The War of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  She’s one of us. Ondori nodded reluctantly. “I’ll tell the immortal siblings,” she rasped, shaking the ropes from her wrists. She straightened up.

  “Swear on your blood that you’ll do it,” the maga said darkly, grabbing the älf’s left arm and cutting a gash in the back of her hand. She held the glistening blade in front of the älf’s face. “Break your word, and I’ll destroy you. My magic will follow you like a huntsman follows his prey.”

  Ondori nodded meekly. Narmora’s threat was all too believable. “I swear I’ll do it,” she stammered. “You can trust me, I promise. There’s a groundling near here…” She quickly described the place where she had left her captive, then hurried away, vanishing into the night.

  “What the blazes did you say to her,” asked Boïndil suspiciously. “Do you have to speak in that tongue?”

  “It depends on whether you want to help a poor dwarf who’s waiting to be rescued,” she said, smiling. Her eyes had returned to their normal color. “I’ll send Djern to fetch her—unless you’d rather go.”

  She needn’t have asked. No dwarf could stand by when one of their kinsfolk was in trouble, so Boïndil left with Tungdil, his brother, and thirty volunteers to release the captive dwarf.

  They soon found the place.

  Someone had gotten there before them, as they could tell from the melted snow and footprints in the sludge. A rope was wrapped around the tree trunk, marking the place where the dwarf had been tied up.

  “The avatars beat us to it,” said Tungdil, trudging around the tree in the hope of finding something that might identify the missing dwarf. Amidst the footprints, half buried in the slush, he found a broken necklace of beautiful steel links and gold balls.

  He recognized it at once

  “Balyndis,” he gasped, picking up the chain and wiping it lovingly on his jerkin. The avatars had kidnapped his one true love, and with her, the instructions for forging Djern’s armor.

  “One darned problem after another,” grumbled Boïndil. “I don’t mind a challenge, but this is a joke.”

  Boëndal laid a comforting hand on Tungdil’s shoulder. “It’s a sign that we have to destroy them, scholar. Don’t worry; we won’t let your Balyndis come to any harm.”

  “She’s not my Balyndis, remember?” Tungdil fastened the necklace around his wrist, over the neckerchief given to him by Frala, his childhood friend who had died at the hands of the orcs. I’ll get her back regardless, even if I have to take on the avatars myself.

  “I know she forged the iron band with Glaïmbar,” Boëndal said simply, “but she’ll always be your Balyndis.” He paused, hesitating. “I wish Vraccas would make her properly yours.”

  So do I, thought Tungdil sadly.

  Tungdil and the twins led the unit of ten thousand thirdlings on a forced march to outflank the avatars’ army. On reaching the forest on the outskirts of Dsôn Balsur, they came to a halt. Tungdil ordered the bulk of the warriors to block the path that the allies had blazed through the woods. Two battalions of a thousand warriors apiece hid in the trees on either side. After a while, the masked älf appeared and told them that her kinsfolk had agreed to a temporary ceasefire. Most of the dwarves had guessed as much, having been neither struck down by quarterstaffs nor feathered with treacherous arrows.

  Others before them had met with a harsher fate. Tungdil and his comrades were appalled to see that the älfar had erected sculptures made of human corpses to mark their victory over the allied troops. The branches were festooned with flags made of human skin, embellished with symbols painted in blood. The summer months had taken their toll on the artwork, but the autumn frosts had saved them from further decay, and a fine layer of snow covered the sculptures and flags like a clean white cloth, hiding the grisly details. Tungdil and his friends were tempted to leave the älfar to their fate.

  If the thirdlings were nervous, they didn’t show it. Their tattooed faces looked unerringly to the south as they waited in silence for the avatars to arrive. Shield in one hand and weapon in the other, they stood shoulder to shoulder in disciplined rows.

  The sight of the thirdling warriors made a big impression on Boïndil who, like his brother, refused to move from Tungdil’s side. Without discussing the matter, they had decided that Tungdil needed protection from Lorimbas’s warriors, and they saw it as their duty to watch his back. The dwarven folks had united against the avatars, but they still regarded each other with mutual distrust.

  The afternoon was almost over when a scout came running to make his report. “They’re here,” he panted. “The avatars are coming, but Lorimbas’s unit is half an orbit behind. I saw them on the horizon.”

  Tungdil thanked the scout and sent him to join the thirdling ranks. “Half an orbit until Lorimbas gets here,” he told the twins. “We’ll have our work cut out.” He remembered how quickly the avatars had dispatched the unit of four thousand älfar. We’ll be lucky if we survive.

  “It won’t be easy, but it’s not impossible,” said Boïndil, trying to be upbeat. He had drawn one ax, now he drew the other.

  Several hours later, a warm wind blew in from the south; the avatars were approaching.

  Tungdil instructed his runners to take a message to the leaders of each battalion. “Tell them to stay in formation. When they see the fire coming, they need to lift their shields, drop to the ground, and let the flames pass overhead.”

  They heard thundering hooves. The avatars’ cavalry swung round and came to a halt in two long lines. An advance guard of foot soldiers raised their swords and spears, ready to form a buffer between the horses and the enemy in the event of a counterattack.

  The dwarves watched impassively, waiting for the light to become stronger and brighter before tying scarves around their heads to protect their eyes.

  A gleaming figure detached itself from the enemy ranks and hovered above the ground. Slowly it glided toward the dwarves, leaving a trail of melted snow in its wake.

  Ten paces from Tungdil, it came to a halt. The light was too bright for him to make out its features.

  “You are the dwarves,” said a voice of infinite kindness. “For thousands of cycles you and your forebears fought for Girdlegard and defended its borders against Tion’s hordes. We share a common goal. Why do you seek to destroy us?”

  “You and your brothers must leave these lands,” called Tungdil. “Your presence is harmful to Girdlegard, to the ground beneath you, to our villages and towns.”

  “We have a mission, Tungdil Goldhand,” the voice replied amicably. “Girdlegard is infested with älfar, ogres, and orcs. We won’t leave these lands until Tion’s beasts have been destroyed and their master humiliated. Ridding you of this plague will give us new strength. The time will come when Tion himself won’t be safe from our wrath.” The avatar edged closer and the temperature rose a few degrees. “Let us pass, and no harm will come to you or your kinsfolk.” His shimmering hand pointed to the north. “Our quarrel is with the inhabitants of the city, not you.”

  “Think what your strength will do to our lands. We can’t allow you to boost your powers.” Tungdil raised his shield, expecting to be dazzled by ferocious white light. “Our mission is to protect Girdlegard from harm, and you’re harmful to Girdlegard. We can’t let you pass, not even if—”

  Djern charged forward. He covered the distance in three giant strides and grabbed the avatar by the neck, wrapping his hands around his throat and tightening his grip.

  The avatar screamed and enveloped itself in searing light. Djern was bathed in fire, but he didn’t let go. The smell of hot metal filled the air, and shouts went up from the enemy ranks.

  Just then there was a loud ripping noise, like a curtain being torn in half. It was accompanied by cracking bones.

  The light disappeared, and Djern roared in triumph. When the dwarves looked up, he was holding the avatar’s head in one hand, and his body in the other. The avatar’s face, clearly visible against the gray sky, looked unmistakably human. It belonged
to a man of some thirty cycles whose beige robes were drenched in blood.

  The colossal warrior tossed the avatar’s dripping remains through the air, and they hit the snow, bouncing a few times before coming to rest. Contrary to expectations, the avatar’s head didn’t reattach itself to his body in a blaze of supernatural light. The man was an ordinary mortal.

  “Knock me down with a hammer,” gasped Boïndil. “Did you see how he wrung his neck? As easy as killing a chicken!”

  “He was just a man,” whispered Narmora, laughing in relief. “Djern must have known from the smell. The light and fireworks were meant to trick us; they’re conjurers, not avatars.”

  Tungdil’s worries—not least how he was going to rescue Balyndis if he didn’t survive the orbit—melted away, and he laughed out loud.

  The merriment spread through the ranks and soon the forest was echoing with mocking dwarven laughter that continued long after the cavalrymen began their charge. The riders no longer looked so intimidating; the death of the avatar had robbed their armor of its sheen.

  Boïndil raised his ax and his shield. “Aim for the horses’ knees, and let the riders come to you,” he shouted, spoiling for a fight. Confidence had returned to the dwarven ranks.

  Shouting a ferocious war cry, Tungdil and his eight thousand warriors ran out to meet the charge.

  The speedy death of the first avatar, whose remains disappeared under the stampede of dwarven boots, was followed by a grueling battle with the enemy army.

  Incensed by the fate of their leader, they threw themselves vengefully upon the dwarves, who struggled against the cavalry’s superior maneuverability and speed.

  The horses crashed through their ranks with such force that gaps appeared in the rows of shields, allowing enemy foot soldiers to surge through the openings and wreak havoc with the dwarven defenses.

  “Fall back!” yelled Tungdil, ordering the surviving warriors to retreat to the forest. At once the hidden units of thirdlings leaped out from the trees to beat back the enemy troops. “Don’t let up,” Tungdil urged them. “It’s almost sundown; your king will be here soon.”

  At that moment, a second luminous figure appeared before them, but this time the avatar was careful not to come too close.

  Hovering three paces above the ground, it stayed behind the enemy lines and bombarded them with fireballs. It took all Narmora’s power to deflect the missiles and hurl them back at the enemy troops.

  The avatar, realizing he had found a worthy opponent, gave the command for his soldiers to stop the magic at its source.

  Calling for the twins to follow, Tungdil rushed to Narmora’s aid, but the enemy soldiers got there first, and the half älf disappeared in a melee of bodies and swords.

  “We’ve got to save her,” he told the others. Boïndil led the attack, with Boëndal and Tungdil behind, and between them they cut a path through the enemy troops. Thanks to Boïndil’s twin blades, Boëndal’s crow’s beak, and Tungdil’s ax, they proceeded in a straight line, aiming for the spot where Narmora had last been seen.

  By the time they reached her, she was under attack from all sides. Meanwhile, the avatar was bombarding her with curses and spells.

  The thirdlings were putting up a spirited defense, and Djern was standing among them, sword in one hand, cudgel in the other, killing knots of soldiers with every blow. But it was only a matter of time before the maga’s defenses crumbled—as the enemy was aware.

  A heavily perspiring Narmora was tracing symbols and spells in the air. “I’m not strong enough to beat the avatar,” she gasped. “I can’t hold him off for much longer, and Djern can’t get close enough to attack.” She deflected a fireball and sent it crashing among her assailants, a dozen of whom perished in the blaze.

  Tungdil wondered whether he should order the thirdlings to clear a path for Djern to tackle the avatar. But where are the other nine? Since the start of the battle he had been steeling himself for a wave of fire to wash over his warriors, as the älf had described. What are the avatars up to? Why are they letting us kill their troops? He decided to stop worrying and take charge of the attack. He and the twins led the way, with the thirdlings at the rear. Despite being heavily outnumbered, Lorimbas’s warriors inflicted heavy losses on the enemy troops, but the odds were stacked against them.

  As evening drew in, Tungdil’s counterattack ground to a halt. Suddenly, help arrived on the scene.

  A dark shadow crossed the sky, rippling overhead like a vast flock of birds. It was followed soon afterward by metallic jangling as hundreds of black-fletched arrows embedded themselves in enemy mail.

  “It’s about time the blasted no-eyes decided to help,” snorted Boïndil, blocking an enemy sword. He knocked the weapon from the soldier’s hand and drove an ax into his unprotected thigh. “I won’t be sorry when this is over. Avatars, thirdlings, and älfar…” He aimed a blow at the next soldier’s hip, cutting through his armor and slicing into his flesh. “I’m starting to feel dizzy from keeping tabs on them all.”

  Boëndal raised his crow’s beak and swung the poll against a helmed head, crushing the skull. The soldier fell backward against his comrades. “Stop whirling about like a spinning top and focus on what’s ahead,” he instructed his brother. He wiped the sweat and blood from his face with the end of his beard. “Head straight for the avatar.”

  Älvish arrows whistled and whined through the air, bringing death to the enemy troops. The avatar’s soldiers seemed to realize that the tide had turned against them, and the bulk of the army began to retreat, shields raised against the feathered storm.

  The time had come for Djern to attack. Leaving Narmora, he surged forward, killing anyone foolish enough to bar his path, his sword and cudgel sweeping left and right with deadly force. Within moments he had fought his way through to Tungdil and the twins.

  Lifting off with unexpected agility, he soared seven paces through the air, flying over helmets, heads, and shields and touching down at the heart of the action, within striking distance of the avatar.

  The glowing figure unleashed a bolt of crackling white luminescence at his chest. The magic energy thudded against his breastplate, causing the runes on his armor to pulse with light, but Djern was unharmed. Ricocheting back toward the avatar, the bolt seared through the pack of enemy soldiers, allowing the armored giant to advance.

  Once again he called upon his incredible strength, thrusting his metal-clad arms into the light. For a few moments the glow intensified, then an agonized scream rent the air, and the light was extinguished.

  Roaring, Djern brandished his victim’s body; the head was twisted unnaturally to the side. A purple glow emanated from the warrior’s visor, like a radiant expression of pride. He seemed to enjoy his victory, holding the corpse on high and showing it to the enemy troops. At last he tossed him away like an unwanted toy.

  The dead man flew through the air, landing on the pikes and halberds of the enemy army.

  There was silence on the battlefield.

  The avatars’ army had accepted the death of the first avatar as an unfortunate accident, but the death of the second was irrefutable proof that the avatars were neither invincible nor immortal. The dead wizard’s blood trickled down the shafts of the weapons like that of an ordinary mortal. There was nothing divine or pure about him.

  “Attack!” shouted Tungdil exultantly. “Don’t let them regroup!” His ax slammed into a shield, cutting through the metal and severing an enemy wrist. A man fell screaming to the churned-up ground.

  The battle began again, but this time Tungdil’s warriors had victory in their sights.

  Even as the älfar emerged from the trees and threw themselves on the enemy, dwarven bugles heralded the arrival of the rest of the army with Lorimbas, Xamtys, and Gemmil at the fore. Meanwhile, Djern was in mortal danger.

  The White Army’s pikemen had made it their mission to bring down the avatars’ killer and they closed in on the giant, lunging at him with their long-handled weapons and
retreating out of range. From time to time he cut down a pikeman, only to be attacked by another four.

  Boïndil noticed Djern’s plight. “We’d better help old buckethead. He’s overextended.” Glancing at Tungdil and Boëndal, he saw agreement in their tired faces. “It would be a shame to lose him after everyth—”

  “Look out!” shouted Boëndal, hefting his crow’s beak and hurling it through the air. The powerful weapon ripped toward a rider who was charging, spear in hand, toward the giant’s back. The rider saw the crow’s beak coming, and ducked just in time.

  Meanwhile, Djern was too busy fighting the pikemen to notice the thundering hooves. Startled, he turned at the last moment, and the spear pierced his side. The rider paid for his bravery with his life, the giant’s cudgel smashing against his chest.

  At once the pikemen surged forward, falling on the injured giant and forcing him to the ground. Tungdil and the twins lost sight of their ally.

  “Quick!” shouted Tungdil, alerting the maga to the danger.

  Narmora fixed her eyes on the skirmish, but Djern was lost from view. “I can’t see him,” she called back, sending a flickering tongue of fire in the direction indicated by Tungdil. “Wait, I’ll burn a path.” The dwarves nodded and readied themselves to sprint after the next fiery bolt.

  Neither Tungdil nor the twins had any inkling that the maga wasn’t prepared to come to the giant’s rescue. Djern had been useful on occasions, not least by revealing that some types of armor were resistant to magic, but he had played a key role in the plot against Furgas, and Narmora could never forgive him for that.

  If he dies, he dies. If he lives, it won’t be long before he falls in another skirmish. She gazed after Tungdil and the others, who were leading a unit of thirdlings to save the injured giant. They can risk their lives if they want to. I’m not wasting my magic on him.