The War of the Dwarves (75 page)

He turned around and froze. On the other side of the hall, in the eastern corner, was his foster father, Lot-Ionan.

“But it’s impossible,” he whispered. He took a few uncertain paces toward the magus before realizing his mistake: He was looking
at a statue. His beloved Lot-Ionan, who had raised and schooled him, had been turned to stone. Nôd’onn had killed him.

The spell can’t be reversed
. He remembered what Andôkai had told him, and a sob rose in his throat as he thought of Lot-Ionan and Frala and the happy
times in the magus’s realm. He stroked the statue tenderly and walked away. Now wasn’t the time for mourning, only revenge.

They hurried back to Rosild who was waiting anxiously with Dorsa in her arms. She found an extra blanket and they wrapped
it around Balyndis to protect her from the cold. Furgas volunteered to carry the unconscious dwarf. Their presence in the
palace hadn’t been detected.

The procession was led by Ondori, followed by the dwarves, Furgas and Balyndis, and Rosild and Dorsa. Slowly but surely they
edged toward freedom and at last they left the palace and entered the grounds, steering a course for the hidden gate.

T
he double-dealing hussy! She’s an avatar!
Rodario was obliged to behave in a deplorably unchivalrous fashion. He aimed a kick at what he believed to be Lirkim’s posterior,
although he couldn’t be certain because of the glare. She stumbled forward. There was a crash, and the light went out.

He aimed his flamethrowers at the soldiers and shouted a few improvised incantations. When he heard their cries, he followed
up with a couple of phials of acid and threw himself under the table.

He firmly expected to be transformed into a heap of ashes, but nothing happened. There was an overwhelming smell of burning,
but it was coming from several paces away.

Gradually, his vision cleared. The three soldiers were lying dead or dying on the floor, and the white-robed avatar was no
more, one of the phials having hit him on the head and the acid eaten away most of his skull and face.

“Ha!” Thrilled by his unexpected victory, Rodario emerged from his hiding place. “That’ll teach you to pick a fight with Rodario
the Fablemaker!” Lirkim was resting face down on the table, her plate and two platters hidden beneath her chest. She had hit
her head and knocked herself out. “You’ve only got yourself to blame,” he rebuked her. “I don’t take kindly to being played.”

I knocked out two avatars!
He put his hands on his hips and laughed like one of his characters on the stage.
I’m taking you with me. My friends will be interested to hear what you’ve been up to with the force fields.

He grabbed the woman by the shoulders, sat her up, and proceeded to divest her of her powers by removing her jewelry and putting
it in his pockets. Then he gave her another good draft of wine and cracked the empty decanter against her head to make doubly
sure that she wouldn’t wake up, which seemed unlikely, considering she was already inebriated and stunned.

Hoisting her over his shoulder, he was suddenly aware of a commotion in the corridor. With a sinking heart he realized that
the palace guards were on their way.
I suppose the flamethrowers weren’t terribly subtle.
His valor melted like an actor’s make-up in the sun.

His feet took him to the window. He could see figures in the garden—small figures. He opened the catch. “Hello down there!
Guess what? I’ve purloined an avatar!” He pointed to her posterior. “I’m afraid her pseudo-divine friends have taken umbrage.
Perhaps you could be so kind as to—”

“Stop talking and jump!” yelled Boïndil, signaling frantically. “We know a way out.”

“I’m usually very courteous,” he said apologetically to the unconscious Lirkim before tossing her out of the window. She dropped
through the air and came to rest in the snow. A moment later he landed beside her. After assuring himself that her heart was
still beating, he threw her over his shoulder and hurried after his companions, who were busy conjuring an opening in an apparently
solid wall.

Leaving the palace behind them, they raced through the deserted streets. Snow was falling heavily, covering their tracks,
and it was impossible to see further than five paces.

“What luck,” remarked the impresario, panting under the weight of his burden. He saw Balyndis on Furgas’s shoulder and Dorsa
in Rosild’s arms. “The gods are on our side tonight. Balyndis, the baby, and an avatar—what a haul!”

“Avatar?” snorted Boïndil. “What are you blathering about now?” Weighed down by his heavy armor, he was almost as breathless
as the impresario, who wasn’t accustomed to carrying anything but his quill. To his relief, the three dwarves slowed their
pace. Furgas, by contrast, showed no sign of tiring.

“Her name is Lirkim. She told me she was a courtier—at least, that’s what I assumed she was, and she didn’t correct me. A
friend of hers burst in on us while we were having a cozy dinner, and I saw through her disguise.”

“Ha, what kind of an avatar would allow herself to be captured by an actor,” jeered Boïndil, wheezing.

Rodario’s captive murmured something, and the others heard the words “avatar” and “eoîl.” Ondori listened carefully, then
cuffed the woman roundly. “It was an incantation,” she explained. “I didn’t want her causing trouble.”

“Save your breath for running,” panted Tungdil, who already had a stitch.

At last they reached the marketplace and found Ertil, who was waiting for them behind a stack of empty kegs. He was just unbolting
the hatch when Ondori whirled round and stared into the swirling snow.

Something was awry. The flakes were melting and turning to slush. A moment later, raindrops pattered against their armor.

“Quick, get in,” she said, nocking an arrow to her bow. Furgas carried Balyndis to safety and Rosild hurried after him, followed
by Rodario and his captive.

A gleaming gold sphere whizzed toward them through the rain, expanding and becoming brighter as it sped toward Boïndil, who
was last in line for the stairs.

Even as he closed his visor, the sphere slammed into his chest, turning him into a blazing fireball. Tungdil and Boëndal felt
the heat through their armor, and Ondori screamed in pain.

Crackling, the unnatural fire died down. Boïndil was still standing, miniature flames licking his spaulders and greaves. They
sputtered and expired—Djer
n’s armor had proven its worth.

“They’re here,” shouted a man’s voice through the darkness. A moment later, he appeared before them in a column of light.
“Hurry!”

“Ha, so your magical piffle paffle didn’t work! I can’t wait to see the color of an avatar’s—sorry, conjurer’s—blood!” Boïndil
threw himself on the avatar. His brother charged after him, brandishing his crow’s beak.

“For Balyndis!” shouted Tungdil, joining the fight.

The self-declared demigod hurled lightning at his attackers to keep them at bay, but no curse or firebrand could match the
strength and determination of three angry dwarves.

Tungdil felt like a lump of ore in a blast furnace. The armor protected him from the flames, but the metal was getting unbearably
hot. He was sure he would roast inside his breastplate if the avatar weren’t dealt with soon.

The blades of the dwarves’ weapons were red with heat, and the hafts were already in danger of igniting. Even as the wood
began to crumble, Tungdil and the others came in striking distance of their foe.

It was hard to see the avatar in the dazzling light, but they made out his outline. Boïndil landed two powerful blows, and
the glow faded to reveal a man of some sixty cycles, with blood spilling from his thighs. He was staggering backward, sword
in front of him to fend off the dwarves.

He didn’t stand a chance.

His flowing white robes offered no protection against the long, curved spur of the crow’s beak and the red-hot blades of dwarven
axes. Weapons slashed at him from three sides until at last he lay bleeding and groaning in the gutter. Boëndal made certain
that he was dead by smashing his skull with the butt of his weapon, then they hurried to the sewers and locked the hatch.

“We got him,” Boïndil told the others, who were looking at the trio expectantly. “But it’s darned hot in here.”

“Where’s Ondori?” asked Rodario, hoisting Lirkim over his shoulder and hurrying after Tungdil.

“Ondori!” The dwarves hadn’t noticed her absence. “I heard her screaming, but…”

“She must have died in the fire,” said Boïndil, smiling darkly. “Serves her right.” He stomped to the head of the procession.
“I was wondering how we were going to get rid of the one-eyed murderess. Still, I’d rather have killed her myself.”

No one expressed regret at the passing of Ondori—but no one could say for certain that she was dead.

I
ncredibly, they managed to rejoin the army of firstlings, thirdlings, freelings, and älfar unscathed. Some of the units had
advanced to within ten miles of Porista.

Tungdil went straight to Narmora, who healed the worst of Balyndis’s wounds and did her best to alleviate the pain, leaving
the rest to Balyndis’s almost indestructible dwarven constitution.

The maga had barely finished treating Balyndis when she heard a baby crying. At once, Narmora the Unnerving vanished, and
the anxious parent came to the fore. A moment later, the little family was reunited, with Narmora hugging Dorsa, then Furgas,
then Dorsa again. The dwarves couldn’t help but feel moved, and even the ferocious Boïndil wiped a tear from his whiskery
cheek.

Tungdil spent the rest of the orbit at Balyndis’s bedside. He washed her carefully, sponging away the soot and dried blood,
then salved her burns and squeezed some water between her lips. Her eyes remained closed.

Toward evening, Boëndal burst in. “We’re ready to interrogate the prisoner,” he announced. “Narmora wants you there—we need
to find out as much as we can.”

Tungdil squeezed the smith’s hand and stood up reluctantly.

“Listen, Tungdil,” said Boëndal as they left the tent. “Glaïmbar will be eternally grateful to you for saving Balyndis, but
she’ll never…”

“I know,” his friend said sadly. “She won’t leave him—but I’ll always love her, and she’ll always love me. It’s no use fooling
myself—I loved her even when I was melded to Myr.” He sighed. “Boïndil was right—some dwarves are better off on their own.
I couldn’t meld myself to another maiden. I’d only make her unhappy—and Balyndis too. Still,” he added pensively, “I’m glad
Vraccas chose the three of us to save her. I hope she’ll accept my friendship after how I treated her.”

Boëndal nodded and led the way to a disused collier’s hut where Lirkim was imprisoned. Waiting inside were Narmora, Boïndil,
and Rodario, the latter with a bucket in hand.

“Let’s get started.” The impresario emptied the bucket over the chained and fettered Lirkim, who was lying face down on the
floor. Her eyes flicked open as a rush of cold water hit her back. “We meet again,” said Rodario, crouching beside her. “You
weren’t awake when I left the palace, so I brought you back here. Don’t try any of your magic or you’ll be killed on the spot.
Understand?”

Lirkim tried to look up, but all she could see were boots, ankles, and a collection of weapons, all pointing at her head.
“My right arm hurts,” she said in a muffled voice.

“Hmm, I think it may have broken when… I mean, I think you broke it when you fell.” Rodario was doing his best to sound cold
and unfeeling, although he didn’t feel any real enmity toward the prisoner. He refused to believe that anyone so beautiful
could be responsible for thousands of deaths. “Did you hear what I said?”

“No magic, I promise.” She was trembling and her voice sounded shaky. The air was bitterly cold and her clothes were soaked
through.

“Tell us what you’re doing to the force fields,” commanded Rodario. He picked up a blanket, but a grim-faced Tungdil snatched
it away.

“We found the force fields when we were riding to Dsôn Balsur. The eoîl traced the magic back to Porista and found a way of
channeling its power.” She coughed. “I don’t know what he’s planning, but he told us that we’ll soon be more powerful than
any being or god.”

“Who are you?” demanded Narmora. “We know you’re human, so don’t deny it. Lie to us, and you’ll pay with your life.”

Lirkim nodded wearily. “There are seven of us: three women and four men. Seven magi—and the eoîl. We came together four hundred
cycles ago—by pooling our power, we gained the strength to crush any ruler or army who stood in our way. We used the legend
of the avatars to make people fear us. No one ever came close to defeating us—until now.”

Boïndil kicked her foot. “What’s an eoîl?”

“An eoîl is an… I can’t explain it, but he’s a real god—the rest of us are human.”

“A god?” Boïndil snorted. “Spare us your fairytales: He’s a trickster, a flimflamming charlatan like you.”

“No,” insisted Lirkim. “He’s a god. There aren’t many gods where I come from, but they’re powerful, very powerful. Everyone
is afraid of them—if you attack Porista, as I assume you’re planning to do, you’ll see for yourselves how powerful he is.
The eoîl will destroy you. He turns fields into deserts and oceans into saltpans. I’m just a maga, but he’s…”