The War of the Dwarves (50 page)

“Or you’ll what?” the elf asked mockingly, taking a step toward him. “Come here and kill me, if you dare. Everyone knows the
dwarves are cowardly murderers. I’ll warrant you’ve been killing our archers and blaming it on the älfar all along!”

Andôkai, eyes glinting dangerously, rose to her feet. “Quiet!” she barked furiously and was instantly obeyed. Her magic was
feared by the dwarves and the elves. “I suggest we focus on the important issues. We can deal with your feuding later, if
we must.”

Her words were still echoing through the chamber when someone hammered on the doors. Andôkai signaled to Narmora to deal with
the unexpected interruption.

She opened the doors to find herself face to face with Rodario and an unknown dwarf. A penetrating smell of perspiration rose
from the visibly exhausted warrior whose leather jerkin was stained with rings of sweat.

“Apologies for the interruption, my dark-hearted beauty, but this little fellow and his diminutive companions desire an interview
with the maga,” explained Rodario with customary flamboyance.

The dwarf seemed dissatisfied with the introduction. “My name is Beldobin Anvilstand of the clan of the Steely Nails of Borengar’s
line. Queen Xamtys’s deputy, Gufgar Anvilstand of the clan of the Steely Nails, sent me here to speak with the maga directly.”
He pointed to something behind him. “The long-un tried to turn me away, but I showed him who we’ve brought.”

Peering over his head, Narmora saw a makeshift stretcher surrounded by twenty dwarves.

The stretcher, made of planks of wood and steel shields with wheels attached to the bottom, was bowing dangerously under the
weight of a warrior of colossal proportions. Traces of bright yellow liquid covered the giant’s visor and parts of his armor.
In his left hand he held his sword, the blade of which was broken and spattered with orc blood. Hair and scraps of flesh were
stuck to the cudgel in his other hand. The dwarves hadn’t been able to wrench the weapons from his grip.

“We don’t know what’s wrong with him. A sentry found him near West Ironhald. We didn’t know what to do with him, so we thought
we’d bring him here.”

“You did wisely. Bring him in.” Narmora opened both doors and hurried to the front of the room. “Estimable Maga, there’s someone
to see you.”

The dwarves pushed the stretcher into the chamber and came to a halt beside Narmora. Turning toward the dwarven delegation,
they saluted the high king and Xamtys before leaving the room. Their mission, a feat of dwarven endurance, was complete.

“Djer
n!” cried Andôkai, laying her sword on the table and hurrying over to examine his injuries.

“Get back!” shouted Balyndis, leaping up and drawing her ax. “Get back! It isn’t Djer
n!”

Andôkai froze and turned to the smith, seeking an explanation, but it was already too late.

The colossal warrior awoke from his paralysis and rammed his broken sword into the maga’s unprotected midriff. Jumping down
from the stretcher, he drew a second sword with his left hand and swung his cudgel toward Narmora, who leaped aside, landing
among King Nate’s delegation. A fearsome roar echoed through the chamber and the giant’s visor emitted a blinding violet glow.

“Djer
n!” groaned the maga, staring at the hilt of the sword protruding from her belly. She took a step back, pulled out
the blade and reached for her sword. Murmuring an incantation to close the wound, she braced herself for the next assault.

It came sooner than she expected.

The armored giant went for his victim with murderous zeal. Blows rained down from his cudgel and sword with preternatural
power and speed. Andôkai had crossed swords with her bodyguard in training, but nothing had prepared her for this. She had
never encountered such savagery.

Her stomach had barely stopped bleeding when her right shoulder was struck by a blow from above. The cudgel smashed through
her collarbone and sent her flying to the ground. The incantation on her lips became a piercing scream of pain. The sword
entered her belly for a second time and she gave an agonized groan as the giant rotated the blade by 180 degrees.

By the time Djer
n’s helmet crashed against her head, there was nothing she could do. The steel spikes pierced her skull,
blood streamed into her eyes, and everything darkened around her.

The delegates, who had been following the duel in stunned disbelief, leaped belatedly to the maga’s aid. Ireheart led the
charge against the giant, followed by his fellow dwarven warriors, then the humans and elves. Arrows perforated the giant’s
armor; axes and hammers pounded his breastplate and hacked through his chain mail. At last, the violet light went out behind
his metal visor and he sank to the ground, blood gushing from countless wounds.

Nine men, three dwarves, and four elves went with him to their deaths. Queen Wey was lucky to evade a fatal encounter with
his cudgel, and Umilante’s many layers of clothing saved her from his deadly sword.

Boïndil, not satisfied that the giant was dead, continued to batter his helmet. “By Vraccas, he was tough,” he panted, wiping
his face with his sleeve to clear away the saffron-colored blood. “Curse my inner furnace. Now I’ll never know what he looked
like underneath.”

Narmora crouched beside the critically wounded maga. Those around her assumed she was trying to save her mentor, but the half
älf had other ideas. There wouldn’t be another chance like this.

“I know a charm that would save you,” she whispered in the maga’s ear. “But I’ve decided to let you die. You killed my son
and put my husband in a coma. You deserve to suffer for your scheming and lies.”

Andôkai coughed weakly and closed her eyes. “Furgas won’t recover without my help,” she hissed, grabbing Narmora by the collar
of her robe. “If I die, Furgas dies with me.”

Narmora made no attempt to shake off the maga’s trembling hands. She reached for her necklace and produced the jagged splinter
of malachite. “Does this look familiar?” she asked, eyes darkening to fathomless hollows as she spoke. “It’s the key to Nôd’onn’s
power. He wore it in his flesh until Tungdil cut him open and spilled his guts. I found it at the Blacksaddle and made it
my talisman. I didn’t realize how powerful it was.” She slid the gemstone from the chain. “Samusin have mercy,” she cried
for the benefit of the others. “The maga is dying!”

She laid her hands slowly on Andôkai’s chest. Her lips moved as if she were summoning healing energies for the maga’s recovery,
while her fingers pressed the splinter of malachite through the bodice of her dress. The long, pointed shard bored deeper
and deeper, a green halo encircling the maga’s body as the malachite pierced her heart.

Narmora, still mumbling strange incantations, waited as the maga’s life force drained away. The halo was fading fast.

The half älf leaned over her mentor. “Look at me,” she whispered in the dark tongue of the älfar. She tilted Andôkai’s head
toward her. “Narmora is your death. I will take your life and drain you of your magic. None of this need have happened if
you’d left us alone.”

The maga tried to lean forward, but all she could manage was a feeble groan. Her eyes glazed over.

After checking that her hands were hidden by her robes, Narmora withdrew the splinter and pocketed the malachite. Her bloodied
fingers were unlikely to attract suspicion, given the maga’s injuries and the pool of blood that surrounded her body. Straightening
up, she turned to address the delegates.

“Andôkai the Tempestuous is no more,” she announced, voice cracking with feigned grief. She raised a hand to wipe away a nonexistent
tear. “Girdlegard’s last maga is dead.”

A horrified silence descended on the chamber.

“You shall take her place, Narmora,” said Gandogar calmly, stepping forward. “You were her famula; you shall lead us in the
battle against the avatars.”

“You’re doomed already,” said a gruff voice from the doorway. “You can’t beat the avatars with magic or an army. You’ll never
find a way of halting their advance.”

The dwarves, elves, and men turned to the doorway and hefted their weapons, readying themselves for the next unwelcome surprise.

Before them was a lone dwarf. His face was covered in intricate tattoos and he was armed to the teeth. In his right hand was
a three-balled morning star. “My name is Romo Steelheart of the clan of the Stone Grinders, nephew of Lorimbas Steelheart,
king of the thirdlings and ruler of the Black Range. I have a proposal to make to Lord Liútasil and the delegations from the
human kingdoms.” A second dwarf, broader and more muscular than Lorimbur’s brawny nephew, appeared behind him. Sunlight gleamed
on his bald head.

“The thirdlings want to help us fight the avatars?” whispered Queen Wey, surprised.

“What kind of proposal?” muttered Balyndis to Glaïmbar. She had a fair idea that it wouldn’t be good news.

“Call it an offer you can’t refuse,” said Romo, grinning maliciously. “My uncle knows how to combat the threat from the west.”
He swung his morning star in the direction of the dwarven delegation. “I’ll explain once they’ve left. My uncle refuses to
negotiate with the dwarves of Beroïn, Borengar, Giselbert, and Goïmdil.”

Trovegold,

Underground Network,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

S
anda ducked just in time, allowing the blade to sail over her head as she dropped to one knee and lunged forward.

The blow was dealt with such precision and power that Tungdil didn’t have time to avoid the blunted ax.

Neither his weapons belt, his chain mail, nor his leather jerkin did anything to slow the blade as it thudded against his
ribcage, winding him momentarily and bringing tears to his eyes.

“Stop!” shouted Myr in alarm, hurrying over to inspect his chest. “You’re supposed to be coaching, not killing him,” she scolded,
as Sanda picked herself up from her knees and smiled at Tungdil without a hint of contrition.

“Don’t make such a fuss, Myr,” she said coolly. “He’s only bruised his ribs. Pain is an excellent teacher.” The commander-in-chief
made no secret of her dislike for the pale-faced medic. “He’s learned an important lesson, and he’ll live to fight again.”
She turned to Tungdil, expecting him to agree.