by Markus Heitz
“We may have no choice,” said Lorimbas grimly, looking at the gray trail left in the avatars’ wake. A vast path of dusty earth, a hundred paces across and bordered on both sides by snow, was proof of the direction they had taken: The army was marching north. Lorimbas bent down and picked up an ax head; it was still attached to a charred fragment of haft. “Goldhand is right. We need to stop them before they reach Dsôn Balsur and wipe out the älfar. They’re powerful enough as it is.”
“Who would have thought it would come to this?” remarked Boïndil. “All this time we’ve been trying to kick out Inàste’s children, and at last there’s someone who could do the job for us, but instead of letting them burn down Dsôn Balsur, we’re going to jump to the älfar’s defense.”
“It doesn’t seem right,” agreed Tungdil, “but we can’t let the avatars get to Dsôn Balsur. In any case, we’re not defending the älfar; we’re postponing their death.” He glanced at Lorimbas. “Can you spare ten thousand warriors? I want to outflank the avatars and squeeze them between two fronts.”
Lorimbas nominated his elite battalions for the advance guard, which would consist of Tungdil, Narmora, Rodario, and the twins.
“We’ll cut off the White Army before it reaches Dsôn Balsur,” explained Tungdil. “Meanwhile, Lorimbas, Gemmil, and Xamtys will attack with the rest of our troops from the rear. Narmora will take care of the avatars.” He thumped Boïndil on the back. “How’s that for a challenge?”
“No challenge is too big for a dwarf,” said Boïndil, although he didn’t seem terribly confident.
It was late afternoon when Tungdil set off with ten thousand thirdlings on a northerly bearing. By the time they left the Blacksaddle, the once legendary mountain resembled a broad-based hill, fifty paces in height and riven with cracks and fissures; by evening, when they stopped to rest for a while, it was gone. A few flames remained to mark the spot where the powerful Blacksaddle had once stood. Tion’s demigods had razed it to the ground.
Tungdil was intent on catching and passing the avatars’ army. At night, its bright white glow was visible for hundreds of miles against the black firmament, but the dwarven warriors were still hopelessly behind.
It seemed the White Army could march without rest. Their soldiers were on the move from dawn until dusk, racking up the miles, while Tungdil and the others were feeling the strain of ten orbits of constant marching.
“Another ten orbits, and they’ll be there,” said Boïndil, sitting down by the campfire to examine his blisters. “We can hardly keep up with them, so how are Lorimbas, Gemmil, and Xamtys supposed to get there in time? We’ve got ten thousand elite thirdling warriors, and we’re falling off the pace.”
Tungdil pored over the map. The other dwarves at the campfire were thirdling generals; it was hard to tell from their tattooed faces what they were thinking. “We said we’d strike here,” he said, lowering the stem of his pipe over an area south of Dsôn Balsur. He did some quick calculations. “If we hurry, we can catch them right on the border. It’s the earliest possible chance of attack. I’ll send word to the others to tell them of the change of plan.”
The thirdling generals listened in silence.
“It’s risky, but it’s the only way,” agreed Boëndal. “They’ll speed up as soon as they see the border. They’ll want to push on to the capital as fast as they can.”
“I know, but we won’t catch them beforehand,” ruled Tungdil, turning his attention to a written report from one of the scouts who was tracking the enemy army, unbeknown to the avatars.
So far, the invaders had laid waste to four towns en route to the älfar’s kingdom. The inhabitants had refused to join the army, in return for which the avatars had plundered and burned their homes.
According to the report, few had survived, for the most part children and young girls whom the avatars had spared. Everyone else had been burned to a cinder like the thirdlings at the Blacksaddle. Forests, fields, meadows, marshes—everything the avatars encountered was destroyed. The demigods were leaving a trail of ashes and scorched earth.
It seemed to Tungdil that the men and dwarves, while far from pure, had done nothing to merit such a fate. I don’t think much of divine justice, if that’s what it is. Not even the älfar have wreaked such destruction on Girdlegard. He threw the bulletins into the fire and watched as the paper crumpled. His thoughts returned to the Blacksaddle and the dwarves who had died in the blaze. The avatars are worse than älfar, orcs, and bögnilim combined.
That night he dreamed of Balyndis and Myr.
They were fighting for his favor, Balyndis, equipped with a blacksmith’s hammer and a pair of metal tongs, and Myr wielding daggers. The duel was interrupted by Salfalur, who killed them both with his hammer. Tears streaming down his tattooed cheeks, he turned on Tungdil and charged…
Tungdil woke with a start.
Boïndil was crouched next to him, shaking his shoulder. “Come on, scholar. The White Army is on the move. Anyone would think they’d got wind of our plans.”
Muttering and cursing, Tungdil clambered to his feet, put on his weapons belt, stuffed his blanket into his rucksack, and jogged to the front of the thirdling battalions. The thirdling generals had set off without him. If it hadn’t been for Boïndil, he would have woken by the campfire to find everyone had gone.
He felt the eyes on his back as he made his way to the head of the army. Boïndil was right: He would never trust a thirdling in battle, even though he was a thirdling himself.
82 Miles Southwest of Dsôn Balsur,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6235th Solar Cycle
Ondori turned her fire bull and looked proudly at the unit of four thousand warriors marching behind her through the night.
They were stronger than ever, having partaken of the dark water and profited from its life-preserving power.
The immortal siblings had ordered Ondori to lead the troops against landur and wipe out the elves. The älf couldn’t have wished for a more glorious mission. A duel with Lord Liútasil would give her tremendous pleasure and she was happy to delay her private campaign against the dwarves. Besides, with the help of the dark water, she could settle her score with Tungdil whenever she wanted.
With a bit of luck, and Tion willing, Ondori was hoping to put an end to Sitalia’s elves. If the initial attack went well, she and her warriors would march on the rest of the kingdom and raze the leafy elven settlements to the ground. The immortal siblings’ palace would be clad from top to bottom in shiny white elf-bone, and Liútasil’s skull would be skewered at the top.
Hmm, what do we have here? At the foot of a lone hill she could make out the faint glow of a poorly hidden campfire. Careless wayfarers. She signaled for two dozen warriors to join her. With any luck, they’ll be elves…
They stole through the valley toward the hill. A shelf protruded from the hillside, affording shelter from rain and snow. At any other time, it would have made the perfect place to rest for a while, but the gods had deserted the travelers that night.
Ondori reined in her bull and slid noiselessly to the ground. She heard snores from her victims and smelled the strong tobacco on their clothes. After a few paces, she came to a boulder and ducked behind it, keeping to the shadows as she peered at the camp.
Groundlings, she thought in astonishment, eying the ring of stocky warriors asleep around the dying fire. Their sentry was perched on a rock, facing away from her, and smoking a pipe. Every now and then he dipped his tankard into a cauldron over the flames and took a sip of the steaming brew.
Ondori did a quick headcount and came to twenty dwarves in total. What are they doing here? They can’t be spies or scouts; they’re in the middle of nowhere.
She signed to her warriors that she wanted to question one of the groundlings; the others could be killed. Then she focused on the fire, willing the flames to die down. The fire flickered briefly and went out.
Cursing, the sentry clam
bered to his feet, placed some tinder on the embers and kneeled on the ground to blow on the flames.
Ondori detached herself from the shadows and crept toward him. Her movements were silent, and he didn’t have time to react. Out of nowhere, a scythe-like blade sliced through his throat and he toppled over, landing in the dying embers and dousing them with blood.
The thud of his falling body caused one of his companions to stir. Three black arrows winged toward him as he raised his sleepy head. He sank back against his mattress, as if overpowered by fatigue.
The älfar murdered their way systematically through the ring of sleeping dwarves, slitting their throats, ramming their narrow daggers between their eyes, and running their swords through their chests.
Crouching beside the lone survivor, Ondori disarmed her victim and rapped her quarterstaff against the ground.
It was only when the dwarf sat up sleepily that Ondori realized she was female. The little creature reached for her ax—to no avail.
“Lie still,” whispered Ondori, holding the dwarven ax above her head for her victim to see. She hurled it into the snow. “Scream, and we’ll kill your friends, then you. Is that clear?” The dwarf nodded, and Ondori detected the sound of grinding teeth. “What are you doing here?” the älf demanded.
“Hunting älfar.”
Ondori glowered. “Trust a groundling to lie.” She peered at her victim’s face. “I’ve seen you before. You were at the mouth of the tunnel to the Gray Range; you shouted for Goldhand to help you—and I got away.” She smiled balefully. “You’re a queen, aren’t you? Queen of the mob who moved into the halls. Are you sending an army to fight us? Are you scouts?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the dwarf said stubbornly. “Our orders are to find out what’s happening at the front. We’re supposed to make a deal with the elves.”
Ondori raised her quarterstaff sharply and pressed a hidden catch. A blade shot out from one end and came to rest on her captive’s throat. There was a click as she locked the mechanism to prevent the blade retreating. “I want the truth, groundling.” She swung her quarterstaff so that the blade hovered over the body of the dwarf to her right. “Think of your friends,” she whispered threateningly. “Do you want them to die?”
Her captive bristled. “You won’t hurt them, no-eyes,” she said fearlessly.
Ondori rammed the blade into the heart of the seemingly sleeping dwarf. The trick worked: It was plain from her captive’s face that she blamed herself for the death of her friend. “That leaves eighteen of you, including yourself. How many more lies are you going to tell me?”
“You monster!” Without warning, the dwarf thrust aside the quarterstaff and charged at the älf, who dived to the ground and rolled away nimbly to escape the dwarf’s powerful hands.
“Too slow,” crowed Ondori, kicking her under the chin. The dwarf fell backward and lay limply on the ground.
Inàste is smiling on me today, thought the älf. The immortal siblings will be pleased to see my prisoner. Dusting the snow from her clothes, she got up, only for the apparently unconscious dwarf to whip out a dagger and ram it into her calf. The blade tore through the leather upper of her boot and brought her to the ground.
“To arms!” shouted the dwarf, scrambling toward the älf. She pointed the dagger at Ondori’s throat. “We’ve got an intruder in the camp!”
“Don’t kill her!” shouted Ondori, swallowing her pain. “We need her alive!” She grabbed the dagger-wielding arm. The solidly built dwarf threw all her strength into avenging her dead companion.
Four älfar rushed to Ondori’s aid and grabbed the dwarf from behind, tossing her roughly to the ground. Each held a leg or an arm, but the dwarf was still intent on breaking free.
Ondori tore a strip from the cloak of a dead dwarf and tied it around her calf. The wound would heal of its own accord. “Mountain vermin,” she hissed, ramming the blunt end of her quarterstaff into the dwarf’s belly with all her might. “We’re taking you with us. You’re a queen consort and a good friend of Tungdil Goldhand.” She gave the order for the captive to be bound. “Something tells me you’re going to be very useful.”
She limped away, followed by her warriors and the dwarf. Their captive was as stubborn as a donkey, and they had to drag her through the snow. The älfar themselves left no tracks.
Ondori was glad to get back into the saddle. Her calf was still throbbing; the dark water, though able to close any wound, had no effect on the pain. She took the end of the rope with which they had trussed their captive and threaded it through a loop on Agrass’s saddle to tether the dwarf to her mount.
She and her unit resumed their journey toward landur. After a time, Agrass shook his head, nostrils flaring in the wind. Ondori understood the warning and sat up in the saddle. Turning, she saw something in the west.
What in Tion’s name is that?
A long band of light was moving through Gauragar, and it seemed to be heading straight for her homeland. It was traveling fast enough to reach the border in less than two orbits.
Have the humans found a new way of setting fire to the woods? she wondered, surprised that the invaders had regained their courage so soon. She quickly discarded the idea: There was no lamp in Girdlegard, not even an elven lamp, that could give off such a light. It wasn’t fire either; it was too brilliant, too white.
“Groundling!” Her foot connected with the back of the dwarf, who had come to a halt beside the bull. “Is this your doing?”
The captive glared at her murderously and shrugged. “It might be.”
“In other words, no.” It looks like a tide of molten palandium… In Ondori’s mind, there could only be one answer to the riddle: Andôkai.
The humans must have convinced the maga to come up with a spell that would aid their armies against the älfar. But the explanation wasn’t entirely satisfactory. Andôkai the Tempestuous was known for her stormy temper and her fondness for cataclysmic winds. She liked to surprise her enemies with sudden gales or cyclones; it wouldn’t be her style to light up the sky like a beacon and alert the älvish army to her approach.
What’s going on? Ondori had a bad feeling about the light, which was beginning to hurt her eyes. “Halt!” she shouted. “We’re turning back.” She pointed at the luminous band. “Dsôn Balsur is under threat. The elves can wait.”
Two of her guards rode off on shadow mares to spread the word among the troops. The other two stayed at her side. Eyes still fixed on the glow, she touched the symbol of Nagsor and Nagsar on her forehead. It was throbbing as if the skin were inflamed.
“Ondori,” said one of her guards, pointing south. “What’s that over there?”
She stared into the distance and spotted a faint glow in the darkness. It was another strip of white light, this time much further away. “It’s not a threat at the moment,” she said confidently. “Keep an eye on it, though. We don’t want anyone to slip past us and attack from the north.”
“Looks like we’ve got two armies to deal with,” observed the guard, smiling. “The immortal siblings will thank us for bringing them their bones.”
Ondori rubbed her forehead, hoping to soothe the pain. “We can be sure of their gratitude.” She felt strangely ill at ease at the sight of the approaching light. “We should hurry. We need to find out who they are.”
At daybreak, Ondori stood watching the soldiers in their gleaming white armor. The first rays of sunlight glinted on the polished metal, blinding her eyes. She couldn’t decipher the runes on their banner, but she knew for certain that the soldiers weren’t from Girdlegard.
“Twenty thousand foot soldiers and two thousand five hundred riders,” said one of her guards, surveying the unknown enemy. “The immortal siblings should be warned.”
“Our scouts are bound to have seen them,” Ondori assured him. She screwed up her eyes, dazzled by the glare. “They’re sparkling like an army of diamonds. As soon as the sun goes in, we’ll attack from behind, ta
ke some prisoners, and retreat.”
Ondori had fought soldiers from every army in Girdlegard, but none wore uniforms such as these. Where are they from? It seemed unlikely that the human generals could raise an army of foreign mercenaries without the rest of Girdlegard knowing. Älvish spies had been eavesdropping on the enemy camps in Dsôn Balsur for a good many orbits.
“Whoever they are, they’ll get a proper älvish welcome,” she said darkly, returning to her troops. They followed the strange army at a distance until dusk, waiting for the sun to set.
As the light began to fade, she ordered her guards to tie the dwarf to a tree and fill her mouth with snow to stop her dying of thirst.
“We’ll be back soon,” Ondori assured her. “As soon as we’ve finished here, we’re taking you to the immortal siblings.” She waggled her leg tentatively. The dark water had healed the gash in her calf and there was nothing to show that a dagger had sliced through her flesh.
She climbed into the saddle and rode at the head of her troops.
When they were close enough, she took cover and surveyed the tail end of the army. The situation wasn’t to her liking. The soldiers’ armor had absorbed the sunlight, and, despite the gathering gloom, was shining as brightly as ever, forcing Ondori to take an unusual precaution. She ordered her warriors to don strips of black cloth designed to protect them from snow blindness.
Peering through slits in the fabric and still half dazzled by the light, they launched a stealth attack from the rear.
Even as they advanced, Ondori began to doubt the wisdom of the scheme. The blessing on her forehead was burning against her skin, and Agrass, rather than charging the enemy and trampling through the ranks, was snorting and bucking nervously.
The battle got off to a disappointing start.
The soldiers must have anticipated their attack; at any rate, they showed no sign of panic.
As soon as the first enemy rider went down, struck by an älvish arrow, the back row of infantry raised their shields to form a wall, which rose to a height of three paces as the cavalrymen followed suit. Lances and halberds appeared through the cracks.
