by Markus Heitz
Tungdil squeezed the smith’s hand and stood up reluctantly.
“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.
N
armora stretched 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.
Narmora? Surely not… He went back into the hut and closed the door. Something very strange is going on…
VIII
Western Entrance to the Fourthling Kingdom,
Kingdom of Urgon,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6235th/6236th Solar Cycle
Captain Vallasin stomped through the ever-deepening snow. Clad in leather armor, with a woolen cloak wrapped tightly around his shoulders, he headed for the nearest sentry. “Well?” he called from a distance, to save himself the walk. “Any news?”
“No, captain,” shouted the soldier. “The gates won’t budge.”
Vallasin’s spirits sank even lower. He stopped in his tracks, raised a hand, and returned to his tent, where a mug of hot tea was waiting for him by the fire.
The same ritual had unfolded every few hours for more than forty orbits, and there was still no progress. Every time he went out, the sentry would tell him that the gates were still closed.
He glanced around the tent, hung his cloak on a hook, and plonked himself onto a folding chair. His aide-de-camp handed him a mug of tea. Even with the fire, it was cold inside the thin tent walls, and a fierce wind gusted continually through even the slightest gap in the canvas.
“Have they—” The aide-de-camp stopped mid-question, guessing from the captain’s expression that the news wasn’t good.
“It can’t go on like this!” exploded Vallasin. “Ten thousand men camped outside a deserted dwarven kingdom, and we can’t get past the doors!”
He took a sip of tea and stared glumly at the stack of letters from Pendleburg. Scarcely an orbit went by without Belletain asking for news of the campaign. So far the captain’s response had always been the same: no progress.
Vallasin was aware that his career was at stake. He had worked hard to attain his rank, but the unhinged king of Urgon could easily decide to entrust the mission to someone else. “There has to be a way.”
“Our technicians can’t get to the hinges,” his aide-de-camp reminded him politely. “Levers, chisels… Nothing will work.”
Vallasin held up a royal letter. “His Majesty won’t take no for an answer.” He got up and paced angrily from the tent pole to the door. “What am I supposed to tell the poor beggars freezing off their backsides in the snow? Forty-seven dead! Forty-seven! And why? Because of a broken promise and a pair of locked gates.”
According to a treaty between Belletain and Lorimbas, the thirdlings were supposed to clear the way for Vallasin’s soldiers to search the dwarven stronghold and carry off the gold. Instead their path was blocked by a pair of solid granite gates that withstood the force of battering rams and blunted the strongest pick.
I’m sick of bloody waiting. Vallasin had marched his men to the Brown Range on Belletain’s orders and readied the troops for attack. A thirdling relief army had materialized soon afterward, and the two armies had waited impatiently outside the locked gates until the dwarves had packed up and left without a word. Vallasin saw no point in waiting, but orders were orders, and Belletain wanted them to stay.
He heard the clip-clop of hooves outside the tent.
“Another letter from Belletain,” he growled. “How many more times does he want to hear that we’re stuck in the cold?”
A rider entered the tent. He was covered from head to toe in powdery snow, and his breath had frozen against his scarf, forming a sheath of ice around his face. He took a sealed leather cylinder from his saddlebag and handed it to the captain. “For you, sir.”
Vallasin signaled for his aide-de-camp to give the frozen rider a hot mug of tea while he broke the seal and took out the parchment.
He was about to add it to the pile without reading it and return the cylinder to the rider with a pre-prepared report when he noticed that the letter was longer than usual.
Judging by the first few lines, he wasn’t being demoted, as he had feared.
“What’s this?” he murmured. “New orders from our esteemed king. Belletain wants us to leave.” Relieved and heartened, he summoned his officers to the tent.
“Gentlemen,” he said, when everyone was present, “King Belletain has advised me that the situation has changed. As you know, Lorimbas Steelheart broke his promise, so our alliance with the thirdlings is over.” He rolled up the parchment. “It’s time to break camp and leave this inhospitable range. I want everyone out of here by dawn tomorrow.”
“Where are we going, sir?” asked one of the officers.
“South,” he replied, pointing to a map. He traced a route through Idoslane. “King Belletain wants us to take the enemy by surprise. They won’t be expecting us.”
“Poor them,” observed one of the men, raising a laugh from the others.
“All the better for us,” said Vallasin, pleased to see their enthusiasm. Personally, he was of the opinion that it wouldn’t be easy, especially once they left the safety of Urgon, but at least they could take a shortcut through Idoslane. Prince Mallen was unlikely to object, and it was by far the quickest route. “The march will be tiring—we need to move fast.”
After dismissing the officers, he sat down and composed a brief letter to the king. This time he was sure that he and his little army would chalk up a victory in his name. The odds were in his favor—provided he acted before it was too late.
10 Miles from Porista,
Former Realm of Lios Nudin,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6235th/6236th Solar Cycle
Balyndis fought her way out of the darkness that had settled over her mind. Looking up, she expected to see the vast copper dome of the conference chamber, a sight that no longer filled her with awe. After everything she had endured, she felt like taking a sledgehammer to the gleaming cooper roof.
Slowly, it dawned on her that the ceiling was made of white canvas. The sun was high in the
sky, so it was almost midday.
Bewildered, she looked around and saw a shock of brown hair on the bedspread. Its owner was snoring lightly, and she knew at once who it was. Tungdil…
Reaching out, she laid a hand gently on his head so as not to wake him. She realized that he had been keeping vigil by her bedside. Vraccas heard my prayers.
She lifted up the sheets and blankets and peered at her chest. A shimmering layer of balm covered a rash of angry burn marks. Narmora must have fixed my broken bones. She ran a hand reverently over her limbs, remembering how the bones had protruded through the skin.
Tungdil sat up with a start. A smile spread over his face when he realized that Balyndis was awake. She thought he looked somehow older and more serious, and she guessed that whatever had happened since their last meeting had taken its toll
“How are you?” he asked gently, squeezing her hand.
“The maga is a miracle worker,” she whispered. “The pain is almost gone.” She pulled him toward her and hugged him tight. Silently, they clung to each other until he freed himself gently.
“I’m forever in your debt,” she said solemnly.
“I did what any friend would do,” he replied. “Balyndis, I’m really sorry about how I treated you before.” He had thought long and hard about what he wanted to say. “I could blame it on wounded pride or jealousy, but there’s no excuse for acting like a spoiled gnome.” He took her hand again. “Can we be friends?”
“I’ve always seen you as a friend, Tungdil Goldhand,” she said, moved by the honesty of his apology. “Nothing will ever change that.”
“No, I suppose it won’t,” agreed Tungdil with a wry smile. He gazed into her eyes and they looked at each other lovingly. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t rescue you single-handedly—you’ve got Boëndal, Boïndil, and Furgas to thank as well.” He told her of their daring incursion into the palace and their successful escape.
Balyndis stroked her shorn head. “This älf… The one who came with you…” she began, voice shaking with rage. “I’m willing to bet she’s the villain who killed my friends and tied me to the tree for the avatars to find me.” She quickly recounted all that had happened. “Not long after the älfar had gone, a dwarf untied me from the tree. I was so relieved to see a dwarven face that I dropped my guard and said too much. The dwarf turned into an avatar. After that, they took me to Porista and tried to make me talk.” She stopped, eyes welling with tears. “But Vraccas gave me the strength to keep the secret.” She let out a muffled sob. “I couldn’t have lasted much longer, Tungdil.”
