The War of the Dwarves

“Can you stop the avatars?” asked Tungdil.

She gave a wry laugh. “What can anyone do against eleven miniature deities?” She looked crushed. “Andôkai studied for over a hundred cycles and never attained the skill and knowledge she sought. I was her apprentice for half a cycle.” She lowered her voice. “No one knows how to stop them. We know nothing about them, except that they’re lethal. Nôd’onn was right, Tungdil. He warned us about the avatars, and we killed him. The only magus with the power to destroy the avatars is dead.” She took a deep breath. “We won’t have many peaceful orbits like this. We shouldn’t spoil it with gloomy thoughts.” She turned to leave. “I’ll tell Furgas to load the catapults.”

“Tell the sentries in West Ironhald to inform us of any developments,” he said. “I only hope we can resolve things with Lorimbas before the avatars reach the border and Xamtys and her clansfolk are burned to death.”

Narmora nodded and took her leave.

“She cured Furgas even though she said she couldn’t,” Myr said thoughtfully. “Her powers must be increasing, don’t you think?”

“I hope she can handle it. We need her to be strong in spirit.” Tungdil took her in his arms. “What will become of us, Myr? Will we be killed by Lorimbas or Salfalur, or reduced to ashes by a band of demigods? Is this the end of our adventure?”

She stroked his cheeks. “I’m a medic, not a seer. I can’t foretell the future, but I’ll always be right behind you. After what happened last time, I won’t be letting you out of my sight. You could have died because of me, and nothing is going to stop me being there if you need me—not Salfalur, not the avatars, nothing.” She looked at the dwarves thronging back to the warmth of East Ironhald. “I’ll make sure my medicine bag is properly stocked. I’ll need it, if Lorimbas attacks.”

“They won’t breach the gates.”

“What if they don’t have to?”

She glanced across at Sanda, who was giving orders to the guards behind the fortified wall.

“She’ll ruin everything,” murmured Myr. “Someone needs to keep an eye on her, and it had better be me.”

The two orbits were over in no time.

Tungdil, Narmora, and the twins took up position on the ramparts and waited for Lorimbas to spin them another story or launch an attack. “Any idea what they’ve been doing?” Tungdil asked a sentry.

“Singing—standing right here, and singing. Songs about battles, songs about the other dwarves, most of them highly offensive… They wouldn’t shut up.” It was clear from his tone that the lyrics had incensed him. “We couldn’t sleep because of the noise. But the main thing is, they couldn’t bring down the gates with their voices.”

“They’ve started again,” said Boëndal, pointing to the crowds of thirdlings emerging from the cave. “They’re singing their hearts out.”

The thirdling warriors lined up in rows, the front row as long as the gates were wide. Still singing, they marched toward the mouth of the gully with Lorimbas at their head. He came to a halt some thirty paces from the gates.

“I thought you were going to show us the weapon, Lorimbas,” called Tungdil sarcastically. “Don’t say you forgot!”

“There never was a weapon, Tungdil Goldhand, you traitor,” bellowed the thirdling king. “Know this before you die. Your wise dwarven friends, the oh-so-clever humans, and the snotty-nosed elves fell for our ruse. The avatars don’t exist.”

“So now you’re pretending we were never in danger,” scoffed Tungdil, signaling to Gemmil’s warriors to heft their weapons. “I can’t fault your resourcefulness. What have you lined up next?”

“Your destruction. Right now four thousand warriors are marching on West Ironhald. They’ll storm your defenses from the west, while I lead the rest of my army to victory from the east. No dwarf, no maga, and no god can stop my conquest of the dwarven kingdoms. My spies have served me well.”

“Where’s the fat one?” hissed Boïndil suspiciously, scanning the enemy ranks. “I can’t see him anywhere. What’s happened to the others? There were five thousand of them not so long ago. A thousand are missing at least.”

“You’re right. Something funny is going on.” Tungdil turned back to Lorimbas. “If the avatars don’t exist, how do you explain the fire burning on the horizon, night after night? Can you do magic, Lorimbas?”

The thirdling king chuckled. “Oh yes, I can do magic, even without your maga’s powers. I can conjure dwarves to the Outer Lands and harness the power of sulfur to make gullible dwarves like you quake in their boots at the sight of my mighty conflagration.”

“But how did you…”

“A real hero would have explored the Blacksaddle and uncovered its secrets,” Lorimbas taunted him. “You were in our stronghold, and you never suspected how valuable it was. We’ve got our own system of tunnels, built by our ancestors many cycles ago. From the Blacksaddle, we can attack in all directions. I heard you were expecting trouble from the west, so I invented a threat.”

“You’re lying, Lorimbas.”

“The whole of Girdlegard is shaking like a leaf because I set off a few fireworks in the Outer Lands,” crowed Lorimbas.

“What about the comet? No catapult in Girdlegard has the power to—”

“The comet was real, all right. A happy coincidence for us. It landed in the Outer Lands and left a big crater. Some of my spies saw it fall. They didn’t spot an avatar, unless he was made of lava.” He slapped his thigh and shrieked with laughter. “To think you took the comet as a sign that Nôd’onn was right! You would have done anything I said to protect yourself from the imaginary threat.”

“You made the dwarves leave their kingdoms,” murmured Tungdil.

“What happens next is up to you. Either open the gates and leave with your lives—or wait for us to cut you down. My warriors will show no mercy.”

Narmora stared at the thirdling king. All lies… I lost my child, Andôkai died by my hand, and Furgas was in a coma, all because of his scheming… Her eyes darkened to fathomless hollows and she lifted her arms, causing the dwarves around her to shrink away. “Lorimbas Steelheart, you will die for your treachery,” she called menacingly.

“Not as soon as you think, witch,” he retorted, raising his horn to his lips. A moment later, the ground caved in, causing the fortified wall to collapse.

The defending dwarves crashed to the ground. Most of those on the parapets were crushed by stone blocks the size of a fully grown dwarf or buried under falling debris.

No sooner had the final block come to rest than the thirdlings surged forward, clambering over the rubble and throwing themselves on the startled defenders whose leaders had fallen with the gates.

Worse was to come.

Amid the commotion, Trovegold’s warriors heard picks and hammers breaking through the frozen ground behind them. Soon they were confronted with the missing thirdlings, as one thousand warriors led by the ferocious Salfalur emerged from a hastily built tunnel and attacked from the rear.

The first battle began.

By dusk, the bodies of three thousand defenders lay strewn between the first two gates, and the thirdlings were singing victory songs to Lorimbur.

Tungdil and the twins had managed to drag the wounded Narmora from the rubble and carry her through the second gate before the thirdlings noticed. Gemmil, Sanda, and nine hundred badly shaken warriors had also survived the assault.

Eyes closed, Narmora was concentrating on healing her wounds. The skin grew back faster than water rising in a well. She leaped to her feet. “I’m going to make that treacherous thirdling pay for his—”

“No, Narmora,” said Tungdil. “We’re abandoning the first five gates. I don’t want to lose more of our warriors to the thirdlings’ underhanded tactics. Save your strength for defending the stronghold.”

Narmora was about to reply when Myr ran up. “Come quickly, maga,” she called. “You’ll never guess what the sentries have found on the western border.”

“More warriors for me to tend?”

“Just one,” said Myr. “It’s Djern, Estimable Maga. At least, I think it is…”

“Great,” snorted Boïndil. “First Andôkai, now Narmora. Where the heck are these Djerns coming from?”

“More to the point, who are they being sent by?” muttered Tungdil. “You’re a genius, Boïndil!”

“Thank you.” The secondling paused. “Er, why?”

The little group hurried after Myr, who was racing across the bridge to the stronghold.

“You raised an excellent question, and I don’t think Lorimbas will have an answer for it—which is worrying… Very worrying.” He exchanged glances with Myr, who seemed to share his concern.

Djern, or rather, what was left of Djern, was lying on the floor.

His armor looked old and battered, with countless scratches, scorch marks, and dings. It was obvious from the broken-off swords, lances, and spikes embedded in his mail that his journey had been fraught with danger. He was smeared all over with bright yellow blood, and he hadn’t stirred since their arrival.

“Hmm,” said Boïndil, scratching his beard. “Can anyone speak Djerush?”

All eyes were turned on Narmora.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “The maga didn’t teach me his language. She took the secret with her when she died.”

“Where’s my mistress?” rasped a strange voice inside her head.

“Listen!” exclaimed Boïndil. “Did you hear him growling? Come on, buckethead, speak a language we understand!” Fearlessly, he took a few steps toward him. “You’d better not be an impostor.” He leaned over and peered at the visor. “Balyndis would know from the metalwork…” His stubby fingers reached for the beak of the visor. “I’ll take a peek at his face.”

“Tell him to stop,” said the voice to Narmora, who finally realized that Djern was talking to her. “You’ve changed, half älf. There’s something inside you—something that belonged to Nôd’onn.”

“Ha, listen to him growl,” said Boïndil, laughing. “Don’t you dare bite me,” he warned the armored giant, menacing him with the blunt edge of his ax. “I’ll wallop your metal skull so hard you’ll—”

“That’s enough, Boïndil,” snapped Narmora. “I’ve… I know what he’s saying after all.” Her lips moved effortlessly, forming strange syllables that came to her of their own accord. It must be the malachite, she thought.

“It’s not the malachite, it’s the energy within it,” said Nudin, appearing at Djern’s side. “It’s more powerful than you think.” Suddenly he was gone.

I must be hallucinating, thought Narmora, blaming it on the fall from the parapet. I’m probably still concussed. “Your mistress is dead, Djern,” she told the giant, hoping that the others hadn’t noticed her distraction. “She was murdered by a giant, a giant wearing your armor. Can you tell me what happened?”

“Are you the new maga?”

“Why won’t he get up?” asked Boïndil impatiently, prodding him in the chest with the haft of his ax. “Maybe he’s asleep. Are you sure he’s not snoring, Narmora?”

“Be quiet,” his brother shushed him, tugging him away. “Do you want him to eat you alive?”

“He’s not armed, is he? What’s a half-dead giant going to do to a warrior like me?”

“If he doesn’t stop prodding me, I’ll rip through his chain mail and tear him in two,” Djern told Narmora. “Answer my question: Are you the new maga?”

“It wasn’t my choice.” She paused. “The late maga’s legacy will abide in me forever. They call me Narmora the Unnerving.”

“You were her famula and you worship her god. Narmora the Unnerving will be my new mistress.”

“She sent you to the Outer Lands. What did you see?”

“My strength is fading, mistress. I need your help.”

“Did Andôkai have an incantation or a—”

“I don’t need magic, mistress,” he said, lifting his head a little.

“Hoorah!” whooped Boïndil, edging closer. “Old buckethead is alive! Assuming it’s really him…”

“Boïndil!” chorused the others disapprovingly. He shrugged moodily and kept quiet, although no one believed for a moment that the silence would last.

“I need your blood, mistress.”

“My blood?”

“The blood of a maga is more nourishing than my prey. It will give me power—and bind me to you.”

“Everyone out,” said Narmora, trying to hide her agitation. “I need to heal Djern’s wounds. The incantation is powerful—I don’t want anyone getting hurt.” The others traipsed out reluctantly, dragging the protesting Boïndil with them. As soon as Narmora was alone with Djern, she kneeled beside him, heart thumping in her chest, and rolled up the sleeve of her robe.

Djern raised a hand to his visor and flipped it open. It was all Narmora could do not to run away. Like Balyndis, she was filled with terror at the sight of his face. She held out her wrist.

“It will hurt, mistress,” he told her. Without warning, his head sped forward and he sank his teeth into her arm, slitting the flesh from wrist to elbow. His lipless mouth sucked the wound.

Narmora felt instantly light-headed. Every drop of blood seemed to be draining from her body. At last, when she was certain she would faint, Djern released her and she sank to the floor, murmuring an incantation to close the wound.

Djern’s eyes shone violet, the light becoming brighter and stronger, more dazzling than the sun. Beneath his armor, something was rustling, cracking, clicking. A lance dropped to the floor from his breastplate, followed by a hail of broken sword tips, arrow heads, and spikes.

“Your blood is good, mistress,” roared Djern with the energy of a young god. “You taste like Andôkai, only powerful, more powerful. You’re a good maga—strong and full of healing.” He got to his feet like a warrior raring for battle after a good night’s sleep. Bowing his armored head to Narmora, he began his account…

Andôkai sent me to look for the avatars.

I crossed the Red Range, marched across the flatlands, and came upon a raging fire and a band of dwarves. My mission was to look for avatars, not groundlings, so I continued on my way.

Next I came to a crater, four times as big as the gully and full of glowing, bubbling rock. The land beyond was charred and barren. I kept walking until I found the strewn remains of human soldiers—Weyurnians, as I realized from the crests on their blackened armor.

Soon afterward, I saw an army.

The warriors carried white banners with ten different crests and their armor was white, so white it hurt my eyes. Their mounts were whiter than any horse in Girdlegard.

I watched them from a distance to find out who they were and where they were going, but they discovered my hiding place and came for me with their swords.

For every warrior I killed, four others took his place, and four became eight. At length they overwhelmed me and brought me before seven beings, each surrounded by a ring of light that dazzled my eyes. They were wreathed in purity and I couldn’t see their faces.

They asked me where I came from, and I didn’t reply, so they tormented me with kindness, love, and warmth.

But I didn’t die like they hoped.

Summoning my strength, I broke away, anxious to tell my mistress of what I had witnessed.

They called after me that the good, pure souls of Girdlegard should fear no more. Soon, they said, the evil that had inhabited our kingdoms for cycles would be banished, and Tion and the spirit of evil would plague Girdlegard no more.

I ran for many suns and moons until I found the hidden path to the firstlings’ stronghold.

Narmora stroked her arm, marveling at the smooth, healthy skin. So that’s why the avatars are marching on Girdlegard. They think we’re still in the clutches of Nôd’onn and the Perished Land. No one’s told them that the magus was defeated.

“Thank you, Djern,” she said pensively.

“What about the dwarves, mistress?

“What about them? They were thirdlings.”

“Not the dwarves near the fire, I mean the others. Some of the warriors from the White Army followed me. They must have found the dwarves by now—the thirdlings, and the dwarves on the mountain tracks.”

The maga nodded. She didn’t much care what happened to the thirdling fire-raisers, but she was concerned about Xamtys and her dwarves. She left Djern and walked out into the corridor where Tungdil and the others were waiting.

As soon as she opened the door, they looked at her expectantly. She could see the curiosity in their eyes. “We were right to fear the avatars. They’re on their way.”

Their curiosity turned to shock.

The angry little midgets might listen to reason,” said Rodario, feeling the weight of the silence. “We need to tell them that the avatars are real.”

Tungdil, Gemmil, Narmora, the twins, and various dwarven dignitaries were in a meeting to discuss the coming threat. Meanwhile, Salfalur and his warriors were barreling through the firstlings’ defenses.

Three hundred thirdlings had died in traps rigged by Furgas, but nothing could deter the fanatical dwarf killers. Very soon they would succeed in conquering the stronghold, and the last resistance to their treachery would be crushed. But neither Lorimbas nor his warriors suspected that the avatars were real.

Boïndil burst out laughing. “Trust you to want to talk them into submission! Just imagine: the fabulous Rodario—”

The impresario raised a hand to silence him. “Rodario the Fablemaker,” he corrected him. “Perhaps my short-legged, hotheaded friend could take the trouble to address me by my proper title.”

Boïndil put his hands on his hips. “Since when have you been a wizard? You’re just a cheap conjurer with the good fortune to be acquainted with Furgas, a technician of dwarven intelligence and skill!” He tapped his forehead in mock excitement. “Maybe you could hold a poetry reading for the thirdlings! Remember how you tried to talk the runts to death?”

“There’s no need to be rude, Master Ireheart. It was merely a suggestion.”

“A bad one.”

“In your opinion.”

“Useless, actually.”

“You can do better, I suppose?”

“Quiet, both of you,” cut in Narmora. She glared at Rodario. “He’s right, by the way. Talking to the thirdlings won’t change anything.”

“Gang up on me, why don’t you?” he said, offended. “I was merely suggesting that we should explain the situation. The thirdlings have guarded the Black Range for cycles. They might be murderous traitors, but they’ve done their duty in defending the Eastern Pass.”

Boëndal made a clicking sound with his tongue. “I suppose he’s got a point. We could give it a go, but we’ll need some proper proof. The thirdlings won’t be any more inclined to trust us than we trust them.”

“I’ve sent word to Xamtys that the thirdlings were lying,” said Tungdil. “I’ve warned her about the avatars—I’m praying that the message will get to her in time.”

The door flew open. “You’re needed at the inner gates,” gasped the agitated dwarf. “Come quickly! They’ve nearly broken through.”

“I hate to say it, but Lorimbur’s children know a thing or two about fighting,” growled Boïndil, jumping up, axes at the ready, and following the dwarf. “Luckily I’m here to show them that you don’t need marks on your face to be a good warrior.” He laughed. “Let’s give the thirdlings some new tattoos.”

In spite of the bluster, Tungdil could tell that his friend wasn’t nearly as excited about slaying thirdlings as he was about killing orcs, bögnilim, and other beasts. Deep down, he doubted that they could hold the gates. The Red Range is living up to its name; the gully will be awash with blood before the orbit is out.

The dwarves’ hopes rested with Narmora’s magic, Djern’s strength, and Furgas’s technical expertise. Tungdil, after witnessing the first battle, had been awed by the thirdlings’ discipline, power, and axmanship.

No matter what happens, Salfalur won’t leave here alive. Tungdil was determined to kill him, whatever the cost. Taking up his ax, he left the hall and hurried over the bridge to the highest of the nine towers from which he could survey the action.

It was an incredible sight.

Fighting wasn’t the thirdlings’ only talent. Lorimbas’s warriors had built a three-sided tower out of the rubble of the fallen gates. The front edge of the tower was pointing straight at the twin ramparts of East Ironhald; and from Tungdil’s vantage point, it looked like an enormous guillotine.

The structure, built at an angle, was supported by struts to which ropes had been attached.

Tungdil watched as fifty warriors stepped forward, took hold of the ropes and pulled. The struts came away, the tower tilted forward, slowly at first, then faster and faster until it hit the ramparts, smashing through the fortifications like a colossal blade. The stronghold had been breached, allowing the thirdlings to charge forward.

“The freelings shouldn’t have let them build the tower,” said Boïndil, gazing down at Gemmil’s dwarves. He frowned. “Fighting isn’t their forte. In terms of pure numbers, we’ve got the advantage—not that you can tell.”

They left the tower and waited for the system of platforms and pulleys to lower them to the ground. “Xamtys had better hurry or Lorimbas will be sitting on her throne,” said Boïndil darkly as they hurried to the defenders’ aid.

Tungdil spotted the broad-shouldered commander in the front line of thirdlings. His long-handled hammer curved through the air, felling freelings with every stroke. “I’ll deal with Salfalur,” he said, closing his fingers around the haft of his ax. “You take Lorimbas.”

Molten slag poured down on the invaders from above, followed by a torrent of petroleum, which ignited as if by magic as it neared the thirdling troops.

On the left flank of the defending army, the sky was dark with fiery smoke. Narmora and Rodario were doing everything in their power to keep the thirdlings at bay. In the maga’s case, the magic was real, whereas Rodario relied on conjuring tricks and imaginary curses. Meanwhile, Djern endeavored to protect them from attack.

But even the colossal warrior did little to deter the thirdlings, who jabbed at him from a distance with lances and pikes.

Despite their efforts, the invaders had yet to reach the ramp leading to the inner rampart. The thirdlings would have to breach the gates, ascend the highest tower, and cross the bridge to conquer Xamtys’s halls. While the gates still stood, the thirdlings could kill as many defenders as they liked without taking the kingdom for themselves.

Tungdil fought his way to the front, keeping Salfalur in his sights. Just then he heard a piercing scream. Myr!

Turning, he spotted her at the gates. She was sprawled on the ground, a few paces from her medicine bag, and Sanda Flameheart was standing over her, threatening her with a single-balled flail. Behind them, the gates to the inner rampart had opened slightly. The thirdlings saw their chance.

Myr was right, thought Tungdil, pushing his way through the throng of warriors to rescue his companion. Sanda is a traitor, and I fell for her act.

Before he could reach her, Ireheart jumped in and sent Sanda crashing to the ground.

Tungdil hurried to help Myr. Her right cheek bore a fiery handprint, the thumb and four fingers burning red against her smooth, pale skin. Blood was trickling from her mouth and nose. “She opened the gates,” she croaked as Tungdil helped her to her feet. “I couldn’t stop her.”

“It’s not your fault,” he said, kissing her brow and thanking Vraccas for Boïndil’s speedy intervention. “Quick, we need to close them.” They hurried through the gates.

Tungdil cursed when he saw the traitor’s work. Sanda had sabotaged the mechanism, and the chain lay abandoned on the ground.

By now, Sanda had scrambled to her feet and was batting away Boïndil with ease, which enraged the zealous warrior. His eyes glazed over as his fiery spirit took hold of his mind and spurred him on. “I swore to protect Myr,” he growled, slashing at her furiously. “No one lays their murderous hands on my brother’s healer and gets away with it.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill her,” she told him, forced by his whirring axes to focus harder on her defense.

“Traitor!” He raised his right arm and feigned a blow.

“I’m not the traitor! She was the one who opened—” The ax veered sharply and struck her armpit. There was a sound of metal on metal, then the crunching of bone as the blade passed through her chain mail and into her arm. The stunned Sanda was still gasping with pain when Ireheart’s boot connected with her kneecap, smashing the joint, and sending her crashing to the ground.

“Liar!” screeched Myr, whipping out her dagger.

Tungdil held her back. “Look at her, Myr! She can’t hurt you now.”

“It was Myr,” gasped Sanda, trying to stem the blood with her other hand. “I tried to stop her, but I came too late.” She swallowed. “Lorimbas is her father. “

“And I’m the mighty Vraccas,” sneered Boïndil. “We’re not stupid, you know.”

“It’s the truth,” murmured Sanda, propping herself against the wall. Boïndil’s blow had severed the vessels in her armpit, and her tunic was drenched in blood. “I’ll never forget when she first arrived in Trovegold. I knew at once who she was, but she swore me to secrecy. She said her father would kill my clansfolk if I breathed a word to Gemmil or anyone else.”

“Enough of your lies!” Myr pointed at her accusingly with the dagger. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble? You’re the thirdling, not me!”

“Remember what happened in Porista? She made it look like Romo and Salfalur abducted her because she needed to hand over the information about Trovegold without arousing suspicion. Why else would they have spared her life?” Sanda closed her eyes and spoke in a whisper. “I don’t suppose she mentioned that she’s been melded twice before. The first dwarf died of a fever; the second was on his sickbed when his chamber went up in flames.” She looked at Tungdil, who gazed into her eyes and saw nothing but honesty and concern. “I realized she was after Gemmil, so I asked him to meld me instead.”

Tungdil was busy reviewing what had happened in Porista, how he had fallen ill, and what Myr had said to him after the fire. “Myr, that time at the inn when I nearly died in the fire,” he said slowly. “You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?” Her red eyes looked at him uncertainly. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her aside as if she were a naughty child. “Promise you had nothing to do with it!”

Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Tungdil, I… You can’t take her word over mine,” she protested halfheartedly.

“Promise you had nothing to do with it, and I’ll never mention it again.”

She looked at the ground. “You’ve got nothing to fear from me, Tungdil. After the fire, I realized that I couldn’t… I didn’t mean to fall in love with you, but…” She started to cry.

“Myr, tell me you’re not Lorimbas’s daughter,” whispered Tungdil. He had never felt so betrayed. He forgot about the battle and the threat from the avatars; nothing seemed to matter anymore.

She sniffed and dried her eyes on her sleeve, then looked him in the eye. “Sanda is right. I was sent by my father, Lorimbas Steelheart, to spy on the freelings and prepare the way for a thirdling invasion. I’ve always been pale-skinned; nature gave me the perfect cover. I had only to change my eye color and invent a story about my provenance. No one thought to question my origins. Then you came along.” She reached for his hand. “I was supposed to kill you, but my heart wouldn’t—”

Her gaze shifted, and her eyes filled with fear. Grabbing his shoulders, she spun him around and took his place just as something rammed into her from behind, throwing her forward. Tungdil reached out to catch her. Her mouth opened, lips moving silently, but she could barely breathe.

Standing behind her was Salfalur. He was clutching his hammer, the haft of which was tipped with a metal spike as long as a human arm. The end was resting against Tungdil’s chest, having passed through Myr.

“I would never have…” she sighed, clutching at him. “You mustn’t think too badly of me…” Her dainty body went limp in his arms. In spite of the pain, she seemed to smile at Tungdil as she died.

Salfalur drew the spike from her body. It made a soft popping noise as he pulled it clear.

“Are you satisfied now?” Tungdil laid her down gently and drew his ax. “You killed my parents, and now you’ve killed my wife.”

“Your wife?” Salfalur was still clutching his hammer and staring at Myr. “She was my wife, not yours.” With his free hand he touched the blood dribbling down the haft, then rubbed it between his fingers. “Myr was my wife, and she died because of you. I’ll make you die a thousand deaths.”

“She was your…” Aghast, Turgdil stepped back, then pulled himself together.

“Let’s settle this now,” he said grimly, preparing to fight.

They circled, waiting for the other to strike.

Salfalur was the first to attack. In his arms, the mighty hammer looked no heavier than a broom.

Tungdil braced himself, but the blow never came. In the background, Lorimbas was sounding the retreat. Looking up, Tungdil saw a battalion of firstling warriors on the parapets—Xamtys had marched ahead with half of her army to save her kingdom from falling to their dwarven foes.

Salfalur was torn between continuing the duel and doing his job as commander-in-chief. At last he lowered his hammer. His brown eyes contained a silent promise to resume the duel in another place, at another time.

Tungdil nodded.

Nyr wasn’t the last to die that orbit. Sanda Flameheart was mortally wounded.

Gemmil held her in his arms while Boïndil stood beside them, not knowing what to say.

“It’s all right,” she said, her breath coming in little gasps. “I know you didn’t mean it, Boïndil Doubleblade. I’ve heard about your curse.”

He kneeled beside her, distraught. “I’m…”

“You don’t have to explain; I forgive you.” She stretched her bloodied fingers toward him.

Boïndil took her hand and held it in silence until she passed away. “Vraccas must hate me,” he muttered. “Why can’t he kill me and be done with it?” His face was expressionless, but his eyes welled with tears. “I should have settled for stunning her, but my fiery spirit made me cut her down. First Smeralda, now Sanda…”

Gemmil stood up and signaled to some dwarves, who hoisted the dead queen gently onto their shoulders and carried her into the stronghold. “Sanda was right: You mustn’t blame yourself. You fell for Myr’s lies, and Vraccas gave you a heart of fury. It’s not your fault.” He rested a hand on the secondling’s shoulder to show there was no animosity between them; then he followed the others to the firstling halls.

An ill-fated orbit, thought Tungdil, gazing at Myr’s lifeless body. Her leather jerkin was crimson with blood. He gathered her up and picked his way through the dead and wounded toward the retreating army.

“Lorimbas!” he called loudly. “Your daughter is dead, slain by Salfalur’s hammer.” He bent down and laid her gently on the ground. “She’s yours to take if you want to bury her.”

Lorimbas stepped forward, accompanied by a score of warriors. Salfalur wasn’t among them. “Curse you, Tungdil Goldhand,” he said, kneeling beside his daughter and stroking her pure white hair. “You murdered my nephew, and now you’ve killed Myr. Everyone I ever loved is dead because of you.” He lifted her up tenderly. “We’ll never make peace. You’re like your father. He started this misery, and it will end with your death.”

“Lorimbas Steelheart!” Xamtys hurried toward them, followed by a cluster of dwarves. “I’m afraid this is all that remains of the army that you sent against West Ironhald.”

“The firstlings are better warriors than I thought.” He shot a contemptuous look at the survivors, who were covered in gashes and burns.

“The firstlings didn’t do this,” said one of them, wincing as he spoke. “It was the avatars, Your Majesty.”

“What?” Lorimbas frowned. “What do you mean, the avatars? Is this why the dwarf-queen spared you, because you promised to lie?”

“No, Your Majesty, I wouldn’t deceive you.”

“The avatars don’t exist,” shouted Lorimbas. “They’re a legend, a legend designed to frighten small children, stupid beasts, and foolish dwarves!” He hugged his daughter to his chest.

“We were marching east,” said another dwarf. “The firstlings had turned round and were on their way home. We could see them in the range ahead of us; then the cavalry attacked from behind. They were mounted on white horses and unicorns, and they rode straight into us as if we were unarmed. They were fearless.” He swayed, and one of his companions had to steady him. “Then the demigods attacked. They were as dazzling as sunlit snow, shinier than a polished diamond, and five times hotter than a dwarven forge. They were everywhere at once, attacking us with…” He paused. “I don’t know what exactly,” he whispered wretchedly. “I was struck by a cloud of light. It knocked me over, but I got up before it could hit me again. Then I ran for it. After a while, me and the others caught up with the firstlings. They made us surrender our weapons.”

At last he had Lorimbas’s full attention. “What happened to the rest of the army?”

The warrior bowed his head, revealing charred skin and a few blackened strands of hair. “I don’t know, Your Majesty. The wind was coming from behind—it was warm with glowing ash.”

“We sent a scout to the Outer Lands,” chimed in Tungdil. “He told us the same story. Queen Wey’s soldiers were destroyed by the avatars as well. It’s not a legend, King Lorimbas.”

The thirdling king hugged his daughter more tightly, smearing his armor with blood from her chest. “They can’t be real,” he whispered. “We made them up. It’s simply not possible…”

“What now, Lorimbas?” asked Xamtys bluntly. “Do you want to fight me for my kingdom, or will you join us at the western border to halt the avatars’ advance?”

He stroked the silvery down on his daughter’s cheeks. “Everything I dreamed of has been destroyed. I don’t want Girdlegard to suffer as well.” He turned toward Tungdil, but something prevented him from looking him in the eye. “When this is over, we’ll fight to the death. I should have wiped out your line when I had the chance.” He bowed his head toward Xamtys. “I hereby declare a truce between the children of Lorimbur and the dwarven folks. I swear on my daughter, whose blood stains my hands, that the thirdlings will cease hostilities until the avatars are defeated.” He turned to leave. “I’ll summon the rest of my army to the Red Range and we’ll fight the avatars together.”

“How many warriors can we count on?” asked Xamtys.

“Enough to wipe out the threat,” he growled scornfully. Cradling Myr in his arms, he joined his guards, who escorted him back to his troops.

As he passed, the thirdlings lowered their weapons, bowed their heads, and lamented the death of the thirdling princess.

V

Borengar’s Folk,

Eastern Border of the Firstling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Early Winter, 6235th Solar Cycle

Thousands and thousands of thirdlings—and I’m letting them into my kingdom…” murmured Balyndis, still in shock. “Do you think we’ll ever get them out? We nearly lost the stronghold to them. They’re invincible on the battlefield.”

She and the others had gathered in the conference hall to devise a strategy for fighting the avatars. It was clear that the demigods couldn’t be defeated by axes alone, but no one had come up with a viable plan. They were hoping that a tankard of ale and some hot food might provide the necessary inspiration.

“Look on the bright side,” said Boïndil forthrightly. “If the thirdlings are burned to a cinder by the avatars, we won’t have to worry about booting them out.” He filled his tankard from the barrel, allowing a frothy head to settle on the dark brown beer.

“It might seem premature,” said his brother, “but I think we need a plan for retaking the Blacksaddle. Once we’ve defeated the avatars—as we most certainly will—we should seize the Blacksaddle before Lorimbas attacks us through his tunnels. His army will be weak, and we’ll have the combined strength of all the dwarven folks to draw on. It’s the perfect time to strike.”

Tungdil nodded. “I’ve sent word to Gandogar, Glaïmbar, and Balendilín. Their troops will take a while to get here, but when they do, Lorimbas will see what he’s up against. We’re bound to come to an arrangement.” He bent over the table to examine the map. “We need to deal with the avatars first.”

“I’ve got five thousand warriors,” said Xamtys.

Tungdil looked at Furgas, Narmora, and Rodario. “How much time do you need?”

“I’m ready,” said Narmora. “There’s nothing I can do until they get here. I’ve got enough magic energy to take them on.” She was lucky that the dwarves knew very little about the workings of magic, otherwise they would have wondered how she could summon the strength to attack the avatars without channeling fresh energy from the force fields. The malachite was lending her formidable strength.

Furgas spread some sketches on the table. “I’ve dismantled the catapults here”—he pointed to the site of the battle with the thirdlings—“and moved them to West Ironhald. I had enough helpers to get everything up and running. We can blot out the sun if we fire all at once.”

“Excellent. How about you, Rodario?” asked Tungdil. “Sorry,” he corrected himself quickly before the impresario could protest, “Rodario the Fablemaker.”

“How kind of you to remember my title,” Rodario thanked him sourly. Rising to his feet, he assumed the air of a great orator. “You see before you the greatest living avatar-trap. I have agreed to draw the demigods to me, to make myself the target of their wrath, to sacrifice myself so that my maga, Narmora the Unnerving, can use her powers to full advantage without fear of attack.” He cleared his throat. “Naturally, I’m deeply honored to be an integral part of the heroics, but if anyone would like to share the glory…” There was silence. “Anyone at all?… I thought as much,” he muttered grimly, sitting back down. “The poor supporting actors always get killed off. I hope Girdlegard honors my memory.”

“You’re not going to die, Rodario,” said Tungdil. “I’m sure you’ll be treading the boards of the Curiosum in no time at all.”

“I can see it already,” said Boïndil, swallowing the last of his beer. “The Incredible Story of How Rodario the Fablemaker Saved Girdlegard from the Fiery Avatars. You’ll need a few jokes to liven it up. Did you hear about the orc who asked a dwarf for directions?”

“Go on,” said the impresario eagerly, reaching for his quill.

The discussion was cut short by news that Lorimbas’s warriors had arrived. Xamtys led the others to the entrance hall where they watched from the gallery as the thirdlings, bristling with weaponry and covered from head to toe in heavy armor, streamed through the doors below. Entire units were composed of grim-faced tattooed warriors, the thirdling elite. It was obvious from their expressions that they resented entering the kingdom as allies. For a moment the stronghold was silent except for jangling mail and the steady thump of booted feet.

“Are you sure they’re not dangerous?” ventured Rodario nervously. “If I were an avatar, I’d give myself up.”

“If you were an avatar, Girdlegard would be safe,” commented Boïndil. He sniffed loudly and snotted on the warriors below, missing a ferocious tattooed thirdling by a dwarven whisker. “The famous dwarf killers. I know they’re on our side, but I’m not inclined to trust them. I recommend you watch your backs.”

Tungdil straightened up and clapped the twins on the shoulders. “We’re needed in West Ironhald. It’s time to save Girdlegard—this time without Keenfire’s help.”

They traveled through an underground tunnel beneath Xamtys’s halls to reach the fortifications on the other side of the range.

West Ironhald was a perfect copy of its counterpart on the eastern flanks of the range. Queen Xamtys had rebuilt the walls to match the improvements made to East Ironhald, ensuring that both strongholds were sturdy enough to withstand the winter snow. Six fortified walls barred the steep-sided gully leading from the Outer Lands to West Ironhald, protected by twin ramparts, nine towers, and a bridge.

Tungdil and the others were greeted by a remarkable sight: Lined up on the ramparts beside the firstlings were Gemmil’s freelings and Lorimbas’s thirdlings. The three groups, divided by history, tradition, and outlook, had been brought together by a common goal: the protection of Girdlegard against invaders. Shoulder to shoulder they waited for the avatars to arrive.

Tungdil took up position in his favorite observation post and surveyed the thirdlings from the highest of West Ironhald’s nine towers. According to his estimates, Lorimbas had summoned over twenty thousand warriors. Xamtys was right. It would take more than the firstlings and freelings to defeat the thirdling army. He turned back to the gully and looked for signs of the enemy, although he didn’t know what to expect.

It was nearly dusk when he spotted a fierce white light at the end of the gully. Steadily the light drew closer, like a pure white sun rolling toward the range, sending its scorching rays skyward and lighting up the clouds.

Even from a distance, Tungdil could tell that it was dazzlingly bright. He could barely look at it without screwing up his eyes.

“This is it,” said Narmora, joining him in the tower. She placed her hands on the parapet and stared at the glow. “Suppose we were to tell them that Nôd’onn and the Perished Land have been defeated? They might call off the invasion.”

“How would we get them to listen to us?”

“With the help of a maiden.”

“Is Djern hungry again?” enquired Rodario, stationing himself beside the maga. “Don’t be foolish,” she reprimanded him. “The avatars respect purity, so they won’t kill an innocent maiden—well, I’d be surprised if they did.” She turned to Tungdil. “We need someone to walk out and tell them that Girdlegard is safe. I’d do it myself, but I’m not sure the avatars would listen to a follower of Samusin.”

“Will they listen to anyone?”

“We won’t know unless we try,” she said. “Sometimes the simplest solution is the best.”

That night, a young dwarf wrapped in white furs left the stronghold. At only twenty-four cycles, Fyrna Goodsoul of the clan of the Ore Finders was a child by dwarven standards. Xamtys had chosen her from the group of volunteers—young dwarves who were yet to be melded.

The wording of the message had been given to her by Narmora. “Stick to the script,” the maga reminded her. “If they want to negotiate, tell them you’ll pass on their demands. Don’t mention our army or our plans.”

The young dwarf listened attentively and set off briskly through the gully, heart quickening as she left the safety of the fortified walls.

The dwarves watched as she hurried through the sweeping gully and disappeared from view. All they could do was wait and pray.

The bright light moved closer and closer.

Some time around midnight, when the moon was high above the range, the light came to a halt, sparking a flurry of excitement among the anxious dwarves.

“They’ve found Fyrna,” whispered Xamtys. “Vraccas, protect the dear child.”

Narmora rested her elbows on the parapet and leaned forward, focusing on the glow. “I hope it’s enough to dissuade them from invading.”

“Look!” shouted Boïndil, tugging at Tungdil’s sleeve. “It’s fading!”

“Vraccas be praised!” cried Xamtys. “I’ll melt down every ingot in my kingdom in honor of the Smith.”

As they watched, the light faded to a faint glow on the mountain slopes; then the gully was shrouded in darkness once more.

It worked! Tungdil smiled and turned to Narmora. “You were right! The simplest solution turned out to be the best!”

Everyone in the stronghold and on the ramparts was watching as well. As soon as the light went out, they cheered and hugged each other. Firstlings, thirdlings, and freelings, together they rejoiced, their differences forgotten—temporarily, at least.

“Let’s see what Fyrna has to say.” Tungdil shook the maga’s hand and went to fetch a mug of hot spiced beer before hurrying back to the tower to wait for the plucky firstling to return.

The night wore on.

At dawn, the sun rose over the ridge, warming the shivering dwarves with its soft yellow rays. Their confidence grew.

But there was still no sign of Fyrna Goodsoul.

By noon, snow clouds were gathering over the gully, and Xamtys dispatched a band of warriors to hunt for the missing dwarf. It wouldn’t be safe to leave the stronghold once the weather closed in.

Several hours later the warriors returned with Fyrna, unconscious but alive. The maga examined her and diagnosed a mild case of frostbite from sleeping in the snow.

“She’ll be fine,” said Narmora, after reviving Fyrna’s fingers and toes. She patted the dwarf on the cheek to wake her and handed her a beaker of hot lichen tea.

Fyrna gulped it down. “I failed, Your Majesty,” she said, shivering. She bowed her head wretchedly. “I’m sorry, Queen Xamtys.”

“Sorry? What’s the matter with her?” spluttered Boïndil, peering over the parapet. “The avatars have gone. There’s no sign of them anywhere—unless they’re too darned pure for me to see.”

“Shush,” growled Boëndal, giving him a warning prod.

“I got as close as I could, like you told me to, but the light was really bright. In the end, I called out, and a creature of pure light flew toward me and asked me what I wanted.” The young firstling glanced at Narmora. “I repeated the words you taught me, Estimable Maga, but the creature just laughed. The noise went straight through me; it was high-pitched and cruel.” She took another sip of tea. “The creature said not to worry, it would be over really soon. Then it touched me, and I… The next thing I knew, I was here.”

Tungdil looked at his friends’ worried faces. “If they’re not here or in the gully, where are they?”

“In the tunnels,” rasped a voice behind them. King Lorimbas had joined them and heard the end of Fyrna’s story. “One of my tunnels comes up in the gully.”

Tungdil shuddered. “They’ll go straight to the Blacksaddle. Your guards won’t be expecting them—and the rest of your army is here.”

An appalled silence descended on the group. In their minds, they could see the pure light hovering over the Blacksaddle while the avatars poured out of the stronghold, laying waste to Girdlegard as they hunted for an evil that didn’t exist.

“What are we waiting for?” said Boïndil after a time. “We know where we’re needed!”

Blacksaddle,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Early Winter, 6235th Solar Cycle

Theogil Hardhand gripped the chain with both hands and pulled as hard as he could. The block and pulley system made lifting the driverless wagon relatively easy. He hoisted it into the air and swung it away from the rail.

The real question was how it had got there.

He had arrived at the depot to find an empty wagon blocking the rail. He guessed it had rolled through the tunnel from a disused platform, in which case it was lucky it hadn’t collided with a convoy of dwarves. At any rate, it had to be shifted: The last few thirdlings were preparing to leave the Blacksaddle to join Lorimbas in the west.

“Let’s get you moving,” he muttered, pushing the wagon with one hand. It was linked by a cable to a runner on the ceiling, so he barely had to steer.

He stopped at the rear of the hall where the extra wagons were kept. Carefully, he lowered it to the ground, unhooked it from the cable, and placed his hands on the back to push it the final few paces. Just then he heard a noise.

It seemed to be coming from the tunnel, and it sounded like a convoy of wagons rattling down the rails.

New arrivals? he thought in surprise, ticking off the battalions in his mind. Every single thirdling unit was either waiting to depart from the Blacksaddle or already en route to the west. Lorimbas’s summons had caused consternation among the thirdlings, but orders were orders, and the warriors had left without delay.

He abandoned the wagon and made his way carefully to the mouth of the tunnel. Holding his breath, he listened intently until he was sure of the source of the noise. It was as he thought. The rumbling and clattering was getting louder.

Darned fools, he grumbled irritably. What’s the point of having a braking zone if they can’t be trusted to leave a proper gap? They’ll cause a pile-up.

He hurriedly tossed a few extra sacks of straw onto the buffers in the hope of saving the passengers from serious harm, then he took up position in the signal box, intending to throw the lever as soon as the convoy arrived. By diverting the wagons onto different platforms, he could reduce the risk of a crash. He couldn’t help wondering why the wagons were heading in his direction at all.

Staring into the dark mouth of the tunnel, he waited for the lead wagon’s lanterns to come into view.

A few moments later, he glimpsed a light—a light so bright that he wondered briefly whether the sun had fallen through the rock. No dwarven lantern could cast a glow like that. As the wagons drew nearer, Theogil turned away, dazzled by the glare.

What is it? A new invention, perhaps? Keeping his back to the tunnel, he decided to rely on his hearing instead.

At last he heard screeching metal as the brake blocks pressed against the narrow wheels, forcing them to slow. The wagons’ arrival was heralded by a sudden rush of air.

Theogil detected a strange smell that wasn’t dwarven or human, and had nothing to do with elves or beasts. The wind tugged at his beard, set his chain mail aquiver, and brought him the odor of oiled weaponry, polished metal, and clean hands. All in all, it smelled somehow pure. The first wagon shot out of the tunnel, illuminating every corner of the hall.

“Put the darned thing out,” he shouted. The brightness was so unbearable that his eyes brimmed with tears and he had to close them. Thereafter he worked in darkness, pumping the lever up and down and switching the points in time with the clattering of each wagon. “Everyone out,” he ordered, raising his voice above the din. “Get the wagons off the rails or we’ll have a collision.”

The light intensified, becoming so bright that he could see the red of his eyelids. The light shone straight through them, as if he were looking directly at the midday sun.

He felt a sudden wave of heat, and someone grabbed him by the shoulder, and pulled him away from the lever. “Hey, you’re burning me!” he protested, feeling the searing pain in his shoulder. He opened his eyes and blinked.

The creature in front of him was made of pure light. It was as tall as a human and wreathed in a white halo that was painful to behold. The air in the hall seemed to shimmer. “Greetings, undergroundling,” the creature greeted him in a kindly voice. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you if your soul is true.”

Theogil reached for his club and took a step backward. “Who are you?” he asked gruffly. “And who said you could use our wagons?”

With his free hand, he unhooked a horn from his belt and held it to his lips, but before he could sound the alarm, the creature stretched a hand, sending a bolt of light toward the horn, which ignited with a roar.

Theogil dropped the bugle before his beard went up in flames. He knew without a shred of doubt what was happening: The avatars had arrived.

In proper dwarven fashion, he gripped the club with both hands and brandished it menacingly. “Be off with you. You’ve no right to bring death and destruction to these lands.”

“I beg your pardon,” the creature said politely, “but our mission is to stamp out evil in all its forms. A dwarf-girl told us that Nôd’onn has been destroyed, but we’ve heard of other creatures, creatures that worship Tion or were fashioned by his hand.” The avatar took a step closer, and Theogil, who had spent countless orbits in the forge, was forced to draw back from the heat. “Honorable undergroundling, descendant of the worthy Essgar, tell us where we can find the älfar. Our soldiers will wipe out their army and burn their evil souls. You’ll never have anything to fear from them again.”

“Be off!” commanded Theogil, raising his club. “We’ll deal with Inàste’s pointy-ears ourselves. No one asked for your help. You wipe out good as well as evil.”

“Only the pure can look on us and live. Those who perish were found wanting.”

Before Theogil could react, the avatar’s hand was resting on his head. “Are you pure, undergroundling, or will you perish in our flames?”

Theogil felt crippled by the terrible heat. Red-hot metal seemed to press against his temples, cutting through his skull, and desiccating his brain. His arms grew heavy and fell to his sides, and his fingers unfurled, letting go of the club.

“You should have told the truth,” the creature admonished him. “Why didn’t you tell us about the orcs? Toboribor is the name of their kingdom, is it? And what of the ogres? I see mountains swarming with ogres… The realm of Borwôl, northeast of here…” He laughed, satisfied. “Our army will be busy in Girdlegard. Soon the men, elves, and undergroundlings will be freed from Tion’s beasts.” The creature released its searing grip on his head. Dazed, Theogil stumbled back and steadied himself against a metal rail. “Don’t interfere with the will of the deities,” the avatar warned him, stepping back. “Anyone who stands in our way is an ally of evil.”

Theogil shielded his face with his hands to block out the light and peered through his fingers at the rest of the hall.

Warriors were descending from the wagons and forming orderly lines. Their armor and banners were white, and they didn’t seem to mind the glare, which was so intense that Theogil was afraid his eyes would shrivel in their sockets. He blinked, just in case.

The commotion in the depot came to the attention of the thirdlings in the other halls.

Theogil spotted a group of sentries creeping down the wide stairway. As soon as they saw what was happening, they sounded the alarm. A bugle call echoed through the passageways and galleries of the Blacksaddle, calling the children of Lorimbur, few of whom remained in the stronghold, to arms.

The avatar paused and marched back to Theogil, who reached for his club. “Poor stubborn undergroundlings,” the creature said sadly. “We should be allies, but you’ve chosen to oppose us. We can’t be held responsible for your deaths.”

“Our deaths? I’ll teach you to respect a dwarven warrior,” growled Theogil. He let out a ferocious war cry and bounded forward, swinging his club.

Even before he reached his fiery antagonist, the heat became unbearable. His chain mail burned red against his skin, the air reeked of scorched leather, and his sinew and blood evaporated faster than a drop of water in a fire.

Nothing remained of Theogil Hardhand but a mound of ashes and a few blackened bones. A moment later, they too were crushed and scattered by the pounding boots of the avatars’ soldiers as they charged the defending dwarves.

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6235th Solar Cycle

Boïndil trudged through the freshly fallen snow that lay like a coating of icing sugar over the fields, trees, and tents. He was the last to arrive at the meeting, and he made his way straight to the campfire and helped himself to a tankard of warm beer. Like the others, he was keen to have a nice, restful evening in preparation for their arrival at the Blacksaddle at noon the next orbit. They were expecting to find the avatars in the dwarven stronghold.

“They’ve got a funny way of wiping out evil,” said Boïndil vehemently. “You can tell they’re descended from Tion; nothing good ever came of him.” He drained his tankard and went back for more. His pinprick eyes settled on Tungdil. “Any news from our scouts?”

“Only that the avatars’ cavalry has arrived in the stronghold,” chimed in Lorimbas. “They rode part of the way underground, and the tunnels collapsed behind them.”

“How do you know?” asked Boïndil.

“Because of the cracks on the surface,” explained the thirdling king. “Most of our tunnels have been destroyed. Anything left standing after the comet and the earthquake has been brought down by the avatars and their army.”

Xamtys nodded. “I heard the same from my scouts. The underground network around the Red Range is dangerously unstable. Balendilín, Gandogar, and Glaïmbar will have to send their armies overland.”

“It won’t be easy,” said Tungdil, turning back to the map. In his mind, he charted the rest of the avatars’ route, which, assuming they stuck to their current course, would take them straight to Dsôn Balsur. “From their point of view, it makes perfect sense to attack the älfar,” he said. “They’re the biggest threat to our safety, especially with the added power from the dark water. I’d say they were a worthy target for a band of demigods.”

“It’s a pity the avatars are so destructive,” said Xamtys. “I mean, it’s almost tempting to let them get on with it. They’re capable of wiping out the älfar, which isn’t true of us. Ever since the älfar butchered an entire camp of allied soldiers in Dsôn Balsur, the human soldiers have been deserting in droves. No one wants to face the älfar.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Tungdil. “The dark water has made them deadlier than ever.” He paused. “I’ve heard from our scouts that the snow around the Blacksaddle has melted completely, while the rest of Gauragar is covered in thigh-high drifts. Are you ready to take on the avatars, Narmora?”

The maga looked at the flickering flame of the lantern overhead. “I keep wondering whether my kind of magic can stop them,” she said slowly. “My way is the way of equilibrium, the balancing of darkness and light. My power comes from both, but it might be better to attack them with pure light.” She looked away from the flame. “We’ll soon find out.”

“I’ll be right beside you, maga,” said Rodario in a voice that he hoped was suitably comforting. “I’ll make them believe I’m the most powerful magus in Girdlegard so you can attack them without endangering your valuable person.” He took a swig of beer and grimaced: It was too bitter, too strong, too malty for his taste. “At least that’s the aim,” he added quietly. He lowered his voice again. “I hope you’ll erect a statue in my honor when I’m dead.”

His comment was met with silence from the maga, who pretended not to hear.

Tungdil noticed that Djern had positioned himself behind his new mistress, ready to spring into action at the first sign of danger. His damaged armor made him more intimidating than ever, the scratches and burn marks proving that neither swords nor fire could bring him down.

Tungdil, thinking about it more carefully, realized that Djern’s escape from the avatars didn’t make sense. The experience of those who had encountered the demigods confirmed the legend in every detail. The avatars were in possession of magic powers capable of destroying all forms of evil. There were two categories of survivors: those who had the good fortune to escape their attention, and those who satisfied their cockeyed notion of purity.

But Djern is still alive, and they had every reason to kill him. He’s a creature of evil, and he’s powerful, which makes him a hundred times more dangerous than orcs, bögnilim, or ogres. A shiver of excitement ran down his back. He survived their attacks, and he survived for a reason.

Without a word to the others, he went over to the giant warrior and ran a hand over his armor, following the lines and curves of the scorched intarsia and studying the symbols etched by Balyndis at Andôkai’s behest. Is that the answer?

Rodario cleared his throat. “May I ask what you’re doing, illustrious hero of the Blacksaddle? I know it’s hard for a dwarf to resist a good piece of metalwork, but don’t you think we should deal with the avatars first?”

Tungdil ignored him and turned to Narmora. “Maga, ask Djern what happened when the avatars attacked.”

“Ask him yourself,” she said. “He understands you.” She listened to the giant’s response, which she alone could understand. “I see. He says they attacked him with their magic.”

Tungdil took a step back and thumped Djern’s armor. “So why did he survive? The thirdlings were clad in armor and they perished in the avatars’ fires.” He turned to the others. “Djern is precisely the sort of creature they’re out to destroy. They must have done everything in their power to kill him, and what did they achieve? Practically nothing—except cover him in soot. His only injuries were inflicted by their army.”

“You think he was saved by his armor,” said Boëndal. He could tell from Narmora’s expression that she was thinking the same. “Andôkai must have found a countercharm to protect him.”

Narmora shook her head. “She would have told us. Why keep it to herself?”

“Maybe she didn’t want to get our hopes up,” suggested Rodario. “Maybe she sent her knight in shining armor to see what happened when the avatars attacked. She was probably going to tell us when she knew for certain that it worked.”

“Not Andôkai—she cared too much about Djern to put him at risk. The avatars weren’t supposed to find him, but they did.” She signaled for Tungdil to step away from the giant. “We’ll try a little test.” After warning Djern, she raised her arms and began an incantation.

“Steady on, Narmora,” protested Boïndil. “You can’t set fire to Djern in a tent!” The maga continued, undeterred. A tongue of fire pulled away from the lantern above her and flew into her outstretched hands, turning from orange to ruby-red. The flame grew and expanded until it was the size of a human head, then it cast itself, hissing and spluttering, against the giant’s armored chest.

There was a loud explosion, and Djern was wreathed in flames. At once the runes on his armor pulsed with light, and the fire went out. Djern didn’t so much as flinch.

“Fine, I’ll take it up a notch,” murmured Narmora, raising her right arm and summoning tongues of fire from every lantern in the tent. They gathered in her fingers, forming a red-hot fireball that she hurled at his chest.

Again the giant was surrounded by flames. This time, the force of the impact brought him to his knees, but he straightened up as soon as the flames had died. He growled softly.

“He says he felt the heat, but it couldn’t hurt him,” explained Narmora, who was visibly surprised by what had occurred. She clicked her fingers, and the flames returned to the lanterns, restoring light to the tent. “You’d better not say I was going easy on him,” she told them. “The fireball was hot enough to melt any normal metal.” She stepped up to the giant, inspected his breastplate, and laid a hand on the metal. “It’s warm,” she said, shaking her head incredulously. “The runes are still alight, but there’s no sign of warping.” She turned to the dwarves. “I think we can safely say that Balyndis has forged a suit of armor that works against magic as well as swords.”

Tungdil breathed out in relief. “Vraccas knew what he was doing when he gave us a talent for metalwork. He’s given us another chance to protect our lands.” Kneeling, he gave thanks to the dwarven deity.

The other dwarves, with the exception of Lorimbas, followed his lead.

The thirdling king let his eyes glide contemptuously over their bowed heads. He felt like cleaving their necks with his ax, but he was their ally—for the moment, at least. Vraccas won’t save you from Lorimbur’s children, he vowed.

Tungdil was the first to rise. “We need to summon Balyndis,” he announced, buoyed by the thought that help was at hand. “Send word that we need the instructions for Djern’s armor.” He wondered whether Vraccas was testing his character. I tried to get away from her, but it doesn’t seem to work.

“We’ll need ten thousand suits,” said Boëndal, leaning on his crow’s beak. “I’m no coward, but I don’t fancy our chances of fighting them without the magic armor. We’d be throwing away our lives.”

Tungdil gave orders for four messengers to leave immediately for the Gray Range via four different routes—it was crucial that the message got through. “We’ll decide what to do when we see the situation at the Blacksaddle tomorrow. I’d rather not fight without the armor, but we may not have a choice.” He pointed to the menacing black lines on the map that designated the kingdom of Dsôn Balsur. “The avatars are rumored to draw their power from the evil they destroy. Once the avatars wipe out the älfar, they’ll be stronger than ever. Who knows if the armor will still work.”

“Stop fretting,” said Boïndil cheerfully. “I can’t wait for Balyndis to forge me a fine new suit of armor. I’ll teach the avatars not to tangle with the dwarves. By the way, the first ten are mine.”

“There are only eleven of them,” Boëndal reminded him. The others laughed.

Grinning, Boïndil clinked tankards with his brother. “Tough luck,” he said, chuckling. “You’ll have to work it out among yourselves.”

Their high spirits lasted until mid-afternoon the next orbit when the Blacksaddle came into view.

As they approached the mountain, they realized that the gloomy clouds in the gray winter sky weren’t loaded with snow, as they had thought, but with smoke. And there was no doubt about the origin of the fire.

The mountain without a peak had become a blazing pyre.

The very rock of the Blacksaddle was burning, the mountainside a sheet of red-hot fire, with tongues of flame rising from every crack and vent. Black smoke cut off the sunlight, obscuring the sky, and turning the noon hours into dusk. Vast chunks of rock broke away from the Blacksaddle and plunged to the ground. The snow had evaporated and the soil around the mountain was powdery and dry. As they watched, the flames grew fiercer, leaping as if to ignite the sun.

“It doesn’t seem possible,” gasped Xamtys.

“How did they do it, maga?” asked Boïndil. “Did they turn the Blacksaddle into coal?”

Narmora’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a warning,” she said. “A warning to anyone thinking of following them. They’re showing us their power.”

“What a disaster,” sighed Rodario. “How am I supposed to re-create it on stage?” He looked hopefully at Furgas, who shrugged.

Tungdil shouldered his ax. “Let’s take a look at the damage.”

The devastation was complete.

At five hundred paces from the Blacksaddle, the snow turned to slush. Three hundred paces later, they were walking on firm, dry earth, raising clouds of dust with their boots. At a distance of a hundred and fifty paces, they came to a halt. Any closer, and they were liable to be killed by flying rock. Scattered in the dust were fragments of axes and clubs, scorched bones, and warped armor caked with charred flesh. The Blacksaddle’s defenders were no more.

Lorimbas gazed at the devastation, eyes wet with tears. “To you they were thirdlings,” he said quietly with a catch in his voice. “But to me they were friends—friends, whose deaths must be avenged.” The sight of the burning Blacksaddle ignited the fires in every thirdling heart: For Lorimbas and his dwarves, the war had become personal.

“We’re done for,” muttered Rodario, kicking at the powdery gray earth. “Surely we’re all agreed that it’s no good fighting them without Balyndis’s armor?”

“We may have no choice,” said Lorimbas grimly, looking at the gray trail left in the avatars’ wake. A vast path of dusty earth, a hundred paces across and bordered on both sides by snow, was proof of the direction they had taken: The army was marching north. Lorimbas bent down and picked up an ax head; it was still attached to a charred fragment of haft. “Goldhand is right. We need to stop them before they reach Dsôn Balsur and wipe out the älfar. They’re powerful enough as it is.”

“Who would have thought it would come to this?” remarked Boïndil. “All this time we’ve been trying to kick out Inàste’s children, and at last there’s someone who could do the job for us, but instead of letting them burn down Dsôn Balsur, we’re going to jump to the älfar’s defense.”

“It doesn’t seem right,” agreed Tungdil, “but we can’t let the avatars get to Dsôn Balsur. In any case, we’re not defending the älfar; we’re postponing their death.” He glanced at Lorimbas. “Can you spare ten thousand warriors? I want to outflank the avatars and squeeze them between two fronts.”

Lorimbas nominated his elite battalions for the advance guard, which would consist of Tungdil, Narmora, Rodario, and the twins.

“We’ll cut off the White Army before it reaches Dsôn Balsur,” explained Tungdil. “Meanwhile, Lorimbas, Gemmil, and Xamtys will attack with the rest of our troops from the rear. Narmora will take care of the avatars.” He thumped Boïndil on the back. “How’s that for a challenge?”

“No challenge is too big for a dwarf,” said Boïndil, although he didn’t seem terribly confident.

It was late afternoon when Tungdil set off with ten thousand thirdlings on a northerly bearing. By the time they left the Blacksaddle, the once legendary mountain resembled a broad-based hill, fifty paces in height and riven with cracks and fissures; by evening, when they stopped to rest for a while, it was gone. A few flames remained to mark the spot where the powerful Blacksaddle had once stood. Tion’s demigods had razed it to the ground.

Tungdil was intent on catching and passing the avatars’ army. At night, its bright white glow was visible for hundreds of miles against the black firmament, but the dwarven warriors were still hopelessly behind.

It seemed the White Army could march without rest. Their soldiers were on the move from dawn until dusk, racking up the miles, while Tungdil and the others were feeling the strain of ten orbits of constant marching.

“Another ten orbits, and they’ll be there,” said Boïndil, sitting down by the campfire to examine his blisters. “We can hardly keep up with them, so how are Lorimbas, Gemmil, and Xamtys supposed to get there in time? We’ve got ten thousand elite thirdling warriors, and we’re falling off the pace.”

Tungdil pored over the map. The other dwarves at the campfire were thirdling generals; it was hard to tell from their tattooed faces what they were thinking. “We said we’d strike here,” he said, lowering the stem of his pipe over an area south of Dsôn Balsur. He did some quick calculations. “If we hurry, we can catch them right on the border. It’s the earliest possible chance of attack. I’ll send word to the others to tell them of the change of plan.”

The thirdling generals listened in silence.

“It’s risky, but it’s the only way,” agreed Boëndal. “They’ll speed up as soon as they see the border. They’ll want to push on to the capital as fast as they can.”

“I know, but we won’t catch them beforehand,” ruled Tungdil, turning his attention to a written report from one of the scouts who was tracking the enemy army, unbeknown to the avatars.

So far, the invaders had laid waste to four towns en route to the älfar’s kingdom. The inhabitants had refused to join the army, in return for which the avatars had plundered and burned their homes.

According to the report, few had survived, for the most part children and young girls whom the avatars had spared. Everyone else had been burned to a cinder like the thirdlings at the Blacksaddle. Forests, fields, meadows, marshes—everything the avatars encountered was destroyed. The demigods were leaving a trail of ashes and scorched earth.

It seemed to Tungdil that the men and dwarves, while far from pure, had done nothing to merit such a fate. I don’t think much of divine justice, if that’s what it is. Not even the älfar have wreaked such destruction on Girdlegard. He threw the bulletins into the fire and watched as the paper crumpled. His thoughts returned to the Blacksaddle and the dwarves who had died in the blaze. The avatars are worse than älfar, orcs, and bögnilim combined.

That night he dreamed of Balyndis and Myr.

They were fighting for his favor, Balyndis, equipped with a blacksmith’s hammer and a pair of metal tongs, and Myr wielding daggers. The duel was interrupted by Salfalur, who killed them both with his hammer. Tears streaming down his tattooed cheeks, he turned on Tungdil and charged…

Tungdil woke with a start.

Boïndil was crouched next to him, shaking his shoulder. “Come on, scholar. The White Army is on the move. Anyone would think they’d got wind of our plans.”

Muttering and cursing, Tungdil clambered to his feet, put on his weapons belt, stuffed his blanket into his rucksack, and jogged to the front of the thirdling battalions. The thirdling generals had set off without him. If it hadn’t been for Boïndil, he would have woken by the campfire to find everyone had gone.

He felt the eyes on his back as he made his way to the head of the army. Boïndil was right: He would never trust a thirdling in battle, even though he was a thirdling himself.

82 Miles Southwest of Dsôn Balsur,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6235th Solar Cycle

Ondori turned her fire bull and looked proudly at the unit of four thousand warriors marching behind her through the night.

They were stronger than ever, having partaken of the dark water and profited from its life-preserving power.

The immortal siblings had ordered Ondori to lead the troops against Âlandur and wipe out the elves. The älf couldn’t have wished for a more glorious mission. A duel with Lord Liútasil would give her tremendous pleasure and she was happy to delay her private campaign against the dwarves. Besides, with the help of the dark water, she could settle her score with Tungdil whenever she wanted.

With a bit of luck, and Tion willing, Ondori was hoping to put an end to Sitalia’s elves. If the initial attack went well, she and her warriors would march on the rest of the kingdom and raze the leafy elven settlements to the ground. The immortal siblings’ palace would be clad from top to bottom in shiny white elf-bone, and Liútasil’s skull would be skewered at the top.

Hmm, what do we have here? At the foot of a lone hill she could make out the faint glow of a poorly hidden campfire. Careless wayfarers. She signaled for two dozen warriors to join her. With any luck, they’ll be elves…

They stole through the valley toward the hill. A shelf protruded from the hillside, affording shelter from rain and snow. At any other time, it would have made the perfect place to rest for a while, but the gods had deserted the travelers that night.

Ondori reined in her bull and slid noiselessly to the ground. She heard snores from her victims and smelled the strong tobacco on their clothes. After a few paces, she came to a boulder and ducked behind it, keeping to the shadows as she peered at the camp.

Groundlings, she thought in astonishment, eying the ring of stocky warriors asleep around the dying fire. Their sentry was perched on a rock, facing away from her, and smoking a pipe. Every now and then he dipped his tankard into a cauldron over the flames and took a sip of the steaming brew.

Ondori did a quick headcount and came to twenty dwarves in total. What are they doing here? They can’t be spies or scouts; they’re in the middle of nowhere.

She signed to her warriors that she wanted to question one of the groundlings; the others could be killed. Then she focused on the fire, willing the flames to die down. The fire flickered briefly and went out.

Cursing, the sentry clambered to his feet, placed some tinder on the embers and kneeled on the ground to blow on the flames.

Ondori detached herself from the shadows and crept toward him. Her movements were silent, and he didn’t have time to react. Out of nowhere, a scythe-like blade sliced through his throat and he toppled over, landing in the dying embers and dousing them with blood.

The thud of his falling body caused one of his companions to stir. Three black arrows winged toward him as he raised his sleepy head. He sank back against his mattress, as if overpowered by fatigue.

The älfar murdered their way systematically through the ring of sleeping dwarves, slitting their throats, ramming their narrow daggers between their eyes, and running their swords through their chests.

Crouching beside the lone survivor, Ondori disarmed her victim and rapped her quarterstaff against the ground.

It was only when the dwarf sat up sleepily that Ondori realized she was female. The little creature reached for her ax—to no avail.

“Lie still,” whispered Ondori, holding the dwarven ax above her head for her victim to see. She hurled it into the snow. “Scream, and we’ll kill your friends, then you. Is that clear?” The dwarf nodded, and Ondori detected the sound of grinding teeth. “What are you doing here?” the älf demanded.

“Hunting älfar.”

Ondori glowered. “Trust a groundling to lie.” She peered at her victim’s face. “I’ve seen you before. You were at the mouth of the tunnel to the Gray Range; you shouted for Goldhand to help you—and I got away.” She smiled balefully. “You’re a queen, aren’t you? Queen of the mob who moved into the halls. Are you sending an army to fight us? Are you scouts?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the dwarf said stubbornly. “Our orders are to find out what’s happening at the front. We’re supposed to make a deal with the elves.”

Ondori raised her quarterstaff sharply and pressed a hidden catch. A blade shot out from one end and came to rest on her captive’s throat. There was a click as she locked the mechanism to prevent the blade retreating. “I want the truth, groundling.” She swung her quarterstaff so that the blade hovered over the body of the dwarf to her right. “Think of your friends,” she whispered threateningly. “Do you want them to die?”

Her captive bristled. “You won’t hurt them, no-eyes,” she said fearlessly.

Ondori rammed the blade into the heart of the seemingly sleeping dwarf. The trick worked: It was plain from her captive’s face that she blamed herself for the death of her friend. “That leaves eighteen of you, including yourself. How many more lies are you going to tell me?”

“You monster!” Without warning, the dwarf thrust aside the quarterstaff and charged at the älf, who dived to the ground and rolled away nimbly to escape the dwarf’s powerful hands.

“Too slow,” crowed Ondori, kicking her under the chin. The dwarf fell backward and lay limply on the ground.

Inàste is smiling on me today, thought the älf. The immortal siblings will be pleased to see my prisoner. Dusting the snow from her clothes, she got up, only for the apparently unconscious dwarf to whip out a dagger and ram it into her calf. The blade tore through the leather upper of her boot and brought her to the ground.

“To arms!” shouted the dwarf, scrambling toward the älf. She pointed the dagger at Ondori’s throat. “We’ve got an intruder in the camp!”

“Don’t kill her!” shouted Ondori, swallowing her pain. “We need her alive!” She grabbed the dagger-wielding arm. The solidly built dwarf threw all her strength into avenging her dead companion.

Four älfar rushed to Ondori’s aid and grabbed the dwarf from behind, tossing her roughly to the ground. Each held a leg or an arm, but the dwarf was still intent on breaking free.

Ondori tore a strip from the cloak of a dead dwarf and tied it around her calf. The wound would heal of its own accord. “Mountain vermin,” she hissed, ramming the blunt end of her quarterstaff into the dwarf’s belly with all her might. “We’re taking you with us. You’re a queen consort and a good friend of Tungdil Goldhand.” She gave the order for the captive to be bound. “Something tells me you’re going to be very useful.”

She limped away, followed by her warriors and the dwarf. Their captive was as stubborn as a donkey, and they had to drag her through the snow. The älfar themselves left no tracks.

Ondori was glad to get back into the saddle. Her calf was still throbbing; the dark water, though able to close any wound, had no effect on the pain. She took the end of the rope with which they had trussed their captive and threaded it through a loop on Agrass’s saddle to tether the dwarf to her mount.

She and her unit resumed their journey toward Âlandur. After a time, Agrass shook his head, nostrils flaring in the wind. Ondori understood the warning and sat up in the saddle. Turning, she saw something in the west.

What in Tion’s name is that?

A long band of light was moving through Gauragar, and it seemed to be heading straight for her homeland. It was traveling fast enough to reach the border in less than two orbits.

Have the humans found a new way of setting fire to the woods? she wondered, surprised that the invaders had regained their courage so soon. She quickly discarded the idea: There was no lamp in Girdlegard, not even an elven lamp, that could give off such a light. It wasn’t fire either; it was too brilliant, too white.

“Groundling!” Her foot connected with the back of the dwarf, who had come to a halt beside the bull. “Is this your doing?”

The captive glared at her murderously and shrugged. “It might be.”

“In other words, no.” It looks like a tide of molten palandium… In Ondori’s mind, there could only be one answer to the riddle: Andôkai.

The humans must have convinced the maga to come up with a spell that would aid their armies against the älfar. But the explanation wasn’t entirely satisfactory. Andôkai the Tempestuous was known for her stormy temper and her fondness for cataclysmic winds. She liked to surprise her enemies with sudden gales or cyclones; it wouldn’t be her style to light up the sky like a beacon and alert the älvish army to her approach.

What’s going on? Ondori had a bad feeling about the light, which was beginning to hurt her eyes. “Halt!” she shouted. “We’re turning back.” She pointed at the luminous band. “Dsôn Balsur is under threat. The elves can wait.”

Two of her guards rode off on shadow mares to spread the word among the troops. The other two stayed at her side. Eyes still fixed on the glow, she touched the symbol of Nagsor and Nagsar on her forehead. It was throbbing as if the skin were inflamed.

“Ondori,” said one of her guards, pointing south. “What’s that over there?”

She stared into the distance and spotted a faint glow in the darkness. It was another strip of white light, this time much further away. “It’s not a threat at the moment,” she said confidently. “Keep an eye on it, though. We don’t want anyone to slip past us and attack from the north.”

“Looks like we’ve got two armies to deal with,” observed the guard, smiling. “The immortal siblings will thank us for bringing them their bones.”

Ondori rubbed her forehead, hoping to soothe the pain. “We can be sure of their gratitude.” She felt strangely ill at ease at the sight of the approaching light. “We should hurry. We need to find out who they are.”

At daybreak, Ondori stood watching the soldiers in their gleaming white armor. The first rays of sunlight glinted on the polished metal, blinding her eyes. She couldn’t decipher the runes on their banner, but she knew for certain that the soldiers weren’t from Girdlegard.

“Twenty thousand foot soldiers and two thousand five hundred riders,” said one of her guards, surveying the unknown enemy. “The immortal siblings should be warned.”

“Our scouts are bound to have seen them,” Ondori assured him. She screwed up her eyes, dazzled by the glare. “They’re sparkling like an army of diamonds. As soon as the sun goes in, we’ll attack from behind, take some prisoners, and retreat.”

Ondori had fought soldiers from every army in Girdlegard, but none wore uniforms such as these. Where are they from? It seemed unlikely that the human generals could raise an army of foreign mercenaries without the rest of Girdlegard knowing. Älvish spies had been eavesdropping on the enemy camps in Dsôn Balsur for a good many orbits.

“Whoever they are, they’ll get a proper älvish welcome,” she said darkly, returning to her troops. They followed the strange army at a distance until dusk, waiting for the sun to set.

As the light began to fade, she ordered her guards to tie the dwarf to a tree and fill her mouth with snow to stop her dying of thirst.

“We’ll be back soon,” Ondori assured her. “As soon as we’ve finished here, we’re taking you to the immortal siblings.” She waggled her leg tentatively. The dark water had healed the gash in her calf and there was nothing to show that a dagger had sliced through her flesh.

She climbed into the saddle and rode at the head of her troops.

When they were close enough, she took cover and surveyed the tail end of the army. The situation wasn’t to her liking. The soldiers’ armor had absorbed the sunlight, and, despite the gathering gloom, was shining as brightly as ever, forcing Ondori to take an unusual precaution. She ordered her warriors to don strips of black cloth designed to protect them from snow blindness.

Peering through slits in the fabric and still half dazzled by the light, they launched a stealth attack from the rear.

Even as they advanced, Ondori began to doubt the wisdom of the scheme. The blessing on her forehead was burning against her skin, and Agrass, rather than charging the enemy and trampling through the ranks, was snorting and bucking nervously.

The battle got off to a disappointing start.

The soldiers must have anticipated their attack; at any rate, they showed no sign of panic.

As soon as the first enemy rider went down, struck by an älvish arrow, the back row of infantry raised their shields to form a wall, which rose to a height of three paces as the cavalrymen followed suit. Lances and halberds appeared through the cracks.

At that moment, a midnight sun flashed into the sky above the älfar, bathing them in cold white light. Ondori cried out and clutched her forehead. It felt as if liquid fire were coursing through the blessing inscribed there and searing her brain. The attack faltered.

“So you are the älfar of whom we’ve heard tell,” said the sun. “I can sense your corruption. You carry the spirit of Tion within you and you live to further his works.” The sun became hotter, brighter. “All that is over. The älfar shall threaten Girdlegard no more.”

A wave of heat rolled over the älfar, and a third of the troops caught alight. The burning warriors threw themselves to the ground, writhing in agony, trying to put out the flames—but to no avail.

Ondori watched as the fiery presence drew closer and waited until it was almost above her, then dived beneath her bull, praying not to be trampled beneath its hooves.

Eyes closed, she felt the searing heat pass over her like the fiery breath of a dragon. Crackling flames engulfed the warriors around her and a stench of burning hair, clothes, and flesh filled the air. Agrass kicked out frantically, striking her in the side, then the terrible rush of heat was over.

Ondori sprang to her feet and stared at her scorched and dying bull. The flames had melted its metal visor, sealing its fate.

“Pull back!” she shouted. “Make for the woods!”

Her voice was barely audible above the shouts and jeers of the unknown soldiers as they seized their chance and attacked. Riders on stallions charged fearlessly at the dark ranks of the älfar, cutting them down with their swords.

Ondori watched in horror as her warriors took blows to the limbs and torso and lay where they fell. The power of the dark water offered no protection against the dazzling riders’ swords.

We’re no stronger than ordinary mortals. Aghast, she turned to flee. There could be no hope of victory against an enemy as powerful as this.

Leaping over the bodies of her fallen comrades, she ran for the ash-covered trees.

Hampered by the undergrowth, the riders stopped their pursuit. The foot soldiers blundered on, but none could match her speed. Ondori kept running, spurred on by the memory of the heat, oblivious to her aching lungs and throbbing legs. At last she reached a clearing and slumped to the ground, exhausted.

Soon after, she was joined by the rest of her unit, who arrived in dribs and drabs. There were ten of them in all. The others had been cut down or consumed by fire.

“What happened?” gasped one of the warriors.

Ondori couldn’t answer. Her lungs were screaming for air and her forehead was on fire. She reached up to touch the skin above her mask and her flesh fell away, exposing the white of her skull. Her fingers were covered in sticky black ash.

She wiped them on the ground, digging her hands into the soil and crying with rage and agony. The noise reverberated through the night.

Suddenly a pair of battered boots stepped into view. “What have we got here?” growled a deep voice. A heavy object collided with the back of her head and she slumped to the ground, unconscious.

VI

21 Miles Southwest of Dsôn Balsur,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6235th Solar Cycle

I know her because of the mask,” said Tungdil, staring at the älf, who was lying, wrists and ankles bound, in the snow by the fire. He and the others were waiting for her to open her eyes “She’s the one who stole Keenfire. She came after me in the Gray Range and swore to kill me.”

Boïndil was gripping one of his axes, ready to dispatch their captive at the first sign of trouble. “I’m tired of waiting,” he complained.

“We’re only waiting because you walloped her over the head,” his brother reminded him.

“In that case, I’d better wake her,” he said promptly, taking a handful of snow and hurling it at her face. They had stripped her of her mask to reveal a slender, well-proportioned countenance, universal to älfar and elves. Tungdil was particularly interested to see the burns on her face; some were the work of the avatars, but the rest had been left by Keenfire.

The clump of snow bounced off and landed on the ground, leaving a few stray crystals that melted on the älf’s warm skin.

“Hmm,” said Boïndil. “She knows what it’s like to get burned, so maybe fire will do the trick.” He bent down and picked up a glowing ember in his glove.

The älf’s eyes flew open. “Put it down,” she hissed.

“Ha, I knew it! The scheming no-eyes is awake!” crowed Boïndil, lowering his ax toward her face. “Do as we say or I’ll chop you up like a sausage.”

Tungdil stepped forward. “Now I know your face.”

“Tion will curse you for stripping me of my mask,” she spat back. “You and your friends are doomed.”

Rodario shook his head. “Listen to the ferocious little polecat with the triangular ears.” He eyed her bonds. “You can spit as much as you like, but we’ve trimmed your claws.” He struck what he hoped was an intimidating pose. “My name is Rodario the Fablemaker, famulus to Narmora the Unnerving, and second most powerful magician in Girdlegard. I could destroy you right now if I wanted, but I’ll spare your life if you—”

“Where’s Keenfire?” broke in Boïndil to the indignation of the impresario, who punished him with a theatrical glare.

“It wouldn’t help if I told you,” she hissed.

“Perhaps not,” replied Tungdil, “but don’t be surprised if someone else gets hold of it. The heart of your kingdom is about to fall.”

“To the White Army?” She raised her head and stared at Tungdil, her eyes full of hope. “Does Keenfire have the power to stop them?”

“Ah, so it’s in Dsôn,” he concluded.

The älf fell silent, trying to make sense of the situation. While pretending to be unconscious, she had heard the dwarves discussing the invaders. It seemed to her that they were trying to halt the White Army’s advance. “You’re not on their side,” she reasoned. “Why are you trying to stop them? Don’t you want Dsôn to fall?”

“Who would have thought it?” exclaimed Rodario, surprised. “The little pussy cat doesn’t know who they are. Haven’t you heard the legend of the avatars?” On seeing the älf’s puzzlement, he proceeded to explain the history of the demigods, throwing in the odd fantastical detail here and there to make the avatars seem more terrifying. He pointed into the distance. “And your warriors were consumed by the avatars, fiery crusaders of purity descended from Tion, the god to whom you pray. Is that not deliciously ironic?”

“They won’t stop until every last one of us is dead,” said Ondori slowly. At last it made sense: her nervousness before the attack, the searing pain in her forehead, the failure of the dark water… And she knew without a doubt that Dsôn Balsur would fall to the invaders. Unless… “A bitter irony indeed. Our survival depends on those who seek to destroy us.”

“Actually,” began Tungdil, looking at her gravely, “we’re asking you to join us. We need to fight together if we’re to drive them out.”

“We can’t fight them, groundling,” she said with a shudder, remembering the murderous wave of heat and light. “It’s like asking a snowball to put out the sun.”

“It depends on the size of the snowball,” he replied, cutting her bonds. “Forget the enmity between us and hurry back to Dsôn to tell your leaders what you’ve heard. We’ll need every warrior in Girdlegard if the avatars are to be stopped.”

“I will deliver your message.” Ondori picked up her mask and slipped it over her head, hiding her scars.

A woman in black leather armor appeared before her. Her face was slender, too slender for a human. “My name is Narmora the Unnerving. Andôkai the Tempestuous was my teacher,” she said in älvish. Her accent was abysmal and her pronunciation atrocious, but Ondori understood. “Tell the immortal siblings that the älfar must join our troops. We won’t fight your battles unless you’re prepared to risk your lives as well.” Her eyes darkened with menace. “We can always stand by and watch the avatars raze your homeland to the ground. I’d be happy to provide directions to the royal palace. Tell Nagsor and Nagsar to think very carefully before refusing our request.”

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.

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 survived 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 Âlandur 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.”

It took two orbits to finish the breastplates to a reasonable standard. After a further four orbits, the spaulders, greaves, and helmets were ready as well. The gauntlets still needed to be assembled, but they decided to do it en route.

They walked fast and stopped seldom, racing across Gauragar until at last they spied Porista.

Even from a distance, it was obvious that the city had changed hands.

White banners with strange symbols fluttered from the palace and tents had mushroomed in the streets, overshadowing the houses. Soldiers were patrolling the borders and stopping anyone wanting to enter or leave.

“They’ve got it all worked out,” commented Furgas, pointing to the cranes that were swinging their long jibs over the city. It seemed the building work was making good progress in spite of the new regime. “The fake avatars have obviously taken a liking to my machines.”

He was about to make another comment when the ground moved beneath their feet. At first it was only a slight tremble, but it soon became so vigorous that snow rained down from the trees. The shaking stopped abruptly.

Tungdil looked over his shoulder at the ground behind him.

As he watched, a ripple ran through the earth, spreading outward from Porista, like the movement caused by a pebble in a lake. Tungdil spotted branches swinging crazily in the distance, shedding their coating of snow. At last the ground was still. “They’ve found the wellspring,” he said. “The question is, how much damage will they do?”

Boïndil wiped the clumps of snow from his shoulders. He wasn’t wearing a gorget, so most of it slipped down his neck, melting against the warmth of his skin. “A little tremor like that won’t do much harm.”

“I’d rather they didn’t interfere with the force fields at all,” said his brother. He turned expectantly to Rodario and Furgas. “It’s time for the long-uns to make themselves useful. Show us how to get in.”

Furgas pointed north. “We started building a new sewage system. The old drains collapsed in the quake, so we dug them out and strengthened the walls. The first section is complete—it starts outside the city and runs five hundred paces toward the marketplace.”

“Is there a door or something at this end?” asked Tungdil, adjusting his suit of armor. It was oppressively tight, and even the helmet restricted his view. The twins were suffering as well.

“I don’t know how old buckethead put up with it,” came a hollow voice. Boïndil had put his helmet on. “Blasted thing! I’ve trapped my beard. I won’t have any whiskers left at this rate.”

“We didn’t want predators coming into the city from the drains, so we built a hidden entrance with a wooden door. The avatars won’t have found it, I’m sure.” He started to move off, but Ondori barged ahead.

“I’ll go first,” she said, nocking an arrow to her bow and stealing forward. The others followed at a distance of ten paces.

“My dear little warriors,” hissed Rodario when they were approximately halfway to the door. “Anyone would think you were trying to attract attention. I’ve never heard so much squeaking, clattering, and jangling. Did you forget to oil your joints?”

“Speaking of which,” said Boïndil, pushing back his visor. “How did Djern move so quietly in a full suit of metal?”

“The sooner you discover his secret the better,” snapped Rodario. “Personally, I’d rather not be captured by the avatars. Hmm, I wonder if this will work.” He stooped down, picked up a handful of snow, and rubbed it into the hinges of Boïndil’s suit. The metal squealed in protest. “Same to you,” said Rodario crossly.

Boïndil gave him a vigorous shove, and he disappeared backward into the snow. “Keep that word-weaving meddler away from me,” growled the angry secondling. “His brilliant ideas will get us all killed. Maybe we should send him to the other side of the city to distract attention from the rest of us.”

Rodario jumped up and gave himself an irritated shake. “Fine, Mr. Hasty-ax, that’s exactly what I’ll do,” he announced self-importantly. “I’m an innocent citizen of Porista, a theater director, no less. They won’t have a problem letting me into the city, my cocky little friend.”

“Don’t be silly, Rodario,” said Tungdil. “It’s safer with us.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I happen to disagree. I’ll see you at the marketplace. No doubt I’ll be fully cognizant of the avatars’ whereabouts by the time you arrive.” He turned on his heels and strutted off.

“Good riddance,” growled Boïndil. “I’ve had enough of his blather.”

Tungdil gazed after him, wishing he would change his mind. The silver-tongued actor had proven his usefulness on numerous occasions in the past.

“You can bet he’ll be fine,” said Furgas with a grin. “He’s bound to make it to the marketplace. Anyone who can seduce a maiden and sweet-talk her father is resourceful enough to look after himself.” He set off again, following a trail of arrows traced by Ondori in the snow.

The symbols were the only evidence that the älf had passed that way. Her feet left no prints and in the dying light of the orbit she melded with the darkness, disappearing from view.

“Is she really Sinthoras’s daughter?” whispered Boïndil. “I don’t want to find a black-fletched arrow in my back. She’s a double-dealing, dwarf-killing no-eyes. We’ll have to kill her before she kills us.”

Tungdil was inclined to agree. “We’ll bide our time. Don’t do anything unless I say so—the avatars are enough of a challenge without Ondori going for our throats.”

They stole toward Porista’s newly erected defenses. In places, the walls were still unfinished, but they were high enough to keep out invaders.

At the base of a half-finished section of wall they discovered the entrance to the sewage system described by Furgas. The wooden gates were as high as a man, but to the casual observer or sentry they were completely hidden by a large mound of snow. The älf was crouched at the entrance, listening for enemy guards.

“Hmm,” said Boëndal disapprovingly. “A great big tunnel leading straight to the city… You’re opening yourselves to attack.”

“We thought about that,” Furgas assured him, smiling. “In the event of danger, we can close off the sewer by lowering the grates. The avatars won’t have activated them, which is just as well for us.”

He bounded down the bank, and the dwarves stumbled after him, wishing they were back in their chain mail. Their new armor was considerably heavier and more restrictive as well.

Furgas, an expert in all things technical, set about picking the locks, his deft fingers teasing open the mechanism. There was a gentle click, and the door swung open, allowing the little party to enter the sewer.

Furgas closed the door behind him and made sure it was locked. Then, lighting a small lantern to help him find his way through the darkness, he led the others through the tunnel.

After only ten paces, he stopped and pointed at five deep grooves in the ceiling, each three or so paces from the next.

“The grates are up there—big metal barriers as thick as my arm. You can do what you like to them, but they won’t shift an inch. No one could ever invade Porista through the drains.”

“Isn’t that precisely what we’re doing?” commented Boïndil, trying not to skid on a frozen puddle. “If you ask me, there’s a flaw in your plan.”

Furgas gave a low laugh. “I’m sure the gods knew what they were doing when they made me forget to lower the grates.”

They felt their way forward slowly. Ondori was somewhere in front of them, hidden by darkness. Suddenly she appeared at Boëndal’s side. “You may as well speed up a bit,” she said, startling Furgas so badly that the lantern jigged up and down. “There’s no one here apart from us. It’s all clear until we get to the door.” She melted back into the darkness, only reappearing when they reached the bottom of a narrow staircase.

“We built the stairs so that workmen can make sure nothing is blocking the sewers. Someone will be responsible for coming down here at regular intervals to check. The manhole is covered by a slab of stone. It’s easy to open from above, but it might take a bit of force to lift it up.”

Ondori went ahead and signaled for them to follow. There wasn’t enough room for anything but single file, and no matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t succeed in shifting the stone.

Furgas peered through the cracks. “They’ve fastened the bolts.”

“It’s good to know that someone cares about security,” said Boïndil, thumping the stone. “I’m afraid it’s pretty solid. We’ll have our work cut out.”

Ondori signaled for them to be quiet.

There was someone on the other side of the manhole. They heard bolts being thrown back, then a muffled groan as the slab began to wobble.

“Do you think it’s Rodario?” Boëndal asked Furgas in a whisper.

“May as well lift it up and see,” said his brother, pushing against the slab. The others joined in while the älf raised her bow.

At last the slab lifted and hit the floor with a thud. Looking up, they saw a man with a grimy face and, beside him, a bucket of waste. He seemed understandably surprised to see them emerging from the sewers.

“Is that you, Mr. Furgas?” he stuttered. “Where have you—” He stepped back to let them out. “Quick, you’d better hurry or you’ll be seen.”

“This is Ertil,” said Furgas, introducing him to the others. “He runs the kitchens for the laborers.”

“Can he be trusted?” demanded Ondori without lowering her bow.

“An elf,” gasped Ertil respectfully. He looked up at the tall, slim archer, hoping to catch a glimpse of the elves’ fabled beauty, which was praised in countless human songs. To his disappointment, her features were hidden by a mask.

“He’s trustworthy,” said Furgas hurriedly, to prevent Ondori from loosing her bow. “I daresay he’ll be able to tell us what happened.”

The man nodded. “That I can, sir. It’s a good thing I needed to empty my bucket.” He took another look at the strange group, then tipped the contents of his bucket into the street. “I don’t want you dirtying your boots if you leave the same way.”

They replaced the stone slab and hurried down the alleyway to Ertil’s house, keeping to the shadows.

He unlocked the door, lit a couple of candles, and brought them some water. “Fifteen orbits ago they got here. They were shining like stars—nearly went blind just from looking,” he said. “They spread out through the city, killing the guards who tried to stop them. The ones in charge—shimmering, glowing creatures—went straight to the palace, and we haven’t seen them since. They haven’t actually done anything—you could almost forget they were here, except no one goes anywhere near the palace. They say the city belongs to the amsha.”

“Did anyone try to resist?” asked Furgas.

“We didn’t dare,” said Ertil, staring at the floor. “Ten thousand soldiers they brought with them. We didn’t know what to do.”

“It’s not your fault,” Furgas assured him. “The shimmering creatures you mentioned—how many of them are here?”

“I saw five, but others saw more. I was probably blinded by the glare.” He looked at Furgas. “Who are they, sir? I don’t know what they’re doing in the palace, but it’s upsetting my horses. They’ve been restless and fidgety for a couple of orbits. Is the Estimable Maga going to rescue us soon?”

“She’s on her way,” said Furgas soothingly. “She sent us here to reconnoiter the territory. You’d better not tell anyone you’ve seen us.”

The man nodded gravely.

“Was there a dwarf-woman with them?” asked Tungdil, desperate to know what had happened to Balyndis. “Did you see where they took her?”

“A dwarf-woman. Funny you should mention it.” He pointed toward the palace. “There was another group got here only seven orbits ago. I know because I was passing the gates on my way to market and I saw them riding like demons. If I hadn’t gotten out of the way, they would have ridden right over me. They disappeared into the palace, and the dwarf-woman was with them.”

“Any news of my daughter?” asked Furgas. “Do you know where she is?”

Ertil shook his head. “No one has left the palace as far as I know.”

“That’s something, at least,” snorted Boïndil. “We’ll deal with her and Balyndis together, and beat a quick retreat.”

Boëndal peered out of the window, hoping to spot Rodario. “There’s nobody out there,” he said. “The streets are empty. Rodario will stick out like a stain on a clean leather jerkin.”

“Don’t worry,” said Furgas. “He’ll be fine.”

“We can’t wait forever,” Tungdil reminded him. “We need to rescue Balyndis before the avatars learn the secret of Djern’s armor.” He could already imagine them torturing his beloved smith.

“I say we go right away. I can find my way around the palace without Rodario’s help—but I suggest you grease your hinges first.”

Ertil fetched a bottle of sunflower oil and the dwarves set about silencing their creaking armor, while Boïndil muttered unhappily about the inferior quality of the oil.

Furgas got up and went to the door. Their perilous mission could begin.

Ondori went ahead, followed by Furgas and the armored dwarves. Ertil was instructed to keep an eye on the entrance to the sewers and look after Rodario until they got back—assuming they weren’t captured.

They hurried as quietly as possible through the city’s hushed streets.

Furgas was beginning to get worried about Rodario. He should be here by now. I hope he’s all right…

VII

Porista,

Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6235th/6236th Solar Cycle

Straight to the stage with no rehearsals. Rodario strained his eyes, peering at the guards at the entrance to the city. I bet they don’t use retractable blades. Screwing up his courage, he picked up a bundle of firewood that he had gathered as a prop, and set off toward the gates. From a distance he could make out nine soldiers in shimmering armor. They were clustered around a brazier, warming their hands.

“Stop,” commanded one of them, blocking his path. The rest of them continued to talk among themselves. The soldier’s spear pointed at Rodario’s stomach. “Where are you from?”

“From there,” he said, pointing to a field behind him. He gestured toward the city and added a few garbled sentences to give them the impression that they were dealing with a simpleton. “Freezy-cold outside,” he babbled, holding up his bundle of wood. “I needs foods for my fire.”

The act seemed to work. “Did you hear that?” the guard called to the others. “We’ve found the village idiot.” He picked up a burning log and placed it on top of the wood. “Here, take this as well. Our fire isn’t hungry.”

Rodario smiled dumbly and gave a grateful bow, allowing the burning log to fall into the snow. Mumbling under his breath, he took a step forward and stooped to pick it up, at the same time dropping the rest of the firewood in front of him. He repeated the procedure again and again, making his way past the guards who were roaring with laughter and hurling logs down the street.

Obligingly, he scampered after the flying wood like a dog in pursuit of a bone, but as soon as he reached the corner, he stopped laughing and threw away the wood. That was easy. He slowed to a brisk walk, not wanting to draw attention to himself.

He knew Porista’s narrow streets like the back of his hand, and his path took him past the Curiosum. He came to a sudden stop. Mournfully, he ran his hand over the locked door and recited the words on the sign: “Company On Tour. Grand Re-opening In The Spring. Prepare To Be Amazed And Astonished By Girdlegard’s Biggest Talent, The Fabulous Rodario.”

“It’s a pity, isn’t it?” said a gentle voice behind him. “I would have liked to meet this Rodario.”

“The fabulous Rodario,” he corrected her, turning round. He was expecting to see an old dame on a tour of the city’s hostelries, but the speaker was a woman of his age, wrapped in expensive furs. A hood protected her hair from the light snowfall.

Rodario smiled his famous smile. “He’s supposed to be very good.”

“You’ve been away from the city,” she observed, eying his torn robes and stubbly chin. “It’s the wrong weather for traveling on foot.”

“When your horse is stabbed to death, you don’t have much choice,” he said, concocting a story that he hoped would stir her pity. “I was attacked by a pair of highwaymen. They killed my stallion and stole my saddlebag and purse.”

“Let me guess: You’re a nobleman visiting his mistress in Porista.” She smoothed a strand of brown hair and smiled at him playfully. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name…”

He hesitated, sensing that she hadn’t believed his story. A hard nut to crack. Still, I like a good challenge.

Realizing that she was staring at something behind him, he turned around to see what it was. Of course! He laughed. It was a life-size portrait, painted next to the entrance. In fact, he had commissioned the work himself. Luckily the guards hadn’t recognized him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, stepping toward him. “Why would the fabulous Rodario want to spin me a yarn?” Her dark green eyes sparkled mischievously.

“I took a fancy to the story,” he said quickly. “Anyway, I’m curious to know why a beautiful lady would be wandering the streets of Porista by herself. I don’t remember your face, yet I know every—”

“Every woman in Porista,” she finished for him. “In that case, I’m probably ruining my reputation by talking to you.”

“I was going to say everyone, not every woman,” he corrected her. “I came to Porista in the employ of Andôkai the Tempestuous and her successor Narmora. My friend Furgas and I were in charge of rebuilding the city after it was…” He swiveled, watching as she paced around him, fur robes trailing in the snow. “In any event, I know the city well.” He reached out and took hold of her arm, stopping her mid-circle. “How is it I haven’t laid eyes on you when every cobblestone must be jealous of your favor?”

She smiled, this time like a young girl receiving a compliment from an admirer. “Was that a line from one of your plays?”

“Words can’t do justice to your beauty,” he whispered, encouraged by her response. Ha, he thought smugly. I haven’t lost my touch.

He shifted his gaze for a moment and looked at the street leading to the marketplace. For a while he had forgotten what had brought him to Porista. There was nothing that might justify prolonging the conversation, even though he was eager to further his acquaintance with the mysterious stranger. It was a long time since he had exercised his talents in the art of seduction.

Stop it, he told himself sharply. The others will be waiting. Taking her hand briskly but chivalrously, he pressed his lips to her delicate white glove. “Where can I find you? I’m on my way to a secret rehearsal, and I mustn’t be late, but I could see you afterward.” He gazed into her dark brown eyes.

“You’re running away already?” She snatched her hand from his and took a few paces back. He detected a look of disappointment on her face. “Good evening, Rodario. I look forward to seeing you on the stage.” She shot him a sizzling look and disappeared into the falling snow without turning around.

“Your address!” he called after her. “Where shall I send the tickets?” His shouts went unanswered. I suppose it wasn’t to be. Disappointed, he hurried down the street to the marketplace.

Snow was falling thickly, hiding him from prying eyes. He reached the spot where the stairs led down to the sewer and stopped: The manhole cover had been unbolted. A light dusting of snow covered the footprints.

They didn’t wait for me! He stomped his foot indignantly. I bet that hotheaded secondling persuaded them to go. He rubbed his pointy beard. Wounded pride made him more determined than ever to handle things by himself. He set off toward the palace. I’ll show you, he thought, imagining how the dwarves would thank him when he freed them from the avatars and rescued Balyndis and the child.

Without stopping, he checked that his props were in place. They were essential for his transformation into the fearsome conjurer Rodario the Fablemaker, a role that he played with aplomb.

Hidden in the pockets of his robes were little bags of powder that, when brought into contact with fire, produced brightly colored flames, acrid smoke, and various shades of fog. His phials of acid, four in total, were stored safely in a padded case.

But most important of all were the flamethrowers, designed by Furgas to fit into his sleeves.

They had two main components: a miniature tinderbox attached to his cuff, and a leather purse of lycopodium spores fixed to the inside of his elbow. Pressing the pouch caused spores to shoot out of the purse and at the same time activated a mechanism that pulled the flint backward and produced a spark, thereby igniting the seeds as they exited his sleeve. It had worked on orcs, and it was bound to work on ordinary soldiers. Sometimes technology was as effective as magic.

On nearing the palace, he remembered that he couldn’t just waltz through the gates. He knew the secret formula, having been left in charge of Furgas while Andôkai and Narmora were away, but the avatars would surely notice if an uninvited visitor strolled through the gates. Is there another door?

“Rehearsal over so soon?” said a voice behind him.

He whirled round and came face to face with the beautiful stranger. “Let’s just say that my illustrious colleagues were more interested in the refreshments than my script,” he said, delighted to see her again.

“Then perhaps you would do me the honor of joining me for dinner and telling me about your play.” She smiled at him seductively and he found himself assenting. In his imagination, he was stripping her of her garments one by one. He was willing to bet that she smelled of cream and silk.

“I’m not very presentable,” he said regretfully. “I’ve only just arrived and I haven’t had time to freshen up or shave.”

“So I see,” she said, looking him up and down. “It won’t take long to fix: I can lend you some suitable clothes.” She stood alongside him and he offered her his arm. “I’m Lirkim,” she told him, pulling him along.

“How far is your boarding house?” he enquired. Having given private performances in a number of the hostelries, he was keen to avoid a scene. The last thing he wanted was to encounter an angry husband or father, especially with Lirkim around.

She stopped outside the palace gates and shook her head. “I’m not staying in a boarding house, Master Rodario.” She uttered a strange incantation and traced a symbol elegantly in the air. The gates swung open. “We’re here.”

He stood frozen to the spot. “You’re with the avatars? I didn’t realize they’d brought their courtiers as well.”

“Is there a problem?” she enquired. “The avatars won’t hurt you if your intentions are honorable, which I’m sure they are.” Since their arms were still interlinked, she waited until he was ready before leading him through the gates.

Now he was seriously worried—not for himself, but for the others, who wouldn’t be able to get in. He thanked the gods for his good fortune. What luck! He smiled. First he would enjoy a night of passion, or at least a good bath and a decent meal, and later he would search the palace for Balyndis and Dorsa. I’ll be a hero! Ha, I can’t wait to see the look on Boïndil’s face…

“What now?” enquired Lirkim. “A moment ago you were terrified, and now you’re grinning from ear to ear.”

“No wonder,” he said quickly. “I can’t wait to see inside the palace. It’s an incredible honor.”

A look of puzzlement crossed her face as they made their way up the broad steps past the sentries. “But you were in charge of rebuilding the city. Surely Andôkai must have invited you inside?”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? I’m afraid the maga made a big secret of the palace. She was worried about people leaking information that might facilitate an enemy attack, especially after the avatars sent someone to assassinate her in her own halls.”

“Where is she at the moment?”

“You’re referring to her successor, Narmora, I assume? She left for the north. Her instructions were to continue with the building work in her absence.” He automatically started walking to Furgas’s old chamber, but Lirkim pulled him back.

“Where are you going? You’re supposed to be my guest.”

He laughed awkwardly. “I wasn’t thinking.” Several guards strode toward them and greeted Lirkim. On seeing Rodario, they stared in surprise.

Nodding jovially, he smiled as if they were old friends. Their armor was studded with fragments of moonstone, but the metal had lost its brilliance. It seemed the warriors glowed only at the avatars’ behest.

Rodario was filled with a confidence bordering on recklessness. He was no safer in the palace than in a cave of orcs, but he felt as if Palandiell were clasping him to her breast. Lirkim led the way to the servants’ quarters, summoned two maids whom Rodario had never seen before, and instructed them to attend to his needs.

“I’ll tell the kitchens that I’m dining with a guest.” She peeled off a glove and held out her milky wrist. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

“I look forward to it, my lady,” he said, kissing her soft skin. Cream and silk, he thought.

Needless to say, Furgas had never intended to enter the palace through the main gates, which he assumed would be guarded. Their arrival in the forecourt would doubtless cause a stir. “Narmora mentioned a couple of side gates. She took me through one of them. It’s visible only to magi, but I should be able to find it again.”

Boïndil scowled. “Let’s hope so,” he muttered darkly.

“Patience, brother,” said Boëndal. “We can’t storm the gates, fight our way through to Balyndis and Dorsa, and beat a quick retreat. It takes more than a couple of axes to scare a magician.”

Furgas ran a hand along the wall. “This is the spot.” He recited an incantation. Nothing happened.

“Are you sure it’s here?” Tungdil touched the wall carefully, but there was no sign of unevenness, much less an opening.

Ondori repeated the words, and the outlines of a door appeared in the wall.

Boïndil whirled round. “How did you do it?”

“Just get inside,” she said disdainfully. “Groundlings know nothing of magic.” She glanced at Furgas. “Humans are just as bad.”

“And you’re an expert, are you, beanpole?” said Boïndil, bristling. He had no intention of taking orders from an älf, especially if she treated him with such flagrant disrespect.

“Compared to you,” she said. “Hurry up, you’re in the way.”

Boëndal pushed his brother through the door to stop him from arguing. One by one they stepped into a garden at the northern end of the expansive palace grounds. There was no one there to stop them.

“We can’t afford to dally,” said Ondori. “Sooner or later someone will notice your footprints and the hunt will be on.”

Furgas went to the front of the group and led them to the servants’ quarters, which he assumed were deserted. Suddenly he stopped and pressed himself against the wall. The dwarves froze, aware that their armor might give them away.

They heard the soft voice of a woman. “I’ll tell the kitchens that I’m dining with a guest,” she said with a slight accent. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

“I look forward to it, my lady.” There was no mistaking the voice.

“Rodario,” whispered Boïndil in astonishment. “How in the name of Vraccas does he do it?”

“How do you think?” whispered Furgas, grinning. They heard a door close. Peering round the corner, Furgas saw a woman in white furs striding away from the room. “I say we leave him to it and stick to our plan.”

“He’s getting dinner as well!” hissed an indignant Boïndil.

“Be quiet,” Ondori told him.

“Be quiet yourself,” he growled belligerently. “If we’d killed your parents a couple of decades earlier, you wouldn’t be here at all.”

The älf said nothing, her gray eyes looking daggers at him. Boïndil refused to succumb to her murderous glare.

Furgas raised a hand. “She’s stopped,” he whispered. Ondori stepped forward and raised her bow. “Hang on… she’s off again.”

The älf handed the bow to Furgas. “Wait here. I’ll find out what he’s up to,” she said, making for a door that led inside. She listened for a moment, then opened it quietly.

Rodario was sitting in a tub of warm water, washing away the grime of the journey. The mud and dust of Gauragar dissolved into the perfumed foam, and a couple of pine needles floated to the surface, a reminder of the forest where they had slept the previous night. He picked up a razor and, holding a mirror in one hand, shaved the stubble from his incredibly handsome face.

“Never assume you’re alone,” said Ondori, staying his hand in case he slit his throat. “So you found your way into the palace?”

He breathed out in relief. “For the love of Palandiell,” he gasped. “You’re as bad as Narmora with your sneaking about.” She released his hand and he continued to shave. “It’s nice of you to join me—are you the only one?”

“They’re waiting outside. I wanted to find out what you’re planning.”

“Tell the others not to worry,” he said in a self-important tone. “In a few moments I shall be dining with a beautiful woman who happens to be part of the avatars’ entourage. I’ll ply her with wine, engage her in small talk, flirt with her a little—and she’ll be putty in my hands.” He put down the razor and stroked his cheeks. “She’ll tell me where to find Balyndis, how to get to Dorsa, and what we can expect from our phony gods of fire.” He checked his cheeks for stray whiskers and smiled at himself in the mirror. “I’ll save the child and the dwarf, and Boïndil will be indebted to me for the rest of his life. An excellent plan, don’t you think?”

She smiled behind her mask. “Not bad, considering you came up with it on the spot.”

“It was my intention all along,” he said indignantly. “Anyway, what about you?”

“Sounds like there’s nothing left for us to do.” She glanced at the conjuring equipment stacked on one of the chairs. “You stick to your plan, we’ll stick to ours. Who knows, we might find Balyndis and Dorsa first.”

He picked up his razor and drew it through the foam. “You’ll be grateful when I save you,” he predicted. “Now get out of here before the maid comes back.” She didn’t reply, and when he looked up, she was gone. “I know exactly what she and Narmora could do with—a pretty anklet with a bell.” He ran the razor over his cheeks, smoothed his pointed beard, and smiled; Lirkim wouldn’t be able to resist him.

He’s going to save us?” said Boïndil disbelievingly. “Only in one of his stupid plays! He’s dreaming.”

“It sounds like a sensible plan,” said Tungdil, wondering how the impresario did it. He had a habit of making an entrance at the critical time. “Rodario might be able to help if we run into trouble later.”

“Might,” snorted Boïndil. “An anvil might fall over in the breeze.” He didn’t believe for a moment that their mission would fail.

Furgas preempted a quarrel by steering them into a passageway. “Let’s find Dorsa. We’ll try the nursery first.”

A short while later they were standing outside the door. Once again it fell to the älf to steal into the room and assess the situation while the dwarves waited as quietly as their armor allowed.

She ushered them in. “All safe—unless the child is a threat.”

Furgas hurried past her and peered into the cot where his daughter was sleeping peacefully. There was nothing to suggest she had been hurt. Tungdil, Boïndil, and Boëndal looked on in silence and shared the father’s relief.

Ondori signaled to them that someone was approaching. The door opened and a woman came in. Before she had time to realize what was happening, the älf grabbed her from behind and set a knife to her throat. “Not a sound,” she whispered savagely.

“It’s all right,” said Furgas. “It’s the nursemaid.” Ondori hesitated, then released her grip.

“Rosild!” Furgas threw his arms around her. “Thank goodness you and Dorsa are all right. What happened?”

Well, sir…” she stuttered, still recovering from the shock. “They marched in and took over the palace. I didn’t know what to do, so I told them Dorsa was my daughter. They said I could stay here if I cooked for the palace guards.”

Boïndil could scarcely believe his ears. “Just like that? A bit gullible, these avatars.”

“I have to taste the food to prove it’s not poisoned. If anyone gets gut ache, Dorsa and I will be killed. My nerves are in shreds.”

Furgas laid his hands on her shoulders. “Poor Rosild, your ordeal is nearly over. We’ll get you out of here as soon as we can.”

“First we need to know what’s happened to Balyndis.” Tungdil stepped forward. “Do you know where she is? She was brought here seven orbits ago, someone said.”

“Do you mean the dwarf-woman?” She furrowed her brow. “A band of soldiers turned up at the palace. They seemed agitated about something and they were carrying a prisoner—a child or a gnome, I assumed. It didn’t occur to me they’d captured a groundling.”

“A dwarf,” said Boïndil.

“I meant a dwarf,” she corrected herself. “They took her to the big chamber with the copper dome. I haven’t seen her since.”

“Get ready to leave,” Tungdil instructed her. “Don’t let the guards see you packing and try to avoid suspicion. Once we’ve rescued Balyndis, we’ll need to get out of the palace as fast as we can. Be sure to bring blankets for Dorsa—it’s cold outside.” Rosild paled slightly, but nodded. Tungdil looked into the grave faces of his companions. “I suppose this is it. For Vraccas and Balyndis!”

* * *

Rodario had eyes only for his charming hostess. Lirkim was wearing an exquisitely embroidered dress made of shimmering white material that reached to her calves. Her face looked more beautiful than ever in the light of the candelabra.

“Even the candles look dull and lifeless compared to you,” he said appreciatively, raising his glass. He could feel his sleeve slipping down his arm and threatening to reveal the tinderbox strapped to his wrist. Gesturing expansively, he encouraged the fabric to fall toward his hand, taking care not to spill his wine. “To a goddess whose beauty will never fade.”

“Very chivalrous, my eloquent friend, but wait two decades and my skin will resemble a fishing net.” They clinked glasses and gazed at each other, her green eyes telling him that she accepted the compliment nonetheless.

Rodario was enjoying the opportunity to make use of his talents. Farmer’s daughters, innkeeper’s wives, and rich gentlewomen were easy to impress, but with Lirkim, flirtation was an art. It gave him high hopes for her lovemaking, which he intended to sample that night. But first he had to obtain a few key pieces of information so that he could leave her sated, asleep, and smiling, while he completed his mission and got one over on the dwarves.

He adjusted his sleeves and rounded the table to refill her glass. A drop of red wine splashed from the decanter and landed on her shoulder.

“How careless of me.” On the spur of the moment he decided to kiss away the droplet with his lips. She did nothing to stop him and turned her head so that he could press his mouth to her soft, snowy skin. “Oh, there’s another one,” he said, lifting her long brown hair and kissing her neck. To his satisfaction he saw a shiver of pleasure run down her back. I’m irresistible, he thought smugly, returning to his seat. The sparks of passion are flying; how long until the fire is lit?

His sleeves rode up again. He swore silently and pulled them down to cover the tinderboxes. He was wearing the contraptions only because he had nowhere to put them except his pockets, and Lirkim would notice the bulge. Later, he would have to distract her sufficiently so that he could remove his props before he stripped off his clothes.

“Only two droplets?” she asked teasingly, turning back to her plate.

His eyes twinkled. “We’ll see what happens next time. Incidentally, where did you get the wine?”

“It’s from the maga’s cellars. It pays to be on the right side: The winner takes all.”

“Do you think the avatars mind that you’re dining with Narmora’s former aide?”

“Former?” she queried, eying him intently.

Rodario felt suddenly queasy. Has she guessed? “Well…” He cleared his throat. “I’m a citizen of Porista, and Porista belongs to the avatars, so I’m assuming I work for them.”

“I applaud your wisdom. It will save you a lot of trouble.” She laughed a tinkling laugh. “No, the avatars don’t mind. Their enemies are right to be terrified, but innocent people have nothing to fear.”

“I imagine the maga’s servants were relieved,” he remarked, trying to steer the conversation to Dorsa. “Didn’t Narmora have a personal maid?”

Lirkim nodded and popped a morsel of meat into her mouth. He waited while she chewed her mouthful and swallowed it down. “Yes, Rosild and her baby daughter are still in the palace. She’s an excellent cook. Nothing much has changed, as you can see.”

“The avatars aren’t nearly as frightening as I’d heard,” he said, trying not to look relieved by the news that Rosild and Dorsa were well.

“Really?” Lirkim rested her cutlery on her plate. “What have you heard?”

“Everyone says they’re mythical creatures, fiery beings that scorch the earth beneath their feet…” He stopped short. “It doesn’t make sense, if you think about it.”

“Of course it doesn’t, otherwise Porista wouldn’t be standing now. What else have you heard? It sounds like good material for a play.”

“For several plays.” Passing off the story as hearsay, he described what he had seen in Dsôn Balsur, including everything from the cloud of fire to the soldiers’ shining armor. He didn’t mention the deaths of the avatars. Lirkim listened attentively and seemed amused. “According to some, they even captured a dwarf-woman,” he added. “Personally, I don’t believe it. What would the avatars want with a dwarf?” He speared a piece of meat on his fork.

“Much of what you say is true,” she said, smiling. She took a sip of wine, prompting him to toast her again and refill her glass. He had been plying her with alcohol for over an hour, and he was gratified to see that her cheeks were a healthy red. “The rest is smoke and mirrors.” She clapped a hand to her mouth and looked worried. “Forget what I said.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, laughing it off. “I’m not going to report you to the avatars. I’m sure they’re capable of conjuring as many illusory dwarf-women as they please.”

“Oh, she’s real enough. They took her prisoner because she had a secret.” She laughed girlishly. “But groundlings are tough little characters.”

“A secret, you say? Don’t tell me the celestial avatars are interested in turning iron into gold?” He chuckled contentedly to set her at ease.

“The avatars don’t need gold.” She clinked glasses again with Rodario. “No, the dwarf-woman knows how to make a special… It’s old news, anyway. Things have moved on.” Her eyelids were getting heavier and she reached for his thigh. “Well, my fabulous Rodario, perhaps we should…?”

“Absolutely,” he said eagerly. “Who cares about a dwarf-woman’s secrets?”

“The avatars don’t.” She got up and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Soon they’ll be so powerful that even the gods will fear them. They’ll take whichever lands they like and rule over vast swathes of territory. They’ll be mightier than the mightiest kings, all-powerful and invincible, and Girdlegard…” She bit her lip, a gesture that Rodario would normally have found incredibly alluring. “But enough of that.”

Rodario was never slow to show off his manhood, but Lirkim’s description of the avatars had roughly the same effect as ice in his breeches or an angry husband in the room. His ardor was gone.

Just then the door flew open with a bang.

There’s the husband, so where’s the ice? He knew from the sound, a sound he had heard on countless occasions, that the person was furious—as furious as a cuckold had every right to be.

A fair-haired man of thirty cycles burst into the room. He was wearing white robes and carrying a short staff like a shepherd’s crook. Behind him were three soldiers whose faces Rodario recognized from his arrival at the palace earlier that evening. The cozy little dinner had reached a premature end. “Are you married?” he hissed at Lirkim, who shook her head and seemed taken aback by the intrusion. “I guess the avatars don’t approve of my presence after all…”

“That’s him,” cried one of the soldiers, pointing his sword at Rodario. “I told you, Fascou, it’s definitely him.”

“Move away, Lirkim.” The man in the robes looked at her sternly.

She put herself between the soldiers and Rodario. “No, Fascou, you’re not going to hurt him. Go back to tinkering with the force fields and leave us alone. You’ve got the groundling to entertain you; let me have my fun.”

“Come on, Lirkim,” he said soothingly. “You’ve had a bit to drink, but the man you’re protecting is our enemy. His name is Rodario and—”

“The fabulous Rodario,” she said thickly. “I know. He’s an impresario and he owns the Curiosum. He’s—”

The man stepped forward and held out his hand, beckoning to her. “His name is Rodario the Fablemaker, and he’s apprenticed to Narmora.”

The soldier nodded. “That’s right, I saw him on the battlefield. Throwing fire, he was, and melting my comrades like butter in the sun.”

Rodario couldn’t believe it. His biggest dream was to be recognized by strangers, for his reputation to extend beyond the confines of a particular city or realm. At last he had attained true celebrity—and it was likely to end in his death.

A good actor never disappoints his audience… Standing tall, he grabbed the astonished Lirkim with his left hand and flung his right arm toward the white-robed man. “Rodario the Fablemaker is my name!” he proclaimed, letting out an evil-sounding cackle. “Stay where you are! Move and this innocent woman will…”

Suddenly, faster than a gust of wind can snuff out a candle, a blinding light appeared before him. Dazzled, he saw nothing but brilliant whiteness. He let go of Lirkim, who had turned into a fiery sun.

Furgas led the group confidently through the dark corridors of the palace. At last they reached the great hall. The avatars obviously weren’t worried about the dwarf escaping because the doors had been left wide open.

“What if it’s a trap?” asked Boëndal, but Ondori was already inside, reconnoitering the room. She returned in an instant.

“We’ve found the groundling,” she reported, stepping aside to let them in.

It was immediately clear why no one was guarding the hall.

Balyndis was lying on the floor in the middle of the room. Her legs and arms had been broken, and bits of bone were poking through her skin. She was smeared with blood and pus, and her bare chest was covered in cuts and burn marks. Clumps of brown hair lay scattered on the flagstones. Her hands and feet were shackled and chained to the floor.

Tungdil’s eyes welled with tears. What have they done to you? He kneeled down and placed his hand on her brow. She’s feverish. Raising his ax, he smashed through her chains. She didn’t acknowledge his presence or register the noise: Her eyes were closed.

“I’ll teach them to torture a dwarf,” growled Ireheart, enraged by the sight of the suffering Balyndis. His eyes glinted wildly. “By the ax of Beroïn, I’ll rip them to pieces with my hands.”

Boëndal took off his coat and gave it to Tungdil to wrap around their motionless friend. “It’s bad enough what they’ve done to her body. What about her mind?”

“The fact that she’s alive is proof of her resilience—she’s still holding out, despite what they’ve done to her.” Tungdil picked her up and balanced her on his shoulder. “They would have killed her if she’d cracked.”

He made up his mind to show no mercy to the false avatars, who claimed to be fighting in the service of good. Nothing could justify their treatment of those who stood in their way.

He turned around and froze. On the other side of the hall, in the eastern corner, was his foster father, Lot-Ionan.

“But it’s impossible,” he whispered. He took a few uncertain paces toward the magus before realizing his mistake: He was looking at a statue. His beloved Lot-Ionan, who had raised and schooled him, had been turned to stone. Nôd’onn had killed him.

The spell can’t be reversed. He remembered what Andôkai had told him, and a sob rose in his throat as he thought of Lot-Ionan and Frala and the happy times in the magus’s realm. He stroked the statue tenderly and walked away. Now wasn’t the time for mourning, only revenge.

They hurried back to Rosild who was waiting anxiously with Dorsa in her arms. She found an extra blanket and they wrapped it around Balyndis to protect her from the cold. Furgas volunteered to carry the unconscious dwarf. Their presence in the palace hadn’t been detected.

The procession was led by Ondori, followed by the dwarves, Furgas and Balyndis, and Rosild and Dorsa. Slowly but surely they edged toward freedom and at last they left the palace and entered the grounds, steering a course for the hidden gate.

The double-dealing hussy! She’s an avatar! Rodario was obliged to behave in a deplorably unchivalrous fashion. He aimed a kick at what he believed to be Lirkim’s posterior, although he couldn’t be certain because of the glare. She stumbled forward. There was a crash, and the light went out.

He aimed his flamethrowers at the soldiers and shouted a few improvised incantations. When he heard their cries, he followed up with a couple of phials of acid and threw himself under the table.

He firmly expected to be transformed into a heap of ashes, but nothing happened. There was an overwhelming smell of burning, but it was coming from several paces away.

Gradually, his vision cleared. The three soldiers were lying dead or dying on the floor, and the white-robed avatar was no more, one of the phials having hit him on the head and the acid eaten away most of his skull and face.

“Ha!” Thrilled by his unexpected victory, Rodario emerged from his hiding place. “That’ll teach you to pick a fight with Rodario the Fablemaker!” Lirkim was resting face down on the table, her plate and two platters hidden beneath her chest. She had hit her head and knocked herself out. “You’ve only got yourself to blame,” he rebuked her. “I don’t take kindly to being played.”

I knocked out two avatars! He put his hands on his hips and laughed like one of his characters on the stage. I’m taking you with me. My friends will be interested to hear what you’ve been up to with the force fields.

He grabbed the woman by the shoulders, sat her up, and proceeded to divest her of her powers by removing her jewelry and putting it in his pockets. Then he gave her another good draft of wine and cracked the empty decanter against her head to make doubly sure that she wouldn’t wake up, which seemed unlikely, considering she was already inebriated and stunned.

Hoisting her over his shoulder, he was suddenly aware of a commotion in the corridor. With a sinking heart he realized that the palace guards were on their way. I suppose the flamethrowers weren’t terribly subtle. His valor melted like an actor’s make-up in the sun.

His feet took him to the window. He could see figures in the garden—small figures. He opened the catch. “Hello down there! Guess what? I’ve purloined an avatar!” He pointed to her posterior. “I’m afraid her pseudo-divine friends have taken umbrage. Perhaps you could be so kind as to—”

“Stop talking and jump!” yelled Boïndil, signaling frantically. “We know a way out.”

“I’m usually very courteous,” he said apologetically to the unconscious Lirkim before tossing her out of the window. She dropped through the air and came to rest in the snow. A moment later he landed beside her. After assuring himself that her heart was still beating, he threw her over his shoulder and hurried after his companions, who were busy conjuring an opening in an apparently solid wall.

Leaving the palace behind them, they raced through the deserted streets. Snow was falling heavily, covering their tracks, and it was impossible to see further than five paces.

“What luck,” remarked the impresario, panting under the weight of his burden. He saw Balyndis on Furgas’s shoulder and Dorsa in Rosild’s arms. “The gods are on our side tonight. Balyndis, the baby, and an avatar—what a haul!”

“Avatar?” snorted Boïndil. “What are you blathering about now?” Weighed down by his heavy armor, he was almost as breathless as the impresario, who wasn’t accustomed to carrying anything but his quill. To his relief, the three dwarves slowed their pace. Furgas, by contrast, showed no sign of tiring.

“Her name is Lirkim. She told me she was a courtier—at least, that’s what I assumed she was, and she didn’t correct me. A friend of hers burst in on us while we were having a cozy dinner, and I saw through her disguise.”

“Ha, what kind of an avatar would allow herself to be captured by an actor,” jeered Boïndil, wheezing.

Rodario’s captive murmured something, and the others heard the words “avatar” and “eoîl.” Ondori listened carefully, then cuffed the woman roundly. “It was an incantation,” she explained. “I didn’t want her causing trouble.”

“Save your breath for running,” panted Tungdil, who already had a stitch.

At last they reached the marketplace and found Ertil, who was waiting for them behind a stack of empty kegs. He was just unbolting the hatch when Ondori whirled round and stared into the swirling snow.

Something was awry. The flakes were melting and turning to slush. A moment later, raindrops pattered against their armor.

“Quick, get in,” she said, nocking an arrow to her bow. Furgas carried Balyndis to safety and Rosild hurried after him, followed by Rodario and his captive.

A gleaming gold sphere whizzed toward them through the rain, expanding and becoming brighter as it sped toward Boïndil, who was last in line for the stairs.

Even as he closed his visor, the sphere slammed into his chest, turning him into a blazing fireball. Tungdil and Boëndal felt the heat through their armor, and Ondori screamed in pain.

Crackling, the unnatural fire died down. Boïndil was still standing, miniature flames licking his spaulders and greaves. They sputtered and expired—Djern’s armor had proven its worth.

“They’re here,” shouted a man’s voice through the darkness. A moment later, he appeared before them in a column of light. “Hurry!”

“Ha, so your magical piffle paffle didn’t work! I can’t wait to see the color of an avatar’s—sorry, conjurer’s—blood!” Boïndil threw himself on the avatar. His brother charged after him, brandishing his crow’s beak.

“For Balyndis!” shouted Tungdil, joining the fight.

The self-declared demigod hurled lightning at his attackers to keep them at bay, but no curse or firebrand could match the strength and determination of three angry dwarves.

Tungdil felt like a lump of ore in a blast furnace. The armor protected him from the flames, but the metal was getting unbearably hot. He was sure he would roast inside his breastplate if the avatar weren’t dealt with soon.

The blades of the dwarves’ weapons were red with heat, and the hafts were already in danger of igniting. Even as the wood began to crumble, Tungdil and the others came in striking distance of their foe.

It was hard to see the avatar in the dazzling light, but they made out his outline. Boïndil landed two powerful blows, and the glow faded to reveal a man of some sixty cycles, with blood spilling from his thighs. He was staggering backward, sword in front of him to fend off the dwarves.