The Dwarves (86 page)

Sinthoras heard the shield collapse and lunged at the maga. She batted away his spear, only to find herself under attack from
three orcs who crowded round her, cutting her off from her companions.

Suddenly the älf was beside her and this time his spear was headed straight for her chest. It collided with a shimmering shield.

Sinthoras was sheathed in violet light. A terrible roar shook the hall, then Djerůn’s sword swooped down. The älf barely had
time to raise his weapon.

No wood in the world, not even sigurdaisy wood, could have withstood such a blow. The giant’s sword sliced through the spear
and sped on. A wide sweeping blow parted the disbelieving älf’s head from his shoulders, and Sinthoras’s headless body slumped
to the ground, never to rise again.

Grunting in terror, the orcs shrank back from the king of the beasts as he straightened up, howling, and opened his visor.
His face was invisible in the blinding light, but the orcs were rooted with fear, allowing the company to regroup.

Tungdil, still clutching Keenfire, limped toward the maga. “I’ve got the weapon.” He pointed to Djerůn. “Is he an enemy of
the dwarves?” he asked, panting for breath.

“I don’t know. Are you prepared to give him Keenfire?”

“We don’t have a choice.” He tossed the weapon to the giant.

Without hesitating, Djerůn discarded his sword by ramming it through two orcs and reached out to catch the ax.

Let’s get this over with.
Tungdil raised his horn and sounded a long, powerful call. The dwarves of Beroïn, Borengar, and Goïmdil answered with cheers
and blaring bugles. “For Vraccas and Girdlegard!” he shouted, leading the charge against the magus. Balyndis and Gandogar
were already at his side; the others stormed after them.

They hewed down the orcs and bögnilim in their way, cutting a path of gory destruction that brought Djerůn within striking
distance of their foe. Andôkai conjured a bolt of lightning, whose purpose was to dazzle the magus, then gave the command
for Djerůn to strike.

Before Nôd’onn had time to compose himself, the mailed giant brought down the ax. It hit the magus’s unprotected back, sliced
through his body, and sped out of his chest. Stinking black fluid spurted everywhere, showering the transfixed onlookers.

Nôd’onn let out a terrible howl. The hall was still echoing with his screams when the wound began to heal.

“No,” whispered Tungdil in horror. “It’s not possible. Keenfire was supposed to…”

Nôd’onn hurled bolts of black lightning at the giant, who fell backward and lay still among the orcs. “I told you that nothing
can hurt me,” thundered the magus. He bore no sign of injury, save for the gash in his robes.

We can’t let it end this way!
Filled with desperate fury, Tungdil went on the offensive. While his friends tried to preoccupy the magus by engaging him
in an increasingly hopeless battle, he set off a second time in search of the ax.

He found Keenfire in Djerůn’s stiff metal grasp. Prizing away the giant’s fingers, he picked up the ax and felt a strange
sensation in his hand.
What… ?

Light pulsed through the intarsia, and the diamonds came to life, shining and sparkling like a thousand miniature suns. At
first he thought Nôd’onn had worked a spell on it, but then he saw that the ax itself had wrought the change. Keenfire was
readying itself to fight the demon.

By Vraccas, Bislipur was right: I’m a thirdling
. No sooner had he grasped the significance of what was happening than he decided to turn his heritage to the good.

He tightened his grip on Keenfire, squared his shoulders, and charged. Orcs tried to block his path but perished in a blaze
of white fire as he swung the shimmering ax. A trail of smoke followed the swinging Keenfire, and Tungdil could feel the heat
from its blade. It burned with the fierce ardor of the fifthlings’ furnace.

Nôd’onn recognized the danger before it was upon him. His self-assurance vanished, replaced by pure terror. His magic could
do nothing against the charging dwarf; Tungdil was protected from harm by Keenfire’s runes.

“Kill me, and Girdlegard will be doomed,” the magus prophesied. “Terrible forces are gathering in the west and you won’t be
able to stop them.” He thrust his staff at Tungdil, who deflected the blow and lunged closer. “
You’ll
be to blame for Girdlegard’s destruction. You must let me live!”

Tungdil slashed at the magus’s onyx-tipped staff. The black jewel shattered in a shower of dark crystals.

“No, Nôd’onn, evil will never triumph over Girdlegard. We’ll protect our kingdoms, just as we protected them from you.” Tungdil
swung his ax again.
For Lot-Ionan, Frala, and her daughters.

The corpulent magus tried in vain to sidestep the blow. Even his final incantation failed to halt the blade, his hastily conjured
runes flickering briefly as Keenfire smashed through them. The diamond-studded ax head buried itself in Nôd’onn’s waist.

L
ike an overripe fruit, the magus burst, spilling a foul mess of flesh, blood, and entrails. A finger-length splinter of malachite
shot out and was swept away in the reeking cascade.

Slowly, a shimmering wisp of mist detached itself from the wreckage. It expanded rapidly, coursing with black, silver, and
crimson flashes and looming five paces in the air. Fist-sized orbs burned red within its cavernous eyes as it stared with
hatred and malice at Tungdil. Then it shifted its gaze to the maga.

It needs a new victim.

The swirling mist reached out toward Andôkai, who took a step backward. She raised her sword, but the blade slid straight
through it. The mist shrank, sprouting thin transparent arms and imprisoning the maga in its grasp.

Groaning, Andôkai staggered and fell to her knees as fingers of mist prized themselves experimentally between her jaws. The
being was determined to find a new home, with or without her permission.

Tungdil leaped toward her, bringing down his ax just as the flickering column of mist readied itself to glide down her throat.

Keenfire’s runes sparkled as it hewed the mist in two. There was a loud hiss as the mist drew back like a wounded beast. Tungdil
closed in, swinging his ax and slashing at the mist. Thin wisps floated through the hall and dispersed into nothingness, but
the demon was still alive and seemed intent on escaping to the ceiling.

In that case I’ll have to try another tactic.
Tungdil climbed onto an upturned pillar. Pain shot through his wounded arm and leg as he sprinted forward, casting himself
into the air and brandishing Keenfire. “For Vraccas!”

He had timed the leap well. Soaring into the middle of the mist, his blade found its target. Runes blazing, the ax head left
a cometlike trail of light. The diamonds sparkled fiercely.

For the span of a heartbeat Tungdil hovered at the heart of the demon. At first it seemed as if the mist had stopped his fall;
then there was a tearing noise and a terrible groan.

Tungdil plunged through the mist, skidded across the floor, and was saved by his chain mail from serious cuts and grazes.
Looking round, he saw he had punched a hole through the flickering demon. Slowly the being sank to the ground, turning first
gray, then black, then disappearing altogether. In the end there was nothing left.

No one moved. Dwarves and beasts alike had witnessed the death of the magus and the destruction of the demon. It was deathly
still.

One of the älf, who moments earlier had been spurring the hordes against the dwarves, reached to his neck, screaming with
pain. Suddenly his amulet burst apart, tearing him to pieces. Soon the other älfar and a number of orcish chieftains were
dead or dying, slain by the magus’s gifts.

A bugle sounded the attack, and the dwarves of the three kingdoms fell upon their foes.

The bögnilim were the first to flee, followed by the orcs, but the children of the Smith showed no pity or mercy, funneling
them into the narrow passageways where the battle continued. In the vast halls, the ceilings echoed with the clatter and ringing
of furious axes.

Slowly Tungdil picked himself up from the floor. Balyndis was beside him, helping him to his feet. “You did it!” She leaned
forward and gave him a lingering kiss on the lips.

It was a moment he had dreamed of, but the truth about his lineage spoiled it. “Only because I’m a thirdling,” he said bitterly.
A dwarf killer,
he added silently.

She nodded. “Praise be to Vraccas! Nôd’onn would still be alive if you weren’t!” She smiled. “You’re a true dwarf, Tungdil.
I don’t care which folk you belong to. I know in my heart that I can trust you, and that’s what counts.”

He gave her hand a grateful squeeze.
Let’s hope the others are as understanding.

Meanwhile, Andôkai and a unit of dwarves had stormed the walkway and were attending to the wounded Narmora. Boïndil had been
cut down by Caphalor and needed the maga’s attentions as well. Djerůn was back on his feet again, his visor firmly closed
and his face still a mystery.

Dwarven healers hurried over with water, balms, and dressings. Now that the duel with the demon was over, Tungdil was acutely
aware of his injuries and allowed himself to be salved and bandaged. He found a worthy place for Keenfire in Giselbert Ironeye’s
belt.

He didn’t have much opportunity to relax. Already Rodario was hurrying toward him.

“My apologies for bothering Girdlegard’s valiant hero, but I think we should check on Furgas,” he said anxiously. “Who knows
what…”

“Valiant hero?” Tungdil grinned.
Not bad for a scholar. I hope Frala and Lot-Ionan can see me now.
He straightened up and checked his bandages. “In that case, I’ll have to rejoin the battle. In books the hero always keeps
fighting to the end.”

“Blasted älfar, they always creep up on you. I didn’t hear him coming. He loomed up like a shadow and attacked me from behind.”
Boïndil, his chest swathed in bandages, hobbled down the stairs. “That’s right, scholar, just like in a book. My brother would
be proud of you.”

“Boïndil!” Smiling with relief, Tungdil thumped him gently on the back: The thought of losing another friend had been too
much to bear. “Let’s check on Furgas.”

Tungdil, Rodario, Balyndis, Boïndil, and Djerůn hurried away. Andôkai caught up with them after a few paces: They had started
the journey as strangers and wanted to end it as friends.

Blacksaddle,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle

A
chill wind was buffeting the flat summit of the Black-saddle, but shafts of sunlight shone through the clouds and warmed
the earth, heralding the coming of spring.

“For many cycles this mountain was known as a place of foreboding, a dreaded stronghold where a plot was hatched to destroy
the dwarven race. Today’s events have changed all that. From this day forth, the Blacksaddle will be seen as a symbol of hope,
a symbol of a better future in which elves, men, and dwarves will work together for the good of Girdlegard.” Gandogar paused
for a moment and surveyed the assortment of leaders and warriors gathered on top of the Blacksaddle.

Half a cycle ago he would have ridiculed the idea of elven, human, and dwarven rulers uniting on the accursed peak to celebrate
a battle fought as allies, not foes.

His eyes traveled over the faces before him. Prince Mallen of Ido was sitting beside Lord Liútasil of Âlandur. Next came King
Balendilín Onearm of the clan of the Firm Fingers and Queen Xamtys II of the clan of the Stubborn Streaks, and behind them
were Nate, Bruron, and the other human sovereigns, not forgetting Andôkai, of course.

After that, there was a short gap to the first row of commoners, made up of Girdlegard’s most distinguished warriors — dwarves,
elves, and men. They were straining to hear what their leaders were discussing. Gandogar could see Tungdil and Balyndis among
them, with Djerůn towering like a pinnacle at their side.

“Together we defeated the monstrous issue of Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty’s alliance with a demon from the north. Nôd’onn is
dead, the Perished Land has been banished from Girdlegard, and nature is returning to her ancient ways. Together we achieved
all this, and our kingdoms were
saved,
saved because we buried old grudges, overcame our mutual distrust, and joined forces in Girdlegard’s hour of need.” He raised
his arms. “We prevailed! Is this not reason enough to forget our past quarrels?”

He waited for a moment, allowing his words to take effect.

“You, Prince Mallen of Ido, rallied the human warriors after their defeat at Porista and led the united army to the Black-saddle
in a courageous stand against Nôd’onn.” He smiled solemnly at Idoslane’s ruler, then turned to face the elven leader. “And
you, Lord Liútasil of Âlandur, welcomed us into your kingdom when we asked for your help. Your heart must have counseled you
against it, but you came to our aid.” He looked at Balendilín and Xamtys. “And you, worthy children of the Smith, you reforged
the bonds between our kingdoms and honored the duty entrusted to us by Vraccas.” He raised his voice triumphantly. “Friends,
together
we rescued Girdlegard!”

The warriors of the assembled races thumped their shields and banged their weapons together.

“We must rid our hearts of hatred. Our past battles are just that: They belong in the past and are best forgotten. This orbit
marks the start of a new age: one of peace, cooperation, and friendship.” He held his ax aloft, and the other monarchs rose
to their feet to pledge a new era of friendship.

This time his speech was met with deafening cheers. Swept away by the excitement, Balyndis planted another kiss on Tungdil’s
lips. Even in the last moments of the battle she hadn’t known whether or not they would succeed, and now she was overcome
with gladness and relief. “You must be really proud,” she said.

“Proud of what? Being a thirdling?” he retorted, only half joking. His voice was edged with resentment.