The War of the Dwarves (11 page)

Eyes watering and warm blood pouring down his face, Bundror stumbled away. Dazed, he took another step back and tumbled over
the corpse of a comrade. “Come on, then!” he shouted furiously, still clutching his ax. He straightened up, braced his legs,
and looked around for his assailant. “Try that again, älf, and I’ll cut you in two!”

The challenge met with no response. The älf had melted into the darkness and the moon wasn’t strong enough, or maybe brave
enough, to deliver the shadowy figure to the dwarf’s vengeful eyes.

Bundror was under no illusions. The älf’s knowledge of dark arts exceeded his axmanship, but he was spurred on by hatred for
the villain who had murdered his comrades.

The next blow came from nowhere. Hearing a low swish, Bundror ducked just in time. The quarterstaff slashed the air above
him, only to swing round suddenly and knock him off his feet. A blade cut into his forearm, and pain stabbed through his arm,
forcing his fingers apart. His heavy ax, his only protection against the murderous älf, fell from his grip.

He looked up to see the sole of a narrow boot. A moment later, he felt the pressure on his throat.

“Did you really think you were a match for me, groundling?”

Gasping for breath, he peered up and saw a tall, slim figure clad in armor. A mask of tionium covered the top half of the
älf’s face, and a veil of black gauze covered the nose, mouth and chin. The älf’s features were framed by a hood attached
to a dark gray cape.

“Count yourself lucky,” he spat back, struggling for breath. “If you hadn’t lurked in the shadows like a coward, I’d have
cut you in two.”

“You want to fight me, do you?” laughed the voice behind the veil. The black gauze rippled gently. “Is that your dying wish?”

“Yes,” he spluttered.

The boot lifted from his throat. “Granted.”

Bundror staggered to his feet, reached for his ax, and saw blood streaming from the gash in his forearm. Hiding his pain determinedly,
he gritted his teeth and squared his shoulders. From the voice, he guessed that his antagonist was female, but the mask, cloak,
and armor made it impossible to tell. “Vraccas will give me the strength to prevail.” He glanced round hurriedly, but there
was no sign of an älvish army.
Surely there must be others? How could she kill a whole unit by herself? Can she work magic?

“You’ll see my warriors when they want to be seen,” she said coldly, as if he had spoken aloud. She windmilled her quarterstaff.
“I’m waiting, groundling.”

He charged toward her and hurled his ax—only for her to deflect it with her staff.

Still, the tactic worked; it gave him a fraction of a second in which to act.

Bending down, he borrowed a less cumbersome ax from one of his dead companions and snatched up a shield. Thus equipped, he
charged again at the älf, hoping that the lighter weapon would lend him the necessary speed.

The duel that unfolded among the corpses of his companions was hopelessly one-sided.

Both ends of the quarterstaff seemed to jab toward Bundror at once, striking him here and there, clattering against his wooden
shield, slamming into his chain mail, forcing the air from his lungs, and breaking the occasional rib. He fought back whenever
he had the opportunity, which was seldom enough—and each time the agile älf parried the blow or batted away his weapon, leaving
him to grunt in frustration.

Bundror soon realized that it was hopeless and he was destined to die. He decided to try another, very dwarven, approach.
Vraccas be with me
. He hurled the ax toward her, forcing her to skip aside, then picked up his shield with both hands and sprinted in her direction,
hollering at the top of his voice.

The unconventional tactic took her by surprise. The shield slammed into her, and he heard a thud as he knocked her, groaning,
to the ground.

“Take that, you pointy-eared scumbag!” he shouted, his voice mingling hatred and delight. “I’ll cleave your head from your
shoulders.” He bounded through the air and hurled himself at her chest, the lower edge of his shield pointing toward her throat.

Just then two things happened.

From her supine position, the älf managed to plant the lower end of the quarterstaff into the ground and point it toward him
like a lance. Under other circumstances, Bundror would have done his utmost to avoid it, but a large black shadow swept toward
him and he was caught.

He heard a gravelly roar and saw a pair of glimmering red eyes. The creature opened its mighty jaws, enveloping him in foul-smelling
breath. Even as he realized that the teeth were impossibly close, something rammed into his belly, passed through the links
of his chain mail, and exited the other side. His mind closed down.

The corpse-strewn field was bobbing around him, and he felt himself rising and falling as if he were impaled on a moving palisade.
His helmet flew off, followed by his shield, weapons belt, and one of his boots. He felt the jerk of something leaving his
belly, and he was free.

He flew through the air and landed on a corpse. Through a haze of blood he saw that it was Gisgurd.

It won’t be long, my friend. Fire up the furnace, I’m on my way
. He rolled over. His mouth filled with a coppery-tasting liquid that seeped into his beard and fell in thick, viscous drops
onto his chest.
I must warn the others
.

His fingers scrabbled over Gisgurd’s rucksack and, summoning the last of his strength, he lifted the mighty bugle and put
it to his shredded lips. The effort of drawing breath caused his lungs to fill with blood, but nothing could turn him from
his purpose.

A single, piercing note left the bugle of the butchered dwarf and echoed over the hills. His lifeblood trickled into the instrument,
and silence returned. Bundror hoped that the elves in Liútasil’s camp would recognize the signal and sound the alarm.

The heavy bugle fell from his hand as his strength ebbed away. He looked up to see the tionium mask of his antagonist. “You
won’t achieve anything by attacking our allies,” he spluttered determinedly. “They’ve been warned.”

“Perhaps, but they won’t have heard your bugle in the Gray Range.” She bent down and lifted her mask to reveal her face. It
was the elf maiden who had sat and conversed with them by the fire. “Look at me,” she said menacingly. “Ondori is your death,
and I will take your life as your kinsfolk killed my parents. May your soul wander helplessly for the rest of time.” A scythe-like
blade glinted in the light of the stars, and the älf muttered something in a low, sinister voice.

Bundror guessed the meaning of the incantation and prayed for help.

He was still begging Vraccas to gather him to the eternal smithy when the blade slashed his throat, severing his last fragile
link to the world of the living.

Borengar’s Folk,

Eastern Border of the Firstling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

T
ungdil looked searchingly at the firstling queen. Muffled in warm furs and perched reluctantly on a pony, Xamtys was staring
at the snowy peaks of the Red Range. She was looking for a sign, a hint of a threat, evidence of a catastrophe that had occurred
in her absence and shrouded the stronghold in silence.

The snow-covered mountains towered into the sky, sometimes vanishing behind the fast-moving cloud. Here and there, a gentle
ray of spring sunshine broke through the cloud and caressed the flanks of the mountain, revealing patches of fiery red rock
where the snow had melted.

“They’re still here,” said Tungdil. “The mountains are still standing, Your Majesty.”

She turned to face him. “I can’t rejoice until I’ve seen my kinsmen,” she said anxiously. “Remember the state of the tunnels?
Who knows what damage has been done to my halls.”

The tunnels to the east of the firstling kingdom had collapsed, hence the reason for traveling overland. It had taken sixty
orbits to make the journey on foot. In some places the snow was too deep, in others too soft and sticky. The roads and tracks
were covered in slush, and the dwarves and ponies had disappeared up to their knees, which slowed their progress and sapped
their strength. Tungdil, Balyndis, and Boïndil were accustomed to the rigors of marching, but the rest of the company had
struggled with the difficult terrain.

“It looks too peaceful,” murmured Boïndil, who was marching at Tungdil’s side, having turned down the offer of a pony. “I’m
not going to let the mountains trick me into thinking everything is all right.” With a loud splash, his right foot landed
in a puddle. Cursing, he pulled it out and wiped it on the grass. “Smooth floors and nice solid ceilings, that’s what I want,”
he grumbled.

“We’re nearly there, Boïndil,” said Balyndis, pointing to the mouth of a narrow gully that snaked toward one of the peaks.
“See the entrance over there?”

They suddenly became aware of a gray mist that seemed to thicken as they approached, swirling around them until they could
barely see. It was almost as if it wanted them to lose their bearings.

Tungdil pictured the six fortified walls that intersected the gully, blocking the entrance and each of its sweeping curves.
At the far end of the gully lay the imposing firstling stronghold and its nine soaring towers.

“I can’t see a thing,” he said, disappointed. “I was hoping to see East Ironhald in full…” He tailed off as the mist lifted
to reveal a landscape littered with vast slabs of stone. Some were black with soot, others had fractured or crumbled.

Xamtys tugged on the reins, and her pony snorted and stopped. “Vraccas be with us,” she cried, staring at the remains of the
defenses. Anyone wishing to enter the gully had once been obliged to scale a wall forty paces high or read the password inscribed
on the metal door, which required a good knowledge of dwarfish. Neither the wall nor the door was still standing.

Three paces from the queen’s feet, the ground dropped away, and a yawning black crater filled the path. There was no sign
of the cause, but something had evidently hit the ground with tremendous force, crushing the masonry, scorching the rock,
and turning the imposing door into an unremarkable scrap of warped metal.

“It’s not possible,” whispered Balyndis. Even the most powerful siege engine, designed by the best dwarven engineer to fell
the most monstrous of Tion’s beasts, was incapable of causing damage such as this. “What could have…? Maybe it’s magic. Do
you think Nôd’onn somehow…” She suddenly remembered what she and Tungdil had seen on the night of the battle. “The comet!”

Boïndil let out an ear-piercing shriek and charged into the mist, which, it now dawned on them, smelled strongly of scorched
earth. Calling his brother’s name, the hot-blooded dwarf dispensed with caution and vanished in the direction of the firstling
stronghold, desperate to find his twin.

“Come back!” shouted Xamtys.

Tungdil knew that his friend was in no mood to listen. Fearing that there might be dangers lurking in the fog, he chased after
him. Balyndis followed without hesitation.

They relied on their ears to guide them. The sound of Boïndil’s jangling chain mail and the rattling of his helmet echoed
noisily through the otherwise silent gully, which made the business of locating him very easy indeed.

But the devastation around them filled them with fear.

The gully was pitted with craters, some the size of wagon wheels, others large enough to accommodate eight ponies side by
side. The ground had proven the weaker element in the encounter and some of the indentations were seven paces deep. For the
dwarves, it meant lowering themselves into potholes and climbing out the other side. The snow was gone from this part of the
mountain, and there was no sign of melt water, just a thin layer of frozen crystals. It was as if the snow had vaporized,
leaving a revolting smell.

Hurrying as best they could, Tungdil and Balyndis followed the jangling chain mail, eventually reaching the end of the gully
where the stronghold would normally come into view.

They took another few steps and felt snow beneath their boots. Suddenly, the fog lifted to reveal Boïndil, standing at the
foot of a mound of recrystallized snow that towered above him, too high and sheer to climb. The mist cleared further, revealing
the full extent of the tragedy.

Of the stronghold’s nine towers, only one was visible above the snow. The avalanche had swept away its parapet, but the tower
itself was standing.

The other eight towers had disappeared entirely. The twin ramparts and cleverly designed lifts and pulleys lay buried beneath
the gray mound of snow—together with the ruins of East Ironhald and, as the three dwarves suspected, the bodies of the dead.

Balyndis peered at the tower, looking for the bridge that led to the stronghold. “It’s gone,” she said tremulously. “The White
Death has swallowed the bridge.”

Tungdil was too horrified to speak.

Hooves approached from behind; the rest of the company had arrived. The sight of the ruined stronghold drew curses, cries
of horror, and wails of grief from the stricken dwarves.

Xamtys dismounted and walked to the mound. She reached out and thrust her hand into the snow to pull out a battered helmet.
The headwear, made of the strongest dwarven metal, evidently hadn’t protected its owner from the weight of the snow.

“Worthy Vraccas, your children have paid dearly for the salvation of Girdlegard,” she said gravely and without a hint of reproach.
“Or is this the beginning of a new and unknown threat?” Her brown eyes settled on the surviving tower and tears trickled down
her cheeks, rolling through her wispy hair and plumping onto her armored chest. “My tears mark the passing of those who died
here. You have my word that nothing will stop me rebuilding my ravaged kingdom. This time the stronghold will be more imposing,
more splendid than before, and evil will never triumph against us—not now, not ever, not even if I have to rebuild East Ironhald
on my own.” She held the helmet on high. “May the memory of the dead stay with us forever. Long live the children of the Smith!”