The War of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  “I’d kill Sinthoras and your mother again if I had the chance,” he mumbled. After the last kick, his mouth felt swollen and numb.

  “You’ll never kill another älf.” Ondori tensed her muscles, preparing to land the final blow.

  Just then the tower moved. Tiles, sections of roof, and wooden struts broke free and rained down on Tungdil and Ondori.

  Shocked, she raised her arm again, but the second-highest tower in Porista was bathed in searing white light.

  Tungdil, lying on his back, peered past the älf to the top of the tower. A column of light pierced the gray winter sky, topped by a white fireball ten paces across. It’s too late. The eoîl has done it.

  Magic energy rose from the vaults of the palace, pulsing through the column as the power of the wellspring was sucked toward the sky. The tower and the ground beneath it continued to shake.

  I knew it. The eoîl shouldn’t be meddling with the order of the gods. Tungdil seized his chance and grabbed Ondori’s wrist before she could lower her blade.

  Ramming her elbow into his helmet, she threw her weight behind the weapon, forcing it toward his neck. Shaking with effort, they pushed against each other, summoning the last of their strength. Ondori, it seemed, was the stronger.

  The blade nicked his neck and the älf breathed out triumphantly. “Nothing can save your pathetic little life. Die, groundling!”

  Overhead, the white sun sucked the last of the energy from the wellspring in a long, thirsty gulp. The column of magic flickered and paled.

  A split-second later, the sun exploded with a clear high tinkle, purer and brighter than the ring of a hammer on an anvil, louder than a thunderclap, and more piercing than the wail of a child. The city was steeped in light, every man, dwarf, and älf resplendent in the glow.

  Ondori’s black eyes were transformed, becoming streams of pure light. Her face contorted. “In the name of Tion, what…” Silvery light shimmered from her pores.

  Tungdil was mesmerized by the transformation taking place before his eyes. Suddenly, a dark mist rose from the älf and floated skyward. A wave of heat radiated from her body, and she opened her mouth in a bestial scream, but no sound came out. There was nothing left of her but swirling ash that scattered on the winter wind. Her clothes and her weapons had disintegrated as well.

  Just then Tungdil spotted Narmora. She had risen to her feet and was stumbling forward, wailing and screeching. Light glowed from her chest, turning to pale white flames as if her flesh were made of straw. Her screams died as she tumbled to the floor in a fiery plume.

  Shocked, Tungdil looked away. There was nothing that could be done for her. He looked in vain for the immortal siblings and their imposing black armor. Was the eoîl right? He pulled himself up and peered over the balcony to see how Porista had fared.

  Following the explosion, the magic energy had risen above the tower, fanning out and surrounding the palace like an upturned bowl. It continued to radiate outward, picking up speed and moving through houses and temples, unhindered by marble, wood, or flesh.

  The fighting had stopped on the ramparts and in the streets. Everyone was staring at the searing wall of light.

  The first unit of älfar flared with light, disintegrated and perished like Ondori. A cloud of black mist rose from the city, collecting around the diamond at the top of the flagpole. Tendrils of smoke wound themselves playfully around the precious stone, streaking the air and forming strange aerial creatures.

  Outside the city, the älvish reinforcements fled in panic, some running, others spurring their shadow mares, all desperate to escape the searing light.

  Nothing could protect them from the eoîl.

  Tungdil watched as the dark figures were consumed by light, the evil inside them rising to the diamond on the mast. The bell-like radiance continued to spread outward until its furthest edges glimmered on the horizon. Black mist wafted toward the palace, collecting overhead.

  Just then a tremor ran through the tower. The earth was shaking again.

  Glancing to the parapet, Tungdil saw the charred remains of Narmora. Lying beside her blackened ribs was a shimmering green jewel. It was true!

  “Magic should be banned,” mumbled Rodario, slowly coming to. He straightened up, saw Narmora’s charred remains, and raised his hands to his eyes. “Palandiell be with us, he killed her!”

  “She was killed by the evil within,” said a voice.

  The eoîl stood up, letting go of the two ends of the cable. The radiant aura disappeared.

  Now they could see that their antagonist was a tall, slender maiden in pure white robes. The sword in her left hand was dripping with the dark blood of the immortal siblings. The tips of her ears pointed up through her long fair hair, and her face was too narrow and beautiful to be human.

  “The stone of judgment has done its work.” She inclined her head regally toward Rodario and Tungdil. “Those who passed the test have nothing to fear.” Her blue eyes shifted to the cloud overhead. “The essence of evil,” she explained. “Don’t worry, I’ll convert it to good.” She smiled serenely.

  Rodario raised himself to his full height and glanced at Tungdil, hoping to discover what the dwarf had in mind. “You’re an… elf.”

  “I’m an eoîl, purer and nobler than my lowly cousins,” she said disdainfully. “I was touched by the hands of Sitalia herself.”

  “Give back the magic energy,” demanded Tungdil, undaunted. The pain seemed to fade as Vraccas restored his courage. At last he had a flesh-and-blood opponent: a pointy-eared eoîl who cared nothing for the suffering she inflicted and had the presumption to think that she was better than everyone else. Such arrogance was typical of her kind. “Give it back before Girdlegard is shaken to pieces.”

  She shook her head, sending ripples through her silky hair. “The magic is gone. The stone of judgment has absorbed its power.” She raised her right hand and pointed to the sky. Black clouds were blowing toward Porista from all directions, turning the dull winter afternoon to deepest night. “See?”

  Toboribor’s orcs in the south of Idoslane, Borwôl’s ogres in the northeastern reaches of Urgon, the last of the älfar in Dsôn Balsur, and other nameless beasts in the far-flung reaches of Girdlegard had been destroyed by the stone. There was nothing left except the darkness of the souls, billowing toward Porista.

  Already a vortex of energy was swirling down from the cloud and wrapping itself wraith-like around the crystal, which devoured the darkness. At once the diamond lit up, illuminating the heavens like a star. The transformation had begun.

  Rodario, his jauntiness gone, hobbled slowly over to Tungdil. Narmora’s death had affected him deeply, even though he knew of her misdeeds. “What are we going to do?”

  The dwarf thought for a moment. “Remember what Lirkim told us about her power?” he whispered.

  The impresario bent over and picked up Ondori’s quarterstaff, pretending to use it as a crutch. “She said the magic was stored in her amulets.”

  Tungdil studied the eoîl and counted two rings and an amulet hanging from her dainty neck. “Do you think she’s got any energy left?” He glanced at the flagpole. “There’s a good chance she won’t be able to use her magic until she channels the energy from the stone.” He unbuckled his greaves and tied a makeshift bandage around the wound. He wanted the eoîl to think that they had abandoned the struggle and embraced the new order. “Don’t do anything until the darkness has been absorbed. We can’t get rid of the eoîl and leave the evil in the air.” He pulled the bandage tight and knotted it in place. “Wait till she reaches for the diamond, then go.”

  The tower shook again, the blocks of marble groaning under the strain.

  “And then what?”

  “We pray to Vraccas that we’re right about the amulets.”

  Rodario smiled wryly. “I meant, what are we going to do with the diamond? I’m assuming we’ll defeat her.”

  “We’ll cast it into the wellspring and see what happens.” His brow
n eyes were grimly determined. “I can’t think of a better idea right now. The eoîl won’t hand over the diamond willingly, and she can’t be allowed to hold so much power. With the energy from the diamond she’ll be unstoppable, and she doesn’t seem terribly levelheaded.”

  Rodario tightened his grip on the quarterstaff. “I’ve run out of props,” he said, patting his empty pockets. “I’m not cut out to be a warrior. I’d rather fight with lycopodium flames and burning acid than a blade.”

  “I thought you wanted a starring role? Rodario the Fablemaker, Impresario and Warrior, Defeats the Mighty Eoîl. How’s that for a title?”

  “I wouldn’t mind if I’d rehearsed. I’ve got nothing against a bit of ad libbing, but I don’t want to fall off the stage.”

  The dwarf thumped him on the back. “You’ll be fine.” He glanced up at the sky where the last black wisps were streaming into the crystal tube. “We’ll let her think that I can’t walk properly on my own. Pretend you’re going for help, and on my signal, we’ll attack. Whoever gets to her first will have to deal the fatal blow.” The two friends shook hands.

  “I can’t carry you on my own,” Rodario said loudly. “You stay here, and I’ll go for help. You shouldn’t be walking on that leg.” He frowned, looking every inch the anxious friend. As always, he played his part to perfection, hobbling forward with the help of the quarterstaff as if he were badly wounded.

  The eoîl seemed barely aware of their presence. She was staring, transfixed, at the diamond, which was sparkling with magic light. Her face was so beautiful that Tungdil felt unwell.

  Daylight returned and gray banks of snow filled the sky, emptying their cold white cargo on the roofs of Porista. The sinister clouds had gone, the dark magic channeled through the rune-inscribed crystal tube and transformed into positive energy by the diamond.

  “My work here is done.” The eoîl hurried to the flagpole. “I promised that I would leave Girdlegard, and leave I shall. For the first time in cycles, these lands are free from evil.”

  Tungdil gave the signal and strode toward the eoîl.

  “Leave the diamond where it is,” he said threateningly. “It’s too much power for a single soul.”

  It was clear from her expression that she hadn’t expected to be challenged. “Still determined to thwart me, are you?” She raised her left arm. “I’ve never met anyone so intent on dying.”

  A long thin object whirled through the air, striking the right of her chest and knocking her backward against the parapet. Rodario, much to his surprise, had succeeded in felling the eoîl with his quarterstaff.

  “Ha!” he shouted, drawing a sword. “Some demigod you are! We know the truth about you, elf. You’re powerless without the magic of the stone.”

  Tungdil reached the flagpole and slashed the ropes with his ax. The crystal tube containing the diamond dropped into his hand. He threw away the cable and stuffed the tube behind the buckle of his belt. “You’ll have to fight me for it.” He limped toward her. “I haven’t forgotten the innocent souls who died in your fires. Don’t expect any mercy.”

  A trickle of blood left her mouth and landed on her pure white robes. She drew the quarterstaff from her side and stepped away from the parapet. A crimson halo radiated from the right of her chest. Drawing her sword, she threw herself on the dwarf, who struggled to match her incredible speed. The sword and ax met in a ringing din.

  The eoîl’s delicate beauty belied her strength. Each blow was delivered with the force of a dwarven warrior, and Tungdil swayed, struggling to keep his balance because of his wounded leg.

  Rodario rushed to his aid, swiping at the eoîl with his sword. “You’re a nifty fighter, but you can’t—” The eoîl stepped nimbly aside, dodging the awkward attack. Without taking her eyes off Tungdil, she jabbed her sword with startling rapidity at the impresario, stabbing him in the belly. Rodario doubled up, screaming in agony as she rotated the blade before whipping it out.

  Tungdil swung his ax.

  The blade whizzed toward her, heading straight for her wounded chest. The eoîl raised her sword to check the blow.

  The ax smashed down, shattering the delicate sword and continuing its trajectory. A split-second later, the ax head embedded itself in the eoîl’s chest.

  The force of the blow knocked her sideways and she stumbled into the parapet and overbalanced, pulling Tungdil, still holding the haft of his weapon, toward the edge.

  He unfurled his fingers, allowing the ax—and the eoîl—to fall. Leaning over the parapet, he watched her descent.

  Twice she knocked against the sable walls of the tower, staining them crimson as she scraped against the stone. Her fall ended at the base of the tower, her dainty body smashing against the ground.

  Tungdil stared down at the sprawled eoîl and released his pent-up breath. The gods weren’t with you. His hand patted the diamond hidden behind his belt.

  “I told you I needed more time to rehearse.” Rodario groaned and gripped his belly, trying to stem the blood. “Still, at least I didn’t fall off the stage.”

  Tungdil hobbled over and assessed his injuries at a glance. “The blade entered on the left, low enough to miss your organs,” he reassured him. “I’ll go down and…” He broke off as footsteps and jangling armor sounded from the tower. “It’s not over yet.” Placing himself in front of the injured Rodario, he drew his only weapon, a dagger, and turned to face the eoîl’s guards.

  A small figure in plate armor burst through the door, crow’s beak on high.

  Realizing that the eoîl had been defeated, he lowered his weapon and pushed back his visor to reveal a wrinkled face and a thick black beard.

  He stared at Tungdil and then the dagger. “For pity’s sake, scholar, what did I tell you? Never throw your only ax!”

  There wasn’t time to swap stories.

  The two dwarves rushed down the stairs, past the crater made by the eoîl, and into the vaults of the palace. Tungdil followed Boïndil, who knew the way to the wellspring.

  “I think it stopped my fall,” he panted. “It took ages to hit the ground and I remember praying to Vraccas to save me; then suddenly I slowed down and floated like a feather.” He pointed down the stairs into the darkness. “The source is down there. I reckon I fell on top of it. I was practically roasting by the time I reached the bottom.”

  “The armor must have saved you,” said Tungdil. “Girdlegard owes a lot to Balyndis; she’ll be proud when she hears.”

  The earth shook beneath them. This time the quake continued for a few seconds, covering the dwarves in a dusting of stone. The tower was showing signs of stress, and Tungdil spotted what looked like a crack in the wall. The shaking receded, but the ground was still moving.

  “Is it far?” he asked through gritted teeth. The pain in his thigh was almost unbearable, and he had to remind himself that Boïndil with his wounded chest was faring worse.

  “We’re not there yet, scholar.” Boïndil wished that the masters of Porista had installed a pulley system like the moving platforms in Xamtys’s stronghold that carried the firstlings up and down in the blink of an eye. “I suppose the wand-wielders used their hocus-pocus to fly up and down.” He offered his uninjured shoulder to his friend.

  At last they reached the bottom of the staircase and hurried to the center of the vaulted basement where the carpet had been cut away to reveal an array of symbols engraved on the floor. Tungdil had been expecting to find a pool or a hole in the flagstones, but there was nothing. Magical springs were clearly different to the normal variety.

  Boïndil examined the stone floor and held a hand above it tentatively. Nothing happened. “It’s stopped working.”

  Tungdil produced the crystal tube containing the diamond. “Let’s hope we can get it started.” He placed the stone gently over the runes on the floor, and they waited with bated breath.

  The trembling continued; in fact, it seemed to intensify. Cracks were spreading through the base of the tower, and fragments of sto
ne rained from the vaulted ceiling, crashing around them.

  “The tower won’t take much more,” said Boïndil, running his hand along the wall. “When it goes down, it will take the other towers and the conference chamber with it. Scholar, we need to get out.”

  Tungdil was staring at the runes, willing them to come alive and pulse with light. The diamond looked dull and lifeless. Maybe I need to smash the tube.

  “Give me that,” he said, reaching for the crow’s beak. Taking aim, he brought the butt of the weapon against the glass, smashing it to pieces. The diamond survived unscathed, but nothing happened. “What’s wrong with the accursed thing?” bellowed Tungdil. “In the name of Vraccas, come alive!” He whacked it again with the crow’s beak. “Come alive, why don’t you!”

  After the third blow, the dwarves gave up. Doubtless there was a way of releasing the magic energy, but neither of them knew how.

  The shaking was becoming more violent.

  Boïndil grabbed his friend by the shoulder. “We’ll be buried alive in a moment,” he growled. “Quick, let’s go.”

  Tungdil grabbed the diamond and they hurried out of the vaults as fast as their heavy legs and ravaged bodies would allow.

  At the door to the tower, they found the corpse of the monster, surrounded by a ring of dead dwarves, and a little further, they discovered the remains of the avatars’ guards, but of the älfar there was no trace. The palace was deserted.

  Wheezing and panting, they hurried down the sweeping stairs into the courtyard, running to catch up with Rodario, who was being carried to safety by a couple of dwarves.

  This time they made straight for the gates, knowing that the runes had lost their power. The bleached bones of intruders who had been stuck by magic to the walls now lay scattered on the ground. Porista had lost its magic.