They left the tower and waited for the system of platforms and pulleys to lower them to the ground. “Xamtys had better hurry or Lorimbas will be sitting on her throne,” said Boïndil darkly as they hurried to the defenders’ aid.
Tungdil spotted the broad-shouldered commander in the front line of thirdlings. His long-handled hammer curved through the air, felling freelings with every stroke. “I’ll deal with Salfalur,” he said, closing his fingers around the haft of his ax. “You take Lorimbas.”
Molten slag poured down on the invaders from above, followed by a torrent of petroleum, which ignited as if by magic as it neared the thirdling troops.
On the left flank of the defending army, the sky was dark with fiery smoke. Narmora and Rodario were doing everything in their power to keep the thirdlings at bay. In the maga’s case, the magic was real, whereas Rodario relied on conjuring tricks and imaginary curses. Meanwhile, Djern endeavored to protect them from attack.
But even the colossal warrior did little to deter the thirdlings, who jabbed at him from a distance with lances and pikes.
Despite their efforts, the invaders had yet to reach the ramp leading to the inner rampart. The thirdlings would have to breach the gates, ascend the highest tower, and cross the bridge to conquer Xamtys’s halls. While the gates still stood, the thirdlings could kill as many defenders as they liked without taking the kingdom for themselves.
Tungdil fought his way to the front, keeping Salfalur in his sights. Just then he heard a piercing scream. Myr!
Turning, he spotted her at the gates. She was sprawled on the ground, a few paces from her medicine bag, and Sanda Flameheart was standing over her, threatening her with a single-balled flail. Behind them, the gates to the inner rampart had opened slightly. The thirdlings saw their chance.
Myr was right, thought Tungdil, pushing his way through the throng of warriors to rescue his companion. Sanda is a traitor, and I fell for her act.
Before he could reach her, Ireheart jumped in and sent Sanda crashing to the ground.
Tungdil hurried to help Myr. Her right cheek bore a fiery handprint, the thumb and four fingers burning red against her smooth, pale skin. Blood was trickling from her mouth and nose. “She opened the gates,” she croaked as Tungdil helped her to her feet. “I couldn’t stop her.”
“It’s not your fault,” he said, kissing her brow and thanking Vraccas for Boïndil’s speedy intervention. “Quick, we need to close them.” They hurried through the gates.
Tungdil cursed when he saw the traitor’s work. Sanda had sabotaged the mechanism, and the chain lay abandoned on the ground.
By now, Sanda had scrambled to her feet and was batting away Boïndil with ease, which enraged the zealous warrior. His eyes glazed over as his fiery spirit took hold of his mind and spurred him on. “I swore to protect Myr,” he growled, slashing at her furiously. “No one lays their murderous hands on my brother’s healer and gets away with it.”
“I wasn’t trying to kill her,” she told him, forced by his whirring axes to focus harder on her defense.
“Traitor!” He raised his right arm and feigned a blow.
“I’m not the traitor! She was the one who opened—” The ax veered sharply and struck her armpit. There was a sound of metal on metal, then the crunching of bone as the blade passed through her chain mail and into her arm. The stunned Sanda was still gasping with pain when Ireheart’s boot connected with her kneecap, smashing the joint, and sending her crashing to the ground.
“Liar!” screeched Myr, whipping out her dagger.
Tungdil held her back. “Look at her, Myr! She can’t hurt you now.”
“It was Myr,” gasped Sanda, trying to stem the blood with her other hand. “I tried to stop her, but I came too late.” She swallowed. “Lorimbas is her father. “
“And I’m the mighty Vraccas,” sneered Boïndil. “We’re not stupid, you know.”
“It’s the truth,” murmured Sanda, propping herself against the wall. Boïndil’s blow had severed the vessels in her armpit, and her tunic was drenched in blood. “I’ll never forget when she first arrived in Trovegold. I knew at once who she was, but she swore me to secrecy. She said her father would kill my clansfolk if I breathed a word to Gemmil or anyone else.”
“Enough of your lies!” Myr pointed at her accusingly with the dagger. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble? You’re the thirdling, not me!”
“Remember what happened in Porista? She made it look like Romo and Salfalur abducted her because she needed to hand over the information about Trovegold without arousing suspicion. Why else would they have spared her life?” Sanda closed her eyes and spoke in a whisper. “I don’t suppose she mentioned that she’s been melded twice before. The first dwarf died of a fever; the second was on his sickbed when his chamber went up in flames.” She looked at Tungdil, who gazed into her eyes and saw nothing but honesty and concern. “I realized she was after Gemmil, so I asked him to meld me instead.”
Tungdil was busy reviewing what had happened in Porista, how he had fallen ill, and what Myr had said to him after the fire. “Myr, that time at the inn when I nearly died in the fire,” he said slowly. “You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?” Her red eyes looked at him uncertainly. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her aside as if she were a naughty child. “Promise you had nothing to do with it!”
Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Tungdil, I… You can’t take her word over mine,” she protested halfheartedly.
“Promise you had nothing to do with it, and I’ll never mention it again.”
She looked at the ground. “You’ve got nothing to fear from me, Tungdil. After the fire, I realized that I couldn’t… I didn’t mean to fall in love with you, but…” She started to cry.
“Myr, tell me you’re not Lorimbas’s daughter,” whispered Tungdil. He had never felt so betrayed. He forgot about the battle and the threat from the avatars; nothing seemed to matter anymore.
She sniffed and dried her eyes on her sleeve, then looked him in the eye. “Sanda is right. I was sent by my father, Lorimbas Steelheart, to spy on the freelings and prepare the way for a thirdling invasion. I’ve always been pale-skinned; nature gave me the perfect cover. I had only to change my eye color and invent a story about my provenance. No one thought to question my origins. Then you came along.” She reached for his hand. “I was supposed to kill you, but my heart wouldn’t—”
Her gaze shifted, and her eyes filled with fear. Grabbing his shoulders, she spun him around and took his place just as something rammed into her from behind, throwing her forward. Tungdil reached out to catch her. Her mouth opened, lips moving silently, but she could barely breathe.
Standing behind her was Salfalur. He was clutching his hammer, the haft of which was tipped with a metal spike as long as a human arm. The end was resting against Tungdil’s chest, having passed through Myr.
“I would never have…” she sighed, clutching at him. “You mustn’t think too badly of me…” Her dainty body went limp in his arms. In spite of the pain, she seemed to smile at Tungdil as she died.
Salfalur drew the spike from her body. It made a soft popping noise as he pulled it clear.
“Are you satisfied now?” Tungdil laid her down gently and drew his ax. “You killed my parents, and now you’ve killed my wife.”
“Your wife?” Salfalur was still clutching his hammer and staring at Myr. “She was my wife, not yours.” With his free hand he touched the blood dribbling down the haft, then rubbed it between his fingers. “Myr was my wife, and she died because of you. I’ll make you die a thousand deaths.”
“She was your…” Aghast, Turgdil stepped back, then pulled himself together.
“Let’s settle this now,” he said grimly, preparing to fight.
They circled, waiting for the other to strike.
Salfalur was the first to attack. In his arms, the mighty hammer looked no heavier than a broom.
Tungdil braced himself, but the blow never
came. In the background, Lorimbas was sounding the retreat. Looking up, Tungdil saw a battalion of firstling warriors on the parapets—Xamtys had marched ahead with half of her army to save her kingdom from falling to their dwarven foes.
Salfalur was torn between continuing the duel and doing his job as commander-in-chief. At last he lowered his hammer. His brown eyes contained a silent promise to resume the duel in another place, at another time.
Tungdil nodded.
Nyr wasn’t the last to die that orbit. Sanda Flameheart was mortally wounded.
Gemmil held her in his arms while Boïndil stood beside them, not knowing what to say.
“It’s all right,” she said, her breath coming in little gasps. “I know you didn’t mean it, Boïndil Doubleblade. I’ve heard about your curse.”
He kneeled beside her, distraught. “I’m…”
“You don’t have to explain; I forgive you.” She stretched her bloodied fingers toward him.
Boïndil took her hand and held it in silence until she passed away. “Vraccas must hate me,” he muttered. “Why can’t he kill me and be done with it?” His face was expressionless, but his eyes welled with tears. “I should have settled for stunning her, but my fiery spirit made me cut her down. First Smeralda, now Sanda…”
Gemmil stood up and signaled to some dwarves, who hoisted the dead queen gently onto their shoulders and carried her into the stronghold. “Sanda was right: You mustn’t blame yourself. You fell for Myr’s lies, and Vraccas gave you a heart of fury. It’s not your fault.” He rested a hand on the secondling’s shoulder to show there was no animosity between them; then he followed the others to the firstling halls.
An ill-fated orbit, thought Tungdil, gazing at Myr’s lifeless body. Her leather jerkin was crimson with blood. He gathered her up and picked his way through the dead and wounded toward the retreating army.
“Lorimbas!” he called loudly. “Your daughter is dead, slain by Salfalur’s hammer.” He bent down and laid her gently on the ground. “She’s yours to take if you want to bury her.”
Lorimbas stepped forward, accompanied by a score of warriors. Salfalur wasn’t among them. “Curse you, Tungdil Goldhand,” he said, kneeling beside his daughter and stroking her pure white hair. “You murdered my nephew, and now you’ve killed Myr. Everyone I ever loved is dead because of you.” He lifted her up tenderly. “We’ll never make peace. You’re like your father. He started this misery, and it will end with your death.”
“Lorimbas Steelheart!” Xamtys hurried toward them, followed by a cluster of dwarves. “I’m afraid this is all that remains of the army that you sent against West Ironhald.”
“The firstlings are better warriors than I thought.” He shot a contemptuous look at the survivors, who were covered in gashes and burns.
“The firstlings didn’t do this,” said one of them, wincing as he spoke. “It was the avatars, Your Majesty.”
“What?” Lorimbas frowned. “What do you mean, the avatars? Is this why the dwarf-queen spared you, because you promised to lie?”
“No, Your Majesty, I wouldn’t deceive you.”
“The avatars don’t exist,” shouted Lorimbas. “They’re a legend, a legend designed to frighten small children, stupid beasts, and foolish dwarves!” He hugged his daughter to his chest.
“We were marching east,” said another dwarf. “The firstlings had turned round and were on their way home. We could see them in the range ahead of us; then the cavalry attacked from behind. They were mounted on white horses and unicorns, and they rode straight into us as if we were unarmed. They were fearless.” He swayed, and one of his companions had to steady him. “Then the demigods attacked. They were as dazzling as sunlit snow, shinier than a polished diamond, and five times hotter than a dwarven forge. They were everywhere at once, attacking us with…” He paused. “I don’t know what exactly,” he whispered wretchedly. “I was struck by a cloud of light. It knocked me over, but I got up before it could hit me again. Then I ran for it. After a while, me and the others caught up with the firstlings. They made us surrender our weapons.”
At last he had Lorimbas’s full attention. “What happened to the rest of the army?”
The warrior bowed his head, revealing charred skin and a few blackened strands of hair. “I don’t know, Your Majesty. The wind was coming from behind—it was warm with glowing ash.”
“We sent a scout to the Outer Lands,” chimed in Tungdil. “He told us the same story. Queen Wey’s soldiers were destroyed by the avatars as well. It’s not a legend, King Lorimbas.”
The thirdling king hugged his daughter more tightly, smearing his armor with blood from her chest. “They can’t be real,” he whispered. “We made them up. It’s simply not possible…”
“What now, Lorimbas?” asked Xamtys bluntly. “Do you want to fight me for my kingdom, or will you join us at the western border to halt the avatars’ advance?”
He stroked the silvery down on his daughter’s cheeks. “Everything I dreamed of has been destroyed. I don’t want Girdlegard to suffer as well.” He turned toward Tungdil, but something prevented him from looking him in the eye. “When this is over, we’ll fight to the death. I should have wiped out your line when I had the chance.” He bowed his head toward Xamtys. “I hereby declare a truce between the children of Lorimbur and the dwarven folks. I swear on my daughter, whose blood stains my hands, that the thirdlings will cease hostilities until the avatars are defeated.” He turned to leave. “I’ll summon the rest of my army to the Red Range and we’ll fight the avatars together.”
“How many warriors can we count on?” asked Xamtys.
“Enough to wipe out the threat,” he growled scornfully. Cradling Myr in his arms, he joined his guards, who escorted him back to his troops.
As he passed, the thirdlings lowered their weapons, bowed their heads, and lamented the death of the thirdling princess.
V
Borengar’s Folk,
Eastern Border of the Firstling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Early Winter, 6235th Solar Cycle
Thousands and thousands of thirdlings—and I’m letting them into my kingdom…” murmured Balyndis, still in shock. “Do you think we’ll ever get them out? We nearly lost the stronghold to them. They’re invincible on the battlefield.”
She and the others had gathered in the conference hall to devise a strategy for fighting the avatars. It was clear that the demigods couldn’t be defeated by axes alone, but no one had come up with a viable plan. They were hoping that a tankard of ale and some hot food might provide the necessary inspiration.
“Look on the bright side,” said Boïndil forthrightly. “If the thirdlings are burned to a cinder by the avatars, we won’t have to worry about booting them out.” He filled his tankard from the barrel, allowing a frothy head to settle on the dark brown beer.
“It might seem premature,” said his brother, “but I think we need a plan for retaking the Blacksaddle. Once we’ve defeated the avatars—as we most certainly will—we should seize the Blacksaddle before Lorimbas attacks us through his tunnels. His army will be weak, and we’ll have the combined strength of all the dwarven folks to draw on. It’s the perfect time to strike.”
Tungdil nodded. “I’ve sent word to Gandogar, Glaïmbar, and Balendilín. Their troops will take a while to get here, but when they do, Lorimbas will see what he’s up against. We’re bound to come to an arrangement.” He bent over the table to examine the map. “We need to deal with the avatars first.”
“I’ve got five thousand warriors,” said Xamtys.
Tungdil looked at Furgas, Narmora, and Rodario. “How much time do you need?”
“I’m ready,” said Narmora. “There’s nothing I can do until they get here. I’ve got enough magic energy to take them on.” She was lucky that the dwarves knew very little about the workings of magic, otherwise they would have wondered how she could summon the strength to attack the avatars without channeling fresh energy from the fo
rce fields. The malachite was lending her formidable strength.
Furgas spread some sketches on the table. “I’ve dismantled the catapults here”—he pointed to the site of the battle with the thirdlings—“and moved them to West Ironhald. I had enough helpers to get everything up and running. We can blot out the sun if we fire all at once.”
“Excellent. How about you, Rodario?” asked Tungdil. “Sorry,” he corrected himself quickly before the impresario could protest, “Rodario the Fablemaker.”
“How kind of you to remember my title,” Rodario thanked him sourly. Rising to his feet, he assumed the air of a great orator. “You see before you the greatest living avatar-trap. I have agreed to draw the demigods to me, to make myself the target of their wrath, to sacrifice myself so that my maga, Narmora the Unnerving, can use her powers to full advantage without fear of attack.” He cleared his throat. “Naturally, I’m deeply honored to be an integral part of the heroics, but if anyone would like to share the glory…” There was silence. “Anyone at all?… I thought as much,” he muttered grimly, sitting back down. “The poor supporting actors always get killed off. I hope Girdlegard honors my memory.”
“You’re not going to die, Rodario,” said Tungdil. “I’m sure you’ll be treading the boards of the Curiosum in no time at all.”
“I can see it already,” said Boïndil, swallowing the last of his beer. “The Incredible Story of How Rodario the Fablemaker Saved Girdlegard from the Fiery Avatars. You’ll need a few jokes to liven it up. Did you hear about the orc who asked a dwarf for directions?”
“Go on,” said the impresario eagerly, reaching for his quill.
The discussion was cut short by news that Lorimbas’s warriors had arrived. Xamtys led the others to the entrance hall where they watched from the gallery as the thirdlings, bristling with weaponry and covered from head to toe in heavy armor, streamed through the doors below. Entire units were composed of grim-faced tattooed warriors, the thirdling elite. It was obvious from their expressions that they resented entering the kingdom as allies. For a moment the stronghold was silent except for jangling mail and the steady thump of booted feet.