"The gods made us too dissimilar. Sitalia created the elves to love the skies and forests. Vraccas gave us our caverns and underground halls." Balyndis hugged her knees to her chest. "They look down on us for not being beautiful like them. They despise us."
"Consequently, you despise them," the impresario divined. "Well, if one of you could see fit to stop despising the other, neither side would have reason to continue the feud. A whole history of hostility, resolved just like that." He laughed, then gripped his injured side. "Blasted orcs! Do you happen to have any other enmities that I can put to rights?"
"There's always Lorimbur's folk," Boпndil said slowly. "You heard what Glandallin said about the thirdlings. But it's no good trying to reconcile me with them." He clenched his fists. "To think that they betrayed the fifthlings!"
Rodario propped himself upright against the wall. "What was the origin of the quarrel? We humans know shamefully little about dwarves." He took up his quill. "Keep it short, if you will. My ink is running low."
Balyndis grinned. "We hate each other." His pen froze. "That was a little too short, worthy metalworker of Borengar." He flashed her a winning smile.
"I was afraid you'd say that." Without further ado, she launched into the tale. The five founders of the dwarven folks were created by Vraccas, who gave each of them a name. The father of the thirdlings cast off his Vraccas-given name and called himself Lorimbur, which is how he has always been known.
The other dwarves each received a particular talent for their folks, and so the smiths, the masons, the gem cutters, and the goldsmiths were born. But when it was Lorimbur's turn, Vraccas told him: "You chose your own name, so you must choose your own talent. Teach yourself a trade, for you can expect nothing from me."
Lorimbur tried to teach himself a trade and apprenticed himself to each of his brothers in turn, but his efforts went unrewarded. The iron cracked, the stone split, the gems shattered, and the gold burned.
And so it was that Lorimbur came to envy his brothers and his spiteful heart was filled with eternal hatred for all dwarves.
Determined to excel at something, he applied himself secretly to the art of combat. His aim was not merely to defeat his enemies, but to kill every dwarf in Girdlegard so that none of his kin could overshadow him again.
Rodario was hurriedly taking notes. "This is wonderful," he murmured. "Enough to keep me going for a hundred cycles or more."
Balyndis cleared her throat. "Do you see why we're afraid of Lorimbur's folk? They're not to be trusted."
Andфkai changed position, trying to get comfortable on the rocky floor. "The thirdlings aren't the ones we should be worrying about. How are we going to convince the elves of our intentions? Lord Liъtasil is known for his reluctance to forge new friendships. I hardly think he'll rush to the aid of a company of dwarves."
Tungdil watched the shadows cast by the torch and smiled. "I've learned from this journey that nearly everything is possible, even against the odds. I'm sure the elves will come round."
At Balyndis's request, Narmora handed over Keenfire, and the smith took to removing the excess inlay with a file. Tungdil looked on in fascination while she polished the metal. All of a sudden she put down her tools.
"It's the cold," she said apologetically. "My fingers are really numb."
He glanced at Furgas and Narmora, who were snuggled under a blanket. His mouth went dry. "You can sit a bit closer, if you like," he offered nervously.
She sidled over and nestled against him. "Like sitting by a furnace," she said with a sigh of contentment.
Tentatively he laid an arm across her shoulders. There was something indescribably wonderful about having Balyndis by his side. Kingdom of Gauragar, Girdlegard, Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle They walked quickly, speeding up to a march as soon as the terrain permitted and descending the southern slopes as fast as they could. Soon the mighty peaks of the Gray Range were behind them and they found themselves among Gauragar's hills.
They were all so exhausted that they didn't have much time to talk. After a while, Tungdil took Boпndil aside and told him of Bavragor's last words. The secondling pressed his lips together tightly and said nothing, but his eyes welled with tears.
Where possible, they avoided settlements, although on one occasion Furgas and Rodario were sent to buy provisions from a farm. Had the decision been left to the impresario, the pair would have posed as impoverished noblemen, but Tungdil, conscious of the need to keep a low profile, insisted that they pass themselves off as cobblers instead.
The food tasted dreadful. The coming of the Perished Land had spoiled the winter crops and shriveled the apples, and even the bread was so heavy that it sat in their stomachs like lead. Still, it contained enough energy to restore a little of their strength. Since the groundwater was unpalatable, they melted snow to quench their thirst.
At length Djerun hunted down a scrawny doe, which they roasted briefly over the flames and wolfed down hungrily, trying not to notice the slightly moldy taste.
They hadn't been troubled by orcs since their escape from the fifthling kingdom, but after seven orbits the company's relief turned to puzzlement: The Perished Land had seized Gauragar, but there was no sign of runts or bцgnilim.
By rights the roads should be crawling with beasts. Unable to make sense of it, Tungdil sent Furgas and Rodario to find out what was happening from the inhabitants of a nearby town.
They returned with alarming news.
"The orcs were called away," said the impresario, waving his arms to convey the drama of his report. "They've abandoned their encampments. A while ago, thousands of the beasts descended on the human kingdoms to rout the race of men, but now they're marching south on Nфd'onn's orders. The townsfolk said something about besieging a stronghold in a mountain." He frowned in concentration. "I'll remember the name in a moment."
"Ogre's Death," Boпndil shrieked excitedly. "It's got to be Ogre's Death. Ha, they need thousands of orcs to attack the dwarves of Beroпn, do they? I always said the runts were worse than useless. Oh, what I'd give to fight beside my clansmen!"
To the others' astonishment, Rodario shook his head. "That's not it," he said. "Dark… no, brown… no! I've always learned my lines perfectly and now I can't remember a simple thing like this. It was something to do with leather." His hands gesticulated frantically in the air. "With leather and riding…"
"Reins," suggested Balyndis.
Tungdil made the leap. "The Blacksaddle! They're besieging the Blacksaddle!"
Andфkai searched her memory. "The name means nothing to me. What is it?"
"A flat-topped mountain. The thirdlings built a stronghold inside it and tried to wage war on the other folks. It's right in the middle of Girdlegard." Tungdil pictured the Blacksaddle's abandoned chambers and galleries. So why all the orcs?
"Do you think someone important might be sheltering there?" asked Narmora. "You know, someone Nфd'onn is intent on getting his hands on, like one of the human kings."
Tungdil remembered telling Gundrabur and Balendilнn about the stronghold, but he couldn't see why either of them would ensconce themselves in such a dark, benighted place. "We should probably go there. The Blacksaddle is practically en route."
They resumed their journey.
Twelve orbits after leaving the fifthling kingdom they sighted Вlandur. There was no need for Tungdil to consult his map; nature was their guide.
They were trudging through a snow-filled valley when they first spotted a lush forest of beeches, oaks, and maples in the distance, surrounded by a protective fence of pines. The vibrant colors and thriving trees were proof enough that, contrary to rumor, the last elven kingdom hadn't fallen to Nфd'onn's hordes. This part of Girdlegard was free from the pestilence.