by Markus Heitz
Narmora felt instantly light-headed. Every drop of blood seemed to be draining from her body. At last, when she was certain she would faint, Djern released her and she sank to the floor, murmuring an incantation to close the wound.
Djern’s eyes shone violet, the light becoming brighter and stronger, more dazzling than the sun. Beneath his armor, something was rustling, cracking, clicking. A lance dropped to the floor from his breastplate, followed by a hail of broken sword tips, arrow heads, and spikes.
“Your blood is good, mistress,” roared Djern with the energy of a young god. “You taste like Andôkai, only powerful, more powerful. You’re a good maga—strong and full of healing.” He got to his feet like a warrior raring for battle after a good night’s sleep. Bowing his armored head to Narmora, he began his account…
Andôkai sent me to look for the avatars.
I crossed the Red Range, marched across the flatlands, and came upon a raging fire and a band of dwarves. My mission was to look for avatars, not groundlings, so I continued on my way.
Next I came to a crater, four times as big as the gully and full of glowing, bubbling rock. The land beyond was charred and barren. I kept walking until I found the strewn remains of human soldiers—Weyurnians, as I realized from the crests on their blackened armor.
Soon afterward, I saw an army.
The warriors carried white banners with ten different crests and their armor was white, so white it hurt my eyes. Their mounts were whiter than any horse in Girdlegard.
I watched them from a distance to find out who they were and where they were going, but they discovered my hiding place and came for me with their swords.
For every warrior I killed, four others took his place, and four became eight. At length they overwhelmed me and brought me before seven beings, each surrounded by a ring of light that dazzled my eyes. They were wreathed in purity and I couldn’t see their faces.
They asked me where I came from, and I didn’t reply, so they tormented me with kindness, love, and warmth.
But I didn’t die like they hoped.
Summoning my strength, I broke away, anxious to tell my mistress of what I had witnessed.
They called after me that the good, pure souls of Girdlegard should fear no more. Soon, they said, the evil that had inhabited our kingdoms for cycles would be banished, and Tion and the spirit of evil would plague Girdlegard no more.
I ran for many suns and moons until I found the hidden path to the firstlings’ stronghold.
Narmora stroked her arm, marveling at the smooth, healthy skin. So that’s why the avatars are marching on Girdlegard. They think we’re still in the clutches of Nôd’onn and the Perished Land. No one’s told them that the magus was defeated.
“Thank you, Djern,” she said pensively.
“What about the dwarves, mistress?
“What about them? They were thirdlings.”
“Not the dwarves near the fire, I mean the others. Some of the warriors from the White Army followed me. They must have found the dwarves by now—the thirdlings, and the dwarves on the mountain tracks.”
The maga nodded. She didn’t much care what happened to the thirdling fire-raisers, but she was concerned about Xamtys and her dwarves. She left Djern and walked out into the corridor where Tungdil and the others were waiting.
As soon as she opened the door, they looked at her expectantly. She could see the curiosity in their eyes. “We were right to fear the avatars. They’re on their way.”
Their curiosity turned to shock.
The angry little midgets might listen to reason,” said Rodario, feeling the weight of the silence. “We need to tell them that the avatars are real.”
Tungdil, Gemmil, Narmora, the twins, and various dwarven dignitaries were in a meeting to discuss the coming threat. Meanwhile, Salfalur and his warriors were barreling through the firstlings’ defenses.
Three hundred thirdlings had died in traps rigged by Furgas, but nothing could deter the fanatical dwarf killers. Very soon they would succeed in conquering the stronghold, and the last resistance to their treachery would be crushed. But neither Lorimbas nor his warriors suspected that the avatars were real.
Boïndil burst out laughing. “Trust you to want to talk them into submission! Just imagine: the fabulous Rodario—”
The impresario raised a hand to silence him. “Rodario the Fablemaker,” he corrected him. “Perhaps my short-legged, hotheaded friend could take the trouble to address me by my proper title.”
Boïndil put his hands on his hips. “Since when have you been a wizard? You’re just a cheap conjurer with the good fortune to be acquainted with Furgas, a technician of dwarven intelligence and skill!” He tapped his forehead in mock excitement. “Maybe you could hold a poetry reading for the thirdlings! Remember how you tried to talk the runts to death?”
“There’s no need to be rude, Master Ireheart. It was merely a suggestion.”
“A bad one.”
“In your opinion.”
“Useless, actually.”
“You can do better, I suppose?”
“Quiet, both of you,” cut in Narmora. She glared at Rodario. “He’s right, by the way. Talking to the thirdlings won’t change anything.”
“Gang up on me, why don’t you?” he said, offended. “I was merely suggesting that we should explain the situation. The thirdlings have guarded the Black Range for cycles. They might be murderous traitors, but they’ve done their duty in defending the Eastern Pass.”
Boëndal made a clicking sound with his tongue. “I suppose he’s got a point. We could give it a go, but we’ll need some proper proof. The thirdlings won’t be any more inclined to trust us than we trust them.”
“I’ve sent word to Xamtys that the thirdlings were lying,” said Tungdil. “I’ve warned her about the avatars—I’m praying that the message will get to her in time.”
The door flew open. “You’re needed at the inner gates,” gasped the agitated dwarf. “Come quickly! They’ve nearly broken through.”
“I hate to say it, but Lorimbur’s children know a thing or two about fighting,” growled Boïndil, jumping up, axes at the ready, and following the dwarf. “Luckily I’m here to show them that you don’t need marks on your face to be a good warrior.” He laughed. “Let’s give the thirdlings some new tattoos.”
In spite of the bluster, Tungdil could tell that his friend wasn’t nearly as excited about slaying thirdlings as he was about killing orcs, bögnilim, and other beasts. Deep down, he doubted that they could hold the gates. The Red Range is living up to its name; the gully will be awash with blood before the orbit is out.
The dwarves’ hopes rested with Narmora’s magic, Djern’s strength, and Furgas’s technical expertise. Tungdil, after witnessing the first battle, had been awed by the thirdlings’ discipline, power, and axmanship.
No matter what happens, Salfalur won’t leave here alive. Tungdil was determined to kill him, whatever the cost. Taking up his ax, he left the hall and hurried over the bridge to the highest of the nine towers from which he could survey the action.
It was an incredible sight.
Fighting wasn’t the thirdlings’ only talent. Lorimbas’s warriors had built a three-sided tower out of the rubble of the fallen gates. The front edge of the tower was pointing straight at the twin ramparts of East Ironhald; and from Tungdil’s vantage point, it looked like an enormous guillotine.
The structure, built at an angle, was supported by struts to which ropes had been attached.
Tungdil watched as fifty warriors stepped forward, took hold of the ropes and pulled. The struts came away, the tower tilted forward, slowly at first, then faster and faster until it hit the ramparts, smashing through the fortifications like a colossal blade. The stronghold had been breached, allowing the thirdlings to charge forward.
“The freelings shouldn’t have let them build the tower,” said Boïndil, gazing down at Gemmil’s dwarves. He frowned. “Fighting isn’t their forte. In term
s of pure numbers, we’ve got the advantage—not that you can tell.”
They left the tower and waited for the system of platforms and pulleys to lower them to the ground. “Xamtys had better hurry or Lorimbas will be sitting on her throne,” said Boïndil darkly as they hurried to the defenders’ aid.
Tungdil spotted the broad-shouldered commander in the front line of thirdlings. His long-handled hammer curved through the air, felling freelings with every stroke. “I’ll deal with Salfalur,” he said, closing his fingers around the haft of his ax. “You take Lorimbas.”
Molten slag poured down on the invaders from above, followed by a torrent of petroleum, which ignited as if by magic as it neared the thirdling troops.
On the left flank of the defending army, the sky was dark with fiery smoke. Narmora and Rodario were doing everything in their power to keep the thirdlings at bay. In the maga’s case, the magic was real, whereas Rodario relied on conjuring tricks and imaginary curses. Meanwhile, Djern endeavored to protect them from attack.
But even the colossal warrior did little to deter the thirdlings, who jabbed at him from a distance with lances and pikes.
Despite their efforts, the invaders had yet to reach the ramp leading to the inner rampart. The thirdlings would have to breach the gates, ascend the highest tower, and cross the bridge to conquer Xamtys’s halls. While the gates still stood, the thirdlings could kill as many defenders as they liked without taking the kingdom for themselves.
Tungdil fought his way to the front, keeping Salfalur in his sights. Just then he heard a piercing scream. Myr!
Turning, he spotted her at the gates. She was sprawled on the ground, a few paces from her medicine bag, and Sanda Flameheart was standing over her, threatening her with a single-balled flail. Behind them, the gates to the inner rampart had opened slightly. The thirdlings saw their chance.
Myr was right, thought Tungdil, pushing his way through the throng of warriors to rescue his companion. Sanda is a traitor, and I fell for her act.
Before he could reach her, Ireheart jumped in and sent Sanda crashing to the ground.
Tungdil hurried to help Myr. Her right cheek bore a fiery handprint, the thumb and four fingers burning red against her smooth, pale skin. Blood was trickling from her mouth and nose. “She opened the gates,” she croaked as Tungdil helped her to her feet. “I couldn’t stop her.”
“It’s not your fault,” he said, kissing her brow and thanking Vraccas for Boïndil’s speedy intervention. “Quick, we need to close them.” They hurried through the gates.
Tungdil cursed when he saw the traitor’s work. Sanda had sabotaged the mechanism, and the chain lay abandoned on the ground.
By now, Sanda had scrambled to her feet and was batting away Boïndil with ease, which enraged the zealous warrior. His eyes glazed over as his fiery spirit took hold of his mind and spurred him on. “I swore to protect Myr,” he growled, slashing at her furiously. “No one lays their murderous hands on my brother’s healer and gets away with it.”
“I wasn’t trying to kill her,” she told him, forced by his whirring axes to focus harder on her defense.
“Traitor!” He raised his right arm and feigned a blow.
“I’m not the traitor! She was the one who opened—” The ax veered sharply and struck her armpit. There was a sound of metal on metal, then the crunching of bone as the blade passed through her chain mail and into her arm. The stunned Sanda was still gasping with pain when Ireheart’s boot connected with her kneecap, smashing the joint, and sending her crashing to the ground.
“Liar!” screeched Myr, whipping out her dagger.
Tungdil held her back. “Look at her, Myr! She can’t hurt you now.”
“It was Myr,” gasped Sanda, trying to stem the blood with her other hand. “I tried to stop her, but I came too late.” She swallowed. “Lorimbas is her father. “
“And I’m the mighty Vraccas,” sneered Boïndil. “We’re not stupid, you know.”
“It’s the truth,” murmured Sanda, propping herself against the wall. Boïndil’s blow had severed the vessels in her armpit, and her tunic was drenched in blood. “I’ll never forget when she first arrived in Trovegold. I knew at once who she was, but she swore me to secrecy. She said her father would kill my clansfolk if I breathed a word to Gemmil or anyone else.”
“Enough of your lies!” Myr pointed at her accusingly with the dagger. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble? You’re the thirdling, not me!”
“Remember what happened in Porista? She made it look like Romo and Salfalur abducted her because she needed to hand over the information about Trovegold without arousing suspicion. Why else would they have spared her life?” Sanda closed her eyes and spoke in a whisper. “I don’t suppose she mentioned that she’s been melded twice before. The first dwarf died of a fever; the second was on his sickbed when his chamber went up in flames.” She looked at Tungdil, who gazed into her eyes and saw nothing but honesty and concern. “I realized she was after Gemmil, so I asked him to meld me instead.”
Tungdil was busy reviewing what had happened in Porista, how he had fallen ill, and what Myr had said to him after the fire. “Myr, that time at the inn when I nearly died in the fire,” he said slowly. “You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?” Her red eyes looked at him uncertainly. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her aside as if she were a naughty child. “Promise you had nothing to do with it!”
Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Tungdil, I… You can’t take her word over mine,” she protested halfheartedly.
“Promise you had nothing to do with it, and I’ll never mention it again.”
She looked at the ground. “You’ve got nothing to fear from me, Tungdil. After the fire, I realized that I couldn’t… I didn’t mean to fall in love with you, but…” She started to cry.
“Myr, tell me you’re not Lorimbas’s daughter,” whispered Tungdil. He had never felt so betrayed. He forgot about the battle and the threat from the avatars; nothing seemed to matter anymore.
She sniffed and dried her eyes on her sleeve, then looked him in the eye. “Sanda is right. I was sent by my father, Lorimbas Steelheart, to spy on the freelings and prepare the way for a thirdling invasion. I’ve always been pale-skinned; nature gave me the perfect cover. I had only to change my eye color and invent a story about my provenance. No one thought to question my origins. Then you came along.” She reached for his hand. “I was supposed to kill you, but my heart wouldn’t—”
Her gaze shifted, and her eyes filled with fear. Grabbing his shoulders, she spun him around and took his place just as something rammed into her from behind, throwing her forward. Tungdil reached out to catch her. Her mouth opened, lips moving silently, but she could barely breathe.
Standing behind her was Salfalur. He was clutching his hammer, the haft of which was tipped with a metal spike as long as a human arm. The end was resting against Tungdil’s chest, having passed through Myr.
“I would never have…” she sighed, clutching at him. “You mustn’t think too badly of me…” Her dainty body went limp in his arms. In spite of the pain, she seemed to smile at Tungdil as she died.
Salfalur drew the spike from her body. It made a soft popping noise as he pulled it clear.
“Are you satisfied now?” Tungdil laid her down gently and drew his ax. “You killed my parents, and now you’ve killed my wife.”
“Your wife?” Salfalur was still clutching his hammer and staring at Myr. “She was my wife, not yours.” With his free hand he touched the blood dribbling down the haft, then rubbed it between his fingers. “Myr was my wife, and she died because of you. I’ll make you die a thousand deaths.”
“She was your…” Aghast, Turgdil stepped back, then pulled himself together.
“Let’s settle this now,” he said grimly, preparing to fight.
They circled, waiting for the other to strike.
Salfalur was the first to attack. In his arms, the mighty hammer looked no heavier than
a broom.
Tungdil braced himself, but the blow never came. In the background, Lorimbas was sounding the retreat. Looking up, Tungdil saw a battalion of firstling warriors on the parapets—Xamtys had marched ahead with half of her army to save her kingdom from falling to their dwarven foes.
Salfalur was torn between continuing the duel and doing his job as commander-in-chief. At last he lowered his hammer. His brown eyes contained a silent promise to resume the duel in another place, at another time.
Tungdil nodded.
Nyr wasn’t the last to die that orbit. Sanda Flameheart was mortally wounded.
Gemmil held her in his arms while Boïndil stood beside them, not knowing what to say.
“It’s all right,” she said, her breath coming in little gasps. “I know you didn’t mean it, Boïndil Doubleblade. I’ve heard about your curse.”
He kneeled beside her, distraught. “I’m…”
“You don’t have to explain; I forgive you.” She stretched her bloodied fingers toward him.
Boïndil took her hand and held it in silence until she passed away. “Vraccas must hate me,” he muttered. “Why can’t he kill me and be done with it?” His face was expressionless, but his eyes welled with tears. “I should have settled for stunning her, but my fiery spirit made me cut her down. First Smeralda, now Sanda…”
Gemmil stood up and signaled to some dwarves, who hoisted the dead queen gently onto their shoulders and carried her into the stronghold. “Sanda was right: You mustn’t blame yourself. You fell for Myr’s lies, and Vraccas gave you a heart of fury. It’s not your fault.” He rested a hand on the secondling’s shoulder to show there was no animosity between them; then he followed the others to the firstling halls.
An ill-fated orbit, thought Tungdil, gazing at Myr’s lifeless body. Her leather jerkin was crimson with blood. He gathered her up and picked his way through the dead and wounded toward the retreating army.
“Lorimbas!” he called loudly. “Your daughter is dead, slain by Salfalur’s hammer.” He bent down and laid her gently on the ground. “She’s yours to take if you want to bury her.”
