breaking the occasional rib. He fought back whenever
he had the opportunity, which was seldom enough—and each time the agile älf parried the blow or batted away his weapon, leaving
him to grunt in frustration.
Bundror soon realized that it was hopeless and he was destined to die. He decided to try another, very dwarven, approach.
Vraccas be with me
. He hurled the ax toward her, forcing her to skip aside, then picked up his shield with both hands and sprinted in her direction,
hollering at the top of his voice.
The unconventional tactic took her by surprise. The shield slammed into her, and he heard a thud as he knocked her, groaning,
to the ground.
“Take that, you pointy-eared scumbag!” he shouted, his voice mingling hatred and delight. “I’ll cleave your head from your
shoulders.” He bounded through the air and hurled himself at her chest, the lower edge of his shield pointing toward her throat.
Just then two things happened.
From her supine position, the älf managed to plant the lower end of the quarterstaff into the ground and point it toward him
like a lance. Under other circumstances, Bundror would have done his utmost to avoid it, but a large black shadow swept toward
him and he was caught.
He heard a gravelly roar and saw a pair of glimmering red eyes. The creature opened its mighty jaws, enveloping him in foul-smelling
breath. Even as he realized that the teeth were impossibly close, something rammed into his belly, passed through the links
of his chain mail, and exited the other side. His mind closed down.
The corpse-strewn field was bobbing around him, and he felt himself rising and falling as if he were impaled on a moving palisade.
His helmet flew off, followed by his shield, weapons belt, and one of his boots. He felt the jerk of something leaving his
belly, and he was free.
He flew through the air and landed on a corpse. Through a haze of blood he saw that it was Gisgurd.
It won’t be long, my friend. Fire up the furnace, I’m on my way
. He rolled over. His mouth filled with a coppery-tasting liquid that seeped into his beard and fell in thick, viscous drops
onto his chest.
I must warn the others
.
His fingers scrabbled over Gisgurd’s rucksack and, summoning the last of his strength, he lifted the mighty bugle and put
it to his shredded lips. The effort of drawing breath caused his lungs to fill with blood, but nothing could turn him from
his purpose.
A single, piercing note left the bugle of the butchered dwarf and echoed over the hills. His lifeblood trickled into the instrument,
and silence returned. Bundror hoped that the elves in Liútasil’s camp would recognize the signal and sound the alarm.
The heavy bugle fell from his hand as his strength ebbed away. He looked up to see the tionium mask of his antagonist. “You
won’t achieve anything by attacking our allies,” he spluttered determinedly. “They’ve been warned.”
“Perhaps, but they won’t have heard your bugle in the Gray Range.” She bent down and lifted her mask to reveal her face. It
was the elf maiden who had sat and conversed with them by the fire. “Look at me,” she said menacingly. “Ondori is your death,
and I will take your life as your kinsfolk killed my parents. May your soul wander helplessly for the rest of time.” A scythe-like
blade glinted in the light of the stars, and the älf muttered something in a low, sinister voice.
Bundror guessed the meaning of the incantation and prayed for help.
He was still begging Vraccas to gather him to the eternal smithy when the blade slashed his throat, severing his last fragile
link to the world of the living.
III
Borengar’s Folk,
Eastern Border of the Firstling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
T ungdil looked searchingly at the firstling queen. Muffled in warm furs and perched reluctantly on a pony, Xamtys was staring
at the snowy peaks of the Red Range. She was looking for a sign, a
he had the opportunity, which was seldom enough—and each time the agile älf parried the blow or batted away his weapon, leaving
him to grunt in frustration.
Bundror soon realized that it was hopeless and he was destined to die. He decided to try another, very dwarven, approach.
Vraccas be with me
. He hurled the ax toward her, forcing her to skip aside, then picked up his shield with both hands and sprinted in her direction,
hollering at the top of his voice.
The unconventional tactic took her by surprise. The shield slammed into her, and he heard a thud as he knocked her, groaning,
to the ground.
“Take that, you pointy-eared scumbag!” he shouted, his voice mingling hatred and delight. “I’ll cleave your head from your
shoulders.” He bounded through the air and hurled himself at her chest, the lower edge of his shield pointing toward her throat.
Just then two things happened.
From her supine position, the älf managed to plant the lower end of the quarterstaff into the ground and point it toward him
like a lance. Under other circumstances, Bundror would have done his utmost to avoid it, but a large black shadow swept toward
him and he was caught.
He heard a gravelly roar and saw a pair of glimmering red eyes. The creature opened its mighty jaws, enveloping him in foul-smelling
breath. Even as he realized that the teeth were impossibly close, something rammed into his belly, passed through the links
of his chain mail, and exited the other side. His mind closed down.
The corpse-strewn field was bobbing around him, and he felt himself rising and falling as if he were impaled on a moving palisade.
His helmet flew off, followed by his shield, weapons belt, and one of his boots. He felt the jerk of something leaving his
belly, and he was free.
He flew through the air and landed on a corpse. Through a haze of blood he saw that it was Gisgurd.
It won’t be long, my friend. Fire up the furnace, I’m on my way
. He rolled over. His mouth filled with a coppery-tasting liquid that seeped into his beard and fell in thick, viscous drops
onto his chest.
I must warn the others
.
His fingers scrabbled over Gisgurd’s rucksack and, summoning the last of his strength, he lifted the mighty bugle and put
it to his shredded lips. The effort of drawing breath caused his lungs to fill with blood, but nothing could turn him from
his purpose.
A single, piercing note left the bugle of the butchered dwarf and echoed over the hills. His lifeblood trickled into the instrument,
and silence returned. Bundror hoped that the elves in Liútasil’s camp would recognize the signal and sound the alarm.
The heavy bugle fell from his hand as his strength ebbed away. He looked up to see the tionium mask of his antagonist. “You
won’t achieve anything by attacking our allies,” he spluttered determinedly. “They’ve been warned.”
“Perhaps, but they won’t have heard your bugle in the Gray Range.” She bent down and lifted her mask to reveal her face. It
was the elf maiden who had sat and conversed with them by the fire. “Look at me,” she said menacingly. “Ondori is your death,
and I will take your life as your kinsfolk killed my parents. May your soul wander helplessly for the rest of time.” A scythe-like
blade glinted in the light of the stars, and the älf muttered something in a low, sinister voice.
Bundror guessed the meaning of the incantation and prayed for help.
He was still begging Vraccas to gather him to the eternal smithy when the blade slashed his throat, severing his last fragile
link to the world of the living.
III
Borengar’s Folk,
Eastern Border of the Firstling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
T ungdil looked searchingly at the firstling queen. Muffled in warm furs and perched reluctantly on a pony, Xamtys was staring
at the snowy peaks of the Red Range. She was looking for a sign, a
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