by Markus Heitz
“This is the way it should be,” he whispered, eyes glinting as his fiery inner furnace took control. “A narrow tunnel, more enemies than we can count… The first ten are for my brother, but Vraccas can have the rest.”
“Narmora is our priority,” Tungdil reminded them. “She’s the only one who can kill Nôd’onn, but the rest of us must protect her as best we can.”
Gandogar patted his double-headed ax. “No one will touch her while I’m alive to stop them. Destroying Nôd’onn is all that counts.”
Rodario was happy to settle for a less heroic role and stood back politely to let the others pass. While they stormed down the tunnel, he took a last look outside.
“Come back, everyone, it’s…” He stared at the fluttering banners of an army approaching from the east. “Aren’t those the colors of Ido? Surely Prince Mallen wouldn’t ally himself with Nôd’onn?” His eyes roved over the other banners flying above the rows of troops. The crests of all the human kingdoms!
The first wave of warriors flowed into the back of a unit hurrying to lend Nôd’onn their support. Rodario watched in astonishment as the new arrivals mowed down the startled beasts.
Not having reckoned with enemy troops, Nôd’onn’s soldiers took a while to realize that they were under attack. A moment later, the sky darkened and a hailstorm of arrows ripped through the air. The iron-tipped missiles glittered in the light as they sped toward the beasts. The magus’s warriors forgot about the humans and tried to locate their other mysterious foes. Firebombs were already whining toward them, crashing down and engulfing them in flames. Panic broke out.
“Bravo for the elves!” cheered Rodario, relaying the news to his friends.
Gandogar grinned. “So the pointy-ears have found their courage, have they?”
“What are we waiting for?” demanded Ireheart, fired up by the prospect of orc blood. “Do you want to kill Nôd’onn or not?”
They charged into the tunnel, their confidence buoyed.
As it turned out, they had nothing to fear from the orcs. Not expecting to be attacked from the rear, the runts put up almost no resistance, and the first forty died without knowing what had hit them. The company found themselves at a junction with no sign of beasts or dwarves.
“That was brilliant fun! Where to now?” Ireheart panted eagerly. “You know your way around here. Which direction will Nôd’onn have taken?”
“He’s probably helping his troops at a spot where he can’t get any farther by brute force alone,” Tungdil said, wishing fervently that the walls of the stronghold would speak to him as they had once before. Nothing happened. “The trouble is, I can’t think where.” There was a hint of desperation in his voice. “It’s…”
A dull rumble shook the ground beneath their feet, and a fierce red light radiated from the passageway to their left. Flames licked the walls in the distance; then the glow faded and was gone.
Tungdil didn’t need to give the order: He and the others were already sprinting toward the blaze. The smell of charred flesh hung thick in the air, the black fatty smoke stinging their eyes and burning their lungs.
They stormed out of the passageway and entered the first of three halls. The chambers were divided by roughly fashioned walls, but vast archways, each nine paces or more in height, allowed them to see through to the final hall.
A fierce battle was raging between the dwarves and the beasts. They seemed to be fighting for control of a wide door at the far end of the third hall, where the clatter of blades was at its most deafening. Bright pennants fluttered above the warriors of Borengar, Beroïn, and Goïmdil.
Poorly fashioned pillars supported the ceiling, fifty paces above. Crumbling staircases without kerb or rail wound up the columns, which were connected by bridges that ran the length of the halls. The fighting had spread to the walkways too.
“Come on, we’re bound to find him here,” Tungdil said firmly.
At first the company passed undetected through the turmoil, but their fortunes changed in the final hall when they spotted Nôd’onn pacing along a bridge. He was watching the dwarven warriors struggling to defend the door against his troops.
“Look! I bet he’s going to help them with his wizardry.” Boïndil ran ahead, speeding toward the staircase that would take them to the magus’s walkway. The rest of the company made to follow, but fate had ordained that they should fight a different battle.
A dark arrow sang toward them from the right. Tungdil felt a searing pain in his leg and looked down to see an arrow embedded in his thigh.
“Sinthoras will be your death,” hissed the älf. He was leading a band of fifty orcs and a second arrow was notched on his bow. “I will take your life and the land will take your soul.”
Not mine, you won’t, Tungdil thought stubbornly. He saw Sinthoras release the bowstring and managed to raise his shield to ward off the feathered shaft of death.
Cursing, the älf bounded toward them and ordered the orcs to attack.
“Quick, Narmora and Boïndil, you take the steps,” instructed Tungdil. “Kill Nôd’onn before he sees us. We’ll watch your backs.” With a muffled groan he reached down and snapped the arrow shaft in two. Stand by us, Vraccas. Bracing himself, he raised his ax to strike an orcish knee.
The stone staircase crumbled as they ran. The thirdlings had chosen their material badly and over the course of time it had chipped and fractured. Narmora and Boïndil were risking their lives with every step.
They swept up the spiral stairs, winding their way to the top and never once glancing at the fighting below. All their thoughts were focused on the bloated man in malachite robes who was standing on the walkway. With every turn of the staircase he flashed in and out of sight. The air was getting warmer, and there was an overpowering stench of blood and orc guts.
Only a few steps remained. Narmora rounded the final corner, only to be confronted by a famulus who was standing guard behind the pillar.
“Who said you could come up here?” he asked rudely, mistaking her for one of Nôd’onn’s älfar. “You’re supposed to be commanding the orcs, not —”
Boïndil charged past Narmora and rammed his left ax into the famulus’s crotch. The next ax sliced into the man’s right shoulder, and he staggered against the pillar and collapsed.
“Ha, I guess wizards aren’t always in favor of surprises.” The dwarf grinned. He peered round the corner. “There’s no one else in sight. I’ll wait here, or Nôd’onn will get suspicious. Just call if you need me.” He looked at her keenly. In the darkness of the underground hall, Narmora’s eyes looked like hollows once more. “Are you sure you can do this?”
Narmora tossed the rags to the floor and practiced reaching for Keenfire. “You’re worried that my dark side will make a traitor of me.”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Well, Boïndil Doubleblade, at least you’re honest.” She bent down and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t you think it’s a little too late to doubt my loyalty?” Her expression was as hard and cruel as an älf’s and she looked more terrifying than ever.
He tapped his axes together nervously. Her words and gestures were making him jumpy. “Just do something so I know what’s what,” he said grumpily.
She smiled and left the shelter of the pillar. “Very well. I’ll do something.” Her face remained an inscrutable mask.
Nôd’onn was standing halfway along the walkway. He raised his right arm and traced a symbol in the air, conjuring the first runes of a devastating spell that would put pay to the defenders’ determined resistance. In his bloated left hand he held his onyx-tipped staff of white maple. The black jewel was glimmering malevolently.
Narmora could tell that it was no use sneaking up on him and that an all-out assault would be equally doomed. She would have to rely on cunning and dissimulation to get within striking distance of Girdlegard’s most dangerous and powerful wizard.
She held her hand to her bloodied neck, pressing on her wound. All her efforts were fo
cused on appearing injured, and she made her performance as authentic as possible, swaying and stumbling along the bridge.
“Master,” she groaned, “they’ve destroyed the tower… It was Andôkai…”
He froze and turned sharply. His waxy skin wobbled as if it were filled with rippling water. “Andôkai?” he rasped. “Where is she?”
“Outside, Master. She’s using her magic against our troops.” She took a few faltering steps toward him. Only ten paces remained, an impossibly long distance. “How can we stop her?”
Nôd’onn shuffled round to face her. She saw his huge girth, the puffed-up face that bore no resemblance to Nudin’s, the blood seeping from his pores and running in red trickles across his skin and soaking his robes. Dark patches, some still glistening moistly, stained the green cloth that was caked with blood and grime. The smell was enough to make anyone retch.
“She’s too powerful for you,” he said, his voice cracking as if two people were speaking at once. “You won’t be able to stop her. Show me where you last saw her and I’ll take care of her myself. Lead the way.”
Five paces.
I need to get closer to him. Narmora stumbled and sank to her knees. “Master, I’m hurt. Have pity on me and heal my wounds so I can serve you better.”
“Later,” he told her sharply. “Get up and…” His gaze had fallen on a particularly ferocious skirmish at the center of which was Tungdil, still locked in combat with Sinthoras and his orcs. “ Lot-Ionan’s groundling? But that’s not… I mean, I thought the artifacts were…” He fell silent and collected his thoughts. “Well, things have got a good deal easier.”
The magus closed his eyes. Narmora saw her opportunity and decided to act.
Slowly and silently so as not to attract attention, she rose from her knees and took a nervous step toward him, then another.
Four paces, three paces, two paces. She reached for Keenfire. One more pace.
“Master, look out!” someone shouted across the hall.
Narmora drew the ax and brought it down with all her might. Nôd’onn turned away from Tungdil and directed the curse at her.
Narmora felt as if she were staring into the sun. The dazzling light seared into her eyes, and before she knew it, she was flying backward through the air. She thudded down, landing heavily on the walkway, still blinded, but with Keenfire gripped tightly in her hand.
She couldn’t see Nôd’onn, but it was obvious that he’d evaded her blow. Why am I still alive, then? She ran her hands over her body and felt the smooth surface of the amulet given to her by Andôkai. That must be it.
“Finish her off, and bring the ax to me,” she heard the magus order. The clicking of his wooden staff against the flagstones receded into the distance.
Little by little her eyes cleared and she caught a hazy glimpse of the malachite robe disappearing down the staircase. Gasping with pain, she struggled up, intent on running after the traitor and cutting him down. The amulet would protect her.
She was almost on her feet when a shadow hurtled out of nowhere. Whooshing over her head, the dark figure landed lightly on the walkway in front of her. Two short swords pointed menacingly at her chest.
“You should have known that the Perished Land would allow me to avenge myself,” said Caphalor.
Narmora stared at the deep wound where her blade had gashed his throat. “If I thought you were a danger, I would have beheaded you,” she said coldly. “You’re no threat to us.” She held the ax on high, knowing that Caphalor would kill her if he sensed she was afraid.
The älf lunged at her, snarling, and Narmora realized that she would never keep pace with his attack. She retaliated with an offensive of her own and laid open the undead warrior’s shoulder. The ax cut into his flesh, but Caphalor was undaunted.
“I’ll cut you to ribbons, eat your flesh, and paint a portrait of your ravaged body with your blood,” he spat, raising his weapons again. Harrying her with his swords, he maneuvered her closer and closer to the edge of the walkway. Belatedly she noticed that she was only a hand span away from plummeting to her death.
Caphalor dropped down suddenly and swiped at her calves. She leaped over him, whirled around, and swung her ax to finish his undead existence.
But the älf had thrown himself to the floor and rolled over, ready to thrust his swords toward her as she delivered the final blow.
The ax head scraped along the stone floor, sparks flying everywhere, then sliced sideways into the älf’s neck, settling the matter forever. Caphalor’s eyes widened.
But his final maneuver had not been in vain.
His swords had pierced Narmora’s armor and embedded themselves beneath her collarbone. The half älf found herself skewered above his corpse, unable to think or move. Through the haze of her consciousness she saw the amulet fall from her neck, hit Caphalor, and bounce off the walkway. The leather band, sliced in two by the älf, unraveled onto his chest.
I still haven’t… She tried to call to the others, but her gored chest and her ebbing strength turned her shout to a whisper. She could feel herself slipping out of consciousness and there was nothing she could do.
Her legs gave way and she slumped over Caphalor, her chest still propped up by his swords. Suddenly she felt unbearably cold. Incapable of even the smallest movement, she dangled above her foe.
Furgas… She had nothing left to give. Her fingers opened against her will, and Keenfire fell from her grip. Clattering to the walkway, the ax bounced against the flagstones and flew over the edge.
X
Blacksaddle,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
Tungdil glanced up and saw Narmora on the walkway. The sight of her impaled on Caphalor’s swords filled him with helpless rage.
Meanwhile, Nôd’onn was descending the final steps of the staircase only paces away from Tungdil and the others. They were running out of time. We’ll be lost without Keenfire.
“I’ll get the ax,” he shouted to Balyndis. “Keep the orcs busy and watch out for Nôd’onn. Andôkai will have to take care of him until I get back.”
The firstling nodded grimly and felled a beast that was about to lunge at Tungdil. “Hurry!”
Tungdil detached himself from the scrum and blew his horn to summon the warriors of the three dwarven folks who were fighting in the other halls. His call was answered by blaring bugles and the sound of dwarven axes on orcish mail. He hoped that the upsurge in fighting would preoccupy the enemy and allow him to slip past unnoticed.
“Vraccas, your name will be worshipped forever if you help me now.” He finished his quick prayer, took a deep breath, and charged into the jumble of stinking armor and legs.
No matter how tempting it was to clear a path with his ax, he knew that his safety depended on stealth. Crouching low, he tried to scurry past the beasts without brushing against them. It would have been easy for a scrawny gnome like Sverd, but Tungdil was considerably broader.
Every now and then he was spotted by an orc, but he kept moving to avoid being caught. Twice he was seized by a clawed hand and had to use his ax to slice his way free.
At last he reached the place where Keenfire had fallen to the ground. He scanned the flagstones, but the ax had vanished.
“Tungdil, I’ve got something for you. Over here!” He turned in time to see the back of a dwarven warrior disappear from view. Keenfire’s ax head glittered in his hands. “Come and get it.”
This is no time for silly games. Tungdil set off in pursuit, dragging his wounded leg across the floor. He left the muddle of orcish shins and made for the shelter of a pillar. The beasts rushed on, too focused on defeating the dwarven army to notice what was unfolding behind them.
To his surprise, the dwarf turned and held out Keenfire toward him. Tungdil stared at him in bewilderment. “You?”
“Looking for this?” asked Bislipur. His body was twisted out of shape, his face a mass of shattered bone.
Judging by his fractured skull, he had fallen from a great height. Tungdil could barely stand to look at him.
“I see you’ve been punished for your plotting, then,” he said grimly, gripping his ax in readiness. He must be a revenant. “I told King Gandogar —”
“I don’t give a damn about Gandogar.”
“You lowered yourself to all kinds of trickery to have him crowned and now he means nothing to you?”
“All I ever cared about was having a high king who would do my bidding, a high king whom I could control.” He swung the ax playfully. “A war against the elves — that’s what I wanted. I even murdered Gandogar’s father and brother so I could blame the elves and stoke his fury. How was I to know that I wouldn’t need the pointy-ears? It’s turned out better than I expected.” He pointed to the dwarves locked in combat around them and laughed. “Don’t you get it, Tungdil?” he said, noticing the other’s uncomprehending stare. “I’m a thirdling — and so are you.”
“No,” whispered Tungdil. The shouts, screams, and ringing metal seemed to fade into nothingness as he stared into Bislipur’s knowing eyes. He tried not to remember how he had initially felt drawn to him. “A thirdling? But I can’t be. I’m a fourthling, a dwarf of Goïmdil.”
“Like me, you mean?” Bislipur laughed in his face. “Tungdil, our destiny is revenge. Lorimbur was scorned by his brothers. They wouldn’t share their talents and they mocked the thirdlings because they thought they were better. The gifts they received from Vraccas made them arrogant like the elves. Don’t you see how they treated you?” He took a step forward. “Noble Gundrabur and his loyal counselor, Balendilín, used you to suit their purpose. Why else do you think they were interested in you? If Lot-Ionan’s letter had arrived at any other time, they would never have bothered fetching you from the long-uns. That’s how much they care! They’re worthless, every last one of them. They all deserve to die.”
Tungdil felt the words cut into his heart and found himself succumbing to Bislipur’s hypnotic stare. “No,” he said hesitantly. “Balyndis…”