by Markus Heitz
Gradually, his vision cleared. The three soldiers were lying dead or dying on the floor, and the white-robed avatar was no more, one of the phials having hit him on the head and the acid eaten away most of his skull and face.
“Ha!” Thrilled by his unexpected victory, Rodario emerged from his hiding place. “That’ll teach you to pick a fight with Rodario the Fablemaker!” Lirkim was resting face down on the table, her plate and two platters hidden beneath her chest. She had hit her head and knocked herself out. “You’ve only got yourself to blame,” he rebuked her. “I don’t take kindly to being played.”
I knocked out two avatars! He put his hands on his hips and laughed like one of his characters on the stage. I’m taking you with me. My friends will be interested to hear what you’ve been up to with the force fields.
He grabbed the woman by the shoulders, sat her up, and proceeded to divest her of her powers by removing her jewelry and putting it in his pockets. Then he gave her another good draft of wine and cracked the empty decanter against her head to make doubly sure that she wouldn’t wake up, which seemed unlikely, considering she was already inebriated and stunned.
Hoisting her over his shoulder, he was suddenly aware of a commotion in the corridor. With a sinking heart he realized that the palace guards were on their way. I suppose the flamethrowers weren’t terribly subtle. His valor melted like an actor’s make-up in the sun.
His feet took him to the window. He could see figures in the garden—small figures. He opened the catch. “Hello down there! Guess what? I’ve purloined an avatar!” He pointed to her posterior. “I’m afraid her pseudo-divine friends have taken umbrage. Perhaps you could be so kind as to—”
“Stop talking and jump!” yelled Boïndil, signaling frantically. “We know a way out.”
“I’m usually very courteous,” he said apologetically to the unconscious Lirkim before tossing her out of the window. She dropped through the air and came to rest in the snow. A moment later he landed beside her. After assuring himself that her heart was still beating, he threw her over his shoulder and hurried after his companions, who were busy conjuring an opening in an apparently solid wall.
Leaving the palace behind them, they raced through the deserted streets. Snow was falling heavily, covering their tracks, and it was impossible to see further than five paces.
“What luck,” remarked the impresario, panting under the weight of his burden. He saw Balyndis on Furgas’s shoulder and Dorsa in Rosild’s arms. “The gods are on our side tonight. Balyndis, the baby, and an avatar—what a haul!”
“Avatar?” snorted Boïndil. “What are you blathering about now?” Weighed down by his heavy armor, he was almost as breathless as the impresario, who wasn’t accustomed to carrying anything but his quill. To his relief, the three dwarves slowed their pace. Furgas, by contrast, showed no sign of tiring.
“Her name is Lirkim. She told me she was a courtier—at least, that’s what I assumed she was, and she didn’t correct me. A friend of hers burst in on us while we were having a cozy dinner, and I saw through her disguise.”
“Ha, what kind of an avatar would allow herself to be captured by an actor,” jeered Boïndil, wheezing.
Rodario’s captive murmured something, and the others heard the words “avatar” and “eoîl.” Ondori listened carefully, then cuffed the woman roundly. “It was an incantation,” she explained. “I didn’t want her causing trouble.”
“Save your breath for running,” panted Tungdil, who already had a stitch.
At last they reached the marketplace and found Ertil, who was waiting for them behind a stack of empty kegs. He was just unbolting the hatch when Ondori whirled round and stared into the swirling snow.
Something was awry. The flakes were melting and turning to slush. A moment later, raindrops pattered against their armor.
“Quick, get in,” she said, nocking an arrow to her bow. Furgas carried Balyndis to safety and Rosild hurried after him, followed by Rodario and his captive.
A gleaming gold sphere whizzed toward them through the rain, expanding and becoming brighter as it sped toward Boïndil, who was last in line for the stairs.
Even as he closed his visor, the sphere slammed into his chest, turning him into a blazing fireball. Tungdil and Boëndal felt the heat through their armor, and Ondori screamed in pain.
Crackling, the unnatural fire died down. Boïndil was still standing, miniature flames licking his spaulders and greaves. They sputtered and expired—Djern’s armor had proven its worth.
“They’re here,” shouted a man’s voice through the darkness. A moment later, he appeared before them in a column of light. “Hurry!”
“Ha, so your magical piffle paffle didn’t work! I can’t wait to see the color of an avatar’s—sorry, conjurer’s—blood!” Boïndil threw himself on the avatar. His brother charged after him, brandishing his crow’s beak.
“For Balyndis!” shouted Tungdil, joining the fight.
The self-declared demigod hurled lightning at his attackers to keep them at bay, but no curse or firebrand could match the strength and determination of three angry dwarves.
Tungdil felt like a lump of ore in a blast furnace. The armor protected him from the flames, but the metal was getting unbearably hot. He was sure he would roast inside his breastplate if the avatar weren’t dealt with soon.
The blades of the dwarves’ weapons were red with heat, and the hafts were already in danger of igniting. Even as the wood began to crumble, Tungdil and the others came in striking distance of their foe.
It was hard to see the avatar in the dazzling light, but they made out his outline. Boïndil landed two powerful blows, and the glow faded to reveal a man of some sixty cycles, with blood spilling from his thighs. He was staggering backward, sword in front of him to fend off the dwarves.
He didn’t stand a chance.
His flowing white robes offered no protection against the long, curved spur of the crow’s beak and the red-hot blades of dwarven axes. Weapons slashed at him from three sides until at last he lay bleeding and groaning in the gutter. Boëndal made certain that he was dead by smashing his skull with the butt of his weapon, then they hurried to the sewers and locked the hatch.
“We got him,” Boïndil told the others, who were looking at the trio expectantly. “But it’s darned hot in here.”
“Where’s Ondori?” asked Rodario, hoisting Lirkim over his shoulder and hurrying after Tungdil.
“Ondori!” The dwarves hadn’t noticed her absence. “I heard her screaming, but…”
“She must have died in the fire,” said Boïndil, smiling darkly. “Serves her right.” He stomped to the head of the procession. “I was wondering how we were going to get rid of the one-eyed murderess. Still, I’d rather have killed her myself.”
No one expressed regret at the passing of Ondori—but no one could say for certain that she was dead.
Incredibly, they managed to rejoin the army of firstlings, thirdlings, freelings, and älfar unscathed. Some of the units had advanced to within ten miles of Porista.
Tungdil went straight to Narmora, who healed the worst of Balyndis’s wounds and did her best to alleviate the pain, leaving the rest to Balyndis’s almost indestructible dwarven constitution.
The maga had barely finished treating Balyndis when she heard a baby crying. At once, Narmora the Unnerving vanished, and the anxious parent came to the fore. A moment later, the little family was reunited, with Narmora hugging Dorsa, then Furgas, then Dorsa again. The dwarves couldn’t help but feel moved, and even the ferocious Boïndil wiped a tear from his whiskery cheek.
Tungdil spent the rest of the orbit at Balyndis’s bedside. He washed her carefully, sponging away the soot and dried blood, then salved her burns and squeezed some water between her lips. Her eyes remained closed.
Toward evening, Boëndal burst in. “We’re ready to interrogate the prisoner,” he announced. “Narmora wants you there—we need to find out as much as we can.”
“Listen, Tungdil,” said Boëndal as they left the tent. “Glaïmbar will be eternally grateful to you for saving Balyndis, but she’ll never…”
“I know,” his friend said sadly. “She won’t leave him—but I’ll always love her, and she’ll always love me. It’s no use fooling myself—I loved her even when I was melded to Myr.” He sighed. “Boïndil was right—some dwarves are better off on their own. I couldn’t meld myself to another maiden. I’d only make her unhappy—and Balyndis too. Still,” he added pensively, “I’m glad Vraccas chose the three of us to save her. I hope she’ll accept my friendship after how I treated her.”
Boëndal nodded and led the way to a disused collier’s hut where Lirkim was imprisoned. Waiting inside were Narmora, Boïndil, and Rodario, the latter with a bucket in hand.
“Let’s get started.” The impresario emptied the bucket over the chained and fettered Lirkim, who was lying face down on the floor. Her eyes flicked open as a rush of cold water hit her back. “We meet again,” said Rodario, crouching beside her. “You weren’t awake when I left the palace, so I brought you back here. Don’t try any of your magic or you’ll be killed on the spot. Understand?”
Lirkim tried to look up, but all she could see were boots, ankles, and a collection of weapons, all pointing at her head. “My right arm hurts,” she said in a muffled voice.
“Hmm, I think it may have broken when… I mean, I think you broke it when you fell.” Rodario was doing his best to sound cold and unfeeling, although he didn’t feel any real enmity toward the prisoner. He refused to believe that anyone so beautiful could be responsible for thousands of deaths. “Did you hear what I said?”
“No magic, I promise.” She was trembling and her voice sounded shaky. The air was bitterly cold and her clothes were soaked through.
“Tell us what you’re doing to the force fields,” commanded Rodario. He picked up a blanket, but a grim-faced Tungdil snatched it away.
“We found the force fields when we were riding to Dsôn Balsur. The eoîl traced the magic back to Porista and found a way of channeling its power.” She coughed. “I don’t know what he’s planning, but he told us that we’ll soon be more powerful than any being or god.”
“Who are you?” demanded Narmora. “We know you’re human, so don’t deny it. Lie to us, and you’ll pay with your life.”
Lirkim nodded wearily. “There are seven of us: three women and four men. Seven magi—and the eoîl. We came together four hundred cycles ago—by pooling our power, we gained the strength to crush any ruler or army who stood in our way. We used the legend of the avatars to make people fear us. No one ever came close to defeating us—until now.”
Boïndil kicked her foot. “What’s an eoîl?”
“An eoîl is an… I can’t explain it, but he’s a real god—the rest of us are human.”
“A god?” Boïndil snorted. “Spare us your fairytales: He’s a trickster, a flimflamming charlatan like you.”
“No,” insisted Lirkim. “He’s a god. There aren’t many gods where I come from, but they’re powerful, very powerful. Everyone is afraid of them—if you attack Porista, as I assume you’re planning to do, you’ll see for yourselves how powerful he is. The eoîl will destroy you. He turns fields into deserts and oceans into saltpans. I’m just a maga, but he’s…”
“You get your power from the evil you destroy,” threw in the maga.
“The eoîl taught us to draw on the evil in the souls of our enemies for curses and charms. When we heard about Girdlegard’s force fields and the dark magic, we—”
“You didn’t come here for Nôd’onn? You knew about the force fields?”
“The eoîl knew about them. He told us that the spirit that inhabited Nôd’onn was still alive.”
“I’ve had enough of this nonsense!” growled Boïndil, drawing his axes. Boëndal pulled him back.
“So you came to Porista because of the magic, but you don’t know more than that,” said Tungdil, summarizing the information. She nodded. “What were you doing with the dwarf-woman?” he demanded.
“The other magi found her,” she explained. “She was tied to a tree, which aroused their suspicions. They took on the appearance of dwarves and offered to help. She mentioned something about special armor.” Lirkim was shivering so badly that every word was punctuated by her chattering teeth. “We realized what she was talking about when our army was defeated in Dsôn Balsur and Timshar and S’liniinsh were killed by an aneoîl. She wouldn’t tell us how the alloy was made.”
“Did you torture her?”
“It was the eoîl who tortured her. He despises undergroundlings.”
Tungdil was intrigued by the name that Lirkim had given to Djern. It implied a connection with the eoîl. He decided to probe the matter further.
“They both kill creatures of darkness,” she replied in answer to his question. “Their motivation is different, of course. An aneoîl kills beasts that are weak or imperfect; an eoîl seeks to root out evil.” Craning her neck, she peered at Narmora. “It was the eoîl’s idea to send an aneoîl to your mistress. He knew it would work.”
Narmora laughed mockingly. “This eoîl of yours seems to have made a big impression on you, but he underestimated my power.”
“And mine,” chipped in Rodario.
Tungdil was heartened by their captive’s readiness to talk. It seemed unlikely that she was lying: The gloom of the collier’s hut and the gravity of the situation were powerful incentives for her to tell the truth. We’ve killed four and taken one captive, which leaves two humans and an eoîl. He started to feel more confident again. I’d like to talk to her about the Outer Lands. She’s bound to know something about the undergroundlings…
Narmora thought for a moment. “How close is the eoîl to achieving his goal?”
“He said it wouldn’t take long. Yesterday he was talking of nine or ten orbits,” came the sobering reply.
“He knows we’ve got Lirkim,” Tungdil pointed out. “He’ll probably redouble his efforts. We need to come up with a plan to take Porista, or Vraccas knows what will happen when the eoîl destroys the wellspring.”
Boëndal looked him in the eye. “What do you think would happen?”
“Remember the rippling earth near Porista?”
Narmora nodded anxiously. “I can feel the change. The magic is draining from the force fields. I’d say the source is drying up.”
“Or someone is using the magic for another purpose,” said Tungdil. “We need to stop the eoîl before he destroys the force fields. I don’t know what he’s up to, but Girdlegard might not recover.” He looked at the others. “Let’s meet again at sunrise. Our mission is to retake Porista.” He turned to leave.
“What will we do with her?” asked Boïndil, pointing to their prisoner whose lips were blue with cold. “I don’t want her weaving any jiggery-pokery behind our backs.”
“I took away her amulets—she’s can’t do anything without them,” broke in Rodario. “I found her; I’ll decide her fate.”
Narmora shook her head. “No, Rodario, it’s too risky. She’s an avatar, and they don’t deserve our mercy. They’re too dangerous.”
“Please, I’m begging you,” whimpered Lirkim, struggling to move her frozen lips. “Don’t kill me. I couldn’t hurt you if I tried.” She looked up at their faces. “Rodario is right. I’m powerless without my amulets.”
Boïndil snorted disbelievingly. “Why should we believe you?”
“Listen, Narmora,” said Rodario seriously. “You can’t kill her; it’s not right.”
“I think we should keep her alive until we’ve captured Porista,” agreed Tungdil, eying the prisoner with disdain. “Who knows, she might come in useful as a bargaining tool—assuming the eoîl cares about his allies.” It was true that Lirkim was a useful asset, but Tungdil was mainly motivated by his reluctance to kill an unarmed human.
Narmora st
retched a hand and a bolt of lightning shot out of her fingertips, hitting Lirkim in the back.
The prisoner shrieked, arching her back and tearing at her shackles, which stayed firmly in place. The bolt had burned through her gown and blistered her skin, leaving a hand-sized mark on her back. Gasping, the former avatar slumped against the floor as the pain died down.
“She wasn’t lying,” pronounced the maga, bending down to pluck a strand of hair from their prisoner’s head. “See this hair, Lirkim? With it I can weave a curse that will find you, no matter how far you run. I recommend you don’t provoke me if you value your life.” She left the hut, followed by the dwarves. Four of Lorimbas’s warriors stayed behind as guards.
Rodario went outside and returned with a handful of snow, which he placed on the blistered skin. Lirkim flinched.
“Thank you,” she whispered with a sob. “Thank you for saving my life.”
He unlocked her shackles, helped her up and led her to a mattress. She took off her wet clothes and slipped under the sheets.
“Why did you ask me to dinner with you in Porista?” he asked softly.
“The usual reason,” she replied. “You’re a handsome man, and I wanted some entertainment. I was going to let the evening run its course.”
What an evening it would have been… Rodario realized that he was starting to feel sorry for her, so he reminded himself of the thousands who had died in Dsôn Balsur. Lirkim seemed delicate and vulnerable, but she was capable of terrible things. Four hundred cycles, and still so youthful and charming… “You mentioned the spirit that corrupted Nudin and made him turn traitor.” He waited for her to nod. “Is it still alive?”
She shrugged and he guessed what she would say before her blue lips began to move. “I don’t know, but the eoîl knows everything. He knows the spirit and he senses where it is.”
Rodario, hearing a noise at the door, turned in time to see a shadow pass the window. An eavesdropper!
He jumped up, ran to the door, and peered into the falling snow, but all he could see was a dark shadow disappearing into nothingness. He looked in vain for footprints, but the snow was unmarked.
