched by Nôd’onn and turned traitor. Confound the wizard and his magic!

The air was foul with the stench of orc and they could hear the rattle of cogs and the clatter of stone as the bridge unfolded,
slab by slab. The traitor had beaten them to it.

“Run!” shouted Balendilín. There was no need to say more; everyone knew what had to be done if disaster was to be averted.

Tearing up the steps, they made for the chamber that housed the mechanism operating the bridge. On the other side of the chasm,
the beasts were braying and cheering in excitement as the gangway unfurled. The dwarves tried not to listen to their shouts.

Suddenly they found themselves confronted by a guard of one hundred orcs, tall, powerful specimens, bristling with weaponry.
Balendilín and his warriors would have to fight tooth and nail to get through.

Both sides threw themselves into the battle with ferocity, each more determined than ever to wipe their enemies from the face
of the earth. Green blood mingled with red, limbs were severed, teeth sent flying, and the bloodcurdling noise of the fighting
competed with shouts and jeers from the hordes across the chasm whose rapacious hunger could barely be contained.

Balendilín’s arm grew heavier with every blow. His muscles were tiring from the strain of wielding his ax, but stubbornness
kept him from flagging. “Show no mercy!” he cried. “The bridge must be destroyed before it’s too late.”

“It’s too late already, Balendilín,” said Bislipur. The words echoed through the stone stairway, but of the speaker there
was no sign. He didn’t sound particularly troubled by the secondlings’ plight. “The dwarves of Beroïn and Goïmdil will meet
their doom together. It was easy enough to arrange, once the orcs were acquainted with the tunnels.”

“You told them?” The king’s ax slashed the vile visage of an orc. There was a sound of shattering bone and the beast toppled
over, his skull a bloodied wreck. The path was clear and the dwarves surged into the chamber to attack the last dozen foes
who were prepared to die rather than lose control of the bridge. Gasping for breath, Balendilín stopped for a moment. “Why?”

“This isn’t what I wanted, but you thwarted my plans with your ridiculous challenge to the succession. Thanks to you and the
high king, I had to improvise a little, but I’m not one to mourn what might have been. I wanted a war against the elves, but
orcs will do the job just as well — if not better.”

Balendilín tried to see where the voice was coming from, but the echo was deceptive. “I’ll kill you for your treachery,” he
vowed, full of loathing.

His words were met with mocking laughter. “Others have threatened the same, but they’ve never made good on their promise.
You won’t either, King Balendilín, not now that I’ve deprived you of your subjects and your stronghold.”

Balendilín lingered no longer, rushing instead to join the surviving warriors in the battle for the chamber. At last he risked
a glance through an embrasure.

Two-thirds of the bridge had been lowered already and a few of the beasts, unable to restrain themselves, were jumping the
gap. Some fell to their deaths, others caught hold of the edge and dangled for a moment before plummeting into the chasm below.

We have to stop them.
Balendilín let out a ferocious battle cry and threw himself against the last remaining orc, driving his ax with all his might
into the creature’s side. The blade ate its way through the grease-smeared armor, releasing a jet of dark green blood. He
pulled out his weapon, parried his antagonist’s sword, and struck where he had hit before. After a third blow, the beast staggered
and died.

It was only then that Balendilín caught sight of the twisted levers and broken handles that served to operate the bridge.

“The bridge is down,” one of his soldiers reported. “The beasts are storming the kingdom, Your Majesty.”

Frozen in horror, Balendilín stared at the mangled machinery. He grabbed the lever on which the future of his kinsfolk, the
future of all Girdlegard, depended, but it was jammed.

“Don’t forsake your children, Vraccas,” he cried in desperation, leaning against it with all his force. Changing his tactics,
he tore out the lever, rammed his blade into the slot, and pulled down on the shaft. He looked out.

It was working! The columns retracted and the walkway dropped a few paces, sagging dangerously in the middle. Balendilín heard
the vast stone slabs snapping and cracking; then the noise was drowned out by screams of terror as the invading beasts realized
that nothing could stop them from plunging to their deaths. At that moment the bridge gave way, pulling the creatures with
it. The assembled hordes on the far side of the chasm howled in disappointment.

“Your Majesty, you’re wounded,” said one of his warriors in concern. Balendilín looked down to see blood seeping from the
left side of his torso. There was a huge slit in his chain mail where an orcish sword had struck.

“It’s nothing,” he mumbled, wrenching his ax from the slot. “We’ll finish off the creatures who made it over the bridge, then
go back to help the others. We’ll deal with the traitor later.”

As they battled their way back to the tunnels, it became apparent that the Blue Range was riddled with enemy troops. Every
corridor, every passageway, every chamber brought forth more orcs and bögnilim patrolling the territory in small groups or
big gangs.

How much longer will we be able to hold them back?

Balendilín prayed to Vraccas for help.

On approaching the entrance to the tunnels, they heard the bestial cries of dying orcs. From the sound of it, the enemy troops
were being massacred.

“I gave the warriors strict instructions not to attack! A pitched battle would be fatal. We’ll be outnumbered!” The king and
his company hurried to the aid of their comrades, but were greeted by an entirely unexpected — and inexplicable — sight.

Advancing in the opposite direction was a battalion of dwarves who had popped up behind the orcs and taken them by surprise.
While the battalion cut its way through the beasts from the rear, Balendilín’s own troops had seized the initiative and launched
an offensive, thereby squeezing the enemy between two fronts.

Balendilín ordered his company to attack, and they joined the fray. At length the two dwarven armies met in the middle, their
gleaming axes making quick work of the last orcish troopers.

“I don’t like to be late for a battle,” declared a warrior in beautifully fashioned mail. The voice was a little high-pitched,
the beard on the thin side, and the armor revealed two large bulges that seemed distinctly unmanly. The dwarf was clutching
a golden mace, now stained with orcish blood.

“I am Xamtys II of the clan of the Stubborn Streaks, queen of Borengar’s folk and commander of the firstlings.” She turned
one of the corpses over with her foot. “I came here for a meeting of the assembly, and what do I find? Orcs! I suppose it’s
one way of letting off steam between debates.”

Balendilín quickly recovered from the surprise. “Queen Xamtys, you are most welcome here. Thank you for coming to the aid
of your cousins in their hour of need. My name is Balendilín Onearm of the clan of the Firm Fingers, king of the secondlings.
Was it Tungdil or Gandogar who asked you to come?” He prayed silently that it was Tungdil.

“It was Tungdil. He convinced me to put an end to the cycles of silence.” She held out her hand and he shook it. “What’s going
on here?”

He described in as few words as possible the fate that had befallen Ogre’s Death and the betrayal of the dwarves by their
own. He was interrupted by a messenger bearing news that the main gates were about to fall to the besiegers.

“Leave the range,” Xamtys advised him. “If you’ve been betrayed, they’ll know every passageway and every cavern.” She placed
a hand on his shoulder. “Come to my kingdom and shelter with the firstlings until Nôd’onn has been defeated and the beasts
thrown out of your lands.”

“I can’t,” he said quickly.

“King Balendilín, this is no time for stubbornness,” she said gently. “You and your folk will be overwhelmed by the enemy,
and for what gain? My warriors will have their work cut out saving Girdlegard without you. I propose that we take the tunnel
back to my kingdom and send messages to Tungdil and Gandogar to inform them of the change of plan.” She studied Balendilín’s
face and saw with relief that he knew she was right.

“Get the womenfolk and children out of here,” he instructed his guards. “Squeeze as many of them as possible into the wagons.
Anyone left behind will have to wait for our return; lone dwarves will have no trouble concealing themselves in the mines
and quarries. Destroy the key bridges. The orcs will be hard-pressed to track them down.”

Withdrawing the troops and abandoning the kingdom amounted to a defeat, but Balendilín had no choice if his folk were to survive.
We wouldn’t be in this position if it weren’t for Bislipur,
he thought bitterly.

He put his mind to organizing the retreat and dispatched volunteers to convey the news to the far reaches of the kingdom and
warn the clans that the army had withdrawn. “Tell them it won’t be for long,” he commanded. “I give my word that I’ll be back
in a few weeks to kill the orcs.”

He hurried away to the great hall, anxious to save the ceremonial hammer from desecration by the beasts. There was no need
to worry about the secondlings’ hoard: The treasures were protected by a runic password known only to the king.

Balendilín picked up the hammer from its place beside the abandoned throne and listened to the battering rams thudding against
the main gates. The pounding noise went straight through him, heralding the doom of Ogre’s Death as clearly as if Tion himself
were thumping on the door.

He took a last melancholy look at the throne, the stone pews, the tablets inscribed with Vraccas’s laws, the lofty columns,
and the beautifully sculpted bas-reliefs. Golden sunshine sloped through the chinks in the ceiling, bathing the hall in warm
light.
How much of this will be left when I return?

“Surely the king isn’t abandoning his realm?”

“Bislipur!” Balendilín whipped round toward the marble tablets. The traitor stepped out from behind one of them, the stone
trinkets in his beard tinkling softly as he walked.

“I was hoping to meet you alone without any of your slavish attendants. It was tiresome of you to destroy the bridge. I was
sorry to see it go.” He raised his ax and drove it into one of the sacred tablets, cracking the stone and breaking it apart.
“But patience is a virtue. The orcs will destroy your kingdom, just as I will put pay to your laws.”

The king descended from the dais. “You can shatter the tablets, but the words will be carved again. You shan’t destroy us,
Bislipur. The children of the Smith stand united. Haven’t you heard? The firstlings have come to our aid, and many of your
allies have been slain by their axes.”

“They’re not allies; they work on my behalf. The orcs are only instruments of my revenge,” Bislipur said calmly. He demolished
the remains of the tablet. “Enjoy your little victory while you can. You’ll never defeat Nôd’onn: He’s dangerous in his insanity,
and he’s far too powerful for you.” The second tablet shattered, splinters of polished stone striking the flagstones and scattering
across the floor.

“Enough!” Balendilín was at the foot of the dais and nearly upon the traitor. Without stopping he dropped the hammer and drew
his ax from his belt. The fourthling was stronger, he knew, but his lameness made him slow and clumsy. “Tell me why.”

“A fine duel this will be,” laughed Bislipur. “Two cripples locked in combat.”

“This isn’t a battle of words,” the king said grimly.

Bislipur smiled. “I guess the dwarves of Beroïn will have to find a new leader.” His ax hurtled out of nowhere, but Balendilín
ducked, flinging out his arm and using his momentum to strike.

Cursing, Bislipur leaped back, but the metal spike on Balendilín’s ax head caught his unarmored calf, ripping through leather
and fabric. Blood oozed from the wound.

“Why are you doing this?” Balendilín demanded. “Is it because your favorite wasn’t elected high king? Are you so obsessed
with waging war on the elves that you betrayed your own kin? Is that it?”

Bislipur rushed forward and launched a series of feint attacks, but Balendilín saw through them and drew back, steeling himself
for the real assault. They had crossed the breadth of the vast hall and were battling along a passageway that led to a bridge.
The ground was twenty or more paces beneath them.

“The succession never interested me,” spat Bislipur. “My only desire was for war. The elves would have destroyed you.”

He dealt the blow so forcefully that it was impossible to parry. At the last moment Balendilín managed to deflect it, but
he almost lost his ax.

“It makes no sense, Bislipur. Has Nôd’onn bewitched you? Why would you betray your folk?”

“My folk? The fourthlings aren’t my folk! You were closer to the truth than you realized.” His ax whistled through the air.
Balendilín blocked it, but the force of the blow numbed his hand.

“I’m too strong, too warlike to be a puny son of Goïmdil. Remember, you said so yourself.” He struck again and this time the
ax flew out of Balendilín’s fingers and clattered to the bridge. “I’m a child of Lorimbur, and I will go down in history as
the thirdling who brought misery on the other dwarven folks,” he said darkly. “I have succeeded where all others failed.”