by Markus Heitz
“I thought you were going to show us the weapon, Lorimbas,” called Tungdil sarcastically. “Don’t say you forgot!”
“There never was a weapon, Tungdil Goldhand, you traitor,” bellowed the thirdling king. “Know this before you die. Your wise dwarven friends, the oh-so-clever humans, and the snotty-nosed elves fell for our ruse. The avatars don’t exist.”
“So now you’re pretending we were never in danger,” scoffed Tungdil, signaling to Gemmil’s warriors to heft their weapons. “I can’t fault your resourcefulness. What have you lined up next?”
“Your destruction. Right now four thousand warriors are marching on West Ironhald. They’ll storm your defenses from the west, while I lead the rest of my army to victory from the east. No dwarf, no maga, and no god can stop my conquest of the dwarven kingdoms. My spies have served me well.”
“Where’s the fat one?” hissed Boïndil suspiciously, scanning the enemy ranks. “I can’t see him anywhere. What’s happened to the others? There were five thousand of them not so long ago. A thousand are missing at least.”
“You’re right. Something funny is going on.” Tungdil turned back to Lorimbas. “If the avatars don’t exist, how do you explain the fire burning on the horizon, night after night? Can you do magic, Lorimbas?”
The thirdling king chuckled. “Oh yes, I can do magic, even without your maga’s powers. I can conjure dwarves to the Outer Lands and harness the power of sulfur to make gullible dwarves like you quake in their boots at the sight of my mighty conflagration.”
“But how did you…”
“A real hero would have explored the Blacksaddle and uncovered its secrets,” Lorimbas taunted him. “You were in our stronghold, and you never suspected how valuable it was. We’ve got our own system of tunnels, built by our ancestors many cycles ago. From the Blacksaddle, we can attack in all directions. I heard you were expecting trouble from the west, so I invented a threat.”
“You’re lying, Lorimbas.”
“The whole of Girdlegard is shaking like a leaf because I set off a few fireworks in the Outer Lands,” crowed Lorimbas.
“What about the comet? No catapult in Girdlegard has the power to—”
“The comet was real, all right. A happy coincidence for us. It landed in the Outer Lands and left a big crater. Some of my spies saw it fall. They didn’t spot an avatar, unless he was made of lava.” He slapped his thigh and shrieked with laughter. “To think you took the comet as a sign that Nôd’onn was right! You would have done anything I said to protect yourself from the imaginary threat.”
“You made the dwarves leave their kingdoms,” murmured Tungdil.
“What happens next is up to you. Either open the gates and leave with your lives—or wait for us to cut you down. My warriors will show no mercy.”
Narmora stared at the thirdling king. All lies… I lost my child, Andôkai died by my hand, and Furgas was in a coma, all because of his scheming… Her eyes darkened to fathomless hollows and she lifted her arms, causing the dwarves around her to shrink away. “Lorimbas Steelheart, you will die for your treachery,” she called menacingly.
“Not as soon as you think, witch,” he retorted, raising his horn to his lips. A moment later, the ground caved in, causing the fortified wall to collapse.
The defending dwarves crashed to the ground. Most of those on the parapets were crushed by stone blocks the size of a fully grown dwarf or buried under falling debris.
No sooner had the final block come to rest than the thirdlings surged forward, clambering over the rubble and throwing themselves on the startled defenders whose leaders had fallen with the gates.
Worse was to come.
Amid the commotion, Trovegold’s warriors heard picks and hammers breaking through the frozen ground behind them. Soon they were confronted with the missing thirdlings, as one thousand warriors led by the ferocious Salfalur emerged from a hastily built tunnel and attacked from the rear.
The first battle began.
By dusk, the bodies of three thousand defenders lay strewn between the first two gates, and the thirdlings were singing victory songs to Lorimbur.
Tungdil and the twins had managed to drag the wounded Narmora from the rubble and carry her through the second gate before the thirdlings noticed. Gemmil, Sanda, and nine hundred badly shaken warriors had also survived the assault.
Eyes closed, Narmora was concentrating on healing her wounds. The skin grew back faster than water rising in a well. She leaped to her feet. “I’m going to make that treacherous thirdling pay for his—”
“No, Narmora,” said Tungdil. “We’re abandoning the first five gates. I don’t want to lose more of our warriors to the thirdlings’ underhanded tactics. Save your strength for defending the stronghold.”
Narmora was about to reply when Myr ran up. “Come quickly, maga,” she called. “You’ll never guess what the sentries have found on the western border.”
“More warriors for me to tend?”
“Just one,” said Myr. “It’s Djern, Estimable Maga. At least, I think it is…”
“Great,” snorted Boïndil. “First Andôkai, now Narmora. Where the heck are these Djerns coming from?”
“More to the point, who are they being sent by?” muttered Tungdil. “You’re a genius, Boïndil!”
“Thank you.” The secondling paused. “Er, why?”
The little group hurried after Myr, who was racing across the bridge to the stronghold.
“You raised an excellent question, and I don’t think Lorimbas will have an answer for it—which is worrying… Very worrying.” He exchanged glances with Myr, who seemed to share his concern.
Djern, or rather, what was left of Djern, was lying on the floor.
His armor looked old and battered, with countless scratches, scorch marks, and dings. It was obvious from the broken-off swords, lances, and spikes embedded in his mail that his journey had been fraught with danger. He was smeared all over with bright yellow blood, and he hadn’t stirred since their arrival.
“Hmm,” said Boïndil, scratching his beard. “Can anyone speak Djerush?”
All eyes were turned on Narmora.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “The maga didn’t teach me his language. She took the secret with her when she died.”
“Where’s my mistress?” rasped a strange voice inside her head.
“Listen!” exclaimed Boïndil. “Did you hear him growling? Come on, buckethead, speak a language we understand!” Fearlessly, he took a few steps toward him. “You’d better not be an impostor.” He leaned over and peered at the visor. “Balyndis would know from the metalwork…” His stubby fingers reached for the beak of the visor. “I’ll take a peek at his face.”
“Tell him to stop,” said the voice to Narmora, who finally realized that Djern was talking to her. “You’ve changed, half älf. There’s something inside you—something that belonged to Nôd’onn.”
“Ha, listen to him growl,” said Boïndil, laughing. “Don’t you dare bite me,” he warned the armored giant, menacing him with the blunt edge of his ax. “I’ll wallop your metal skull so hard you’ll—”
“That’s enough, Boïndil,” snapped Narmora. “I’ve… I know what he’s saying after all.” Her lips moved effortlessly, forming strange syllables that came to her of their own accord. It must be the malachite, she thought.
“It’s not the malachite, it’s the energy within it,” said Nudin, appearing at Djern’s side. “It’s more powerful than you think.” Suddenly he was gone.
I must be hallucinating, thought Narmora, blaming it on the fall from the parapet. I’m probably still concussed. “Your mistress is dead, Djern,” she told the giant, hoping that the others hadn’t noticed her distraction. “She was murdered by a giant, a giant wearing your armor. Can you tell me what happened?”
“Are you the new maga?”
“Why won’t he get up?” asked Boïndil impatiently, prodding him in the chest with the haft of his ax. “Maybe he’s asleep.
Are you sure he’s not snoring, Narmora?”
“Be quiet,” his brother shushed him, tugging him away. “Do you want him to eat you alive?”
“He’s not armed, is he? What’s a half-dead giant going to do to a warrior like me?”
“If he doesn’t stop prodding me, I’ll rip through his chain mail and tear him in two,” Djern told Narmora. “Answer my question: Are you the new maga?”
“It wasn’t my choice.” She paused. “The late maga’s legacy will abide in me forever. They call me Narmora the Unnerving.”
“You were her famula and you worship her god. Narmora the Unnerving will be my new mistress.”
“She sent you to the Outer Lands. What did you see?”
“My strength is fading, mistress. I need your help.”
“Did Andôkai have an incantation or a—”
“I don’t need magic, mistress,” he said, lifting his head a little.
“Hoorah!” whooped Boïndil, edging closer. “Old buckethead is alive! Assuming it’s really him…”
“Boïndil!” chorused the others disapprovingly. He shrugged moodily and kept quiet, although no one believed for a moment that the silence would last.
“I need your blood, mistress.”
“My blood?”
“The blood of a maga is more nourishing than my prey. It will give me power—and bind me to you.”
“Everyone out,” said Narmora, trying to hide her agitation. “I need to heal Djern’s wounds. The incantation is powerful—I don’t want anyone getting hurt.” The others traipsed out reluctantly, dragging the protesting Boïndil with them. As soon as Narmora was alone with Djern, she kneeled beside him, heart thumping in her chest, and rolled up the sleeve of her robe.
Djern raised a hand to his visor and flipped it open. It was all Narmora could do not to run away. Like Balyndis, she was filled with terror at the sight of his face. She held out her wrist.
“It will hurt, mistress,” he told her. Without warning, his head sped forward and he sank his teeth into her arm, slitting the flesh from wrist to elbow. His lipless mouth sucked the wound.
Narmora felt instantly light-headed. Every drop of blood seemed to be draining from her body. At last, when she was certain she would faint, Djern released her and she sank to the floor, murmuring an incantation to close the wound.
Djern’s eyes shone violet, the light becoming brighter and stronger, more dazzling than the sun. Beneath his armor, something was rustling, cracking, clicking. A lance dropped to the floor from his breastplate, followed by a hail of broken sword tips, arrow heads, and spikes.
“Your blood is good, mistress,” roared Djern with the energy of a young god. “You taste like Andôkai, only powerful, more powerful. You’re a good maga—strong and full of healing.” He got to his feet like a warrior raring for battle after a good night’s sleep. Bowing his armored head to Narmora, he began his account…
Andôkai sent me to look for the avatars.
I crossed the Red Range, marched across the flatlands, and came upon a raging fire and a band of dwarves. My mission was to look for avatars, not groundlings, so I continued on my way.
Next I came to a crater, four times as big as the gully and full of glowing, bubbling rock. The land beyond was charred and barren. I kept walking until I found the strewn remains of human soldiers—Weyurnians, as I realized from the crests on their blackened armor.
Soon afterward, I saw an army.
The warriors carried white banners with ten different crests and their armor was white, so white it hurt my eyes. Their mounts were whiter than any horse in Girdlegard.
I watched them from a distance to find out who they were and where they were going, but they discovered my hiding place and came for me with their swords.
For every warrior I killed, four others took his place, and four became eight. At length they overwhelmed me and brought me before seven beings, each surrounded by a ring of light that dazzled my eyes. They were wreathed in purity and I couldn’t see their faces.
They asked me where I came from, and I didn’t reply, so they tormented me with kindness, love, and warmth.
But I didn’t die like they hoped.
Summoning my strength, I broke away, anxious to tell my mistress of what I had witnessed.
They called after me that the good, pure souls of Girdlegard should fear no more. Soon, they said, the evil that had inhabited our kingdoms for cycles would be banished, and Tion and the spirit of evil would plague Girdlegard no more.
I ran for many suns and moons until I found the hidden path to the firstlings’ stronghold.
Narmora stroked her arm, marveling at the smooth, healthy skin. So that’s why the avatars are marching on Girdlegard. They think we’re still in the clutches of Nôd’onn and the Perished Land. No one’s told them that the magus was defeated.
“Thank you, Djern,” she said pensively.
“What about the dwarves, mistress?
“What about them? They were thirdlings.”
“Not the dwarves near the fire, I mean the others. Some of the warriors from the White Army followed me. They must have found the dwarves by now—the thirdlings, and the dwarves on the mountain tracks.”
The maga nodded. She didn’t much care what happened to the thirdling fire-raisers, but she was concerned about Xamtys and her dwarves. She left Djern and walked out into the corridor where Tungdil and the others were waiting.
As soon as she opened the door, they looked at her expectantly. She could see the curiosity in their eyes. “We were right to fear the avatars. They’re on their way.”
Their curiosity turned to shock.
The angry little midgets might listen to reason,” said Rodario, feeling the weight of the silence. “We need to tell them that the avatars are real.”
Tungdil, Gemmil, Narmora, the twins, and various dwarven dignitaries were in a meeting to discuss the coming threat. Meanwhile, Salfalur and his warriors were barreling through the firstlings’ defenses.
Three hundred thirdlings had died in traps rigged by Furgas, but nothing could deter the fanatical dwarf killers. Very soon they would succeed in conquering the stronghold, and the last resistance to their treachery would be crushed. But neither Lorimbas nor his warriors suspected that the avatars were real.
Boïndil burst out laughing. “Trust you to want to talk them into submission! Just imagine: the fabulous Rodario—”
The impresario raised a hand to silence him. “Rodario the Fablemaker,” he corrected him. “Perhaps my short-legged, hotheaded friend could take the trouble to address me by my proper title.”
Boïndil put his hands on his hips. “Since when have you been a wizard? You’re just a cheap conjurer with the good fortune to be acquainted with Furgas, a technician of dwarven intelligence and skill!” He tapped his forehead in mock excitement. “Maybe you could hold a poetry reading for the thirdlings! Remember how you tried to talk the runts to death?”
“There’s no need to be rude, Master Ireheart. It was merely a suggestion.”
“A bad one.”
“In your opinion.”
“Useless, actually.”
“You can do better, I suppose?”
“Quiet, both of you,” cut in Narmora. She glared at Rodario. “He’s right, by the way. Talking to the thirdlings won’t change anything.”
“Gang up on me, why don’t you?” he said, offended. “I was merely suggesting that we should explain the situation. The thirdlings have guarded the Black Range for cycles. They might be murderous traitors, but they’ve done their duty in defending the Eastern Pass.”
Boëndal made a clicking sound with his tongue. “I suppose he’s got a point. We could give it a go, but we’ll need some proper proof. The thirdlings won’t be any more inclined to trust us than we trust them.”
“I’ve sent word to Xamtys that the thirdlings were lying,” said Tungdil. “I’ve warned her about the avatars—I’m praying that the message will get to her in time.”
<
br /> The door flew open. “You’re needed at the inner gates,” gasped the agitated dwarf. “Come quickly! They’ve nearly broken through.”
“I hate to say it, but Lorimbur’s children know a thing or two about fighting,” growled Boïndil, jumping up, axes at the ready, and following the dwarf. “Luckily I’m here to show them that you don’t need marks on your face to be a good warrior.” He laughed. “Let’s give the thirdlings some new tattoos.”
In spite of the bluster, Tungdil could tell that his friend wasn’t nearly as excited about slaying thirdlings as he was about killing orcs, bögnilim, and other beasts. Deep down, he doubted that they could hold the gates. The Red Range is living up to its name; the gully will be awash with blood before the orbit is out.
The dwarves’ hopes rested with Narmora’s magic, Djern’s strength, and Furgas’s technical expertise. Tungdil, after witnessing the first battle, had been awed by the thirdlings’ discipline, power, and axmanship.
No matter what happens, Salfalur won’t leave here alive. Tungdil was determined to kill him, whatever the cost. Taking up his ax, he left the hall and hurried over the bridge to the highest of the nine towers from which he could survey the action.
It was an incredible sight.
Fighting wasn’t the thirdlings’ only talent. Lorimbas’s warriors had built a three-sided tower out of the rubble of the fallen gates. The front edge of the tower was pointing straight at the twin ramparts of East Ironhald; and from Tungdil’s vantage point, it looked like an enormous guillotine.
The structure, built at an angle, was supported by struts to which ropes had been attached.
Tungdil watched as fifty warriors stepped forward, took hold of the ropes and pulled. The struts came away, the tower tilted forward, slowly at first, then faster and faster until it hit the ramparts, smashing through the fortifications like a colossal blade. The stronghold had been breached, allowing the thirdlings to charge forward.
“The freelings shouldn’t have let them build the tower,” said Boïndil, gazing down at Gemmil’s dwarves. He frowned. “Fighting isn’t their forte. In terms of pure numbers, we’ve got the advantage—not that you can tell.”