The Dwarves (70 page)

Andôkai drew alongside Tungdil. “There’s no smoke ahead,” she said. “Nôd’onn must have ordered the orcs to quell any resistance
in Turguria and the other enchanted realms before taking on the human kingdoms.” She pointed to the east. “There’s a fortified
city in Tabaîn, just across the border from here. I vote we find ourselves a room. We’re not dressed for sleeping in the open,
especially not when it’s freezing outside. Besides, the citizens will be glad of a few extra swords.”

Tungdil nodded his agreement. It was nighttime when the company reached the gates of a city marked on the map as Roodacre.

Beroïn’s Folk,

Secondling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle

N
o sooner were the wagons rolling along the rail than Balendilín and Xamtys encountered the next setback. Nôd’onn’s troops
had already started to occupy the tunnels and barricade the tracks.

They managed to speed past the first band of waiting orcs, but a little farther along the tunnel they were pelted with stones
by ogres and trolls while the second band of orcs charged onto the rail.

The ambush cost them four wagons, but the remaining carriages turned off at a junction, only now they were heading north and
not west.

Before they reached the next corner, Xamtys signaled for them to halt. She made her way to the king’s wagon to confer with
Balendilín. “They’ve blocked the rail to my kingdom,” she said, clenching her jaw in frustration. “It’s too dangerous for
us to use the tunnels. For all we know, the orcs have sabotaged the tracks and we’ll plunge straight into a chasm.”

“Bislipur must have told them about the tunnels some time ago,” said Balendilín. His attendants saw their chance and redressed
his wound.
It doesn’t bear thinking about. The dwarves built these tunnels for the protection of Girdlegard and now Tion’s creatures
are using them to conquer our kingdoms.

“We can’t go overland, Balendilín.” Xamtys inspected his wound and shook her head. “It’s winter and we won’t find anything
to eat on the way. None of us are equipped to trudge through snow and ice. We’d be lucky if half of us survived without freezing
or starving.” She took off her helmet and two plaits unfurled, draping themselves over her shoulders. “We’ll have to come
up with another idea. The Red Range —”

“No, Xamtys.” He stopped short, gasping with pain. His strong hand gripped the side of the wagon while the dressing was removed.
“The Red Range is out of the question.” He pulled out a map and placed his finger over a dot at the heart of Girdlegard. “This
is where we’ll go. It’s a somber place, I know, and a curse hangs over its history, but it’s our only safe bet.”

She ran a hand over her face as if to wipe away the dark thoughts and tiredness. “What makes you so sure?”

“It’s not connected to the tunnels and there’s no other way in. We’ll have to cover a few miles overland, but once we’re there,
the women and children will be out of danger. The surrounding area is flat and easy to survey. We’ll be safe until Tungdil
or Gandogar finds us.” He cursed Bislipur silently; he could barely move because of the wound in his chest, and he felt dangerously
weak.

“Girdlegard is a big place. We can’t count on sending messengers.” Xamtys studied the section of map beneath Balendilín’s
hovering finger. “I’ve never heard of the place.”

“We won’t need messengers. Provided we make sure everyone knows where we’re going, our two friends will find us in the normal
course of events. They’re bound to realize that the orcs have seized the tunnels and they’ll start making inquiries.”

“Hmm.” The queen didn’t seem entirely convinced. “But then the beasts will be able to find us too. Is that what we want?”

“Absolutely.” He nodded vigorously, his brown eyes gazing earnestly. “That’s exactly my intention. I want Nôd’onn to lead
his army to us.”

Xamtys looked at him as if he were out of his mind. “He’ll never show up in person, and if he does, we’ll be dead. If you
want a swift end, Balendilín, you should have stayed in the Blue Range. We needn’t have bothered to escape.”

“No, Nôd’onn must come to us. He’s been scouring Girdlegard for the books and relics. If he thinks we’ve got them, he’ll gather
his hordes and attack us in person.”

“But why would we
want
him to attack us?” She leaned over the side of the wagon and looked at him imploringly. “Balendilín, I need to know why I
should lead my warriors to certain death.”

He met her worried gaze. “We need to draw Nôd’onn close to us so Gandogar and Tungdil can find him. Otherwise he’ll barricade
himself somewhere in the depths of Girdlegard and we won’t get a chance to use Keenfire against him.”

At last the queen saw the logic of the plan. “So we’ll act as bait. Of course, the only drawback is that no one knows when
Gandogar or Tungdil will arrive.”

“Or if they’ll make it at all,” he admitted frankly, closing his eyes. The loss of blood was sapping his strength, making
him dizzy. “But it’s our only hope.”

“Very well.” Xamtys let go of the wagon. “But I must warn my subjects first.”

“It’s too late for that. The orcs know all about the tunnels; they’ll be there already. It’s the obvious thing to do.” He
gripped her hand. “Your Majesty, we must resign ourselves to being the last dwarven army in these lands. The task of destroying
Nôd’onn falls to us alone.”

She took a deep breath and stared at his chapped hand. “To think that they’re butchering my folk and I can’t even stop them.”
A tear trickled down her soft cheek. “We must avenge ourselves a thousand times over, Balendilín. The fields of Girdlegard
will be awash with orcish blood, and I shall pursue our enemies tirelessly, stopping only when my royal mace shatters on an
ogre’s skull.” Balendilín could see from a glance that her weapon would never break. Suddenly Xamtys looked concerned. “But
what if Nôd’onn defeats us before either expedition returns?”

He smiled at her, trying to look more confident than he felt. “We won’t let him,” he said firmly.

Xamtys held her head high, her brown eyes scanning the rows of anxious, determined faces in the wagons. Some of the children
were crying, their wails rising above the clunking armor and weaponry as the other passengers fidgeted in their seats. The
air smelled stuffy and old.

“As you wish, Balendilín. I will follow your lead.” She shook his hand and returned to her wagon.

The news of their destination spread like wildfire through the carriages. The secondlings had left their kingdom with misgivings,
but on hearing where Balendilín was taking them, they reacted with disbelief, horror, and, in a few cases, unmitigated fear.

Roodacre,

Kingdom of Tabaîn,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle

O
nce again the company passed the sentries’ muster without anyone remarking on Djerůn’s great size.

Roodacre was a vast place. The population was listed as seventy thousand in one of Lot-Ionan’s books, but the study had been
written some time ago and the city was still expanding.

“I don’t blame the orcs for not touching it,” commented Boïndil. “I’ll wager that Roodacre could rally thirty thousand trained
defenders, not to mention the rest.”

“It won’t take long for the orcs to gather an army to rival them,” said Andôkai. “Either that, or the älfar will capture the
city by stealth.” Mifurdania had taught them that nowhere was safe from Tion’s hordes. “If all else fails, Nôd’onn will send
one of his famuli to tear down the walls and let the orcs in. Once they’re inside the settlement, Roodacre will be lost. Humans
are no match for orcs.” She pointed to a tavern where a light was still burning in the bar. “Shall we go in?”

“I wouldn’t want to live in a place as flat as this,” Bavragor said to Balyndis. “How are you supposed to hide from the sun
when there isn’t any shade? It must be baking in the summer.”

“I’ve nothing against warmth, provided it comes from my forge,” said the smith, ushering him in front of her.

“Yes, there’s nothing better than smiting red-hot iron on the anvil and letting the hammer sing.” Tungdil sighed. “I miss
my smithy.”

“Your smithy?” echoed Balyndis, surprised. “I thought you were a fourthling. Aren’t Goïmdil’s dwarves supposed to be gem cutters?”

“Exactly,” said Goïmgar in an I-told-you-so tone of voice. “Gem cutters and diamond polishers. But he’s not one of —”

“I’m a fourthling, all right, but I’ve always felt more of an affinity for a craft beloved of all our folks,” Tungdil cut
in.

“He’s not one of us,” Goïmgar continued dismissively. “He’s just a foundling. He lived with the long-uns until someone talked
him into thinking he was a fourthling, and then he took it upon himself to steal the crown.”

“Oh,” she said in confusion, “but if you were raised by men, who taught you to love the smithy?”

“I’ve always loved metalwork,” he confided. “Even with sweat pouring into my eyes, arms as heavy as lead, and sparks singeing
my beard, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than at the anvil.”

Her eyes lit up as she laughed. “I know what you mean.” She rolled up her mail shirt to show him the scar on her right arm.
“Look, that’s what Vraccas did to me when I tried to forge a sword. He doesn’t approve of dwarves fashioning anything but
axes and maces. He sent a message through the anvil, and I’ve never been tempted to make another one since.”

Tungdil pulled off his glove enthusiastically and held out his left palm, which was marked by a deep red scar. “It was a horseshoe.
I knocked it off the anvil and put my hand out to catch it before it landed in the dirt. It was my best-ever horseshoe, and
I wasn’t about to see it ruined.”

Balyndis was swept away by Tungdil’s hitherto unsuspected passion for the forge. Soon they were deep in conversation about
the particulars of metalwork and had quite forgotten their companions.

Andôkai called them to order by clearing her throat. “There’ll be plenty of time for talking later. First we need to find
somewhere to stay.”

Tungdil glanced around for the first time and saw that they were in a large room of staring humans. Djerůn towered above them
like a statue. The enormous warrior would have looked more at home on a plinth outside the town hall than in the front room
of a tavern.

The innkeeper lodged them in a dormitory usually used by traveling merchants. Because of the threat facing Girdlegard, trade
between towns had practically ceased, and so Tungdil and his friends had the place to themselves at no extra cost. None of
them felt like talking to the locals, so they ordered their meal to be brought to their room.

Feeling sidelined by Balyndis’s and Tungdil’s enthusiasm for the smithy, Bavragor tried to interest Balyndis in the art of
masonry, with only moderate success.

He was a few notes into a traditional song of the Hammer Fists when Tungdil delved into his knapsack and brought out the sigurdaisy
wood. Balyndis saw him inspecting it and leaned over to get a closer look. The melody stopped abruptly, ending in an unintelligible
grunt.

“Is it metal?” The firstling frowned as she stared in fascination at the surface. “I’ve never seen anything like it. We don’t
have it in our kingdom.”

Tungdil gave her a brief account of the wood and its purpose and handed her the relic. “The trees were all chopped down, so
this is the last piece in Girdlegard — except Gandogar’s, of course. Without it, we’d never be able to make Keenfire.”

She ran her hands over it reverently, trying to feel the details with her fingers. Bavragor looked on jealously.

“Ha, look at him stare!” cackled Goïmgar, hiccuping with glee. “His one eye is falling out of its socket! Don’t you get it?”
he jeered. “She’s not interested in you anymore. You’re a stone splitter, not a fancy smith! It’s too bad you’ve got the wrong
gift.” He stopped to fill his pipe, then jabbed the stem toward Tungdil. “Charlatans are in the habit of taking what doesn’t
belong to them.”

Tungdil’s cheeks reddened with anger and shame. “That’s enough from you, Goïmgar,” he said harshly. “Don’t you see that spitefulness
doesn’t do you any favors?”

“Oh, I’m fine, thanks for asking,” he hissed back. “How would you feel with everyone picking on you all the time?”

“Why can’t you see that this isn’t about Gandogar or the succession? We’re here to stop Nôd’onn because —” Tungdil was about
to launch into yet another explanation, but opted instead for the truth. “But you know that, don’t you? You don’t
want
to understand. You
like
being the one with a grievance!”

“What I think is
my
business, not yours! Anyhow, I was forced to join this expedition against my will and I don’t see why I should suffer in
silence. It wasn’t my idea to come on this mission, and I’m going to keep reminding you of that.”

“Actually, Goïmgar, you’re not. No more insults, no more snide comments, no more cussed remarks, or I’ll solder your lips
together with red-hot metal. Do you understand? We need your hands and your craftsmanship, not your poisonous tongue.” Eyes
flashing, he turned to Bavragor and Boïndil. “As for you two, you’re to leave him in peace. The teasing stops now.”

Goïmgar puffed furiously on his pipe, sending clouds of blue smoke shooting toward the ceiling. He got up and walked to the
door. “Don’t worry, I’m not running away,” he said scornfully when he saw the alarmed expression on Tungdil’s face. “I’m going
outside so I can walk up and down and be as insulting, snide, and cussed as I like — and you’d better not get in my way!”

He marched out, letting the door slam behind him.

Rodario was the first to break the silence. “Would anyone like the last of this delectable sausage?” he inquired. “I’m still
a little hungry, but good manners dictate that…” He broke off when no one showed any sign of responding, and decided that
the lack of interest entitled him to help himself. Having finished the sausage with gusto, he dipped his hands in the tub
of warm water provided by the publican and lathered the soap in preparation for a wash.