"He's only securing the line, from what I'm hearing," Ivan countered.
He motioned for Banak to follow and started off to the west, toward the line of dwarves hanging along the cliff facing down to Keeper's Dale. They came in sight of Nanfoodle and Ivan's brother in short order, standing atop the cliff, looking over reams of parchments and diagrams. Every so often, Nanfoodle would lean out a bit and holler down the line, telling the dwarves to re-tar the joints— all the joints.
"This'll make the smell so bad them giants can't stay up?" Banak asked when he and Ivan neared the pair.
Nanfoodle looked up at him, and the blood drained from the clearly worried gnome's face.
"Easy, little one," Banak offered. "Yer stink's slowing them at least, and we're grateful to ye for that."
"They're not even supposed to smell it!" Nanfoodle shouted.
"Ptooey!" Pikel spat in agreement.
Ivan looked at his brother and shook his head.
"We're not supposed to be stinking up the ridge," Nanfoodle tried to explain. "That means that the hot air … the pitch was supposed to seal the tunnels. . we need to build this level of concentration.."
He stammered and stuttered and held up a sheet parchment scribbled with numbers and formulae that Banak couldn't begin to decipher.
"Ye got what he's saying?" Banak asked Ivan.
"Giants shouldn't be stinking," Ivan clarified.
"But then they'd be building their war engines without any hindrance at all," the warlord reasoned.
"Yup," Ivan agreed.
"But then.." Banak started, but he stopped and shook his head.
He gave Nanfoodle a confused look out of the comer of his eye, then shook his head again as he looked down at the many dwarves working on securing the line of metal tubes tight to the cliff—dwarves who could have been strengthening the defensive squares that were even then holding the line against the pressuring orcs.
With a snort, Banak moved back toward the area of battle.
"No, he doesn't understand," Nanfoodle pleaded to Ivan.
The yellow-bearded dwarf patted his gnarled hands in the air to calm the little one.
"And he never will," Ivan replied.
"The stink should not have escaped," Nanfoodle frantically tried to explain.
"I know, little one," Ivan assured him.
"Boom," Pikel quietly muttered.
"We needed to contain it, to thicken it…" Nanfoodle pressed.
"I know little one," Ivan interrupted, but Nanfoodle rambled along.
"The stench would never push them away—in the tunnels, maybe, where the concentration is greater..»
"Little one," Ivan said, and when Nanfoodle rambled on, he repeated his calm call again and again, until finally he caught the excited gnome's attention.
"Little one, I built yer box," Ivan reminded him.
He patted Nanfoodle on the shoulder, then hustled after Banak to help direct the battle.
Ivan glanced to the west as he departed, not to the ridgeline, but beyond it, where the sun had set and the twilight gloom was completing its hold on the land. Then he did lower his gaze to encompass the ridgeline and the dark silhouettes of the great working giants.
Ivan knew that their troubles would multiply before the next rising sun.
* * *
"The dwarves' plans did not work, boss," one of the orc undercommanders said to Urlgen.
The pair as standing in the center of the two armies at Urlgen's command: his own, which was continuing the battle up the slope against the dwarves; and those on loan from his father, who were still encamped and out of sight of their enemies.
Urlgen was looking to the west, to the ridge and the giants. The hourglass was flowing on the battle, as word had arrived from Obould that the assault in the west would begin in full at dawn. For Urlgen, that meant that he had to push those dwarves over the cliff, and doing that would be no easy task without the giant catapults.
"They will be ready," the orc undercommander remarked.
Urlgen turned to face him.
"The dwarves and their stink have not stopped the giants," the undercommander asserted.
Urlgen nodded and looked back to the west. He had assurances from the giants that the catapults would begin their barrage before the dawn.
Back in the north, the battle continued, not in full force, for that was not Urlgen's intent, but strongly enough to prevent the dwarves from retreating in full. He had to keep them there, engaged, until his father sealed off any possible escape.
The orc leader issued a low growl and curled his fists up at his side in eager anticipation. The dawn would bring his greatest victory.
He couldn't help but glance back nervously at the western ridge as he considered that without the giant catapults, his task would be much more difficult.
* * *
Nikwillig rolled the small mirror over and over in his hands. He glanced to the west and the ridge, then to the east and the taller peaks. He focused on one smaller peak at the edge of the cliff, a short but difficult climb. That was where he had to go to catch the morning rays. Returning from that place, should Banak lose, would prove nearly impossible.
"What am I hearing?" he heard Tred call to him, drawing him from the unsettling thought.
Nikwillig observed the swift approach of his Citadel Felbarr companion.
"What am I hearing?" Tred demanded again, storming up right before the seated Nikwillig.
"Someone's got to do it."
Tred put his hands on his hips and looked all around at the continuing bustle of the encampment. He had just come back from the fighting, dragging a pair of wounded dwarves with him, and he meant to get right back into the fray.
"I was wondering why ye weren't with us on the line," he said.
"I'm more trouble than help down there, and ye know it," said Nikwillig. "Never been a warrior."
"Bah, ye were doing fine!"
"It's not me place, Tred. Ye know it, too."
"Ye could've gone running back to King Emerus then, with news," Tred answered. "I bid ye to do just that—was yer own stubbornness that kept us both here!"
"And we belong here," Nikwillig was quick to reply. "We're owing that much to Bruenor and Mithral Hall. And to be sure, they're glad that Tred was up here fighting beside them."
"And Nikwillig!"
"Bah, I ain't killed an orc yet and would've been slain more than once if not for yerself and others pulling me out o' the fight."
"So ye're choosin' this road?" came the incredulous question.
"Someone's got to do it," Nikwillig said again. "The way I'm seeing it, I might be the most expendable one up here."
"What about Pikel?" Tred asked. "Or the durned gnome Nanfoodle—yeah, was his crazy idea in the first place."
"Pikel probably can't even make the climb with his one arm. And Nanfoodle might be needed here—ye know it. Pikel, too, since he's been so important to it all so far. Nah, Tred, shut up yer whining. This's a good job for meself and ye know it. I can do this as well as any, and I'll be the least missed here."
Tred started to argue, but Nikwillig rose up before him, his stern expression stealing the blustery dwarf's words.
"And I'm wanting to do it," Nikwillig declared. "With all me heart and soul. Now I'm paying back the Battlehammers for their help."
"Ye might find a tough time in getting back. In getting anywhere."
"And if that's true, then yerself and all them standing here will have hard a tough time of it, too," said Nikwillig. He gave a snort and a sudden burst of laughter. "Yerself's about to charge down headlong into a sea of smelly orcs, and ye're fearing for me?"
When he heard it put that way, Tred, too, gave a little laugh. He reached up and patted his longtime companion on the shoulder.
"I'm not liking that we might be meeting our ends so far apart," he said.
Nikwillig returned the pat, and the look, and said, "Nor am I. But I been looking to make meself as helpful as can be, and this job's perfect for Nikwillig." Again, Tred started to protest—reflexively, it seemed—but again, Nikwillig cut him short.