The War of the Dwarves (10 page)

Bundror positioned himself next to Gisgurd and examined the seal. “It’s elven, all right. One of the bowmen at the Blacksaddle
was wearing one just like it. A bögnil killed him and tried to make off with his chain—I buried my ax in his back.”

Shanamil inclined her head toward him. “Thank you for avenging my kinsman. Your forebears would have danced on his grave.”
Her gray eyes rested on him kindly.

Bundror, convinced of her integrity, lowered his weapons. “I’ll vouch for them,” he whispered to Gisgurd. “They’re elves from
Âlandur.”

Gisgurd and Gimdur inspected the maiden’s companions, studying their armor, their weapons, their slender faces, as pure as
they were fair. The dwarves relaxed their guard.

“Fine,” said Gisgurd finally. “We’re prepared to believe that Liútasil sent you—but don’t expect us to trust you properly
until we’ve seen your eyes in the light. When the sun rises over the plains tomorrow, we’ll know if you’re monsters or elves.”

The elf maiden took the speech with good grace. “You’re right to be wary,” she said calmly. “It would be just like the älfar
to trick you into trusting them. A unit of ten älfar could kill three hundred warriors by slitting their throats in the dark.”
She motioned for her companions to sit beside her at the fire. “No, I don’t blame you at all. It’s a good thing the älfar
won’t be around for much longer—you’ll know who you’re dealing with when you meet an elf at night.” She reached for her drinking
flask. “How were you planning to find the allied camp?”

Gisgurd sat down, and Bundror and Gimdur followed suit. “We thought we’d head for the spot where the sun is at its zenith.
I think we were roughly on course; it’s not easy finding our bearings on the surface.”

“I’d be lost underground,” she said with a smile that revealed two rows of even white teeth.

Gisgurd felt a deep, almost physical aversion toward her. Her beauty offended his eyes. The elves were created from earth,
dew, and sunlight, which explained why he found her abhorrent; sunlight was anathema to the deep-dwelling dwarves. It confirmed
his belief that he could never really be friends with one of her kind. But at least the maiden didn’t seem as arrogant as
the rest of the elves, an observation that he shared with her candidly.

“I suppose we’re all reviewing our opinions,” she said. She produced a hunk of bread from her bag and started eating. “To
be honest, I was expecting a rowdy pack of stinking, drunken groundlings, not a disciplined unit of warriors with a healthy
distrust of strangers.” She smiled. “Although I still think a few sentries wouldn’t go amiss.” She tore off another hunk of
bread and her companions unpacked their victuals. “Balyndis Steelfinger isn’t your real name, is it?” she asked suddenly,
turning to Gisgurd.

Bundror roared with laughter. “Well spotted,” he said, shaking his head. He proceeded to tell her how Tungdil Goldhand and
his companions had traveled to the Gray Range, overcoming innumerable obstacles to reach the fifthlings’ smithy and forge
Keenfire while the enemy was pounding on the door.

“Just orcs, or älfar as well?” asked the elf.

“Both,” he said, explaining how Tungdil and the secondling twins had killed their first älf in Greenglade, long before the
expedition proper had begun. Later, they had put an end to two of their dogged pursuers, Sinthoras and Caphalor. “They were
the most dangerous älfar in the whole of Dsôn Balsur.”

The elf clapped her hands appreciatively and Bundror’s companions, who had listened attentively to his narrative, joined the
applause. “You’re an excellent storyteller,” she praised him. “But soon tales about fighting the älfar will be a thing of
the past.”

“More’s the pity,” murmured Gisgurd to the others’ amusement.

Gimdur ran a hand through his thick black hair. “I’ve always wondered how the älfar were created. Perhaps you can tell us…”

Shanamil nodded, crossed her legs, and looked from one dwarf to the next. In spite of their venerable age and wrinkled skin,
there was something childlike about their upturned faces.

Inàste was the daughter of Elria the Helpful, who ruled over the water.

Inspired by the beautiful creatures fashioned by Sitalia, daughter of Palandiell, Inàste set to work. Taking dew, soil, and
light, she called into being a new race of elves.

But Palandiell, afraid that Sitalia’s work would be eclipsed, seized the new elves and threatened to destroy them.

Inàste pleaded with Elria to intervene, but her mother was unbending. After a furious argument, Inàste swore eternal vengeance
on her mother and Palandiell.

Turning her back on the other deities, she opened her chamber to Samusin, and bore him a son, a beautiful baby who resembled
an elf in appearance but who burned with his mother’s hatred of Palandiell and Elria.

In time, he grew up to become the first älf, and Inàste gave him weapons and sent him to live among the elves.

Palandiell lost patience with the murdering, treacherous älf, and cast him over the mountains to the north where he took up
with Tion’s creatures, spreading his seed throughout the Outer Lands.

Patiently, he bided his time, waiting for a chance to cross the border and wage war against his cousins. Since then, he and
his descendants have served the Perished Land devotedly, driven by their determination to wipe out the elves.

N
o one clapped.

It wasn’t because the dwarves hadn’t appreciated the story; on the contrary, they were under the legend’s spell. Enchanted
by the elf’s soft, singsong voice, they waited in vain for her to continue. Shanamil stayed silent and bowed her head.

“I see,” said Gisgurd after a while. He cleared his throat. “So Inàste and Samusin are to blame for the älfar.”

“What about Palandiell, Elria, and Sitalia?” objected Bundror. “They shouldn’t have argued with Inàste.” He shook his head
vigorously, making his beard swing from side to side. “Vraccas would never have behaved like that. Nothing good ever comes
of a quarrel.”

“It’s a legend, remember,” said Gimdur. “An interesting legend—but I bet if you asked the älfar, they’d tell you a different
story and say the elves were to blame.” He looked at the envoy. “What do you say to that?”

Shanamil looked at him evenly. “I’ve told you our version of the story, and I believe it—just as you believe that the dwarves
were hewn from the mountain by Vraccas. Anyway, it’s as well you’re made of the hardest granite,” she said, changing the subject.
“Our army could do with your strength and persistence. What of the dwarven heroes you spoke of? Are they here?”

“You mean Tungdil and his companions?” Bundror laughed. “No, he hasn’t got time to bother with Dsôn Balsur’s pointy-ears.”
He stopped suddenly, realizing what he’d said. Frowning, he looked at the maiden. “You don’t mind if I call them pointy-ears,
do you?” He took her smile as permission to refer to the älfar as he pleased.

“Mind?” growled Gimdur. “I’m sorry, elf, but I’m not going to stop insulting my enemies just because they’re related to my
friends.” He got out his pipe and stuffed it with tobacco, still grumbling under his breath.

“In any case,” said Bundror, picking up his thread. “Our task is to help Lord Liútasil and the human generals in the struggle
against Inàste’s pointy-ears.” He lingered over the words, relishing the chance to use the insult—especially in combination
with his newly acquired knowledge about the älfar’s origins. “Tungdil and the others are heading north.”

“What a pity,” said Shanamil. “I should have liked to meet him. I’m surprised he’s not here. If we had a warrior with a legendary
weapon, we’d send him wherever he was needed most.”

“That’s why he’s gone north,” said Gimdur. He dropped a glowing ember into the bowl of his pipe and waited for the tobacco
to catch light. Clouds of dark blue smoke rose into the air. “He’s going to rebuild the fifthling halls and seal the Stone
Gateway.”

“On his own?” asked the maiden. “I’m impressed.” The dwarves roared with laughter.

“Of course not! The best warriors and artisans from Beroïn, Borengar, and Goïmdil are going to help,” explained Gimdur, puffing
away on his pipe. “And some of his old companions will be there too.” He jabbed the stem of his pipe at Shanamil’s chest.
“Not a single beast will pass through the gateway while our kinsfolk are keeping watch. You can bet on it.”

In the silence that followed, Gisgurd rose to his feet. “I don’t mean to be discourteous, but my warriors need some sleep.”
He dispatched a dozen dwarves to stand guard with their shields and axes around the makeshift camp and protect the sleeping
unit from invaders. He didn’t want another set of visitors that night.

“We’ll need to be up early if we’re to cover the rest of the journey by dawn,” said Shanamil. “If you don’t mind, we’ll sleep
here as well. You can ask one of your sentries to keep an eye on us—unless you’ve decided to trust us, of course.” She lay
down on her side, facing the fire. With a flick of her wrist, she threw her cloak over her body and drew it around her like
a blanket. “We’re scouts—we sleep in the open all the time.” Her companions settled down for the night as well.

“They’re not very demanding, are they?” whispered Bundror. “I’d never have thought an elf would consent to sleeping on the
ground.”

“Where did you think they’d sleep?” enquired Gisgurd. “On perfumed sheets with satin pillows and embroidered quilts?”

“We forgot to bring our pillows with us,” said Shanamil, who had overheard the whispered conversation. “And we didn’t have
room for our four-poster beds.” She closed her eyes, but her lips were smiling.

“Blast,” muttered Bundror. “Their ears are sharp as well as pointy.”

T
he hours wore on. After a time, the moon reached its highest point, bathing the camp in light and turning the dwarves into
silvery statues.

Only Bundror, twitching and moaning in his sleep, was plagued by nightmares. He woke with a start.

Terrible images lingered in his mind. The camp had been overrun with älfar and the dwarves had fallen one by one. He too had
looked into a pair of cruel, empty eyes and felt the lethal blade of a sword swishing toward his unprotected throat. Mercifully,
he had woken in the instant before he died.

His heart was still pounding. He raised a hand to his face and realized that sweat was pouring from his forehead and trickling
into his beard.

It’s because we’re so close to Dsôn Balsur
, he told himself firmly. At home in the fourthling kingdom he was never haunted by such visions.

He threw off his blankets and sat up. The fire had burned low and his comrades were sleeping peacefully.
You can bet they’re not dreaming of älfar,
he thought wryly. Mindful of his bladder, he got up, collected his ax, and stomped through the narrow corridor of bodies.

A few paces beyond the perimeter of the camp he found a suitable bush and stopped to relieve himself. Dwarven water cascaded
to the ground.

Just then he was struck by a worrying thought.

For the most part, peoples’ ideas about dwarves are false, but occasionally some of the folklore is based on fact. No one
who has been in the vicinity of a sleeping dwarf would deny that dwarven breathing is curiously loud. A human would refer
to the phenomenon as
snoring
; in elven forests, it was practically unknown. But among Bundror’s kinsfolk, it was as natural and inevitable as swallowing
one’s food.

He frowned and strained his ears, hearing the patter of his water, the creaking of his boots, and the jangling of his mail.
Beyond that, there was nothing—no coughing, no throat clearing, not even the familiar, reassuring chorus of snores.

The crease in his brow deepened to a furrow. He buttoned his breeches, raised his ax, and scanned his surroundings, looking
for an explanation for the unnatural hush.

Tightening his grip on the ax, he tiptoed to the left toward a sentry. The dwarf was gazing over the moonlit plains. His loose
hair was blowing in the wind, but he was otherwise still.

“Anything unusual to report?” enquired Boëndal. “It’s horribly quiet without their snoring.” The sentry paid him no attention.

“I know you’re on duty,” said Bundror irritably, “but if a comrade asks a question, it’s polite to reply.” He pushed past
the dwarf, stopped abruptly, and raised his weapon with a terrible curse.

The sentry wasn’t standing of his own accord.

Someone had rammed a branch through his chain mail and into his chest, skewering him through the middle and preventing him
from falling. Propped up by the blood-soaked stake, the dwarf looked almost alive, but his unseeing eyes stared at the ground
and his features were etched with suffering. He had witnessed untold horrors in the instant before his death.

There was no smell of orcs, from which Bundror surmised that the sentry had been murdered by älfar. He raised his shield,
drumming against it with all his might to sound the alarm and wake his sleeping comrades.

The others slept on, seemingly oblivious to the ear-splitting noise. Even the elves showed no sign of stirring.

“Wake up, wake—” He broke off, his throat constricting with panic as a terrible thought entered his mind.

Darting over to the nearest dwarf, he seized him by the shoulder, rolled him onto his back, and cried out in horror. The dwarf’s
body came away from his head, which lay motionless on the ground, neck and beard cleft neatly in two. Bundror’s gaze settled
on the pool of blood glimmering darkly in the moonlight.

“Save yourself the effort, groundling,” whispered a voice to his left. “You won’t raise your comrades—unless you can raise
the dead.”

Bundror whirled round, striking out with his ax as he turned. His blade connected with something hard—his blow had been parried
by a quarterstaff of black metal.

Before he knew it, the lower end of the quarterstaff was speeding toward his helmet. He took a blow to the nose guard. The
metal cut into his face, pressing against his nose and breaking the bone with an audible crack.