The War of the Dwarves Read Online Free PDF

Doubleblade of the clan of the Swinging Axes. The secondling warrior was making
     his way to the surface with incredible speed. “The cavalry has attacked; I can hear the horses.” He gripped the metal rungs
     with his powerful fingers, climbing hand over hand. The only light in the shaft came from chinks around the doorway. It was
     barely enough to illuminate the ladder, but Boïndil—like all dwarves—was accustomed to seeing in the gloom. “What if the long-uns
     finish them off before we get there?” he said anxiously.
    Tungdil Goldhand, climbing behind him, tried not to laugh. He knew that his friend was desperate to fight. The hot-blooded
     Boïndil, known to his kinsfolk as Ireheart, pursued his enemies with a vengeance and was bent on waging war. “I had a word
     with Prince Mallen; he promised to leave some for you.”
    Ireheart snorted, his long black plait swinging across his back. “You shouldn’t make fun of me,” he called back grouchily,
     climbing faster than before. He let out an excited shriek. “I think they’re right above us; I can smell their stinking armor!”
     The weight of his chain mail, shield, and axes seemed not to bother him. One hand was already reaching for the door; a moment
     later, he found the bolt and opened the hatch. He poked his helmed head tentatively into the open.
    “What can you see?” panted Tungdil, whose muscles were tiring. “Any sign of the orcs?”
    “We’ve died and gone to Vraccas’s smithy,” whooped Boïndil. With a bloodcurdling “oink”, he catapulted himself out of the
     shaft like a dwarven cannonball. “Stand clear, you little runts, I’m coming!”
    Craning his neck, Tungdil looked up and saw the secondling silhouetted against the light. He seemed to be brandishing both
     axes as he flew through the air. Tungdil turned back to the others. “Quick, after him!” He hauled himself out of the shaft.
    He hadn’t expected the situation to be good, but it was worse than he had imagined. He was standing in an encampment of shrieking
     bögnilim and angry orcs. Tungdil’s notion of the eternal smithy was rather different.
    As soon as he was clear of the shaft, he reached behind him and drew his ax from the sheath on his back. The diamond-encrusted
     blade glittered fiercely in the crimson light of the dying sun.
    At the sight of Keenfire, the orcs pulled up abruptly, grunting and shuffling back. They knew they were dealing with no ordinary
     warrior. Every beast in Girdlegard had heard how Tungdil Goldhand had slain the dark magus and sliced the demon in half with
     a glittering blade.
    Crafted by the best dwarven artisans, with a blade made from the purest steel and forged in the fieriest furnace, encrusted
     with diamonds and inlaid with precious metals and tionium, Keenfire was a weapon of untold power and strength. The beasts
     were right to be afraid.
    Summoning his courage, an orc stepped forward to challenge its bearer. He swung his cudgel with a snarl.
    “Ah, a hero,” growled Tungdil, dodging the blow. He hoisted Keenfire above his head, whirled round, and drew the ax across
     the orc’s belly. The blade sliced through the fat-smeared armor as if it weren’t there, spilling green gore and intestines.
     The disemboweled orc groaned and toppled to the ground. Tungdil raised his ax. “Any more takers?”
    The orcs shrank away and hollered for their archers.
    The dwarves behind Tungdil seized their chance and clambered out of the shaft. Soon there were thirty of them standing shoulder
     to shoulder in a circle, weapons hefted and ready to counter an enemy attack.
    Meanwhile, Ireheart was rampaging through the hordes. He darted and bounded between the orcs and bögnilim, felling beast after
     beast. Tungdil lost sight of him, but he could hear the secondling’s frenzied laughter as he baited the enemy by oinking like
     a runt.
    Glancing up, Tungdil caught sight of Prince Mallen’s cavalry approaching from the north. The riders were