"It's worse than Bavragor's singing," Boпndil objected, shouting above the noise. Obligingly, the mason burst into song, thereby adding to the din. Boпndil rolled his eyes despairingly.
The tunnel opened out and they found themselves inside a natural grotto, shooting along an enormous bridge hewn from stone. A river raged beneath them, drowning out the squealing of brakes. Tendrils of spray splashed against the sides of the wagon; then they were back in the tunnel and racing on.
"Did you see that?" marveled Tungdil.
"How could we miss it?" Goпmgar said unhappily. "We could have fallen in and died."
Tungdil was bubbling with enthusiasm. "What a spectacular bridge! Our forefathers must have been incredible masons."
If Bavragor had been in the driver's seat, he would have turned back to take another look. "I bet it was sculpted by secondlings," he said proudly. "We're the only folk who could build a bridge like that." He paused, waiting for someone to contradict him. "In that case, I propose a toast…" Suddenly the wagon started to judder and rattle. "Steady on, Tungdil! You're spilling my drink and we don't want Goпmgar spewing all over the place."
Tungdil was less inclined to joke. "There's gravel on the track. I'm worried we'll-"
They felt a terrible jolt and the wagon tilted dangerously to the right. Orange sparks shot to the ceiling.
Before the dwarves could react, the wagon lurched, turned over, bounced, turned over, and crashed to a halt. The tunnel ahead was blocked with fallen stone.
Tungdil was catapulted into the air and had to curl into a ball to preserve his limbs. He hit the ground with a thud, grazed his face on the rock, and whacked his helmet against something unyielding. I suppose it was bound to end this way. He sat up groggily, looking for the others.
The twins were already on their feet. Like Tungdil, they had scuffed and torn their breeches, but seemed otherwise unharmed.
Bavragor picked himself up with a groan, clutching his hip. Only Goпmgar was lying still beside the battered wagon. His breath was coming in faint gasps.
"Vraccas have mercy!" Tungdil made his way unsteadily toward the stricken dwarf. Much to everyone's relief, Boлndal and Boпndil took charge of the examination and declared the artisan to be intact.
"We'll have you up in no time," said Bavragor, administering a sip from his pouch. "I hope you appreciate the sacrifice I'm making."
The fragile fourthling wasn't much of a brandy drinker and came to with a splutter. Sitting up sharply, he yelped and clutched his right shoulder. He grimaced in pain. "It's broken, I know it is!" Boлndal bent down to take a closer look, but Goпmgar waved him away. "No! You'll only make it worse!"
"Keep acting like that and I'll make it worse," Boпndil growled menacingly.
"Come on, Goпmgar," Tungdil pleaded. "Boлndal and Boпndil are warriors. They know about injuries."
"Cuts and bruises, maybe, but not broken bones," said Goпmgar, shrinking away. Groaning loudly, he struggled to his feet, his right arm dangling limply. "I've broken my collarbone," he whined. "I can't move my arm."
"Here, have a sip of this to ease the pain," said Bavragor, tossing him the pouch. Goпmgar reached out and caught it with both hands. The others turned on him accusingly.
"You lava-livered liar!" barked Boпndil. "Stringing us along, were you?"
"I thought it was broken," Goпmgar protested hastily. "But I guess it was, er… dislocated! What a stroke of luck! I put it into joint when I moved. Did you hear it click?" He lifted his arm gingerly and feigned discomfort. "Hmm, it's still quite sore, but I should be able to put up with it." He returned the pouch to Bavragor. "You can keep your rotgut. It tastes like poison."
"Next time I'd advise you to try a bit harder," fumed Boпndil. "Hoodwink us again, and I'll wallop your backside until it's redder than a forge."
If only I hadn't chosen him in the first place, Tungdil thought ruefully. I didn't realize I was hanging a millstone around my neck. He could see now why the fourthling monarch had let him pick Goпmgar: The artisan was a pest. From now on I won't believe a single word he says.
Tungdil decided to focus on their immediate plight: The tunnel leading west to the firstlings was completely blocked by an avalanche of rock, and the ingots and gems for Keenfire were scattered across the floor. He beckoned to Bavragor. "When do you think the roof collapsed?"
The one-eyed mason inspected the rockfall, clambered all over it, and ran his fingers over the fractured stone. At length he returned. "Quite recently. There's a fair bit of dust about, but it must have come down with the ceiling. See how shiny these edges are?" He patted the warped chassis of the wagon. "We were lucky the wagon derailed itself when it did. If we'd hit this lot at full tilt…"
"Do you think it was sabotage?"
Bavragor rubbed the dust from his one good eye. "I can't say for sure, but it wouldn't surprise me." He stroked the wall lovingly. "It seems strange that the tunnel would collapse of its own accord after all these cycles."
"It was probably your singing that did it," Goпmgar said witheringly. "Your singing and the idiot's lunatic yells."
"You're the one who keeps whining. If I were the mountain, I'd cave in on myself rather than listen to your voice," the mason retorted.
"You're both wrong," said Boпndil, not wanting to be outdone. "The tunnel split its sides laughing because of Goпmgar's size."
The artisan opened his mouth to protest, but Tungdil ordered them to pile up the ingots and cover the treasure with rocks. "We're going up to the surface," he decided. "The next hatch isn't far from here. We'll leave the underground network, find a settlement, and buy a pony." He unfurled the map. "We can reenter the tunnel here. It's only eighty miles overland."
"That's all very well, but what are we going to do without a wagon?" asked Boлndal.
"If we don't find a wagon when we get to the tunnel, we'll buy a couple of extra ponies and ride the last two hundred miles." Tungdil rolled up the map and helped the others to stack the heavy ingots. He put the wood in his pack.
He sneaked a sideways glance at his four companions. All this squabbling is bad for the mission. I need to make them work together or I won't have a company to lead at all. Help me, Vraccas.
They bowed their heads and delivered a quick vote of thanks to their creator for saving their lives, then marched back through the tunnel. At last they came to a narrow flight of steps that zigzagged steeply to the surface.
Bavragor led the way, but Goпmgar refused to follow. "Where are we?" he demanded suspiciously.
"According to the map, we'll be entering Oremaira," said Tungdil. "It used to be ruled by Maira the Life-Preserver, but there's no telling what's happened since Nфd'onn took charge."
"Not another enchanted realm," moaned Boпndil. He laid his hands on the hafts of his axes. "Still, it might be a chance to slay a few runts. I just hope the magus doesn't plague us with any of his tricks."
The rest of the company nodded in mute agreement.
After a long and arduous ascent the five dwarves reached a door inscribed with runes. Weapons at the ready, they prepared themselves for the outside world.
The stairway led out into a cave some four paces high and seven paces wide. The noise of a waterfall roared in their ears. Water was streaming past the mouth of the cavern and tumbling down the mountainside, sending showers of spray that spattered their dusty mail, helms, and cloaks. Faint rays of sunshine sloped through the watery curtain, forming pools of light on the dank rock floor.
"Bloody typical," shouted Boпndil, straining to drown out the noise. "I'll wash when I'm good and ready, not because of some blasted waterfall."
His brother laughed. "And when might that be?"
They found a narrow path that led past the waterfall toward a rocky plateau. With a bit of luck, we'll be able to see for miles, thought Tungdil.