by Markus Heitz
From the pool came high-pitched wails as the orcs continued to flounder in the water, unable to die. The noise redoubled as a battalion of dwarves poured out of the gateway, their shouts and cheers echoing between the peaks.
Blind panic descended on the remaining orcs.
At the sight of the grimly determined, ax-wielding dwarves, they turned tail and fled, forgetting that the dark water had given them unnatural strength. In their headlong charge to safety, they collided with the next orcish unit, which was making its ascent. Unsettled by the noise from above and the sight of their fleeing comrades, the next wave of troopers took off down the mountainside as well. In the chaos, the shouts of the orcish lieutenants went unheeded.
Ushnotz liked to think of himself as a cunning tactician. He was about to give the order to pull back and regroup when a slender figure detached itself from the rocks.
“You’re not scared of a handful of groundlings, are you?” demanded a female älf. She was wearing a half mask and a veil of black gauze. “I count two hundred groundlings to your five…” She paused and glanced at the flailing troopers in the pool. “Sorry, four thousand orcs.”
Ushnotz rounded on her. “What’s it to you?” he snapped. “Have they kicked you out of Dsôn Balsur already? Well, the Gray Range is mine.” He pointed down the mountainside. “Get out of my sight before I show you what happens to älfar who trespass on my land.”
“Your land? As far as I can see, the Gray Range belongs to the groundlings,” she said with a scornful laugh. “You’re lucky I’m here to help.” Reaching over her shoulder, she drew an ax.
Ushnotz saw the glittering diamonds on the blade and stepped back with a snarl, almost losing his balance.
“You’re familiar with the ax, I see,” observed Ondori, holding Keenfire aloft. “Groundlings of the Gray Range,” she called, her clear voice and the shimmering gems on the ax commanding the dwarves’ attention. “Your fabled weapon is in the hands of Dsôn Balsur’s älfar. Its bearer is dead.”
The announcement had the desired effect. The charging dwarves stopped in their tracks.
“Well?” said Ondori to Ushnotz. “This is your chance: Send in your troopers and finish them off.”
Ushnotz hesitated. “What if they’ve laid another—”
Ondori responded so swiftly that the orcish chieftain didn’t have time to raise his sword. Keenfire whirred through the air, hewing his neck in a single blow. His head, complete with helmet, hit the boulder, bounced, and rolled down the mountainside. As if in defiance of the älf, Ushnotz stayed standing, blood gushing from his neck. Ondori kicked him in the chest, and the rest of his body followed his head.
The gory blade rose through the air, tip pointing toward the startled Runshak, who had witnessed the death of his chieftain from afar. “Orc,” Ondori called out to him. “You’re their leader now. Next time I won’t be so merciful: Tell your troopers to attack.”
Runshak immediately gave orders for the army to attack and the orcs advanced cautiously.
Ondori bounded down from the boulder, alighting in front of the dwarves, who drew back, eyes riveted on the legendary ax. They were talking in hushed tones and their bearded faces were stamped with dismay.
The älf felt a wave of revulsion. “I killed your hero,” she told them coldly. “Tungdil Goldhand and his companions met their deaths in the lonely woods of Lesinteïl, and you…” She tilted the ax toward one of the dwarves. “You’ll die as they did, killed by the weapon that you forged.”
Four dwarves stormed toward her, but their bravery was in vain. A flurry of arrows ripped through the air, and the warriors toppled backward into their comrades’ arms. It was clear from the black shafts protruding from their chain mail that the älf was not alone. A unit of älvish archers was hidden among the boulders, ready to loose fire on the dwarves.
As if the dwarves weren’t sufficiently intimidated, Ondori raised the ax and slashed at the nearest warrior. The blade passed effortlessly through the hastily raised shield, cleaving the arm behind it. The wounded warrior stared at his bleeding shoulder, paralyzed with shock.
“Groundlings are gifted metalworkers,” she said, laughing vindictively. “See how cleanly the weapon slices through your flesh.” The air quivered, and five dwarves fell to the ground.
Runshak grunted an order and the orcs charged at the defenders, weapons raised.
Ondori stepped aside, not wishing to be sandwiched between the troopers and the dwarves. The main part of the mission was over; she had staked a claim to the underground halls.
Watching in satisfaction, she saw that the groundlings were already losing ground. It was exactly as the immortal siblings had predicted: The news of their hero’s death was more crushing than the sight of five thousand orcs. Without their usual confidence, they would be hard pressed to resist the invaders’ superior might.
Meanwhile, orcish reinforcements were surging onto the plateau and stampeding toward the gateway, their fears forgotten now that victory was in sight.
Ondori jumped onto the rocks where her companions were unleashing their feathered missiles at the defenders. Their aim was deadly; each of the arrows killed or wounded one or more dwarves.
Slowly but surely the defenders fell back. At last their front line regrouped to form a semi-circle barely ten paces from the gateway. A unit of dwarves bearing crossbows stepped out of the tunnel.
Ondori realized that the dwarves were preparing to close the gates. “Look,” she said, alerting her archers. “Feather them with arrows before they lock themselves inside.”
The älfar took aim, drew back their bowstrings, and sent a flurry of missiles over the heads of the invaders. The bombardment stopped when the last dwarven archer went down.
Ondori waved angrily at Runshak. “What are you waiting for? Get your troopers through the gates!” Once closed, the gates could only be opened with the help of siege engines, so everything depended on storming the tunnel before it was too late.
She leaned forward and followed the battle. It seemed to her that the groundlings were intent on beheading the invading orcs. Usually they concentrated on slashing their legs and shattering their kneecaps, allowing the maimed beasts to thrash about in agony and trip up their fellows. But this time they were definitely aiming for their necks.
She watched in amazement as orc after orc picked himself up from the ground and fought on. What’s going on? Are the beasts immortal? She glanced at Ushnotz’s corpse. Is the Gray Range back in the grip of the Perished Land?
Another bugle sounded.
This time the call came from a small band of dwarves emerging from a narrow opening near the waterfall. Ondori recognized their leader at once. What’s this? I saw him drown…
“That’s right,” bellowed Tungdil, his deep voice carrying over the din of clashing blades. “I’ve come to reclaim my property and avenge my friends. I won’t rest until you’re dead.”
The dwarves, seeing their hero, were filled with new courage. The strength returned to their arms and they fought back determinedly. The orcs responded by renewing their attack. It was clear to both sides that the battle had entered a crucial stage.
“We’ll see who gets vengeance,” replied Ondori, trembling with rage. “You’ll die by the ax that you forged!” Signaling to her companions to secure her path, she jumped into the melee of orcs.
Porista,
Former Realm of Lios Nudin,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
Narmora kneeled down and drew her right hand over the loose, moist soil, then packed it down firmly. “Taken from me at birth,” she whispered, tears leaking from her closed eyes. “You started life together, and now you’re alone. We won’t forget you, I promise.”
Wiping her cheeks with her sleeve, she opened her eyes and began to cover the little grave with stones.
All alone in a forest beyond the walls of Porista, she took her leave from her son, burying his body, and committing his soul to Sam
usin. It was an älvish ritual, taught to her by her mother.
No one else was there to mark the infant’s passing. Furgas, the only person who could offer some solace, was in a deathly coma, leaving Narmora alone in her grief.
She was dreading the moment when she would tell her husband that their baby boy was dead. What will I say? She covered the grave with another layer of stones to protect the child from the claws and teeth of hungry scavengers. His body was tiny, but perfectly formed, with miniature fingers and toes, and an adorable face. Fate had ordained that he would never grow old.
The hours wore on and the trees cast long shadows over the forest floor. At last, as dusk began to fall, she made her way back slowly to Porista. In the distance, the familiar landscape of scaffolding and cranes heralded the city’s rise from the ashes, and the maga’s palace loomed on the horizon, sable turrets reaching to the sky. Narmora, head bowed, looked only at the ground.
Blinded by grief, she entered the city, insensible to the activity on the crowded streets.
In the marketplace, stalls were being dismantled, goods packed away, and coins counted into bags. People were leaving work, going home, piling into taverns that smelled of hot food, or gathering on the pavements to discuss the latest news. Narmora walked on.
After a time she became aware of the conversation around her. Everyone was talking excitedly about the deaths of Nôd’onn’s famuli, Rodario’s heroism, and the rapid construction of the city walls.
Next they’ll be gossiping about how I killed my child, she thought grimly.
Andôkai’s intervention following Narmora’s botched incantation had prevented the two of them being crushed by the marble archway, but while a sprained ankle had been the only injury sustained by the maga, Narmora had paid with the life of her son.
To her surprise, Rodario was waiting for her at the palace gates. Wrapping his arms around her, he hugged her in silence. Narmora’s eyes filled with tears all over again.
“Andôkai told me what happened,” he said sadly, trying not to look at her flat, childless belly. She looked exactly like the old Narmora.
“I know,” she said quickly, not wishing to discuss the baby’s death. “The fireball robbed me of a son and left me with a daughter. When she’s old enough, I’ll tell her about her twin.” She tried to meet Rodario’s eyes, but he was looking at her strangely. “You’re not in trouble again, are you?” she asked, guessing that he needed to get something off his chest. She mustered a faint smile. “Don’t tell me that the hero of Porista is being chased by the angry father of some poor impressionable girl…”
He looked at her warily. “We should talk somewhere else,” he said, steering her back down the street. As they walked, he summarized how he had eavesdropped on the thieves and interrogated Nôd’onn’s famula. His story was considerably more convoluted than the version that Narmora had heard.
“I don’t know how to tell you this,” he said carefully. “For all I know, the story was a fabrication, but the poor girl was dying, so I doubt she made it up.” He hesitated, not wanting to add to his friend’s distress. “Precious Narmora—”
The half älf glared at him. “This isn’t one of your plays,” she reminded him impatiently. “What did the famula actually say? Are the villains who stabbed my Furgas still alive?”
“That’s just it,” he said unhappily. “According to Nufa, the attack on Furgas had nothing to do with her. She said someone paid the ruffians to make it look like Nôd’onn’s famuli were to blame.”
She seized him by the shoulders. “Speak clearly, Rodario. You’re not making any sense.”
He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what would follow. “Nufa told me that she and her friends saw Andôkai…” All of a sudden his face lit up with a radiant smile. “Ah, there she is!” he exclaimed, hailing the maga with a wave. “How reassuring for the citizens of Porista to know that Andôkai the Tempestuous is patrolling the streets!”
Narmora eyed him intently; there was something insincere about his smile.
“Is Djern with you perchance?” he enquired, glancing about him.
The maga went over to Narmora. “I was worried about you,” she said, her face as stern as ever. “You were gone a long time, longer than expected. Your daughter won’t stop crying. I’m many things, but I’m not a nurse.”
“I’ll be there right away,” Narmora promised. “Well?” she said, turning back to Rodario. “You were saying…?”
The impresario withered under Andôkai’s harsh gaze. “I was telling Narmora not to worry,” he said quickly. “She’s got nothing to fear now those villains are dead. Well, don’t let me hold you up.” He yawned theatrically. “It’s nearly my bedtime. So much to do, so little time. May the gods be with you!” Hurrying away, he turned a corner and was gone.
Narmora shook her head in bemusement. “Actors,” she sighed.
Andôkai just shrugged. “The journey starts tomorrow. We’ll head west and begin our search in the libraries of Weyurn. Your daughter can join us, of course. I’ve hired a wet nurse to take care of her while I help you with your studies.” They walked for a while in silence. “I hope you haven’t changed your mind,” said Andôkai, gazing at the rows of buildings rising from the rubble. “Furgas’s survival depends on you, remember.”
“I hate magic,” said Narmora fiercely. “Magic robbed me of my son—if it weren’t for Furgas, I’d have nothing to do with it.” She glanced at the maga almost reproachfully. “I know you were trying to help, but you shouldn’t have made me your famula. It’s bound to end badly.” She lowered her voice. “It already has.”
“From now on you’ll learn your formulae more carefully,” said Andôkai harshly. “I suffered losses when I was a famula as well.” Her stern face showed a flicker of emotion. “I’m sorry I can’t offer more comfort. Magic comes at a price.”
They were almost at the palace.
“Perhaps the price is higher than we know,” said Narmora. She recited the incantation to open the gates, and the two women, one dark-haired and slender, the other muscular and fair, walked in silence through the palace.
On reaching the nursery, Narmora went in and closed the door behind her, shutting the maga outside.
At the sound of the door, the child woke up and let out a thin, piteous scream. Narmora bent over the cot, scooped up the tiny baby and clasped her to her breast, running her hand softly over her tiny head. The little girl’s skull felt no stronger than an eggshell. Comforted by her mother’s touch, Dorsa stopped crying.
After the stillbirth of her son, Narmora had been surprised by the arrival of a daughter. It hadn’t occurred to her that she was carrying twins, but Samusin, god of equilibrium, had taken one of her children and let the other live. What price must I pay for Furgas to get well?
The little baby made a clumsy attempt to suckle her breast. “Are you thirsty, little one?” asked Narmora. She left the nursery, crossed the corridor, and knocked on the opposite door. It was opened by a young woman with bleary eyes and tousled hair. Narmora held out her daughter. “Dorsa needs feeding.”
“Of course,” murmured the girl, taking the baby tenderly and putting it to her breast. Dorsa took to her at once.
The half älf felt a pang of sadness as the wet nurse, singing softly, carried her baby around the room. With no milk of her own, she had to entrust her child to a stranger. Fortunately there were plenty of young women in Porista who were happy to suckle her child in return for food or coin.
As soon as the nurse had finished, Narmora scooped up her baby and returned to the nursery. She held onto her for a while, cradling her to sleep, then replaced her in the cot, tucked her in, kissed her nose and stroked her downy head.
“Sweet dreams, my darling,” she whispered. “I won’t be long.” She slipped quietly out of the nursery and hurried to Furgas’s room.
For an hour she sat there, holding his clammy hand, then she crept out of the palace to look for Rodario.
She had no
doubt that the impresario had a secret—and somehow or other, the maga was involved.
Southern Entrance to the Fifthling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
Leaping down from the boulder, the masked älf entered the scrum of armor, spears, and swords, and disappeared from view. Tungdil knew she wouldn’t reappear until she was close enough to attack him, very probably from behind. It was like waiting for a serpent in a field of rippling grass.
At the same time he felt absurdly grateful. Vraccas had shown him that Keenfire wasn’t lost. I need to kill the älf.
Boïndil, his inner furnace blazing, banged his axes together impatiently. “Thousands of fat, juicy orcs! My axes can’t wait for a taste of their blood!” He glanced at Tungdil. “Ready, scholar?”
Tungdil was watching the raging battle. The odds were in favor of the orcs; firstly because the dark water made them difficult to kill, and secondly because the dwarves had only a few hundred defenders, a fact that the orcs seemed thankfully slow to grasp. It was vital to close the gateway before the invaders gained more ground.
So much for Glaïmbar’s tactics, thought Tungdil, allowing himself a moment of smugness. “All right, we need to head for the gateway,” he told the others. “Our priority is to close the gates. The beasts will never be able to force their way in.” Drawing his ax, he ran toward the charging orcs.
Boïndil, huffing disappointedly, took off at great speed. “Can’t we just kill the lot of them?” he asked breathlessly, sprinting past Tungdil. He wasn’t in the least bit intimidated by the raging beasts; their snarling and grunting spurred him on. “The first ten are mine!” he shouted, raising his weapons. His right ax sliced into a green-hided thigh, the left ax swinging upward to catch the falling orc. The blade passed effortlessly through the visor, releasing a torrent of green blood. The orc collapsed without a murmur, a third strike severing his neck.
