Markus Heitz - The War of the Dwarves

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.

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ISBN: 978-0-316-09759-8

I n 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. Its 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.

Bondil! shouted Tungdil. I said we need to kill their chief! He had to repeat himself several more times before Bondil finally heard.

The group set off toward Runshak, who spotted the approaching threat and turned to the lfar, 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

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.

Paldurl, personal guard to Litasil 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 Viransinsis, Kingdom of Taban, 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 Sangpr.

Borengars Folk,

Eastern Border of the Firstling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle

S wirling 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 others shoulders and disappear from view.

From his vantage point on the second highest of nine towers, Bondal 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 Berons 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.

Bondal, 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 Bondal 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.

Weathers 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 temperaturepleasantly 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 Bondal. With a storm like this, youd expect the weather to be coming from the north.

Bondal 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? Ive heard stories about lvish arrowsthey leave terrible wounds.

The pain is a reminder that Im 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 lfar attacked from behind. Two black-fletched lvish 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 lf?

Ive fought orcs and ogres, but we seldom see lfar in these parts. Is it true that they look like elves?

Bondal nodded. Theyre the spitting image of their cousinstall, slender, and fleet-footedbut their hearts are full of hate.

We should have killed the ones who brought you down. It wont be easy for your friends with a pair of lfar 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 Bondals companions were forging a weapon to kill the dark magus, whose tyranny had bought Girdlegard to its knees.