The Dwarves (82 page)

“What’s the matter?” Tungdil was about to pull on the brake, but she stopped him with a wave.

“It’s nothing; just keep going. Nôd’onn corrupted the force fields.” She leaned back, and Balyndis handed her a pouch of water.
“I channeled some of the energy, but it would probably kill me if I took any more.” Her mouth snapped shut as she struggled
to contain the next wave of nausea.

After traveling for two orbits they reached a set of points and continued alongside another rail. Suddenly a second wagon
rolled up and drew level with theirs. Its passengers, a dozen or so orcs, seemed just as surprised as they were.

Ireheart was the first to recover from the shock. He reacted true to type.

“Oink, oink! Come here, you runts,” he screeched excitedly, whipping out his axes. He glared at the others. “Leave them to
me.”

Before anyone could stop him, he had launched himself out of the wagon and landed ax-first among the startled beasts. In his
battle-crazed fury, he accidentally killed the driver, leaving no one in charge of the brakes. The wagon hurtled through the
tunnel while the scuffle continued inside.

Ireheart spotted a row of stalactites ahead and used them to his advantage. Maneuvering skillfully, he tricked a careless
orc into dodging his ax and colliding face-first with the hanging calcite. There was an explosion of gore and a peal of maniacal
laughter; then the dwarf pushed the headless creature over the side.

The runts struggled to defend themselves as Ireheart slashed through their ranks; the suddenness of the attack and the cramped
circumstances worked in his favor, and his frenzied cackles, along with the shrieks and howls of his victims, vied with the
noise of the wagons. Soon he reached the last of the orcs, a muscular beast whose armor was superior to his companions’.

“Stop! Don’t kill their leader!” shouted Tungdil. “I want to interrogate him.”

But the warrior was in the grip of his fiery spirit. Brandishing his axes, he charged toward the orc, who didn’t stand a chance
of deflecting both blades at once.

Andôkai barked an order, and Djerůn seized the doomed beast by the scruff of his neck. Like the boom of a crane, the giant’s
metal-plated arm swung toward the company’s wagon and deposited the creature at the rear. The orc stopped struggling as soon
as he felt the giant’s sword against his throat.

“Hey! That’s cheating!” Undaunted, Boïndil leaped back into their wagon, still intent on hacking the orc to pieces, but Andôkai
barred the way.

“Don’t be foolish, Boïndil,” she warned him coldly. “I’ve replenished my powers, remember. Stop of your own accord, or I’ll
make you. Tungdil’s right; we need to find out what we’re up against.”

Reason and fury struggled for mastery of the warrior’s mind. Panting for breath, he returned to his seat: Good sense had triumphed.
“Question him if you must. I’ll kill the other runts when we get to the mountain.”

Tungdil turned to the orc and looked at him keenly. “What’s Nôd’onn doing at the Blacksaddle?” he asked in orcish.

“I’m not telling you anything, groundling.”

“Maybe you’d prefer to tell my friend.” He reached toward the seated giant and flipped back his visor. Violet light bathed
the hideous features of the prisoner, who looked away in horror and fear. Tungdil took care not to look at Djerůn; what he
had glimpsed in the desert village would haunt him forever. “Or do you want him to bite off your arms?”

The orc squealed something that Tungdil couldn’t understand, then said more clearly, “No, don’t let him touch me!”

“What are you doing at the Blacksaddle?”

“We’re besieging the groundlings,” the orc answered, his voice cracking with fear. “They tried to hide from us, but Nôd’onn
wants them dead.”

“Why?”

“How should I know?”

“Is he there?”

The orc fell silent but kept a wary eye on Djerůn.

Tungdil could practically smell his fear. “Is the magus at the Blacksaddle?” he repeated. When nothing happened, the giant
seized the initiative. His head sped forward, and they heard a loud crunch.

Screaming, the orc stared at the mangled stump where his arm had once been. “You’re right, you’re right,” he cried, howling
with pain. “The magus is at the Blacksaddle!”

“When is he going to attack?” Tungdil asked pitilessly.

“I don’t know. I was ordered to be there in four orbits.” The beast groaned, trying to stop the gushing blood with his other
hand. Green gore spurted through his fingers. “That’s all I —”

Djerůn hadn’t eaten for ages, and the sight of a fresh meal was too tempting to resist. Without consulting Andôkai or Tungdil,
he seized the orc, killed it, and devoured its twitching corpse. His back was turned, so none of the dwarves could see his
face.

At the sound of the maga’s voice, he dropped the body like a shot, closed his visor, and sat back down. Drops of green blood
trickled from his helmet and there was a sickening smell of orc guts.

“Throw the rest away,” Andôkai ordered. Djerůn dropped the remains of the beast over the side of the carriage.

“By the hammer of Vraccas, if we didn’t need the giant for our mission…” Ireheart broke off his threat. “He’s a monster —
a tame one, but a monster all the same.” He glanced at the maga. “I hope your god doesn’t get tired of you and turn the brute
against us.” His axes disappeared back into his belt. “I’m here if you need me; just say the word.”

Andôkai declined to comment.

So Samusin’s son devours his father’s creatures.
Tungdil stared in fascination at the demonic visor. Djerůn’s helmet was still glowing violet as if an eternal fire were blazing
inside his head. Tungdil caught Narmora’s eye. “The orcs were supposed to be there in four orbits. We’ve got a new deadline.”
He turned to face the front and felt a rush of air that cleared his nostrils of the smell of dead orc.
Girdlegard will soon be free of evil — or forever in its thrall.

Underground Network,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle

L
ater on they came across another fifty orcs whose bodies had been stacked to the side of the track. Their mysterious protectors
had been at work again, although they continued to hide themselves from view.

The rest of their journey was uneventful, and they surfaced in the former kingdom of Gauragar, not far from the Blacksaddle.

Tungdil recognized the area straightaway. “It’s this way,” he told them, leading them to the hill from which he had first
seen the Blacksaddle. Crouching low, they scrambled to the top, hoping not to be spotted by sentries. They weren’t ready to
don their disguises yet.

“Vraccas almighty, we’re not a moment too soon,” he whispered.

The murky forest of conifers was gone, replaced by a ring of wooden structures whose platforms were crawling with miniature
figures that looked like orcs. The towers were already dizzyingly high, but the beasts were adding extra stories in the hope
of storming the stronghold from the summit or the upper slopes. They must have tired of banging their heads against the solid
base of the Blacksaddle or perhaps the growling mountain had shaken them from its flanks.

It looks more sinister than ever without the trees.

Every now and then black torrents cascaded from the hidden stronghold, forcing the besiegers to flee the steaming liquid or
perish in its flow. Elsewhere, fiery projectiles rained down on the army from chinks in the rock, landing among the beasts
and dousing them in oil. Countless troopers were incinerated in the blaze.

They’ve resurrected the old defenses.

But despite their losses, Nôd’onn’s soldiers continued undeterred. The beasts were swarming like ants around the base of the
Blacksaddle, scouring the flat ground for anything that could be used in their assault on the flanks.

A detachment of ogres had been put to work splitting tree trunks and building siege engines. The defenders focused on toppling
the towers or setting light to them before the orcs could climb high enough to pose a threat; but it did nothing to discourage
the ogres, who collected the debris and started again. Their smaller comrades milled about impatiently, desperate for the
attack to begin.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” said Tungdil to his dwarven companions. He kept his eyes fixed on the mountain ahead. “The thirdlings
built the stronghold to wipe out the other dwarves, but now it’s the only thing protecting us from Nôd’onn.” He suddenly remembered
the runes that he had found on his first visit to the mountain.
Roused by the thirdlings / Against the will of the thirdlings. / Drenched again / In blood, / The blood / Of all their / Line.
He wondered what it could mean.

“I’ve never seen so many of them,” said Balyndis, staring wide-eyed at the beasts below.

The enemy had pitched their tents in a circle around the mountain about a mile from its base. Their shelters barely looked
sturdy enough to withstand the snow and winter winds. Here and there black puffs of smoke rose skyward.

“Eighty thousand at a guess,” Boïndil said evenly. He thumped Tungdil on the back. “I’m not saying you were right about books,
but I’d need more than my axes to deal with a rabble like that. Your plan will work better after all.”

Rodario pointed west. “Do you think those are Nôd’onn’s quarters?” He indicated a stately tent, far larger than the others
and draped in malachite-colored cloth. “I’d certainly want a tent like that if I were the magus. Canvas is all very well for
the riffraff, but a man of authority deserves something better.”

Furgas sighed. “Thank goodness you weren’t born a nobleman. Your subjects would have strung you up cycles ago.”

“Not if you were around to invent a slower way of killing me.” They smiled at each other companionably.

“Speaking of inventions.” Furgas gestured away from the main battleground and pointed to a band of ogres who were constructing
a rolling siege engine. It towered two hundred paces above the ground and looked far more robust than its foregoers. “That
should do the trick for them. They’ve used tiles on the outside to make it less flammable.”

Hundreds of orcs descended on the contraption, swarming over its many platforms, arming it with crossbows and catapults, and
stocking the slings with missiles and spears. The ogres finished the building work and bent down to push the tower toward
the mountain. Bugles were sounded, heralding an all-out attack.

“It’s time we did something,” ruled Tungdil. “Narmora, bring the prisoners to Nôd’onn.”

She nodded resolutely and donned her disguise.

A few moments later they were faced with one of the deadliest creatures in Tion’s creation. The transformation went deeper
than the change of clothes; with each piece of älf armor, Narmora looked crueler and more menacing, her face hardening and
paling. As she straightened up, her voice sounded oddly sinister. “And now for the most important part…” The whites of her
eyes darkened, leaving nothing but fathomless blackness, the distinguishing feature of the älfar by day.

If I didn’t know better…
To Tungdil, she looked exactly like a real älf, which was precisely what they needed for their plan to succeed. “Perfect,”
he praised her.

Andôkai got out the dark blue amulet that belonged to the dead älf in the desert and hung it around Narmora’s neck. “The crystal
will ward off Nôd’onn’s magic,” she said. “I want you to wear it in case we get separated and you find yourself fighting on
your own.”

Narmora smiled at her. “Wait here. I’ll fetch the armor for my mercenaries.” She slipped away noiselessly and disappeared.

Tungdil noticed that Balyndis had reached for her ax. “She’s… she’s changed,” the dwarf said defensively. “She’s all sinister
and threatening, just like a real älf.”

“What if her dark side takes over?” asked Boïndil, who didn’t mind voicing his doubts. “She’ll have Keenfire and we can’t
kill Nôd’onn without it. The maga won’t be able to hurt her because of the amulet. How are we supposed to stop her if she
turns against us?”

Furgas rushed to his mistress’s defense. “She’s still Narmora, you know,” he said fiercely. “Don’t forget that she’s an actress.
No matter what she says or does, you mustn’t doubt her. She’s had plenty of opportunity to —”

Narmora returned with an armful of bloodied armor belonging to some careless sentries. She threw the garments into the snow.
“You’ll have to wipe them clean,” was all she said.

O
nce Rodario had taken some “special precautions,” as he mysteriously referred to them, the company began the most perilous
phase of their journey yet.

Tungdil, Gandogar, Balyndis, and Boïndil took their places at the heart of the group, surrounded by their captors, whose faces
were hidden by their foul-smelling helmets. Narmora had swaddled Keenfire in rags and was carrying the weapon on her back.
Djerůn stayed behind, poised to charge down the hillside and cut down the enemy if his mistress should signal for help.

Boïndil found it especially difficult to be separated from his beloved axes. Worse still, his hands were bound, a circumstance
he tolerated only because they couldn’t get to Nôd’onn by any other means. A worrying thought occurred to him. “Tell me again
how the story ended.”

Rodario opened his mouth to enlighten him, but Tungdil cut him off. “Happily,” he said firmly. He locked gazes with the impresario,
pleading with him to let the falsehood stand. Rodario rolled his eyes, but refrained from comment.

“Just as well,” growled Boïndil, who luckily wasn’t interested in specifics.

Furgas had stowed the dwarves’ axes in a sack and was ready to return them to their owners at the first sign of trouble. The
captives were bound with leather manacles that would rip at the jerk of a wrist. All that mattered was that they
looked
like prisoners.

The afternoon shadows were growing long when they finally entered the enemy encampment.

Narmora glared menacingly at the sentries, three orcs and four bögnilim, and demanded to be allowed to deliver her prisoners
to Nôd’onn in person. The company was allowed to pass.