The War of the Dwarves (81 page)

Tungdil, limping badly, began to slow. His right leg, already unsteady, gave out completely as Ondori swung both weapons at
his chest. He stumbled, falling toward his foe.

A scythe-like blade slid through the join in his breastplate and sliced through his jerkin, piercing his ribs. Weakened from
his previous injury, he blacked out for a second, opening his eyes in time to see Ondori towering over him, ready to land
another blow.

Mighty Vraccas,
he prayed silently.
Don’t abandon the elves and men. For the sake of Girdlegard, grant me the strength to prevail.
He thrust his ax toward Ondori, but she batted it aside.

“Good, but not good enough,” she taunted him. Her foot sped into his face, preventing further resistance. Kneeling beside
him, she set a blade against the lower edge of his helmet and pressed it against his throat. “Die, Tungdil Goldhand.” Her
scarred face glowed with triumph as she contemplated killing him slowly, sinking the blade little by little into his neck,
and making him suffer as she and her parents had suffered at his hands. But time was short and she decided to settle for inflicting
a speedy but brutal death.

“I’d kill Sinthoras and your mother again if I had the chance,” he mumbled. After the last kick, his mouth felt swollen and
numb.

“You’ll never kill another älf.” Ondori tensed her muscles, preparing to land the final blow.

Just then the tower moved. Tiles, sections of roof, and wooden struts broke free and rained down on Tungdil and Ondori.

Shocked, she raised her arm again, but the second-highest tower in Porista was bathed in searing white light.

T
ungdil, lying on his back, peered past the älf to the top of the tower. A column of light pierced the gray winter sky, topped
by a white fireball ten paces across.
It’s too late. The eoîl has done it.

Magic energy rose from the vaults of the palace, pulsing through the column as the power of the wellspring was sucked toward
the sky. The tower and the ground beneath it continued to shake.

I knew it. The eoîl shouldn’t be meddling with the order of the gods.
Tungdil seized his chance and grabbed Ondori’s wrist before she could lower her blade.

Ramming her elbow into his helmet, she threw her weight behind the weapon, forcing it toward his neck. Shaking with effort,
they pushed against each other, summoning the last of their strength. Ondori, it seemed, was the stronger.

The blade nicked his neck and the älf breathed out triumphantly. “Nothing can save your pathetic little life. Die, groundling!”

Overhead, the white sun sucked the last of the energy from the wellspring in a long, thirsty gulp. The column of magic flickered
and paled.

A split-second later, the sun exploded with a clear high tinkle, purer and brighter than the ring of a hammer on an anvil,
louder than a thunderclap, and more piercing than the wail of a child. The city was steeped in light, every man, dwarf, and
älf resplendent in the glow.

Ondori’s black eyes were transformed, becoming streams of pure light. Her face contorted. “In the name of Tion, what…” Silvery
light shimmered from her pores.

Tungdil was mesmerized by the transformation taking place before his eyes. Suddenly, a dark mist rose from the älf and floated
skyward. A wave of heat radiated from her body, and she opened her mouth in a bestial scream, but no sound came out. There
was nothing left of her but swirling ash that scattered on the winter wind. Her clothes and her weapons had disintegrated
as well.

Just then Tungdil spotted Narmora. She had risen to her feet and was stumbling forward, wailing and screeching. Light glowed
from her chest, turning to pale white flames as if her flesh were made of straw. Her screams died as she tumbled to the floor
in a fiery plume.

Shocked, Tungdil looked away. There was nothing that could be done for her. He looked in vain for the immortal siblings and
their imposing black armor.
Was the eoîl right?
He pulled himself up and peered over the balcony to see how Porista had fared.

Following the explosion, the magic energy had risen above the tower, fanning out and surrounding the palace like an upturned
bowl. It continued to radiate outward, picking up speed and moving through houses and temples, unhindered by marble, wood,
or flesh.

The fighting had stopped on the ramparts and in the streets. Everyone was staring at the searing wall of light.

The first unit of älfar flared with light, disintegrated and perished like Ondori. A cloud of black mist rose from the city,
collecting around the diamond at the top of the flagpole. Tendrils of smoke wound themselves playfully around the precious
stone, streaking the air and forming strange aerial creatures.

Outside the city, the älvish reinforcements fled in panic, some running, others spurring their shadow mares, all desperate
to escape the searing light.

Nothing could protect them from the eoîl.

Tungdil watched as the dark figures were consumed by light, the evil inside them rising to the diamond on the mast. The bell-like
radiance continued to spread outward until its furthest edges glimmered on the horizon. Black mist wafted toward the palace,
collecting overhead.

Just then a tremor ran through the tower. The earth was shaking again.

Glancing to the parapet, Tungdil saw the charred remains of Narmora. Lying beside her blackened ribs was a shimmering green
jewel.
It was true!

“Magic should be banned,” mumbled Rodario, slowly coming to. He straightened up, saw Narmora’s charred remains, and raised
his hands to his eyes. “Palandiell be with us, he killed her!”

“She was killed by the evil within,” said a voice.

The eoîl stood up, letting go of the two ends of the cable. The radiant aura disappeared.

Now they could see that their antagonist was a tall, slender maiden in pure white robes. The sword in her left hand was dripping
with the dark blood of the immortal siblings. The tips of her ears pointed up through her long fair hair, and her face was
too narrow and beautiful to be human.

“The stone of judgment has done its work.” She inclined her head regally toward Rodario and Tungdil. “Those who passed the
test have nothing to fear.” Her blue eyes shifted to the cloud overhead. “The essence of evil,” she explained. “Don’t worry,
I’ll convert it to good.” She smiled serenely.

Rodario raised himself to his full height and glanced at Tungdil, hoping to discover what the dwarf had in mind. “You’re an…
elf.”

“I’m an eoîl, purer and nobler than my lowly cousins,” she said disdainfully. “I was touched by the hands of Sitalia herself.”

“Give back the magic energy,” demanded Tungdil, undaunted. The pain seemed to fade as Vraccas restored his courage. At last
he had a flesh-and-blood opponent: a pointy-eared eoîl who cared nothing for the suffering she inflicted and had the presumption
to think that she was better than everyone else. Such arrogance was typical of her kind. “Give it back before Girdlegard is
shaken to pieces.”

She shook her head, sending ripples through her silky hair. “The magic is gone. The stone of judgment has absorbed its power.”
She raised her right hand and pointed to the sky. Black clouds were blowing toward Porista from all directions, turning the
dull winter afternoon to deepest night. “See?”

Toboribor’s orcs in the south of Idoslane, Borwôl’s ogres in the northeastern reaches of Urgon, the last of the älfar in Dsôn
Balsur, and other nameless beasts in the far-flung reaches of Girdlegard had been destroyed by the stone. There was nothing
left except the darkness of the souls, billowing toward Porista.

Already a vortex of energy was swirling down from the cloud and wrapping itself wraith-like around the crystal, which devoured
the darkness. At once the diamond lit up, illuminating the heavens like a star. The transformation had begun.

Rodario, his jauntiness gone, hobbled slowly over to Tungdil. Narmora’s death had affected him deeply, even though he knew
of her misdeeds. “What are we going to do?”

The dwarf thought for a moment. “Remember what Lirkim told us about her power?” he whispered.

The impresario bent over and picked up Ondori’s quarterstaff, pretending to use it as a crutch. “She said the magic was stored
in her amulets.”

Tungdil studied the eoîl and counted two rings and an amulet hanging from her dainty neck. “Do you think she’s got any energy
left?” He glanced at the flagpole. “There’s a good chance she won’t be able to use her magic until she channels the energy
from the stone.” He unbuckled his greaves and tied a makeshift bandage around the wound. He wanted the eoîl to think that
they had abandoned the struggle and embraced the new order. “Don’t do anything until the darkness has been absorbed. We can’t
get rid of the eoîl and leave the evil in the air.” He pulled the bandage tight and knotted it in place. “Wait till she reaches
for the diamond, then go.”

The tower shook again, the blocks of marble groaning under the strain.

“And then what?”

“We pray to Vraccas that we’re right about the amulets.”

Rodario smiled wryly. “I meant, what are we going to do with the diamond? I’m assuming we’ll defeat her.”

“We’ll cast it into the wellspring and see what happens.” His brown eyes were grimly determined. “I can’t think of a better
idea right now. The eoîl won’t hand over the diamond willingly, and she can’t be allowed to hold so much power. With the energy
from the diamond she’ll be unstoppable, and she doesn’t seem terribly levelheaded.”

Rodario tightened his grip on the quarterstaff. “I’ve run out of props,” he said, patting his empty pockets. “I’m not cut
out to be a warrior. I’d rather fight with lycopodium flames and burning acid than a blade.”

“I thought you wanted a starring role?
Rodario the Fablemaker, Impresario and Warrior, Defeats the Mighty Eoîl.
How’s that for a title?”

“I wouldn’t mind if I’d rehearsed. I’ve got nothing against a bit of ad libbing, but I don’t want to fall off the stage.”

The dwarf thumped him on the back. “You’ll be fine.” He glanced up at the sky where the last black wisps were streaming into
the crystal tube. “We’ll let her think that I can’t walk properly on my own. Pretend you’re going for help, and on my signal,
we’ll attack. Whoever gets to her first will have to deal the fatal blow.” The two friends shook hands.

“I can’t carry you on my own,” Rodario said loudly. “You stay here, and I’ll go for help. You shouldn’t be walking on that
leg.” He frowned, looking every inch the anxious friend. As always, he played his part to perfection, hobbling forward with
the help of the quarterstaff as if he were badly wounded.

The eoîl seemed barely aware of their presence. She was staring, transfixed, at the diamond, which was sparkling with magic
light. Her face was so beautiful that Tungdil felt unwell.

Daylight returned and gray banks of snow filled the sky, emptying their cold white cargo on the roofs of Porista. The sinister
clouds had gone, the dark magic channeled through the rune-inscribed crystal tube and transformed into positive energy by
the diamond.

“My work here is done.” The eoîl hurried to the flagpole. “I promised that I would leave Girdlegard, and leave I shall. For
the first time in cycles, these lands are free from evil.”

Tungdil gave the signal and strode toward the eoîl.

“Leave the diamond where it is,” he said threateningly. “It’s too much power for a single soul.”

It was clear from her expression that she hadn’t expected to be challenged. “Still determined to thwart me, are you?” She
raised her left arm. “I’ve never met anyone so intent on dying.”

A long thin object whirled through the air, striking the right of her chest and knocking her backward against the parapet.
Rodario, much to his surprise, had succeeded in felling the eoîl with his quarterstaff.

“Ha!” he shouted, drawing a sword. “Some demigod you are! We know the truth about you, elf. You’re powerless without the magic
of the stone.”

Tungdil reached the flagpole and slashed the ropes with his ax. The crystal tube containing the diamond dropped into his hand.
He threw away the cable and stuffed the tube behind the buckle of his belt. “You’ll have to fight me for it.” He limped toward
her. “I haven’t forgotten the innocent souls who died in your fires. Don’t expect any mercy.”

A trickle of blood left her mouth and landed on her pure white robes. She drew the quarterstaff from her side and stepped
away from the parapet. A crimson halo radiated from the right of her chest. Drawing her sword, she threw herself on the dwarf,
who struggled to match her incredible speed. The sword and ax met in a ringing din.

The eoîl’s delicate beauty belied her strength. Each blow was delivered with the force of a dwarven warrior, and Tungdil swayed,
struggling to keep his balance because of his wounded leg.

Rodario rushed to his aid, swiping at the eoîl with his sword. “You’re a nifty fighter, but you can’t—” The eoîl stepped nimbly
aside, dodging the awkward attack. Without taking her eyes off Tungdil, she jabbed her sword with startling rapidity at the
impresario, stabbing him in the belly. Rodario doubled up, screaming in agony as she rotated the blade before whipping it
out.

Tungdil swung his ax.

The blade whizzed toward her, heading straight for her wounded chest. The eoîl raised her sword to check the blow.

The ax smashed down, shattering the delicate sword and continuing its trajectory. A split-second later, the ax head embedded
itself in the eoîl’s chest.

The force of the blow knocked her sideways and she stumbled into the parapet and overbalanced, pulling Tungdil, still holding
the haft of his weapon, toward the edge.

He unfurled his fingers, allowing the ax—and the eoîl—to fall. Leaning over the parapet, he watched her descent.

Twice she knocked against the sable walls of the tower, staining them crimson as she scraped against the stone. Her fall ended
at the base of the tower, her dainty body smashing against the ground.