by Markus Heitz
Lorimbas stepped forward, accompanied by a score of warriors. Salfalur wasn’t among them. “Curse you, Tungdil Goldhand,” he said, kneeling beside his daughter and stroking her pure white hair. “You murdered my nephew, and now you’ve killed Myr. Everyone I ever loved is dead because of you.” He lifted her up tenderly. “We’ll never make peace. You’re like your father. He started this misery, and it will end with your death.”
“Lorimbas Steelheart!” Xamtys hurried toward them, followed by a cluster of dwarves. “I’m afraid this is all that remains of the army that you sent against West Ironhald.”
“The firstlings are better warriors than I thought.” He shot a contemptuous look at the survivors, who were covered in gashes and burns.
“The firstlings didn’t do this,” said one of them, wincing as he spoke. “It was the avatars, Your Majesty.”
“What?” Lorimbas frowned. “What do you mean, the avatars? Is this why the dwarf-queen spared you, because you promised to lie?”
“No, Your Majesty, I wouldn’t deceive you.”
“The avatars don’t exist,” shouted Lorimbas. “They’re a legend, a legend designed to frighten small children, stupid beasts, and foolish dwarves!” He hugged his daughter to his chest.
“We were marching east,” said another dwarf. “The firstlings had turned round and were on their way home. We could see them in the range ahead of us; then the cavalry attacked from behind. They were mounted on white horses and unicorns, and they rode straight into us as if we were unarmed. They were fearless.” He swayed, and one of his companions had to steady him. “Then the demigods attacked. They were as dazzling as sunlit snow, shinier than a polished diamond, and five times hotter than a dwarven forge. They were everywhere at once, attacking us with…” He paused. “I don’t know what exactly,” he whispered wretchedly. “I was struck by a cloud of light. It knocked me over, but I got up before it could hit me again. Then I ran for it. After a while, me and the others caught up with the firstlings. They made us surrender our weapons.”
At last he had Lorimbas’s full attention. “What happened to the rest of the army?”
The warrior bowed his head, revealing charred skin and a few blackened strands of hair. “I don’t know, Your Majesty. The wind was coming from behind—it was warm with glowing ash.”
“We sent a scout to the Outer Lands,” chimed in Tungdil. “He told us the same story. Queen Wey’s soldiers were destroyed by the avatars as well. It’s not a legend, King Lorimbas.”
The thirdling king hugged his daughter more tightly, smearing his armor with blood from her chest. “They can’t be real,” he whispered. “We made them up. It’s simply not possible…”
“What now, Lorimbas?” asked Xamtys bluntly. “Do you want to fight me for my kingdom, or will you join us at the western border to halt the avatars’ advance?”
He stroked the silvery down on his daughter’s cheeks. “Everything I dreamed of has been destroyed. I don’t want Girdlegard to suffer as well.” He turned toward Tungdil, but something prevented him from looking him in the eye. “When this is over, we’ll fight to the death. I should have wiped out your line when I had the chance.” He bowed his head toward Xamtys. “I hereby declare a truce between the children of Lorimbur and the dwarven folks. I swear on my daughter, whose blood stains my hands, that the thirdlings will cease hostilities until the avatars are defeated.” He turned to leave. “I’ll summon the rest of my army to the Red Range and we’ll fight the avatars together.”
“How many warriors can we count on?” asked Xamtys.
“Enough to wipe out the threat,” he growled scornfully. Cradling Myr in his arms, he joined his guards, who escorted him back to his troops.
As he passed, the thirdlings lowered their weapons, bowed their heads, and lamented the death of the thirdling princess.
V
Borengar’s Folk,
Eastern Border of the Firstling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Early Winter, 6235th Solar Cycle
Thousands and thousands of thirdlings—and I’m letting them into my kingdom…” murmured Balyndis, still in shock. “Do you think we’ll ever get them out? We nearly lost the stronghold to them. They’re invincible on the battlefield.”
She and the others had gathered in the conference hall to devise a strategy for fighting the avatars. It was clear that the demigods couldn’t be defeated by axes alone, but no one had come up with a viable plan. They were hoping that a tankard of ale and some hot food might provide the necessary inspiration.
“Look on the bright side,” said Boïndil forthrightly. “If the thirdlings are burned to a cinder by the avatars, we won’t have to worry about booting them out.” He filled his tankard from the barrel, allowing a frothy head to settle on the dark brown beer.
“It might seem premature,” said his brother, “but I think we need a plan for retaking the Blacksaddle. Once we’ve defeated the avatars—as we most certainly will—we should seize the Blacksaddle before Lorimbas attacks us through his tunnels. His army will be weak, and we’ll have the combined strength of all the dwarven folks to draw on. It’s the perfect time to strike.”
Tungdil nodded. “I’ve sent word to Gandogar, Glaïmbar, and Balendilín. Their troops will take a while to get here, but when they do, Lorimbas will see what he’s up against. We’re bound to come to an arrangement.” He bent over the table to examine the map. “We need to deal with the avatars first.”
“I’ve got five thousand warriors,” said Xamtys.
Tungdil looked at Furgas, Narmora, and Rodario. “How much time do you need?”
“I’m ready,” said Narmora. “There’s nothing I can do until they get here. I’ve got enough magic energy to take them on.” She was lucky that the dwarves knew very little about the workings of magic, otherwise they would have wondered how she could summon the strength to attack the avatars without channeling fresh energy from the force fields. The malachite was lending her formidable strength.
Furgas spread some sketches on the table. “I’ve dismantled the catapults here”—he pointed to the site of the battle with the thirdlings—“and moved them to West Ironhald. I had enough helpers to get everything up and running. We can blot out the sun if we fire all at once.”
“Excellent. How about you, Rodario?” asked Tungdil. “Sorry,” he corrected himself quickly before the impresario could protest, “Rodario the Fablemaker.”
“How kind of you to remember my title,” Rodario thanked him sourly. Rising to his feet, he assumed the air of a great orator. “You see before you the greatest living avatar-trap. I have agreed to draw the demigods to me, to make myself the target of their wrath, to sacrifice myself so that my maga, Narmora the Unnerving, can use her powers to full advantage without fear of attack.” He cleared his throat. “Naturally, I’m deeply honored to be an integral part of the heroics, but if anyone would like to share the glory…” There was silence. “Anyone at all?… I thought as much,” he muttered grimly, sitting back down. “The poor supporting actors always get killed off. I hope Girdlegard honors my memory.”
“You’re not going to die, Rodario,” said Tungdil. “I’m sure you’ll be treading the boards of the Curiosum in no time at all.”
“I can see it already,” said Boïndil, swallowing the last of his beer. “The Incredible Story of How Rodario the Fablemaker Saved Girdlegard from the Fiery Avatars. You’ll need a few jokes to liven it up. Did you hear about the orc who asked a dwarf for directions?”
“Go on,” said the impresario eagerly, reaching for his quill.
The discussion was cut short by news that Lorimbas’s warriors had arrived. Xamtys led the others to the entrance hall where they watched from the gallery as the thirdlings, bristling with weaponry and covered from head to toe in heavy armor, streamed through the doors below. Entire units were composed of grim-faced tattooed warriors, the thirdling elite. It was obvious from their expressions that they resented entering the kingdom as allies.
For a moment the stronghold was silent except for jangling mail and the steady thump of booted feet.
“Are you sure they’re not dangerous?” ventured Rodario nervously. “If I were an avatar, I’d give myself up.”
“If you were an avatar, Girdlegard would be safe,” commented Boïndil. He sniffed loudly and snotted on the warriors below, missing a ferocious tattooed thirdling by a dwarven whisker. “The famous dwarf killers. I know they’re on our side, but I’m not inclined to trust them. I recommend you watch your backs.”
Tungdil straightened up and clapped the twins on the shoulders. “We’re needed in West Ironhald. It’s time to save Girdlegard—this time without Keenfire’s help.”
They traveled through an underground tunnel beneath Xamtys’s halls to reach the fortifications on the other side of the range.
West Ironhald was a perfect copy of its counterpart on the eastern flanks of the range. Queen Xamtys had rebuilt the walls to match the improvements made to East Ironhald, ensuring that both strongholds were sturdy enough to withstand the winter snow. Six fortified walls barred the steep-sided gully leading from the Outer Lands to West Ironhald, protected by twin ramparts, nine towers, and a bridge.
Tungdil and the others were greeted by a remarkable sight: Lined up on the ramparts beside the firstlings were Gemmil’s freelings and Lorimbas’s thirdlings. The three groups, divided by history, tradition, and outlook, had been brought together by a common goal: the protection of Girdlegard against invaders. Shoulder to shoulder they waited for the avatars to arrive.
Tungdil took up position in his favorite observation post and surveyed the thirdlings from the highest of West Ironhald’s nine towers. According to his estimates, Lorimbas had summoned over twenty thousand warriors. Xamtys was right. It would take more than the firstlings and freelings to defeat the thirdling army. He turned back to the gully and looked for signs of the enemy, although he didn’t know what to expect.
It was nearly dusk when he spotted a fierce white light at the end of the gully. Steadily the light drew closer, like a pure white sun rolling toward the range, sending its scorching rays skyward and lighting up the clouds.
Even from a distance, Tungdil could tell that it was dazzlingly bright. He could barely look at it without screwing up his eyes.
“This is it,” said Narmora, joining him in the tower. She placed her hands on the parapet and stared at the glow. “Suppose we were to tell them that Nôd’onn and the Perished Land have been defeated? They might call off the invasion.”
“How would we get them to listen to us?”
“With the help of a maiden.”
“Is Djern hungry again?” enquired Rodario, stationing himself beside the maga. “Don’t be foolish,” she reprimanded him. “The avatars respect purity, so they won’t kill an innocent maiden—well, I’d be surprised if they did.” She turned to Tungdil. “We need someone to walk out and tell them that Girdlegard is safe. I’d do it myself, but I’m not sure the avatars would listen to a follower of Samusin.”
“Will they listen to anyone?”
“We won’t know unless we try,” she said. “Sometimes the simplest solution is the best.”
That night, a young dwarf wrapped in white furs left the stronghold. At only twenty-four cycles, Fyrna Goodsoul of the clan of the Ore Finders was a child by dwarven standards. Xamtys had chosen her from the group of volunteers—young dwarves who were yet to be melded.
The wording of the message had been given to her by Narmora. “Stick to the script,” the maga reminded her. “If they want to negotiate, tell them you’ll pass on their demands. Don’t mention our army or our plans.”
The young dwarf listened attentively and set off briskly through the gully, heart quickening as she left the safety of the fortified walls.
The dwarves watched as she hurried through the sweeping gully and disappeared from view. All they could do was wait and pray.
The bright light moved closer and closer.
Some time around midnight, when the moon was high above the range, the light came to a halt, sparking a flurry of excitement among the anxious dwarves.
“They’ve found Fyrna,” whispered Xamtys. “Vraccas, protect the dear child.”
Narmora rested her elbows on the parapet and leaned forward, focusing on the glow. “I hope it’s enough to dissuade them from invading.”
“Look!” shouted Boïndil, tugging at Tungdil’s sleeve. “It’s fading!”
“Vraccas be praised!” cried Xamtys. “I’ll melt down every ingot in my kingdom in honor of the Smith.”
As they watched, the light faded to a faint glow on the mountain slopes; then the gully was shrouded in darkness once more.
It worked! Tungdil smiled and turned to Narmora. “You were right! The simplest solution turned out to be the best!”
Everyone in the stronghold and on the ramparts was watching as well. As soon as the light went out, they cheered and hugged each other. Firstlings, thirdlings, and freelings, together they rejoiced, their differences forgotten—temporarily, at least.
“Let’s see what Fyrna has to say.” Tungdil shook the maga’s hand and went to fetch a mug of hot spiced beer before hurrying back to the tower to wait for the plucky firstling to return.
The night wore on.
At dawn, the sun rose over the ridge, warming the shivering dwarves with its soft yellow rays. Their confidence grew.
But there was still no sign of Fyrna Goodsoul.
By noon, snow clouds were gathering over the gully, and Xamtys dispatched a band of warriors to hunt for the missing dwarf. It wouldn’t be safe to leave the stronghold once the weather closed in.
Several hours later the warriors returned with Fyrna, unconscious but alive. The maga examined her and diagnosed a mild case of frostbite from sleeping in the snow.
“She’ll be fine,” said Narmora, after reviving Fyrna’s fingers and toes. She patted the dwarf on the cheek to wake her and handed her a beaker of hot lichen tea.
Fyrna gulped it down. “I failed, Your Majesty,” she said, shivering. She bowed her head wretchedly. “I’m sorry, Queen Xamtys.”
“Sorry? What’s the matter with her?” spluttered Boïndil, peering over the parapet. “The avatars have gone. There’s no sign of them anywhere—unless they’re too darned pure for me to see.”
“Shush,” growled Boëndal, giving him a warning prod.
“I got as close as I could, like you told me to, but the light was really bright. In the end, I called out, and a creature of pure light flew toward me and asked me what I wanted.” The young firstling glanced at Narmora. “I repeated the words you taught me, Estimable Maga, but the creature just laughed. The noise went straight through me; it was high-pitched and cruel.” She took another sip of tea. “The creature said not to worry, it would be over really soon. Then it touched me, and I… The next thing I knew, I was here.”
Tungdil looked at his friends’ worried faces. “If they’re not here or in the gully, where are they?”
“In the tunnels,” rasped a voice behind them. King Lorimbas had joined them and heard the end of Fyrna’s story. “One of my tunnels comes up in the gully.”
Tungdil shuddered. “They’ll go straight to the Blacksaddle. Your guards won’t be expecting them—and the rest of your army is here.”
An appalled silence descended on the group. In their minds, they could see the pure light hovering over the Blacksaddle while the avatars poured out of the stronghold, laying waste to Girdlegard as they hunted for an evil that didn’t exist.
“What are we waiting for?” said Boïndil after a time. “We know where we’re needed!”
Blacksaddle,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Early Winter, 6235th Solar Cycle
Theogil Hardhand gripped the chain with both hands and pulled as hard as he could. The block and pulley system made lifting the driverless wagon relatively easy. He hoisted it into the air and swung it away from the rail.
The real question was how it had got there.
He had arrived at the depot to find an empty wagon blocking the rail. He guessed it had rolled through the tunnel from a disused platform, in which case it was lucky it hadn’t collided with a convoy of dwarves. At any rate, it had to be shifted: The last few thirdlings were preparing to leave the Blacksaddle to join Lorimbas in the west.
“Let’s get you moving,” he muttered, pushing the wagon with one hand. It was linked by a cable to a runner on the ceiling, so he barely had to steer.
He stopped at the rear of the hall where the extra wagons were kept. Carefully, he lowered it to the ground, unhooked it from the cable, and placed his hands on the back to push it the final few paces. Just then he heard a noise.
It seemed to be coming from the tunnel, and it sounded like a convoy of wagons rattling down the rails.
New arrivals? he thought in surprise, ticking off the battalions in his mind. Every single thirdling unit was either waiting to depart from the Blacksaddle or already en route to the west. Lorimbas’s summons had caused consternation among the thirdlings, but orders were orders, and the warriors had left without delay.
He abandoned the wagon and made his way carefully to the mouth of the tunnel. Holding his breath, he listened intently until he was sure of the source of the noise. It was as he thought. The rumbling and clattering was getting louder.
Darned fools, he grumbled irritably. What’s the point of having a braking zone if they can’t be trusted to leave a proper gap? They’ll cause a pile-up.
He hurriedly tossed a few extra sacks of straw onto the buffers in the hope of saving the passengers from serious harm, then he took up position in the signal box, intending to throw the lever as soon as the convoy arrived. By diverting the wagons onto different platforms, he could reduce the risk of a crash. He couldn’t help wondering why the wagons were heading in his direction at all.
Staring into the dark mouth of the tunnel, he waited for the lead wagon’s lanterns to come into view.
A few moments later, he glimpsed a light—a light so bright that he wondered briefly whether the sun had fallen through the rock. No dwarven lantern could cast a glow like that. As the wagons drew nearer, Theogil turned away, dazzled by the glare.
