The War of the Dwarves by Markus Heitz

Author:Markus Heitz
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: FIC009020
Publisher: Orbit
Published: 2010-03-23T03:00:00+00:00

Kingdom of Dsôn Balsur,

Girdlegard,

Early Summer, 6235th Solar Cycle

Ondori breathed in the smoke billowing over her homeland and shuddered, remembering the red-hot flames that had burned her face. The struggle for Keenfire had left her horribly disfigured and given her another reason to wear a mask.

From her vantage point in the watchtower, originally constructed by the elves of the Golden Plains, she gazed at the thick bank of smoke in the south.

Dsôn Balsur was on the brink of defeat.

Firebombs rained into the dense woodland from allied mangonels, spilling petrol, oil, pitch, and sulfur, and setting light to everything, including the silicified wood of the fossilized trees. Already the allies had burned a wide path through the forest toward the bone palace. They were a fair few miles from Dsôn Balsur, but the remaining distance consisted largely of flat, open land.

Ondori turned to face the capital. Midway between Dsôn Balsur and the forest lay the stronghold of Arviû, from whence reinforcements were marching toward the front. Soon every last älf would be fighting for the kingdom.

She ran a hand over her quarterstaff. We’ll make the allies pay for their victory, she vowed. They’ve had enough of our arrows; let’s see how they like our staffs.

She left the tower and descended the fifty paces to the ground. Every step was slow and considered, her movements hampered by the damage inflicted by Tungdil’s dagger. The pain was a constant, humiliating reminder of her disastrous mission to secure the groundlings’ kingdom. She had failed on all counts: The groundlings were ensconced in their stronghold, her parents’ murderers were still alive, and she had failed to learn the secret of the orcs’ unnatural power. Forced to flee the battlefield, she had stopped only to snatch up a drinking pouch, knowing that wasted hours looking for streams or rivers could lead to capture or death. It was only much later, when she uncorked the pouch, that she realized her mistake: The water was stagnant, brackish, and unpalatable, but she drank it all the same.

The immortal siblings, after hearing how the five-thousand-strong orcish army had been defeated by a handful of dwarves, had banished her to the front, where she was to die in defense of her kingdom. To her relief, the siblings had confiscated Keenfire: She never wanted to touch the accursed weapon again.

Ondori was content with her fate. Death would come as a release, the last chance of heroism at the end of life of abject failure. Although I can’t avenge my parents when I’m dead, she thought bitterly. At least the immortal siblings had granted her a final favor: A hundred warriors, all failures like herself, were at her command.

She emerged from the base of the tower and swung herself onto her fire bull. Her eyes wandered over the waiting group of älfar—warriors of both sexes whose courage had been found wanting.

“Listen to me, weak-hearted warriors,” she said harshly. “I’m taking you behind enemy lines. Your mission is to kill ten elves, dwarves, or humans before you die.

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