The dwarf pressed himself against the trunk, stiff as a statue, willing himself to become part of the tree. What if they notice me?
One thing was certain: A mob of this size would make short work of the handful of mercenaries in Goodwater.
Red flames blazed up from the fires, towering as high as several lances and alerting nighttime wanderers to the danger. For the dwarf amid the boughs, the warning came too late.
Tungdil totted up the heads in sight and came to the conclusion that over a hundred beasts were camped below-sturdy, powerful orcs for whom a wooden palisade would be no deterrent if there was prey on the other side.
He took another look and was seized with the urge to vomit. The meat being roasted over the fires and consumed with gusto was unmistakably human in form. Two human torsos were turning on specially constructed racks like chickens on a spit.
Tungdil had to fight back his nausea. It didn't take a genius to work out that the beasts' suspicions would be aroused by a porridge-spewing tree.
Judging by the color of the bandages, he deduced that the ragged strips of cloth covering the wounds of the handful of injured orcs had been torn from the uniforms of King Tilogorn's men. So much for Goodwater's eagerly awaited reinforcements. It seemed Idoslane's soldiers had underestimated the strength of the enemy and paid a high price, having been killed and eaten into the bargain.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire, thought Tungdil, remembering the previous night's brush with the дlfar. What have I done to deserve this?
The poor villagers of Goodwater had no idea that the green-hided peril was heading their way. He was the only one who could warn them, but that was impossible with the beasts camped round his tree. His only hope was to bide his time, then climb down and creep past them while they slept.
Suddenly it occurred to him that he could use the situation to his advantage by sneaking a little closer to the fires. If he could eavesdrop on the orcs' conversation, he might learn something of their plans. He was familiar with their language in its written form, at least. It paid to have been raised by a magus with a very large library: Studying was his favorite occupation after working in the forge.
Unlikely as it might sound, there was a logic to the grunts, snarls, and shouts that passed for orcish communication. Scholars had studied the speech of orcs in captivity and discovered a language with an unusual emphasis on curses and threats.
His heart raced at the prospect of stealing closer to the stinking beasts. He would be finished if they caught him, but a dwarf was obliged to do everything in his power to protect the races of Girdlegard from Tion's ugly hordes. The Smith's commandments applied to every single one of his children, and that meant Tungdil too.
His mind was made up. He eyed the trunk, looking for the best way of reaching the ground without making any noise. Even as he was lashing his bags to the tree, a commotion sounded below. One by one the orcs rose to their feet amid a tumult of shouted exclamations. Guests were approaching.
The ring of orcs closed around the tree. The dwarf edged away from the trunk, crawling as far along the tapering branch as he dared. At last he was close enough to hear what they were saying, provided he strained his ears. Thankfully the chieftains were forced to raise their voices above the din, which made things a little easier.
He reached out gingerly and pushed the leaves aside. The beasts were gathered in a large circle around three chieftains whose fearsome tusks had been sharpened and tattooed. At once the noise died down, the cheering fading into silence.
Tungdil heard the clatter of horseshoes. Two riders made their way through the ranks of waiting orcs, the hooves of their black steeds striking the ground in a shower of blue and white sparks. The crimson-eyed horses moved with feline fluidity and had nothing of the typical equestrian gait.
The tall, slender riders directed their steeds to the center of the circle and dismounted. Tungdil's instincts told him they were дlfar.
The creatures were clad in finely tailored leather armor and from their shoulders hung long cloaks. Their black leather breeches were tucked into dark brown boots that reached above their knees and their hands were sheathed in burgundy gloves.
The first of the pair, an дlf with long fair hair, held a spear tipped with a head as fine as an icicle. A sword dangled from his belt.
His companion's hair was pulled away from his face, his dark plait disappearing into the mantle of his cape. He carried a longbow in his hand and a quiver of arrows on his back. A pair of daggers was lashed to his thighs with leather straps.
Tungdil recognized the дlf at once: It was the face he had seen at the window of the tavern. Please, Vraccas, he begged silently, may Friedegard and Vrabor be alive.
The fair-haired дlf took charge of the proceedings, speaking in the common tongue. It was clearly below his race's dignity to communicate in the primitive grunts of the orcs.
"I am Sinthoras of Dsфn Balsur, here at the command of my master, Nфd'onn the Doublefold, commander of the Perished Land, to present the three princes of Toboribor with an offer of an alliance." His voice was cold, barely courteous. He was there to present a deal and his tone told them they could take it or leave it. "Prince Bashkugg, Prince Kragnarr, Prince Ushnotz, you have been chosen by Nфd'onn to conduct a campaign of subjugation and destruction the like of which has never been seen. You, the strong arm of the south, shall lead the orcs to victory and sunder the skull of mankind."
"And who shall be the commander?" demanded Kragnarr, who stood as tall as the дlf but with twice his girth. The other princes were of smaller stature.
Bashkugg gave him an angry shove. "You think you're better than us, do you?" he shouted belligerently.
Kragnarr responded to the insult by lumbering round to face his challenger. He leaned across until their broad foreheads were touching. Neither moved as they stared at each other, clawed fingers clutching the pommels of their massive swords. Ushnotz proved altogether wilier and took a step backward, waiting to see how the squabble would unfold.
"My master intends to make you equal in rank," announced Sinthoras, straining to make himself heard above the snarling.
"No," growled Kragnarr quickly, promptly followed by Bashkugg.
The дlf cast them a disgusted glance. Even from a distance Tungdil could tell that he would rather kill the princes than negotiate with them, but Nфd'onn had given his orders. It was the first time that Tungdil had heard mention of any name at the source of the evil.
"In that case, my master will grant the office of commander to whosoever conquers the most land." The дlf held his spear loosely, but his taut stance betrayed his distrust of the beasts. His dark-haired companion seemed equally wary.
"Land?" grunted Ushnotz scornfully. "It should be corpses, not land! Whoever gets the most bodies will be commander!" He stroked his belly and the other two princes hastened to agree.
"No," the дlf said firmly. "This is about territory, not corpses."
"Why?" thundered Bashkugg. "Why not corpses? My soldiers have to eat!"
"Content yourselves with killing the armies that are raised against you," the дlf advised him coldly. "You know my master's will."
"Exactly," Ushnotz said slyly. " Your master. We've no obligation to obey him. He doesn't rule the south; we do!"
Sinthoras directed a pitying smile at him. "Not for much longer. My master is advancing from the north with an army of orcs who will seize the south faster than you can fashion cudgels from the trees." He looked each of the princes in the eye. "Give him your allegiance now and he will reward you with land of your own. Toboribor is nothing compared with what will follow. Each one of you will have your own kingdom with humans for slaves. But defy him, and you will cross swords with others of your race."