The War of the Dwarves (68 page)

The colossal warrior tossed the avatar’s dripping remains through the air, and they hit the snow, bouncing a few times before
coming to rest. Contrary to expectations, the avatar’s head didn’t reattach itself to his body in a blaze of supernatural
light. The man was an ordinary mortal.

“Knock me down with a hammer,” gasped Boïndil. “Did you see how he wrung his neck? As easy as killing a chicken!”

“He was just a man,” whispered Narmora, laughing in relief. “Djer
n must have known from the smell. The light and fireworks
were meant to trick us; they’re conjurers, not avatars.”

Tungdil’s worries—not least how he was going to rescue Balyndis if he didn’t survive the orbit—melted away, and he laughed
out loud.

The merriment spread through the ranks and soon the forest was echoing with mocking dwarven laughter that continued long after
the cavalrymen began their charge. The riders no longer looked so intimidating; the death of the avatar had robbed their armor
of its sheen.

Boïndil raised his ax and his shield. “Aim for the horses’ knees, and let the riders come to you,” he shouted, spoiling for
a fight. Confidence had returned to the dwarven ranks.

Shouting a ferocious war cry, Tungdil and his eight thousand warriors ran out to meet the charge.

T
he speedy death of the first avatar, whose remains disappeared under the stampede of dwarven boots, was followed by a grueling
battle with the enemy army.

Incensed by the fate of their leader, they threw themselves vengefully upon the dwarves, who struggled against the cavalry’s
superior maneuverability and speed.

The horses crashed through their ranks with such force that gaps appeared in the rows of shields, allowing enemy foot soldiers
to surge through the openings and wreak havoc with the dwarven defenses.

“Fall back!” yelled Tungdil, ordering the surviving warriors to retreat to the forest. At once the hidden units of thirdlings
leaped out from the trees to beat back the enemy troops. “Don’t let up,” Tungdil urged them. “It’s almost sundown; your king
will be here soon.”

At that moment, a second luminous figure appeared before them, but this time the avatar was careful not to come too close.

Hovering three paces above the ground, it stayed behind the enemy lines and bombarded them with fireballs. It took all Narmora’s
power to deflect the missiles and hurl them back at the enemy troops.

The avatar, realizing he had found a worthy opponent, gave the command for his soldiers to stop the magic at its source.

Calling for the twins to follow, Tungdil rushed to Narmora’s aid, but the enemy soldiers got there first, and the half älf
disappeared in a melee of bodies and swords.

“We’ve got to save her,” he told the others. Boïndil led the attack, with Boëndal and Tungdil behind, and between them they
cut a path through the enemy troops. Thanks to Boïndil’s twin blades, Boëndal’s crow’s beak, and Tungdil’s ax, they proceeded
in a straight line, aiming for the spot where Narmora had last been seen.

By the time they reached her, she was under attack from all sides. Meanwhile, the avatar was bombarding her with curses and
spells.

The thirdlings were putting up a spirited defense, and Djer
n was standing among them, sword in one hand, cudgel in the other,
killing knots of soldiers with every blow. But it was only a matter of time before the maga’s defenses crumbled—as the enemy
was aware.

A heavily perspiring Narmora was tracing symbols and spells in the air. “I’m not strong enough to beat the avatar,” she gasped.
“I can’t hold him off for much longer, and Djer
n can’t get close enough to attack.” She deflected a fireball and sent it
crashing among her assailants, a dozen of whom perished in the blaze.

Tungdil wondered whether he should order the thirdlings to clear a path for Djer
n to tackle the avatar.
But where are the other nine?
Since the start of the battle he had been steeling himself for a wave of fire to wash over his warriors, as the älf had described.
What are the avatars up to? Why are they letting us kill their troops?
He decided to stop worrying and take charge of the attack. He and the twins led the way, with the thirdlings at the rear.
Despite being heavily outnumbered, Lorimbas’s warriors inflicted heavy losses on the enemy troops, but the odds were stacked
against them.

As evening drew in, Tungdil’s counterattack ground to a halt. Suddenly, help arrived on the scene.

A dark shadow crossed the sky, rippling overhead like a vast flock of birds. It was followed soon afterward by metallic jangling
as hundreds of black-fletched arrows embedded themselves in enemy mail.

“It’s about time the blasted no-eyes decided to help,” snorted Boïndil, blocking an enemy sword. He knocked the weapon from
the soldier’s hand and drove an ax into his unprotected thigh. “I won’t be sorry when this is over. Avatars, thirdlings, and
älfar…” He aimed a blow at the next soldier’s hip, cutting through his armor and slicing into his flesh. “I’m starting to
feel dizzy from keeping tabs on them all.”

Boëndal raised his crow’s beak and swung the poll against a helmed head, crushing the skull. The soldier fell backward against
his comrades. “Stop whirling about like a spinning top and focus on what’s ahead,” he instructed his brother. He wiped the
sweat and blood from his face with the end of his beard. “Head straight for the avatar.”

Älvish arrows whistled and whined through the air, bringing death to the enemy troops. The avatar’s soldiers seemed to realize
that the tide had turned against them, and the bulk of the army began to retreat, shields raised against the feathered storm.

The time had come for Djer
n to attack. Leaving Narmora, he surged forward, killing anyone foolish enough to bar his path,
his sword and cudgel sweeping left and right with deadly force. Within moments he had fought his way through to Tungdil and
the twins.

Lifting off with unexpected agility, he soared seven paces through the air, flying over helmets, heads, and shields and touching
down at the heart of the action, within striking distance of the avatar.

The glowing figure unleashed a bolt of crackling white luminescence at his chest. The magic energy thudded against his breastplate,
causing the runes on his armor to pulse with light, but Djer
n was unharmed. Ricocheting back toward the avatar, the bolt
seared through the pack of enemy soldiers, allowing the armored giant to advance.

Once again he called upon his incredible strength, thrusting his metal-clad arms into the light. For a few moments the glow
intensified, then an agonized scream rent the air, and the light was extinguished.

Roaring, Djer
n brandished his victim’s body; the head was twisted unnaturally to the side. A purple glow emanated from the
warrior’s visor, like a radiant expression of pride. He seemed to enjoy his victory, holding the corpse on high and showing
it to the enemy troops. At last he tossed him away like an unwanted toy.

The dead man flew through the air, landing on the pikes and halberds of the enemy army.

There was silence on the battlefield.

The avatars’ army had accepted the death of the first avatar as an unfortunate accident, but the death of the second was irrefutable
proof that the avatars were neither invincible nor immortal. The dead wizard’s blood trickled down the shafts of the weapons
like that of an ordinary mortal. There was nothing divine or pure about him.