by Markus Heitz
“Fall back!” yelled Tungdil, ordering the surviving warriors to retreat to the forest. At once the hidden units of thirdlings leaped out from the trees to beat back the enemy troops. “Don’t let up,” Tungdil urged them. “It’s almost sundown; your king will be here soon.”
At that moment, a second luminous figure appeared before them, but this time the avatar was careful not to come too close.
Hovering three paces above the ground, it stayed behind the enemy lines and bombarded them with fireballs. It took all Narmora’s power to deflect the missiles and hurl them back at the enemy troops.
The avatar, realizing he had found a worthy opponent, gave the command for his soldiers to stop the magic at its source.
Calling for the twins to follow, Tungdil rushed to Narmora’s aid, but the enemy soldiers got there first, and the half älf disappeared in a melee of bodies and swords.
“We’ve got to save her,” he told the others. Boïndil led the attack, with Boëndal and Tungdil behind, and between them they cut a path through the enemy troops. Thanks to Boïndil’s twin blades, Boëndal’s crow’s beak, and Tungdil’s ax, they proceeded in a straight line, aiming for the spot where Narmora had last been seen.
By the time they reached her, she was under attack from all sides. Meanwhile, the avatar was bombarding her with curses and spells.
The thirdlings were putting up a spirited defense, and Djern was standing among them, sword in one hand, cudgel in the other, killing knots of soldiers with every blow. But it was only a matter of time before the maga’s defenses crumbled—as the enemy was aware.
A heavily perspiring Narmora was tracing symbols and spells in the air. “I’m not strong enough to beat the avatar,” she gasped. “I can’t hold him off for much longer, and Djern can’t get close enough to attack.” She deflected a fireball and sent it crashing among her assailants, a dozen of whom perished in the blaze.
Tungdil wondered whether he should order the thirdlings to clear a path for Djern to tackle the avatar. But where are the other nine? Since the start of the battle he had been steeling himself for a wave of fire to wash over his warriors, as the älf had described. What are the avatars up to? Why are they letting us kill their troops? He decided to stop worrying and take charge of the attack. He and the twins led the way, with the thirdlings at the rear. Despite being heavily outnumbered, Lorimbas’s warriors inflicted heavy losses on the enemy troops, but the odds were stacked against them.
As evening drew in, Tungdil’s counterattack ground to a halt. Suddenly, help arrived on the scene.
A dark shadow crossed the sky, rippling overhead like a vast flock of birds. It was followed soon afterward by metallic jangling as hundreds of black-fletched arrows embedded themselves in enemy mail.
“It’s about time the blasted no-eyes decided to help,” snorted Boïndil, blocking an enemy sword. He knocked the weapon from the soldier’s hand and drove an ax into his unprotected thigh. “I won’t be sorry when this is over. Avatars, thirdlings, and älfar…” He aimed a blow at the next soldier’s hip, cutting through his armor and slicing into his flesh. “I’m starting to feel dizzy from keeping tabs on them all.”
Boëndal raised his crow’s beak and swung the poll against a helmed head, crushing the skull. The soldier fell backward against his comrades. “Stop whirling about like a spinning top and focus on what’s ahead,” he instructed his brother. He wiped the sweat and blood from his face with the end of his beard. “Head straight for the avatar.”
Älvish arrows whistled and whined through the air, bringing death to the enemy troops. The avatar’s soldiers seemed to realize that the tide had turned against them, and the bulk of the army began to retreat, shields raised against the feathered storm.
The time had come for Djern to attack. Leaving Narmora, he surged forward, killing anyone foolish enough to bar his path, his sword and cudgel sweeping left and right with deadly force. Within moments he had fought his way through to Tungdil and the twins.
Lifting off with unexpected agility, he soared seven paces through the air, flying over helmets, heads, and shields and touching down at the heart of the action, within striking distance of the avatar.
The glowing figure unleashed a bolt of crackling white luminescence at his chest. The magic energy thudded against his breastplate, causing the runes on his armor to pulse with light, but Djern was unharmed. Ricocheting back toward the avatar, the bolt seared through the pack of enemy soldiers, allowing the armored giant to advance.
Once again he called upon his incredible strength, thrusting his metal-clad arms into the light. For a few moments the glow intensified, then an agonized scream rent the air, and the light was extinguished.
Roaring, Djern brandished his victim’s body; the head was twisted unnaturally to the side. A purple glow emanated from the warrior’s visor, like a radiant expression of pride. He seemed to enjoy his victory, holding the corpse on high and showing it to the enemy troops. At last he tossed him away like an unwanted toy.
The dead man flew through the air, landing on the pikes and halberds of the enemy army.
There was silence on the battlefield.
The avatars’ army had accepted the death of the first avatar as an unfortunate accident, but the death of the second was irrefutable proof that the avatars were neither invincible nor immortal. The dead wizard’s blood trickled down the shafts of the weapons like that of an ordinary mortal. There was nothing divine or pure about him.
“Attack!” shouted Tungdil exultantly. “Don’t let them regroup!” His ax slammed into a shield, cutting through the metal and severing an enemy wrist. A man fell screaming to the churned-up ground.
The battle began again, but this time Tungdil’s warriors had victory in their sights.
Even as the älfar emerged from the trees and threw themselves on the enemy, dwarven bugles heralded the arrival of the rest of the army with Lorimbas, Xamtys, and Gemmil at the fore. Meanwhile, Djern was in mortal danger.
The White Army’s pikemen had made it their mission to bring down the avatars’ killer and they closed in on the giant, lunging at him with their long-handled weapons and retreating out of range. From time to time he cut down a pikeman, only to be attacked by another four.
Boïndil noticed Djern’s plight. “We’d better help old buckethead. He’s overextended.” Glancing at Tungdil and Boëndal, he saw agreement in their tired faces. “It would be a shame to lose him after everyth—”
“Look out!” shouted Boëndal, hefting his crow’s beak and hurling it through the air. The powerful weapon ripped toward a rider who was charging, spear in hand, toward the giant’s back. The rider saw the crow’s beak coming, and ducked just in time.
Meanwhile, Djern was too busy fighting the pikemen to notice the thundering hooves. Startled, he turned at the last moment, and the spear pierced his side. The rider paid for his bravery with his life, the giant’s cudgel smashing against his chest.
At once the pikemen surged forward, falling on the injured giant and forcing him to the ground. Tungdil and the twins lost sight of their ally.
“Quick!” shouted Tungdil, alerting the maga to the danger.
Narmora fixed her eyes on the skirmish, but Djern was lost from view. “I can’t see him,” she called back, sending a flickering tongue of fire in the direction indicated by Tungdil. “Wait, I’ll burn a path.” The dwarves nodded and readied themselves to sprint after the next fiery bolt.
Neither Tungdil nor the twins had any inkling that the maga wasn’t prepared to come to the giant’s rescue. Djern had been useful on occasions, not least by revealing that some types of armor were resistant to magic, but he had played a key role in the plot against Furgas, and Narmora could never forgive him for that.
If he dies, he dies. If he lives, it won’t be long before he falls in another skirmish. She gazed after Tungdil and the others, who were leading a unit of thirdlings to save the injured giant. They can risk their lives if they want to. I’m not wasting my mag
ic on him.
Getting past the pikemen was the toughest challenge yet.
The advancing dwarves came to a halt in front of a bristling mass of long-handled halberds and pikes. Steel pike heads pointed menacingly toward them, keeping them at bay. Every now and then a weapon sped forward, injuring any who sought to cleave the shafts and cut a path to Djern, who was somewhere behind the blockade.
“That does it!” snorted Ireheart. “I’ll teach them what it means to rile a dwarf!”
His levelheaded brother pulled him back. “They’ll run you through like a pig on a spit.” He was stopped from saying anything further by the arrival of a band of tall archers, who took up position next to them and leveled their bows. A flurry of arrows ripped toward the enemy with deadly effect. A path opened up between the pikemen, nearly two paces wide.
“Go on then,” said a voice that Tungdil recognized as Ondori’s. “Hurry!”
“I don’t like it,” said Ireheart suspiciously. He leaned across and whispered in his brother’s ear. “What if they shoot us in the back?”
“You’d die, of course,” said Ondori, smiling. “But we’re not going to shoot you. For the time being, we’re on the same side.” Looking up, she saw that the gap had closed so she ordered her archers to loose another hail of arrows. “Hurry, Goldhand.” She raised her bow and nocked an arrow to the string. “The pikemen won’t kill you; I want that pleasure myself.” Her gray eyes were cold with hatred.
Remembering Djern’s plight, Tungdil had no choice but to trust her. He sent a quick prayer to Vraccas and charged into the breach, followed by Boïndil, Boëndal, and the thirdlings. Even though he had promised himself he wouldn’t, he glanced over his shoulder to check on the älf.
She was standing ramrod straight, a nocked arrow pointing at his heart. Even as he stared, the bow string released and the arrow shot toward him. Closing his eyes, he braced himself for the feathered missile to hit. Nothing happened. By some miracle, the älf had missed her mark.
She lowered her bow and pointed ahead.
Turning back, Tungdil saw the outstretched body of a soldier, felled by a single arrow. In his distraction, he had almost impaled himself on an enemy pike. It’s my own fault for not trusting her. She hates me too much to let me die. He leaped over the pikeman and threw himself into battle. But Djern was nowhere to be seen.
Ireheart, thrilled to be in striking distance of the pikemen, rampaged through the enemy ranks. In the crush of bodies, the pikemen were forced to rely on short swords, which gave little protection against hefty dwarven clubs, axes, and hammers. Suddenly the battle shifted in favor of the dwarves, who weren’t in the mood for sparing lives. The enemy was shown no mercy. By nightfall, the avatars’ army had been destroyed and the woods of Dsôn Balsur were strewn with corpses.
It was then they found Djern.
He was lying among the dead soldiers, and he didn’t stir when they called his name and shook him by the shoulder. Yellow blood was trickling from countless holes in his armor, forming a vast puddle around his battered body. Tungdil shouted for Narmora’s help.
“I don’t want anyone closer than ten paces,” she told them. “You mustn’t see what I’m doing—the magic could kill you.” She bent over Djern’s head and covered herself with her cloak. Then she opened the visor.
The purple glow had gone out, and the sockets in his terrible skull were empty and lifeless. Narmora felt neither sorrow nor satisfaction at his passing: Djern was a killing machine—Andôkai’s killing machine. He shouldn’t have done what he did to poor Furgas.
Closing the visor, she lifted her cloak and got to her feet. “He’s dead,” she announced. “Two avatars died by Djern’s hand. May his name live on in our memory.” She made her way over to Tungdil. “Any sign of Balyndis?”
Boïndil shook his head crossly. “I don’t understand. What the blazes have they done with her?”
“I’d like to know where the other so-called avatars have got to,” said Tungdil distractedly. He was frantic with worry for the missing smith. “Djern killed two, which leaves another nine.”
“Maybe there were only two in the first place,” suggested Narmora. “I’ve had a look at their bodies, and they seem like ordinary humans to me.” She showed the dwarves some artifacts that she had found on the bodies. “Amulets, rings, crystals… If you ask me, they weren’t demigods at all. Take away their paraphernalia, and they’ll be helpless.”
“You mean they made all that light with a few magic trinkets?” said Boïndil, amazed.
The maga nodded. “It was some kind of spell. They wanted to make us think they were gods.” She pointed to a dead soldier. “See the moonstone on his gorget? It’s charmed. Without the moonstone, the armor wouldn’t glow.”
“What a con,” growled Boïndil, turning to the impresario, who had just joined their group. “They’re as bad as you, pretending to be something better than they are.”
“I think I deserve a little more respect,” protested Rodario. “I convinced them I was a real magus—and I nearly got killed for my pains.” For once he seemed to be telling the truth; his robe had been slashed to ribbons, but he was otherwise unharmed.
Without warning, the älf appeared alongside them, like a sinister suspiration of the night. Ireheart whipped out an ax and brandished it menacingly. “Get back, älf. The battle’s over and we’re enemies again.”
“If our alliance were over, you’d be lying face down on the ground,” she said scornfully. “I came to tell you that I know what happened to the other avatars. Several orbits ago I saw two lights in the distance—one heading for Dsôn Balsur, and the other traveling west. I think they’ve split their troops.”
“Without us noticing?” Boïndil laughed.
“Groundlings will sleep through anything. I could creep up on a dwarven encampment and slit a dozen throats without waking a soul.” She gave him a long, hard look. “Trust me, I know.”
Fortunately, Tungdil and Boëndal grabbed their friend before he could throw himself on Ondori. He struggled vigorously and hurled curses in the älf’s direction.
“Where would they be heading?” asked Tungdil. “Why would they be going west? It’s the wrong direction for ogres or orcs.” He thought about what he knew of the legend. “One part of the story is true. They seem to get their magic power by destroying evil. They must be looking for something evil to destroy.”
Narmora went white. “Porista,” she whispered.
“Porista?” echoed Rodario, taken aback. “Porista is a nice enough place—in fact, I rather like it. The people are friendly enough—although some of the men are overly jealous.”
“I wasn’t referring to the population,” Narmora said sharply. “Lios Nudin is the wellspring of Girdlegard’s magic. The source of the energy is in the vaults. Nôd’onn corrupted the force fields to stop the other magi using them, but Andôkai wasn’t affected because she prayed to Samusin, god of light and dark. She taught me to do the same.”
Tungdil had an idea what the avatars were planning. “And the force fields are still corrupted, even though Nôd’onn is dead?”
Narmora nodded.
“It sounds to me that Porista would make a good target,” said Tungdil.
“How much damage can they do?” asked Boëndal. “The force fields may be tucked out of sight like the stratum of rock beneath a mountain, but aren’t they also vital? What if the avatars destroy them?”
“They can’t do that, can they?” asked Tungdil, alarmed.
“I don’t know for sure,” Narmora admitted. “I expect we could find an answer, but the archives are in Porista…” She gasped and looked at Furgas. “Dorsa!”
“The alliance still holds,” Ondori said coolly. “You should be grateful to the avatars; they’ve earned you a reprieve.”
Tungdil gazed at the carnage around them. This is just the beginning, Vraccas.
Of the thirty thousand dwarves, including twenty-two thousand thirdlings, only twenty thousand or so h
ad survived the first battle. And now they would have to lay siege to a city and take on nine magi and an unknown quantity of warriors.
Tungdil knew he couldn’t count on the humans or the elves. The former had been fatally weakened by the defeat at Dsôn Balsur, and the latter would never agree to join forces with the älfar. He decided to send a messenger to landur anyway.
We’re the only ones who can stop them. It’s up to us. Tungdil turned in the direction of the Gray Range and gazed into the darkness. “The defense of Girdlegard is our Vraccas-given duty,” he said staunchly. For some reason, he was certain that Balyndis was still alive. We’ll find her in Porista.
Boïndil nodded. “Girdlegard needs us, scholar. It’s getting to be a habit.” His eyes traveled from Ondori to the thirdlings. “I wouldn’t mind more reliable allies.”
An älvish scout said something in a low voice to Ondori, who passed on the message to the rest of the group. “We’ve found tracks,” she told them. “A band of riders, no more than twenty in total. They’re riding west—probably toward Porista. We found a footprint near the spot where they mounted their horses. It looks like a child’s.”
Tungdil breathed out in relief. “It wasn’t a child; it was a dwarf—a dwarven smith who knows how to forge armor capable of withstanding the avatars’ fire.”
“If I were an avatar, I would have killed her on the spot,” declared Rodario in a manner that struck the dwarves as rather heartless.
“You mean why bother to take her with them? I expect they realized that she isn’t an ordinary dwarf. For all we know, they’ve heard about the magic armor. With Balyndis’s help, they could shield themselves and their soldiers from Narmora’s curses. A real avatar wouldn’t need armor, but a mortal magician would be glad of the protection.” Tungdil looked at the others determinedly. “We need to rescue Balyndis before we attack Porista. Without the secret of Djern’s armor, we can’t defeat the avatars. They’ll burn us to a cinder. A small group of us need to infiltrate the city and rescue our smith.”