by Markus Heitz
At that moment, a midnight sun flashed into the sky above the älfar, bathing them in cold white light. Ondori cried out and clutched her forehead. It felt as if liquid fire were coursing through the blessing inscribed there and searing her brain. The attack faltered.
“So you are the älfar of whom we’ve heard tell,” said the sun. “I can sense your corruption. You carry the spirit of Tion within you and you live to further his works.” The sun became hotter, brighter. “All that is over. The älfar shall threaten Girdlegard no more.”
A wave of heat rolled over the älfar, and a third of the troops caught alight. The burning warriors threw themselves to the ground, writhing in agony, trying to put out the flames—but to no avail.
Ondori watched as the fiery presence drew closer and waited until it was almost above her, then dived beneath her bull, praying not to be trampled beneath its hooves.
Eyes closed, she felt the searing heat pass over her like the fiery breath of a dragon. Crackling flames engulfed the warriors around her and a stench of burning hair, clothes, and flesh filled the air. Agrass kicked out frantically, striking her in the side, then the terrible rush of heat was over.
Ondori sprang to her feet and stared at her scorched and dying bull. The flames had melted its metal visor, sealing its fate.
“Pull back!” she shouted. “Make for the woods!”
Her voice was barely audible above the shouts and jeers of the unknown soldiers as they seized their chance and attacked. Riders on stallions charged fearlessly at the dark ranks of the älfar, cutting them down with their swords.
Ondori watched in horror as her warriors took blows to the limbs and torso and lay where they fell. The power of the dark water offered no protection against the dazzling riders’ swords.
We’re no stronger than ordinary mortals. Aghast, she turned to flee. There could be no hope of victory against an enemy as powerful as this.
Leaping over the bodies of her fallen comrades, she ran for the ash-covered trees.
Hampered by the undergrowth, the riders stopped their pursuit. The foot soldiers blundered on, but none could match her speed. Ondori kept running, spurred on by the memory of the heat, oblivious to her aching lungs and throbbing legs. At last she reached a clearing and slumped to the ground, exhausted.
Soon after, she was joined by the rest of her unit, who arrived in dribs and drabs. There were ten of them in all. The others had been cut down or consumed by fire.
“What happened?” gasped one of the warriors.
Ondori couldn’t answer. Her lungs were screaming for air and her forehead was on fire. She reached up to touch the skin above her mask and her flesh fell away, exposing the white of her skull. Her fingers were covered in sticky black ash.
She wiped them on the ground, digging her hands into the soil and crying with rage and agony. The noise reverberated through the night.
Suddenly a pair of battered boots stepped into view. “What have we got here?” growled a deep voice. A heavy object collided with the back of her head and she slumped to the ground, unconscious.
VI
21 Miles Southwest of Dsôn Balsur,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6235th Solar Cycle
I know her because of the mask,” said Tungdil, staring at the älf, who was lying, wrists and ankles bound, in the snow by the fire. He and the others were waiting for her to open her eyes “She’s the one who stole Keenfire. She came after me in the Gray Range and swore to kill me.”
Boïndil was gripping one of his axes, ready to dispatch their captive at the first sign of trouble. “I’m tired of waiting,” he complained.
“We’re only waiting because you walloped her over the head,” his brother reminded him.
“In that case, I’d better wake her,” he said promptly, taking a handful of snow and hurling it at her face. They had stripped her of her mask to reveal a slender, well-proportioned countenance, universal to älfar and elves. Tungdil was particularly interested to see the burns on her face; some were the work of the avatars, but the rest had been left by Keenfire.
The clump of snow bounced off and landed on the ground, leaving a few stray crystals that melted on the älf’s warm skin.
“Hmm,” said Boïndil. “She knows what it’s like to get burned, so maybe fire will do the trick.” He bent down and picked up a glowing ember in his glove.
The älf’s eyes flew open. “Put it down,” she hissed.
“Ha, I knew it! The scheming no-eyes is awake!” crowed Boïndil, lowering his ax toward her face. “Do as we say or I’ll chop you up like a sausage.”
Tungdil stepped forward. “Now I know your face.”
“Tion will curse you for stripping me of my mask,” she spat back. “You and your friends are doomed.”
Rodario shook his head. “Listen to the ferocious little polecat with the triangular ears.” He eyed her bonds. “You can spit as much as you like, but we’ve trimmed your claws.” He struck what he hoped was an intimidating pose. “My name is Rodario the Fablemaker, famulus to Narmora the Unnerving, and second most powerful magician in Girdlegard. I could destroy you right now if I wanted, but I’ll spare your life if you—”
“Where’s Keenfire?” broke in Boïndil to the indignation of the impresario, who punished him with a theatrical glare.
“It wouldn’t help if I told you,” she hissed.
“Perhaps not,” replied Tungdil, “but don’t be surprised if someone else gets hold of it. The heart of your kingdom is about to fall.”
“To the White Army?” She raised her head and stared at Tungdil, her eyes full of hope. “Does Keenfire have the power to stop them?”
“Ah, so it’s in Dsôn,” he concluded.
The älf fell silent, trying to make sense of the situation. While pretending to be unconscious, she had heard the dwarves discussing the invaders. It seemed to her that they were trying to halt the White Army’s advance. “You’re not on their side,” she reasoned. “Why are you trying to stop them? Don’t you want Dsôn to fall?”
“Who would have thought it?” exclaimed Rodario, surprised. “The little pussy cat doesn’t know who they are. Haven’t you heard the legend of the avatars?” On seeing the älf’s puzzlement, he proceeded to explain the history of the demigods, throwing in the odd fantastical detail here and there to make the avatars seem more terrifying. He pointed into the distance. “And your warriors were consumed by the avatars, fiery crusaders of purity descended from Tion, the god to whom you pray. Is that not deliciously ironic?”
“They won’t stop until every last one of us is dead,” said Ondori slowly. At last it made sense: her nervousness before the attack, the searing pain in her forehead, the failure of the dark water… And she knew without a doubt that Dsôn Balsur would fall to the invaders. Unless… “A bitter irony indeed. Our survival depends on those who seek to destroy us.”
“Actually,” began Tungdil, looking at her gravely, “we’re asking you to join us. We need to fight together if we’re to drive them out.”
“We can’t fight them, groundling,” she said with a shudder, remembering the murderous wave of heat and light. “It’s like asking a snowball to put out the sun.”
“It depends on the size of the snowball,” he replied, cutting her bonds. “Forget the enmity between us and hurry back to Dsôn to tell your leaders what you’ve heard. We’ll need every warrior in Girdlegard if the avatars are to be stopped.”
“I will deliver your message.” Ondori picked up her mask and slipped it over her head, hiding her scars.
A woman in black leather armor appeared before her. Her face was slender, too slender for a human. “My name is Narmora the Unnerving. Andôkai the Tempestuous was my teacher,” she said in älvish. Her accent was abysmal and her pronunciation atrocious, but Ondori understood. “Tell the immortal siblings that the älfar must join our troops. We won’t fight your battles unless you’re prepared to risk your lives as well.”
Her eyes darkened with menace. “We can always stand by and watch the avatars raze your homeland to the ground. I’d be happy to provide directions to the royal palace. Tell Nagsor and Nagsar to think very carefully before refusing our request.”
She’s one of us. Ondori nodded reluctantly. “I’ll tell the immortal siblings,” she rasped, shaking the ropes from her wrists. She straightened up.
“Swear on your blood that you’ll do it,” the maga said darkly, grabbing the älf’s left arm and cutting a gash in the back of her hand. She held the glistening blade in front of the älf’s face. “Break your word, and I’ll destroy you. My magic will follow you like a huntsman follows his prey.”
Ondori nodded meekly. Narmora’s threat was all too believable. “I swear I’ll do it,” she stammered. “You can trust me, I promise. There’s a groundling near here…” She quickly described the place where she had left her captive, then hurried away, vanishing into the night.
“What the blazes did you say to her,” asked Boïndil suspiciously. “Do you have to speak in that tongue?”
“It depends on whether you want to help a poor dwarf who’s waiting to be rescued,” she said, smiling. Her eyes had returned to their normal color. “I’ll send Djern to fetch her—unless you’d rather go.”
She needn’t have asked. No dwarf could stand by when one of their kinsfolk was in trouble, so Boïndil left with Tungdil, his brother, and thirty volunteers to release the captive dwarf.
They soon found the place.
Someone had gotten there before them, as they could tell from the melted snow and footprints in the sludge. A rope was wrapped around the tree trunk, marking the place where the dwarf had been tied up.
“The avatars beat us to it,” said Tungdil, trudging around the tree in the hope of finding something that might identify the missing dwarf. Amidst the footprints, half buried in the slush, he found a broken necklace of beautiful steel links and gold balls.
He recognized it at once
“Balyndis,” he gasped, picking up the chain and wiping it lovingly on his jerkin. The avatars had kidnapped his one true love, and with her, the instructions for forging Djern’s armor.
“One darned problem after another,” grumbled Boïndil. “I don’t mind a challenge, but this is a joke.”
Boëndal laid a comforting hand on Tungdil’s shoulder. “It’s a sign that we have to destroy them, scholar. Don’t worry; we won’t let your Balyndis come to any harm.”
“She’s not my Balyndis, remember?” Tungdil fastened the necklace around his wrist, over the neckerchief given to him by Frala, his childhood friend who had died at the hands of the orcs. I’ll get her back regardless, even if I have to take on the avatars myself.
“I know she forged the iron band with Glaïmbar,” Boëndal said simply, “but she’ll always be your Balyndis.” He paused, hesitating. “I wish Vraccas would make her properly yours.”
So do I, thought Tungdil sadly.
Tungdil and the twins led the unit of ten thousand thirdlings on a forced march to outflank the avatars’ army. On reaching the forest on the outskirts of Dsôn Balsur, they came to a halt. Tungdil ordered the bulk of the warriors to block the path that the allies had blazed through the woods. Two battalions of a thousand warriors apiece hid in the trees on either side. After a while, the masked älf appeared and told them that her kinsfolk had agreed to a temporary ceasefire. Most of the dwarves had guessed as much, having been neither struck down by quarterstaffs nor feathered with treacherous arrows.
Others before them had met with a harsher fate. Tungdil and his comrades were appalled to see that the älfar had erected sculptures made of human corpses to mark their victory over the allied troops. The branches were festooned with flags made of human skin, embellished with symbols painted in blood. The summer months had taken their toll on the artwork, but the autumn frosts had saved them from further decay, and a fine layer of snow covered the sculptures and flags like a clean white cloth, hiding the grisly details. Tungdil and his friends were tempted to leave the älfar to their fate.
If the thirdlings were nervous, they didn’t show it. Their tattooed faces looked unerringly to the south as they waited in silence for the avatars to arrive. Shield in one hand and weapon in the other, they stood shoulder to shoulder in disciplined rows.
The sight of the thirdling warriors made a big impression on Boïndil who, like his brother, refused to move from Tungdil’s side. Without discussing the matter, they had decided that Tungdil needed protection from Lorimbas’s warriors, and they saw it as their duty to watch his back. The dwarven folks had united against the avatars, but they still regarded each other with mutual distrust.
The afternoon was almost over when a scout came running to make his report. “They’re here,” he panted. “The avatars are coming, but Lorimbas’s unit is half an orbit behind. I saw them on the horizon.”
Tungdil thanked the scout and sent him to join the thirdling ranks. “Half an orbit until Lorimbas gets here,” he told the twins. “We’ll have our work cut out.” He remembered how quickly the avatars had dispatched the unit of four thousand älfar. We’ll be lucky if we survive.
“It won’t be easy, but it’s not impossible,” said Boïndil, trying to be upbeat. He had drawn one ax, now he drew the other.
Several hours later, a warm wind blew in from the south; the avatars were approaching.
Tungdil instructed his runners to take a message to the leaders of each battalion. “Tell them to stay in formation. When they see the fire coming, they need to lift their shields, drop to the ground, and let the flames pass overhead.”
They heard thundering hooves. The avatars’ cavalry swung round and came to a halt in two long lines. An advance guard of foot soldiers raised their swords and spears, ready to form a buffer between the horses and the enemy in the event of a counterattack.
The dwarves watched impassively, waiting for the light to become stronger and brighter before tying scarves around their heads to protect their eyes.
A gleaming figure detached itself from the enemy ranks and hovered above the ground. Slowly it glided toward the dwarves, leaving a trail of melted snow in its wake.
Ten paces from Tungdil, it came to a halt. The light was too bright for him to make out its features.
“You are the dwarves,” said a voice of infinite kindness. “For thousands of cycles you and your forebears fought for Girdlegard and defended its borders against Tion’s hordes. We share a common goal. Why do you seek to destroy us?”
“You and your brothers must leave these lands,” called Tungdil. “Your presence is harmful to Girdlegard, to the ground beneath you, to our villages and towns.”
“We have a mission, Tungdil Goldhand,” the voice replied amicably. “Girdlegard is infested with älfar, ogres, and orcs. We won’t leave these lands until Tion’s beasts have been destroyed and their master humiliated. Ridding you of this plague will give us new strength. The time will come when Tion himself won’t be safe from our wrath.” The avatar edged closer and the temperature rose a few degrees. “Let us pass, and no harm will come to you or your kinsfolk.” His shimmering hand pointed to the north. “Our quarrel is with the inhabitants of the city, not you.”
“Think what your strength will do to our lands. We can’t allow you to boost your powers.” Tungdil raised his shield, expecting to be dazzled by ferocious white light. “Our mission is to protect Girdlegard from harm, and you’re harmful to Girdlegard. We can’t let you pass, not even if—”
Djern charged forward. He covered the distance in three giant strides and grabbed the avatar by the neck, wrapping his hands around his throat and tightening his grip.
The avatar screamed and enveloped itself in searing light. Djern was bathed in fire, but he didn’t let go. The smell of hot metal filled the air, and shouts went up from the enemy ranks.
Just then there was a loud ripping noise, like a curtain being torn in half. It was accompanied by cracking bones.
The
light disappeared, and Djern roared in triumph. When the dwarves looked up, he was holding the avatar’s head in one hand, and his body in the other. The avatar’s face, clearly visible against the gray sky, looked unmistakably human. It belonged to a man of some thirty cycles whose beige robes were drenched in blood.
The colossal warrior tossed the avatar’s dripping remains through the air, and they hit the snow, bouncing a few times before coming to rest. Contrary to expectations, the avatar’s head didn’t reattach itself to his body in a blaze of supernatural light. The man was an ordinary mortal.
“Knock me down with a hammer,” gasped Boïndil. “Did you see how he wrung his neck? As easy as killing a chicken!”
“He was just a man,” whispered Narmora, laughing in relief. “Djern must have known from the smell. The light and fireworks were meant to trick us; they’re conjurers, not avatars.”
Tungdil’s worries—not least how he was going to rescue Balyndis if he didn’t survive the orbit—melted away, and he laughed out loud.
The merriment spread through the ranks and soon the forest was echoing with mocking dwarven laughter that continued long after the cavalrymen began their charge. The riders no longer looked so intimidating; the death of the avatar had robbed their armor of its sheen.
Boïndil raised his ax and his shield. “Aim for the horses’ knees, and let the riders come to you,” he shouted, spoiling for a fight. Confidence had returned to the dwarven ranks.
Shouting a ferocious war cry, Tungdil and his eight thousand warriors ran out to meet the charge.
The speedy death of the first avatar, whose remains disappeared under the stampede of dwarven boots, was followed by a grueling battle with the enemy army.
Incensed by the fate of their leader, they threw themselves vengefully upon the dwarves, who struggled against the cavalry’s superior maneuverability and speed.
The horses crashed through their ranks with such force that gaps appeared in the rows of shields, allowing enemy foot soldiers to surge through the openings and wreak havoc with the dwarven defenses.