The War of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  Ireheart, beard quivering, popped up behind the beast. With an ear-splitting shriek, he rammed his left ax into the creature’s belly and chopped down with his right ax, hewing through its neck. The orc’s torso crashed to the ground, followed by his head.

  “I guess there were two of them,” commented Boïndil. Sighing with satisfaction, he wiped his axes on the orc’s jerkin. Viscous green blood stuck to the shabby cloth. “Shall we look for the rest of our troop?”

  Tungdil nodded, relieved.

  They set off together, running their hands against the wall. Their investigation revealed that the cave had three exits, one of which smelled of fresh mountain air, from which they deduced that it led to the fifthling kingdom.

  It took considerably longer to find their missing friends.

  Two of them were dead, mauled savagely by orcs. The third had been kept alive by the will of Vraccas, but his inner furnace was cooling fast.

  “There were three of them,” he whispered weakly. “Three…”

  Boïndil straightened up sharply and listened for suspicious noises in the stubbornly murky fog.

  “Which way did they go?” asked Tungdil, realizing at the same time that it was pointless to pursue the surviving orc. He was probably hurrying to join his cousins in the Outer Lands.

  “I…” A spasm ran through the dying dwarf, and the fire went out of his eyes. His soul had been gathered to Vraccas’s smithy.

  “Let’s get out of here,” said Tungdil, hefting the dead warrior over his shoulder and securing him with a leather belt.

  “Aren’t we going to find the other orc?” objected Boïndil, who firmly intended to kill the final beast. He was treated to a long look that silenced further protests. Sighing, he picked up the second of their dead companions, and between them, they carried the third.

  Little by little, the darkness seemed to lift, indicating that at some point they had exited the cavern, although neither remembered when. The mist retreated, revealing the starry firmament, which twinkled above them, pointing the way.

  Seeing the vast stone arch in the distance, they put on a final burst of speed, stopping only when they reached the gateway. Glancing behind him, Boïndil gave himself a little shake as if to free himself from the sinister pull of the Outer Lands. “It’s a wonder any of those human explorers came back alive,” he said to Tungdil. “From now on, I’m keeping south of the pass.”

  Tungdil agreed wholeheartedly with his friend.

  * * *

  With the exception of the sentries, who were stationed at strategic points throughout the kingdom, everyone was assembled in the main hall, where Giselbert had held counsel, over a thousand cycles before. At one time, the walls had been clad with silver panels inscribed with the fifthlings’ laws, but orcish looters had rampaged through the hall, smashing the precious metal and pocketing the spoils. The most intricate, valuable, tablets had suffered the worst.

  But the artistry of the fifthlings was evident in the architecture.

  A double door opened onto a circular area twenty paces across, ringed by a low wall measuring a pace in height and extending four paces backward, so as to create a circular ledge. This in turn was ringed by a wall, which extended upward and backward to form the third tier, and so the series of ring-like platforms rose away from the central stage. The arrangement reminded Tungdil of the theater in Mifurdania where he had first met Narmora, Furgas, and Rodario. The fifthlings had even thought about acoustics, and the very faintest of whispers could be heard throughout the hall. Light came from a number of metal racks filled with burning coal.

  Tungdil watched from the stage as the other dwarves took their seats above. He scanned the rows; some eight hundred dwarves, including three hundred dwarf-women, had left their kingdoms to form the new fifthling folk.

  He waited for the noise to settle. “Thank you for coming,” he welcomed them. “There are important matters to discuss.”

  He told them what had happened on his recent expedition and finished by warning of a likely invasion. His listeners took the news calmly; orcs were a constant danger, and fighting against superior numbers was nothing new.

  “I led you here, but Vraccas knows I never intended to be your leader,” he said, turning to the second item on the agenda. “From now on, I won’t presume to make decisions on your behalf. Dangerous times lie ahead, and our enemies will be quick to exploit the slightest difference among us. We need to elect a new leader, and the matter should be settled without delay. As you know, I’m a thirdling.” He felt a lump forming in his throat. “Recently, I’ve come to realize that my lineage is a problem. Doubts have been expressed about my loyalty—on one occasion, to my face. Until my trustworthiness has been proven to everyone’s satisfaction, I shall serve the kingdom as a regular warrior and smith.” Raising Keenfire, he turned slowly to survey the tiers of delegates. “Which of you is prepared to lead the fifthling kingdom? Nominate yourself or a kinsman.” He lowered his ax and stepped aside, demonstrating his willingness to make way for the new fifthling king.

  The delegates conferred among themselves. Their deep voices echoed through the rock, bringing the Gray Range to life.

  Tungdil saw no reason to explain himself further; he was almost certain that some of the delegates had frowned when he mentioned his lineage, and his announcement seemed to have elicited overwhelming approval and relief. He thanked Vraccas for guiding him so wisely.

  A brown-haired dwarf-woman rose to her feet and rapped her hammer against the stone floor. The clear tone cut through the hubbub, and a hush came over the hall. “My name is Kyriss Finehand of the clan of the Good Smiths, daughter of Borengar. I understand your decision, Tungdil Goldhand, but I, for one, never doubted your loyalty. The fifthling kingdom needs your scholarly wisdom as well as your ax.” Lowering her hammer, she inclined her head respectfully, then looked up at the delegates. “Our new leader must be someone who enjoys our respect. I hereby nominate Glaïmbar Sharpax of the clan of the Iron Beaters, warrior of Borengar.” She listed off the firstling’s accomplishments and deeds.

  As Tungdil listened, the hall spun around him, dizzyingly. His eyes clouded over, and a chill crept over his skin, but his inner furnace burned higher than ever, stoked by bitterness and rage.

  Make them choose someone else, he begged Vraccas. Anyone but him. Through the fog of his thoughts he realized that the delegates were nodding approvingly. In the short time since their arrival in the fifthling kingdom, Glaïmbar had made a name for himself with the dwarves from the other folks—and no one would dream of questioning his lineage.

  You fool, whispered a voice in his ear. You’ve ruined your chances. If you were king, you could post him to the furthest reaches of the Gray Range or send him to fight a band of orcs, but now you’ll have to do the deed yourself. Just be sure to do it quietly: Push him over a precipice, crush him with a falling boulder, splice his skull with an orcish weapon, chase him into the Outer Lands…

  Tungdil summoned all his strength and focused on Boïndil’s face. The fiendish voice grew fainter, fading gradually out of earshot, but the hatred remained in his heart, and the sight of the handsome firstling made him tremble with rage. For the first time he understood Boïndil’s urge to hack someone or something to pieces, and he pitied his friend.

  His grim thoughts were interrupted when he realized that Kyriss had stopped speaking. She and the other delegates were looking at him expectantly.

  “Our first nominee is Glaïmbar Sharpax of the clan of the Iron Beaters of Borengar’s line,” he announced with a catch in his voice. “Let the next candidate step forward.” No one stirred. “Are none of you willing to serve your folk?” he asked, venting his bitterness. He tried to look at his rival, but his gaze was drawn to Balyndis, who was standing at his side. “In that case, we have one contender. Glaïmbar Sharpax of the clan of the Iron Beaters, warrior of Borengar do you accept the nomination?”

  During what followed—Glaïmbar rising and answering with a solemn “ye
s,” the delegates clapping and cheering as he walked to the stage, the axes rising in his favor—Tungdil’s thoughts were elsewhere, focused on his beautiful, unobtainable, smith.

  At last, when the delegates went down on one knee and raised their hammers, axes, and clubs to the new fifthling king, he tore his eyes away from Balyndis.

  “The fifthlings have elected Glaïmbar Sharpax as their king,” he said, scanning the rows of faces and refusing to acknowledge the dwarf at his side. “May he rule with the wisdom of Vraccas.” He left the stage without a bow or a handshake; he wasn’t prepared to humble himself in front of his rival, not as long as he lived.

  Once out of the hall, he decided to walk off his anger. He started through the passageways, striding past scaffolding and building sites where the secondling masons had started to repair the ceilings and walls. His feet carried him to the outer reaches of the kingdom where he came to rest among the ruins of an orcish watchtower.

  Overcome with emotion, he stood among the rubble and looked up at the stars. Tears of anger and despair streamed down his cheeks, trickling through his beard, and dripping onto his mail shirt.

  “You should know better than that, scholar. Your armor will rust.”

  Tungdil smiled in spite of himself. “I suppose you’re here to drag me to the banquet.”

  “Vraccas himself couldn’t drag you there, so it’s hardly a job for a simple dwarf like me.” Boïndil glanced up at the twinkling stars. “What do you see in them, scholar? I guess they’re pretty after a fashion, but I’d rather look at glittering diamonds in freshly hewn rock. Won’t you come inside? We need to work on our plan—the king has given his approval.”

  “Oh really? You didn’t waste time!” Tungdil turned to his friend. “If we leave right away, we might run into more of Ushnotz’s scouts. Is that what you’re hoping?”

  Boïndil ran his hands over his stubbly cheeks and smoothed his beard. “Am I that transparent?” he said with a smile. “Listen, I’m not in the mood for singing either. Let’s have our own celebration with Boëndal and tell him about the plan. You never know, it might be just what he needs to unfreeze his blood and get him going.”

  They set off through the passageways, taking the route that led to the forge where Boëndal was lying on his camp bed by the Dragon Fire furnace. Tungdil sat at the frozen dwarf’s bedside and talked to him as if he could hear every word.

  Their hopes that Boëndal would make a miraculous recovery were disappointed that night.

  Porista,

  Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

  Girdlegard,

  Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

  The highwayman’s features were hidden beneath a mask, but Furgas recognized the voice immediately. He put his hands on his hips and confronted his assailant. “Don’t be an idiot, Rodario. If the guardsmen see you—”

  “Your purse,” said the highwayman harshly, waving his dagger. “And make it snappy.”

  “What, no flowery speeches?” Furgas stepped toward him. “Put away the dagger before someone sees us; we don’t want anyone rushing to my aid.”

  The highwayman stood his ground and ran his finger menacingly along the blade. Furgas was assailed by doubt. In view of his prospective fatherhood, it seemed best to be careful. He unhooked his purse from his belt and threw it to the ground.

  “That’s more like it,” growled the stranger, stooping as if to retrieve the loot. All of a sudden he threw up his arms, pulled the mask from his face and roared with laughter. “You fell for it,” crowed a jubilant Rodario. “How do you rate my performance now?”

  “I could tell it was you,” said Furgas, picking up his purse. “What’s got into you?”

  “Consider it payback,” said Rodario smugly. He paused for a moment to draw out his victory. “I heard the two of you slandering my reputation while I languished in my armored prison. Given the choice, I would have ambushed Narmora, but—”

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t,” exclaimed Furgas. “The Curiosum would have to look for a new leading man.” He took the dagger from the impresario’s hand and tapped his forehead. “For someone who’s quite clever, you’re amazingly stupid.”

  “Your money or your life,” said a voice from the rubble. “And make it snappy.”

  Furgas rounded on his friend. “Don’t tell me there’s more!”

  The impresario was white as a sheet. “Mine was a one-act play. I’m afraid he must be real.”

  They turned around slowly to face a masked assailant holding a knife. The weapon glinted as it sped toward them. Skipping aside, Furgas plunged Rodario’s dagger into the highwayman’s arm.

  The blade slid into the handle, re-emerging when the stranger stepped away. He and Furgas stared at the dagger in confusion.

  “It’s a prop,” explained Rodario. “I’d never draw a real weapon on a friend.”

  With a scornful laugh, the highwayman bore down on Furgas, slashing at him with the knife, which seemed to be coated with a strange yellow fluid. The prop master retreated, ducking and spinning away from the poisoned blade.

  “I’m coming, Furgas,” shouted his friend, arming himself with a plank. Just then a second man stepped out of the rubble, raised a cudgel and brought it down on Rodario’s head. “How unsporting,” mumbled the impresario, drifting out of consciousness.

  “Are you Furgas?” demanded his attacker. The voice echoed through Rodario’s dazed mind. He opened his eyes; a sword dripping with yellow fluid was pointed at his chest.

  “Over here,” shouted the first man. “Furgas is over here.”

  “If you’re looking for Furgas,” whispered Rodario feebly, “I’m your…” Despite his wooziness, he made a grab for the highwayman, but his fingers closed on thin air. The maneuver earned him a kick to the head, and darkness came over his mind.

  Meanwhile, Furgas had been forced against the wall by the smaller of the men. “What do you want?”

  “Your money,” hissed the highwayman. His companion ran over to join them. “Hand it over.”

  Furgas unhooked his purse for a second time that evening and cast it to the ground. “There you go. It’s all I’ve got.”

  The first man picked it up and weighed it in his hand. “Good. In that case, we’re done.” He was about to say something further when a shadow fell over them.

  Looking up, they saw the dark outline of Djern’s armor silhouetted against the moonlit sky. The maga’s bodyguard was crouching on a raised portion of wall, in his left hand a sword two paces long. A purple glow emanated from the polished visor. Then the light intensified and Djern let out a terrible growl.

  “Palandiell forfend…” stuttered the smaller highwayman, transfixed by the monstrous warrior. He took a few steps backward, unable to look away. “He’ll tear us to—”

  Djern launched himself from the wall and soared through the air. Just then the second highwayman came at the astonished Furgas with his sword.

  The blade rammed into his stomach, passing through his guts. A second later, the highwayman fell to the gutter as Djern, bringing down his sword, landed beside him and cut him lengthways in half.

  The sword continued in a sweeping arc, lifting perpendicular to the floor as Djern whirled around and struck the other highwayman from behind. The blade caught the man above the pelvis, penetrated his unarmored midriff, and exited the other side, coming to rest in a wall.

  Legs attached to his upper body by a ribbon of flesh, the highwayman slumped to the ground, whimpering unnaturally as his intestines poured from his stomach on a tide of crimson blood. A moment later, he was still.

  Djern stepped over the corpse and retrieved his sword. Standing motionlessly by Furgas’s body, he waited until the torches of Andôkai’s guardsmen appeared in the distance; then, as the jangling armor grew louder, he slipped into the night.

  V

  Northern Gauragar,

  Girdlegard,

  Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

  Five orbits had passed since Tungdil and B
oïndil left the fifthling kingdom with a company of ten warriors on their way south through the sparsely populated countryside of Gauragar. They were looking for an entrance to the underground network, the location of which was marked on Tungdil’s map.

  Springtime had arrived in northern Gauragar, breaking many cycles of bondage to the Perished Land. It seemed to the dwarves that everything was blossoming and burgeoning with new vitality. The flowers seemed to drip with honey-yellow nectar, and the pure country air was abuzz with industrious bees.

  Not that the party, with the exception of Tungdil, took much interest in the scenery: In their view, nothing compared to the beauty of underground halls. Most were unaccustomed to daylight and resented the sunshine because it dazzled their eyes. To save their sight, they broke camp before dawn, slept in the afternoon and walked from dusk until the middle of the night.

  It was Tungdil and Boïndil’s second journey south from the Gray Range. On the first occasion, many orbits previously, they had set off with the newly forged Keenfire, stopping in landur to throw off their pursuers, confident that neither Nôd’onn nor his orcish army would think to look for them in the home of their ancient foes. This time, they traveled due south, making straight for the nearest entrance to the underground network. Their mission was to find the outcasts, a mysterious group of dwarves who haunted the tunnels. No one knew exactly where they lived.

  The company had left the fifthling kingdom in a hurry, which suited Tungdil on several counts.

  For one thing, preparations were underway for Balyndis’s melding with the new fifthling king, and he didn’t want to add to his heartache by sticking around for the banquet. Quite apart from that, time was running out. Ushnotz’s scouts had made it as far as the Northern Pass, which meant the rest of the orcish army would be following close behind. Tungdil needed to find some reinforcements and get them to the fifthling kingdom before the hordes arrived. And he couldn’t discount the possibility of a separate invasion from the Outer Lands.

  The journey passed mainly in silence; the exertion of marching, coupled with the weight of bedrolls and provisions, limited their conversation to the briefest of exchanges.