by Markus Heitz
“You’ll lose too much blood if I try to pull it out,” he judged. “I think we should leave it alone.”
“I’ll be fine,” said Boïndil through gritted teeth. “It doesn’t especially hurt and it can’t have penetrated further than a fingertip or so. It’s a good job I was wearing my jerkin.” He tried to smile. “Just don’t let anyone wallop me in the chest.” He looked skeptically at the spiral staircase winding up the tower. It presented a considerable challenge to a dwarf in full plate armor, especially one with a hole in his chest. “This could take a while,” he said, placing his right foot on the next step and beginning the arduous ascent.
The tower was an architectural masterpiece.
The steps extended four paces from the walls of the stairwell without a rail or central pillar, and the tower itself was ten paces wide, leaving a gap of two paces at the core of the spiral. The slightest clumsiness was liable to end in a long and probably fatal fall. Winter sunshine filled the stairwell, lighting the steps.
Rodario noticed a cable, about the diameter of a finger, dangling in the empty shaft. It seemed to be suspended from above, for what purpose he could not guess. It’s probably for a bell or a gong or something. He dismissed the matter from his mind.
“What do they want with so many steps?” grumbled an out-of-breath Boïndil when they were two-thirds of the way to the top.
“It reminds me of a dwarven stronghold,” teased Rodario.
“Dwarves build towers for a reason. They’re crucial to our defenses, whereas this one…” He banged the crow’s beak impatiently against the wall. “You can’t do anything with this one. No platforms, no storerooms, no nothing—it’s useless.”
“Aren’t you forgetting the fabulous view?” puffed Rodario, who was sweating profusely like the dwarves. “The magi probably came here on clear nights to observe the celestial spectacle.”
“I wouldn’t climb all these steps just to gaze at some stupid stars,” growled Boïndil. “Besides, think of all the equipment you’d need. It would take all night to lug it to the top.” He blew out heavily. “The architect was a fool.”
When they reached the top of the stairs they saw that the sunshine wasn’t coming from above, as they had supposed, but from a cleverly positioned mirror that caught the light from three windows and channeled it into the stairwell. Next to the mirror was a door leading out to a parapet. Rodario stuck his head outside and a cold breeze ruffled his hair. “They’re still fighting,” he reported. “And unless I’m mistaken, another army is arriving from the north.” He peered into the distance. “Do you think it could be another battalion of älfar? The armor looks very dark.”
“It’s probably Belletain,” said Tungdil, elbowing him aside. “They’re coming from the right direction, but I can’t see the crests.”
“Who cares where they’re from, so long as they’re on our side.” Boïndil’s legs were shaking and he leaned against the wall. “I’ll be all right in a second,” he said.
Rodario looked at the crimson tracks on the floor. Blood was trickling between the plates of Boïndil’s armor, having leached through his jerkin. Contrary to his claims, the warrior was seriously wounded. The impresario nudged Tungdil and pointed to the blood.
“You’ll have to stay here,” said Tungdil, worried about his friend. “You won’t be any good to us if you collapse in front of the eoîl. You’re in no state to fight.”
Boïndil was unbending. “Nice try, scholar, but you said the eoîl was mine.” He took up the crow’s beak and marched with dwarven stubbornness to the door. “What are you waiting for, Sir Prattlemouth?” he demanded, winking to show that Rodario shouldn’t take offense. “Open the door!”
The impresario was staring at the cable, which ran from the top of the stairs across the floor and out of the tower through a hole in the wall. A pile of dust indicated that the hole was quite recent. Did the avatars put it there? His deliberations were interrupted by the last of the avatars.
The door flew open and a shimmering creature appeared before him, filling the tower with light.
“I knew you were here,” said a woman’s voice. She hurled a bolt of blue lightning at Bo��ndil, who wobbled under the double strain of the heat and his wounded chest. She saw that he was struggling and smiled. “Your armor won’t save you. It’s too late to stop the eoîl.”
Rodario summoned his courage. “Desist, shining conjurer, or I, Rodario the Fablemaker, first-grade apprentice to Narmora, will take your life.” He uttered a few nonsensical words, waved his arms, and activated his tinderboxes, firing burning lycopodium spores into the air.
The avatar wove a counterspell, reciting an incantation capable of defusing the most powerful magical firebolt. It had no effect whatsoever on Rodario’s props. Shrieking in pain, the startled avatar went up in flames.
The bright light went out, and Rodario and the dwarves saw that their enemy’s hair and robes were on fire.
“Ha, not so confident now, are you? Let’s see how you like this…” Encouraged by his success, the impresario hurled a phial at the avatar’s chest.
It hit her robes, bounced off, and exploded on the floor. Luckily for him, the avatar was so intent on putting out the flames that she stepped forward obligingly and put her right foot in the puddle. Smoke rose as the acid ate into her leather sole and burned the bottom of her foot.
“Good work, famulus!” whooped Boïndil. With a terrible laugh, he swung the crow’s beak at the avatar’s shoulder, impaling her on the spur. He maneuvered her to the ground, and, in an instant, Tungdil was beside them, ax raised and ready to strike.
The avatar did the first thing that came into her mind.
Instead of attacking the dwarves with firebolts, which wouldn’t have worked because of their suits, she focused on the ax, casting a spell to wrest it from Tungdil’s hands toward Boïndil’s head, causing the blade to smack into his helm.
Boïndil let out a muffled groan. The blow wasn’t enough to crack his skull, but he stumbled sideways, landing inelegantly on his rear. The weight of his armor carried him backward, and he skidded onto the steps.
“Scholar, I’m…” Clutching desperately at the air, he tumbled into the empty stairwell.
“No!” Rodario darted forward and made a grab for the dwarf, catching hold of a leather strap that instantly broke. He watched in horrified disbelief as the dwarf plummeted down the shaft of light, becoming smaller and smaller until he disappeared from sight.
Tungdil rammed his armored fist into the avatar’s face, punching her again and again until her features were a bloody pulp and her limbs stopped twitching. Drawing his dagger, he stabbed her through the heart. “I’d kill you a thousand times if I could.” His eyes welled with tears as he raised his ax and planted it in her body to punish her for Boïndil’s death.
Visor and face specked with blood, he straightened up and strode outside to tackle the eoîl.
“Where are you?” he called, looking both ways. He pressed himself against the wall and advanced along the circular ledge. Rodario followed behind him.
The shimmering figure ahead of them was attaching a diamond to a crystal container dangling by a cable from the flagpole.
“You made it all this way,” said a warm voice that left them wondering whether the speaker was male or female. Shining fingers tugged on a rope and the crystal container shot to the top of the flagpole, jigging up and down in the wind. “I admire you for your persistence, but I won’t be distracted from my purpose. If you continue to oppose me, you and your friends will die.”
“What difference does it make? You’ve killed thousands already.” Slowly, Tungdil stepped toward the eoîl. “How can you claim to be fighting for good if you wipe out everyone who gets in your way?”
“I don’t expect you to understand. You’re too wrapped up in the details to see that casualties are inevitable in the fight against evil. I’m not afraid to make sacrifices for the greater good.”
Rodario eyed him scornf
ully. “You’re only interested in power. Lirkim told me that you’re planning to carve up Girdlegard—I suppose that’s why you killed her.”
“Killed her?” The eoîl sounded surprised. “Is Lirkim dead?”
“You killed her yourself.”
“On the contrary, I was planning to rescue her—she and the others were loyal friends. I’m sorry about what happened to them, but I don’t need them now. They wanted territory and power, and I promised to give it to them. I’m interested only in the destruction of evil in all its forms. Sadly, undergroundlings aren’t generally counted as evil.” The bright oval that was the creature’s face tilted slightly as if to focus on something behind them. “If you want to know who killed Lirkim, I suggest you ask her.”
“Don’t look,” said Tungdil, gripping his ax. “It’s bound to be a trick.”
Rodario glanced over his shoulder. “Narmora?”
IX
Porista,
Former Realm of Lios Nudin,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6235th/6236th Solar Cycle
The half älf was standing right behind them. Her eyes were two dark pits and fine lines zigzagged like cracks across her face. “Don’t listen to him.” She pushed past Rodario and took up position next to Tungdil. They heard her utter a single magic word.
A dark green bolt shot from her mouth, hitting the astonished eoîl who toppled backward and hit the floor. “Your trail of destruction ends here.” She raised her arms, and green lightning flew from her fingers, crackling toward the eoîl.
Tungdil watched with bated breath. Surely it can’t be that easy to kill an eoîl? He tensed his muscles, ready to charge at the eoîl with his ax. Meanwhile, Rodario gripped his last phial of acid and prepared to hurl it at the luminous figure, should Narmora’s magic fail.
The eoîl, surrounded by malachite lightning, got to his feet and let out a tinkling laugh. His shoulders shook with mirth. Narmora lowered her head, summoning her strength to intensify the attack.
To no avail.
The eoîl raised his hand gracefully and pushed aside the web of lightning. The bolts disintegrated, setting him free. “You’ll have to explain to your friends where you got your power,” he said mildly. “No ordinary being would be capable of channeling so much energy—but you’ve got a secret, haven’t you? Maybe you should tell them.”
“Silence!” she screeched furiously, opening her mouth to begin another spell. An apple-sized ball of light sped toward her and exploded against her chest. Screaming, she dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around her stricken body.
“You’re carrying it inside you,” he said triumphantly. “You’re giving shelter to what’s left of the demon. What will your friends say, half älf?” He hurled another ball of light toward her, and she writhed on the ground, moaning. “Why did you kill Lirkim?”
“Enough!” bellowed Tungdil, striding toward him. “I won’t be distracted by your lies. Vraccas told his children to guard these lands, and I’ll fight you to the death.”
With Narmora incapacitated, the eoîl turned back to the dwarf. “You’re determined and you’re spirited,” he said approvingly. “I like that, undergroundling, which is why I’m proposing a deal.” He reached down to pick up the cable. “Let me go about my business, and I’ll order my warriors to lay down their arms. Girdlegard won’t come to any harm—with the help of the wellspring, I’ll rid your lands of evil, and every impure soul within the five ranges will perish in my flames.” He pointed to the crystal tube. “Their energy will be channeled through this stone and converted to good. Afterward, I’ll be strong enough to take on the lord of darkness himself.” The luminous oval turned to Tungdil. “It won’t take long, then I’ll leave you in peace. I’m giving you and your kinsfolk a better world—a world without älfar or beasts. Nothing that bears a trace of evil will survive the stone of judgment. Isn’t that what you want?”
Although the proposal was appealing, Tungdil couldn’t bring himself to trust the eoîl. He decided to probe a little further. “What will happen to the force fields? If you drain the wellspring, Girdlegard will be thrown into chaos and you’ll devastate the land. We’ve seen the effects of your meddling already.”
“Change means risk. Thanks to your smith, I can use the source to give me power. She gave away the secret of your armor.”
“Balyndis didn’t tell you anything.”
“No one can resist my power. The undergroundling endured unimaginable pain—she won’t remember what she said.” The eoîl glanced over the parapet. “Älvish reinforcements,” he observed. “The immortal siblings are with them—I can feel their dark power. They know I intend to wipe them out. Their dark-hearted leaders aren’t as indestructible as they claim.” He turned back to Tungdil. “Which will it be? Will you let me destroy the älfar—or do you want your friends to die?”
Rodario suddenly grasped what the eoîl was up to. The cable was made of Balyndis’s special alloy, and the eoîl was using it to connect the diamond to the spring. I need to distract him. “The decision isn’t ours to take,” he said. He took a sideways step, holding the phial behind him and dropping it on the cable at the point where it left the wall. “Tungdil can’t agree to anything without the backing of the other kings. He can’t speak for the dwarven rulers, let alone the men and elves, so if you don’t mind, I’m afraid we’ll have to—”
The eoîl raised his hand, and the impresario lifted several paces off the ground and slammed against the wall of the tower. He toppled forward and slumped over the parapet, too dazed to move.
“I didn’t ask for his opinion,” snapped the eoîl. “Well, Tungdil, what do you say?”
“I can’t agree to your proposal.”
“There’s a thin line between courage and folly.” Pointing at Tungdil with his right hand, he uttered a magic formula, but nothing happened. The acid had eaten through the cable, cutting the link to the spring.
“Courage and folly can defeat the most powerful conjurers,” retorted Tungdil, rushing forward and swinging his ax to cut down the eoîl.
Even as he raised his weapon he was overtaken by a pair of dark figures, who ran past him on either side. They were dressed in magnificent suits of black tionium with elaborate älvish helmets, and their swords were as delicate as they were deadly, with razor-sharp, finger-width blades.
Before he had time to regain his composure, Tungdil was knocked off his feet from behind. He fell, rolled over, and prepared to fight.
“You again?” He looked into the masked face of Ondori.
She lifted her black veil and smiled coldly. “The immortal siblings will handle the eoîl. It’s no job for a groundling.” She thrust her quarterstaff toward him, hitting his helmed head. Tungdil was momentarily deafened, but amid the ringing in his ears he heard her whisper, “I told you it would end this way. Look at me: Ondori is your death.” She said something in a strange tongue, then leaned forward again. “I’m going to take your life, groundling.” A blade shot out from the end of her quarterstaff and pressed against his throat. “To blazes with your soul.”
With that, the fight against the eoîl faded into insignificance as Tungdil focused his energies on survival.
Ondori raised the quarterstaff, preparing to pierce Tungdil’s throat, but he rolled to the side as best he could, gasping as the blade nicked his skin. He smelled the blood trickling from the right of his throat, a strong coppery odor, characteristic of dwarves.
Ondori kicked out, striking him just as he tried to right himself like a clumsy beetle. He flew through the air, landed and ducked beneath her blade, coming dangerously close to the parapet. Straightening up, he was just in time to anticipate the next assault.
“You killed my parents, groundling.” The tip of the quarterstaff sped toward him, and he batted it aside with his ax, only for her to flip the haft of her weapon into his visor. His head jerked back with a sickening crack. The blow would have broken the neck of a human, but it wasn’t enough to fell a determin
ed dwarf.
“My friends killed your father—and I’ll kill you too.” He slashed at her with his ax, fully expecting her to block the blade with her quarterstaff. “I warned you the first time, and I’m a dwarf of my word.” He hooked his ax around the staff, jerked the älf toward him, and swung his blade to the right.
The tactic paid off. Ondori, desperate to keep hold of her weapon, wasn’t quick enough, and the ax cut into the back of her right hand, almost chopping it in two. Dark blood gushed to the marble floor.
“I’ll sculpt a tombstone for my parents with your bones!” She stabbed at Tungdil with her staff, ramming it into his leg. He stumbled against the parapet and reached down to yank the weapon from his thigh. The blade had cut through his armor and pierced his flesh to the bone. A scream rose inside him, but he gritted his teeth, clamping his jaws until he thought he would explode.
Reaching for her belt, Ondori drew another set of weapons similar to Narmora’s crescent blades, and rushed forward to finish him off.
The duel was a fight to the death. The dwarf and the älf were both injured, but neither could land the decisive blow. They were fighting so energetically, so determinedly, that there was no time to follow the battle between the immortal siblings and the eoîl. A moment of inattention on either part would result in death.
Tungdil, limping badly, began to slow. His right leg, already unsteady, gave out completely as Ondori swung both weapons at his chest. He stumbled, falling toward his foe.
A scythe-like blade slid through the join in his breastplate and sliced through his jerkin, piercing his ribs. Weakened from his previous injury, he blacked out for a second, opening his eyes in time to see Ondori towering over him, ready to land another blow.
Mighty Vraccas, he prayed silently. Don’t abandon the elves and men. For the sake of Girdlegard, grant me the strength to prevail. He thrust his ax toward Ondori, but she batted it aside.
“Good, but not good enough,” she taunted him. Her foot sped into his face, preventing further resistance. Kneeling beside him, she set a blade against the lower edge of his helmet and pressed it against his throat. “Die, Tungdil Goldhand.” Her scarred face glowed with triumph as she contemplated killing him slowly, sinking the blade little by little into his neck, and making him suffer as she and her parents had suffered at his hands. But time was short and she decided to settle for inflicting a speedy but brutal death.