The Dwarves d-1

by Markus Heitz

  "Do sit down," he said, gesturing to an armchair, and Nudin's doppelganger lowered himself smoothly into the seat. Convention dictated that the same courtesies were extended to apparitions as to real guests; it was only polite. "Can I offer you a drop of tea or would you like something else?"

  The question was not as absurd as it sounded. Even from a distance of five hundred miles, Nudin would be able to taste the flavor of anything consumed by his doppelganger.

  The visitor shook his head. "Thank you, my friend, but the news I bring will suffer no delay. You must come to Lios Nudin at once. The Perished Land is advancing."

  Lot-Ionan stopped smiling; he had not prepared himself for tidings as dire as these. "How long has it been moving?"

  "Some sixty orbits. I took a trip to the border and it came to my attention." Nudin looked anxious. "Our protective girdle is no longer as strong and reliable as it was. The damage is too great for me to repair; I need the council's help. The rest of us are in Lios Nudin already; we're waiting for you…" He trailed off.

  "Go on," Lot-Ionan encouraged him, although he had a sinking feeling that there was worse to come.

  "It's the дlfar," explained Nudin. "They've been sighted in the south of Gauragar, many miles from Dsфn Balsur. Meanwhile, King Tilogorn is being plagued by marauding orcs. They're rampaging through Idoslane, burning down villages and laying waste to the land. He's sent his army to deal with them…" He looked grimly at his host. "It bodes ill, Lot-Ionan."

  "The incursion of the Perished Land, the дlfar, the orcs-they're all connected?"

  "We certainly shouldn't rule it out," he said, refusing to commit himself. "You were summoned by the magi's council. Why didn't you respond?"

  "Summoned?" Lot-Ionan made no attempt to disguise his surprise. "When?"

  "I have it on good authority that two of the council's best envoys were dispatched with a message: Friedegard and Vrabor are their names. I believe you know them."

  "Of course I know them! But where have they got to?" Lot-Ionan was instantly concerned for the pair's well-being, especially now the дlfar were known to be abroad. "Thank goodness you decided to follow it up yourself. I'll set off as soon as I can. It shouldn't take more than a few orbits to get to Lios Nudin." Lot-Ionan expected Nudin to take his leave, but the apparition did not stir.

  "Just one more thing," his guest cut in. "It's trivial compared to the other news, but all the same… Do you think you could bring my instruments with you? If you've finished with them, I'd very much like to have them back."

  "Your instruments… Of course!" Many cycles ago Lot-Ionan had borrowed a number of items from Nudin on Gorйn's behalf. The loan comprised a small handheld mirror, two arm-length remnants of sigurdaisy wood, and a pair of silver-plated glass carafes with unusual etchings. After finding some reference to the items in a compendium, Gorйn had been eager to examine them more closely. Lot-Ionan could no longer recall what conclusion he had reached, but he suspected it was nothing of particular interest. The more immediate problem was locating the things. He had a sudden vision of the wrecked laboratory and hoped to goodness that Gorйn had not left the items there.

  "I'll be sure to bring them," he promised.

  Nudin seemed doubtful. "You do still have them, don't you?" Lot-Ionan nodded in what he hoped was a convincing fashion. "All right, well, make haste, old friend. Only the full council can save Girdlegard from the terrors to come."

  Nudin's double rose to his feet, positioned himself in the middle of the room, and rapped his staff firmly against the floor. The illusion shattered in a shower of sparks. Glittering dust drizzled to the ground, disintegrating further and further until nothing was left. The interview ended as spectacularly as it had begun.

  Lot-Ionan leaned back in his chair. If Toboribor's orcs have joined forces with Dsфn Balsur's дlfar, the peoples of Girdlegard are in serious danger.

  He decided to combine his trip to Lios Nudin with a visit to King Tilogorn in order to pledge his support. At least half of Ionandar lay within the borders of Idoslane, so it seemed only proper to loan the monarch his magical powers in the battle against Tion's brutes. The magus rose. Time is of the essence-, Nudin was right.

  He summoned his famuli and issued instructions regarding the luggage he required for the journey and the chain of command among the students while he was away. Then he removed his beloved robes and exchanged them reluctantly for his little-worn traveling garb, comprising another set of robes, also in beige, but made of more durable cloth, and a mantle of dark blue leather.

  His servants were busy grooming his bay stallion, Furo. The five-hundred-mile journey to Porista would take ten orbits at most, so everything he needed could be stowed in the saddlebags.

  At length Lot-Ionan clambered somewhat stiffly onto his horse. Furo snorted excitedly as the magus leaned forward, stroked its mane, and whispered some enchantment in its ear.

  With a loud whinny the stallion thundered out of the underground vaults and through the gates. Once out in the open, with the path ahead and fresh air all around, it picked up speed, accelerating from a canter to a gallop. The cobbles flashed beneath its hooves, covering multiple paces with each stride. Thanks to Lot-Ionan's art, the horse could outstrip any mount in Girdlegard and it relished its speed.

  And thus Furo carried his master, who was clinging on for dear life, across Ionandar and beyond. Kingdom of Gauragar, Girdlegard, Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle The Blacksaddle? Never heard of it!" The morning could scarcely have got off to a less auspicious start. Tungdil pushed the map to one side as the publican placed his breakfast on the table.

  Particles of dust danced in the wide rays of sunshine pouring through the plate-glass windows. It came as a relief to Tungdil that he could see without peering; his eyes had adjusted to the brightness already.

  None of the good people of Idoslane could tell him anything about the Blacksaddle; it was not even marked on the tavern's ancient map.

  "Is there anyone in Goodwater who could help me?" he persisted. "A clerk or a magistrate or someone?"

  The publican shook his head regretfully, sorry to disappoint the outsider. Tungdil spooned his breakfast halfheartedly. The porridge was decent enough, but frustration had taken the edge off his hunger.

  Privately he was still hoping that the villagers were too simpleminded to be relied on. The publican struck him as the sort who had never strayed more than ten or twenty miles from home.

  Annoyingly, Goodwater was not marked either, but with a bit of luck one of the mercenaries would know the area sufficiently well to pinpoint its location and send him in the right direction.

  No doubt Friedegard and Vrabor would have been of some assistance, but they had long since departed. Stopping only to give the publican a few gold coins to pay for the window, they had struck out for Ionandar and taken the arrow with them.

  Tungdil was similarly anxious to leave. "Vraccas be with you," he called to the publican as he slung his pack and the leather bag over his shoulder and stepped out into the street.

  The sentries from the previous night had been replaced with a new set of stubbly faces, but Tungdil lost no time in inquiring about the Blacksaddle. Thankfully, the mercenaries had heard of the wretched mountain and could point to Goodwater on the map. It was getting on for midday when he left the settlement and set off down a narrow road, heading north as the sentries had advised.

  "If you see any orcs, tell them where they can find their dead friends!" one of the men shouted after him, thrusting his spear at a festering skull and raising a cloud of flies.

  He could still hear the soldier's laughter as he skirted the fields that he had seen in the distance from his window the night before.

  Goodwater was an apt name for the place. Tungdil could picture what it would be like at harvest time: fields of corn blowing gently in the breeze, ripe apples hanging from the branches, and enough nuts for countless busy hands. Idoslane struck him as a beautiful place, with the obvious limitation that it wasn't
underground. He never felt quite comfortable in the open.

  At least there's a decent road. He dreaded the moment when he would have to strike out across the countryside. It's beyond me how the pointy-ears manage to find their bearings when there's nothing but woods and fields. From what he'd gathered from his reading, the elves had retreated to the glades of Вlandur as part of their quest to live in harmony with nature, art, and beauty. But the smug creatures' desire for perfection had failed to save them from their treacherous cousins, the дlfar.

  It's funny, thought Tungdil, remembering the face at the window, the дlf looked just the way I always imagined an elf.

  The northern elven kingdom of Lesinteпl had fallen long ago and now the kingdom of Вlandur was two-thirds under the dominion of the Perished Land. As for the elves of the Golden Plains, they were history: The дlfar had seized their land, renamed it Dsфn Balsur, and made it their base, from which they sent out scouts to reconnoiter the surrounding land of Gauragar.

  Gauragar's sovereign, King Bruron, was powerless to repel them. As warriors, men were no match for the дlfar, and if it came to a battle, Bruron's soldiers would be lucky to draw their weapons before they were killed.

  Tungdil thought of the envoys and tried to estimate the distance between the southeasterly tip of Dsфn Balsur in the north and Lot-Ionan's vaults in the south. Four hundred miles or more, he reckoned-a formidable distance, even for an дlf.

  Unless, of course, the Perished Land has edged southward and the дlfar have extended their range. If that was the case, it would explain the envoys' business with Lot-Ionan: Any expansion southward of the Perished Land would pose a threat to the enchanted realm of Lios Nudin.

  Tungdil kept a watchful eye on his surroundings as he walked: If there were orcs abroad, he had no desire to deliver himself into their clutches. He took particular care at blind corners, stopping to listen for clunking armor and weaponry or bestial snarls and shouts. To his considerable relief, he encountered no one and was spared the unenviable task of choosing to stand his ground or flee the orcs' superior might. By the time he reached the gaily painted pickets marking the border between Idoslane and Gauragar, it had been dark for about four hours.

  His feet were weary, so he decided to journey no farther that night. Spotting a nearby oak, he walked over and scrambled into the branches, hauling his bags after him with a rope that he had purchased in Goodwater.

  He valued his life sufficiently that sleeping like a bird in the treetops seemed a fair price to pay for the extra protection it afforded. The orcs were hardly likely to spot him and in the event of trouble, he would draw on his ingenuity to find a way out. Wrapping the rope twice around his body, he tied himself to the tree to stop himself from falling or being shaken from his perch, then closed his eyes-and dreamed.

  He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the fresh cold air that swept the majestic summits of the Great Blade and Dragon's Tongue. The Northern Pass appeared before him and his imagination took off, soaring high above the Gray Range like an eagle.

  A sudden welter of monstrous shouts shattered the serenity of the mountains and echoed hideously against the age-old rock.

  On looking down, Tungdil saw the mighty portals of the Stone Gateway and all around them Giselbert and the fifthlings fighting to the death. Axes thudded into enemy armor, biting through sinew and bone, only to be torn out and planted in the next foe.

  Still the hordes kept coming.

  Tungdil stared in dismay when he saw the endless tide of assailants battering the stronghold. A foul stench of dead orc rose from the battlements where the stone was awash with green blood. He could practically taste the rancid fat on the creatures' greasy armor. The reek was so unbearable that he woke up, retching.

  Tungdil opened his eyes and was surprised to discover that it was light. What…?

  At the foot of the tree, a dozen fires were burning in a ring. Guttural laughter, low grunts, snarls, and angry curses sounded from below.

  His blood ran cold. He was trapped: The bands of orcs so eagerly awaited by Goodwater's mercenaries had set up camp around his tree. No wonder he had dreamed of the fifthlings' battle against the hordes. His ears had heard the brutes, his nostrils had smelled them, and his sleeping mind had conjured the images to fit.

  The dwarf pressed himself against the trunk, stiff as a statue, willing himself to become part of the tree. What if they notice me?

  One thing was certain: A mob of this size would make short work of the handful of mercenaries in Goodwater.

  Red flames blazed up from the fires, towering as high as several lances and alerting nighttime wanderers to the danger. For the dwarf amid the boughs, the warning came too late.

  Tungdil totted up the heads in sight and came to the conclusion that over a hundred beasts were camped below-sturdy, powerful orcs for whom a wooden palisade would be no deterrent if there was prey on the other side.

  He took another look and was seized with the urge to vomit. The meat being roasted over the fires and consumed with gusto was unmistakably human in form. Two human torsos were turning on specially constructed racks like chickens on a spit.

  Tungdil had to fight back his nausea. It didn't take a genius to work out that the beasts' suspicions would be aroused by a porridge-spewing tree.

  Judging by the color of the bandages, he deduced that the ragged strips of cloth covering the wounds of the handful of injured orcs had been torn from the uniforms of King Tilogorn's men. So much for Goodwater's eagerly awaited reinforcements. It seemed Idoslane's soldiers had underestimated the strength of the enemy and paid a high price, having been killed and eaten into the bargain.

  Out of the frying pan and into the fire, thought Tungdil, remembering the previous night's brush with the дlfar. What have I done to deserve this?

  The poor villagers of Goodwater had no idea that the green-hided peril was heading their way. He was the only one who could warn them, but that was impossible with the beasts camped round his tree. His only hope was to bide his time, then climb down and creep past them while they slept.

  Suddenly it occurred to him that he could use the situation to his advantage by sneaking a little closer to the fires. If he could eavesdrop on the orcs' conversation, he might learn something of their plans. He was familiar with their language in its written form, at least. It paid to have been raised by a magus with a very large library: Studying was his favorite occupation after working in the forge.

  Unlikely as it might sound, there was a logic to the grunts, snarls, and shouts that passed for orcish communication. Scholars had studied the speech of orcs in captivity and discovered a language with an unusual emphasis on curses and threats.

  His heart raced at the prospect of stealing closer to the stinking beasts. He would be finished if they caught him, but a dwarf was obliged to do everything in his power to protect the races of Girdlegard from Tion's ugly hordes. The Smith's commandments applied to every single one of his children, and that meant Tungdil too.

  His mind was made up. He eyed the trunk, looking for the best way of reaching the ground without making any noise. Even as he was lashing his bags to the tree, a commotion sounded below. One by one the orcs rose to their feet amid a tumult of shouted exclamations. Guests were approaching.

  The ring of orcs closed around the tree. The dwarf edged away from the trunk, crawling as far along the tapering branch as he dared. At last he was close enough to hear what they were saying, provided he strained his ears. Thankfully the chieftains were forced to raise their voices above the din, which made things a little easier.

  He reached out gingerly and pushed the leaves aside. The beasts were gathered in a large circle around three chieftains whose fearsome tusks had been sharpened and tattooed. At once the noise died down, the cheering fading into silence.

  Tungdil heard the clatter of horseshoes. Two riders made their way through the ranks of waiting orcs, the hooves of their black steeds striking the ground in a shower of blue and white sp
arks. The crimson-eyed horses moved with feline fluidity and had nothing of the typical equestrian gait.

  The tall, slender riders directed their steeds to the center of the circle and dismounted. Tungdil's instincts told him they were дlfar.

  The creatures were clad in finely tailored leather armor and from their shoulders hung long cloaks. Their black leather breeches were tucked into dark brown boots that reached above their knees and their hands were sheathed in burgundy gloves.

  The first of the pair, an дlf with long fair hair, held a spear tipped with a head as fine as an icicle. A sword dangled from his belt.

  His companion's hair was pulled away from his face, his dark plait disappearing into the mantle of his cape. He carried a longbow in his hand and a quiver of arrows on his back. A pair of daggers was lashed to his thighs with leather straps.

  Tungdil recognized the дlf at once: It was the face he had seen at the window of the tavern. Please, Vraccas, he begged silently, may Friedegard and Vrabor be alive.

  The fair-haired дlf took charge of the proceedings, speaking in the common tongue. It was clearly below his race's dignity to communicate in the primitive grunts of the orcs.

  "I am Sinthoras of Dsфn Balsur, here at the command of my master, Nфd'onn the Doublefold, commander of the Perished Land, to present the three princes of Toboribor with an offer of an alliance." His voice was cold, barely courteous. He was there to present a deal and his tone told them they could take it or leave it. "Prince Bashkugg, Prince Kragnarr, Prince Ushnotz, you have been chosen by Nфd'onn to conduct a campaign of subjugation and destruction the like of which has never been seen. You, the strong arm of the south, shall lead the orcs to victory and sunder the skull of mankind."

  "And who shall be the commander?" demanded Kragnarr, who stood as tall as the дlf but with twice his girth. The other princes were of smaller stature.

  Bashkugg gave him an angry shove. "You think you're better than us, do you?" he shouted belligerently.