by Markus Heitz
The avatar-conjurer sent another bolt of lightning toward Boïndil, but the dwarf was already upon him.
Shrieking with rage, Ireheart spun round and rammed the spur of the crow’s beak into the avatar’s belly, hitting him with such force that the weapon embedded itself in his guts. With another terrible shriek, the dwarf jerked the crow’s beak to the side, slicing his waist.
The avatar-conjurer didn’t have time to speak, groan, or express his surprise. He fell, blood and guts spilling from his belly as he hit the marble floor.
Tungdil kneeled beside Boëndal and fumbled with his visor, gagging on the smell of charred flesh. Hot steam and white smoke rose toward him. He fanned the air frantically and looked anxiously at his friend. The sight stopped his breath. Vraccas have mercy.
Boëndal’s face was a welter of oozing blisters, his features burned beyond recognition. Nothing but a few scorched whiskers remained of his bushy beard. Tungdil knew without looking that the rest of his body was covered in burns as well. “Lie still,” he told him, and Boëndal’s singed, lashless eyelids flickered at the sound of his voice. “I’ll get some snow for the burns.”
“Boëndal,” murmured his brother, appalled. “I…”
“Hurry,” whispered Boëndal. His blackened lips struggled to form the words. “Find the other avatars—don’t let them do the same to you.” He swallowed and tried to continue, but his voice gave out.
“Follow me,” said Tungdil determinedly. “We can have one each.”
Boïndil stood up. “I’ll take the eoîl.”
They jogged through the palace, looking for the staircase to the second-highest sable tower. The remaining thirdlings—thirty in all—came with them; the others had been cut down by the palace guards or killed by the avatar’s firebolts.
They pushed on quickly, their progress unhindered by the surviving avatar and his guards. It seemed the eoîl was happy to give them the run of the palace, which added to Tungdil’s unease.
Suddenly, a man stepped out of a doorway and hurried toward them. “Stop!”
“Die, wizard!” shouted Boïndil, raising his axes. His inner furnace was burning furiously, but somehow, miraculously, he recognized the man. “The fatuous Rodario!” At the last second, the crow’s beak jerked to the side, thudding against the wall and splintering the marble.
“Rodario! What are you doing here?” asked Tungdil, surprised. “I thought you and the thirdlings were…”
It was clear from the impresario’s appearance that the past few hours had taken their toll. His robes were torn and bloodied, although the blood wasn’t his. An angry bruise graced his right cheekbone and he was glistening with sweat.
“Lorimbas and his troops are dead,” he gasped, leaning against the wall and catching his breath. “They were decimated in the battle. We ran straight into the enemy’s traps, and Narmora left us to it. I asked for her help, but she was needed in the palace. I was hoping to find her here.” He lifted his arm, rubbed his eyes on his winged sleeve, and blinked. “Xamtys said to tell you that she’s holding her position, but the enemy units from the northern front are on their way to help their comrades. She won’t last for long.” His expression was uncharacteristically grave. “I think Narmora is trying to kill the eoîl so they won’t have a leader. At this rate there won’t be anyone left when Balendilín, Gandogar, and Glaïmbar’s armies arrive.”
“It’s down to us to stop them.” Tungdil glanced down the corridor. “Do you know the way to the second-highest tower? We think the eoîl and the last avatar might be hiding at the top.”
Rodario grinned. “I’d be delighted to take you there: In my experience, it’s generally safest in the eye of the storm. If you’re going to cuckold a man, you should stay in his bedroom; the dangerous part is trying to leave.” He pointed to a wide door leading away from the corridor. “You went right past it. Incidentally, the tower in question is situated above the wellspring.”
They ran to the door and a thirdling warrior yanked the handle and leaped away. “A monster! They’ve magicked a monster to guard the tower!”
Snarling and rasping, the creature barreled toward them through the doorway, pulling out the wooden frame and fracturing the marble wall. Through the cloud of powdered stone they saw the outlines of a monster that was clearly the creation of an unhinged god.
The four-legged creature towered above them, filling the six-pace-high corridor from ceiling to floor. It had a human body, with vast white wings and four stringy arms that allowed it to strike its enemies from afar. It wasn’t armed, having no need for swords or axes since its hands were equipped with bird-like talons, each as long as a dwarven arm and deadly sharp.
“Ye gods,” stammered Rodario, staring at the creature’s fang-lined jaws. He took a step backward. “If you ask me, this is a job for a warrior.”
“Scholar,” whispered Boïndil. “What is it? How do we kill it?”
The creature lowered its lizard-like head and peered at the dwarves with clear, pupil-less eyes. A forked purple tongue flicked toward them.
Tungdil had no recollection of any reference to such a creature in Lot-Ionan’s books. “It’s not from Girdlegard. They must have brought it from the Outer Lands—what it is, I don’t know.”
The creature flapped its powerful wings as best it could in the confines of the corridor, whipping up a hefty gust. The dwarves let go of their shields as the wind threatened to lift them into the air. Rodario was caught off guard and blown over.
Following its first, relatively harmless, display of power, the creature attacked.
Two long arms shot out and grabbed a couple of thirdlings, closing its talons around their heads and smashing their helmed skulls like eggshells. It loosed its grip, dropped the twitching bodies to the floor, and hissed in satisfaction.
The thirdlings, determined to avenge their dead comrades, threw themselves on the beast, whose claws turned out to be surprisingly hard. The thirdlings’ axes bounced off them, allowing the creature to bat away their blows.
“As soon as it’s sufficiently distracted, we’ll make a run for it,” said Tungdil. He didn’t want to waste time on the monster when its masters were still at large.
“But I want to fight it,” protested Boïndil, his inner furnace spitting flames. “It’s the biggest challenge I’ve ever seen!”
“Wait till we find the eoîl,” said Tungdil, hoping to console him. He signaled to Rodario. “The thirdlings can deal with the monster. You’re coming with us.”
“I see, you want me to be your decoy,” muttered Rodario. “Oh well, someone has to do it.” He shook the dust from his robes and sprinted after the dwarves, who had spotted a gap between the monster and the stairs.
Almost instantly, a talon swooped within inches of his head. The impresario ducked, racing past the dwarves to the bottom of the tower.
The creature resorted to cunning and flapped its wings frantically, creating a wind that swirled through Rodario’s robes, causing him to topple backward and trip up the dwarves. In the resulting confusion, they failed to foresee the next attack.
The creature’s fourth arm sped toward them, hitting Tungdil’s spaulders and cutting five deep grooves. Continuing on its trajectory, it smashed into Boïndil, hitting his breastplate level with his collarbone. One of the talons pierced the metal, eliciting a shriek of pain and rage, but the hardy dwarf had the strength to raise his weapon and hew through the talon, leaving the tip embedded in his chest.
“Is that the best you can do?” he shouted scornfully. “I’ll kill your masters, then come back and chop off your wings.” He spat at the creature’s feet.
Rodario and Tungdil had to grab him by the arms and drag him away. Somehow they reached the broad staircase leading up to the tower and kept running until the steps narrowed and the monster could chase them no more. Tungdil stopped to inspect the broken talon in Boïndil’s chest. It was at least the width of two fingers.
“You’ll lose too much blood if I try to pull i
t out,” he judged. “I think we should leave it alone.”
“I’ll be fine,” said Boïndil through gritted teeth. “It doesn’t especially hurt and it can’t have penetrated further than a fingertip or so. It’s a good job I was wearing my jerkin.” He tried to smile. “Just don’t let anyone wallop me in the chest.” He looked skeptically at the spiral staircase winding up the tower. It presented a considerable challenge to a dwarf in full plate armor, especially one with a hole in his chest. “This could take a while,” he said, placing his right foot on the next step and beginning the arduous ascent.
The tower was an architectural masterpiece.
The steps extended four paces from the walls of the stairwell without a rail or central pillar, and the tower itself was ten paces wide, leaving a gap of two paces at the core of the spiral. The slightest clumsiness was liable to end in a long and probably fatal fall. Winter sunshine filled the stairwell, lighting the steps.
Rodario noticed a cable, about the diameter of a finger, dangling in the empty shaft. It seemed to be suspended from above, for what purpose he could not guess. It’s probably for a bell or a gong or something. He dismissed the matter from his mind.
“What do they want with so many steps?” grumbled an out-of-breath Boïndil when they were two-thirds of the way to the top.
“It reminds me of a dwarven stronghold,” teased Rodario.
“Dwarves build towers for a reason. They’re crucial to our defenses, whereas this one…” He banged the crow’s beak impatiently against the wall. “You can’t do anything with this one. No platforms, no storerooms, no nothing—it’s useless.”
“Aren’t you forgetting the fabulous view?” puffed Rodario, who was sweating profusely like the dwarves. “The magi probably came here on clear nights to observe the celestial spectacle.”
“I wouldn’t climb all these steps just to gaze at some stupid stars,” growled Boïndil. “Besides, think of all the equipment you’d need. It would take all night to lug it to the top.” He blew out heavily. “The architect was a fool.”
When they reached the top of the stairs they saw that the sunshine wasn’t coming from above, as they had supposed, but from a cleverly positioned mirror that caught the light from three windows and channeled it into the stairwell. Next to the mirror was a door leading out to a parapet. Rodario stuck his head outside and a cold breeze ruffled his hair. “They’re still fighting,” he reported. “And unless I’m mistaken, another army is arriving from the north.” He peered into the distance. “Do you think it could be another battalion of älfar? The armor looks very dark.”
“It’s probably Belletain,” said Tungdil, elbowing him aside. “They’re coming from the right direction, but I can’t see the crests.”
“Who cares where they’re from, so long as they’re on our side.” Boïndil’s legs were shaking and he leaned against the wall. “I’ll be all right in a second,” he said.
Rodario looked at the crimson tracks on the floor. Blood was trickling between the plates of Boïndil’s armor, having leached through his jerkin. Contrary to his claims, the warrior was seriously wounded. The impresario nudged Tungdil and pointed to the blood.
“You’ll have to stay here,” said Tungdil, worried about his friend. “You won’t be any good to us if you collapse in front of the eoîl. You’re in no state to fight.”
Boïndil was unbending. “Nice try, scholar, but you said the eoîl was mine.” He took up the crow’s beak and marched with dwarven stubbornness to the door. “What are you waiting for, Sir Prattlemouth?” he demanded, winking to show that Rodario shouldn’t take offense. “Open the door!”
The impresario was staring at the cable, which ran from the top of the stairs across the floor and out of the tower through a hole in the wall. A pile of dust indicated that the hole was quite recent. Did the avatars put it there? His deliberations were interrupted by the last of the avatars.
The door flew open and a shimmering creature appeared before him, filling the tower with light.
“I knew you were here,” said a woman’s voice. She hurled a bolt of blue lightning at Bo��ndil, who wobbled under the double strain of the heat and his wounded chest. She saw that he was struggling and smiled. “Your armor won’t save you. It’s too late to stop the eoîl.”
Rodario summoned his courage. “Desist, shining conjurer, or I, Rodario the Fablemaker, first-grade apprentice to Narmora, will take your life.” He uttered a few nonsensical words, waved his arms, and activated his tinderboxes, firing burning lycopodium spores into the air.
The avatar wove a counterspell, reciting an incantation capable of defusing the most powerful magical firebolt. It had no effect whatsoever on Rodario’s props. Shrieking in pain, the startled avatar went up in flames.
The bright light went out, and Rodario and the dwarves saw that their enemy’s hair and robes were on fire.
“Ha, not so confident now, are you? Let’s see how you like this…” Encouraged by his success, the impresario hurled a phial at the avatar’s chest.
It hit her robes, bounced off, and exploded on the floor. Luckily for him, the avatar was so intent on putting out the flames that she stepped forward obligingly and put her right foot in the puddle. Smoke rose as the acid ate into her leather sole and burned the bottom of her foot.
“Good work, famulus!” whooped Boïndil. With a terrible laugh, he swung the crow’s beak at the avatar’s shoulder, impaling her on the spur. He maneuvered her to the ground, and, in an instant, Tungdil was beside them, ax raised and ready to strike.
The avatar did the first thing that came into her mind.
Instead of attacking the dwarves with firebolts, which wouldn’t have worked because of their suits, she focused on the ax, casting a spell to wrest it from Tungdil’s hands toward Boïndil’s head, causing the blade to smack into his helm.
Boïndil let out a muffled groan. The blow wasn’t enough to crack his skull, but he stumbled sideways, landing inelegantly on his rear. The weight of his armor carried him backward, and he skidded onto the steps.
“Scholar, I’m…” Clutching desperately at the air, he tumbled into the empty stairwell.
“No!” Rodario darted forward and made a grab for the dwarf, catching hold of a leather strap that instantly broke. He watched in horrified disbelief as the dwarf plummeted down the shaft of light, becoming smaller and smaller until he disappeared from sight.
Tungdil rammed his armored fist into the avatar’s face, punching her again and again until her features were a bloody pulp and her limbs stopped twitching. Drawing his dagger, he stabbed her through the heart. “I’d kill you a thousand times if I could.” His eyes welled with tears as he raised his ax and planted it in her body to punish her for Boïndil’s death.
Visor and face specked with blood, he straightened up and strode outside to tackle the eoîl.
“Where are you?” he called, looking both ways. He pressed himself against the wall and advanced along the circular ledge. Rodario followed behind him.
The shimmering figure ahead of them was attaching a diamond to a crystal container dangling by a cable from the flagpole.
“You made it all this way,” said a warm voice that left them wondering whether the speaker was male or female. Shining fingers tugged on a rope and the crystal container shot to the top of the flagpole, jigging up and down in the wind. “I admire you for your persistence, but I won’t be distracted from my purpose. If you continue to oppose me, you and your friends will die.”
“What difference does it make? You’ve killed thousands already.” Slowly, Tungdil stepped toward the eoîl. “How can you claim to be fighting for good if you wipe out everyone who gets in your way?”
“I don’t expect you to understand. You’re too wrapped up in the details to see that casualties are inevitable in the fight against evil. I’m not afraid to make sacrifices for the greater good.”
Rodario eyed him scornfully. “You’re only interested in power. Lirkim told me that you’
re planning to carve up Girdlegard—I suppose that’s why you killed her.”
“Killed her?” The eoîl sounded surprised. “Is Lirkim dead?”
“You killed her yourself.”
“On the contrary, I was planning to rescue her—she and the others were loyal friends. I’m sorry about what happened to them, but I don’t need them now. They wanted territory and power, and I promised to give it to them. I’m interested only in the destruction of evil in all its forms. Sadly, undergroundlings aren’t generally counted as evil.” The bright oval that was the creature’s face tilted slightly as if to focus on something behind them. “If you want to know who killed Lirkim, I suggest you ask her.”
“Don’t look,” said Tungdil, gripping his ax. “It’s bound to be a trick.”
Rodario glanced over his shoulder. “Narmora?”
IX
Porista,
Former Realm of Lios Nudin,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6235th/6236th Solar Cycle
The half älf was standing right behind them. Her eyes were two dark pits and fine lines zigzagged like cracks across her face. “Don’t listen to him.” She pushed past Rodario and took up position next to Tungdil. They heard her utter a single magic word.
A dark green bolt shot from her mouth, hitting the astonished eoîl who toppled backward and hit the floor. “Your trail of destruction ends here.” She raised her arms, and green lightning flew from her fingers, crackling toward the eoîl.
Tungdil watched with bated breath. Surely it can’t be that easy to kill an eoîl? He tensed his muscles, ready to charge at the eoîl with his ax. Meanwhile, Rodario gripped his last phial of acid and prepared to hurl it at the luminous figure, should Narmora’s magic fail.
The eoîl, surrounded by malachite lightning, got to his feet and let out a tinkling laugh. His shoulders shook with mirth. Narmora lowered her head, summoning her strength to intensify the attack.
To no avail.
The eoîl raised his hand gracefully and pushed aside the web of lightning. The bolts disintegrated, setting him free. “You’ll have to explain to your friends where you got your power,” he said mildly. “No ordinary being would be capable of channeling so much energy—but you’ve got a secret, haven’t you? Maybe you should tell them.”