The War of the Dwarves (77 page)

She lifted up the sheets and blankets and peered at her chest. A shimmering layer of balm covered a rash of angry burn marks.
Narmora must have fixed my broken bones.
She ran a hand reverently over her limbs, remembering how the bones had protruded through the skin.

Tungdil sat up with a start. A smile spread over his face when he realized that Balyndis was awake. She thought he looked
somehow older and more serious, and she guessed that whatever had happened since their last meeting had taken its toll

“How are you?” he asked gently, squeezing her hand.

“The maga is a miracle worker,” she whispered. “The pain is almost gone.” She pulled him toward her and hugged him tight.
Silently, they clung to each other until he freed himself gently.

“I’m forever in your debt,” she said solemnly.

“I did what any friend would do,” he replied. “Balyndis, I’m really sorry about how I treated you before.” He had thought
long and hard about what he wanted to say. “I could blame it on wounded pride or jealousy, but there’s no excuse for acting
like a spoiled gnome.” He took her hand again. “Can we be friends?”

“I’ve always seen you as a friend, Tungdil Goldhand,” she said, moved by the honesty of his apology. “Nothing will ever change
that.”

“No, I suppose it won’t,” agreed Tungdil with a wry smile. He gazed into her eyes and they looked at each other lovingly.
“To tell you the truth, I didn’t rescue you single-handedly—you’ve got Boëndal, Boïndil, and Furgas to thank as well.” He
told her of their daring incursion into the palace and their successful escape.

Balyndis stroked her shorn head. “This älf… The one who came with you…” she began, voice shaking with rage. “I’m willing to
bet she’s the villain who killed my friends and tied me to the tree for the avatars to find me.” She quickly recounted all
that had happened. “Not long after the älfar had gone, a dwarf untied me from the tree. I was so relieved to see a dwarven
face that I dropped my guard and said too much. The dwarf turned into an avatar. After that, they took me to Porista and tried
to make me talk.” She stopped, eyes welling with tears. “But Vraccas gave me the strength to keep the secret.” She let out
a muffled sob. “I couldn’t have lasted much longer, Tungdil.”

He held her in his arms and stroked her shorn head until the sobs subsided. “It’s over now, Balyndis. You’re safe.” He was
willing to bet that Ondori was still alive. She must have foreseen that alliances would count for nothing as soon as Balyndis
made her report.

“What’s so special about Djer
n’s armor?” She listened intently to Tungdil’s explanation. “In that case, I need to get back
to the Gray Range,” she said without a thought for her weakened state.

“The Gray Range?” echoed Tungdil. “What for?”

She rapped her fingers against his breastplate. “The armor can only be forged in the Dragon Fire furnace. I made the alloy
with tionium and palandium. There isn’t another furnace hot enough to meld the two.”

Tungdil considered the situation: The Gray Range was hundreds of miles away, conditions were atrocious, and Balyndis was weak
from her ordeal. “It can’t be done,” was his bleak conclusion. “Nine orbits from now the eoîl or chief avatar or whatever
his name is will destroy the force fields. We need to storm the city before it’s too late.”

She looked at him sadly, knowing that the task ahead was full of dangers for her friend. “I suppose it’s up to you and the
twins to stop them.” She noticed an imperfection in his armor and frowned. “Tungdil Goldhand, is this your workmanship?” she
demanded.

“I was in a hurry,” he protested, hoping to be excused.

She got up, threw on some clothes—human garments hastily tailored to dwarven proportions—and donned a cap. She held out a
hand and beckoned to him. “Come on, then!”

“Where to? You’re supposed to be in bed!”

“I’ve never seen such shoddy metalwork,” she told him, smilingly. “Fetch the twins. I’ll soon have you shining brighter than
an avatar. You can’t fight the eoîl in second-rate armor.”

Laughing, he took her hand and led her to the makeshift forge, stopping off to collect the twins, who were delighted to see
Balyndis back on her feet.

The heat of the forge, the high-pitched ring of the hammer, the weight of the tongs, and the clang of the chisel brought Balyndis’s
talent to the fore. Tungdil shared her pleasure at being back at the anvil, their hammers rising and falling in unison as
they beat the imperfections out of the metal blow by blow.

Boïndil sang in time with the beat of their hammers, and his brother joined in, whereupon Tungdil and Balyndis raised the
tempo. The solemn hymn became faster and faster until the twins dissolved into laughter.

For a brief moment, surrounded by the smell of hot metal and the warmth of the forge, the four friends enjoyed each other’s
company without worrying about the avatars and the eoîl.

Soon they realized that the dwarves outside had taken up their song.

The freelings and the firstlings were singing a verse in turn, belting out the words and trying to outdo each other in volume
and tempo.

The competition ended in enthusiastic applause, and a single voice, deep and melancholy, cut through the noise of the camp.

Above the dark mountain

A star aches with longing in a sky full of

Stars that he could call to

But he can’t

Stars that he could turn to

But he can’t

Stars that he could join with

But he can’t

The dark mountain, the jealous mountain

Won’t let him cross the sky.

T
he light-hearted atmosphere was gone.

Tungdil realized that the singer was one of Lorimbas’s dwarves. He was reminded of something that Sanda had said about the
thirdlings.
Some of them aren’t born with hatred in their hearts.
He considered the words of the song.
I wonder if the dark mountain stands for Lorimbas and the other thirdling kings who perpetuated the feud?
He prayed to Vraccas that he might live to see the orbit when dwarves from all five ranges would come together in friendship
and peace.

“What a sad song,” commented Boïndil. “I feel like drinking myself to death.” He fastened his greaves to his shins and nodded
approvingly. “They don’t pinch anymore.”

“Two more orbits, and you’ll be ready,” Balyndis assured him. “The avatars don’t deserve to live a moment longer than necessary,
but the armor is worth the wait.”

“It certainly is,” agreed Boëndal, checking the fit of his spaulders. “Besides, nothing can save the eoîl.” He was visibly
impressed by Balyndis’s workmanship, especially since she was still recovering from her ordeal.

“I don’t like it when they use their flamethrowers,” complained Boïndil, stroking his braided beard. “It gets confounded hot
in my suit. I might dip my whiskers in water to stop them from catching alight. I’d be sorry to scorch them.”

“
There
you are,” said Rodario, stepping into the forge. “Three feisty dwarves, preparing to save Girdlegard from the forces of evil.
Hmm, strictly speaking, the avatars are trying to do the same.” He paused and hooked a finger around his chin. “The audience
will never understand. How am I supposed to explain that the dwarves, which is to say, the forces of good, are fighting their
enemies—also on the side of good—to stop them destroying evil?”

“You’ll think of something,” Tungdil assured him. “Any useful information from the prisoner?”

“Not really…” He picked up a pair of tongs and twirled them in his hand. “I’ve been thinking about what she said earlier.
According to Lirkim, the eoîl is convinced that the evil spirit that corrupted Nudin is still alive.”

“What?” gasped Balyndis, staring at him aghast.

“It’s been bothering me as well,” said Tungdil. He raised his beautifully forged but otherwise unremarkable ax. “We can’t
fight the spirit without Keenfire, and the älfar won’t give it back. To be honest, it’s hard to see how the eoîl could be
right. You were there when I destroyed the spirit, and nothing was left.”

“It can’t be very strong or it would have shown itself. The dark water is all that remains of the Perished Land’s power.”
Rodario set down the tongs. “All the same, I’m worried. You’ll have to take the eoîl alive.”

Boïndil roared with laughter. “He’s their leader, remember? He’s stronger and more powerful than the rest.”

“I took my avatar alive—and I wasn’t wearing fancy armor,” retorted Rodario, omitting to mention that Lirkim had been neither
sober nor conscious.

“Why do you want us to spare him?” asked Boëndal, more diplomatically.

Rodario decided to tell the whole truth. “Lirkim told me that the eoîl knows how to find the spirit.”

“So you
did
find out something…” Tungdil mulled the situation over. “Maybe the avatars’ invasion is a blessing in disguise. With the
eoîl’s help, we’ll be able to find the spirit and destroy it for good.” He nodded. “You’re right, Rodario, the eoîl must be
taken alive.”

“Why didn’t he explain himself properly from the start?” complained Boïndil, turning the grinding wheel to sharpen his axes.
“It’s all very well capturing the eoîl, but what are we supposed to do with him—put him on a leash and let him drag us through
Girdlegard until he tracks the spirit down?” He hooked his fingers into his belt. “We’ll find the spirit lurking in a pool
of dark water,” he predicted. “Either that, or in a dead glade. Remember what the humans told us about people going mad? It
could be the spirit of the Perished Land infecting their minds.”

“Let’s focus on taking Porista and defeating the avatars,” said Tungdil. “The other business can wait.” He picked up his vambraces
and the other finished items and walked to the door. Smithing was a hungry business, and it was time for some food.

Later they were summoned to the assembly tent, where Queen Xamtys was waiting to share some good news.

“Balendilín, Gandogar, and Glaïmbar are back in their strongholds—they’re sending troops to Porista. Prince Mallen is drumming
up volunteers, and King Belletain has cleared his fuddled mind and fired his thirdling doctor. He’s sending an army through
Idoslane as well. Unfortunately, none of the reinforcements—except maybe Belletain’s ten thousand warriors—will get here in
time.”

“Ten thousand warriors should do the trick,” said Tungdil confidently. “Furgas has promised us some formidable siege engines.
We’ll start the bombardment in four orbits’ time. First we’ll focus on their army and cut it down to size; then we’ll smash
our way into the city. Two entry points should be sufficient—Furgas and Rodario know the weak points in Porista’s defenses.”

“We’d rebuilt it all so nicely,” wailed Rodario. “You’d better not hit the Curiosum.” He stood up. “I’m going to check on
Lirkim.” He pulled back the thick pelt that served as a door. “Maybe I can persuade her to…”

Just then a bright light pierced the evening sky, and a gray sun shot out of the winter clouds, plummeting toward them.

Alerted by the sentries, dwarves poured out of the tents, brandishing weapons and shields. Narmora stood among them, arms
raised, as she muttered an incantation to deflect the fiery ball.

The spell came too late.

The sun turned a deep shade of green and paled a little, before smashing into the collier’s hut. Malachite flames shot out
of the door and windows, towering to a height of four spears. The rickety shed collapsed.

A moment later, dwarves were on the scene, dousing the blazing wreckage with buckets of snow to save the nearby tents.

Rodario stared at the inferno and knew at once that his prisoner was dead. “Lirkim,” he whispered, dismayed. He seldom brought
happiness to the women he met.

L
irkim’s death proved that the enemy wasn’t to be trifled with; the eoîl was capable of detecting and punishing treason beyond
the city’s walls. Thereafter, the dwarves and their allies poured all their energy into building the siege engines. Furgas
had designed them so that the throwing arm was strong enough to hurl spliced tree trunks, boulders, and blocks of wood spiked
with nails. They didn’t have petroleum or oil, so they were counting on flattening the enemy instead.

According to the älfar, the enemy was preparing to defend the city from the inside, meaning no attempt would be made to meet
the allies outside the walls. Rather than risk their lives on the battlefield, the avatars were waiting for the allied army
to storm the city, which was bound to result in heavy losses for the älfar and dwarves. Both sides were still busy with their
preparations when the weather suddenly changed. The temperature rose and fog descended on the city, making it impossible to
see beyond a couple of hundred paces.

The dwarves seized their chance.

Drawing on their knowledge of mining, they dug a tunnel from the encampment to the sewage outlet, known to Tungdil and the
others from their rescue mission.

Their aim was to take the avatars by surprise. An elite battalion of thirdlings and älfar would enter the city through the
sewers and clear the way for an allied task force, consisting of Tungdil, Boëndal, Boïndil, and some handpicked firstlings
and freelings. Meanwhile, the rest of the army, led by Narmora and Rodario, would attack the city on two flanks to create
the illusion that the allies were storming the city with a conventional assault.