Underground Network, Kingdom of Weyurn, Girdlegard, Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle Surely he must be tired by now," said Rodario, puzzled. "I'd be exhausted if I had to push both wagons."
"Unlike some people, Djerun is no stranger to hard work," the maga said sternly.
The impresario gave her an injured look and stuck out his chin. "Perhaps the Estimable Maga could tell me what I've done to be treated with such contempt?"
She turned her back on him. "Climb in, Djerun; there's another downward pitch."
The armored giant squeezed into the rear wagon, trying to make himself as small as possible so as not to injure the others or crack his head on any low archways.
"Very well," said Rodario, refusing to give in. "You can ignore me if you like, but prepare for the consequences. I happen to be writing a drama in which you play a leading role. You'll have only yourself to blame if you make a bad impression."
The maga's eyes bored into his. "Perhaps Djerun should attend the first performance. You'll know from his reaction whether I like your play. If he raises his ax, you should run." The impresario held her gaze, but she refused to back down. "It isn't because of anything you've done, Rodario. Quite frankly, I don't like your manner. It's foppish."
Rodario frowned, his mood completely spoiled. "Why don't you come straight out and tell me that I'm not a real man? In your opinion, a man must have muscles, know how to wield a sword, and command the mystic arts."
"You understand me better than I thought," she said scathingly. "Since you fail on all three counts, you should stop your tiresome flirting. It's getting on everyone's nerves."
The maga's put-down was delivered in her usual strident voice. Rodario went a deep shade of red and was about to retaliate when the wagon plunged and picked up speed. Ink spilled out of the open bottle, washing over the parchment and onto his clothes. He fell into a wounded silence.
With one hand resting on the brake, Tungdil peered ahead, hoping to spot any potential obstacles before it was too late. Of course, if the rail was broken, nothing would save them. Boпndil was sitting beside him, eyes straining into the darkness too.
There was a generous gap between the two wagons and soon they were traveling at top speed. Suddenly the temperature seemed to rise, and the warm wind buffeting their faces acquired the sulfurous odor of rotten eggs.
"There's light ahead," shouted Boпndil. "It looks orange."
Shooting out of the tunnel, they raced toward another bridge whose basalt pillars spanned a vast lake, the surface of which was incandescent with light. Lava twisted and snaked its way along the bottom, causing the crystal-clear water to bubble and boil. The rising vapors warmed the air and made the atmosphere so humid that sweat started streaming from their pores. Breathing was difficult, not least because of the stench.
The molten lava lit up the cavern, a vast irregular hollow of two or more miles across, with a ceiling some five hundred paces above the water.
Their wagons trundled over the long bridge. Tungdil glanced over the side. A spectacular place, but I'll be glad to get out of here.
At that moment they heard hammering again.
It began with a single rap, a piercing tone that rose above the gentle bubbling of the water.
Goпmgar's head whipped back and forth as he strove to locate its source. "It's the ghosts of our forefathers," he whispered. "My great-grandmother told me stories about bad dwarves who trespassed against the laws of Vraccas. They were barred from the eternal smithy and condemned to roam the underground passageways. They avenge themselves on any mortal who crosses their path."
"I suppose you believe the stories about man-eating orcs as well," said Bavragor with a scornful laugh.
"Oh, those stories are true," Boпndil growled from the front. "I can vouch for that. His great-grandmother was probably right." Goпmgar shrank down farther into the wagon until only his eyes were visible over the side.
"That's enough, Boпndil," Tungdil said sharply. Even as he spoke, a second rap echoed through the grotto, reverberating against the glowing stone walls.
This time it didn't stop.
The raps grew louder and the intervals briefer until the hammering swelled to a deafening staccato that shook the rock, dislodging loose stones from the ceiling. Small fragments rained down on them, missing the bridge by a matter of paces and splashing into the bubbling lake.
"Look!" shrieked Goпmgar, beside himself with fear. "Vraccas have mercy on us! The spirits are coming to drag us to our deaths."
They looked up to where he was pointing. Figures detached themselves from the rock and stared down at them. Tungdil counted at least three hundred before he gave up.
Still they kept coming. There was no denying that they looked like dwarves: Some were wearing armor, some dressed in normal garb, others clad in little more than a leather apron. Male, female, warriors, smiths, and masons, their pale faces stared accusingly at them and the hammering increased. Suddenly their arms flew up in unison and pointed in the direction the travelers had come.
"They want us to leave," whispered Goпmgar. "Turn back, I beg you. Let's walk across Girdlegard; I'll fight the orcs, I promise."
Spirits. Tungdil's blood ran cold at the sight of their empty stares. The molten lava stained their ashen faces with its blood-red glow. He had read about ghosts in Lot-Ionan's books and now he'd seen the living proof. I'm not going to let you ruin our mission.
They swept into the next tunnel, away from the cavern, the lake, and the spirits. After a while the hammering faded too. Beroпn's Folk, Secondling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle It was just as Balendilнn had feared.
On reaching the High Pass, he and his warriors found dead dwarves strewn across the ramparts, blood trickling across the stone. They hadn't had time to draw their weapons and defend themselves, which seemed to suggest that the murderer had been a friend. A friend bewitched by Nфd'onn and turned traitor. Confound the wizard and his magic!
The air was foul with the stench of orc and they could hear the rattle of cogs and the clatter of stone as the bridge unfolded, slab by slab. The traitor had beaten them to it.
"Run!" shouted Balendilнn. There was no need to say more; everyone knew what had to be done if disaster was to be averted.
Tearing up the steps, they made for the chamber that housed the mechanism operating the bridge. On the other side of the chasm, the beasts were braying and cheering in excitement as the gangway unfurled. The dwarves tried not to listen to their shouts.
Suddenly they found themselves confronted by a guard of one hundred orcs, tall, powerful specimens, bristling with weaponry. Balendilнn and his warriors would have to fight tooth and nail to get through.
Both sides threw themselves into the battle with ferocity, each more determined than ever to wipe their enemies from the face of the earth. Green blood mingled with red, limbs were severed, teeth sent flying, and the bloodcurdling noise of the fighting competed with shouts and jeers from the hordes across the chasm whose rapacious hunger could barely be contained.
Balendilнn's arm grew heavier with every blow. His muscles were tiring from the strain of wielding his ax, but stubbornness kept him from flagging. "Show no mercy!" he cried. "The bridge must be destroyed before it's too late."
"It's too late already, Balendilнn," said Bislipur. The words echoed through the stone stairway, but of the speaker there was no sign. He didn't sound particularly troubled by the secondlings' plight. "The dwarves of Beroпn and Goпmdil will meet their doom together. It was easy enough to arrange, once the orcs were acquainted with the tunnels."
"You told them?" The king's ax slashed the vile visage of an ore. There was a sound of shattering bone and the beast toppled over, his skull a bloodied wreck. The path was clear and the dwarves surged into the chamber to attack the last dozen foes who were prepared to die rather than lose control of the bridge. Gasping for breath, Balendilнn stopped for a moment. "Why?"