The War of the Dwarves (34 page)

The other route entailed leaving Girdlegard and entering the kingdom from the Outer Lands, which Ushnotz was reluctant to
do.

The orc smiled. The prince would be well pleased with him for finding the southern entrance before the other scouts.

Splashing carelessly through puddles of melt water, he stopped at the gateway, poked his head into the tunnel, and sniffed
the air for groundlings.

His lips drew back in a smile. Stepping away from the gates, he unhooked his horn and sounded a long, clear signal that echoed
through the range.

The prince’s bugle sounded in reply, telling the scout to keep watch at the entrance until the troops arrived.

The orc decided to take a break. By locating the southern entrance, he had spared the troops a testing march over snowfields
and glaciers, and it was time he had a rest.

Grunting contentedly, he retreated to the shadow of the peaks, sat down on a boulder and rummaged through his bag, bringing
out a hessian sack containing the remains of a fleshling. The man had been unusually tall, too tall for one sitting, so he
had saved his shanks for the journey. His mouth began to water at the festering smell; spoiled meat was particularly flavorsome.

He sank his teeth into the left shank, ripping off a sizable chunk, which he chomped through with gusto.

The taste of fleshling brought back memories of the recent feast in Gauragar when Bruron’s army had tried to trap them in
a glade. On Ushnotz’s instructions, the orc and his fellows had drunk the dark water from the pond, broken down the barricades
and run riot through the fleshlings’ ranks. The victory had kept them in meat for orbits.

He tore off another strip of flesh and swallowed greedily, forgetting to chew. The meat slipped halfway down his gullet and
came to a halt. Cursing, he whacked himself on the back, but the meat refused to budge. By now he was coughing and spluttering
quite violently, so he reached for his drinking pouch, which slipped through his fingers and dropped to the ground. The pouch
rolled down the hillside, with the orc chasing after it, taking wild, ungainly bounds. After a few seconds he gave up and
raced to the clear blue pool at the bottom of the waterfall.

Throwing himself onto his belly, he lowered his head to the surface and drank. Cool water streamed down his throat, clearing
his gullet.

He took another gulp and realized that he was lying on a flat slab of rock above a trough measuring half a pace across. It
looked like a conduit or a drain.

Having no interest in waterworks or dwarven engineering, he lowered his head for another sip. This time he stopped in surprise,
transfixed by his reflection. Staring back at him was a wrinkled face with a bushy blond beard, a silver helmet, and long
wavy hair.

There was only one explanation: The pool was under the curse of the groundling god.
I shouldn’t have drunk the water
, he thought frantically.
It’s turned me into a groundling
. He squawked in terror.
Ushnotz will kill me on the spot
.

His panicked mind was still whirring when the watery face began to smile. A moment later, it stuck out its tongue.

The orc stopped howling and leaned toward the surface.
Ugh!
He wrinkled his nose in disgust.
I even smell like a filthy groundling!

Eyes fixed on the gently rippling water, he stared at his reflection. To his astonishment, a second dwarven head appeared
on his shoulders and, above that, two brawny arms and an ax.

A
proper entrance,” grunted Ushnotz in satisfaction. He climbed onto a flat-topped boulder to get a better view. “Fastok has
done us proud.”

Runshak took up position beside him and surveyed the sloping ground—a few boulders and some crumbling fortifications, but
no cover to speak of. His brow furrowed as he spotted Fastok reclining near a waterfall, helmet pulled low over his eyes and
legs stretched out comfortably. “The bungling idiot’s gone to sleep,” he grunted, picking up a fist-sized stone to hurl at
the dozing scout. The missile missed its target, flying past Fastok’s privates and landing near his feet. “Hey!” bellowed
Runshak. “Why aren’t you keeping watch, you soft-skinned fleshling?”

“Get the troops into formation,” commanded Ushnotz, encouraged by the hush. “Advance with caution until we know what’s what.”

His troop leader, a broad-chested orc who stood two paces tall, drew himself up and relayed the orders to the troopers, who
were strung out along the track behind him like an enormous metallic snake. “The plateau’s too small,” he observed. “They’ll
have to advance in waves.”

“So this is our new kingdom,” muttered the orcish chieftain, lifting his head to survey the mighty peaks. “It isn’t as homely
as Toboribor, but it’s better than being hounded by Mallen and his men.”

His plan was foolproof: First his army would occupy the abandoned kingdom and secure the old defenses, then half of the troopers
would stay behind to guard the gateways while the remaining units paid a visit to the settlements in nearby Gauragar. Ushnotz
needed provisions, and he was counting on the fleshlings to hand them over quietly. The king of Gauragar wasn’t likely to
come to his subjects’ rescue; his army was weaker than Mallen’s, and his troops were tied up in Dsôn Balsur, which lay within
the kingdom’s bounds. While the älfar remained undefeated, Ushnotz would be free to consolidate his empire without interference
from the fleshlings. Afterward, neither the allies nor the älfar would be able to oust him from the mountains and he would
reign victorious until the end of time.

He had taken measures to ensure that the dark water wouldn’t run out. Every trooper was carrying a full drinking pouch, and
his quartermasters were bringing additional barrels and kegs. Ushnotz intended to empty the contents into an underground basin
and create his own lake. The water was actually quite palatable, and a single sip sufficed to renew the effect.

He watched as his troopers filed onto the plateau and lined up before the gates. “My new kingdom,” he said proudly, whinnying
with laughter. The troopers saluted their leader, cheering, banging their shields, and raising their weapons. In spite of
the commotion, Fastok was still asleep. Snarling angrily, Runshak bore down on the unfortunate scout.

“Hey!” he shouted, kicking him in the ribs. When Fastok failed to respond, he ground the heel of his boot against one of his
shins. No creature could sleep through such agony, but Fastok didn’t stir. Runshak frowned, his ugly features contorting suspiciously
as he bent down and snatched the helmet from Fastok’s head.

The scout would never rise again. His skull had been spliced from the crown to the bridge of his nose by a weapon that Runshak
judged to be an ax. A second blow had parted his head from his shoulders. The killer had positioned the corpse over a crack
in the rock, allowing the dark green blood to drain away. With the helmet off, the head rested loosely against the neck, rocking
gently from side to side.

Runshak leaped up. “On guard!” he yelled. “We’re not—”

A lone dwarf appeared in the gateway. “Come no closer,” he warned him. “Vraccas’s children protect these mountains. Turn back
or face their wrath.” He set a bugle to his lips, sounding a pure, deep note that resonated loudly through the range.

There was a loud crack and the mountain seemed to shudder beneath the orcs’ feet. Ushnotz watched in horror as thin black
lines zigzagged across the plateau at lightning speed, creating a network of fractures that augured badly for the orcish troops.

The ground shook again, as if struck by an almighty hammer, and the plateau caved in, taking with it a thousand or so orcs.
Shrieking and snarling, they disappeared from view.

A loud splash indicated that they had landed in water. Three paces below the ground, the dwarves had extended the plunge pool
beneath the waterfall to create a deep basin with precipitous sides.

The orcs were trapped. Ushnotz watched as his troopers sank beneath the surface, dragged down by their armor. Some were hit
by falling debris, while others clutched at the sides of the basin, claws scraping helplessly against the slippery rock. The
dark water had made them immortal, but it couldn’t stop them sinking over and over again.

Since when is the Gray Range back in the groundlings’ hands?
thought Ushnotz, shaking with shock and displeasure. The only way around the basin was via a narrow path, barely four paces
across. On the far side, directly in front of the gateway, stood Runshak. He was a tough orc, made tougher by the dark water,
but he couldn’t be expected to hold out against the groundlings while the rest of the army advanced four-abreast around the
pool.

The groundlings were waiting for us.
It occurred to Ushnotz that he might never set foot in the groundlings’ kingdom, let alone claim it for himself. Of the orcs
on the plateau, barely a hundred had survived, and they were looking to him nervously, reluctant to advance in case they met
the same fate as their comrades.

From the pool came high-pitched wails as the orcs continued to flounder in the water, unable to die. The noise redoubled as
a battalion of dwarves poured out of the gateway, their shouts and cheers echoing between the peaks.

Blind panic descended on the remaining orcs.

At the sight of the grimly determined, ax-wielding dwarves, they turned tail and fled, forgetting that the dark water had
given them unnatural strength. In their headlong charge to safety, they collided with the next orcish unit, which was making
its ascent. Unsettled by the noise from above and the sight of their fleeing comrades, the next wave of troopers took off
down the mountainside as well. In the chaos, the shouts of the orcish lieutenants went unheeded.

Ushnotz liked to think of himself as a cunning tactician. He was about to give the order to pull back and regroup when a slender
figure detached itself from the rocks.

“You’re not scared of a handful of groundlings, are you?” demanded a female älf. She was wearing a half mask and a veil of
black gauze. “I count two hundred groundlings to your five…” She paused and glanced at the flailing troopers in the pool.
“Sorry, four thousand orcs.”

Ushnotz rounded on her. “What’s it to you?” he snapped. “Have they kicked you out of Dsôn Balsur already? Well, the Gray Range
is mine.” He pointed down the mountainside. “Get out of my sight before I show you what happens to älfar who trespass on my
land.”

“
Your
land? As far as I can see, the Gray Range belongs to the groundlings,” she said with a scornful laugh. “You’re lucky I’m
here to help.” Reaching over her shoulder, she drew an ax.

Ushnotz saw the glittering diamonds on the blade and stepped back with a snarl, almost losing his balance.

“You’re familiar with the ax, I see,” observed Ondori, holding Keenfire aloft. “Groundlings of the Gray Range,” she called,
her clear voice and the shimmering gems on the ax commanding the dwarves’ attention. “Your fabled weapon is in the hands of
Dsôn Balsur’s älfar. Its bearer is dead.”

The announcement had the desired effect. The charging dwarves stopped in their tracks.

“Well?” said Ondori to Ushnotz. “This is your chance: Send in your troopers and finish them off.”

Ushnotz hesitated. “What if they’ve laid another—”

Ondori responded so swiftly that the orcish chieftain didn’t have time to raise his sword. Keenfire whirred through the air,
hewing his neck in a single blow. His head, complete with helmet, hit the boulder, bounced, and rolled down the mountainside.
As if in defiance of the älf, Ushnotz stayed standing, blood gushing from his neck. Ondori kicked him in the chest, and the
rest of his body followed his head.

The gory blade rose through the air, tip pointing toward the startled Runshak, who had witnessed the death of his chieftain
from afar. “Orc,” Ondori called out to him. “You’re their leader now. Next time I won’t be so merciful: Tell your troopers
to attack.”

Runshak immediately gave orders for the army to attack and the orcs advanced cautiously.

Ondori bounded down from the boulder, alighting in front of the dwarves, who drew back, eyes riveted on the legendary ax.
They were talking in hushed tones and their bearded faces were stamped with dismay.

The älf felt a wave of revulsion. “I killed your hero,” she told them coldly. “Tungdil Goldhand and his companions met their
deaths in the lonely woods of Lesinteïl, and you…” She tilted the ax toward one of the dwarves. “You’ll die as they did, killed
by the weapon that you forged.”

Four dwarves stormed toward her, but their bravery was in vain. A flurry of arrows ripped through the air, and the warriors
toppled backward into their comrades’ arms. It was clear from the black shafts protruding from their chain mail that the älf
was not alone. A unit of älvish archers was hidden among the boulders, ready to loose fire on the dwarves.

As if the dwarves weren’t sufficiently intimidated, Ondori raised the ax and slashed at the nearest warrior. The blade passed
effortlessly through the hastily raised shield, cleaving the arm behind it. The wounded warrior stared at his bleeding shoulder,
paralyzed with shock.

“Groundlings are gifted metalworkers,” she said, laughing vindictively. “See how cleanly the weapon slices through your flesh.”
The air quivered, and five dwarves fell to the ground.

Runshak grunted an order and the orcs charged at the defenders, weapons raised.

Ondori stepped aside, not wishing to be sandwiched between the troopers and the dwarves. The main part of the mission was
over; she had staked a claim to the underground halls.

Watching in satisfaction, she saw that the groundlings were already losing ground. It was exactly as the immortal siblings
had predicted: The news of their hero’s death was more crushing than the sight of five thousand orcs. Without their usual
confidence, they would be hard pressed to resist the invaders’ superior might.

Meanwhile, orcish reinforcements were surging onto the plateau and stampeding toward the gateway, their fears forgotten now
that victory was in sight.