“You mean Tungdil and his companions?” Bundror laughed. “No, he hasn’t got time to bother with Dsôn Balsur’s pointy-ears.” He stopped suddenly, realizing what he’d said. Frowning, he looked at the maiden. “You don’t mind if I call them pointy-ears, do you?” He took her smile as permission to refer to the älfar as he pleased.
“Mind?” growled Gimdur. “I’m sorry, elf, but I’m not going to stop insulting my enemies just because they’re related to my friends.” He got out his pipe and stuffed it with tobacco, still grumbling under his breath.
“In any case,” said Bundror, picking up his thread. “Our task is to help Lord Liútasil and the human generals in the struggle against Inàste’s pointy-ears.” He lingered over the words, relishing the chance to use the insult—especially in combination with his newly acquired knowledge about the älfar’s origins. “Tungdil and the others are heading north.”
“What a pity,” said Shanamil. “I should have liked to meet him. I’m surprised he’s not here. If we had a warrior with a legendary weapon, we’d send him wherever he was needed most.”
“That’s why he’s gone north,” said Gimdur. He dropped a glowing ember into the bowl of his pipe and waited for the tobacco to catch light. Clouds of dark blue smoke rose into the air. “He’s going to rebuild the fifthling halls and seal the Stone Gateway.”
“On his own?” asked the maiden. “I’m impressed.” The dwarves roared with laughter.
“Of course not! The best warriors and artisans from Beroïn, Borengar, and Goïmdil are going to help,” explained Gimdur, puffing away on his pipe. “And some of his old companions will be there too.” He jabbed the stem of his pipe at Shanamil’s chest. “Not a single beast will pass through the gateway while our kinsfolk are keeping watch. You can bet on it.”
In the silence that followed, Gisgurd rose to his feet. “I don’t mean to be discourteous, but my warriors need some sleep.” He dispatched a dozen dwarves to stand guard with their shields and axes around the makeshift camp and protect the sleeping unit from invaders. He didn’t want another set of visitors that night.
“We’ll need to be up early if we’re to cover the rest of the journey by dawn,” said Shanamil. “If you don’t mind, we’ll sleep here as well. You can ask one of your sentries to keep an eye on us—unless you’ve decided to trust us, of course.” She lay down on her side, facing the fire. With a flick of her wrist, she threw her cloak over her body and drew it around her like a blanket. “We’re scouts—we sleep in the open all the time.” Her companions settled down for the night as well.
“They’re not very demanding, are they?” whispered Bundror. “I’d never have thought an elf would consent to sleeping on the ground.”
“Where did you think they’d sleep?” enquired Gisgurd. “On perfumed sheets with satin pillows and embroidered quilts?”
“We forgot to bring our pillows with us,” said Shanamil, who had overheard the whispered conversation. “And we didn’t have room for our four-poster beds.” She closed her eyes, but her lips were smiling.
“Blast,” muttered Bundror. “Their ears are sharp as well as pointy.”
The hours wore on. After a time, the moon reached its highest point, bathing the camp in light and turning the dwarves into silvery statues.
Only Bundror, twitching and moaning in his sleep, was plagued by nightmares. He woke with a start.
Terrible images lingered in his mind. The camp had been overrun with älfar and the dwarves had fallen one by one. He too had looked into a pair of cruel, empty eyes and felt the lethal blade of a sword swishing toward his unprotected throat. Mercifully, he had woken in the instant before he died.
His heart was still pounding. He raised a hand to his face and realized that sweat was pouring from his forehead and trickling into his beard.
It’s because we’re so close to Dsôn Balsur, he told himself firmly. At home in the fourthling kingdom he was never haunted by such visions.
He threw off his blankets and sat up. The fire had burned low and his comrades were sleeping peacefully. You can bet they’re not dreaming of älfar, he thought wryly. Mindful of his bladder, he got up, collected his ax, and stomped through the narrow corridor of bodies.
A few paces beyond the perimeter of the camp he found a suitable bush and stopped to relieve himself. Dwarven water cascaded to the ground.
Just then he was struck by a worrying thought.
For the most part, peoples’ ideas about dwarves are false, but occasionally some of the folklore is based on fact. No one who has been in the vicinity of a sleeping dwarf would deny that dwarven breathing is curiously loud. A human would refer to the phenomenon as snoring; in elven forests, it was practically unknown. But among Bundror’s kinsfolk, it was as natural and inevitable as swallowing one’s food.
He frowned and strained his ears, hearing the patter of his water, the creaking of his boots, and the jangling of his mail. Beyond that, there was nothing—no coughing, no throat clearing, not even the familiar, reassuring chorus of snores.
The crease in his brow deepened to a furrow. He buttoned his breeches, raised his ax, and scanned his surroundings, looking for an explanation for the unnatural hush.
Tightening his grip on the ax, he tiptoed to the left toward a sentry. The dwarf was gazing over the moonlit plains. His loose hair was blowing in the wind, but he was otherwise still.
“Anything unusual to report?” enquired Boëndal. “It’s horribly quiet without their snoring.” The sentry paid him no attention.
“I know you’re on duty,” said Bundror irritably, “but if a comrade asks a question, it’s polite to reply.” He pushed past the dwarf, stopped abruptly, and raised his weapon with a terrible curse.
The sentry wasn’t standing of his own accord.
Someone had rammed a branch through his chain mail and into his chest, skewering him through the middle and preventing him from falling. Propped up by the blood-soaked stake, the dwarf looked almost alive, but his unseeing eyes stared at the ground and his features were etched with suffering. He had witnessed untold horrors in the instant before his death.
There was no smell of orcs, from which Bundror surmised that the sentry had been murdered by älfar. He raised his shield, drumming against it with all his might to sound the alarm and wake his sleeping comrades.
The others slept on, seemingly oblivious to the ear-splitting noise. Even the elves showed no sign of stirring.
“Wake up, wake—” He broke off, his throat constricting with panic as a terrible thought entered his mind.
Darting over to the nearest dwarf, he seized him by the shoulder, rolled him onto his back, and cried out in horror. The dwarf’s body came away from his head, which lay motionless on the ground, neck and beard cleft neatly in two. Bundror’s gaze settled on the pool of blood glimmering darkly in the moonlight.
“Save yourself the effort, groundling,” whispered a voice to his left. “You won’t raise your comrades—unless you can raise the dead.”
Bundror whirled round, striking out with his ax as he turned. His blade connected with something hard—his blow had been parried by a quarterstaff of black metal.
Before he knew it, the lower end of the quarterstaff was speeding toward his helmet. He took a blow to the nose guard. The metal cut into his face, pressing against his nose and breaking the bone with an audible crack.
Eyes watering and warm blood pouring down his face, Bundror stumbled away. Dazed, he took another step back and tumbled over the corpse of a comrade. “Come on, then!” he shouted furiously, still clutching his ax. He straightened up, braced his legs, and looked around for his assailant. “Try that again, älf, and I’ll cut you in two!”