by Markus Heitz
All alone in a forest beyond the walls of Porista, she took her leave from her son, burying his body, and committing his soul to Samusin. It was an älvish ritual, taught to her by her mother.
No one else was there to mark the infant’s passing. Furgas, the only person who could offer some solace, was in a deathly coma, leaving Narmora alone in her grief.
She was dreading the moment when she would tell her husband that their baby boy was dead. What will I say? She covered the grave with another layer of stones to protect the child from the claws and teeth of hungry scavengers. His body was tiny, but perfectly formed, with miniature fingers and toes, and an adorable face. Fate had ordained that he would never grow old.
The hours wore on and the trees cast long shadows over the forest floor. At last, as dusk began to fall, she made her way back slowly to Porista. In the distance, the familiar landscape of scaffolding and cranes heralded the city’s rise from the ashes, and the maga’s palace loomed on the horizon, sable turrets reaching to the sky. Narmora, head bowed, looked only at the ground.
Blinded by grief, she entered the city, insensible to the activity on the crowded streets.
In the marketplace, stalls were being dismantled, goods packed away, and coins counted into bags. People were leaving work, going home, piling into taverns that smelled of hot food, or gathering on the pavements to discuss the latest news. Narmora walked on.
After a time she became aware of the conversation around her. Everyone was talking excitedly about the deaths of Nôd’onn’s famuli, Rodario’s heroism, and the rapid construction of the city walls.
Next they’ll be gossiping about how I killed my child, she thought grimly.
Andôkai’s intervention following Narmora’s botched incantation had prevented the two of them being crushed by the marble archway, but while a sprained ankle had been the only injury sustained by the maga, Narmora had paid with the life of her son.
To her surprise, Rodario was waiting for her at the palace gates. Wrapping his arms around her, he hugged her in silence. Narmora’s eyes filled with tears all over again.
“Andôkai told me what happened,” he said sadly, trying not to look at her flat, childless belly. She looked exactly like the old Narmora.
“I know,” she said quickly, not wishing to discuss the baby’s death. “The fireball robbed me of a son and left me with a daughter. When she’s old enough, I’ll tell her about her twin.” She tried to meet Rodario’s eyes, but he was looking at her strangely. “You’re not in trouble again, are you?” she asked, guessing that he needed to get something off his chest. She mustered a faint smile. “Don’t tell me that the hero of Porista is being chased by the angry father of some poor impressionable girl…”
He looked at her warily. “We should talk somewhere else,” he said, steering her back down the street. As they walked, he summarized how he had eavesdropped on the thieves and interrogated Nôd’onn’s famula. His story was considerably more convoluted than the version that Narmora had heard.
“I don’t know how to tell you this,” he said carefully. “For all I know, the story was a fabrication, but the poor girl was dying, so I doubt she made it up.” He hesitated, not wanting to add to his friend’s distress. “Precious Narmora—”
The half älf glared at him. “This isn’t one of your plays,” she reminded him impatiently. “What did the famula actually say? Are the villains who stabbed my Furgas still alive?”
“That’s just it,” he said unhappily. “According to Nufa, the attack on Furgas had nothing to do with her. She said someone paid the ruffians to make it look like Nôd’onn’s famuli were to blame.”
She seized him by the shoulders. “Speak clearly, Rodario. You’re not making any sense.”
He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what would follow. “Nufa told me that she and her friends saw Andôkai…” All of a sudden his face lit up with a radiant smile. “Ah, there she is!” he exclaimed, hailing the maga with a wave. “How reassuring for the citizens of Porista to know that Andôkai the Tempestuous is patrolling the streets!”
Narmora eyed him intently; there was something insincere about his smile.
“Is Djern with you perchance?” he enquired, glancing about him.
The maga went over to Narmora. “I was worried about you,” she said, her face as stern as ever. “You were gone a long time, longer than expected. Your daughter won’t stop crying. I’m many things, but I’m not a nurse.”
“I’ll be there right away,” Narmora promised. “Well?” she said, turning back to Rodario. “You were saying…?”
The impresario withered under Andôkai’s harsh gaze. “I was telling Narmora not to worry,” he said quickly. “She’s got nothing to fear now those villains are dead. Well, don’t let me hold you up.” He yawned theatrically. “It’s nearly my bedtime. So much to do, so little time. May the gods be with you!” Hurrying away, he turned a corner and was gone.
Narmora shook her head in bemusement. “Actors,” she sighed.
Andôkai just shrugged. “The journey starts tomorrow. We’ll head west and begin our search in the libraries of Weyurn. Your daughter can join us, of course. I’ve hired a wet nurse to take care of her while I help you with your studies.” They walked for a while in silence. “I hope you haven’t changed your mind,” said Andôkai, gazing at the rows of buildings rising from the rubble. “Furgas’s survival depends on you, remember.”
“I hate magic,” said Narmora fiercely. “Magic robbed me of my son—if it weren’t for Furgas, I’d have nothing to do with it.” She glanced at the maga almost reproachfully. “I know you were trying to help, but you shouldn’t have made me your famula. It’s bound to end badly.” She lowered her voice. “It already has.”
“From now on you’ll learn your formulae more carefully,” said Andôkai harshly. “I suffered losses when I was a famula as well.” Her stern face showed a flicker of emotion. “I’m sorry I can’t offer more comfort. Magic comes at a price.”
They were almost at the palace.
“Perhaps the price is higher than we know,” said Narmora. She recited the incantation to open the gates, and the two women, one dark-haired and slender, the other muscular and fair, walked in silence through the palace.
On reaching the nursery, Narmora went in and closed the door behind her, shutting the maga outside.
At the sound of the door, the child woke up and let out a thin, piteous scream. Narmora bent over the cot, scooped up the tiny baby and clasped her to her breast, running her hand softly over her tiny head. The little girl’s skull felt no stronger than an eggshell. Comforted by her mother’s touch, Dorsa stopped crying.
After the stillbirth of her son, Narmora had been surprised by the arrival of a daughter. It hadn’t occurred to her that she was carrying twins, but Samusin, god of equilibrium, had taken one of her children and let the other live. What price must I pay for Furgas to get well?
The little baby made a clumsy attempt to suckle her breast. “Are you thirsty, little one?” asked Narmora. She left the nursery, crossed the corridor, and knocked on the opposite door. It was opened by a young woman with bleary eyes and tousled hair. Narmora held out her daughter. “Dorsa needs feeding.”
“Of course,” murmured the girl, taking the baby tenderly and putting it to her breast. Dorsa took to her at once.
The half älf felt a pang of sadness as the wet nurse, singing softly, carried her baby around the room. With no milk of her own, she had to entrust her child to a stranger. Fortunately there were plenty of young women in Porista who were happy to suckle her child in return for food or coin.
As soon as the nurse had finished, Narmora scooped up her baby and returned to the nursery. She held onto her for a while, cradling her to sleep, then replaced her in the cot, tucked her in, kissed her nose and stroked her downy head.
“Sweet dreams, my darling,” she whispered. “I won’t be long.” She slipped quietly out of the nursery and hurried to Furgas’s room.
For an hour she sat there, holding his clammy hand, then she crept out of the palace to look for Rodario.
She had no doubt that the impresario had a secret—and somehow or other, the maga was involved.
Southern Entrance to the Fifthling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
Leaping down from the boulder, the masked älf entered the scrum of armor, spears, and swords, and disappeared from view. Tungdil knew she wouldn’t reappear until she was close enough to attack him, very probably from behind. It was like waiting for a serpent in a field of rippling grass.
At the same time he felt absurdly grateful. Vraccas had shown him that Keenfire wasn’t lost. I need to kill the älf.
Boïndil, his inner furnace blazing, banged his axes together impatiently. “Thousands of fat, juicy orcs! My axes can’t wait for a taste of their blood!” He glanced at Tungdil. “Ready, scholar?”
Tungdil was watching the raging battle. The odds were in favor of the orcs; firstly because the dark water made them difficult to kill, and secondly because the dwarves had only a few hundred defenders, a fact that the orcs seemed thankfully slow to grasp. It was vital to close the gateway before the invaders gained more ground.
So much for Glaïmbar’s tactics, thought Tungdil, allowing himself a moment of smugness. “All right, we need to head for the gateway,” he told the others. “Our priority is to close the gates. The beasts will never be able to force their way in.” Drawing his ax, he ran toward the charging orcs.
Boïndil, huffing disappointedly, took off at great speed. “Can’t we just kill the lot of them?” he asked breathlessly, sprinting past Tungdil. He wasn’t in the least bit intimidated by the raging beasts; their snarling and grunting spurred him on. “The first ten are mine!” he shouted, raising his weapons. His right ax sliced into a green-hided thigh, the left ax swinging upward to catch the falling orc. The blade passed effortlessly through the visor, releasing a torrent of green blood. The orc collapsed without a murmur, a third strike severing his neck.
“Oink, oink,” snorted Ireheart, darting forward. He slashed a path through the hordes, allowing Tungdil, Myr, and the others to follow.
Thanks to his sterling efforts, the group made rapid progress and axes whirred in all directions, felling orc after orc. Killing the beasts posed a problem because they had to be beheaded, which wasn’t easy, especially since the dwarves were fighting several orcs at a time. After a while they took to working in pairs, the first dwarf felling their opponents and the second dwarf driving his ax through their necks. All of a sudden, the gateway seemed much closer.
The defending dwarves, eager to help their former leader, sallied forth to meet him.
“Get back!” shrieked Tungdil as the älfar leveled their bows. “Hold your shields above your heads. They’ll…”
Black arrows sang through the air, finding cracks in the wall of shields and homing in on unprotected flesh. Five dwarves fell to the ground and disappeared under the boots of the snarling orcs, who surged into the space, forming a living barrier between the gateway and the rest of the group.
The defenders’ maneuver had failed, leaving a handful of dwarves at the entrance of the tunnel, while the others fought frantically to keep the orcs at bay. Dwarven archers raised their crossbows and fired bolts at the beasts, but the advance continued undeterred. The bolts were lethal for ordinary warriors, but not for a rabble of undead orcs.
“We should have brought warriors, not masons and smiths,” growled Ireheart, whirring his axes at giddying speed in an effort to reach the beleaguered defenders. He was splattered from head to toe with green blood, which had an intimidating effect on the beasts. “Either that, or artisans who can fight!” His axes struck again; his victim, backing away nervously, took a blow to the neck.
Tungdil tried to count the dwarves at the entrance to the tunnel. As far as he could tell, almost everyone in the kingdom had come out to beat back the invaders, but the orcs were still advancing and had nearly reached their goal. Tungdil spotted Glaïmbar and Balyndis fighting side by side.
He pointed to the survivors of the ill-advised sally. “Head toward them,” he commanded. “If we band together, we’ll make it to the gates.” Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Myr and the exiles were holding their own against the orcs. In fact, the dainty medic was fighting with tenacity and strength.
Soon Tungdil’s party joined the band of defenders, but their path was blocked.
The beasts surged forward, spurred on by Runshak, who was bawling orders at the top of his voice. The älfar feathered the troopers with arrows, driving them on from behind. Yelping with pain, the orcs advanced; victory was in their grasp.
In front of the gateway, the lead orcs were locked in combat with the dwarves, who were fighting valiantly but ineffectually against the invaders. Meanwhile, some of the smaller orcs were trying to sneak past and attack from behind, trapping the defenders between two fronts.
Tungdil glanced at the orcish leader. “It’s time he went,” he said, deciding that a change of tactics was in order. “We need to kill their chief.”
Ireheart, brown eyes glinting manically, had fought himself into a frenzy. At the mercy of his fiery spirit, he threw himself on the enemy, windmilling his axes at incredible speed.
“Boïndil!” shouted Tungdil. “I said we need to kill their chief!” He had to repeat himself several more times before Boïndil finally heard.
The group set off toward Runshak, who spotted the approaching threat and turned to the älfar, hoping to enlist their bows in his defense. Suddenly his grin froze, his mouth falling open in horror.
Tungdil saw the fear on his ugly green face and turned to discover its source.
A colossal figure loomed into view. Brandishing a sword in one hand and an ax in the other, the metal-clad giant towered over the boulder where the älfar were stationed with their bows. The orcs in the vicinity squealed in terror and scattered in all directions, falling over each other in their eagerness to escape.
A demonic visage stared out from the giant’s visor, the eyeholes emitting a bright purple light. Even from a distance, Tungdil’s eyes were dazzled. The giant let out a dull, menacing roar that caused the ground to quake. Tungdil’s hair stood on end.
Alerted to the danger, the älfar raised their bows, but Djern was already upon them, sword and ax slashing through the air, severing bowstrings, cleaving arrows, and slicing through sinew and bone. In no time the boulder was strewn with bloodied armor and gory remains.
Only one of the älfar succeeded in evading Djern’s blades, but the colossal warrior had no intention of letting him escape. Jumping onto the boulder, he pushed off and launched himself into the air, landing on the shoulders of the fleeing älf, who crumpled screaming to the ground. Without stopping to use his weapons, Djern stamped on his head, squashing it like a plum.
A tense silence descended on the plateau; both sides had watched the encounter with bated breath.
This is our chance! Wrenching his eyes away from Djern, Tungdil aimed his ax at the orcish chieftain and hurled it at his head.
Runshak heard the weapon whir toward him and turned in time for the blade to miss the back of his helmet and land between his jaws, slicing cleanly through his head. The newly appointed chieftain was dead.
“For Vraccas and Girdlegard!” shouted Tungdil, breaking the hush. “Behead the brutes! Long live the children of the Smith!”
The orcs had heard and seen enough.
After losing their unbidden allies, not to mention Runshak and the prince, the beasts were ready to admit defeat. Forgetting their undead powers, they forfeited their advantage and fled.
The panic was so great that some of them jumped on top of their spluttering comrades in the pool, while others stampeded down the mountainside, bowling over the troopers who were toiling to the top.
“You never learn, do you, scholar?” scolded Boïndil, handing Tungdil one of his axes.
“What was the first thing I taught you? Never throw your ax unless you’ve got another in reserve!” He grinned. “Still, there’s nothing wrong with your aim.” Oinking ferociously, he threw himself on the fleeing troopers, slaying orc after orc.
Cries of astonishment went up from both sides as a second battalion of dwarves appeared on the far side of the plateau. The new arrivals threw themselves on the invaders, squeezing the orcs between two fronts.
Tungdil noticed that some of the warriors had white hair and pale skin. The freelings, he thought, relieved. Although the tide had turned in favor of the defenders, there was a chance that the orcs would remember their immortality and lay siege to the gates. Gemmil’s warriors couldn’t have arrived at a better time.
This is the crunch, he thought, glancing to where Glaïmbar and Balyndis were fighting.
The king and his fiancée were defending the gateway against a handful of orcs whose fury outweighed their fear. Far gone in bloodlust, the beasts threw themselves against the defenders’ axes, hammers, and clubs.
Most of Tungdil’s comrades were too busy chasing the fleeing army to realize that the gateway’s last defenders were dangerously overextended.
Tungdil paused, his thoughts in turmoil as he watched his rival parry blow after blow. The attack redoubled, but Glaïmbar was holding his own. Just.
It’s nothing to do with you, whispered a devilish voice in his head. So what if he falls? He’ll die a hero, and Balyndis will be free.
The chosen leader of the fifthlings took a step backward and came up against a wall. For a second, he was distracted, and an orcish sword made contact with his wrist.
Glaïmbar can take care of himself, the voice whispered. He’s a great warrior; let him prove his worth. Hurry up and find Boïndil.
Tungdil had almost decided to rejoin his group when Balyndis caught his eye. She was surrounded by orcs, and she looked at Tungdil pleadingly, her brown eyes begging him to go to Glaïmbar’s aid.
“Botheration,” he grumbled, gripping the haft of his ax. “What a pity it was his wrist, not his chest.”