Cursing, the sentry clambered to his feet, placed some tinder on the embers and kneeled on the ground to blow on the flames.
Ondori detached herself from the shadows and crept toward him. Her movements were silent, and he didn’t have time to react. Out of nowhere, a scythe-like blade sliced through his throat and he toppled over, landing in the dying embers and dousing them with blood.
The thud of his falling body caused one of his companions to stir. Three black arrows winged toward him as he raised his sleepy head. He sank back against his mattress, as if overpowered by fatigue.
The älfar murdered their way systematically through the ring of sleeping dwarves, slitting their throats, ramming their narrow daggers between their eyes, and running their swords through their chests.
Crouching beside the lone survivor, Ondori disarmed her victim and rapped her quarterstaff against the ground.
It was only when the dwarf sat up sleepily that Ondori realized she was female. The little creature reached for her ax—to no avail.
“Lie still,” whispered Ondori, holding the dwarven ax above her head for her victim to see. She hurled it into the snow. “Scream, and we’ll kill your friends, then you. Is that clear?” The dwarf nodded, and Ondori detected the sound of grinding teeth. “What are you doing here?” the älf demanded.
“Hunting älfar.”
Ondori glowered. “Trust a groundling to lie.” She peered at her victim’s face. “I’ve seen you before. You were at the mouth of the tunnel to the Gray Range; you shouted for Goldhand to help you—and I got away.” She smiled balefully. “You’re a queen, aren’t you? Queen of the mob who moved into the halls. Are you sending an army to fight us? Are you scouts?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the dwarf said stubbornly. “Our orders are to find out what’s happening at the front. We’re supposed to make a deal with the elves.”
Ondori raised her quarterstaff sharply and pressed a hidden catch. A blade shot out from one end and came to rest on her captive’s throat. There was a click as she locked the mechanism to prevent the blade retreating. “I want the truth, groundling.” She swung her quarterstaff so that the blade hovered over the body of the dwarf to her right. “Think of your friends,” she whispered threateningly. “Do you want them to die?”
Her captive bristled. “You won’t hurt them, no-eyes,” she said fearlessly.
Ondori rammed the blade into the heart of the seemingly sleeping dwarf. The trick worked: It was plain from her captive’s face that she blamed herself for the death of her friend. “That leaves eighteen of you, including yourself. How many more lies are you going to tell me?”
“You monster!” Without warning, the dwarf thrust aside the quarterstaff and charged at the älf, who dived to the ground and rolled away nimbly to escape the dwarf’s powerful hands.
“Too slow,” crowed Ondori, kicking her under the chin. The dwarf fell backward and lay limply on the ground.
Inàste is smiling on me today, thought the älf. The immortal siblings will be pleased to see my prisoner. Dusting the snow from her clothes, she got up, only for the apparently unconscious dwarf to whip out a dagger and ram it into her calf. The blade tore through the leather upper of her boot and brought her to the ground.
“To arms!” shouted the dwarf, scrambling toward the älf. She pointed the dagger at Ondori’s throat. “We’ve got an intruder in the camp!”
“Don’t kill her!” shouted Ondori, swallowing her pain. “We need her alive!” She grabbed the dagger-wielding arm. The solidly built dwarf threw all her strength into avenging her dead companion.
Four älfar rushed to Ondori’s aid and grabbed the dwarf from behind, tossing her roughly to the ground. Each held a leg or an arm, but the dwarf was still intent on breaking free.
Ondori tore a strip from the cloak of a dead dwarf and tied it around her calf. The wound would heal of its own accord. “Mountain vermin,” she hissed, ramming the blunt end of her quarterstaff into the dwarf’s belly with all her might. “We’re taking you with us. You’re a queen consort and a good friend of Tungdil Goldhand.” She gave the order for the captive to be bound. “Something tells me you’re going to be very useful.”
She limped away, followed by her warriors and the dwarf. Their captive was as stubborn as a donkey, and they had to drag her through the snow. The älfar themselves left no tracks.
Ondori was glad to get back into the saddle. Her calf was still throbbing; the dark water, though able to close any wound, had no effect on the pain. She took the end of the rope with which they had trussed their captive and threaded it through a loop on Agrass’s saddle to tether the dwarf to her mount.
She and her unit resumed their journey toward landur. After a time, Agrass shook his head, nostrils flaring in the wind. Ondori understood the warning and sat up in the saddle. Turning, she saw something in the west.
What in Tion’s name is that?
A long band of light was moving through Gauragar, and it seemed to be heading straight for her homeland. It was traveling fast enough to reach the border in less than two orbits.
Have the humans found a new way of setting fire to the woods? she wondered, surprised that the invaders had regained their courage so soon. She quickly discarded the idea: There was no lamp in Girdlegard, not even an elven lamp, that could give off such a light. It wasn’t fire either; it was too brilliant, too white.
“Groundling!” Her foot connected with the back of the dwarf, who had come to a halt beside the bull. “Is this your doing?”
The captive glared at her murderously and shrugged. “It might be.”
“In other words, no.” It looks like a tide of molten palandium… In Ondori’s mind, there could only be one answer to the riddle: Andôkai.
The humans must have convinced the maga to come up with a spell that would aid their armies against the älfar. But the explanation wasn’t entirely satisfactory. Andôkai the Tempestuous was known for her stormy temper and her fondness for cataclysmic winds. She liked to surprise her enemies with sudden gales or cyclones; it wouldn’t be her style to light up the sky like a beacon and alert the älvish army to her approach.
What’s going on? Ondori had a bad feeling about the light, which was beginning to hurt her eyes. “Halt!” she shouted. “We’re turning back.” She pointed at the luminous band. “Dsôn Balsur is under threat. The elves can wait.”
Two of her guards rode off on shadow mares to spread the word among the troops. The other two stayed at her side. Eyes still fixed on the glow, she touched the symbol of Nagsor and Nagsar on her forehead. It was throbbing as if the skin were inflamed.
“Ondori,” said one of her guards, pointing south. “What’s that over there?”
She stared into the distance and spotted a faint glow in the darkness. It was another strip of white light, this time much further away. “It’s not a threat at the moment,” she said confidently. “Keep an eye on it, though. We don’t want anyone to slip past us and attack from the north.”
“Looks like we’ve got two armies to deal with,” observed the guard, smiling. “The immortal siblings will thank us for bringing them their bones.”
Ondori rubbed her forehead, hoping to soothe the pain. “We can be sure of their gratitude.” She felt strangely ill at ease at the sight of the approaching light. “We should hurry. We need to find out who they are.”
At daybreak, Ondori stood watching the soldiers in their gleaming white armor. The first rays of sunlight glinted on the polished metal, blinding her eyes. She couldn’t decipher the runes on their banner, but she knew for certain that the soldiers weren’t from Girdlegard.
“Twenty thousand foot soldiers and two thousand five hundred riders,” said one of her guards, surveying the unknown enemy. “The immortal siblings should be warned.”
“Our scouts are bound to have seen them,” Ondori assured him. She screwed up her eyes, dazzled by the glare. “They’re sparkling like an army of diamonds. As soon as the
sun goes in, we’ll attack from behind, take some prisoners, and retreat.”
Ondori had fought soldiers from every army in Girdlegard, but none wore uniforms such as these. Where are they from? It seemed unlikely that the human generals could raise an army of foreign mercenaries without the rest of Girdlegard knowing. Älvish spies had been eavesdropping on the enemy camps in Dsôn Balsur for a good many orbits.
“Whoever they are, they’ll get a proper älvish welcome,” she said darkly, returning to her troops. They followed the strange army at a distance until dusk, waiting for the sun to set.
As the light began to fade, she ordered her guards to tie the dwarf to a tree and fill her mouth with snow to stop her dying of thirst.
“We’ll be back soon,” Ondori assured her. “As soon as we’ve finished here, we’re taking you to the immortal siblings.” She waggled her leg tentatively. The dark water had healed the gash in her calf and there was nothing to show that a dagger had sliced through her flesh.
She climbed into the saddle and rode at the head of her troops.
When they were close enough, she took cover and surveyed the tail end of the army. The situation wasn’t to her liking. The soldiers’ armor had absorbed the sunlight, and, despite the gathering gloom, was shining as brightly as ever, forcing Ondori to take an unusual precaution. She ordered her warriors to don strips of black cloth designed to protect them from snow blindness.
Peering through slits in the fabric and still half dazzled by the light, they launched a stealth attack from the rear.
Even as they advanced, Ondori began to doubt the wisdom of the scheme. The blessing on her forehead was burning against her skin, and Agrass, rather than charging the enemy and trampling through the ranks, was snorting and bucking nervously.
The battle got off to a disappointing start.
The soldiers must have anticipated their attack; at any rate, they showed no sign of panic.
As soon as the first enemy rider went down, struck by an älvish arrow, the back row of infantry raised their shields to form a wall, which rose to a height of three paces as the cavalrymen followed suit. Lances and halberds appeared through the cracks.
At that moment, a midnight sun flashed into the sky above the älfar, bathing them in cold white light. Ondori cried out and clutched her forehead. It felt as if liquid fire were coursing through the blessing inscribed there and searing her brain. The attack faltered.
“So you are the älfar of whom we’ve heard tell,” said the sun. “I can sense your corruption. You carry the spirit of Tion within you and you live to further his works.” The sun became hotter, brighter. “All that is over. The älfar shall threaten Girdlegard no more.”
A wave of heat rolled over the älfar, and a third of the troops caught alight. The burning warriors threw themselves to the ground, writhing in agony, trying to put out the flames—but to no avail.
Ondori watched as the fiery presence drew closer and waited until it was almost above her, then dived beneath her bull, praying not to be trampled beneath its hooves.
Eyes closed, she felt the searing heat pass over her like the fiery breath of a dragon. Crackling flames engulfed the warriors around her and a stench of burning hair, clothes, and flesh filled the air. Agrass kicked out frantically, striking her in the side, then the terrible rush of heat was over.
Ondori sprang to her feet and stared at her scorched and dying bull. The flames had melted its metal visor, sealing its fate.
“Pull back!” she shouted. “Make for the woods!”
Her voice was barely audible above the shouts and jeers of the unknown soldiers as they seized their chance and attacked. Riders on stallions charged fearlessly at the dark ranks of the älfar, cutting them down with their swords.
Ondori watched in horror as her warriors took blows to the limbs and torso and lay where they fell. The power of the dark water offered no protection against the dazzling riders’ swords.
We’re no stronger than ordinary mortals. Aghast, she turned to flee. There could be no hope of victory against an enemy as powerful as this.
Leaping over the bodies of her fallen comrades, she ran for the ash-covered trees.
Hampered by the undergrowth, the riders stopped their pursuit. The foot soldiers blundered on, but none could match her speed. Ondori kept running, spurred on by the memory of the heat, oblivious to her aching lungs and throbbing legs. At last she reached a clearing and slumped to the ground, exhausted.
Soon after, she was joined by the rest of her unit, who arrived in dribs and drabs. There were ten of them in all. The others had been cut down or consumed by fire.
“What happened?” gasped one of the warriors.
Ondori couldn’t answer. Her lungs were screaming for air and her forehead was on fire. She reached up to touch the skin above her mask and her flesh fell away, exposing the white of her skull. Her fingers were covered in sticky black ash.
She wiped them on the ground, digging her hands into the soil and crying with rage and agony. The noise reverberated through the night.
Suddenly a pair of battered boots stepped into view. “What have we got here?” growled a deep voice. A heavy object collided with the back of her head and she slumped to the ground, unconscious.
VI
21 Miles Southwest of Dsôn Balsur,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6235th Solar Cycle
I know her because of the mask,” said Tungdil, staring at the älf, who was lying, wrists and ankles bound, in the snow by the fire. He and the others were waiting for her to open her eyes “She’s the one who stole Keenfire. She came after me in the Gray Range and swore to kill me.”
Boïndil was gripping one of his axes, ready to dispatch their captive at the first sign of trouble. “I’m tired of waiting,” he complained.
“We’re only waiting because you walloped her over the head,” his brother reminded him.
“In that case, I’d better wake her,” he said promptly, taking a handful of snow and hurling it at her face. They had stripped her of her mask to reveal a slender, well-proportioned countenance, universal to älfar and elves. Tungdil was particularly interested to see the burns on her face; some were the work of the avatars, but the rest had been left by Keenfire.
The clump of snow bounced off and landed on the ground, leaving a few stray crystals that melted on the älf’s warm skin.
“Hmm,” said Boïndil. “She knows what it’s like to get burned, so maybe fire will do the trick.” He bent down and picked up a glowing ember in his glove.
The älf’s eyes flew open. “Put it down,” she hissed.
“Ha, I knew it! The scheming no-eyes is awake!” crowed Boïndil, lowering his ax toward her face. “Do as we say or I’ll chop you up like a sausage.”
Tungdil stepped forward. “Now I know your face.”
“Tion will curse you for stripping me of my mask,” she spat back. “You and your friends are doomed.”
Rodario shook his head. “Listen to the ferocious little polecat with the triangular ears.” He eyed her bonds. “You can spit as much as you like, but we’ve trimmed your claws.” He struck what he hoped was an intimidating pose. “My name is Rodario the Fablemaker, famulus to Narmora the Unnerving, and second most powerful magician in Girdlegard. I could destroy you right now if I wanted, but I’ll spare your life if you—”
“Where’s Keenfire?” broke in Boïndil to the indignation of the impresario, who punished him with a theatrical glare.
“It wouldn’t help if I told you,” she hissed.
“Perhaps not,” replied Tungdil, “but don’t be surprised if someone else gets hold of it. The heart of your kingdom is about to fall.”
“To the White Army?” She raised her head and stared at Tungdil, her eyes full of hope. “Does Keenfire have the power to stop them?”
“Ah, so it’s in Dsôn,” he concluded.
The älf fell silent, trying to make sense of the situation. Wh
ile pretending to be unconscious, she had heard the dwarves discussing the invaders. It seemed to her that they were trying to halt the White Army’s advance. “You’re not on their side,” she reasoned. “Why are you trying to stop them? Don’t you want Dsôn to fall?”
“Who would have thought it?” exclaimed Rodario, surprised. “The little pussy cat doesn’t know who they are. Haven’t you heard the legend of the avatars?” On seeing the älf’s puzzlement, he proceeded to explain the history of the demigods, throwing in the odd fantastical detail here and there to make the avatars seem more terrifying. He pointed into the distance. “And your warriors were consumed by the avatars, fiery crusaders of purity descended from Tion, the god to whom you pray. Is that not deliciously ironic?”
“They won’t stop until every last one of us is dead,” said Ondori slowly. At last it made sense: her nervousness before the attack, the searing pain in her forehead, the failure of the dark water… And she knew without a doubt that Dsôn Balsur would fall to the invaders. Unless… “A bitter irony indeed. Our survival depends on those who seek to destroy us.”
“Actually,” began Tungdil, looking at her gravely, “we’re asking you to join us. We need to fight together if we’re to drive them out.”
“We can’t fight them, groundling,” she said with a shudder, remembering the murderous wave of heat and light. “It’s like asking a snowball to put out the sun.”
“It depends on the size of the snowball,” he replied, cutting her bonds. “Forget the enmity between us and hurry back to Dsôn to tell your leaders what you’ve heard. We’ll need every warrior in Girdlegard if the avatars are to be stopped.”
“I will deliver your message.” Ondori picked up her mask and slipped it over her head, hiding her scars.
A woman in black leather armor appeared before her. Her face was slender, too slender for a human. “My name is Narmora the Unnerving. Andôkai the Tempestuous was my teacher,” she said in älvish. Her accent was abysmal and her pronunciation atrocious, but Ondori understood. “Tell the immortal siblings that the älfar must join our troops. We won’t fight your battles unless you’re prepared to risk your lives as well.” Her eyes darkened with menace. “We can always stand by and watch the avatars raze your homeland to the ground. I’d be happy to provide directions to the royal palace. Tell Nagsor and Nagsar to think very carefully before refusing our request.”