The War of the Dwarves

He didn’t stand a chance.

His flowing white robes offered no protection against the long, curved spur of the crow’s beak and the red-hot blades of dwarven axes. Weapons slashed at him from three sides until at last he lay bleeding and groaning in the gutter. Boëndal made certain that he was dead by smashing his skull with the butt of his weapon, then they hurried to the sewers and locked the hatch.

“We got him,” Boïndil told the others, who were looking at the trio expectantly. “But it’s darned hot in here.”

“Where’s Ondori?” asked Rodario, hoisting Lirkim over his shoulder and hurrying after Tungdil.

“Ondori!” The dwarves hadn’t noticed her absence. “I heard her screaming, but…”

“She must have died in the fire,” said Boïndil, smiling darkly. “Serves her right.” He stomped to the head of the procession. “I was wondering how we were going to get rid of the one-eyed murderess. Still, I’d rather have killed her myself.”

No one expressed regret at the passing of Ondori—but no one could say for certain that she was dead.

Incredibly, they managed to rejoin the army of firstlings, thirdlings, freelings, and älfar unscathed. Some of the units had advanced to within ten miles of Porista.

Tungdil went straight to Narmora, who healed the worst of Balyndis’s wounds and did her best to alleviate the pain, leaving the rest to Balyndis’s almost indestructible dwarven constitution.

The maga had barely finished treating Balyndis when she heard a baby crying. At once, Narmora the Unnerving vanished, and the anxious parent came to the fore. A moment later, the little family was reunited, with Narmora hugging Dorsa, then Furgas, then Dorsa again. The dwarves couldn’t help but feel moved, and even the ferocious Boïndil wiped a tear from his whiskery cheek.

Tungdil spent the rest of the orbit at Balyndis’s bedside. He washed her carefully, sponging away the soot and dried blood, then salved her burns and squeezed some water between her lips. Her eyes remained closed.

Toward evening, Boëndal burst in. “We’re ready to interrogate the prisoner,” he announced. “Narmora wants you there—we need to find out as much as we can.”

Tungdil squeezed the smith’s hand and stood up reluctantly.

“Listen, Tungdil,” said Boëndal as they left the tent. “Glaïmbar will be eternally grateful to you for saving Balyndis, but she’ll never…”

“I know,” his friend said sadly. “She won’t leave him—but I’ll always love her, and she’ll always love me. It’s no use fooling myself—I loved her even when I was melded to Myr.” He sighed. “Boïndil was right—some dwarves are better off on their own. I couldn’t meld myself to another maiden. I’d only make her unhappy—and Balyndis too. Still,” he added pensively, “I’m glad Vraccas chose the three of us to save her. I hope she’ll accept my friendship after how I treated her.”

Boëndal nodded and led the way to a disused collier’s hut where Lirkim was imprisoned. Waiting inside were Narmora, Boïndil, and Rodario, the latter with a bucket in hand.

“Let’s get started.” The impresario emptied the bucket over the chained and fettered Lirkim, who was lying face down on the floor. Her eyes flicked open as a rush of cold water hit her back. “We meet again,” said Rodario, crouching beside her. “You weren’t awake when I left the palace, so I brought you back here. Don’t try any of your magic or you’ll be killed on the spot. Understand?”

Lirkim tried to look up, but all she could see were boots, ankles, and a collection of weapons, all pointing at her head. “My right arm hurts,” she said in a muffled voice.

“Hmm, I think it may have broken when… I mean, I think you broke it when you fell.” Rodario was doing his best to sound cold and unfeeling, although he didn’t feel any real enmity toward the prisoner. He refused to believe that anyone so beautiful could be responsible for thousands of deaths. “Did you hear what I said?”

“No magic, I promise.” She was trembling and her voice sounded shaky. The air was bitterly cold and her clothes were soaked through.

“Tell us what you’re doing to the force fields,” commanded Rodario. He picked up a blanket, but a grim-faced Tungdil snatched it away.

“We found the force fields when we were riding to Dsôn Balsur. The eoîl traced the magic back to Porista and found a way of channeling its power.” She coughed. “I don’t know what he’s planning, but he told us that we’ll soon be more powerful than any being or god.”

“Who are you?” demanded Narmora. “We know you’re human, so don’t deny it. Lie to us, and you’ll pay with your life.”

Lirkim nodded wearily. “There are seven of us: three women and four men. Seven magi—and the eoîl. We came together four hundred cycles ago—by pooling our power, we gained the strength to crush any ruler or army who stood in our way. We used the legend of the avatars to make people fear us. No one ever came close to defeating us—until now.”

Boïndil kicked her foot. “What’s an eoîl?”

“An eoîl is an… I can’t explain it, but he’s a real god—the rest of us are human.”

“A god?” Boïndil snorted. “Spare us your fairytales: He’s a trickster, a flimflamming charlatan like you.”

“No,” insisted Lirkim. “He’s a god. There aren’t many gods where I come from, but they’re powerful, very powerful. Everyone is afraid of them—if you attack Porista, as I assume you’re planning to do, you’ll see for yourselves how powerful he is. The eoîl will destroy you. He turns fields into deserts and oceans into saltpans. I’m just a maga, but he’s…”

“You get your power from the evil you destroy,” threw in the maga.

“The eoîl taught us to draw on the evil in the souls of our enemies for curses and charms. When we heard about Girdlegard’s force fields and the dark magic, we—”

“You didn’t come here for Nôd’onn? You knew about the force fields?”

“The eoîl knew about them. He told us that the spirit that inhabited Nôd’onn was still alive.”

“I’ve had enough of this nonsense!” growled Boïndil, drawing his axes. Boëndal pulled him back.

“So you came to Porista because of the magic, but you don’t know more than that,” said Tungdil, summarizing the information. She nodded. “What were you doing with the dwarf-woman?” he demanded.

“The other magi found her,” she explained. “She was tied to a tree, which aroused their suspicions. They took on the appearance of dwarves and offered to help. She mentioned something about special armor.” Lirkim was shivering so badly that every word was punctuated by her chattering teeth. “We realized what she was talking about when our army was defeated in Dsôn Balsur and Timshar and S’liniinsh were killed by an aneoîl. She wouldn’t tell us how the alloy was made.”

“Did you torture her?”

“It was the eoîl who tortured her. He despises undergroundlings.”

Tungdil was intrigued by the name that Lirkim had given to Djern. It implied a connection with the eoîl. He decided to probe the matter further.

“They both kill creatures of darkness,” she replied in answer to his question. “Their motivation is different, of course. An aneoîl kills beasts that are weak or imperfect; an eoîl seeks to root out evil.” Craning her neck, she peered at Narmora. “It was the eoîl’s idea to send an aneoîl to your mistress. He knew it would work.”

Narmora laughed mockingly. “This eoîl of yours seems to have made a big impression on you, but he underestimated my power.”

“And mine,” chipped in Rodario.

Tungdil was heartened by their captive’s readiness to talk. It seemed unlikely that she was lying: The gloom of the collier’s hut and the gravity of the situation were powerful incentives for her to tell the truth. We’ve killed four and taken one captive, which leaves two humans and an eoîl. He started to feel more confident again. I’d like to talk to her about the Outer Lands. She’s bound to know something about the undergroundlings…

Narmora thought for a moment. “How close is the eoîl to achieving his goal?”

“He said it wouldn’t take long. Yesterday he was talking of nine or ten orbits,” came the sobering reply.

“He knows we’ve got Lirkim,” Tungdil pointed out. “He’ll probably redouble his efforts. We need to come up with a plan to take Porista, or Vraccas knows what will happen when the eoîl destroys the wellspring.”

Boëndal looked him in the eye. “What do you think would happen?”

“Remember the rippling earth near Porista?”

Narmora nodded anxiously. “I can feel the change. The magic is draining from the force fields. I’d say the source is drying up.”

“Or someone is using the magic for another purpose,” said Tungdil. “We need to stop the eoîl before he destroys the force fields. I don’t know what he’s up to, but Girdlegard might not recover.” He looked at the others. “Let’s meet again at sunrise. Our mission is to retake Porista.” He turned to leave.

“What will we do with her?” asked Boïndil, pointing to their prisoner whose lips were blue with cold. “I don’t want her weaving any jiggery-pokery behind our backs.”

“I took away her amulets—she’s can’t do anything without them,” broke in Rodario. “I found her; I’ll decide her fate.”

Narmora shook her head. “No, Rodario, it’s too risky. She’s an avatar, and they don’t deserve our mercy. They’re too dangerous.”

“Please, I’m begging you,” whimpered Lirkim, struggling to move her frozen lips. “Don’t kill me. I couldn’t hurt you if I tried.” She looked up at their faces. “Rodario is right. I’m powerless without my amulets.”

Boïndil snorted disbelievingly. “Why should we believe you?”

“Listen, Narmora,” said Rodario seriously. “You can’t kill her; it’s not right.”

“I think we should keep her alive until we’ve captured Porista,” agreed Tungdil, eying the prisoner with disdain. “Who knows, she might come in useful as a bargaining tool—assuming the eoîl cares about his allies.” It was true that Lirkim was a useful asset, but Tungdil was mainly motivated by his reluctance to kill an unarmed human.

Narmora stretched a hand and a bolt of lightning shot out of her fingertips, hitting Lirkim in the back.

The prisoner shrieked, arching her back and tearing at her shackles, which stayed firmly in place. The bolt had burned through her gown and blistered her skin, leaving a hand-sized mark on her back. Gasping, the former avatar slumped against the floor as the pain died down.

“She wasn’t lying,” pronounced the maga, bending down to pluck a strand of hair from their prisoner’s head. “See this hair, Lirkim? With it I can weave a curse that will find you, no matter how far you run. I recommend you don’t provoke me if you value your life.” She left the hut, followed by the dwarves. Four of Lorimbas’s warriors stayed behind as guards.

Rodario went outside and returned with a handful of snow, which he placed on the blistered skin. Lirkim flinched.

“Thank you,” she whispered with a sob. “Thank you for saving my life.”

He unlocked her shackles, helped her up and led her to a mattress. She took off her wet clothes and slipped under the sheets.

“Why did you ask me to dinner with you in Porista?” he asked softly.

“The usual reason,” she replied. “You’re a handsome man, and I wanted some entertainment. I was going to let the evening run its course.”

What an evening it would have been… Rodario realized that he was starting to feel sorry for her, so he reminded himself of the thousands who had died in Dsôn Balsur. Lirkim seemed delicate and vulnerable, but she was capable of terrible things. Four hundred cycles, and still so youthful and charming… “You mentioned the spirit that corrupted Nudin and made him turn traitor.” He waited for her to nod. “Is it still alive?”

She shrugged and he guessed what she would say before her blue lips began to move. “I don’t know, but the eoîl knows everything. He knows the spirit and he senses where it is.”

Rodario, hearing a noise at the door, turned in time to see a shadow pass the window. An eavesdropper!

He jumped up, ran to the door, and peered into the falling snow, but all he could see was a dark shadow disappearing into nothingness. He looked in vain for footprints, but the snow was unmarked.

Narmora? Surely not… He went back into the hut and closed the door. Something very strange is going on…

VIII

Western Entrance to the Fourthling Kingdom,

Kingdom of Urgon,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6235th/6236th Solar Cycle

Captain Vallasin stomped through the ever-deepening snow. Clad in leather armor, with a woolen cloak wrapped tightly around his shoulders, he headed for the nearest sentry. “Well?” he called from a distance, to save himself the walk. “Any news?”

“No, captain,” shouted the soldier. “The gates won’t budge.”

Vallasin’s spirits sank even lower. He stopped in his tracks, raised a hand, and returned to his tent, where a mug of hot tea was waiting for him by the fire.

The same ritual had unfolded every few hours for more than forty orbits, and there was still no progress. Every time he went out, the sentry would tell him that the gates were still closed.

He glanced around the tent, hung his cloak on a hook, and plonked himself onto a folding chair. His aide-de-camp handed him a mug of tea. Even with the fire, it was cold inside the thin tent walls, and a fierce wind gusted continually through even the slightest gap in the canvas.

“Have they—” The aide-de-camp stopped mid-question, guessing from the captain’s expression that the news wasn’t good.

“It can’t go on like this!” exploded Vallasin. “Ten thousand men camped outside a deserted dwarven kingdom, and we can’t get past the doors!”

He took a sip of tea and stared glumly at the stack of letters from Pendleburg. Scarcely an orbit went by without Belletain asking for news of the campaign. So far the captain’s response had always been the same: no progress.

Vallasin was aware that his career was at stake. He had worked hard to attain his rank, but the unhinged king of Urgon could easily decide to entrust the mission to someone else. “There has to be a way.”

“Our technicians can’t get to the hinges,” his aide-de-camp reminded him politely. “Levers, chisels… Nothing will work.”

Vallasin held up a royal letter. “His Majesty won’t take no for an answer.” He got up and paced angrily from the tent pole to the door. “What am I supposed to tell the poor beggars freezing off their backsides in the snow? Forty-seven dead! Forty-seven! And why? Because of a broken promise and a pair of locked gates.”

According to a treaty between Belletain and Lorimbas, the thirdlings were supposed to clear the way for Vallasin’s soldiers to search the dwarven stronghold and carry off the gold. Instead their path was blocked by a pair of solid granite gates that withstood the force of battering rams and blunted the strongest pick.

I’m sick of bloody waiting. Vallasin had marched his men to the Brown Range on Belletain’s orders and readied the troops for attack. A thirdling relief army had materialized soon afterward, and the two armies had waited impatiently outside the locked gates until the dwarves had packed up and left without a word. Vallasin saw no point in waiting, but orders were orders, and Belletain wanted them to stay.

He heard the clip-clop of hooves outside the tent.

“Another letter from Belletain,” he growled. “How many more times does he want to hear that we’re stuck in the cold?”

A rider entered the tent. He was covered from head to toe in powdery snow, and his breath had frozen against his scarf, forming a sheath of ice around his face. He took a sealed leather cylinder from his saddlebag and handed it to the captain. “For you, sir.”

Vallasin signaled for his aide-de-camp to give the frozen rider a hot mug of tea while he broke the seal and took out the parchment.

He was about to add it to the pile without reading it and return the cylinder to the rider with a pre-prepared report when he noticed that the letter was longer than usual.

Judging by the first few lines, he wasn’t being demoted, as he had feared.

“What’s this?” he murmured. “New orders from our esteemed king. Belletain wants us to leave.” Relieved and heartened, he summoned his officers to the tent.

“Gentlemen,” he said, when everyone was present, “King Belletain has advised me that the situation has changed. As you know, Lorimbas Steelheart broke his promise, so our alliance with the thirdlings is over.” He rolled up the parchment. “It’s time to break camp and leave this inhospitable range. I want everyone out of here by dawn tomorrow.”

“Where are we going, sir?” asked one of the officers.

“South,” he replied, pointing to a map. He traced a route through Idoslane. “King Belletain wants us to take the enemy by surprise. They won’t be expecting us.”

“Poor them,” observed one of the men, raising a laugh from the others.

“All the better for us,” said Vallasin, pleased to see their enthusiasm. Personally, he was of the opinion that it wouldn’t be easy, especially once they left the safety of Urgon, but at least they could take a shortcut through Idoslane. Prince Mallen was unlikely to object, and it was by far the quickest route. “The march will be tiring—we need to move fast.”

After dismissing the officers, he sat down and composed a brief letter to the king. This time he was sure that he and his little army would chalk up a victory in his name. The odds were in his favor—provided he acted before it was too late.

10 Miles from Porista,

Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6235th/6236th Solar Cycle

Balyndis fought her way out of the darkness that had settled over her mind. Looking up, she expected to see the vast copper dome of the conference chamber, a sight that no longer filled her with awe. After everything she had endured, she felt like taking a sledgehammer to the gleaming cooper roof.

Slowly, it dawned on her that the ceiling was made of white canvas. The sun was high in the sky, so it was almost midday.

Bewildered, she looked around and saw a shock of brown hair on the bedspread. Its owner was snoring lightly, and she knew at once who it was. Tungdil…

Reaching out, she laid a hand gently on his head so as not to wake him. She realized that he had been keeping vigil by her bedside. Vraccas heard my prayers.

She lifted up the sheets and blankets and peered at her chest. A shimmering layer of balm covered a rash of angry burn marks. Narmora must have fixed my broken bones. She ran a hand reverently over her limbs, remembering how the bones had protruded through the skin.

Tungdil sat up with a start. A smile spread over his face when he realized that Balyndis was awake. She thought he looked somehow older and more serious, and she guessed that whatever had happened since their last meeting had taken its toll

“How are you?” he asked gently, squeezing her hand.

“The maga is a miracle worker,” she whispered. “The pain is almost gone.” She pulled him toward her and hugged him tight. Silently, they clung to each other until he freed himself gently.

“I’m forever in your debt,” she said solemnly.

“I did what any friend would do,” he replied. “Balyndis, I’m really sorry about how I treated you before.” He had thought long and hard about what he wanted to say. “I could blame it on wounded pride or jealousy, but there’s no excuse for acting like a spoiled gnome.” He took her hand again. “Can we be friends?”

“I’ve always seen you as a friend, Tungdil Goldhand,” she said, moved by the honesty of his apology. “Nothing will ever change that.”

“No, I suppose it won’t,” agreed Tungdil with a wry smile. He gazed into her eyes and they looked at each other lovingly. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t rescue you single-handedly—you’ve got Boëndal, Boïndil, and Furgas to thank as well.” He told her of their daring incursion into the palace and their successful escape.

Balyndis stroked her shorn head. “This älf… The one who came with you…” she began, voice shaking with rage. “I’m willing to bet she’s the villain who killed my friends and tied me to the tree for the avatars to find me.” She quickly recounted all that had happened. “Not long after the älfar had gone, a dwarf untied me from the tree. I was so relieved to see a dwarven face that I dropped my guard and said too much. The dwarf turned into an avatar. After that, they took me to Porista and tried to make me talk.” She stopped, eyes welling with tears. “But Vraccas gave me the strength to keep the secret.” She let out a muffled sob. “I couldn’t have lasted much longer, Tungdil.”

He held her in his arms and stroked her shorn head until the sobs subsided. “It’s over now, Balyndis. You’re safe.” He was willing to bet that Ondori was still alive. She must have foreseen that alliances would count for nothing as soon as Balyndis made her report.

“What’s so special about Djern’s armor?” She listened intently to Tungdil’s explanation. “In that case, I need to get back to the Gray Range,” she said without a thought for her weakened state.

“The Gray Range?” echoed Tungdil. “What for?”

She rapped her fingers against his breastplate. “The armor can only be forged in the Dragon Fire furnace. I made the alloy with tionium and palandium. There isn’t another furnace hot enough to meld the two.”

Tungdil considered the situation: The Gray Range was hundreds of miles away, conditions were atrocious, and Balyndis was weak from her ordeal. “It can’t be done,” was his bleak conclusion. “Nine orbits from now the eoîl or chief avatar or whatever his name is will destroy the force fields. We need to storm the city before it’s too late.”

She looked at him sadly, knowing that the task ahead was full of dangers for her friend. “I suppose it’s up to you and the twins to stop them.” She noticed an imperfection in his armor and frowned. “Tungdil Goldhand, is this your workmanship?” she demanded.

“I was in a hurry,” he protested, hoping to be excused.

She got up, threw on some clothes—human garments hastily tailored to dwarven proportions—and donned a cap. She held out a hand and beckoned to him. “Come on, then!”

“Where to? You’re supposed to be in bed!”

“I’ve never seen such shoddy metalwork,” she told him, smilingly. “Fetch the twins. I’ll soon have you shining brighter than an avatar. You can’t fight the eoîl in second-rate armor.”

Laughing, he took her hand and led her to the makeshift forge, stopping off to collect the twins, who were delighted to see Balyndis back on her feet.

The heat of the forge, the high-pitched ring of the hammer, the weight of the tongs, and the clang of the chisel brought Balyndis’s talent to the fore. Tungdil shared her pleasure at being back at the anvil, their hammers rising and falling in unison as they beat the imperfections out of the metal blow by blow.

Boïndil sang in time with the beat of their hammers, and his brother joined in, whereupon Tungdil and Balyndis raised the tempo. The solemn hymn became faster and faster until the twins dissolved into laughter.

For a brief moment, surrounded by the smell of hot metal and the warmth of the forge, the four friends enjoyed each other’s company without worrying about the avatars and the eoîl.

Soon they realized that the dwarves outside had taken up their song.

The freelings and the firstlings were singing a verse in turn, belting out the words and trying to outdo each other in volume and tempo.

The competition ended in enthusiastic applause, and a single voice, deep and melancholy, cut through the noise of the camp.

Above the dark mountain

A star aches with longing in a sky full of

Stars that he could call to

But he can’t

Stars that he could turn to

But he can’t

Stars that he could join with

But he can’t

The dark mountain, the jealous mountain

Won’t let him cross the sky.

T

he light-hearted atmosphere was gone.

Tungdil realized that the singer was one of Lorimbas’s dwarves. He was reminded of something that Sanda had said about the thirdlings. Some of them aren’t born with hatred in their hearts. He considered the words of the song. I wonder if the dark mountain stands for Lorimbas and the other thirdling kings who perpetuated the feud? He prayed to Vraccas that he might live to see the orbit when dwarves from all five ranges would come together in friendship and peace.

“What a sad song,” commented Boïndil. “I feel like drinking myself to death.” He fastened his greaves to his shins and nodded approvingly. “They don’t pinch anymore.”

“Two more orbits, and you’ll be ready,” Balyndis assured him. “The avatars don’t deserve to live a moment longer than necessary, but the armor is worth the wait.”

“It certainly is,” agreed Boëndal, checking the fit of his spaulders. “Besides, nothing can save the eoîl.” He was visibly impressed by Balyndis’s workmanship, especially since she was still recovering from her ordeal.

“I don’t like it when they use their flamethrowers,” complained Boïndil, stroking his braided beard. “It gets confounded hot in my suit. I might dip my whiskers in water to stop them from catching alight. I’d be sorry to scorch them.”

“There you are,” said Rodario, stepping into the forge. “Three feisty dwarves, preparing to save Girdlegard from the forces of evil. Hmm, strictly speaking, the avatars are trying to do the same.” He paused and hooked a finger around his chin. “The audience will never understand. How am I supposed to explain that the dwarves, which is to say, the forces of good, are fighting their enemies—also on the side of good—to stop them destroying evil?”

“You’ll think of something,” Tungdil assured him. “Any useful information from the prisoner?”

“Not really…” He picked up a pair of tongs and twirled them in his hand. “I’ve been thinking about what she said earlier. According to Lirkim, the eoîl is convinced that the evil spirit that corrupted Nudin is still alive.”

“What?” gasped Balyndis, staring at him aghast.

“It’s been bothering me as well,” said Tungdil. He raised his beautifully forged but otherwise unremarkable ax. “We can’t fight the spirit without Keenfire, and the älfar won’t give it back. To be honest, it’s hard to see how the eoîl could be right. You were there when I destroyed the spirit, and nothing was left.”

“It can’t be very strong or it would have shown itself. The dark water is all that remains of the Perished Land’s power.” Rodario set down the tongs. “All the same, I’m worried. You’ll have to take the eoîl alive.”

Boïndil roared with laughter. “He’s their leader, remember? He’s stronger and more powerful than the rest.”

“I took my avatar alive—and I wasn’t wearing fancy armor,” retorted Rodario, omitting to mention that Lirkim had been neither sober nor conscious.

“Why do you want us to spare him?” asked Boëndal, more diplomatically.

Rodario decided to tell the whole truth. “Lirkim told me that the eoîl knows how to find the spirit.”

“So you did find out something…” Tungdil mulled the situation over. “Maybe the avatars’ invasion is a blessing in disguise. With the eoîl’s help, we’ll be able to find the spirit and destroy it for good.” He nodded. “You’re right, Rodario, the eoîl must be taken alive.”

“Why didn’t he explain himself properly from the start?” complained Boïndil, turning the grinding wheel to sharpen his axes. “It’s all very well capturing the eoîl, but what are we supposed to do with him—put him on a leash and let him drag us through Girdlegard until he tracks the spirit down?” He hooked his fingers into his belt. “We’ll find the spirit lurking in a pool of dark water,” he predicted. “Either that, or in a dead glade. Remember what the humans told us about people going mad? It could be the spirit of the Perished Land infecting their minds.”

“Let’s focus on taking Porista and defeating the avatars,” said Tungdil. “The other business can wait.” He picked up his vambraces and the other finished items and walked to the door. Smithing was a hungry business, and it was time for some food.

Later they were summoned to the assembly tent, where Queen Xamtys was waiting to share some good news.

“Balendilín, Gandogar, and Glaïmbar are back in their strongholds—they’re sending troops to Porista. Prince Mallen is drumming up volunteers, and King Belletain has cleared his fuddled mind and fired his thirdling doctor. He’s sending an army through Idoslane as well. Unfortunately, none of the reinforcements—except maybe Belletain’s ten thousand warriors—will get here in time.”

“Ten thousand warriors should do the trick,” said Tungdil confidently. “Furgas has promised us some formidable siege engines. We’ll start the bombardment in four orbits’ time. First we’ll focus on their army and cut it down to size; then we’ll smash our way into the city. Two entry points should be sufficient—Furgas and Rodario know the weak points in Porista’s defenses.”

“We’d rebuilt it all so nicely,” wailed Rodario. “You’d better not hit the Curiosum.” He stood up. “I’m going to check on Lirkim.” He pulled back the thick pelt that served as a door. “Maybe I can persuade her to…”

Just then a bright light pierced the evening sky, and a gray sun shot out of the winter clouds, plummeting toward them.

Alerted by the sentries, dwarves poured out of the tents, brandishing weapons and shields. Narmora stood among them, arms raised, as she muttered an incantation to deflect the fiery ball.

The spell came too late.

The sun turned a deep shade of green and paled a little, before smashing into the collier’s hut. Malachite flames shot out of the door and windows, towering to a height of four spears. The rickety shed collapsed.

A moment later, dwarves were on the scene, dousing the blazing wreckage with buckets of snow to save the nearby tents.

Rodario stared at the inferno and knew at once that his prisoner was dead. “Lirkim,” he whispered, dismayed. He seldom brought happiness to the women he met.

Lirkim’s death proved that the enemy wasn’t to be trifled with; the eoîl was capable of detecting and punishing treason beyond the city’s walls. Thereafter, the dwarves and their allies poured all their energy into building the siege engines. Furgas had designed them so that the throwing arm was strong enough to hurl spliced tree trunks, boulders, and blocks of wood spiked with nails. They didn’t have petroleum or oil, so they were counting on flattening the enemy instead.

According to the älfar, the enemy was preparing to defend the city from the inside, meaning no attempt would be made to meet the allies outside the walls. Rather than risk their lives on the battlefield, the avatars were waiting for the allied army to storm the city, which was bound to result in heavy losses for the älfar and dwarves. Both sides were still busy with their preparations when the weather suddenly changed. The temperature rose and fog descended on the city, making it impossible to see beyond a couple of hundred paces.

The dwarves seized their chance.

Drawing on their knowledge of mining, they dug a tunnel from the encampment to the sewage outlet, known to Tungdil and the others from their rescue mission.

Their aim was to take the avatars by surprise. An elite battalion of thirdlings and älfar would enter the city through the sewers and clear the way for an allied task force, consisting of Tungdil, Boëndal, Boïndil, and some handpicked firstlings and freelings. Meanwhile, the rest of the army, led by Narmora and Rodario, would attack the city on two flanks to create the illusion that the allies were storming the city with a conventional assault.

“We’ll aim the missiles at the ramparts and the gates,” decided Furgas. “I’d like to spare the population as far as possible. The avatars have caused enough suffering, and there’ll be more casualties when the fighting spreads to the streets.”

The plan met with everyone’s approval.

Tungdil and the others woke on the seventh orbit, knowing that Girdlegard’s moment of reckoning had come.

The morning sun was a hazy presence behind the clouds. It wasn’t snowing, but the sky looked gray and pregnant, with swathes of mist obscuring their view.

Tungdil went to find Balyndis, who was still too weak to leave the camp. They hugged each other like old friends, so that only the shrewdest observer would have noticed the depth of their emotion.

“Farewell, Balyndis,” whispered Tungdil, filling his nostrils with her scent. “We’ll meet again in the eternal smithy, if not before.”

She gulped. “I’ll pray to Vraccas for the hero of the Blacksaddle to prevail.”

“Of course he’ll prevail,” cut in Boïndil. “The avatars will quake in their boots when they see us.” He shook hands with Balyndis, and his brother followed suit; then it was time for them to join the älfar and thirdlings.

Boïndil eyed them with suspicion. “You’d think they were made for each other,” he muttered grimly. “Black souls, black tattoos, black armor… It’s a wonder they haven’t joined forces against us.”

One by one they dropped down and advanced on their hands and knees through the tunnel. Tungdil and the twins soon discovered the difficulties of crawling in a full suit of armor as they disentangled their spaulders from tree roots and emptied their greaves of cold, wet soil.

After a time the tunnel started shaking, from which they deduced that the bombardment was underway.

Above ground, Furgas’s siege engines were hurling boulders and tree trunks at the enemy army. Every hit was accompanied by a tremor that shook the hastily built tunnel, raining loose soil and the occasional clod of earth on the crawling dwarves. The low roof was unlikely to survive the bombardment, even without a direct hit.

Tungdil and the twins couldn’t afford to worry about the situation. Fear was a distraction, and they couldn’t turn back.

At last they reached the end of the tunnel. The älfar and thirdlings were waiting at the mouth of the sewer.

“Ha,” growled Boïndil. “The drains are blocked with scum already.”

“Only because you’re here,” snapped a thirdling, baring his teeth.

Boïndil stepped forward menacingly, but Tungdil pulled him back. “You asked for that,” he said crossly. “Besides, we’re fighting the avatars, not them.”

Boïndil lowered his axes and muttered something unrepeatable under his breath. “You’re lucky,” he said to the thirdling, shooting him a warning look.

They waited until the drain was packed with warriors; then Tungdil gave the order for the hatch to be opened.

Everything went to plan. The avatars hadn’t expected them to try the same strategy twice.

Fifty älfar led the way, stealing like shadows as they searched the streets for enemy guards. Soon afterward, Tungdil heard a low whistle.

It was the signal for the thirdlings to file through the hatch. Once on the surface, they spread out and swarmed toward the palace, brandishing axes, cudgels, and flails.

Tungdil and the twins brought up the rear.

Furgas followed the trajectory of the missiles and carefully adjusted the angle until he was satisfied with the result. The fog made it difficult, but not impossible, to trace the projectiles’ course.

Hoping to spare the houses, he focused the bombardment on the city’s defenses, flattening watchtowers, blasting through the gates, and tearing down ramparts, sending dozens of enemy soldiers to their deaths.

The avatars’ army, unable to return fire, waited helplessly, longing for the moment when the allied warriors would storm the city and the battle could begin.

“No sign of the avatars,” commented Balyndis, who had left the camp to watch the action from the relative safety of the siege engines.

Furgas nodded, sharing her relief. He gave the order for another round to be fired.

Ropes were released and counterweights dropped, then the throwing arms shot up, hurling boulders through the air. The missiles arced toward the watchtowers, smashing the roofs and killing those inside.

“It doesn’t make sense,” said Furgas. “They managed to kill Lirkim with a fireball, but they haven’t done anything to stop us attacking their men.”

Dwarves rushed forward to reload the siege engines, which took considerable time and strength. Furgas wasn’t the sort to stand by idly. “I’d hate to give them ideas,” he said, turning a windlass, “but the siege engines would burn like tinder.”

Balyndis fixed her eyes on the city walls, which stood two hundred and fifty paces from their position. A crack had opened up in the defenses. “Exactly what I was thinking. I’d say they’re not too worried about their army; they’re busy with something else.”

“The force fields,” he said, peering toward the city. Usually, the pitched roofs of the houses were visible above the parapets, but everything was shrouded in fog. “I bet they’re tampering with the force fields. Pass the message to Xamtys, Gemmil, and Narmora. It’s time to start the assault.”

Beyond the city walls, a shimmering green arrow soared above Porista, shining brightly through the fog. It came from the bow of an älf, signaling that Tungdil’s party had reached the palace. “They’re through,” shouted Furgas. “Bombard the gates!”

From the ranks of the freelings and firstlings, a line of warriors jogged forward and set their ladders against the ramparts. Their eyes were bound with cloth to protect them from the dazzling light. The first stage of the two-pronged assault had begun.

Already Lorimbas and Rodario were leading the attack on the northern gates, hoping to split the avatars’ army and draw them away from the palace.

Furgas marveled at the rows of dwarves rolling toward the city. No mortal adversary could resist such a force—but Lirkim had said that the eoîl was a god.

Among the dwarves he spotted the tall, slender figure of Narmora, dressed in full armor and a bright crimson cloak. He prayed to Palandiell to keep her from harm. Don’t punish her for worshipping Samusin. Her intentions are good.

Tungdil and the others reached the palace without encountering a single guard.

It doesn’t make sense, he thought, wondering why no one had tried to stop them. Maybe it’s a trap… He strode past the main gates; they couldn’t be breached by force, and scaling the walls would be folly.

The palace was still protected by a powerful spell that trapped unwanted visitors like flies in a spider web, tying them to the masonry with magic bonds. The bleached bones of previous intruders were enough to persuade even the most unflinching thirdling that it was best to try another route.

Tungdil led the warriors through an alleyway to Furgas’s secret doorway. Remembering how Ondori had recited the incantation, he pronounced the words carefully, and sure enough, the masonry began to move. The door opened a crack, enough for an arrow to whiz through and hit a thirdling on the shoulder.

“It had to happen sometime,” growled Boëndal, sheltering behind the wall.

“Every dwarf loves a challenge,” laughed his brother. “I hope we find some proper warriors in the palace. My axes are hungry for flesh.”

The foremost thirdling laid four shields on top of each other and tied them together with his belt. He waited by the narrow opening while a queue of warriors formed behind him, each carrying a stack of shields, ready to form a wall to protect the remainder of the group.

They appeared to be acting on their own initiative—at any rate, none of them waited for instructions. Tungdil wasn’t convinced that they would listen to him anyway: Lorimbas had ordered them to cut a path to the avatars, and they were apparently determined to do it on their terms.

“Let’s go,” said a tattooed warrior, glancing back at Tungdil. The thirdlings stormed ahead.

Arrows hissed through the air, but the reinforced shields fulfilled their purpose. Protected by the wall of metal, the remaining dwarves streamed into the palace gardens where the avatars’ soldiers awaited them.

The brightness wasn’t so dazzling with the cloth in front of their eyes, and Tungdil had the impression that the soldiers’ white armor looked duller than before. The power of the moonstones seemed to be waning.

The thirdlings advanced in formation, and the battle began. It quickly became apparent that the sides were well matched. For every fallen soldier, two more threw themselves into the breach, fighting with a strength born of desperation to hold back the invading dwarves.

“Look!” shouted Ireheart, pointing to the second-highest tower. “Did you see that?” A faint light was shining from the windows. Its source was wreathed in fog, but the glow was clearly visible. “It might be an avatar!”

“Looking for avatars, are you?” thundered a man. Turning, they saw a glowing figure on the parapet of the tower behind them. The magus raised his hands and a pair of glowing fireballs appeared in his palms. “Defenders of evil, prepare to die!”

The burning spheres blazed toward them, speeding through the thirdling ranks.

Narmora raced up the ladder. Rocks showered haphazardly toward her, but none of the missiles found its goal.

She reached the parapet and drew her weapons. The first consisted of a short metal haft to which scythe-like blades had been mounted on each end; the second was a straight-bladed version of the same. The blades’ inner and outer edges were deadly sharp. She wore metal baskets on her wrists to protect her fingers from enemy swords.

Launching herself from the parapet, she landed among the soldiers and hewed through their ranks. In recent battles she had fought with magic, not weaponry, and she was eager to test herself in combat, using Sunbeam and Crescent, her mother’s blades.

Her älvish nature came to the fore. Ducking, wheeling, and slashing, she was everywhere at once. To her satisfaction, her proficiency was noted and admired by others of her kind.

The dwarves scaled the parapets more slowly. By nature less nimble, they clambered steadily up the ladders and were easy targets for the soldiers’ rocks. Undeterred, they threw themselves into battle.

The avatars’ soldiers were quick to adapt to the different fighting styles of the älfar and the dwarves, and they soon showed their mettle. The allies’ hopes of a quick victory faded, and the battle swayed to and fro. Narmora, realizing the seriousness of the situation, decided to use her magic to cut a path through the enemy troops.

At the same time she knew she had to be ready for the avatars to retaliate, but so far there hadn’t been any sign of them.

A cold wind blew into the city, clearing the morning mist. Narmora glanced over to the palace and saw two shimmering figures at the top of a sable tower.

They’re up to something… Raising her left blade, she blocked a sword and sent it smashing into an enemy soldier before ramming her weapon through the aggressor’s belly and skewering him effortlessly on the end of her blade. “Xamtys,” she called to the firstling queen, withdrawing her bloodied weapon and pointing to the tower. “Can you manage on your own? I need to see what’s going on.”

The dwarven queen swung her four-pronged mace into a soldier’s knee and smashed it against his skull as he fell, crushing his right temple. The scream died on his lips as he toppled over the parapet. “They’re tougher than we thought, but Vraccas will see us through,” she called, gesturing for Narmora to go. “We’ll be fine without you, Estimable Maga.”

Narmora took off, landing with both feet on a soldier’s breastplate and knocking him into the weapons of his friends. Dropping low, she took off again and bounded over their heads. Before they could recover, she was down the stairs and running through the streets.

With every step her apprehension grew. Something about the force field was making her uneasy, and the disagreeable feeling intensified as she hurried toward the palace.

The magic energy was reaching for her, or rather, reaching for the shard of malachite buried beside her heart. No one but the eoîl knew about the gemstone, and his knowledge gave him power. She decided to kill him before he gave away her secret and brought her into conflict with Furgas and the dwarves.

It won’t come to that. She picked up the pace, sprinting through the deserted streets.

“You’ve got to stop them,” said Nudin, appearing beside her. “Everything is at stake.”

She stumbled and stopped. “How did you…?”

“You can’t stop now,” he said urgently. “Hurry, they’re about to start the ritual. You’re a half älf, remember. They’re committed to wiping out evil, and that includes you. I don’t want to be alone, Narmora. Don’t let them take our power…”

The apparition glimmered, fading out of sight.

“Where are you?” Narmora whirled round, sweeping the street with her gaze: There was nothing but terraced houses.

“Estimable Maga!” called a voice. “Thank Vraccas I’ve found you.” An exhausted messenger hurried toward her. “Rodario the Fablemaker needs you on the northern front. He and the thirdlings are outnumbered.”

“Tell him he’ll have to manage,” she said coldly. “I can’t endanger Girdlegard to save the lives of Lorimbas’s dwarves. The avatars must be stopped.”

She left him standing and ran down the street as fast as her long legs could carry her. She didn’t much care if the avatars’ soldiers wiped out the thirdlings. She was worried about her own life—her life, and the life of her innocent daughter.

Tungdil leaped into action, trusting to the efficacy of Djern’s armor.

He saw the first fireball speeding toward them, and threw himself into its path. Boëndal stepped in front of the second.

The world around them disappeared in a blaze of white light and roaring flames. Tendrils of fire licked their visors, but the charmed metal and powerful runes protected their eyes from the deadly heat.

Vraccas, give me the strength to pull through. Faster than an ax could sever an orcish arm, the temperature shot up, and beads of sweat formed on Tungdil’s forehead, evaporating straightaway. A few strands of hair, poking out from his leather skullcap, brushed against his helmet, releasing a smell that reminded him of a freshly shod horse.

It lasted no longer than the angry fizzle of a burning coal in water, but Tungdil waited impatiently for his vision to clear.

Most of the thirdlings were sprawled on the ground and some of their cloaks were on fire, but everyone was alive.

“I say we kill him before he roasts us like cave crabs,” wheezed Boëndal, opening his visor and taking a gulp of fresh air.

His brother was already storming toward the palace, followed by a knot of thirdlings, who cut down the sentries and disappeared inside. Tungdil and Boëndal ran after them as best they could. Balyndis had made their armor less restrictive, but the suits were far heavier than ordinary dwarven mail.

They pushed past the thirdlings and scrambled up the stairs, hoping to take the avatar by surprise.

He spotted them first.

A ball of fire whizzed toward them, engulfing them in roaring, hissing flames. Sweat vaporized from their pores, but the heat couldn’t kill them. They heard the avatar curse and saw a flash of white robe disappear around the corner.

“He’s running away!” bellowed Ireheart. “Ha, call yourself an avatar!” He hurled his ax, pinning the cloth to a wooden cupboard.

“What did you say about letting go of your ax?” asked Boëndal, sprinting past him with his crow’s beak. He turned the corner.

Tungdil was hot on his heels. “You owe us a sack of gold.”

“I’ve got two axes; it doesn’t count!” protested Boïndil, hurrying after them. “Leave him to me!”

The avatar-conjurer was a dark-haired man of fifty cycles dressed in black robes. He whirled round and pointed his left hand at Boëndal. White lightning left his index finger and shot toward the dwarf.

“Die, undergroundling!” This time the avatar kept his finger pointed at his victim, allowing flames to crackle over his breastplate. He seemed to realize that the armor offered no protection against the heat.

The tactic paid off.

Slowly, Boëndal’s fingers uncurled, and his crow’s beak thudded to the floor. He took a step forward, stumbled, and hit the unyielding marble without stopping his fall. At best he was unconscious, at worst he was…

“What have you done to my brother?” shrieked Ireheart, hurling his other ax to distract the avatar from Boëndal. The flames fizzled out. Boïndil kept running and grabbed the crow’s beak, swinging it over his head. “You’ll die for this.”

The avatar-conjurer sent another bolt of lightning toward Boïndil, but the dwarf was already upon him.

Shrieking with rage, Ireheart spun round and rammed the spur of the crow’s beak into the avatar’s belly, hitting him with such force that the weapon embedded itself in his guts. With another terrible shriek, the dwarf jerked the crow’s beak to the side, slicing his waist.

The avatar-conjurer didn’t have time to speak, groan, or express his surprise. He fell, blood and guts spilling from his belly as he hit the marble floor.

Tungdil kneeled beside Boëndal and fumbled with his visor, gagging on the smell of charred flesh. Hot steam and white smoke rose toward him. He fanned the air frantically and looked anxiously at his friend. The sight stopped his breath. Vraccas have mercy.

Boëndal’s face was a welter of oozing blisters, his features burned beyond recognition. Nothing but a few scorched whiskers remained of his bushy beard. Tungdil knew without looking that the rest of his body was covered in burns as well. “Lie still,” he told him, and Boëndal’s singed, lashless eyelids flickered at the sound of his voice. “I’ll get some snow for the burns.”

“Boëndal,” murmured his brother, appalled. “I…”

“Hurry,” whispered Boëndal. His blackened lips struggled to form the words. “Find the other avatars—don’t let them do the same to you.” He swallowed and tried to continue, but his voice gave out.

“Follow me,” said Tungdil determinedly. “We can have one each.”

Boïndil stood up. “I’ll take the eoîl.”

They jogged through the palace, looking for the staircase to the second-highest sable tower. The remaining thirdlings—thirty in all—came with them; the others had been cut down by the palace guards or killed by the avatar’s firebolts.

They pushed on quickly, their progress unhindered by the surviving avatar and his guards. It seemed the eoîl was happy to give them the run of the palace, which added to Tungdil’s unease.

Suddenly, a man stepped out of a doorway and hurried toward them. “Stop!”

“Die, wizard!” shouted Boïndil, raising his axes. His inner furnace was burning furiously, but somehow, miraculously, he recognized the man. “The fatuous Rodario!” At the last second, the crow’s beak jerked to the side, thudding against the wall and splintering the marble.

“Rodario! What are you doing here?” asked Tungdil, surprised. “I thought you and the thirdlings were…”

It was clear from the impresario’s appearance that the past few hours had taken their toll. His robes were torn and bloodied, although the blood wasn’t his. An angry bruise graced his right cheekbone and he was glistening with sweat.

“Lorimbas and his troops are dead,” he gasped, leaning against the wall and catching his breath. “They were decimated in the battle. We ran straight into the enemy’s traps, and Narmora left us to it. I asked for her help, but she was needed in the palace. I was hoping to find her here.” He lifted his arm, rubbed his eyes on his winged sleeve, and blinked. “Xamtys said to tell you that she’s holding her position, but the enemy units from the northern front are on their way to help their comrades. She won’t last for long.” His expression was uncharacteristically grave. “I think Narmora is trying to kill the eoîl so they won’t have a leader. At this rate there won’t be anyone left when Balendilín, Gandogar, and Glaïmbar’s armies arrive.”

“It’s down to us to stop them.” Tungdil glanced down the corridor. “Do you know the way to the second-highest tower? We think the eoîl and the last avatar might be hiding at the top.”

Rodario grinned. “I’d be delighted to take you there: In my experience, it’s generally safest in the eye of the storm. If you’re going to cuckold a man, you should stay in his bedroom; the dangerous part is trying to leave.” He pointed to a wide door leading away from the corridor. “You went right past it. Incidentally, the tower in question is situated above the wellspring.”

They ran to the door and a thirdling warrior yanked the handle and leaped away. “A monster! They’ve magicked a monster to guard the tower!”

Snarling and rasping, the creature barreled toward them through the doorway, pulling out the wooden frame and fracturing the marble wall. Through the cloud of powdered stone they saw the outlines of a monster that was clearly the creation of an unhinged god.

The four-legged creature towered above them, filling the six-pace-high corridor from ceiling to floor. It had a human body, with vast white wings and four stringy arms that allowed it to strike its enemies from afar. It wasn’t armed, having no need for swords or axes since its hands were equipped with bird-like talons, each as long as a dwarven arm and deadly sharp.

“Ye gods,” stammered Rodario, staring at the creature’s fang-lined jaws. He took a step backward. “If you ask me, this is a job for a warrior.”

“Scholar,” whispered Boïndil. “What is it? How do we kill it?”

The creature lowered its lizard-like head and peered at the dwarves with clear, pupil-less eyes. A forked purple tongue flicked toward them.

Tungdil had no recollection of any reference to such a creature in Lot-Ionan’s books. “It’s not from Girdlegard. They must have brought it from the Outer Lands—what it is, I don’t know.”

The creature flapped its powerful wings as best it could in the confines of the corridor, whipping up a hefty gust. The dwarves let go of their shields as the wind threatened to lift them into the air. Rodario was caught off guard and blown over.

Following its first, relatively harmless, display of power, the creature attacked.

Two long arms shot out and grabbed a couple of thirdlings, closing its talons around their heads and smashing their helmed skulls like eggshells. It loosed its grip, dropped the twitching bodies to the floor, and hissed in satisfaction.

The thirdlings, determined to avenge their dead comrades, threw themselves on the beast, whose claws turned out to be surprisingly hard. The thirdlings’ axes bounced off them, allowing the creature to bat away their blows.

“As soon as it’s sufficiently distracted, we’ll make a run for it,” said Tungdil. He didn’t want to waste time on the monster when its masters were still at large.

“But I want to fight it,” protested Boïndil, his inner furnace spitting flames. “It’s the biggest challenge I’ve ever seen!”

“Wait till we find the eoîl,” said Tungdil, hoping to console him. He signaled to Rodario. “The thirdlings can deal with the monster. You’re coming with us.”

“I see, you want me to be your decoy,” muttered Rodario. “Oh well, someone has to do it.” He shook the dust from his robes and sprinted after the dwarves, who had spotted a gap between the monster and the stairs.

Almost instantly, a talon swooped within inches of his head. The impresario ducked, racing past the dwarves to the bottom of the tower.

The creature resorted to cunning and flapped its wings frantically, creating a wind that swirled through Rodario’s robes, causing him to topple backward and trip up the dwarves. In the resulting confusion, they failed to foresee the next attack.

The creature’s fourth arm sped toward them, hitting Tungdil’s spaulders and cutting five deep grooves. Continuing on its trajectory, it smashed into Boïndil, hitting his breastplate level with his collarbone. One of the talons pierced the metal, eliciting a shriek of pain and rage, but the hardy dwarf had the strength to raise his weapon and hew through the talon, leaving the tip embedded in his chest.

“Is that the best you can do?” he shouted scornfully. “I’ll kill your masters, then come back and chop off your wings.” He spat at the creature’s feet.

Rodario and Tungdil had to grab him by the arms and drag him away. Somehow they reached the broad staircase leading up to the tower and kept running until the steps narrowed and the monster could chase them no more. Tungdil stopped to inspect the broken talon in Boïndil’s chest. It was at least the width of two fingers.

“You’ll lose too much blood if I try to pull it out,” he judged. “I think we should leave it alone.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Boïndil through gritted teeth. “It doesn’t especially hurt and it can’t have penetrated further than a fingertip or so. It’s a good job I was wearing my jerkin.” He tried to smile. “Just don’t let anyone wallop me in the chest.” He looked skeptically at the spiral staircase winding up the tower. It presented a considerable challenge to a dwarf in full plate armor, especially one with a hole in his chest. “This could take a while,” he said, placing his right foot on the next step and beginning the arduous ascent.

The tower was an architectural masterpiece.

The steps extended four paces from the walls of the stairwell without a rail or central pillar, and the tower itself was ten paces wide, leaving a gap of two paces at the core of the spiral. The slightest clumsiness was liable to end in a long and probably fatal fall. Winter sunshine filled the stairwell, lighting the steps.

Rodario noticed a cable, about the diameter of a finger, dangling in the empty shaft. It seemed to be suspended from above, for what purpose he could not guess. It’s probably for a bell or a gong or something. He dismissed the matter from his mind.

“What do they want with so many steps?” grumbled an out-of-breath Boïndil when they were two-thirds of the way to the top.

“It reminds me of a dwarven stronghold,” teased Rodario.

“Dwarves build towers for a reason. They’re crucial to our defenses, whereas this one…” He banged the crow’s beak impatiently against the wall. “You can’t do anything with this one. No platforms, no storerooms, no nothing—it’s useless.”

“Aren’t you forgetting the fabulous view?” puffed Rodario, who was sweating profusely like the dwarves. “The magi probably came here on clear nights to observe the celestial spectacle.”

“I wouldn’t climb all these steps just to gaze at some stupid stars,” growled Boïndil. “Besides, think of all the equipment you’d need. It would take all night to lug it to the top.” He blew out heavily. “The architect was a fool.”

When they reached the top of the stairs they saw that the sunshine wasn’t coming from above, as they had supposed, but from a cleverly positioned mirror that caught the light from three windows and channeled it into the stairwell. Next to the mirror was a door leading out to a parapet. Rodario stuck his head outside and a cold breeze ruffled his hair. “They’re still fighting,” he reported. “And unless I’m mistaken, another army is arriving from the north.” He peered into the distance. “Do you think it could be another battalion of älfar? The armor looks very dark.”

“It’s probably Belletain,” said Tungdil, elbowing him aside. “They’re coming from the right direction, but I can’t see the crests.”

“Who cares where they’re from, so long as they’re on our side.” Boïndil’s legs were shaking and he leaned against the wall. “I’ll be all right in a second,” he said.

Rodario looked at the crimson tracks on the floor. Blood was trickling between the plates of Boïndil’s armor, having leached through his jerkin. Contrary to his claims, the warrior was seriously wounded. The impresario nudged Tungdil and pointed to the blood.

“You’ll have to stay here,” said Tungdil, worried about his friend. “You won’t be any good to us if you collapse in front of the eoîl. You’re in no state to fight.”

Boïndil was unbending. “Nice try, scholar, but you said the eoîl was mine.” He took up the crow’s beak and marched with dwarven stubbornness to the door. “What are you waiting for, Sir Prattlemouth?” he demanded, winking to show that Rodario shouldn’t take offense. “Open the door!”

The impresario was staring at the cable, which ran from the top of the stairs across the floor and out of the tower through a hole in the wall. A pile of dust indicated that the hole was quite recent. Did the avatars put it there? His deliberations were interrupted by the last of the avatars.

The door flew open and a shimmering creature appeared before him, filling the tower with light.

“I knew you were here,” said a woman’s voice. She hurled a bolt of blue lightning at Bo��ndil, who wobbled under the double strain of the heat and his wounded chest. She saw that he was struggling and smiled. “Your armor won’t save you. It’s too late to stop the eoîl.”

Rodario summoned his courage. “Desist, shining conjurer, or I, Rodario the Fablemaker, first-grade apprentice to Narmora, will take your life.” He uttered a few nonsensical words, waved his arms, and activated his tinderboxes, firing burning lycopodium spores into the air.

The avatar wove a counterspell, reciting an incantation capable of defusing the most powerful magical firebolt. It had no effect whatsoever on Rodario’s props. Shrieking in pain, the startled avatar went up in flames.

The bright light went out, and Rodario and the dwarves saw that their enemy’s hair and robes were on fire.

“Ha, not so confident now, are you? Let’s see how you like this…” Encouraged by his success, the impresario hurled a phial at the avatar’s chest.

It hit her robes, bounced off, and exploded on the floor. Luckily for him, the avatar was so intent on putting out the flames that she stepped forward obligingly and put her right foot in the puddle. Smoke rose as the acid ate into her leather sole and burned the bottom of her foot.

“Good work, famulus!” whooped Boïndil. With a terrible laugh, he swung the crow’s beak at the avatar’s shoulder, impaling her on the spur. He maneuvered her to the ground, and, in an instant, Tungdil was beside them, ax raised and ready to strike.

The avatar did the first thing that came into her mind.

Instead of attacking the dwarves with firebolts, which wouldn’t have worked because of their suits, she focused on the ax, casting a spell to wrest it from Tungdil’s hands toward Boïndil’s head, causing the blade to smack into his helm.

Boïndil let out a muffled groan. The blow wasn’t enough to crack his skull, but he stumbled sideways, landing inelegantly on his rear. The weight of his armor carried him backward, and he skidded onto the steps.

“Scholar, I’m…” Clutching desperately at the air, he tumbled into the empty stairwell.

“No!” Rodario darted forward and made a grab for the dwarf, catching hold of a leather strap that instantly broke. He watched in horrified disbelief as the dwarf plummeted down the shaft of light, becoming smaller and smaller until he disappeared from sight.

Tungdil rammed his armored fist into the avatar’s face, punching her again and again until her features were a bloody pulp and her limbs stopped twitching. Drawing his dagger, he stabbed her through the heart. “I’d kill you a thousand times if I could.” His eyes welled with tears as he raised his ax and planted it in her body to punish her for Boïndil’s death.

Visor and face specked with blood, he straightened up and strode outside to tackle the eoîl.

“Where are you?” he called, looking both ways. He pressed himself against the wall and advanced along the circular ledge. Rodario followed behind him.

The shimmering figure ahead of them was attaching a diamond to a crystal container dangling by a cable from the flagpole.

“You made it all this way,” said a warm voice that left them wondering whether the speaker was male or female. Shining fingers tugged on a rope and the crystal container shot to the top of the flagpole, jigging up and down in the wind. “I admire you for your persistence, but I won’t be distracted from my purpose. If you continue to oppose me, you and your friends will die.”

“What difference does it make? You’ve killed thousands already.” Slowly, Tungdil stepped toward the eoîl. “How can you claim to be fighting for good if you wipe out everyone who gets in your way?”

“I don’t expect you to understand. You’re too wrapped up in the details to see that casualties are inevitable in the fight against evil. I’m not afraid to make sacrifices for the greater good.”

Rodario eyed him scornfully. “You’re only interested in power. Lirkim told me that you’re planning to carve up Girdlegard—I suppose that’s why you killed her.”

“Killed her?” The eoîl sounded surprised. “Is Lirkim dead?”

“You killed her yourself.”

“On the contrary, I was planning to rescue her—she and the others were loyal friends. I’m sorry about what happened to them, but I don’t need them now. They wanted territory and power, and I promised to give it to them. I’m interested only in the destruction of evil in all its forms. Sadly, undergroundlings aren’t generally counted as evil.” The bright oval that was the creature’s face tilted slightly as if to focus on something behind them. “If you want to know who killed Lirkim, I suggest you ask her.”

“Don’t look,” said Tungdil, gripping his ax. “It’s bound to be a trick.”

Rodario glanced over his shoulder. “Narmora?”

IX

Porista,

Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6235th/6236th Solar Cycle

The half älf was standing right behind them. Her eyes were two dark pits and fine lines zigzagged like cracks across her face. “Don’t listen to him.” She pushed past Rodario and took up position next to Tungdil. They heard her utter a single magic word.

A dark green bolt shot from her mouth, hitting the astonished eoîl who toppled backward and hit the floor. “Your trail of destruction ends here.” She raised her arms, and green lightning flew from her fingers, crackling toward the eoîl.

Tungdil watched with bated breath. Surely it can’t be that easy to kill an eoîl? He tensed his muscles, ready to charge at the eoîl with his ax. Meanwhile, Rodario gripped his last phial of acid and prepared to hurl it at the luminous figure, should Narmora’s magic fail.

The eoîl, surrounded by malachite lightning, got to his feet and let out a tinkling laugh. His shoulders shook with mirth. Narmora lowered her head, summoning her strength to intensify the attack.

To no avail.

The eoîl raised his hand gracefully and pushed aside the web of lightning. The bolts disintegrated, setting him free. “You’ll have to explain to your friends where you got your power,” he said mildly. “No ordinary being would be capable of channeling so much energy—but you’ve got a secret, haven’t you? Maybe you should tell them.”

“Silence!” she screeched furiously, opening her mouth to begin another spell. An apple-sized ball of light sped toward her and exploded against her chest. Screaming, she dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around her stricken body.

“You’re carrying it inside you,” he said triumphantly. “You’re giving shelter to what’s left of the demon. What will your friends say, half älf?” He hurled another ball of light toward her, and she writhed on the ground, moaning. “Why did you kill Lirkim?”

“Enough!” bellowed Tungdil, striding toward him. “I won’t be distracted by your lies. Vraccas told his children to guard these lands, and I’ll fight you to the death.”

With Narmora incapacitated, the eoîl turned back to the dwarf. “You’re determined and you’re spirited,” he said approvingly. “I like that, undergroundling, which is why I’m proposing a deal.” He reached down to pick up the cable. “Let me go about my business, and I’ll order my warriors to lay down their arms. Girdlegard won’t come to any harm—with the help of the wellspring, I’ll rid your lands of evil, and every impure soul within the five ranges will perish in my flames.” He pointed to the crystal tube. “Their energy will be channeled through this stone and converted to good. Afterward, I’ll be strong enough to take on the lord of darkness himself.” The luminous oval turned to Tungdil. “It won’t take long, then I’ll leave you in peace. I’m giving you and your kinsfolk a better world—a world without älfar or beasts. Nothing that bears a trace of evil will survive the stone of judgment. Isn’t that what you want?”

Although the proposal was appealing, Tungdil couldn’t bring himself to trust the eoîl. He decided to probe a little further. “What will happen to the force fields? If you drain the wellspring, Girdlegard will be thrown into chaos and you’ll devastate the land. We’ve seen the effects of your meddling already.”

“Change means risk. Thanks to your smith, I can use the source to give me power. She gave away the secret of your armor.”

“Balyndis didn’t tell you anything.”

“No one can resist my power. The undergroundling endured unimaginable pain—she won’t remember what she said.” The eoîl glanced over the parapet. “Älvish reinforcements,” he observed. “The immortal siblings are with them—I can feel their dark power. They know I intend to wipe them out. Their dark-hearted leaders aren’t as indestructible as they claim.” He turned back to Tungdil. “Which will it be? Will you let me destroy the älfar—or do you want your friends to die?”

Rodario suddenly grasped what the eoîl was up to. The cable was made of Balyndis’s special alloy, and the eoîl was using it to connect the diamond to the spring. I need to distract him. “The decision isn’t ours to take,” he said. He took a sideways step, holding the phial behind him and dropping it on the cable at the point where it left the wall. “Tungdil can’t agree to anything without the backing of the other kings. He can’t speak for the dwarven rulers, let alone the men and elves, so if you don’t mind, I’m afraid we’ll have to—”

The eoîl raised his hand, and the impresario lifted several paces off the ground and slammed against the wall of the tower. He toppled forward and slumped over the parapet, too dazed to move.

“I didn’t ask for his opinion,” snapped the eoîl. “Well, Tungdil, what do you say?”

“I can’t agree to your proposal.”

“There’s a thin line between courage and folly.” Pointing at Tungdil with his right hand, he uttered a magic formula, but nothing happened. The acid had eaten through the cable, cutting the link to the spring.

“Courage and folly can defeat the most powerful conjurers,” retorted Tungdil, rushing forward and swinging his ax to cut down the eoîl.

Even as he raised his weapon he was overtaken by a pair of dark figures, who ran past him on either side. They were dressed in magnificent suits of black tionium with elaborate älvish helmets, and their swords were as delicate as they were deadly, with razor-sharp, finger-width blades.

Before he had time to regain his composure, Tungdil was knocked off his feet from behind. He fell, rolled over, and prepared to fight.

“You again?” He looked into the masked face of Ondori.

She lifted her black veil and smiled coldly. “The immortal siblings will handle the eoîl. It’s no job for a groundling.” She thrust her quarterstaff toward him, hitting his helmed head. Tungdil was momentarily deafened, but amid the ringing in his ears he heard her whisper, “I told you it would end this way. Look at me: Ondori is your death.” She said something in a strange tongue, then leaned forward again. “I’m going to take your life, groundling.” A blade shot out from the end of her quarterstaff and pressed against his throat. “To blazes with your soul.”

With that, the fight against the eoîl faded into insignificance as Tungdil focused his energies on survival.

Ondori raised the quarterstaff, preparing to pierce Tungdil’s throat, but he rolled to the side as best he could, gasping as the blade nicked his skin. He smelled the blood trickling from the right of his throat, a strong coppery odor, characteristic of dwarves.

Ondori kicked out, striking him just as he tried to right himself like a clumsy beetle. He flew through the air, landed and ducked beneath her blade, coming dangerously close to the parapet. Straightening up, he was just in time to anticipate the next assault.

“You killed my parents, groundling.” The tip of the quarterstaff sped toward him, and he batted it aside with his ax, only for her to flip the haft of her weapon into his visor. His head jerked back with a sickening crack. The blow would have broken the neck of a human, but it wasn’t enough to fell a determined dwarf.

“My friends killed your father—and I’ll kill you too.” He slashed at her with his ax, fully expecting her to block the blade with her quarterstaff. “I warned you the first time, and I’m a dwarf of my word.” He hooked his ax around the staff, jerked the älf toward him, and swung his blade to the right.

The tactic paid off. Ondori, desperate to keep hold of her weapon, wasn’t quick enough, and the ax cut into the back of her right hand, almost chopping it in two. Dark blood gushed to the marble floor.

“I’ll sculpt a tombstone for my parents with your bones!” She stabbed at Tungdil with her staff, ramming it into his leg. He stumbled against the parapet and reached down to yank the weapon from his thigh. The blade had cut through his armor and pierced his flesh to the bone. A scream rose inside him, but he gritted his teeth, clamping his jaws until he thought he would explode.

Reaching for her belt, Ondori drew another set of weapons similar to Narmora’s crescent blades, and rushed forward to finish him off.

The duel was a fight to the death. The dwarf and the älf were both injured, but neither could land the decisive blow. They were fighting so energetically, so determinedly, that there was no time to follow the battle between the immortal siblings and the eoîl. A moment of inattention on either part would result in death.

Tungdil, limping badly, began to slow. His right leg, already unsteady, gave out completely as Ondori swung both weapons at his chest. He stumbled, falling toward his foe.

A scythe-like blade slid through the join in his breastplate and sliced through his jerkin, piercing his ribs. Weakened from his previous injury, he blacked out for a second, opening his eyes in time to see Ondori towering over him, ready to land another blow.

Mighty Vraccas, he prayed silently. Don’t abandon the elves and men. For the sake of Girdlegard, grant me the strength to prevail. He thrust his ax toward Ondori, but she batted it aside.

“Good, but not good enough,” she taunted him. Her foot sped into his face, preventing further resistance. Kneeling beside him, she set a blade against the lower edge of his helmet and pressed it against his throat. “Die, Tungdil Goldhand.” Her scarred face glowed with triumph as she contemplated killing him slowly, sinking the blade little by little into his neck, and making him suffer as she and her parents had suffered at his hands. But time was short and she decided to settle for inflicting a speedy but brutal death.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing could protect them from the eoîl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And then what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tungdil gave the signal and strode toward the eoîl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tungdil swung his ax.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There wasn’t time to swap stories.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The shaking was becoming more violent.

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

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

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

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

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

The next ferocious quake proved too much for the tower.

Turning, they watched as the glorious palace of Lios Nudin was broken apart. The tower above the wellspring was shaking like corn in the wind, tilting wildly from side to side. Suddenly, the walls crumbled and the uppermost third of the tower broke off.

The deadly chunk of masonry crashed into the highest tower, smashing through its walls. The tower collapsed, raining chunks of marble over the palace and destroying the copper dome. One by one the sable towers crashed to the ground.

Clouds of dust rose from the debris, rolling toward them like a vast brown wave and obscuring their view. Chips of marble flew through the air, and the sound of splitting stone echoed endlessly through the city.

Crouched behind the outer walls, they waited for the devastation to end. Dust clogged their eyes and nostrils, clinging to them like thick brown fog. Those who hadn’t thought to cover their mouths and noses were already coughing and struggling to breathe.

At last the ground stopped shaking and everything came to rest.

Tungdil wiped the dust from his eyes and washed his face with a handful of snow. Vraccas protect us.

Nothing remained of the palace’s former splendor. Tons of marble had flattened its lofty chambers, burying cycles of scholarship under its weight. It was as if the pillaged wellspring had used the last of its energy to destroy the seat of Girdlegard’s mystic learning, which served no purpose now that the magic was gone. In any case, no one in Girdlegard knew anything of the mystic arts; the last of the magi was dead, and there was no one to take her place.

Thoughtfully, Tungdil closed his fingers around the diamond. What am I going to do with you?

He heard the tread of many feet and the familiar sound of jangling chain mail. Through the mist, the firstling queen and her warriors, accompanied by Gemmil and his dwarves, marched toward them. Tungdil spotted Balyndis’s smiling face at the front of the parade.

Xamtys had survived the battle with only minor injuries and her four-pronged mace glistened with enemy blood. “Thank Vraccas you’re all right! When the tower came down, we feared the worst.”

“Who knows what the rest of Girdlegard looks like,” Tungdil said grimly. “For all we know, Porista may have come off lightly compared to the other cities.” In spite of his bleak mood, he couldn’t help smiling at Balyndis.

She came over and gave him a careful hug. “We routed the avatars’ army.”

“And we routed the avatars,” rasped Rodario. “You missed the performance of a lifetime. Tungdil and I defeated the eoîl. The blasted creature was an—”

“Apparition,” said Tungdil quickly. “The eoîl was made of mist, like the spirit that corrupted Nudin.” He spoke loudly and deliberately, hoping that Rodario would take the hint. If the dwarves found out that an elf maiden was to blame for the destruction, the fragile truce between the dwarven kingdoms and Liútasil’s folk would be endangered, and even the humans would start to take sides. In the eyes of some, the crimes of an individual justified the punishment of an entire kingdom or folk.

Xamtys wasn’t fooled. “How did you defeat the apparition without Keenfire?”

“A fatal error on the part of the eoîl,” explained Rodario, playing along with the deceit. “He assumed human form, which is to say, he made himself mortal. You should have seen the battle—he fought like a devil, but I stabbed him in the chest and our twice victorious hero dealt the final blow.”

Snow was still falling, pushing the clouds of dust to the ground. The air cleared and the little group could breathe again.

Xamtys shot Tungdil a knowing look, but allowed the story to stand, preferring not to challenge their victory in front of the jubilant troops. “How about we get these three to camp?” she said, eying Tungdil, Rodario, and Boïndil’s wounds. “My warriors will take care of the dead.”

Tungdil started off, supported by Balyndis, and promptly trod on something small and hard.

Without really knowing why, he bent down and fumbled in the snow until his fingers closed around a finger-length shard of stone. He picked it up: It was green, slightly charred, and specked with frozen blood.

Narmora’s malachite! He pocketed it quickly before anyone could see. “Just a bit of stone,” he told Balyndis. “Nothing valuable, I’m afraid.”

The news of the victory spread quickly through Porista.

Relieved citizens pressed their faces to the windows to watch the dwarves march past. It wasn’t long before they poured out of their houses to clap, cheer, and supply the warriors with food and hot drinks. In no time, Rodario and the dwarves found themselves at the center of an unexpected victory parade.

Tungdil and his kinsfolk thanked the citizens for their kindness. It wasn’t in their nature to celebrate in front of strangers, but their tired, bearded faces revealed their contentment.

Rodario was altogether less reserved, waving majestically from his stretcher and playing to the crowd.

“Fellow citizens, prepare yourself for the story of how I, the fabulous Rodario, and my trusty companion, Tungdil Goldhand, defeated the godlike eoîl. I look forward to seeing you in my theater.” He raised his voice. “Long live the dwarves and long live Porista!” The crowd roared approvingly and cheered the handsome hero.

Boïndil shook his head in disbelief.

“What?” said the impresario shamelessly. “I have to use these opportunities. I’ll be reopening the Curiosum in a while.”

Tungdil was busy thinking about what to tell Xamtys and the dwarven kings. He was inclined to stick to the story about the mist. If Rodario keeps quiet, no one need know that the eoîl was an elf. Sometimes it’s better to hide the truth. He certainly didn’t intend to confess that the accursed shard of malachite was in his possession, but the diamond was a different matter. He needed the others’ help to keep the magic in safe hands.

With the city behind them, the full extent of the damage was revealed.

The quakes had opened deep, dark trenches through the frozen fields, and in some places the ground had opened up and swallowed everything for hundreds of paces. Fortunately, the dwarven encampment had survived the tremors, a deep crack that passed through its middle somehow having zigzagged round every single tent, preserving them all.

“Xamtys and Gemmil’s losses weren’t too bad,” said Balyndis, helping Tungdil to lie down. She was doing her best to distract him while a physician examined his wounds. “The älfar took the pressure off the firstlings and freelings, but the thirdlings weren’t so lucky. The northern front was a bloodbath. The avatars’ soldiers were massed behind the walls. The thirdlings are good warriors, but only a handful survived.”

The physician removed the dressing from Tungdil’s leg and opened the wound to check for infection.

“What of Salfalur?” growled Tungdil, gritting his teeth against the growing urge to scream.

She shook her head. “He and Lorimbas died in the battle. Our warriors are looking for their remains.”

Tungdil’s relief was mingled with disappointment. It was a fitting end for a dwarf killer, but it robbed him of the chance to avenge his murdered parents—and poor Myr. “Do you think the news has reached the eternal smithy? I’d like his victims to know that he’s dead.”

“I’m sure they do,” she said, bending down to kiss him on the forehead. For a moment they allowed themselves to feel at one, united by the love that would bind them together for the rest of their lives.

Just then the fur drape at the entrance to the tent was pulled back, and Furgas charged in. He scanned the wounded dwarves, spotted Tungdil, and rushed to his side. His eyes were red from crying.

“Tungdil, thank goodness you’re all right!” He clasped the dwarf’s hand and shook it vigorously. “They said you might know where to find Narmora. I’ve been looking for her everywhere. One moment, she was fighting at the gates, and then she…” A tear trickled down his cheek and his lower lip quivered. “Where is she, Tungdil?” he whispered thickly. “I’ve just buried my daughter. I can’t bury my wife.”

A chill came over Tungdil. Even little Dorsa wasn’t spared. Inside he railed at the eoîl and the implacable stone of judgment. It was true that Narmora’s daughter was quarter älf, but no baby deserved such a fate.

“She died in a duel with the eoîl,” said Tungdil. He wanted Furgas to remember Narmora as a heroine who had given her life in the fight against evil. “She tried to save Dorsa from the power of the diamond, but the eoîl was too strong. None of us could stop him draining the force fields.”

Furgas let out a despairing howl and buried his hands in his face. His loud sobs echoed through the dwarves’ hearts, bringing tears to Tungdil’s eyes. Furgas had paid more dearly than anyone for the avatars’ defeat. Balyndis, moved by his grief, put her arm around his shoulders.

“What was the point?” he asked in a muffled voice. “What was the point of all that suffering?” He raised his head and looked accusingly at Tungdil. “We went to war to save Girdlegard, because you said there was a threat.” He jumped up and pointed to the door. “But what happened? Nothing! My wife died in vain. The avatars wanted to free us from evil, and what did we do? We fought them.” He sat down slowly. “If we’d helped them, it would never have come to this. Narmora and Dorsa would be alive…”

“Furgas,” Tungdil said soothingly. “You’ve lost the two people most precious to you, but the stone of judgment doesn’t work like that. The eoîl wouldn’t—”

“We could have shown them the way to Toboribor and led them to Borwôl. We could have taken them to every single evil creature in Girdlegard without endangering innocent lives, and they would have wiped the beasts out with their army. They only used their murderous magic because we attacked them—and it cost me my wife and child.” He got up and looked at Tungdil bitterly. “We attacked them because you told us to. We followed the dwarves’ advice and we trusted you—everyone in Girdlegard trusted you—but this time you were wrong. Palandiell save me from the charity of the dwarves.”

He turned away, ignoring Tungdil’s pleas. Pulling the tent flap back angrily, he disappeared outside.

“Let him be,” advised Balyndis. “It’s no wonder he can’t think straight when his heart is full of grief. Give him some time.”

The physician cleared his throat to get their attention. “I’m afraid there’s a shard of metal in your bone. I’ll have to get it out.” He handed his patient a metal bar wrapped in leather. Tungdil smiled and tried to give it back, but the physician shook his head. “You’ll need it. It’s a painful business.”

Tungdil put the bar between his teeth and Balyndis squeezed his hand while the physician’s assistants exposed the bone by pulling back the flesh with metal hooks. A pair of tongs closed around the shard and the physician began to pull. Tungdil didn’t have time to clamp his jaws around the bar; his mind had shut down.

Porista,

Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6235th/6236th Solar Cycle

The citizens found a use for the fissures resulting from the quakes and saved themselves the effort of breaking open the frozen earth to bury the enemy dead.

The avatars’ soldiers were tossed unceremoniously into the trenches and packed down with rubble from the palace, of which nothing remained intact.

Faraway from the men, the fallen dwarves were laid to rest in individual graves. Firstlings were buried next to thirdlings, and thirdlings next to freelings, a fitting end for the comrades-in-arms. Tungdil refused to believe that Vraccas would close his smithy to honorable dwarves of any provenance who upheld his commandments. For the first time in history, the folks were at peace.

Boëndal Hookhand of the clan of the Swinging Axes would return to the Blue Range as a hero, but not in the way that Boïndil and Tungdil had hoped. Too severely burned for the healers to help him, the plucky secondling had died of his wounds.

Boïndil and Tungdil laid him on a shield and carried him, still dressed in his imposing armor as befitted a warrior, through the encampment and into Porista. The funeral procession came to a halt on the southern outskirts of the city. A group of firstlings had volunteered to help Boïndil carry his twin to the secondling kingdom where he would be laid to rest in his beloved Blue Range.

“I couldn’t bury him here,” said a broken-hearted Boïndil. The loss of his twin was a blow from which he would never recover. Part of his soul had died. “He wanted to be buried at the High Pass. He’ll always be keeping watch over Girdlegard and protecting our kingdom from Tion’s hordes.”

Bowing his head, Tungdil looked sorrowfully at his dead friend and touched his cold, scorched fingers. He wasn’t afraid to shed a tear. Forgive me for missing your funeral, he apologized. I’ll visit your grave when my work is done. I hope to bring good news… He turned to Boïndil and embraced him as they mourned the loss of the brother and companion with whom they had shared so much.

“Who’s going to calm my fiery furnace now?” sniffed his twin forlornly. Salty tears rolled down his cheeks, adding to the glistening pearl at the bottom of his beard.

“I’ll join you again soon,” promised Tungdil in a choked voice. “We’ll drink a tankard or two to Boëndal and remember the old times. He’s in the smithy, you know, with Sanda and all the others who died in the fight against the avatars. Vraccas will have given him a proper hero’s welcome.”

They bade each other farewell; then Boïndil signaled to the firstlings to help him lift the shield. Tungdil made his way dolefully back to his tent, where an anxious Rodario was waiting for him.

“He’s gone,” he sighed.

“I know,” said Tungdil. “He left just now.”

The impresario shook his head. “I mean Furgas, not Boïndil. The best prop master in Girdlegard has vanished without trace.” He shrugged sadly. “I don’t know what to do.”

Tungdil poured himself and his guest some tea. “With the Curiosum?”

“Who cares about the Curiosum!” snorted Rodario. “Admittedly, the special effects won’t be the same without him, but Furgas was my friend.” He took a sip of his tea. “The poor fellow has been through such a lot. First he was attacked and poisoned, then his son died before he woke up from the coma, and now, half a cycle later, he’s had to bury his baby daughter and as for Narmora… there’s nothing left but ash. Both dead in a single orbit!” He sighed again, this time more deeply. “Can a heart survive such sorrow? What if he tries to…”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” said Tungdil, doing his best to sound convincing. “If he wanted to take his own life, he’d have done it in Porista, where his children and his wife met their end. I expect he’s gone away for a while to clear his mind.”

Rodario hoped fervently that the dwarf was right. “Fine, I’ll go with your theory, hero of Porista. It’s cheerier than mine.”

“Do you know what, Rodario?” confessed Tungdil. “I’m tired of being a hero. Furgas was upset and he said a few things that got me thinking.” He reported their exchange and took another sip of tea. “The thing is, he was probably right: maybe I should have helped the avatars rather than oppose them,” he concluded sadly.

“I beg to differ,” said Rodario, watching the steam rise from his tea. “It must have slipped my friend’s mind that five towns were destroyed when the avatars marched on Dsôn Balsur. Five towns, and forty thousand men, women, and children! Think how many would have died if they’d marched on Toboribor and Borwôl as well! Besides, the so-called avatars wanted to carve up Girdlegard among themselves. Lirkim said they’d be mightier than kings, omnipotent and invincible. We wouldn’t have lasted more than a couple of orbits with them at our helm.” He sipped his tea. “No, Tungdil, we did the only thing we could. We saved our homeland and we rid the people in the Outer Lands of a band of tyrannical magi, not to mention an unhinged eoîl.” He nodded at Tungdil and smiled. “Furgas was right to be angry, but he was wrong to be angry with you. Girdlegard is indebted to Tungdil Goldhand and the dwarves; there isn’t enough gold in these ranges to repay you.”

Applause sounded from the door. The dwarven monarchs—Balendilín, Gandogar, Gemmil, Glaïmbar, and Xamtys—were gathered at the entrance to the tent, accompanied by Prince Mallen.

“Well said,” agreed the ruler of Idoslane. “Actors are prone to exaggeration, but it’s impossible to speak too highly of the dwarves. The men and women of Girdlegard won’t forget their obligation to the children of the Smith.”

“To some of his children,” Tungdil corrected him. He studied the faces of the four dwarven kings and the firstling queen. His mood was somber. “The freelings and the thirdlings defended Girdlegard in our darkest hour, and the firstlings played their part as well, but the rest of you allowed yourselves to be fooled into leaving Girdlegard. A dwarven king should be strong enough and wise enough to stand his ground.”

Gandogar bowed his head. “Tungdil is right; I shouldn’t have ceded to the thirdlings. I won’t fail the dwarves again.”

He left the doorway and walked to the center of the tent. Everyone took a seat. After all that had happened, the dwarven rulers had plenty to discuss, and Mallen had indicated that he wanted to share some news as well.

“Before we start, I’d like to ask Tungdil Goldhand to be my counselor,” said Gandogar solemnly. “We’ve all seen the folly of ignoring your advice.”

Tungdil was flattered by the offer; the king of all dwarves wanted him, a thirdling, an exile, and a foundling to be his personal counselor. But the Nôd’onn-slaying, eoîl-killing hero had other things to accomplish before he could consider accepting such an offer. The high king agreed to let him think the matter over.

It was Mallen’s turn to speak. “The tidings I bring will please some and grieve others, but mostly, I think, you’ll be shocked.” He paused, looking gravely at the circle of expectant faces. “When King Belletain requested permission for his troops to cross my land, I knew his help would be welcomed in Porista and, not realizing his intentions, I agreed. As you know, his army never got here.” He took a deep breath. “Instead of heading west to Porista, Belletain’s army went east—toward the Black Range.” He produced a crumpled letter from his robe. “When I realized what had happened, I demanded an explanation, and Belletain wrote to tell me that King Lorimbas had failed to honor his treaty with Urgon, and he, Belletain, had been deprived of the fourthlings’ gold. By way of compensation, he ordered his soldiers to raid the thirdlings’ stronghold and carry off their gold.” He handed the letter to Gandogar. “King Gandogar, there was an alliance between Belletain and Lorimbas—an alliance against you.”

“Are the soldiers still there?” asked Xamtys, while the high king stared at the letter in shocked disbelief.

Mallen shook his head. “I sent scouts to the Black Range. The gates were open when they got there and the watchtowers were deserted. Inside, the corridors and halls were strewn with the corpses of dwarf women and children. Belletain had ordered his soldiers to show no mercy to Lorimbas’s folk.”

Tungdil didn’t want to believe what he was hearing. “There must have been some survivors,” he said hopelessly.

“Dwarven kingdoms are full of passageways and secret vaults,” said Xamtys with conviction. “The thirdlings are probably in hiding.”

To the dwarves’ dismay, Mallen shook his head. “My scouts reported that most of the passageways have collapsed. The kingdom was all but destroyed in the quake. I’m not saying there weren’t survivors, but their number will be small.”

“A whole folk, all but wiped out,” murmured Tungdil. He had always dreamed of a time when the dwarves could live together without fear or suspicion. But not like this, Vraccas. He turned to Gandogar. “You asked me to be your counselor, Your Majesty. My advice would be to send an army to guard the Black Range. Without Lorimbas and his warriors, the Eastern Pass is open to attack.”

“I’m sure the surviving thirdlings will welcome your help,” said Gemmil. “It could be the beginning of a new era, an era of peace for the dwarves. The most zealous dwarf killers are dead and buried in Porista—the others can’t afford to continue the feud.”

“Belletain’s treachery won’t go unpunished,” said Mallen. “The rulers of Girdlegard shall hear of how he turned his back on the allies for the sake of some gold. The mad king of Urgon must be stopped before he takes it into his addled head to invade another dwarven kingdom.”

The dwarves agreed wholeheartedly.

“There’s something I’d like to tell you,” said Tungdil. “I haven’t mentioned it until now because the fewer who know, the better.” He produced a small leather pouch containing the diamond and placed it on the table. “As kings and queens, you deserve to hear the truth.” He took out the stone. “This is the last remaining source of magic in Girdlegard. The diamond is powerful enough to turn a magus into a deity. The eoîl was in the process of channeling its magic when Rodario and I cut him down.”

“I was merely the sidekick,” demurred Rodario with a smile.

Everyone crowded around to examine the twinkling surface of the beautiful gem.

Gandogar, king of the gem-cutting fourthlings, was an authority on diamonds. “It’s magnificent,” he said admiringly. “The craftsmanship is dwarven in quality, but a gem like this would be mentioned in our chronicles. The technique is different too.” He picked it up carefully and held it in front of the candle. The flame, seemingly enamored by the flawless surface, leaned toward the diamond, which caught and amplified the light.

The awed silence was broken by Tungdil. “The eoîl spoke of undergroundlings. He probably got the diamond from dwarves in the Outer Lands.”

Gandogar set down the stone.

“You say it would give a magus almost limitless power,” said Mallen, frowning. “With luck, none of our enemies will learn of its existence, but it needs to be under constant guard.”

“Exactly,” said Tungdil. He turned to Gandogar. “You’ve had a look at the stone, and I’ve made a few drawings.” He got up, walked to his desk, and picked up a sheet of parchment. “I’ve written down the exact measurements and sketched the cut. I propose we make copies and give them to the rulers of Girdlegard. The seven human monarchs, the dwarven rulers, and Liútasil will each receive a diamond to guard.” He looked at them earnestly. “Build vaults, set traps, employ sentries—do whatever is necessary to ensure the stone is safe.” Tungdil’s plan met with approval.

“How will we know which of us is guarding the original?” asked Xamtys.

“We won’t—that’s the idea. I’ll keep the diamond until Gandogar has made the replicas. Then we’ll put them in a pouch, add the original, and shake them together. After that, we’ll trust to Vraccas and draw the stones at random. You might draw a replica, you might draw the original, but neither you, nor I, nor anyone who chances to learn of the stone’s existence will be able to tell.” He turned away from Xamtys to address the other monarchs. “This is Girdlegard’s biggest secret. Only the members of this council, Lord Liútasil, and the other human rulers must know of the stone.”

Balendilín stroked his beard. “Without the diamond, we’ll never have another magus or maga. The only magic in Girdlegard is hidden in the stone. How long do you propose we hide it?”

“I don’t know, but maybe in time we’ll entrust the diamond to a human, an elf, or a dwarf and start a new line of magi. The right individual would know how to identify the stone.” He returned the diamond to its pouch and stowed it behind his belt. “If you ask me, we’ll be better off without any magic for a while.” No one was inclined to disagree.

Next they made arrangements for sending an allied army to the ruined thirdling kingdom with the dual purpose of rescuing survivors and sealing the Eastern Pass. In future, the dwarves would have to travel between the ranges on foot because the underground network had been destroyed by the quakes.

The meeting ended late that night. Prince Mallen was the first to leave, followed by Queen Xamtys and the dwarven kings. King Glaïmbar stayed behind to talk to Tungdil.

The fifthling monarch held out his hand. “How can I ever repay you, Tungdil Goldhand? First you saved my life in the Gray Range, then you rescued Balyndis from the avatars.”

Tungdil shook hands with him gladly. He couldn’t bring himself to hate Glaïmbar for stealing Balyndis; it seemed wrong to harbor grudges when fortune had treated others more harshly. “I came to the aid of a dear friend. You would have done the same.”

“If I were to ask you what you wished for more than anything, what would you say?” asked Glaïmbar levelly, looking him in the eye.

“I would ask you to give up Balyndis so she could follow her heart,” he answered honestly. “But since it’s not in your power, I won’t.” He gripped the king’s hand. “My greatest wish is that you look after her, honor her, and make her happy.”

“You’re a better dwarf than me, Tungdil Goldhand,” said Glaïmbar, shaking his head in wonder. He turned to leave, then stopped and looked back at Tungdil. “They should have made you king,” he said sincerely. The tent flap closed behind him.

Tungdil gazed after him, deep in thought. “Perhaps,” he murmured, smiling. “But I was the one who turned down the crown.” He poured himself another mug of tea.

He knew it was time for bed. Before he could take the diamond to Gandogar in the fourthling kingdom he had to travel north to Âlandur and east to Dsôn Balsur. A good deal of snow, sludge, and mud would pass beneath his boots before the coming of spring.

He smiled, remembering how Rodario had looked at him in horror when he announced his intention to travel alone to the älfar’s kingdom.

“What in the name of Palandiell do you want in that confounded place? Don’t tell me you want to look for survivors! You saw for yourself that the stone of judgment worked.”

Tungdil had told him that he wasn’t interested in the älfar; he was after his ax.

He carried his tea to his mattress, removed his fur cloak, and slipped beneath the covers.

Before he fell asleep, he got up again to throw a few logs on the camp stove to banish the winter chill. It’s my duty to see this through, he thought sleepily, closing his eyes.

X

Elven Kingdom of Âlandur,

Girdlegard,

Winter/Spring, 6236th Solar Cycle

Tungdil peered up at the lofty branches laden with snow. All winter the boughs had bowed and sagged beneath the extra weight, proudly refusing to break. With the worst of the winter over, the sun was strengthening, freeing the trees from the snow.

Springtime beckoned, and soon Girdlegard would be awash with color. His old friend Frala used to love the first orbits of spring.

So many of my friends are dead, he thought gloomily as he made his way between the mighty trunks.

On his previous visit to Âlandur, he and his company had been given a cool reception by the elves, but this time his presence seemed to go unnoticed.

He hadn’t seen a soul since he first set foot in the elven kingdom two orbits ago, following the narrow path deeper and deeper among the trees. He wondered when he was going to be met by Liútasil, the elven lord with claret-colored hair.

The answer came sooner than expected.

On rounding a corner, he came to the end of the path and entered a clearing. In front of him was a vast green tent that seemed to be made of satin. An elven archer was posted at each of the corners, and Liútasil, dressed in ceremonial robes, hailed him from the door. Smiling warmly, he shook the dwarf’s hand.

“Congratulations, Tungdil Goldhand. Everyone in Girdlegard must have heard of your victory.” He gestured for Tungdil to enter the tent. “Come in. We thought you might like somewhere to rest your weary legs.”

Tungdil bowed to the elven lord. “Thank you.” Stepping inside, he was struck by the splendor of the tent.

Dwarves and humans built their tents with canvas and plain wooden poles, but Liútasil’s shelter was made of satin and elegant pillars of aromatic wood, each carved with intricate hunting scenes and embellished with runes. Tungdil wondered how he could bear to dismantle such a beautifully crafted tent.

It was pleasantly warm inside, thanks to a pair of stoves, and decorative lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting a pleasant glow. To Tungdil’s surprise, the air smelled neither of soot nor burning tallow.

Two chairs and a table had been placed at the center of the tent, and steam was rising from an array of hot dishes.

“You must be hungry from your journey,” said the elf, signaling for Tungdil to be seated. “I suppose you’re here to scold me for not sending my archers to Porista.”

Tungdil took off his heavy winter coat to reveal the suit of armor that had saved him from the avatars’ firebolts. He took a sip of warm beer. After orbits of cold victuals and water, it was good to thaw his insides. He was ready to bet that the elves had prepared the brew with him in mind: It was spiced with pine needles and tasted stronger and maltier than the smooth ales favored by Liútasil’s kind.

“No one blames you for not sending your archers. It was curiosity that brought me here.” He paused. “If you’d joined the allied army, you would have fought alongside the älfar, and no one could demand that of the elves. At least, that’s what the humans are saying. The dwarves put it down to the trouble in Dsôn Balsur. They didn’t resent your absence—no child of the Smith would willingly act as a buffer between the älfar and the elves.” He piled his plate with victuals, none of which looked familiar. “All things considered, the allied army was better off without you.” He popped a morsel into his mouth, hoping it would taste like meat, which—thankfully—it did.

The elf could tell that Tungdil had a different theory about his motives for staying away. “Well,” he prompted. “Why do you suppose we didn’t come?”

“I don’t suppose,” said Tungdil, looking him in the eye. “I know. You see, the reason you didn’t help us was because of the eoîl. It’s all right,” he reassured him, “Rodario and I won’t tell anyone that the avatar-conjurers were taking orders from an elf. We don’t want any more feuds.” He paused to measure the effect of his words. The guilty expression on Liútasil’s face indicated that his suspicions were correct. “Lord Liútasil, you owe me the truth. Who was the eoîl?”

Liútasil’s fork hovered by his mouth, then he set down his cutlery and left the meat on his plate. “I admit it, Tungdil, you’re right. My archers would sooner die than take up their bows against an eoîl. Her most fervent supporters wanted to ride to Porista to join her army, but thank Sitalia I convinced them not to go. The eoîl and her confederates were wrong to take the lives of innocent humans.”

“She was an elf, then. Did she come from Âlandur?”

Liútasil pushed away his plate and poured himself a goblet of mulled wine. “Eoîls don’t have kingdoms or homes. They’re mythical beings, part of our legends.” He took a long draft of wine and began his tale.

Sitalia, daughter of Palandiell, created my people from light, pure earth, and dew.

She taught my ancestors the art of healing and told them the secrets of nature and life. Her first commandment was respect for life in all its forms, and she frowned on destruction. Music, dance, poetry, painting, sculpture, those were our pastimes, and we knew nothing of hardship or war.

My forefathers’ endeavors met with incomprehension and hostility from the humans and dwarves. Sitalia, realizing that her children were unhappy, gave them a new home where they could live in seclusion among the trees. The eldest of our kind were touched a second time by the hand of their creator, and they became our teachers, the higher elves.

Meanwhile, the dark lord Tion grew weary of the gods’ creations. His fellow divinities had applied themselves to the creation of good, so he rebelled by spreading evil. He buried his creation in the earth like a seed, knowing that it would grow and multiply with weed-like speed. Orcs, ogres, trolls, kobolds, bögnilim, giants, and other dark creatures were born. Cycles later, the evil was brought to the surface by salt miners, gold diggers, and dwarves.

Tion gave wings to the evil and cast it into the air to be carried on the wind.

Worse was to come.

The lord of darkness mixed his evil into lakes and rivers, and those who drank thereof were robbed of their innocence. Envy, greed, hatred, and lust entered the hearts of the elves, dwarves, and men. Next, Tion pierced the flesh of the other gods’ children with a thorn that he called age, and the races of Girdlegard became mortal.

His dark work was noticed by Sitalia, who removed the thorns from the higher elves before the damage was done. And so the eoîls were created.

Liútasil emptied his glass. “So you see why no child of Sitalia could take up arms against an eoîl. They’re as old as time, created by Sitalia herself. The eoîls are the source of our knowledge, Sitalia’s warriors, fighting Tion in all his forms. They’re sacred beings, worshipped and revered.” He paused. “Sitalia would kill us if we dared to challenge an eoîl.”

Tungdil nodded, although the explanation seemed decidedly flawed. He took another mouthful. “Did this particular eoîl deserve to be worshipped? She wasn’t very complimentary about the elves. According to her, you’re lesser beings.”

The elf smiled good-naturedly. “The eoîls think we’re inferior because we’re tarnished by age. They live as long as they like.”

“Or as long as we let them,” said Tungdil, picturing the eoîl’s body at the bottom of the tower. “Are the other eoîls like the one in Porista? It’s odd they’re not mentioned in our chronicles.”

“The eoîls are no business of the men and the dwarves. We rarely speak of our history to outsiders.” He refilled his goblet. “Most eoîls are peaceful beings. I’m personally acquainted with two of their kind—pure souls who devote their time to teaching the arts. Painting and singing are their passions, not destruction.”

Tungdil was surprised and encouraged by Liútasil’s willingness to answer his questions. “The eoîl in Porista was more powerful than any magus,” he began. “She drained the energy from Porista, but I was wondering… Can elves work magic too? There’s no knowing what danger could be heading our way, and perhaps the next magus will be an—”

Liútasil shook his head. “No, Tungdil. You won’t find a magus in Âlandur. Sitalia doesn’t grant us the gift of magic anymore.”

“There’s no chance of an elf being born with magical talents?”

“I’ve waited cycles for such an occurrence,” he confessed. “Four hundred cycles, to be precise. Every baby in Âlandur is tested for magical ability, but to no avail. Thankfully, the älfar have been destroyed, so we don’t need a magus to protect us anymore.” He smiled. “No wonder they call you ‘scholar.’ At this rate there won’t be anything you don’t know.”

“I wouldn’t want to know everything—it would make life very dull.” The dwarf sipped his beer and plucked up the courage to try a strange-looking fruit. It tasted of berries and mint. “I wanted to ask you about the älfar, actually. Who are the immortal siblings? I saw them in Porista. I’m not sure what happened to them after they attacked the eoîl.” He leaned over the table. “Do they live forever like eoîls? Are they free from the thorn of age as well?”

Tungdil could tell that Liútasil wasn’t prepared to answer. Elves and älfar had more in common than the proud archers of Âlandur liked to admit. He thought about Narmora, remembering how she had worked magic even before her transformation through the malachite. “The älfar can extinguish flames with their thoughts. They move soundlessly, they don’t leave footprints, and they meld with the dark.” An unpleasant thought occurred to him. “Can the immortal siblings work magic? Real magic?”

“What do you mean?” Liútasil seemed puzzled.

“Could the immortal siblings have used magic to leave the tower and hide from the stone of judgment?”

Liútasil sat up straight and looked him in the eye. “The immortal siblings are as much of a mystery to the elves as to the dwarves or the men. I’m afraid I can’t help you.” He thought for a moment. “In my opinion, they might be able to work real magic—but I doubt they could escape the power of the stone.” He raised his goblet. “I’d like to propose a toast—to the destruction of the älfar!” He clunked his glass against the dwarf’s tankard.

Tungdil decided not to probe any further. Liútasil’s sudden evasiveness warned him that further questions would be unwelcome. “I won’t breathe a word of what you’ve told me,” he assured him. “But there’s one last thing I need to ask: What will you do if Girdlegard is attacked by another eoîl?”

The elven lord pressed his fingertips together. “Nothing, Tungdil Goldhand. To do anything would be folly.” He picked up his cutlery and resumed his meal.

They ate in silence, savoring the elven feast, then Tungdil gave his account of the battle, the death of enemies and friends, the destruction of the thirdlings, and the power of the diamond. He made no mention of his intention to travel to Dsôn Balsur, merely saying that he was planning to join Gandogar in the Brown Range.

At last it was time for Liútasil to leave the tent so that Tungdil could get some sleep. Before he went, he promised the dwarf that he would take good care of his diamond when it arrived. He handed Tungdil a little backpack. “It’s a tent,” he explained. “You won’t have to worry about wind, rain, sun, snow, or frost. From now on you’ll sleep so soundly that you’ll think you’re in a dwarven hall. I’ll pray to Sitalia to pardon you for the death of the eoîl.”

They shook hands and Tungdil was left alone in the tent. He finished his beer. I killed an immortal elf. He let out a little burp and grinned. I guess that makes her mortal.

Former Kingdom of Dsôn Balsur,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6236th Solar Cycle

Tungdil came to the end of the path that the allies had burned through the forests of Dsôn Balsur and crossed the plains to the fortress of Arviû. From there he continued to the lip of an enormous crater left by the fist of an angry god—or so it seemed to Tungdil.

Looking down, he surveyed the deserted city of Dsôn, one-time capital of the älfar. No dwarf had ventured this far into the älvish kingdom; in fact, only the älfar and their prisoners had ever seen the fabled city, and no one would have thought it possible that an outsider could get there without drawing his ax.

The only impediment to Tungdil’s progress was his leg, which hadn’t recovered from his duel with Ondori. Since crossing the border, he had disappeared up to his boots in mud and battled his way through waist-high grass, but he hadn’t encountered another living soul.

There was no sign of the älfar. Every step of the way he had steeled himself for finding survivors or receiving a black-fletched arrow in his back, but it was deathly still in the älvish kingdom. It seemed the stone of judgment had done its work.

There was something grimly fascinating about the architecture below. It had nothing in common with elven art, and its sinister darkness was palpable from his vantage point two miles above the city.

The most formidable structure, a white tower made of bones, rose from a solitary pinnacle at the center of the crater. From a distance, the pale needle seemed to pierce the clouds, and Tungdil knew at once where he would find his ax.

Vraccas be with me. He began his descent into the darkness of the city below.

As soon as he left the rim of the crater, the light dimmed and he felt an unpleasant chill. The strange city had an indefinable aura of horror, and he tightened his grip on his ax. Every sense was keyed and his ears detected the slightest noise—loose shutters rattling, squeaking metal, groaning wood, and the whistling of the wind around the sinister roofs.

He reached the bottom of the crater and continued along streets of pale white gravel that crunched beneath his boots. Every step seemed deafening and it took all his courage to keep going. From time to time, gray smoke rose from the roofs and ash rained down on him as if the dead älfar were determined to hinder his advance.

His nervousness surprised him. He checked his surroundings, looking left and right, peering down alleyways and bracing himself for attack. I’ve fought orcs, slain beasts, and killed an immortal elf, so why am I scared of a deserted city?

He walked and walked, realizing that the älvish city was much bigger than it had seemed. It was evening by the time he reached the base of the pinnacle and started up the steps. At last, panting with exertion, he got to the top just as the sun disappeared below the rim of the crater, plunging the city into darkness. Towering into the sky, the palace of bones shone blood-red in the setting sun, while down below the roofs of the houses glimmered with symbols and runes.

The hairs on his arms and on his neck stood on end. What if the ghosts of the älfar haunt the city at night? He waited, ax hefted, but nothing happened, although the runes continued to glow.

The wind was getting up. Samusin seemed to take pleasure in terrorizing the dwarf.

Gusts passed between the bleached bones of the tower, and every now and then Tungdil heard a mournful whistle like the muted scream of a soul whose bones had found no rest. Eye sockets glared at him accusingly from weathered skulls. Tungdil’s instincts warned him to venture no further.

Heart pounding wildly, he strode to the entrance, pushed past the open door, and stepped into the tower.

The outer cladding of bone was obviously intended as decoration or as a sign of älvish power, for the tower was made of wood and stone. The passageways were hung with portraits, and Tungdil knew without looking too closely that the pictures weren’t painted on canvas or with ordinary paint. Like their elven cousins, the älfar were natural artists, masters of the easel and brush, but they put their painterly talents to darker use.

He heard a sudden noise behind him. Somewhere in the tower, a door had slammed, and the noise resonated through the high-ceilinged passageways, lingering in the air. The last remaining lamps—the others had run out of fuel—flickered dangerously.

“Who’s there?” He turned round and swallowed. “Come out and show yourself!” Silence reigned.

With growing dread, he continued down the passageway and came at last to a lofty door of tionium inscribed with mysterious älvish runes. It’s bound to be here…

He pushed the door open and peered into a chamber of black marble. The chamber was hall-like in its proportions and peopled with strange statues made from the bones of many creatures. Some were painted, others bound with gold wire or tionium, or inlaid with gems and precious metals. Pictures, mosaics, and bizarre weaponry decorated the walls. At the center of the chamber, steps led up to a pair of empty thrones.

The glittering of diamonds alerted Tungdil to the ax.

Keenfire was hanging from the wall behind the thrones, abandoned and neglected, the symbol of an älvish triumph against the dwarves. For the älfar, the ax was useless.

Tungdil went over and reached for the haft. “So here’s where you’ve been hiding.” He gave it a gentle yank and Keenfire came away from the wall. After wiping it carefully with his sleeve, more because it had been in the hands of the älfar than because it was actually dirty, he took a few experimental swings, testing the balance. It was perfect. “No one will ever take you from me again,” he whispered lovingly. “But I’ve got a job for you.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out the shard of malachite, and placed it on the third step leading up to the thrones. If any last remnants of evil—a wisp of Nôd’onn’s soul, a trace of a dark spirit or any other demonic force—had escaped the stone of judgment and was sheltering in the malachite, it was about to be destroyed forever.

Tungdil raised the ax, swung it once around his head, and brought it down with all his might.

Light pulsed through the intarsia and the diamonds came to life, just as they had when Tungdil had taken on Nôd’onn in the Blacksaddle. A trail of light followed the swooping Keenfire as it smashed into the stone. The malachite broke apart, shattering into tiny pieces that scattered over the dark marble floor.

Now the mission is really over, Vraccas. It was a relief to know that the last of the evil that had corrupted Nôd’onn and Narmora had finally been destroyed.

There was one thing left to do.

He took the lamps from their holders and hurled them against the walls. Oil spilled over the timber, splashing against the portraits and spattering the statues. Lowering his torch, he let the flames creep hungrily through the fuel.

Tungdil left the chamber and made for the exit, lighting fire after fire on his way. He was determined to raze the tower to the ground. There would be nothing left of the älvish city by the time a dwarf, elf, or human ventured this way.

Outside the tower, he looked back at the roaring flames. He was tired and he could feel the miles in his legs, but his desire to avoid sleeping in the älvish capital spurred him on.

Summoning all his energy, he made his way down the stairs and through the streets, lighting fires along the way.

Even as he began his ascent to the lip of the crater, a third of Dsôn was on fire, and the blaze was spreading, fanned by the wind sent by Samusin to confound and torment him.

The palace of the immortal siblings was burning like a giant torch. Red-hot debris fell from the walls, rolling down the hillside and setting fire to the buildings below. Soon the city would be an inferno.

Tungdil sat down and watched in satisfaction as the tower collapsed in a burst of flames. He could hear the sound of breaking timber even through the roaring fire. So far, there hadn’t been any screams.

The last bastion of evil, and no one’s here to save it from destruction. He got up, shook his weary legs and started up the steep stairs, determined to leave the darkness of Dsôn behind him. He was already looking forward to seeing the rising sun.

“The dead must be avenged,” said a deep voice ahead of him. A broad figure appeared on the path and swung his weapon, aiming for Tungdil’s chest.

The startled dwarf tried to block the blow with Keenfire, but his attacker was unexpectedly strong.

The weapon smashed against the haft of his ax, knocking him backward. He hit the ground hard and skidded a few paces, picking up speed down the muddy slope. He lost his helmet and came to a halt.

Even as he sat up, his attacker came at him again. The glare from the fire was so bright that Tungdil could only see his silhouette. Too small for an älf, too big for a dwarf.

The weapon whizzed toward him again, but this time he saw it and made no attempt to parry the blow. Nothing could stop a powerful war hammer. It flew past his head as he dropped to the ground.

Tungdil recognized the weapon, but its owner was dead. He fell at Porista.

Sliding his ax across the mud, Tungdil took aim at his attacker’s right ankle. The blade met with resistance and Tungdil heard a groan. “Salfalur?” he asked incredulously.

He paid for his success with a blow to the chest. His breastplate, much stronger than his usual chain mail, protected his ribs and saved him from death.

“Well guessed, Tungdil,” came the reply. “You should have known better than to believe I was dead. I swore to kill you, remember?” The hammer swung into view, on course for Tungdil’s head. Tungdil jerked away at the last moment and the hammer smashed into the ground, spattering him with mud. He crawled back quickly, bracing himself against the side of the crater. “It wasn’t easy to find you, Tungdil, but I never break my word.”

Struggling upright, Tungdil faced his enemy. The thirdling was holding his war hammer in both hands and the runes on his face seemed to come alive in the flickering flames. Tungdil decided to save his breath; Salfalur would show no mercy, and neither would he.

Before the thirdling could strike, Tungdil swung his ax. Thanks to Keenfire, he felt confident of winning the duel, although his tired body seemed less certain.

Salfalur parried the blow with the haft of the hammer, let go with one hand and smashed his armored fist into Tungdil’s face.

The spurs on Salfalur’s knuckles tore through his skin and for a moment Tungdil saw stars, but he didn’t let go of his ax, gripping it tightly even as the thirdling punched him a second time. Tungdil didn’t have time to avoid the fist and it hit the left of his face, grazing his eye. Pain seared his mind and his vision went pink with blood.

Bellowing with rage, he thrust Keenfire forward, jerking it under the thirdling’s chin.

Salfalur jumped away, only to swing his hammer and go back on the attack. Tungdil was hit in the chest again, but this time his breastplate caved in, pushing against his ribcage and making him gasp for breath. The combined power of Salfalur and his mighty weapon sent him flying several paces through the air. At last he hit the ground, panting frantically.

He heard Salfalur rush forward, ready to attack. In the glow of the fire, the thirdling looked like a living spark from the furnace of a vindictive god. His face was contorted with rage.

The sight of the furious thirdling gave Tungdil the will to fight.

I’m not dying here in Dsôn. Stubbornly, he hauled himself up on his ax and, flinging his arm out to the side, set off at a run toward his antagonist. The pain was excruciating, but he shut it out.

Shouting, they charged toward each other, each determined to deliver a fatal blow.

At last they met, weapons colliding with a steely clatter, the blade of Tungdil’s ax snagging on the hammer. The joint force of the two blows sent both weapons spinning out of the antagonists’ hands.

Keenfire flew to the right, the hammer to the left. Tungdil stumbled to fetch his ax, while Salfalur ran after his weapon.

Tungdil bent down, picked up the ax and turned, determined not to lose sight of his enemy. For the third time the hammer slammed into his chest. Salfalur had got there first.

The head of the hammer found the dell in his breastplate, and his sternum cracked. Pain shot through him as he flew through the air and dropped to the ground, flailing on his back like a beetle. His mind dimmed and a chill came over him, even though the crater was filling with warmth from the burning city.

Footsteps hurried toward him. “Ha, look at the dirty thirdling who betrayed his own folk. It was worth dragging myself out of the mud in Porista and following you all those miles.” The thirdling’s shadow fell over him. “You deserve to die in agony, but this will do. Myr has been avenged at least.”

“The dwarf killers have been wiped out,” gasped Tungdil. “Your kinsfolk are dead. You’ll be more alone than I ever was.”

Salfalur kneeled beside him in the mud. “We haven’t been wiped out, Tungdil. Our eyes and ears are in every clan in every kingdom and none of your friends know they’re there. As soon as they get my summons, they’ll join me in their hundreds and we’ll found a new kingdom and seize the Black Range.” He grabbed Tungdil’s chin. “But you won’t be around to see us throw your friends out of our stronghold. The children of Lorimbur will continue the feud, but your line is dead. It’s time you joined your mother and father.”

Tungdil tried to clear his mind. He was on the cusp of blacking out, but he couldn’t allow himself to sink into eternal sleep. “You seem to have forgotten something,” he mumbled, struggling to speak with the thirdling’s hand around his mouth.

The smooth, tattooed skull came closer and Salfalur peered at him mockingly. Behind him, a house collapsed in a blaze of flames and sparks shot out, dancing around the thirdling’s head and giving him a demonic look. “Hmm, let me think… You’re lying in the mud, dying of your wounds. What could I possibly have forgotten?”

“The warrior’s first commandment,” gasped Tungdil. “Never let go of your ax.” He sat up with a jerk, raising his right hand and striking with all his might. Keenfire bit horizontally into the skull of the startled Salfalur, embedding itself in the bone.

The thirdling went down as if felled by an arrow. His body twitched frantically, determined not to die, but his glazed, bloodied eyes showed that his soul had already departed.

Boïndil taught me well. Unable to rise, Tungdil lay in the mud, racked with pain.

Looking up at the stars and with one hand on Keenfire, he waited for death to claim him from the burning älvish city.

But death never came.

Tungdil, still sprawled on the path, listened as the flames retreated from the edge of the crater and returned to the city in search of wood.

He could sense that death was watching him like a scavenger hoping for food, but something was holding the darkness at bay.

Little by little the pain subsided until he felt confident enough to fall asleep without worrying that he might never wake up.

When he opened his eyes, the sun had barely moved in the sky and he felt rested but hungry. He sat up as best he could in his buckled armor, then unfastened the straps and took off his breastplate.

Carefully he touched his chest. The bones were intact and the pain had gone. His fingers came into contact with the pouch containing the diamond. He pulled out the stone and held it to the light.

Was I saved by the grace of Vraccas or by the diamond? He glanced at Salfalur’s corpse and was surprised by its rotten state. Birds and maggots had stripped the flesh from his face, and his body was bloated with gas as if death were mocking the once proud warrior. How long have I been asleep? He got up and staggered backwards.

Dsôn had vanished.

Every last building in the city had been razed to the ground, leaving nothing but ash. Stone foundations were the only indication of where the älfar’s gruesome tower had once stood.

There was no sign of smoke and the roaring fire had fallen silent. He prodded the ash gingerly with his finger: It was cold.

Gathering his damaged armor, he hurried up the path. The mud had hardened to dirt, and he felt strong and healthy, his wounds completely healed. He decided that Vraccas had kept his inner furnace burning while he was asleep. The stone can’t work magic on its own, and I’m certainly no magus.

On emerging from the crater, he spotted an army of humans and elves approaching the city from the south, no doubt alarmed by the smoke. Sunlight glittered on their banners and armor.

There’s nothing left for them to do, he thought. Rather than wait for them to arrive, he struck out at once on a northeasterly bearing.

The journey to the Brown Range took many orbits.

Tungdil enjoyed the solitude and had plenty of time to think. He thought about Balyndis and Myr and what had happened between them, the thirdlings, the future, and where he wanted to go—to the freelings, to the fifthlings, or to Gandogar.

As he crossed the border into the hills of Urgon, his plan took shape.

His march through Urgon coincided with the preparations for the coronation. The fate of King Belletain was the talk of the boarding houses where Tungdil sought shelter and food. The mad king’s betrayal of the allied army had cost him the support of his subjects, and lost him his throne.

Tungdil was pleased to be back among humans. It reminded him of happier times in Lot-Ionan’s school when he had been nothing but an ordinary dwarf with a love of books and a talent for metalworking.

The journey through Urgon took him through green valleys, over lofty summits, and through narrow mountain passes that tested his agility as well as his endurance. At last he arrived at the fourthling kingdom. The sentries took him straight to Gandogar.

The fourthlings’ talent for cutting and polishing gemstones was on full display in the stronghold. The passageways were decorated with pictures composed of brightly colored gems: blood-red rubies, deep blue sapphires, moss-green emeralds, black tourmaline, pink quartz, finely worked agate… Every inch of the fourthling stronghold seemed to sparkle and shimmer with precious stones.

Tungdil, disheveled from his journey through Gauragar and Urgon, his clothes dusty and his boots worn, entered the throne room and inclined his head, revealing his sun-bleached hair.

“Tungdil Goldhand!” Gandogar hailed him from his throne of pure quartz. He seemed exceedingly relieved. “Thank Vraccas you’re alive. How are you?” He signaled for him to sit. “Salfalur turned up in Porista,” he continued, while stewards hurried in with refreshments for the tired and thirsty dwarf. “He killed a dozen of our warriors before he disappeared. We were worried he…”

Tungdil emptied his tankard in a single draft. “He’s dead, Your Majesty,” he interrupted. “He came after me and ambushed me in Dsôn.” He pulled Keenfire from its sheath and rapped his knuckles against the ax head. “I claimed what was mine from the älfar. Dsôn is a dreadful place and they’d hidden the ax in a tower of bones. After I’d found it, I…” It occurred to him that it might be better to keep the details of his duel with Salfalur to himself. “Well, I came back here.”

“You were gone a long time. Every orbit we kept waiting and hoping for news, but spring went by and no one knew where you were.”

Tungdil tried not to show his surprise. “Urgon is a kingdom after my heart, I thought I’d see a bit of the land…” He decided to change the subject. “I suppose you’ve finished the replicas?”

“You made an excellent job of the drawings.” Gandogar called for his master jeweler, who carried in the diamonds on a crystal tray lined with black velvet. The gems were beautifully arranged as if strung together on a necklace. To Tungdil’s untrained eye, they looked identical. They seemed to resemble each other in every detail.

He took out the real diamond and placed it among the others. “It’s impossible to tell the difference.” He counted the gems: fourteen in total. “You’ve made too many,” he said. “Seven human monarchs, five dwarves, and Liútasil—thirteen.”

The fourthling king and the master jeweler compared the diamonds and nodded. “They’re perfect,” declared Gandogar. “But we haven’t made too many, Tungdil. Five for the dwarven monarchs, including one for the future king of the thirdlings—and an extra one for you. If anyone is worthy of the diamond, it’s you. Don’t feel obliged to accept—we can destroy it if you’d rather.”

“No,” he said quickly. “I’d be honored.”

Gandogar picked up the corners of the velvet cloth, allowing the diamonds to slide into the middle. Tungdil lost sight of the eoîl’s diamond among its lesser fellows. The high king gathered the corners and shook the cloth, allowing the diamonds to jostle for position. At last he let go of one end and the stones bounced onto the tray. “Summon the messengers,” he commanded.

The doors to the throne room flew open, and an elf, seven men, and four dwarves were ushered in. One by one they stepped forward to choose a diamond. Some barely glanced at the tray, while others took their time as if they hoped to pick the magic diamond.

Two stones remained on the tray. Gandogar asked the master jeweler to offer them to Tungdil. “I’d like you to choose,” he said.

Tungdil reached for the right-hand stone, wavered for a moment, then picked it up.

Gandogar took the last diamond. “These gifts are a sign of our unity,” he said, turning to the messengers. “Take them to your rulers and tell them these words: Like these stones, so will be our thoughts. Remember these diamonds in times of trouble and honor the alliance. Henceforth, our hearts shall beat as one for Girdlegard.” He waved them away. The messengers bowed and took their leave, and the doors closed behind them with a bang.

“Right, I’ve got a question for you, Tungdil Goldhand.” The high king signaled for Tungdil to be seated. “You’ve had some time to reflect on your journey. Will you be my counselor?”

Kingdom of Idoslane,

Girdlegard,

Summer, 6236th Solar Cycle

Tungdil didn’t need to tell his legs where to take him; he had traveled this way a hundred times before. The journey was full of memories, sad memories.

Summer had brought the promise of an excellent harvest to Idoslane. The fields were full of vegetables and crops, and bees buzzed between brightly colored flowers. A warm wind caressed the lush green meadows where the cows were grazing. They turned their big brown eyes toward the wayfarer, before lowering their heads to focus on the grass.

It looks exactly the same. Tungdil rounded the final bend in the road and came to a halt. Even from a distance, he could see the wreckage of Lot-Ionan’s gates. Strewn among the bushes were scraps of rusty armor and gnawed bone, all that was left of the orcs who had done battle with Tungdil and the twins on their previous visit. No, he thought somberly. Some things have changed.

The orcs were gone for good. Judging by their remains, they had infested the kingdom, but the stone of judgment had put an end to their evil souls. Prince Mallen had sent an army into the caves of Toboribor and his men had struggled through the hot, dark passageways without finding a single orc.

Guarding Girdlegard isn’t easy. He thought of his dead friends and of Boëndal buried at the High Pass. He had visited the secondling’s grave with Boïndil and they had wept for their lost companion and twin. Boïndil’s inner furnace seemed to have cooled and the glint in his eye had gone. It seemed to Tungdil that he resembled his brother more closely, and even his speech was calmer and more considered. Death leaves its mark on the living as well.

He approached the dark entrance to the tunnel, climbing over the wreckage of the gates and entering the cool, earthy passageway.

After a few paces, he stopped. The tunnel was still blocked where he and the twins had cut away the struts and brought down the roof on the heads of the furious orcs who were baying for their blood. Tons of rock had crashed to the ground, barricading the tunnel. The only way into the school was to burrow through.

Tungdil stroked the frayed neckerchief that he wore around his wrist. It was a present from Frala, the warm-hearted kitchen maid who had been like a sister to him, and who had died in the orcish massacre with her daughters, Sunja and Ikana.

A lump came to his throat and he forced himself to swallow, but the sadness was lodged inside him. It’s time I cleared up around here.

It was a monumental task. Orbit after orbit passed as he inched his way forward with a pick and a shovel, carting out the rubble and building new struts. He threw the crushed remains of the orcs into a pile and burned their bones, allowing their ashes to scatter on the wind. A single skull marked the site of the battle, a reminder of the dwarven victory and a warning to future invaders.

At last he reached a section of tunnel that had survived the skirmish with the orcs. The struts and the walls looked perfectly stable, so he continued on his way.

From time to time he found an orcish skeleton. Falling debris accounted for most of the casualties, but some of the beasts had starved amid the rubble. Tungdil guessed from their gnawed bones that they had resorted to eating each other, though one of the skeletons bore no signs of damage. He eyed the creature’s skull with distaste. You were the last orc standing, were you? Even feasting on your comrades didn’t save you in the end.

He dragged the bones out of the tunnel and lit another fire, determined that nothing should remain of Nôd’onn’s hordes. Next he began a search for the skeletons of the men and women who had lived at the school, but all he found was a small collection of bones, which he decided to bury on top of a little mound opposite the gates. He found a boulder and sculpted it into a tombstone, then forged their names in metal letters and hammered them into the stone.

Laying down his tools, he sat on the mound and gazed at the hills and the human settlements. Never had the kingdom of Idoslane looked so peaceful. He wiped the sweat and tears from his eyes.

A familiar figure came into view, hurrying down the path, spotting him on the mound and running to meet him.

He got up to welcome the visitor. “I wasn’t expecting you,” he said, giving Balyndis a powerful hug. “I suppose they sent you to talk me into settling in one of the kingdoms. Did Gandogar think I’d agree to be his counselor if you asked on his behalf?”

Balyndis let her backpack slide to the ground and sat down on the mound. Sighing, she rubbed her ankles. “I should have brought a pony. It’s a long way on foot.” Noticing the tombstone, she gave Tungdil another hug. There was no need for words.

They sat in silence, watching the clouds as the blue sky turned red, then black and the first stars appeared overhead.

“Everyone says hello,” said Balyndis at last. “It would take too long to list all the names. You’ve got a lot of friends, you know. And Rodario wants to know about the orc who asked for directions.” She smiled. “I don’t think he got it.”

Tungdil laughed. “He’ll have to wait for the punch line.” He was silent for a while. “I’m afraid you’ll have to tell the high king that I haven’t decided how much longer I’m staying. I can’t work out where I belong. My heart belongs to the dwarves, but I like the company of humans, and sometimes I think I’m more like a human than a dwarf. They’re not as rigid in their thinking.”

“What about the freelings?”

“I can’t go back to Trovegold—not now. It reminds me of things I’d rather forget.” He looked at her gravely. “As soon as I’ve made my decision, I’ll let Gandogar know. Maybe I’ll go to the Outer Lands and look for the dwarves who carved that strange rune. If Gandogar needs me, he has only to say.”

She tried to smile. “It’s sad, you know. For the first time in history, we’ve got a real hero, and instead of living with his kinsfolk and sharing his wisdom with the high king, he worries about what to do with himself.” She tilted back her head to look up at a star that was shining more brightly than its fellows. “Maybe it’s part of being a hero. If you didn’t question yourself, you might get bigheaded.”

“Tell me about the dwarven kingdoms,” he said. “I’m tired of thinking about myself.”

Balyndis thought for a moment. “There isn’t much to report. The feud with the thirdlings is over, and the dwarves are united at last. A combined army from all five kingdoms is guarding the Eastern Pass.”

He was about to tell her about Salfalur’s threat, but he changed his mind. “What about the freelings?”

“Still free,” she reported. “King Gemmil decided to carry on as before. He’ll welcome any dwarf who wants to settle in his realm. It’s better that way. The freelings wouldn’t be happy in our kingdoms—but we’ll trade with each other and keep in touch.”

“Any news from the rest of Girdlegard?”

She shrugged. “Everything’s back to normal—except the beasts are gone. Even the dark water has disappeared and it’s fine to drink from the lakes. Every last bit of evil has been destroyed.” She sighed. “It’s almost too good to be true.”

Tungdil remembered how the malachite had shattered before his eyes. There’s nothing left that can harm us. “The dwarves will see to it that Girdlegard stays safe.”

“Oh,” said Balyndis, uncertainly. “I almost forgot. There’s a rumor that the diamond for Queen Isika hasn’t arrived. No one has seen the messenger or his guards.”

“What do you mean?” Tungdil shook his head incredulously. “What if it’s the ma…” he broke off, remembering that Balyndis knew nothing of the magic stone. “But it’s a symbol of friendship!”

“People are saying it was stolen. Queen Isika is scouring Rân Ribastur for the thieves. You can’t sell a stone like that—the culprits will be captured.”

Tungdil tried not to think about it. He was tired of being a hero. Someone else can deal with it… “What about you, Balyndis? How’s life in the fifthling kingdom?”

“It’s going well. We’ve rebuilt the halls, just as you said we should.” She flashed him a wonderful smile. “You’d be proud if you could see it—even Giselbert would be proud. Glaïmbar is doing his best to be a good king and he’s getting there, Tungdil.”

There was a short silence. “Is he a good husband as well?”

She swallowed. “He did everything he could.”

He stopped gazing at the stars and looked at her sharply. “Did?”

“He let me go,” she said tremulously. “One morning he put his arms around me, looked at me solemnly, and told me he was lifting the iron band.” She paused for a moment, regaining her composure, and Tungdil saw doubt, hope, and fear in her beautiful eyes. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. “I asked what I’d done wrong.”

“What did he say?” said Tungdil, his throat suddenly dry.

“He said that he promised someone to make me happy and he couldn’t keep his promise without letting me go. He told me to follow my heart.” She hid her face in her hands, crying tears of relief. “I prayed to Vraccas every night, asking him to bring us together. Is it wrong of me to be glad?”

Even the stars seemed to be rejoicing. Thank you, Vraccas, thank you. Tungdil wanted to jump up and shout the good news across Gauragar. Vraccas has given me my heart’s desire. Restraining himself, he stroked her short hair, remembering her ordeal at the hands of the eoîl. She lifted her palms from her tear-streaked face and looked at him tenderly.

“No, it’s not wrong to be happy,” he assured her, pulling her close. Silently, he thanked Glaïmbar, whose selfless gesture commanded his unconditional respect. He kissed Balyndis, disentangled himself gently, and bent on one knee. “Balyndis Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers, daughter of Borengar, will you meld your heart to mine and stay with me always, even if we live a thousand cycles?”

Balyndis dried her tears. “My heart has been melded to yours for as long as I’ve known you, Tungdil Goldhand. It’s yours to keep.”

They embraced, squeezing each other tightly, while the moon rose above them, casting a silvery glow over Idoslane. Nothing could separate them now.

Dramatis Personae

DWARVES

Firstling Kingdom

Xamtys Stubbornstreak II of the clan of the Stubborn Streaks, queen of Borengar’s folk.

Gufgar Anvilstand of the clan of the Steely Nails, Xamtys’s deputy.

Balyndis Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers, smith and custodian of the gates.

Bulingar Steelfinger, father of Balyndis.

Glaïmbar Sharpax of the clan of the Iron Beaters, warrior.

Fyrna Goodsoul of the clan of the Ore Finders, messenger.

Beldobin Anvilstand of the clan of the Steely Nails, messenger.

Secondling Kingdom

Balendilín Onearm of the clan of the Firm Fingers, king of Beroïn’s folk.

Boëndal Hookhand and Boïndil Doubleblade, known also as Ireheart, of the clan of the Swinging Axes, warriors and twins.

Thirdling Kingdom

Tungdil Goldhand, scholar and warrior.

Lorimbas Steelheart of the clan of the Stone Grinders, king of Lorimbur’s folk.

Romo Steelheart of the clan of the Stone Grinders, Lorimbas’s nephew.

Salfalur Shieldbreaker of the clan of the Red Eyes, thirdling commander-in-chief.

Theogil Hardhand of the clan of the Iron Knuckles, sentry.

Fourthling Kingdom

Gandogar Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, high king and leader of Goïmdil’s folk.

Freelings

Gemmil Callusedhand, king of the freelings.

Sanda Flameheart, queen consort and freeling commander-in-chief.

Myrmianda Alabaster, medic and scholar.

Bramdal Masterstroke, executioner.

HUMANS

Andôkai the Tempestuous, maga and ruler of the enchanted realm of Brandôkai.

The fabulous Rodario, actor and impresario.

Furgas, theater technician and prop master.

Narmora, actress and wife of Furgas.

Dorsa, their daughter.

Rosild, nursemaid.

Prince Mallen of Ido, sovereign of Idoslane.

King Belletain, sovereign of Urgon.

King Bruron, sovereign of Gauragar.

Queen Umilante, sovereign of Sangpûr.

Queen Wey IV, sovereign of Weyurn.

Queen Isika, sovereign of Rân Ribastur.

King Nate, sovereign of Tabaîn.

Truk Elius, functionary in Hillchester.

Hosjep, carpenter.

Aspila, poor woman in Gastinga.

Ertil, cook in Porista.

Lirkim, courtier in Porista.

Nufa, famula of Nudin/Nôd’onn.

Vallasin, head of Belletain’s army.

OTHERS

Ondori, älf from the kingdom of Dsôn Balsur.

Estugon, älf.

Djern, bodyguard in the service of Andôkai.

Liútasil, Lord of Âlandur, kingdom of the elves.

Ushnotz, orcish prince of Toboribor.

Runshak, Ushnotz’s troop leader.

Acknowledgments

Tungdil and his dwarven friends are on the move!

The first expedition was a great success, with the little fellows proving their mettle in a victory against the odds. Soon the dwarves’ supporters were demanding to know what happened next. Well, a sequel can’t simply rehash the first book: It has to be as good, if not better, while covering new ground. I wanted The War of the Dwarves to be accessible to readers who aren’t familiar with Tungdil and his friends, so I based the story on two new developments: the simmering conflict between the dwarven folks, and the impending threat from the west. Prepare yourselves for some surprises: The story gets very, very dwarven, and you won’t know what’s coming next…

Thanks are due to Angela Kuepper, my editor, as well as to Nicole Schuhmacher, Sonja Rüther, Meike Sewering, Tanja Karmann, and Dr. Patrick Müller, all of whom read the book in its early stages. A special thank-you to Sally-Ann Spencer, translator and friend of the dwarves, who did a great job. Thanks also to my German publisher, Piper Verlag, for giving Tungdil & Co. a good home, and to Orbit for introducing them to the English-speaking world.

extras

meet the author

MARKUS HEITZ was born in 1971 in Germany. He studied history, German language, and literature and won the German Fantasy Award in 2003 for his debut novel, Shadows Over Ulldart. His Dwarves series is a bestseller in Europe. Markus Heitz lives in Zweibrücken.

introducing

If you enjoyed

THE WAR OF THE DWARVES,

look out for

BEST SERVED COLD

by Joe Abercrombie

Springtime in Styria. And that means war.

There have been nineteen years of blood. The ruthless Grand Duke Orso is locked in a vicious struggle with the squabbling League of Eight, and between them they have bled the land white. Armies march, heads roll and cities burn, while behind the scenes bankers, priests and older, darker powers play a deadly game to choose who will be king.

War may be hell but for Monza Murcatto, the Snake of Talins, the most feared and famous mercenary in Duke Orso’s employ, it’s a damn good way of making money too. Her victories have made her popular—a shade too popular for her employer’s taste. Betrayed and left for dead, Murcatto’s reward is a broken body and a burning hunger for vengeance. Whatever the cost, seven men must die.

Her allies include Styria’s least reliable drunkard, Styria’s most treacherous poisoner, a mass-murderer obsessed with numbers and a Northman who just wants to do the right thing. Her enemies number the better half of the nation. And that’s all before the most dangerous man in the world is dispatched to hunt her down and finish the job Duke Orso started…

Springtime in Styria. And that means revenge.

The sun was climbing now, and the bright world was full of color. The blood had drained from the sky and left it a vivid blue, white clouds crawling high above. Below, at the very bottom of a dizzy drop, the river wound through the wooded base of the valley, autumn leaves pale green, burnt orange, faded yellow, angry red, light-glinting silver on fast-flowing water. To the east, the forest crumbled away into a patchwork of fields—squares of fallow green, rich black earth, golden crop. Further still and the river met the grey sea, branching out in a wide delta, choked with islands. Monza could just make out the suggestion of tiny towers there, buildings, bridges, walls. Great Talins, no bigger than her thumbnail.

She narrowed her eyes against the stiff breeze, pushed some stray hair out of her face. “I never tire of this view.”

“How could you? That’s why I built the damn place. Here I can keep one eye always on my subjects, as a watchful parent should upon his children. Just to make sure they don’t hurt themselves while they play, you understand.”

“Your people are lucky to have such a just and caring father,” she lied smoothly.

“Just and caring.” Orso frowned thoughtfully towards the distant sea. “Do you think that is how history will remember me?”

Monza thought it incredibly unlikely. “What did Bialoveld say? History is written by the victors.”

The duke squeezed her shoulder again. “All this, and well-read into the bargain. Ario is ambitious enough, but he has no insight. I’d be surprised if he could read to the end of a signpost in one sitting. All he cares about is whoring. And shoes. My daughter Terez, meanwhile, weeps most bitterly because I married her to a king. I swear, if I had offered great Euz as the groom she would have whined for a husband more fitting of her station.” He gave a heavy sigh. “None of my children understand me. My great-grandfather was a mercenary, you know. A fact I do not like to advertise.” Though he told her every other time they met. “A man who never shed a tear in his life, and wore on his feet whatever was to hand. A low-born fighting man, who seized power in Talins by the sharpness of his mind and sword together.” More by blunt ruthlessness and brutality the way Monza had heard the tale. “We are from the same stock, you and I. We have made ourselves, out of nothing.”

Orso had been born to the wealthiest dukedom in Styria and never done a day’s hard work in his life, but Monza kept that to herself. “You do me too much honor, your Excellency.”

“Less than you deserve. Now tell me of Borletta.”

“You heard about the battle on the High Bank?”

“I heard you scattered the League of Eight’s army, just as you did at Sweet Pines! Ganmark says Duke Salier had three times your number.”

“Numbers are a hindrance if they’re lazy, ill-prepared, and led by idiots. An army of farmers from Borletta, cobblers from Affoia and merchants from Visserine. Amateurs. They camped by the river, thinking we were far away, scarcely posted guards. We came up through the woods at night and caught them at sunrise, not even in their armor.”

“I can see Salier now, the fat pig, waddling from his bed to run!”

“Faithful led the charge. We broke them quickly, captured their supplies.”

“Turned the golden cornfields crimson, I was told.”

“They hardly even fought. Ten times as many drowned trying to swim the river as died fighting. More than four thousand prisoners. Some ransoms were paid, some not, some men were hanged.”

“And few tears shed, eh, Monza?”

“Not by me. If they were so keen to live they could’ve surrendered.”

“As they did at Caprile?”

She stared straight back into Orso’s black eyes. “Just as they did at Caprile.”

“Borletta is besieged, then?”

“Fallen already.”

The duke’s face lit up like a boy’s on his birthday. “Fallen? Cantain surrendered?”

“When his people heard of Salier’s defeat they lost hope.”

“And people without hope are a dangerous crowd, even in a republic.”

“Especially in a republic. A mob dragged Cantain from the palace, hung him from the highest tower, opened the gates and threw themselves on the mercy of the Thousand Swords.”

“Hah! Slaughtered by the very people he labored to keep free. There’s the gratitude of the common man, eh, Monza? Cantain should have taken my money when I offered. It would have been cheaper for both of us.”

“The people are falling over themselves to become your subjects. I’ve given orders they should be spared, where possible.”

“Mercy, eh?”

“Mercy and cowardice are the same,” she snapped out. “But you want their land, not their lives, no? Dead men can’t obey.”

Orso smiled. “Why can my sons not mark my lessons as you have? I entirely approve. Hang only the leaders. And Cantain’s head above the gates. Nothing encourages obedience like a good example.”

“Already rotting, with those of his sons.”

“Fine work!” The Lord of Talins clapped his hands, as though he never heard such pleasing music as the news of rotting heads. “What of the takings?”

The accounts were Benna’s business, and he came forward now, sliding a folded paper from his inside pocket. “The city was scoured, your Excellency. Every building stripped, every floor dug up, every person searched. The usual rules apply, according to our terms of engagement. Quarter for the man that finds it, quarter for his captain, quarter for the generals,” and he bowed low, unfolding the paper and offering it out, “and quarter for our noble employer.”

Orso’s smile spread as his eyes scanned down the figures. “My blessing on the Rule of Quarters! Enough to keep you both in my service a little longer.” He stepped between Monza and Benna, placed a gentle hand on each of their shoulders and led them back through the open windows. Towards the great round table of black marble that stood in the centre of the room and the great map spread out upon it. Ganmark, Ario, and Faithful had already gathered there. Gobba still lurked in the shadows, thick arms folded across his chest. “What of our one-time friends and now our bitter enemies, the treacherous citizens of Visserine?”

“The fields round the city are burned up to the gates, almost.” Monza scattered carnage across the countryside with a few waves of her finger. “Farmers driven off, livestock slaughtered, fields burned. It’ll be a lean winter for the good people of Visserine, and a leaner spring.”

“Excellent,” mused Orso.

“They will have to rely on the noble Duke Rogont and his Osprians,” said Ganmark, with the faintest of smiles.

Prince Ario snickered. “Much talk blows down from Ospria, always, but little help.”

“Visserine is poised to drop into your lap next year, your Excellency.”

“And with it the heart is torn from the League of Eight.”

“The crown of Styria, surely, will be yours.”

The mention of crowns teased Orso’s smile still wider. “And we have you to thank, Monzcarro. I do not forget that.”

“Not only me.”

“Curse your modesty. Benna has played his part, and our good friend General Ganmark, and Faithful too, but no one could deny this is your work. Your commitment, your single-mindedness, your swiftness to act. You shall have a great triumph, just as the heroes of ancient Aulcus did. You shall ride through the streets of Talins and my people will shower you with flower petals in honor of your many victories.” Benna grinned, but Monza couldn’t join him. She’d never had much taste for congratulations. “They will cheer far louder for you, I think, than they ever will for my own sons. They will cheer far louder even than they do for me, their rightful lord, to whom they owe so much.” It seemed that Orso’s smile slipped, and his face looked tired, and sad, and worn without it. “They will cheer, in fact, a little too loudly for my taste.”

There was the barest flash of movement at the corner of her eye, enough to make her bring up her hand on an instinct.

The wire hissed taut around it, snatching it up under her chin, crushing it chokingly tight against her throat.

Benna started forward. “Mon—” There was a glint of metal as Prince Ario stabbed him in the neck. He missed his throat, caught him just under the ear.

Orso stepped carefully back as blood speckled the tiles with red. Foscar’s mouth fell open, wine glass dropping from his hand, shattering on the floor.

Monza tried to scream, but only spluttered through her half-shut windpipe, made a sound like a pig honking. She fished at the hilt of her dagger with her free hand but someone caught her wrist, held it fast. Faithful Carpi, pressed up tight against her left side.

“Sorry,” he muttered in her ear, pulling her sword from its scabbard and flinging it clattering across the room.

Benna stumbled, gurgling red drool, one hand clutched to the side of his face, black blood leaking out between white fingers. His other hand fumbled for his sword while Ario watched him, frozen. He drew a clumsy foot of steel before General Ganmark stepped forward and stabbed him, smoothly and precisely—once, twice, three times. The thin blade slid in and out of Benna’s body, the only sound the soft breath from his gaping mouth. Blood shot across the floor in long streaks, began to leak out into his white shirt in dark circles. He tottered forwards, tripped over his own feet and crashed down, half-drawn sword scraping against the marble underneath him.

Monza strained, every muscle trembling, but she was held helpless as a fly in honey. She heard Gobba grunting with effort in her ear, his stubbly face rubbing against her cheek, his great body warm against her back. She felt the wire cut slowly into the sides of her neck, deep into the side of her hand, held fast against her throat. She felt the blood running down her forearm, into the collar of her shirt.

One of Benna’s hands crawled across the floor, reaching out for her. He lifted himself an inch or two, veins bulging from his neck. Ganmark leaned forwards and calmly ran him through the heart from behind. Benna quivered for a moment, then sagged, pale cheek smeared with red. Dark blood crept out from under him, worked its way down the cracks between the tiles.

“Well.” Ganmark leaned down and wiped his sword on the back of Benna’s shirt. “That’s that.”

Mauthis watched, frowning, slightly puzzled, slightly irritated, slightly bored, as though at a set of figures that wouldn’t quite add.

Orso gestured at the body. “Get rid of that, Ario.”

“Me?” The Prince’s lip curled even further.

“Yes, you. And you can help him, Foscar. The two of you must learn what needs to be done to keep our family in power.”

“No!” Foscar stumbled away. “I’ll have no part of this!” He turned and ran from the room, his boots slapping against the marble floor.

“That boy is soft as a lady’s glove,” muttered Orso at his back. “Ganmark, help him.”

Monza’s bulging eyes followed them as they dragged Benna’s corpse out through the doors to the balcony, Ganmark grim and careful at the head end, Ario cursing as he daintily took the boots. They heaved Benna up onto the balustrade and rolled him off. Like that he was gone.

“Ah!” squawked Ario, waving one hand. “Damn it! You scratched me!”

Ganmark stared back at him. “I apologize, your Highness. Murder can be a painful business.”

The Prince looked round for something to wipe his bloody hands on. He reached for the rich hangings beside the window.

“Not there!” snapped Orso. “That’s Kantic silk, at fifty scales a piece!”

“Where, then?”

“Find something else, or leave them red! Sometimes I wonder if your mother told the truth about your paternity, boy.” Ario wiped his hands sulkily on the front of his shirt while Monza stared, helpless, face burning from lack of air. Orso frowned over at her, a blurred black figure through the wet in her eyes, the hair tangled across her face. “Is she still alive? Whatever are you about, Gobba?”

“Fucking wire’s caught on her hand,” hissed the bodyguard in her ear.

“Find another way to be done with her, then, lackwit.”

“I’ll do it.” Faithful pulled the dagger from her belt, still pinning her wrist with his other hand. “I really am sorry.”

“Just get to it!” growled Gobba.

The blade went back, steel glinting in a shaft of light. Monza stomped down on Gobba’s foot with all the strength she had left. The bodyguard grunted, grip slipping on the wire, and she dragged it away from her neck, growling, twisting hard as Carpi stabbed at her.

The blade went well wide of the mark, slid in under her bottom rib. Cold metal, but it felt burning hot, a line of fire from her stomach to her back. It slid right through and the point pricked Gobba’s gut.

“Gah!” He let go the wire and Monza lashed at him with her elbow and sent him stumbling. She shrieked, wailed, blubbered, mindlessly. Faithful was caught off-guard, fumbled the knife as he pulled it out of her and sent it spinning across the floor. She kicked at him, missed his groin and caught his hip, bent him over. She snatched at the grip of a dagger at his belt, dragged it from its sheath, but her cut hand was clumsy and he caught her wrist before she could ram the blade into him. They wrestled with it, teeth bared, gasping spit in each others’ faces, lurching back and forward, their hands sticky with her blood.

“Kill her!”

There was a crunch and her head was full of light. The floor cracked against her skull, slapped her in the back. She spat blood, mad screams guttering to a long drawn croak, clawing at the smooth floor with her nails.

“Fucking bitch!” The heel of Gobba’s big boot cracked down on her right hand and sent pain lancing up her forearm, tore a sick gasp from her. His boot thudded down again across her knuckles, then her fingers, then her wrist. At the same time Faithful’s foot was thudding into her ribs, over and over, making her cough and shudder. Her shattered hand twisted, turned sideways on. Gobba’s heel crashed down and crushed it flat into the cold marble with a splintering of bone. She flopped back, hardly able to breathe, the room turning over, paintings of history’s winners grinning down.

“You stabbed me, you dumb old bastard! You stabbed me!”

“You’re hardly even cut, fathead! You should’ve kept a hold on her!”

“I should stab the useless pair of you!” hissed Orso’s voice. “Just get it done!”

Gobba’s great fist came down, dragged Monza up by her throat. She tried to grab at him with her left hand but all her strength had leaked out through the hole in her side, the cuts in her neck. Her clumsy fingertips only smeared red traces across the side of his stubbly face. Her arm was dragged away, twisted sharply behind her back.

“Where’s Hermon’s gold?” came Gobba’s rough voice. “Eh, Murcatto? What did you do with the gold?”

Monza forced her head up. “Lick my arse, cocksucker.” Not clever, perhaps, but from the heart.

“There never was any gold!” snapped Faithful. “I told you that, pig!”

“There’s this much.” One by one, Gobba twisted the battered rings from her dangling fingers, already bloating, turning angry purple, bent and shapeless as rotten sausages. “Good stone, that,” he said, peering at the ruby. “Seems a waste of decent flesh, though. Why not give me a moment with her? A moment’s all it would take.”

Prince Ario tittered. “Speed isn’t always something to be proud of.”

“For pity’s sake!” Orso’s voice. “We’re not animals. Over the balcony and let us be done. I am late for breakfast.”

She felt herself dragged, head lolling. Sunlight stabbed at her. She was lifted, limp boots hissed against stone. Blue sky turning. Up onto the balcony. The breath scraped at her nose, shuddered in her chest. She twisted, kicked. Her body, struggling vainly to stay alive.

“Let me make sure of her.” Ganmark’s voice.

“How sure do we need to be?” Blurry through the bloody hair across her eyes she saw Orso’s lined face. “I hope you understand. My great-grandfather was a mercenary. A low-born fighting man, who seized power by the sharpness of his mind and sword together. I cannot allow another mercenary to seize power in Talins.”

She meant to spit in his face, but all she did was blow bloody drool down her own chin. “Fuck yourse—”

Then she was flying.

Her torn shirt billowed and flapped against her tingling skin. She turned over, and over, and the world tumbled around her. Blue sky with shreds of cloud, black towers at the mountain top, grey rock face rushing past, yellow-green trees and sparkling river, blue sky with shreds of cloud, and again, and again, faster, and faster.

Cold wind ripped at her hair, roared in her ears, hissed between her teeth along with her terrified breath. She could see each tree, now, see each branch, each leaf. They surged up towards her. She opened her mouth to scream—

Twigs snatched, grabbed, lashed at her. A broken branch knocked her spinning. Wood cracked and tore around her as she plunged down, down, and crashed into the mountainside. Her legs splintered under her plummeting weight, her shoulder broke apart against firm earth. But rather than dashing her brains out on the rocks, she only shattered her jaw against her brother’s bloody chest, his mangled corpse wedged against the base of a tree.

Which was how Benna Murcatto saved his sister’s life.

She bounced from the corpse, three-quarters senseless, and down the steep mountainside, over and over, flailing like a broken doll. Rocks, and roots, and hard earth clubbed and battered, punched and crushed her, as if she was broken apart with a hundred hammers.