The War of the Dwarves by Markus Heitz

satin pillows and embroidered quilts?”
    “We forgot to bring our pillows with us,” said Shanamil, who had overheard the whispered conversation. “And we didn’t have
     room for our four-poster beds.” She closed her eyes, but her lips were smiling.
    “Blast,” muttered Bundror. “Their ears are sharp as well as pointy.”
    T he hours wore on. After a time, the moon reached its highest point, bathing the camp in light and turning the dwarves into
     silvery statues.
    Only Bundror, twitching and moaning in his sleep, was plagued by nightmares. He woke with a start.
    Terrible images lingered in his mind. The camp had been overrun with älfar and the dwarves had fallen one by one. He too had
     looked into a pair of cruel, empty eyes and felt the lethal blade of a sword swishing toward his unprotected throat. Mercifully,
     he had woken in the instant before he died.
    His heart was still pounding. He raised a hand to his face and realized that sweat was pouring from his forehead and trickling
     into his beard.
    It’s because we’re so close to Dsôn Balsur
, he told himself firmly. At home in the fourthling kingdom he was never haunted by such visions.
    He threw off his blankets and sat up. The fire had burned low and his comrades were sleeping peacefully.
You can bet they’re not dreaming of älfar,
he thought wryly. Mindful of his bladder, he got up, collected his ax, and stomped through the narrow corridor of bodies.
    A few paces beyond the perimeter of the camp he found a suitable bush and stopped to relieve himself. Dwarven water cascaded
     to the ground.
    Just then he was struck by a worrying thought.
    For the most part, peoples’ ideas about dwarves are false, but occasionally some of the folklore is based on fact. No one
     who has been in the vicinity of a sleeping dwarf would deny that dwarven breathing is curiously loud. A human would refer
     to the phenomenon as
snoring
; in elven forests, it was practically unknown. But among Bundror’s kinsfolk, it was as natural and inevitable as swallowing
     one’s food.
    He frowned and strained his ears, hearing the patter of his water, the creaking of his boots, and the jangling of his mail.
     Beyond that, there was nothing—no coughing, no throat clearing, not even the familiar, reassuring chorus of snores.
    The crease in his brow deepened to a furrow. He buttoned his breeches, raised his ax, and scanned his surroundings, looking
     for an explanation for the unnatural hush.
    Tightening his grip on the ax, he tiptoed to the left toward a sentry. The dwarf was gazing over the moonlit plains. His loose
     hair was blowing in the wind, but he was otherwise still.
    “Anything unusual to report?” enquired Boëndal. “It’s horribly quiet without their snoring.” The sentry paid him no attention.
    “I know you’re on duty,” said Bundror irritably, “but if a comrade asks a question, it’s polite to reply.” He pushed past
     the dwarf, stopped abruptly, and raised his weapon with a terrible curse.
    The sentry wasn’t standing of his own accord.
    Someone had rammed a branch through his chain mail and into his chest, skewering him through the middle and preventing him
     from falling. Propped up by the blood-soaked stake, the dwarf looked almost alive, but his unseeing eyes stared at the ground
     and his features were etched with suffering. He had witnessed untold horrors in the instant before his death.
    There was no smell of orcs, from which Bundror surmised that the sentry had been murdered by älfar. He raised his shield,
     drumming against it with all his might to sound the alarm and wake his sleeping comrades.
    The others slept on, seemingly oblivious to the ear-splitting noise. Even the elves showed no sign of stirring.
    “Wake up, wake—” He broke off, his throat constricting with panic as a terrible thought entered his mind.
    Darting over to the nearest dwarf, he seized him by the shoulder, rolled him onto his back, and cried out in horror. The