The War of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  Getting past the pikemen was the toughest challenge yet.

  The advancing dwarves came to a halt in front of a bristling mass of long-handled halberds and pikes. Steel pike heads pointed menacingly toward them, keeping them at bay. Every now and then a weapon sped forward, injuring any who sought to cleave the shafts and cut a path to Djern, who was somewhere behind the blockade.

  “That does it!” snorted Ireheart. “I’ll teach them what it means to rile a dwarf!”

  His levelheaded brother pulled him back. “They’ll run you through like a pig on a spit.” He was stopped from saying anything further by the arrival of a band of tall archers, who took up position next to them and leveled their bows. A flurry of arrows ripped toward the enemy with deadly effect. A path opened up between the pikemen, nearly two paces wide.

  “Go on then,” said a voice that Tungdil recognized as Ondori’s. “Hurry!”

  “I don’t like it,” said Ireheart suspiciously. He leaned across and whispered in his brother’s ear. “What if they shoot us in the back?”

  “You’d die, of course,” said Ondori, smiling. “But we’re not going to shoot you. For the time being, we’re on the same side.” Looking up, she saw that the gap had closed so she ordered her archers to loose another hail of arrows. “Hurry, Goldhand.” She raised her bow and nocked an arrow to the string. “The pikemen won’t kill you; I want that pleasure myself.” Her gray eyes were cold with hatred.

  Remembering Djern’s plight, Tungdil had no choice but to trust her. He sent a quick prayer to Vraccas and charged into the breach, followed by Boïndil, Boëndal, and the thirdlings. Even though he had promised himself he wouldn’t, he glanced over his shoulder to check on the älf.

  She was standing ramrod straight, a nocked arrow pointing at his heart. Even as he stared, the bow string released and the arrow shot toward him. Closing his eyes, he braced himself for the feathered missile to hit. Nothing happened. By some miracle, the älf had missed her mark.

  She lowered her bow and pointed ahead.

  Turning back, Tungdil saw the outstretched body of a soldier, felled by a single arrow. In his distraction, he had almost impaled himself on an enemy pike. It’s my own fault for not trusting her. She hates me too much to let me die. He leaped over the pikeman and threw himself into battle. But Djern was nowhere to be seen.

  Ireheart, thrilled to be in striking distance of the pikemen, rampaged through the enemy ranks. In the crush of bodies, the pikemen were forced to rely on short swords, which gave little protection against hefty dwarven clubs, axes, and hammers. Suddenly the battle shifted in favor of the dwarves, who weren’t in the mood for sparing lives. The enemy was shown no mercy. By nightfall, the avatars’ army had been destroyed and the woods of Dsôn Balsur were strewn with corpses.

  It was then they found Djern.

  He was lying among the dead soldiers, and he didn’t stir when they called his name and shook him by the shoulder. Yellow blood was trickling from countless holes in his armor, forming a vast puddle around his battered body. Tungdil shouted for Narmora’s help.

  “I don’t want anyone closer than ten paces,” she told them. “You mustn’t see what I’m doing—the magic could kill you.” She bent over Djern’s head and covered herself with her cloak. Then she opened the visor.

  The purple glow had gone out, and the sockets in his terrible skull were empty and lifeless. Narmora felt neither sorrow nor satisfaction at his passing: Djern was a killing machine—Andôkai’s killing machine. He shouldn’t have done what he did to poor Furgas.

  Closing the visor, she lifted her cloak and got to her feet. “He’s dead,” she announced. “Two avatars died by Djern’s hand. May his name live on in our memory.” She made her way over to Tungdil. “Any sign of Balyndis?”

  Boïndil shook his head crossly. “I don’t understand. What the blazes have they done with her?”

  “I’d like to know where the other so-called avatars have got to,” said Tungdil distractedly. He was frantic with worry for the missing smith. “Djern killed two, which leaves another nine.”

  “Maybe there were only two in the first place,” suggested Narmora. “I’ve had a look at their bodies, and they seem like ordinary humans to me.” She showed the dwarves some artifacts that she had found on the bodies. “Amulets, rings, crystals… If you ask me, they weren’t demigods at all. Take away their paraphernalia, and they’ll be helpless.”

  “You mean they made all that light with a few magic trinkets?” said Boïndil, amazed.

  The maga nodded. “It was some kind of spell. They wanted to make us think they were gods.” She pointed to a dead soldier. “See the moonstone on his gorget? It’s charmed. Without the moonstone, the armor wouldn’t glow.”

  “What a con,” growled Boïndil, turning to the impresario, who had just joined their group. “They’re as bad as you, pretending to be something better than they are.”

  “I think I deserve a little more respect,” protested Rodario. “I convinced them I was a real magus—and I nearly got killed for my pains.” For once he seemed to be telling the truth; his robe had been slashed to ribbons, but he was otherwise unharmed.

  Without warning, the älf appeared alongside them, like a sinister suspiration of the night. Ireheart whipped out an ax and brandished it menacingly. “Get back, älf. The battle’s over and we’re enemies again.”

  “If our alliance were over, you’d be lying face down on the ground,” she said scornfully. “I came to tell you that I know what happened to the other avatars. Several orbits ago I saw two lights in the distance—one heading for Dsôn Balsur, and the other traveling west. I think they’ve split their troops.”

  “Without us noticing?” Boïndil laughed.

  “Groundlings will sleep through anything. I could creep up on a dwarven encampment and slit a dozen throats without waking a soul.” She gave him a long, hard look. “Trust me, I know.”

  Fortunately, Tungdil and Boëndal grabbed their friend before he could throw himself on Ondori. He struggled vigorously and hurled curses in the älf’s direction.

  “Where would they be heading?” asked Tungdil. “Why would they be going west? It’s the wrong direction for ogres or orcs.” He thought about what he knew of the legend. “One part of the story is true. They seem to get their magic power by destroying evil. They must be looking for something evil to destroy.”

  Narmora went white. “Porista,” she whispered.

  “Porista?” echoed Rodario, taken aback. “Porista is a nice enough place—in fact, I rather like it. The people are friendly enough—although some of the men are overly jealous.”

  “I wasn’t referring to the population,” Narmora said sharply. “Lios Nudin is the wellspring of Girdlegard’s magic. The source of the energy is in the vaults. Nôd’onn corrupted the force fields to stop the other magi using them, but Andôkai wasn’t affected because she prayed to Samusin, god of light and dark. She taught me to do the same.”

  Tungdil had an idea what the avatars were planning. “And the force fields are still corrupted, even though Nôd’onn is dead?”

  Narmora nodded.

  “It sounds to me that Porista would make a good target,” said Tungdil.

  “How much damage can they do?” asked Boëndal. “The force fields may be tucked out of sight like the stratum of rock beneath a mountain, but aren’t they also vital? What if the avatars destroy them?”

  “They can’t do that, can they?” asked Tungdil, alarmed.

  “I don’t know for sure,” Narmora admitted. “I expect we could find an answer, but the archives are in Porista…” She gasped and looked at Furgas. “Dorsa!”

  “The alliance still holds,” Ondori said coolly. “You should be grateful to the avatars; they’ve earned you a reprieve.”

  Tungdil gazed at the carnage around them. This is just the beginning, Vraccas.

  Of the thirty thousand dwarves, including twenty-two thousand thirdlings, only twenty thousand or so had survive
d the first battle. And now they would have to lay siege to a city and take on nine magi and an unknown quantity of warriors.

  Tungdil knew he couldn’t count on the humans or the elves. The former had been fatally weakened by the defeat at Dsôn Balsur, and the latter would never agree to join forces with the älfar. He decided to send a messenger to landur anyway.

  We’re the only ones who can stop them. It’s up to us. Tungdil turned in the direction of the Gray Range and gazed into the darkness. “The defense of Girdlegard is our Vraccas-given duty,” he said staunchly. For some reason, he was certain that Balyndis was still alive. We’ll find her in Porista.

  Boïndil nodded. “Girdlegard needs us, scholar. It’s getting to be a habit.” His eyes traveled from Ondori to the thirdlings. “I wouldn’t mind more reliable allies.”

  An älvish scout said something in a low voice to Ondori, who passed on the message to the rest of the group. “We’ve found tracks,” she told them. “A band of riders, no more than twenty in total. They’re riding west—probably toward Porista. We found a footprint near the spot where they mounted their horses. It looks like a child’s.”

  Tungdil breathed out in relief. “It wasn’t a child; it was a dwarf—a dwarven smith who knows how to forge armor capable of withstanding the avatars’ fire.”

  “If I were an avatar, I would have killed her on the spot,” declared Rodario in a manner that struck the dwarves as rather heartless.

  “You mean why bother to take her with them? I expect they realized that she isn’t an ordinary dwarf. For all we know, they’ve heard about the magic armor. With Balyndis’s help, they could shield themselves and their soldiers from Narmora’s curses. A real avatar wouldn’t need armor, but a mortal magician would be glad of the protection.” Tungdil looked at the others determinedly. “We need to rescue Balyndis before we attack Porista. Without the secret of Djern’s armor, we can’t defeat the avatars. They’ll burn us to a cinder. A small group of us need to infiltrate the city and rescue our smith.”

  “I’ll come too,” volunteered Ondori. Her motivation was entirely selfish; she wanted to keep them alive until she got her revenge.

  Furgas and Rodario exchanged looks. “We know a few hidden passageways,” murmured Furgas. “I’ll show you the way.”

  “But only if you rescue Dorsa,” added Narmora. “I don’t want her to be hurt in the fighting. I’ve lost a son, and I’ve no intention of losing a daughter.” She glared at Tungdil. “Give me your word.”

  In spite of the extra risk on an already risky mission, he acquiesced, although deep down he was surprised at Narmora. She’s changed. It was probably studying under Andôkai that did it. He looked sadly at Djern’s motionless body. He would miss the fallen warrior, and not only because of his strength.

  Then he had an idea.

  187 Miles East of Porista,

  Kingdom of Gauragar,

  Girdlegard,

  Winter, 6235th/6236th Solar Cycle

  The ringing of the hammer filled the morning air. Tungdil was in a small forge in Klinntal, a village en route to Porista. He had laid out Djern’s armor on a workbench. According to his estimates, the metal would suffice for three metal suits—one for him, and one each for the twins—provided he was careful.

  Much thought had gone into deciding which parts of Djern’s mail lent themselves to being refashioned into smaller, dwarf-sized items. He had begun by making detailed drawings, showing the positioning of the intarsia and runes. Only then had he started to break apart the breastplate, spaulders, and greaves.

  “How are you getting along?” asked Boëndal, who, along with his brother, the village smith, and the smith’s apprentices, was helping out in the forge. The men were very impressed by Tungdil, who wielded the hammer with uncommon precision, power, and speed.

  “We’re nowhere near ready,” sighed Tungdil. “The tools aren’t up to scratch and the hearth doesn’t draw very well. I wish the flames were hotter…” The hammer swooped down, forcing the metal into shape. “I haven’t got time to customize the armor properly. I’m afraid it’s going to pinch.”

  “I don’t care if it rubs all the flesh from my bones, so long as I’m safe from the avatars’ magic,” growled Boïndil. He finished stamping a rune into a finished section of armor and weighed it critically in his hand. “We won’t be able to move as fast as usual. It weighs a ton.” He turned to his brother. “From now on, anyone who throws his only weapon will owe me a sack of gold,” he said, remembering how his brother had cast his crow’s beak at Djern’s assassin. “There’s simply no excuse.”

  Nine orbits had passed since they started their journey through snow-covered Gauragar. They had buried Djern, still clad in his chain mail and helmet, in Dsôn Balsur. After a little persuasion, Boïndil had agreed not to peek behind his visor, and the giant warrior had taken his secret to the grave.

  Since then, Tungdil, Ondori, Rodario, Furgas, and the twins had been marching as fast as possible toward Porista. The main army was following at a distance, with Narmora to protect it from magical assault.

  Boëndal tapped his weapons belt. “Point taken,” he said. “You don’t need to lecture me about throwing my only weapon: I’ve got an ax in reserve.” He waved his tongs at Tungdil. “You’ll get your gold from our scholar, I’ll warrant.”

  Tungdil peered at the breastplate emerging from the beaten metal. He threw some water onto his sweaty face and shook the soot from his long brown beard. He was too busy thinking about his work and worrying about Balyndis to pay attention to the twins.

  He hadn’t been especially talkative over the past few orbits. He couldn’t stop turning things over in his mind and trying to gauge his feelings. After giving his heart to two dwarf-women and being let down, he didn’t know what to think. Myr had betrayed him, then saved him from Salfalur’s hammer, and Balyndis had spurned him in favor of Glaïmbar, yet she hadn’t stopped loving him—nor he her. He had twice gone from happiness to despair, and in quiet moments he succumbed to a creeping melancholy that prevented him from taking pleasure in anything around him. Deep down he wanted to rail against Vraccas for making him suffer.

  Pain and loss had accompanied him on every step of his journey, and sometimes—in his darkest moments—he found himself wishing that he would die in battle so that his soul could be gathered to Vraccas’s smithy.

  “Is something the matter, scholar?” asked Boëndal, concerned.

  Tungdil shook the water from his beard. “I’m fine,” he said, forcing himself to smile. He untied his leather apron and pulled it over his head. “I could do with a bite to eat and something to oil my throat.”

  “I’m dying for some good, strong beer,” agreed Boïndil. He sighed. “Why do the long-uns brew such watery rubbish?”

  They left the forge and strolled to their lodgings. Klinntal didn’t have a hostelry, so they were staying in a farmhouse. A smell of roast meat and freshly baked bread wafted toward them.

  Inside, Furgas was dozing on the bench by the table, and Ondori was relaxing by the fire.

  The meat came courtesy of the älf and her bow. According to the villagers, there was never any game to be had in winter, but Ondori always found something, a deer or a brace of hares. She was a formidable hunter who treated all living creatures as prey—in her eyes, men, orcs, and wild animals were little better than vermin.

  She didn’t look up to acknowledge the dwarves. Her sharp knife was sculpting limbs and carving faces for movable figures made from the remains of her prey. Earlier, she had made a flute for the farmer’s daughter, and everyone agreed that it produced a pleasant sound.

  Tungdil suspected that she was more accustomed to working with the bones of men, elves, and dwarves. It made him queasy to think that somewhere an älf would be making music on a dwarven shinbone.

  But it didn’t stop him or the twins from feasting on the meat. Hammering metal was hungry work, and the best way of maintaining their strength without proper dwarven victuals was to eat a lot
of meat.

  Furgas woke up, stretched, and glanced over at Rodario, who was studying Ondori and taking notes. “An interesting character,” the impresario murmured. “She’s helping the others because she wants to kill them herself. It adds an excellent twist to the plot. It’s very suspenseful!” He flipped the notebook shut.

  “This isn’t one of your plays, you know,” said Furgas, who saw it as his duty to keep reminding his friend of the seriousness of the task ahead.

  “I’m aware of that, thank you,” retorted Rodario. “No rehearsals, no prompts, no audience, and worst of all, no coin.” The farmer’s wife came in, set down a stewpot, and left in a hurry, unnerved by the presence of the älf. Rodario helped himself to a mug of herbal tea. “If anyone had predicted that I’d be roped into fighting the forces of darkness instead of setting up my theater, seducing women, and following my calling on the stage, I would have thought they were mad.” He sighed and breathed on the steaming tea. “The curtain went up, and I found myself at the heart of a drama that could cost me my life.”

  “Feeling sorry for yourself, Rodario?” teased Boëndal.

  “It’s probably the weather. Too much gray isn’t good for the soul.” He jabbed a finger at Tungdil. “He’s no better. I don’t think he’s said a word since we got here. Has anyone got a good joke? You didn’t finish the one about the orc and the dwarf.”

  Tungdil sipped his warm beer. “I’m sorry I haven’t been more lively.”

  Boïndil clinked tankards with him. “It’s all right, scholar. It stands to reason that you’re more worried about Balyndis than anyone else. True love never rusts, as they say.” He checked himself, realizing that he was hardly improving the mood. “Why do I have to be so tactless?”

  “Honesty is a virtue,” said Tungdil. There’s no denying that I love her, he thought, waiting for his inner demon to contradict him. But the taunting voice was silent now that he had stopped lying to himself. I love her and I always will. It wouldn’t be right to join the iron band with another maiden when my heart belongs to someone else. No dwarf-woman will ever hold a candle to her. He took another draft of beer, stood up, and picked up his tankard. “There’s work to be done.”