"Of course I'm a dwarf! What did you think I was? An elf?" He bent down, picked up the ax, and tossed it to Tungdil. "Don't let go of it this time. We'll save the talking for later." With a grim laugh he threw himself back into the frenzied scrum.
Tungdil spotted a second dwarf, identical to the first in every detail except his beard. He was slashing vigorously at his opponents with a crow's beak, a kind of spiked war hammer equipped with a curved spur as long as his lower arm.
"I thought you said you wanted our flesh? Too bad you didn't bring more of your friends!" shouted Tungdil's rescuer, taunting the orcs. "Your pig-ugly mothers must have slept with a hideous elf to make monsters like you," he boomed. "With a one-legged, mangy, no-eared elf. She probably enjoyed it!" When one of the orcs lunged forward, snarling with rage, the dwarf dispatched him with a flash of his axes. "Come on, don't be shy," he harried them. "You can all take a turn."
His fellow warrior preferred to work silently, wreaking his own brand of deadly havoc, slicing through limbs and hewing torsos with well-aimed swipes.
By now the orcs numbered just four, their slain comrades littering the ground around them and drenching the soil with their blood. Closing ranks, the last of the beasts prepared for a joint attack. The dwarves immediately drew together, standing back-to-back.
"Huzzah! That's more like it!" shouted Tungdil's savior, his eyes gleaming maniacally.
Rather than wait for the orcs to engage them, they whirled their way forward into the mob, spinning on their axis like a dancer in a music box, each warning the other in dwarfish of any threats from behind.
This unconventional strategy secured the dwarves a speedy victory against their more numerous foes. The last ore went to his death to the sound of their laughter and cries of "oink, oink!"
Tungdil was profoundly impressed. The dwarven warriors had dispatched an entire band of orcs without incurring so much as a scratch. He gazed at them in dumb admiration, then realized he had done nothing to help.
"May the fire of Vraccas's furnace burn in you forever," the second dwarf greeted him. "My name is Boлndal Hookhand of the clan of the Swinging Axes and this is my twin brother, Boпndil Doubleblade or Ireheart, if you prefer. Secondlings, the pair of us." His friendly brown eyes studied Tungdil shrewdly.
"You can see straightaway that he wouldn't stand a chance against a band of orcs," his brother said, guffawing. "He had enough trouble with just one of those runts. What kind of idiot drops his only ax?" He checked himself and looked at Tungdil. "I'm assuming you weren't planning to strangle them with your bare hands?"
"Oh no, sir," said Tungdil. "I'd be dead by now if you hadn't come along." He blinked. There was something peculiar about Boпndil's eyes, a strange flicker that gave him a rather frenzied look. He was probably still fired up from the battle.
"There are no sirs here," said Boлndal with a smile. "We dwarves were all hewn from the same rock."
"Absolutely, I'm sorry. All the same, you saved my l-life," stuttered Tungdil, his relief at being rescued already eclipsed by the excitement of meeting others of his race: For the first time since Ionandar-for the first time ever-he was face- to-face with real dwarves. A thousand questions jostled for attention in his head.
Boлndal's plait rippled down his back like a long black snake as he shook his head good-naturedly. "You don't have to be grateful. We'd do the same for any dwarf."
"Even a thirdling," chortled Boпndil, "although we'd give him a good hiding as well." He bent down to wipe his gore-encrusted axes in the long grass.
"It took us a while to find you." Boлndal paused. "You are Tungdil Bolofar, aren't you?"
"What a name!" his brother grumbled. "Bolofar! It's not some magical piffle paffle, is it?"
Tungdil's astonishment was stamped on his face. "Yes, that's me," he said slowly. "But how did you-"
"What's the name of your magus and the purpose of your journey?" the twins demanded.
"Lot-Ionan the Forbearing is my magus, and as for my journey…" He paused, then continued firmly. "You have my undying gratitude and deepest respect, but the purpose of my journey is my own private business and I'm not ready to share it with you yet."
Boпndil roared with laughter. "Pompous as a scholar, but I like his spirit." He clapped Tungdil on the back. "Don't worry. Lot-Ionan told us that he'd sent you to look for Gorйn. We wanted to be sure that we had the right dwarf."
"The right dwarf?" For a moment Tungdil was mystified; then he remembered Lot-Ionan's letter to the secondlings. "My clansfolk want to meet me!" He could barely keep the excitement from his voice. "But why the escort? Is it because of the orcs?"
"That too, but it's more a matter of getting you safely to the high king. Gundrabur is expecting you as a matter of urgency," explained Boлndal, tearing a scrap of cloth from an orcish jerkin and carefully wiping his crow's beak.
His brother produced an oily rag and polished his gleaming axes. "Someone should get the orcs an escort," he chuckled. "Vraccas knows they need all the help they can get."
"The high king," Tungdil whispered, awestruck. "What an honor! But why would he want to see me?"
"We're supposed to get you back to Ogre's Death so you and the other contender can stake your claims to the throne." He made it sound like the most natural thing in the world.
"My claim?" Tungdil echoed incredulously. He looked at the twins' craggy faces. "What claim? Which throne? What's this got to do with me?"
"He should change his name to Baffledbrain!" wheezed Boпndil. "Well, fry me an elf if the poor fellow isn't quite ignorant! Let's get away from these snout-features before the stench makes me vomit. I say we walk another mile or so, set up camp, and tell him everything, agreed?" He looked to his twin for confirmation.
Tungdil wasn't consulted on the matter, but luckily for the others, he was dying of curiosity and followed without a fuss. They marched for a while, then left the path and camped in the woods.
"There's nothing better than a decent meal after a hard-fought victory." Boпndil kindled the fire, skewered some cheese, and held it above the flames.
"And after a defeat?"
"If you're dead, your belly won't bother you. In any event, Vraccas will give you some victuals from his smithy."
The smell of molten cheese was overpowering. Tungdil choked. "I think I know that aroma. I smelled it when I pulled off my boots after twenty-one orbits of walking."
"Oh, our food isn't good enough for you, is it?" said Boпndil, trying to copy Tungdil's look of disdain. "This is the best cheese in the kingdom, I'll have you know. Come on, give him a piece, Boлndal. It's time he got used to the taste. Living with humans has spoiled his palate."
His brother cut a slice of bread and handed it to Tungdil with some cured ham and cheese. "Right, I suppose you want an explanation. I'll make it brief: The high king is dying and a fourthling must claim his throne. Gundrabur found out about your secret because of the magus's letter."
"My secret?" groaned Tungdil. "I didn't know I had one." He still hadn't convinced himself to eat the cheese. It was all a bit too much.
"It's time you learned the truth, then. You weren't stolen by kobolds. The long-uns made that up so you-"
"Long-uns?"
"It's dwarfish for men-just a little joke. In any event, the magus didn't want to burden you with the story until it was time." Boлndal handed him the water canteen. "So there you have it: You're a fourthling."
Tungdil thought about Girdlegard's geography. "I can't be. The fourthling kingdom is miles away."
"There was a good reason for the distance," Boлndal said soberly. "You're the son of the fourthling king-illegitimate, mind. The birth was kept a secret and you were entrusted to the care of friends. When the queen found out, she was furious. No bastard child of her husband's was going to lay claim to the throne while she was around to stop it. She wanted you dead."