He held her in his arms and stroked her shorn head until the sobs subsided. “It’s over now, Balyndis. You’re safe.” He was willing to bet that Ondori was still alive. She must have foreseen that alliances would count for nothing as soon as Balyndis made her report.
“What’s so special about Djern’s armor?” She listened intently to Tungdil’s explanation. “In that case, I need to get back to the Gray Range,” she said without a thought for her weakened state.
“The Gray Range?” echoed Tungdil. “What for?”
She rapped her fingers against his breastplate. “The armor can only be forged in the Dragon Fire furnace. I made the alloy with tionium and palandium. There isn’t another furnace hot enough to meld the two.”
Tungdil considered the situation: The Gray Range was hundreds of miles away, conditions were atrocious, and Balyndis was weak from her ordeal. “It can’t be done,” was his bleak conclusion. “Nine orbits from now the eoîl or chief avatar or whatever his name is will destroy the force fields. We need to storm the city before it’s too late.”
She looked at him sadly, knowing that the task ahead was full of dangers for her friend. “I suppose it’s up to you and the twins to stop them.” She noticed an imperfection in his armor and frowned. “Tungdil Goldhand, is this your workmanship?” she demanded.
“I was in a hurry,” he protested, hoping to be excused.
She got up, threw on some clothes—human garments hastily tailored to dwarven proportions—and donned a cap. She held out a hand and beckoned to him. “Come on, then!”
“Where to? You’re supposed to be in bed!”
“I’ve never seen such shoddy metalwork,” she told him, smilingly. “Fetch the twins. I’ll soon have you shining brighter than an avatar. You can’t fight the eoîl in second-rate armor.”
Laughing, he took her hand and led her to the makeshift forge, stopping off to collect the twins, who were delighted to see Balyndis back on her feet.
The heat of the forge, the high-pitched ring of the hammer, the weight of the tongs, and the clang of the chisel brought Balyndis’s talent to the fore. Tungdil shared her pleasure at being back at the anvil, their hammers rising and falling in unison as they beat the imperfections out of the metal blow by blow.
Boïndil sang in time with the beat of their hammers, and his brother joined in, whereupon Tungdil and Balyndis raised the tempo. The solemn hymn became faster and faster until the twins dissolved into laughter.
For a brief moment, surrounded by the smell of hot metal and the warmth of the forge, the four friends enjoyed each other’s company without worrying about the avatars and the eoîl.
Soon they realized that the dwarves outside had taken up their song.
The freelings and the firstlings were singing a verse in turn, belting out the words and trying to outdo each other in volume and tempo.
The competition ended in enthusiastic applause, and a single voice, deep and melancholy, cut through the noise of the camp.
Above the dark mountain
A star aches with longing in a sky full of
Stars that he could call to
But he can’t
Stars that he could turn to
But he can’t
Stars that he could join with
But he can’t
The dark mountain, the jealous mountain
Won’t let him cross the sky.
The light-hearted atmosphere was gone.
Tungdil realized that the singer was one of Lorimbas’s dwarves. He was reminded of something that Sanda had said about the thirdlings. Some of them aren’t born with hatred in their hearts. He considered the words of the song. I wonder if the dark mountain stands for Lorimbas and the other thirdling kings who perpetuated the feud? He prayed to Vraccas that he might live to see the orbit when dwarves from all five ranges would come together in friendship and peace.
“What a sad song,” commented Boïndil. “I feel like drinking myself to death.” He fastened his greaves to his shins and nodded approvingly. “They don’t pinch anymore.”
“Two more orbits, and you’ll be ready,” Balyndis assured him. “The avatars don’t deserve to live a moment longer than necessary, but the armor is worth the wait.”
“It certainly is,” agreed Boëndal, checking the fit of his spaulders. “Besides, nothing can save the eoîl.” He was visibly impressed by Balyndis’s workmanship, especially since she was still recovering from her ordeal.
“I don’t like it when they use their flamethrowers,” complained Boïndil, stroking his braided beard. “It gets confounded hot in my suit. I might dip my whiskers in water to stop them from catching alight. I’d be sorry to scorch them.”
“There you are,” said Rodario, stepping into the forge. “Three feisty dwarves, preparing to save Girdlegard from the forces of evil. Hmm, strictly speaking, the avatars are trying to do the same.” He paused and hooked a finger around his chin. “The audience will never understand. How am I supposed to explain that the dwarves, which is to say, the forces of good, are fighting their enemies—also on the side of good—to stop them destroying evil?”
“You’ll think of something,” Tungdil assured him. “Any useful information from the prisoner?”
“Not really…” He picked up a pair of tongs and twirled them in his hand. “I’ve been thinking about what she said earlier. According to Lirkim, the eoîl is convinced that the evil spirit that corrupted Nudin is still alive.”
“What?” gasped Balyndis, staring at him aghast.
“It’s been bothering me as well,” said Tungdil. He raised his beautifully forged but otherwise unremarkable ax. “We can’t fight the spirit without Keenfire, and the älfar won’t give it back. To be honest, it’s hard to see how the eoîl could be right. You were there when I destroyed the spirit, and nothing was left.”
“It can’t be very strong or it would have shown itself. The dark water is all that remains of the Perished Land’s power.” Rodario set down the tongs. “All the same, I’m worried. You’ll have to take the eoîl alive.”
Boïndil roared with laughter. “He’s their leader, remember? He’s stronger and more powerful than the rest.”
“I took my avatar alive—and I wasn’t wearing fancy armor,” retorted Rodario, omitting to mention that Lirkim had been neither sober nor conscious.
“Why do you want us to spare him?” asked Boëndal, more diplomatically.
Rodario decided to tell the whole truth. “Lirkim told me that the eoîl knows how to find the spirit.”
“So you did find out something…” Tungdil mulled the situation over. “Maybe the avatars’ invasion is a blessing in disguise. With the eoîl’s help, we’ll be able to find the spirit and destroy it for good.” He nodded. “You’re right, Rodario, the eoîl must be taken alive.”
“Why didn’t he explain himself properly from the start?” complained Boïndil, turning the grinding wheel to sharpen his axes. “It’s all very well capturing the eoîl, but what are we supposed to do with him—put him on a leash and let him drag us through Girdlegard until he tracks the spirit down?” He hooked his fingers into his belt. “We’ll find the spirit lurking in a pool of dark water,” he predicted. “Either that, or in a dead glade. Remember what the humans told us about people going mad? It could be the spirit of the Perished Land infecting their minds.”
“Let’s focus on taking Porista and defeating the avatars,” said Tungdil. “The other business can wait.” He picked up his vambraces and the other finished items and walked to the door. Smithing was a hungry business, and it was time for some food.
Later they were summoned to the assembly tent, where Queen Xamtys was waiting to share some good news.
“Balendilín, Gandogar, and Glaïmbar are back in their strongholds—they’re sending troops to Porista. Prince Mallen is drumming up volunteers, and King Belletain has cleared his fuddled mind and fired his thirdling doctor. He’s sending an army through Idoslane as well. Unfortunately, none of t
he reinforcements—except maybe Belletain’s ten thousand warriors—will get here in time.”
“Ten thousand warriors should do the trick,” said Tungdil confidently. “Furgas has promised us some formidable siege engines. We’ll start the bombardment in four orbits’ time. First we’ll focus on their army and cut it down to size; then we’ll smash our way into the city. Two entry points should be sufficient—Furgas and Rodario know the weak points in Porista’s defenses.”
“We’d rebuilt it all so nicely,” wailed Rodario. “You’d better not hit the Curiosum.” He stood up. “I’m going to check on Lirkim.” He pulled back the thick pelt that served as a door. “Maybe I can persuade her to…”
Just then a bright light pierced the evening sky, and a gray sun shot out of the winter clouds, plummeting toward them.
Alerted by the sentries, dwarves poured out of the tents, brandishing weapons and shields. Narmora stood among them, arms raised, as she muttered an incantation to deflect the fiery ball.
The spell came too late.
The sun turned a deep shade of green and paled a little, before smashing into the collier’s hut. Malachite flames shot out of the door and windows, towering to a height of four spears. The rickety shed collapsed.
A moment later, dwarves were on the scene, dousing the blazing wreckage with buckets of snow to save the nearby tents.
Rodario stared at the inferno and knew at once that his prisoner was dead. “Lirkim,” he whispered, dismayed. He seldom brought happiness to the women he met.
Lirkim’s death proved that the enemy wasn’t to be trifled with; the eoîl was capable of detecting and punishing treason beyond the city’s walls. Thereafter, the dwarves and their allies poured all their energy into building the siege engines. Furgas had designed them so that the throwing arm was strong enough to hurl spliced tree trunks, boulders, and blocks of wood spiked with nails. They didn’t have petroleum or oil, so they were counting on flattening the enemy instead.
According to the älfar, the enemy was preparing to defend the city from the inside, meaning no attempt would be made to meet the allies outside the walls. Rather than risk their lives on the battlefield, the avatars were waiting for the allied army to storm the city, which was bound to result in heavy losses for the älfar and dwarves. Both sides were still busy with their preparations when the weather suddenly changed. The temperature rose and fog descended on the city, making it impossible to see beyond a couple of hundred paces.
The dwarves seized their chance.
Drawing on their knowledge of mining, they dug a tunnel from the encampment to the sewage outlet, known to Tungdil and the others from their rescue mission.
Their aim was to take the avatars by surprise. An elite battalion of thirdlings and älfar would enter the city through the sewers and clear the way for an allied task force, consisting of Tungdil, Boëndal, Boïndil, and some handpicked firstlings and freelings. Meanwhile, the rest of the army, led by Narmora and Rodario, would attack the city on two flanks to create the illusion that the allies were storming the city with a conventional assault.
“We’ll aim the missiles at the ramparts and the gates,” decided Furgas. “I’d like to spare the population as far as possible. The avatars have caused enough suffering, and there’ll be more casualties when the fighting spreads to the streets.”
The plan met with everyone’s approval.
Tungdil and the others woke on the seventh orbit, knowing that Girdlegard’s moment of reckoning had come.
The morning sun was a hazy presence behind the clouds. It wasn’t snowing, but the sky looked gray and pregnant, with swathes of mist obscuring their view.
Tungdil went to find Balyndis, who was still too weak to leave the camp. They hugged each other like old friends, so that only the shrewdest observer would have noticed the depth of their emotion.
“Farewell, Balyndis,” whispered Tungdil, filling his nostrils with her scent. “We’ll meet again in the eternal smithy, if not before.”
She gulped. “I’ll pray to Vraccas for the hero of the Blacksaddle to prevail.”
“Of course he’ll prevail,” cut in Boïndil. “The avatars will quake in their boots when they see us.” He shook hands with Balyndis, and his brother followed suit; then it was time for them to join the älfar and thirdlings.
Boïndil eyed them with suspicion. “You’d think they were made for each other,” he muttered grimly. “Black souls, black tattoos, black armor… It’s a wonder they haven’t joined forces against us.”
One by one they dropped down and advanced on their hands and knees through the tunnel. Tungdil and the twins soon discovered the difficulties of crawling in a full suit of armor as they disentangled their spaulders from tree roots and emptied their greaves of cold, wet soil.
After a time the tunnel started shaking, from which they deduced that the bombardment was underway.
Above ground, Furgas’s siege engines were hurling boulders and tree trunks at the enemy army. Every hit was accompanied by a tremor that shook the hastily built tunnel, raining loose soil and the occasional clod of earth on the crawling dwarves. The low roof was unlikely to survive the bombardment, even without a direct hit.
Tungdil and the twins couldn’t afford to worry about the situation. Fear was a distraction, and they couldn’t turn back.
At last they reached the end of the tunnel. The älfar and thirdlings were waiting at the mouth of the sewer.
“Ha,” growled Boïndil. “The drains are blocked with scum already.”
“Only because you’re here,” snapped a thirdling, baring his teeth.
Boïndil stepped forward menacingly, but Tungdil pulled him back. “You asked for that,” he said crossly. “Besides, we’re fighting the avatars, not them.”
Boïndil lowered his axes and muttered something unrepeatable under his breath. “You’re lucky,” he said to the thirdling, shooting him a warning look.
They waited until the drain was packed with warriors; then Tungdil gave the order for the hatch to be opened.
Everything went to plan. The avatars hadn’t expected them to try the same strategy twice.
Fifty älfar led the way, stealing like shadows as they searched the streets for enemy guards. Soon afterward, Tungdil heard a low whistle.
It was the signal for the thirdlings to file through the hatch. Once on the surface, they spread out and swarmed toward the palace, brandishing axes, cudgels, and flails.
Tungdil and the twins brought up the rear.
Furgas followed the trajectory of the missiles and carefully adjusted the angle until he was satisfied with the result. The fog made it difficult, but not impossible, to trace the projectiles’ course.
Hoping to spare the houses, he focused the bombardment on the city’s defenses, flattening watchtowers, blasting through the gates, and tearing down ramparts, sending dozens of enemy soldiers to their deaths.
The avatars’ army, unable to return fire, waited helplessly, longing for the moment when the allied warriors would storm the city and the battle could begin.
“No sign of the avatars,” commented Balyndis, who had left the camp to watch the action from the relative safety of the siege engines.
Furgas nodded, sharing her relief. He gave the order for another round to be fired.
Ropes were released and counterweights dropped, then the throwing arms shot up, hurling boulders through the air. The missiles arced toward the watchtowers, smashing the roofs and killing those inside.
“It doesn’t make sense,” said Furgas. “They managed to kill Lirkim with a fireball, but they haven’t done anything to stop us attacking their men.”
Dwarves rushed forward to reload the siege engines, which took considerable time and strength. Furgas wasn’t the sort to stand by idly. “I’d hate to give them ideas,” he said, turning a windlass, “but the siege engines would burn like tinder.”
Balyndis fixed her eyes on the city walls, which stood two hundred and fifty paces from their positio
n. A crack had opened up in the defenses. “Exactly what I was thinking. I’d say they’re not too worried about their army; they’re busy with something else.”
“The force fields,” he said, peering toward the city. Usually, the pitched roofs of the houses were visible above the parapets, but everything was shrouded in fog. “I bet they’re tampering with the force fields. Pass the message to Xamtys, Gemmil, and Narmora. It’s time to start the assault.”
Beyond the city walls, a shimmering green arrow soared above Porista, shining brightly through the fog. It came from the bow of an älf, signaling that Tungdil’s party had reached the palace. “They’re through,” shouted Furgas. “Bombard the gates!”
From the ranks of the freelings and firstlings, a line of warriors jogged forward and set their ladders against the ramparts. Their eyes were bound with cloth to protect them from the dazzling light. The first stage of the two-pronged assault had begun.
Already Lorimbas and Rodario were leading the attack on the northern gates, hoping to split the avatars’ army and draw them away from the palace.
Furgas marveled at the rows of dwarves rolling toward the city. No mortal adversary could resist such a force—but Lirkim had said that the eoîl was a god.
Among the dwarves he spotted the tall, slender figure of Narmora, dressed in full armor and a bright crimson cloak. He prayed to Palandiell to keep her from harm. Don’t punish her for worshipping Samusin. Her intentions are good.
Tungdil and the others reached the palace without encountering a single guard.
It doesn’t make sense, he thought, wondering why no one had tried to stop them. Maybe it’s a trap… He strode past the main gates; they couldn’t be breached by force, and scaling the walls would be folly.