The War of the Dwarves

  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

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  New York, NY 10017

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  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 landur, 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.

  The sentry shot him an anxious look. “Are you all right? I’ve heard stories about älvish arrows—they leave terrible wounds.”

  “The pain is a reminder that I’m lucky to be alive. Vraccas had his work cut out to save me.” The events of that orbit were vivid in his mind. He and his companions had been riding toward East Ironhald when the älfar attacked from behind. Two black-fletched älvish arrows had ripped through his chain mail, tunneling into his back. The physicians had struggled for hours to stem the blood.

  “I owe my life to Vraccas and your kinsmen. They took me in and tended my wounds.” There wa
s a brief silence before he enquired, “How about you? Have you ever done battle with an älf?”

  “I’ve fought orcs and ogres, but we seldom see älfar in these parts. Is it true that they look like elves?”

  Boëndal nodded. “They’re the spitting image of their cousins—tall, slender, and fleet-footed—but their hearts are full of hate.”

  “We should have killed the ones who brought you down. It won’t be easy for your friends with a pair of älfar on their tail.” The firstling shifted his gaze to the northeast. The dwarves’ last hope, the Dragon Fire furnace, was burning in the fifthling kingdom, where Boëndal’s companions were forging a weapon to kill the dark magus, whose tyranny had bought Girdlegard to its knees.

  “Tungdil will manage,” Boëndal assured him. “My twin brother Boïndil and the rest of the company will forge the ax and kill Nôd’onn.”

  “I’ve heard of Keenfire, but what use is an ax against a wizard?” The firstling’s voice was tinged with doubt.

  “Keenfire has the power to destroy demonic spirits. It says in an ancient book that the blade will slay Nôd’onn and kill the evil inside him. Nature’s order will be restored.” Boëndal looked the firstling in the eye. “We can’t fail, and we won’t. Vraccas created us to protect the people of Girdlegard—and we won’t let him down.” He took a sip of spiced beer and felt the warmth spreading through him. “What of your queen?” he asked to dispel the silence. “Is there news of Xamtys?”

  Orbits earlier, the firstling queen had set off on an underground journey through Girdlegard. The five dwarven kingdoms were connected by a network of tunnels with wagons that ran on metal rails. The system, a masterpiece of ancient dwarven engineering, enabled the folks to travel at speed in any direction by means of artificial gradients, switching points, and ramps.

  “We don’t know where she is,” the firstling muttered unhappily, pulling on his beard. “She left here for a meeting, not to do battle with Nôd’onn. We’re praying to Vraccas that she and our kinsmen are safe.” He continued to tug on his beard while his left hand rested lightly on the parapet. “I can’t stand the waiting.” He looked at Boëndal. “But who am I telling? You’re here every time I’m on watch: morning, noon, and night. Don’t you sleep?”

  Boëndal gulped down the rest of the beer. “My companions are risking their lives to save Girdlegard; I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to.” He returned the tankard to the firstling. “Thank you. It’s given me strength and warmth.”

  He pulled his fur cloak around him and gazed at the unbroken expanse of snow. His eyes settled on the gully, the only route into the stronghold from Girdlegard. Secretly he hoped that if he looked carefully he would see his brother and the rest of the company hurrying toward him through the snow.

  The most important mission in history, and they had to go without me, he thought gloomily. The wounds in his back and the blood loss had conspired to keep him to his bed, and by the time he recovered, his friends had departed. It was too late to chase after them now.

  Boëndal, who was famous for his skill with a crow’s beak, knew his strength would be missed in the battle against Nôd’onn. You wanted me to stay here, didn’t you, Vraccas? He clenched his fists. I expect you’ve got your reasons, but I’d rather be with Boïndil.

  Closing his eyes, he pictured his friends.

  First he saw Bavragor Hammerfist, the one-eyed mason who liked to drink and sing. Bavragor had tricked his way into the company with customary cheek. Then came little Goïmgar Shimmerbeard, the nervous fourthling diamond cutter whose beard glittered brightly with the dust of countless gems. The company’s leader was Tungdil, the kind-hearted, brown-haired outsider, whom Boëndal and his brother had befriended when he was a foundling with a scraggy beard. The twins had taught him how to be a proper dwarf, and the three of them were very close. After a rocky start, Tungdil had proven himself as an able leader. Boëndal didn’t know much about their new smith, Balyndis Steelfinger, a firstling who had joined the expedition while he was ill. And the fifth dwarf was his twin brother, Boïndil Doubleblade, known as Ireheart because of his hot blood. Boïndil was thickset and muscular with shaven cheeks, a black beard, and long hair that reached to his knees in a plait. Most of the time he seemed a little crazy. His fiery spirit gave him formidable strength on the battlefield, but it was also a curse.

  Boëndal opened his eyes. It was reassuring to think that his battle-hardened twin was with Tungdil. Vraccas, lend them your strength.

  Wind gusted over the mountains, circling the battlements with a high-pitched whistle, through which Boëndal detected a jangling of chain mail. Someone was hurrying toward them.

  He turned to see a messenger running along the battlements. It was obvious from his labored breathing that he had raced to the top of the watchtower to deliver the news.

  “It’s over!” he shouted through the snow, his voice swelling with excitement and pride. “The news just arrived from the Blacksaddle. Our warriors routed Nôd’onn’s army with the help of the elves and men.”

  On hearing the good tidings, the other sentries abandoned their posts and crowded around the messenger. “Nôd’onn and his demon are dead, and the curse of the Perished Land has been lifted.” He scanned the sentries’ faces and discovered Boëndal in the crowd. “They said to tell you that Tungdil and your brother are on their way. Tungdil wants you both to go to the Gray Range. You’re to rebuild Giselbert’s kingdom for the dwarves.”

  Gripping the parapet, Boëndal blinked back tears of relief. For a moment he just stood there, thanking Vraccas with all his heart for helping the dwarves to prevail. Then, remembering the warm beer, he snatched a tankard from the frame above the brazier and dipped it into the vat.

  “Three cheers for the dwarves!” he shouted excitedly. The others joined in and helped themselves to beer, the last of the sentries picking up the vat and draining it enthusiastically so that nothing would go to waste.

  “Three cheers for the children of the Smith! Three cheers for the dwarves who killed Nôd’onn and banished the evil from our lands!” shouted Boëndal. The sentries banged the hafts of their axes against the battlements, clinked tankards, and downed the last of their beer.

  The messenger smiled. “There’ll be plenty of time for celebration when Her Majesty is home. I’ve seen the proclamation: She wants us to feast and make merry for three orbits as soon as she returns.”

  “I’ve got nothing against that kind of order,” laughed the sentry whom Boëndal had talked to earlier. He stepped back to his post and winked at Boëndal. “You should get some sleep. The messenger said your brother is safe and well.”

  The worry was gone, replaced by tiredness. A mantle of fatigue weighed on Boëndal’s shoulders, and he longed for his bed. “Yes, I suppose I should get some rest,” he said smilingly. He took a last look eastward, imagining where his brother might be. “At least all the suffering was worthwhile. Tungdil and the others have been through such a lot.” He filled his lungs with cold air. It tasted somehow purer and better than before. “Do you know what’s strange? I always thought Tungdil would do it, but now that it’s actually over… I suppose it takes a while to digest.”

  The sentry nodded. “I know what you mean. It’s like setting out every orbit to fight a dragon, only to wake up one morning and find that he’s dead. I don’t know how you celebrate a thing like that.” He rested his back against the tower and smiled. “Although a bit of drinking and feasting won’t go amiss.”

  “I wonder what will happen to Girdlegard,” said Boëndal after a time. “Maybe we’ll see a new era of friendship. With the elves and the dwarves on the same side, we’ve never been more united. A victory like this could put a stop to our feuding.”

  A look of skepticism crossed the sentry’s bearded face. He rubbed his nose doubtfully. “And rabbits might fly,” he said in a low voice.

  “Girdlegard would be stronger if we were united,” countered Boëndal. “Tion’s beasts have been plaguing our borders for cycle
s. Just because Nôd’onn has been defeated doesn’t mean our kingdoms are safe.” He smiled at the sentry. “It’s not as if we’d move in with them or anything—perish the thought! I’m just saying we ought to talk to them, maybe meet with them every cycle. It might help us get along.”

  The sentry burped and spat over the wall. A blob of saliva flew through the air, turning into a tiny ball of ice as soon as it left his mouth, and plopping into the snow-covered fortifications below. “I suppose so,” he said hesitantly. “But the high king can take care of it. I don’t want to meet any pointy-ears. They’re too—”

  “Arrogant? Conceited?” suggested Boëndal.

  “Girly,” said the sentry, pleased to have found the right word. “The humans think the elves are so creative, so arty, but what’s the point of being arty if you can’t defend your forests from an älf?” He thumped Boëndal on the back. “You and I are made of rock. We’re the opposite of girly. The pointy-ears wouldn’t have stood a chance at the Blacksaddle if it hadn’t been for us.”

  Boëndal was about to venture a different opinion when he glimpsed something in the distance. He peered through the snow: A comet, no bigger than a coin, was shooting toward them from the east, blazing a trail through the sky.

  “Look,” he said to the sentry. The comet was getting closer and closer, changing from white to pink as it hurtled their way. Suddenly it flared up, dazzling them with bright red light, then burst apart. Nothing remained except a cluster of crimson dots that faded and were swallowed gradually by the dark night sky.

  Boëndal was reminded of spattered blood.

  “Was it a good omen or a bad omen, do you think?” asked the sentry uncertainly.

  “Well, it didn’t hit us,” said Boëndal dryly, “which in my book makes it a good omen. Maybe Vraccas sent a spark from the eternal smithy to…”

  Just then a second comet shot into view. Whooshing toward them from the east, it arced through the sky, falling toward the firstling kingdom. This time it didn’t burst apart.