The War of the Dwarves (56 page)

Narmora was dazzled by a bright green light. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, the mist was gone and the
room was silent except for Furgas’s muffled groans.

I must have imagined it
. She looked down to see that the wound had closed without leaving a scar or a telltale malachite glow. The skin was flawless
and a single droplet of crimson blood marked the place where the stone had entered her breast.

Furgas cried out in agony, his body convulsing with pain.

“I’m here,” she said weakly, clutching the bed and stumbling to her feet. She laid a hand on his dressings.
Now we’ll see the extent of my powers
.

In a clear voice she uttered the first of many incantations, taking her time over the syllables that came unbidden to her
lips as she commanded the poison to leave Furgas’s body.

At once she heard a hissing noise.

Sulfur-yellow vapor rose from the motionless body and melted into the air. Meanwhile, tiny yellow droplets appeared on Furgas’s
skin, dancing like spilt water on a stove. Soon the sheets were drenched in yellow.

Furgas’s chest was rising and falling rapidly. He started to moan.

Am I killing him?
thought Narmora in alarm, starting to lift her hand.

“Keep going!” commanded a voice beside her. “You have the power to cure him, Narmora. His eyes will open, you’ll see.” Nôd’onn
smiled at her encouragingly. “Trust in me and the power of the stone. You’re a maga: He’s in good hands.”

Narmora could see him clearly now. He bore no trace of the wounds inflicted at the Blacksaddle. “You’re an illusion,” she
said firmly. “Be gone!”

Nôd’onn pointed to Furgas’s stained bandages. “You’ve got to keep going,” he told her.

Narmora turned her attention back to Furgas. Strange words of healing surfaced in her memory and she continued her incantations.

Poison was still seeping from Furgas’s pores, but suddenly he stopped groaning, drew a sharp intake of breath, and lay still.

“No!” cried Narmora despairingly, rushing to the head of the bed and stroking his face. “What have I done?”

Furgas opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling in surprise. At last he noticed Narmora and raised a hand to her face. “Narmora…”

She swallowed, then threw her arms around him, laughing and crying. Furgas sat up and clasped her tightly. “You’re back,”
she sobbed happily. “Thank Samusin, you’re back!”

Furgas seemed bewildered by the outburst of affection, but enjoyed it all the same. “I remember now…” he said slowly. “We
were attacked… What happened after that?” He kissed her shiny black hair and took her head in his hands so that he could look
at her properly. His gaze fell on her slender waist. “How long have I been asleep?” he asked, startled.

“Stay there! It’s time you met your daughter,” said Narmora, racing off to fetch Dorsa.

She handed the baby gently to Furgas, who was weeping with joy. “She had a brother, but he didn’t live,” she said. Her eyes
glistened as she recounted the events leading up to the accident that killed their child.

Furgas stroked his daughter. “At least we’ve got Dorsa,” he said gruffly, kissing her tiny head. He pulled Narmora to him.
“I love you, Narmora. I love you both. After the orbits of torment, this moment is all the more precious.”

Narmora gave him a lingering kiss. “Get some sleep, my darling. Everything else can wait until the morning. I’m afraid there’s
a long road ahead if our family is to live happily in Porista. We’ll need my talents and your technical wizardry.” She snuggled
closer, holding her breath for a second as Nôd’onn appeared at the end of the room. The apparition faded away.

Kingdom of Dsôn Balsur,

Girdlegard,

Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

H
osjep was sitting atop the largest mangonel, banging nails into the sturdy timber and wrapping rope around the framework to
absorb the impact of the throwing arm.

All around him, carpenters were at work in their lofty perches, twisting rope, adjusting leather buffers, and hammering nails
into wood. On the ground, others were chopping and planing raw timber to make beams and struts for the next consignment of
mangonels.

Many orbits had passed since the älfar burned down the siege engines. The nighttime raid had led to huge losses for the allies,
not to mention a standoff between the elves and the dwarves, but the biggest casualty was morale. The savagery of the älfar’s
attack had dented confidence in an allied victory, prompting mass desertions. Many of Hosjep’s fellow workers had abandoned
their posts.

Hosjep had been tempted to join them, but the money was too good. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have ventured within
a hundred miles of Dsôn Balsur, but the army had secured his services with the promise of gold. He had already been paid more
than he earned in an average cycle.

He looked across at the swathe of scorched earth bordered on both sides by gloomy forest. From his vantage point, he could
see that the allies were barely a mile from the plains. Soon the army would be able to advance unhindered.

Beyond the forest, the stronghold of Arviû blotted the landscape like a malignant cyst, its dark walls casting a shadow across
the verdant plains.

To cheer himself up, he imagined what Dsôn Balsur would look like when the älfar were gone.
Beautiful
, he thought, his spirits lifting a little.

From the stronghold, the grassy plains extended for miles, dipping on the horizon to form a crater, from which rose a tapering
tower, shimmering bone-white in the sun. This then was the heart of the älvish kingdom, the target of the allied campaign.

Hosjep picked up his hammer and returned to work.
I wouldn’t want to be a soldier,
he thought with a shiver.
This is close enough for me.

Hours later, he was still clambering over the enormous mangonel, but the gathering gloom brought an end to the orbit’s work.
He began to climb down carefully. Without a rope to hold on to or a net to catch him, the slightest clumsiness could see him
falling ten paces to the ground.

Down below, the latest recruits had arrived and fires were being lit. The soldiers had dug a moat around the camp, filled
it with rags dipped in pitch and tar, and set light to the mix. Any älf that tried to breach the ring of fire was liable to
burn to death. The order had been given for more pitch and tar to be added every hour. The foul-smelling concoction had been
mixed to a sticky gloop to ensure it served its purpose rather than leaching into the soil. No one minded the stench or the
acrid smoke—it was better than dying at the hands of the älfar.

Hosjep was in good spirits. The siege engines would soon be back in action, reaching toward the stronghold of Arviû with their
powerful arms. Barrels of oil and petroleum were arriving from the human kingdoms, and in ten orbits the army would have sufficient
fuel to finish the campaign. All in all, the allies were in an excellent position.

But fear, superstition, and rumor prevailed.

Time for some hot grub and a tankard of ale
. After a solid orbit’s labor, Hosjep was looking forward to his bed of fresh hay. He jumped onto the mangonel’s throwing
arm and started to walk carefully to the ground. His eyes were drawn to the ring of fire around the camp. The flames were
cowering fearfully at the bottom of the ditch.

He stopped in his tracks.

Every light in the camp was burning low. The campfires were dying, the candles on the makeshift tables were sputtering, and
the oil lamp above the commander’s tent was barely alight. A moment later, the camp was plunged into darkness.

Hosjep listened to the silence. Everyone was waiting and praying for the moment to pass.

Every light had retreated, including the moon and stars.
I’ve never seen it so dark.
It seemed to Hosjep that the camp had been dunked in black ink, making it impossible to see further than his nose.

The horses flared their nostrils and tried to break free. Whinnying in terror, they strained against their hitching posts,
pulling until the wooden stakes jerked out of the ground.

Hosjep heard the sound of splintering timber, then thousands of hooves stampeded through the camp, trampling tents and soldiers.
The spooked horses could see no better than the men, but their nostrils told them to run. Hosjep clung to the arms of the
mangonel as the fleeing herd collided with the frame. Great clouds of dust rose from the churned-up ground, mixed in with
cold cinder from the fires. At last the deafening stampede was over and the whinnying faded: The horses were out of the camp.

“Get in formation!” commanded an officer, apparently undaunted. He had to shout to be heard above the welter of screams and
shouts. “Third company to me, pikemen at the front—” An armored body hit the ground.

The soldiers didn’t need eyes to know what had happened.

“Run!” shouted someone. A weapon clattered to the ground and footsteps raced away. “They’re here! They’re in the camp!”

Hosjep pressed himself against the mangonel, lying flat against the throwing arm between the uprights of the frame. If the
darkness were to lift, he wanted as little as possible of his profile to be visible from the ground.

Death descended on the camp.

It started with a single, drawn-out scream of agony, then the slaughter began. Hosjep heard noises that would haunt him for
the rest of his life, tortured wails and terrible weeping, blown to him on the cruelest of winds.

The älfar seemed to know exactly where to find the soldiers. Arrows ripped through the air in all directions, and Hosjep was
hit by a stray missile that embedded itself in his leg. He clenched his jaw and swallowed the pain.

Time dragged on, but at last the clattering of swords and screams of the wounded died away. The moon and stars broke through
the cloud, revealing the carnage below.

Corpses were strewn several deep across the battlefield, covering the ground like a gory carpet of torsos, limbs, and blood.

Älfar stepped lightly over them, looking for survivors. The living were pulled out from under the dead and killed in the cruelest
fashion.

Hosjep surveyed the slaughter, eyes welling with tears of helpless rage.
Ye gods, have mercy. They’ve killed them all…
Try as he might, he couldn’t see a single dead älf.
How could you forsake your children, Palandiell?

Down below, an älf was riding over the bodies. Her mount, a bull with monstrous horns, wore a metal visor, and its eyes emitted
a fearsome red glow. She shouted an order, whereupon a band of älfar waded through the corpses, slitting their throats and
collecting their blood. Meanwhile, another band threw pitch and petroleum over the frames of the mangonels.

I’ve got the choice of being slaughtered or burning to death
, thought Hosjep wretchedly. Given the options, he decided to wait until the älfar torched the mangonels, then pull the arrow
from his leg and stab himself through the heart.
I’d sooner kill myself than fall into their hands.

Just then the bull raised its head, looked straight at him, and snorted impatiently. Its rider followed its gaze.

She was wearing a mask and a black gauze veil that obscured her features. Hosjep watched as she raised her quarterstaff and
barked an order. An archer raised his bow and took aim at the mangonel.

The arrow hit him in the left shoulder. He lost his grip, rolled off the throwing arm, glanced off a strut, and landed on
the soft carpet of bodies below.

“Get back! Get back, you devils!” he wailed, floundering among the corpses. Already an älf was beside him. Snatching up a
sword, Hosjep thrust it forward, stabbing the älf in the guts.

The älf stayed standing.

Then to Hosjep’s horror, he took hold of the sword and pulled it from his torso. Dark, almost black blood poured from the
wound, but within an instant the flow dried up.

He healed himself
. Hosjep wriggled backward.
No wonder I couldn’t see any älvish casualties… Palandiell, what have we done to be punished like this?

“Listen, wight,” said the älf on the bull. “Your gods took mercy on you and spared your life. Return to your kingdom and tell
your monarch what you’ve seen. The immortal siblings wish it to be known that the älfar will not yield. Tion has blessed us
with new powers.” The bull took a step closer. “I’m sure you can testify to their effect—unless you’d like another demonstration…”

“No!” Hosjep shrank away from her. “I’ll do as you say and tell Prince Mallen.”

“Then go,” she commanded.

Hosjep struggled to his feet and ran for his life, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and leg.

Turning her bull, Ondori congratulated her warriors.

The little band had passed the test. After drinking the dark water, the warriors had ridden into battle and survived their
wounds.
Sitalia’s fairies will be next
, she thought grimly.
Âlandur, prepare to meet your doom…

She looked down at the trampled bodies, imagining the wonderful sculptures that she would make from the skeletons. Any leftover
bones would be transported to the capital and added to Nagsor and Nagsar’s tower.

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

T
he autumn weather refused to smile on Tungdil and Myr. Most of their overland journey was spent in the pouring rain.

Myr, fearing they would catch a chill from sleeping outside in damp clothes, insisted on gathering herbs for an infusion to
protect them from the cold. Knowing that they couldn’t afford to lose time to illness, Tungdil knocked back cup after cup
of the stuff.

Unfortunately, he started the regimen too late and developed a nasty cough that left him tired and weak. The pair had no choice
but to break their journey at an inn, where they could sleep on a dry mattress out of the rain until the first big storm had
passed.