The War of the Dwarves

  “I expect he was hoping to win over the elves and men before Narmora had time to warn us,” said the one-armed king of the secondlings. “Neither he nor his uncle reckoned with Tungdil’s appearance.”

  “One–nil to the children of Vraccas,” commented Boïndil confidently, running a hand through his sleek-looking beard. He had greased it with leftover fat from Myr’s kitchen, and he didn’t seem bothered by the residual smell of meat.

  “It’s not over yet,” warned the high king, feeling the weight of his crown. He rested his chin on his hands. “We underestimated Lorimbas. He’s a hundred times more dangerous than Bislipur. Unless you can come up with a better solution…” He paused, looking hopefully at Balendilín, who was silent. “In that case, Vraccas forgive me, but I’ll have to give the order for our kingdoms to be cleared.”

  “Never!” protested Boïndil, smashing his fist against the table. “If you banish us to the Outer Lands, the thirdlings will steal our strongholds and—”

  “Girdlegard will be saved,” said Gandogar in a commanding voice. “Boïndil Doubleblade, I know how you feel. I don’t want to give our strongholds to the thirdlings either, but what of our Vraccas-given mission?” He looked each of them in the eye. “I want you to remember the Smith’s first commandment: Our duty is to protect the inhabitants of Girdlegard. If we’re obliged to leave our kingdoms, so be it.”

  The high king’s speech was followed by a long silence as everyone searched for an alternative.

  “Couldn’t we attack the thirdlings and seize the secret weapon?” suggested Queen Xamtys.

  Balendilín shook his head. “The Black Range is uncharted territory. None of us could lead an army safely through the passageways and tunnels. There isn’t time to plan an attack, even if the elves and the men were to help. Besides, Lorimbas would be ready for us—and some of his warriors are garrisoned at the Blacksaddle. If we march on the Black Range, he’ll attack us from behind.”

  “Perfect timing on their part,” observed Tungdil, leaning back in his chair. “They probably think we’ve got no choice.” He smirked.

  “What’s this?” queried Gandogar, sitting up. “Is Tungdil Goldhand proposing another act of heroism?”

  “Not exactly. I was thinking the thirdlings could help us.”

  Boëndal and Boïndil exchanged glances, guessing what their friend had in mind. Balyndis looked at them questioningly, and Boïndil flashed her a confident smile.

  Tungdil stroked the coin-shaped patch of gold embedded in his hand; it shimmered in the light of the setting sun. “I got to know the freelings during my stay in their capital. Some are thirdlings like me, and, like me, they aren’t possessed of Lorimbur’s murderous hatred.” As he said the word “hatred”, his gaze settled briefly on Glaïmbar. “They know their way around the thirdling kingdom,” he finished, looking away.

  “I’m sure they’d be happy to help,” agreed Myr. “They could lead…” She trailed off, discouraged by the delegates’ response.

  Everyone around the table was staring at her with open curiosity.

  She was a pale aberration, a dwarf without chain mail, whose smooth white skin was unlike anything in Vraccas’s creation. It was true in some respects that she resembled alabaster, but the comparison wasn’t favorable. Alabaster was soft, crumbly, and practically useless. It had nothing in common with the granite from which the founding fathers had been hewn.

  “How can we be sure the thirdlings in Trovegold are any better than Romo?” someone demanded grimly. The others were thinking the same, but it was Balyndis who voiced their concern. “Don’t take it personally, Tungdil. Your loyalty is beyond question, but we know you. We can’t trust thirdlings whom we’ve never set eyes on.”

  “What about Sanda? She’s the queen consort,” he protested. Before he could continue, he was silenced by a kick from Myr. Given her distrust of the freeling commander, it seemed prudent to leave the matter there.

  “I know plenty of thirdlings,” volunteered the pale-skinned medic. “I’d trust them with my life.” She knew from their scornful looks that she was wasting her breath.

  “We can’t stake our future on the dubious loyalties of thirdlings,” decided Gandogar, ruling against the proposal.

  “Your Majesty, the thirdlings in Trovegold are an invaluable asset,” ventured Balendilín, hoping to change the high king’s mind. In his view, Tungdil’s suggestion was their only hope. “With knowledgeable guides, we could launch a surprise attack.”

  Tungdil nodded gratefully at the one-armed secondling. “Gemmil’s realm is vast—much bigger than I’d imagined. The number of freeling cities defies belief.” He rose to his feet, knowing that the next words he uttered could change the dwarves’ course. “The freelings came to our aid and defended the fifthling kingdom against hordes of orcish revenants. Two thousand warriors battled for our cause. It took King Gemmil a matter of orbits to send an army to the range.” Tungdil looked at Gandogar beseechingly. “They can help us, Your Majesty. They’re a force to be reckoned with.”

  Gandogar bowed his head, closed his eyes, and covered his face with his hands. No one could tell whether he was praying or deep in thought.

  Silence descended on the chamber. Myr squeezed Tungdil’s hand and smiled at him nervously.

  At last Gandogar uncovered his face and sighed. “We’re leaving,” he said evenly.

  Boïndil let out a shriek. “Leaving? We can’t give up our kingdoms without a fight!”

  “Are you sure, Your Majesty?” persisted Balendilín. “We’ll be leaving our strongholds in the midst of winter. What about the womenfolk and children? Our losses will run to hundreds before we encounter the first band of orcs. What kind of future awaits us in the Outer Lands? Even the fog is dangerous.”

  “I know,” sighed Gandogar. “I’m aware of the risks. I’m condemning our kinsfolk to a perilous march over icy passes and narrow ridges and treacherous winter snow. Believe me, Balendilín, I’ll mourn the death of every dwarf. Vraccas will hold me accountable.” His eyes welled with tears. “But our sacrifice won’t be in vain. We’ll leave in the knowledge that Girdlegard is safe—our kingdoms will still be standing when we return.”

  “The thirdlings won’t relinquish our strongholds,” objected Balendilín. “It’s war either way. If we fight them now, we might prevail, but later… The thirdlings will wipe us out, Your Majesty. They’ll ensconce themselves in our strongholds and bombard us with boiling pitch, boulders, and arrows. We’ll perish at the bottom of our own defenses.” He leaned over the map and placed a finger on the Black Range. “Strike now, and—”

  Gandogar rose to his feet, trembling with rage. “Enough!” he bellowed. “I’m the high king and I’ve made my decision. We can’t risk a war with the thirdlings, do you hear? The avatars are wily and powerful—they killed the maga, and they’ll strike again. The decision stands: We’re leaving Girdlegard.” He raised the ceremonial hammer and brought it down so heavily that a crack appeared in the table. “Tungdil,” he said, his voice still edged with anger. “Go back to the conference chamber and tell Romo we accept the deal.”

  Tungdil got up, bowed, and left the room with Myr. “It’s all wrong,” he muttered to himself. I don’t know why Gandogar thinks the avatars are so wily. Why target Andôkai when the thirdlings are the threat?

  “What’s the matter?” asked Myr. “Do you think it’s a mistake for the dwarves to leave?”

  Tungdil stopped mid-stride, as if colliding with a wall. He turned to Myr and kissed her fervently. The satisfied expression on his face seemed at odds with his earlier despondency.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked breathlessly, puzzled by the rush of affection.

  “I’ll tell you later,” he promised. She waited outside while Rodario opened the door and ushered Tungdil to his chair.

  Romo had ordered a tankard of beer and was slurping noisily. His companion peered intently at Tungdil. A look of astonishment crossed his face, and he averted his eyes.
r />   “If it isn’t King Gandogar’s message boy!” exclaimed Romo with a malicious laugh. He wiped his beard on the back of his sleeve. “Has the high king reached a decision?”

  “Yes,” replied Tungdil levelly. “King Gandogar wishes it to be known that he agrees to the unscrupulous terms laid down by your uncle.” He heard gasps from the other delegates, some of whom seemed relieved, while others were clearly shocked and saddened that the dwarves were being blackmailed into giving up their kingdoms. Tungdil left his chair and, drawing himself up to his full height, stopped in front of Romo. “Know this, Romo Steelheart: If Girdlegard falls, you and your uncle will die by my hand,” he threatened, tilting his ax toward him.

  Lorimbas’s nephew saw at once that it would be foolish to provoke his challenger. To the astonishment of the delegates, Tungdil’s threat met with something akin to respect.

  “Tell King Gandogar that his decision has been noted and will be conveyed to my uncle. Your fears about Girdlegard’s future are unfounded. Once the thirdlings are in control of the ranges, nothing will breach our defenses.” He took his morning star from the table. “We’ll keep out the vermin—the avatars, the beasts, and the Vraccas-loving dwarves.” He got up, hooked the weapon over his belt, and set off toward the doors, followed by his taciturn companion, who glanced over his shoulder at Tungdil. Romo stopped in the doorway. “The thirdling annexation of the dwarven kingdoms begins in eighty orbits. After that time, any dwarves in our ranges will be killed.” He cast a roll of parchment to the floor. “Here’s a list of chattels. The items in question must be left at our disposal. Tell Gandogar we’ll deal with his kingdom first.”

  The delegates watched as the sturdy figures receded into the distance, their unwieldy armor echoing through the shadowy corridors long after they disappeared from view.

  Led by Gandogar, the dwarves rejoined the discussions as soon as Rodario brought word that Romo and his companion had left the chamber.

  “These are dark times for Girdlegard,” said Mallen, stepping forward to shake hands with the dwarves. “We’re saving our kingdoms and losing the dwarves. It’s a high price to pay. Perhaps we should fight the thirdlings instead.”

  “No,” replied Gandogar firmly. “We can’t waste precious time. The dwarves will return when the danger is over.”

  “You can count on our support,” promised Mallen. There were no words to express his gratitude, so he inclined his head respectfully instead.

  “If the thirdlings break their promise, you won’t be the only one after their blood,” said Liútasil to Tungdil. “We’ll kill them faster than it takes eleven demigods to burn Sitalia’s forests. If the thirdlings have deceived us, the elves will make them pay.” He turned to Gandogar. “From now on, the selfless dwarves and their noble high king will be immortalized in our songs. No one in landur will speak ill of the four dwarven folks who sacrificed their kingdoms for our safety.” The lord of the elves bowed before the dwarf of all dwarves, showing his deference. One by one the monarchs followed his example and bowed before leaving the room.

  “I’ll accompany Romo in person and find out the truth about their weapon,” said Narmora, preparing to leave. “If they’ve lied, they’ll have an angry maga to deal with as well as a dwarven hero and an elven lord. Gandogar and the other monarchs can take care of the survivors.” Signaling for Rodario to follow her, she withdrew to her wing of the palace.

  The deputations from the dwarven kingdoms took their leave. Most were hoping to drown their sorrows in beer and mead.

  At last only Tungdil, the twins, and Balyndis were left.

  Boïndil remembered something that had been puzzling him. “Balyndis, how did you know it wasn’t Djern?”

  “I never forget a piece of metalwork,” she said, smiling. “Especially not a suit of armor like that. The etchings and engravings on the breastplate weren’t my work—they were passable imitations, but nothing more.” Her face fell. “Unfortunately, I didn’t spot the forgery in time.” She stepped forward and gave Tungdil a tentative embrace. “May Vraccas bless your melding with a warm hearth and a casket of gold,” she said in a strained voice. “We won’t see each other for a while, I suppose.”

  Closing his eyes, he filled his nostrils with her scent. He hadn’t missed it until now, but it was so familiar, so precious. He knew it was the last time he would hold her in his arms.

  I still love her, he thought forlornly, clasping her to him and pressing his lips against her brow. “Vraccas be with you,” he murmured, too choked to say anything else.

  For Balyndis it came as a shock to see the truth in his eyes, and Tungdil was startled to see the tenderness and sorrow in her face. She still loved him; she loved him in spite of the way he had shunned her. He reached for her hand, but she took a step back and shook her head. “Glaïmbar is waiting,” she said in a smothered voice, turning away.

  He watched her go, remembering all the other goodbyes, too many goodbyes. “Myr is waiting too,” he whispered.

  “We’re still here, you know, scholar,” said Boïndil with his usual lack of tact. He looked at him intently. “You and Myr should join our deputation. How about it?”

  Boëndal suspected that their friend had other plans. He was sure he had seen a hint of a smile playing on Tungdil’s lips. “Have you thought of a way to foil the thirdlings?”

  “Maybe,” said Tungdil cagily, laying a hand on Boëndal’s shoulder. “I haven’t quite conquered my doubts—but I’ll come straight to you and Boïndil when I’m ready.”

  Boëndal grinned. “I knew you weren’t destined to spend your orbits in an armchair! Vraccas has sent a spark of heroism to relight your fires. Whatever you’re planning, count us in: We’ll storm the Black Range if we have to.” He set off with his brother in the direction taken by Balyndis.

  Tungdil wandered through the palace, vacillating between confidence and doubt. Soon he was hopelessly lost, but he kept walking, deep in thought. Balyndis’s farewell was playing on his mind.

  His wounds from their separation were as painful as ever. He realized now that scarring wasn’t the same as healing, and even Myr was a salve, not a cure—she took his mind off the pain, but she couldn’t make it go away. It wasn’t that he didn’t love her; he just loved the smith more.

  How can you think about Balyndis when the future of Girdlegard is at stake? He shivered at the thought of the decision he had to make. Vraccas give me wisdom. It took a while for him to regain his bearings among the endless passageways and chambers of the palace. At last he found himself outside the conference chamber.

  Striding past an archway, he noticed three short figures at the end of a shadowy corridor. One was small and dainty, the next was broad-shouldered, and the third was noticeably taller and larger.

  That sounds like… Myr! Tungdil stopped in his tracks and hurried back to the corridor. “Hello, Myr!” he called cheerfully. “Don’t tell me you got lost as well!”

  The smallest of the three figures gave the biggest dwarf a shove. Tungdil heard a muffled shriek, followed by a clatter of weaponry, and a sickening thud.

  His warrior’s spirit ignited. Whipping out his ax, he sprinted down the corridor and threw himself between the dainty freeling and the other dwarves. “Back off,” he said menacingly, noticing the gashes in Myr’s left cheek. Blood was streaming down her face, streaking her pale complexion. Now it’s personal…

  Romo, holding two thick tomes in one hand, reached for his morning star with the other. His gauntlet shimmered red with Myr’s blood. “Lorimbur be praised,” he spat. “Not everyone has the privilege of killing Girdlegard’s favorite dwarf.” He threw the books to his companion. “Take these, Salfalur. My uncle can’t wait to read them.”

  Salfalur! The dwarf who killed my parents! Tungdil stared at the powerful dwarf, who caught the books, and turned to flee. The tattoos made his ferocious features look doubly sinister, almost demonic.

  “No,” shrieked Myr, pulling a dagger from her belt. She launched hersel
f at the brawny thirdling. “Give me back my work!”

  Salfalur waited unflinchingly for the dagger to thud against his chain mail. The tip broke off. Raising an armored fist, he punched the little dwarf’s wounded face. Myr flew back as if struck by Vraccas’s hammer, hit the wall, and slumped to the ground. “Come on, Romo,” commanded Salfalur. “We’re leaving before the maga and her famulus catch up with us.”

  Romo roared with laughter. The chains of his morning star whirred menacingly, the spiked balls circling above his head. “And let the scumbag live? I’ve never spared a child of Vraccas, and I won’t start now.”

  At last Tungdil shook off the paralysis induced by finding Salfalur and seeing Myr hurt. He saw the morning star coming and ducked.

  “You’ve killed your last dwarf, Romo Steelheart,” he growled, ramming the sharp end of his ax into the thirdling’s thigh. He drew the weapon back and used the momentum to lunge at him with the blade.

  Cursing, Romo dodged the blow and hobbled backward. Features distorted by hatred and rage, he stared at his bleeding thigh. “Die, you traitor!” he thundered, taking the morning star in both hands and swinging it at Tungdil again and again.

  Tungdil knew that the haft of his ax, albeit reinforced with steel, was no match for the morning star. Rather than risk losing his only weapon, he focused on staying out of reach.

  The metal balls cannoned into the walls of the passageway, sending shards of marble flying through the air, but Romo’s assault continued unabated. Cursing and panting, he pursued his adversary with relentless zeal.

  Stepping backward, Tungdil stumbled over Myr and was punished for his carelessness by a terrible blow. One of the steel balls crashed into his arm, while another collided with his broken ribs. Bent double with agony, he focused his energy on keeping hold of his ax.