The sentry shot him an anxious look. “Are you all right? I’ve heard stories about älvish arrows—they leave terrible wounds.”
“The pain is a reminder that I’m lucky to be alive. Vraccas had his work cut out to save me.” The events of that orbit were vivid in his mind. He and his companions had been riding toward East Ironhald when the älfar attacked from behind. Two black-fletched älvish arrows had ripped through his chain mail, tunneling into his back. The physicians had struggled for hours to stem the blood.
“I owe my life to Vraccas and your kinsmen. They took me in and tended my wounds.” There was a brief silence before he enquired, “How about you? Have you ever done battle with an älf?”
“I’ve fought orcs and ogres, but we seldom see älfar in these parts. Is it true that they look like elves?”
Boëndal nodded. “They’re the spitting image of their cousins—tall, slender, and fleet-footed—but their hearts are full of hate.”
“We should have killed the ones who brought you down. It won’t be easy for your friends with a pair of älfar on their tail.” The firstling shifted his gaze to the northeast. The dwarves’ last hope, the Dragon Fire furnace, was burning in the fifthling kingdom, where Boëndal’s companions were forging a weapon to kill the dark magus, whose tyranny had bought Girdlegard to its knees.
“Tungdil will manage,” Boëndal assured him. “My twin brother Boïndil and the rest of the company will forge the ax and kill Nôd’onn.”
“I’ve heard of Keenfire, but what use is an ax against a wizard?” The firstling’s voice was tinged with doubt.
“Keenfire has the power to destroy demonic spirits. It says in an ancient book that the blade will slay Nôd’onn and kill the evil inside him. Nature’s order will be restored.” Boëndal looked the firstling in the eye. “We can’t fail, and we won’t. Vraccas created us to protect the people of Girdlegard—and we won’t let him down.” He took a sip of spiced beer and felt the warmth spreading through him. “What of your queen?” he asked to dispel the silence. “Is there news of Xamtys?”
Orbits earlier, the firstling queen had set off on an underground journey through Girdlegard. The five dwarven kingdoms were connected by a network of tunnels with wagons that ran on metal rails. The system, a masterpiece of ancient dwarven engineering, enabled the folks to travel at speed in any direction by means of artificial gradients, switching points, and ramps.
“We don’t know where she is,” the firstling muttered unhappily, pulling on his beard. “She left here for a meeting, not to do battle with Nôd’onn. We’re praying to Vraccas that she and our kinsmen are safe.” He continued to tug on his beard while his left hand rested lightly on the parapet. “I can’t stand the waiting.” He looked at Boëndal. “But who am I telling? You’re here every time I’m on watch: morning, noon, and night. Don’t you sleep?”
Boëndal gulped down the rest of the beer. “My companions are risking their lives to save Girdlegard; I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to.” He returned the tankard to the firstling. “Thank you. It’s given me strength and warmth.”
He pulled his fur cloak around him and gazed at the unbroken expanse of snow. His eyes settled on the gully, the only route into the stronghold from Girdlegard. Secretly he hoped that if he looked carefully he would see his brother and the rest of the company hurrying toward him through the snow.
The most important mission in history, and they had to go without me, he thought gloomily. The wounds in his back and the blood loss had conspired to keep him to his bed, and by the time he recovered, his friends had departed. It was too late to chase after them now.
Boëndal, who was famous for his skill with a crow’s beak, knew his strength would be missed in the battle against Nôd’onn. You wanted me to stay here, didn’t you, Vraccas? He clenched his fists. I expect you’ve got your reasons, but I’d rather be with Boïndil.
Closing his eyes, he pictured his friends.
First he saw Bavragor Hammerfist, the one-eyed mason who liked to drink and sing. Bavragor had tricked his way into the company with customary cheek. Then came little Goïmgar Shimmerbeard, the nervous fourthling diamond cutter whose beard glittered brightly with the dust of countless gems. The company’s leader was Tungdil, the kind-hearted, brown-haired outsider, whom Boëndal and his brother had befriended when he was a foundling with a scraggy beard. The twins had taught him how to be a proper dwarf, and the three of them were very close. After a rocky start, Tungdil had proven himself as an able leader. Boëndal didn’t know much about their new smith, Balyndis Steelfinger, a firstling who had joined the expedition while he was ill. And the fifth dwarf was his twin brother, Boïndil Doubleblade, known as Ireheart because of his hot blood. Boïndil was thickset and muscular with shaven cheeks, a black beard, and long hair that reached to his knees in a plait. Most of the time he seemed a little crazy. His fiery spirit gave him formidable strength on the battlefield, but it was also a curse.
Boëndal opened his eyes. It was reassuring to think that his battle-hardened twin was with Tungdil. Vraccas, lend them your strength.
Wind gusted over the mountains, circling the battlements with a high-pitched whistle, through which Boëndal detected a jangling of chain mail. Someone was hurrying toward them.
He turned to see a messenger running along the battlements. It was obvious from his labored breathing that he had raced to the top of the watchtower to deliver the news.
“It’s over!” he shouted through the snow, his voice swelling with excitement and pride. “The news just arrived from the Blacksaddle. Our warriors routed Nôd’onn’s army with the help of the elves and men.”
On hearing the good tidings, the other sentries abandoned their posts and crowded around the messenger. “Nôd’onn and his demon are dead, and the curse of the Perished Land has been lifted.” He scanned the sentries’ faces and discovered Boëndal in the crowd. “They said to tell you that Tungdil and your brother are on their way. Tungdil wants you both to go to the Gray Range. You’re to rebuild Giselbert’s kingdom for the dwarves.”
Gripping the parapet, Boëndal blinked back tears of relief. For a moment he just stood there, thanking Vraccas with all his heart for helping the dwarves to prevail. Then, remembering the warm beer, he snatched a tankard from the frame above the brazier and dipped it into the vat.
“Three cheers for the dwarves!” he shouted excitedly. The others joined in and helped themselves to beer, the last of the sentries picking up the vat and draining it enthusiastically so that nothing would go to waste.
“Three cheers for the children of the Smith! Three cheers for the dwarves who killed Nôd’onn and banished the evil from our lands!” shouted Boëndal. The sentries banged the hafts of their axes against the battlements, clinked tankards, and downed the last of their beer.
The messenger smiled. “There’ll be plenty of time for celebration when Her Majesty is home. I’ve seen the proclamation: She wants us to feast and make merry for three orbits as soon as she returns.”
“I’ve got nothing against that kind of order,” laughed the sentry whom Boëndal had talked to earlier. He stepped back to his post and winked at Boëndal. “You should get some sleep. The messenger said your brother is safe and well.”
The worry was gone, replaced by tiredness. A mantle of fatigue weighed on Boëndal’s shoulders, and he longed for his bed. “Yes, I suppose I should get some rest,” he said smilingly. He took a last look eastward, imagining where his brother might be. “At least all the suffering was worthwhile. Tungdil and the others have been through such a lot.” He filled his lungs with cold air. It tasted somehow purer and better than before. “Do you know what’s strange? I always thought Tungdil would do it, but now that it’s actually over… I suppose it takes a while to digest.”