The War of the Dwarves (62 page)

He stroked the silvery down on his daughter’s cheeks. “Everything I dreamed of has been destroyed. I don’t want Girdlegard
to suffer as well.” He turned toward Tungdil, but something prevented him from looking him in the eye. “When this is over,
we’ll fight to the death. I should have wiped out your line when I had the chance.” He bowed his head toward Xamtys. “I hereby
declare a truce between the children of Lorimbur and the dwarven folks. I swear on my daughter, whose blood stains my hands,
that the thirdlings will cease hostilities until the avatars are defeated.” He turned to leave. “I’ll summon the rest of my
army to the Red Range and we’ll fight the avatars together.”

“How many warriors can we count on?” asked Xamtys.

“Enough to wipe out the threat,” he growled scornfully. Cradling Myr in his arms, he joined his guards, who escorted him back
to his troops.

As he passed, the thirdlings lowered their weapons, bowed their heads, and lamented the death of the thirdling princess.

Borengar’s Folk,

Eastern Border of the Firstling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Early Winter, 6235th Solar Cycle

T
housands and thousands of thirdlings—and I’m letting them into my kingdom…” murmured Balyndis, still in shock. “Do you think
we’ll ever get them out? We nearly lost the stronghold to them. They’re invincible on the battlefield.”

She and the others had gathered in the conference hall to devise a strategy for fighting the avatars. It was clear that the
demigods couldn’t be defeated by axes alone, but no one had come up with a viable plan. They were hoping that a tankard of
ale and some hot food might provide the necessary inspiration.

“Look on the bright side,” said Boïndil forthrightly. “If the thirdlings are burned to a cinder by the avatars, we won’t have
to worry about booting them out.” He filled his tankard from the barrel, allowing a frothy head to settle on the dark brown
beer.

“It might seem premature,” said his brother, “but I think we need a plan for retaking the Blacksaddle. Once we’ve defeated
the avatars—as we most certainly will—we should seize the Blacksaddle before Lorimbas attacks us through his tunnels. His
army will be weak, and we’ll have the combined strength of all the dwarven folks to draw on. It’s the perfect time to strike.”

Tungdil nodded. “I’ve sent word to Gandogar, Glaïmbar, and Balendilín. Their troops will take a while to get here, but when
they do, Lorimbas will see what he’s up against. We’re bound to come to an arrangement.” He bent over the table to examine
the map. “We need to deal with the avatars first.”

“I’ve got five thousand warriors,” said Xamtys.

Tungdil looked at Furgas, Narmora, and Rodario. “How much time do you need?”

“I’m ready,” said Narmora. “There’s nothing I can do until they get here. I’ve got enough magic energy to take them on.” She
was lucky that the dwarves knew very little about the workings of magic, otherwise they would have wondered how she could
summon the strength to attack the avatars without channeling fresh energy from the force fields. The malachite was lending
her formidable strength.

Furgas spread some sketches on the table. “I’ve dismantled the catapults here”—he pointed to the site of the battle with the
thirdlings—“and moved them to West Ironhald. I had enough helpers to get everything up and running. We can blot out the sun
if we fire all at once.”

“Excellent. How about you, Rodario?” asked Tungdil. “Sorry,” he corrected himself quickly before the impresario could protest,
“Rodario
the Fablemaker
.”

“How kind of you to remember my title,” Rodario thanked him sourly. Rising to his feet, he assumed the air of a great orator.
“You see before you the greatest living avatar-trap. I have agreed to draw the demigods to me, to make myself the target of
their wrath, to sacrifice myself so that my maga, Narmora the Unnerving, can use her powers to full advantage without fear
of attack.” He cleared his throat. “Naturally, I’m deeply honored to be an integral part of the heroics, but if anyone would
like to share the glory…” There was silence. “Anyone at all?… I thought as much,” he muttered grimly, sitting back down. “The
poor supporting actors always get killed off. I hope Girdlegard honors my memory.”

“You’re not going to die, Rodario,” said Tungdil. “I’m sure you’ll be treading the boards of the Curiosum in no time at all.”

“I can see it already,” said Boïndil, swallowing the last of his beer. “
The Incredible Story of How Rodario the Fablemaker Saved Girdlegard from the Fiery Avatars.
You’ll need a few jokes to liven it up. Did you hear about the orc who asked a dwarf for directions?”

“Go on,” said the impresario eagerly, reaching for his quill.

The discussion was cut short by news that Lorimbas’s warriors had arrived. Xamtys led the others to the entrance hall where
they watched from the gallery as the thirdlings, bristling with weaponry and covered from head to toe in heavy armor, streamed
through the doors below. Entire units were composed of grim-faced tattooed warriors, the thirdling elite. It was obvious from
their expressions that they resented entering the kingdom as allies. For a moment the stronghold was silent except for jangling
mail and the steady thump of booted feet.

“Are you sure they’re not dangerous?” ventured Rodario nervously. “If I were an avatar, I’d give myself up.”

“If you were an avatar, Girdlegard would be safe,” commented Boïndil. He sniffed loudly and snotted on the warriors below,
missing a ferocious tattooed thirdling by a dwarven whisker. “The famous dwarf killers. I know they’re on our side, but I’m
not inclined to trust them. I recommend you watch your backs.”

Tungdil straightened up and clapped the twins on the shoulders. “We’re needed in West Ironhald. It’s time to save Girdlegard—this
time without Keenfire’s help.”

T
hey traveled through an underground tunnel beneath Xamtys’s halls to reach the fortifications on the other side of the range.

West Ironhald was a perfect copy of its counterpart on the eastern flanks of the range. Queen Xamtys had rebuilt the walls
to match the improvements made to East Ironhald, ensuring that both strongholds were sturdy enough to withstand the winter
snow. Six fortified walls barred the steep-sided gully leading from the Outer Lands to West Ironhald, protected by twin ramparts,
nine towers, and a bridge.

Tungdil and the others were greeted by a remarkable sight: Lined up on the ramparts beside the firstlings were Gemmil’s freelings
and Lorimbas’s thirdlings. The three groups, divided by history, tradition, and outlook, had been brought together by a common
goal: the protection of Girdlegard against invaders. Shoulder to shoulder they waited for the avatars to arrive.

Tungdil took up position in his favorite observation post and surveyed the thirdlings from the highest of West Ironhald’s
nine towers. According to his estimates, Lorimbas had summoned over twenty thousand warriors.
Xamtys was right. It would take more than the firstlings and freelings to defeat the thirdling army
. He turned back to the gully and looked for signs of the enemy, although he didn’t know what to expect.

It was nearly dusk when he spotted a fierce white light at the end of the gully. Steadily the light drew closer, like a pure
white sun rolling toward the range, sending its scorching rays skyward and lighting up the clouds.

Even from a distance, Tungdil could tell that it was dazzlingly bright. He could barely look at it without screwing up his
eyes.

“This is it,” said Narmora, joining him in the tower. She placed her hands on the parapet and stared at the glow. “Suppose
we were to tell them that Nôd’onn and the Perished Land have been defeated? They might call off the invasion.”

“How would we get them to listen to us?”

“With the help of a maiden.”

“Is Djer
n hungry again?” enquired Rodario, stationing himself beside the maga. “Don’t be foolish,” she reprimanded him.
“The avatars respect purity, so they won’t kill an innocent maiden—well, I’d be surprised if they did.” She turned to Tungdil.
“We need someone to walk out and tell them that Girdlegard is safe. I’d do it myself, but I’m not sure the avatars would listen
to a follower of Samusin.”

“Will they listen to anyone?”

“We won’t know unless we try,” she said. “Sometimes the simplest solution is the best.”

That night, a young dwarf wrapped in white furs left the stronghold. At only twenty-four cycles, Fyrna Goodsoul of the clan
of the Ore Finders was a child by dwarven standards. Xamtys had chosen her from the group of volunteers—young dwarves who
were yet to be melded.

The wording of the message had been given to her by Narmora. “Stick to the script,” the maga reminded her. “If they want to
negotiate, tell them you’ll pass on their demands. Don’t mention our army or our plans.”

The young dwarf listened attentively and set off briskly through the gully, heart quickening as she left the safety of the
fortified walls.

The dwarves watched as she hurried through the sweeping gully and disappeared from view. All they could do was wait and pray.

The bright light moved closer and closer.

Some time around midnight, when the moon was high above the range, the light came to a halt, sparking a flurry of excitement
among the anxious dwarves.

“They’ve found Fyrna,” whispered Xamtys. “Vraccas, protect the dear child.”

Narmora rested her elbows on the parapet and leaned forward, focusing on the glow. “I hope it’s enough to dissuade them from
invading.”

“Look!” shouted Boïndil, tugging at Tungdil’s sleeve. “It’s fading!”

“Vraccas be praised!” cried Xamtys. “I’ll melt down every ingot in my kingdom in honor of the Smith.”

As they watched, the light faded to a faint glow on the mountain slopes; then the gully was shrouded in darkness once more.

It worked!
Tungdil smiled and turned to Narmora. “You were right! The simplest solution turned out to be the best!”

Everyone in the stronghold and on the ramparts was watching as well. As soon as the light went out, they cheered and hugged
each other. Firstlings, thirdlings, and freelings, together they rejoiced, their differences forgotten—temporarily, at least.

“Let’s see what Fyrna has to say.” Tungdil shook the maga’s hand and went to fetch a mug of hot spiced beer before hurrying
back to the tower to wait for the plucky firstling to return.

The night wore on.

At dawn, the sun rose over the ridge, warming the shivering dwarves with its soft yellow rays. Their confidence grew.

But there was still no sign of Fyrna Goodsoul.

By noon, snow clouds were gathering over the gully, and Xamtys dispatched a band of warriors to hunt for the missing dwarf.
It wouldn’t be safe to leave the stronghold once the weather closed in.

Several hours later the warriors returned with Fyrna, unconscious but alive. The maga examined her and diagnosed a mild case
of frostbite from sleeping in the snow.

“She’ll be fine,” said Narmora, after reviving Fyrna’s fingers and toes. She patted the dwarf on the cheek to wake her and
handed her a beaker of hot lichen tea.

Fyrna gulped it down. “I failed, Your Majesty,” she said, shivering. She bowed her head wretchedly. “I’m sorry, Queen Xamtys.”

“Sorry? What’s the matter with her?” spluttered Boïndil, peering over the parapet. “The avatars have gone. There’s no sign
of them anywhere—unless they’re too darned pure for me to see.”

“Shush,” growled Boëndal, giving him a warning prod.

“I got as close as I could, like you told me to, but the light was really bright. In the end, I called out, and a creature
of pure light flew toward me and asked me what I wanted.” The young firstling glanced at Narmora. “I repeated the words you
taught me, Estimable Maga, but the creature just laughed. The noise went straight through me; it was high-pitched and cruel.”
She took another sip of tea. “The creature said not to worry, it would be over really soon. Then it touched me, and I… The
next thing I knew, I was here.”

Tungdil looked at his friends’ worried faces. “If they’re not here or in the gully, where are they?”

“In the tunnels,” rasped a voice behind them. King Lorimbas had joined them and heard the end of Fyrna’s story. “One of my
tunnels comes up in the gully.”

Tungdil shuddered. “They’ll go straight to the Blacksaddle. Your guards won’t be expecting them—and the rest of your army
is here.”

An appalled silence descended on the group. In their minds, they could see the pure light hovering over the Blacksaddle while
the avatars poured out of the stronghold, laying waste to Girdlegard as they hunted for an evil that didn’t exist.

“What are we waiting for?” said Boïndil after a time. “We know where we’re needed!”

Blacksaddle,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Early Winter, 6235th Solar Cycle

T
heogil Hardhand gripped the chain with both hands and pulled as hard as he could. The block and pulley system made lifting
the driverless wagon relatively easy. He hoisted it into the air and swung it away from the rail.