The War of the Dwarves (65 page)

“We’ll need ten thousand suits,” said Boëndal, leaning on his crow’s beak. “I’m no coward, but I don’t fancy our chances of
fighting them without the magic armor. We’d be throwing away our lives.”

Tungdil gave orders for four messengers to leave immediately for the Gray Range via four different routes—it was crucial that
the message got through. “We’ll decide what to do when we see the situation at the Blacksaddle tomorrow. I’d rather not fight
without the armor, but we may not have a choice.” He pointed to the menacing black lines on the map that designated the kingdom
of Dsôn Balsur. “The avatars are rumored to draw their power from the evil they destroy. Once the avatars wipe out the älfar,
they’ll be stronger than ever. Who knows if the armor will still work.”

“Stop fretting,” said Boïndil cheerfully. “I can’t wait for Balyndis to forge me a fine new suit of armor. I’ll teach the
avatars not to tangle with the dwarves. By the way, the first ten are mine.”

“There are only eleven of them,” Boëndal reminded him. The others laughed.

Grinning, Boïndil clinked tankards with his brother. “Tough luck,” he said, chuckling. “You’ll have to work it out among yourselves.”

T
heir high spirits lasted until mid-afternoon the next orbit when the Blacksaddle came into view.

As they approached the mountain, they realized that the gloomy clouds in the gray winter sky weren’t loaded with snow, as
they had thought, but with smoke. And there was no doubt about the origin of the fire.

The mountain without a peak had become a blazing pyre.

The very rock of the Blacksaddle was burning, the mountainside a sheet of red-hot fire, with tongues of flame rising from
every crack and vent. Black smoke cut off the sunlight, obscuring the sky, and turning the noon hours into dusk. Vast chunks
of rock broke away from the Blacksaddle and plunged to the ground. The snow had evaporated and the soil around the mountain
was powdery and dry. As they watched, the flames grew fiercer, leaping as if to ignite the sun.

“It doesn’t seem possible,” gasped Xamtys.

“How did they do it, maga?” asked Boïndil. “Did they turn the Blacksaddle into coal?”

Narmora’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a warning,” she said. “A warning to anyone thinking of following them. They’re showing us their
power.”

“What a disaster,” sighed Rodario. “How am I supposed to re-create it on stage?” He looked hopefully at Furgas, who shrugged.

Tungdil shouldered his ax. “Let’s take a look at the damage.”

The devastation was complete.

At five hundred paces from the Blacksaddle, the snow turned to slush. Three hundred paces later, they were walking on firm,
dry earth, raising clouds of dust with their boots. At a distance of a hundred and fifty paces, they came to a halt. Any closer,
and they were liable to be killed by flying rock. Scattered in the dust were fragments of axes and clubs, scorched bones,
and warped armor caked with charred flesh. The Blacksaddle’s defenders were no more.

Lorimbas gazed at the devastation, eyes wet with tears. “To you they were thirdlings,” he said quietly with a catch in his
voice. “But to me they were friends—friends, whose deaths must be avenged.” The sight of the burning Blacksaddle ignited the
fires in every thirdling heart: For Lorimbas and his dwarves, the war had become personal.

“We’re done for,” muttered Rodario, kicking at the powdery gray earth. “Surely we’re all agreed that it’s no good fighting
them without Balyndis’s armor?”

“We may have no choice,” said Lorimbas grimly, looking at the gray trail left in the avatars’ wake. A vast path of dusty earth,
a hundred paces across and bordered on both sides by snow, was proof of the direction they had taken: The army was marching
north. Lorimbas bent down and picked up an ax head; it was still attached to a charred fragment of haft. “Goldhand is right.
We need to stop them before they reach Dsôn Balsur and wipe out the älfar. They’re powerful enough as it is.”

“Who would have thought it would come to this?” remarked Boïndil. “All this time we’ve been trying to kick out Inàste’s children,
and at last there’s someone who could do the job for us, but instead of letting them burn down Dsôn Balsur, we’re going to
jump to the älfar’s defense.”

“It doesn’t seem right,” agreed Tungdil, “but we can’t let the avatars get to Dsôn Balsur. In any case, we’re not defending
the älfar; we’re postponing their death.” He glanced at Lorimbas. “Can you spare ten thousand warriors? I want to outflank
the avatars and squeeze them between two fronts.”

Lorimbas nominated his elite battalions for the advance guard, which would consist of Tungdil, Narmora, Rodario, and the twins.

“We’ll cut off the White Army before it reaches Dsôn Balsur,” explained Tungdil. “Meanwhile, Lorimbas, Gemmil, and Xamtys
will attack with the rest of our troops from the rear. Narmora will take care of the avatars.” He thumped Boïndil on the back.
“How’s that for a challenge?”

“No challenge is too big for a dwarf,” said Boïndil, although he didn’t seem terribly confident.

It was late afternoon when Tungdil set off with ten thousand thirdlings on a northerly bearing. By the time they left the
Blacksaddle, the once legendary mountain resembled a broad-based hill, fifty paces in height and riven with cracks and fissures;
by evening, when they stopped to rest for a while, it was gone. A few flames remained to mark the spot where the powerful
Blacksaddle had once stood. Tion’s demigods had razed it to the ground.

Tungdil was intent on catching and passing the avatars’ army. At night, its bright white glow was visible for hundreds of
miles against the black firmament, but the dwarven warriors were still hopelessly behind.

It seemed the White Army could march without rest. Their soldiers were on the move from dawn until dusk, racking up the miles,
while Tungdil and the others were feeling the strain of ten orbits of constant marching.

“Another ten orbits, and they’ll be there,” said Boïndil, sitting down by the campfire to examine his blisters. “We can hardly
keep up with them, so how are Lorimbas, Gemmil, and Xamtys supposed to get there in time? We’ve got ten thousand elite thirdling
warriors, and we’re falling off the pace.”

Tungdil pored over the map. The other dwarves at the campfire were thirdling generals; it was hard to tell from their tattooed
faces what they were thinking. “We said we’d strike here,” he said, lowering the stem of his pipe over an area south of Dsôn
Balsur. He did some quick calculations. “If we hurry, we can catch them right on the border. It’s the earliest possible chance
of attack. I’ll send word to the others to tell them of the change of plan.”

The thirdling generals listened in silence.

“It’s risky, but it’s the only way,” agreed Boëndal. “They’ll speed up as soon as they see the border. They’ll want to push
on to the capital as fast as they can.”

“I know, but we won’t catch them beforehand,” ruled Tungdil, turning his attention to a written report from one of the scouts
who was tracking the enemy army, unbeknown to the avatars.

So far, the invaders had laid waste to four towns en route to the älfar’s kingdom. The inhabitants had refused to join the
army, in return for which the avatars had plundered and burned their homes.

According to the report, few had survived, for the most part children and young girls whom the avatars had spared. Everyone
else had been burned to a cinder like the thirdlings at the Blacksaddle. Forests, fields, meadows, marshes—everything the
avatars encountered was destroyed. The demigods were leaving a trail of ashes and scorched earth.

It seemed to Tungdil that the men and dwarves, while far from pure, had done nothing to merit such a fate.
I don’t think much of divine justice, if that’s what it is. Not even the älfar have wreaked such destruction on Girdlegard
. He threw the bulletins into the fire and watched as the paper crumpled. His thoughts returned to the Blacksaddle and the
dwarves who had died in the blaze.
The avatars are worse than älfar, orcs, and bögnilim combined.

That night he dreamed of Balyndis and Myr.

They were fighting for his favor, Balyndis, equipped with a blacksmith’s hammer and a pair of metal tongs, and Myr wielding
daggers. The duel was interrupted by Salfalur, who killed them both with his hammer. Tears streaming down his tattooed cheeks,
he turned on Tungdil and charged…

Tungdil woke with a start.

Boïndil was crouched next to him, shaking his shoulder. “Come on, scholar. The White Army is on the move. Anyone would think
they’d got wind of our plans.”

Muttering and cursing, Tungdil clambered to his feet, put on his weapons belt, stuffed his blanket into his rucksack, and
jogged to the front of the thirdling battalions. The thirdling generals had set off without him. If it hadn’t been for Boïndil,
he would have woken by the campfire to find everyone had gone.

He felt the eyes on his back as he made his way to the head of the army. Boïndil was right: He would never trust a thirdling
in battle, even though he was a thirdling himself.

82 Miles Southwest of Dsôn Balsur,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6235th Solar Cycle

O
ndori turned her fire bull and looked proudly at the unit of four thousand warriors marching behind her through the night.

They were stronger than ever, having partaken of the dark water and profited from its life-preserving power.

The immortal siblings had ordered Ondori to lead the troops against Âlandur and wipe out the elves. The älf couldn’t have
wished for a more glorious mission. A duel with Lord Liútasil would give her tremendous pleasure and she was happy to delay
her private campaign against the dwarves. Besides, with the help of the dark water, she could settle her score with Tungdil
whenever she wanted.

With a bit of luck, and Tion willing, Ondori was hoping to put an end to Sitalia’s elves. If the initial attack went well,
she and her warriors would march on the rest of the kingdom and raze the leafy elven settlements to the ground. The immortal
siblings’ palace would be clad from top to bottom in shiny white elf-bone, and Liútasil’s skull would be skewered at the top.

Hmm, what do we have here?
At the foot of a lone hill she could make out the faint glow of a poorly hidden campfire.
Careless wayfarers
. She signaled for two dozen warriors to join her.
With any luck, they’ll be elves…

They stole through the valley toward the hill. A shelf protruded from the hillside, affording shelter from rain and snow.
At any other time, it would have made the perfect place to rest for a while, but the gods had deserted the travelers that
night.

Ondori reined in her bull and slid noiselessly to the ground. She heard snores from her victims and smelled the strong tobacco
on their clothes. After a few paces, she came to a boulder and ducked behind it, keeping to the shadows as she peered at the
camp.

Groundlings
, she thought in astonishment, eying the ring of stocky warriors asleep around the dying fire. Their sentry was perched on
a rock, facing away from her, and smoking a pipe. Every now and then he dipped his tankard into a cauldron over the flames
and took a sip of the steaming brew.

Ondori did a quick headcount and came to twenty dwarves in total.
What are they doing here? They can’t be spies or scouts; they’re in the middle of nowhere.

She signed to her warriors that she wanted to question one of the groundlings; the others could be killed. Then she focused
on the fire, willing the flames to die down. The fire flickered briefly and went out.

Cursing, the sentry clambered to his feet, placed some tinder on the embers and kneeled on the ground to blow on the flames.

Ondori detached herself from the shadows and crept toward him. Her movements were silent, and he didn’t have time to react.
Out of nowhere, a scythe-like blade sliced through his throat and he toppled over, landing in the dying embers and dousing
them with blood.

The thud of his falling body caused one of his companions to stir. Three black arrows winged toward him as he raised his sleepy
head. He sank back against his mattress, as if overpowered by fatigue.

The älfar murdered their way systematically through the ring of sleeping dwarves, slitting their throats, ramming their narrow
daggers between their eyes, and running their swords through their chests.

Crouching beside the lone survivor, Ondori disarmed her victim and rapped her quarterstaff against the ground.

It was only when the dwarf sat up sleepily that Ondori realized she was female. The little creature reached for her ax—to
no avail.

“Lie still,” whispered Ondori, holding the dwarven ax above her head for her victim to see. She hurled it into the snow. “Scream,
and we’ll kill your friends, then you. Is that clear?” The dwarf nodded, and Ondori detected the sound of grinding teeth.
“What are you doing here?” the älf demanded.

“Hunting älfar.”

Ondori glowered. “Trust a groundling to lie.” She peered at her victim’s face. “I’ve seen you before. You were at the mouth
of the tunnel to the Gray Range; you shouted for Goldhand to help you—and I got away.” She smiled balefully. “You’re a queen,
aren’t you? Queen of the mob who moved into the halls. Are you sending an army to fight us? Are you scouts?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the dwarf said stubbornly. “Our orders are to find out what’s happening at the front.
We’re supposed to make a deal with the elves.”

Ondori raised her quarterstaff sharply and pressed a hidden catch. A blade shot out from one end and came to rest on her captive’s
throat. There was a click as she locked the mechanism to prevent the blade retreating. “I want the truth, groundling.” She
swung her quarterstaff so that the blade hovered over the body of the dwarf to her right. “Think of your friends,” she whispered
threateningly. “Do you want them to die?”