The War of the Dwarves (63 page)

The real question was how it had got there.

He had arrived at the depot to find an empty wagon blocking the rail. He guessed it had rolled through the tunnel from a disused
platform, in which case it was lucky it hadn’t collided with a convoy of dwarves. At any rate, it had to be shifted: The last
few thirdlings were preparing to leave the Blacksaddle to join Lorimbas in the west.

“Let’s get you moving,” he muttered, pushing the wagon with one hand. It was linked by a cable to a runner on the ceiling,
so he barely had to steer.

He stopped at the rear of the hall where the extra wagons were kept. Carefully, he lowered it to the ground, unhooked it from
the cable, and placed his hands on the back to push it the final few paces. Just then he heard a noise.

It seemed to be coming from the tunnel, and it sounded like a convoy of wagons rattling down the rails.

New arrivals?
he thought in surprise, ticking off the battalions in his mind. Every single thirdling unit was either waiting to depart
from the Blacksaddle or already en route to the west. Lorimbas’s summons had caused consternation among the thirdlings, but
orders were orders, and the warriors had left without delay.

He abandoned the wagon and made his way carefully to the mouth of the tunnel. Holding his breath, he listened intently until
he was sure of the source of the noise. It was as he thought. The rumbling and clattering was getting louder.

Darned fools
, he grumbled irritably.
What’s the point of having a braking zone if they can’t be trusted to leave a proper gap? They’ll cause a pile-up.

He hurriedly tossed a few extra sacks of straw onto the buffers in the hope of saving the passengers from serious harm, then
he took up position in the signal box, intending to throw the lever as soon as the convoy arrived. By diverting the wagons
onto different platforms, he could reduce the risk of a crash. He couldn’t help wondering why the wagons were heading in his
direction at all.

Staring into the dark mouth of the tunnel, he waited for the lead wagon’s lanterns to come into view.

A few moments later, he glimpsed a light—a light so bright that he wondered briefly whether the sun had fallen through the
rock. No dwarven lantern could cast a glow like that. As the wagons drew nearer, Theogil turned away, dazzled by the glare.

What is it? A new invention, perhaps?
Keeping his back to the tunnel, he decided to rely on his hearing instead.

At last he heard screeching metal as the brake blocks pressed against the narrow wheels, forcing them to slow. The wagons’
arrival was heralded by a sudden rush of air.

Theogil detected a strange smell that wasn’t dwarven or human, and had nothing to do with elves or beasts. The wind tugged
at his beard, set his chain mail aquiver, and brought him the odor of oiled weaponry, polished metal, and clean hands. All
in all, it smelled somehow pure. The first wagon shot out of the tunnel, illuminating every corner of the hall.

“Put the darned thing out,” he shouted. The brightness was so unbearable that his eyes brimmed with tears and he had to close
them. Thereafter he worked in darkness, pumping the lever up and down and switching the points in time with the clattering
of each wagon. “Everyone out,” he ordered, raising his voice above the din. “Get the wagons off the rails or we’ll have a
collision.”

The light intensified, becoming so bright that he could see the red of his eyelids. The light shone straight through them,
as if he were looking directly at the midday sun.

He felt a sudden wave of heat, and someone grabbed him by the shoulder, and pulled him away from the lever. “Hey, you’re burning
me!” he protested, feeling the searing pain in his shoulder. He opened his eyes and blinked.

The creature in front of him was made of pure light. It was as tall as a human and wreathed in a white halo that was painful
to behold. The air in the hall seemed to shimmer. “Greetings, undergroundling,” the creature greeted him in a kindly voice.
“Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you if your soul is true.”

Theogil reached for his club and took a step backward. “Who are you?” he asked gruffly. “And who said you could use our wagons?”

With his free hand, he unhooked a horn from his belt and held it to his lips, but before he could sound the alarm, the creature
stretched a hand, sending a bolt of light toward the horn, which ignited with a roar.

Theogil dropped the bugle before his beard went up in flames. He knew without a shred of doubt what was happening: The avatars
had arrived.

In proper dwarven fashion, he gripped the club with both hands and brandished it menacingly. “Be off with you. You’ve no right
to bring death and destruction to these lands.”

“I beg your pardon,” the creature said politely, “but our mission is to stamp out evil in all its forms. A dwarf-girl told
us that Nôd’onn has been destroyed, but we’ve heard of other creatures, creatures that worship Tion or were fashioned by his
hand.” The avatar took a step closer, and Theogil, who had spent countless orbits in the forge, was forced to draw back from
the heat. “Honorable undergroundling, descendant of the worthy Essgar, tell us where we can find the älfar. Our soldiers will
wipe out their army and burn their evil souls. You’ll never have anything to fear from them again.”

“Be off!” commanded Theogil, raising his club. “We’ll deal with Inàste’s pointy-ears ourselves. No one asked for your help.
You wipe out good as well as evil.”

“Only the pure can look on us and live. Those who perish were found wanting.”

Before Theogil could react, the avatar’s hand was resting on his head. “Are you pure, undergroundling, or will you perish
in our flames?”

Theogil felt crippled by the terrible heat. Red-hot metal seemed to press against his temples, cutting through his skull,
and desiccating his brain. His arms grew heavy and fell to his sides, and his fingers unfurled, letting go of the club.

“You should have told the truth,” the creature admonished him. “Why didn’t you tell us about the orcs? Toboribor is the name
of their kingdom, is it? And what of the ogres? I see mountains swarming with ogres… The realm of Borwôl, northeast of here…”
He laughed, satisfied. “Our army will be busy in Girdlegard. Soon the men, elves, and undergroundlings will be freed from
Tion’s beasts.” The creature released its searing grip on his head. Dazed, Theogil stumbled back and steadied himself against
a metal rail. “Don’t interfere with the will of the deities,” the avatar warned him, stepping back. “Anyone who stands in
our way is an ally of evil.”

Theogil shielded his face with his hands to block out the light and peered through his fingers at the rest of the hall.

Warriors were descending from the wagons and forming orderly lines. Their armor and banners were white, and they didn’t seem
to mind the glare, which was so intense that Theogil was afraid his eyes would shrivel in their sockets. He blinked, just
in case.

The commotion in the depot came to the attention of the thirdlings in the other halls.

Theogil spotted a group of sentries creeping down the wide stairway. As soon as they saw what was happening, they sounded
the alarm. A bugle call echoed through the passageways and galleries of the Blacksaddle, calling the children of Lorimbur,
few of whom remained in the stronghold, to arms.

The avatar paused and marched back to Theogil, who reached for his club. “Poor stubborn undergroundlings,” the creature said
sadly. “We should be allies, but you’ve chosen to oppose us. We can’t be held responsible for your deaths.”

“Our deaths? I’ll teach you to respect a dwarven warrior,” growled Theogil. He let out a ferocious war cry and bounded forward,
swinging his club.

Even before he reached his fiery antagonist, the heat became unbearable. His chain mail burned red against his skin, the air
reeked of scorched leather, and his sinew and blood evaporated faster than a drop of water in a fire.

Nothing remained of Theogil Hardhand but a mound of ashes and a few blackened bones. A moment later, they too were crushed
and scattered by the pounding boots of the avatars’ soldiers as they charged the defending dwarves.

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6235th Solar Cycle

B
oïndil trudged through the freshly fallen snow that lay like a coating of icing sugar over the fields, trees, and tents. He
was the last to arrive at the meeting, and he made his way straight to the campfire and helped himself to a tankard of warm
beer. Like the others, he was keen to have a nice, restful evening in preparation for their arrival at the Blacksaddle at
noon the next orbit. They were expecting to find the avatars in the dwarven stronghold.

“They’ve got a funny way of wiping out evil,” said Boïndil vehemently. “You can tell they’re descended from Tion; nothing
good ever came of
him
.” He drained his tankard and went back for more. His pinprick eyes settled on Tungdil. “Any news from our scouts?”

“Only that the avatars’ cavalry has arrived in the stronghold,” chimed in Lorimbas. “They rode part of the way underground,
and the tunnels collapsed behind them.”

“How do you know?” asked Boïndil.

“Because of the cracks on the surface,” explained the thirdling king. “Most of our tunnels have been destroyed. Anything left
standing after the comet and the earthquake has been brought down by the avatars and their army.”

Xamtys nodded. “I heard the same from my scouts. The underground network around the Red Range is dangerously unstable. Balendilín,
Gandogar, and Glaïmbar will have to send their armies overland.”

“It won’t be easy,” said Tungdil, turning back to the map. In his mind, he charted the rest of the avatars’ route, which,
assuming they stuck to their current course, would take them straight to Dsôn Balsur. “From their point of view, it makes
perfect sense to attack the älfar,” he said. “They’re the biggest threat to our safety, especially with the added power from
the dark water. I’d say they were a worthy target for a band of demigods.”

“It’s a pity the avatars are so destructive,” said Xamtys. “I mean, it’s almost tempting to let them get on with it. They’re
capable of wiping out the älfar, which isn’t true of us. Ever since the älfar butchered an entire camp of allied soldiers
in Dsôn Balsur, the human soldiers have been deserting in droves. No one wants to face the älfar.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Tungdil. “The dark water has made them deadlier than ever.” He paused. “I’ve heard from our scouts
that the snow around the Blacksaddle has melted completely, while the rest of Gauragar is covered in thigh-high drifts. Are
you ready to take on the avatars, Narmora?”

The maga looked at the flickering flame of the lantern overhead. “I keep wondering whether my kind of magic can stop them,”
she said slowly. “My way is the way of equilibrium, the balancing of darkness and light. My power comes from both, but it
might be better to attack them with pure light.” She looked away from the flame. “We’ll soon find out.”

“I’ll be right beside you, maga,” said Rodario in a voice that he hoped was suitably comforting. “I’ll make them believe I’m
the most powerful magus in Girdlegard so you can attack them without endangering your valuable person.” He took a swig of
beer and grimaced: It was too bitter, too strong, too malty for his taste. “At least that’s the aim,” he added quietly. He
lowered his voice again. “I hope you’ll erect a statue in my honor when I’m dead.”

His comment was met with silence from the maga, who pretended not to hear.

Tungdil noticed that Djer
n had positioned himself behind his new mistress, ready to spring into action at the first sign
of danger. His damaged armor made him more intimidating than ever, the scratches and burn marks proving that neither swords
nor fire could bring him down.

Tungdil, thinking about it more carefully, realized that Djer
n’s escape from the avatars didn’t make sense. The experience
of those who had encountered the demigods confirmed the legend in every detail. The avatars were in possession of magic powers
capable of destroying all forms of evil. There were two categories of survivors: those who had the good fortune to escape
their attention, and those who satisfied their cockeyed notion of purity.