by Markus Heitz
“Just as well,” growled Boïndil, who luckily wasn’t interested in specifics.
Furgas had stowed the dwarves’ axes in a sack and was ready to return them to their owners at the first sign of trouble. The captives were bound with leather manacles that would rip at the jerk of a wrist. All that mattered was that they looked like prisoners.
The afternoon shadows were growing long when they finally entered the enemy encampment.
Narmora glared menacingly at the sentries, three orcs and four bögnilim, and demanded to be allowed to deliver her prisoners to Nôd’onn in person. The company was allowed to pass.
One of the bögnilim rushed ahead to announce the arrival of the heroic älf. The company strode purposefully between the tents, heading in the direction that the bögnil had taken.
“So I was right,” came a muffled voice from Rodario’s helmet. “I knew it had to be Nôd’onn’s tent.”
“Silence,” commanded Narmora in her sinister älf’s voice, and the impresario refrained from further comment.
By now they had a clear view of the dark green cloth that was housing the source of Girdlegard’s ills. They were only twenty paces away when the tent opened and an old acquaintance emerged: pointy ears, handsome features, and long fair hair. “Sinthoras,” gasped Tungdil in horror.
Boïndil leaned over. “Was he in the story too?”
The älf was smiling maliciously. He was wearing a tionium breastplate and a long tionium mail shirt that reached as far as his knees. He was prepared for battle. “It’s always a pleasure to see you,” he said to Tungdil with a bow. Then he turned to Narmora. “Congratulations on capturing the prisoners, Miss… ?”
“Morana,” she said, furnishing herself with an älf name.
“Morana,” he repeated. “Tion must prize you highly. Caphalor and I hunted the groundlings across the length and breadth of Girdlegard with no success.” His cruel eyes roved coldly over the little band. It was impossible to tell exactly who he was looking at. “We inflicted some casualties, it seems.”
“And yet they evaded you,” she said scornfully. She decided not to be intimidated and to play the part of the arrogant stranger.
“Yes, they evaded us.” Sinthoras sighed with feigned regret. “But we have them now. I’ll take them to Nôd’onn. You may go.”
Narmora stood her ground. “I captured them. Why should I let you steal my reward?”
Sinthoras circled her menacingly. “You’ve got courage, young älf. It’s strange that I’ve never heard your name.”
“Dsôn Balsur is a big place. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“You’re from Dsôn Balsur? I know every inch of our kingdom; I founded it.” He stopped in front of her. “What of your mother and father? Where do you live, Morana?”
“That needn’t concern you,” she retorted, unmoved. “Hurry up and tell Nôd’onn I’m here to see him — or get out of my way.”
“The magus is asleep.”
“Then wake him.”
Tungdil was still reeling from the shock of meeting Sinthoras. What are we to do? Should we walk past him? If it comes to a fight, some of us will die. He glanced at Nôd’onn’s tent, which was tantalizingly close. If we wait too long, we’ll only attract an audience, which is the last thing Narmora needs. He couldn’t see that they had a choice.
“Come and listen to this, Caphalor.” Sinthoras threw back his head and laughed. “I’ve got a young älf here who isn’t afraid of her elders. It could be the death of her one day.”
“She ought to be taught some respect,” someone said behind them.
Rodario was caught off guard by the voice and whipped round, almost taking Balyndis’s head off with his lance. His armor, which was slightly too big for him, clunked noisily.
Behind them was an älf with long dark hair. Tungdil recognized him immediately as the sinister bowman who had shot at him in Goodwater and tracked the company through the Red Range. He knew they had to do something, but he couldn’t for the life of him think what.
“I knew a Morana once, but she didn’t look like you. Besides, the Morana I’m thinking of is dead.” Caphalor’s fathomless eyes settled on Narmora. He was wearing tioniumplated leather armor that seemed to swallow the sunlight. “You’re not from Dsôn Balsur, are you?” He laid his slender fingers on the hilt of his sword. “Why did you lie to us? Tell us where you’re from.”
By now Boïndil was becoming restless. His eyes darted back and forth and he glanced at Tungdil, waiting for his command.
Should we attack? If we do, they’re bound to overpower us. Tungdil didn’t know what to do. The älfar’s ambush was entirely unexpected and it looked as though neither Sinthoras nor Caphalor had any intention of allowing Narmora to deliver her prisoners to Nôd’onn.
“I’ve had enough of your games,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. For all her acting experience, she couldn’t control her fear. “If you won’t take me to him, I’ll call him myself.” She shouted out to Nôd’onn.
The älfar laughed.
“That’s too bad,” Sinthoras said spitefully. “You’re not the only one who’s been lying. The magus is mustering his troops by the tower. We’re just about to join him. My spear is looking forward to whetting itself on dwarfish blood.”
“The tower?” She glanced at the mercenaries and the dwarves. “Then that’s where I’ll take them.” She was about to push past Sinthoras when he whipped out his sword. Before the blade reached her neck, she parried the blow. “Another trick like that and I’ll kill you,” she said menacingly.
A knife whistled over the dwarves’ heads, its sharp point embedding itself in the half älf’s armpit. She cried out in pain.
“My Morana sounded different as well,” Caphalor said grimly.
Furgas couldn’t contain himself any longer and lunged at the aggressor. The älf stepped nimbly out of the way of his spear, drew his sword, and feigned a swipe at his head. Furgas fell for the ruse and readied himself to parry the blow. The dark-haired älf rammed his sword into Furgas’s belly. The prop master sank to his knees, groaning.
“Quick,” Tungdil shouted to Rodario, who was rooted with shock. The impresario grabbed the sack and tossed the weapons to the dwarves. Throwing off their leather manacles, they seized their axes and hurled themselves on their hated foes.
As Rodario backed away from the smiling Sinthoras, Ire-heart leaped into the breach, his axes twirling ferociously.
“So you want to dunk your toothpick in some dwarf blood, do you, hollow eyes?” He slashed at the älf’s hips, forcing him away from Rodario. The impresario seized his chance and fled. Ireheart took another step toward his opponent. “You’d better be quick because my axes are hungry for älf flesh.” They fell on each other, and Balyndis and Gandogar threw themselves into the mix, ignoring Boïndil’s indignant shouts.
Andôkai and Tungdil were left to deal with Caphalor, while the injured Narmora went to Furgas’s aid.
The half älf’s wound was relatively minor. The knife had missed the vein, nicking the flesh and drawing blood, but Furgas was in a critical state. By the time Narmora got to him, he was breathing shallowly, fumbling with his visor, and struggling for air.
“Furgas, my love,” she said soothingly, pressing on his abdomen to stem the bleeding. The color returned to her eyes as she tended to him anxiously. Blood continued to gush from the wound. With a wild curse, she jumped to her feet, pushed Andôkai away from Caphalor, and harried the älf with a series of blows. “I’ll take care of him. You see to Furgas,” she ordered. “He’ll die if you don’t.” Her eyes darkened to hollows.
Andôkai retreated with a nod.
“How moving,” Caphalor said scornfully. “I shouldn’t worry, though. You’ll be united in death.” He dodged her weapon and kicked Tungdil elegantly in the chest. The dwarf fell backward and sat down with a thud. Caphalor smiled at Narmora. “Let’s have some fun before I kill you.”
He parried her next blow and punched h
er in the face. Struggling to keep her balance, she managed to duck beneath his sword, but his knee powered into her nose and she straightened up, placing herself unknowingly within reach of his blade.
Without stopping to think, Tungdil hurled his only ax at the älf. Boïndil would have disapproved of the tactic, but he didn’t know what else to do.
The blade whistled as it arced through the air, alerting Caphalor to the danger.
In a movement so swift that Tungdil scarcely saw it happen, Caphalor caught the weapon by the haft and tossed it back. The älf used the momentum to whirl like a spinning top toward Narmora and knock her sideways. He raised his sword to kill her as she fell.
Tungdil had no time to dodge the flying ax, which hit him poll-first in the chest. His ribs cracked audibly and the pain was terrible, but it could have been far worse.
“Leave her to me, Caphalor,” a hoarse voice commanded. The älf froze and turned to see Nôd’onn, who had appeared out of nowhere.
“But, Master, you…”
His confusion lasted long enough for Narmora to sit up and thrust her blade into the crouching älf’s neck. The blow almost parted his head from his shoulders, but Caphalor took one last lunge at her, slashing at her throat, then toppling over and burying her beneath him.
Sinthoras let out a terrible howl. He realized that his friend was dead and that the distraction was the work of an impostor. Glancing at his opponents, he decided that the odds were against him. He had sacrificed his amulet already and was no match for the maga on his own. “We’ll meet again,” he promised. “Sinthoras will be your death.” With that he disappeared into the tent.
Tungdil and his companions chased after him but found the magus’s quarters deserted. Damn that älf! He’s tricked us again.
Rodario, still posing as the magus, had stayed outside to disperse the crowd of startled beasts. He instructed them to return to the battle and kill any of their comrades who weren’t fighting savagely enough. “I’ll take care of the treacherous sorceress myself.” He stabbed a finger at Andôkai and muttered a few unintelligible words. “Take that!” The maga sank obligingly to the ground. Impressed by the magus’s power, the orcs and bögnilim backed away, bowing respectfully.
“An unsophisticated audience is a gift from above,” he murmured gratefully into his malachite cowl. His heart had been in his throat throughout the scene. He checked that the coast was clear and beckoned to Andôkai. “No one’s looking. Come quickly, Estimable Maga! Narmora needs your help!”
The maga crouched over the half älf and began a healing incantation to close the wound, while Rodario stood in front of them, spreading out his voluminous robes to hide them from view. “Incidentally, you’d make a wonderful actress. I’ve never seen anyone die with such conviction.”
“This is no time for flattery,” she rebuked him, concentrating on her charm.
As quickly and discreetly as possible they carried the dead älf and their two wounded companions into the tent and held a whispered conference. Boïndil peered out of the flap and kept watch.
“Sinthoras is bound to tell the magus about us,” said Tungdil. He glanced down at Furgas’s motionless form. Andôkai had induced a deep healing sleep in the hope that he would recover. Narmora was stroking his hand comfortingly, but she herself was shaking all over and her throat was smeared with blood.
“Nôd’onn will be expecting us,” said Andôkai, glancing around the tent. “It won’t make things any easier, but at least we’ve got another älf outfit.” She stripped the dead Caphalor unceremoniously of his mail and strapped it to her body. It was tight in some places and loose in others, but with her visor down and in the company of Narmora she looked reasonably convincing. “With any luck, Nôd’onn won’t notice the difference until it’s too late.”
“How do you feel about posing as the magus again, Rodario? Do you think you’d be able to get us as far as Nôd’onn?” Tungdil was already working on a new plan.
“With pleasure.” He tugged on the straps that looped beneath his improvised stilts. He was standing on a pair of helmets. “I get quite a kick out of being a notorious wizard.” Grinning, he made a final check of his flamethrower and rearranged the air-filled leather pouches that inflated his girth. “Let the show begin! Our beastly spectators are waiting.”
“Don’t lay it on too thick or they’ll tear you to pieces before we can stop them,” warned Tungdil. “All right, here’s the story.” He pointed to Balyndis, Boïndil, Gandogar, and himself. “The four of us are defectors. We’re under your spell, and we’re showing you how to infiltrate the stronghold.”
Andôkai picked up Furgas’s helmet and placed it on her head. It didn’t look right with the elaborate älf armor, but at least it hid her face.
“Blasted ogres,” gasped Boïndil, peering through the tent flap. “They’ve pushed the tower right up against the mountain. They’re going to do it this time.” He screwed his eyes up in concentration. “I think I can see the magus. He’s on the middle platform and he’s —” He stopped short, too anxious to continue.
The others rushed to the door to see for themselves what was happening.
The Blacksaddle was quaking under the force of Nôd’onn’s attack. Black bolts sped from his staff and zigzagged over the slopes. The noise of crackling, spluttering lightning carried as far as the tent.
The stubborn mountain stood firm, resisting the assault. Just then a mighty bolt slammed into its flank, forcing it apart.
A mass of fractured rock thundered down the slopes, raising vast clouds of dust. Ledges and overhangs collapsed, laying open the passageways that led into the stronghold.
The troops on the tower prepared to disembark. Each platform was equipped with hastily constructed gangplanks, which the beasts angled toward the pitted surface of the once-sheer slope. The first orcs were halfway across before the planks had touched down. They stormed into the stronghold, to be met by dwarven axes.
Nôd’onn made certain that enough troopers were inside, then stepped onto a gangplank and followed them unhurriedly into the stronghold.
At least we know where he is. Tungdil took a deep breath. “We’ll have to leave Furgas here,” he decided. “It’s safer than taking him with us. Are you ready?”
Narmora and Rodario nodded.
As they strode past rows of kneeling beasts who were too dim-witted to see through their disguise, Boïndil had a sudden feeling that they had forgotten something important, and he couldn’t think what.
They remained on guard, knowing that Sinthoras was still at large and could ambush them at any moment. Mercifully, the crowds were too thick for him to take aim at them with his bow, so he would be forced to attack at close range. He hadn’t shown himself yet.
No one challenged them as they headed for the tower. Farther away, four smaller siege engines had started attacking the stronghold. They ascended the broad steps that led up to the platforms and strode over the gangplank that Nôd’onn had used.
To their intense relief, they survived the defenders’ hail of stones and arrows and made it safely into the Blacksaddle. Orcish shrieks echoed through the passageway, accompanied by the peal of colliding swords, axes, and maces. A battle was raging deep within the stronghold.
“I’ll see to it that we don’t have to worry about enemy reinforcements,” said Andôkai. She turned and focused on the besiegers’ main tower. Ogres were scaling its sides, hoping to use the uppermost platform as a stepping-stone. Unable to squeeze through the tunnels, they were intent on assailing the defenders from the mountain’s flat summit.
“You mustn’t exhaust yourself,” warned Tungdil, scanning the area for orcs. “We’re bound to need your magic when it comes to tackling Nôd’onn.”
“Don’t worry; I know how to deal with them.” The fair-haired maga conjured luminous blue runes that coalesced into a sphere. Hissing furiously, the ball of energy swooped toward the base of the tower and exploded on Andôkai’s command.
The air crac
kled with the sound of an oncoming storm, and a gale blew up, blasting through the tower’s solid timber and blowing away the tethers. The lower platforms folded like cardboard, causing the tower to wobble and tilt dangerously to the side.
The walls blew out, and the ogres were thrown backward, arms and legs thrashing frantically like upturned beetles. They fell to earth amid the milling mass of orcs, bögnilim, and beasts. A moment later, the tower collapsed entirely, burying several hundred more creatures under its weight. The shrill screams of terror sounded sweeter than the sweetest music to Tungdil’s ears. The wreckage of the tower lay directly below the entrance to the stronghold, so the debris would have to be cleared before any of the smaller siege engines could be wheeled into place.
“That should keep them busy for a while,” said Andôkai, eyeing her work with satisfaction.
“Now for the traitor. We’ll have to fight our way through to him, I’m afraid.” Tungdil gave up all pretense of being enslaved to the counterfeit magus. “Enough of the act, Rodario. If our kinsfolk mistake you for the real Nôd’onn, they’ll rip you limb from limb.”
Rodario stepped down from his makeshift stilts and took off his robe to reveal his armor. He stowed the props hastily in his bag.
Balyndis was still scanning the besieging troops. A cloud of dust had appeared on the horizon. “We need to hurry,” she said in alarm. “There are more of them. Where the deuce are they coming from?”
Tungdil didn’t care where they were coming from, provided that he and the others could beat them back. How are we ever going to defeat them? Even if we kill the magus, we’ll never get rid of them on our own. It would take a combined army of dwarves, elves, and men to see off the threat. He drew closer to Balyndis and took her hand, drawing strength and courage from her touch. “We’ll deal with Nôd’onn; then we’ll worry about his troops.”
They raised their weapons and prepared to charge into the tunnels and overwhelm their enemies from behind. Boïndil was in his element.
