They set off on a southerly bearing, quickly leaving the ravaged village behind them.
Perhaps the trees wanted to do a last favor to those who had slain one of the despoilers of the peaceful glade, but in any event they made no attempt to block their path. Creaking and groaning, the leafless boles and boughs swayed menacingly, stooping low and swinging above their heads, but allowing them to pass.
The only other sound was the crackling of dry leaves beneath their boots. They saw no sign of the forest's many animals; even the birds were too afraid to sing.
"There's been a change of plan," Tungdil informed the twins, recounting his promise to the elf. "Ionandar is far enough west to be safe from the Perished Land and Toboribor's orcs. We need to tell Lot-Ionan about Greenglade and give him the books. The elf maiden seemed to think at least one was important."
"But we won't get back to Ogre's Death for ages!" objected Boлndal. "We're late enough as it is, without walking an extra six hundred miles."
"I'm afraid there's no choice," Tungdil said firmly. "It's either that or ask to see the council in Lios Nudin."
"That's the spirit," chuckled Boпndil. "Cussed as a dwarf!"
Boлndal relented. "All right, we'll go to Lios Nudin. The high king has seen so many cycles that he won't begrudge us the odd orbit here or there. Vraccas will keep his fires burning." He took a sip from his water pouch.
His brother turned the conversation to Tungdil's fighting prowess. "You didn't do too badly, considering you haven't been taught," he commended him. "But there's one thing you need to remember: Never throw your ax unless you've got another one in reserve. Of course your technique needs a bit of working on, but I'll soon have you fighting like a proper dwarf. Mark my words, Tungdiclass="underline" The runts will be as scared of you as they are of me."
Tungdil could see the sense in being tutored by Boпndil. "The sooner we get started, the better." He nodded.
They walked until the light faded and they were obliged to stop and rest. After a while Boлndal launched into a dwarven ballad about the age-old feud between their kinsfolk and the elves. When he saw the look of dismay on Tungdil's face, he trailed off into silence: The last thing they needed was a song about destruction and death.
"What do you know about my folk?" Tungdil asked.
"The fourth lings?" Boлndal scratched his beard and unpacked a wedge of cheese to melt above the fire. "Goпmdil's folk are made up of twelve clans and they tend to be shorter, scrawnier, and weaker than the rest of us-typical gem cutters and diamond polishers, I suppose." He looked Tungdil up and down and nodded. "I've never heard of any fourthling scholars, but in terms of your build…Actually, you're a bit too big. Your shoulders are too broad." He thought for a moment. "I'm not trying to offend you, you know," he said simply. "Vraccas made us just the way we are."
"What else do you know?" persisted Tungdil, who found the answer too vague to be revealing.
The brothers looked at each other and shrugged.
"You'd best see for yourself once we get there. It's been hundreds of cycles since the folks had anything to do with each other," Boлndal explained. "I'll tell you what, though: We may not know much about Goпmdil's dwarves, but you can ask us anything about the secondlings. Our seventeen clans boast the finest masons in all the dwarven kingdoms, and the mightiest human stronghold isn't a patch on Ogre's Death. It'll take your breath away, you'll see."
Boлndal talked and talked, waxing lyrical about the fortifications and ornaments that were the envy of the other folks, while Tungdil listened contentedly, eagerly anticipating the moment when he would see his kinsfolk's architecture for himself. Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin, Girdlegard, Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle The orbits wore on as the three dwarves journeyed to Porista to request an audience with the council.
At Boпndil's insistence, they had taken the precaution of walking through the undergrowth parallel to the road, but by the fourth orbit they were tired of scratching themselves on branches, finding thorns in their chain mail, and avoiding twigs that seemed determined to poke Tungdil in the nose or eye. They rejoined the dusty road, keeping an eye out for other travelers.
Tungdil still bore the scars of his recent ordeals. His sleep was haunted by nightmares and on stopping to fill his pouch from a stream, he noticed that the reflection looking back at him was older, more weathered, and more serious than before. The horrors he had witnessed were inscribed on his face.
Determined not to fall victim to the orcs, Tungdil applied himself to his daily training sessions with Boпndil. He was a fast learner-uncannily fast, his tutor said. While the two of them practiced fighting, parrying, and feinting, Boлndal sat and watched them, smoking his pipe and keeping his thoughts to himself.
From time to time they came upon wayfarers or a settlement and Tungdil was always sure to mention Greenglade and warn anyone from venturing too close to the Perished Land.
The long line of carts rolling into Lios Nudin reinforced his advice. With war bands of orcs terrorizing Gauragar, people preferred to trust Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty rather than rely on King Bruron to protect them.
It was midafternoon when Tungdil fell back a few paces. Guessing that he wanted to answer a call of nature, the twins walked ahead.
When Tungdil set off again, feeling much relieved, he came to a junction, only to find that Boлndal and Boпndil were nowhere to be seen. A signpost pointed east to Porista, so he set off at a jog.
A short distance along the road was a wooden caravan, its sides painted gaily with pictures of scissors, knives, axes, and other implements. The horses had been unhitched and the driver had abandoned his vehicle in a hurry.
"Hello?" The rear door was ajar, allowing Tungdil to peer into the darkness within. There was something odd about the situation. "Is everything all right in there?"
He drew his ax, just in case. If runts had ambushed the caravan, they might be hiding nearby. Where are Boлndal and Boпndil when I need them?
"Hello?" he called again, climbing the two narrow wooden rungs that led up to the door. He pushed it open with the poll of his ax and glanced around the little workshop. Drawers had been turned out, cupboards pulled open, and in the far corner a pair of shoes poked out from under a cabinet.
He stepped inside. "Hello in there! Is something the matter?" The smell of metal was mixed with a sweeter, almost sickly, odor. Blood. Tungdil had seen enough to suspect that the wearer of the shoes was no longer among the living. I knew it! There could be only one explanation for the string of calamities unfurling around him: His journey was cursed.
Hooking his ax on his belt, he bent down and gave the feet a shake. "Are you injured?" On receiving no response, he lifted the cabinet to free whoever was trapped underneath. It was a dwarf, or rather, the body of a dwarf. His throat had been cut and his head was missing. A ring of crimson gore encircled his neck, indicating that he hadn't been dead for long.
"What in the name of Vraccas is going on?" Tungdil was so perturbed by the sight of the dead dwarf that he let go of the cabinet, dropping it onto the corpse. As he stepped away, he tried to think logically. The poor victim was obviously an itinerant dwarf whose smithy had been ransacked by highwaymen. His death was an unfortunate consequence of the dreadful human greed for precious metals and coin.
No one deserves to be left like that. Tungdil grabbed the feet again and was dragging the corpse from beneath the cabinet when something clattered to the floor.
On closer inspection, the object turned out to be a blood-encrusted dagger, and although there wasn't much light inside the caravan, he was sure he had seen it before: It belonged to the brigand whose horse he had shod several weeks earlier.