by Markus Heitz
introducing
If you enjoyed
THE DWARVES,
look out for
THE WAR OF THE DWARVES
by Markus Heitz
The tail of the comet blazed red in the sky, showering debris large enough to crush a human house. The dwarves heard a drawn-out whistle, then an ear-splitting bang. The ground shook and trembled like a frightened beast. Plumes of snow shot upward, looming like luminous towers in the dark night sky. The air hissed and angry clouds of moisture rose from the vaporizing snow. Thick white fog wrapped itself around Boëndal like a blindfold.
“To the stronghold!” he commanded, realizing that watch-towers and battlements were no match for celestial might. “We’ll be safer inside!” Bracing himself against the brazier, he tried to get to his feet; a moment later, one of the sentries was beside him, pulling him up.
Boëndal lost his bearings in the strange-smelling fog, but his companion knew the way without seeing. They ran, skidding and sliding every few paces until they resigned themselves to crawling and pulling themselves forward on their axes. “Quick, we need to…”
Boëndal’s command was cut off by a droning from above. He knew exactly what it meant: the battlements were about to be hit by a volley of burning rock.
There was no time to shout a warning. The fog had already turned a muddy orange, darkening to black-streaked red as an unbearable screeching filled the air.
Vraccas protect us! Boëndal closed his eyes as a gigantic slab of burning ice hurtled toward him. A moment later, it slammed into the solid stone walkway. Boëndal heard faint shrieks as dwarves in front of him tumbled to their deaths. He couldn’t see where the rock had landed because of the fog.
“Turn back!” shouted Boëndal, crawling away from the shattered stone. Hampered by his injured back, he longed for his old agility. “To the northern walkway!”
Flagstones quaked beneath their feet as the colossal towers swayed like reeds in the breeze. Cracks opened in the groaning masonry and sections of battlement plummeted to the ground.
The bombardment continued as they hurried along the northern walkway to the highest tower. They came to a halt at the bridge. The single-span arch construction was the only way into the kingdom and the safety of the firstling halls. Beneath the bridge was a yawning chasm, two hundred paces deep.
A gusty wind swept the watchtowers, chasing away the mist. At last they could see the gates leading into the mountain — and safety.
“Vraccas forfend!” cried one of the sentries, who had turned and was pointing back at the lifting mist.
The fortifications of East Ironhald were in ruins.
Only four of the nine towers were still standing; the rest had been crushed, toppled, or flattened, leaving five rings of masonry protruding like rotten tooth stumps from the ground. The mighty ramparts, hewn from the mountain by dwarven masons, were riven with cracks wide enough for a band of trolls to breach the defenses with ease.
“Keep moving!” Boëndal urged them. “You can worry about the ramparts as soon as we’ve made it to safety. Walls can be rebuilt.”
He and the others had barely set foot on the bridge when they heard a low rumbling like distant thunder. Then the earth moved again.
The falling boulders from the comet’s tail had shaken the fortifications and caused the walkways to quake, but this time the tremor was deeper and more powerful, causing walls, towers, dwarves, peaks, and ridges to shudder and sway.
The Red Range had stood firm for thousands of cycles, but nothing could withstand the violent quake.
Most of the dwarves were knocked off their feet, hitting the flagstones in a jangling of chain mail. Axes flew through the air and clattered to the ground, while helmets collided with stone. Two of the surviving towers collapsed with a deafening bang, raising clouds of dust that shrouded the rubble.
Boëndal thought of the vast orb that had passed overhead. He had only one explanation for the tremor: The comet had landed in the mountains to the west, sending shock waves through the ground. He tried not to imagine what was happening in the underground halls and passageways, how many firstlings were dying, how many dead.
The rumbling grew fainter, the quaking subsided, and at last it was still. The dwarves held their breath, waiting for what was next.
An acrid smell burned their throats. The air was thick with dust from the ruined masonry, and smoke rose from scattered fires.
The fearsome heat had passed with the comet, and it was snowing again. From a distance, the stillness could have been mistaken for tranquillity, but it was born of destruction. Death had visited the Red Range and ravaged the firstlings’ home.
“Vraccas have mercy,” whispered Boëndal’s companion, his voice as sorrowful and defenseless as a child’s.
Boëndal knew what he was thinking. Dwarves were fearless: They threw themselves into battle regardless of the odds and defended Girdlegard against the invading hordes. Their axes and hammers brought death to the most monstrous of Tion’s beasts, but no dwarven weapon could match a foe like this. “We couldn’t have stopped it,” he told him. “Even Vraccas can’t catch a falling star.”
Leaning over the bridge, he realized that the base of the tower was seriously unstable. Cracks, each as wide as an outstretched arm, had opened in the stone and were spreading through the masonry. He could almost hear it breaking. “Quick, before the tower collapses and takes us with it!” He set off quickly across the bridge, followed by a handful of survivors.
They were almost halfway when a large clump of snow struck Boëndal on the neck. What a time to play stupid games… He brushed away the snow and kept walking.
The second snowball hit his left shoulder, showering him with snow. He whirled round to confront the hapless prankster. “By the hammer of Beroïn, I’ll — ”
Before he could finish, the dark sky opened up and pelted him with clumps of snow. Powdery snowballs hit the bridge, his helmet, and the other dwarves. Boëndal heard a faint rumbling and the bombardment intensified; he knew what it was.
The mountains, not his companions, had started the assault.
Boëndal’s stomach lurched as he scanned the peaks around him. Although the comet had hit the ground many miles to the west, it had called forth a monster that lurked above the dwarven halls. Boëndal had seen it hundreds of times while standing watch in the secondling kingdom. The White Death, roused by the rain and the tremors, had mounted its steed near the summit and was galloping down the slopes. In the space of two breaths it filled the mountainside, crushing and consuming everything in its path.
Like a vast wave, the snow rolled down the mountain, throwing up powdery spray. Everything before it was toppled, stifled, and dragged on its downward plunge.
“Run!” shouted Boëndal. His legs seemed to move of their own accord. After a few paces, he slipped over, but someone grabbed him by the braid and he stumbled to his feet. Two dwarves slotted their hands under his armpits and pulled him on. Driven by fear, they stumbled over the bridge, more skating than running.
Even as the gates swung back to admit them, the White Death reeled them in.
Hurling itself triumphantly over the precipice, it fell on the dwarves like a starving animal. Its icy body smacked into the bridge, knocking them into the chasm.
Boëndal’s shouts were drowned out by the roaring, thundering beast. His mouth filled with snow. He clutched at the air until his right hand grabbed a falling shield, which he clung to as if he were drowning.
His descent was fast — so fast that his stomach was spinning in all directions. He had no way of orienting himself in the snow, but the shield cut through the powder like a spade.
Tiring of the dwarf, the White Death dumped him and covered him over. The weight of the cold beast’s body pushed the air from his lungs.
A little while later Boëndal blacked out. Night descended on his consciousness and his soul was ready to be summoned to Vraccas’s smithy. At least it would be warm.
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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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 was 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 thei
r 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?”
