The War of the Dwarves (22 page)

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 Djer
n’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 Djer
n 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—”

Djer
n 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 Djer
n,
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 Djer
n 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.

Djer
n 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.

Northern Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

F
ive orbits had passed since Tungdil and Boïndil 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 Âlandur 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.

Boïndil, whose thoughts were with his brother, barely said a word. It had taken considerable effort to persuade him to leave
his frozen twin, and he had done so only on the basis that Boëndal had no use for his axes, whereas Tungdil did.

On the morning of the sixth orbit they spotted the walls of a settlement. Adjusting his course, Tungdil made a beeline for
the city. “Boïndil and I will find out what we can about the orcs. The rest of you get some sleep and be ready to leave this
evening. With a bit of luck, we’ll reach the tunnels by dawn.”

Entering the city through the main gates, they were surprised by the lack of guards. By the time they made their way through
the winding maze of narrow alleys, they were acutely aware of the silence.

“Humans are rarer than diamonds in this city,” grumbled Boïndil. “Do you think they’ve died of the plague?”

They headed for the nearest tavern to look for some answers.

The publican, a hirsute fellow of some forty cycles with the yellowest teeth that Tungdil had ever seen, practically fell
over himself to welcome them. “It’s an honor to receive such distinguished guests,” he said with a bow. “Hillchester welcomes
you.” He wiped his greasy hands on his apron. “I’ll give you my best room, of course, but I expect you’re in hurry to get
to the market. The sun ceremony is the highlight of the cycle.”

Boïndil and the others stared at him in bemusement. They weren’t used to human ways.

“No wonder,” whispered Tungdil. “Everyone’s at the marketplace!” He followed the publican up the creaking staircase. “I’ll
explain in a moment,” he hissed to Boïndil.

The publican rushed away and came back seconds later with a tub of water. While they washed the dust off their faces, Tungdil
told them what he knew about the sun ceremony. “It’s a cyclical festival with stands selling food and drink and all kinds
of attractions. There’ll be peddlers and hawkers and music and dancing… Boïndil and I will head over there now. If it’s worth
seeing, the rest of you can take a look later—you’ll have something to tell the others back home.”

“Don’t wait for me,” said Boïndil, shooing him away. “If we search the city separately, we’ll be done in half the time.”