The War of the Dwarves

“I need time, Myr. I can’t make sense of what I’m feeling because my heart and mind are so confused.” He smiled wryly. “It will do me good to get away. It’s why I left the fifthling kingdom—to figure out what I want. Besides, I’m curious to see how the freelings live.”

She averted her gaze, focusing on a point in the distance. They had been marching toward the pond for orbits. “It’s all right,” she said, nodding slowly. “I can wait.”

Tungdil’s train of thought was interrupted by a sudden noise. He turned round to see Boëndal doubled up with laughter, arms braced against his thighs, howling with mirth. Tears were streaming from his eyes.

Tungdil smiled. “I haven’t seen anyone laugh like that since the joke about the orc who wanted directions from a dwarf. What did you say to him?”

Boïndil shrugged. “Nothing. I was telling him about the realm of the freelings and he laughed in my face,” he reported in a slightly wounded tone. “I explained how we had to jump into a p—”

His words were drowned out by another roar of laughter as Boëndal sank to his knees, shaking with mirth. For a moment, conversation was impossible.

“Look what you’ve done to me,” spluttered Boëndal. “I was nearly frozen to death, and now you’ve practically killed me with your jokes.” He stood up and brushed the dirt from his breeches. “A pond!” he muttered, still hiccoughing with laughter. “As if a dwarf would dip a toe in Elria’s accursed water!” Wiping the tears from his eyes, he looked up and saw their faces. At last it dawned on him that Boïndil was serious. “No,” he said, horrified. “We’re not really going to…? I mean, all the way to the bottom?” He was too traumatized to say the words “water” or “pond”.

Boïndil clapped him on the back. “It’s all right, brother. Tungdil and I jumped in last time, and it’s over before you know it. If you get scared, just look at the fish.”

Boëndal cast a skeptical look at Myr. “It can’t be the only way into your realm,” he said suspiciously. “How are your warriors going to get home? Don’t tell me they’re going to jump into the water like an army of frogs.”

She grinned, showing her pearly white teeth. “There are other entrances, but Gemmil told us to keep them secret. I took Tungdil and your brother by a different route, but they were blindfolded first.” She returned the pot of ointment to her pack and led them into the woods surrounding the pond. “I’m sorry, Boëndal, but you’re going to have to take the plunge. It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

“No,” said Boïndil crossly. “It’s much, much worse. I had brackish water in my ears for orbits, and Elria was laughing in my head.”

“At least it proves that dwarves don’t necessarily drown in deep water,” said Tungdil, trying to make them see the bright side.

Boëndal frowned, all trace of amusement vanishing from his face. His mood was grim as they marched through the forest that was formerly home to Lesinteïl’s elves, and he continued to scowl as they stole through the meadow on the lookout for enemies. By the time they discovered the bleached bones of their murdered comrades, his brow was creased in a permanent frown.

The party collected the scattered remains and buried them under a pile of stones. With the skeletons laid to rest, the dead dwarves would be free to warm their souls in Vraccas’s smithy.

It was dusk when they stepped onto the pier. Each of them held a chunk of granite as large as a dwarven head—Myr had advised them to use the debris from the elves’ ruined temple to speed their journey to the bottom of the pond. They gathered at the end of the pier.

“I’ll go first,” said Myr, beaming at Boëndal, who was eying the water suspiciously. She stepped off the pier and disappeared into the darkness below.

“She’s gone,” he said anxiously. “Are you sure we should…”

“Ha, you were brave enough to fight Nôd’onn, and now you’re scared of a pond,” his brother said airily.

“Weren’t you thrown into the water by a bull?” asked Tungdil, raising an eyebrow.

Boïndil waved a hand dismissively. “That was last time.” He stepped to the edge of the pier and looked down at the water with distaste. “Accursed pond. It’s dark and cold,” he grumbled, leaping into the air and landing in the water with an almighty splash. He disappeared.

“I suppose I’ve got no choice,” sighed Boëndal, resigning himself to his fate. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and held his nose. A moment later, he was gone.

It was left to Tungdil to bring up the rear. The water closed over his head and he found himself staring into inky blackness. It was only because of the pressure in his ears that he knew that he was sinking, pulled down by the weight of his armor, his ax, and the granite.

He heard the sound of a waterfall, and a moment later he was falling with the cascading water, which pushed him under the surface of the pool. The current brought him up again and deposited him on the bank.

Coughing and spluttering, he clambered to his feet. The twins were there too, and he could tell from their noisy expiration that their lungs were filled with water. Myr was tightening her belt, which had loosened when she jumped.

“Next time I’m going a different way,” spluttered Boëndal, shaking himself vigorously and spraying water in all directions. He and the others were soaked through, and water was streaming from their undergarments and collecting on the floor. “How am I going to dry my chain mail?” he growled, running a hand over his chest. “You’d better have some good oil.”

Myr ran a hand through her bedraggled hair and laughed. “We’ll find you some warm clothes,” she promised, striding to a vast oak door with thick iron bands. She knocked loudly. “And I’m sure I can get you some oil.”

A panel opened and a pair of red eyes peered at Myr and the others. The dwarf disappeared, then the bolts slid back and the door swung open, admitting them to the freelings’ realm.

In the next chamber, Gemmil was waiting to greet them. He shook hands with them one by one, although the twins seemed a little wary.

“Did Sanda and her army get there in time?” he asked anxiously. Myr gave a brief account of how the orcs had been defeated. “And the fifthlings have repaired the Stone Gateway,” she recounted. “For the first time in a thousand cycles, the northern border is secure.”

“My heart weeps for our fallen comrades,” the freeling leader said gravely. “Before you go, we’ll raise a tankard to our victory and remember the dead.” He pointed to a pile of blankets. “Wrap yourselves in those. You’ll catch a chill.”

“Clothes would be more practical,” grumbled Boïndil.

“You’ll find clean outfits in your lodgings,” the king told him, opening a door at the back of the room. Outside a wagon was waiting for them. Tungdil and the others clambered in, and they set off, juddering and rattling, along the underground rail. Some time later the wagon stopped and everyone got out. The king led them through a magnificent hall to a double door.

“Follow me,” he said, pressing his ring against the runes engraved in the door. The symbols pulsed with light and the doors swung open, spilling pale light toward them. “Enter, friends. Welcome to the realm of the freelings.”

Tungdil and the twins stepped forward and found themselves on a broad ledge, from which a flight of steps led down to Gemmil’s realm. Tungdil heard an awed “Vraccas almighty” from Boëndal behind him. They stared down in amazement.

Below them was a vast city with buildings of all sizes lined up in a grid of symmetrical streets, alleyways, and squares. By Tungdil’s reckoning, it covered two square miles, and the roof of the cavern was at least a mile and a half high.

On the outskirts of the city, two waterfalls fell from a height of four hundred paces into a reservoir that supplied a network of canals, some of which led to gardens and allotments, others disappearing into openings in the rock.

From above, the city’s inhabitants looked tiny, no bigger than cave ants. Tungdil, straining his ears, heard a soft murmur of voices, the sharp ring of countless hammers, and other noises that he knew from human cities.

Rows of houses shaped like cubes lined the gentle slope at the far end of the cavern, at the top of which sat a small, but ornately fashioned stronghold. Light came from shimmering moss that covered the walls of the cavern, bathing the city in a gentle, brown glow. There were burning buckets of coal suspended from masts at various points throughout the settlement, with polished sheets of metal reflecting the light of the fiery flames.

“It’s incredible,” said Tungdil to Gemmil, who was standing at his side. “I never imagined your realm would be so big.”

The king pointed down at the city. “Trovegold is one of five—”

“Five?” interrupted Boïndil in astonishment.

“One of five major cities,” Gemmil continued proudly. “Five thousand freelings inhabit this place, five thousand souls living in freedom, unencumbered by the rules of family and clan, blessed by Vraccas, and bound only by the will of the Smith.”

Boïndil puffed out his cheeks, but Tungdil signaled to him to keep quiet. “Where will we be staying?” he enquired.

Gemmil pointed to a house in the city center. “Those are your quarters,” he said. “You’ll be staying with Myr. Her house is in the thick of things so you’ll get a proper taste of city life. Sanda and I live in the stronghold, but I’ll call for you tomorrow and show you around.” He nodded to Myr and bade them good night.

“Follow me,” she said to the others, starting down the steps. “It’s an honor to have you as my guests.”

Tungdil and the twins brought up the rear.

With every step, the city increased in size, and soon the neat grid of streets became a maze of roads and buildings, although Tungdil could still detect an underlying symmetry. A fresh wind swept the smoke away from the smithies and workshops and provided the city with good, clean air.

Soon they were walking through streets and alleyways. Dwarven ballads echoed from inside a couple of taverns, and on the pavements, freeling traders were hawking anvils, tools, jewelry, and other wares. A steel statue of Vraccas towered ten paces above the ground, glittering with gold and vraccasium and studded with sparkling gems.

No one stopped or questioned them. Their presence went almost unnoticed, except for the occasional greeting directed at Myr.

“Have you seen their funny beards?” whispered Boïndil. “I swear I saw an old dwarf with a completely naked chin. And they’re wearing perfume—I can smell it.” He wrinkled his nose. “By the hammer of Vraccas, they’ll soon be speaking elvish and growing pointy ears.”

“Where are their weapons?” hissed Boëndal. “Most of them aren’t wearing mail. It’s a rum sort of place.”

“Why would anyone wear mail?” asked Myr, stopping in front of her house. “Our realm is safe from orcs and other beasts. Wearing mail is completely unnecessary. It drags you down.”

“Unnecessary?” snorted Boïndil, turning to his companions. “What kind of dwarf goes without chain mail and axes? It’s like walking around with no breeches or boots!”

“For you, maybe, but not for us.” For the first time Myr sounded put out. It was hard not to be offended by Boïndil’s gruff and forthright manner. In fact, his tactless comments were liable to cause as much damage as his blades.

She unlocked the door and stepped inside. “Come in and go straight upstairs—I don’t want you ruining my carpets,” she said, shooting Boïndil an angry look. She disappeared into another room.

“Carpets?” muttered Boïndil incredulously. “What next? Scented water for our hands?”

“Don’t be rude,” said Tungdil. “We’re guests here, remember?” He led the way up a flight of stone steps to their quarters. As Gemmil had promised, there was a selection of dry clothes.

They picked out the right sizes and peeled off their wet undergarments.

As soon as Tungdil was changed, he took a closer look at their quarters and found another, narrower staircase. He went up the steps and came to a hatch. A moment later, he was standing on Myr’s roof.

Amid the noise from the city he heard scraps of conversation. Mostly it was boring, like complaints about the price of vegetables, but every now and then someone would mention the new arrivals or start a discussion about the other kingdoms.

As far as Tungdil could tell, the majority of freelings weren’t enamored with the idea of reestablishing contact with a traditional dwarven kingdom. They were outlaws, after all.

It works both ways, I suppose, he thought, somehow comforted by the realization that both sides had their doubts. He took a step forward to get a proper look.

Some of the dwarves had pale hair and pale skin, others looked no different to Tungdil and the twins. They greeted each other respectfully, exchanged pleasantries, and went their separate ways.

After a while, an octagonal temple caught his eye. It was situated near the statue of Vraccas, and its five tall chimneys released plumes of white smoke, infusing the air with a smell of herbs and hot metal that dispersed on the wind. Tungdil guessed that the priests were conducting a ceremony in honor of the Smith.

The pale smoke reminded him of the strange mist that had surrounded them in the caves of the Outer Lands where he had discovered the mysterious rune. I wonder if the undergroundlings pray to Vraccas as well?

“We’re in time for evening prayers,” said Myr, behind him.

Startled, he took a step forward, coming dangerously close to the edge of the roof. Myr reached out and grabbed him. He swayed backward, knocked into her, and flung out his arms to stop her falling.

For the time it takes a drop of beer to fall to the floor, they were locked together in a tight embrace. Tungdil, feeling the warmth of her body and the curve of her breasts, was glad that he had taken off his mail.

He cleared his throat and stepped away. “Evening prayers?” he queried casually. Turning to look at the temple, he saw the doors fly open.

Five dozen dwarves dressed in the garb of the Smith filed out and took up position on the steps; their places had clearly been allocated in advance. Everyone seemed to know exactly where to stand. The last dwarf, carrying a steel sledgehammer, came to a halt beside an anvil of pure vraccasium.

“It’s how we praise Vraccas at the end of an orbit,” she explained. “I told the twins to come up and watch.”

Boïndil squeezed through the hatch. He wasn’t wearing his precious chain mail, but his axes were dangling from his belt. “The best seats are taken, are they? In that case, I’ll stand at the back.” He peered at the temple. “What are they doing?” he asked, staring at the priests. Myr explained the ritual. “Oh,” he said. “In our kingdom we pray on our own. We give thanks together only on special occasions.”

“It’s pretty well organized,” remarked Boëndal, stepping onto the roof. “What happens next?”

A horn sounded, its deep, rich tone echoing through the streets and summoning the citizens of Trovegold to the statue in the square.

The crowd kept swelling until the square was full of bobbing heads, some dark, others white as snow. Tungdil spotted more dwarves on top of the other buildings, which were flat roofed like Myr’s. Everyone in the city stopped what they were doing and turned to face the statue. Myr and the others looked expectantly at the priests.

The dwarf behind the anvil lifted the sledgehammer into the air, holding it above his head as if it weighed nothing at all. “Vraccas, hear our prayers of praise and adoration,” he called loudly, lowering his arms to smite the anvil.

The metal rang out, producing a clear, high note, and gleaming sparks flew through the air, leaving comet-like trails and landing in braziers on either side of the steps. The staircase lit up with bright white flames.

The priest in the middle of the group tilted back his head and began to sing. His voice was rich and vibrant. When the first verse was over, a second priest joined in, and so on and so forth until half the priests were singing.

What started as a solo became a stirring chorus of many singers, which swelled again as the hammer struck the anvil and the remaining priests joined in. Tungdil, who had never heard the like of it, felt a shiver run down his spine.

The hymn of thanks stirred the heart of every dwarf in Trovegold, including Boëndal and Boïndil, who had lumps in their throats. Forgetting their reservations, they dropped to their knees and adopted the freelings’ collective method of prayer.

Thrilled by the atmosphere, Tungdil watched in awed silence, wishing the singing would last forever, and knowing that it would end.

The priests finished the final verse and fell silent. The hymn reverberated through the cavern, returning as a faint echo that gradually melted away. The priest struck the anvil for a third and final time, the choir filed back into the temple, and the congregation rose to their feet. The spell was broken.

“So that’s that,” whispered Boïndil as the temple doors closed. “What about morning prayers?” he enquired hopefully, turning to Myr.

The firstling smiled. “You’ll have to lead your own prayers in the morning. The next service takes place tomorrow at dusk.” She shooed him downstairs. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going straight to bed after dinner. You should probably get as much rest as you can. Gemmil will want to show you every last alleyway in Trovegold; he’s very proud of our city.”

A few moments later, they were seated around a table of sand-colored rock, ready to sample Myr’s cooking. Some of the dishes were unfamiliar to Tungdil; the twins eyed the food with obvious suspicion.

Myr didn’t seem to mind. “Boiled moss, tuber-leaf salad, and sautéed cutlet in dark beer sauce,” she explained. “They’re traditional dishes from the five dwarven folks—adapted and improved by us.” She gave them each a generous helping, and they tucked in heartily, their appetite overcoming their doubts.

“Mm,” said Boïndil happily, holding out his plate for more. “The meat tastes good. It’s not goat, is it?”

“It’s prime loin of gugul. You won’t find any in Trovegold—we hunt them in the tunnels.”

Boïndil looked at her blankly.

“It’s a type of beetle,” explained Myr. “They’re as long as you’re tall, and pretty nippy. They make a lovely roast.” She pointed to the morsel of cheese on his fork. “Beetle cheese. Gugul milk curdles on contact with air, so it’s simply a question of salting and stretching it.” She gave him another serving and handed back his plate.

Boïndil’s fork was poised in mid air. He stared dumbly at the cutlet, wondering what to do.

“Lost your appetite, have you, brother?” teased Boëndal, taking another mouthful and licking his lips. “It hasn’t done Myr any harm, so it’s hardly going to kill you.” He picked up his tankard and emptied it in a single draft. His burp was unusually restrained; he was on his best behavior because of Myr.

“Do you like our beer?” she enquired eagerly.

“It’s delicious,” he said approvingly, helping himself to more. “It’s got an interesting aftertaste—a hint of malt or spice or something.”

“We spice the beer with—”

Boëndal removed the tankard from his lips and held up a hand to quiet her. “Don’t,” he said. “I’d rather not know if you flavored it with powdered maggot or caterpillar blood or Vraccas knows what. It tastes too good for you to spoil it.” He carried on drinking, and Myr said nothing, smiling to herself.

Dessert was a pale creamy dish that tasted a bit like honey. Tungdil found a husk in his bowl that looked suspiciously like the casing of a maggot, but he finished his serving and kept the discovery to himself.

Boïndil requested seconds, but this time he didn’t enquire what went into the dish. Tired, sated, and slightly tipsy, they swayed up the stairs and tumbled into bed.

“I’m glad we came with you,” murmured Boïndil, loosening his belt and letting out a big belch to make space in his belly. “If we stay much longer, I won’t fit into my mail shirt. Myr’s cooking tastes too good.”

The other two laughed. “I’m glad you came as well,” said Tungdil seriously. “I thought I might be traveling on my own.”

“After all we’ve been through?” exclaimed Boïndil. “We’ll always be here for you—especially if you insist on risking your life among outcasts and criminals. Someone has to watch your back!”

“Outcasts and criminals,” echoed Tungdil thoughtfully. “I haven’t seen or heard anything to suggest that the freelings are any less respectable than the other folks.”

Boëndal yawned and crossed his arms behind his head. “You seem to be forgetting that they were banished from their kingdoms—which means they, or their parents or grandparents, were guilty of a crime.” He gave Tungdil a hard look. “The same goes for Myr.”

“Myr saved your life,” snapped Tungdil testily.

“I know, and I won’t forget it. That’s why Boïndil has sworn to protect her—but it doesn’t change who she is.”

“That’s not the only oath we’ve taken,” said Tungdil, thinking of the vows of friendship pledged after the battle of the Blacksaddle. “We wanted a unified Girdlegard, and that means all men, elves, and dwarves, the freelings included. Gemmil spoke of five main cities—five cities the size of Trovegold! We need to ally ourselves with the freelings for the sake of Girdlegard and the security of our borders.” He met Boëndal’s eye and held his gaze with dwarven tenacity. “It’s our responsibility to find out more about them and their customs before we come to any decisions about whether our differences can be bridged.” He paused, fixing the twins with a steely stare. “To be honest, they seem a good deal more welcoming and forgiving than some dwarves I know.”

Boëndal looked up at the ceiling. “Vraccas will open our eyes to the truth,” he said elliptically, settling down to sleep.

Sighing, Tungdil stared glumly into the darkness. I’d have more luck bending steel than changing a dwarven mind. He was grateful to the twins for coming with him to Trovegold, but he wished they were a little friendlier toward their hosts. Even Boëndal, who was usually quite reasonable, seemed to have ruled out the possibility of forging a lasting bond with Gemmil’s dwarves. Why does it have to be so hard? he thought wearily.

“What are we going to do about Keenfire?” asked Boïndil, breaking the silence. “You’re not going to let the hollow-eyes keep her, are you?”

“Why don’t you ask Glaïmbar?” said Tungdil snidely. He closed his eyes. “I’ll get the ax back. We don’t need it right now, and it won’t be much use to the älfar, but I won’t delay too long: Keenfire belongs with the dwarves.”

“Hurrah,” cheered Boïndil, sensing a new adventure. “You can count me in!”

Kingdom of Dsôn Balsur,

Girdlegard,

Early Summer, 6235th Solar Cycle

Ondori breathed in the smoke billowing over her homeland and shuddered, remembering the red-hot flames that had burned her face. The struggle for Keenfire had left her horribly disfigured and given her another reason to wear a mask.

From her vantage point in the watchtower, originally constructed by the elves of the Golden Plains, she gazed at the thick bank of smoke in the south.

Dsôn Balsur was on the brink of defeat.

Firebombs rained into the dense woodland from allied mangonels, spilling petrol, oil, pitch, and sulfur, and setting light to everything, including the silicified wood of the fossilized trees. Already the allies had burned a wide path through the forest toward the bone palace. They were a fair few miles from Dsôn Balsur, but the remaining distance consisted largely of flat, open land.

Ondori turned to face the capital. Midway between Dsôn Balsur and the forest lay the stronghold of Arviû, from whence reinforcements were marching toward the front. Soon every last älf would be fighting for the kingdom.

She ran a hand over her quarterstaff. We’ll make the allies pay for their victory, she vowed. They’ve had enough of our arrows; let’s see how they like our staffs.

She left the tower and descended the fifty paces to the ground. Every step was slow and considered, her movements hampered by the damage inflicted by Tungdil’s dagger. The pain was a constant, humiliating reminder of her disastrous mission to secure the groundlings’ kingdom. She had failed on all counts: The groundlings were ensconced in their stronghold, her parents’ murderers were still alive, and she had failed to learn the secret of the orcs’ unnatural power. Forced to flee the battlefield, she had stopped only to snatch up a drinking pouch, knowing that wasted hours looking for streams or rivers could lead to capture or death. It was only much later, when she uncorked the pouch, that she realized her mistake: The water was stagnant, brackish, and unpalatable, but she drank it all the same.

The immortal siblings, after hearing how the five-thousand-strong orcish army had been defeated by a handful of dwarves, had banished her to the front, where she was to die in defense of her kingdom. To her relief, the siblings had confiscated Keenfire: She never wanted to touch the accursed weapon again.

Ondori was content with her fate. Death would come as a release, the last chance of heroism at the end of life of abject failure. Although I can’t avenge my parents when I’m dead, she thought bitterly. At least the immortal siblings had granted her a final favor: A hundred warriors, all failures like herself, were at her command.

She emerged from the base of the tower and swung herself onto her fire bull. Her eyes wandered over the waiting group of älfar—warriors of both sexes whose courage had been found wanting.

“Listen to me, weak-hearted warriors,” she said harshly. “I’m taking you behind enemy lines. Your mission is to kill ten elves, dwarves, or humans before you die. Anyone who flees the battle will be chased by my arrows or Agrass’s horns.” She patted the thick black neck of the fire bull. “Acquit yourselves well: Tion’s judgment awaits you when you get to the other side, and eternal agony is the price of failure. Those who prove themselves worthy will receive the blessing of the immortal siblings, the mark of which I bear.”

She nodded to the warrior at the head of the procession, and the troop set off on a southerly bearing. Ondori rode at the back, keeping a careful watch for defectors.

It took less than an orbit to reach the forest where the allies’ firebombs were whizzing through the trees.

Another mile, and they’ll be marching across the plains, she thought, dismally. She had foreseen the fall of Dsôn Balsur from the watchtower, but the reality of the situation came as a shock. The allies were closer to victory than she had thought.

A warrior in black armor emerged from the trees. “The immortal siblings want you to destroy the mangonels and kill those responsible for the bombardment,” he told her tersely. His manner indicated all too plainly that he considered her unworthy of respect. He handed her a scroll detailing the strategy for the attack. “My band will distract them while you and your troop set light to the oil drums. We’ll figure out the rest from there.” His gaze rested on her mask. “Are you too ugly to show yourself?” he demanded, reaching out to tear off her mask and veil.

Agrass let out a belligerent snort and turned his head so that his left horn grazed the warrior’s chest. The älf paled and took a step back.

“It’s a pity you’re a coward,” Ondori told him coldly. “If you were to see my face, you’d know…” She trailed off, remembering that Keenfire had stolen her looks. “… that I’m ready to die,” she finished lamely.

“No one’s stopping you,” he hissed, disappearing among the trees.

After relaying her orders to the troop, she led them in a westerly direction, looking for a safe route into the forest where they wouldn’t be spotted by enemy guards. Four miles later, they found a suitable place and rested until midnight, before stealing their way toward the camp.

Ondori stopped and cursed. She and her troop were perfectly placed to attack, but the camp was guarded by a battalion of groundlings and elves.

There was a constant screeching and groaning as windlasses turned, tightening the ropes to pull back the wooden catapults. Dripping pouches were placed in the metal cups at the end of each arm and the contents set alight with a burning torch, whereupon the arms were released and a hail of fiery missiles hissed through the night and crashed among the trees. The burning petroleum turned the forest into a sea of twisting flames.

“Tion wants us to die gloriously,” she whispered to the others. “See the groundlings and the tree-loving fairies? Their destruction is our salvation.” She gripped her quarterstaff and held it aloft like a lance. “Prepare for attack. And don’t forget, I’ll be watching you—desertion is punishable by death.”

A few moments later, they heard shouts from the other side of the encampment. Horns sounded the alarm, warning the dwarves and the elves of an älvish incursion. The diversionary tactic seemed to work.

“Now,” she said loudly, and her warriors rushed forward, keeping low to the ground. In the darkness, they were all but invisible, and their boots moved noiselessly across the forest floor. The elves and dwarves, expecting an attack on the opposite flank, were taken by surprise.

Ondori waited until all her warriors were engaged in combat. When she was sure that no one had slipped into the undergrowth, she left her hiding place and threw herself into the scrum.

The elves had no chance to use their bows and were forced into close combat. Dwarves rushed to their aid and surrounded their hated enemies, swinging their axes and hammers with grim determination.

Ondori’s heart sank as she watched the elves and dwarves close ranks to ward off the invaders.

Soon dwarven axes were slashing at the älfar from behind a wall of shields. The elves lined up in rows behind them, ready with their spears. The älfar came to a standstill three hundred paces from the barrels of oil.

“What’s the matter with you?” Ondori shouted angrily, stabbing her quarterstaff into the back of a retreating älf. “Don’t let up!”

Just then a dwarf cried out in agony and sank to his knees, breaking the wall of shields. The tip of an elven spear protruded from his chest.

“Did you see that?” shouted a dwarven voice. “The pointy-eared villain stabbed him in the back!” There was an almighty crash and an elf slumped to the ground, felled by a ferocious blow from a morning star. “Children of the Smith, the pointy-ears have betrayed our vows of friendship!” howled the dwarf, voice cracking with grief and rage. “Death to the traitors!”

Ondori heard an elven curse, and a moment later, an arrow sang through the air and came to rest in a dwarven skull. The sturdy warrior’s face was frozen in astonishment as he fell to the ground. An elf sprawled on top of him, a dwarven ax in his back.

Two dozen dwarves turned as one and advanced toward their supposed allies, who raised their weapons to block the attack. At first the elves parried and checked the dwarven axes, but soon both sides were locked in combat.

Ondori could hardly believe her luck. The dwarves and elves need more than a promise of friendship to bridge an age-old rift… She bellowed at her warriors to resume the attack, and the älfar surged forward, finding the gaps in the allies’ defenses and slaughtering elves and dwarves alike.

Ondori, trusting in Tion to watch over her warriors, left the battlefield and rode toward the undefended encampment. The men loading the mangonels stared at her in horror as she galloped past and seized a burning torch from the hand of a guard.

Lowering his head, Agrass charged into the pile of oil barrels, destroying them with his horns. The burning torch landed in the middle of the spillage, turning the foul-smelling oil into a fiery lake. More barrels exploded, further fuelling the flames.

Ondori didn’t stop to watch. She was busy cutting down the men at the mangonels, none of whom were trained warriors. They put up little resistance to Ondori and her fire bull, and their deaths were painful, but swift.

With one exception.

Unbeknown to Ondori, one of the men had escaped the bloodbath and sheltered behind a mangonel’s wheel. He waited until she rode past, then hurled his spear, hitting her in the back. The tip pierced her heart. Ondori gasped, fighting for breath as she wrenched the weapon from her chest. Slumped in her saddle, she listened to the man’s receding footsteps and waited for death to take her soul.

After a while, the pain in her chest subsided and she was able to sit up. She raised a hand to the exit wound and ran her fingers over her flesh. The wound had closed. I’m not dead, she realized in amazement. Tion has made me immortal like the orcs… In a flash of understanding, she remembered how she had drunk of the orcs’ foul water. Tion be praised, she thought, resolving to tell the immortal siblings of her discovery.

But first she would carry out her orders and destroy the mangonels. Steering Agrass to the edge of the blaze, she lowered her quarterstaff and dragged it across the ground to the mangonels, cutting a furrow through the forest floor. A river of burning liquid flowed toward the wooden siege engines.

Soon flames were licking at the timber and creeping hungrily along the ropes. My work isn’t finished, she thought proudly, pressing gently against the fire bull’s flanks and cantering back to the battle. Let’s find more elvish souls for Tion to torture…

Roaring, Agrass charged through the enemy lines, tossing elves and dwarves into the air like rag dolls. His powerful, metal-sheathed horns pierced everything they encountered—shields, armor, and guts. Shaking his head furiously, he sank his pointed teeth into his victims’ torsos, ripping out chunks of leather, metal, and flesh.

To Ondori’s astonishment, she and her warriors triumphed over the battalion of elves and dwarves. They brought it on themselves, she thought gleefully, remembering how the allies had turned on each other. She touched the mark on her forehead. Tion is with me.

The flames from the burning mangonels were clearly visible throughout the forest by the time the survivors alerted their allies to their plight. But the humans came too late.

Elves and dwarves lay dead or dying on the battlefield and, on seeing the new arrivals, the remaining älfar slipped into the forest and disappeared among the gloomy boughs. Arrows and crossbow bolts whizzed past them, missing their targets.

A few paces away from the clearing, Ondori stopped and looked in satisfaction at the inferno raging in the enemy camp. Agrass snorted and swung his head to the left. “A fugitive?” she asked. The fire bull raked a metal-plated hoof against the ground. Who could it be? she wondered. An elf for Tion to torture, or a deserter who deserves my wrath?

The bull slunk through the trees. In the faint moonlight, Ondori spotted four squat figures running through the undergrowth. Groundlings, she thought, surprised. It’s not often you see them running from a fight.

A moment later, she was upon them.

Hearing Agrass’s hooves, they turned to face her, weapons raised.

“Clear off, and we’ll spare you,” growled their leader from behind a metal visor. He gave his morning star a menacing swing.

“Spare me?” she spat scornfully. Just then she realized that one of them was holding a bow. The string snapped back and she dodged the arrow, which buried itself in a tree. “A fairy bow?” she exclaimed, confused. “What would a groundling want with a…” Her eyes widened. “A morning star and a fairy bow… It was you! You started the quarrel on purpose.” She peered at the band. “Who are you?”

“I said, clear off,” snapped their leader. “We’re stronger than you, and we’re not afraid to prove it.”

Ondori was tempted to put the matter to the test, but an angry mob of humans, emboldened by fury, had summoned the courage to pursue her through the trees. She could tell from the clunking armor, raised voices, and flickering torches that the men were approaching fast.

“Are you thirdlings?” she asked sharply. “Why don’t you send an envoy to Dsôn Balsur? Together we could defeat our common foe.”

“Clear off, or die,” their leader threatened.

Ondori decided that it wasn’t the time or the place to risk her life against four groundlings. Her failure at the Blacksaddle had been redeemed in part by her success on the battlefield, and a foolhardy skirmish with a band of groundlings would do little to improve her stock. Tugging on the reins, she turned and rode off to find the rest of her band, leaving the four dwarves behind her.

Nagsor and Nagsar will welcome the news of the groundlings’ rift.

The thirdlings’ intervention, though unexpected, was welcome. Ondori had no idea what they were plotting, but it was bound to mean trouble for the other dwarven folks. We’ll have to keep an eye on them, she decided. With luck, the children of Inàste will profit from their game.

Porista,

Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

We can’t wait forever, Estimable Maga,” said Narmora, looking up from her reading. “Wasn’t Djern supposed to be home by now? I thought you told him to be back within eighty orbits.”

The fair-haired maga nodded wearily. They were sitting opposite each other in the library, Andôkai with her right elbow propped on the armrest of her easy chair. She rested her forehead on her palm, feeling the weight of the thoughts that had been troubling her since Weyurn. “He’s been gone 132 orbits,” she murmured. “It isn’t like Djern to be late; something must be stopping him…” She stood up fretfully. “I’d understand if he were an ordinary warrior, but Djern is—”

“He’s the king of Tion’s creation,” finished Narmora. “I know the legend. ‘The son of Samusin,’ my people call him. He keeps order among Tion’s beasts, destroying the weak and hunting the cowardly.”

“I keep forgetting your mother was an älf. In that case, I’m sure you understand that whatever is keeping him must be tremendously powerful.”

“How do you… I mean, where did you find him?”

“I saved him from a band of men. I couldn’t bear the thought of a magnificent creature like Djern dying at the hands of fame-seekers and glory-hunters, so I rescued him, and he became my bodyguard. Over a hundred cycles have passed since then…” She snorted angrily, snatched up a candlestick, and hurled it against the shelves. “To blazes with it all! We’ll never find out what’s happening in the Outer Lands.”

“Didn’t Weyurn’s warriors have anything to report?” enquired Narmora, eager to learn the contents of the maga’s correspondence.

Andôkai smiled wryly. “They’ve disappeared, as I said they would.” She took a scroll of parchment from the folds of her crimson robe. “According to Queen Xamtys, they left via the Red Range and haven’t been heard of since. Her sentries are on the lookout for survivors, but it doesn’t look good. Xamtys thinks the fire is spreading in the Outer Lands. There’s a bright red glow across the border, and it’s getting closer all the time.” She pointed to the rows of books. “The combined wisdom of Girdlegard’s scholars, and what does it tell us? Nothing!” She paced to and fro, stopping behind Narmora. “You’ve worked hard,” she said, resting her hands on the half älf’s shoulders. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible that a student could make such progress. We might be strong enough to fight the avatars after all.”

“We don’t know for sure that the avatars are to blame for the fire in the Outer Lands.” Narmora took the letter from the maga and read it, uninvited. “Hmm,” she said thoughtfully. “Queen Xamtys says no one is crossing into Girdlegard from the west. She thinks something must be stopping traders and beasts from leaving the Outer Lands.”

“Which confirms our theory that the avatars are getting closer,” said Andôkai, straightening up and returning to her chair.

Relieved that the maga was no longer standing over her, Narmora gave herself a little shake. She could feel the imprint of Andôkai’s hands on her shoulders, red with the blood of Furgas and her son.

The maga pulled out a sheet of parchment and inked her quill. “I hope to Samusin that Djern is still alive, but I can’t delay any longer. If we don’t hold the meeting now, the dwarves, elves, and men won’t arrive before winter, and they’re bound to get stuck in the snow.”

“They’ll come as soon as they can,” Narmora assured her. “There’s plenty to discuss.” According to reports, cracks were appearing in the great alliance. News had reached Porista of a dispute that had arisen between the elves and dwarves during a battle in Dsôn Balsur. Both sides were refusing to take arms against the älfar until the other apologized, but neither was prepared to accept the blame. The destruction of the siege engines was a further obstacle to the allies’ progress, granting the älfar a dangerous reprieve.

Narmora recalled the rumors about King Belletain’s army. “We’ll have to ask the king of Urgon why his warriors are marching north. There’s speculation that he means to attack the fourthlings, but he’s probably after the trolls. Isn’t his physician a dwarf?”

“Belletain is a cretinous cripple,” pronounced Andôkai, lowering her quill. “He took over from his nephew Lothaire, whom the people loved and admired. Belletain has profited from his nephew’s popularity, although it’s more a case of pity than respect. A mad king and an adoring populace—it’s a dangerous mix.”

“If you don’t mind, I need to check on Dorsa,” said Narmora, straightening up and striding to the door. “I’ll be back in time for my lesson.” She left the library and hurried through the empty corridors of the palace.

Dorsa was tucked up in her cot. For a moment, Narmora feared that the weight of the blankets had crushed her little chest, which was ridiculous, of course. The little girl was sleeping peacefully, tiny arms beside her head. Her breathing was calm and regular, which set Narmora’s mind at ease

“How you’ve grown,” she whispered, stroking the baby’s downy head.

Her daughter was an endless source of comfort, proof that everything would be all right. A single smile from Dorsa was enough to banish all her doubts. Narmora could gaze forever at her sweet dimpled cheeks and tiny mouth, but sometimes another face would haunt her, the face of a tiny, lifeless baby moldering under a pile of stones.

She stooped down to kiss the pointy tip of her daughter’s left ear. Dorsa smiled in her sleep. “Sleep well, my darling,” she whispered softly. “Your brother’s death will be avenged.” She left the nursery on tiptoe and crossed the corridor to Furgas’s room. Hearing the door open, Rodario leaped to his feet, dagger in hand. “Oh, it’s you,” he said shamefacedly. His forehead was lined with creases from the sheets, indicating that he had been asleep.

“Honestly, Rodario,” she said briskly. “What would the maga think if she found you in the palace with a dagger? You’ll have to do better than this; I’m relying on your talents as an actor.” She paused to kiss Furgas and caress his pale cheeks. “Andôkai has called a meeting about the avatars,” she continued.

Rodario sat up straight and ran a hand over his pointed beard. “Listen, Narmora… Do you really mean to kill her?”

She glared at him angrily, so he hastened to elaborate. “She’s our only maga,” he said diplomatically, trying not to rile her. “It won’t make you any friends.”

“No one will know it was me,” she said confidently, wetting a cloth and squeezing it gently over Furgas’s cracked lips. “Andôkai has taught me well; I know how to cover my tracks.”

“Hmm,” said Rodario, unconvinced. He took a moment to find the right words. “The problem is this: If you avenge yourself on the maga, Girdlegard will be at risk. How are we supposed to defend ourselves if, or more likely, when, we’re attacked?”

She looked at him sadly. “What’s wrong with you, Rodario? You’re shielding the woman who tried to kill your closest friend.”

“Andôkai never intended to kill him, just to put him in a coma.” He slumped into his chair. “Sometimes I think I shouldn’t have told you,” he said, sighing melodramatically. “I don’t wish to incur your fury, myopic angel of death, but Andôkai is our one and only maga.”

“Aren’t you forgetting me?”

“You?” said Rodario incredulously. “I don’t doubt you’re a fast learner, but you’re hardly Andôkai the Tempestuous.” He shook his head. “You’re not ready, Narmora. Wait a few more cycles until your studies are complete. You might feel differently then.”

“I didn’t realize you were an authority on magic,” she sneered. “My son is dead, Furgas is in a coma, and their suffering will be avenged.” She nodded to the door. “Goodbye, Rodario, and thank you for looking after Furgas. I hope you enjoyed the sleep.”

“Spare me your barbs, and think of Girdlegard. Some of us are relying on the maga to save us from our foes.” He stepped smartly into the corridor and closed the door.

Narmora sat down beside Furgas. Slipping her right hand into her bodice, she felt for the gemstone hanging from her neck. She had been wearing the pendant since the battle of the Blacksaddle.

If only Rodario knew my power… Still clasping the gemstone with her right hand, she placed her left hand on Furgas and ran her fingers over his stab wounds. As she closed her eyes, a green glow suffused his bandages, permeating the fabric and irradiating the flesh below. The glow intensified, shining brightly over the infected flesh, and leaving healthy pink skin that grew back over the wound, leaving no sign of inflammation or scarring.

Narmora took a deep breath. It was beyond her means to revive her husband from his coma, but she knew how to heal his wounds. She left the bandages in place so that the maga wouldn’t notice.

“Thank you,” she whispered gratefully, letting go of the stone. “Our time will come, you’ll see.” She hurried away to resume her schooling.

The transition was practiced and flawless; with every step toward the library, Narmora became the obedient student whom the maga had come to trust.

Trovegold,

Underground Network,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

Tungdil was sitting cross-legged on Myr’s roof, sipping a tankard of beer and looking down at the statue of Vraccas.

Another busy and inspiring orbit was drawing to a close. Since arriving in Trovegold, Tungdil had experienced all manner of new things, and he was looking forward to seeing more. He used the pre-dinner lull to sip his beer and review what he had learned about the underground realm.

As Myr had predicted, the king had insisted on guiding Tungdil and the twins through every street and alleyway in Trovegold to show them the richness of freeling life. They had visited allotments, workshops, and smithies, and walked the length of the irrigation system, which was fed by a pair of waterfalls.

Since then, they had made the acquaintance of numerous freelings, some new to Trovegold, others born in the city, but all unstinting in their praise of Gemmil’s realm. Tungdil had searched their faces for signs of melancholy or sadness, but almost everyone seemed genuinely content. He could see why they were drawn to Trovegold, which was more than could be said for the twins. Boëndal and Boïndil were looking forward to returning to the fifthling kingdom with its familiar customs and laws.

He heard heavy footsteps behind him. Jangling chain mail identified the visitor as one of the twins. Unlike Tungdil, they insisted on wearing armor wherever they went.

“You’re thinking of staying, aren’t you?” said Boëndal, sitting down next to him and putting his tankard on the floor.

Tungdil sighed. “Is it that obvious?”

His friend chuckled. “Even my brother has started to realize that you might not come home. For him—well, for us, really—staying isn’t an option. He threw up his hands. “Yes, I know we’re all hewn from the same rock,” he said, preempting Tungdil’s objections. “But the freelings are outcasts.” He paused to take a glug of beer. “Outcasts and thirdlings,” he added in a muted but truculent voice. “I’m sorry, Tungdil, but it isn’t a place for upstanding dwarves.”

“You’re impatient to leave, I know,” said Tungdil, refusing to enter into a discussion about outcasts and thirdlings, a category to which he belonged. “Your brother’s inner furnace is overheating. He won’t be happy until he’s worked off his temper on a couple of orcs. He can’t hunt gugul forever.”

Boëndal grinned. “He’s been catching them with his hands. You wouldn’t want to be bitten by a gugul—their teeth are pretty sharp. The other hunters respect him, even though they think he’s mad.” He raised his tankard to the statue. “Here’s to Vraccas for steering our path to Trovegold. I’m glad we’ve seen a freeling city, but Boïndil and I want to leave.” He looked at Tungdil intently. “The sooner the better,” he said firmly. “We’re worried.”

“You mean about the dispute with the elves? It shouldn’t have happened, I agree. Broken trust is difficult to repair, but I’m sure they’ll find a way. It might delay the conquest of Dsôn Balsur by a cycle, but we’ll triumph in the end. The älfar are surrounded—there’s nowhere for them to go.”

“What?” exclaimed Boëndal, astonished. “Don’t you want to be out there, fighting with them? Think what a difference it would make if the hero of the Blacksaddle were to lead an army of dwarves against the älfar! You could make peace with the elves, win back Keenfire, and—”

“Confounded Glaïmbar,” cut in Tungdil irritably. “I wouldn’t have lost the ax again if it weren’t for him. To think the king of the fifthlings couldn’t defend himself against a wounded orc! I don’t know how you expect me to get it back. The älf could be anywhere by now.” He didn’t like to be reminded about Keenfire and he wished the others would stop mentioning it all the time.

Boëndal looked at him thoughtfully. “Anyone would think you were ready to spend the rest of your life telling stories about the battles you fought in the good old cycles when you were a hero. You’re not old yet, Tungdil. What about the future?”

Tungdil swallowed his irritation. “I’ve done my bit for Girdlegard,” he said calmly. “From now on, I want to be a regular dwarf who does regular things. I don’t intend to sit by the fire; I’d like to work in a forge or find a way of using my knowledge.”

“Like Myr you mean? Is that what’s keeping you here? Nothing kills the spirit of adventure like a maiden, they say.”

Tungdil took a deep breath. “I don’t know,” he said sadly. “Myr isn’t a bit like Balyndis. We talk for hours and hours about books and ideas. I couldn’t have that kind of conversation with Balyndis—she isn’t scholarly at all. But it’s her I dream about, not Myr.”

He looked his friend in the eye. “What if I do something awful to drive Balyndis and Glaïmbar apart? I don’t want to be a schemer or murderer like Bislipur and the other thirdlings. I’m scared of hurting Glaïmbar and becoming just like them.” He emptied his tankard and set it down with a thud. “I need to forget about Balyndis so I can stop hating Glaïmbar. I think it’s better for everyone if I stay here with Myr.”

His friend nodded sympathetically. “Very well, scholar. If you’re sure… But I can’t promise that Boïndil won’t try to abduct you.” He and Tungdil laughed briefly, but their hearts weren’t in it.

“What if Girdlegard were in trouble?” asked Boëndal. “Would you come if I asked you to?”

“Of course,” said Tungdil simply. “But I can’t see it happening. When will you leave?”

“Tomorrow morning before sunrise. Andôkai has summoned the leaders of Girdlegard to a meeting in Porista.” He produced a roll of parchment. “According to Glaïmbar, you, me, and Boïndil have been chosen for the high king’s entourage.”

“I’m sure Gandogar will manage with you and Boïndil,” said Tungdil emphatically. “What’s the meeting about?”

Boëndal shrugged. “No one knows. It’s confidential, apparently, but the maga probably wants to haul everyone over the coals. To be honest, I don’t blame her—we pledged an oath of friendship, and now we’re killing each other…” He laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Farewell, Tungdil Goldhand. May Vraccas bless you and bring peace to your soul. I hope you live happily in Trovegold.” They stood up and clasped each other affectionately.

“I’m not looking forward to telling my brother,” Boëndal said gloomily. “Maybe Myr should sprinkle some herbs on his dinner to calm him down.”

“It’s all right, I’ll tell him myself,” promised Tungdil. They went downstairs to the kitchen and found Boïndil at Myr’s shoulder, watching hungrily as she prepared the meal. Two gugul were laid out on the kitchen table, gutted and ready to cook.

“Caught with my own fair hands,” he said, beaming. He rolled back his sleeves for his scratches to be admired. “I didn’t use axes, just wrung their necks. I tried telling myself they were orcs to make it more exciting—but it didn’t really work.” He saw their glum expressions. “What’s wrong? No bubbles in your beer?”

“You and Boëndal are leaving tomorrow,” said Tungdil simply. “I’m staying because…”

Boïndil frowned, lowering his head and squaring his shoulders aggressively. “I’ll knock you down and drag you away if I have to. This had better be a joke.”

“No, I’m staying in Trovegold…” began Tungdil. “For the time being, at least,” he continued, alarmed by the look on Boïndil’s face. “I’m hoping to persuade Gemmil to send freeling troops to Dsôn Balsur. I can’t ask for his help and run away.”

Boïndil harrumphed and crossed his arms belligerently. “Why not? Maybe I should talk to him.”

“Not on your life!” laughed Tungdil. “Although your natural charm would probably settle the matter quickly.”

“Especially with a bit of help from your axes,” added Boëndal with a smile. “Come on, brother, leave the negotiations to our scholar. Gandogar needs us in Porista.”

Boïndil strode up to Tungdil and smothered him with a hug. “Look after yourself—and don’t keep me waiting.”

“I won’t,” promised Tungdil halfheartedly. He glanced at Boëndal, who was staring fixedly at the disemboweled gugul. He was obviously uncomfortable with the charade.

Myr, guessing that the others were keeping something from Boïndil, couldn’t help smiling at the thought of having Tungdil to herself. “I’ll cook a proper feast tonight,” she promised. “The twins will need plenty of energy for the journey.” She tied an apron around her waist. “Maybe Gemmil will let you use the tunnels to save a bit of time. I can ask him, if you like.”

Boïndil grabbed the beetles by the tail and lowered them into the vat of bubbling broth. “Not until we’ve eaten,” he ruled.

II

Trovegold,

Underground Network,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

Tungdil got up the next morning to find two empty beds. His friends had left without waking him.

Myr was waiting with a special breakfast to fuel his inner furnace: pancakes with cranberry syrup, warm gugul, and a variety of smoked meats.

“You just missed them,” she said when he asked about the twins. “They had breakfast, packed some provisions, and that was that.” She sat down beside him and watched him eat. In the end, she couldn’t help herself: A question was burning a hole in her soul. “You’ve decided to stay in Trovegold, haven’t you? You told Boïndil you’d catch up with them later because you didn’t want to cause a scene.”

“Yes, Myr, I’ve decided to stay.” He searched her inscrutable red eyes. “I’d like to stay with you, if I may.”

“Have you reached a decision?” she asked eagerly. “Do you want me to heal your heart?”

He gazed at her beautiful face, the silvery down on her cheeks, and her plumps lips. She wants me to kiss her, he realized.

“I need more time.” He jumped to his feet, seized with a sudden urge to leave the house. His brusqueness took him by surprise. “I’m going to the allotments—I’ve been thinking of ways to improve the irrigation.” Stopping briefly to kiss her forehead, he hurried from the room.

You idiot, he cursed himself. He wished he were a proper dwarf who could fall in love with the maiden selected by his clan. I’d be a lot happier, he thought dismally. Balyndis is happy—isn’t she?

He took the path leading to the waterfalls, visible from the other side of town. He watched them cascade into the basin, garlanded with spray. Droplets of water splashed against the surrounding rocks.

On reaching the sluice system that regulated the flow to the canals, he spotted Sanda Flameheart, Gemmil’s companion and commander-in-chief of the freeling army. Sanda was talking to the dwarves in charge of monitoring the water level and adjusting the sluice. Tungdil stopped for a moment.

The king’s muscular consort finished briefing the workers and turned to leave, but, noticing Tungdil, raised a hand in greeting and hurried up the hill to meet him.

The menacing tattoos on her forehead were unmistakable proof of her dwarf-killing past. Not even her billowing fair hair could soften the menace of the runes.

“May Vraccas keep the flames of your furnace burning,” she greeted him warmly. She didn’t seem the least out of breath, despite marching uphill in a leather bodice, plated mail, and a skirt-like arrangement of metal tassets that reached almost as far as her ankles.

“Vraccas be with you,” he replied. “Are you going to battle? I thought no one wore armor in Trovegold.”

She smiled, but the overall effect was more menacing than cheering. “I’m a warrior, Tungdil. I don’t feel comfortable without my mail—I’m sure your friends felt the same. Besides, Trovegold isn’t as safe as sweet little Myr would have you believe. Cave trolls and bögnilim have a habit of getting caught in the tunnels.” She laid a hand on her ax. “Thanks to my warriors, they never pass our gates.”

He noticed that her downy cheeks were streaked with gray, indicating that she was older than he had thought. “You haven’t lived here long, have you?”

“Just over two cycles—it’s no big secret.” She looked at him shrewdly. “You don’t know what to make of me, do you? You and I are both thirdlings, but we’ve chosen not to kill our own kind.”

“I’ve never killed a dwarf in my life.”

“I have,” she said frankly, “but I didn’t much enjoy it. I was a dwarf killer because I grew up with dwarf killers, and killing was all I knew. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t right.” She sat down on the soft carpet of moss and gazed at the city. Tungdil sat beside her. “In the end, I had to make a choice.”

“So you chose banishment?”

“I chose death. If my clansfolk were to find me, they’d kill me on the spot. I used to be a high-ranking warrior, as you can probably tell from my tattoos, but I forfeited the respect of the thirdlings. In their eyes, I’m the enemy—another dwarf for them to kill.” She gazed up at the stronghold. “Trovegold is my home now. I found someone who was willing to take me for who I am. Starting over is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I’ve made a new life with the freelings.” She turned to Tungdil. “You wanted to ask me about your parents. What were their names?”

“I don’t know,” he said with a shake of the head. “I was a baby when my foster father, Lot-Ionan, bought me from some kobolds who came knocking one night at his school. I can’t remember a thing about my parents. I didn’t realize I was a thirdling until the battle of the Blacksaddle.”

She looked up sharply. “How old are you?”

“Sixty cycles, maybe more. I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”

Sanda was staring at him intently. “I’ve been trying to figure out why your face looks familiar. You look exactly like her!” She turned away, eyes fixed on the city. “Sixty cycles ago something happened that made me leave my clansfolk and flee the fifthling kingdom. It hardly seems possible but…” Her gaze lifted to the statue of Vraccas. “It’s the will of the Smith,” she whispered gratefully. “My decision saved Girdlegard. All my suffering wasn’t in vain!”

Tungdil laid a hand on her shoulder. “What is it, Sanda? Do you know my parents?” he asked, heart beating wildly.

She laid a hand over his and looked at him tenderly. “I knew your father, Tungdil. His name was Lotrobur, and your mother was Yrdiss. They called you Calúngor. Yrdiss was promised to another, and her love for Lotrobur was born of an ill-fated flame, but their feelings were too strong to ignore. You were born in secret. Your father tried to smuggle you out of the kingdom because he knew Yrdiss’s guardian would kill you if he could.” She took a deep breath. “I followed Lotrobur through the tunnels. My orders were to kill father and son.”

“Did you…?”

“No. I caught up with him, we fought, and I won.” Her eyes glazed over as her mind traveled back to the past, and the events of sixty cycles ago came to life. “I raised my ax,” she continued, tapping her weapons belt. “I was going to cleave his skull with this very blade, but I heard you crying. It was a pitiful whimpering, but it softened my resolve. I looked into your father’s eyes and decided that I never wanted to kill another dwarf. It was then I realized that I’d never been a proper dwarf killer.” She lowered her eyes and stroked her weapon. “So I helped him up and told him to hurry.”

Tungdil said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

“When I got back, I told them that Lotrobur had run away. That was when they showed me the corpses—your mother’s body and your father’s head. I wasn’t the only one who’d been ordered to kill them. Yrdiss’s guardian, your great-uncle, had murdered them and thrown you into a chasm. Vraccas couldn’t save your parents, but he let you live because he knew a glorious future lay ahead of you. He shaped your fate and led you to the magus.” She smiled at him fondly. “And now he’s brought us together, sixty cycles later.”

Tungdil swallowed. “What was my great-uncle called?”

“Salfalur Shieldbreaker, King Lorimbur’s right-hand dwarf. He’s still alive, as far as I know. Your father was his best friend, which is how he met your mother. If things had happened differently, he would have taken over from Salfalur as commander-in-chief. Lotrobur was our second-best warrior, after Salfalur.”

“Is that when you left?”

“I became a mercenary in Idoslane until I met a dwarf who told me about a group of exiles living underground. Every dwarf needs kinsmen, so I made my way to Trovegold.”

Tungdil took her hand and shook it vigorously. “Thank you, Sanda. I can’t tell you how much it means to know the names of my parents—although I wish they hadn’t died because of me.”

“I wish they were alive to meet their famous son,” she said sincerely. “But you’re not to blame for their deaths. The laws are at fault—Lotrobur and Yrdiss loved each other, but she was promised to another against her will. The freelings have done away with forced marriages. That’s another reason why I like this realm.”

Tungdil got to his feet. “Will you drink with me to my parents?”

“It would be an honor,” replied the commander. They made their way to the nearest tavern and raised their tankards to Yrdiss and Lotrobur. Sanda seemed happy to talk about Tungdil’s parents, for whom she had nothing but respect.

Listening to her stories, Tungdil, who had no memory of his parents, felt an overwhelming urge to avenge their deaths. His hatred for Glaïmbar was supplanted by hatred for a thirdling by the name of Salfalur.

After a few tankards, he summoned the courage to ask Sanda to help him with his axmanship. I’ll be the best warrior in the history of the thirdlings, he decided. Salfalur will pay…

Porista,

Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

The maga’s distinguished guests were greeted by the magnificent architecture of the new Porista. Under Rodario’s supervision, the city had risen from the rubble, the ruined buildings restored to their former glory. A bright future lay ahead for the realm.

By the time the last of the delegates reached Porista, the city had begun to resemble a military camp. Flags and banners fluttered above the streets and houses, marking the territory of the different kingdoms. To no one’s surprise, Liútasil’s banners were situated as far away as possible from the crests of the clans in Gandogar’s entourage.

The shops and hostels of Porista welcomed the visitors. For the first time since its destruction, the city was booming. Takings were up, and the streets and alleyways were full of men, elves, and dwarves.

But the tension was palpable.

Everyone had heard about the conflict between the elves and the dwarves, and no one could say for certain whether the old enemies would talk peacefully or go for each other’s throats. A repetition of the incident in Dsôn Balsur would put paid to the great alliance, not to mention the assembly. The other delegates were relying on the threat of the maga’s magic to bring order to the proceedings.

When the appointed orbit dawned, the leaders of Girdlegard descended on the palace. The meeting was to be held in the conference chamber, where the council of the magi had met for the last time. There was no sign of the battle that had claimed the lives of Lot-Ionan, Maira, Turgur, and Sabora. The cracked flagstones and fallen pillars had been cleared away, and the gleaming copper dome and pristine marble testified to the skill of Porista’s artisans. In the eastern corner of the chamber stood Lot-Ionan, whom Nôd’onn had turned to stone.

Waiting to greet the delegates was Narmora, dressed in an embroidered robe that matched her crimson headscarf and went perfectly with her eyes. Andôkai stayed out of sight; by arriving last, she intended to underline her power and signal to the kings and queens of Girdlegard that she outranked them all.

“Scrubs up nicely, doesn’t she, brother?” boomed a voice that Narmora recognized instantly as belonging to Boïndil. It seemed to be coming from somewhere behind the delegation from Weyurn. “It’s nice to know she made an effort on our behalf.”

As the last of the Weyurnians entered the conference chamber, the dwarves came into view. At the head of the procession was King Gandogar, flanked by the twins. Representatives from the four allied kingdoms made up the rest of the deputation.

She welcomed the high king first, then turned to the twins, who shook her hand vigorously. “Do you still dream about me?” she asked Boëndal with a smile.

The dwarf shuddered. “Vraccas protect me from älvish nightmares,” he said, pulling a face. “You look older, Narmora. I thought Andôkai would teach you the secret of everlasting youth.”

“I’ve had a lot on my mind,” she said evasively, unwilling to share her worries with every kingdom in the land. “I’ll tell you about it later.” She spotted Balyndis at the back of the delegation. Standing beside her was a broad-chested warrior whom Narmora didn’t recognize. “Where’s Tungdil?” she asked the twins.

“Tungdil?” said Boïndil. “He’s—”

His brother cleared his throat. “He stayed behind in the fifthling kingdom,” he said, conscious that Gemmil might not thank them for revealing the freelings’ existence. In his opinion, it was a strictly dwarven concern. “He couldn’t join the delegation. Sentry duty, I’m afraid.”

Narmora nodded sagely, although Boëndal was obviously lying. Gandogar, overhearing, avoided her gaze.

“I wouldn’t mention him to Balyndis,” said Boïndil moodily. “They’re not together anymore. She forged the iron band with the king of the fifthlings. It’s a touchy subject.”

I’m not the only one to whom fate has dealt a bad hand… “Thanks for the warning,” she said aloud. “The assembly is about to begin. We’ve put you next to the door—as far away as possible from the elves.” Stepping aside, she ushered them into the hall.

When the last dwarf had taken his seat, she left her post, entered the chamber and closed the doors behind her. The benches and tables were arranged in a semi-circle with Andôkai’s throne-like chair at the center. Narmora sat down on the only remaining seat and waited for her hated mentor.

On the other side of the chamber, Liútasil was talking in hushed tones to two members of his delegation. Every now and then they looked up, glowered in the dwarves’ direction and continued their whispered conversation.

I wonder what they’re plotting, thought Narmora, wishing she could read their thoughts. She watched their lips move soundlessly and discovered to her astonishment that every word, every syllable was perfectly audible inside her head. Unfortunately, she couldn’t make sense of the discussion—elvish was nothing like älvish, and she had never learned the elven tongue.

Just then a powerful gust blew open the double doors.

Everyone in the chamber swiveled round and the dwarves reached for their weapons, prompting the elves to raise their bows.

Andôkai was standing in the doorway. Like Narmora, she was dressed in a crimson robe, but the cut and embroidery were more elaborate. In her left hand she held a sheathed sword.

Proudly she surveyed the assembled delegates. “Rulers of Girdlegard, welcome to Porista,” she called. “Kings and queens of dwarves, elves, and men, I welcome you and your courtiers to my palace.” She swept past the benches to her chair, from which she gazed down at the other rulers. At the back of the chamber, the doors swung shut, as if of their own accord. “I have something to tell you, something that bodes ill for our kingdoms.” She paused for a moment, allowing her words to take effect. “Ten powerful avatars are laying waste to the Outer Lands. They were created from the flesh of Tion, hewn from his body by the red-hot hammer of Vraccas. These creatures see it as their mission to destroy the darkness created by the god from whom they were born, an objective that most in this room would approve of, were it not for the trail of destruction they leave in their wake. The avatars are demigods, fiery beings who scorch the ground and care nothing for human casualties. At their service is an army of warriors who share their commitment to destroying Tion’s creation, whatever the cost.”

The delegates’ faces mingled fear and alarm.

“I’m sure you all remember the comet that passed over Girdlegard and brought death and destruction to a number of our kingdoms,” continued Andôkai, looking gravely at her audience. “It wasn’t a comet. The ten demigods have a long-lost brother who descended from the skies to join them in the Outer Lands. According to legend, the eleven brothers can only be defeated by beings with pure hearts and noble souls. It seems we must prepare ourselves for an attack.”

Queen Wey, a woman of some fifty cycles dressed in a long blue robe trimmed with diamonds, was the first to speak. “If what you say is true, we need a fighting force more powerful than the allied army at Dsôn Balsur.” She inclined her head toward the maga. “Most of all, we need your help.”

“You shall have it,” promised Andôkai. “But I can’t guarantee that my famula and I can defeat them. An army is exactly what—”

“An army of innocents,” exclaimed Nate, the fur-wrapped king of Tabaîn. His eyes were as green as lily pads, and his thinning hair was the color of ripe corn. “You said they can only be defeated by pure souls,” he continued. “I propose we raise an army of maidens and youths unsullied by the pleasures of the flesh. We can train them to fight.”

“Poppycock,” yapped King Belletain, apparently addressing his goblet. He gave it a playful spin. A dwarf at his side monitored his every movement, watching for early signs of a seizure. “I say we use children. Stick them in a mangonel and fire them at the comet-gods. That should do it.”

“Supposing the men and women were pure to begin with, would they retain their purity if we trained them to fight?” enquired the bronzed queen of Sangpûr. Despite wearing several layers of clothing, Umilante was suffering from the cold. The climate in Porista was decidedly frosty compared to her desert realm.

“We could pull their legs until they’re long and stringy and sharpen their heads to a point. Put them in a trebuchet, and whoosh!” Belletain made a hissing noise like a flying missile and stuck out his index finger, aiming for the goblet. “Ker-plung!” The goblet crashed to the ground. “See, it works!”

The king of Urgon’s ramblings went uncommented on by everyone else in the room.

Prince Mallen turned to King Nate. “Your suggestion strikes me as plausible—but perhaps Lord Liútasil can offer some advice.” He turned to the elven lord. “These demigods… Have your people heard of them? How might one defeat them?”

Before the auburn-haired lord could reply, the elf to the left of him jumped up and stabbed a finger at the dwarves. “What about the traitors in our ranks? The groundlings cut down our archers.” He glowered at them furiously. “You can’t use the threat of the avatars to get away with your crimes.”

Boïndil jumped to his feet. “Take that back, you pointy-eared liar, or I’ll—”

“Sit down, Boïndil!” roared Gandogar, as Boëndal and Balyndis reached forward to drag the furious warrior into his seat.

“Or you’ll what?” the elf asked mockingly, taking a step toward him. “Come here and kill me, if you dare. Everyone knows the dwarves are cowardly murderers. I’ll warrant you’ve been killing our archers and blaming it on the älfar all along!”

Andôkai, eyes glinting dangerously, rose to her feet. “Quiet!” she barked furiously and was instantly obeyed. Her magic was feared by the dwarves and the elves. “I suggest we focus on the important issues. We can deal with your feuding later, if we must.”

Her words were still echoing through the chamber when someone hammered on the doors. Andôkai signaled to Narmora to deal with the unexpected interruption.

She opened the doors to find herself face to face with Rodario and an unknown dwarf. A penetrating smell of perspiration rose from the visibly exhausted warrior whose leather jerkin was stained with rings of sweat.

“Apologies for the interruption, my dark-hearted beauty, but this little fellow and his diminutive companions desire an interview with the maga,” explained Rodario with customary flamboyance.

The dwarf seemed dissatisfied with the introduction. “My name is Beldobin Anvilstand of the clan of the Steely Nails of Borengar’s line. Queen Xamtys’s deputy, Gufgar Anvilstand of the clan of the Steely Nails, sent me here to speak with the maga directly.” He pointed to something behind him. “The long-un tried to turn me away, but I showed him who we’ve brought.”

Peering over his head, Narmora saw a makeshift stretcher surrounded by twenty dwarves.

The stretcher, made of planks of wood and steel shields with wheels attached to the bottom, was bowing dangerously under the weight of a warrior of colossal proportions. Traces of bright yellow liquid covered the giant’s visor and parts of his armor. In his left hand he held his sword, the blade of which was broken and spattered with orc blood. Hair and scraps of flesh were stuck to the cudgel in his other hand. The dwarves hadn’t been able to wrench the weapons from his grip.

“We don’t know what’s wrong with him. A sentry found him near West Ironhald. We didn’t know what to do with him, so we thought we’d bring him here.”

“You did wisely. Bring him in.” Narmora opened both doors and hurried to the front of the room. “Estimable Maga, there’s someone to see you.”

The dwarves pushed the stretcher into the chamber and came to a halt beside Narmora. Turning toward the dwarven delegation, they saluted the high king and Xamtys before leaving the room. Their mission, a feat of dwarven endurance, was complete.

“Djern!” cried Andôkai, laying her sword on the table and hurrying over to examine his injuries.

“Get back!” shouted Balyndis, leaping up and drawing her ax. “Get back! It isn’t Djern!”

Andôkai froze and turned to the smith, seeking an explanation, but it was already too late.

The colossal warrior awoke from his paralysis and rammed his broken sword into the maga’s unprotected midriff. Jumping down from the stretcher, he drew a second sword with his left hand and swung his cudgel toward Narmora, who leaped aside, landing among King Nate’s delegation. A fearsome roar echoed through the chamber and the giant’s visor emitted a blinding violet glow.

“Djern!” groaned the maga, staring at the hilt of the sword protruding from her belly. She took a step back, pulled out the blade and reached for her sword. Murmuring an incantation to close the wound, she braced herself for the next assault.

It came sooner than she expected.

The armored giant went for his victim with murderous zeal. Blows rained down from his cudgel and sword with preternatural power and speed. Andôkai had crossed swords with her bodyguard in training, but nothing had prepared her for this. She had never encountered such savagery.

Her stomach had barely stopped bleeding when her right shoulder was struck by a blow from above. The cudgel smashed through her collarbone and sent her flying to the ground. The incantation on her lips became a piercing scream of pain. The sword entered her belly for a second time and she gave an agonized groan as the giant rotated the blade by 180 degrees.

By the time Djern’s helmet crashed against her head, there was nothing she could do. The steel spikes pierced her skull, blood streamed into her eyes, and everything darkened around her.

The delegates, who had been following the duel in stunned disbelief, leaped belatedly to the maga’s aid. Ireheart led the charge against the giant, followed by his fellow dwarven warriors, then the humans and elves. Arrows perforated the giant’s armor; axes and hammers pounded his breastplate and hacked through his chain mail. At last, the violet light went out behind his metal visor and he sank to the ground, blood gushing from countless wounds.

Nine men, three dwarves, and four elves went with him to their deaths. Queen Wey was lucky to evade a fatal encounter with his cudgel, and Umilante’s many layers of clothing saved her from his deadly sword.

Boïndil, not satisfied that the giant was dead, continued to batter his helmet. “By Vraccas, he was tough,” he panted, wiping his face with his sleeve to clear away the saffron-colored blood. “Curse my inner furnace. Now I’ll never know what he looked like underneath.”

Narmora crouched beside the critically wounded maga. Those around her assumed she was trying to save her mentor, but the half älf had other ideas. There wouldn’t be another chance like this.

“I know a charm that would save you,” she whispered in the maga’s ear. “But I’ve decided to let you die. You killed my son and put my husband in a coma. You deserve to suffer for your scheming and lies.”

Andôkai coughed weakly and closed her eyes. “Furgas won’t recover without my help,” she hissed, grabbing Narmora by the collar of her robe. “If I die, Furgas dies with me.”

Narmora made no attempt to shake off the maga’s trembling hands. She reached for her necklace and produced the jagged splinter of malachite. “Does this look familiar?” she asked, eyes darkening to fathomless hollows as she spoke. “It’s the key to Nôd’onn’s power. He wore it in his flesh until Tungdil cut him open and spilled his guts. I found it at the Blacksaddle and made it my talisman. I didn’t realize how powerful it was.” She slid the gemstone from the chain. “Samusin have mercy,” she cried for the benefit of the others. “The maga is dying!”

She laid her hands slowly on Andôkai’s chest. Her lips moved as if she were summoning healing energies for the maga’s recovery, while her fingers pressed the splinter of malachite through the bodice of her dress. The long, pointed shard bored deeper and deeper, a green halo encircling the maga’s body as the malachite pierced her heart.

Narmora, still mumbling strange incantations, waited as the maga’s life force drained away. The halo was fading fast.

The half älf leaned over her mentor. “Look at me,” she whispered in the dark tongue of the älfar. She tilted Andôkai’s head toward her. “Narmora is your death. I will take your life and drain you of your magic. None of this need have happened if you’d left us alone.”

The maga tried to lean forward, but all she could manage was a feeble groan. Her eyes glazed over.

After checking that her hands were hidden by her robes, Narmora withdrew the splinter and pocketed the malachite. Her bloodied fingers were unlikely to attract suspicion, given the maga’s injuries and the pool of blood that surrounded her body. Straightening up, she turned to address the delegates.

“Andôkai the Tempestuous is no more,” she announced, voice cracking with feigned grief. She raised a hand to wipe away a nonexistent tear. “Girdlegard’s last maga is dead.”

A horrified silence descended on the chamber.

“You shall take her place, Narmora,” said Gandogar calmly, stepping forward. “You were her famula; you shall lead us in the battle against the avatars.”

“You’re doomed already,” said a gruff voice from the doorway. “You can’t beat the avatars with magic or an army. You’ll never find a way of halting their advance.”

The dwarves, elves, and men turned to the doorway and hefted their weapons, readying themselves for the next unwelcome surprise.

Before them was a lone dwarf. His face was covered in intricate tattoos and he was armed to the teeth. In his right hand was a three-balled morning star. “My name is Romo Steelheart of the clan of the Stone Grinders, nephew of Lorimbas Steelheart, king of the thirdlings and ruler of the Black Range. I have a proposal to make to Lord Liútasil and the delegations from the human kingdoms.” A second dwarf, broader and more muscular than Lorimbur’s brawny nephew, appeared behind him. Sunlight gleamed on his bald head.

“The thirdlings want to help us fight the avatars?” whispered Queen Wey, surprised.

“What kind of proposal?” muttered Balyndis to Glaïmbar. She had a fair idea that it wouldn’t be good news.

“Call it an offer you can’t refuse,” said Romo, grinning maliciously. “My uncle knows how to combat the threat from the west.” He swung his morning star in the direction of the dwarven delegation. “I’ll explain once they’ve left. My uncle refuses to negotiate with the dwarves of Beroïn, Borengar, Giselbert, and Goïmdil.”

Trovegold,

Underground Network,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

Sanda ducked just in time, allowing the blade to sail over her head as she dropped to one knee and lunged forward.

The blow was dealt with such precision and power that Tungdil didn’t have time to avoid the blunted ax.

Neither his weapons belt, his chain mail, nor his leather jerkin did anything to slow the blade as it thudded against his ribcage, winding him momentarily and bringing tears to his eyes.

“Stop!” shouted Myr in alarm, hurrying over to inspect his chest. “You’re supposed to be coaching, not killing him,” she scolded, as Sanda picked herself up from her knees and smiled at Tungdil without a hint of contrition.

“Don’t make such a fuss, Myr,” she said coolly. “He’s only bruised his ribs. Pain is an excellent teacher.” The commander-in-chief made no secret of her dislike for the pale-faced medic. “He’s learned an important lesson, and he’ll live to fight again.” She turned to Tungdil, expecting him to agree.

“It was careless of me,” he admitted, yelping internally as Myr proceeded to prod his ribs.

“They’re broken, not bruised,” she hissed. “Your muscles are in danger of squeezing out your brain. A blunted ax isn’t a toy, you know.”

Sanda’s tattoos, animated by fury, rearranged themselves across her face. She swung her ax playfully, but there was menace in her eyes. “It’s a good thing you’re here to advise me, Myrmianda. I’ll remember not to tap my blunted weapon against your delicate little head.” Snorting angrily, she abandoned the training session, leaving Myr and Tungdil to show themselves out of the stronghold.

“I thought I was a decent warrior,” said Tungdil, who had been practicing his axmanship every orbit in preparation for fighting Salfalur. Groaning, he lowered himself onto a marble pew. “Even the twins said I was passable, but Sanda is in a different league. Boïndil could learn a thing or two from her, I reckon.”

“You’ll get there in the end,” she soothed him. “Lift up your shirt: I need to palpate your ribs.”

Palpate. He felt like kissing her on the spot. It was such a fine, scholarly word.

“She’s fought more battles than you’ve seen cycles—she’s three times as old as you, remember.” She clicked her tongue disapprovingly at the sight of the bruise on his chest. “No more training today,” she ruled. “We’re going home so I can ice your chest. Once the swelling has gone down, we’ll put some ointment on the bruise.”

Tungdil struggled clumsily to his feet. He had been injured more times than he cared to remember, and it never got any less painful. Slowly, he and Myr left the stronghold and made their way down a winding path that afforded excellent views of the city.

Tungdil remembered the heated exchange between Sanda and Myr. “Why doesn’t she like you?” he asked. “I didn’t think Sanda was a dwarf hater.”

“You don’t have to be a thirdling to dislike other dwarves,” she said with a smile. “The feeling is mutual.”

“Why don’t you like each other?” he persisted.

She winked at him cheekily. “Why do you think, Tungdil Goldhand? What could possibly cause a quarrel between two female dwarves?”

He grinned. “Don’t tell me you were vying for the affections of a handsome warrior!” He glanced back at the stronghold. “It wasn’t Gemmil, was it?”

Myr blushed and turned her pretty face toward the waterfalls. “I’m from Gemtrove, our southernmost city. Gemmil was one of the first dwarves I met when I moved to Trovegold. We were getting on really well—until Sanda muscled in. I wasn’t afraid to tell her what I thought of her, and she made it fairly clear that she didn’t like me. At least it’s in the open. I’d find it hard to be civil to a thirdling spy.”

“You don’t mean that, do you?”

“I most certainly do. The thirdlings hate the descendants of Lorimbur’s brothers, the freelings included. They don’t care that we’ve cut our ties with the other kingdoms—we’re still enemies in their eyes. Spies like Sanda are sent to snoop on defectors and gather intelligence about our realm.”

“What does Gemmil think? Don’t say you haven’t told him.”

“Oh, I’ve told him, all right.”

“What did he say?”

“He laughed it off. Gemmil is blinded by love, but I’ve recruited some friends to keep an eye on Sanda. She can’t do anything without us knowing.”

“That’s why she hates you?”

“She hasn’t found out yet. No, Sanda hates me because she thinks I’m after Gemmil. She said I was pretending to like you because I wanted to trick her into feeling safe.” She turned her red eyes on Tungdil and seemed to read his thoughts. “I’m not interested in Gemmil. I like you, Tungdil Goldhand.”

It wasn’t his intention to kiss her, but he found himself pressing his lips against hers. They were soft, tempting, and sweet, with a taste like spiced honey. A tingle of excitement ran through him, and he felt strangely light-headed.

Myr hesitated for a moment before kissing him back. At last he pulled away and they looked at each happily, smiling in contented silence as they strolled through the streets of Trovegold.

Maybe she’s the one for me, he thought while he waited for Myr to buy a few things for dinner. Surely I’m over Balyndis by now. Myr smiled at him before turning back to order a punnet of stone fruit. His heart gave a little leap like it used to do for Balyndis. Yes, he decided, relieved. Myr is the one for me. The rest of the way home, he had his arm around her shoulders.

After a quick nap, a hearty dinner, and a pause to apply Myr’s ointment, which helped to soothe the pain, Tungdil left the house and allowed himself to be guided through the city by Myr. After a while they reached the far wall of the cavern and joined crowds of dwarves flocking into a tunnel. Tungdil pestered Myr to tell him where everyone was going, but she told him to wait and see.

They strode through a beautifully hewn gallery, and Tungdil spotted a blue light ahead. The hum of conversation grew louder as they approached.

At last the passageway opened into an artificial cavern. Tungdil and Myr were standing at the highest vantage point, at the top of a series of terrace-like platforms. Carved into each platform was a long marble pew, and most of the dwarves were seated already. The bottommost terrace was a large stage, clearly visible from everywhere in the room. The walls were studded with blue crystals that provided ample light.

“A play!” said Tungdil. “Just wait until I tell Rodario. I bet he’d love to perform in Trovegold.” Myr looked at him blankly. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I forgot you hadn’t met him. He’s an impresario—and a philanderer. He was part of the expedition to forge Keenfire.”

“We’re not here for a play,” she told him. “Every cycle we hold a singing competition in honor of Vraccas. Each of our five cities sends a choir. It’s a big occasion.” She pointed to the stage where the members of the first choir were preparing to sing. The assembled dwarves stamped their boots against the stone floor to show their appreciation. A thunderous rumble echoed through the room. Myr reached for Tungdil’s hand. “You’ll love it, I promise.”

The concert began.

The first song was nothing like the mystical hymns of the priests at the temple. The baritone and bass voices sang of underground riches, beautiful caverns and grottoes, hidden treasure, and the hundred-and-one shades of gray in a single piece of rock. The themes were quintessentially dwarven, and other verses dealt with forging axes or building bridges over chasms.

Soon the choir raised their powerful voices to the heroes of yore, singing of glorious deeds and great victories over Tion’s minions. Tungdil listened to the stirring words.

On he marches, axes raised

While our singers sing his praise

The fearless warrior will not rest

Helped by Vraccas in his quest.

For Girdlegard he gives his life

Murdered by a deadly knife

As he crumples to the ground

Let these halls with song resound

To praise our dwarven hero.

His savage killers surge ahead

Trampling on the valiant dead

Dwarven fighters bar their path

Sealing off the mountain pass.

More invaders flood the gates

But our warriors never rest

Helped by Vraccas in their quest

And our singers sing the praises

Of our warriors, axes raised

Long live our dwarven heroes!

To Tungdil’s surprise, one of the songs was dedicated to the battle of the Blacksaddle, while another darker ballad described the loss of Keenfire and the battle for the fifthling kingdom. He found the lyrics deeply affecting—so much so that his mood became quite melancholy. Thankfully, the ballad was brief, and the next number was a drinking song. Soon he was humming along to a ditty about the elves, taught to him by the twins.

Created by Sitalia from dew, soil, and sun

In elegance and beauty second to none

But appearances aren’t everything

As every dwarf knows

If you meet an elf

You’ll come to blows.

Pointy ears and a pointy chin

Sticking-out ribs and much too thin

Their skin is smooth, they smell like flowers

They talk to trees, they sleep in bowers

They can’t grow beards, they spurn our wealth

Three cheers to Vraccas for not making me an elf!

Gullible humans admire their grace

Tricked by the charm of the elfish face

But appearances aren’t everything

As every dwarf knows

The stuck-up elves

Love no one but themselves.

Pointy ears and a pointy chin

Sticking-out ribs and much too thin

Their skin is smooth, they smell like flowers

They talk to trees, they sleep in bowers

They can’t grow beards, they spurn our wealth

Three cheers to Vraccas for not making me an elf!

And now we come to the moral of the song

The elves are weak and the dwarves are strong

Ask any maiden and her choice is clear

A dwarf’s mighty hammer outdoes an elfish spear!

In the intervals between choirs, musicians came onto the stage with horns, flutes, goat-leather bagpipes, and drums of all shapes and sizes.

Tungdil barely noticed the passing hours; he was too caught up in the music to feel tired. A shiver of pleasure ran down his back.

“Thank you,” he whispered to Myr. “Thank you for sharing this with me. Thank you for everything.” He kissed her. “If I were to offer you a ring, what would you say?”

She smiled. “Thank you, Tungdil Goldhand.”

Seven orbits later, Tungdil was sitting in Myr’s library, reading an account of the freelings’ origins.

The history of the realm was chronicled on numerous stone tablets in the temple, and Myr had gone to the trouble of transcribing the inscriptions and collating them in manuscript form. She had incorporated sketches of the city, including views from the stronghold and the plateau. Another manuscript described her home city of Gemtrove, which, as Tungdil gleaned from the sketches, was an architectural masterwork.

Myr’s meticulous draftsmanship rivaled anything he had seen in Lot-Ionan’s books. She’s a real scholar, he thought admiringly as he leafed through her work.

Just then someone knocked at the door.

Assuming it was a patient for Myr, he stayed in his armchair, but the knocking became more insistent, eventually reaching a volume impossible to ignore. Cursing Sanda for breaking his ribs, he got up slowly and went to investigate the source of the racket.

“What are you doing here?” he exclaimed, staring in astonishment at the pair of bedraggled warriors on the doorstep.

“Confounded water!” thundered Boïndil. “Next time those avatars decide to fall out of the sky I hope they have the decency to vaporize the freelings’ pond.” He wrung out his beard, dripping brackish water all over Myr’s steps. “We’ve come to fetch you, scholar.” A strand of duckweed had attached itself to his hair. He pulled it out and stamped on it angrily. “Nasty Elrian mischief! She nearly got me this time.”

Boëndal dried his eyes on his sleeve before realizing that the fabric was wetter than his face. “I swore never to enter that water again, but how else were we supposed to find you?” he said, aggrieved.

They hovered on the doorstep uncertainly. Last time Myr had been quite insistent about keeping the carpet dry.

“It’s good to see you both,” said Tungdil, shepherding them into the kitchen where they could drip to their heart’s content on the floor. “Start from the beginning. What brings you to Trovegold?” Miniature lakes formed around the twins’ feet as water streamed from their garments onto the tiles.

“We’re taking you to Porista,” said Boïndil, making himself at home. He was already tucking into the leftovers from lunch. “Mm, I’d forgotten about Myr’s cooking.”

“Does Andôkai need me? Is it about Keenfire?” asked Tungdil, as baffled as before.

“No.” Boëndal paused for a moment to wipe his face on a dishtowel. Boïndil took it from him and dried his beard. “It’s losing its shine,” he murmured peevishly. “I should probably grease it. Beards aren’t supposed to get wet.”

His brother returned to the matter in hand. “You won’t believe what’s happened while you’ve been here in Trovegold.” He gave a brief account of the conference, the news from the Outer Lands, and the events leading up to the maga’s death. “Narmora has taken the reins—no one else in Girdlegard knows anything of the magic arts. And Gandogar wants you to be there when Romo outlines his proposal to Liútasil and the men.”

Me? Once Tungdil had overcome his initial surprise, he realized why he had been chosen to represent the dwarves. The thirdlings banned the dwarves of Beroïn, Borengar, Giselbert, and Goïmdil from attending the meeting. “He chose wisely. I’m a thirdling, so Romo will have to let me in.”

Boïndil finished scooping out the contents of a beetle carapace and replaced it on the sideboard. “By the way, I’ve got a bone to pick with you. Why didn’t you tell me you were planning to stay in Trovegold? It isn’t nice to lie to an old friend.”

Tungdil smiled and held out his hand. “No hard feelings, Boïndil. I was afraid you might drag me away by my beard.”

“Too right I would!” chuckled Boïndil, helping himself to a dumpling. He dipped it in some cold gravy and popped it in his mouth. “One of these is worth four dozen runts,” he said approvingly. “Although there’s nothing to stop me fighting and eating.”

Tungdil was brooding over the news. “It doesn’t bode well for Girdlegard,” he muttered. A new challenge and the awkwardness of seeing Balyndis awaited him in Porista, whereas in Trovegold he led a peaceful scholarly life with Myr, interrupted only by training sessions with Sanda and the occasional afternoon in the forge.

He glanced into the adjoining room and glimpsed the diamond-studded weapons belt given to him by Giselbert Ironeye. It was hanging on the wall beneath two crossed axes—his own work, of course.

Boëndal followed his gaze. “It doesn’t bode well,” he agreed, although it wasn’t clear whether he was referring to the changes in Girdlegard or in his friend.

“You’re living the scholar’s life, are you?” mumbled Boïndil, picking up another dumpling and waving it vaguely in the air. “No chain mail, comfortable boots—are you sure you haven’t put on weight?”

Tungdil laughed and fetched three glasses of beer. “I doubt it. I’m taking lessons in axmanship from Sanda Flameheart. You should see her muscles; she’d lay you out cold in a fight.”

“It’s easy to impress a novice,” said Boïndil, smiling. “She probably hasn’t fought a true warrior. I’d show her who’s boss.” He swallowed the dumpling, washed it down with a draft of beer, and belched loudly.

“It’s time to dust off your weapons belt,” said Boëndal earnestly. “I hope you’re not too settled here. Gandogar needs you in Porista; no one can go to the meeting but you.”

Boïndil, always the pragmatist, pushed past him and unhooked the belt and one of the axes from the wall. He handed them to Tungdil. “Don’t make me force you,” he said with a wink. “Are you ready?”

The front door opened, and Myr walked in, carrying her medicine bag. “Vraccas almighty, we’ve been flooded!” she said in mock horror. “I thought they’d fixed the sluice for the canals…” She put her hands on her slender waist and followed the trail of water to her guests. “So it was you!” she said, pretending to be cross. “I see you found the kitchen.” Laughing, she hugged Boïndil and then Boëndal. “I smell dumplings,” she commented, sniffing the air. “That’s strange—they’ve disappeared…”

“It’s your own fault,” protested Boïndil. “You left them unguarded.”

“I assume you didn’t come here to steal my food,” she said, noting their earnest faces. Boëndal explained the purpose of their visit. “If Tungdil’s leaving, so am I,” declared Myr. “I’ll accompany the three of you as far as Porista, and we’ll see from there. I can’t bear to separate our freshly melded hearts.”

“Freshly melded?” exclaimed Boëndal. “Congratulations! May Vraccas bring you happiness and wealth.” He shook hands with them vigorously. “We should have brought a present.”

Boïndil responded to the unexpected news by choking on a handful of cranberries and would have died an in-glorious and untimely death, were it not for Myr, who thumped him on the back. The red-faced warrior took a sip of beer. “To the happy couple,” he gasped.

Tungdil showed them the ring on the middle finger of his right hand and the smaller version worn by Myr. He had forged them himself. “We had the ceremony in the temple.” And no one was there to stop us, he added silently.

“In that case, we’ll take two scholars to Porista,” said Boëndal, smiling. “All the better for Girdlegard and the dwarves.”

Myr beamed. “I can’t wait to see a human city. How am I going to find enough parchment for all my sketches and notes?” She hurried upstairs. “We’ll set off as soon as I’ve packed a few things…”

“Personally, I’d rather dry out first,” said Boïndil, tapping his foot against the floor. His boot squelched unpleasantly. “There’s no point in getting blisters.”

Before they left, Tungdil paid a final visit to the stronghold and took his leave of Gemmil and Sanda. As usual, he was greeted warmly, and Sanda offered him a drink. He gave as full an account as possible of the situation in Porista. “It’s essential I go,” he concluded.

Sanda had been listening attentively. “I know Romo Steelheart. His uncle dotes on him. He’s a dedicated dwarf killer, one of the worst I’ve ever met. He was trained by Salfalur himself. Entrusting Romo with the fate of Girdlegard is like asking an orc to look after a playground. Lorimbas is up to something serious.” She glanced at Gemmil. “Romo doesn’t make deals; he’s there to enforce his uncle’s will. He won’t back down.” She turned back to Tungdil. “Romo and his associates can’t be trusted. The meeting could be an ambush—or worse. You’ll have to watch your back.”

“I’ll remember your advice,” he thanked her with a bow. “Myr and I will return to Trovegold as soon as we can.”

“Myr’s going with you?” asked Sanda, taken aback. Almost immediately she recovered her composure and smiled.

Tungdil decided that she was probably pleased at the prospect of not being watched for a while. Except Myr says she doesn’t know about the surveillance… Arrangements had already been put in place for Myr’s friends to keep an eye on Sanda during her absence.

“Perhaps you could give the high king my regards,” said Gemmil. “I’d like to pay a visit to Gandogar once Girdlegard’s safety has been assured. I think a meeting would be useful. I don’t suppose many of the freelings would be interested in rejoining their folks, but a trade relationship would benefit us all. I’ll leave it to you to describe our realm and assure him that we’re not a band of criminals and murderers. May Vraccas be with you on your journey.”

“I’ll talk to Gandogar for you,” promised Tungdil. “He’ll hear nothing but praise from me.”

He left the modest hall and was halfway down the stairs when footsteps sounded behind him. Turning, he found himself looking at the tattooed features of the queen.

“You won’t like what I’m going to tell you,” she said gravely, “and you probably won’t believe me, but be warned: Whatever happens on your journey, keep a close eye on Myrmianda.” She glanced about nervously to satisfy herself that they were unobserved.

Tungdil frowned and took a small step away from her. “I don’t follow.” His eyes searched her face, looking for an explanation. “What’s Myr got to do with anything?”

“I’m not at liberty to tell you,” she said obscurely. “Myrmianda is who she is because of her family. You mustn’t breathe a word of what I’ve told you, especially not to her.” A sentry appeared at the top of the steps and watched them from afar. “I know she’s spying on me,” she whispered. “Myrmianda could outscheme a gnome. For your own sake, don’t trust her.” She held out her hand. “This is for Gandogar,” she said loudly. “May Vraccas protect you and your friends.”

Looking into her eyes, it seemed to Tungdil that she was telling the truth. She’s a thirdling, though, and Myr thinks she’s a spy, he reminded himself as he continued down the stairs. I don’t see why she’d try to drive us apart—unless she’s plotting something in Trovegold or conspiring with the thirdlings in Porista…

Barely an hour later he was marching through the tunnels toward the surface with Myr and the twins.

When he looked into Myr’s warm, red eyes, the conversation with Sanda seemed ridiculous. Soon afterward, when Myr kissed him lovingly, he forgot what the thirdling had said.

Porista,

Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

I did it for you, Furgas. Narmora kneeled at her husband’s bedside, pressed her forehead against his cold hand, and buried her face in the covers. I punished her and took her power so that I might cure you. It won’t be long until Dorsa can meet her father.

She got up, kissed his colorless lips, and slipped out of the room. She could feel the warmth of the malachite crystal around her neck. The stone had absorbed the maga’s magic, transferring her power to Narmora, who intended to use the crystal to cure Furgas—as soon as she learned how.

The half älf’s satisfaction at killing her hated mentor had been disappointingly brief. With Furgas critically ill and Girdlegard in danger, she hadn’t been able to enjoy the victory as much as she had hoped. She ran a hand over her bodice, feeling the malachite splinter beneath the fabric.

Rodario emerged from one of the passageways and walked alongside her. They hadn’t seen each other for orbits; in fact, they had barely spoken since Andôkai’s death. “I keep thinking about what happened,” he began. “An awful business.”

“Ideal for one of your plays,” she said tersely.

“Too dramatic,” he countered. “Even for me. My valued spectators would storm out of the Curiosum if I were to tell them that Girdlegard’s only maga was dead, killed—in all probability—by Tion’s descendants, the devious avatars, more dangerous than anything our kingdoms have ever—”

She stopped and glared at him. “You’ve been eavesdropping on the assembly!”

“I wasn’t eavesdropping. I just happened to overhear.” He assumed a look of wounded innocence. “The walls are extremely thin.” His hand slapped the sturdy marble. “Well, some of them are…”

She set off again, with Rodario walking determinedly alongside her.

“I suppose you know what would really upset my spectators?” he said softly.

“The abysmal acting?”

“No, my sharp-tongued beauty.” He barred her way. “The calculated murder of the maga by her famula, who committed her heinous crime in front of Girdlegard’s assembled kings and queens, none of whom realized what was unfolding before their eyes.”

“Are you out of your mind?” hissed Narmora, rounding on him.

“An excellent question—and one that I was saving for you. I saw what you did, Narmora.”

“And what would that be?”

As a longstanding friend of Narmora’s, Rodario refused to be intimidated. “I followed the dwarves into the conference chamber. I was standing beside you, in case you needed help. I saw what you did with the crystal.”

“I see.” Her dark eyes seemed to look right through him. “And what are you going to do about it?”

He pouted. “Nothing. Provided that—”

She stuck her chin out scornfully. “The fabulous Rodario, a blackmailer.”

“Oh please,” he said dismissively, “I’m too classy for blackmail, and besides…” He took a step closer and looked her in the eye. “I’m Furgas’s friend. Whether I’m your friend or not is another matter. You’re not the old Narmora anymore.”

“How could I not change?” she said, her haughtiness evaporating. “Andôkai deserved to die—you of all people should know that. I’ve studied hard to get this far—I can handle the avatars.”

“No one, not even the most diligent famula, can become a fully fledged maga in the space of half a cycle.” He tilted his head to one side and stared at her bodice, eying the spot where the shard of malachite was hidden. “Unless of course…”

She strode past him in the direction of the conference chamber. “If you’ve got something to say, I recommend you say it,” she snapped.

“Fine,” he said calmly, setting off behind her at a leisurely pace. “I’m going wherever you’re going. I want to be privy to all your decisions. From now on, I’m here to advise you—like Furgas would, if he were well.”

She laughed. “How do you think the kings and queens of Girdlegard will like the idea of sharing their confidences with an impresario? Not everyone wants to be featured in your plays.”

He jogged to catch up with her. “That’s easily solved,” he said brightly. “You’ll tell them I’m your famulus.” He raised his right hand and looked at her solemnly. “Think of the benefits—I can help with your lines. Listen, Narmora,” he said sincerely, “I want to be your friend. You need someone you can trust, someone you can share your thoughts with. I’m offering you my help.”

They hurried through the arcades in silence. At the door to the conference chamber, Narmora stopped and turned to Rodario. “You’re right, a friend is exactly what I need.” She smiled, and for a few heartbeats she was the old Narmora, leading lady of the Curiosum. “Come on, it’s time to save Girdlegard.” She threw open the doors and walked in.

The leaders of the other kingdoms were waiting for her. Only the dwarves were missing. In the interests of Girdlegard, they had agreed to absent themselves from the assembly, as per Romo’s churlish instructions. Narmora had promised to brief them later.

The half älf sat down on the throne belonging to Andôkai, while Rodario claimed the chair beside her and tried to look the part. “This is my famulus, Rodario,” she introduced him. “The late maga discovered his talent for magic and schooled him in the mystic arts. He will continue his studies under me.”

Rodario rose and gave a deep bow. The combination of his aristocratic features and fine robes would have dazzled a lesser audience. “My gifts as an actor are well known, but Andôkai made a secret of my apprenticeship. I’m delighted to announce that my growing skill as a weaver of enchantment will be placed in the service of our new maga, Narmora the Unnerving, as she leads the fight against Tion’s fiery avatars. With my help—”

“A fat lot of good he’ll do,” jeered Romo, cutting short the impresario’s speech. He glanced at Narmora. “She won’t defeat the avatars either. Not even the famous Andôkai could halt their advance.” He stood up, crossed the chamber and came to a halt beneath the copper dome, armor glistening in the intersecting rays of sunlight from the lofty windows. His companion, a taciturn, almost man-high dwarf, watched impassively from his seat.

Prince Mallen of Idoslane leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “And I suppose Lorimbas is the only one who can stop them?”

Romo bowed. “Greetings, Prince Mallen. My uncle was wondering how your kingdom was faring. We saw the smoke rising over Idoslane from our watchtowers across the border. It must be hard without our mercenaries to beat back Toboribor’s orcs.”

“Enough of this childishness,” snapped Narmora. “We’re here to listen to your proposal—although, frankly, it seems a waste of time.”

The thirdling bridled and was about to retaliate when someone hammered on the door.

Remembering the last interruption, Narmora rose uneasily from her throne and walked to the door.

“The hero of the Blacksaddle!” exclaimed Rodario, who had followed her. He couldn’t contain his surprise. “What an honor!”

Narmora held out her hand and Tungdil clasped it warmly.

“I wish the circumstances were more favorable, but it’s good to see you,” he said with a smile. He was accompanied by the twins and a pale dwarf with white hair and red eyes. “This is Myrmianda Alabaster, my spouse,” he said briefly. “I’m here for a reason. I’d like to take part in the discussions on behalf of the dwarven folks.”

“No,” growled Romo, his face contorting with rage. His tattoos looked darker and more menacing than ever as he glowered at the unknown dwarf. “The terms are clear: The descendants of—”

“I’m a thirdling,” said Tungdil politely, raising the ax in his right hand. “If I understand correctly, the dwarves of Lorimbur aren’t excluded from the proceedings.” He rapped his weapon against the floor, the metal ax head clattering against the flagstones. “Either the meeting is open to thirdlings, or you and your companion are barred as well.” He stared fearlessly into the eyes of the furious dwarf. “Very well,” he said, claiming the chair previously occupied by Gandogar. “The three of us will stay. I hope I haven’t missed much. Tell me, Romo, how exactly is your uncle going to stop the avatars?”

Mallen, eyes sparkling with amusement, gave his friend an encouraging nod. He and the other rulers, with the exception of Belletain, were heartened by Tungdil’s early victory in the war of words.

Romo, though, had regained his composure. “I see you haven’t brought Keenfire,” he said, hoping to humiliate his new adversary. “I heard a rumor that it was stolen.”

“It’s on loan to a mortal enemy,” said Tungdil lightly. “She’s sworn to kill me, so I know she’ll bring it back.” He cocked his head. “I thought you said Keenfire couldn’t help us?”

Mallen chuckled.

“It can’t,” Romo growled. He let his gaze travel over the faces of the assembled rulers. “My uncle saw the comet in the firmament and knew at once that the avatars were here. I expect you were wondering why we retook the Blacksaddle. Our archives are hidden in the stronghold, and we wanted them back. It was worth it: We learned from our forefathers’ writings how the avatars can be destroyed. There’s a secret weapon.”

“Little maids,” interjected Belletain, his dull eyes fixed on the thirdling. “Sharpen their heads, that’s the important bit. Take as many as you like.”

“No, worthy Belletain, there’s no need to sacrifice the maidens of Urgon,” said Romo. “As you know, my folk were created by Vraccas, but we despise the rest of his creation, including the avatars, who were brought into being by the hammer of the Smith. The Vraccas-hewn, Tion-bodied demigods must be destroyed.”

Queen Wey cleared her throat. “In the name of Elria, how?”

“If I were to tell you, you’d defeat them, and where would be our reward? With Lorimbas’s help, Girdlegard can defeat the avatars. That’s all you need to know.” He waited in silence for the protests to die down.

“What kind of reward did you have in mind?” enquired Tungdil, looking at Romo through narrowed eyes. He feared the worst.

“Nothing too unreasonable,” replied Romo. The men and elves leaned forward in anticipation, but Romo’s words were addressed to Tungdil alone. “The dwarves of Beroïn, Borengar, Giselbert, and Goïmdil must leave these lands without delay. Once they’re gone, the thirdlings will save Girdlegard from the avatars and send warriors to defend the gates of the other four kingdoms. Our folk is numerous and powerful.” He smiled maliciously. “The children of Vraccas must decide whether Girdlegard shall be destroyed.”

III

Porista,

Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

The thirdlings are crafty,” said Gandogar, looking into the worried faces of the other dwarven monarchs. “It’s not war they’re after. They want to kick us out of Girdlegard by other means.”

Boïndil clenched his fists. “I’d like to give Romo a taste of my axes.”

“It wouldn’t help,” Tungdil reminded him.

“No, but it would make me feel better.” The warrior snorted impatiently. “I’m angry enough to kill an army of runts and stamp on their plug-ugly—”

“Shush,” said Boëndal. “Some of us are trying to think.”

Gandogar and the rest of the dwarven delegation were seated at a table in one of the palace’s many rooms. Laid out before them was a map of Girdlegard. Hours had passed since they started discussing what to do about Romo’s proposal, and still no one had come up with a viable solution. They had until dusk to reach a decision, and the light was fading fast.

“Why didn’t he want us there when he told them about the weapon?” asked Balyndis.

At the sound of the smith’s voice, Tungdil reached for Myr’s hand as if to prove to himself that he loved her. He felt as if he were dangling over an open mineshaft, with only Myr to stop his fall. Looking up, he saw that Balyndis was holding hands with Glaïmbar. I’ve moved on, he told himself firmly, although he couldn’t help thinking that Balyndis looked pretty. His heart sped up a little. Because I’m agitated, he reasoned. He was furious at the thirdlings for exploiting Girdlegard’s predicament for their own ends.

“I expect he was hoping to win over the elves and men before Narmora had time to warn us,” said the one-armed king of the secondlings. “Neither he nor his uncle reckoned with Tungdil’s appearance.”

“One–nil to the children of Vraccas,” commented Boïndil confidently, running a hand through his sleek-looking beard. He had greased it with leftover fat from Myr’s kitchen, and he didn’t seem bothered by the residual smell of meat.

“It’s not over yet,” warned the high king, feeling the weight of his crown. He rested his chin on his hands. “We underestimated Lorimbas. He’s a hundred times more dangerous than Bislipur. Unless you can come up with a better solution…” He paused, looking hopefully at Balendilín, who was silent. “In that case, Vraccas forgive me, but I’ll have to give the order for our kingdoms to be cleared.”

“Never!” protested Boïndil, smashing his fist against the table. “If you banish us to the Outer Lands, the thirdlings will steal our strongholds and—”

“Girdlegard will be saved,” said Gandogar in a commanding voice. “Boïndil Doubleblade, I know how you feel. I don’t want to give our strongholds to the thirdlings either, but what of our Vraccas-given mission?” He looked each of them in the eye. “I want you to remember the Smith’s first commandment: Our duty is to protect the inhabitants of Girdlegard. If we’re obliged to leave our kingdoms, so be it.”

The high king’s speech was followed by a long silence as everyone searched for an alternative.

“Couldn’t we attack the thirdlings and seize the secret weapon?” suggested Queen Xamtys.

Balendilín shook his head. “The Black Range is uncharted territory. None of us could lead an army safely through the passageways and tunnels. There isn’t time to plan an attack, even if the elves and the men were to help. Besides, Lorimbas would be ready for us—and some of his warriors are garrisoned at the Blacksaddle. If we march on the Black Range, he’ll attack us from behind.”

“Perfect timing on their part,” observed Tungdil, leaning back in his chair. “They probably think we’ve got no choice.” He smirked.

“What’s this?” queried Gandogar, sitting up. “Is Tungdil Goldhand proposing another act of heroism?”

“Not exactly. I was thinking the thirdlings could help us.”

Boëndal and Boïndil exchanged glances, guessing what their friend had in mind. Balyndis looked at them questioningly, and Boïndil flashed her a confident smile.

Tungdil stroked the coin-shaped patch of gold embedded in his hand; it shimmered in the light of the setting sun. “I got to know the freelings during my stay in their capital. Some are thirdlings like me, and, like me, they aren’t possessed of Lorimbur’s murderous hatred.” As he said the word “hatred”, his gaze settled briefly on Glaïmbar. “They know their way around the thirdling kingdom,” he finished, looking away.

“I’m sure they’d be happy to help,” agreed Myr. “They could lead…” She trailed off, discouraged by the delegates’ response.

Everyone around the table was staring at her with open curiosity.

She was a pale aberration, a dwarf without chain mail, whose smooth white skin was unlike anything in Vraccas’s creation. It was true in some respects that she resembled alabaster, but the comparison wasn’t favorable. Alabaster was soft, crumbly, and practically useless. It had nothing in common with the granite from which the founding fathers had been hewn.

“How can we be sure the thirdlings in Trovegold are any better than Romo?” someone demanded grimly. The others were thinking the same, but it was Balyndis who voiced their concern. “Don’t take it personally, Tungdil. Your loyalty is beyond question, but we know you. We can’t trust thirdlings whom we’ve never set eyes on.”

“What about Sanda? She’s the queen consort,” he protested. Before he could continue, he was silenced by a kick from Myr. Given her distrust of the freeling commander, it seemed prudent to leave the matter there.

“I know plenty of thirdlings,” volunteered the pale-skinned medic. “I’d trust them with my life.” She knew from their scornful looks that she was wasting her breath.

“We can’t stake our future on the dubious loyalties of thirdlings,” decided Gandogar, ruling against the proposal.

“Your Majesty, the thirdlings in Trovegold are an invaluable asset,” ventured Balendilín, hoping to change the high king’s mind. In his view, Tungdil’s suggestion was their only hope. “With knowledgeable guides, we could launch a surprise attack.”

Tungdil nodded gratefully at the one-armed secondling. “Gemmil’s realm is vast—much bigger than I’d imagined. The number of freeling cities defies belief.” He rose to his feet, knowing that the next words he uttered could change the dwarves’ course. “The freelings came to our aid and defended the fifthling kingdom against hordes of orcish revenants. Two thousand warriors battled for our cause. It took King Gemmil a matter of orbits to send an army to the range.” Tungdil looked at Gandogar beseechingly. “They can help us, Your Majesty. They’re a force to be reckoned with.”

Gandogar bowed his head, closed his eyes, and covered his face with his hands. No one could tell whether he was praying or deep in thought.

Silence descended on the chamber. Myr squeezed Tungdil’s hand and smiled at him nervously.

At last Gandogar uncovered his face and sighed. “We’re leaving,” he said evenly.

Boïndil let out a shriek. “Leaving? We can’t give up our kingdoms without a fight!”

“Are you sure, Your Majesty?” persisted Balendilín. “We’ll be leaving our strongholds in the midst of winter. What about the womenfolk and children? Our losses will run to hundreds before we encounter the first band of orcs. What kind of future awaits us in the Outer Lands? Even the fog is dangerous.”

“I know,” sighed Gandogar. “I’m aware of the risks. I’m condemning our kinsfolk to a perilous march over icy passes and narrow ridges and treacherous winter snow. Believe me, Balendilín, I’ll mourn the death of every dwarf. Vraccas will hold me accountable.” His eyes welled with tears. “But our sacrifice won’t be in vain. We’ll leave in the knowledge that Girdlegard is safe—our kingdoms will still be standing when we return.”

“The thirdlings won’t relinquish our strongholds,” objected Balendilín. “It’s war either way. If we fight them now, we might prevail, but later… The thirdlings will wipe us out, Your Majesty. They’ll ensconce themselves in our strongholds and bombard us with boiling pitch, boulders, and arrows. We’ll perish at the bottom of our own defenses.” He leaned over the map and placed a finger on the Black Range. “Strike now, and—”

Gandogar rose to his feet, trembling with rage. “Enough!” he bellowed. “I’m the high king and I’ve made my decision. We can’t risk a war with the thirdlings, do you hear? The avatars are wily and powerful—they killed the maga, and they’ll strike again. The decision stands: We’re leaving Girdlegard.” He raised the ceremonial hammer and brought it down so heavily that a crack appeared in the table. “Tungdil,” he said, his voice still edged with anger. “Go back to the conference chamber and tell Romo we accept the deal.”

Tungdil got up, bowed, and left the room with Myr. “It’s all wrong,” he muttered to himself. I don’t know why Gandogar thinks the avatars are so wily. Why target Andôkai when the thirdlings are the threat?

“What’s the matter?” asked Myr. “Do you think it’s a mistake for the dwarves to leave?”

Tungdil stopped mid-stride, as if colliding with a wall. He turned to Myr and kissed her fervently. The satisfied expression on his face seemed at odds with his earlier despondency.

“What’s the matter?” she asked breathlessly, puzzled by the rush of affection.

“I’ll tell you later,” he promised. She waited outside while Rodario opened the door and ushered Tungdil to his chair.

Romo had ordered a tankard of beer and was slurping noisily. His companion peered intently at Tungdil. A look of astonishment crossed his face, and he averted his eyes.

“If it isn’t King Gandogar’s message boy!” exclaimed Romo with a malicious laugh. He wiped his beard on the back of his sleeve. “Has the high king reached a decision?”

“Yes,” replied Tungdil levelly. “King Gandogar wishes it to be known that he agrees to the unscrupulous terms laid down by your uncle.” He heard gasps from the other delegates, some of whom seemed relieved, while others were clearly shocked and saddened that the dwarves were being blackmailed into giving up their kingdoms. Tungdil left his chair and, drawing himself up to his full height, stopped in front of Romo. “Know this, Romo Steelheart: If Girdlegard falls, you and your uncle will die by my hand,” he threatened, tilting his ax toward him.

Lorimbas’s nephew saw at once that it would be foolish to provoke his challenger. To the astonishment of the delegates, Tungdil’s threat met with something akin to respect.

“Tell King Gandogar that his decision has been noted and will be conveyed to my uncle. Your fears about Girdlegard’s future are unfounded. Once the thirdlings are in control of the ranges, nothing will breach our defenses.” He took his morning star from the table. “We’ll keep out the vermin—the avatars, the beasts, and the Vraccas-loving dwarves.” He got up, hooked the weapon over his belt, and set off toward the doors, followed by his taciturn companion, who glanced over his shoulder at Tungdil. Romo stopped in the doorway. “The thirdling annexation of the dwarven kingdoms begins in eighty orbits. After that time, any dwarves in our ranges will be killed.” He cast a roll of parchment to the floor. “Here’s a list of chattels. The items in question must be left at our disposal. Tell Gandogar we’ll deal with his kingdom first.”

The delegates watched as the sturdy figures receded into the distance, their unwieldy armor echoing through the shadowy corridors long after they disappeared from view.

Led by Gandogar, the dwarves rejoined the discussions as soon as Rodario brought word that Romo and his companion had left the chamber.

“These are dark times for Girdlegard,” said Mallen, stepping forward to shake hands with the dwarves. “We’re saving our kingdoms and losing the dwarves. It’s a high price to pay. Perhaps we should fight the thirdlings instead.”

“No,” replied Gandogar firmly. “We can’t waste precious time. The dwarves will return when the danger is over.”

“You can count on our support,” promised Mallen. There were no words to express his gratitude, so he inclined his head respectfully instead.

“If the thirdlings break their promise, you won’t be the only one after their blood,” said Liútasil to Tungdil. “We’ll kill them faster than it takes eleven demigods to burn Sitalia’s forests. If the thirdlings have deceived us, the elves will make them pay.” He turned to Gandogar. “From now on, the selfless dwarves and their noble high king will be immortalized in our songs. No one in Âlandur will speak ill of the four dwarven folks who sacrificed their kingdoms for our safety.” The lord of the elves bowed before the dwarf of all dwarves, showing his deference. One by one the monarchs followed his example and bowed before leaving the room.

“I’ll accompany Romo in person and find out the truth about their weapon,” said Narmora, preparing to leave. “If they’ve lied, they’ll have an angry maga to deal with as well as a dwarven hero and an elven lord. Gandogar and the other monarchs can take care of the survivors.” Signaling for Rodario to follow her, she withdrew to her wing of the palace.

The deputations from the dwarven kingdoms took their leave. Most were hoping to drown their sorrows in beer and mead.

At last only Tungdil, the twins, and Balyndis were left.

Boïndil remembered something that had been puzzling him. “Balyndis, how did you know it wasn’t Djern?”

“I never forget a piece of metalwork,” she said, smiling. “Especially not a suit of armor like that. The etchings and engravings on the breastplate weren’t my work—they were passable imitations, but nothing more.” Her face fell. “Unfortunately, I didn’t spot the forgery in time.” She stepped forward and gave Tungdil a tentative embrace. “May Vraccas bless your melding with a warm hearth and a casket of gold,” she said in a strained voice. “We won’t see each other for a while, I suppose.”

Closing his eyes, he filled his nostrils with her scent. He hadn’t missed it until now, but it was so familiar, so precious. He knew it was the last time he would hold her in his arms.

I still love her, he thought forlornly, clasping her to him and pressing his lips against her brow. “Vraccas be with you,” he murmured, too choked to say anything else.

For Balyndis it came as a shock to see the truth in his eyes, and Tungdil was startled to see the tenderness and sorrow in her face. She still loved him; she loved him in spite of the way he had shunned her. He reached for her hand, but she took a step back and shook her head. “Glaïmbar is waiting,” she said in a smothered voice, turning away.

He watched her go, remembering all the other goodbyes, too many goodbyes. “Myr is waiting too,” he whispered.

“We’re still here, you know, scholar,” said Boïndil with his usual lack of tact. He looked at him intently. “You and Myr should join our deputation. How about it?”

Boëndal suspected that their friend had other plans. He was sure he had seen a hint of a smile playing on Tungdil’s lips. “Have you thought of a way to foil the thirdlings?”

“Maybe,” said Tungdil cagily, laying a hand on Boëndal’s shoulder. “I haven’t quite conquered my doubts—but I’ll come straight to you and Boïndil when I’m ready.”

Boëndal grinned. “I knew you weren’t destined to spend your orbits in an armchair! Vraccas has sent a spark of heroism to relight your fires. Whatever you’re planning, count us in: We’ll storm the Black Range if we have to.” He set off with his brother in the direction taken by Balyndis.

Tungdil wandered through the palace, vacillating between confidence and doubt. Soon he was hopelessly lost, but he kept walking, deep in thought. Balyndis’s farewell was playing on his mind.

His wounds from their separation were as painful as ever. He realized now that scarring wasn’t the same as healing, and even Myr was a salve, not a cure—she took his mind off the pain, but she couldn’t make it go away. It wasn’t that he didn’t love her; he just loved the smith more.

How can you think about Balyndis when the future of Girdlegard is at stake? He shivered at the thought of the decision he had to make. Vraccas give me wisdom. It took a while for him to regain his bearings among the endless passageways and chambers of the palace. At last he found himself outside the conference chamber.

Striding past an archway, he noticed three short figures at the end of a shadowy corridor. One was small and dainty, the next was broad-shouldered, and the third was noticeably taller and larger.

That sounds like… Myr! Tungdil stopped in his tracks and hurried back to the corridor. “Hello, Myr!” he called cheerfully. “Don’t tell me you got lost as well!”

The smallest of the three figures gave the biggest dwarf a shove. Tungdil heard a muffled shriek, followed by a clatter of weaponry, and a sickening thud.

His warrior’s spirit ignited. Whipping out his ax, he sprinted down the corridor and threw himself between the dainty freeling and the other dwarves. “Back off,” he said menacingly, noticing the gashes in Myr’s left cheek. Blood was streaming down her face, streaking her pale complexion. Now it’s personal…

Romo, holding two thick tomes in one hand, reached for his morning star with the other. His gauntlet shimmered red with Myr’s blood. “Lorimbur be praised,” he spat. “Not everyone has the privilege of killing Girdlegard’s favorite dwarf.” He threw the books to his companion. “Take these, Salfalur. My uncle can’t wait to read them.”

Salfalur! The dwarf who killed my parents! Tungdil stared at the powerful dwarf, who caught the books, and turned to flee. The tattoos made his ferocious features look doubly sinister, almost demonic.

“No,” shrieked Myr, pulling a dagger from her belt. She launched herself at the brawny thirdling. “Give me back my work!”

Salfalur waited unflinchingly for the dagger to thud against his chain mail. The tip broke off. Raising an armored fist, he punched the little dwarf’s wounded face. Myr flew back as if struck by Vraccas’s hammer, hit the wall, and slumped to the ground. “Come on, Romo,” commanded Salfalur. “We’re leaving before the maga and her famulus catch up with us.”

Romo roared with laughter. The chains of his morning star whirred menacingly, the spiked balls circling above his head. “And let the scumbag live? I’ve never spared a child of Vraccas, and I won’t start now.”

At last Tungdil shook off the paralysis induced by finding Salfalur and seeing Myr hurt. He saw the morning star coming and ducked.

“You’ve killed your last dwarf, Romo Steelheart,” he growled, ramming the sharp end of his ax into the thirdling’s thigh. He drew the weapon back and used the momentum to lunge at him with the blade.

Cursing, Romo dodged the blow and hobbled backward. Features distorted by hatred and rage, he stared at his bleeding thigh. “Die, you traitor!” he thundered, taking the morning star in both hands and swinging it at Tungdil again and again.

Tungdil knew that the haft of his ax, albeit reinforced with steel, was no match for the morning star. Rather than risk losing his only weapon, he focused on staying out of reach.

The metal balls cannoned into the walls of the passageway, sending shards of marble flying through the air, but Romo’s assault continued unabated. Cursing and panting, he pursued his adversary with relentless zeal.

Stepping backward, Tungdil stumbled over Myr and was punished for his carelessness by a terrible blow. One of the steel balls crashed into his arm, while another collided with his broken ribs. Bent double with agony, he focused his energy on keeping hold of his ax.

“How many blows to fell a hero?” jeered Romo, circling the morning star above his head and preparing to strike. “Two at the most, I’ll warrant…”

The balls spun toward him.

Tungdil reached up and deflected them with his ax head. They hit a door and crashed through the timber. One of the chains got stuck in the wood and refused to yield to Romo’s increasingly vigorous efforts to pull it free.

“How many strikes to fell a thirdling?” said Tungdil, dealing a one-handed blow to Romo’s torso. The blade cut through his chain mail and buried itself in his flesh. Blood spurted from the wound.

Romo had no intention of conceding defeat. Abandoning his morning star, he thrust both gauntlets simultaneously into Tungdil’s face. Tungdil tumbled to the ground. His eyelids swelled, narrowing his vision, and blood trickled from a gash above his right eye.

Romo pulled the ax from his torso and held it aloft. “More than you think!” he thundered, preparing to strike.

Harsh yellow light filled the corridor.

“Take that!” shouted a melodramatic voice behind Tungdil. He felt a rush of hot air as flames shot toward Romo, turning him into a living torch.

The thirdling’s beard was ablaze and his skin was charred and cracked. A nauseating smell of burning flesh filled the air.

Romo made no attempt to extinguish the flames. He took another step toward Tungdil and raised his arm to strike. Just then a figure cannoned into him from behind and his ax careered sideways. The blade embedded itself in the floor half a hand away from Tungdil’s chest.

Growling, Romo shook off his assailant.

“Huzzah!” shouted Ireheart, leaping up and brandishing his axes. “Come here so I can give you a taste of my blades!”

“Stop,” called Tungdil. He clambered to his feet and pulled the morning star from the ruins of the door. “He’s mine.”

Romo parried the first blow, but Tungdil struck again, and the metal balls slammed into the thirdling’s head, neck, and throat. He wobbled, but didn’t fall.

Tungdil landed three hefty strokes in succession until at last Lorimbas’s nephew lay motionless on the floor. I never wanted to be a dwarf killer, thought Tungdil, dropping the morning star onto his enemy’s body. But Romo deserved to die.

“That was no fun,” complained Ireheart. “He’d been burned to a cinder and injured already. Where’s the challenge in that?” He glanced around eagerly. “What happened to the chunky one? He’ll put up a better fight.”

Meanwhile, his brother, assisted by Tungdil and Rodario, still glowing from his debut as a famulus, was attending to Myr.

Tungdil, ignoring his own wounds, scooped the unconscious freeling off the cold flagstones and carried her back to their chamber where he tended to her until Narmora took charge. In short order, the maga restored the dwarf to her former condition, allowing her skin to grow back as smooth as ever, with no evidence of damage to the silvery down on her cheeks.

Next Narmora turned her healing energies to Tungdil and mended his broken ribs. Lifting his arms gingerly, he discovered that the pain was gone. “Magic gives me goosebumps,” he said.

“All magic, or just Samusin’s magic?” the maga enquired.

“You pray to Samusin?” said Tungdil, surprised.

“I was born of an älf—the other gods won’t have me. Listen, Tungdil, there’s no need to worry about Myr. She’s sound asleep and she won’t wake before morning. You may as well look for the missing thirdling.”

“Salfalur,” he said grimly, picking up his ax and hurrying over to the twins who were hovering in the doorway with the impresario. “Thank you for your help back there,” he said to Rodario. “Can you tell us the fastest route out of Porista?”

“My dear dwarf, I built this city,” bragged Rodario. “Well, I oversaw the building of it,” he appended, edging closer to the truth. “Furgas drafted the plans.”

Boïndil frowned. “So you’re more a caretaker than an architect…”

“I know this city like the back of my hand.” He tugged on his sleeve to hide the miniature tinderbox, a sophisticated device that threw flames at the tug of a cord. Several dwarves and humans had witnessed his fiery attack on Romo and were convinced of his magic powers.

“Still doing party tricks?” laughed Boëndal. “You’re supposed to be a famulus, not a street magician.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” the impresario retorted touchily. “You wait, women will love it. I’ve got everything: thespian charm, writerly eloquence, natural good looks—and now mastery of the mystic arts.”

Boïndil roared with laughter. “Not to mention the wandering eye of a philanderer.”

“Come on,” said Tungdil, smiling in spite of himself. “We don’t have time for your nonsense, Rodario.”

“My nonsense? I’ve never been so—” He saw the determined look on Tungdil’s face and set off through the labyrinthine corridors of the palace with the dwarves in his wake.

The city wasn’t destined to sleep that night. Every street, every house, every chamber was searched by patrols of men, elves, and dwarves, but there was no sign of Salfalur.

The thirdling had vanished, and with him Myr’s notes about Trovegold and the other cities. Soon Lorimbas would know every detail about Gemmil’s secret realm.

Porista,

Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

Tungdil was sitting at Myr’s bedside when she woke with a start. The delicate dwarf took a few moments to remember what had happened. “Did you stop them?” she asked weakly.

He shook his head. “We couldn’t find Salfalur. He disappeared.”

“We’ve got to warn Gemmil! The thirdlings will know everything about our realm.” She looked up at the ceiling and thumped the wall. “If only I hadn’t brought the books with me! I never thought my penny-pinching could cause such trouble. What if Lorimbas invades?”

“Your penny-pinching?”

“I only brought the books with me because I wanted to fill the empty pages. I knew I’d have lots to write about, and paper is expensive. It’s my duty as a scholar to chronicle everything I see and hear. I’m the eyes and ears of Trovegold. I can’t allow our history to be forgotten.” She ran a hand tentatively over her forehead, remembering her encounter with the wall. “Warriors never leave home without their weapons. I never go anywhere without my books.”

He stroked her smooth cheeks. Belatedly she realized that she wasn’t in any pain. She raised a hand to her face.

“You won’t find a scar,” Tungdil told her with a smile. “Narmora is a maga. She healed my ribs as well.”

“A maga?” echoed Myr, impressed. She lay still for a moment and closed her eyes. She seemed to be searching for evidence—an inner voice, a hidden clue that might reveal the workings of the maga’s power. “I’ve read about magic,” she said, a little sheepishly. “I thought maybe you could feel it.”

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” he agreed with a grin. “There’s something odd about magic—it doesn’t suit us dwarves.”

He was glad to see that Myr had made a full recovery. It seemed to confirm that he had made the right decision about melding his heart to hers. Just because he loved Balyndis didn’t mean he wasn’t genuinely fond of Myr. They were soul mates, brought together by their love of learning. As soon as he taught her to appreciate metalwork, they would make a perfect pair.

Except you still love Balyndis, his inner demon reminded him slyly.

Tungdil responded by leaning over and kissing Myr.

Nice try, laughed the demon.

Myr smiled uncertainly. “It was horrible, Tungdil. I found the thirdlings in our chamber, rummaging through my things. Romo—I think that’s what he said his name was—bashed me on the head and knocked me out. The next I knew, I was dangling from his shoulder. He threatened to kill me if I made a noise. Thank Vraccas you came along and saved me.”

“It was nothing,” he said modestly. “Anyway, I probably wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for your skill as a surgeon. Remember how we met? I had an älvish arrow in my shoulder, and another in my chest—you pulled them out and healed me.” He paused and looked at her gravely. “As soon as you’re well enough, we’ll be on our way. Meanwhile, there’s something I need to deal with. I’ve asked for an audience with Gandogar.”

“With Gandogar? Why?” She tried to sit up in bed, but slumped sideways against his shoulder. “It’s all right. I think I’m still dizzy from being bashed on the head or colliding with the wall—or both.”

He held onto her. “You’ll probably say I’m crazy, but I think it’s a cunning ploy.”

She looked at him, startled. “What’s a ploy?”

“I think the thirdlings don’t know anything about the avatars,” he explained. “If you ask me, they know we’re running scared, and they’re taking advantage of the situation. This could be their ultimate victory—it’s safer and more effective than a war. One in two of our kinsmen will die on the march to the Outer Lands. The paths are treacherous, it’s deepest winter, and we’ll have avalanches to contend with.”

“Not to mention hunger,” she said sadly.

“The thirdlings’ demands are designed purely to kill the maximum number of dwarves. They’re trying to trick us into leaving Girdlegard by spinning us a story about a secret weapon.” He looked into her red eyes. “The thirdlings are lying, and I can prove it. From what Boëndal told me about the first meeting, Romo didn’t say anything about the avatars, only about a threat from the west. He was stringing us along.”

“If I were Gandogar, I’d want better evidence than that,” objected Myr. “What if Romo was referring to the avatars when he—”

“Maybe he was,” cut in Tungdil. “The question is, why would the avatars kill Andôkai if Lorimbas were the threat?” He smiled. “First Romo was talking about stopping them, next he was going to destroy them. Which is it?”

“Stopping, destroying—it’s the same to a warrior like him. He wasn’t the sort to care about distinctions.”

“That’s not all, though. He couldn’t give any details about the weapon. No wonder—it doesn’t exist!”

“What if the secret to stopping the avatars is so straightforward that he’d be giving away their bargaining power? Or maybe he likes being awkward.”

“He could have told us something—like whether it’s an ax or a trebuchet or runes to be carved above the western gates,” insisted Tungdil, who felt like he was arguing his case before a judge. It seemed to him that Myr was being deliberately contrary.

“You’re right to distrust him, but think how the dwarven monarchs will react. He’s promising to save Girdlegard, and you’re saying we can’t be helped.”

“Why would they believe Romo? He hasn’t given them any proof,” said Tungdil moodily. He thought for a moment. “You’re right though. Sometimes the truth isn’t welcome.”

“If I were Gandogar, I’d give Romo the benefit of the doubt. Imagine what it would be like watching Girdlegard go up in flames and knowing you could have saved it. I wouldn’t want to live with the guilt.”

“You’d rather send thousands of dwarves to their deaths? Come on, Myr, you can’t agree to the banishment of the folks when there’s a good chance the thirdlings are lying! Even if we make it back to Girdlegard, we’ll have to fight or trick our way into our kingdoms. Meanwhile, Lorimbas and the thirdlings will be laughing themselves vraccasium-red.” He stood up. “I know you don’t agree with me, but it’s my duty to alert the high king to a possible plot.”

“You need more evidence,” ruled Myr. “You haven’t persuaded me.” She pressed her lips to his hand. “Vraccas be with you.”

We appreciate you sharing your suspicions,” began Gandogar.

Tungdil knew at once what the high king was going to say. Myr was right, he thought. I need more proof. He didn’t bother to listen to rest of the speech; Gandogar’s objections were much the same as Myr’s.

He glanced at the other delegates: King Balendilín, King Glaïmbar, and Queen Xamtys looked worried and dismayed. They must be wondering how to break the news to their clansfolk. How do you explain that the high king wants everyone to leave their kingdoms and risk their lives for a weapon that might not exist? He bowed and took a seat, even though Gandogar was still speaking.

The dwarf of all dwarves didn’t seem offended by his rudeness. “I’ll go down as the worst high king in history, I know, but I’ve been left with no choice. Vraccas commanded us to give our lives for the safety of Girdlegard.” He stood up. “It’s settled: The dwarves will leave their kingdoms. Tungdil, you’ll have to tell Gemmil to abandon his realm. Now that the thirdlings know the location of the underground cities, they’re bound to attack.” He raised his hand in parting and left the chamber. The other delegates followed his lead.

Tungdil covered his face with his hands. He couldn’t bear to think about the hardships awaiting his kin.

The footsteps died away and the chamber was still. It didn’t occur to him that anyone was left, so he was startled when a hand squeezed his shoulder. Uncovering his eyes, he turned and looked into Boëndal’s bearded face.

“You mustn’t give up, scholar.” He stepped aside, revealing a small band of dwarves looking grimly determined. “Not everyone thinks you’re wrong. The kings and queens chose not to heed you, but your efforts weren’t in vain. We saw the strength of your conviction, and we believe you.”

One by one the delegates introduced themselves. Between them, they represented all four folks.

“Well?” said Boïndil expectantly. “I hope there are enough of us. I’m assuming you’ve got a plan.”

“I had a plan,” he said, thanking Vraccas for his small band of followers. A smile spread across his face. “But I’ve thought of a better one.”

One of the delegates cleared his throat. “I won’t do anything to hurt my king, my clansfolk, or my family.”

“You’re an honorable dwarf.” He scanned their faces. “I’d sooner chop off my head than put any of our kinsfolk in danger.” He beckoned them closer. “But I do have a mission for you. With your courage and Vraccas’s blessing…”

“He’ll bless us all right,” said Boïndil confidently.

“In that case, the thirdlings are in for a shock.” And he told them what he had in mind.

Narmora leaped out of bed, rushed down the corridor, and ran into Furgas’s room. A moment later, Rodario was by her side.

“Did you hear him scream?”

“Fetch Myr,” she said tersely. “She’ll know what’s wrong.”

Rodario hurried away.

It’s happening too soon, thought Narmora distractedly. I don’t know how to cure him yet. She wiped the sweat from Furgas’s face.

A pink blotch appeared on the cloth. Thin lines of blood were trickling from Furgas’s closed eyelids and mingling with his sweat. I don’t know how to counteract the poison. I need more time.

She waited impatiently for Myr, who turned up a few minutes later with Tungdil.

Myr examined her patient thoroughly, listening to his heartbeat, checking his breathing and smelling his skin before inspecting the contents of the chamber pot. “He’s feverish,” she announced, looking up at Narmora. “All the symptoms point to poisoning. He’s in a bad way, Estimable Maga. His heart is gathering speed like a runaway trip hammer—he’ll die if you don’t slow it down.”

The maga shivered. “I’ve been working on a charm, but… I was wondering if you could give him something to ease the pain.”

Myr raised her eyebrows. “You can’t cure his symptoms with your magic? The toxin must be awfully strong.”

“Can you help him or not?” demanded Narmora more sharply than intended. “You said we need to slow his heart.”

“I can’t do anything without knowing the make-up of the poison,” she said sadly. “His life is in your hands.” She packed her things and waited uncertainly next to Tungdil, until the maga dismissed them with a nod.

As soon as they were gone, Narmora slipped her hand beneath her bodice and pulled out the shard of malachite, running her finger over its surface and sloughing off the dried blood. It’s the only way. She washed the gem quickly, opened her bodice, and focused her mind, channeling her magic energy into the malachite.

The stone began to glow, becoming warmer against her skin.

Samusin, keep me from harm and save Furgas from suffering. She placed the tip of the stone on the pale skin below her sternum and tensed her muscles, preparing, as Nudin had done before her, to absorb the malachite’s power.

Take my life, if you have to, Samusin, but let him live. She closed her eyes and drove the malachite into her chest.

The pain was unbearable.

A viridescent sun exploded within her, dousing her in a caustic tide that seared, froze, and swelled her veins, gathering inside her until she was sure she would burst like a rotten fruit. Suddenly it stopped.

Narmora fell to her knees and retched. A puddle of green vomit collected on the floor. The next wave of nausea purged her stomach of its contents, the stinking torrent of malachite vomit narrowly missing Furgas’s bed.

“Who are you?” called a voice.

She retched again, raised herself on trembling arms, and turned her head, looking for the speaker. “Is someone there?” she gasped.

“I can teach you things that will make you more powerful than any maga or magus in history,” the voice whispered. Nudin appeared in a corner of the room. He smiled at her warmly. His robes belonged to another, long-forgotten era.

“You can’t be… We killed you at the Blacksaddle!”

“I’d like to help you,” he said, morphing suddenly into the familiar bloated figure of Nôd’onn. His smile became a smirk. “All Girdlegard will cower in awe of you,” he promised. The air above Furgas’s bed seemed to shimmer, bringing forth the misty demon that Tungdil had slain at the Blacksaddle. “Poor soul, he’s dying,” whispered the mist, caressing Furgas’s cheeks. “You can save him. I’ve given you the power.”

Narmora was dazzled by a bright green light. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, the mist was gone and the room was silent except for Furgas’s muffled groans.

I must have imagined it. She looked down to see that the wound had closed without leaving a scar or a telltale malachite glow. The skin was flawless and a single droplet of crimson blood marked the place where the stone had entered her breast.

Furgas cried out in agony, his body convulsing with pain.

“I’m here,” she said weakly, clutching the bed and stumbling to her feet. She laid a hand on his dressings. Now we’ll see the extent of my powers.

In a clear voice she uttered the first of many incantations, taking her time over the syllables that came unbidden to her lips as she commanded the poison to leave Furgas’s body.

At once she heard a hissing noise.

Sulfur-yellow vapor rose from the motionless body and melted into the air. Meanwhile, tiny yellow droplets appeared on Furgas’s skin, dancing like spilt water on a stove. Soon the sheets were drenched in yellow.

Furgas’s chest was rising and falling rapidly. He started to moan.

Am I killing him? thought Narmora in alarm, starting to lift her hand.

“Keep going!” commanded a voice beside her. “You have the power to cure him, Narmora. His eyes will open, you’ll see.” Nôd’onn smiled at her encouragingly. “Trust in me and the power of the stone. You’re a maga: He’s in good hands.”

Narmora could see him clearly now. He bore no trace of the wounds inflicted at the Blacksaddle. “You’re an illusion,” she said firmly. “Be gone!”

Nôd’onn pointed to Furgas’s stained bandages. “You’ve got to keep going,” he told her.

Narmora turned her attention back to Furgas. Strange words of healing surfaced in her memory and she continued her incantations.

Poison was still seeping from Furgas’s pores, but suddenly he stopped groaning, drew a sharp intake of breath, and lay still.

“No!” cried Narmora despairingly, rushing to the head of the bed and stroking his face. “What have I done?”

Furgas opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling in surprise. At last he noticed Narmora and raised a hand to her face. “Narmora…”

She swallowed, then threw her arms around him, laughing and crying. Furgas sat up and clasped her tightly. “You’re back,” she sobbed happily. “Thank Samusin, you’re back!”

Furgas seemed bewildered by the outburst of affection, but enjoyed it all the same. “I remember now…” he said slowly. “We were attacked… What happened after that?” He kissed her shiny black hair and took her head in his hands so that he could look at her properly. His gaze fell on her slender waist. “How long have I been asleep?” he asked, startled.

“Stay there! It’s time you met your daughter,” said Narmora, racing off to fetch Dorsa.

She handed the baby gently to Furgas, who was weeping with joy. “She had a brother, but he didn’t live,” she said. Her eyes glistened as she recounted the events leading up to the accident that killed their child.

Furgas stroked his daughter. “At least we’ve got Dorsa,” he said gruffly, kissing her tiny head. He pulled Narmora to him. “I love you, Narmora. I love you both. After the orbits of torment, this moment is all the more precious.”

Narmora gave him a lingering kiss. “Get some sleep, my darling. Everything else can wait until the morning. I’m afraid there’s a long road ahead if our family is to live happily in Porista. We’ll need my talents and your technical wizardry.” She snuggled closer, holding her breath for a second as Nôd’onn appeared at the end of the room. The apparition faded away.

Kingdom of Dsôn Balsur,

Girdlegard,

Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

Hosjep was sitting atop the largest mangonel, banging nails into the sturdy timber and wrapping rope around the framework to absorb the impact of the throwing arm.

All around him, carpenters were at work in their lofty perches, twisting rope, adjusting leather buffers, and hammering nails into wood. On the ground, others were chopping and planing raw timber to make beams and struts for the next consignment of mangonels.

Many orbits had passed since the älfar burned down the siege engines. The nighttime raid had led to huge losses for the allies, not to mention a standoff between the elves and the dwarves, but the biggest casualty was morale. The savagery of the älfar’s attack had dented confidence in an allied victory, prompting mass desertions. Many of Hosjep’s fellow workers had abandoned their posts.

Hosjep had been tempted to join them, but the money was too good. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have ventured within a hundred miles of Dsôn Balsur, but the army had secured his services with the promise of gold. He had already been paid more than he earned in an average cycle.

He looked across at the swathe of scorched earth bordered on both sides by gloomy forest. From his vantage point, he could see that the allies were barely a mile from the plains. Soon the army would be able to advance unhindered.

Beyond the forest, the stronghold of Arviû blotted the landscape like a malignant cyst, its dark walls casting a shadow across the verdant plains.

To cheer himself up, he imagined what Dsôn Balsur would look like when the älfar were gone. Beautiful, he thought, his spirits lifting a little.

From the stronghold, the grassy plains extended for miles, dipping on the horizon to form a crater, from which rose a tapering tower, shimmering bone-white in the sun. This then was the heart of the älvish kingdom, the target of the allied campaign.

Hosjep picked up his hammer and returned to work. I wouldn’t want to be a soldier, he thought with a shiver. This is close enough for me.

Hours later, he was still clambering over the enormous mangonel, but the gathering gloom brought an end to the orbit’s work. He began to climb down carefully. Without a rope to hold on to or a net to catch him, the slightest clumsiness could see him falling ten paces to the ground.

Down below, the latest recruits had arrived and fires were being lit. The soldiers had dug a moat around the camp, filled it with rags dipped in pitch and tar, and set light to the mix. Any älf that tried to breach the ring of fire was liable to burn to death. The order had been given for more pitch and tar to be added every hour. The foul-smelling concoction had been mixed to a sticky gloop to ensure it served its purpose rather than leaching into the soil. No one minded the stench or the acrid smoke—it was better than dying at the hands of the älfar.

Hosjep was in good spirits. The siege engines would soon be back in action, reaching toward the stronghold of Arviû with their powerful arms. Barrels of oil and petroleum were arriving from the human kingdoms, and in ten orbits the army would have sufficient fuel to finish the campaign. All in all, the allies were in an excellent position.

But fear, superstition, and rumor prevailed.

Time for some hot grub and a tankard of ale. After a solid orbit’s labor, Hosjep was looking forward to his bed of fresh hay. He jumped onto the mangonel’s throwing arm and started to walk carefully to the ground. His eyes were drawn to the ring of fire around the camp. The flames were cowering fearfully at the bottom of the ditch.

He stopped in his tracks.

Every light in the camp was burning low. The campfires were dying, the candles on the makeshift tables were sputtering, and the oil lamp above the commander’s tent was barely alight. A moment later, the camp was plunged into darkness.

Hosjep listened to the silence. Everyone was waiting and praying for the moment to pass.

Every light had retreated, including the moon and stars. I’ve never seen it so dark. It seemed to Hosjep that the camp had been dunked in black ink, making it impossible to see further than his nose.

The horses flared their nostrils and tried to break free. Whinnying in terror, they strained against their hitching posts, pulling until the wooden stakes jerked out of the ground.

Hosjep heard the sound of splintering timber, then thousands of hooves stampeded through the camp, trampling tents and soldiers. The spooked horses could see no better than the men, but their nostrils told them to run. Hosjep clung to the arms of the mangonel as the fleeing herd collided with the frame. Great clouds of dust rose from the churned-up ground, mixed in with cold cinder from the fires. At last the deafening stampede was over and the whinnying faded: The horses were out of the camp.

“Get in formation!” commanded an officer, apparently undaunted. He had to shout to be heard above the welter of screams and shouts. “Third company to me, pikemen at the front—” An armored body hit the ground.

The soldiers didn’t need eyes to know what had happened.

“Run!” shouted someone. A weapon clattered to the ground and footsteps raced away. “They’re here! They’re in the camp!”

Hosjep pressed himself against the mangonel, lying flat against the throwing arm between the uprights of the frame. If the darkness were to lift, he wanted as little as possible of his profile to be visible from the ground.

Death descended on the camp.

It started with a single, drawn-out scream of agony, then the slaughter began. Hosjep heard noises that would haunt him for the rest of his life, tortured wails and terrible weeping, blown to him on the cruelest of winds.

The älfar seemed to know exactly where to find the soldiers. Arrows ripped through the air in all directions, and Hosjep was hit by a stray missile that embedded itself in his leg. He clenched his jaw and swallowed the pain.

Time dragged on, but at last the clattering of swords and screams of the wounded died away. The moon and stars broke through the cloud, revealing the carnage below.

Corpses were strewn several deep across the battlefield, covering the ground like a gory carpet of torsos, limbs, and blood.

Älfar stepped lightly over them, looking for survivors. The living were pulled out from under the dead and killed in the cruelest fashion.

Hosjep surveyed the slaughter, eyes welling with tears of helpless rage. Ye gods, have mercy. They’ve killed them all… Try as he might, he couldn’t see a single dead älf. How could you forsake your children, Palandiell?

Down below, an älf was riding over the bodies. Her mount, a bull with monstrous horns, wore a metal visor, and its eyes emitted a fearsome red glow. She shouted an order, whereupon a band of älfar waded through the corpses, slitting their throats and collecting their blood. Meanwhile, another band threw pitch and petroleum over the frames of the mangonels.

I’ve got the choice of being slaughtered or burning to death, thought Hosjep wretchedly. Given the options, he decided to wait until the älfar torched the mangonels, then pull the arrow from his leg and stab himself through the heart. I’d sooner kill myself than fall into their hands.

Just then the bull raised its head, looked straight at him, and snorted impatiently. Its rider followed its gaze.

She was wearing a mask and a black gauze veil that obscured her features. Hosjep watched as she raised her quarterstaff and barked an order. An archer raised his bow and took aim at the mangonel.

The arrow hit him in the left shoulder. He lost his grip, rolled off the throwing arm, glanced off a strut, and landed on the soft carpet of bodies below.

“Get back! Get back, you devils!” he wailed, floundering among the corpses. Already an älf was beside him. Snatching up a sword, Hosjep thrust it forward, stabbing the älf in the guts.

The älf stayed standing.

Then to Hosjep’s horror, he took hold of the sword and pulled it from his torso. Dark, almost black blood poured from the wound, but within an instant the flow dried up.

He healed himself. Hosjep wriggled backward. No wonder I couldn’t see any älvish casualties… Palandiell, what have we done to be punished like this?

“Listen, wight,” said the älf on the bull. “Your gods took mercy on you and spared your life. Return to your kingdom and tell your monarch what you’ve seen. The immortal siblings wish it to be known that the älfar will not yield. Tion has blessed us with new powers.” The bull took a step closer. “I’m sure you can testify to their effect—unless you’d like another demonstration…”

“No!” Hosjep shrank away from her. “I’ll do as you say and tell Prince Mallen.”

“Then go,” she commanded.

Hosjep struggled to his feet and ran for his life, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and leg.

Turning her bull, Ondori congratulated her warriors.

The little band had passed the test. After drinking the dark water, the warriors had ridden into battle and survived their wounds. Sitalia’s fairies will be next, she thought grimly. Âlandur, prepare to meet your doom…

She looked down at the trampled bodies, imagining the wonderful sculptures that she would make from the skeletons. Any leftover bones would be transported to the capital and added to Nagsor and Nagsar’s tower.

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

The autumn weather refused to smile on Tungdil and Myr. Most of their overland journey was spent in the pouring rain.

Myr, fearing they would catch a chill from sleeping outside in damp clothes, insisted on gathering herbs for an infusion to protect them from the cold. Knowing that they couldn’t afford to lose time to illness, Tungdil knocked back cup after cup of the stuff.

Unfortunately, he started the regimen too late and developed a nasty cough that left him tired and weak. The pair had no choice but to break their journey at an inn, where they could sleep on a dry mattress out of the rain until the first big storm had passed.

The innkeeper’s wife could barely conceal her astonishment at the appearance of two such unusual guests. “I’ll make you some hearty broth, Mr. Goldhand,” she promised when he was safely tucked up in bed. “I’ve got plenty of herbs in the kitchen. They work wonders against coughs and colds.”

“Really?” said Myr enthusiastically. “I’ll make an infusion. We’ll have him back on his feet in no time.” She snuffed out all but one of the lights, placing the remaining candle in a holder, which she left on the table by his bed. “I’ll be back soon,” she said soothingly, bending down to kiss him. “Try to get some sleep.” In the doorway, she stopped and looked at him with an odd expression.

Tungdil lay on his back, sinking into his mattress of wool and straw, and looked sleepily at the shadows cast by the candle on the whitewashed walls.

The more he looked at them, the more menacing they became, closing in on him steadily like wild beasts as he lay, unarmed and unarmored, between the sheets. It felt like he were at the mercy of a vague, intangible evil, like the sinister fog in the Outer Lands.

“Confounded candle,” he grumbled, reaching over to snuff it out. His fingers, weak from the fever, groped clumsily for the wick, brushing against it without extinguishing the flame.

Though he had barely touched the candle, it was sitting so loosely in the holder, that it toppled over, landed on the floor, and rolled, still burning, under his bed. A moment later, the straw poking out beneath the mattress was on fire.

“Damn and double damn.” Tungdil tried to get up, but succeeded only in falling out of bed. He watched as the mattress went up in flames.

“Myr!” he shouted. “Myr, the bed’s on fire!”

Silence.

“Fire!” His shouts turned to coughs. Glowing embers flew in all directions, spiraling through the chamber and settling on the floor and furniture, spreading the blaze. Soon the room was unbearably hot. “Fire!” he shouted desperately. Exhausted and feverish, he lay on the rough floorboards, unable to move.

The crackling grew louder and the fire began to hiss and roar. The whole room had become an oven, and still no one came to his aid.

Do you want me to die here, Vraccas?

At last the door flew open. Tongues of fire licked greedily toward him, fanned by the rush of air. “Mr. Goldhand?” called a gruff male voice. “Are you there?”

“I’m here!” he croaked. “Here, by the bed!”

A bucket of water arced through the air, sloshing against the floor, and spattering Tungdil’s beard. A moment later a muffled figure wearing a dripping blanket charged into the chamber, grabbed Tungdil by the wrist, and dragged him out of the inferno to the safety of the landing.

“Tungdil!” At once Myr was beside him, crouching over him anxiously. She seemed more upset by the incident than he was. Upset and slightly guilty. “What happened?”

“It was my fault,” he whispered in a rasping voice. “I knocked the candle…”

“Take Mr. Goldhand downstairs,” interrupted the sooty-faced man. “I need everyone out of the corridor so I can put out the flames.”

The innkeeper’s wife helped Myr to carry Tungdil downstairs to the main tavern. “This is for you and your husband,” said Myr, handing the woman a gold coin. “I can’t thank you enough. Tungdil would have burned to death without you.” Black smoke was still billowing from the landing. “We’ll pay for the damage, whatever it costs.” The woman thanked her and hurried away to help her husband.

“What am I to do with you, Tungdil Goldhand?” said Myr. “I leave you alone for two seconds, and you set fire to the bed!” She hugged him tightly. “You gave us both a nasty shock.”

“Where were you?” he asked, wrapping his sooty arms around her.

“We were preparing the infusion. The housemaid was making such a din with the pots and pans that we didn’t realize that the room was on fire until the innkeeper shouted for help.” She swallowed and buried her head in his chest. “Get some sleep,” she said tearfully. “I’m never going to leave you alone again. Not ever.” You’re all I care about. I’ve learned my lesson. Thank goodness you didn’t die. She hugged him tenderly.

IV

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

The fire was put out before the flames could consume the rest of the inn. Only the roof above the upstairs chamber and the chamber itself were destroyed in the blaze.

Two orbits later, after plenty of rest, regular doses of Myr’s herbal infusion, and generous helpings of the landlady’s broth, Tungdil was ready to start walking again. Myr knew of a secret entrance to the underground network, and they covered the final miles of the journey at breathtaking speed.

On arrival in Trovegold, they went straight to the stronghold to make their report to the king.

Sanda Flameheart was with Gemmil when they were ushered into the room. She seemed delighted to see Tungdil, but her relief turned to trepidation when he recounted the news from Porista. From time to time she glanced suspiciously at Myr, who ignored her steadfastly, perhaps because she hadn’t noticed or because she didn’t care.

“Our realm is in great danger,” judged Gemmil. “If we don’t leave our cities, the thirdlings will take them by force.”

“Glaïmbar said that you’re welcome to join the fifthlings,” Tungdil told him. “Your warriors saved his kingdom from the orcs. He said it’s the least he can do to give you passage and assistance over the northern pass. He knows the fifthlings can’t repay their debt, but they’ll do what they can to help.”

Gemmil could tell from Tungdil’s tone that he doubted the wisdom of the proposal. He also realized Tungdil had spoken of the fifthlings as if they weren’t his folk. It probably wasn’t deliberate, but Gemmil suspected that he didn’t consider himself a fifthling anymore. Tungdil had rebuilt the fifthling halls, as Giselbert had requested, but the Gray Range had ceased to be his home.

“You think we shouldn’t leave Girdlegard,” said Gemmil, tackling the matter head-on.

“I think leaving would be a mistake,” said Tungdil forthrightly. He proceeded to list the key points of his speech to Gandogar and the delegates.

This time his arguments didn’t fall on deaf ears. “Those are all good points,” said Gemmil. “Still, you can’t know for sure that Romo was lying. How are you going to stop the thirdlings from poaching our strongholds without putting Girdlegard at risk?”

“I can do it—with your help,” replied Tungdil. “Think of the thirdlings’ proposal as an ordinary business deal. Would you pay for something without asking to see it first? Lorimbas is asking us to buy a diamond in a poke.” He could tell from the king’s face that he agreed. “Wouldn’t it be better to verify that the item exists? We need to know that the thirdlings are capable of stopping the avatars. If they aren’t, Girdlegard will need every warrior at her disposal. We’ll be sealing her fate if we leave.”

Gemmil turned to Sanda. “What do you think?”

“Sixty cycles is the blink of an eye in dwarven history,” she said slowly. “No one mentioned a secret archive when I was in the Black Range. We talked a lot about the Blacksaddle because our ancestors are buried in its chambers, but there was never any mention of an archive or a weapon. Lorimbas’s story doesn’t ring true.”

“A great deal can happen in sixty cycles,” argued Myr. “Think how much has changed in Trovegold in the past sixty orbits. You can’t presume to know what the thirdlings are thinking or doing. We need better evidence than that.” She eyed Sanda scornfully before turning to Gemmil. “I think you should be careful. For all we know, Lorimbas could be telling the truth.”

Tungdil was taken aback. “Whose side are you on?” he said indignantly.

“Yours, of course,” she said soothingly, taking his hand. “Fearlessness and daring are excellent qualities in a warrior, but an overhasty decision could be the ruin of Girdlegard, not just the dwarves.” She gave his fingers a little squeeze. “I’m your very own voice of reason. I’ll offer good counsel and be right behind you, whatever you decide.”

“There’s another thing you should consider,” said Sanda. “Are you prepared for a life like mine? If you defy the high king, you’ll be punished. You won’t be Tungdil Goldhand, hero of the Blacksaddle; you’ll be an outcast. This isn’t a minor infraction of the rules; it’s rank disobedience, possibly treason. Your sentence will be harsh.” She took a deep breath. “They could banish you for good. You might never be allowed back to the fifthlings.”

Tungdil smiled at Myr. “As soon as I arrived here, I felt like Trovegold was my home. I like being with dwarves who follow Vraccas without enslaving themselves to petty rules. Besides, my heart is melded to Myr’s.” Though he spoke with conviction, he couldn’t help thinking of Balyndis. She made her decision; I made mine, he added defensively before his inner demon could comment.

You don’t fool me, a small voice mocked him.

Gemmil looked him in the eye. “You seem to know what you’re getting yourself into,” he said levelly. “Why don’t you tell us what you propose? You can count on the freelings to play their part.”

Tungdil told them his plan.

Borengar’s Folk,

Eastern Border of the Firstling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Early Winter, 6235th Solar Cycle

It was snowing again. In no time the nine towers and twin ramparts of East Ironhald, recently rebuilt by the firstlings, were covered in glittering white.

Everyone, no matter how young or old, had helped to clear the debris and restore the stronghold to its former glory. Even the gully leading up to the stronghold boasted six new fortified gates.

The masons had learned from the mistakes of their predecessors, and the fortifications, including the towers and bridges, were designed to withstand three times the previous winter’s snowfall.

Barriers had been erected further up the mountainside. Thick stone slabs and long mounds of rubble protruded from the slope, ready to trap the White Death before it smothered the dwarves below.

At the base of the gully, the first of the six gates, built to withstand snow and ice, formed a formidable defense against invaders, including Lorimbas Steelheart and his dwarves.

Tasked with searching the portal for a lever, handle, or secret mechanism, Salfalur could find only a freshly polished block of stone that had once bidden visitors—friendly visitors—to enter. The inscription had been chiseled off.

“No luck,” he called out to Lorimbas. He and his warriors were wearing thick woolen cloaks, hats, and scarves over their armor to protect them from the biting cold. The king, as a mark of his status, had draped a fur stole over his shoulders and was wearing the royal helmet. “The gates won’t open,” explained Salfalur. “We’ll have to climb over.”

“Confounded firstlings,” thundered the king, his voice echoing through the valley. “They did it to spite us.”

The heavyset commander trudged through the snow toward him, sinking deeper with every step. “It’s only a minor setback, Your Majesty. Xamtys’s stronghold will soon belong to Lorimbur.” He shouted for ropes and grappling hooks to be brought to the base of the gates.

Climbing equipment wasn’t usually to be found in dwarven kit bags, not least because dwarves weren’t suited to dangling from ropes, but after receiving reports from two of his units, Salfalur had come prepared.

According to the bulletins from the north and northeast of Girdlegard, the gates to Glaïmbar and Gandogar’s kingdoms had been locked. The entrances had been barricaded so thoroughly that not even a mouse could get through.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” muttered Lorimbas angrily. “Xamtys will have copied the others, I bet.” He was already expecting to receive news from the south that the secondling stronghold was impregnable too. It was like forging hot metal on an anvil, only to have the hammer snatched from his hand. Even more frustratingly, there weren’t any dwarves for him to kill.

“Normally I’d ask Vraccas to guide your hand and bless your hammer, but I know how little you care about the Smith,” called a loud voice that seemed to come from the mountain. Just then a dwarf appeared on the parapet above the gates. “I’ll keep it short. Greetings, King Lorimbas Steelheart of the clan of the Stone Grinders, ruler of the thirdlings.”

Salfalur recognized the figure immediately and signaled to Lorimbas, who clenched his fists in fury. “Tungdil Goldhand, I presume. You murdered my nephew.”

“Your nephew tried to kill an innocent dwarf,” retorted Tungdil. “He chose his own fate. Ask Lotrobur’s murderer if you like.”

“I’ll skin you alive,” thundered Lorimbas, drawing his ax.

“You’ll have to catch me first,” said Tungdil, laughing. “In case you hadn’t noticed, shouting won’t open the gates.” He leaned over the parapet confidently, reminding Lorimbas that he had the upper hand. “Incidentally, you might want to keep your voice down. The White Death will come thundering down the mountainside if it hears you screeching like a hairless orc.” He made a show of scanning the surrounding peaks. “I didn’t realize the Red Range was so dangerous. How many warriors have you brought? Five thousand? And where’s the famous weapon that you promised the men and elves?”

“It’s none of your business. Get out of my kingdom!”

“I’m the one on the inside; the kingdom belongs to me. I’ll open the gates on one condition: that you show me the weapon and tell me how it works.”

The thirdling king raised his ax menacingly. “We had an agreement! Gandogar will be furious when he hears about this. He’ll hew your miserable—”

“I’m a thirdling,” said Tungdil, undaunted. Drawing his ax, he pointed it at Salfalur. “Ask him, if you don’t believe me. He killed my mother and father and threw me into a chasm, but Vraccas saved me and brought me here to save Girdlegard from your lies.” Tungdil clasped his ax in both hands and drew himself up to his full height, standing tall and proud like a true custodian of the gates. “Where’s the weapon, Lorimbas?”

Salfalur gave a signal, and a band of thirdlings prepared to scale the walls.

Tungdil smiled. “Is that how you’re going to fight off the avatars, with climbing ropes and grappling hooks?” He paused. “There’s something you should know: I’m not alone.” Boïndil appeared at his left, and Boëndal on his right, weapons aloft, and faces grimly determined.

“This is definitely in breach of the agreement,” said Salfalur. “I know those two; they’re secondlings!”

“Not any more,” chimed in Boïndil, twirling his axes impatiently. He was clearly spoiling for a fight. “We’re freelings now.”

Gemmil appeared on the parapet. “They’re with me.”

On Gemmil’s signal, the rampart filled with dwarves carrying shields, clubs, axes, and other weapons. Some of them deposited rocks on the edge of the parapet, ready to hurl them at the thirdlings in the event of an attack.

“A few of my warriors from Trovegold,” explained Gemmil. “The battalions from Gemtrove and the other cities are guarding the stronghold. Ten thousand dwarves, six gates, twin ramparts, nine towers, and a bridge lie between you and Xamtys’s halls.”

“You’ll have me to reckon with as well,” said a crimson-cloaked Narmora, stepping up to the parapet.

“And me,” called Rodario grandly, trying to look as imposing as possible. He was wearing a magnificent new robe for the occasion. “My name is Rodario the Fablemaker, apprenticed to the mighty Narmora the Unnerving, and second only to the maga in skill and power.”

Tungdil swung his ax above his head. “King Lorimbas, the choice is yours: Attack, and expose your warriors to dwarven bombardment and the wrath of a maga and her famulus, against whose magic no mortal army can prevail, or show us the weapon and explain how it works.”

The king scanned the ranks of the defenders. “The weapon isn’t here,” he said, scowling. “Our first priority is to take possession of our territory and secure our position.”

“Fine, but you and your warriors will have to wait until you’ve convinced us that the weapon really works. I hope for your sake that it doesn’t take long—it’s cold outside.” He pointed to the right. “There’s a cave over there. It should be big enough for half your army. The others will have to make do with blankets.”

“Psst, scholar,” whispered Boïndil. “How are we going to know if the weapon really works?”

Tungdil grinned. “Did you see the look on Lorimbas’s face? I thought Salfalur was going to scale the gates and tear me to pieces!”

Boïndil looked at him blankly. “So what?”

“In other words,” whispered Boëndal, “Lorimbas and Salfalur are furious with us for seeing through their scam.” He smiled, relieved that their decision to follow Tungdil had been rewarded. “You were right, scholar. Lorimbas lied to the other rulers. The weapon doesn’t exist.”

Tungdil took little satisfaction in his victory, knowing that the news augured badly for Girdlegard as a whole. “Narmora is our only hope. She’ll have to delay the avatars while we raise an army of innocents to fight them. The dwarven rulers and other monarchs must be informed.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourselves,” shouted Lorimbas from below. “I’ll have the weapon for you in two orbits. Prepare yourselves for a surprise.”

“We’re happy to wait—if waiting will save our homeland,” Tungdil called back. He lowered his voice so that only his friends could hear. “They’re bound to attack. They’re going to use the time to find a way of breaking our defenses. Tell the sentries to be vigilant. We need to brace ourselves for an assault.”

Boïndil banged his axes together. “I’m not afraid of them. I don’t like the notion of spilling dwarven blood, but what choice do we have? Vraccas forgive us for raising our axes against his creation, but the thirdlings have brought it on themselves.”

“Clansfolk!” Lorimbas’s voice cut through the mountain air. “Thirdling clansfolk who have strayed from the Black Range, deserters like Sanda Flameheart who left the thirdling ranks, your crimes will be forgiven. Turn back to the thirdlings before it’s too late.”

“More lies, Lorimbas?” called Tungdil. “Your trickery won’t work.” Out of the corner of his eye he watched as Sanda glanced nervously from Gemmil to Myr, but her face betrayed no emotion. He couldn’t help recalling Myr’s warning. “Fine, Lorimbas, you’ve got two orbits. I can’t wait to see the secret weapon that can destroy a band of demigods.”

He backed away from the parapet until he was out of sight, with Narmora and the others following suit. He didn’t know whether to feel satisfied that his strategy had proven successful, or dismayed that his worst suspicions had been confirmed. All along he had been secretly hoping that Lorimbas would surprise him by unveiling a mighty weapon capable of saving Girdlegard from destruction.

He was joined by Narmora, who seemed to guess what he was thinking. “What are we going to do now?” she asked. “We can’t fight a battle on two fronts.” Her dark, almost fathomless, eyes gazed toward the west. “After orbits of calm, the past few nights have been worse than ever. Judging by the fire on the horizon, the avatars are dangerously close.” She was glad that she hadn’t brought her daughter with her. There could be no doubt that Dorsa would be safer with Rosild in the palace than with her parents in the western range, but it didn’t make the separation any easier to bear.