by Markus Heitz
Tungdil swallowed. “What was my great-uncle called?”
“Salfalur Shieldbreaker, King Lorimbur’s right-hand dwarf. He’s still alive, as far as I know. Your father was his best friend, which is how he met your mother. If things had happened differently, he would have taken over from Salfalur as commander-in-chief. Lotrobur was our second-best warrior, after Salfalur.”
“Is that when you left?”
“I became a mercenary in Idoslane until I met a dwarf who told me about a group of exiles living underground. Every dwarf needs kinsmen, so I made my way to Trovegold.”
Tungdil took her hand and shook it vigorously. “Thank you, Sanda. I can’t tell you how much it means to know the names of my parents—although I wish they hadn’t died because of me.”
“I wish they were alive to meet their famous son,” she said sincerely. “But you’re not to blame for their deaths. The laws are at fault—Lotrobur and Yrdiss loved each other, but she was promised to another against her will. The freelings have done away with forced marriages. That’s another reason why I like this realm.”
Tungdil got to his feet. “Will you drink with me to my parents?”
“It would be an honor,” replied the commander. They made their way to the nearest tavern and raised their tankards to Yrdiss and Lotrobur. Sanda seemed happy to talk about Tungdil’s parents, for whom she had nothing but respect.
Listening to her stories, Tungdil, who had no memory of his parents, felt an overwhelming urge to avenge their deaths. His hatred for Glaïmbar was supplanted by hatred for a thirdling by the name of Salfalur.
After a few tankards, he summoned the courage to ask Sanda to help him with his axmanship. I’ll be the best warrior in the history of the thirdlings, he decided. Salfalur will pay…
Porista,
Former Realm of Lios Nudin,
Girdlegard,
Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle
The maga’s distinguished guests were greeted by the magnificent architecture of the new Porista. Under Rodario’s supervision, the city had risen from the rubble, the ruined buildings restored to their former glory. A bright future lay ahead for the realm.
By the time the last of the delegates reached Porista, the city had begun to resemble a military camp. Flags and banners fluttered above the streets and houses, marking the territory of the different kingdoms. To no one’s surprise, Liútasil’s banners were situated as far away as possible from the crests of the clans in Gandogar’s entourage.
The shops and hostels of Porista welcomed the visitors. For the first time since its destruction, the city was booming. Takings were up, and the streets and alleyways were full of men, elves, and dwarves.
But the tension was palpable.
Everyone had heard about the conflict between the elves and the dwarves, and no one could say for certain whether the old enemies would talk peacefully or go for each other’s throats. A repetition of the incident in Dsôn Balsur would put paid to the great alliance, not to mention the assembly. The other delegates were relying on the threat of the maga’s magic to bring order to the proceedings.
When the appointed orbit dawned, the leaders of Girdlegard descended on the palace. The meeting was to be held in the conference chamber, where the council of the magi had met for the last time. There was no sign of the battle that had claimed the lives of Lot-Ionan, Maira, Turgur, and Sabora. The cracked flagstones and fallen pillars had been cleared away, and the gleaming copper dome and pristine marble testified to the skill of Porista’s artisans. In the eastern corner of the chamber stood Lot-Ionan, whom Nôd’onn had turned to stone.
Waiting to greet the delegates was Narmora, dressed in an embroidered robe that matched her crimson headscarf and went perfectly with her eyes. Andôkai stayed out of sight; by arriving last, she intended to underline her power and signal to the kings and queens of Girdlegard that she outranked them all.
“Scrubs up nicely, doesn’t she, brother?” boomed a voice that Narmora recognized instantly as belonging to Boïndil. It seemed to be coming from somewhere behind the delegation from Weyurn. “It’s nice to know she made an effort on our behalf.”
As the last of the Weyurnians entered the conference chamber, the dwarves came into view. At the head of the procession was King Gandogar, flanked by the twins. Representatives from the four allied kingdoms made up the rest of the deputation.
She welcomed the high king first, then turned to the twins, who shook her hand vigorously. “Do you still dream about me?” she asked Boëndal with a smile.
The dwarf shuddered. “Vraccas protect me from älvish nightmares,” he said, pulling a face. “You look older, Narmora. I thought Andôkai would teach you the secret of everlasting youth.”
“I’ve had a lot on my mind,” she said evasively, unwilling to share her worries with every kingdom in the land. “I’ll tell you about it later.” She spotted Balyndis at the back of the delegation. Standing beside her was a broad-chested warrior whom Narmora didn’t recognize. “Where’s Tungdil?” she asked the twins.
“Tungdil?” said Boïndil. “He’s—”
His brother cleared his throat. “He stayed behind in the fifthling kingdom,” he said, conscious that Gemmil might not thank them for revealing the freelings’ existence. In his opinion, it was a strictly dwarven concern. “He couldn’t join the delegation. Sentry duty, I’m afraid.”
Narmora nodded sagely, although Boëndal was obviously lying. Gandogar, overhearing, avoided her gaze.
“I wouldn’t mention him to Balyndis,” said Boïndil moodily. “They’re not together anymore. She forged the iron band with the king of the fifthlings. It’s a touchy subject.”
I’m not the only one to whom fate has dealt a bad hand… “Thanks for the warning,” she said aloud. “The assembly is about to begin. We’ve put you next to the door—as far away as possible from the elves.” Stepping aside, she ushered them into the hall.
When the last dwarf had taken his seat, she left her post, entered the chamber and closed the doors behind her. The benches and tables were arranged in a semi-circle with Andôkai’s throne-like chair at the center. Narmora sat down on the only remaining seat and waited for her hated mentor.
On the other side of the chamber, Liútasil was talking in hushed tones to two members of his delegation. Every now and then they looked up, glowered in the dwarves’ direction and continued their whispered conversation.
I wonder what they’re plotting, thought Narmora, wishing she could read their thoughts. She watched their lips move soundlessly and discovered to her astonishment that every word, every syllable was perfectly audible inside her head. Unfortunately, she couldn’t make sense of the discussion—elvish was nothing like älvish, and she had never learned the elven tongue.
Just then a powerful gust blew open the double doors.
Everyone in the chamber swiveled round and the dwarves reached for their weapons, prompting the elves to raise their bows.
Andôkai was standing in the doorway. Like Narmora, she was dressed in a crimson robe, but the cut and embroidery were more elaborate. In her left hand she held a sheathed sword.
Proudly she surveyed the assembled delegates. “Rulers of Girdlegard, welcome to Porista,” she called. “Kings and queens of dwarves, elves, and men, I welcome you and your courtiers to my palace.” She swept past the benches to her chair, from which she gazed down at the other rulers. At the back of the chamber, the doors swung shut, as if of their own accord. “I have something to tell you, something that bodes ill for our kingdoms.” She paused for a moment, allowing her words to take effect. “Ten powerful avatars are laying waste to the Outer Lands. They were created from the flesh of Tion, hewn from his body by the red-hot hammer of Vraccas. These creatures see it as their mission to destroy the darkness created by the god from whom they were born, an objective that most in this room would approve of, were it not for the trail of destruction they leave in their wake. The avatars are demigods, fiery beings who scorch the ground
and care nothing for human casualties. At their service is an army of warriors who share their commitment to destroying Tion’s creation, whatever the cost.”
The delegates’ faces mingled fear and alarm.
“I’m sure you all remember the comet that passed over Girdlegard and brought death and destruction to a number of our kingdoms,” continued Andôkai, looking gravely at her audience. “It wasn’t a comet. The ten demigods have a long-lost brother who descended from the skies to join them in the Outer Lands. According to legend, the eleven brothers can only be defeated by beings with pure hearts and noble souls. It seems we must prepare ourselves for an attack.”
Queen Wey, a woman of some fifty cycles dressed in a long blue robe trimmed with diamonds, was the first to speak. “If what you say is true, we need a fighting force more powerful than the allied army at Dsôn Balsur.” She inclined her head toward the maga. “Most of all, we need your help.”
“You shall have it,” promised Andôkai. “But I can’t guarantee that my famula and I can defeat them. An army is exactly what—”
“An army of innocents,” exclaimed Nate, the fur-wrapped king of Tabaîn. His eyes were as green as lily pads, and his thinning hair was the color of ripe corn. “You said they can only be defeated by pure souls,” he continued. “I propose we raise an army of maidens and youths unsullied by the pleasures of the flesh. We can train them to fight.”
“Poppycock,” yapped King Belletain, apparently addressing his goblet. He gave it a playful spin. A dwarf at his side monitored his every movement, watching for early signs of a seizure. “I say we use children. Stick them in a mangonel and fire them at the comet-gods. That should do it.”
“Supposing the men and women were pure to begin with, would they retain their purity if we trained them to fight?” enquired the bronzed queen of Sangpûr. Despite wearing several layers of clothing, Umilante was suffering from the cold. The climate in Porista was decidedly frosty compared to her desert realm.
“We could pull their legs until they’re long and stringy and sharpen their heads to a point. Put them in a trebuchet, and whoosh!” Belletain made a hissing noise like a flying missile and stuck out his index finger, aiming for the goblet. “Ker-plung!” The goblet crashed to the ground. “See, it works!”
The king of Urgon’s ramblings went uncommented on by everyone else in the room.
Prince Mallen turned to King Nate. “Your suggestion strikes me as plausible—but perhaps Lord Liútasil can offer some advice.” He turned to the elven lord. “These demigods… Have your people heard of them? How might one defeat them?”
Before the auburn-haired lord could reply, the elf to the left of him jumped up and stabbed a finger at the dwarves. “What about the traitors in our ranks? The groundlings cut down our archers.” He glowered at them furiously. “You can’t use the threat of the avatars to get away with your crimes.”
Boïndil jumped to his feet. “Take that back, you pointy-eared liar, or I’ll—”
“Sit down, Boïndil!” roared Gandogar, as Boëndal and Balyndis reached forward to drag the furious warrior into his seat.
“Or you’ll what?” the elf asked mockingly, taking a step toward him. “Come here and kill me, if you dare. Everyone knows the dwarves are cowardly murderers. I’ll warrant you’ve been killing our archers and blaming it on the älfar all along!”
Andôkai, eyes glinting dangerously, rose to her feet. “Quiet!” she barked furiously and was instantly obeyed. Her magic was feared by the dwarves and the elves. “I suggest we focus on the important issues. We can deal with your feuding later, if we must.”
Her words were still echoing through the chamber when someone hammered on the doors. Andôkai signaled to Narmora to deal with the unexpected interruption.
She opened the doors to find herself face to face with Rodario and an unknown dwarf. A penetrating smell of perspiration rose from the visibly exhausted warrior whose leather jerkin was stained with rings of sweat.
“Apologies for the interruption, my dark-hearted beauty, but this little fellow and his diminutive companions desire an interview with the maga,” explained Rodario with customary flamboyance.
The dwarf seemed dissatisfied with the introduction. “My name is Beldobin Anvilstand of the clan of the Steely Nails of Borengar’s line. Queen Xamtys’s deputy, Gufgar Anvilstand of the clan of the Steely Nails, sent me here to speak with the maga directly.” He pointed to something behind him. “The long-un tried to turn me away, but I showed him who we’ve brought.”
Peering over his head, Narmora saw a makeshift stretcher surrounded by twenty dwarves.
The stretcher, made of planks of wood and steel shields with wheels attached to the bottom, was bowing dangerously under the weight of a warrior of colossal proportions. Traces of bright yellow liquid covered the giant’s visor and parts of his armor. In his left hand he held his sword, the blade of which was broken and spattered with orc blood. Hair and scraps of flesh were stuck to the cudgel in his other hand. The dwarves hadn’t been able to wrench the weapons from his grip.
“We don’t know what’s wrong with him. A sentry found him near West Ironhald. We didn’t know what to do with him, so we thought we’d bring him here.”
“You did wisely. Bring him in.” Narmora opened both doors and hurried to the front of the room. “Estimable Maga, there’s someone to see you.”
The dwarves pushed the stretcher into the chamber and came to a halt beside Narmora. Turning toward the dwarven delegation, they saluted the high king and Xamtys before leaving the room. Their mission, a feat of dwarven endurance, was complete.
“Djern!” cried Andôkai, laying her sword on the table and hurrying over to examine his injuries.
“Get back!” shouted Balyndis, leaping up and drawing her ax. “Get back! It isn’t Djern!”
Andôkai froze and turned to the smith, seeking an explanation, but it was already too late.
The colossal warrior awoke from his paralysis and rammed his broken sword into the maga’s unprotected midriff. Jumping down from the stretcher, he drew a second sword with his left hand and swung his cudgel toward Narmora, who leaped aside, landing among King Nate’s delegation. A fearsome roar echoed through the chamber and the giant’s visor emitted a blinding violet glow.
“Djern!” groaned the maga, staring at the hilt of the sword protruding from her belly. She took a step back, pulled out the blade and reached for her sword. Murmuring an incantation to close the wound, she braced herself for the next assault.
It came sooner than she expected.
The armored giant went for his victim with murderous zeal. Blows rained down from his cudgel and sword with preternatural power and speed. Andôkai had crossed swords with her bodyguard in training, but nothing had prepared her for this. She had never encountered such savagery.
Her stomach had barely stopped bleeding when her right shoulder was struck by a blow from above. The cudgel smashed through her collarbone and sent her flying to the ground. The incantation on her lips became a piercing scream of pain. The sword entered her belly for a second time and she gave an agonized groan as the giant rotated the blade by 180 degrees.
By the time Djern’s helmet crashed against her head, there was nothing she could do. The steel spikes pierced her skull, blood streamed into her eyes, and everything darkened around her.
The delegates, who had been following the duel in stunned disbelief, leaped belatedly to the maga’s aid. Ireheart led the charge against the giant, followed by his fellow dwarven warriors, then the humans and elves. Arrows perforated the giant’s armor; axes and hammers pounded his breastplate and hacked through his chain mail. At last, the violet light went out behind his metal visor and he sank to the ground, blood gushing from countless wounds.
Nine men, three dwarves, and four elves went with him to their deaths. Queen Wey was lucky to evade a fatal encounter with his cudgel, and Umilante’s many layers of clothing saved her from his deadly sword.
Boïndil,
not satisfied that the giant was dead, continued to batter his helmet. “By Vraccas, he was tough,” he panted, wiping his face with his sleeve to clear away the saffron-colored blood. “Curse my inner furnace. Now I’ll never know what he looked like underneath.”
Narmora crouched beside the critically wounded maga. Those around her assumed she was trying to save her mentor, but the half älf had other ideas. There wouldn’t be another chance like this.
“I know a charm that would save you,” she whispered in the maga’s ear. “But I’ve decided to let you die. You killed my son and put my husband in a coma. You deserve to suffer for your scheming and lies.”
Andôkai coughed weakly and closed her eyes. “Furgas won’t recover without my help,” she hissed, grabbing Narmora by the collar of her robe. “If I die, Furgas dies with me.”
Narmora made no attempt to shake off the maga’s trembling hands. She reached for her necklace and produced the jagged splinter of malachite. “Does this look familiar?” she asked, eyes darkening to fathomless hollows as she spoke. “It’s the key to Nôd’onn’s power. He wore it in his flesh until Tungdil cut him open and spilled his guts. I found it at the Blacksaddle and made it my talisman. I didn’t realize how powerful it was.” She slid the gemstone from the chain. “Samusin have mercy,” she cried for the benefit of the others. “The maga is dying!”
She laid her hands slowly on Andôkai’s chest. Her lips moved as if she were summoning healing energies for the maga’s recovery, while her fingers pressed the splinter of malachite through the bodice of her dress. The long, pointed shard bored deeper and deeper, a green halo encircling the maga’s body as the malachite pierced her heart.
Narmora, still mumbling strange incantations, waited as the maga’s life force drained away. The halo was fading fast.
