“I’m not surprised,” said Tungdil. “The dark water has made them deadlier than ever.” He paused. “I’ve heard from our scouts that the snow around the Blacksaddle has melted completely, while the rest of Gauragar is covered in thigh-high drifts. Are you ready to take on the avatars, Narmora?”
The maga looked at the flickering flame of the lantern overhead. “I keep wondering whether my kind of magic can stop them,” she said slowly. “My way is the way of equilibrium, the balancing of darkness and light. My power comes from both, but it might be better to attack them with pure light.” She looked away from the flame. “We’ll soon find out.”
“I’ll be right beside you, maga,” said Rodario in a voice that he hoped was suitably comforting. “I’ll make them believe I’m the most powerful magus in Girdlegard so you can attack them without endangering your valuable person.” He took a swig of beer and grimaced: It was too bitter, too strong, too malty for his taste. “At least that’s the aim,” he added quietly. He lowered his voice again. “I hope you’ll erect a statue in my honor when I’m dead.”
His comment was met with silence from the maga, who pretended not to hear.
Tungdil noticed that Djern had positioned himself behind his new mistress, ready to spring into action at the first sign of danger. His damaged armor made him more intimidating than ever, the scratches and burn marks proving that neither swords nor fire could bring him down.
Tungdil, thinking about it more carefully, realized that Djern’s escape from the avatars didn’t make sense. The experience of those who had encountered the demigods confirmed the legend in every detail. The avatars were in possession of magic powers capable of destroying all forms of evil. There were two categories of survivors: those who had the good fortune to escape their attention, and those who satisfied their cockeyed notion of purity.
But Djern is still alive, and they had every reason to kill him. He’s a creature of evil, and he’s powerful, which makes him a hundred times more dangerous than orcs, bögnilim, or ogres. A shiver of excitement ran down his back. He survived their attacks, and he survived for a reason.
Without a word to the others, he went over to the giant warrior and ran a hand over his armor, following the lines and curves of the scorched intarsia and studying the symbols etched by Balyndis at Andôkai’s behest. Is that the answer?
Rodario cleared his throat. “May I ask what you’re doing, illustrious hero of the Blacksaddle? I know it’s hard for a dwarf to resist a good piece of metalwork, but don’t you think we should deal with the avatars first?”
Tungdil ignored him and turned to Narmora. “Maga, ask Djern what happened when the avatars attacked.”
“Ask him yourself,” she said. “He understands you.” She listened to the giant’s response, which she alone could understand. “I see. He says they attacked him with their magic.”
Tungdil took a step back and thumped Djern’s armor. “So why did he survive? The thirdlings were clad in armor and they perished in the avatars’ fires.” He turned to the others. “Djern is precisely the sort of creature they’re out to destroy. They must have done everything in their power to kill him, and what did they achieve? Practically nothing—except cover him in soot. His only injuries were inflicted by their army.”
“You think he was saved by his armor,” said Boëndal. He could tell from Narmora’s expression that she was thinking the same. “Andôkai must have found a countercharm to protect him.”
Narmora shook her head. “She would have told us. Why keep it to herself?”
“Maybe she didn’t want to get our hopes up,” suggested Rodario. “Maybe she sent her knight in shining armor to see what happened when the avatars attacked. She was probably going to tell us when she knew for certain that it worked.”
“Not Andôkai—she cared too much about Djern to put him at risk. The avatars weren’t supposed to find him, but they did.” She signaled for Tungdil to step away from the giant. “We’ll try a little test.” After warning Djern, she raised her arms and began an incantation.
“Steady on, Narmora,” protested Boïndil. “You can’t set fire to Djern in a tent!” The maga continued, undeterred. A tongue of fire pulled away from the lantern above her and flew into her outstretched hands, turning from orange to ruby-red. The flame grew and expanded until it was the size of a human head, then it cast itself, hissing and spluttering, against the giant’s armored chest.
There was a loud explosion, and Djern was wreathed in flames. At once the runes on his armor pulsed with light, and the fire went out. Djern didn’t so much as flinch.
“Fine, I’ll take it up a notch,” murmured Narmora, raising her right arm and summoning tongues of fire from every lantern in the tent. They gathered in her fingers, forming a red-hot fireball that she hurled at his chest.
Again the giant was surrounded by flames. This time, the force of the impact brought him to his knees, but he straightened up as soon as the flames had died. He growled softly.
“He says he felt the heat, but it couldn’t hurt him,” explained Narmora, who was visibly surprised by what had occurred. She clicked her fingers, and the flames returned to the lanterns, restoring light to the tent. “You’d better not say I was going easy on him,” she told them. “The fireball was hot enough to melt any normal metal.” She stepped up to the giant, inspected his breastplate, and laid a hand on the metal. “It’s warm,” she said, shaking her head incredulously. “The runes are still alight, but there’s no sign of warping.” She turned to the dwarves. “I think we can safely say that Balyndis has forged a suit of armor that works against magic as well as swords.”
Tungdil breathed out in relief. “Vraccas knew what he was doing when he gave us a talent for metalwork. He’s given us another chance to protect our lands.” Kneeling, he gave thanks to the dwarven deity.
The other dwarves, with the exception of Lorimbas, followed his lead.
The thirdling king let his eyes glide contemptuously over their bowed heads. He felt like cleaving their necks with his ax, but he was their ally—for the moment, at least. Vraccas won’t save you from Lorimbur’s children, he vowed.
Tungdil was the first to rise. “We need to summon Balyndis,” he announced, buoyed by the thought that help was at hand. “Send word that we need the instructions for Djern’s armor.” He wondered whether Vraccas was testing his character. I tried to get away from her, but it doesn’t seem to work.
“We’ll need ten thousand suits,” said Boëndal, leaning on his crow’s beak. “I’m no coward, but I don’t fancy our chances of fighting them without the magic armor. We’d be throwing away our lives.”
Tungdil gave orders for four messengers to leave immediately for the Gray Range via four different routes—it was crucial that the message got through. “We’ll decide what to do when we see the situation at the Blacksaddle tomorrow. I’d rather not fight without the armor, but we may not have a choice.” He pointed to the menacing black lines on the map that designated the kingdom of Dsôn Balsur. “The avatars are rumored to draw their power from the evil they destroy. Once the avatars wipe out the älfar, they’ll be stronger than ever. Who knows if the armor will still work.”
“Stop fretting,” said Boïndil cheerfully. “I can’t wait for Balyndis to forge me a fine new suit of armor. I’ll teach the avatars not to tangle with the dwarves. By the way, the first ten are mine.”
“There are only eleven of them,” Boëndal reminded him. The others laughed.
Grinning, Boïndil clinked tankards with his brother. “Tough luck,” he said, chuckling. “You’ll have to work it out among yourselves.”
Their high spirits lasted until mid-afternoon the next orbit when the Blacksaddle came into view.
As they approached the mountain, they realized that the gloomy clouds in the gray winter sky weren’t loaded with snow, as they had thought, but with smoke. And there was no doubt about the origin of the fire.
The mountain without a peak had become a blazing pyre.
The very rock of the Blacksaddle was burning, the mountainside a sheet of red-hot fire, with tongues of flame rising from every crack and vent. Black smoke cut off the sunlight, obscuring the sky, and turning the noon hours into dusk. Vast chunks of rock broke away from the Blacksaddle and plunged to the ground. The snow had evaporated and the soil around the mountain was powdery and dry. As they watched, the flames grew fiercer, leaping as if to ignite the sun.
“It doesn’t seem possible,” gasped Xamtys.
“How did they do it, maga?” asked Boïndil. “Did they turn the Blacksaddle into coal?”
Narmora’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a warning,” she said. “A warning to anyone thinking of following them. They’re showing us their power.”
“What a disaster,” sighed Rodario. “How am I supposed to re-create it on stage?” He looked hopefully at Furgas, who shrugged.
Tungdil shouldered his ax. “Let’s take a look at the damage.”
The devastation was complete.
At five hundred paces from the Blacksaddle, the snow turned to slush. Three hundred paces later, they were walking on firm, dry earth, raising clouds of dust with their boots. At a distance of a hundred and fifty paces, they came to a halt. Any closer, and they were liable to be killed by flying rock. Scattered in the dust were fragments of axes and clubs, scorched bones, and warped armor caked with charred flesh. The Blacksaddle’s defenders were no more.
Lorimbas gazed at the devastation, eyes wet with tears. “To you they were thirdlings,” he said quietly with a catch in his voice. “But to me they were friends—friends, whose deaths must be avenged.” The sight of the burning Blacksaddle ignited the fires in every thirdling heart: For Lorimbas and his dwarves, the war had become personal.
“We’re done for,” muttered Rodario, kicking at the powdery gray earth. “Surely we’re all agreed that it’s no good fighting them without Balyndis’s armor?”
“We may have no choice,” said Lorimbas grimly, looking at the gray trail left in the avatars’ wake. A vast path of dusty earth, a hundred paces across and bordered on both sides by snow, was proof of the direction they had taken: The army was marching north. Lorimbas bent down and picked up an ax head; it was still attached to a charred fragment of haft. “Goldhand is right. We need to stop them before they reach Dsôn Balsur and wipe out the älfar. They’re powerful enough as it is.”
“Who would have thought it would come to this?” remarked Boïndil. “All this time we’ve been trying to kick out Inàste’s children, and at last there’s someone who could do the job for us, but instead of letting them burn down Dsôn Balsur, we’re going to jump to the älfar’s defense.”
“It doesn’t seem right,” agreed Tungdil, “but we can’t let the avatars get to Dsôn Balsur. In any case, we’re not defending the älfar; we’re postponing their death.” He glanced at Lorimbas. “Can you spare ten thousand warriors? I want to outflank the avatars and squeeze them between two fronts.”
Lorimbas nominated his elite battalions for the advance guard, which would consist of Tungdil, Narmora, Rodario, and the twins.
“We’ll cut off the White Army before it reaches Dsôn Balsur,” explained Tungdil. “Meanwhile, Lorimbas, Gemmil, and Xamtys will attack with the rest of our troops from the rear. Narmora will take care of the avatars.” He thumped Boïndil on the back. “How’s that for a challenge?”
“No challenge is too big for a dwarf,” said Boïndil, although he didn’t seem terribly confident.
It was late afternoon when Tungdil set off with ten thousand thirdlings on a northerly bearing. By the time they left the Blacksaddle, the once legendary mountain resembled a broad-based hill, fifty paces in height and riven with cracks and fissures; by evening, when they stopped to rest for a while, it was gone. A few flames remained to mark the spot where the powerful Blacksaddle had once stood. Tion’s demigods had razed it to the ground.
Tungdil was intent on catching and passing the avatars’ army. At night, its bright white glow was visible for hundreds of miles against the black firmament, but the dwarven warriors were still hopelessly behind.
It seemed the White Army could march without rest. Their soldiers were on the move from dawn until dusk, racking up the miles, while Tungdil and the others were feeling the strain of ten orbits of constant marching.
“Another ten orbits, and they’ll be there,” said Boïndil, sitting down by the campfire to examine his blisters. “We can hardly keep up with them, so how are Lorimbas, Gemmil, and Xamtys supposed to get there in time? We’ve got ten thousand elite thirdling warriors, and we’re falling off the pace.”
Tungdil pored over the map. The other dwarves at the campfire were thirdling generals; it was hard to tell from their tattooed faces what they were thinking. “We said we’d strike here,” he said, lowering the stem of his pipe over an area south of Dsôn Balsur. He did some quick calculations. “If we hurry, we can catch them right on the border. It’s the earliest possible chance of attack. I’ll send word to the others to tell them of the change of plan.”
The thirdling generals listened in silence.
“It’s risky, but it’s the only way,” agreed Boëndal. “They’ll speed up as soon as they see the border. They’ll want to push on to the capital as fast as they can.”
“I know, but we won’t catch them beforehand,” ruled Tungdil, turning his attention to a written report from one of the scouts who was tracking the enemy army, unbeknown to the avatars.
So far, the invaders had laid waste to four towns en route to the älfar’s kingdom. The inhabitants had refused to join the army, in return for which the avatars had plundered and burned their homes.
According to the report, few had survived, for the most part children and young girls whom the avatars had spared. Everyone else had been burned to a cinder like the thirdlings at the Blacksaddle. Forests, fields, meadows, marshes—everything the avatars encountered was destroyed. The demigods were leaving a trail of ashes and scorched earth.
It seemed to Tungdil that the men and dwarves, while far from pure, had done nothing to merit such a fate. I don’t think much of divine justice, if that’s what it is. Not even the älfar have wreaked such destruction on Girdlegard. He threw the bulletins into the fire and watched as the paper crumpled. His thoughts returned to the Blacksaddle and the dwarves who had died in the blaze. The avatars are worse than älfar, orcs, and bögnilim combined.
That night he dreamed of Balyndis and Myr.
They were fighting for his favor, Balyndis, equipped with a blacksmith’s hammer and a pair of metal tongs, and Myr wielding daggers. The duel was interrupted by Salfalur, who killed them both with his hammer. Tears streaming down his tattooed cheeks, he turned on Tungdil and charged…
Tungdil woke with a start.
Boïndil was crouched next to him, shaking his shoulder. “Come on, scholar. The White Army is on the move. Anyone would think they’d got wind of our plans.”
Muttering and cursing, Tungdil clambered to his feet, put on his weapons belt, stuffed his blanket into his rucksack, and jogged to the front of the thirdling battalions. The thirdling generals had set off without him. If it hadn’t been for Boïndil, he would have woken by the campfire to find everyone had gone.
He felt the eyes on his back as he made his way to the head of the army. Boïndil was right: He would never trust a thirdling in battle, even though he was a thirdling himself.
82 Miles Southwest of Dsôn Balsur,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6235th Solar Cycle
Ondori turned her fire bull and looked proudly at the unit of four thousand warriors marching behind her through the night.
They were stronger than ever, having partaken of the dark water and profited from its life-preserving power.
The immortal siblings had ordered Ondori to lead the troops against landur and wipe out the elves. The älf couldn’t have wished for a more glorious mission. A duel with Lord Liútas
il would give her tremendous pleasure and she was happy to delay her private campaign against the dwarves. Besides, with the help of the dark water, she could settle her score with Tungdil whenever she wanted.
With a bit of luck, and Tion willing, Ondori was hoping to put an end to Sitalia’s elves. If the initial attack went well, she and her warriors would march on the rest of the kingdom and raze the leafy elven settlements to the ground. The immortal siblings’ palace would be clad from top to bottom in shiny white elf-bone, and Liútasil’s skull would be skewered at the top.
Hmm, what do we have here? At the foot of a lone hill she could make out the faint glow of a poorly hidden campfire. Careless wayfarers. She signaled for two dozen warriors to join her. With any luck, they’ll be elves…
They stole through the valley toward the hill. A shelf protruded from the hillside, affording shelter from rain and snow. At any other time, it would have made the perfect place to rest for a while, but the gods had deserted the travelers that night.
Ondori reined in her bull and slid noiselessly to the ground. She heard snores from her victims and smelled the strong tobacco on their clothes. After a few paces, she came to a boulder and ducked behind it, keeping to the shadows as she peered at the camp.
Groundlings, she thought in astonishment, eying the ring of stocky warriors asleep around the dying fire. Their sentry was perched on a rock, facing away from her, and smoking a pipe. Every now and then he dipped his tankard into a cauldron over the flames and took a sip of the steaming brew.
Ondori did a quick headcount and came to twenty dwarves in total. What are they doing here? They can’t be spies or scouts; they’re in the middle of nowhere.
She signed to her warriors that she wanted to question one of the groundlings; the others could be killed. Then she focused on the fire, willing the flames to die down. The fire flickered briefly and went out.