by Markus Heitz
Bislipur laughed spitefully. “So you’ve fallen for someone, have you? And how do you think she’ll react when she finds out you’re a dwarf killer and a traitor? Your future is with the thirdlings, not here. You’ll die with the others if you stay.”
“A traitor?” Tungdil stared at the battle in sudden understanding. At last he grasped the full meaning of Bislipur’s words. “It was you! You betrayed us to Nôd’onn!”
“Nôd’onn is a great ally, the greatest. I promised him that the thirdlings would do nothing to stop him, provided that the other kingdoms were destroyed. It was the perfect opportunity.”
Tungdil swallowed and tightened his grip on his ax. “You’re crazy. You delivered up Girdlegard just because —”
“No!” the thirdling screeched suddenly. “Not just because of anything! This is our destiny! For thousands of cycles we’ve been waiting for a moment like this. No deed could be more glorious, Tungdil. Our folk, the dwarves of Lorimbur, will rule all five ranges of Girdlegard once the others are dead!”
“I don’t want anything to do with you or your folk! I came here to stop Nôd’onn and save the dwarves. I don’t belong to Lorimbur!”
“You’re one of us,” Bislipur told him fiercely. “I knew it from the moment I saw you. Look inside your heart and embrace your hatred. You’re a thirdling, believe me.”
“Believe you? Why should I believe a traitor?” Tungdil glared at him scornfully and took a deep breath. “Now give me Keenfire.”
Bislipur stared at him suspiciously. “Why?”
“So Nôd’onn can be killed. As for your punishment, I’ll leave that to Gandogar and the others to decide.”
“It’s like that, is it?” He thumped the ax regretfully. “I’m afraid I’ll have to kill you, Tungdil. You risked everything for Keenfire, and now the weapon will be your death. It seems a shame to —”
Tungdil raised his ax without warning, but Bislipur countered his blow. From then on, both dwarves fought mercilessly, but neither could win the upper hand.
“So you still think you’re not a thirdling, do you?” the traitor asked mockingly. “How else would you have learned to fight so well in such a short space of time? You were born a warrior.”
“No!” thundered Tungdil, slashing at him furiously. “I’ll never be a thirdling.”
The two axes collided, and Keenfire shattered Tungdil’s weapon. The ax head spun into the air and struck Tungdil’s nose guard with enough force to make him see stars.
Bislipur didn’t wait for him to recover, but moved in fast. Tungdil tried to step out of the way and stumbled. At the last moment he pulled Bislipur with him, and they wrestled each other to the ground.
The battle continued on the floor, the two dwarves hacking at each other until Keenfire fell from Bislipur’s grasp. He whipped out a dagger and rammed it into Tungdil’s arm. Gasping, Tungdil grabbed his knife and plunged it into Bislipur’s throat.
“You’re wasting your time,” Bislipur said derisively. “See what Balendilín did to me? He couldn’t kill me; the Perished Land wouldn’t let him.” He landed a punch that knocked off Tungdil’s helmet, then seized his chance to scramble to safety. A well-aimed kick sent Tungdil’s knife flying out of his hand. “It’s not a fair fight, Tungdil, and you’re about to lose.”
His fingers wound their way into Tungdil’s hair and hauled him up. “I’ll give you one last chance because you’re a thirdling,” he snarled. “Do you want to die with the other scum, or come back with me and celebrate our victory?”
Tungdil had run out of weapons and had only one option. Fumbling in his pouch, he pulled out Sverd’s collar and looped it around the startled Bislipur’s neck.
“The gnome’s choker? What good will that do? I’m dead already! I don’t need air!”
“Sure, but you can’t do without your head.” Tungdil shoved him backward. The maneuver cost him a clump of hair, but allowed him to reach for the magic wire on Bislipur’s belt. “And it’s your head that I’m after.”
A sudden jerk, and the noose closed around Bislipur’s neck. The collar tightened, cutting into Bislipur’s throat. At last the thirdling realized what Tungdil was intending to do.
Grunting inarticulately because of the pressure on his throat, he jabbed his dagger toward Tungdil, who tugged on the wire. The choker passed through Bislipur’s neck, slicing through his spinal cord. The wire ran through its clasp, the noose sprang open, and the traitor’s head rolled across the floor. The hateful collar fell apart, its evil charm broken.
There was no time for Tungdil to savor his victory. Gathering up Keenfire, he ran as fast as his injuries would permit him, determined to stand by his friends in the fight against the magus.
The ax was back in their possession. Now all they needed was an enemy of the dwarves who could wield it against Nôd’onn.
The orcs drew back to let the magus through. Suddenly everyone stopped fighting.
“Hello, Andôkai,” rasped Nôd’onn, inclining his head toward her. “You should have allied yourself with me from the beginning, instead of squandering your strength in futile resistance. I’ll need your power to fight the peril from the west.”
“The peril is here already. It lives within you, confusing your thoughts and steering your deeds.” She focused her energy on maintaining her protective shield. “The demon is using you, Nudin.”
“He’s my friend, a loyal friend of Girdlegard.” He shook his head despairingly. “You don’t understand. No one understands.”
“You’re right, Nudin; we don’t understand. How many men, elves, and dwarves must die so you can protect our kingdoms? It seems a high price to pay, especially when the supposed peril is a figment of your poisoned mind.”
“My name is Nôd’onn!” His voice became a shrill, nasal shout. “When you see what’s coming from the west, you’ll be grateful that my friend and I protected you. Lay down your weapons, and I’ll spare you.” There was an urgency to his doublefold voice; he seemed fully convinced of everything he said. “I did what I did because you gave me no choice. If you’d relinquished your power, it would never have come to this.”
Andôkai’s sword flashed as she raised her arm defiantly. “How I am supposed to believe you after all the suffering you’ve caused?”
He looked at her sadly. “In that case, we’ll have to finish things properly. You’ve had your chance.” With a wave of his hand, he shattered her protective spell.
Sinthoras heard the shield collapse and lunged at the maga. She batted away his spear, only to find herself under attack from three orcs who crowded round her, cutting her off from her companions.
Suddenly the älf was beside her and this time his spear was headed straight for her chest. It collided with a shimmering shield.
Sinthoras was sheathed in violet light. A terrible roar shook the hall, then Djerůn’s sword swooped down. The älf barely had time to raise his weapon.
No wood in the world, not even sigurdaisy wood, could have withstood such a blow. The giant’s sword sliced through the spear and sped on. A wide sweeping blow parted the disbelieving älf’s head from his shoulders, and Sinthoras’s headless body slumped to the ground, never to rise again.
Grunting in terror, the orcs shrank back from the king of the beasts as he straightened up, howling, and opened his visor. His face was invisible in the blinding light, but the orcs were rooted with fear, allowing the company to regroup.
Tungdil, still clutching Keenfire, limped toward the maga. “I’ve got the weapon.” He pointed to Djerůn. “Is he an enemy of the dwarves?” he asked, panting for breath.
“I don’t know. Are you prepared to give him Keenfire?”
“We don’t have a choice.” He tossed the weapon to the giant.
Without hesitating, Djerůn discarded his sword by ramming it through two orcs and reached out to catch the ax.
Let’s get this over with. Tungdil raised his horn and sounded a long, powerful call. The dwarves of Beroïn, Borengar, and G
oïmdil answered with cheers and blaring bugles. “For Vraccas and Girdlegard!” he shouted, leading the charge against the magus. Balyndis and Gandogar were already at his side; the others stormed after them.
They hewed down the orcs and bögnilim in their way, cutting a path of gory destruction that brought Djerůn within striking distance of their foe. Andôkai conjured a bolt of lightning, whose purpose was to dazzle the magus, then gave the command for Djerůn to strike.
Before Nôd’onn had time to compose himself, the mailed giant brought down the ax. It hit the magus’s unprotected back, sliced through his body, and sped out of his chest. Stinking black fluid spurted everywhere, showering the transfixed onlookers.
Nôd’onn let out a terrible howl. The hall was still echoing with his screams when the wound began to heal.
“No,” whispered Tungdil in horror. “It’s not possible. Keenfire was supposed to…”
Nôd’onn hurled bolts of black lightning at the giant, who fell backward and lay still among the orcs. “I told you that nothing can hurt me,” thundered the magus. He bore no sign of injury, save for the gash in his robes.
We can’t let it end this way! Filled with desperate fury, Tungdil went on the offensive. While his friends tried to preoccupy the magus by engaging him in an increasingly hopeless battle, he set off a second time in search of the ax.
He found Keenfire in Djerůn’s stiff metal grasp. Prizing away the giant’s fingers, he picked up the ax and felt a strange sensation in his hand. What… ?
Light pulsed through the intarsia, and the diamonds came to life, shining and sparkling like a thousand miniature suns. At first he thought Nôd’onn had worked a spell on it, but then he saw that the ax itself had wrought the change. Keenfire was readying itself to fight the demon.
By Vraccas, Bislipur was right: I’m a thirdling. No sooner had he grasped the significance of what was happening than he decided to turn his heritage to the good.
He tightened his grip on Keenfire, squared his shoulders, and charged. Orcs tried to block his path but perished in a blaze of white fire as he swung the shimmering ax. A trail of smoke followed the swinging Keenfire, and Tungdil could feel the heat from its blade. It burned with the fierce ardor of the fifthlings’ furnace.
Nôd’onn recognized the danger before it was upon him. His self-assurance vanished, replaced by pure terror. His magic could do nothing against the charging dwarf; Tungdil was protected from harm by Keenfire’s runes.
“Kill me, and Girdlegard will be doomed,” the magus prophesied. “Terrible forces are gathering in the west and you won’t be able to stop them.” He thrust his staff at Tungdil, who deflected the blow and lunged closer. “You’ll be to blame for Girdlegard’s destruction. You must let me live!”
Tungdil slashed at the magus’s onyx-tipped staff. The black jewel shattered in a shower of dark crystals.
“No, Nôd’onn, evil will never triumph over Girdlegard. We’ll protect our kingdoms, just as we protected them from you.” Tungdil swung his ax again. For Lot-Ionan, Frala, and her daughters.
The corpulent magus tried in vain to sidestep the blow. Even his final incantation failed to halt the blade, his hastily conjured runes flickering briefly as Keenfire smashed through them. The diamond-studded ax head buried itself in Nôd’onn’s waist.
Like an overripe fruit, the magus burst, spilling a foul mess of flesh, blood, and entrails. A finger-length splinter of malachite shot out and was swept away in the reeking cascade.
Slowly, a shimmering wisp of mist detached itself from the wreckage. It expanded rapidly, coursing with black, silver, and crimson flashes and looming five paces in the air. Fist-sized orbs burned red within its cavernous eyes as it stared with hatred and malice at Tungdil. Then it shifted its gaze to the maga.
It needs a new victim.
The swirling mist reached out toward Andôkai, who took a step backward. She raised her sword, but the blade slid straight through it. The mist shrank, sprouting thin transparent arms and imprisoning the maga in its grasp.
Groaning, Andôkai staggered and fell to her knees as fingers of mist prized themselves experimentally between her jaws. The being was determined to find a new home, with or without her permission.
Tungdil leaped toward her, bringing down his ax just as the flickering column of mist readied itself to glide down her throat.
Keenfire’s runes sparkled as it hewed the mist in two. There was a loud hiss as the mist drew back like a wounded beast. Tungdil closed in, swinging his ax and slashing at the mist. Thin wisps floated through the hall and dispersed into nothingness, but the demon was still alive and seemed intent on escaping to the ceiling.
In that case I’ll have to try another tactic. Tungdil climbed onto an upturned pillar. Pain shot through his wounded arm and leg as he sprinted forward, casting himself into the air and brandishing Keenfire. “For Vraccas!”
He had timed the leap well. Soaring into the middle of the mist, his blade found its target. Runes blazing, the ax head left a cometlike trail of light. The diamonds sparkled fiercely.
For the span of a heartbeat Tungdil hovered at the heart of the demon. At first it seemed as if the mist had stopped his fall; then there was a tearing noise and a terrible groan.
Tungdil plunged through the mist, skidded across the floor, and was saved by his chain mail from serious cuts and grazes. Looking round, he saw he had punched a hole through the flickering demon. Slowly the being sank to the ground, turning first gray, then black, then disappearing altogether. In the end there was nothing left.
No one moved. Dwarves and beasts alike had witnessed the death of the magus and the destruction of the demon. It was deathly still.
One of the älf, who moments earlier had been spurring the hordes against the dwarves, reached to his neck, screaming with pain. Suddenly his amulet burst apart, tearing him to pieces. Soon the other älfar and a number of orcish chieftains were dead or dying, slain by the magus’s gifts.
A bugle sounded the attack, and the dwarves of the three kingdoms fell upon their foes.
The bögnilim were the first to flee, followed by the orcs, but the children of the Smith showed no pity or mercy, funneling them into the narrow passageways where the battle continued. In the vast halls, the ceilings echoed with the clatter and ringing of furious axes.
Slowly Tungdil picked himself up from the floor. Balyndis was beside him, helping him to his feet. “You did it!” She leaned forward and gave him a lingering kiss on the lips.
It was a moment he had dreamed of, but the truth about his lineage spoiled it. “Only because I’m a thirdling,” he said bitterly. A dwarf killer, he added silently.
She nodded. “Praise be to Vraccas! Nôd’onn would still be alive if you weren’t!” She smiled. “You’re a true dwarf, Tungdil. I don’t care which folk you belong to. I know in my heart that I can trust you, and that’s what counts.”
He gave her hand a grateful squeeze. Let’s hope the others are as understanding.
Meanwhile, Andôkai and a unit of dwarves had stormed the walkway and were attending to the wounded Narmora. Boïndil had been cut down by Caphalor and needed the maga’s attentions as well. Djerůn was back on his feet again, his visor firmly closed and his face still a mystery.
Dwarven healers hurried over with water, balms, and dressings. Now that the duel with the demon was over, Tungdil was acutely aware of his injuries and allowed himself to be salved and bandaged. He found a worthy place for Keenfire in Giselbert Ironeye’s belt.
He didn’t have much opportunity to relax. Already Rodario was hurrying toward him.
“My apologies for bothering Girdlegard’s valiant hero, but I think we should check on Furgas,” he said anxiously. “Who knows what…”
“Valiant hero?” Tungdil grinned. Not bad for a scholar. I hope Frala and Lot-Ionan can see me now. He straightened up and checked his bandages. “In that case, I’ll have to rejoin the battle. In books the hero always keeps fighting to the end.”
&nbs
p; “Blasted älfar, they always creep up on you. I didn’t hear him coming. He loomed up like a shadow and attacked me from behind.” Boïndil, his chest swathed in bandages, hobbled down the stairs. “That’s right, scholar, just like in a book. My brother would be proud of you.”
“Boïndil!” Smiling with relief, Tungdil thumped him gently on the back: The thought of losing another friend had been too much to bear. “Let’s check on Furgas.”
Tungdil, Rodario, Balyndis, Boïndil, and Djerůn hurried away. Andôkai caught up with them after a few paces: They had started the journey as strangers and wanted to end it as friends.
Blacksaddle,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
A chill wind was buffeting the flat summit of the Black-saddle, but shafts of sunlight shone through the clouds and warmed the earth, heralding the coming of spring.
“For many cycles this mountain was known as a place of foreboding, a dreaded stronghold where a plot was hatched to destroy the dwarven race. Today’s events have changed all that. From this day forth, the Blacksaddle will be seen as a symbol of hope, a symbol of a better future in which elves, men, and dwarves will work together for the good of Girdlegard.” Gandogar paused for a moment and surveyed the assortment of leaders and warriors gathered on top of the Blacksaddle.
Half a cycle ago he would have ridiculed the idea of elven, human, and dwarven rulers uniting on the accursed peak to celebrate a battle fought as allies, not foes.
His eyes traveled over the faces before him. Prince Mallen of Ido was sitting beside Lord Liútasil of landur. Next came King Balendilín Onearm of the clan of the Firm Fingers and Queen Xamtys II of the clan of the Stubborn Streaks, and behind them were Nate, Bruron, and the other human sovereigns, not forgetting Andôkai, of course.
After that, there was a short gap to the first row of commoners, made up of Girdlegard’s most distinguished warriors — dwarves, elves, and men. They were straining to hear what their leaders were discussing. Gandogar could see Tungdil and Balyndis among them, with Djerůn towering like a pinnacle at their side.
