Tungdil decided not to probe any further. Liútasil’s sudden evasiveness warned him that further questions would be unwelcome. “I won’t breathe a word of what you’ve told me,” he assured him. “But there’s one last thing I need to ask: What will you do if Girdlegard is attacked by another eoîl?”
The elven lord pressed his fingertips together. “Nothing, Tungdil Goldhand. To do anything would be folly.” He picked up his cutlery and resumed his meal.
They ate in silence, savoring the elven feast, then Tungdil gave his account of the battle, the death of enemies and friends, the destruction of the thirdlings, and the power of the diamond. He made no mention of his intention to travel to Dsôn Balsur, merely saying that he was planning to join Gandogar in the Brown Range.
At last it was time for Liútasil to leave the tent so that Tungdil could get some sleep. Before he went, he promised the dwarf that he would take good care of his diamond when it arrived. He handed Tungdil a little backpack. “It’s a tent,” he explained. “You won’t have to worry about wind, rain, sun, snow, or frost. From now on you’ll sleep so soundly that you’ll think you’re in a dwarven hall. I’ll pray to Sitalia to pardon you for the death of the eoîl.”
They shook hands and Tungdil was left alone in the tent. He finished his beer. I killed an immortal elf. He let out a little burp and grinned. I guess that makes her mortal.
Former Kingdom of Dsôn Balsur,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6236th Solar Cycle
Tungdil came to the end of the path that the allies had burned through the forests of Dsôn Balsur and crossed the plains to the fortress of Arviû. From there he continued to the lip of an enormous crater left by the fist of an angry god—or so it seemed to Tungdil.
Looking down, he surveyed the deserted city of Dsôn, one-time capital of the älfar. No dwarf had ventured this far into the älvish kingdom; in fact, only the älfar and their prisoners had ever seen the fabled city, and no one would have thought it possible that an outsider could get there without drawing his ax.
The only impediment to Tungdil’s progress was his leg, which hadn’t recovered from his duel with Ondori. Since crossing the border, he had disappeared up to his boots in mud and battled his way through waist-high grass, but he hadn’t encountered another living soul.
There was no sign of the älfar. Every step of the way he had steeled himself for finding survivors or receiving a black-fletched arrow in his back, but it was deathly still in the älvish kingdom. It seemed the stone of judgment had done its work.
There was something grimly fascinating about the architecture below. It had nothing in common with elven art, and its sinister darkness was palpable from his vantage point two miles above the city.
The most formidable structure, a white tower made of bones, rose from a solitary pinnacle at the center of the crater. From a distance, the pale needle seemed to pierce the clouds, and Tungdil knew at once where he would find his ax.
Vraccas be with me. He began his descent into the darkness of the city below.
As soon as he left the rim of the crater, the light dimmed and he felt an unpleasant chill. The strange city had an indefinable aura of horror, and he tightened his grip on his ax. Every sense was keyed and his ears detected the slightest noise—loose shutters rattling, squeaking metal, groaning wood, and the whistling of the wind around the sinister roofs.
He reached the bottom of the crater and continued along streets of pale white gravel that crunched beneath his boots. Every step seemed deafening and it took all his courage to keep going. From time to time, gray smoke rose from the roofs and ash rained down on him as if the dead älfar were determined to hinder his advance.
His nervousness surprised him. He checked his surroundings, looking left and right, peering down alleyways and bracing himself for attack. I’ve fought orcs, slain beasts, and killed an immortal elf, so why am I scared of a deserted city?
He walked and walked, realizing that the älvish city was much bigger than it had seemed. It was evening by the time he reached the base of the pinnacle and started up the steps. At last, panting with exertion, he got to the top just as the sun disappeared below the rim of the crater, plunging the city into darkness. Towering into the sky, the palace of bones shone blood-red in the setting sun, while down below the roofs of the houses glimmered with symbols and runes.
The hairs on his arms and on his neck stood on end. What if the ghosts of the älfar haunt the city at night? He waited, ax hefted, but nothing happened, although the runes continued to glow.
The wind was getting up. Samusin seemed to take pleasure in terrorizing the dwarf.
Gusts passed between the bleached bones of the tower, and every now and then Tungdil heard a mournful whistle like the muted scream of a soul whose bones had found no rest. Eye sockets glared at him accusingly from weathered skulls. Tungdil’s instincts warned him to venture no further.
Heart pounding wildly, he strode to the entrance, pushed past the open door, and stepped into the tower.
The outer cladding of bone was obviously intended as decoration or as a sign of älvish power, for the tower was made of wood and stone. The passageways were hung with portraits, and Tungdil knew without looking too closely that the pictures weren’t painted on canvas or with ordinary paint. Like their elven cousins, the älfar were natural artists, masters of the easel and brush, but they put their painterly talents to darker use.
He heard a sudden noise behind him. Somewhere in the tower, a door had slammed, and the noise resonated through the high-ceilinged passageways, lingering in the air. The last remaining lamps—the others had run out of fuel—flickered dangerously.
“Who’s there?” He turned round and swallowed. “Come out and show yourself!” Silence reigned.
With growing dread, he continued down the passageway and came at last to a lofty door of tionium inscribed with mysterious älvish runes. It’s bound to be here…
He pushed the door open and peered into a chamber of black marble. The chamber was hall-like in its proportions and peopled with strange statues made from the bones of many creatures. Some were painted, others bound with gold wire or tionium, or inlaid with gems and precious metals. Pictures, mosaics, and bizarre weaponry decorated the walls. At the center of the chamber, steps led up to a pair of empty thrones.
The glittering of diamonds alerted Tungdil to the ax.
Keenfire was hanging from the wall behind the thrones, abandoned and neglected, the symbol of an älvish triumph against the dwarves. For the älfar, the ax was useless.
Tungdil went over and reached for the haft. “So here’s where you’ve been hiding.” He gave it a gentle yank and Keenfire came away from the wall. After wiping it carefully with his sleeve, more because it had been in the hands of the älfar than because it was actually dirty, he took a few experimental swings, testing the balance. It was perfect. “No one will ever take you from me again,” he whispered lovingly. “But I’ve got a job for you.”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the shard of malachite, and placed it on the third step leading up to the thrones. If any last remnants of evil—a wisp of Nôd’onn’s soul, a trace of a dark spirit or any other demonic force—had escaped the stone of judgment and was sheltering in the malachite, it was about to be destroyed forever.
Tungdil raised the ax, swung it once around his head, and brought it down with all his might.
Light pulsed through the intarsia and the diamonds came to life, just as they had when Tungdil had taken on Nôd’onn in the Blacksaddle. A trail of light followed the swooping Keenfire as it smashed into the stone. The malachite broke apart, shattering into tiny pieces that scattered over the dark marble floor.
Now the mission is really over, Vraccas. It was a relief to know that the last of the evil that had corrupted Nôd’onn and Narmora had finally been destroyed.
There was one thing left to do.
He took the lamps from their holders and hurled them against the walls. Oil
spilled over the timber, splashing against the portraits and spattering the statues. Lowering his torch, he let the flames creep hungrily through the fuel.
Tungdil left the chamber and made for the exit, lighting fire after fire on his way. He was determined to raze the tower to the ground. There would be nothing left of the älvish city by the time a dwarf, elf, or human ventured this way.
Outside the tower, he looked back at the roaring flames. He was tired and he could feel the miles in his legs, but his desire to avoid sleeping in the älvish capital spurred him on.
Summoning all his energy, he made his way down the stairs and through the streets, lighting fires along the way.
Even as he began his ascent to the lip of the crater, a third of Dsôn was on fire, and the blaze was spreading, fanned by the wind sent by Samusin to confound and torment him.
The palace of the immortal siblings was burning like a giant torch. Red-hot debris fell from the walls, rolling down the hillside and setting fire to the buildings below. Soon the city would be an inferno.
Tungdil sat down and watched in satisfaction as the tower collapsed in a burst of flames. He could hear the sound of breaking timber even through the roaring fire. So far, there hadn’t been any screams.
The last bastion of evil, and no one’s here to save it from destruction. He got up, shook his weary legs and started up the steep stairs, determined to leave the darkness of Dsôn behind him. He was already looking forward to seeing the rising sun.
“The dead must be avenged,” said a deep voice ahead of him. A broad figure appeared on the path and swung his weapon, aiming for Tungdil’s chest.
The startled dwarf tried to block the blow with Keenfire, but his attacker was unexpectedly strong.
The weapon smashed against the haft of his ax, knocking him backward. He hit the ground hard and skidded a few paces, picking up speed down the muddy slope. He lost his helmet and came to a halt.
Even as he sat up, his attacker came at him again. The glare from the fire was so bright that Tungdil could only see his silhouette. Too small for an älf, too big for a dwarf.
The weapon whizzed toward him again, but this time he saw it and made no attempt to parry the blow. Nothing could stop a powerful war hammer. It flew past his head as he dropped to the ground.
Tungdil recognized the weapon, but its owner was dead. He fell at Porista.
Sliding his ax across the mud, Tungdil took aim at his attacker’s right ankle. The blade met with resistance and Tungdil heard a groan. “Salfalur?” he asked incredulously.
He paid for his success with a blow to the chest. His breastplate, much stronger than his usual chain mail, protected his ribs and saved him from death.
“Well guessed, Tungdil,” came the reply. “You should have known better than to believe I was dead. I swore to kill you, remember?” The hammer swung into view, on course for Tungdil’s head. Tungdil jerked away at the last moment and the hammer smashed into the ground, spattering him with mud. He crawled back quickly, bracing himself against the side of the crater. “It wasn’t easy to find you, Tungdil, but I never break my word.”
Struggling upright, Tungdil faced his enemy. The thirdling was holding his war hammer in both hands and the runes on his face seemed to come alive in the flickering flames. Tungdil decided to save his breath; Salfalur would show no mercy, and neither would he.
Before the thirdling could strike, Tungdil swung his ax. Thanks to Keenfire, he felt confident of winning the duel, although his tired body seemed less certain.
Salfalur parried the blow with the haft of the hammer, let go with one hand and smashed his armored fist into Tungdil’s face.
The spurs on Salfalur’s knuckles tore through his skin and for a moment Tungdil saw stars, but he didn’t let go of his ax, gripping it tightly even as the thirdling punched him a second time. Tungdil didn’t have time to avoid the fist and it hit the left of his face, grazing his eye. Pain seared his mind and his vision went pink with blood.
Bellowing with rage, he thrust Keenfire forward, jerking it under the thirdling’s chin.
Salfalur jumped away, only to swing his hammer and go back on the attack. Tungdil was hit in the chest again, but this time his breastplate caved in, pushing against his ribcage and making him gasp for breath. The combined power of Salfalur and his mighty weapon sent him flying several paces through the air. At last he hit the ground, panting frantically.
He heard Salfalur rush forward, ready to attack. In the glow of the fire, the thirdling looked like a living spark from the furnace of a vindictive god. His face was contorted with rage.
The sight of the furious thirdling gave Tungdil the will to fight.
I’m not dying here in Dsôn. Stubbornly, he hauled himself up on his ax and, flinging his arm out to the side, set off at a run toward his antagonist. The pain was excruciating, but he shut it out.
Shouting, they charged toward each other, each determined to deliver a fatal blow.
At last they met, weapons colliding with a steely clatter, the blade of Tungdil’s ax snagging on the hammer. The joint force of the two blows sent both weapons spinning out of the antagonists’ hands.
Keenfire flew to the right, the hammer to the left. Tungdil stumbled to fetch his ax, while Salfalur ran after his weapon.
Tungdil bent down, picked up the ax and turned, determined not to lose sight of his enemy. For the third time the hammer slammed into his chest. Salfalur had got there first.
The head of the hammer found the dell in his breastplate, and his sternum cracked. Pain shot through him as he flew through the air and dropped to the ground, flailing on his back like a beetle. His mind dimmed and a chill came over him, even though the crater was filling with warmth from the burning city.
Footsteps hurried toward him. “Ha, look at the dirty thirdling who betrayed his own folk. It was worth dragging myself out of the mud in Porista and following you all those miles.” The thirdling’s shadow fell over him. “You deserve to die in agony, but this will do. Myr has been avenged at least.”
“The dwarf killers have been wiped out,” gasped Tungdil. “Your kinsfolk are dead. You’ll be more alone than I ever was.”
Salfalur kneeled beside him in the mud. “We haven’t been wiped out, Tungdil. Our eyes and ears are in every clan in every kingdom and none of your friends know they’re there. As soon as they get my summons, they’ll join me in their hundreds and we’ll found a new kingdom and seize the Black Range.” He grabbed Tungdil’s chin. “But you won’t be around to see us throw your friends out of our stronghold. The children of Lorimbur will continue the feud, but your line is dead. It’s time you joined your mother and father.”
Tungdil tried to clear his mind. He was on the cusp of blacking out, but he couldn’t allow himself to sink into eternal sleep. “You seem to have forgotten something,” he mumbled, struggling to speak with the thirdling’s hand around his mouth.
The smooth, tattooed skull came closer and Salfalur peered at him mockingly. Behind him, a house collapsed in a blaze of flames and sparks shot out, dancing around the thirdling’s head and giving him a demonic look. “Hmm, let me think… You’re lying in the mud, dying of your wounds. What could I possibly have forgotten?”
“The warrior’s first commandment,” gasped Tungdil. “Never let go of your ax.” He sat up with a jerk, raising his right hand and striking with all his might. Keenfire bit horizontally into the skull of the startled Salfalur, embedding itself in the bone.
The thirdling went down as if felled by an arrow. His body twitched frantically, determined not to die, but his glazed, bloodied eyes showed that his soul had already departed.
Boïndil taught me well. Unable to rise, Tungdil lay in the mud, racked with pain.
Looking up at the stars and with one hand on Keenfire, he waited for death to claim him from the burning älvish city.
But death never came.
Tungdil, still sprawled on the path, listened as the flames retreated from the edge of the crat
er and returned to the city in search of wood.
He could sense that death was watching him like a scavenger hoping for food, but something was holding the darkness at bay.
Little by little the pain subsided until he felt confident enough to fall asleep without worrying that he might never wake up.
When he opened his eyes, the sun had barely moved in the sky and he felt rested but hungry. He sat up as best he could in his buckled armor, then unfastened the straps and took off his breastplate.
Carefully he touched his chest. The bones were intact and the pain had gone. His fingers came into contact with the pouch containing the diamond. He pulled out the stone and held it to the light.
Was I saved by the grace of Vraccas or by the diamond? He glanced at Salfalur’s corpse and was surprised by its rotten state. Birds and maggots had stripped the flesh from his face, and his body was bloated with gas as if death were mocking the once proud warrior. How long have I been asleep? He got up and staggered backwards.
Dsôn had vanished.
Every last building in the city had been razed to the ground, leaving nothing but ash. Stone foundations were the only indication of where the älfar’s gruesome tower had once stood.
There was no sign of smoke and the roaring fire had fallen silent. He prodded the ash gingerly with his finger: It was cold.
Gathering his damaged armor, he hurried up the path. The mud had hardened to dirt, and he felt strong and healthy, his wounds completely healed. He decided that Vraccas had kept his inner furnace burning while he was asleep. The stone can’t work magic on its own, and I’m certainly no magus.
On emerging from the crater, he spotted an army of humans and elves approaching the city from the south, no doubt alarmed by the smoke. Sunlight glittered on their banners and armor.