THE WAR OF THE
DWARVES
In front of the gateway, the lead orcs were locked in combat with the dwarves, who were fighting valiantly but ineffectually against the invaders.
Meanwhile, some of the smaller orcs were trying to sneak past and attack from behind, trapping the defenders between two fronts.
Tungdil glanced at the orcish leader. “It’s time he went,” he said, deciding that a change of tactics was in order. “We need to kill their chief.”
Ireheart, brown eyes glinting manically, had fought himself into a frenzy. At the mercy of his fiery spirit, he threw himself on the enemy, windmilling his axes at incredible speed.
“Boïndil!” shouted Tungdil. “I said we need to kill their chief!” He had to repeat himself several more times before Boïndil finally heard.
The group set off toward Runshak, who spotted the approaching threat and turned to the älfar, hoping to enlist their bows in his defense. Suddenly his grin froze, his mouth falling open in horror.
Tungdil saw the fear on his ugly green face and turned to discover its source.
BY MARKUS HEITZ
The Dwarves
The War of the Dwarves
Copyright
Copyright © 2004 by Piper Verlag GmbH, Munich
English translation copyright © 2010 by Sally-Ann Spencer
Excerpt from Best Served Cold copyright © 2009 by Joe Abercrombie
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Orbit
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
www.twitter.com/orbitbooks
First eBook Edition: March 2010
Orbit is an imprint of Hachette Book Group. The Orbit name and logo are trademarks of Little, Brown Book Group Limited.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
ISBN: 978-0-316-09759-8
Contents
The War of the Dwarves
Copyright
PART ONE
Prologue
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
PART TWO
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Dramatis Personae
Acknowledgments
Extras
Meet the Author
A Preview of BEST SERVED COLD
For those who understand the grandeur of the dwarven folks
“At the battle of the Blacksaddle, trolls were wailing, orcs whimpering, and our battle-hardened warriors were close to despair, but I never saw a dwarf lose heart.”
—Palduríl, personal guard to Liútasil of Âlandur, lord of the elves.
“On the Nature of Dwarves. Commonly found in gloomy mountain caverns, these diminutive creatures will fell an Orcus Gigantus with a single blow of their deadly axes, for no weapon in Girdlegard can match the finely fashioned ax of the dwarves. Afterward, they will drink beer by the barrelful without discernible effect. Such is the resilience of the dwarven female…”
—From “Notes on the Races of Girdlegard: Singularities and Oddities” from the archive of Viransiénsis, Kingdom of Tabaîn, compiled by the Master of Folklore M.A. Het in the 4299th Solar Cycle.
“Death came for the dwarf and tried to take him, whereupon the warrior squared his shoulders, dug his heels against the granite floor, and told him to go. Death turned around and left.”
—Apologue from the southern provinces of Sangpûr.
PART ONE
Prologue
Borengar’s Folk,
Eastern Border of the Firstling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
Swirling and dancing like giddy ballerinas, snowflakes tumbled from the sky. Carried by the wind, they scattered over the mountains and came to rest among their fellows, covering the Red Range like a great white cloth.
Snow had been falling for many orbits, and the gray clouds continued to unburden themselves, burying the slopes. Some of the drifts were deep enough for ten dwarves to stand on each other’s shoulders and disappear from view.
From his vantage point on the second highest of nine towers, Boëndal Hookhand of the clan of the Swinging Axes gazed out to the east.
Dressed in chain mail and a thick fur coat to protect him from the cold, the secondling warrior from Beroïn’s folk was standing watch in East Ironhald. The stronghold, built by the firstlings on the eastern border of their kingdom, was protected by twin ramparts as wide as houses that rose out of the mountainside, enclosing eight watchtowers connected by bridges at a dizzying height. Further back, the ninth tower stood alone. A single bridge, broad enough to accommodate a unit of dwarves, led into the mountainside where the firstlings had made their home. The western flanks of the Red Range were protected by another stronghold almost identical in structure. The formidable defenses of West Ironhald were a bulwark against the orcs and other creatures seeking entry from the Outer Lands.
Boëndal, stranded for orbits in the firstling kingdom, was impatient to leave. How much longer, Vraccas? He fought back a yawn. On clear nights, the white slopes shimmered prettily in the moonlight, but Boëndal was inured to the view. Besides, there was something menacing about the glistening blanket of snow. Battlements, watchtowers, and bridges had to be cleared on a regular basis to protect the masonry from its crippling weight. The stronghold had been built to withstand the fury of invading trolls, boulders the size of an orc, and battering rams powered by ogres, but no one had reckoned with so much snow.
“Weather’s coming from the west,” muttered one of the sentries, peering balefully at the sky. His breath turned to miniature clouds that froze against his bushy beard and covered his whiskers in a layer of ice. Sniffing loudly, he walked to the brazier and filled his tankard from the vat of spiced beer that was simmering at the perfect temperature—pleasantly warm, but not hot enough for the alcohol to boil away.
In no time, the tankard was empty. The sentry burped, refilled the vessel, and offered it to Boëndal. “With a storm like this, you’d expect the weather to be coming from the north.”
Boëndal clasped the tankard gratefully. On crisp winter nights, warm beer was the best antidote against the creeping chill. His chain mail shifted noisily over his leather jerkin as he lifted his arm to drink. He winced. The wounds in his back were healing nicely, but the slightest movement had him gasping with pain.