by Markus Heitz
“I’ll come too,” volunteered Ondori. Her motivation was entirely selfish; she wanted to keep them alive until she got her revenge.
Furgas and Rodario exchanged looks. “We know a few hidden passageways,” murmured Furgas. “I’ll show you the way.”
“But only if you rescue Dorsa,” added Narmora. “I don’t want her to be hurt in the fighting. I’ve lost a son, and I’ve no intention of losing a daughter.” She glared at Tungdil. “Give me your word.”
In spite of the extra risk on an already risky mission, he acquiesced, although deep down he was surprised at Narmora. She’s changed. It was probably studying under Andôkai that did it. He looked sadly at Djern’s motionless body. He would miss the fallen warrior, and not only because of his strength.
Then he had an idea.
187 Miles East of Porista,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6235th/6236th Solar Cycle
The ringing of the hammer filled the morning air. Tungdil was in a small forge in Klinntal, a village en route to Porista. He had laid out Djern’s armor on a workbench. According to his estimates, the metal would suffice for three metal suits—one for him, and one each for the twins—provided he was careful.
Much thought had gone into deciding which parts of Djern’s mail lent themselves to being refashioned into smaller, dwarf-sized items. He had begun by making detailed drawings, showing the positioning of the intarsia and runes. Only then had he started to break apart the breastplate, spaulders, and greaves.
“How are you getting along?” asked Boëndal, who, along with his brother, the village smith, and the smith’s apprentices, was helping out in the forge. The men were very impressed by Tungdil, who wielded the hammer with uncommon precision, power, and speed.
“We’re nowhere near ready,” sighed Tungdil. “The tools aren’t up to scratch and the hearth doesn’t draw very well. I wish the flames were hotter…” The hammer swooped down, forcing the metal into shape. “I haven’t got time to customize the armor properly. I’m afraid it’s going to pinch.”
“I don’t care if it rubs all the flesh from my bones, so long as I’m safe from the avatars’ magic,” growled Boïndil. He finished stamping a rune into a finished section of armor and weighed it critically in his hand. “We won’t be able to move as fast as usual. It weighs a ton.” He turned to his brother. “From now on, anyone who throws his only weapon will owe me a sack of gold,” he said, remembering how his brother had cast his crow’s beak at Djern’s assassin. “There’s simply no excuse.”
Nine orbits had passed since they started their journey through snow-covered Gauragar. They had buried Djern, still clad in his chain mail and helmet, in Dsôn Balsur. After a little persuasion, Boïndil had agreed not to peek behind his visor, and the giant warrior had taken his secret to the grave.
Since then, Tungdil, Ondori, Rodario, Furgas, and the twins had been marching as fast as possible toward Porista. The main army was following at a distance, with Narmora to protect it from magical assault.
Boëndal tapped his weapons belt. “Point taken,” he said. “You don’t need to lecture me about throwing my only weapon: I’ve got an ax in reserve.” He waved his tongs at Tungdil. “You’ll get your gold from our scholar, I’ll warrant.”
Tungdil peered at the breastplate emerging from the beaten metal. He threw some water onto his sweaty face and shook the soot from his long brown beard. He was too busy thinking about his work and worrying about Balyndis to pay attention to the twins.
He hadn’t been especially talkative over the past few orbits. He couldn’t stop turning things over in his mind and trying to gauge his feelings. After giving his heart to two dwarf-women and being let down, he didn’t know what to think. Myr had betrayed him, then saved him from Salfalur’s hammer, and Balyndis had spurned him in favor of Glaïmbar, yet she hadn’t stopped loving him—nor he her. He had twice gone from happiness to despair, and in quiet moments he succumbed to a creeping melancholy that prevented him from taking pleasure in anything around him. Deep down he wanted to rail against Vraccas for making him suffer.
Pain and loss had accompanied him on every step of his journey, and sometimes—in his darkest moments—he found himself wishing that he would die in battle so that his soul could be gathered to Vraccas’s smithy.
“Is something the matter, scholar?” asked Boëndal, concerned.
Tungdil shook the water from his beard. “I’m fine,” he said, forcing himself to smile. He untied his leather apron and pulled it over his head. “I could do with a bite to eat and something to oil my throat.”
“I’m dying for some good, strong beer,” agreed Boïndil. He sighed. “Why do the long-uns brew such watery rubbish?”
They left the forge and strolled to their lodgings. Klinntal didn’t have a hostelry, so they were staying in a farmhouse. A smell of roast meat and freshly baked bread wafted toward them.
Inside, Furgas was dozing on the bench by the table, and Ondori was relaxing by the fire.
The meat came courtesy of the älf and her bow. According to the villagers, there was never any game to be had in winter, but Ondori always found something, a deer or a brace of hares. She was a formidable hunter who treated all living creatures as prey—in her eyes, men, orcs, and wild animals were little better than vermin.
She didn’t look up to acknowledge the dwarves. Her sharp knife was sculpting limbs and carving faces for movable figures made from the remains of her prey. Earlier, she had made a flute for the farmer’s daughter, and everyone agreed that it produced a pleasant sound.
Tungdil suspected that she was more accustomed to working with the bones of men, elves, and dwarves. It made him queasy to think that somewhere an älf would be making music on a dwarven shinbone.
But it didn’t stop him or the twins from feasting on the meat. Hammering metal was hungry work, and the best way of maintaining their strength without proper dwarven victuals was to eat a lot of meat.
Furgas woke up, stretched, and glanced over at Rodario, who was studying Ondori and taking notes. “An interesting character,” the impresario murmured. “She’s helping the others because she wants to kill them herself. It adds an excellent twist to the plot. It’s very suspenseful!” He flipped the notebook shut.
“This isn’t one of your plays, you know,” said Furgas, who saw it as his duty to keep reminding his friend of the seriousness of the task ahead.
“I’m aware of that, thank you,” retorted Rodario. “No rehearsals, no prompts, no audience, and worst of all, no coin.” The farmer’s wife came in, set down a stewpot, and left in a hurry, unnerved by the presence of the älf. Rodario helped himself to a mug of herbal tea. “If anyone had predicted that I’d be roped into fighting the forces of darkness instead of setting up my theater, seducing women, and following my calling on the stage, I would have thought they were mad.” He sighed and breathed on the steaming tea. “The curtain went up, and I found myself at the heart of a drama that could cost me my life.”
“Feeling sorry for yourself, Rodario?” teased Boëndal.
“It’s probably the weather. Too much gray isn’t good for the soul.” He jabbed a finger at Tungdil. “He’s no better. I don’t think he’s said a word since we got here. Has anyone got a good joke? You didn’t finish the one about the orc and the dwarf.”
Tungdil sipped his warm beer. “I’m sorry I haven’t been more lively.”
Boïndil clinked tankards with him. “It’s all right, scholar. It stands to reason that you’re more worried about Balyndis than anyone else. True love never rusts, as they say.” He checked himself, realizing that he was hardly improving the mood. “Why do I have to be so tactless?”
“Honesty is a virtue,” said Tungdil. There’s no denying that I love her, he thought, waiting for his inner demon to contradict him. But the taunting voice was silent now that he had stopped lying to himself. I love her and I always will. It wouldn’t be right to join the iron band with
another maiden when my heart belongs to someone else. No dwarf-woman will ever hold a candle to her. He took another draft of beer, stood up, and picked up his tankard. “There’s work to be done.”
It took two orbits to finish the breastplates to a reasonable standard. After a further four orbits, the spaulders, greaves, and helmets were ready as well. The gauntlets still needed to be assembled, but they decided to do it en route.
They walked fast and stopped seldom, racing across Gauragar until at last they spied Porista.
Even from a distance, it was obvious that the city had changed hands.
White banners with strange symbols fluttered from the palace and tents had mushroomed in the streets, overshadowing the houses. Soldiers were patrolling the borders and stopping anyone wanting to enter or leave.
“They’ve got it all worked out,” commented Furgas, pointing to the cranes that were swinging their long jibs over the city. It seemed the building work was making good progress in spite of the new regime. “The fake avatars have obviously taken a liking to my machines.”
He was about to make another comment when the ground moved beneath their feet. At first it was only a slight tremble, but it soon became so vigorous that snow rained down from the trees. The shaking stopped abruptly.
Tungdil looked over his shoulder at the ground behind him.
As he watched, a ripple ran through the earth, spreading outward from Porista, like the movement caused by a pebble in a lake. Tungdil spotted branches swinging crazily in the distance, shedding their coating of snow. At last the ground was still. “They’ve found the wellspring,” he said. “The question is, how much damage will they do?”
Boïndil wiped the clumps of snow from his shoulders. He wasn’t wearing a gorget, so most of it slipped down his neck, melting against the warmth of his skin. “A little tremor like that won’t do much harm.”
“I’d rather they didn’t interfere with the force fields at all,” said his brother. He turned expectantly to Rodario and Furgas. “It’s time for the long-uns to make themselves useful. Show us how to get in.”
Furgas pointed north. “We started building a new sewage system. The old drains collapsed in the quake, so we dug them out and strengthened the walls. The first section is complete—it starts outside the city and runs five hundred paces toward the marketplace.”
“Is there a door or something at this end?” asked Tungdil, adjusting his suit of armor. It was oppressively tight, and even the helmet restricted his view. The twins were suffering as well.
“I don’t know how old buckethead put up with it,” came a hollow voice. Boïndil had put his helmet on. “Blasted thing! I’ve trapped my beard. I won’t have any whiskers left at this rate.”
“We didn’t want predators coming into the city from the drains, so we built a hidden entrance with a wooden door. The avatars won’t have found it, I’m sure.” He started to move off, but Ondori barged ahead.
“I’ll go first,” she said, nocking an arrow to her bow and stealing forward. The others followed at a distance of ten paces.
“My dear little warriors,” hissed Rodario when they were approximately halfway to the door. “Anyone would think you were trying to attract attention. I’ve never heard so much squeaking, clattering, and jangling. Did you forget to oil your joints?”
“Speaking of which,” said Boïndil, pushing back his visor. “How did Djern move so quietly in a full suit of metal?”
“The sooner you discover his secret the better,” snapped Rodario. “Personally, I’d rather not be captured by the avatars. Hmm, I wonder if this will work.” He stooped down, picked up a handful of snow, and rubbed it into the hinges of Boïndil’s suit. The metal squealed in protest. “Same to you,” said Rodario crossly.
Boïndil gave him a vigorous shove, and he disappeared backward into the snow. “Keep that word-weaving meddler away from me,” growled the angry secondling. “His brilliant ideas will get us all killed. Maybe we should send him to the other side of the city to distract attention from the rest of us.”
Rodario jumped up and gave himself an irritated shake. “Fine, Mr. Hasty-ax, that’s exactly what I’ll do,” he announced self-importantly. “I’m an innocent citizen of Porista, a theater director, no less. They won’t have a problem letting me into the city, my cocky little friend.”
“Don’t be silly, Rodario,” said Tungdil. “It’s safer with us.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I happen to disagree. I’ll see you at the marketplace. No doubt I’ll be fully cognizant of the avatars’ whereabouts by the time you arrive.” He turned on his heels and strutted off.
“Good riddance,” growled Boïndil. “I’ve had enough of his blather.”
Tungdil gazed after him, wishing he would change his mind. The silver-tongued actor had proven his usefulness on numerous occasions in the past.
“You can bet he’ll be fine,” said Furgas with a grin. “He’s bound to make it to the marketplace. Anyone who can seduce a maiden and sweet-talk her father is resourceful enough to look after himself.” He set off again, following a trail of arrows traced by Ondori in the snow.
The symbols were the only evidence that the älf had passed that way. Her feet left no prints and in the dying light of the orbit she melded with the darkness, disappearing from view.
“Is she really Sinthoras’s daughter?” whispered Boïndil. “I don’t want to find a black-fletched arrow in my back. She’s a double-dealing, dwarf-killing no-eyes. We’ll have to kill her before she kills us.”
Tungdil was inclined to agree. “We’ll bide our time. Don’t do anything unless I say so—the avatars are enough of a challenge without Ondori going for our throats.”
They stole toward Porista’s newly erected defenses. In places, the walls were still unfinished, but they were high enough to keep out invaders.
At the base of a half-finished section of wall they discovered the entrance to the sewage system described by Furgas. The wooden gates were as high as a man, but to the casual observer or sentry they were completely hidden by a large mound of snow. The älf was crouched at the entrance, listening for enemy guards.
“Hmm,” said Boëndal disapprovingly. “A great big tunnel leading straight to the city… You’re opening yourselves to attack.”
“We thought about that,” Furgas assured him, smiling. “In the event of danger, we can close off the sewer by lowering the grates. The avatars won’t have activated them, which is just as well for us.”
He bounded down the bank, and the dwarves stumbled after him, wishing they were back in their chain mail. Their new armor was considerably heavier and more restrictive as well.
Furgas, an expert in all things technical, set about picking the locks, his deft fingers teasing open the mechanism. There was a gentle click, and the door swung open, allowing the little party to enter the sewer.
Furgas closed the door behind him and made sure it was locked. Then, lighting a small lantern to help him find his way through the darkness, he led the others through the tunnel.
After only ten paces, he stopped and pointed at five deep grooves in the ceiling, each three or so paces from the next.
“The grates are up there—big metal barriers as thick as my arm. You can do what you like to them, but they won’t shift an inch. No one could ever invade Porista through the drains.”
“Isn’t that precisely what we’re doing?” commented Boïndil, trying not to skid on a frozen puddle. “If you ask me, there’s a flaw in your plan.”
Furgas gave a low laugh. “I’m sure the gods knew what they were doing when they made me forget to lower the grates.”
They felt their way forward slowly. Ondori was somewhere in front of them, hidden by darkness. Suddenly she appeared at Boëndal’s side. “You may as well speed up a bit,” she said, startling Furgas so badly that the lantern jigged up and down. “There’s no one here apart from us. It’s all clear until we get to the door.” She melted back into the darkness, only reappearing
when they reached the bottom of a narrow staircase.
“We built the stairs so that workmen can make sure nothing is blocking the sewers. Someone will be responsible for coming down here at regular intervals to check. The manhole is covered by a slab of stone. It’s easy to open from above, but it might take a bit of force to lift it up.”
Ondori went ahead and signaled for them to follow. There wasn’t enough room for anything but single file, and no matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t succeed in shifting the stone.
Furgas peered through the cracks. “They’ve fastened the bolts.”
“It’s good to know that someone cares about security,” said Boïndil, thumping the stone. “I’m afraid it’s pretty solid. We’ll have our work cut out.”
Ondori signaled for them to be quiet.
There was someone on the other side of the manhole. They heard bolts being thrown back, then a muffled groan as the slab began to wobble.
“Do you think it’s Rodario?” Boëndal asked Furgas in a whisper.
“May as well lift it up and see,” said his brother, pushing against the slab. The others joined in while the älf raised her bow.
At last the slab lifted and hit the floor with a thud. Looking up, they saw a man with a grimy face and, beside him, a bucket of waste. He seemed understandably surprised to see them emerging from the sewers.
“Is that you, Mr. Furgas?” he stuttered. “Where have you—” He stepped back to let them out. “Quick, you’d better hurry or you’ll be seen.”
“This is Ertil,” said Furgas, introducing him to the others. “He runs the kitchens for the laborers.”
“Can he be trusted?” demanded Ondori without lowering her bow.
“An elf,” gasped Ertil respectfully. He looked up at the tall, slim archer, hoping to catch a glimpse of the elves’ fabled beauty, which was praised in countless human songs. To his disappointment, her features were hidden by a mask.
“He’s trustworthy,” said Furgas hurriedly, to prevent Ondori from loosing her bow. “I daresay he’ll be able to tell us what happened.”
The man nodded. “That I can, sir. It’s a good thing I needed to empty my bucket.” He took another look at the strange group, then tipped the contents of his bucket into the street. “I don’t want you dirtying your boots if you leave the same way.”