The War of the Dwarves (70 page)

He was lying among the dead soldiers, and he didn’t stir when they called his name and shook him by the shoulder. Yellow blood
was trickling from countless holes in his armor, forming a vast puddle around his battered body. Tungdil shouted for Narmora’s
help.

“I don’t want anyone closer than ten paces,” she told them. “You mustn’t see what I’m doing—the magic could kill you.” She
bent over Djer
n’s head and covered herself with her cloak. Then she opened the visor.

The purple glow had gone out, and the sockets in his terrible skull were empty and lifeless. Narmora felt neither sorrow nor
satisfaction at his passing: Djer
n was a killing machine—Andôkai’s killing machine.
He shouldn’t have done what he did to poor Furgas.

Closing the visor, she lifted her cloak and got to her feet. “He’s dead,” she announced. “Two avatars died by Djer
n’s hand.
May his name live on in our memory.” She made her way over to Tungdil. “Any sign of Balyndis?”

Boïndil shook his head crossly. “I don’t understand. What the blazes have they done with her?”

“I’d like to know where the other so-called avatars have got to,” said Tungdil distractedly. He was frantic with worry for
the missing smith. “Djer
n killed two, which leaves another nine.”

“Maybe there were only two in the first place,” suggested Narmora. “I’ve had a look at their bodies, and they seem like ordinary
humans to me.” She showed the dwarves some artifacts that she had found on the bodies. “Amulets, rings, crystals… If you ask
me, they weren’t demigods at all. Take away their paraphernalia, and they’ll be helpless.”

“You mean they made all that light with a few magic trinkets?” said Boïndil, amazed.

The maga nodded. “It was some kind of spell. They wanted to make us think they were gods.” She pointed to a dead soldier.
“See the moonstone on his gorget? It’s charmed. Without the moonstone, the armor wouldn’t glow.”

“What a con,” growled Boïndil, turning to the impresario, who had just joined their group. “They’re as bad as you, pretending
to be something better than they are.”

“I think I deserve a little more respect,” protested Rodario. “I convinced them I was a real magus—and I nearly got killed
for my pains.” For once he seemed to be telling the truth; his robe had been slashed to ribbons, but he was otherwise unharmed.

Without warning, the älf appeared alongside them, like a sinister suspiration of the night. Ireheart whipped out an ax and
brandished it menacingly. “Get back, älf. The battle’s over and we’re enemies again.”

“If our alliance were over, you’d be lying face down on the ground,” she said scornfully. “I came to tell you that I know
what happened to the other avatars. Several orbits ago I saw two lights in the distance—one heading for Dsôn Balsur, and the
other traveling west. I think they’ve split their troops.”

“Without us noticing?” Boïndil laughed.

“Groundlings will sleep through anything. I could creep up on a dwarven encampment and slit a dozen throats without waking
a soul.” She gave him a long, hard look. “Trust me, I know.”

Fortunately, Tungdil and Boëndal grabbed their friend before he could throw himself on Ondori. He struggled vigorously and
hurled curses in the älf’s direction.

“Where would they be heading?” asked Tungdil. “Why would they be going west? It’s the wrong direction for ogres or orcs.”
He thought about what he knew of the legend. “One part of the story is true. They seem to get their magic power by destroying
evil. They must be looking for something evil to destroy.”

Narmora went white. “Porista,” she whispered.

“Porista?” echoed Rodario, taken aback. “Porista is a nice enough place—in fact, I rather like it. The people are friendly
enough—although some of the men are overly jealous.”

“I wasn’t referring to the population,” Narmora said sharply. “Lios Nudin is the wellspring of Girdlegard’s magic. The source
of the energy is in the vaults. Nôd’onn corrupted the force fields to stop the other magi using them, but Andôkai wasn’t affected
because she prayed to Samusin, god of light and dark. She taught me to do the same.”

Tungdil had an idea what the avatars were planning. “And the force fields are still corrupted, even though Nôd’onn is dead?”

Narmora nodded.

“It sounds to me that Porista would make a good target,” said Tungdil.

“How much damage can they do?” asked Boëndal. “The force fields may be tucked out of sight like the stratum of rock beneath
a mountain, but aren’t they also vital? What if the avatars destroy them?”

“They can’t do that, can they?” asked Tungdil, alarmed.

“I don’t know for sure,” Narmora admitted. “I expect we could find an answer, but the archives are in Porista…” She gasped
and looked at Furgas. “Dorsa!”

“The alliance still holds,” Ondori said coolly. “You should be grateful to the avatars; they’ve earned you a reprieve.”

Tungdil gazed at the carnage around them.
This is just the beginning, Vraccas.

Of the thirty thousand dwarves, including twenty-two thousand thirdlings, only twenty thousand or so had survived the first
battle. And now they would have to lay siege to a city and take on nine magi and an unknown quantity of warriors.

Tungdil knew he couldn’t count on the humans or the elves. The former had been fatally weakened by the defeat at Dsôn Balsur,
and the latter would never agree to join forces with the älfar. He decided to send a messenger to Âlandur anyway.

We’re the only ones who can stop them. It’s up to us
. Tungdil turned in the direction of the Gray Range and gazed into the darkness. “The defense of Girdlegard is our Vraccas-given
duty,” he said staunchly. For some reason, he was certain that Balyndis was still alive.
We’ll find her in Porista.

Boïndil nodded. “Girdlegard needs us, scholar. It’s getting to be a habit.” His eyes traveled from Ondori to the thirdlings.
“I wouldn’t mind more reliable allies.”

An älvish scout said something in a low voice to Ondori, who passed on the message to the rest of the group. “We’ve found
tracks,” she told them. “A band of riders, no more than twenty in total. They’re riding west—probably toward Porista. We found
a footprint near the spot where they mounted their horses. It looks like a child’s.”

Tungdil breathed out in relief. “It wasn’t a child; it was a dwarf—a dwarven smith who knows how to forge armor capable of
withstanding the avatars’ fire.”

“If I were an avatar, I would have killed her on the spot,” declared Rodario in a manner that struck the dwarves as rather
heartless.

“You mean why bother to take her with them? I expect they realized that she isn’t an ordinary dwarf. For all we know, they’ve
heard about the magic armor. With Balyndis’s help, they could shield themselves and their soldiers from Narmora’s curses.
A real avatar wouldn’t need armor, but a mortal magician would be glad of the protection.” Tungdil looked at the others determinedly.
“We need to rescue Balyndis before we attack Porista. Without the secret of Djer
n’s armor, we can’t defeat the avatars.
They’ll burn us to a cinder. A small group of us need to infiltrate the city and rescue our smith.”

“I’ll come too,” volunteered Ondori. Her motivation was entirely selfish; she wanted to keep them alive until she got her
revenge.

Furgas and Rodario exchanged looks. “We know a few hidden passageways,” murmured Furgas. “I’ll show you the way.”

“But only if you rescue Dorsa,” added Narmora. “I don’t want her to be hurt in the fighting. I’ve lost a son, and I’ve no
intention of losing a daughter.” She glared at Tungdil. “Give me your word.”

In spite of the extra risk on an already risky mission, he acquiesced, although deep down he was surprised at Narmora.
She’s changed. It was probably studying under Andôkai that did it
. He looked sadly at Djer
n’s motionless body. He would miss the fallen warrior, and not only because of his strength.

Then he had an idea.

187 Miles East of Porista,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6235th/6236th Solar Cycle

T
he ringing of the hammer filled the morning air. Tungdil was in a small forge in Klinntal, a village en route to Porista.
He had laid out Djer
n’s armor on a workbench. According to his estimates, the metal would suffice for three metal suits—one
for him, and one each for the twins—provided he was careful.