The War of the Dwarves (19 page)

The crazed glimmer faded from Boïndil’s eyes. For a short while his mood would be stable until he was filled again with a
burning desire to hunt down Tion’s hordes. A cool breeze buffeted his face, drying the blood on his beard, as he contemplated
the ruins of the gateway.

“They pulled the bolts off,” he said, thinking aloud. He noticed gouges around the upper edge of both doors—it looked as though
someone had attacked them with a chisel. “Look, they were trying to take down the doors, but their second-rate tools weren’t
strong enough. They must have settled for ripping off the bolts.”

“Our smiths and masons will put everything to rights,” Tungdil reassured him. He hadn’t found anything yet to indicate where
the orcs had come from. He searched methodically, frisking the orc’s clothing and removing his mail shirt and armor to check
underneath. At last, a small chunk of wood fell out of the cuff of his glove. It was clumsily engraved with the insignia of
an orcish chieftain, and it was darker and heavier than ordinary wood.

Boïndil leaned over to take a closer look. “It’s fossilized,” he said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it came from a dead glade,
like the one we saw in Gauragar.”

The memory snapped into place. Tungdil’s last encounter with Ushnotz’s troopers had taken place in Gauragar before he met
the twins. While hidden in a tree, he had eavesdropped on the orcs’ plan to attack the village of Goodwater. Strictly speaking,
Ushnotz and his band belonged in Toboribor, the orcish enclave in the southeast of Girdlegard.
Toboribor is fifteen hundred miles away. What would Ushnotz be doing in Gauragar? And why would he send a band of troopers
to reconnoiter the Northern Pass?
He shared his thoughts with Boïndil.

“It stands to reason, doesn’t it? Escaping across the Northern Pass is the perfect solution for the orcs. Ushnotz lost a decisive
battle, and the allied army is waiting for him to return to Toboribor. If you were a lava-livered runt, you wouldn’t go home
either.”

“I think you’re right about them leaving Toboribor,” said Tungdil, nodding. He joined Boïndil at the weathered battlements,
leaning over the parapet and running his fingers over grooves and pockmarks created by cycles of rain, wind, sun, and snow.
Straightening up, he fixed his gaze on the legendary peaks of the Gray Range. “But if you ask me, they don’t intend to leave
Girdlegard: They’re planning to settle here.”

“What?” growled his friend. “In our mountains?” He spat on the fallen orc. “May Vraccas beat your soul with a red-hot hammer
and torture your spirit with burning tongs!”

Thinking about it, Tungdil felt certain that Ushnotz had intended to occupy the fifthling kingdom.
It’s lucky we got here first.
He doubted that he and his warriors could have liberated the stronghold from an army of orcs.

It was difficult to know what the troopers had been doing at the gateway.
Trying to close it or destroy it?
He wondered whether the orcish chieftain had been planning to charge a levy for crossing into Girdlegard.
A toll system would be an excellent way of securing weaponry and supplies.
Ushnotz struck him as the type to exploit a situation for maximum gain.

Tungdil, having made the connection between Ushnotz, the dead glade, and the revenants, realized with a sinking feeling that
he and the others were soon to be visited by some very unwelcome guests.
How big was the orcish army? Four thousand, at least…

His gaze swept the mountains, valleys, and ravines and came to rest on the mighty summit of the Dragon’s Tongue.

“I promised to win back the fifthling kingdom for the dwarves,” he murmured softly. “The orcish invaders brought misery on
Girdlegard. I don’t care how many necks we have to sever, we won’t let the Stone Gateway fall to the beasts.”

Boïndil nodded. “Well said, scholar. To blazes with the orcs! If they’re the same lot we saw in Gauragar, they’ll be stronger
in numbers: The odds aren’t impossible—but it’s a sizable challenge.”

“We’ll have to behead them, don’t forget. Undead orcs are four times more difficult to kill—we lost a lot of warriors today.
We won’t defeat them on our own.” He thought for a moment. “We can’t ask the firstlings—they won’t get here in time.”

“What about the elves?”

“They’re too busy reclaiming Âlandur and destroying the älfar. We can’t rely on their help.”

“Hmm.” Boïndil stared at the sheer flanks of the Great Blade. “Who
can
we ask?” His eyes lit up as he thought of the perfect solution.

“The outcasts,” said Tungdil, thinking the same.

“Look!” shouted a dwarven warrior, peering across the border to the Outer Lands. A milky fog had descended on the mountains,
shrouding the Northern Pass in mist. “There’s something down there! I saw movement on the track.”

Tungdil frowned. He and his warriors were in no position to defend themselves against an army of beasts. Considering how many
had been killed or injured already, they could scarcely hope to hold the gateway for longer than a peal of orcish laughter
would take to echo across the pass. “Be quiet while I listen,” he commanded.

They strained their ears, listening for noises in the thickening fog. The tension showed on their faces. Boïndil peered into
the mist, chewing absentmindedly on his braids.

Thick tendrils of fog crept toward the gateway, slipping nervously through the opening as if afraid that the doors would close.

After listening for a while longer, Tungdil breathed out. “You must have been mistaken,” he said, relieved.

“I knew I shouldn’t have got my hopes up,” grumbled Boïndil, letting his arms hang limply by his side.

A muffled jangling sounded from below, its source obscured by the thick veil of fog. In an instant, the tension returned.

“Sounds to me like badly forged armor,” said Boïndil. He turned to the four dwarves who had captured the orcish prisoner.
“You checked the gateway for survivors, didn’t you?”

They looked at each other uncertainly.

“I think so,” said one of them, but he didn’t sound sure.

“Which is to say, we might have missed one,” surmised Tungdil, realizing that the boulders on either side of the path were
plenty big enough to hide an orc. It wasn’t a reassuring thought. “We’d better check.”

“Let’s catch him before he tells everyone in the Outer Lands that the border is open,” said Boïndil, jiggling his axes. “For
all we know, he might be a northern trooper, not one of Ushnotz’s scouts.”

Tungdil had no desire to fight off an invasion from the north, especially with Ushnotz marching on the kingdom from the other
side. He signaled for Boïndil to follow him and picked out three dwarves who had acquitted themselves well in the previous
skirmish. “You lot come with me, while the others keep watch.” He and his warriors hurried down the stairs.

Porista,

Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

T
ake that, Nôd’onn, you traitor!” boomed a heavily armored man, leaping somewhat inelegantly out of the shadows to challenge
the cloaked figure in the middle of the room. His voice was muffled by a helmet, which made it sound like he was speaking
from inside a bucket. He struck a heroic pose. “Your cruel campaign against Girdlegard is over. With this ax I shall slay
your inner demon and bring peace to these lands. Prepare to meet your death!” He raised a shimmering ax and swung it above
his head. The blade left a trail of red light in the air, whereupon smoke filled the room.

Yelping, Nôd’onn backed away; the valiant warrior lurched after him, armor tinkling unheroically. The magus retaliated by
bombarding him with fiery sparks.

“Your dark arts can’t save you,” prophesied the warrior, sparks rebounding from his breastplate. Lunging forward, he wobbled
slightly before raising his weapon to deliver the final strike. Even as the ax slammed into Nôd’onn’s torso, an almighty explosion
sounded from somewhere, filling the room with blinding light.

When the glare finally faded, Nôd’onn had vanished, and the warrior was stamping frantically on the smoldering remains of
his cloak. It wasn’t until the flames were well and truly extinguished that he turned to face the front.

“And that, worthy spectators, is how your hero, the fabulous Rodario…” He broke off and fumbled unsuccessfully with his visor.
After a time, he yanked it impatiently, and the clasp came away in his armored hand. “Of all the confounded—”

Dropping his ax, which planted itself in the floorboards a hairsbreadth away from his foot, he raised both hands to his helmet
and pulled with all his might. When that failed, he flung out his arms theatrically, causing his armor to emit an ear-splitting
screech.

“As I was saying,” he started again. “I, the fabulous Rodario, assisted by Andôkai the Tempestuous and my loyal helpers, the
dwarves, rescued Girdlegard from Nôd’onn’s clutches and restored our kingdoms to their rightful rulers. Thank you for your
indulgence, worthy spectators. Donations will be collected at the door.”

He stepped forward to take a bow, stood on a wobbly floorboard, and tumbled off the makeshift stage. The orchestra pit, usually
packed with musicians and technicians, was empty. His armored body clattered to the floor.

The audience of two burst out laughing and hurried to help him up. “Congratulations,” said Narmora dryly. “Do you think you
can repeat it on the night?”

“Get me out of this helmet,” came Rodario’s muffled voice. “I can’t breathe!”

Furgas, chief theater technician at the Curiosum, examined the broken clasp. “You’ve ruined the mechanism. It won’t be easy.”
He got to work on the visor and a few moments later, Rodario’s aristocratic features were revealed. His pointed beard had
suffered terribly from his unconventional exit from the stage. In fact, his whiskers were sticking out in all directions as
if to express their shock.

“Thank you,” he said gratefully. He turned to Narmora and looked at her expectantly. “What did you think?”

“A hero must wear his armor convincingly or the audience will boo him off the stage. You were swaying from side to side.”

“Don’t you know anything about tactics?” said Rodario sniffily. “A good warrior wrong-foots his opponents.”

“Narmora has a point; you need more practice,” chimed in Furgas. He was dressed in tight black clothes and his hair was specked
with powder. He tried to shake it out. “For my part, I need to work on the effects. Another flash of light like that, and
our audience will be blinded. On the whole it was good, though.” He thumped Rodario’s armored back. “Oh, one last thing—why
was Andôkai’s costume so skimpy?”

“Skimpy? The Estimable Maga likes to flaunt her figure. I can’t be blamed for portraying her as she is.”

“Of course not,” said Narmora sweetly. “But what possessed you to cast her as your mistress?” Her smile became decidedly arch.
“I hope you haven’t forgotten she’s sending Djer
n to watch the play. You remember Djer
n, don’t you? Three paces tall,
bristling with weaponry and strong as ten men… Oh, and he’s fast as an arrow as well.”

The impresario turned to Furgas. “I don’t like to tell you this,” he said in a wounded tone, “but your wife is a heartless
harridan who takes pleasure in other people’s misfortunes.”

“Only in yours,” Narmora corrected him with a smile. “Anyway, you should be grateful to me. Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

He narrowed his eyes and cast her a scornful glance. “My dear Narmora, I’m using my artistic freedom. Even the Estimable Maga
must submit to the playwright’s pen.” He turned again to Furgas. “Since your wife has no compassion, perhaps you, as a caring
father-to-be, will have the goodness to free me from this metal dungeon…” He stuck his arms out tentatively and managed to
lift them as far as his waist. “How can anyone fight in this get-up?”

“Most warriors manage to stay upright,” said Furgas dryly. “Wait here while I fetch my tools. You’ve twisted everything out
of shape.”

Narmora went with him to the cramped workshop where he designed and tested all kinds of incredible theatrical effects. Furgas
could build props, make fireworks, cause flames to appear from nowhere, and create illusions worthy of a magus, for which
he was rewarded by the audience’s gasps and cheers.