by Markus Heitz
It was pleasantly warm inside, thanks to a pair of stoves, and decorative lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting a pleasant glow. To Tungdil’s surprise, the air smelled neither of soot nor burning tallow.
Two chairs and a table had been placed at the center of the tent, and steam was rising from an array of hot dishes.
“You must be hungry from your journey,” said the elf, signaling for Tungdil to be seated. “I suppose you’re here to scold me for not sending my archers to Porista.”
Tungdil took off his heavy winter coat to reveal the suit of armor that had saved him from the avatars’ firebolts. He took a sip of warm beer. After orbits of cold victuals and water, it was good to thaw his insides. He was ready to bet that the elves had prepared the brew with him in mind: It was spiced with pine needles and tasted stronger and maltier than the smooth ales favored by Liútasil’s kind.
“No one blames you for not sending your archers. It was curiosity that brought me here.” He paused. “If you’d joined the allied army, you would have fought alongside the älfar, and no one could demand that of the elves. At least, that’s what the humans are saying. The dwarves put it down to the trouble in Dsôn Balsur. They didn’t resent your absence—no child of the Smith would willingly act as a buffer between the älfar and the elves.” He piled his plate with victuals, none of which looked familiar. “All things considered, the allied army was better off without you.” He popped a morsel into his mouth, hoping it would taste like meat, which—thankfully—it did.
The elf could tell that Tungdil had a different theory about his motives for staying away. “Well,” he prompted. “Why do you suppose we didn’t come?”
“I don’t suppose,” said Tungdil, looking him in the eye. “I know. You see, the reason you didn’t help us was because of the eoîl. It’s all right,” he reassured him, “Rodario and I won’t tell anyone that the avatar-conjurers were taking orders from an elf. We don’t want any more feuds.” He paused to measure the effect of his words. The guilty expression on Liútasil’s face indicated that his suspicions were correct. “Lord Liútasil, you owe me the truth. Who was the eoîl?”
Liútasil’s fork hovered by his mouth, then he set down his cutlery and left the meat on his plate. “I admit it, Tungdil, you’re right. My archers would sooner die than take up their bows against an eoîl. Her most fervent supporters wanted to ride to Porista to join her army, but thank Sitalia I convinced them not to go. The eoîl and her confederates were wrong to take the lives of innocent humans.”
“She was an elf, then. Did she come from landur?”
Liútasil pushed away his plate and poured himself a goblet of mulled wine. “Eoîls don’t have kingdoms or homes. They’re mythical beings, part of our legends.” He took a long draft of wine and began his tale.
Sitalia, daughter of Palandiell, created my people from light, pure earth, and dew.
She taught my ancestors the art of healing and told them the secrets of nature and life. Her first commandment was respect for life in all its forms, and she frowned on destruction. Music, dance, poetry, painting, sculpture, those were our pastimes, and we knew nothing of hardship or war.
My forefathers’ endeavors met with incomprehension and hostility from the humans and dwarves. Sitalia, realizing that her children were unhappy, gave them a new home where they could live in seclusion among the trees. The eldest of our kind were touched a second time by the hand of their creator, and they became our teachers, the higher elves.
Meanwhile, the dark lord Tion grew weary of the gods’ creations. His fellow divinities had applied themselves to the creation of good, so he rebelled by spreading evil. He buried his creation in the earth like a seed, knowing that it would grow and multiply with weed-like speed. Orcs, ogres, trolls, kobolds, bögnilim, giants, and other dark creatures were born. Cycles later, the evil was brought to the surface by salt miners, gold diggers, and dwarves.
Tion gave wings to the evil and cast it into the air to be carried on the wind.
Worse was to come.
The lord of darkness mixed his evil into lakes and rivers, and those who drank thereof were robbed of their innocence. Envy, greed, hatred, and lust entered the hearts of the elves, dwarves, and men. Next, Tion pierced the flesh of the other gods’ children with a thorn that he called age, and the races of Girdlegard became mortal.
His dark work was noticed by Sitalia, who removed the thorns from the higher elves before the damage was done. And so the eoîls were created.
Liútasil emptied his glass. “So you see why no child of Sitalia could take up arms against an eoîl. They’re as old as time, created by Sitalia herself. The eoîls are the source of our knowledge, Sitalia’s warriors, fighting Tion in all his forms. They’re sacred beings, worshipped and revered.” He paused. “Sitalia would kill us if we dared to challenge an eoîl.”
Tungdil nodded, although the explanation seemed decidedly flawed. He took another mouthful. “Did this particular eoîl deserve to be worshipped? She wasn’t very complimentary about the elves. According to her, you’re lesser beings.”
The elf smiled good-naturedly. “The eoîls think we’re inferior because we’re tarnished by age. They live as long as they like.”
“Or as long as we let them,” said Tungdil, picturing the eoîl’s body at the bottom of the tower. “Are the other eoîls like the one in Porista? It’s odd they’re not mentioned in our chronicles.”
“The eoîls are no business of the men and the dwarves. We rarely speak of our history to outsiders.” He refilled his goblet. “Most eoîls are peaceful beings. I’m personally acquainted with two of their kind—pure souls who devote their time to teaching the arts. Painting and singing are their passions, not destruction.”
Tungdil was surprised and encouraged by Liútasil’s willingness to answer his questions. “The eoîl in Porista was more powerful than any magus,” he began. “She drained the energy from Porista, but I was wondering… Can elves work magic too? There’s no knowing what danger could be heading our way, and perhaps the next magus will be an—”
Liútasil shook his head. “No, Tungdil. You won’t find a magus in landur. Sitalia doesn’t grant us the gift of magic anymore.”
“There’s no chance of an elf being born with magical talents?”
“I’ve waited cycles for such an occurrence,” he confessed. “Four hundred cycles, to be precise. Every baby in landur is tested for magical ability, but to no avail. Thankfully, the älfar have been destroyed, so we don’t need a magus to protect us anymore.” He smiled. “No wonder they call you ‘scholar.’ At this rate there won’t be anything you don’t know.”
“I wouldn’t want to know everything—it would make life very dull.” The dwarf sipped his beer and plucked up the courage to try a strange-looking fruit. It tasted of berries and mint. “I wanted to ask you about the älfar, actually. Who are the immortal siblings? I saw them in Porista. I’m not sure what happened to them after they attacked the eoîl.” He leaned over the table. “Do they live forever like eoîls? Are they free from the thorn of age as well?”
Tungdil could tell that Liútasil wasn’t prepared to answer. Elves and älfar had more in common than the proud archers of landur liked to admit. He thought about Narmora, remembering how she had worked magic even before her transformation through the malachite. “The älfar can extinguish flames with their thoughts. They move soundlessly, they don’t leave footprints, and they meld with the dark.” An unpleasant thought occurred to him. “Can the immortal siblings work magic? Real magic?”
“What do you mean?” Liútasil seemed puzzled.
“Could the immortal siblings have used magic to leave the tower and hide from the stone of judgment?”
Liútasil sat up straight and looked him in the eye. “The immortal siblings are as much of a mystery to the elves as to the dwarves or the men. I’m afraid I can’t help you.” He thought for a moment. “In my opinion, they might be able to work real magic—but I doubt they could escape
the power of the stone.” He raised his goblet. “I’d like to propose a toast—to the destruction of the älfar!” He clunked his glass against the dwarf’s tankard.
Tungdil decided not to probe any further. Liútasil’s sudden evasiveness warned him that further questions would be unwelcome. “I won’t breathe a word of what you’ve told me,” he assured him. “But there’s one last thing I need to ask: What will you do if Girdlegard is attacked by another eoîl?”
The elven lord pressed his fingertips together. “Nothing, Tungdil Goldhand. To do anything would be folly.” He picked up his cutlery and resumed his meal.
They ate in silence, savoring the elven feast, then Tungdil gave his account of the battle, the death of enemies and friends, the destruction of the thirdlings, and the power of the diamond. He made no mention of his intention to travel to Dsôn Balsur, merely saying that he was planning to join Gandogar in the Brown Range.
At last it was time for Liútasil to leave the tent so that Tungdil could get some sleep. Before he went, he promised the dwarf that he would take good care of his diamond when it arrived. He handed Tungdil a little backpack. “It’s a tent,” he explained. “You won’t have to worry about wind, rain, sun, snow, or frost. From now on you’ll sleep so soundly that you’ll think you’re in a dwarven hall. I’ll pray to Sitalia to pardon you for the death of the eoîl.”
They shook hands and Tungdil was left alone in the tent. He finished his beer. I killed an immortal elf. He let out a little burp and grinned. I guess that makes her mortal.
Former Kingdom of Dsôn Balsur,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6236th Solar Cycle
Tungdil came to the end of the path that the allies had burned through the forests of Dsôn Balsur and crossed the plains to the fortress of Arviû. From there he continued to the lip of an enormous crater left by the fist of an angry god—or so it seemed to Tungdil.
Looking down, he surveyed the deserted city of Dsôn, one-time capital of the älfar. No dwarf had ventured this far into the älvish kingdom; in fact, only the älfar and their prisoners had ever seen the fabled city, and no one would have thought it possible that an outsider could get there without drawing his ax.
The only impediment to Tungdil’s progress was his leg, which hadn’t recovered from his duel with Ondori. Since crossing the border, he had disappeared up to his boots in mud and battled his way through waist-high grass, but he hadn’t encountered another living soul.
There was no sign of the älfar. Every step of the way he had steeled himself for finding survivors or receiving a black-fletched arrow in his back, but it was deathly still in the älvish kingdom. It seemed the stone of judgment had done its work.
There was something grimly fascinating about the architecture below. It had nothing in common with elven art, and its sinister darkness was palpable from his vantage point two miles above the city.
The most formidable structure, a white tower made of bones, rose from a solitary pinnacle at the center of the crater. From a distance, the pale needle seemed to pierce the clouds, and Tungdil knew at once where he would find his ax.
Vraccas be with me. He began his descent into the darkness of the city below.
As soon as he left the rim of the crater, the light dimmed and he felt an unpleasant chill. The strange city had an indefinable aura of horror, and he tightened his grip on his ax. Every sense was keyed and his ears detected the slightest noise—loose shutters rattling, squeaking metal, groaning wood, and the whistling of the wind around the sinister roofs.
He reached the bottom of the crater and continued along streets of pale white gravel that crunched beneath his boots. Every step seemed deafening and it took all his courage to keep going. From time to time, gray smoke rose from the roofs and ash rained down on him as if the dead älfar were determined to hinder his advance.
His nervousness surprised him. He checked his surroundings, looking left and right, peering down alleyways and bracing himself for attack. I’ve fought orcs, slain beasts, and killed an immortal elf, so why am I scared of a deserted city?
He walked and walked, realizing that the älvish city was much bigger than it had seemed. It was evening by the time he reached the base of the pinnacle and started up the steps. At last, panting with exertion, he got to the top just as the sun disappeared below the rim of the crater, plunging the city into darkness. Towering into the sky, the palace of bones shone blood-red in the setting sun, while down below the roofs of the houses glimmered with symbols and runes.
The hairs on his arms and on his neck stood on end. What if the ghosts of the älfar haunt the city at night? He waited, ax hefted, but nothing happened, although the runes continued to glow.
The wind was getting up. Samusin seemed to take pleasure in terrorizing the dwarf.
Gusts passed between the bleached bones of the tower, and every now and then Tungdil heard a mournful whistle like the muted scream of a soul whose bones had found no rest. Eye sockets glared at him accusingly from weathered skulls. Tungdil’s instincts warned him to venture no further.
Heart pounding wildly, he strode to the entrance, pushed past the open door, and stepped into the tower.
The outer cladding of bone was obviously intended as decoration or as a sign of älvish power, for the tower was made of wood and stone. The passageways were hung with portraits, and Tungdil knew without looking too closely that the pictures weren’t painted on canvas or with ordinary paint. Like their elven cousins, the älfar were natural artists, masters of the easel and brush, but they put their painterly talents to darker use.
He heard a sudden noise behind him. Somewhere in the tower, a door had slammed, and the noise resonated through the high-ceilinged passageways, lingering in the air. The last remaining lamps—the others had run out of fuel—flickered dangerously.
“Who’s there?” He turned round and swallowed. “Come out and show yourself!” Silence reigned.
With growing dread, he continued down the passageway and came at last to a lofty door of tionium inscribed with mysterious älvish runes. It’s bound to be here…
He pushed the door open and peered into a chamber of black marble. The chamber was hall-like in its proportions and peopled with strange statues made from the bones of many creatures. Some were painted, others bound with gold wire or tionium, or inlaid with gems and precious metals. Pictures, mosaics, and bizarre weaponry decorated the walls. At the center of the chamber, steps led up to a pair of empty thrones.
The glittering of diamonds alerted Tungdil to the ax.
Keenfire was hanging from the wall behind the thrones, abandoned and neglected, the symbol of an älvish triumph against the dwarves. For the älfar, the ax was useless.
Tungdil went over and reached for the haft. “So here’s where you’ve been hiding.” He gave it a gentle yank and Keenfire came away from the wall. After wiping it carefully with his sleeve, more because it had been in the hands of the älfar than because it was actually dirty, he took a few experimental swings, testing the balance. It was perfect. “No one will ever take you from me again,” he whispered lovingly. “But I’ve got a job for you.”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the shard of malachite, and placed it on the third step leading up to the thrones. If any last remnants of evil—a wisp of Nôd’onn’s soul, a trace of a dark spirit or any other demonic force—had escaped the stone of judgment and was sheltering in the malachite, it was about to be destroyed forever.
Tungdil raised the ax, swung it once around his head, and brought it down with all his might.
Light pulsed through the intarsia and the diamonds came to life, just as they had when Tungdil had taken on Nôd’onn in the Blacksaddle. A trail of light followed the swooping Keenfire as it smashed into the stone. The malachite broke apart, shattering into tiny pieces that scattered over the dark marble floor.
Now the mission is really over, Vraccas. It was a relief to know that the last of the evil that had corrupted Nôd’onn and Narmora ha
d finally been destroyed.
There was one thing left to do.
He took the lamps from their holders and hurled them against the walls. Oil spilled over the timber, splashing against the portraits and spattering the statues. Lowering his torch, he let the flames creep hungrily through the fuel.
Tungdil left the chamber and made for the exit, lighting fire after fire on his way. He was determined to raze the tower to the ground. There would be nothing left of the älvish city by the time a dwarf, elf, or human ventured this way.
Outside the tower, he looked back at the roaring flames. He was tired and he could feel the miles in his legs, but his desire to avoid sleeping in the älvish capital spurred him on.
Summoning all his energy, he made his way down the stairs and through the streets, lighting fires along the way.
Even as he began his ascent to the lip of the crater, a third of Dsôn was on fire, and the blaze was spreading, fanned by the wind sent by Samusin to confound and torment him.
The palace of the immortal siblings was burning like a giant torch. Red-hot debris fell from the walls, rolling down the hillside and setting fire to the buildings below. Soon the city would be an inferno.
Tungdil sat down and watched in satisfaction as the tower collapsed in a burst of flames. He could hear the sound of breaking timber even through the roaring fire. So far, there hadn’t been any screams.
The last bastion of evil, and no one’s here to save it from destruction. He got up, shook his weary legs and started up the steep stairs, determined to leave the darkness of Dsôn behind him. He was already looking forward to seeing the rising sun.
“The dead must be avenged,” said a deep voice ahead of him. A broad figure appeared on the path and swung his weapon, aiming for Tungdil’s chest.
The startled dwarf tried to block the blow with Keenfire, but his attacker was unexpectedly strong.
The weapon smashed against the haft of his ax, knocking him backward. He hit the ground hard and skidded a few paces, picking up speed down the muddy slope. He lost his helmet and came to a halt.