by Markus Heitz
What is it? A new invention, perhaps? Keeping his back to the tunnel, he decided to rely on his hearing instead.
At last he heard screeching metal as the brake blocks pressed against the narrow wheels, forcing them to slow. The wagons’ arrival was heralded by a sudden rush of air.
Theogil detected a strange smell that wasn’t dwarven or human, and had nothing to do with elves or beasts. The wind tugged at his beard, set his chain mail aquiver, and brought him the odor of oiled weaponry, polished metal, and clean hands. All in all, it smelled somehow pure. The first wagon shot out of the tunnel, illuminating every corner of the hall.
“Put the darned thing out,” he shouted. The brightness was so unbearable that his eyes brimmed with tears and he had to close them. Thereafter he worked in darkness, pumping the lever up and down and switching the points in time with the clattering of each wagon. “Everyone out,” he ordered, raising his voice above the din. “Get the wagons off the rails or we’ll have a collision.”
The light intensified, becoming so bright that he could see the red of his eyelids. The light shone straight through them, as if he were looking directly at the midday sun.
He felt a sudden wave of heat, and someone grabbed him by the shoulder, and pulled him away from the lever. “Hey, you’re burning me!” he protested, feeling the searing pain in his shoulder. He opened his eyes and blinked.
The creature in front of him was made of pure light. It was as tall as a human and wreathed in a white halo that was painful to behold. The air in the hall seemed to shimmer. “Greetings, undergroundling,” the creature greeted him in a kindly voice. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you if your soul is true.”
Theogil reached for his club and took a step backward. “Who are you?” he asked gruffly. “And who said you could use our wagons?”
With his free hand, he unhooked a horn from his belt and held it to his lips, but before he could sound the alarm, the creature stretched a hand, sending a bolt of light toward the horn, which ignited with a roar.
Theogil dropped the bugle before his beard went up in flames. He knew without a shred of doubt what was happening: The avatars had arrived.
In proper dwarven fashion, he gripped the club with both hands and brandished it menacingly. “Be off with you. You’ve no right to bring death and destruction to these lands.”
“I beg your pardon,” the creature said politely, “but our mission is to stamp out evil in all its forms. A dwarf-girl told us that Nôd’onn has been destroyed, but we’ve heard of other creatures, creatures that worship Tion or were fashioned by his hand.” The avatar took a step closer, and Theogil, who had spent countless orbits in the forge, was forced to draw back from the heat. “Honorable undergroundling, descendant of the worthy Essgar, tell us where we can find the älfar. Our soldiers will wipe out their army and burn their evil souls. You’ll never have anything to fear from them again.”
“Be off!” commanded Theogil, raising his club. “We’ll deal with Inàste’s pointy-ears ourselves. No one asked for your help. You wipe out good as well as evil.”
“Only the pure can look on us and live. Those who perish were found wanting.”
Before Theogil could react, the avatar’s hand was resting on his head. “Are you pure, undergroundling, or will you perish in our flames?”
Theogil felt crippled by the terrible heat. Red-hot metal seemed to press against his temples, cutting through his skull, and desiccating his brain. His arms grew heavy and fell to his sides, and his fingers unfurled, letting go of the club.
“You should have told the truth,” the creature admonished him. “Why didn’t you tell us about the orcs? Toboribor is the name of their kingdom, is it? And what of the ogres? I see mountains swarming with ogres… The realm of Borwôl, northeast of here…” He laughed, satisfied. “Our army will be busy in Girdlegard. Soon the men, elves, and undergroundlings will be freed from Tion’s beasts.” The creature released its searing grip on his head. Dazed, Theogil stumbled back and steadied himself against a metal rail. “Don’t interfere with the will of the deities,” the avatar warned him, stepping back. “Anyone who stands in our way is an ally of evil.”
Theogil shielded his face with his hands to block out the light and peered through his fingers at the rest of the hall.
Warriors were descending from the wagons and forming orderly lines. Their armor and banners were white, and they didn’t seem to mind the glare, which was so intense that Theogil was afraid his eyes would shrivel in their sockets. He blinked, just in case.
The commotion in the depot came to the attention of the thirdlings in the other halls.
Theogil spotted a group of sentries creeping down the wide stairway. As soon as they saw what was happening, they sounded the alarm. A bugle call echoed through the passageways and galleries of the Blacksaddle, calling the children of Lorimbur, few of whom remained in the stronghold, to arms.
The avatar paused and marched back to Theogil, who reached for his club. “Poor stubborn undergroundlings,” the creature said sadly. “We should be allies, but you’ve chosen to oppose us. We can’t be held responsible for your deaths.”
“Our deaths? I’ll teach you to respect a dwarven warrior,” growled Theogil. He let out a ferocious war cry and bounded forward, swinging his club.
Even before he reached his fiery antagonist, the heat became unbearable. His chain mail burned red against his skin, the air reeked of scorched leather, and his sinew and blood evaporated faster than a drop of water in a fire.
Nothing remained of Theogil Hardhand but a mound of ashes and a few blackened bones. A moment later, they too were crushed and scattered by the pounding boots of the avatars’ soldiers as they charged the defending dwarves.
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6235th Solar Cycle
Boïndil trudged through the freshly fallen snow that lay like a coating of icing sugar over the fields, trees, and tents. He was the last to arrive at the meeting, and he made his way straight to the campfire and helped himself to a tankard of warm beer. Like the others, he was keen to have a nice, restful evening in preparation for their arrival at the Blacksaddle at noon the next orbit. They were expecting to find the avatars in the dwarven stronghold.
“They’ve got a funny way of wiping out evil,” said Boïndil vehemently. “You can tell they’re descended from Tion; nothing good ever came of him.” He drained his tankard and went back for more. His pinprick eyes settled on Tungdil. “Any news from our scouts?”
“Only that the avatars’ cavalry has arrived in the stronghold,” chimed in Lorimbas. “They rode part of the way underground, and the tunnels collapsed behind them.”
“How do you know?” asked Boïndil.
“Because of the cracks on the surface,” explained the thirdling king. “Most of our tunnels have been destroyed. Anything left standing after the comet and the earthquake has been brought down by the avatars and their army.”
Xamtys nodded. “I heard the same from my scouts. The underground network around the Red Range is dangerously unstable. Balendilín, Gandogar, and Glaïmbar will have to send their armies overland.”
“It won’t be easy,” said Tungdil, turning back to the map. In his mind, he charted the rest of the avatars’ route, which, assuming they stuck to their current course, would take them straight to Dsôn Balsur. “From their point of view, it makes perfect sense to attack the älfar,” he said. “They’re the biggest threat to our safety, especially with the added power from the dark water. I’d say they were a worthy target for a band of demigods.”
“It’s a pity the avatars are so destructive,” said Xamtys. “I mean, it’s almost tempting to let them get on with it. They’re capable of wiping out the älfar, which isn’t true of us. Ever since the älfar butchered an entire camp of allied soldiers in Dsôn Balsur, the human soldiers have been deserting in droves. No one wants to face the älfar.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Tungdi
l. “The dark water has made them deadlier than ever.” He paused. “I’ve heard from our scouts that the snow around the Blacksaddle has melted completely, while the rest of Gauragar is covered in thigh-high drifts. Are you ready to take on the avatars, Narmora?”
The maga looked at the flickering flame of the lantern overhead. “I keep wondering whether my kind of magic can stop them,” she said slowly. “My way is the way of equilibrium, the balancing of darkness and light. My power comes from both, but it might be better to attack them with pure light.” She looked away from the flame. “We’ll soon find out.”
“I’ll be right beside you, maga,” said Rodario in a voice that he hoped was suitably comforting. “I’ll make them believe I’m the most powerful magus in Girdlegard so you can attack them without endangering your valuable person.” He took a swig of beer and grimaced: It was too bitter, too strong, too malty for his taste. “At least that’s the aim,” he added quietly. He lowered his voice again. “I hope you’ll erect a statue in my honor when I’m dead.”
His comment was met with silence from the maga, who pretended not to hear.
Tungdil noticed that Djern had positioned himself behind his new mistress, ready to spring into action at the first sign of danger. His damaged armor made him more intimidating than ever, the scratches and burn marks proving that neither swords nor fire could bring him down.
Tungdil, thinking about it more carefully, realized that Djern’s escape from the avatars didn’t make sense. The experience of those who had encountered the demigods confirmed the legend in every detail. The avatars were in possession of magic powers capable of destroying all forms of evil. There were two categories of survivors: those who had the good fortune to escape their attention, and those who satisfied their cockeyed notion of purity.
But Djern is still alive, and they had every reason to kill him. He’s a creature of evil, and he’s powerful, which makes him a hundred times more dangerous than orcs, bögnilim, or ogres. A shiver of excitement ran down his back. He survived their attacks, and he survived for a reason.
Without a word to the others, he went over to the giant warrior and ran a hand over his armor, following the lines and curves of the scorched intarsia and studying the symbols etched by Balyndis at Andôkai’s behest. Is that the answer?
Rodario cleared his throat. “May I ask what you’re doing, illustrious hero of the Blacksaddle? I know it’s hard for a dwarf to resist a good piece of metalwork, but don’t you think we should deal with the avatars first?”
Tungdil ignored him and turned to Narmora. “Maga, ask Djern what happened when the avatars attacked.”
“Ask him yourself,” she said. “He understands you.” She listened to the giant’s response, which she alone could understand. “I see. He says they attacked him with their magic.”
Tungdil took a step back and thumped Djern’s armor. “So why did he survive? The thirdlings were clad in armor and they perished in the avatars’ fires.” He turned to the others. “Djern is precisely the sort of creature they’re out to destroy. They must have done everything in their power to kill him, and what did they achieve? Practically nothing—except cover him in soot. His only injuries were inflicted by their army.”
“You think he was saved by his armor,” said Boëndal. He could tell from Narmora’s expression that she was thinking the same. “Andôkai must have found a countercharm to protect him.”
Narmora shook her head. “She would have told us. Why keep it to herself?”
“Maybe she didn’t want to get our hopes up,” suggested Rodario. “Maybe she sent her knight in shining armor to see what happened when the avatars attacked. She was probably going to tell us when she knew for certain that it worked.”
“Not Andôkai—she cared too much about Djern to put him at risk. The avatars weren’t supposed to find him, but they did.” She signaled for Tungdil to step away from the giant. “We’ll try a little test.” After warning Djern, she raised her arms and began an incantation.
“Steady on, Narmora,” protested Boïndil. “You can’t set fire to Djern in a tent!” The maga continued, undeterred. A tongue of fire pulled away from the lantern above her and flew into her outstretched hands, turning from orange to ruby-red. The flame grew and expanded until it was the size of a human head, then it cast itself, hissing and spluttering, against the giant’s armored chest.
There was a loud explosion, and Djern was wreathed in flames. At once the runes on his armor pulsed with light, and the fire went out. Djern didn’t so much as flinch.
“Fine, I’ll take it up a notch,” murmured Narmora, raising her right arm and summoning tongues of fire from every lantern in the tent. They gathered in her fingers, forming a red-hot fireball that she hurled at his chest.
Again the giant was surrounded by flames. This time, the force of the impact brought him to his knees, but he straightened up as soon as the flames had died. He growled softly.
“He says he felt the heat, but it couldn’t hurt him,” explained Narmora, who was visibly surprised by what had occurred. She clicked her fingers, and the flames returned to the lanterns, restoring light to the tent. “You’d better not say I was going easy on him,” she told them. “The fireball was hot enough to melt any normal metal.” She stepped up to the giant, inspected his breastplate, and laid a hand on the metal. “It’s warm,” she said, shaking her head incredulously. “The runes are still alight, but there’s no sign of warping.” She turned to the dwarves. “I think we can safely say that Balyndis has forged a suit of armor that works against magic as well as swords.”
Tungdil breathed out in relief. “Vraccas knew what he was doing when he gave us a talent for metalwork. He’s given us another chance to protect our lands.” Kneeling, he gave thanks to the dwarven deity.
The other dwarves, with the exception of Lorimbas, followed his lead.
The thirdling king let his eyes glide contemptuously over their bowed heads. He felt like cleaving their necks with his ax, but he was their ally—for the moment, at least. Vraccas won’t save you from Lorimbur’s children, he vowed.
Tungdil was the first to rise. “We need to summon Balyndis,” he announced, buoyed by the thought that help was at hand. “Send word that we need the instructions for Djern’s armor.” He wondered whether Vraccas was testing his character. I tried to get away from her, but it doesn’t seem to work.
“We’ll need ten thousand suits,” said Boëndal, leaning on his crow’s beak. “I’m no coward, but I don’t fancy our chances of fighting them without the magic armor. We’d be throwing away our lives.”
Tungdil gave orders for four messengers to leave immediately for the Gray Range via four different routes—it was crucial that the message got through. “We’ll decide what to do when we see the situation at the Blacksaddle tomorrow. I’d rather not fight without the armor, but we may not have a choice.” He pointed to the menacing black lines on the map that designated the kingdom of Dsôn Balsur. “The avatars are rumored to draw their power from the evil they destroy. Once the avatars wipe out the älfar, they’ll be stronger than ever. Who knows if the armor will still work.”
“Stop fretting,” said Boïndil cheerfully. “I can’t wait for Balyndis to forge me a fine new suit of armor. I’ll teach the avatars not to tangle with the dwarves. By the way, the first ten are mine.”
“There are only eleven of them,” Boëndal reminded him. The others laughed.
Grinning, Boïndil clinked tankards with his brother. “Tough luck,” he said, chuckling. “You’ll have to work it out among yourselves.”
Their high spirits lasted until mid-afternoon the next orbit when the Blacksaddle came into view.
As they approached the mountain, they realized that the gloomy clouds in the gray winter sky weren’t loaded with snow, as they had thought, but with smoke. And there was no doubt about the origin of the fire.
The mountain without a peak had become a blazing pyre.
The very rock of the Blacksaddle was b
urning, the mountainside a sheet of red-hot fire, with tongues of flame rising from every crack and vent. Black smoke cut off the sunlight, obscuring the sky, and turning the noon hours into dusk. Vast chunks of rock broke away from the Blacksaddle and plunged to the ground. The snow had evaporated and the soil around the mountain was powdery and dry. As they watched, the flames grew fiercer, leaping as if to ignite the sun.
“It doesn’t seem possible,” gasped Xamtys.
“How did they do it, maga?” asked Boïndil. “Did they turn the Blacksaddle into coal?”
Narmora’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a warning,” she said. “A warning to anyone thinking of following them. They’re showing us their power.”
“What a disaster,” sighed Rodario. “How am I supposed to re-create it on stage?” He looked hopefully at Furgas, who shrugged.
Tungdil shouldered his ax. “Let’s take a look at the damage.”
The devastation was complete.
At five hundred paces from the Blacksaddle, the snow turned to slush. Three hundred paces later, they were walking on firm, dry earth, raising clouds of dust with their boots. At a distance of a hundred and fifty paces, they came to a halt. Any closer, and they were liable to be killed by flying rock. Scattered in the dust were fragments of axes and clubs, scorched bones, and warped armor caked with charred flesh. The Blacksaddle’s defenders were no more.
Lorimbas gazed at the devastation, eyes wet with tears. “To you they were thirdlings,” he said quietly with a catch in his voice. “But to me they were friends—friends, whose deaths must be avenged.” The sight of the burning Blacksaddle ignited the fires in every thirdling heart: For Lorimbas and his dwarves, the war had become personal.
“We’re done for,” muttered Rodario, kicking at the powdery gray earth. “Surely we’re all agreed that it’s no good fighting them without Balyndis’s armor?”
