Does someone want to stop us getting to the firstlings? Is Girdlegard in danger? His vague misgivings hardened into an unshakable sense of dread that yesterday’s victory could do nothing to allay. At last they reached the surface and he hauled himself out of the shaft. “I want everyone moving as fast as possible. Get together in pairs or groups to carry the wounded. It’s time we got home.”
They used the sun to find their bearings and headed east. On reaching the crest of a hill above the battlefield, they came to a sudden halt.
“By Beroïn’s beard, it’s a camp!” exclaimed Boïndil, peering down the far slope. He sniffed the air and examined the ground; the earth had been churned up by thousands of boots. “Another army of runts,” he growled. He set off at a run, followed by the others, and stopped at the bottom of the hill. Bending down, he ran a hand over the footprints, sniffed the soil and spat. “I’ll give them a taste of my axes,” he vowed, fixing his eyes on the broad channel of muddy earth that the orcish troopers had left in their wake. “They’re heading north.”
Tungdil looked in vain for evidence of a campfire. Two of his warriors called to him from a knoll; there were more orcish footprints and a couple of dead troopers under a tree. Ravens had clustered over the bodies and were squawking and fighting for their share of the prey. Judging by the evidence, the orcs had been killed the previous orbit. The birds had ripped away the dark green flesh, exposing the bone.
“They were watching us,” said Tungdil, praying that Boïndil wouldn’t chase after them. “They must have waited up here while their cousins were dying. They saw which way the battle was going, and left.”
“Miserable cowards,” snapped Ireheart, aiming a kick at one of the corpses. The nearest raven hopped away awkwardly, flapping its wings. “Trust the runty villains to hide from us. I wouldn’t have minded a proper fight.” He turned to Tungdil. “Four thousand of them, minimum. They’re on their way north.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” said Tungdil, baffled. He picked up an empty water pouch and dropped it hurriedly because of the awful smell. “The odds were in their favor; you’d expect them to attack.” He paused, deciding what to do. “I want to see what they’re up to,” he announced, knowing that his plan would meet with the secondling’s approval. “We’ll follow them.” Dwarves weren’t particularly fleet of foot and orcs were naturally faster, but it was probably worth a shot.
“Huzzah!” whooped Ireheart. “Five score of us, four thousand of them: that’s four hundred for every…” He broke off, remembering his brother in the firstling kingdom. Their reunion would be delayed. His face dropped.
“Hang on,” said Tungdil. “We’re not going to fight them; we’re going to see what they’re up to.” He dispatched a couple of messengers to chase after Mallen and tell him the news. Another twenty warriors were instructed to spread out in all directions and warn the villagers of Gauragar about the orcish army. “Tell them to take to the hills or seek refuge in the towns,” Tungdil instructed them.
“Do you see that?” said Boïndil, pointing at the orcish corpses. “Whoever beheaded them was wasting his time. They were stabbed to death first.”
“I expect their chief was making an example of them,” reasoned Tungdil. “He probably wanted to bring his troopers into line.”
“Maybe,” Boïndil said doubtfully, “but this one was stabbed three times before they chopped off his head. A chief would kill with a single strike.” He raised his arm and made a noise like a whooshing ax. “It’s a sign of strength—and precision.”
“I suppose you’ve got a better explanation,” said Tungdil.
Boïndil was unconvinced by Tungdil’s theory, but he couldn’t think how else to explain the troopers’ wounds. The discussion ended there.
They set off toward the north of Gauragar, the terrain becoming craggier and more barren with every mile. Green meadows gave way to bare earth, rocks, and the occasional tuft of grass. Thankfully, the orcs had left an unmistakable trail of food scraps and boot prints, which saved the dwarves the trouble of checking their route.
“I wonder if we’ll see a dead glade,” murmured Tungdil. “Did you hear what Mallen’s scout was saying?”
Boïndil looked at him blankly. “A dead glade? Sounds like something to be avoided.”
Tungdil filled him in on what the scout had said. “Dead glades are patches of forest inhabited by the Perished Land. King Bruron banned his subjects from approaching them because the evil affects their brains. You can tell a dead glade by the color of the trees—they’re completely black.”
“I thought the Perished Land had retreated,” growled Boïndil. “We can’t let it hide in the trees.”
Tungdil kept his eyes on the churned-up path. “I’ll ask Andôkai to deal with it. The Perished Land is a canker. Who knows how far it might spread?”
Slowing his pace, the secondling fell back and instructed the rest of the company to look out for black trees. Anything suspicious should be reported to King Bruron.
During the second orbit of marching, the tracks turned sharply to the east, heading straight for the highest hill. The sudden change in direction and the unnecessary ascent indicated that the orcs had left their original course.
On the third orbit of marching, the dwarves, defying the odds, succeeded in closing on the longer-legged, faster orcs. They watched from a distance of barely two miles as the beasts swarmed up a hill and disappeared over the crest.
“Oink, oink!” grunted Boïndil in excitement.
Tungdil shot him a warning look. “We’re not going to fight them,” he said, laying a restraining hand on the secondling’s arm. “We wouldn’t stand a chance.”
They set off in pursuit, this time taking care to stay hidden. They ascended the steep, stony slope and stopped just short of the crest.
Tungdil took off his helmet and his long brown hair billowed in the breeze. Keeping low to the ground, he edged forward and lifted his head slowly so that only his eyes and his crown were visible over the summit. Boïndil crawled across the trampled ground to join him.
Their excitement turned to alarm. The orcs were streaming into a dark, wooded area. Tungdil stared at the trees with their black trunks and bare branches. The beasts were heading for a pool of water, the inky content of which was lapping against the stony shore and staining it black.
Tungdil had a fair idea what he was looking at. “A dead glade,” he whispered. “It stands to reason, I suppose.”
Boïndil peered at the orcs incredulously. “What are they doing? Surely they don’t mean to stay there? Even by orcish standards it’s a hellhole.”
Tungdil could tell that his friend was itching for a fight. “We’re not going in,” he said sternly. “We’ll tell King Bruron that we’ve found another dead glade. He’ll make sure that the orcs stay where they are—they won’t be leaving here alive.”
Raising his head a little, he surveyed the bare treetops and tried to gauge the size of the glade. It measured at least a mile in each direction, a vast blotch of foreboding and death. Just then a familiar odor came to him on the wind. He wrinkled his nose in disgust; it was the smell of brackish water that had permeated the drinking pouch, but this time it was coming from the sinister pool. “Fancy a sip?”
Boïndil made retching noises. “I’d sooner die than drink it.”
Tungdil broke into a cold sweat as he remembered what the scout had said. The humans who strayed into the dead glades were beheaded by their fellow men. He stared at the inky pool. What if the two dead orcs had drunk the fetid water and gone mad? Was that why they were stabbed and beheaded? For want of an answer, he stopped worrying and crawled down the slope to make his report to the other dwarves. After a long wait, a delegation of Bruron’s men arrived and Tungdil gave them a detailed account of what he had witnessed.