by Markus Heitz
“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.
The half älf leaned over her mentor. “Look at me,” she whispered in the dark tongue of the älfar. She tilted Andôkai’s head toward her. “Narmora is your death. I will t
ake your life and drain you of your magic. None of this need have happened if you’d left us alone.”
The maga tried to lean forward, but all she could manage was a feeble groan. Her eyes glazed over.
After checking that her hands were hidden by her robes, Narmora withdrew the splinter and pocketed the malachite. Her bloodied fingers were unlikely to attract suspicion, given the maga’s injuries and the pool of blood that surrounded her body. Straightening up, she turned to address the delegates.
“Andôkai the Tempestuous is no more,” she announced, voice cracking with feigned grief. She raised a hand to wipe away a nonexistent tear. “Girdlegard’s last maga is dead.”
A horrified silence descended on the chamber.
“You shall take her place, Narmora,” said Gandogar calmly, stepping forward. “You were her famula; you shall lead us in the battle against the avatars.”
“You’re doomed already,” said a gruff voice from the doorway. “You can’t beat the avatars with magic or an army. You’ll never find a way of halting their advance.”
The dwarves, elves, and men turned to the doorway and hefted their weapons, readying themselves for the next unwelcome surprise.
Before them was a lone dwarf. His face was covered in intricate tattoos and he was armed to the teeth. In his right hand was a three-balled morning star. “My name is Romo Steelheart of the clan of the Stone Grinders, nephew of Lorimbas Steelheart, king of the thirdlings and ruler of the Black Range. I have a proposal to make to Lord Liútasil and the delegations from the human kingdoms.” A second dwarf, broader and more muscular than Lorimbur’s brawny nephew, appeared behind him. Sunlight gleamed on his bald head.
“The thirdlings want to help us fight the avatars?” whispered Queen Wey, surprised.
“What kind of proposal?” muttered Balyndis to Glaïmbar. She had a fair idea that it wouldn’t be good news.
“Call it an offer you can’t refuse,” said Romo, grinning maliciously. “My uncle knows how to combat the threat from the west.” He swung his morning star in the direction of the dwarven delegation. “I’ll explain once they’ve left. My uncle refuses to negotiate with the dwarves of Beroïn, Borengar, Giselbert, and Goïmdil.”
Trovegold,
Underground Network,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle
Sanda ducked just in time, allowing the blade to sail over her head as she dropped to one knee and lunged forward.
The blow was dealt with such precision and power that Tungdil didn’t have time to avoid the blunted ax.
Neither his weapons belt, his chain mail, nor his leather jerkin did anything to slow the blade as it thudded against his ribcage, winding him momentarily and bringing tears to his eyes.
“Stop!” shouted Myr in alarm, hurrying over to inspect his chest. “You’re supposed to be coaching, not killing him,” she scolded, as Sanda picked herself up from her knees and smiled at Tungdil without a hint of contrition.
“Don’t make such a fuss, Myr,” she said coolly. “He’s only bruised his ribs. Pain is an excellent teacher.” The commander-in-chief made no secret of her dislike for the pale-faced medic. “He’s learned an important lesson, and he’ll live to fight again.” She turned to Tungdil, expecting him to agree.
“It was careless of me,” he admitted, yelping internally as Myr proceeded to prod his ribs.
“They’re broken, not bruised,” she hissed. “Your muscles are in danger of squeezing out your brain. A blunted ax isn’t a toy, you know.”
Sanda’s tattoos, animated by fury, rearranged themselves across her face. She swung her ax playfully, but there was menace in her eyes. “It’s a good thing you’re here to advise me, Myrmianda. I’ll remember not to tap my blunted weapon against your delicate little head.” Snorting angrily, she abandoned the training session, leaving Myr and Tungdil to show themselves out of the stronghold.
“I thought I was a decent warrior,” said Tungdil, who had been practicing his axmanship every orbit in preparation for fighting Salfalur. Groaning, he lowered himself onto a marble pew. “Even the twins said I was passable, but Sanda is in a different league. Boïndil could learn a thing or two from her, I reckon.”
“You’ll get there in the end,” she soothed him. “Lift up your shirt: I need to palpate your ribs.”
Palpate. He felt like kissing her on the spot. It was such a fine, scholarly word.
“She’s fought more battles than you’ve seen cycles—she’s three times as old as you, remember.” She clicked her tongue disapprovingly at the sight of the bruise on his chest. “No more training today,” she ruled. “We’re going home so I can ice your chest. Once the swelling has gone down, we’ll put some ointment on the bruise.”
Tungdil struggled clumsily to his feet. He had been injured more times than he cared to remember, and it never got any less painful. Slowly, he and Myr left the stronghold and made their way down a winding path that afforded excellent views of the city.
Tungdil remembered the heated exchange between Sanda and Myr. “Why doesn’t she like you?” he asked. “I didn’t think Sanda was a dwarf hater.”
“You don’t have to be a thirdling to dislike other dwarves,” she said with a smile. “The feeling is mutual.”
“Why don’t you like each other?” he persisted.
She winked at him cheekily. “Why do you think, Tungdil Goldhand? What could possibly cause a quarrel between two female dwarves?”
He grinned. “Don’t tell me you were vying for the affections of a handsome warrior!” He glanced back at the stronghold. “It wasn’t Gemmil, was it?”
Myr blushed and turned her pretty face toward the waterfalls. “I’m from Gemtrove, our southernmost city. Gemmil was one of the first dwarves I met when I moved to Trovegold. We were getting on really well—until Sanda muscled in. I wasn’t afraid to tell her what I thought of her, and she made it fairly clear that she didn’t like me. At least it’s in the open. I’d find it hard to be civil to a thirdling spy.”
“You don’t mean that, do you?”
“I most certainly do. The thirdlings hate the descendants of Lorimbur’s brothers, the freelings included. They don’t care that we’ve cut our ties with the other kingdoms—we’re still enemies in their eyes. Spies like Sanda are sent to snoop on defectors and gather intelligence about our realm.”
“What does Gemmil think? Don’t say you haven’t told him.”
“Oh, I’ve told him, all right.”
“What did he say?”
“He laughed it off. Gemmil is blinded by love, but I’ve recruited some friends to keep an eye on Sanda. She can’t do anything without us knowing.”
“That’s why she hates you?”
“She hasn’t found out yet. No, Sanda hates me because she thinks I’m after Gemmil. She said I was pretending to like you because I wanted to trick her into feeling safe.” She turned her red eyes on Tungdil and seemed to read his thoughts. “I’m not interested in Gemmil. I like you, Tungdil Goldhand.”
It wasn’t his intention to kiss her, but he found himself pressing his lips against hers. They were soft, tempting, and sweet, with a taste like spiced honey. A tingle of excitement ran through him, and he felt strangely light-headed.
Myr hesitated for a moment before kissing him back. At last he pulled away and they looked at each happily, smiling in contented silence as they strolled through the streets of Trovegold.
Maybe she’s the one for me, he thought while he waited for Myr to buy a few things for dinner. Surely I’m over Balyndis by now. Myr smiled at him before turning back to order a punnet of stone fruit. His heart gave a little leap like it used to do for Balyndis. Yes, he decided, relieved. Myr is the one for me. The rest of the way home, he had his arm around her shoulders.
After a quick nap, a hearty dinner, and a pause to apply Myr’s ointment, which helped to soothe the pain, Tungdil left the house and allowed himself to be guided through the city by Myr. After a while they
reached the far wall of the cavern and joined crowds of dwarves flocking into a tunnel. Tungdil pestered Myr to tell him where everyone was going, but she told him to wait and see.
They strode through a beautifully hewn gallery, and Tungdil spotted a blue light ahead. The hum of conversation grew louder as they approached.
At last the passageway opened into an artificial cavern. Tungdil and Myr were standing at the highest vantage point, at the top of a series of terrace-like platforms. Carved into each platform was a long marble pew, and most of the dwarves were seated already. The bottommost terrace was a large stage, clearly visible from everywhere in the room. The walls were studded with blue crystals that provided ample light.
“A play!” said Tungdil. “Just wait until I tell Rodario. I bet he’d love to perform in Trovegold.” Myr looked at him blankly. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I forgot you hadn’t met him. He’s an impresario—and a philanderer. He was part of the expedition to forge Keenfire.”
“We’re not here for a play,” she told him. “Every cycle we hold a singing competition in honor of Vraccas. Each of our five cities sends a choir. It’s a big occasion.” She pointed to the stage where the members of the first choir were preparing to sing. The assembled dwarves stamped their boots against the stone floor to show their appreciation. A thunderous rumble echoed through the room. Myr reached for Tungdil’s hand. “You’ll love it, I promise.”
The concert began.
The first song was nothing like the mystical hymns of the priests at the temple. The baritone and bass voices sang of underground riches, beautiful caverns and grottoes, hidden treasure, and the hundred-and-one shades of gray in a single piece of rock. The themes were quintessentially dwarven, and other verses dealt with forging axes or building bridges over chasms.
Soon the choir raised their powerful voices to the heroes of yore, singing of glorious deeds and great victories over Tion’s minions. Tungdil listened to the stirring words.