Sverd struggled to loosen the magic collar, but with no more success than at any other time during his forty-three cycles of bondage. The choker contracted and he sank to his knees, wheezing and panting. Bislipur waited until he was almost unconscious before slackening the leash.
"Thank you, master. Thank you." The gnome coughed. "Another joyous orbit at your side. How can I repay you?" He sank onto a stool. "Your pernicious plan failed. By all reports, the heir to the throne is still alive. Sadly, the same can't be said for our bounty hunters. There were no other takers for your cowardly mission and I didn't have time to start a proper search. Girdlegard is changing."
Bislipur took no notice of his reluctant henchman's sneers. From the beginning of his enslavement, Sverd had been trying to provoke him into killing him, but Bislipur chose to ignore him. The gnome deserved to suffer. "What happened?"
"I trailed the dwarf and the secondlings to Lot-Ionan's vaults. They were attacked by orcs…" Enchanted Realm of Ionandar, Girdlegard, Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle The beasts' approach could be heard from a hundred paces. Suddenly the clunking of their armor was interrupted by a clamor of snarls and grunts: The orcs had discovered the lifeless revenant.
On rounding a bend in the passageway, the three dwarves found themselves face-to-face with their foes. The exit to the vaults lay fewer than three hundred paces ahead, but it seemed to Tungdil that every inch of that distance was filled with orcs. A bristling thicket of weaponry blocked their escape.
"What fun!" enthused Ireheart, squaring his shoulders. "See how narrow the tunnel is? We'll have the pleasure of killing every last runt!" His whirled his axes energetically.
"Oink, oink! By the hammer of Vraccas, this is excellent sport!"
"The three of us will fight in formation," his brother told Tungdil soberly. "I know you've never done this before, but stand back-to-back with us and make sure you can feel us behind you. That way we'll all be safe." His brown eyes sought Tungdil's. "Trust us to watch your back, and we'll trust you. You're a child of the Smith, remember."
Tungdil took up position, wedging his back against the twins'. Trust in the others, he reminded himself, his heart thumping wildly. Stand by me, Vraccas. He swallowed and forgot about his fear. For Lot-Ionan, Frala, and Girdlegard!
"No more talking now!" Ireheart snapped at them, his eyes flashing wildly. "We've got skulls to cleave and shins to splinter!"
As the twins commenced their dance of death, Tungdil did his best to keep pace with them, nearly tripping over himself in his eagerness not to ruin their guard.
During the first few rotations, Tungdil could still see most of his surroundings. He glimpsed leering orc faces, saw green-hided flesh encased in various types of armor, spotted pillars among the jumble of legs, and occasionally sighted a whirling black plait.
But soon they were moving so fast that it all became a blur. Swords, daggers, and cudgels swooped toward him and he focused on dodging or parrying the blows. From time to time his ax met with resistance and after a while his blade was coated in glistening green, leading him to suppose that some of his blows had struck true.
It was the same basic strategy that the twins had used in the Eternal Forest. Back-to-back, the dwarves spun onward, boring their way through the enemy ranks, striking out furiously and never stopping for an instant, making it impossible for the beasts to land a proper blow.
Tungdil was glad of his chain mail. He lacked the secondlings' experience and was unable to field every strike, but his metal tunic protected him from the worst of it. He was willing to endure bruises, grazes, and even broken bones if it meant staying alive and saving the artifacts from Nфd'onn's fleshy hands.
He could hear Boпndil laughing behind him, his frenzied cackles competing with the orcs' dying shrieks. Boлndal was far less vocal, preferring to conserve his breath.
After a while the strain was beginning to tell on Tungdil's arms, but the battle was far from over. In addition to the orcs in front of them, there was also the problem of the survivors who were attacking from behind. In his despair, Tungdil came up with an alternative solution.
"The struts!" he yelled, straining to lift his voice above the jangling steel. "Cut down the struts!"
"Good thinking, scholar." Boлndal checked a blow, then rammed the offender with the butt of his crow's beak. A few moments later his weapon powered into a wooden pillar.
The force of the blow sent a strut crashing to the floor, followed by a shower of stone and dirt. The three dwarves repeated the maneuver until the unsupported ceiling collapsed behind them. Tion's minions disappeared under an avalanche of debris as ton after ton of rock blocked the tunnel, securing their rear.
The surviving orcs ran for the exit, afraid of being buried alive. Ireheart chased after them, swinging his axes furiously and felling all in his path. He stopped just short of the exit and waited for his companions.
"Come on," he urged them breathlessly. "There's another twenty of these runts waiting outside. It would be a shame not to kill them."
They closed ranks again. For all his hatred of orcs, Tungdil secretly hoped that the surviving beasts had seized their chance and fled. His weary arms were reluctant to lift much higher than his belt.
Spinning in formation, they whirled out of the tunnel and into the darkness outside. The stars cast a silvery shimmer over the waiting orcs. A hundred pairs of green eyes glinted menacingly in the moonlight. The beasts were growling and snarling under their breath.
"I thought you said twenty?" Tungdil muttered accusingly, his heart quailing at the sight.
"Like I told you, some challenges are bigger than others," Boпndil assured him, glossing over his mistake. "This is one of the bigger ones."
"Should we go right or left?" asked Tungdil, who was keen to establish their strategy.
"Straight through the middle. If they start slaying one another by accident, we'll have a better chance of making it unscathed. I'll deal with their chieftain, and when we're out the other side, we'll attack the flanks and hew down the rest."
"Tungdil is new to this, remember," his brother put in. "The high king told us to bring him back to Ogre's Death, not to purge the countryside of runts."
Tungdil was profoundly relieved. He hadn't wanted to say anything for fear of disappointing the twins, but Boлndal was less reckless than his brother and his sharp eyes had noted his exhaustion.
"Oh, all right, then," conceded Boпndil a little indignantly. "We'll go straight through the middle and forget about the flanks."
The plan established, they decided to act, not wanting to give the orcish archers an opportunity to use their bows. At first their tactic worked perfectly and they were mowing their way toward freedom at a tremendous rate when the enemy received unexpected support.
The ranks thinned around them as the orcs backed away, clearing a path.
"Hey! Come back here, you pug-faced monsters!" bellowed Ireheart, venting his frustration at the retreating beasts. "I'm not finished with you yet!"
The orcs continued to back away from them, and a lone man stepped forward instead. Tungdil knew the bloated figure from the apparition that had conversed with the famulus. The dark green robes cloaking the swollen body belonged to Lot-Ionan's killer.
The wizard looked doubly repulsive in the flesh. Blood trickled down his cheeks and his skin hung in flabby folds, occluding his features. He smelled as if he had been rolling in a pile of rotting rubbish.
"You've done well to get this far, but enough is enough," he purred. Fixing his gaze on Tungdil, he extended a bloated hand. "Give me the artifacts and the books you stole from Greenglade. After that, you can go."
Tungdil gripped his ax stubbornly. "These items belong to my master and I'll be damned if I'm giving them to you."