by Markus Heitz
The palace was still protected by a powerful spell that trapped unwanted visitors like flies in a spider web, tying them to the masonry with magic bonds. The bleached bones of previous intruders were enough to persuade even the most unflinching thirdling that it was best to try another route.
Tungdil led the warriors through an alleyway to Furgas’s secret doorway. Remembering how Ondori had recited the incantation, he pronounced the words carefully, and sure enough, the masonry began to move. The door opened a crack, enough for an arrow to whiz through and hit a thirdling on the shoulder.
“It had to happen sometime,” growled Boëndal, sheltering behind the wall.
“Every dwarf loves a challenge,” laughed his brother. “I hope we find some proper warriors in the palace. My axes are hungry for flesh.”
The foremost thirdling laid four shields on top of each other and tied them together with his belt. He waited by the narrow opening while a queue of warriors formed behind him, each carrying a stack of shields, ready to form a wall to protect the remainder of the group.
They appeared to be acting on their own initiative—at any rate, none of them waited for instructions. Tungdil wasn’t convinced that they would listen to him anyway: Lorimbas had ordered them to cut a path to the avatars, and they were apparently determined to do it on their terms.
“Let’s go,” said a tattooed warrior, glancing back at Tungdil. The thirdlings stormed ahead.
Arrows hissed through the air, but the reinforced shields fulfilled their purpose. Protected by the wall of metal, the remaining dwarves streamed into the palace gardens where the avatars’ soldiers awaited them.
The brightness wasn’t so dazzling with the cloth in front of their eyes, and Tungdil had the impression that the soldiers’ white armor looked duller than before. The power of the moonstones seemed to be waning.
The thirdlings advanced in formation, and the battle began. It quickly became apparent that the sides were well matched. For every fallen soldier, two more threw themselves into the breach, fighting with a strength born of desperation to hold back the invading dwarves.
“Look!” shouted Ireheart, pointing to the second-highest tower. “Did you see that?” A faint light was shining from the windows. Its source was wreathed in fog, but the glow was clearly visible. “It might be an avatar!”
“Looking for avatars, are you?” thundered a man. Turning, they saw a glowing figure on the parapet of the tower behind them. The magus raised his hands and a pair of glowing fireballs appeared in his palms. “Defenders of evil, prepare to die!”
The burning spheres blazed toward them, speeding through the thirdling ranks.
Narmora raced up the ladder. Rocks showered haphazardly toward her, but none of the missiles found its goal.
She reached the parapet and drew her weapons. The first consisted of a short metal haft to which scythe-like blades had been mounted on each end; the second was a straight-bladed version of the same. The blades’ inner and outer edges were deadly sharp. She wore metal baskets on her wrists to protect her fingers from enemy swords.
Launching herself from the parapet, she landed among the soldiers and hewed through their ranks. In recent battles she had fought with magic, not weaponry, and she was eager to test herself in combat, using Sunbeam and Crescent, her mother’s blades.
Her älvish nature came to the fore. Ducking, wheeling, and slashing, she was everywhere at once. To her satisfaction, her proficiency was noted and admired by others of her kind.
The dwarves scaled the parapets more slowly. By nature less nimble, they clambered steadily up the ladders and were easy targets for the soldiers’ rocks. Undeterred, they threw themselves into battle.
The avatars’ soldiers were quick to adapt to the different fighting styles of the älfar and the dwarves, and they soon showed their mettle. The allies’ hopes of a quick victory faded, and the battle swayed to and fro. Narmora, realizing the seriousness of the situation, decided to use her magic to cut a path through the enemy troops.
At the same time she knew she had to be ready for the avatars to retaliate, but so far there hadn’t been any sign of them.
A cold wind blew into the city, clearing the morning mist. Narmora glanced over to the palace and saw two shimmering figures at the top of a sable tower.
They’re up to something… Raising her left blade, she blocked a sword and sent it smashing into an enemy soldier before ramming her weapon through the aggressor’s belly and skewering him effortlessly on the end of her blade. “Xamtys,” she called to the firstling queen, withdrawing her bloodied weapon and pointing to the tower. “Can you manage on your own? I need to see what’s going on.”
The dwarven queen swung her four-pronged mace into a soldier’s knee and smashed it against his skull as he fell, crushing his right temple. The scream died on his lips as he toppled over the parapet. “They’re tougher than we thought, but Vraccas will see us through,” she called, gesturing for Narmora to go. “We’ll be fine without you, Estimable Maga.”
Narmora took off, landing with both feet on a soldier’s breastplate and knocking him into the weapons of his friends. Dropping low, she took off again and bounded over their heads. Before they could recover, she was down the stairs and running through the streets.
With every step her apprehension grew. Something about the force field was making her uneasy, and the disagreeable feeling intensified as she hurried toward the palace.
The magic energy was reaching for her, or rather, reaching for the shard of malachite buried beside her heart. No one but the eoîl knew about the gemstone, and his knowledge gave him power. She decided to kill him before he gave away her secret and brought her into conflict with Furgas and the dwarves.
It won’t come to that. She picked up the pace, sprinting through the deserted streets.
“You’ve got to stop them,” said Nudin, appearing beside her. “Everything is at stake.”
She stumbled and stopped. “How did you…?”
“You can’t stop now,” he said urgently. “Hurry, they’re about to start the ritual. You’re a half älf, remember. They’re committed to wiping out evil, and that includes you. I don’t want to be alone, Narmora. Don’t let them take our power…”
The apparition glimmered, fading out of sight.
“Where are you?” Narmora whirled round, sweeping the street with her gaze: There was nothing but terraced houses.
“Estimable Maga!” called a voice. “Thank Vraccas I’ve found you.” An exhausted messenger hurried toward her. “Rodario the Fablemaker needs you on the northern front. He and the thirdlings are outnumbered.”
“Tell him he’ll have to manage,” she said coldly. “I can’t endanger Girdlegard to save the lives of Lorimbas’s dwarves. The avatars must be stopped.”
She left him standing and ran down the street as fast as her long legs could carry her. She didn’t much care if the avatars’ soldiers wiped out the thirdlings. She was worried about her own life—her life, and the life of her innocent daughter.
Tungdil leaped into action, trusting to the efficacy of Djern’s armor.
He saw the first fireball speeding toward them, and threw himself into its path. Boëndal stepped in front of the second.
The world around them disappeared in a blaze of white light and roaring flames. Tendrils of fire licked their visors, but the charmed metal and powerful runes protected their eyes from the deadly heat.
Vraccas, give me the strength to pull through. Faster than an ax could sever an orcish arm, the temperature shot up, and beads of sweat formed on Tungdil’s forehead, evaporating straightaway. A few strands of hair, poking out from his leather skullcap, brushed against his helmet, releasing a smell that reminded him of a freshly shod horse.
It lasted no longer than the angry fizzle of a burning coal in water, but Tungdil waited impatiently for his vision to clear.
Most of the thirdlings were sprawled on the ground and some of their cloaks were on fire, but everyone was
alive.
“I say we kill him before he roasts us like cave crabs,” wheezed Boëndal, opening his visor and taking a gulp of fresh air.
His brother was already storming toward the palace, followed by a knot of thirdlings, who cut down the sentries and disappeared inside. Tungdil and Boëndal ran after them as best they could. Balyndis had made their armor less restrictive, but the suits were far heavier than ordinary dwarven mail.
They pushed past the thirdlings and scrambled up the stairs, hoping to take the avatar by surprise.
He spotted them first.
A ball of fire whizzed toward them, engulfing them in roaring, hissing flames. Sweat vaporized from their pores, but the heat couldn’t kill them. They heard the avatar curse and saw a flash of white robe disappear around the corner.
“He’s running away!” bellowed Ireheart. “Ha, call yourself an avatar!” He hurled his ax, pinning the cloth to a wooden cupboard.
“What did you say about letting go of your ax?” asked Boëndal, sprinting past him with his crow’s beak. He turned the corner.
Tungdil was hot on his heels. “You owe us a sack of gold.”
“I’ve got two axes; it doesn’t count!” protested Boïndil, hurrying after them. “Leave him to me!”
The avatar-conjurer was a dark-haired man of fifty cycles dressed in black robes. He whirled round and pointed his left hand at Boëndal. White lightning left his index finger and shot toward the dwarf.
“Die, undergroundling!” This time the avatar kept his finger pointed at his victim, allowing flames to crackle over his breastplate. He seemed to realize that the armor offered no protection against the heat.
The tactic paid off.
Slowly, Boëndal’s fingers uncurled, and his crow’s beak thudded to the floor. He took a step forward, stumbled, and hit the unyielding marble without stopping his fall. At best he was unconscious, at worst he was…
“What have you done to my brother?” shrieked Ireheart, hurling his other ax to distract the avatar from Boëndal. The flames fizzled out. Boïndil kept running and grabbed the crow’s beak, swinging it over his head. “You’ll die for this.”
The avatar-conjurer sent another bolt of lightning toward Boïndil, but the dwarf was already upon him.
Shrieking with rage, Ireheart spun round and rammed the spur of the crow’s beak into the avatar’s belly, hitting him with such force that the weapon embedded itself in his guts. With another terrible shriek, the dwarf jerked the crow’s beak to the side, slicing his waist.
The avatar-conjurer didn’t have time to speak, groan, or express his surprise. He fell, blood and guts spilling from his belly as he hit the marble floor.
Tungdil kneeled beside Boëndal and fumbled with his visor, gagging on the smell of charred flesh. Hot steam and white smoke rose toward him. He fanned the air frantically and looked anxiously at his friend. The sight stopped his breath. Vraccas have mercy.
Boëndal’s face was a welter of oozing blisters, his features burned beyond recognition. Nothing but a few scorched whiskers remained of his bushy beard. Tungdil knew without looking that the rest of his body was covered in burns as well. “Lie still,” he told him, and Boëndal’s singed, lashless eyelids flickered at the sound of his voice. “I’ll get some snow for the burns.”
“Boëndal,” murmured his brother, appalled. “I…”
“Hurry,” whispered Boëndal. His blackened lips struggled to form the words. “Find the other avatars—don’t let them do the same to you.” He swallowed and tried to continue, but his voice gave out.
“Follow me,” said Tungdil determinedly. “We can have one each.”
Boïndil stood up. “I’ll take the eoîl.”
They jogged through the palace, looking for the staircase to the second-highest sable tower. The remaining thirdlings—thirty in all—came with them; the others had been cut down by the palace guards or killed by the avatar’s firebolts.
They pushed on quickly, their progress unhindered by the surviving avatar and his guards. It seemed the eoîl was happy to give them the run of the palace, which added to Tungdil’s unease.
Suddenly, a man stepped out of a doorway and hurried toward them. “Stop!”
“Die, wizard!” shouted Boïndil, raising his axes. His inner furnace was burning furiously, but somehow, miraculously, he recognized the man. “The fatuous Rodario!” At the last second, the crow’s beak jerked to the side, thudding against the wall and splintering the marble.
“Rodario! What are you doing here?” asked Tungdil, surprised. “I thought you and the thirdlings were…”
It was clear from the impresario’s appearance that the past few hours had taken their toll. His robes were torn and bloodied, although the blood wasn’t his. An angry bruise graced his right cheekbone and he was glistening with sweat.
“Lorimbas and his troops are dead,” he gasped, leaning against the wall and catching his breath. “They were decimated in the battle. We ran straight into the enemy’s traps, and Narmora left us to it. I asked for her help, but she was needed in the palace. I was hoping to find her here.” He lifted his arm, rubbed his eyes on his winged sleeve, and blinked. “Xamtys said to tell you that she’s holding her position, but the enemy units from the northern front are on their way to help their comrades. She won’t last for long.” His expression was uncharacteristically grave. “I think Narmora is trying to kill the eoîl so they won’t have a leader. At this rate there won’t be anyone left when Balendilín, Gandogar, and Glaïmbar’s armies arrive.”
“It’s down to us to stop them.” Tungdil glanced down the corridor. “Do you know the way to the second-highest tower? We think the eoîl and the last avatar might be hiding at the top.”
Rodario grinned. “I’d be delighted to take you there: In my experience, it’s generally safest in the eye of the storm. If you’re going to cuckold a man, you should stay in his bedroom; the dangerous part is trying to leave.” He pointed to a wide door leading away from the corridor. “You went right past it. Incidentally, the tower in question is situated above the wellspring.”
They ran to the door and a thirdling warrior yanked the handle and leaped away. “A monster! They’ve magicked a monster to guard the tower!”
Snarling and rasping, the creature barreled toward them through the doorway, pulling out the wooden frame and fracturing the marble wall. Through the cloud of powdered stone they saw the outlines of a monster that was clearly the creation of an unhinged god.
The four-legged creature towered above them, filling the six-pace-high corridor from ceiling to floor. It had a human body, with vast white wings and four stringy arms that allowed it to strike its enemies from afar. It wasn’t armed, having no need for swords or axes since its hands were equipped with bird-like talons, each as long as a dwarven arm and deadly sharp.
“Ye gods,” stammered Rodario, staring at the creature’s fang-lined jaws. He took a step backward. “If you ask me, this is a job for a warrior.”
“Scholar,” whispered Boïndil. “What is it? How do we kill it?”
The creature lowered its lizard-like head and peered at the dwarves with clear, pupil-less eyes. A forked purple tongue flicked toward them.
Tungdil had no recollection of any reference to such a creature in Lot-Ionan’s books. “It’s not from Girdlegard. They must have brought it from the Outer Lands—what it is, I don’t know.”
The creature flapped its powerful wings as best it could in the confines of the corridor, whipping up a hefty gust. The dwarves let go of their shields as the wind threatened to lift them into the air. Rodario was caught off guard and blown over.
Following its first, relatively harmless, display of power, the creature attacked.
Two long arms shot out and grabbed a couple of thirdlings, closing its talons around their heads and smashing their helmed skulls like eggshells. It loosed its grip, dropped the twitching bodies to the floor, and hissed in satisfaction.
The thirdlings, determined to avenge t
heir dead comrades, threw themselves on the beast, whose claws turned out to be surprisingly hard. The thirdlings’ axes bounced off them, allowing the creature to bat away their blows.
“As soon as it’s sufficiently distracted, we’ll make a run for it,” said Tungdil. He didn’t want to waste time on the monster when its masters were still at large.
“But I want to fight it,” protested Boïndil, his inner furnace spitting flames. “It’s the biggest challenge I’ve ever seen!”
“Wait till we find the eoîl,” said Tungdil, hoping to console him. He signaled to Rodario. “The thirdlings can deal with the monster. You’re coming with us.”
“I see, you want me to be your decoy,” muttered Rodario. “Oh well, someone has to do it.” He shook the dust from his robes and sprinted after the dwarves, who had spotted a gap between the monster and the stairs.
Almost instantly, a talon swooped within inches of his head. The impresario ducked, racing past the dwarves to the bottom of the tower.
The creature resorted to cunning and flapped its wings frantically, creating a wind that swirled through Rodario’s robes, causing him to topple backward and trip up the dwarves. In the resulting confusion, they failed to foresee the next attack.
The creature’s fourth arm sped toward them, hitting Tungdil’s spaulders and cutting five deep grooves. Continuing on its trajectory, it smashed into Boïndil, hitting his breastplate level with his collarbone. One of the talons pierced the metal, eliciting a shriek of pain and rage, but the hardy dwarf had the strength to raise his weapon and hew through the talon, leaving the tip embedded in his chest.
“Is that the best you can do?” he shouted scornfully. “I’ll kill your masters, then come back and chop off your wings.” He spat at the creature’s feet.
Rodario and Tungdil had to grab him by the arms and drag him away. Somehow they reached the broad staircase leading up to the tower and kept running until the steps narrowed and the monster could chase them no more. Tungdil stopped to inspect the broken talon in Boïndil’s chest. It was at least the width of two fingers.