How many more? Balendilín’s heart sank as he surveyed the waiting beasts. They were trapped in the hall, but by no means defeated, and their numbers were swelling as the tunnels disgorged more orcs.
A messenger pushed his way through the dwarven ranks, bringing more bad tidings for Balendilín. “The beasts have outmaneuvered us,” he gasped. “They’ve attacked from the rear. The gates of Ogre’s Death are open and the first two ramparts have been taken.”
By now Balendilín was beginning to suspect that the dwarves had been betrayed. “Flood the ramparts with boiling oil,” he ordered. “That will —”
“We can’t. They’ve destroyed the vats.”
Destroyed? A moment ago, he had been confident that the enemy would be defeated; now his faith seemed misplaced. To destroy the vats they’d have to know where to find them, in which case… “Give the order to retreat. We’ll defend the stronghold from within. Close the gates and abandon the ramparts.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “Hurry!”
The messenger nodded and sped away.
Balendilín was certain that the secondlings’ predicament had nothing to do with bad luck. Not only had they been attacked through tunnels whose existence had been secret for hundreds of cycles, but their defenses had been sabotaged by enemies who seemed to know the stronghold inside out, and now they were in danger of being outmaneuvered.
Someone with intimate knowledge of Ogre’s Death had helped them to plan the invasion. What kind of dwarf would do such a thing? Balendilín could think of no one who would stoop so low as to ally themselves with orcs. Nôd’onn must have used his sorcery to draw out our secrets. There was no time to hesitate: He had to act fast.
“I need two hundred warriors. The rest of you stay here and hold back the orcs,” he commanded, turning and marching away.
He was on course for the High Pass, where he intended to destroy the bridge before the orcs got hold of it and allowed fresh hordes to flood into the stronghold from the Outer Lands. His fury and hatred of Nôd’onn grew stronger with every step.
Underground Network,
Kingdom of Weyurn,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
Surely he must be tired by now,” said Rodario, puzzled. “I’d be exhausted if I had to push both wagons.”
“Unlike some people, Djerůn is no stranger to hard work,” the maga said sternly.
The impresario gave her an injured look and stuck out his chin. “Perhaps the Estimable Maga could tell me what I’ve done to be treated with such contempt?”
She turned her back on him. “Climb in, Djerůn; there’s another downward pitch.”
The armored giant squeezed into the rear wagon, trying to make himself as small as possible so as not to injure the others or crack his head on any low archways.
“Very well,” said Rodario, refusing to give in. “You can ignore me if you like, but prepare for the consequences. I happen to be writing a drama in which you play a leading role. You’ll have only yourself to blame if you make a bad impression.”
The maga’s eyes bored into his. “Perhaps Djerůn should attend the first performance. You’ll know from his reaction whether I like your play. If he raises his ax, you should run.” The impresario held her gaze, but she refused to back down. “It isn’t because of anything you’ve done, Rodario. Quite frankly, I don’t like your manner. It’s foppish.”
Rodario frowned, his mood completely spoiled. “Why don’t you come straight out and tell me that I’m not a real man? In your opinion, a man must have muscles, know how to wield a sword, and command the mystic arts.”
“You understand me better than I thought,” she said scathingly. “Since you fail on all three counts, you should stop your tiresome flirting. It’s getting on everyone’s nerves.”
The maga’s put-down was delivered in her usual strident voice. Rodario went a deep shade of red and was about to retaliate when the wagon plunged and picked up speed. Ink spilled out of the open bottle, washing over the parchment and onto his clothes. He fell into a wounded silence.
With one hand resting on the brake, Tungdil peered ahead, hoping to spot any potential obstacles before it was too late. Of course, if the rail was broken, nothing would save them. Boïndil was sitting beside him, eyes straining into the darkness too.
There was a generous gap between the two wagons and soon they were traveling at top speed. Suddenly the temperature seemed to rise, and the warm wind buffeting their faces acquired the sulfurous odor of rotten eggs.
“There’s light ahead,” shouted Boïndil. “It looks orange.”
Shooting out of the tunnel, they raced toward another bridge whose basalt pillars spanned a vast lake, the surface of which was incandescent with light. Lava twisted and snaked its way along the bottom, causing the crystal-clear water to bubble and boil. The rising vapors warmed the air and made the atmosphere so humid that sweat started streaming from their pores. Breathing was difficult, not least because of the stench.
The molten lava lit up the cavern, a vast irregular hollow of two or more miles across, with a ceiling some five hundred paces above the water.
Their wagons trundled over the long bridge. Tungdil glanced over the side. A spectacular place, but I’ll be glad to get out of here.
At that moment they heard hammering again.
It began with a single rap, a piercing tone that rose above the gentle bubbling of the water.
Goïmgar’s head whipped back and forth as he strove to locate its source. “It’s the ghosts of our forefathers,” he whispered. “My great-grandmother told me stories about bad dwarves who trespassed against the laws of Vraccas. They were barred from the eternal smithy and condemned to roam the underground passageways. They avenge themselves on any mortal who crosses their path.”
“I suppose you believe the stories about man-eating orcs as well,” said Bavragor with a scornful laugh.
“Oh, those stories are true,” Boïndil growled from the front. “I can vouch for that. His great-grandmother was probably right.” Goïmgar shrank down farther into the wagon until only his eyes were visible over the side.
“That’s enough, Boïndil,” Tungdil said sharply. Even as he spoke, a second rap echoed through the grotto, reverberating against the glowing stone walls.
This time it didn’t stop.
The raps grew louder and the intervals briefer until the hammering swelled to a deafening staccato that shook the rock, dislodging loose stones from the ceiling. Small fragments rained down on them, missing the bridge by a matter of paces and splashing into the bubbling lake.
“Look!” shrieked Goïmgar, beside himself with fear. “Vraccas have mercy on us! The spirits are coming to drag us to our deaths.”
They looked up to where he was pointing. Figures detached themselves from the rock and stared down at them. Tungdil counted at least three hundred before he gave up.
Still they kept coming. There was no denying that they looked like dwarves: Some were wearing armor, some dressed in normal garb, others clad in little more than a leather apron. Male, female, warriors, smiths, and masons, their pale faces stared accusingly at them and the hammering increased. Suddenly their arms flew up in unison and pointed in the direction the travelers had come.
“They want us to leave,” whispered Goïmgar. “Turn back, I beg you. Let’s walk across Girdlegard; I’ll fight the orcs, I promise.”
Spirits. Tungdil’s blood ran cold at the sight of their empty stares. The molten lava stained their ashen faces with its blood-red glow. He had read about ghosts in Lot-Ionan’s books and now he’d seen the living proof. I’m not going to let you ruin our mission.
They swept into the next tunnel, away from the cavern, the lake, and the spirits. After a while the hammering faded too.
Beroïn’s Folk,
Secondling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
It was just as Balendilín had feared.
On reach
ing the High Pass, he and his warriors found dead dwarves strewn across the ramparts, blood trickling across the stone. They hadn’t had time to draw their weapons and defend themselves, which seemed to suggest that the murderer had been a friend. A friend bewitched by Nôd’onn and turned traitor. Confound the wizard and his magic!
The air was foul with the stench of orc and they could hear the rattle of cogs and the clatter of stone as the bridge unfolded, slab by slab. The traitor had beaten them to it.
“Run!” shouted Balendilín. There was no need to say more; everyone knew what had to be done if disaster was to be averted.
Tearing up the steps, they made for the chamber that housed the mechanism operating the bridge. On the other side of the chasm, the beasts were braying and cheering in excitement as the gangway unfurled. The dwarves tried not to listen to their shouts.
Suddenly they found themselves confronted by a guard of one hundred orcs, tall, powerful specimens, bristling with weaponry. Balendilín and his warriors would have to fight tooth and nail to get through.
Both sides threw themselves into the battle with ferocity, each more determined than ever to wipe their enemies from the face of the earth. Green blood mingled with red, limbs were severed, teeth sent flying, and the bloodcurdling noise of the fighting competed with shouts and jeers from the hordes across the chasm whose rapacious hunger could barely be contained.
Balendilín’s arm grew heavier with every blow. His muscles were tiring from the strain of wielding his ax, but stubbornness kept him from flagging. “Show no mercy!” he cried. “The bridge must be destroyed before it’s too late.”
“It’s too late already, Balendilín,” said Bislipur. The words echoed through the stone stairway, but of the speaker there was no sign. He didn’t sound particularly troubled by the secondlings’ plight. “The dwarves of Beroïn and Goïmdil will meet their doom together. It was easy enough to arrange, once the orcs were acquainted with the tunnels.”
“You told them?” The king’s ax slashed the vile visage of an orc. There was a sound of shattering bone and the beast toppled over, his skull a bloodied wreck. The path was clear and the dwarves surged into the chamber to attack the last dozen foes who were prepared to die rather than lose control of the bridge. Gasping for breath, Balendilín stopped for a moment. “Why?”
“This isn’t what I wanted, but you thwarted my plans with your ridiculous challenge to the succession. Thanks to you and the high king, I had to improvise a little, but I’m not one to mourn what might have been. I wanted a war against the elves, but orcs will do the job just as well — if not better.”
Balendilín tried to see where the voice was coming from, but the echo was deceptive. “I’ll kill you for your treachery,” he vowed, full of loathing.
His words were met with mocking laughter. “Others have threatened the same, but they’ve never made good on their promise. You won’t either, King Balendilín, not now that I’ve deprived you of your subjects and your stronghold.”
Balendilín lingered no longer, rushing instead to join the surviving warriors in the battle for the chamber. At last he risked a glance through an embrasure.
Two-thirds of the bridge had been lowered already and a few of the beasts, unable to restrain themselves, were jumping the gap. Some fell to their deaths, others caught hold of the edge and dangled for a moment before plummeting into the chasm below.
We have to stop them. Balendilín let out a ferocious battle cry and threw himself against the last remaining orc, driving his ax with all his might into the creature’s side. The blade ate its way through the grease-smeared armor, releasing a jet of dark green blood. He pulled out his weapon, parried his antagonist’s sword, and struck where he had hit before. After a third blow, the beast staggered and died.
It was only then that Balendilín caught sight of the twisted levers and broken handles that served to operate the bridge.
“The bridge is down,” one of his soldiers reported. “The beasts are storming the kingdom, Your Majesty.”
Frozen in horror, Balendilín stared at the mangled machinery. He grabbed the lever on which the future of his kinsfolk, the future of all Girdlegard, depended, but it was jammed.
“Don’t forsake your children, Vraccas,” he cried in desperation, leaning against it with all his force. Changing his tactics, he tore out the lever, rammed his blade into the slot, and pulled down on the shaft. He looked out.
It was working! The columns retracted and the walkway dropped a few paces, sagging dangerously in the middle. Balendilín heard the vast stone slabs snapping and cracking; then the noise was drowned out by screams of terror as the invading beasts realized that nothing could stop them from plunging to their deaths. At that moment the bridge gave way, pulling the creatures with it. The assembled hordes on the far side of the chasm howled in disappointment.
“Your Majesty, you’re wounded,” said one of his warriors in concern. Balendilín looked down to see blood seeping from the left side of his torso. There was a huge slit in his chain mail where an orcish sword had struck.
“It’s nothing,” he mumbled, wrenching his ax from the slot. “We’ll finish off the creatures who made it over the bridge, then go back to help the others. We’ll deal with the traitor later.”
As they battled their way back to the tunnels, it became apparent that the Blue Range was riddled with enemy troops. Every corridor, every passageway, every chamber brought forth more orcs and bögnilim patrolling the territory in small groups or big gangs.
How much longer will we be able to hold them back?
Balendilín prayed to Vraccas for help.
On approaching the entrance to the tunnels, they heard the bestial cries of dying orcs. From the sound of it, the enemy troops were being massacred.
“I gave the warriors strict instructions not to attack! A pitched battle would be fatal. We’ll be outnumbered!” The king and his company hurried to the aid of their comrades, but were greeted by an entirely unexpected — and inexplicable — sight.
Advancing in the opposite direction was a battalion of dwarves who had popped up behind the orcs and taken them by surprise. While the battalion cut its way through the beasts from the rear, Balendilín’s own troops had seized the initiative and launched an offensive, thereby squeezing the enemy between two fronts.
Balendilín ordered his company to attack, and they joined the fray. At length the two dwarven armies met in the middle, their gleaming axes making quick work of the last orcish troopers.
“I don’t like to be late for a battle,” declared a warrior in beautifully fashioned mail. The voice was a little high-pitched, the beard on the thin side, and the armor revealed two large bulges that seemed distinctly unmanly. The dwarf was clutching a golden mace, now stained with orcish blood.
“I am Xamtys II of the clan of the Stubborn Streaks, queen of Borengar’s folk and commander of the firstlings.” She turned one of the corpses over with her foot. “I came here for a meeting of the assembly, and what do I find? Orcs! I suppose it’s one way of letting off steam between debates.”
Balendilín quickly recovered from the surprise. “Queen Xamtys, you are most welcome here. Thank you for coming to the aid of your cousins in their hour of need. My name is Balendilín Onearm of the clan of the Firm Fingers, king of the secondlings. Was it Tungdil or Gandogar who asked you to come?” He prayed silently that it was Tungdil.
“It was Tungdil. He convinced me to put an end to the cycles of silence.” She held out her hand and he shook it. “What’s going on here?”
He described in as few words as possible the fate that had befallen Ogre’s Death and the betrayal of the dwarves by their own. He was interrupted by a messenger bearing news that the main gates were about to fall to the besiegers.
“Leave the range,” Xamtys advised him. “If you’ve been betrayed, they’ll know every passageway and every cavern.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Come to my kingdom and shelter with the firstlings until Nôd’onn h
as been defeated and the beasts thrown out of your lands.”
“I can’t,” he said quickly.
“King Balendilín, this is no time for stubbornness,” she said gently. “You and your folk will be overwhelmed by the enemy, and for what gain? My warriors will have their work cut out saving Girdlegard without you. I propose that we take the tunnel back to my kingdom and send messages to Tungdil and Gandogar to inform them of the change of plan.” She studied Balendilín’s face and saw with relief that he knew she was right.
“Get the womenfolk and children out of here,” he instructed his guards. “Squeeze as many of them as possible into the wagons. Anyone left behind will have to wait for our return; lone dwarves will have no trouble concealing themselves in the mines and quarries. Destroy the key bridges. The orcs will be hard-pressed to track them down.”
Withdrawing the troops and abandoning the kingdom amounted to a defeat, but Balendilín had no choice if his folk were to survive. We wouldn’t be in this position if it weren’t for Bislipur, he thought bitterly.
He put his mind to organizing the retreat and dispatched volunteers to convey the news to the far reaches of the kingdom and warn the clans that the army had withdrawn. “Tell them it won’t be for long,” he commanded. “I give my word that I’ll be back in a few weeks to kill the orcs.”
He hurried away to the great hall, anxious to save the ceremonial hammer from desecration by the beasts. There was no need to worry about the secondlings’ hoard: The treasures were protected by a runic password known only to the king.
Balendilín picked up the hammer from its place beside the abandoned throne and listened to the battering rams thudding against the main gates. The pounding noise went straight through him, heralding the doom of Ogre’s Death as clearly as if Tion himself were thumping on the door.
He took a last melancholy look at the throne, the stone pews, the tablets inscribed with Vraccas’s laws, the lofty columns, and the beautifully sculpted bas-reliefs. Golden sunshine sloped through the chinks in the ceiling, bathing the hall in warm light. How much of this will be left when I return?