The next ferocious quake proved too much for the tower.
Turning, they watched as the glorious palace of Lios Nudin was broken apart. The tower above the wellspring was shaking like corn in the wind, tilting wildly from side to side. Suddenly, the walls crumbled and the uppermost third of the tower broke off.
The deadly chunk of masonry crashed into the highest tower, smashing through its walls. The tower collapsed, raining chunks of marble over the palace and destroying the copper dome. One by one the sable towers crashed to the ground.
Clouds of dust rose from the debris, rolling toward them like a vast brown wave and obscuring their view. Chips of marble flew through the air, and the sound of splitting stone echoed endlessly through the city.
Crouched behind the outer walls, they waited for the devastation to end. Dust clogged their eyes and nostrils, clinging to them like thick brown fog. Those who hadn’t thought to cover their mouths and noses were already coughing and struggling to breathe.
At last the ground stopped shaking and everything came to rest.
Tungdil wiped the dust from his eyes and washed his face with a handful of snow. Vraccas protect us.
Nothing remained of the palace’s former splendor. Tons of marble had flattened its lofty chambers, burying cycles of scholarship under its weight. It was as if the pillaged wellspring had used the last of its energy to destroy the seat of Girdlegard’s mystic learning, which served no purpose now that the magic was gone. In any case, no one in Girdlegard knew anything of the mystic arts; the last of the magi was dead, and there was no one to take her place.
Thoughtfully, Tungdil closed his fingers around the diamond. What am I going to do with you?
He heard the tread of many feet and the familiar sound of jangling chain mail. Through the mist, the firstling queen and her warriors, accompanied by Gemmil and his dwarves, marched toward them. Tungdil spotted Balyndis’s smiling face at the front of the parade.
Xamtys had survived the battle with only minor injuries and her four-pronged mace glistened with enemy blood. “Thank Vraccas you’re all right! When the tower came down, we feared the worst.”
“Who knows what the rest of Girdlegard looks like,” Tungdil said grimly. “For all we know, Porista may have come off lightly compared to the other cities.” In spite of his bleak mood, he couldn’t help smiling at Balyndis.
She came over and gave him a careful hug. “We routed the avatars’ army.”
“And we routed the avatars,” rasped Rodario. “You missed the performance of a lifetime. Tungdil and I defeated the eoîl. The blasted creature was an—”
“Apparition,” said Tungdil quickly. “The eoîl was made of mist, like the spirit that corrupted Nudin.” He spoke loudly and deliberately, hoping that Rodario would take the hint. If the dwarves found out that an elf maiden was to blame for the destruction, the fragile truce between the dwarven kingdoms and Liútasil’s folk would be endangered, and even the humans would start to take sides. In the eyes of some, the crimes of an individual justified the punishment of an entire kingdom or folk.
Xamtys wasn’t fooled. “How did you defeat the apparition without Keenfire?”
“A fatal error on the part of the eoîl,” explained Rodario, playing along with the deceit. “He assumed human form, which is to say, he made himself mortal. You should have seen the battle—he fought like a devil, but I stabbed him in the chest and our twice victorious hero dealt the final blow.”
Snow was still falling, pushing the clouds of dust to the ground. The air cleared and the little group could breathe again.
Xamtys shot Tungdil a knowing look, but allowed the story to stand, preferring not to challenge their victory in front of the jubilant troops. “How about we get these three to camp?” she said, eying Tungdil, Rodario, and Boïndil’s wounds. “My warriors will take care of the dead.”
Tungdil started off, supported by Balyndis, and promptly trod on something small and hard.
Without really knowing why, he bent down and fumbled in the snow until his fingers closed around a finger-length shard of stone. He picked it up: It was green, slightly charred, and specked with frozen blood.
Narmora’s malachite! He pocketed it quickly before anyone could see. “Just a bit of stone,” he told Balyndis. “Nothing valuable, I’m afraid.”
The news of the victory spread quickly through Porista.
Relieved citizens pressed their faces to the windows to watch the dwarves march past. It wasn’t long before they poured out of their houses to clap, cheer, and supply the warriors with food and hot drinks. In no time, Rodario and the dwarves found themselves at the center of an unexpected victory parade.
Tungdil and his kinsfolk thanked the citizens for their kindness. It wasn’t in their nature to celebrate in front of strangers, but their tired, bearded faces revealed their contentment.
Rodario was altogether less reserved, waving majestically from his stretcher and playing to the crowd.
“Fellow citizens, prepare yourself for the story of how I, the fabulous Rodario, and my trusty companion, Tungdil Goldhand, defeated the godlike eoîl. I look forward to seeing you in my theater.” He raised his voice. “Long live the dwarves and long live Porista!” The crowd roared approvingly and cheered the handsome hero.
Boïndil shook his head in disbelief.
“What?” said the impresario shamelessly. “I have to use these opportunities. I’ll be reopening the Curiosum in a while.”
Tungdil was busy thinking about what to tell Xamtys and the dwarven kings. He was inclined to stick to the story about the mist. If Rodario keeps quiet, no one need know that the eoîl was an elf. Sometimes it’s better to hide the truth. He certainly didn’t intend to confess that the accursed shard of malachite was in his possession, but the diamond was a different matter. He needed the others’ help to keep the magic in safe hands.
With the city behind them, the full extent of the damage was revealed.
The quakes had opened deep, dark trenches through the frozen fields, and in some places the ground had opened up and swallowed everything for hundreds of paces. Fortunately, the dwarven encampment had survived the tremors, a deep crack that passed through its middle somehow having zigzagged round every single tent, preserving them all.
“Xamtys and Gemmil’s losses weren’t too bad,” said Balyndis, helping Tungdil to lie down. She was doing her best to distract him while a physician examined his wounds. “The älfar took the pressure off the firstlings and freelings, but the thirdlings weren’t so lucky. The northern front was a bloodbath. The avatars’ soldiers were massed behind the walls. The thirdlings are good warriors, but only a handful survived.”
The physician removed the dressing from Tungdil’s leg and opened the wound to check for infection.
“What of Salfalur?” growled Tungdil, gritting his teeth against the growing urge to scream.
She shook her head. “He and Lorimbas died in the battle. Our warriors are looking for their remains.”
Tungdil’s relief was mingled with disappointment. It was a fitting end for a dwarf killer, but it robbed him of the chance to avenge his murdered parents—and poor Myr. “Do you think the news has reached the eternal smithy? I’d like his victims to know that he’s dead.”
“I’m sure they do,” she said, bending down to kiss him on the forehead. For a moment they allowed themselves to feel at one, united by the love that would bind them together for the rest of their lives.
Just then the fur drape at the entrance to the tent was pulled back, and Furgas charged in. He scanned the wounded dwarves, spotted Tungdil, and rushed to his side. His eyes were red from crying.
“Tungdil, thank goodness you’re all right!” He clasped the dwarf’s hand and shook it vigorously. “They said you might know where to find Narmora. I’ve been looking for her everywhere. One moment, she was fighting at the gates, and then she…” A tear trickled down his cheek and his lower lip quivered. “Where is she, Tungdil?” he whispered thickly.
“I’ve just buried my daughter. I can’t bury my wife.”
A chill came over Tungdil. Even little Dorsa wasn’t spared. Inside he railed at the eoîl and the implacable stone of judgment. It was true that Narmora’s daughter was quarter älf, but no baby deserved such a fate.
“She died in a duel with the eoîl,” said Tungdil. He wanted Furgas to remember Narmora as a heroine who had given her life in the fight against evil. “She tried to save Dorsa from the power of the diamond, but the eoîl was too strong. None of us could stop him draining the force fields.”
Furgas let out a despairing howl and buried his hands in his face. His loud sobs echoed through the dwarves’ hearts, bringing tears to Tungdil’s eyes. Furgas had paid more dearly than anyone for the avatars’ defeat. Balyndis, moved by his grief, put her arm around his shoulders.
“What was the point?” he asked in a muffled voice. “What was the point of all that suffering?” He raised his head and looked accusingly at Tungdil. “We went to war to save Girdlegard, because you said there was a threat.” He jumped up and pointed to the door. “But what happened? Nothing! My wife died in vain. The avatars wanted to free us from evil, and what did we do? We fought them.” He sat down slowly. “If we’d helped them, it would never have come to this. Narmora and Dorsa would be alive…”
“Furgas,” Tungdil said soothingly. “You’ve lost the two people most precious to you, but the stone of judgment doesn’t work like that. The eoîl wouldn’t—”
“We could have shown them the way to Toboribor and led them to Borwôl. We could have taken them to every single evil creature in Girdlegard without endangering innocent lives, and they would have wiped the beasts out with their army. They only used their murderous magic because we attacked them—and it cost me my wife and child.” He got up and looked at Tungdil bitterly. “We attacked them because you told us to. We followed the dwarves’ advice and we trusted you—everyone in Girdlegard trusted you—but this time you were wrong. Palandiell save me from the charity of the dwarves.”
He turned away, ignoring Tungdil’s pleas. Pulling the tent flap back angrily, he disappeared outside.
“Let him be,” advised Balyndis. “It’s no wonder he can’t think straight when his heart is full of grief. Give him some time.”
The physician cleared his throat to get their attention. “I’m afraid there’s a shard of metal in your bone. I’ll have to get it out.” He handed his patient a metal bar wrapped in leather. Tungdil smiled and tried to give it back, but the physician shook his head. “You’ll need it. It’s a painful business.”
Tungdil put the bar between his teeth and Balyndis squeezed his hand while the physician’s assistants exposed the bone by pulling back the flesh with metal hooks. A pair of tongs closed around the shard and the physician began to pull. Tungdil didn’t have time to clamp his jaws around the bar; his mind had shut down.
Porista,
Former Realm of Lios Nudin,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6235th/6236th Solar Cycle
The citizens found a use for the fissures resulting from the quakes and saved themselves the effort of breaking open the frozen earth to bury the enemy dead.
The avatars’ soldiers were tossed unceremoniously into the trenches and packed down with rubble from the palace, of which nothing remained intact.
Faraway from the men, the fallen dwarves were laid to rest in individual graves. Firstlings were buried next to thirdlings, and thirdlings next to freelings, a fitting end for the comrades-in-arms. Tungdil refused to believe that Vraccas would close his smithy to honorable dwarves of any provenance who upheld his commandments. For the first time in history, the folks were at peace.
Boëndal Hookhand of the clan of the Swinging Axes would return to the Blue Range as a hero, but not in the way that Boïndil and Tungdil had hoped. Too severely burned for the healers to help him, the plucky secondling had died of his wounds.
Boïndil and Tungdil laid him on a shield and carried him, still dressed in his imposing armor as befitted a warrior, through the encampment and into Porista. The funeral procession came to a halt on the southern outskirts of the city. A group of firstlings had volunteered to help Boïndil carry his twin to the secondling kingdom where he would be laid to rest in his beloved Blue Range.
“I couldn’t bury him here,” said a broken-hearted Boïndil. The loss of his twin was a blow from which he would never recover. Part of his soul had died. “He wanted to be buried at the High Pass. He’ll always be keeping watch over Girdlegard and protecting our kingdom from Tion’s hordes.”
Bowing his head, Tungdil looked sorrowfully at his dead friend and touched his cold, scorched fingers. He wasn’t afraid to shed a tear. Forgive me for missing your funeral, he apologized. I’ll visit your grave when my work is done. I hope to bring good news… He turned to Boïndil and embraced him as they mourned the loss of the brother and companion with whom they had shared so much.
“Who’s going to calm my fiery furnace now?” sniffed his twin forlornly. Salty tears rolled down his cheeks, adding to the glistening pearl at the bottom of his beard.
“I’ll join you again soon,” promised Tungdil in a choked voice. “We’ll drink a tankard or two to Boëndal and remember the old times. He’s in the smithy, you know, with Sanda and all the others who died in the fight against the avatars. Vraccas will have given him a proper hero’s welcome.”
They bade each other farewell; then Boïndil signaled to the firstlings to help him lift the shield. Tungdil made his way dolefully back to his tent, where an anxious Rodario was waiting for him.
“He’s gone,” he sighed.
“I know,” said Tungdil. “He left just now.”
The impresario shook his head. “I mean Furgas, not Boïndil. The best prop master in Girdlegard has vanished without trace.” He shrugged sadly. “I don’t know what to do.”
Tungdil poured himself and his guest some tea. “With the Curiosum?”
“Who cares about the Curiosum!” snorted Rodario. “Admittedly, the special effects won’t be the same without him, but Furgas was my friend.” He took a sip of his tea. “The poor fellow has been through such a lot. First he was attacked and poisoned, then his son died before he woke up from the coma, and now, half a cycle later, he’s had to bury his baby daughter and as for Narmora… there’s nothing left but ash. Both dead in a single orbit!” He sighed again, this time more deeply. “Can a heart survive such sorrow? What if he tries to…”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” said Tungdil, doing his best to sound convincing. “If he wanted to take his own life, he’d have done it in Porista, where his children and his wife met their end. I expect he’s gone away for a while to clear his mind.”
Rodario hoped fervently that the dwarf was right. “Fine, I’ll go with your theory, hero of Porista. It’s cheerier than mine.”
“Do you know what, Rodario?” confessed Tungdil. “I’m tired of being a hero. Furgas was upset and he said a few things that got me thinking.” He reported their exchange and took another sip of tea. “The thing is, he was probably right: maybe I should have helped the avatars rather than oppose them,” he concluded sadly.
“I beg to differ,” said Rodario, watching the steam rise from his tea. “It must have slipped my friend’s mind that five towns were destroyed when the avatars marched on Dsôn Balsur. Five towns, and forty thousand men, women, and children! Think how many would have died if they’d marched on Toboribor and Borwôl as well! Besides, the so-called avatars wanted to carve up Girdlegard among themselves. Lirkim said they’d be mightier than kings, omnipotent and invincible. We wouldn’t have lasted more than a couple of orbits with them at our helm.” He sipped his tea. “No, Tungdil, we did the only thing we could. We saved our homeland and we rid the people in the Outer Lands of a band of tyrannical magi, not to mention an unhinged eoîl.” He nodded at Tungdil and smiled. “Furgas was right to be angry, but he was wrong to be angry with you. Girdlegard is indebted to Tungdil Goldha
nd and the dwarves; there isn’t enough gold in these ranges to repay you.”
Applause sounded from the door. The dwarven monarchs—Balendilín, Gandogar, Gemmil, Glaïmbar, and Xamtys—were gathered at the entrance to the tent, accompanied by Prince Mallen.
“Well said,” agreed the ruler of Idoslane. “Actors are prone to exaggeration, but it’s impossible to speak too highly of the dwarves. The men and women of Girdlegard won’t forget their obligation to the children of the Smith.”
“To some of his children,” Tungdil corrected him. He studied the faces of the four dwarven kings and the firstling queen. His mood was somber. “The freelings and the thirdlings defended Girdlegard in our darkest hour, and the firstlings played their part as well, but the rest of you allowed yourselves to be fooled into leaving Girdlegard. A dwarven king should be strong enough and wise enough to stand his ground.”
Gandogar bowed his head. “Tungdil is right; I shouldn’t have ceded to the thirdlings. I won’t fail the dwarves again.”
He left the doorway and walked to the center of the tent. Everyone took a seat. After all that had happened, the dwarven rulers had plenty to discuss, and Mallen had indicated that he wanted to share some news as well.
“Before we start, I’d like to ask Tungdil Goldhand to be my counselor,” said Gandogar solemnly. “We’ve all seen the folly of ignoring your advice.”
Tungdil was flattered by the offer; the king of all dwarves wanted him, a thirdling, an exile, and a foundling to be his personal counselor. But the Nôd’onn-slaying, eoîl-killing hero had other things to accomplish before he could consider accepting such an offer. The high king agreed to let him think the matter over.
It was Mallen’s turn to speak. “The tidings I bring will please some and grieve others, but mostly, I think, you’ll be shocked.” He paused, looking gravely at the circle of expectant faces. “When King Belletain requested permission for his troops to cross my land, I knew his help would be welcomed in Porista and, not realizing his intentions, I agreed. As you know, his army never got here.” He took a deep breath. “Instead of heading west to Porista, Belletain’s army went east—toward the Black Range.” He produced a crumpled letter from his robe. “When I realized what had happened, I demanded an explanation, and Belletain wrote to tell me that King Lorimbas had failed to honor his treaty with Urgon, and he, Belletain, had been deprived of the fourthlings’ gold. By way of compensation, he ordered his soldiers to raid the thirdlings’ stronghold and carry off their gold.” He handed the letter to Gandogar. “King Gandogar, there was an alliance between Belletain and Lorimbas—an alliance against you.”