by Markus Heitz
“Silence!” she screeched furiously, opening her mouth to begin another spell. An apple-sized ball of light sped toward her and exploded against her chest. Screaming, she dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around her stricken body.
“You’re carrying it inside you,” he said triumphantly. “You’re giving shelter to what’s left of the demon. What will your friends say, half älf?” He hurled another ball of light toward her, and she writhed on the ground, moaning. “Why did you kill Lirkim?”
“Enough!” bellowed Tungdil, striding toward him. “I won’t be distracted by your lies. Vraccas told his children to guard these lands, and I’ll fight you to the death.”
With Narmora incapacitated, the eoîl turned back to the dwarf. “You’re determined and you’re spirited,” he said approvingly. “I like that, undergroundling, which is why I’m proposing a deal.” He reached down to pick up the cable. “Let me go about my business, and I’ll order my warriors to lay down their arms. Girdlegard won’t come to any harm—with the help of the wellspring, I’ll rid your lands of evil, and every impure soul within the five ranges will perish in my flames.” He pointed to the crystal tube. “Their energy will be channeled through this stone and converted to good. Afterward, I’ll be strong enough to take on the lord of darkness himself.” The luminous oval turned to Tungdil. “It won’t take long, then I’ll leave you in peace. I’m giving you and your kinsfolk a better world—a world without älfar or beasts. Nothing that bears a trace of evil will survive the stone of judgment. Isn’t that what you want?”
Although the proposal was appealing, Tungdil couldn’t bring himself to trust the eoîl. He decided to probe a little further. “What will happen to the force fields? If you drain the wellspring, Girdlegard will be thrown into chaos and you’ll devastate the land. We’ve seen the effects of your meddling already.”
“Change means risk. Thanks to your smith, I can use the source to give me power. She gave away the secret of your armor.”
“Balyndis didn’t tell you anything.”
“No one can resist my power. The undergroundling endured unimaginable pain—she won’t remember what she said.” The eoîl glanced over the parapet. “Älvish reinforcements,” he observed. “The immortal siblings are with them—I can feel their dark power. They know I intend to wipe them out. Their dark-hearted leaders aren’t as indestructible as they claim.” He turned back to Tungdil. “Which will it be? Will you let me destroy the älfar—or do you want your friends to die?”
Rodario suddenly grasped what the eoîl was up to. The cable was made of Balyndis’s special alloy, and the eoîl was using it to connect the diamond to the spring. I need to distract him. “The decision isn’t ours to take,” he said. He took a sideways step, holding the phial behind him and dropping it on the cable at the point where it left the wall. “Tungdil can’t agree to anything without the backing of the other kings. He can’t speak for the dwarven rulers, let alone the men and elves, so if you don’t mind, I’m afraid we’ll have to—”
The eoîl raised his hand, and the impresario lifted several paces off the ground and slammed against the wall of the tower. He toppled forward and slumped over the parapet, too dazed to move.
“I didn’t ask for his opinion,” snapped the eoîl. “Well, Tungdil, what do you say?”
“I can’t agree to your proposal.”
“There’s a thin line between courage and folly.” Pointing at Tungdil with his right hand, he uttered a magic formula, but nothing happened. The acid had eaten through the cable, cutting the link to the spring.
“Courage and folly can defeat the most powerful conjurers,” retorted Tungdil, rushing forward and swinging his ax to cut down the eoîl.
Even as he raised his weapon he was overtaken by a pair of dark figures, who ran past him on either side. They were dressed in magnificent suits of black tionium with elaborate älvish helmets, and their swords were as delicate as they were deadly, with razor-sharp, finger-width blades.
Before he had time to regain his composure, Tungdil was knocked off his feet from behind. He fell, rolled over, and prepared to fight.
“You again?” He looked into the masked face of Ondori.
She lifted her black veil and smiled coldly. “The immortal siblings will handle the eoîl. It’s no job for a groundling.” She thrust her quarterstaff toward him, hitting his helmed head. Tungdil was momentarily deafened, but amid the ringing in his ears he heard her whisper, “I told you it would end this way. Look at me: Ondori is your death.” She said something in a strange tongue, then leaned forward again. “I’m going to take your life, groundling.” A blade shot out from the end of her quarterstaff and pressed against his throat. “To blazes with your soul.”
With that, the fight against the eoîl faded into insignificance as Tungdil focused his energies on survival.
Ondori raised the quarterstaff, preparing to pierce Tungdil’s throat, but he rolled to the side as best he could, gasping as the blade nicked his skin. He smelled the blood trickling from the right of his throat, a strong coppery odor, characteristic of dwarves.
Ondori kicked out, striking him just as he tried to right himself like a clumsy beetle. He flew through the air, landed and ducked beneath her blade, coming dangerously close to the parapet. Straightening up, he was just in time to anticipate the next assault.
“You killed my parents, groundling.” The tip of the quarterstaff sped toward him, and he batted it aside with his ax, only for her to flip the haft of her weapon into his visor. His head jerked back with a sickening crack. The blow would have broken the neck of a human, but it wasn’t enough to fell a determined dwarf.
“My friends killed your father—and I’ll kill you too.” He slashed at her with his ax, fully expecting her to block the blade with her quarterstaff. “I warned you the first time, and I’m a dwarf of my word.” He hooked his ax around the staff, jerked the älf toward him, and swung his blade to the right.
The tactic paid off. Ondori, desperate to keep hold of her weapon, wasn’t quick enough, and the ax cut into the back of her right hand, almost chopping it in two. Dark blood gushed to the marble floor.
“I’ll sculpt a tombstone for my parents with your bones!” She stabbed at Tungdil with her staff, ramming it into his leg. He stumbled against the parapet and reached down to yank the weapon from his thigh. The blade had cut through his armor and pierced his flesh to the bone. A scream rose inside him, but he gritted his teeth, clamping his jaws until he thought he would explode.
Reaching for her belt, Ondori drew another set of weapons similar to Narmora’s crescent blades, and rushed forward to finish him off.
The duel was a fight to the death. The dwarf and the älf were both injured, but neither could land the decisive blow. They were fighting so energetically, so determinedly, that there was no time to follow the battle between the immortal siblings and the eoîl. A moment of inattention on either part would result in death.
Tungdil, limping badly, began to slow. His right leg, already unsteady, gave out completely as Ondori swung both weapons at his chest. He stumbled, falling toward his foe.
A scythe-like blade slid through the join in his breastplate and sliced through his jerkin, piercing his ribs. Weakened from his previous injury, he blacked out for a second, opening his eyes in time to see Ondori towering over him, ready to land another blow.
Mighty Vraccas, he prayed silently. Don’t abandon the elves and men. For the sake of Girdlegard, grant me the strength to prevail. He thrust his ax toward Ondori, but she batted it aside.
“Good, but not good enough,” she taunted him. Her foot sped into his face, preventing further resistance. Kneeling beside him, she set a blade against the lower edge of his helmet and pressed it against his throat. “Die, Tungdil Goldhand.” Her scarred face glowed with triumph as she contemplated killing him slowly, sinking the blade little by little into his neck, and making him suffer as she and her parents had suffered at his hands. But time was short and sh
e decided to settle for inflicting a speedy but brutal death.
“I’d kill Sinthoras and your mother again if I had the chance,” he mumbled. After the last kick, his mouth felt swollen and numb.
“You’ll never kill another älf.” Ondori tensed her muscles, preparing to land the final blow.
Just then the tower moved. Tiles, sections of roof, and wooden struts broke free and rained down on Tungdil and Ondori.
Shocked, she raised her arm again, but the second-highest tower in Porista was bathed in searing white light.
Tungdil, lying on his back, peered past the älf to the top of the tower. A column of light pierced the gray winter sky, topped by a white fireball ten paces across. It’s too late. The eoîl has done it.
Magic energy rose from the vaults of the palace, pulsing through the column as the power of the wellspring was sucked toward the sky. The tower and the ground beneath it continued to shake.
I knew it. The eoîl shouldn’t be meddling with the order of the gods. Tungdil seized his chance and grabbed Ondori’s wrist before she could lower her blade.
Ramming her elbow into his helmet, she threw her weight behind the weapon, forcing it toward his neck. Shaking with effort, they pushed against each other, summoning the last of their strength. Ondori, it seemed, was the stronger.
The blade nicked his neck and the älf breathed out triumphantly. “Nothing can save your pathetic little life. Die, groundling!”
Overhead, the white sun sucked the last of the energy from the wellspring in a long, thirsty gulp. The column of magic flickered and paled.
A split-second later, the sun exploded with a clear high tinkle, purer and brighter than the ring of a hammer on an anvil, louder than a thunderclap, and more piercing than the wail of a child. The city was steeped in light, every man, dwarf, and älf resplendent in the glow.
Ondori’s black eyes were transformed, becoming streams of pure light. Her face contorted. “In the name of Tion, what…” Silvery light shimmered from her pores.
Tungdil was mesmerized by the transformation taking place before his eyes. Suddenly, a dark mist rose from the älf and floated skyward. A wave of heat radiated from her body, and she opened her mouth in a bestial scream, but no sound came out. There was nothing left of her but swirling ash that scattered on the winter wind. Her clothes and her weapons had disintegrated as well.
Just then Tungdil spotted Narmora. She had risen to her feet and was stumbling forward, wailing and screeching. Light glowed from her chest, turning to pale white flames as if her flesh were made of straw. Her screams died as she tumbled to the floor in a fiery plume.
Shocked, Tungdil looked away. There was nothing that could be done for her. He looked in vain for the immortal siblings and their imposing black armor. Was the eoîl right? He pulled himself up and peered over the balcony to see how Porista had fared.
Following the explosion, the magic energy had risen above the tower, fanning out and surrounding the palace like an upturned bowl. It continued to radiate outward, picking up speed and moving through houses and temples, unhindered by marble, wood, or flesh.
The fighting had stopped on the ramparts and in the streets. Everyone was staring at the searing wall of light.
The first unit of älfar flared with light, disintegrated and perished like Ondori. A cloud of black mist rose from the city, collecting around the diamond at the top of the flagpole. Tendrils of smoke wound themselves playfully around the precious stone, streaking the air and forming strange aerial creatures.
Outside the city, the älvish reinforcements fled in panic, some running, others spurring their shadow mares, all desperate to escape the searing light.
Nothing could protect them from the eoîl.
Tungdil watched as the dark figures were consumed by light, the evil inside them rising to the diamond on the mast. The bell-like radiance continued to spread outward until its furthest edges glimmered on the horizon. Black mist wafted toward the palace, collecting overhead.
Just then a tremor ran through the tower. The earth was shaking again.
Glancing to the parapet, Tungdil saw the charred remains of Narmora. Lying beside her blackened ribs was a shimmering green jewel. It was true!
“Magic should be banned,” mumbled Rodario, slowly coming to. He straightened up, saw Narmora’s charred remains, and raised his hands to his eyes. “Palandiell be with us, he killed her!”
“She was killed by the evil within,” said a voice.
The eoîl stood up, letting go of the two ends of the cable. The radiant aura disappeared.
Now they could see that their antagonist was a tall, slender maiden in pure white robes. The sword in her left hand was dripping with the dark blood of the immortal siblings. The tips of her ears pointed up through her long fair hair, and her face was too narrow and beautiful to be human.
“The stone of judgment has done its work.” She inclined her head regally toward Rodario and Tungdil. “Those who passed the test have nothing to fear.” Her blue eyes shifted to the cloud overhead. “The essence of evil,” she explained. “Don’t worry, I’ll convert it to good.” She smiled serenely.
Rodario raised himself to his full height and glanced at Tungdil, hoping to discover what the dwarf had in mind. “You’re an… elf.”
“I’m an eoîl, purer and nobler than my lowly cousins,” she said disdainfully. “I was touched by the hands of Sitalia herself.”
“Give back the magic energy,” demanded Tungdil, undaunted. The pain seemed to fade as Vraccas restored his courage. At last he had a flesh-and-blood opponent: a pointy-eared eoîl who cared nothing for the suffering she inflicted and had the presumption to think that she was better than everyone else. Such arrogance was typical of her kind. “Give it back before Girdlegard is shaken to pieces.”
She shook her head, sending ripples through her silky hair. “The magic is gone. The stone of judgment has absorbed its power.” She raised her right hand and pointed to the sky. Black clouds were blowing toward Porista from all directions, turning the dull winter afternoon to deepest night. “See?”
Toboribor’s orcs in the south of Idoslane, Borwôl’s ogres in the northeastern reaches of Urgon, the last of the älfar in Dsôn Balsur, and other nameless beasts in the far-flung reaches of Girdlegard had been destroyed by the stone. There was nothing left except the darkness of the souls, billowing toward Porista.
Already a vortex of energy was swirling down from the cloud and wrapping itself wraith-like around the crystal, which devoured the darkness. At once the diamond lit up, illuminating the heavens like a star. The transformation had begun.
Rodario, his jauntiness gone, hobbled slowly over to Tungdil. Narmora’s death had affected him deeply, even though he knew of her misdeeds. “What are we going to do?”
The dwarf thought for a moment. “Remember what Lirkim told us about her power?” he whispered.
The impresario bent over and picked up Ondori’s quarterstaff, pretending to use it as a crutch. “She said the magic was stored in her amulets.”
Tungdil studied the eoîl and counted two rings and an amulet hanging from her dainty neck. “Do you think she’s got any energy left?” He glanced at the flagpole. “There’s a good chance she won’t be able to use her magic until she channels the energy from the stone.” He unbuckled his greaves and tied a makeshift bandage around the wound. He wanted the eoîl to think that they had abandoned the struggle and embraced the new order. “Don’t do anything until the darkness has been absorbed. We can’t get rid of the eoîl and leave the evil in the air.” He pulled the bandage tight and knotted it in place. “Wait till she reaches for the diamond, then go.”
The tower shook again, the blocks of marble groaning under the strain.
“And then what?”
“We pray to Vraccas that we’re right about the amulets.”
Rodario smiled wryly. “I meant, what are we going to do with the diamond? I’m assuming we’ll defeat her.”
“We’ll
cast it into the wellspring and see what happens.” His brown eyes were grimly determined. “I can’t think of a better idea right now. The eoîl won’t hand over the diamond willingly, and she can’t be allowed to hold so much power. With the energy from the diamond she’ll be unstoppable, and she doesn’t seem terribly levelheaded.”
Rodario tightened his grip on the quarterstaff. “I’ve run out of props,” he said, patting his empty pockets. “I’m not cut out to be a warrior. I’d rather fight with lycopodium flames and burning acid than a blade.”
“I thought you wanted a starring role? Rodario the Fablemaker, Impresario and Warrior, Defeats the Mighty Eoîl. How’s that for a title?”
“I wouldn’t mind if I’d rehearsed. I’ve got nothing against a bit of ad libbing, but I don’t want to fall off the stage.”
The dwarf thumped him on the back. “You’ll be fine.” He glanced up at the sky where the last black wisps were streaming into the crystal tube. “We’ll let her think that I can’t walk properly on my own. Pretend you’re going for help, and on my signal, we’ll attack. Whoever gets to her first will have to deal the fatal blow.” The two friends shook hands.
“I can’t carry you on my own,” Rodario said loudly. “You stay here, and I’ll go for help. You shouldn’t be walking on that leg.” He frowned, looking every inch the anxious friend. As always, he played his part to perfection, hobbling forward with the help of the quarterstaff as if he were badly wounded.
The eoîl seemed barely aware of their presence. She was staring, transfixed, at the diamond, which was sparkling with magic light. Her face was so beautiful that Tungdil felt unwell.
Daylight returned and gray banks of snow filled the sky, emptying their cold white cargo on the roofs of Porista. The sinister clouds had gone, the dark magic channeled through the rune-inscribed crystal tube and transformed into positive energy by the diamond.
