The Dwarves Omnibus

by Markus Heitz

  According to the älfar, the enemy was preparing to defend the city from the inside, meaning no attempt would be made to meet the allies outside the walls. Rather than risk their lives on the battlefield, the avatars were waiting for the allied army to storm the city, which was bound to result in heavy losses for the älfar and dwarves. Both sides were still busy with their preparations when the weather suddenly changed. The temperature rose and fog descended on the city, making it impossible to see beyond a couple of hundred paces.

  The dwarves seized their chance.

  Drawing on their knowledge of mining, they dug a tunnel from the encampment to the sewage outlet, known to Tungdil and the others from their rescue mission.

  Their aim was to take the avatars by surprise. An elite battalion of thirdlings and älfar would enter the city through the sewers and clear the way for an allied task force, consisting of Tungdil, Boëndal, Boïndil, and some handpicked firstlings and freelings. Meanwhile, the rest of the army, led by Narmora and Rodario, would attack the city on two flanks to create the illusion that the allies were storming the city with a conventional assault.

  “We’ll aim the missiles at the ramparts and the gates,” decided Furgas. “I’d like to spare the population as far as possible. The avatars have caused enough suffering, and there’ll be more casualties when the fighting spreads to the streets.”

  The plan met with everyone’s approval.

  Tungdil and the others woke on the seventh orbit, knowing that Girdlegard’s moment of reckoning had come.

  The morning sun was a hazy presence behind the clouds. It wasn’t snowing, but the sky looked gray and pregnant, with swathes of mist obscuring their view.

  Tungdil went to find Balyndis, who was still too weak to leave the camp. They hugged each other like old friends, so that only the shrewdest observer would have noticed the depth of their emotion.

  “Farewell, Balyndis,” whispered Tungdil, filling his nostrils with her scent. “We’ll meet again in the eternal smithy, if not before.”

  She gulped. “I’ll pray to Vraccas for the hero of the Blacksaddle to prevail.”

  “Of course he’ll prevail,” cut in Boïndil. “The avatars will quake in their boots when they see us.” He shook hands with Balyndis, and his brother followed suit; then it was time for them to join the älfar and thirdlings.

  Boïndil eyed them with suspicion. “You’d think they were made for each other,” he muttered grimly. “Black souls, black tattoos, black armor… It’s a wonder they haven’t joined forces against us.”

  One by one they dropped down and advanced on their hands and knees through the tunnel. Tungdil and the twins soon discovered the difficulties of crawling in a full suit of armor as they disentangled their spaulders from tree roots and emptied their greaves of cold, wet soil.

  After a time the tunnel started shaking, from which they deduced that the bombardment was underway.

  Above ground, Furgas’s siege engines were hurling boulders and tree trunks at the enemy army. Every hit was accompanied by a tremor that shook the hastily built tunnel, raining loose soil and the occasional clod of earth on the crawling dwarves. The low roof was unlikely to survive the bombardment, even without a direct hit.

  Tungdil and the twins couldn’t afford to worry about the situation. Fear was a distraction, and they couldn’t turn back.

  At last they reached the end of the tunnel. The älfar and thirdlings were waiting at the mouth of the sewer.

  “Ha,” growled Boïndil. “The drains are blocked with scum already.”

  “Only because you’re here,” snapped a thirdling, baring his teeth.

  Boïndil stepped forward menacingly, but Tungdil pulled him back. “You asked for that,” he said crossly. “Besides, we’re fighting the avatars, not them.”

  Boïndil lowered his axes and muttered something unrepeatable under his breath. “You’re lucky,” he said to the thirdling, shooting him a warning look.

  They waited until the drain was packed with warriors; then Tungdil gave the order for the hatch to be opened.

  Everything went to plan. The avatars hadn’t expected them to try the same strategy twice.

  Fifty älfar led the way, stealing like shadows as they searched the streets for enemy guards. Soon afterward, Tungdil heard a low whistle.

  It was the signal for the thirdlings to file through the hatch. Once on the surface, they spread out and swarmed toward the palace, brandishing axes, cudgels, and flails.

  Tungdil and the twins brought up the rear.

  Furgas followed the trajectory of the missiles and carefully adjusted the angle until he was satisfied with the result. The fog made it difficult, but not impossible, to trace the projectiles’ course.

  Hoping to spare the houses, he focused the bombardment on the city’s defenses, flattening watchtowers, blasting through the gates, and tearing down ramparts, sending dozens of enemy soldiers to their deaths.

  The avatars’ army, unable to return fire, waited helplessly, longing for the moment when the allied warriors would storm the city and the battle could begin.

  “No sign of the avatars,” commented Balyndis, who had left the camp to watch the action from the relative safety of the siege engines.

  Furgas nodded, sharing her relief. He gave the order for another round to be fired.

  Ropes were released and counterweights dropped, then the throwing arms shot up, hurling boulders through the air. The missiles arced toward the watchtowers, smashing the roofs and killing those inside.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” said Furgas. “They managed to kill Lirkim with a fireball, but they haven’t done anything to stop us attacking their men.”

  Dwarves rushed forward to reload the siege engines, which took considerable time and strength. Furgas wasn’t the sort to stand by idly. “I’d hate to give them ideas,” he said, turning a windlass, “but the siege engines would burn like tinder.”

  Balyndis fixed her eyes on the city walls, which stood two hundred and fifty paces from their position. A crack had opened up in the defenses. “Exactly what I was thinking. I’d say they’re not too worried about their army; they’re busy with something else.”

  “The force fields,” he said, peering toward the city. Usually, the pitched roofs of the houses were visible above the parapets, but everything was shrouded in fog. “I bet they’re tampering with the force fields. Pass the message to Xamtys, Gemmil, and Narmora. It’s time to start the assault.”

  Beyond the city walls, a shimmering green arrow soared above Porista, shining brightly through the fog. It came from the bow of an älf, signaling that Tungdil’s party had reached the palace. “They’re through,” shouted Furgas. “Bombard the gates!”

  From the ranks of the freelings and firstlings, a line of warriors jogged forward and set their ladders against the ramparts. Their eyes were bound with cloth to protect them from the dazzling light. The first stage of the two-pronged assault had begun.

  Already Lorimbas and Rodario were leading the attack on the northern gates, hoping to split the avatars’ army and draw them away from the palace.

  Furgas marveled at the rows of dwarves rolling toward the city. No mortal adversary could resist such a force—but Lirkim had said that the eoîl was a god.

  Among the dwarves he spotted the tall, slender figure of Narmora, dressed in full armor and a bright crimson cloak. He prayed to Palandiell to keep her from harm. Don’t punish her for worshipping Samusin. Her intentions are good.

  Tungdil and the others reached the palace without encountering a single guard.

  It doesn’t make sense, he thought, wondering why no one had tried to stop them. Maybe it’s a trap… He strode past the main gates; they couldn’t be breached by force, and scaling the walls would be folly.

  The palace was still protected by a powerful spell that trapped unwanted visitors like flies in a spider web, tying them to the masonry with magic bonds. The bleached bones of previous intruders were enough to persuade even the mo
st unflinching thirdling that it was best to try another route.

  Tungdil led the warriors through an alleyway to Furgas’s secret doorway. Remembering how Ondori had recited the incantation, he pronounced the words carefully, and sure enough, the masonry began to move. The door opened a crack, enough for an arrow to whiz through and hit a thirdling on the shoulder.

  “It had to happen sometime,” growled Boëndal, sheltering behind the wall.

  “Every dwarf loves a challenge,” laughed his brother. “I hope we find some proper warriors in the palace. My axes are hungry for flesh.”

  The foremost thirdling laid four shields on top of each other and tied them together with his belt. He waited by the narrow opening while a queue of warriors formed behind him, each carrying a stack of shields, ready to form a wall to protect the remainder of the group.

  They appeared to be acting on their own initiative—at any rate, none of them waited for instructions. Tungdil wasn’t convinced that they would listen to him anyway: Lorimbas had ordered them to cut a path to the avatars, and they were apparently determined to do it on their terms.

  “Let’s go,” said a tattooed warrior, glancing back at Tungdil. The thirdlings stormed ahead.

  Arrows hissed through the air, but the reinforced shields fulfilled their purpose. Protected by the wall of metal, the remaining dwarves streamed into the palace gardens where the avatars’ soldiers awaited them.

  The brightness wasn’t so dazzling with the cloth in front of their eyes, and Tungdil had the impression that the soldiers’ white armor looked duller than before. The power of the moonstones seemed to be waning.

  The thirdlings advanced in formation, and the battle began. It quickly became apparent that the sides were well matched. For every fallen soldier, two more threw themselves into the breach, fighting with a strength born of desperation to hold back the invading dwarves.

  “Look!” shouted Ireheart, pointing to the second-highest tower. “Did you see that?” A faint light was shining from the windows. Its source was wreathed in fog, but the glow was clearly visible. “It might be an avatar!”

  “Looking for avatars, are you?” thundered a man. Turning, they saw a glowing figure on the parapet of the tower behind them. The magus raised his hands and a pair of glowing fireballs appeared in his palms. “Defenders of evil, prepare to die!”

  The burning spheres blazed toward them, speeding through the thirdling ranks.

  Narmora raced up the ladder. Rocks showered haphazardly toward her, but none of the missiles found its goal.

  She reached the parapet and drew her weapons. The first consisted of a short metal haft to which scythe-like blades had been mounted on each end; the second was a straight-bladed version of the same. The blades’ inner and outer edges were deadly sharp. She wore metal baskets on her wrists to protect her fingers from enemy swords.

  Launching herself from the parapet, she landed among the soldiers and hewed through their ranks. In recent battles she had fought with magic, not weaponry, and she was eager to test herself in combat, using Sunbeam and Crescent, her mother’s blades.

  Her älvish nature came to the fore. Ducking, wheeling, and slashing, she was everywhere at once. To her satisfaction, her proficiency was noted and admired by others of her kind.

  The dwarves scaled the parapets more slowly. By nature less nimble, they clambered steadily up the ladders and were easy targets for the soldiers’ rocks. Undeterred, they threw themselves into battle.

  The avatars’ soldiers were quick to adapt to the different fighting styles of the älfar and the dwarves, and they soon showed their mettle. The allies’ hopes of a quick victory faded, and the battle swayed to and fro. Narmora, realizing the seriousness of the situation, decided to use her magic to cut a path through the enemy troops.

  At the same time she knew she had to be ready for the avatars to retaliate, but so far there hadn’t been any sign of them.

  A cold wind blew into the city, clearing the morning mist. Narmora glanced over to the palace and saw two shimmering figures at the top of a sable tower.

  They’re up to something… Raising her left blade, she blocked a sword and sent it smashing into an enemy soldier before ramming her weapon through the aggressor’s belly and skewering him effortlessly on the end of her blade. “Xamtys,” she called to the firstling queen, withdrawing her bloodied weapon and pointing to the tower. “Can you manage on your own? I need to see what’s going on.”

  The dwarven queen swung her four-pronged mace into a soldier’s knee and smashed it against his skull as he fell, crushing his right temple. The scream died on his lips as he toppled over the parapet. “They’re tougher than we thought, but Vraccas will see us through,” she called, gesturing for Narmora to go. “We’ll be fine without you, Estimable Maga.”

  Narmora took off, landing with both feet on a soldier’s breastplate and knocking him into the weapons of his friends. Dropping low, she took off again and bounded over their heads. Before they could recover, she was down the stairs and running through the streets.

  With every step her apprehension grew. Something about the force field was making her uneasy, and the disagreeable feeling intensified as she hurried toward the palace.

  The magic energy was reaching for her, or rather, reaching for the shard of malachite buried beside her heart. No one but the eoîl knew about the gemstone, and his knowledge gave him power. She decided to kill him before he gave away her secret and brought her into conflict with Furgas and the dwarves.

  It won’t come to that. She picked up the pace, sprinting through the deserted streets.

  “You’ve got to stop them,” said Nudin, appearing beside her. “Everything is at stake.”

  She stumbled and stopped. “How did you…?”

  “You can’t stop now,” he said urgently. “Hurry, they’re about to start the ritual. You’re a half älf, remember. They’re committed to wiping out evil, and that includes you. I don’t want to be alone, Narmora. Don’t let them take our power…”

  The apparition glimmered, fading out of sight.

  “Where are you?” Narmora whirled round, sweeping the street with her gaze: There was nothing but terraced houses.

  “Estimable Maga!” called a voice. “Thank Vraccas I’ve found you.” An exhausted messenger hurried toward her. “Rodario the Fablemaker needs you on the northern front. He and the thirdlings are outnumbered.”

  “Tell him he’ll have to manage,” she said coldly. “I can’t endanger Girdlegard to save the lives of Lorimbas’s dwarves. The avatars must be stopped.”

  She left him standing and ran down the street as fast as her long legs could carry her. She didn’t much care if the avatars’ soldiers wiped out the thirdlings. She was worried about her own life—her life, and the life of her innocent daughter.

  Tungdil leaped into action, trusting to the efficacy of Djern’s armor.

  He saw the first fireball speeding toward them, and threw himself into its path. Boëndal stepped in front of the second.

  The world around them disappeared in a blaze of white light and roaring flames. Tendrils of fire licked their visors, but the charmed metal and powerful runes protected their eyes from the deadly heat.

  Vraccas, give me the strength to pull through. Faster than an ax could sever an orcish arm, the temperature shot up, and beads of sweat formed on Tungdil’s forehead, evaporating straightaway. A few strands of hair, poking out from his leather skullcap, brushed against his helmet, releasing a smell that reminded him of a freshly shod horse.

  It lasted no longer than the angry fizzle of a burning coal in water, but Tungdil waited impatiently for his vision to clear.

  Most of the thirdlings were sprawled on the ground and some of their cloaks were on fire, but everyone was alive.

  “I say we kill him before he roasts us like cave crabs,” wheezed Boëndal, opening his visor and taking a gulp of fresh air.

  His brother was already storming toward the palace, followed by a knot of th
irdlings, who cut down the sentries and disappeared inside. Tungdil and Boëndal ran after them as best they could. Balyndis had made their armor less restrictive, but the suits were far heavier than ordinary dwarven mail.

  They pushed past the thirdlings and scrambled up the stairs, hoping to take the avatar by surprise.

  He spotted them first.

  A ball of fire whizzed toward them, engulfing them in roaring, hissing flames. Sweat vaporized from their pores, but the heat couldn’t kill them. They heard the avatar curse and saw a flash of white robe disappear around the corner.

  “He’s running away!” bellowed Ireheart. “Ha, call yourself an avatar!” He hurled his ax, pinning the cloth to a wooden cupboard.

  “What did you say about letting go of your ax?” asked Boëndal, sprinting past him with his crow’s beak. He turned the corner.

  Tungdil was hot on his heels. “You owe us a sack of gold.”

  “I’ve got two axes; it doesn’t count!” protested Boïndil, hurrying after them. “Leave him to me!”

  The avatar-conjurer was a dark-haired man of fifty cycles dressed in black robes. He whirled round and pointed his left hand at Boëndal. White lightning left his index finger and shot toward the dwarf.

  “Die, undergroundling!” This time the avatar kept his finger pointed at his victim, allowing flames to crackle over his breastplate. He seemed to realize that the armor offered no protection against the heat.

  The tactic paid off.

  Slowly, Boëndal’s fingers uncurled, and his crow’s beak thudded to the floor. He took a step forward, stumbled, and hit the unyielding marble without stopping his fall. At best he was unconscious, at worst he was…

  “What have you done to my brother?” shrieked Ireheart, hurling his other ax to distract the avatar from Boëndal. The flames fizzled out. Boïndil kept running and grabbed the crow’s beak, swinging it over his head. “You’ll die for this.”