The War of the Dwarves (25 page)

One of the others nodded. “It’s as black as pitch. I’ll be darned if I dip my toe in it, let alone the rest of me.”

“We need to get a proper look,” said Tungdil, tramping through the grass.

Tendrils of ivy twisted playfully over scattered blocks of stone. Unlike the elves of Âlandur, the founders of Lesinteïl had
favored solid, imposing buildings, but the weather and the älfar had taken their toll, and it was difficult to imagine how
the town had once looked.

“Don’t wait for me—I’ll catch up,” said one of Tungdil’s companions, stopping among the ruins. Bigor Stonecolumn was a stoneworking
secondling, who was drawn to masonry of any sort. He ran his calloused fingers over crumbling carvings, cracked sculptures,
and once-beautiful friezes, the colors of which had faded in the sun. “Not bad for a bunch of flower-pickers,” he said admiringly.

The dwarf studied the intricate workmanship and found no sign of faulty hammer strikes or careless chisel cuts. In spite of
himself, he wished the elven town were still standing so that he could see it in its original glory.

Meanwhile, Tungdil had arrived at the pond. He looked around for Bigor, but the secondling was nowhere in sight. “Bigor?”
he called.

“Don’t worry, scholar. He’ll be admiring the ruins,” said Boïndil.

“Or answering a call of nature,” chuckled one of the others. “The grass will be glad of some water.”

Tungdil peered at the pond. In front of him were the sorry remains of a pier, and, further left, a tumbledown shrine, which,
according to the worn inscription, was dedicated to Sitalia, goddess of the elves. A flight of stone steps led down to the
water.

Right, here goes…
He crouched at the water’s edge, pulled off his gloves, and hesitated briefly before lowering his index finger into the liquid
darkness. The water felt cold. “It seems harmless enough,” he said to the others. “The pier reaches almost to the middle of
the pond. With a proper run-up, we should be able to reach the—”

“Hang on a second, scholar,” interrupted Boïndil. “I’m not in the habit of questioning your decisions, but you can’t seriously
be suggesting that we should jump in there.”

Tungdil didn’t like exploiting his friend’s weaknesses, but he was left with no choice. “You’re not scared, are you, Ireheart?”
He scooped up some water and threw it at the dwarf. “Ooo,” he teased. “Can you feel it trying to kill you? It’s only water,
you know.”

The tactic worked. Boïndil puffed out his chest, wounded honor triumphing over his instincts. “Why would a warrior be afraid
of Elria?” he asked proudly. “Look, I’ll dive in and prove it.” He clambered onto the pier, but Tungdil held him back.

“Hold on, we can’t leave without Bigor.” He called the mason’s name and waited in vain for an answer. “We’d better look for
him. Everyone spread out.”

“I reckon he’s been kidnapped by the forest,” said Boïndil, pulling out his axes. “Elvish trees can’t stand us dwarves.”

“You threatened them,” commented one of his companions. “What do you expect?”

“For them to behave themselves,” snapped Boïndil, hacking at the high grass to work off his temper.

They spread out and advanced in a line, sweeping the meadow for the missing dwarf, and calling his name.

Next to a marble column, shielded by head-high grass, they found Bigor, or what was left of him.

At once Boïndil and the others formed a defensive ring around Tungdil and the corpse.

Bigor’s mail tunic had been pulled halfway over his head and his leather jerkin ripped to shreds, exposing his torso. His
flesh was covered in bite marks and some of his bones were missing, including his ribs. The trampled grass around the body
glistened moistly with blood.

“This was the work of an animal,” reported Tungdil.

Boïndil glared furiously at the sea of rippling stems that blocked their view in all directions. “It was a thirdling trap,”
he growled. “Your friendly executioner was trying to feed us to his pet.” He shifted his weight, planting both feet firmly
on the ground. “The dwarf-eating monster won’t be gobbling any more of our kinsfolk. I’ll deal with the varmint, you’ll see.”

Noticing a wide channel of trampled grass, Tungdil concluded that the predator was by no means small, which led him to wonder
why no one had heard it pouncing on Bigor. Judging by the dwarf’s half-eaten remains, the creature had been disturbed mid-meal.
It must be lurking nearby
, he thought with a shudder. He tried to predict the creature’s next move. There were two possibilities: either it meant to
attack them, or it was waiting to finish its meal.

Just then a strong wind gusted through the field. Amid the rustling grass, the hiss of an approaching arrow went unnoticed
by the dwarves.

Its arrival was so sudden and unexpected that the dwarf to the right of Boïndil barely realized he was hit. Staggering backward,
he raised a hand to his chest and closed his fingers disbelievingly around the black shaft protruding from his mail shirt.
Pierced through the heart, he slumped to the ground.

“Älfar!” came the shouted warning from Boïndil. Not wanting to offer an easy target, he threw himself onto his belly. The
arrow intended for him sailed over his head and pierced the back of the dwarf behind him. Groaning, the stricken dwarf keeled
over. A third dwarf took two arrows to the chest.

Seeing the arrows come thick and fast, Tungdil realized that there was more than one archer. By his reckoning, at least three
älfar were hiding in the grass, making it all but impossible for the dwarves to fight and win.

“Get down and crawl,” he ordered, throwing himself to the ground. He lowered his voice. “Make for the pond. We’ll soon see
whether Bramdal was telling the truth.”

“Are you blind or something?” barked Boïndil, wriggling through the grass beside him. “This is the Perished Land! We can’t—”

Tungdil grabbed a handful of grass. “Look, it’s green, not gray! The Perished Land has been banished.” An arrow whistled over
their heads. “No more talking; I’ll see you at the pond.” He pushed himself carefully across the ground, intent on disturbing
as few blades as possible. The älfar were bound to be looking for movement in the grass.

What brought them here?
he wondered feverishly.
Lesinteïl’s occupation ended cycles ago
. It was too far north for älfar scouts, especially when their troops were in action on the fringes of Âlandur and Dsôn Balsur.
Tungdil could think only that they knew of some secret weapon in the fallen kingdom that they were hoping to use against the
elves.

The rustling increased as if hundreds of älfar were swarming through the meadow. During his long crawl toward the pond Tungdil
heard five more agonized screams.

Seized by fury, he felt like drawing Keenfire and confronting his pursuers, but common sense convinced him otherwise, thereby
prolonging his life. The älfar were expert marksmen, and neither mail shirts nor solid armor could halt the arrows that sped
from their bows. A dwarf, stationary or moving, was an easy target, and Tungdil knew better than to break his cover. He hoped
to Vraccas that his surviving companions would stay out of sight.

Just then Samusin, commander of winds and god of equilibrium, noticed the outnumbered dwarves. The wind changed direction,
blowing across the pond toward the dwarves and their pursuers.

Tungdil decided to get out his tinderbox and set light to the grass.

“Burn the meadow!” he shouted, rejoicing at the sight of the dancing flames working their way up the dry stalks and spreading
like lightning. A moment later, several other columns of smoke appeared above the field. The breeze fanned the flames, sweeping
them toward the älfar.

Protected by the smoke, grass, and flames, Tungdil kept crawling until he reached the edge of the pond. Glancing around, he
spotted two of his companions; of the others, including Boïndil, he saw no sign.

Before he could instruct his companions to dive into the water, a shadow fell over them and a vast creature emerged from the
field.

The saddled bull was barely ten paces away. It was wearing a helmet of gleaming tionium and its horns were sheathed in metal.
Smoke rose from its coat, and its hooves were singed, as Tungdil could tell from the acrid odor.

There could be no doubt of its intentions. It turned to face the dwarves, lowering its broad head, scraping its hooves against
the ground, and snorting aggressively. Its tail swept from side to side.

“Quick, to the pier,” commanded Tungdil, drawing Keenfire. Deep down, he knew the ax could do nothing to stop the charging
bull. The beast weighed at least a quarter of a ton and was made of pure muscle without an ounce of fat. “Dive into the water—it’s
our only chance!” They started running.

The bull watched them with fiery red eyes. Opening its jaws, it let out a bloodcurdling roar, showed them its jagged incisors
and broke into a trot, accelerating as it thundered behind them, churning up the ground. Tungdil realized that the beast would
be upon them before they reached the pier.

“Hey, over here, you cud-chewing brute!” A split-second later, Ireheart shot out of the grass. Grabbing the bull by its tail,
he dug his heels into the churned-up soil and pulled back with all his might.

The bull charged onward, dragging Boïndil, whose boots carved two deep furrows in the ground. Suddenly it stopped and whipped
around to glower at the intrepid warrior hanging off its tail.

“I’ll teach you to eat my friends,” shouted Ireheart, pulling one of his axes from his belt. The blade cut a deep gash in
the bull’s behind. “Keep going, scholar. I’ve got your back.”

Tungdil peered into the raging wall of flames that separated the pond from the meadow, but the älfar were nowhere to be seen.
After assuring himself that the coast was clear, he signaled for the others to follow and hurried onto the pier. Thereafter
they were in full view of any lurking archers. From the corner of their eyes they watched as Boïndil jabbed at the raging
bull with one hand and clung to its tail with the other. Bucking and turning, the beast tried to shake itself free, but Boïndil’s
grip was like iron and he stayed out of reach.

“I’ve killed bigger beasts than you,” the dwarf warned him. “What are you, an oversized cow? You won’t be around much longer.”
Swinging his ax rapidly, he hacked at the creature’s legs. Crimson blood flowed from countless gashes, then the hind legs
caved in, and the bull bellowed with helpless fury. “Now for your ribs,” roared Boïndil.

“Watch out! They’re—” With a final shriek, the dwarf next to Tungdil toppled over, a second arrow piercing his back as he
fell. Gurgling incoherently, he convulsed and died.

“Älfar!” shouted Tungdil, stowing away his ax and grabbing his dead companion by the shoulders. He hoisted the body into the
air and held it in front of him like a shield.

Unable to see anything, he took a step back, only to hear his other companion fall prey to the älfar’s arrows. Five times
he heard the same sequence of noises—a soft whirr, a jangle of chain mail, and the terrible sound of metal burrowing through
sinew and flesh. The dead dwarf splashed into the water.

Tungdil didn’t dare raise his head above the corpse to look for his attackers. Instead he stumbled backward toward the end
of the pier. “Listen to me, Boïndil,” he ordered, doing his best to shout. “You can’t risk the pier: You’ll have to wade in
from the side.”

Boïndil was standing beside the bull, both hands on his ax and aiming for the creature’s sturdy neck. “I’m not getting in
that water!” he shouted, swinging his ax. “This cow needs to be—”

Just then the bull tensed its mighty muscles and its head jerked around. Its horns hit the dwarf’s belly, knocking him off
his feet.

Boïndil flew four paces through the air and splashed into the somber water of the pond. His weapon followed a split-second
later, disappearing with a gentle gurgle. Bubbles floated to the surface, but neither dwarf nor ax reappeared.

Tungdil decided that his friend’s unexpected flight was the work of Vraccas. He was preparing to launch himself after him
when footsteps hurried down the pier.

Even as he lowered the corpse to gauge the distance, his right shoulder was hit by an arrow.

The strength drained out of his arm and his makeshift shield slipped even lower, exposing more of his body.

The älf dispatched another missile, this time hitting Tungdil’s chest. He crashed to the ground. Groaning, he tried to crawl
out from under the corpse. Whether or not he reached the end of the pier was no longer of importance; his only chance of survival
was to enter the water as fast as he could.

His pursuers were getting closer.

Glancing up, he saw a female älf wearing a half mask, her features veiled by a strip of black gauze. She was running toward
him, calling something at the top of her voice. Without stopping, she raised a sickle-like weapon not dissimilar to Narmora’s
and hurled it at his chest.

“My life is in your hands,” he muttered to Vraccas as he snapped the shaft of the arrow and rolled off the side of the pier.
“I hope Bramdal wasn’t lying.”

He let himself fall.

The dark surface of the pond came closer and closer; then, just as he was approaching the water, he came to a sudden halt.

Someone had grabbed his weapons belt.

Pendleburg,

Southwest Urgon,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

M
y uncle, King Lorimbas Steelheart of the clan of the Stone Grinders, ruler of Lorimbur’s folk, sends his heartfelt condolences
for the loss of your nephew. Urgon has been deprived of an exceptional king,” said Romo Steelheart, inclining his head in
a gesture that was barely a bow.

He was standing at the foot of a throne, and the throne was in a modest palace—in Romo’s opinion, a humble fort. It was situated
on the tallest of the three hills that made up Pendleburg, the capital of Urgon.

Wood was a rarity in the mountainous kingdom, and so the people of Urgon built their houses of stone. From a distance, it
looked as if the city were made of thousands of colored cubes. There were no tiled roofs, only flat stone slabs on which laundry,
fruit, and meat were laid to dry.