The War of the Dwarves

Boïndil stopped gulping down his food and stared absentmindedly at the wall. He seemed to be lost in thought. “Which way round is it?” he said slowly. “Does Vraccas want us to carry the spark of change to the fifthlings’ furnace, or is he testing our faith?”

Tungdil could barely mask his surprise; he hadn’t expected Boïndil, who was usually very traditional, to ponder such things. “It’s a tricky question and I don’t know the answer,” he replied. He leaned forward abruptly and picked up his tankard. Pain coursed through him, reminding him of his punctured shoulder and chest. He set down the tankard with a curse. “They’re going to help us, and that’s the main thing. The rest will take care of itself.”

Boïndil wiped his mouth and burped. “How big is their realm? Ten square miles? Fifty square miles? How many warriors do you think they can send?” He helped himself to some beer and refilled Tungdil’s tankard. “I’ll wager three hundred at most.”

“Three hundred might be enough. We’ll wait until Ushnotz and his troopers set their ladders against our walls; then we’ll tip them over and shower them with stones.” He clinked tankards with Boïndil. “With Gemmil’s help, we’ll put an end to the beasts once and for all.”

“Some of the runts have fled to Toboribor,” said the secondling. “I suppose it’s a bit far for our armies… Do you think Mallen can handle them himself?”

“Without your axes?” Tungdil shook his head in despair. “I can’t help wondering when you’ll finally tire of killing orcs. At this rate you’ll still be chasing runts when you’re a frail old dwarf of seven hundred cycles.”

“I’ll be dead by then,” he said in a matter-of-fact way that chilled his friend’s blood. “A spear or an arrow will see to that. It’s all right, scholar,” he added, noticing Tungdil’s expression, “I don’t want to die. When I lost Smeralda, I prayed to Vraccas to kill me on the spot, but now I give thanks for every orbit. When my time is up, I want to go out as a hero, like Bavragor did.” He raised his tankard to Tungdil and emptied it in a single draft. “To Bavragor Hammersmith and all those who died for Keenfire and Girdlegard.”

“Vraccas preserve the rest of us from joining them too soon,” added Tungdil, downing his beer. Don’t worry, he promised his fallen friends. Keenfire won’t be lost forever. A plan was taking shape in his mind. When the battle was over, he would come back with a big net and sweep the bottom of the pond—and if that failed, he would retrieve the ax from Dsôn Balsur as soon as the allies defeated the älfar. Either way, he would get the ax back, but the coming battle would be fought without it. Its loss could cost us dear. The beer tasted suddenly bitter in his mouth.

Pendleburg,

Southwest Urgon,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

You opened my eyes to the dishonesty of the dwarves,” said King Belletain. “Palandiell must have sent you.” He was sitting in bed, his back propped up with countless cushions. His leather armor had been exchanged for a loose purple robe.

Three physicians attended his every move, dabbing continuously at his fractured skull. Pink, viscous fluid seeped into their sponges.

Belletain pointed to the trio and snorted derisively. “Look at those crows! They circle me all the time—they’re hoping I’ll die.” The physician standing closest to him received a violent shove. The man stumbled, bowl, sponge, and fluid dropping to the floor. “Confounded crows,” the king screamed, his face flushing red. “Caw-caw, caw-caw!” He flapped his arms up and down. “I’m not your carrion! I’m not dead yet! I’m the eagle of Urgon, I’m master of you all!”

Ha, he’s lost his mind. The dwarf was careful not to show a reaction. What a stroke of luck. He’ll do exactly as I say…

Belletain lowered his arms. “I have news for your uncle, Romo Steelheart. I think it will please you.” He assumed an air of mystery and beckoned for the dwarf to approach. “Come here, and I’ll whisper in your ear. I don’t want the crows to hear us.”

Romo, leaning in to listen, smelled the odor of rotten gums on his breath.

“They’re watching me all the time,” the king continued. “I can’t get rid of them, you know.” He laid an arm around Romo’s shoulder and tapped his index finger against the dwarf’s armored chest. “It will be our secret—a secret between me, the eagle of Urgon, and you, my little falcon with the beard.” He chuckled like a child. “Your king and I are going to get on famously. We’ll throw the fourthlings out of their stronghold!” His eyes rolled back in his head. “The Brown Range is mine! Mine, do you hear? The fourthlings should be paying me, and they’re squatting on my land. You were right, Romo: It’s time I threw them out. My soldiers will…”

“Please, Your Majesty,” ventured one of the physicians, “you should be resting. Too much excitement will add to the swelling in your brain. Here, this infusion will lower your blood pressure.” Concerned, he examined a crack in the king’s skull. The blood was flowing faster than ever.

“Caw-caw, caw-caw,” chortled Belletain, raising a hand to his mouth.

The second physician tried to maneuver him back into position, hoping to make him sit upright and stem the flow of blood. Belletain punched him in the stomach. “Get back, winged devil,” he raved.

“We’re trying to help you, Your Majesty,” the bruised attendant soothed him. “Your mind will clear when you’ve had some sleep. Gandogar isn’t—”

“Eavesdropper!” screeched Belletain. He lunged forward and before Romo could stop him, he had seized the dwarf’s morning star and smashed the three metal balls into the physician’s head, shattering his skull. “No more cawing,” he said triumphantly. He tossed the weapon back to Romo. “Come, little falcon, help your new friend to get rid of the other nasty crows.” A malevolent smile spread over his face as he looked at the remaining attendants.

Romo weighed the morning star in his hand.

“Don’t listen to him,” begged one of the men. “The king hasn’t been himself since the ogre cracked his skull. He won’t survive without our—”

Belletain pressed his hands to his ears. “Stop their cawing! I can’t bear it any longer, my little falcon. I need new birds—birds that sing!”

The dwarf took a step forward and the attendants backed away. “It’s all right,” he said reassuringly. “I wouldn’t dream of hurting you.” Just then he swung the morning star into the crotch of the man on his left and sent his spiked fist into the belly of the man on his right. They slumped to the floor, writhing in pain. “But a king’s word is law.” He raised the morning star and brought it down forcefully. After two brutal blows, the whimpering stopped. The three attendants lay motionless beside their monarch’s bed, their heads a pulpy mess of gore and shattered bone.

“My loyal falcon,” squealed the king. “The crows have stopped cawing.”

“I’ll send some new attendants from our kingdom,” promised the dwarf, wiping his dripping weapon on the dead men’s clothes. “They’ll banish the pain from your skull, and they won’t make a peep.”

“Good,” sighed the king, slumping contentedly onto his pillows. “No more cawing—what a blessing.” He gazed out of the window at the grassy slopes. The sun was shining and the fields looked green and lush; there would be plenty of straw by the autumn. “Lothaire’s death will be a-ven-ged,” he chanted, fitting the words to the tune of a traditional Urgonese folk song. “And Gandogar’s treachery will be re-ven-ged…” He turned and looked Romo in the eye. “Rivers of blood and mountains of gold; that’s the price they’ll pay,” he declared firmly. “Tell your uncle that we have an agreement: If he can come up with a strategy, my warriors will do the rest. They’re experienced in warfare and fleet of foot. The highest peaks, the narrowest paths, the steepest chasms—nothing can make them fall. They will go where the eagle commands them. And when they hear the truth about my beloved nephew’s death, their hearts will burn with fury.”

Romo bowed. “I’m glad you’ve heeded my warnings. Lesser rulers have been fooled by the reputation of the other dwarven folks. You’re a wise king indeed.” He backed away toward the door.

“Send a few lackeys to take away the bodies. I’ll feed them to the other crows.” He stretched out his arms cheerfully. “I can feel the wind beneath my wings. The eagle is soaring, thanks to his little friend, the falcon.” He waved him away. “Come back soon. We need to finalize our plans.”

“You have my word, Your Majesty.” The dwarf stepped out of the chamber, closed the door carefully and let out a hearty laugh. It had cost considerable effort to hide his amusement. The next step was to surround the king with thirdling physicians, and Belletain would be welded to him for life.

My uncle will be well pleased. He set off through the corridors, whistling. He was anxious to leave at once, not least because he wanted to know if Mallen had been brought to his knees by the orcs.

Porista,

Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

Xamtys’s message to the rulers of Girdlegard confirmed Andôkai in her determination to make a maga of Narmora as quickly as possible. The firstling kingdom crushed by a shooting star, the Outer Lands engulfed in flames… Samusin, god of equilibrium, what danger is gathering in the west?

At least Xamtys’s news wasn’t all bad. Under her leadership, the firstlings were rebuilding their stronghold and repairing the damage inflicted by the meteor and the avalanche. Xamtys had vowed to repair the fortifications in record time so that her warriors would be ready to fight off the threat. Her tone was somber but quietly confident.

Is she right to be hopeful? Can the threat be contained by an army of dwarves? The maga left the letter on the table and went to find her pupil, whom she had sent to the library to familiarize herself with scholarly script.

The half älf had a natural gift for magic, but it wasn’t the same as the maga’s knowledge of spells and charms. Narmora’s magic derived from single syllables and an innate ability that had nothing to do with Andôkai’s art.

Her älf mother had taught her a few simple formulae, but she had never encountered symbols and runes. Mornings were spent studying in the library, while afternoons and evenings were given over to practical exercises. The final hour before bedtime was reserved for Furgas. Every night she sat by his bedside, holding his hand, crying tears of rage, and vowing to wreak terrible vengeance on the villains who had reduced him to this state.

Andôkai strode into the library. The chamber was lined from floor to ceiling with stacks containing books, manuscripts, atlases, and compendia. Some of the shelves were bowing dangerously under the weight of the recorded knowledge.

It’s all a question of quantity, she thought to herself. With enough sheets of parchment, you could kill a troll. She swept past the stacks in search of her famula.

Narmora, who had swapped her armor for loose-fitting robes that accommodated her rounded form, was sitting by a narrow window. The light shone directly on the pages of a hefty book. Particles of dust shimmered in the sun.

“It’s time for some fresh air,” announced the maga, suddenly aware of the musty smell. The library was the biggest of its kind in Girdlegard, and it smelled of parchment, leather, glue, and dust. Andôkai, who preferred to devote her time to refining her combat skills, had almost forgotten the odor of books. Half an orbit in the stuffy library was enough to make her restless. “How are you getting on?”

“Some of the runes are easy to remember,” said Narmora without looking up from the page. “But they stop me from learning anything else. It’s as if they don’t want me to forget them.” She stood up. “I can’t do it, maga. Half a cycle isn’t enough.”

“You need only learn the basics,” said Andôkai reassuringly. “Thanks to your natural talent, you’re ten cycles ahead of most famuli.” She stopped short, realizing that the plate of food on Narmora’s desk was untouched. “You’re supposed to be looking after yourself,” she scolded. “How do you think the baby will grow if you’re not eating? You mustn’t starve yourself.”

Narmora looked at the meat, vegetables, and bread in surprise. “I’m sorry, maga, I got distracted…” She picked up the plate and set off behind the maga, eating as she went. “You look worried. Has something happened?”

Andôkai stopped in front of a bookcase, climbed the ladder and pulled out a book from the row of battered spines. “The firstlings have spotted something strange,” she called from the top of the ladder. “The Outer Lands are on fire.” She leafed through the book, closed it impatiently and took another volume from the shelf. “It appears that the magi have been regrettably short-sighted in their quest for knowledge. Every known fact about the kingdoms of Girdlegard and the art of magic is archived in the library, but I can’t find a single book about the land beyond our borders.” She gave up and left the volume on the top rung of the ladder. “The Outer Lands barely get a mention—except in relation to the explorers who ventured over the mountains. Most of them never came back.”

“Surely there must be merchants who’ve been there,” said Narmora, gazing at the rows of books. “Didn’t any of the explorers keep a journal?”

They left the library.

“I think the only solution is to scour the other archives,” said Andôkai, unhappy at the prospect of leaving her realm. “I’m sorry to put you through this in your condition, but I’m afraid you’ll have to come too. We should be able to find what we’re looking for in the universities of Weyurn. The archivists keep detailed records of every occurrence, no matter how unremarkable, in the history of the realm.”

They emerged into the courtyard. The sun was high in the sky, so they retreated to the shade of the arcades and Andôkai prepared to start the lesson.

Narmora came to a halt and put down her plate. “We’ll have to take Furgas with us.” It was clear from her tone that she considered the matter settled.

The maga had other ideas. “The roads of Girdlegard are full of potholes. How is Furgas supposed to rest when the carriage is tipping from side to side like a boat?”

“Someone will have to look after him. You can’t expect Djern to nurse him to health.”

“No, but I’m sure his best friend Rodario will jump at the chance to sleep in my chamber, regardless of whether I forbid it, which, needless to say, I will.”

Narmora stared at her incredulously. “Estimable Maga, the impresario is an old friend, and I’m familiar with his talents: acting, orating, and philandering. On stage he makes a wonderful physician, but he isn’t the real thing. Quite frankly, I’d sooner trust Djern than him.”

“Djern won’t be here; he’s going on a mission to the Outer Lands. We need to know what we’re up against and prepare ourselves accordingly. At present, our only intelligence is the firstlings’ description of a fire.” The maga had constructed her case in advance, realizing that she would have to persuade her famula of the merit of the plan. “Don’t worry about Furgas; I’ll renew the charm, and every third orbit Rodario will change the sheets. There won’t be anything else for him to do.” She pointed to the far end of the arcade. “Stand over there—we’re going to try something new.”

The half älf took up position, but she wasn’t prepared to concede defeat. “Are you sure the charm will be strong enough? What if it wears off before we’re back?”

Andôkai raised her arms and traced silvery syllables above her head. “Furgas would die,” she said candidly, casting the charm toward Narmora, who held out her palms defensively and uttered a simple incantation.

The glittering jet of light turned a deep shade of green, slowed down and changed its trajectory, swooping upward and boring its way through the roof. The sky appeared through the marble.

The maga could hardly believe her eyes. “You changed the energy,” she said in astonishment. “How did you do it?”

Narmora smiled. “I suppose I must have muddled up the runes.”

A crack appeared in the ceiling and fragments of marble showered to the ground. Crackling and hissing, a green bolt of lightning swooped toward Andôkai. The charm had returned and was pursuing its target with grim determination. The maga disappeared in a cloud of dust.

A fragment of marble struck Narmora on the shoulder. Just then a searing pain ripped through her womb, stopping her breath.

She doubled over and sank to her knees, clutching her belly. Looking down, she watched in horror as a dark tide washed over her robes; warm fluid was seeping from her body, drenching the cloth.

No! She touched the sticky fabric with her hands and stared at her crimson fingers. Heat washed through her, but she was shivering with cold. “You’ve taken Furgas; spare me my child!” she pleaded helplessly. Her eyes turned the color of coal and dark lines appeared like cracks on her face, revealing her lineage.

She held on to a column and tried to pull herself up, but her bloodied fingers slid over the polished marble and she sprawled against the floor. Her stomach landed on a splinter of stone.

This time she knew for certain that something had burst. She curled up on the floor and screamed despairingly as she clutched her belly with shaking fingers, water streaming from her womb.

No one paid much attention to the leper in the corner whose ravaged features were hidden almost wholly by yellowed dressings. Sometimes a bronze coin flew through the tavern in his direction, whereupon he rose to his feet, bowed several times and collected it gratefully.

“Here, eat this and be on your way,” said the publican, depositing an ancient plate and a battered tankard on the table. He was careful not to touch the man’s hands, having noticed the rips in his gloves. Later, he would throw away the plate, tankard, and cutlery and scrub the bench and table with precious vinegar solution. It pained him to think of the cost, but the price of refusing charity to a leper was infinitely higher—the sick and infirm were under Palandiell’s protection, and she was dangerous in her wrath.

The man bowed and made an incomprehensible whimpering noise; it seemed the disease had eaten away at his tongue, rendering him mute.

Further along the bench, two women and a man, all dressed in plain garments, were talking so quietly that no one could divine the subject of their discussions. They treated the leper as if he weren’t there.

“How am I supposed to know who paid them?” snapped the fair-haired woman.

“That’s what I thought.” The man nodded. “No one at the guild knows anything about it. Frud and Granselm wanted the money for themselves.” He poured himself a goblet of wine and emptied it greedily. A look of satisfaction crept over his face. “Much good it did them, the greedy bastards.”

“It’s the giant’s fault,” grumbled the brown-haired woman. “The guardsmen you can hide from, but the giant always knows where you are. If you ask me, there’s something unnatural inside that armor.”

“It goes without saying,” agreed the fair-haired woman. “I mean, how many men do you know who are three paces tall?” She glanced at the leper who was dozing with his back to the wall. Her eyes came to rest on his pouch of coins.

“Not here,” hissed the man. “Are you crazy? If someone were to—”

“I know, I know,” she said carelessly. “I’m not suggesting we should actually… But if any of us were to meet him in an alleyway… Well, he’s practically dead already; I’m sure he won’t object.” She whinnied with laughter, and the others seemed to share the joke. “By the way,” she said, suddenly serious. “Have you heard that the maga is looking for secret supporters of Nudin?”

“Nôd’onn, not Nudin,” the dark-haired woman corrected her. “The maga has placed a bounty on their heads. I was thinking we should find ourselves some likely suspects and hand them over to the guards. Presto, the money will be ours.”

“Good thinking,” said the man enthusiastically. “Knowing Andôkai, she won’t bother with putting them on trial. Who can we frame? It can’t be anyone who’s liked or admired by the citizens with coin.”

“I know just the person,” said the fair-haired woman, clapping him on the back. Her dark-haired companion laughed. “What makes them think that Nôd’onn still has followers in Porista?” she enquired.

“Apparently, Frud and Granselm were carrying weapons embossed with the magus’s crest,” explained the man. “I don’t believe a word of it: They weren’t exactly friendly with the magus, and they avoided magic like the plague.”

“Unless they were given those weapons by whoever was holding the purse strings,” reasoned the fair-headed woman, stealing a swig from her companion’s goblet. “It’s almost like someone wanted Andôkai to believe in a conspiracy. There’s something funny about this business.”

A sudden noise sent them scrambling to their feet. The leper had woken up and was coughing and sputtering. They shifted along the bench to avoid being showered with phlegm.

Still gagging, the leper hauled himself upright and staggered to the door. The other drinkers drew back and held their breath until he was safely out of the tavern. As soon as the door closed behind him, the publican rushed over with a bucket of vinegar solution and started scrubbing the table and bench.

“Quick,” said the fair-haired woman, jumping up from the table. “I reckon his purse is going to need a new owner sooner than we thought.” They piled out of the tavern and stopped on the pavement, listening intently.

The tinkling bell on the man’s ankle, designed to warn of his approach, drew his pursuers straight to him. With a smile, the fair-haired woman whipped out her dagger, holding it flat against her forearm to hide the blade from view. She set off after the tinkling leper, while her two companions hurried after her, watching her back.

The man came into view. He was hobbling at great speed and seemed to have heard them coming. Cursing, he glanced over his shoulder and slipped into an alleyway. The tinkling stopped.

“He’s seen us. After him!” They raced into the alleyway, the fair-haired woman charging ahead. After only a few paces, she tripped over a pile of dirty clothes and hit the cobblestones. The dagger flew from her hand. The man’s right foot got caught in a leather band to which a small metal bell was attached. They heard the familiar tinkling.

Spitting angrily, the woman got to her feet and held up the discarded rags. “Look at this,” she said slowly. “He was only pretending to be a leper. This smells of… talcum powder or ointment or…” She ran her hands over the stains. “Paint!”

“He was spying for the maga,” growled the man, checking the alleyway for signs of the impostor. “We need to catch him or we’ll be finished.” He sent the women in different directions and they fanned out, determined to secure the man’s silence once and for all.

Rodario watched motionlessly from the doorway of a house as the fair-haired purse-snatcher tiptoed past him and continued along the alleyway, stopping occasionally to listen for telltale noises. The city was eerily quiet.

It was a relief after countless nights of eavesdropping in the dingiest taverns of Porista to finally hear something of consequence, but he hadn’t allowed for the rapacious nature of the criminal mind, and his current predicament put a dampener on his mood.

There could be little doubt that the trio intended to kill him: The look on their faces and the mention of the “guild” were evidence enough of that.

So Frud and Granselm were paid to attack us, he thought, watching with relief as the woman disappeared from view. But I still don’t know who hired them, and I probably never shall.

His mind chafed at the possibility that the daggers had been planted to make it look as if Nôd’onn’s famuli were behind the attack. He wondered whether someone held a grudge against the magus’s pupils and wanted them dead. But why bother with framing them? A tip-off would suffice… A smile spread over his handsome face. What a wonderful idea for my next play—a thrilling drama full of local color.

He was about to disappear into the alleyway when the door behind him flew open. Pale light streamed out of the house and before he had time to react, someone grabbed him and pulled him backward. The door slammed shut, trapping him inside.

“My apologies, worthy citizens of Porista,” said Rodario. “I can explain…” His arms were bent up behind him, and someone turned him round. He saw three figures wearing malachite robes and masks. One of his captors was a woman, as he could tell from her curves. “He’s a spy,” hissed the man, holding Rodario in a vice-like grip. “He was eavesdropping for the usurper.”

The woman leaned over and examined his face. “I know him. He’s the actor in charge of the building work. The maga hired him when the other fellow was attacked.”

Rodario had seen and heard enough to know whom he was dealing with. Under other circumstances he would have relished the prospect of rooting out Nôd’onn’s famuli, but not now. “Worthy citizens, you’re mistaken,” he said, trying to extricate himself from the situation with his dependable smile. “I’m not the fabulous Rodario—although he and I are very much alike.”

“Only an actor would talk so prettily,” said the woman with a laugh. “It’s him, all right.” She nodded to the man behind Rodario. “Good work, famulus. It’s our chance to discover the maga’s next move.” She pointed to a chair. Rodario was hauled unceremoniously toward it and made to sit down, while his hands were tied behind his back. The woman leaned over and looked him in the eye. “We know you’re in league with the maga. What does she mean by her games?”

“I’m a lowly impresario,” he said sweetly. “All I want is to rebuild my theater but, after what you did to my poor friend Furgas, I’ve been lumbered with rebuilding the city as well.” He didn’t think for a moment that the famuli were responsible for the ambush, but he wanted to keep his newfound knowledge to himself.

The woman immediately corroborated his suspicions. “We didn’t attack your friend,” she said angrily. “If we were going to attack anyone, we wouldn’t use daggers embossed with the magus’s crest. What bothers us is that Andôkai is bent on telling everyone that we were involved. First she steals Porista from its rightful owners, and now she’s turning the city against us. What does she mean to do next?”

“Gentle lady, your grievance is with the maga, not with me. I wasn’t spying on you; I was fleeing from three unscrupulous reprobates who were after my purse. Your doorway offered protection, I took shelter, and your friend here mistook me for a spy.” He looked up at her imploringly. “If you let me go, the maga will never learn of our encounter. I’m none too fond of her either—she’s a cold-hearted, unfeeling woman who likes to make other people feel small.” As he talked, he pulled on the rope that bound his wrists, freeing himself by degrees. One of the men had stopped watching him and was sitting by the window, peering into the street. “I could spy for you, if you like,” Rodario offered boldly.

He could tell from the woman’s face that she was ready to believe him, but his hopes were dashed when a fist appeared out of nowhere and punched him on the chin. “You treacherous windbag,” barked the second man. “Stop trying to deceive us with your silver-tongued lies. We know the maga is up to something. Why else would she leave the palace at the dead of nigh—”

“Shush,” hissed the man at the window. “Keep your voices down. Someone’s outside.”

“Can you see who it is?” whispered the woman.

“Three people. They’re armed and they’re standing outside the door.”

“They’re…” At the last second, Rodario, who was about to identify the trio as his purse-snatching pursuers, changed his mind. He gave the rope a final jerk; it was loose enough for him to break free at the first opportunity. “They’re my guards,” he lied, deciding to add to the confusion by claiming to be a spy after all. “They’re under orders to put an end to your treachery.”

The woman slapped him. “You almost had me fooled.” She glanced at the men. “Kill him. We’ll escape through the back.”

“They’ve covered both exits,” said Rodario quickly, managing to sound confident and disdainful in spite of his fear. “Give yourselves up and your lives will be spared. I’m sure the maga will be merciful, provided you confess.”

“Confess? We haven’t committed any crime. No, I’d rather die than throw myself on the mercy of the usurper.” She drew a dagger from the leather belt across her shoulder and tried to plunge it into his heart.

Rodario kicked her as hard as he could in the crotch. “Count yourself lucky you’re not a man!” he muttered unsympathetically when she groaned. Jumping to his feet, he grabbed the back of the chair and brought it down on the head of the man who was rushing toward him. A wooden leg snapped off, flew through the air, and shattered the crown glass window.

“They’re coming!” shouted the other man, unsheathing his sword. “Death to the supporters of Andôkai!” He darted outside and charged toward them. Rodario couldn’t see what happened next, but he knew from the sound of clattering steel that the famulus and the thieves had met.

Meanwhile, the woman had recovered sufficiently to launch a new attack. He fended her off with the broken chair while her companion rushed out to help his friend. Lightning crackled and Rodario caught a glimpse of a flickering red glow on the pavement outside. Voices shouted in panic; then a man let out an agonized scream.

“Die, villain!” The woman’s dagger hurtled toward him.

Rodario had enough time to step aside and thrust the back of the chair into her belly. Then, flipping it over, he slammed it seat-first against her head. The chair broke apart, tearing her hood. She slumped to the ground, blood gushing from her head. The dagger embedded itself in the floorboards.

The impresario swooped down and crouched over her, clamping her arms to the ground with his knees. Her breath came in short gasps, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “It seems the gods are on my side,” he laughed, ripping off her mask with a theatrical gesture.

He saw a charming little face. Blood was trickling through her long dark hair and into her eyes, which gave her a slightly rakish look. He guessed her age at twenty cycles.

“Well, pretty one, it’s time for you to talk,” he said, fighting back his natural exuberance, which was urging him to celebrate his unexpected victory with a kiss. “You said you saw the maga. What was she doing?”

She tried to shake him off. “You know perfectly well what she was doing,” she said, gasping for breath. Her resistance subsided, and she resorted to threats. “Let go of me this instant or I’ll send you up in flames.”

Rodario grinned and stroked his beard. “I’d like to see you try. Why would you use a dagger if you could attack me with magic instead? You’re just a novice, aren’t you?” He pulled the blade from the floor and placed the tip above her heart. “Tell me what you saw. What was the maga doing?”

“Talking to two men,” she said angrily. “Why am I bothering? You know all this already.” Her legs shot up and wrapped themselves around his neck, her calves pushing against his throat. Bracing herself, she pulled back with all her might.

Rodario’s neck creaked in protest. Fearful that his spine was about to break, he shifted his weight.

The famula freed her arms and slid away with the slipperiness of a serpent. Scrambling to her feet, she kicked him in the crotch. “Too bad that you’re a man,” she said spitefully.

He doubled up, holding the dagger in front of him while he recovered from the pain.

Just then one of her companions appeared in the doorway. Blood was pouring from a gash in his arm and he could barely hold himself upright. By now the whole neighborhood was awake and people were shouting for the guards. “Quick, Nufa,” he panted. “We need to get out of here.”

The woman ran over and half carried him out of the room toward the back door. Before she disappeared, she shot a final, murderous glance at the impresario.

But Rodario wasn’t finished with her yet. According to the famula, Andôkai had left the palace in the dead of night to meet two men, but Andôkai was mistress of Porista; she could summon anyone to the palace whenever she liked.

Something’s going on here, and I’m going to find out what. He straightened up carefully and shuffled out of the room. Little Rodario and his two plump brothers were throbbing in protest, and the pain was almost more than he could bear.

Nufa and the famulus were at the door. “Get back!” she shouted, grabbing her wounded comrade’s sword and waving it threateningly at Rodario. “Next time I set eyes on you, I swear I’ll kill you.”

“Are you sure you don’t want a part in my play?” he asked, still clutching his groin. “I’m looking for a new actress and when I see you standing there, sword in hand, so daring, so courageous… You’d be a natural on stage.”

A dark figure landed behind her and straightened up, revealing his imposing height. There was a sound of grating metal.

“Watch out!” shouted Rodario, who, for reasons that weren’t entirely clear to him, wanted to save her.

The famula ducked as a blade measuring two full paces whistled through the air. The gleaming metal sliced through the ends of her long dark hair and bit into the man’s torso. The two halves of his body fell to the ground.

Rodario knew that Andôkai’s bodyguard would carry out his mission with ruthless efficiency, but still he hobbled forward, positioning himself in front of Nufa. “Do as I say if you want to survive,” he whispered over his shoulder. “You’d better tell me everything you know about Andôkai.” She nodded, her eyes wide with fear. “Don’t hurt her, Djern,” he told the metal visor. “We need her alive.”

A terrible purple light shone through the eyeholes. Djern waited, frozen in position. His hand was outstretched and his sword was perpendicular to the ground. The famulus’s blood trickled down the blade, collected around the hilt, and splashed onto the cobbles.

“ Djern,” he said slowly, “I need you to spare her. She hasn’t answered my questions, and Andôkai will be angry if you kill her. The woman can’t hurt us; she’s not armed.” He stepped aside to prove that Nufa wasn’t a threat.

There was nothing he could do to prevent what happened next.

The giant’s arm shot up in a flash of metal, and his long sword whizzed over Rodario’s head, past his face, and into Nufa’s collarbone. Screaming in agony, she sank down, blood gushing from the wound.

“No!” cried Rodario, throwing himself onto his knees. “I’m so sorry, Nufa. I didn’t think he would… I mean…” He glanced at the open wound and felt a rush of nausea.

Her bloodied fingers reached for his collar; she pulled his head toward her and whispered in his ear. “The maga… two men… a pouch,” she gasped. “Dagger… magus’s crest…”

He was suddenly struck by an improbable thought. “Do you know their names?”

Nufa nodded. “Gran…” Her eyes filled with fear. “No!” The sword brushed past his shoulder and sliced through her mouth, cleaving her skull from top to bottom.

Rodario looked at Djern in horror and disbelief. He stroked Nufa’s arm and straightened up to face the giant. “You killed her, you monster! Don’t you realize she was about to…” It dawned on him that the famula had been killed for a reason; another ill-considered word, and he would share her fate. “She was about to tell me the names of the other conspirators,” he continued. “Andôkai will be furious.”

The maga’s bodyguard sheathed his sword. It wasn’t possible to tell whether he had heard or understood anything that Rodario had said. There was nothing but darkness behind his visor. Turning, he strode down the alleyway and disappeared.

Rodario, shaken by what had happened, sat down on an empty barrel beside the back door and gazed at the bodies. She would have made a good actress, he thought sadly as he looked at the famula’s once-pretty face.

Djern had brought the sword up and down so cleanly that the famula almost seemed to be asleep. But the giant’s ruthless deed was the spark that ignited Rodario’s smoldering suspicions. His worst fears had been confirmed. I might have guessed that no good would come of spying for Narmora.

VII

Dsôn,

Kingdom of Dsôn Balsur,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

The black velvet glove caressed the diamonds on the blade, stroked the shimmering inlay of precious metals, and slid down the haft of the ax. The fingers closed around the sigurdaisy wood and lifted the weapon gently from its bed of dark brocade. “It’s heavy,” said the melodious voice of a male älf.

The bearer of the gift was kneeling at the bottom of the black marble steps that led up to the pair of thrones. She held the cushion aloft, but her gaze was fixed on the stairs; ordinary älfar were forbidden from looking at their rulers. “Indeed it is, Nagsor Inàste. For many miles I bore its weight.”

“You should have sought our approval beforehand, Ondori,” the female älf said gently. “By rights you should be punished, but the success of your mission absolves you of your guilt.”

“You are most generous, Nagsar Inàste,” said a humble Ondori, watching as the gloved fingers returned the ax to its cushion.

“What happened to the groundling?” enquired the male älf.

“He fell into a pond the color of the night, your Highness. His companion drowned as well. We waited two orbits, but they didn’t surface. The weight of their mail must have dragged them to the bottom.” Ondori’s face was flushed with anger. “I almost had him, but his weapons belt broke and he fell from my grip. I wanted him to die by my hand, not in the muddy waters of a nameless ditch in godforsaken Lesinteïl. My sisters and I lost our parents to the groundling. I swore to kill him slowly and cruelly: His death was too kind.” It was clear from her tone that she took scant comfort in her victory over the dwarf.

“Every älf in this kingdom lost loved ones at the Blacksaddle,” the lady of Dsôn said calmly. “Does it give you the right to forsake your duty and settle a private score? No, Ondori, you were wrong to act as you did. It’s as well that you returned to us with the weapon—we have a use for it already.”

“You wanted to go to the Gray Range, and now you shall,” said Nagsor, his voice no longer friendly. “You and your friends are to leave tomorrow. Take Keenfire with you, and join forces with the orcs. We’ll see what happens to the groundlings’ courage when they hear how you robbed them of their hero and their ax. The orcs will break their defenses; you will break their will.”

“I beg your pardon, your Highness. Which orcs?”

“Thousands of troopers skirted our eastern border,” explained the älvish lord. “They were heading north—we think they mean to seize the groundlings’ hall.”

Ondori was taken aback by the news. “Why didn’t they stop to help us?” she asked angrily. “Surely they must have realized that Dsôn Balsur was under attack? I don’t see why we should repay the stinking cowards for their treachery by lending them the mightiest weapon in the land. What will we get in return?”

“Power,” chorused the voices.

“Your task is to ensure that we are party to the orcish victory,” explained Nagsor. “We can’t allow the orcs to defeat the groundlings without our help. You must stake our claim to the underground kingdom: The Gray Range is to be our refuge if Dsôn Balsur falls.”

“If Dsôn Balsur falls?” echoed Ondori. The prospect of the älfar’s defeat was so shocking that she almost forgot to avert her gaze from the all-powerful rulers. “But the humans have advanced barely half a mile. They’ll never…”

“The humans are paying dearly for laying siege to our borders. Hundreds have died already. Their stubborn generals refuse to heed the advice of the elves, and their soldiers are easy targets for our archers.” The lady of Dsôn leaned forward, as Ondori knew from her rippling hem. “But our troops are outnumbered. Every orbit the enemy grows more powerful as new recruits flock to the front, drawn by the promise of stolen älvish riches. The alliance between the men, elves, and dwarves is stronger than ever. Their purpose is clear: to destroy Dsôn Balsur. Together they can defeat us—it’s only a matter of time.”

Fabric rustled, and a hand settled gently on Ondori’s head. She saw a gleaming blade engraved with runes. Its tip touched her forehead and cut a line from left to right. The blade came toward her again as Nagsar used the blood to trace a symbol on her brow.

“May Inàste be with you, Ondori,” she said. “Bless your friends as I have blessed you, then ride to the fifthling kingdom. Your heart may not quicken at the prospect of aiding the orcs, but the future of our kingdom is in your hands.” The lady’s voice was so gentle, so melodious that Ondori scarcely felt the gash in her brow.

“What if the orcs don’t want our help, Nagsar Inàste?”

“Then you must take this ax and slay their chieftain. Let them see the extent of our power. A handful of groundlings are rumored to live in the stronghold, but you will lead the charge against them. Intimidate the troopers and they will obey.”

Ondori felt Nagsar lift her hand from her head, signaling that it was time for her to go.

Still kneeling and with her head bowed, she shuffled backward away from the steps, holding Keenfire on the cushion in front of her. Little by little she retreated across the black marble floor.

At last she was out of the throne room and the blind doormen stepped forward to close the black tionium doors. She stood up and inspected the legend engraved on the metal.

LOOK NOT UPON

THE EVERLASTING CHILDREN OF INÀSTE

NAGSOR AND NAGSAR

BROTHER AND SISTER

WHOSE BEAUTIFUL COUNTENANCES

TORTURE THE EYES

RAVAGE THE SOUL

AND CONSUME THE HEART WITH

DEADLY FIRE

BOW YOUR HEAD IN REVERENCE

AND FEAR

Ondori shuddered, remembering how close she had come to lifting her gaze. No one knew exactly what happened to those who disregarded the warning, but from time to time an älf would be summoned by the immortal siblings, never to be seen again, a sure sign that the penalty was death.

Ondori dislodged the dried blood from her eyelids, taking care not to smudge the symbol on her brow.

“It’s time for you to leave,” said one of the doormen, fixing her with his unseeing gaze. “Come with me.” He marched toward her and positioned himself at her side, his movements so precise and confident that Ondori almost doubted his blindness. “Put your hand on my shoulder,” he instructed her. She felt the cool metal of his ceremonial armor beneath her right palm.

The beauty of the high-ceilinged corridors was lost on Ondori’s guide. Panels of gleaming silver and matt tionium accentuated the polished darkness of the wooden walls, while colorful murals, painted with the blood of the älfar’s enemies, depicted glorious victories—the conquest of the elves, the defeat of the human armies, the seizure of new land, and the creation of Dsôn Balsur, the beautiful, sinister jewel in the älfar’s crown.

Ondori stopped short, noticing an empty panel on the wall. The best artists among her folk had sketched the outlines of a magnificent painting showing the death of Liútasil, lord of the elves. Will it ever be finished?

The blood of different creatures gave rise to an impressive array of colors. Ondori spotted the insipid red of humans, the green hues of orcs and bögnilim, the bright red of the elves, and the dark crimson of the groundlings.

It took a great deal of skill to paint with blood. The artists added special herbs and essences to stop it clotting, but the mixture had to be used at once. Ondori thought of the empty easels in her parents’ home. Her mother had been an accomplished artist, but the groundlings had murdered her in Greenglade, and none of her daughters felt like painting anymore.

“Keep walking,” said her escort, placing his hand over her own and propelling her onward.

Soon they were at the doors leading out of the siblings’ palace. Groaning, the vast panels of stonewood swung open and slammed behind her. The rumbling echo lasted for a while, then everything was still.

The älf strode across the deserted courtyard, pearl-shaped fragments of bone crunching under her boots. The perfectly round balls had been fashioned from the bones of elves, dwarves, men, orcs, and all manner of Tion’s beasts. The blanched gravel covered the courtyard and the alleyways of Dsôn, cushioning the älfar’s feet. The white of their enemies’ bones contrasted nicely with the somber buildings of the city.

Ondori reached the edge of the plateau. An evening breeze ruffled her long brown hair and played with the edges of her mask.

Dsôn lay in the middle of a crater measuring ten miles across and two miles deep.

According to älvish legend, the hollow had been formed by a black teardrop from Inàste’s eye. The elves of the Golden Plains had shoveled soil into the crater, but the älfar had defeated them and seized their kingdom, using the loose earth to create a mountain over three miles high. At its summit was the majestic palace of Nagsor and Nagsar.

Ondori gazed down at the city of her birth. Most of the buildings were made of blackwood, a wood so strong that stone foundations were unnecessary for any structure with fewer than eight stories.

The wood’s special properties had enabled Dsôn’s architects to exercise their talents and break away from the box-like dwellings favored by men. Seen from above, the city was a dark mosaic of sloping angles, perfect curves, elegant ornaments, twisting turrets, and cupolas, connected by luminous white streets. By day, Dsôn glittered with silver, tionium, and precious gems, but some of the alloys and gemstones were visible only in the moonlight. The true splendor of the city was apparent only after dark.

The underground halls of a dwarven kingdom are nothing compared to this, she thought sadly, watching as the blood-red sun dropped beneath the jagged edge of the crater.

She turned and looked up at the palace, a vast and extravagant tower made of bone.

The bones varied in size, some belonging to men and orcs, others to giants and dragons, while the largest came from terrifying creatures whose names were unknown. Slotting together neatly, they made up the first hundred paces of the palace’s walls, into which bas-reliefs and ornaments had been carved. The walls needed constant reinforcing, owing to the crumbliness of bone, but the älfar had plenty of enemies, so the palace was never in danger of falling down.

The next eight hundred paces were made of pure elf bone, harvested from the archers of the elven kingdoms. The tower culminated in a slender spire.

In the dying light of the sun, the walls turned a rich honey-yellow, which darkened to orange and turned a deep crimson, as if the palace were drenched in groundling blood. Ondori never tired of the view.

“So you’re alive?” said a voice behind her. “Does that mean we can hope for the siblings’ mercy too?”

Smiling, Ondori turned to see Estugon and her other loyal friends who had accompanied her on the quest to avenge her parents. “The siblings have been most merciful. Our journey isn’t over; tomorrow we leave for the north.”

The others glanced at each other uncertainly. “You mean we’re not being sent to the front?” asked Estugon, surprised.

“No, our orders are to claim a share of the orcs’ new kingdom,” said Ondori, raising Keenfire. She quickly explained their mission.

“It’s hardly a punishment,” commented Estugon, gazing up at the palace. She watched as the sclera of his eyes turned white, revealing his irises. Now that his dark älvish eyes were hidden, he looked as flawlessly beautiful as an elf.

“Tion has smiled upon us,” he murmured, dropping to his knees. “Thank you, Nagsor and Nagsar Inàste. Your trust will be rewarded.” The others followed his example and kneeled to pray.

Ondori stood before them and produced a thin-bladed knife. “Stand up so that I might bless you as our lady blessed me,” she said, preparing to perform the ritual that Nagsar Inàste had performed on her. None of her friends flinched as she drew the knife across their foreheads. It was an honor, a distinction, to be marked by the immortal siblings. They would wear the symbol of Nagsor and Nagsar with enduring pride.

“We should get some rest,” said Ondori. “We’ll need to ride hard if we’re to catch the orcish brutes.”

“Another chance to kill a few groundlings,” said Estugon happily. “Inàste willed us to find your parents’ murderers in Lesinteïl and destroy them. May her name be praised.”

“One of the groundlings still lives. My father mentioned three warriors; I saw no sign of the missing twin.”

“He must have escaped.”

“Whoever heard of a groundling abandoning his brother and his friends? The others came from the north; I reckon we’ll find our missing warrior with his kinsfolk in the Gray Range. Nagsor and Nagsar were merciful indeed to entrust us with this mission.” She weighed Keenfire in her hand, returned it to her weapons belt, and shook her head. The prospect of having to wield the ax against the orcs filled her with dread. “Why would anyone choose to fight with an ax? You’d think the groundlings would find them heavy and cumbersome. I don’t want to waste my energy levering their clumsy weapon from the corpses of my foes.”

She left the plateau and started down a staircase of five hundred steps, at the bottom of which her companions had left their mounts. The animals—a collection of shadow mares and a fire bull—were waiting patiently; there was no need to tether them because their obedience was absolute.

“Groundlings might be small but they’re powerful,” Estugon reminded her. “I suppose it comes from burrowing through rock all the time. I can’t imagine them with swords or longbows—their fingers would be too short.” The others joined in his mocking laughter.

Ondori went over to Agrass, her powerful fire bull, and examined its hind legs. The dwarf’s axes had cut deep gouges into its flesh, and the loyal animal had been lucky to survive. Scabs had formed over the wounds and the edges were peeling away, revealing new, smooth skin. The bull’s legs would be permanently scarred. Ondori patted its flanks lovingly and swung herself into the saddle.

Her companions preferred to ride shadow mares, but Ondori considered them too weak for battle. “I know what you think of Agrass,” she told them, turning the bull and rubbing its powerful neck. “But your pretty horses would have died of these wounds.”

The others laughed. “It’s a shame he’s so slow,” teased Estugon, circling Ondori on his snorting mare.

The red-eyed bull watched the nervous mare and lowered its head, shaking its fearsome mask. Ondori dug her heels into its flanks to encourage it forward. Using its long horns like a shovel, Agrass scooped up the mare and rider and tipped them over as if they weighed nothing at all.

“You were saying…?” crowed Ondori as Estugon lay in the dust.

The mare scrambled up, pawing the ground frantically and raising sparks. It bared its spiked teeth and prepared to strike back. Lowering its head, the bull braced itself for the charge.

Estugon called back his mare. “All right, you’ve proved your point,” he conceded, swinging himself into the saddle. “Still, you’d never keep up in a race.”

“Strength and agility are what matters,” she retorted confidently. “I prefer to vanquish my enemies; I don’t need to run away.”

Turning back, she took a final look at the shimmering lights of her beloved Dsôn, letting her gaze linger on its sinister glow. Many orbits would pass before she next saw the city; whether it would still be standing, only Samusin and Tion could tell.

7 Miles From the Fifthling Kingdom,

Gray Range,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

Myrmianda’s fingers peeled back the dressings. She seemed satisfied that the wounds were healing nicely. “Well done, Tungdil,” she said, head bent over his chest.

“The credit’s all yours,” he said, relieved. “You stopped the infection.”

“You’re tough enough to fight an infection on your own.” She exchanged the dry compress for a new wad of moss and replaced the bandages carefully. The old compress was consigned to the campfire and went up in flames. “You’ll be as strong as granite by the time you fight the orcs.” At last, as Tungdil was hoping she would, she looked up and smiled.

A smile from Myrmianda was guaranteed to lift his spirits. Tungdil was fast becoming attached to the slender freeling, and Myr, as he was permitted to call her, seemed to value his company as well. No topic of conversation was too obscure or esoteric, and Tungdil was reminded of the lively discussions in Lot-Ionan’s school. With Myr to talk to, the long orbits of marching became a pleasure, not a chore.

It wasn’t often that Tungdil came across someone who knew as much as he did, but in Myr he found a kindred spirit. The freeling was undeniably pretty, but her mind was every bit as attractive as her face. Each was perfect in itself, and they complemented each other superbly, like an anvil and a forge.

“As strong as granite, eh?” Smiling, he stretched out his arms while she helped him into the jerkin and mail shirt loaned to him by Gemmil. “I’ll hold you to that.” He wandered away to join Boïndil by the fire.

“Thank you, Vraccas,” he whispered. “Thank you for leading me to the freelings’ realm.” After the pain of losing Balyndis, he was dreading the orbit when Myr would go home. He could visit her for a time, but he couldn’t stay forever—he was committed to rebuilding the fifthlings’ halls. Or am I? The fifthling kingdom was Glaïmbar’s responsibility, now that he was king.

What am I to do? Deep in thought, he stared across the fire at Myr as she packed away her instruments. The strength of his feelings surprised him.

“Got a crush on her, scholar?” teased Boïndil, who was melting some cheese in the fire. “What’s the use of being clever if you can’t resist a pretty face?”

There was something about his tone that prompted Tungdil to ask, “You’re not jealous, are you?”

“Me? Jealous? Of course not!” Boïndil nibbled on the cheese, grunted discontentedly, and returned it to the fire. “Who do you take me for? I’m not a lovesick maiden, I’m a warrior! Warriors don’t get jealous, they get… disappointed, I suppose.” He inclined his head toward Myr. “Who am I supposed to talk to while you’re chatting with her?” He waved the skewer above the flames. “The other outcasts aren’t exactly talkative, I can tell you.” Aggrieved, he slid the cheese from the skewer and stuffed it into his mouth with a thick slice of bread.

“Did you want to talk about something specifically?”

“Just things,” said Boïndil indistinctly, still chomping on the bread. “About the älfar who attacked us. About the strange bull and its fearsome horns. About how we’re going to manage without Keenfire. About Boëndal. About whether the runts are attacking our kinsfolk. About the rune we found in the Outer Lands.” He reeled off the list, his voice increasing in volume with every word. “I’ve heard you, scholar, tying your tongue in knots to impress that albino rabbit. I shouldn’t wonder if you’ve forgotten why we’re here.”

The conversation around them stopped. Myr, who was explaining something to a couple of freelings, broke off and stared in silence at the warrior.

Tungdil had a bad feeling about the situation. Boïndil’s inner furnace was burning high, he hadn’t used his axes for orbits, and he was desperate to avenge their fallen companions. But Tungdil’s uneasiness also stemmed from guilt; he had upset his friend.

The warrior took another bite of cheese, this time crunching through the skewer. Too agitated to notice, he ground the wood between his teeth. “You’ve got a mighty short memory, Tungdil Goldhand.”

“You said to forget her,” said Tungdil weakly.

“I said to forget about getting melded to her,” barked the warrior, who obviously deemed it unnecessary to lower his voice. “Not about everything else! Doesn’t duty mean anything to you?”

“Duty?” exclaimed Tungdil. “I’m tired of hearing about duty. Everyone wants to talk about duty—Lot-Ionan, the late high king, the dwarven assembly, and now you. I’ve had enough! From now on, I’ll decide what I’m going to do, and the kings, the chieftains, and the clans can—”

“Oh really?” interrupted Boïndil heatedly. “Is that what you’ve learned from the outlaws and thieves? I suppose you don’t know any better—you didn’t grow up in a dwarven kingdom. You’re not a proper…” He bit off another section of skewer and clamped his mouth shut. Wood splintered between his teeth.

It was too late already; Tungdil knew exactly what his friend had intended to say. He glared at him angrily. “Go on, Boïndil. You may as well say it to my face. I know what my kinsfolk say about me in private.” When no answer was forthcoming, he carried on. “Tungdil Goldhand is a thirdling, a foundling raised by men, a warrior who only became a hero because he alone could wield the ax.” He stared into the flames. “If the late high king hadn’t sent for me, I wouldn’t be here at all. If it weren’t for him, I’d be shoeing horses for the humans or earning my keep as a freeling smith. It’s not my fault you’re saddled with me.”

Boïndil was already regretting his words. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, hoping to repair the damage. “Without you, Girdlegard would be ruled by Nôd’onn and…” He gave up and tried another tack. “Forget what I said,” he pleaded. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”

Tungdil smiled sadly and laid a hand on his shoulder. “No, Boïndil, you spoke from the heart and so did I.” He got up and walked away from the fire. His friend started to follow, but Myrmianda signaled that she would go.

She found him under a tree, passing a pebble from hand to hand.

“I didn’t realize that being a hero was so difficult,” she said, sitting next to him on the grass. “I heard what Boïndil said: You were in love with a maiden and it didn’t work out.”

He sighed. Now she’ll get the wrong idea… “Her name was Balyndis Steelfinger. She and I were going to get melded and live together in the Gray Range.”

“But she broke off the engagement because her clansfolk disapproved,” finished Myr. “Listen, Tungdil, you’ll get over her eventually,” she soothed him. Her fingers reached for the pebble, and for a moment, they held hands. “Maybe I can mend your heart,” she whispered, withdrawing her fingers slowly.

“Myr, I’ve been meaning to tell you…” Tungdil felt suddenly sick with nerves as if he were traveling through the tunnels of the underground network at breakneck speed.

Myr shuffled over until she was facing him and laid a slender finger on his lips. “It’s all right, Tungdil. I’m not promised to anyone, and the decision is mine to make as I please. I’ve never met anyone who knows half as much as you. I don’t care a jot about your lineage; I like you for who you are. Besides, I’ve met plenty of thirdlings who are perfectly decent dwarves.” Moonlight shimmered on her pale hair and downy cheeks, bathing her in silvery light, and her red eyes sparkled alluringly. “Don’t be afraid to let your heart bleed—it’s nature’s way of cleaning the wound.” She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his brow. “Wait until you’re sure that healing, not vengeance, is what you yearn for. If the warmth you feel is more than a passing spark, come to me, and I will nurse your broken heart.” She sat back on her heels and looked up at the sky.

Together they contemplated the starry firmament above the Gray Range. “Thank you,” said Tungdil after a while.

“I was only telling you how I feel,” she said simply.

“Yes, but you’re so understanding. You’ve done so much for me,” he said fervently. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

“My pleasure,” replied Myr with a tinkling laugh that charmed Tungdil’s ears. “It’s not often that I meet a dwarf like you—educated, battle-hardened, and handsome.”

He lowered his head bashfully.

“Oh goodness, I’ve embarrassed you,” she apologized. “Maybe we should talk about something else like Boïndil suggested—the älfar, or Keenfire, or even about the Outer Lands. The two of you have been there, haven’t you? What’s it like?”

“Foggy,” said Tungdil with a wry smile. His mind traveled back to their expedition to the Northern Pass and he described how he and Boïndil had left the safety of Girdlegard and wandered for hours in the fog. A shiver ran down his back.

Myr hunched her shoulders as if she too could feel the sinister fog. “I don’t know how you kept your cool in such a dreadful place—I would have charged around in a panic and tumbled into a crevasse. It’s a shame we don’t know more about the dwarves who live there. What did you call them? Undergroundlings?”

“They’re hardly mentioned in our records.” Tungdil looked at her intently. “How old are you, Myr? You know an awful lot.”

She beamed. “I’m still young—104 cycles. I can’t really remember my parents—they were killed by rockfall when I was a child. My adoptive parents were new to the realm. They brought a lot of books from their kingdom. Miraculously, the volumes survived the journey through the pond, and that’s how I learned to read. I studied those books until I knew every line and every rune by heart.”

“No wonder you know so much.”

“That was just the start,” she said, smiling. “After that, I wanted to read more. I must have knocked on every door in the city, asking for books. I was so busy reading that it didn’t occur to me that dwarves are supposed to be metalworkers and warriors.” She laughed. “There goes Myr, carrying her books,” she said, putting on a mocking voice. “Isn’t she skinny?” She gave him a dig in the ribs. “Imagine my satisfaction when I found myself stitching the wounds of the dwarves who teased me for reading. I took my time with those stitches, I can tell you.” She mimed pulling the needle very slowly through the skin.

“Ouch!” exclaimed Tungdil. “But tell me, did your real parents have… I mean, did you get your…” He broke off, wondering how to frame the question.

Myr seemed to know what he meant. “Did my parents look like albino rabbits? Yes, my parents and my grandparents were freelings—they were born in our realm. I think the paleness comes from—”

“… generations of living underground,” chimed in Tungdil excitedly, pleased to see his hypothesis confirmed. “Salamanders are the same.” It occurred to him belatedly that the comparison was likely to cause offense. Fearing that Myr would be angry, he fell over himself to explain.

“I expect you’re right,” she said, sharing his excitement. “Most of my kinsfolk never venture to the surface. Why would they? Our realm is more than big enough. We’re not accustomed to living in traditional dwarven strongholds. It’s a good thing the fifthling kingdom is just around the corner—I can hardly wait to find out what it’s like.”

“Right now, it’s unfinished,” said Tungdil, thinking of the construction work. He was more interested in talking about the freelings’ realm. “What’s your architecture like?”

“You’d like our cities—lots of multistoried stone buildings in great big grottos, with skies of rock and twinkling gems. We’ve got lakes as well, and some of my kinsfolk can fish from their windows. They set up their rods and wait for a bite.”

Tungdil couldn’t begin to imagine what life would be like with the freelings. Still, it was good that Myr had spoken of cities in the plural: Gemmil had more than one settlement in his realm. “How many dwarves—”

Laughing, she got to her feet and held out her hand. “Come on, the others will be wondering where we’ve got to. I’ve given away too many of our secrets—you’ll have to visit us if you want to learn more.”

Tungdil clasped her hand and allowed her to pull him up. She was stronger than she looked. It probably comes from carrying stacks of books.

At the campfire, Boïndil was sitting watch. He nodded as they approached.

Tungdil went over and gave him a warrior’s hug. Boïndil, relieved to be forgiven, thumped him on the back. “I always talk nonsense when I’ve been eating cheese,” he growled. “Next time you see me with cheese in my mouth, remember not to listen.”

“Thanks for the tip,” said Tungdil, laughing. “I’m glad we’re friends again.” He lay down beside the fire and glanced at Myrmianda, who had been watching them through the flames. She smiled at him, just as Balyndis had smiled at him across another campfire, not so long ago.

Southern Entrance to the Fifthling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

The orc touched down on the other side of the boulder and ducked out of sight. A light northerly wind blew toward him from the gateway. Flaring his nostrils, he sniffed the air.

Nothing untoward.

He peered out from behind the boulder to get a better look. The gates were wide open and unguarded. He could walk right in without anyone trying to stop him or sound the alarm.

With a satisfied grunt, he straightened up and lumbered toward the tunnel, picking his way between the scattered boulders and ruined masonry. Of the two routes into the groundlings’ kingdom, the southern approach was more direct.

The other route entailed leaving Girdlegard and entering the kingdom from the Outer Lands, which Ushnotz was reluctant to do.

The orc smiled. The prince would be well pleased with him for finding the southern entrance before the other scouts.

Splashing carelessly through puddles of melt water, he stopped at the gateway, poked his head into the tunnel, and sniffed the air for groundlings.

His lips drew back in a smile. Stepping away from the gates, he unhooked his horn and sounded a long, clear signal that echoed through the range.

The prince’s bugle sounded in reply, telling the scout to keep watch at the entrance until the troops arrived.

The orc decided to take a break. By locating the southern entrance, he had spared the troops a testing march over snowfields and glaciers, and it was time he had a rest.

Grunting contentedly, he retreated to the shadow of the peaks, sat down on a boulder and rummaged through his bag, bringing out a hessian sack containing the remains of a fleshling. The man had been unusually tall, too tall for one sitting, so he had saved his shanks for the journey. His mouth began to water at the festering smell; spoiled meat was particularly flavorsome.

He sank his teeth into the left shank, ripping off a sizable chunk, which he chomped through with gusto.

The taste of fleshling brought back memories of the recent feast in Gauragar when Bruron’s army had tried to trap them in a glade. On Ushnotz’s instructions, the orc and his fellows had drunk the dark water from the pond, broken down the barricades and run riot through the fleshlings’ ranks. The victory had kept them in meat for orbits.

He tore off another strip of flesh and swallowed greedily, forgetting to chew. The meat slipped halfway down his gullet and came to a halt. Cursing, he whacked himself on the back, but the meat refused to budge. By now he was coughing and spluttering quite violently, so he reached for his drinking pouch, which slipped through his fingers and dropped to the ground. The pouch rolled down the hillside, with the orc chasing after it, taking wild, ungainly bounds. After a few seconds he gave up and raced to the clear blue pool at the bottom of the waterfall.

Throwing himself onto his belly, he lowered his head to the surface and drank. Cool water streamed down his throat, clearing his gullet.

He took another gulp and realized that he was lying on a flat slab of rock above a trough measuring half a pace across. It looked like a conduit or a drain.

Having no interest in waterworks or dwarven engineering, he lowered his head for another sip. This time he stopped in surprise, transfixed by his reflection. Staring back at him was a wrinkled face with a bushy blond beard, a silver helmet, and long wavy hair.

There was only one explanation: The pool was under the curse of the groundling god. I shouldn’t have drunk the water, he thought frantically. It’s turned me into a groundling. He squawked in terror. Ushnotz will kill me on the spot.

His panicked mind was still whirring when the watery face began to smile. A moment later, it stuck out its tongue.

The orc stopped howling and leaned toward the surface. Ugh! He wrinkled his nose in disgust. I even smell like a filthy groundling!

Eyes fixed on the gently rippling water, he stared at his reflection. To his astonishment, a second dwarven head appeared on his shoulders and, above that, two brawny arms and an ax.

A proper entrance,” grunted Ushnotz in satisfaction. He climbed onto a flat-topped boulder to get a better view. “Fastok has done us proud.”

Runshak took up position beside him and surveyed the sloping ground—a few boulders and some crumbling fortifications, but no cover to speak of. His brow furrowed as he spotted Fastok reclining near a waterfall, helmet pulled low over his eyes and legs stretched out comfortably. “The bungling idiot’s gone to sleep,” he grunted, picking up a fist-sized stone to hurl at the dozing scout. The missile missed its target, flying past Fastok’s privates and landing near his feet. “Hey!” bellowed Runshak. “Why aren’t you keeping watch, you soft-skinned fleshling?”

“Get the troops into formation,” commanded Ushnotz, encouraged by the hush. “Advance with caution until we know what’s what.”

His troop leader, a broad-chested orc who stood two paces tall, drew himself up and relayed the orders to the troopers, who were strung out along the track behind him like an enormous metallic snake. “The plateau’s too small,” he observed. “They’ll have to advance in waves.”

“So this is our new kingdom,” muttered the orcish chieftain, lifting his head to survey the mighty peaks. “It isn’t as homely as Toboribor, but it’s better than being hounded by Mallen and his men.”

His plan was foolproof: First his army would occupy the abandoned kingdom and secure the old defenses, then half of the troopers would stay behind to guard the gateways while the remaining units paid a visit to the settlements in nearby Gauragar. Ushnotz needed provisions, and he was counting on the fleshlings to hand them over quietly. The king of Gauragar wasn’t likely to come to his subjects’ rescue; his army was weaker than Mallen’s, and his troops were tied up in Dsôn Balsur, which lay within the kingdom’s bounds. While the älfar remained undefeated, Ushnotz would be free to consolidate his empire without interference from the fleshlings. Afterward, neither the allies nor the älfar would be able to oust him from the mountains and he would reign victorious until the end of time.

He had taken measures to ensure that the dark water wouldn’t run out. Every trooper was carrying a full drinking pouch, and his quartermasters were bringing additional barrels and kegs. Ushnotz intended to empty the contents into an underground basin and create his own lake. The water was actually quite palatable, and a single sip sufficed to renew the effect.

He watched as his troopers filed onto the plateau and lined up before the gates. “My new kingdom,” he said proudly, whinnying with laughter. The troopers saluted their leader, cheering, banging their shields, and raising their weapons. In spite of the commotion, Fastok was still asleep. Snarling angrily, Runshak bore down on the unfortunate scout.

“Hey!” he shouted, kicking him in the ribs. When Fastok failed to respond, he ground the heel of his boot against one of his shins. No creature could sleep through such agony, but Fastok didn’t stir. Runshak frowned, his ugly features contorting suspiciously as he bent down and snatched the helmet from Fastok’s head.

The scout would never rise again. His skull had been spliced from the crown to the bridge of his nose by a weapon that Runshak judged to be an ax. A second blow had parted his head from his shoulders. The killer had positioned the corpse over a crack in the rock, allowing the dark green blood to drain away. With the helmet off, the head rested loosely against the neck, rocking gently from side to side.

Runshak leaped up. “On guard!” he yelled. “We’re not—”

A lone dwarf appeared in the gateway. “Come no closer,” he warned him. “Vraccas’s children protect these mountains. Turn back or face their wrath.” He set a bugle to his lips, sounding a pure, deep note that resonated loudly through the range.

There was a loud crack and the mountain seemed to shudder beneath the orcs’ feet. Ushnotz watched in horror as thin black lines zigzagged across the plateau at lightning speed, creating a network of fractures that augured badly for the orcish troops.

The ground shook again, as if struck by an almighty hammer, and the plateau caved in, taking with it a thousand or so orcs. Shrieking and snarling, they disappeared from view.

A loud splash indicated that they had landed in water. Three paces below the ground, the dwarves had extended the plunge pool beneath the waterfall to create a deep basin with precipitous sides.

The orcs were trapped. Ushnotz watched as his troopers sank beneath the surface, dragged down by their armor. Some were hit by falling debris, while others clutched at the sides of the basin, claws scraping helplessly against the slippery rock. The dark water had made them immortal, but it couldn’t stop them sinking over and over again.

Since when is the Gray Range back in the groundlings’ hands? thought Ushnotz, shaking with shock and displeasure. The only way around the basin was via a narrow path, barely four paces across. On the far side, directly in front of the gateway, stood Runshak. He was a tough orc, made tougher by the dark water, but he couldn’t be expected to hold out against the groundlings while the rest of the army advanced four-abreast around the pool.

The groundlings were waiting for us. It occurred to Ushnotz that he might never set foot in the groundlings’ kingdom, let alone claim it for himself. Of the orcs on the plateau, barely a hundred had survived, and they were looking to him nervously, reluctant to advance in case they met the same fate as their comrades.

From the pool came high-pitched wails as the orcs continued to flounder in the water, unable to die. The noise redoubled as a battalion of dwarves poured out of the gateway, their shouts and cheers echoing between the peaks.

Blind panic descended on the remaining orcs.

At the sight of the grimly determined, ax-wielding dwarves, they turned tail and fled, forgetting that the dark water had given them unnatural strength. In their headlong charge to safety, they collided with the next orcish unit, which was making its ascent. Unsettled by the noise from above and the sight of their fleeing comrades, the next wave of troopers took off down the mountainside as well. In the chaos, the shouts of the orcish lieutenants went unheeded.

Ushnotz liked to think of himself as a cunning tactician. He was about to give the order to pull back and regroup when a slender figure detached itself from the rocks.

“You’re not scared of a handful of groundlings, are you?” demanded a female älf. She was wearing a half mask and a veil of black gauze. “I count two hundred groundlings to your five…” She paused and glanced at the flailing troopers in the pool. “Sorry, four thousand orcs.”

Ushnotz rounded on her. “What’s it to you?” he snapped. “Have they kicked you out of Dsôn Balsur already? Well, the Gray Range is mine.” He pointed down the mountainside. “Get out of my sight before I show you what happens to älfar who trespass on my land.”

“Your land? As far as I can see, the Gray Range belongs to the groundlings,” she said with a scornful laugh. “You’re lucky I’m here to help.” Reaching over her shoulder, she drew an ax.

Ushnotz saw the glittering diamonds on the blade and stepped back with a snarl, almost losing his balance.

“You’re familiar with the ax, I see,” observed Ondori, holding Keenfire aloft. “Groundlings of the Gray Range,” she called, her clear voice and the shimmering gems on the ax commanding the dwarves’ attention. “Your fabled weapon is in the hands of Dsôn Balsur’s älfar. Its bearer is dead.”

The announcement had the desired effect. The charging dwarves stopped in their tracks.

“Well?” said Ondori to Ushnotz. “This is your chance: Send in your troopers and finish them off.”

Ushnotz hesitated. “What if they’ve laid another—”

Ondori responded so swiftly that the orcish chieftain didn’t have time to raise his sword. Keenfire whirred through the air, hewing his neck in a single blow. His head, complete with helmet, hit the boulder, bounced, and rolled down the mountainside. As if in defiance of the älf, Ushnotz stayed standing, blood gushing from his neck. Ondori kicked him in the chest, and the rest of his body followed his head.

The gory blade rose through the air, tip pointing toward the startled Runshak, who had witnessed the death of his chieftain from afar. “Orc,” Ondori called out to him. “You’re their leader now. Next time I won’t be so merciful: Tell your troopers to attack.”

Runshak immediately gave orders for the army to attack and the orcs advanced cautiously.

Ondori bounded down from the boulder, alighting in front of the dwarves, who drew back, eyes riveted on the legendary ax. They were talking in hushed tones and their bearded faces were stamped with dismay.

The älf felt a wave of revulsion. “I killed your hero,” she told them coldly. “Tungdil Goldhand and his companions met their deaths in the lonely woods of Lesinteïl, and you…” She tilted the ax toward one of the dwarves. “You’ll die as they did, killed by the weapon that you forged.”

Four dwarves stormed toward her, but their bravery was in vain. A flurry of arrows ripped through the air, and the warriors toppled backward into their comrades’ arms. It was clear from the black shafts protruding from their chain mail that the älf was not alone. A unit of älvish archers was hidden among the boulders, ready to loose fire on the dwarves.

As if the dwarves weren’t sufficiently intimidated, Ondori raised the ax and slashed at the nearest warrior. The blade passed effortlessly through the hastily raised shield, cleaving the arm behind it. The wounded warrior stared at his bleeding shoulder, paralyzed with shock.

“Groundlings are gifted metalworkers,” she said, laughing vindictively. “See how cleanly the weapon slices through your flesh.” The air quivered, and five dwarves fell to the ground.

Runshak grunted an order and the orcs charged at the defenders, weapons raised.

Ondori stepped aside, not wishing to be sandwiched between the troopers and the dwarves. The main part of the mission was over; she had staked a claim to the underground halls.

Watching in satisfaction, she saw that the groundlings were already losing ground. It was exactly as the immortal siblings had predicted: The news of their hero’s death was more crushing than the sight of five thousand orcs. Without their usual confidence, they would be hard pressed to resist the invaders’ superior might.

Meanwhile, orcish reinforcements were surging onto the plateau and stampeding toward the gateway, their fears forgotten now that victory was in sight.

Ondori jumped onto the rocks where her companions were unleashing their feathered missiles at the defenders. Their aim was deadly; each of the arrows killed or wounded one or more dwarves.

Slowly but surely the defenders fell back. At last their front line regrouped to form a semi-circle barely ten paces from the gateway. A unit of dwarves bearing crossbows stepped out of the tunnel.

Ondori realized that the dwarves were preparing to close the gates. “Look,” she said, alerting her archers. “Feather them with arrows before they lock themselves inside.”

The älfar took aim, drew back their bowstrings, and sent a flurry of missiles over the heads of the invaders. The bombardment stopped when the last dwarven archer went down.

Ondori waved angrily at Runshak. “What are you waiting for? Get your troopers through the gates!” Once closed, the gates could only be opened with the help of siege engines, so everything depended on storming the tunnel before it was too late.

She leaned forward and followed the battle. It seemed to her that the groundlings were intent on beheading the invading orcs. Usually they concentrated on slashing their legs and shattering their kneecaps, allowing the maimed beasts to thrash about in agony and trip up their fellows. But this time they were definitely aiming for their necks.

She watched in amazement as orc after orc picked himself up from the ground and fought on. What’s going on? Are the beasts immortal? She glanced at Ushnotz’s corpse. Is the Gray Range back in the grip of the Perished Land?

Another bugle sounded.

This time the call came from a small band of dwarves emerging from a narrow opening near the waterfall. Ondori recognized their leader at once. What’s this? I saw him drown…

“That’s right,” bellowed Tungdil, his deep voice carrying over the din of clashing blades. “I’ve come to reclaim my property and avenge my friends. I won’t rest until you’re dead.”

The dwarves, seeing their hero, were filled with new courage. The strength returned to their arms and they fought back determinedly. The orcs responded by renewing their attack. It was clear to both sides that the battle had entered a crucial stage.

“We’ll see who gets vengeance,” replied Ondori, trembling with rage. “You’ll die by the ax that you forged!” Signaling to her companions to secure her path, she jumped into the melee of orcs.

Porista,

Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

Narmora kneeled down and drew her right hand over the loose, moist soil, then packed it down firmly. “Taken from me at birth,” she whispered, tears leaking from her closed eyes. “You started life together, and now you’re alone. We won’t forget you, I promise.”

Wiping her cheeks with her sleeve, she opened her eyes and began to cover the little grave with stones.

All alone in a forest beyond the walls of Porista, she took her leave from her son, burying his body, and committing his soul to Samusin. It was an älvish ritual, taught to her by her mother.

No one else was there to mark the infant’s passing. Furgas, the only person who could offer some solace, was in a deathly coma, leaving Narmora alone in her grief.

She was dreading the moment when she would tell her husband that their baby boy was dead. What will I say? She covered the grave with another layer of stones to protect the child from the claws and teeth of hungry scavengers. His body was tiny, but perfectly formed, with miniature fingers and toes, and an adorable face. Fate had ordained that he would never grow old.

The hours wore on and the trees cast long shadows over the forest floor. At last, as dusk began to fall, she made her way back slowly to Porista. In the distance, the familiar landscape of scaffolding and cranes heralded the city’s rise from the ashes, and the maga’s palace loomed on the horizon, sable turrets reaching to the sky. Narmora, head bowed, looked only at the ground.

Blinded by grief, she entered the city, insensible to the activity on the crowded streets.

In the marketplace, stalls were being dismantled, goods packed away, and coins counted into bags. People were leaving work, going home, piling into taverns that smelled of hot food, or gathering on the pavements to discuss the latest news. Narmora walked on.

After a time she became aware of the conversation around her. Everyone was talking excitedly about the deaths of Nôd’onn’s famuli, Rodario’s heroism, and the rapid construction of the city walls.

Next they’ll be gossiping about how I killed my child, she thought grimly.

Andôkai’s intervention following Narmora’s botched incantation had prevented the two of them being crushed by the marble archway, but while a sprained ankle had been the only injury sustained by the maga, Narmora had paid with the life of her son.

To her surprise, Rodario was waiting for her at the palace gates. Wrapping his arms around her, he hugged her in silence. Narmora’s eyes filled with tears all over again.

“Andôkai told me what happened,” he said sadly, trying not to look at her flat, childless belly. She looked exactly like the old Narmora.

“I know,” she said quickly, not wishing to discuss the baby’s death. “The fireball robbed me of a son and left me with a daughter. When she’s old enough, I’ll tell her about her twin.” She tried to meet Rodario’s eyes, but he was looking at her strangely. “You’re not in trouble again, are you?” she asked, guessing that he needed to get something off his chest. She mustered a faint smile. “Don’t tell me that the hero of Porista is being chased by the angry father of some poor impressionable girl…”

He looked at her warily. “We should talk somewhere else,” he said, steering her back down the street. As they walked, he summarized how he had eavesdropped on the thieves and interrogated Nôd’onn’s famula. His story was considerably more convoluted than the version that Narmora had heard.

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” he said carefully. “For all I know, the story was a fabrication, but the poor girl was dying, so I doubt she made it up.” He hesitated, not wanting to add to his friend’s distress. “Precious Narmora—”

The half älf glared at him. “This isn’t one of your plays,” she reminded him impatiently. “What did the famula actually say? Are the villains who stabbed my Furgas still alive?”

“That’s just it,” he said unhappily. “According to Nufa, the attack on Furgas had nothing to do with her. She said someone paid the ruffians to make it look like Nôd’onn’s famuli were to blame.”

She seized him by the shoulders. “Speak clearly, Rodario. You’re not making any sense.”

He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what would follow. “Nufa told me that she and her friends saw Andôkai…” All of a sudden his face lit up with a radiant smile. “Ah, there she is!” he exclaimed, hailing the maga with a wave. “How reassuring for the citizens of Porista to know that Andôkai the Tempestuous is patrolling the streets!”

Narmora eyed him intently; there was something insincere about his smile.

“Is Djern with you perchance?” he enquired, glancing about him.

The maga went over to Narmora. “I was worried about you,” she said, her face as stern as ever. “You were gone a long time, longer than expected. Your daughter won’t stop crying. I’m many things, but I’m not a nurse.”

“I’ll be there right away,” Narmora promised. “Well?” she said, turning back to Rodario. “You were saying…?”

The impresario withered under Andôkai’s harsh gaze. “I was telling Narmora not to worry,” he said quickly. “She’s got nothing to fear now those villains are dead. Well, don’t let me hold you up.” He yawned theatrically. “It’s nearly my bedtime. So much to do, so little time. May the gods be with you!” Hurrying away, he turned a corner and was gone.

Narmora shook her head in bemusement. “Actors,” she sighed.

Andôkai just shrugged. “The journey starts tomorrow. We’ll head west and begin our search in the libraries of Weyurn. Your daughter can join us, of course. I’ve hired a wet nurse to take care of her while I help you with your studies.” They walked for a while in silence. “I hope you haven’t changed your mind,” said Andôkai, gazing at the rows of buildings rising from the rubble. “Furgas’s survival depends on you, remember.”

“I hate magic,” said Narmora fiercely. “Magic robbed me of my son—if it weren’t for Furgas, I’d have nothing to do with it.” She glanced at the maga almost reproachfully. “I know you were trying to help, but you shouldn’t have made me your famula. It’s bound to end badly.” She lowered her voice. “It already has.”

“From now on you’ll learn your formulae more carefully,” said Andôkai harshly. “I suffered losses when I was a famula as well.” Her stern face showed a flicker of emotion. “I’m sorry I can’t offer more comfort. Magic comes at a price.”

They were almost at the palace.

“Perhaps the price is higher than we know,” said Narmora. She recited the incantation to open the gates, and the two women, one dark-haired and slender, the other muscular and fair, walked in silence through the palace.

On reaching the nursery, Narmora went in and closed the door behind her, shutting the maga outside.

At the sound of the door, the child woke up and let out a thin, piteous scream. Narmora bent over the cot, scooped up the tiny baby and clasped her to her breast, running her hand softly over her tiny head. The little girl’s skull felt no stronger than an eggshell. Comforted by her mother’s touch, Dorsa stopped crying.

After the stillbirth of her son, Narmora had been surprised by the arrival of a daughter. It hadn’t occurred to her that she was carrying twins, but Samusin, god of equilibrium, had taken one of her children and let the other live. What price must I pay for Furgas to get well?

The little baby made a clumsy attempt to suckle her breast. “Are you thirsty, little one?” asked Narmora. She left the nursery, crossed the corridor, and knocked on the opposite door. It was opened by a young woman with bleary eyes and tousled hair. Narmora held out her daughter. “Dorsa needs feeding.”

“Of course,” murmured the girl, taking the baby tenderly and putting it to her breast. Dorsa took to her at once.

The half älf felt a pang of sadness as the wet nurse, singing softly, carried her baby around the room. With no milk of her own, she had to entrust her child to a stranger. Fortunately there were plenty of young women in Porista who were happy to suckle her child in return for food or coin.

As soon as the nurse had finished, Narmora scooped up her baby and returned to the nursery. She held onto her for a while, cradling her to sleep, then replaced her in the cot, tucked her in, kissed her nose and stroked her downy head.

“Sweet dreams, my darling,” she whispered. “I won’t be long.” She slipped quietly out of the nursery and hurried to Furgas’s room.

For an hour she sat there, holding his clammy hand, then she crept out of the palace to look for Rodario.

She had no doubt that the impresario had a secret—and somehow or other, the maga was involved.

Southern Entrance to the Fifthling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

Leaping down from the boulder, the masked älf entered the scrum of armor, spears, and swords, and disappeared from view. Tungdil knew she wouldn’t reappear until she was close enough to attack him, very probably from behind. It was like waiting for a serpent in a field of rippling grass.

At the same time he felt absurdly grateful. Vraccas had shown him that Keenfire wasn’t lost. I need to kill the älf.

Boïndil, his inner furnace blazing, banged his axes together impatiently. “Thousands of fat, juicy orcs! My axes can’t wait for a taste of their blood!” He glanced at Tungdil. “Ready, scholar?”

Tungdil was watching the raging battle. The odds were in favor of the orcs; firstly because the dark water made them difficult to kill, and secondly because the dwarves had only a few hundred defenders, a fact that the orcs seemed thankfully slow to grasp. It was vital to close the gateway before the invaders gained more ground.

So much for Glaïmbar’s tactics, thought Tungdil, allowing himself a moment of smugness. “All right, we need to head for the gateway,” he told the others. “Our priority is to close the gates. The beasts will never be able to force their way in.” Drawing his ax, he ran toward the charging orcs.

Boïndil, huffing disappointedly, took off at great speed. “Can’t we just kill the lot of them?” he asked breathlessly, sprinting past Tungdil. He wasn’t in the least bit intimidated by the raging beasts; their snarling and grunting spurred him on. “The first ten are mine!” he shouted, raising his weapons. His right ax sliced into a green-hided thigh, the left ax swinging upward to catch the falling orc. The blade passed effortlessly through the visor, releasing a torrent of green blood. The orc collapsed without a murmur, a third strike severing his neck.

“Oink, oink,” snorted Ireheart, darting forward. He slashed a path through the hordes, allowing Tungdil, Myr, and the others to follow.

Thanks to his sterling efforts, the group made rapid progress and axes whirred in all directions, felling orc after orc. Killing the beasts posed a problem because they had to be beheaded, which wasn’t easy, especially since the dwarves were fighting several orcs at a time. After a while they took to working in pairs, the first dwarf felling their opponents and the second dwarf driving his ax through their necks. All of a sudden, the gateway seemed much closer.

The defending dwarves, eager to help their former leader, sallied forth to meet him.

“Get back!” shrieked Tungdil as the älfar leveled their bows. “Hold your shields above your heads. They’ll…”

Black arrows sang through the air, finding cracks in the wall of shields and homing in on unprotected flesh. Five dwarves fell to the ground and disappeared under the boots of the snarling orcs, who surged into the space, forming a living barrier between the gateway and the rest of the group.

The defenders’ maneuver had failed, leaving a handful of dwarves at the entrance of the tunnel, while the others fought frantically to keep the orcs at bay. Dwarven archers raised their crossbows and fired bolts at the beasts, but the advance continued undeterred. The bolts were lethal for ordinary warriors, but not for a rabble of undead orcs.

“We should have brought warriors, not masons and smiths,” growled Ireheart, whirring his axes at giddying speed in an effort to reach the beleaguered defenders. He was splattered from head to toe with green blood, which had an intimidating effect on the beasts. “Either that, or artisans who can fight!” His axes struck again; his victim, backing away nervously, took a blow to the neck.

Tungdil tried to count the dwarves at the entrance to the tunnel. As far as he could tell, almost everyone in the kingdom had come out to beat back the invaders, but the orcs were still advancing and had nearly reached their goal. Tungdil spotted Glaïmbar and Balyndis fighting side by side.

He pointed to the survivors of the ill-advised sally. “Head toward them,” he commanded. “If we band together, we’ll make it to the gates.” Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Myr and the exiles were holding their own against the orcs. In fact, the dainty medic was fighting with tenacity and strength.

Soon Tungdil’s party joined the band of defenders, but their path was blocked.

The beasts surged forward, spurred on by Runshak, who was bawling orders at the top of his voice. The älfar feathered the troopers with arrows, driving them on from behind. Yelping with pain, the orcs advanced; victory was in their grasp.

In front of the gateway, the lead orcs were locked in combat with the dwarves, who were fighting valiantly but ineffectually against the invaders. Meanwhile, some of the smaller orcs were trying to sneak past and attack from behind, trapping the defenders between two fronts.

Tungdil glanced at the orcish leader. “It’s time he went,” he said, deciding that a change of tactics was in order. “We need to kill their chief.”

Ireheart, brown eyes glinting manically, had fought himself into a frenzy. At the mercy of his fiery spirit, he threw himself on the enemy, windmilling his axes at incredible speed.

“Boïndil!” shouted Tungdil. “I said we need to kill their chief!” He had to repeat himself several more times before Boïndil finally heard.

The group set off toward Runshak, who spotted the approaching threat and turned to the älfar, hoping to enlist their bows in his defense. Suddenly his grin froze, his mouth falling open in horror.

Tungdil saw the fear on his ugly green face and turned to discover its source.

A colossal figure loomed into view. Brandishing a sword in one hand and an ax in the other, the metal-clad giant towered over the boulder where the älfar were stationed with their bows. The orcs in the vicinity squealed in terror and scattered in all directions, falling over each other in their eagerness to escape.

A demonic visage stared out from the giant’s visor, the eyeholes emitting a bright purple light. Even from a distance, Tungdil’s eyes were dazzled. The giant let out a dull, menacing roar that caused the ground to quake. Tungdil’s hair stood on end.

Alerted to the danger, the älfar raised their bows, but Djern was already upon them, sword and ax slashing through the air, severing bowstrings, cleaving arrows, and slicing through sinew and bone. In no time the boulder was strewn with bloodied armor and gory remains.

Only one of the älfar succeeded in evading Djern’s blades, but the colossal warrior had no intention of letting him escape. Jumping onto the boulder, he pushed off and launched himself into the air, landing on the shoulders of the fleeing älf, who crumpled screaming to the ground. Without stopping to use his weapons, Djern stamped on his head, squashing it like a plum.

A tense silence descended on the plateau; both sides had watched the encounter with bated breath.

This is our chance! Wrenching his eyes away from Djern, Tungdil aimed his ax at the orcish chieftain and hurled it at his head.

Runshak heard the weapon whir toward him and turned in time for the blade to miss the back of his helmet and land between his jaws, slicing cleanly through his head. The newly appointed chieftain was dead.

“For Vraccas and Girdlegard!” shouted Tungdil, breaking the hush. “Behead the brutes! Long live the children of the Smith!”

The orcs had heard and seen enough.

After losing their unbidden allies, not to mention Runshak and the prince, the beasts were ready to admit defeat. Forgetting their undead powers, they forfeited their advantage and fled.

The panic was so great that some of them jumped on top of their spluttering comrades in the pool, while others stampeded down the mountainside, bowling over the troopers who were toiling to the top.

“You never learn, do you, scholar?” scolded Boïndil, handing Tungdil one of his axes. “What was the first thing I taught you? Never throw your ax unless you’ve got another in reserve!” He grinned. “Still, there’s nothing wrong with your aim.” Oinking ferociously, he threw himself on the fleeing troopers, slaying orc after orc.

Cries of astonishment went up from both sides as a second battalion of dwarves appeared on the far side of the plateau. The new arrivals threw themselves on the invaders, squeezing the orcs between two fronts.

Tungdil noticed that some of the warriors had white hair and pale skin. The freelings, he thought, relieved. Although the tide had turned in favor of the defenders, there was a chance that the orcs would remember their immortality and lay siege to the gates. Gemmil’s warriors couldn’t have arrived at a better time.

This is the crunch, he thought, glancing to where Glaïmbar and Balyndis were fighting.

The king and his fiancée were defending the gateway against a handful of orcs whose fury outweighed their fear. Far gone in bloodlust, the beasts threw themselves against the defenders’ axes, hammers, and clubs.

Most of Tungdil’s comrades were too busy chasing the fleeing army to realize that the gateway’s last defenders were dangerously overextended.

Tungdil paused, his thoughts in turmoil as he watched his rival parry blow after blow. The attack redoubled, but Glaïmbar was holding his own. Just.

It’s nothing to do with you, whispered a devilish voice in his head. So what if he falls? He’ll die a hero, and Balyndis will be free.

The chosen leader of the fifthlings took a step backward and came up against a wall. For a second, he was distracted, and an orcish sword made contact with his wrist.

Glaïmbar can take care of himself, the voice whispered. He’s a great warrior; let him prove his worth. Hurry up and find Boïndil.

Tungdil had almost decided to rejoin his group when Balyndis caught his eye. She was surrounded by orcs, and she looked at Tungdil pleadingly, her brown eyes begging him to go to Glaïmbar’s aid.

“Botheration,” he grumbled, gripping the haft of his ax. “What a pity it was his wrist, not his chest.”

He set off bad-temperedly toward the gateway, but the rescue mission came to a precipitous end.

In the heat of the battle, he had forgotten to look out for the älf. A slender figure appeared out of nowhere and alighted beside him. Looking up, he saw Keenfire speeding toward his head.

VIII

Blacksaddle,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

The diamonds on the high king’s helmet glinted in the sun. Gandogar knew that even the most shortsighted sentry would notice his approach, but he held his head high; he wanted to be seen. In all his 299 cycles he had never set eyes on the thirdling king, and his arrival at the court of Lorimbas marked a turning point in the history of the dwarves.

Pushing the brown hair away from his eyes, he looked up at the Blacksaddle and watched as sun and shadow strove for mastery over its slopes. The gullies and couloirs were shrouded in inky darkness, but the flanks of the mountain were gilded with light.

For Gandogar, there was something menacing about the flat-topped mountain where countless dwarves, elves, and men had lost their lives.

The battle has left its mark on this place. He shook the reins and the pony moved off. The powerful dwarf and his mount were suffering from their long journey through Sangpûr’s deserts. Particles of sand had found their way into Gandogar’s beard, slipped through the rings of his mail, and sneaked inside his leather jerkin, rubbing against his skin in the tenderest places. His poor pony had fared no better. There was no escape from Sangpûr’s sand.

Now, as they rode through southern Gauragar, the temperature was cooler, but the air was thick with menace. The banners flying from the top of the Blacksaddle warned the high king and his fifty armed warriors that the stronghold was in the hands of its makers, the children of Lorimbur.

Bones crunched beneath the ponies’ hooves. No one had buried the dead beasts after the battle; their corpses had been eaten by predators or piled up and burned. Sun, rain, and snow would take care of their skeletons, but for now their remains lay strewn at the base of the mountain, warning travelers not to linger in this place.

Second in the procession was Balendilín, king of Beroïn’s folk. He had joined the expedition after Gandogar accepted his offer of advice and support. His gaze was fixed on the mountain ahead. “Should we mourn our fallen comrades or celebrate the joint victory of dwarves, elves, and men?” he asked pensively. “There’s never been a battle like it: The massed ranks of Nôd’onn’s army against the armies of Girdlegard, with the dwarves at the fore.”

“Let’s hope the alliance lasts,” said Gandogar fervently.

“We can’t let the thirdlings shatter our newly forged bonds.” With a sigh, the one-armed king looked up at the fluttering banners. “I wonder how the mountain feels about the return of the dwarves who plundered its gold.”

“Bruron had no choice but to cede the stronghold to Lorimbas,” replied Gandogar evenly. “According to his envoy, Gauragar was bound by the terms of an ancient treaty.”

“No choice?” objected Balendilín. “What does Bruron owe the thirdlings? Mallen is reliant on thirdling mercenaries, but he refused to surrender to Lorimbas’s demands. I’d wager my one good arm that Bruron was bribed.”

Gandogar tugged on the reins, steering the pony to the right of an ogre skull that was blocking their path. The stripped bone bristled with broken spears and arrow shafts, and the crown of the head provided the birds with a useful platform as they scanned the path for dung.

“You’re probably right,” said the king of all dwarves. “And that’s precisely why a diplomatic solution is called for. Girdlegard won’t be at peace until we put an end to this senseless feud.” He glanced at Balendilín. “I thought you were supposed to be the voice of reason. Are you suggesting we kill him?”

“Vraccas would roast my soul in his furnace if such a thought were to enter my mind,” said the secondling, laughing. His expression became grave. “No, Gandogar, neither of us are dwarf killers, although I can’t say Lorimbas deserves our mercy—his machinations are undermining our alliance with the elves and men.” He held the king’s gaze. “The question is, how are you going to stop him? We haven’t spoken to the thirdlings for hundreds of cycles, so the usual sanctions won’t work.”

“That’s why we need to talk to them,” said Gandogar firmly. “I understand your reservations, but Lorimbas and I will find a way of making peace.”

A door came into view at the base of the mountain. In earlier cycles, it had been concealed by conifers, each standing fifty paces tall, but the orcs had cut down the forest to make siege engines and ladders. After the battle, the wood had served as kindling for the biggest funeral pyre in Girdlegard’s history, on which the corpses of the beasts had been burned. All that remained was a multitude of stumps.

“I’m not naïve enough to think we’ll ever be friends with the thirdlings,” continued Gandogar, realizing that the secondling leader was unconvinced. “But it’s time we put a stop to the feuding and treated each other with a little respect.”

Balendilín clicked his tongue doubtfully. “By the hammer of Vraccas, I wish I could knock some sense into their heads.”

They drew up outside the door. Barring their way were twenty warriors with long-handled pikes, the tips of which were pointing menacingly at the riders.

“Stop,” commanded a broad-chested thirdling, fingering his morning star. His face was covered in tattoos. “My name is Romo Steelheart of the clan of the Stone Grinders, nephew of King Lorimbas.” He measured the high king with his gaze. “I suppose you must be Gandogar,” he said, denying him the usual courtesies extended to a dwarven king.

Balendilín studied the thirdling’s face. Tattooed runes spoke of his eternal hatred of the four dwarven folks, promising death and damnation to the descendants of Beroïn, Borengar, Giselbert, and Goïmdil. The sinister effect of the tattooist’s artwork was heightened by the hostility in Romo’s eyes. Balendilín had no doubt that he was looking at the face of a zealous dwarf killer.

“My name is Gandogar Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, head of Goïmdil’s line,” said the high king. “My business is with your—”

Romo snorted derisively, and a globule of snot hit the ground by Gandogar’s feet. “Gandogar can come in. The rest of you, wait outside.”

Balendilín was unmoved. “The high king goes nowhere without his escort. If this is your tone, you can forgive our suspicions.”

Romo shrugged, armor clunking. “It’s him or no one,” he said sharply. “Those are my orders. If you don’t like them, you can leave.” A sneer spread over his face. “Oh, I should have realized: Poor Gandogar is scared of my uncle. Don’t worry; Lorimbas has given his word of honor that your king will leave our stronghold in the condition that he arrived.” He stared at the high king insolently. “Is your heart made of granite or pumice?”

Gandogar ignored the warning looks from his advisor and jumped down from his pony. “I’m the high king of the dwarves, and my business is with Lorimbas Steelheart,” he said firmly, striding toward the guards, who raised their pikes to let him pass. The metal tips lowered, separating Balendilín and the others from the king.

“My, my,” said Romo, leading Gandogar into the cavernous heart of the mountain. “It’s astonishing how a feeble fire can produce a spark of courage. You’re a typical fourthling—scrawny and small.”

“Brain is more important than brawn,” countered Gandogar patiently. “It’s better to have a sharp mind than a sharp blade.”

Romo turned into a side passageway, picking his way confidently through the maze of corridors and stairs. He and his kinsmen were new to the Blacksaddle, but he plainly knew his way around. “A nice theory,” he said, laughing. “But an ogre’s cudgel can blunt the sharpest wit.”

“On the contrary,” replied Gandogar firmly, keeping his eyes fixed on Romo’s back. “Ogres are particularly easy to outsmart.”

His gaze fell on a beautifully crafted scabbard hanging from the thirdling’s belt. It looked awfully familiar. In fact, he had last seen it on the belt of a warrior who was fighting with the allies in Dsôn Balsur. The chances of a smith forging two such scabbards were remote.

“I met him and two others in Richemark,” said Romo, when the high king enquired about its owner. “They’re dead.” He shot a hostile glance at Gandogar. “You can have it, if you like—but you’ll have to fight me first.”

Gandogar clenched his fists. It wasn’t easy to keep his composure when Romo was bragging about killing three dwarves. The thirdling talked about murder in the way other dwarves talked of masonry or metalwork. “With pleasure,” he muttered darkly, setting his jaw.

Romo hiccoughed with laughter. “What are you going to do?” he asked scornfully. “Sprinkle me with gold dust or throw diamonds in my face?”

It occurred to Gandogar that his faith in diplomacy was possibly misplaced, but he wasn’t prepared to leave without trying—if only to satisfy his conscience and prove to the allies that he wasn’t to blame for the feud.

Without a word, he followed Romo into the great hall where the final battle against Nôd’onn had taken place.

Lorimbas Steelheart was standing in the middle of the room. His attention was focused on a recently repaired staircase that gave access to the walkways overhead. At last he turned to greet the new arrivals. “What have I done to deserve the honor?” he sneered.

Romo smiled and positioned himself at his side.

Gandogar looked intently at the thirdling monarch. His long black hair was streaked with gray and braided against his scalp in three tight plaits. Gandogar noticed that his beard had been dyed in three different colors, which was probably a mark of something, although he didn’t know what. He also saw that Lorimbas, unlike the other thirdlings, hadn’t been tattooed.

“I want a truce,” he said simply, outlining his reasons for the visit. “A cessation of hostilities until the älfar have been defeated.”

“That’s a new one,” scoffed Lorimbas. “The hostilities haven’t started, and you’re asking me to stop. I didn’t realize our cousins were so soft.”

“Don’t be too harsh on him, uncle,” chipped in Romo. “He might soil his breeches.”

“I was referring to your efforts to turn the humans against us,” said Gandogar evenly, ignoring the snickering Romo. “Open warfare we can deal with, but your tactics are pernicious and underhanded. We know what your envoy said to Prince Mallen and we know that a dwarf was seen at King Belletain’s court. He wasn’t there on my authority, so I assume he was sent by you.”

“Mallen is a shortsighted fool,” Lorimbas said breezily. “He’ll soon see the error of his ways. He turned down my nephew’s assistance out of misguided loyalty, but the loss of his dwarven mercenaries will come as a blow. I shouldn’t wonder if he’s ruing his decision already.” He let his eyes travel over the ceiling. “It’s a wonderful thing to be standing here after all this time. My forefathers lived in this stronghold until you drove them out. A new era is dawning for Girdlegard.” He snapped out of his reverie and glowered at Gandogar. “The decline of Beroïn, Borengar, and Goïmdil has begun.” He strode toward the high king, stopping only when their noses were practically touching. “You won’t weather this storm. The wind of change is blowing through the dwarven kingdoms, sweeping through the narrowest shafts and tiniest caverns. You and your subjects will be scattered, and my warriors will seize your halls.” His spiked gauntlet thumped his armored chest. “The children of Lorimbur will stand guard at the gates of Girdlegard and your folks will be forgotten.” He took a step back and drew his weapon. “I swear it on Lorimbur’s ax.”

“Is this how the thirdlings negotiate?” asked Gandogar. “I—”

Lorimbas cut him short. “Negotiate? Who said we wanted to negotiate?” He raised his ax. “I have news for you, Gandogar: Your orbits in Girdlegard are numbered—and there’s nothing you can do.”

Gandogar’s patience, which had withstood countless indignities, suddenly snapped, allowing his pent-up fury to erupt into words. The king and his nephew had pushed him to the brink. “Vraccas won’t abandon his loyal children to the murderous wiles of Lorimbur’s unholy dwarves,” he shouted, clinking blades with Lorimbas. “I dare you to fight us fairly, you backstabbing coward.”

“Get out!” bellowed Lorimbas, forcing Gandogar’s blade to the ground. “No one threatens me in my stronghold! You’re lucky I promised to let you go unharmed. I’ve a mind to kill you anyway.”

“Can I do it for you?” asked Romo hopefully.

Lorimbas trembled with silent fury; he was fighting the urge to plant an ax in the high king’s head. “Lorimbur’s children won’t negotiate with the other dwarves. Your destruction is assured.”

“All right, gem cutter,” said Romo, gripping Gandogar’s shoulder. “It’s time you went home to polish your jewels.” He steered him through the door in the manner of a bailiff escorting a drunk.

The high king shrugged him off angrily. “Lay a finger on me again, and you’ll regret it, dwarf killer,” he growled. When Romo spat on the floor and grabbed his shoulder, he seized the thirdling’s gauntlet and swung his ax against his wrist, shattering the bone. Romo’s face contorted with pain, then he reached with his uninjured arm for his morning star, swinging back to strike. A bald-headed dwarf stepped in front of him and made a grab for his arm. The three-balled weapon thudded to the floor.

“Salfalur!” he exclaimed in surprise. “What—”

“Silence or I’ll break your other wrist,” the dwarf snapped. He turned to Gandogar. “That’s the first and last time I’ll save one of your kind. I want to be clear about this: Your life counts for nothing, but Romo promised not to harm you, and Lorimbas would punish him for breaking his word.”

Gandogar nodded. His eyes were drawn to his rescuer’s massive arms and chests. Dwarves were stocky and powerful, the fourthlings less so than most, but even the slightest dwarf was a good deal stronger than a man. Salfalur, though, had muscles to rival the battle-crazed Boïndil. Like the other thirdlings, he was tattooed, the dark runes covering his face and his gleaming skull.

Gandogar met his eye. “At least let me thank you for—”

“I want nothing from you,” growled Salfalur. “I’d sooner die in the deserts of Sangpûr than drink water from your pouch. Follow me, I’ll show you out.” He strode away and Gandogar fell in behind him.

Salfalur’s route through the passageways of the Blacksaddle took them past chambers filled with provisions, bunkrooms accommodating hundreds of dwarves, and crowded forges echoing with constant hammering.

Some of the smiths were fashioning weapons, others were working on strange pieces of metal that served no obvious purpose. Gandogar knew that no one would volunteer the information, so he saved himself the trouble of asking and studied the objects carefully, intending to describe them to the firstling smiths.

At last they reached the door leading out of the stronghold.

“Stay away from here,” Salfalur advised him coldly. “If we meet again, Lorimbas will be delighted to receive your head on a plate.”

He opened the door for the high king to rejoin his anxious companions.

After enduring the company of the thirdlings, Gandogar was glad to leave the stronghold and step into the sunshine, which usually hurt his eyes. He caught himself looking forward to the dreaded pony ride home.

“Well?” asked Balendilín.

Gandogar shook his head and gave a brief account of the meeting.

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” said Balendilín with a sigh. “They’re thirdlings, after all.”

Under the steely gaze of the sentries, they turned their ponies and rode toward the south. “Lorimbas must be very sure of himself to speak so openly of his intentions,” observed Balendilín, wondering what the thirdlings had in mind. Lorimbas’s bold predictions augured badly for the dwarves.

Judging by Gandogar’s report, the thirdlings were planning something far more serious than Bislipur’s treacherous scheming. This time, the whole thirdling kingdom was ready to mobilize against the other dwarves.

Balendilín glanced back at the sinister mountain. What we need is a spy.

Southern Entrance to the Fifthling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

Tungdil did the first thing that came to mind. As the älf loomed over him, he dropped the ax that Boïndil had given to him and reached up to block the blow.

Grabbing Keenfire with both hands, he wrapped his fingers around the sigurdaisy haft and dropped to one knee, muscles straining and joints creaking. The blade hovered above his head.

Stooped over him, the älf threw all her weight behind the diamond-studded blade, arms trembling as she pushed against him. Her breath came in labored gasps.

But Keenfire seemed to sense that the second set of hands belonged to Tungdil, its rightful bearer. The intarsia shimmered, and a tongue of fire licked over the ax head, reaching for the älf’s mask. Moving and twisting, she stayed out of harm’s way.

“You’re not getting away from me again,” she gasped, kicking Tungdil in the chest.

Still clutching the shaft, he tumbled backward, and the älf, determined not to lose Keenfire, came with him.

She used her momentum to launch herself into the air, all the while gripping the ax. The soles of her boots sped toward him. He turned in time, rolling to the side as she landed beside him, missing his throat.

“Vraccas brought you here to give me Keenfire,” he spluttered. His right hand shot up, punching her in the belly. Uncurling his fist, he reached for her left foot, bringing her to the ground. Her black veil lifted as she fell, revealing her chin and left cheek. There was no sign of a scar or deformity that would warrant the wearing of a mask.

Each had a hand on Keenfire’s haft, and neither was prepared to let go.

They stumbled to their feet, and Ondori, reaching behind her, drew another weapon—a scythe-like blade that Tungdil recognized from their encounter on the pier. Whipping out his dagger, he squared his shoulders and waited for a weakness in her guard. Slowly they circled each other, the thickset dwarf at one end of the ax, the willowy älf at the other, separated by the length of the sigurdaisy haft. The ax head was on Tungdil’s side and he could see the intarsia flickering, as if Keenfire were waiting for the opportunity to strike.

“Why won’t you show your face?” he demanded. “Only cowards hide behind a mask.”

“My mask shall remain in place until my murdered parents are avenged,” she told him, looking at him with pure hatred. “You’ll see my face before you die.”

“I killed your parents, did I?”

“You killed my mother in Greenglade—you and the warrior twins.”

Tungdil twisted away as the scythe-like weapon slashed toward him.

“My father you killed at the Blacksaddle,” she continued, slashing at him again. This time she drew blood. She eyed his wounded throat with satisfaction. “My loss shall be avenged.”

Tungdil kept his eyes on the scythe, waiting for her to strike. “I can’t bring them back, but I’d be happy to help you join them,” he retorted, ducking under the swooping blade and using his momentum to ram the ax head toward her.

Once again, the intarsia flared up, but the älf avoided the red-hot suspiration, only for the sigurdaisy haft to slam into her face. The mask slipped over her eyes and her veil caught alight, flames shooting through the gauze and singeing the ends of her long brown hair. Dazed by the blow and blinded by the mask, she stumbled toward him.

In less time than it takes a drop of sweat to vaporize in a red-hot furnace, Tungdil was beside her, ramming his dagger through her armor. It embedded itself to the hilt. Tungdil bent down to claim Keenfire, but he was stopped by a shout from Balyndis. Looking around, he saw the cause.

Glaïmbar was on the ground, and standing over him was a badly wounded orc. Screaming with pain, the beast raised his notched sword and prepared to smite the dwarf.

Tungdil cursed roundly, wishing he could let his rival die. Instead, he picked up the ax that Boïndil had given him and hurled it at the beast. Whirling end over end, the ax struck the orc beneath the armpit. Green blood gushed from the wound, spattering the sprawled Glaïmbar.

The orc stumbled, dropping his rusty sword.

In an instant, Glaïmbar was on his feet, ramming the spiked end of his ax into his enemy’s neck. He slit the beast’s throat and raised a hand to thank his rescuer. Tungdil, who had no intention of acknowledging his rival, looked away.

You fool, the voice inside him whispered. You should have let him die.

Tungdil gave himself a little shake. “Where was I?” he said, turning back to finish off the älf, but she and Keenfire were gone. A trail of blood led into the heart of the battle, losing itself among the mass of dwarves and orcs. The masked älf had escaped to live another orbit and Keenfire was in her hands. I’ll never find her now.

Tungdil remembered what she had said about her parents. Sinthoras was her father, he thought. He picked up an abandoned ax and threw himself on the remaining orcs, drawing strength from his frustration at losing Keenfire for a second time.

Hoping against hope that he would find the älf, he cleaved through the beasts.

But the ax and the älf had disappeared.

It was late afternoon when the battle ended. The dwarves had won a decisive victory, but the mood was subdued.

They gathered the headless bodies of their enemies and threw them into the basin, where they floated among hundreds of spluttering orcs. After killing the survivors by pelting their heads with rocks, the dwarves decided to drain the basin and let the sun do its work. Later, the bleached bones would be strewn around the Stone Gateway as a warning to invading beasts.

Tungdil stood on the plateau and scanned the mountainside below.

It seemed to him that a small dot was moving rapidly across the horizon toward the southeast. He felt sure it was the älf, in which case it was futile to think of chasing her by pony, let alone on foot.

It’s Glaïmbar’s fault, he told himself, kicking the ground angrily. A stone skittered down the mountainside. I had the älf where I wanted her. Keenfire was mine.

“I wanted to thank you properly, Tungdil Goldhand,” said the object of his curses.

“Any dwarf would intervene to save his king,” he replied. Too frustrated to hide his hostility, he kept his back turned. “I forfeited Keenfire,” he said pointedly.

“I know,” said Glaïmbar, sighing. He stood next to Tungdil. “I suppose it isn’t possible to forge a replacement. Boïndil seems to think we can.”

“Keenfire is irreplaceable,” said Tungdil, happy to twist the knife a little further. “We could forge a new blade, but the haft was fashioned from the last remaining fragment of sigurdaisy wood in Girdlegard.” He turned to face the king. “I don’t fancy fighting the threat from the west without our strongest weapon. If the älfar join forces with the new invaders, Keenfire could be used against us. Who knows how we’ll fare…”

“Vraccas will give us the strength to prevail,” said Balyndis, positioning herself at Glaïmbar’s side. She looked at Tungdil reprovingly.

“Besides, you won’t be fighting alone,” chimed in Myr, overhearing the conversation. “You’ll have our warriors as well.” She finished tending to a wounded dwarf and took her place next to Tungdil.

The battle lines were drawn.

To Tungdil’s satisfaction, Balyndis looked put out.

“It’s time we met properly,” said Myr. “I’m Myrmianda Alabaster from the freeling folk. Tungdil battled his way to our realm to remind us that we dwarves were hewn from the same rock.” She shook hands with Balyndis and Glaïmbar. “I’m here at the request of King Gemmil, who raised the army of two thousand warriors that helped you today.”

Glaïmbar bowed. “Tell King Gemmil that he saved our kingdom from the orcs. It was only a matter of time before they launched their next assault. We owe our lives to your king.”

Tungdil surveyed the dwarves who had come from all corners of Girdlegard to defend the Northern Pass. The comrades-in-arms were working together to gather their dead.

Four hundred warriors from the fifthling kingdom had fallen in battle. Their bodies would be laid in the great hall for the fifthlings to pay their respects. After an orbit, the fallen warriors would be placed in the burial vaults. The freelings had suffered heavy losses as well, and barely a thousand of Gemmil’s warriors had survived. The others would rest in peace beside their fifthling comrades.

“How many are planning to stay?” asked Tungdil.

“You’d better ask her,” said Myr, pointing to an armor-clad warrior almost twice her size. “Sanda Flameheart is Gemmil’s wife.” She called her over.

As Sanda approached, the others noticed the dark lines and menacing runes on her face. Her whole visage was covered in intricate tattoos, the like of which Tungdil, Balyndis, and Glaïmbar had never seen. The symbols spelled out terrible threats against the other dwarven folks.

Glaïmbar’s fingers tightened around his ax.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Myr hastened to reassure him. “Sanda was born a thirdling, but she’s served our army for over two cycles. She’s a popular queen and a respected commander—and she’s certainly not a dwarf hater, in spite of her tattoos.” She greeted Sanda with a hug. “Thank goodness you got here when you did. We weren’t expecting you so soon.”

“We came through the underground network. Some of the tunnels were damaged, but Vraccas kept us safe.” She laughed. “Gemmil couldn’t wait to get rid of us—he was convinced we’d be late.”

“He was right to worry,” said Glaïmbar, trying not to stare at her tattoos. “We owe our victory to you.” His eyes were riveted on her face.

Sanda smiled broadly, answering his unspoken doubts with a warmth and friendliness at odds with the sinister runes. “I know what you’re thinking, King Glaïmbar. It’s no wonder you’re confused. Here I am, talking to you as an ally, with the promise of your destruction etched across my face.” She held out her hand. “I’m a thirdling on the outside, but at heart, I’m a child of the Smith. I wasn’t born to hate.”

Glaïmbar hesitated briefly before taking her outstretched hand. “Lineage isn’t everything,” he said firmly, as if to convince himself. “Tungdil Goldhand has shown us that.”

“Tungdil and I aren’t the only thirdlings who weren’t born to hate the other dwarves. My story is long in the telling, but later, when we’ve raised our tankards to slain enemies and lost friends, I’ll tell you how I came to leave the kingdom of my birth.”

“Sanda, this is the hero of the Blacksaddle,” said Myr. She cast a sideways glance at Balyndis. “Tungdil is a dear friend of mine already.”

Balyndis bristled visibly, as Myr had hoped she would.

“We were wondering how long you were planning to stay,” continued Myr. “King Glaïmbar and the future queen, Balyndis, have invited the freelings to join their folk.”

Sanda laid a powerful hand on her weapons belt. “We’ll stay until the danger has passed.” She turned to Glaïmbar. “Too many dwarves were killed in the battle. You could do with reinforcements at the gateway, I imagine?” She smiled as he nodded. “As for moving to the fifthling kingdom… None of my warriors intend to stay at present, but they’re free to change their minds. Who knows, maybe the fifthling kingdom will gain a thousand extra axes.” She looked at him levelly. “Naturally, anyone who chooses to join the fifthlings will submit to your command. As regards the rest of us, we’d like to be treated as guests.”

Tungdil could tell that she meant what she said. The freelings were happy to help, but they wanted their independence.

“Could you spare a moment later?” he asked Sanda. “I was hoping you might know something about my parents.”

“With pleasure,” she promised. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to attend to my troops.” She hurried away, the others watching in silence.

“I can’t pretend that it’s easy for me to trust her,” admitted Glaïmbar. He turned to Myr. “When did you say she arrived in your realm?”

“Two cycles ago. I don’t blame you for being wary, but Sanda is an upstanding dwarf.” She shifted her weight, nudging closer to Tungdil and allowing their arms to touch. Tungdil pretended not to notice and stood his ground, willing Balyndis to see that he too had forged a bond with another dwarf.

“Those who seek to become freelings must submit to certain tests,” continued Myr. “Sanda passed with flying colors and she’s proven her worth on countless occasions.”

“She’s obviously popular with your king,” observed Balyndis. “It seems to me that Glaïmbar is right to be suspicious. If I were a thirdling spy, I’d make friends with my enemies before I betrayed them.”

Myr’s face hardened. “Don’t let Sanda hear you talking like that, or she’ll challenge you to a duel. Warriors are very particular about their honor… Besides, she’s my friend.” Her red eyes bored into Balyndis like daggers; from now on, it was war.

“I hope Vraccas helps me to conquer my doubts,” said Glaïmbar, sighing. “I daresay we’re honored to have the freelings as our guests.” He decided to steer the conversation to safer ground. “Tell me, Tungdil: Is Djern here for a reason?”

Tungdil reached for the leather cylinder hanging from his shoulder and pulled out a scroll. Andôkai’s bodyguard had waited until the end of the battle to hand him a letter. Since then, he had been standing patiently by the waterfall, his armor gleaming majestically in the setting sun.

Tungdil unfurled the roll of parchment and began to read aloud:

Dearest Tungdil,

The purpose of this letter is to secure the services of the finest smith in Girdlegard.

Djer

n requires a new suit of armor and a tunic of chain mail. Enclosed are his measurements and the composition of the alloy, for the attention of Balyndis Steelfinger.

When she comes to fitting the armor, Balyndis must bind her eyes and gauge the fit with her fingers. Make her promise to remain blindfolded until Djer

n is fully clad in his armor. This I ask for her own safety: No one must look on Djer

n’s face.

As for the cost, tell her to name a sum and I will pay.

Djer

n will be heading west across the Red Range. His instructions are to assess the situation in the Outer Lands and determine the nature of the threat. If the danger is real and not a figment of Nôd’onn’s imagination, we need to know what to expect.

By the time you receive this letter, Narmora and I will be in Weyurn, where we hope to find record of migrants from the Outer Lands. Perhaps they will tell us something about their homeland.

Vraccas be with you,

Andôkai

Tungdil lowered the letter and handed Balyndis the notes regarding the giant’s measurements and the composition of the alloy. “It’s lucky that Djern turned up when he did,” he observed. “He couldn’t have arrived at a better time. Thank goodness Andôkai worships Samusin. Her bodyguard restored the equilibrium.”

The smith scanned the list of metals and glanced at the giant. “How will he know what I’m saying? I can’t speak his tongue.”

“Andôkai will have thought of that,” replied Tungdil.

Balyndis turned to leave, but he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Hang on,” he said, pulling her back. “I need you to promise not to look at Djern’s face.”

“I wouldn’t look at his face for all the gold in Girdlegard,” she retorted sharply, shaking him off.

Tungdil watched as she hurried away, followed by Glaïmbar. They exchanged a few words before Glaïmbar took charge of the clean-up operation and Balyndis attended to Djern. Tungdil gazed at her sadly. He wanted to call out and apologize for his childish behavior. He was already sorry for his rudeness: For some reason, he couldn’t keep a check on his thoughts and emotions when Balyndis was around. If he was honest with himself, he still loved her, in spite of his growing feelings for Myr.

Do I really like Myr? Or am I just trying to punish Balyndis for choosing Glaïmbar? Sometimes he wished that he were back in Lot-Ionan’s school; life had been simpler then.

Myr seemed to guess what he was thinking. She slipped her hand into his. “Isn’t it time we went to see your friend?” she asked. “I’d like to help him if I can.”

Tungdil was too wrapped up in his thoughts to realize whom she meant, but then it dawned on him. “Come on,” he said, squeezing her hand impulsively. “Let’s see what you can do for Boëndal.”

They hurried through the passageways of the fifthling kingdom and arrived in the forge.

Boïndil was sitting on a stool beside the Dragon Fire furnace, regaling his frozen brother with stories about the battle against the orcs. Every now and then he thumped a battered helmet that he had stolen from an enemy head.

“But it wasn’t the same without you. Nothing’s the same without you,” he finished sadly, noticing Tungdil and Myr.

Boïndil had been trying to stay cheerful for the sake of his twin, but found it impossible to hide his feelings from the others. The truth was, it smote his soul to see Boëndal in a death-like sleep. He stood up and smoothed his black beard. What he was about to say didn’t come easily to a warrior. “Myr,” he began, “I saw you tending to the wounded on the battlefield, and I saw you cure Tungdil. You’re the best doctor I’ve ever known.” He swallowed. “I’m begging you: Bring Boëndal back to life. Cure my brother, and I’ll protect you with my life. Nothing and no one will ever hurt you.” He made room for her at Boëndal’s bedside.

“I’d be honored to help,” Myr said simply. “You don’t need to promise anything in return.” Perching on the secondling’s bed, she laid a hand on his forehead, then lifted his eyelids to look at his pupils. “I can’t examine him properly in his clothes,” she told the others. “Let’s get everything off except his apron. I need to see if the blood is still flowing to his limbs.”

Tungdil and Boïndil stripped the sleeping dwarf. The next hour passed in silence as Myr examined every inch of her patient’s body. Nothing escaped her scrutiny. “Your brother was blessed by Vraccas,” she pronounced. “His limbs are cold, but not frozen, and his skin looks healthy enough.”

“So he’s basically all right,” said Boïndil eagerly.

“I was worried he might have frostbite.” She lowered her head to listen to Boëndal’s heart and breathing. “It tends to affect the toes and fingers—the digit freezes, blackens, and eventually falls off. Sometimes the patient is too numb to realize what’s happening. It’s a nasty condition and impossible to treat.” She listened intently. “Extraordinary! His heart is beating, his lungs are working, but his body has slowed right down. His inner furnace must be burning very low.” A smile spread over her face. “That’s it! Fetch me a tub of warm water—and some beeswax!”

“Warm water?” queried Boïndil doubtfully. “We tried that before. It didn’t work.”

“Patience,” she said mysteriously.

The tub was brought in. Myr produced a strip of leather, rolled it up to make a tube, and secured it with some cord. She placed an end between Boëndal’s blue lips and sealed his mouth and nose with warm wax, forcing him to breathe through the tube. “Right,” she declared purposefully. “Let’s get him into the water.”

Soon the dwarf was submerged in the tub, his arms and legs weighed down with lead.

“This will thaw him out and melt the ice in his brain,” she explained, fetching a shovel load of glowing coals from Dragon Fire. The hot coals hissed as they splashed into the water, warming the bath. Myr was careful not to let them fall on Boëndal.

Tungdil checked the temperature with his hand. “It’s pretty hot already.”

Boïndil leaned over, frowning anxiously. “You’ll boil him like a sausage if you’re not careful.” He glared at Myr as she stepped forward to empty another load of coals into the tub. “Put them back, Myr. You’ll stew him alive.”

“I thought you wanted me to cure him,” she retorted. “Hot water won’t hurt him. He has to be immersed completely or his brain will clog with ice. I know what I’m doing, Boïndil.”

She raised the shovel to tip out the coals, but Boïndil made a grab for the handle, forcing her to stop.

“I said enough,” he growled, squaring his shoulders to prove he meant business. “I won’t stand by while you turn my brother into broth. You’ll have to think of another cure.”

Her red eyes stared back at him fearlessly. “I’m the expert on this, Boïndil Doubleblade.” She tried to wrench the shovel away from him. He hadn’t reckoned with her resistance and pulled back too sharply.

A large piece of coal separated itself from its white-hot neighbors, slid to the edge of the shovel and launched itself into the tub. Steam rose as it sank through the water.

Tungdil, determined to save his friend from harm, plunged his hand into the tub and tried to catch the glowing coal. His fingers swept the water in vain.

The fiery missile plummeted toward Boëndal’s bare chest and struck the skin on a level with his heart.

Tungdil watched as the dwarf’s body twitched. “Did you see that?” he asked the others. “Boëndal just…”

At that moment, the sleeping twin opened his eyes, sat up with a jolt, and tore the tube from his mouth. After a few gasps of air, he started coughing.

“Lift him out,” said Myr, holding up some warm towels to swaddle the dripping dwarf.

Boïndil wiped his brother’s face gently and waited for the coughing fit to pass. “You’re awake,” he said excitedly, throwing his arms around him.

Boëndal tried to say something, but his voice was just a croak. He had to clear his throat a few times, and even then he could speak only in a feeble whisper. “What h… happened?”

Thrilled by his friend’s recovery, Tungdil was about to launch into an account of everything that had happened since the avalanche, but Myr stopped him.

“All in good time,” she said firmly. “Boëndal, we need to find you something to wear, then you should try to eat and drink a little. Your stomach needs to get accustomed to food again—no meat, no beer!” Her tone was so emphatic that no one, not even Boïndil, dared to object. “Give yourself time to adjust. You’re going to be just fine.” She smiled at him warmly.

Boëndal looked at her in bewilderment. “Who are you?”

“Myr melted your inner cold,” explained his brother. He clasped the freeling to his chest, overcome with gratitude. “Forgive me for doubting you. I promised to protect you if you healed him, and I will. Vraccas can smite me with his hammer if I ever forget my debt!”

She laughed to see his bearded face light up with boyish excitement. “I forgive you,” she said happily.

Tungdil made no mention of what he had observed. In his opinion, it was the falling coal, not Myr’s bath, that had woken Boëndal. Still, an apology was in order, and Myr might be glad of extra protection. He turned back to the bed. “How are you feeling, Boëndal?” he asked.

Speaking seemed to cost the twin a great deal of effort. “My fingers are still numb,” he said ponderously. “I can feel them tingling. Thank Vraccas the White Death didn’t take me.”

Myr reached for his left hand and massaged the fingers carefully. “Does that feel better?” Boëndal nodded. “Good,” she said, relieved. “The blood is coming back, so you won’t lose your fingers. You should start to perk up this evening, and by tomorrow you’ll be fighting fit. Just be sure to keep warm.” She smiled at him. “Great things lie ahead for you, Boëndal Hookhand. Vraccas went to a lot of trouble to keep you alive.” She dried her hands on the corner of one of his towels and yawned. “I hope you don’t mind if I excuse myself. I’m ready to drop.”

Boëndal took her hand. “Thank you,” he whispered gratefully. “Whoever you are, wherever you come from, thank you for saving my life. From now on, your enemies will be my enemies. I’m forever in your debt.”

“My name is Myrmianda Alabaster. It’s kind of you to thank me, but I don’t need a reward: It’s enough to see you awake.” She stroked his hand gently. “You’re warming up nicely.” She made sure that he was wrapped in the towels and stayed at his bedside until the clothes and food arrived. Once dressed, Boëndal wolfed down the meal while Boïndil sat beside him and started to recount their adventures, beginning with the forging of Keenfire and the journey to the Blacksaddle.

“Come on,” said Tungdil to Myr. “Let’s find you somewhere to sleep.” They took their leave of the twins and hurried out of the forge. “There’s usually plenty of space in the halls, but what with the wounded and the other freelings… Still, we’re bound to find somewhere.”

“Tungdil, I’m dead on my feet. Can’t I sleep in your chamber? I won’t be a nuisance, I promise. The floor will do just fine.”

“Nonsense,” said Tungdil. “You can have my bed while I keep looking. Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?”

She shook her head.

It was only a short walk through the passageways to Tungdil’s chamber. He opened the door and ushered her in, then stepped back outside.

“Can you give me a hand?” asked Myr, tugging tiredly on her chain mail. “I can barely lift my arms.”

“Of course,” he said with a smile. “You know what the problem is? You need more muscles.”

He walked in and showed her to the bed. “It’s not too soft, which means it’s perfect for us dwarves.” It occurred to him that softer beds might be customary in the freelings’ realm. “You can pad it out with blankets, if you like.”

“No,” she said, suppressing a yawn. She lifted her arms over her head. “I’d fall asleep on a bed of nails right now. Do you think you could…?”

He took hold of the bottom of her tunic and pulled it carefully over her head. Underneath she was wearing a padded jerkin with a V-shaped neckline that revealed her plump white breasts. Embarrassed, he draped the tunic on the rack designed to take his mail. “Sleep well, Myr.”

“Mm, that feels good,” she said, reaching up and stretching luxuriously. She kicked off her boots and slipped into bed. “I’m going to sleep like a rock.” She smiled at him. “Thank you for letting me have your bed.” Her red eyes shifted to something behind him.

Tungdil glanced at the half-open door in time to see a shadow speed down the corridor.

“I’ll be dreaming of you,” whispered Myr, brushing her lips against his cheek and closing her eyes.

The kiss had a paralyzing effect on Tungdil’s mind. At once he forgot everything, including his intention to speak to Sanda Flameheart…

Balyndis was hammering furiously. Sparks flew in all directions, showering the furthest corners of the forge, while the Dragon Fire furnace continued to exude an incredible heat.

Sweat was streaming from her body, even though she wore nothing but a thin linen shirt and lightweight leather breeches beneath her smith’s apron. Her head was covered with a scarf to protect her hair from sparks.

The hammer rose and fell until the troublesome metal cracked. Cursing, she picked it up with her tongs and tossed it into a cart, where it landed on top of her previous four efforts. Later, the metal would be melted down to make weapons and tools.

She waited until the jangling echo had faded from the forge.

I may as well give up, she thought despondently, leaning against the anvil. She dipped a wooden ladle into the bucket of water beside her and took a sip. I can’t afford to be angry. It’s making me careless.

She was furious with Tungdil on two counts: First, for refusing to see her point of view, and second, for carrying on with Myr. To top things off, Myr seemed very comfortable in the role of his girlfriend. Too comfortable.

And Tungdil’s ploy was working: She was jealous.

Why can’t he see that I love him?

Clan law had forced her to betroth herself to Glaïmbar, but her heart still longed for Tungdil, even though she knew her fiancé to be a worthy dwarf. She had spent a good deal of time with Glaïmbar, who genuinely adored her. He knew of her feelings for Tungdil, but he wanted to love her and treat her well.

Balyndis took another sip of water. I mustn’t be too hard on him; he doesn’t understand our traditions. Tungdil’s upbringing in Lot-Ionan’s school was the root of the problem. He was a dwarf at heart, but when it came to love, he behaved like a man. It didn’t help that his pride was hurt as well.

Maybe one orbit he’ll understand that I couldn’t defy the will of my family and my clan. She got up and looked for something to distract her thoughts. Vraccas knows it wasn’t easy for me.

She took out Andôkai’s letter and left the forge for the smelting works.

Fires blazing, the blast furnaces were spewing out iron, steel, and bronze, from which the smiths fashioned tools, armor, and replacement parts for all manner of things. The new fifthling kingdom was taking shape.

Balyndis chose one of the smaller furnaces that was designed for smaller quantities of metal. She went in search of the elements for the armor, as listed in Andôkai’s letter, and loaded them into carts. Together the metals would form the basis of Djern’s plate mail, just as the maga had prescribed.

Astonishingly, Balyndis, who was a master smith, had never heard of the compound.

“Drat!” She held the sheet of parchment in the air. Her sweat had drenched the paper and the ink had run in places, making it difficult to decipher the maga’s flowing script. Is that tionium—or palandium?

It took a great deal of effort to make sense of the instructions and she privately doubted that the formula would work. It sounded too unlikely. If she had understood correctly, she was supposed to add small quantities of tin, copper, and mercury to the steel, followed by an equal quantity of vraccasium and…

Tionium or palandium? Or tionium and palandium? The metals had similar properties, but tionium was black in color and belonged to the dark lord Tion, whereas palandium was silvery-white and four times cheaper. The goddess Palandiell was worshipped in the human kingdoms, so her metal was popular with Girdlegard’s smiths.

I don’t know what to do. The formula is too vague. She ascended the steps leading to the hatch at the top of the furnace. The flames were burning fierce and white, fuelled by coals from the Dragon Fire furnace. The tin and other metals had been added already.

I can’t ask Andôkai, Balyndis thought glumly, weighing the tionium in one hand and the palandium in the other. She hesitated for a moment and read the formula again, but she was still none the wiser. By now the other metals were beginning to coalesce. She had to act fast.

Pulling on thick leather gloves to protect her hands from the rising heat, she dropped the black metal carefully through the hatch and followed it with the palandium. Andôkai worships the god of equilibrium; Samusin will balance everything out.

She turned a winch to lower the lid over the hatch and keep in the heat.

Back on ground level, she worked the enormous bellows and pumped air into the furnace, fanning the flames. Every now and then she opened a hatch and tossed in some white-hot coals from Dragon Fire until the furnace had reached the requisite temperature. She retreated to a safe distance of four paces.

A chimney channeled the foul-smelling gases away from the underground halls, drawing them through a duct in the ceiling to the surface.

Balyndis waited until she was sure that the metals had combined, then, taking a long stick, she broke the clay seal at the base of the furnace.

Golden and gleaming, the liquid alloy streamed forth. Balyndis skimmed the slag from the top as it flowed through a clay conduit on its way to a cart lined with firebricks. Surrounded by the heat of the furnace, she felt completely at home. Beads of sweat formed on her skin, evaporating almost instantly. She watched in anticipation as the alloy cooled and dulled.

Picking up a pair of tongs, she took hold of the red-hot hook on the end of the cart and pulled the precious load along the rail that led from the smelting works to the forge. “Right,” she said to herself. “Let’s see what happens when Samusin entrusts a formula to a dwarf…”

Wind Chime Island,

Kingdom of Weyurn,

Girdlegard,

Late Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

Towering waves crashed toward the shore, dashing themselves to pieces on the rocks.

A host of tiny droplets rose high above the roiling lake and lingered, almost suspended for an instant, before dropping into the waves below and disappearing without trace. The air glistened moistly above the cliff, shrouding an ancient temple built in honor of Palandiell.

Inside the building, Narmora gathered the shawl about her shoulders and shivered. Even the thick walls of the former temple did little to muffle the constant pounding of waves against the shore. The change of season had brought storms to Wind Chime Island, with spring doing battle with summer, and winter seizing the chance to sidle in.

“What possessed you to store your books here?” Andôkai asked the chief archivist, a balding man of some sixty cycles. His costly robes looked shabby and ill-fitting, and his nose was permanently red, owing to a fondness for drink. The maga eyed him reprovingly. “It’s too damp for a library.”

“I’m afraid the timing of your visit is most unfortunate. The damp spell will be over in a couple of orbits. Wind Chime is known throughout Weyurn for its temperate weather.” Bowing respectfully, he led the women through the stacks to a cabinet measuring seven paces high and crammed with books. “The official records from the last hundred cycles,” he said with a flourish. “Births, marriages, and deaths.”

“Do you keep separate records for migrants?” asked Narmora, hoping to limit the scope of the search. She had no desire to spend longer than necessary on the island, to which she had taken an instant dislike. Besides, she was worried that Dorsa, a delicate child by nature, would catch a chill. “We’re looking for settlers from the Outer Lands,” she explained.

The archivist thought for a moment. “With a bit of luck and Palandiell’s blessing, you’ll find what you’re looking for in the south wing.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “These records deal only with Her Majesty’s subjects. Outsiders, including migrants from the rest of Girdlegard, are listed in the other wing.” He set off down the corridor to show them the way.

Narmora lagged a few paces behind, watching as Andôkai, brandishing a decree from Queen Wey, attempted to commandeer the library staff and anyone else with the power of reading to help with her quest.

In word and deed, Narmora was a model famula—hard-working and loyal. Since the accident, she had applied herself more diligently than ever to her studies, delighting the maga with her progress.

But Narmora’s motivation for learning magic had changed. The threat from the west and the future of Girdlegard were secondary concerns. After the whispered conversation with Rodario that night in Porista, Narmora had returned to Furgas’s bedside and sworn an oath of revenge that required her to bide her time and study patiently while disguising the rancor and fury that filled her thoughts.

The little party reached the south wing of the library. Andôkai turned to her famula and pointed to the stacks on the right. A wooden stepladder led up to additional shelves behind a balustrade. “You start on this side, and I’ll work toward you. The others can take the lower shelves.”

Narmora nodded and ascended the creaking steps to the narrow gangway. A low rail protected careless readers from tumbling ten paces to the floor. Andôkai waved to her from the other side and pulled out a folio. Dust scattered everywhere as she turned the first page.

Narmora reached for a volume as well and began to read, her eyes roving over the spidery handwriting without attending to the meaning. How could you go to such lengths to bend me to your will? She leafed through the volume, seeing nothing but the maga’s betrayal on every page.

The story recounted to her by the ashen-faced Rodario pointed to a single, terrible, explanation: Andôkai had orchestrated the attack on Furgas as a means of recruiting Narmora as her famula. The maga’s strange behavior, the deaths of the highwaymen, Djern’s determination to silence Nôd’onn’s former famula—it all added up.

She turned the page absentmindedly.

You’ll be sorry for teaching me your art, she thought grimly, glancing at Andôkai. She was prepared to bide her time until Furgas was cured and the threat from the west discounted or defeated, but sooner or later the maga would pay for her treachery, and Djern himself would be powerless to help her. Narmora felt nothing but loathing for the woman who had put her husband in a coma and killed her baby son.

Anger simmered inside her, and she turned her mind to other thoughts, afraid that her älvish heritage would betray her hidden rage.

“I think I’ve found something,” called Andôkai suddenly.

Her dutiful famula hurried over.

“Seventy cycles ago, a group of travelers arrived in Gastinga,” the maga continued. “It says here that they came from the Outer Lands. Their children or grandchildren should still be alive.” She summoned the archivist and enquired about the location of the place.

“It’s here on the island,” he said. “It takes two orbits to get there. I’ll loan you one of my assistants to show you the way.”

“Splendid,” exclaimed Andôkai, satisfied. “Samusin has rewarded us for the long and wearisome journey from Porista.”

The man cleared his throat. “Perhaps the Estimable Maga could refrain from invoking foreign gods in the library; it’s a consecrated building.”

Andôkai turned her head slowly and jutted out her angular chin. “I’ll speak the name of my god whenever and wherever I please. Samusin saved me from Nôd’onn and lent me his power in the fight against the Perished Land. My fellow magi, devotees of the gentle Palandiell, didn’t fare so well. It seems to me that my foreign god is more deserving of your respect.” She gestured to the shelves. “And don’t lecture me about desecrating your temple. Palandiell left here when you filled her house with books.” She started down the ladder. “I want to ride within the hour. Tell your man to be ready.” Her boots clacked harshly against the tiled floor.

Narmora raised her eyebrows and smiled sympathetically at the archivist, before following the maga out of the room. “I’m going to check on Dorsa,” she told her mentor. “Who knows, I might be in time to stop Rosild unpacking our trunks.” Without waiting for the maga’s approval she hurried through the corridors of the vaulted building, once home to Palandiell’s priests before the temple was converted to a library and a new place of worship built in honor of the goddess.

She found her daughter in the arms of Rosild, the nursemaid employed by Andôkai for the duration of the trip. Rosild was still young and her breasts were plump with milk. It was a mystery to Narmora why the maid had agreed to leave her own small child and her family to accompany them on their journey. Unless she was forced…

“She’s a thirsty wee thing,” said Rosild. She smiled proudly. “See, she’s putting on weight.” She handed the baby to Narmora, who noticed the difference at once. The maid seemed to be gathering the courage to say something. She took a step forward. “There’s something else I’ve noticed,” she said nervously.

“She’s filling out nicely—”

“No, I don’t mean that.” Rosild adjusted the blanket to reveal Dorsa’s right ear. “Maybe it’s just me, but the tip of her ear looks pointed.” She paused, waiting for confirmation or perhaps a word of praise. “It’s only a little thing, but she’ll be teased for it later,” she added when Narmora was silent. “We used to trim the ears of our hunting dogs at home. I don’t see why it wouldn’t work on a—”

“No,” said Narmora firmly. “No one lays a hand on my daughter. She’ll look fine when she’s older, I’m sure.” She tucked the ear under the blanket. “I don’t want you speaking of this to anyone, do you hear?”

Rosild nodded, her gaze lingering briefly on Narmora’s red headscarf. She looked away quickly.

“Very good, Rosild. Pack our trunks—we’re leaving in an hour.”

With her daughter on her arm, she left the chamber and made herself comfortable in the great hall where a fire was roaring in an open hearth. The warmth drove out the cold of the wind and the spray, and Narmora and her child enjoyed the respite.

“We’ll be back in the sunshine soon,” she assured the sleeping Dorsa.

Gastinga, the village that they were heading for, lay further inland, and Narmora was looking forward to escaping from the damp.

The journey to Wind Chime Island hadn’t been easy. Following the quake, the lakes that covered fifty per cent of Weyurn’s surface had overflowed, their waters combining to form great reservoirs. The flooding had claimed a handful of casualties, and the survivors had taken their misfortune in their stride, as Narmora and Andôkai had observed. Most had abandoned their homes and moved to one of Weyurn’s many islands. The majority of Weyurnians lived on the lakes.

Narmora didn’t like the thought of it. To her mind, the islands seemed dangerously impermanent, and she was sure that some of them pitched and rolled with the waves.

It was said that a few of the smaller islets floated across the lakes like croutons in soup. The islanders floated with them, putting down anchor wherever the fishing was particularly good. Narmora felt queasy at the notion of drifting to and fro.

When the first log, a vast piece of timber bigger than the average man, had burned to a cinder, Narmora piled on more. Physically, she wasn’t strong enough to shift the logs from the woodpile at the end of the hall to the hearth in the middle, so she used magic instead. As if lifted by an invisible hand, four logs rose in the air and traveled through the hall, lowering themselves dutifully onto the flames and catching fire.

By now, simple spells came easily to Narmora, and she performed the conjuration while singing softly to Dorsa in the tongue of her mother, a beautiful, melancholy language that Furgas loved to hear.

The thought of Furgas reminded her to send a prayer to Samusin and Tion, entreating them to keep him well. Rodario had sworn solemnly to do everything in his power for Furgas, and on this occasion she believed him. He knew as well as she did that Furgas was in a critical state.

“Andôkai told me to fetch you,” said Rosild behind her. “She’s ready to leave.”

Narmora stopped singing abruptly.

“What a lovely song,” observed the maid. “What language was it? I couldn’t make sense of the words.”

“I made it up,” said Narmora, clasping the sleeping Dorsa and rising to her feet. “It’s nonsense really, but Dorsa seems to like it.” She left the room, taking care not to meet the maid’s gaze.

“You’ll have to teach it to me,” decided Rosild, shouldering her bags and following her mistress outside.

Fifthling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Late Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

Balyndis ran her hand over the mail-clad arm, feeling the powerful wrist and the formidable muscle beneath her fingertips as she groped her way toward the shoulder. She checked the alignment of the spaulders and breastplate. Fitting armor to a warrior over twice her size was quite a challenge, and wearing a blindfold made things worse.

Orbits had passed while she hammered the plates into shape. Some required hinges, while others were simply laced together—although the instructions called for metal cable instead of standard leather thongs.

He won’t be undressing in a hurry, thought Balyndis, who was beginning to wonder whether Djern ever removed his armor at all.

The final adjustments could be made only while the giant was wearing the suit, so Balyndis had blindfolded herself securely, remembering how Tion’s beasts had screamed in terror on seeing Djern’s face. To make doubly sure, she kept her eyes closed whenever her head was turned toward him.

The maga’s measurements were incredibly precise. Most of the plates fitted perfectly, and a tap of the hammer brought the others into line.

Once the fit of the armor had been verified, Balyndis could set about patterning the armor as the maga had prescribed. Some of the runes were to be engraved, others etched with acid, and thin strips of gold and silver hammered into the grooves.

Since starting work, Balyndis had noticed a strange noise, similar to a growl, that seemed to be coming from Djern, although his chest was completely still.

To Balyndis’s surprise, his warm breath smelled fresh. She had expected him to stink like an orc, so either the smells of the smithy were masking the stench, or Djern was cleaner than she had thought. There was no obvious evidence of perspiration, whereas a man wearing a full suit of armor could be smelled from a hundred paces or more.

Balyndis worked swiftly. She strapped the plates around his arms and instructed him to flex his muscles while she listened intently. The joints were perfect—no grating or creaking to indicate rubbing or stress.

Relieved, she climbed down from the platform and returned to the anvil. Lifting her blindfold, she reached for Djern’s helmet. The shiny demonic visor contrasted strikingly with the matt surrounds, and a thin strip of black tionium emphasized the ferocious eyes. Proudly, she wiped the helmet with a cloth and added a drop of oil to the hinges.

“All done,” she called, not knowing whether the giant could understand her. “If this isn’t enough to frighten your enemies, I don’t know what will.” She tied the blindfold around her head and picked up the helmet, remembering to collect the skullcap, made of leather-lined mail. With her free hand, she felt her way along the rope leading back to the giant.

Just then disaster struck.

Balyndis stepped on something, probably a lump of coal. Her foot slid away from her.

She skidded, overbalanced, and flung out her arms to break her fall. The helmet whizzed past her, one of the spikes coming within a knife’s edge of her eye. It snagged on her blindfold and pulled it off.

The next Balyndis knew, she was sprawled on the floor, arms stretched in front of her, skullcap and helmet clutched in one hand. Raising her head, she looked up and froze.

Djern was leaning against the anvil in front of her—and her blindfold was off.

Balyndis had seen some unpleasant sights in her time. She had fought in gruesome battles, dueled with hideous orcs and plug-ugly ogres, and waded in rivers of blood and spilt intestines. As a warrior, she was unshakable; but the visage before her filled her with terror.

Her mouth opened in a silent scream.

Massive fangs protruded from Djern’s jaws, strong enough to bite through the toughest sinew and crush the strongest bone. The giant’s skull resembled that of a human, only many times bigger, and his skin looked pale and sickly, revealing the yellow blood in his pulsing veins. He had no ears, and his nose consisted of two triangular holes.

His enormous eyes bored into the stricken dwarf. Slowly, he straightened up, walked over, and reached out an armored hand, the fingers of which could crush boulders.

He knows I’ve seen him. Dear Vraccas, he’ll kill me. Balyndis tried to run away, but her stomach was cemented to the ground.

His fingers closed around her mail shirt and lifted her into the air. Trembling, she let go of the skullcap and the helmet, but Djern caught them before they hit the floor. He strode toward the platform, deposited Balyndis on top of it, and placed the skullcap and helmet in her hands. His little finger stretched toward her, sliding the blindfold over her eyes.

She blinked in confusion. He spared me! The strange growling noise resumed, which she took to mean that Djern was ready for her to continue. In any case, it was clear that she was never to mention that she had looked on his face.

Taking a deep breath, she commanded her trembling fingers to be still. A little clumsily at first, then with more assurance, she fitted the skullcap and lowered the helmet over his head, removing her blindfold as soon as the terrifying visage was hidden behind the gleaming visor. Sighing with relief, she got down from the platform and took a few paces back to admire her work.

Djern drew himself up to his full height.

Balyndis felt a rush of admiration for the giant. He seemed to like his new armor—and if he didn’t, he made no objection. The maga’s illegible writing had forced her to deviate from the instructions on several occasions, but Djern seemed happy with the result.

She had half expected her improvised formula to end in disaster, but the armor looked fine. Vraccas and Samusin be praised!

Bowing to acknowledge her skill, Djern picked up his weapons, returned them to their sheaths, and marched to the door, his armor gleaming darkly in the flickering light from the many hearths.

Satisfied with her efforts, but relieved that the job was done, Balyndis wiped the perspiration from her face and noticed that her arms felt like lead. The constant hammering had sapped her strength.

I’ll drink a tankard to a job well done, she decided. She left the forge without getting changed and headed to the tavern to celebrate with a tankard of good, strong beer before bed.

Congregated around the bar were some smiths and a few masons, whose hair, beards, and garments were covered in powdered stone. They clinked tankards with Balyndis and congratulated her on Djern’s new armor.

“Have you heard?” asked one of them excitedly. “We’ve repaired the Stone Gateway. The doors are locked and bolted again.”

“That’s fabulous news!” she said, joining in the general jubilation. “You must have been busy while I was in the forge.” She shook the mason’s hand enthusiastically, raising clouds of dust. “No more orcs, bögnilim, or other invaders. To think that the northern border is secure.” Her heart swelled with pride at the thought that northern Girdlegard was safe because of the dwarves. “To the children of the Smith,” she cried, raising her tankard. “To the children of the Smith!” replied the others. They raised their tankards, and a few moments later, one of the dwarves burst into song.

“The bad times are over,” murmured Balyndis happily, taking another long sip and wiping the foam from her lip. “The Northern Pass is sealed, the dwarves stand united, and we’ve found some new friends.” She raised her tankard again, this time nodding at a pale dwarf who was celebrating with the group. “How do you like it here?”

“For the most part, very well. I wonder what Tungdil will make of our realm. I think it’s harder for a freeling to adapt to the rules than the other way round.”

“Oh,” said Balyndis, instantly deflated. She wondered whether Tungdil’s decision to leave the kingdom had anything to do with her. I should really speak to him. “So Tungdil was serious about visiting the freelings? When does he go?”

“He left four orbits ago,” said one of the masons. “He and the twins set off for Trovegold as soon as the Stone Gateway was secure.”

Balyndis was shocked that he had left without saying goodbye. Is he punishing me for accepting Glaïmbar? She had an unpleasant thought. “Was the freeling doctor with him?”

The mason nodded.

Of course she was.

The others stared in surprise as she emptied her tankard and left without a word.

Wind Chime Island,

Kingdom of Weyurn,

Girdlegard,

Late Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

It didn’t take long for the carriage to convey its unusual passengers to Gastinga.

They broke their journey only once, and that was to make way for a battalion heading west. Under Andôkai’s interrogation, the commander told them proudly that he and his men were on a royal mission to investigate a possible threat to the kingdom from the Outer Lands. The maga wished them luck and waved them on their way.

“None of them will make it back,” she predicted as the battalion marched past. A few of the men turned their heads and peered into the carriage. “They won’t know the territory, and they’re trained to fight on water,” she said, drawing the curtains. “They’ll never survive a battle on land.” She knocked on the roof of the carriage to tell the coachman to drive on.

As the road bore to the left, Gastinga emerged through a gray haze of rain.

A collection of tiny houses with clapboard roofs cowered against the ground, sheltering from the swirling winds. Lush green grass surrounded the buildings, and a few boys were watching over a little herd of white cows. Neither the children nor the animals seemed to mind the rain.

So much for it being warmer here. Narmora checked to make sure that her daughter was properly swaddled in her bassinet. Dorsa seemed to like the movement of the carriage—at any rate, she was fast asleep.

Following the guide’s instructions, the coachman drew up outside a house and the guide jumped out to fetch the village mayor. The poor fellow was dragged away from his midday meal and marched through the rain to the carriage, where he waited by the window, his flat shoes sinking into the waterlogged grass.

Andôkai seldom bothered with salutations and social niceties when dealing with the lower ranks. “We’re looking for relatives of settlers who arrived here seventy cycles ago,” she said without preamble. “Where can we find them?”

“At least have the decency to introduce yourself,” said the poor man, trying belatedly to exert some authority. “What do you want with them?”

The maga stared at him scornfully. “My name and my business needn’t concern you; suffice to say, I’m more important than a mayor. I assume from your reaction that the family is known to you. Kindly tell me where they are.” She locked gazes with the man until he looked away. “Is there a reason why we can’t see them?”

“No,” he replied, raising his arm and pointing down the road. “It’s the last house on the left.” He hunched his shoulders and hurried back inside.

Narmora noticed his wife and children peering at them through the window, noses pressed to the crown glass pane. They had probably never seen a carriage of any description in their lives.

With a crack of the whip, the coachman drove away. The wheels of the carriage were still turning when Andôkai jumped out, followed closely by Narmora. The maga hammered on the door until a man of some fifty cycles opened up. His surprise and displeasure changed to undisguised hostility as he studied the women in silence, waiting for them to speak.

“Are you going to let us in?” demanded the maga. It was an order, not a request.

“What for?” he growled. “Your carriage is twice as big as my house.” He looked them up and down, trying to guess the reason for their call. “What do you want?” he asked in a heavy dialect.

“We’d like to talk to you, if we may,” said Narmora politely. “It’s raining out here, and our cloaks are getting wet.”

“In that case you’d better talk quickly,” snapped the man.

“Listen to me, peasant,” said Andôkai, her temper fraying. “We’re here to protect Girdlegard from a threat from the Outer Lands.” She glowered at him murderously. “If you know what’s good for your wife and children, you’ll let us in without delay.”

A woman’s voice sounded from inside the house, and the man, swearing sullenly, stepped aside to let them pass.

They found themselves in a cottage barely bigger than a hut. The walls were black with soot, and seven children were cramped into the tiny room, the youngest barely half a cycle old; the eldest had seen eight cycles at most.

Sitting at the table was their mother, dressed in a coarse linen tunic and a woolen jacket. She looked nervously at the strangers whose cloaks alone were worth more than her house.

Tallow candles permeated the room with a smell of burning fat. The children slept in bunks stacked in a corner of the room, and a ladder led up to an alcove, separated from the main room by a curtain, which was all the privacy that the parents could afford.

To Narmora’s surprise, the heap of blankets on one of the lower bunks rolled over and coughed. On closer inspection, it turned out to be a wrinkly old woman whose shriveled body was barely visible among the sheets.

“Thank you for letting us in,” said Narmora, nodding kindly at the wife, a woman of forty cycles or so. “Are you descended from the travelers who arrived here from the Outer Lands?”

The woman looked questioningly at her husband, who was standing, arms folded in front of his chest, by the door. He shrugged and turned away.

“I don’t understand, madam,” said the woman to Narmora. “We’re honored by your visit, to be sure, but…” A worried look crossed her face. “It’s not bad news, is it? You’re not going to make us leave Weyurn…” She got up, cradling the baby in her arms. “I know we haven’t made much of the land here, but the soil isn’t right for farming. My husband is a good man, but the fields are like bogs—”

“It’s all right, woman,” Andôkai said sharply. “We’re here to find out about your homeland, not to drive you off your land.” She pulled up a stool and sat down, using her cloak as a cushion. “What are people in the Outer Lands afraid of? Evil spirits? Ferocious beasts? The dark power of an evil magus?”

“My homeland?” The woman gave the baby to her husband and sat down, visibly relieved.

Narmora produced four gold coins from her purse and laid them in the woman’s chapped hands. “Here, take these,” she said gently. “Don’t feel obliged to earn the money by embroidering your tale. We’re interested in the truth.”

The woman stared at the shiny gold coins. “So much?” she said uncertainly. “We could live on these for a cycle. Nothing I can tell you is worth that much.”

Her husband strode over and pocketed the coins. “Who are we to refuse their generosity? The money was weighing on her purse.”

“Is your husband from the Outer Lands as well?” enquired Narmora.

The woman shook her head. “He’s from Weyurn. Aspila is my name. My mother was just a girl when she crossed the Red Range. Her mother left the Outer Lands because of the war.”

The maga cleared her throat. “Let’s not get distracted,” she said tersely. “Did your mother tell you legends about terrifying creatures? Maybe she told you a story about a creature so terrible that no one believes it exists…”

Alarmed by the maga’s harsh manner, Aspila turned to Narmora. “The war was started by the amsha,” she said, resuming her story. “No one knows where they came from. Before anyone knew it, they were massed at the border, and the kingdom was at war. The king and his army could do nothing to stop them, so my grandmother took her daughter and fled. The amsha killed my grandfather and his three brothers, and my grandmother was all alone. She and my mother settled in Weyurn.” She paused and frowned. “Can you think of another word for amsha?” she asked her husband. “Amsha is what they call them over there.”

“What does it matter?” said Andôkai impatiently. “Since you’re intent on telling me about a war that doesn’t interest me in the slightest, I may as well ask her.” She turned to the woman on the bunk. “Are you her mother?”

Aspila looked confused. “But the amsha are a threat. They’re gods—powerful gods. Before the invasion, people thought they were a myth, a scary story to make their children behave. Then they found out they were real.”

At last she had the maga’s attention.

“Why didn’t you say so?” snapped Andôkai. “Start from the beginning. What exactly are the amsha?”

Aspila wrung her hands awkwardly, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t know what they’re called.” She looked to the ceiling as if the answer were hanging from the rafters beside the mangy leg of ham.

Narmora smiled and endeavored to compensate for the maga’s harshness. Samusin must be proud of me today. “Why don’t you tell us the rest of the story?” she suggested. “We might be able to work it out.”

The woman nodded and began her tale.

In the beginning, the deities created themselves, each more magnificent, splendid, and courageous than the next. Before long, two of their number, Tion and Vraccas, or Kofos and Essgar in the language of my mother, got into an argument about which of the deities was the best.

Kofos insulted Essgar and provoked his wrath. The god of the smithy left his forge and struck the arrogant Kofos with a red-hot hammer. Ten times he hit him, and ten times a piece of the deity fell to the ground and came to life in the form of a god. The amsha—ten living fragments of the dark lord Kofos—were born.

After the tenth blow, Kofos lay stricken on the ground, and Essgar heeded his pleas for mercy.

When Kofos picked himself up, he was surprised to see ten miniature versions of himself flocking around his feet. The bold little fellows demanded to be eaten, insisting that they belonged together as one.

Kofos had no intention of obliging. Laughing scornfully, he raised his boot to crush them. The amsha took flight and swore to avenge themselves on Kofos and his creation.

The ten gods stuck together and devoted themselves to their goal, namely the destruction of Kofos’s work.

That was the start of the amsha’s campaign.

Intent on punishing Kofos, they hunted the creatures known as orcs, wiped out trolls and ogres, and slaughtered the beasts that Kofos had created to torment our people. Their strength increased by the orbit as they harnessed the power of the beasts they destroyed.

In time, they gathered a following of warriors who saw them as gods of peace. Only the amsha’s disciples were spared the fire of their wrath.

Aspila broke off her story to fetch some water.

Narmora breathed out in relief. “Orc-killing, Tion-hating gods aren’t much of a threat to our kingdoms. Prince Mallen would welcome them with open arms.”

“There’s more to the story, madam,” said Aspila. “The amsha are still on a quest to wipe out evil. They were chipped from the body of a god by a red-hot hammer, and fire is their element. The heat they exude is so ferocious that the ground burns beneath their feet. Sometimes they stop for a while, and everything around them turns to ash. I’ve heard of lakes and rivers drying up as they pass. Everyone is afraid of them. When they invaded, the king summoned the best magicians, the purest creatures, the most honorable men and blameless women. He thought that if he gathered a band of beings who were free from evil he could keep the amsha at bay.”

“Did it work?”

Aspila shook her head. “I don’t know, madam. My grandmother left before the amsha reached her village.”

Narmora remembered the comet that had passed over Girdlegard and enquired whether Aspila knew of a similar incident.

“Oh yes,” said a quavery voice.

To the visitors’ astonishment, the old woman sat up in bed and looked at them with lively eyes.

“Kofos was struck eleven times, not ten. The last blow was so powerful that the eleventh amsha was catapulted into the firmament and shot through the skies like a ball of fire. My mother used to say that the missing amsha would come back to find his brothers, and the eleven deities would light up the skies with their wrath.”

Andôkai placed her fingertips together. The old woman’s story fitted with the firstlings’ reports of a blazing fire in the west. She glanced at Narmora, who was thinking the same. “Thank you,” she said, feigning disappointment. “You tell a good story—not exactly what we were looking for, but you’ve earned the coins.” She got up and left.

“May the gods be with you,” said Narmora, taking another coin from her purse and pressing it into Aspila’s hand. “Don’t neglect your farm—the money won’t last forever.”

She ran the few paces to the carriage and slammed the door behind her to keep out the rain. The coachmen drove off before she had time to sit down.

Andôkai was staring through the rain-streaked glass. Narmora could tell that she was worried. In spite of what she had said to Aspila, the story of the amsha was exactly what they were looking for: It proved that Nôd’onn’s warnings were real.

Perhaps we were wrong to kill him, thought Narmora uneasily. She stroked her sleeping daughter’s cheeks. The rulers of Girdlegard would never have agreed to a truce, she reasoned. The magus betrayed them and caused the deaths of thousands of dwarves, elves, and men. A terrible thought occurred to her. Our purest creatures have all been killed. Bands of marauding orcs had slaughtered the last remaining unicorns in the woods of Mifurdania. No other creature in Girdlegard was as good or pure.

“Avatars.” Andôkai’s plait unfurled from her hood and draped itself over her shoulder as she pressed her head against the window. “If there’s any truth in the legend, the amsha are avatars—manifestations of the divine in earthly form, which is to say, god-like beings that can’t be destroyed by ordinary weapons.” She looked at Narmora. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

“From now on, I’ll have to study twice as hard,” she said gravely. Her thoughts turned to little Dorsa. I want you to have a proper homeland, not a barren desert of soot and ash. “Should we tell the rulers of the other kingdoms?” she asked, keeping her eyes on her daughter’s face.

Andôkai was struck by her famula’s reluctance to meet her gaze, but she decided not to pry. “It’s for the best. I’ll call a meeting of all the leaders of Girdlegard when Djern returns from the Outer Lands. The news is too important to be communicated by letter. The kings and queens of Girdlegard will discuss the matter in Porista. Perhaps by then Queen Wey will have tidings of her warriors.” She turned to Rosild and looked at her menacingly. “Not a word of this to anyone, or you’ll never suckle another child. The people of Girdlegard will learn of the threat from their leaders, not from an idle-tongued girl. No one will hear about the avatars until I’ve found a means of combating the threat.”

Rosild paled and nodded hastily, swearing in the name of Palandiell not to breathe a word of what she knew.

“Good,” declared Andôkai. “Let’s make haste to Porista. Narmora, you and I have work to do.”

“Of course,” said the half älf vaguely, still gazing at her child. She was thinking about how the maga had unwittingly earned herself a reprieve: The avatars had to be defeated before Furgas’s suffering could be avenged. She turned to the maga and smiled.

Rodario’s former leading lady was still a consummate actress.

PART TWO

I

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Late Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

Do you think you’ll regret your decision?” asked Myr, looking determinedly ahead. As she walked, she slathered her fair skin with bluish ointment from a little pot to keep off the sun.

Tungdil sensed that something was bothering her. Either she didn’t want him to visit the realm of the freelings, or she was embarrassed to be seen with him, or she was worried about him leaving the fifthling folk. Maybe she blames herself…

“I won’t regret it,” he said after a while. He kept walking, eyes fixed on the horizon as the sun sank lower and lower, bathing Girdlegard in fierce red light. “You don’t think I left because of you, do you?”

“Left the kingdom, or left Balyndis?”

Tungdil had to think for a moment. “Left Glaïmbar and Balyndis,” he said firmly. “At any rate, it wasn’t because of you—which isn’t to say you don’t matter to me. You’re different to other dwarf maidens; you’re a breath of air for my scholarly soul.” He turned his head and they gazed at each other for a moment. Her red eyes were full of hope.