The Revenge of the Dwarves Read Online Free Page B

formed a continuous encircling wall the height of twenty paces: a protective arm surrounding the entrance itself.
    Three towers of black basalt rose above the main structure; from the platforms the dwarves could overlook the length of the steep winding path and could see probably a hundred miles in the other direction into the kingdom of Gauragar. The banner of the fifthlings—a circle of vraccasium chain-links to represent the work of the goldsmiths and the unity of the people—was flying from the flagpole to show who was on guard.
    Tungdil felt moisture on his face. Turning his head he looked over at the nearby waterfall, still crashing and thundering as it had five cycles ago. The white cascade with its clouds of vapour sparkled and shimmered like crystal in the spring sunshine. All in all, the view was spectacular.
    The pony Keen-Ears snorted, looking for grazing at the foot of the forbidding fortress, but found nothing to his liking on the bare rock. He pawed the ground impatiently.
    “I know. You’re hungry. They’ll let us in soon.” Tungdildid not get a chance to stand around admiring the skill of the secondling stone masons in the construction of this impressive building.
    Tall as a house, the two doors of the great portal opened slowly. Iron plating had been fixed to the outside of the gate to withstand attacks with battering rams and other siege engines.
    A dwarf came out, his helmet sparkling like diamonds. Tungdil knew who wore elaborate headgear like that. The high king, Gandogar Silverbeard of the Clan of the Silver Beards of the fourthling folk, had come out in person and was hastening forward to welcome him.
    “King Gandogar.” Tungdil fell on one knee and reached for the ax called Keenfire to proffer to the king in the time-honored dwarven greeting. This was the silent renewal of the vow, pledging one’s life for the sake of all dwarves and for Girdlegard.
    Gandogar stopped him with a gesture. “No, Tungdil Goldhand. Do not kneel to me. Let me shake your hand. You are our greatest hero. Your deeds are beyond measure. It should be I who—”
    Tungdil rose to his feet, grasping the king’s hand and interrupting the flow of praise. As he and the high king shook hands, Tungdil’s rusty chain mail grated.
    Gandogar concealed his sense of shock as best he could. Tungdil was looking old, older than he really was. The brown eyes were dull, as if all simple joy of life were lost. His face was swollen, beard and hair matted and unkempt. The change in him could not all be from the long journey. “It should be I who kneel before you,” he finished.
    “Don’t praise me so much,” smiled Tungdil. “You areembarrassing me.” The one-time rivals had become friends.
    “Let us go in so you can see with your own eyes what the best of the firstlings, secondlings and fourthlings have achieved.” Gandogar hoped that his surprise at Tungdil’s state had not been too obvious, as he gestured toward the entrance. “After you, Tungdil.”
    “And the thirdlings, king? What have they contributed?” asked Tungdil as he untied his pony to lead behind him.
    “Apart from your own contribution, you who made everything possible?” returned Gandogar. It was not easy for him to see in Tungdil the dwarf of five sun cycles ago. If a child of the Smith ever let his chain mail rust it was a bad sign. There would be a chance later on to speak of that. Not now. He took off his helmet, revealing his long dark brown hair. “The thirdlings do what they do best: training us in warfare. And they are unbelievable at it.” He smiled. “Come. We have a surprise for you.”
    They strode through the gate.
    On the other side a rousing reception awaited him, with dwarves of all ages lining the way into the mountain, their laughing faces aglow. They were celebrating his visit, honoring him, applauding. There were musicians in the crowd and up on the towers and the walls. Flutes and crumhorns sounded out and the rhythm was given by