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-shea
thed 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 t
hrough 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.”