The War of the Dwarves (82 page)

Tungdil stared down at the sprawled eoîl and released his pent-up breath.
The gods weren’t with you
. His hand patted the diamond hidden behind his belt.

“I told you I needed more time to rehearse.” Rodario groaned and gripped his belly, trying to stem the blood. “Still, at least
I didn’t fall off the stage.”

Tungdil hobbled over and assessed his injuries at a glance. “The blade entered on the left, low enough to miss your organs,”
he reassured him. “I’ll go down and…” He broke off as footsteps and jangling armor sounded from the tower. “It’s not over
yet.” Placing himself in front of the injured Rodario, he drew his only weapon, a dagger, and turned to face the eoîl’s guards.

A small figure in plate armor burst through the door, crow’s beak on high.

Realizing that the eoîl had been defeated, he lowered his weapon and pushed back his visor to reveal a wrinkled face and a
thick black beard.

He stared at Tungdil and then the dagger. “For pity’s sake, scholar, what did I tell you? Never throw your only ax!”

T
here wasn’t time to swap stories.

The two dwarves rushed down the stairs, past the crater made by the eoîl, and into the vaults of the palace. Tungdil followed
Boïndil, who knew the way to the wellspring.

“I think it stopped my fall,” he panted. “It took ages to hit the ground and I remember praying to Vraccas to save me; then
suddenly I slowed down and floated like a feather.” He pointed down the stairs into the darkness. “The source is down there.
I reckon I fell on top of it. I was practically roasting by the time I reached the bottom.”

“The armor must have saved you,” said Tungdil. “Girdlegard owes a lot to Balyndis; she’ll be proud when she hears.”

The earth shook beneath them. This time the quake continued for a few seconds, covering the dwarves in a dusting of stone.
The tower was showing signs of stress, and Tungdil spotted what looked like a crack in the wall. The shaking receded, but
the ground was still moving.

“Is it far?” he asked through gritted teeth. The pain in his thigh was almost unbearable, and he had to remind himself that
Boïndil with his wounded chest was faring worse.

“We’re not there yet, scholar.” Boïndil wished that the masters of Porista had installed a pulley system like the moving platforms
in Xamtys’s stronghold that carried the firstlings up and down in the blink of an eye. “I suppose the wand-wielders used their
hocus-pocus to fly up and down.” He offered his uninjured shoulder to his friend.

At last they reached the bottom of the staircase and hurried to the center of the vaulted basement where the carpet had been
cut away to reveal an array of symbols engraved on the floor. Tungdil had been expecting to find a pool or a hole in the flagstones,
but there was nothing. Magical springs were clearly different to the normal variety.

Boïndil examined the stone floor and held a hand above it tentatively. Nothing happened. “It’s stopped working.”

Tungdil produced the crystal tube containing the diamond. “Let’s hope we can get it started.” He placed the stone gently over
the runes on the floor, and they waited with bated breath.

The trembling continued; in fact, it seemed to intensify. Cracks were spreading through the base of the tower, and fragments
of stone rained from the vaulted ceiling, crashing around them.

“The tower won’t take much more,” said Boïndil, running his hand along the wall. “When it goes down, it will take the other
towers and the conference chamber with it. Scholar, we need to get out.”

Tungdil was staring at the runes, willing them to come alive and pulse with light. The diamond looked dull and lifeless.
Maybe I need to smash the tube.

“Give me that,” he said, reaching for the crow’s beak. Taking aim, he brought the butt of the weapon against the glass, smashing
it to pieces. The diamond survived unscathed, but nothing happened. “What’s wrong with the accursed thing?” bellowed Tungdil.
“In the name of Vraccas, come alive!” He whacked it again with the crow’s beak. “Come alive, why don’t you!”

After the third blow, the dwarves gave up. Doubtless there was a way of releasing the magic energy, but neither of them knew
how.

The shaking was becoming more violent.

Boïndil grabbed his friend by the shoulder. “We’ll be buried alive in a moment,” he growled. “Quick, let’s go.”

Tungdil grabbed the diamond and they hurried out of the vaults as fast as their heavy legs and ravaged bodies would allow.

At the door to the tower, they found the corpse of the monster, surrounded by a ring of dead dwarves, and a little further,
they discovered the remains of the avatars’ guards, but of the älfar there was no trace. The palace was deserted.

Wheezing and panting, they hurried down the sweeping stairs into the courtyard, running to catch up with Rodario, who was
being carried to safety by a couple of dwarves.

This time they made straight for the gates, knowing that the runes had lost their power. The bleached bones of intruders who
had been stuck by magic to the walls now lay scattered on the ground. Porista had lost its magic.

The next ferocious quake proved too much for the tower.

Turning, they watched as the glorious palace of Lios Nudin was broken apart. The tower above the wellspring was shaking like
corn in the wind, tilting wildly from side to side. Suddenly, the walls crumbled and the uppermost third of the tower broke
off.

The deadly chunk of masonry crashed into the highest tower, smashing through its walls. The tower collapsed, raining chunks
of marble over the palace and destroying the copper dome. One by one the sable towers crashed to the ground.

Clouds of dust rose from the debris, rolling toward them like a vast brown wave and obscuring their view. Chips of marble
flew through the air, and the sound of splitting stone echoed endlessly through the city.

Crouched behind the outer walls, they waited for the devastation to end. Dust clogged their eyes and nostrils, clinging to
them like thick brown fog. Those who hadn’t thought to cover their mouths and noses were already coughing and struggling to
breathe.

At last the ground stopped shaking and everything came to rest.

Tungdil wiped the dust from his eyes and washed his face with a handful of snow.
Vraccas protect us.

Nothing remained of the palace’s former splendor. Tons of marble had flattened its lofty chambers, burying cycles of scholarship
under its weight. It was as if the pillaged wellspring had used the last of its energy to destroy the seat of Girdlegard’s
mystic learning, which served no purpose now that the magic was gone. In any case, no one in Girdlegard knew anything of the
mystic arts; the last of the magi was dead, and there was no one to take her place.

Thoughtfully, Tungdil closed his fingers around the diamond.
What am I going to do with you?

He heard the tread of many feet and the familiar sound of jangling chain mail. Through the mist, the firstling queen and her
warriors, accompanied by Gemmil and his dwarves, marched toward them. Tungdil spotted Balyndis’s smiling face at the front
of the parade.

Xamtys had survived the battle with only minor injuries and her four-pronged mace glistened with enemy blood. “Thank Vraccas
you’re all right! When the tower came down, we feared the worst.”

“Who knows what the rest of Girdlegard looks like,” Tungdil said grimly. “For all we know, Porista may have come off lightly
compared to the other cities.” In spite of his bleak mood, he couldn’t help smiling at Balyndis.

She came over and gave him a careful hug. “We routed the avatars’ army.”

“And we routed the avatars,” rasped Rodario. “You missed the performance of a lifetime. Tungdil and I defeated the eoîl. The
blasted creature was an—”

“Apparition,” said Tungdil quickly. “The eoîl was made of mist, like the spirit that corrupted Nudin.” He spoke loudly and
deliberately, hoping that Rodario would take the hint. If the dwarves found out that an elf maiden was to blame for the destruction,
the fragile truce between the dwarven kingdoms and Liútasil’s folk would be endangered, and even the humans would start to
take sides. In the eyes of some, the crimes of an individual justified the punishment of an entire kingdom or folk.

Xamtys wasn’t fooled. “How did you defeat the apparition without Keenfire?”

“A fatal error on the part of the eoîl,” explained Rodario, playing along with the deceit. “He assumed human form, which is
to say, he made himself mortal. You should have seen the battle—he fought like a devil, but I stabbed him in the chest and
our twice victorious hero dealt the final blow.”

Snow was still falling, pushing the clouds of dust to the ground. The air cleared and the little group could breathe again.

Xamtys shot Tungdil a knowing look, but allowed the story to stand, preferring not to challenge their victory in front of
the jubilant troops. “How about we get these three to camp?” she said, eying Tungdil, Rodario, and Boïndil’s wounds. “My warriors
will take care of the dead.”

Tungdil started off, supported by Balyndis, and promptly trod on something small and hard.

Without really knowing why, he bent down and fumbled in the snow until his fingers closed around a finger-length shard of
stone. He picked it up: It was green, slightly charred, and specked with frozen blood.

Narmora’s malachite!
He pocketed it quickly before anyone could see. “Just a bit of stone,” he told Balyndis. “Nothing valuable, I’m afraid.”

The news of the victory spread quickly through Porista.

Relieved citizens pressed their faces to the windows to watch the dwarves march past. It wasn’t long before they poured out
of their houses to clap, cheer, and supply the warriors with food and hot drinks. In no time, Rodario and the dwarves found
themselves at the center of an unexpected victory parade.

Tungdil and his kinsfolk thanked the citizens for their kindness. It wasn’t in their nature to celebrate in front of strangers,
but their tired, bearded faces revealed their contentment.

Rodario was altogether less reserved, waving majestically from his stretcher and playing to the crowd.

“Fellow citizens, prepare yourself for the story of how I, the fabulous Rodario, and my trusty companion, Tungdil Goldhand,
defeated the godlike eoîl. I look forward to seeing you in my theater.” He raised his voice. “Long live the dwarves and long
live Porista!” The crowd roared approvingly and cheered the handsome hero.

Boïndil shook his head in disbelief.

“What?” said the impresario shamelessly. “I have to use these opportunities. I’ll be reopening the Curiosum in a while.”

Tungdil was busy thinking about what to tell Xamtys and the dwarven kings. He was inclined to stick to the story about the
mist.
If Rodario keeps quiet, no one need know that the eoîl was an elf. Sometimes it’s better to hide the truth.
He certainly didn’t intend to confess that the accursed shard of malachite was in his possession, but the diamond was a different
matter. He needed the others’ help to keep the magic in safe hands.

W
ith the city behind them, the full extent of the damage was revealed.

The quakes had opened deep, dark trenches through the frozen fields, and in some places the ground had opened up and swallowed
everything for hundreds of paces. Fortunately, the dwarven encampment had survived the tremors, a deep crack that passed through
its middle somehow having zigzagged round every single tent, preserving them all.

“Xamtys and Gemmil’s losses weren’t too bad,” said Balyndis, helping Tungdil to lie down. She was doing her best to distract
him while a physician examined his wounds. “The älfar took the pressure off the firstlings and freelings, but the thirdlings
weren’t so lucky. The northern front was a bloodbath. The avatars’ soldiers were massed behind the walls. The thirdlings are
good warriors, but only a handful survived.”

The physician removed the dressing from Tungdil’s leg and opened the wound to check for infection.

“What of Salfalur?” growled Tungdil, gritting his teeth against the growing urge to scream.

She shook her head. “He and Lorimbas died in the battle. Our warriors are looking for their remains.”

Tungdil’s relief was mingled with disappointment. It was a fitting end for a dwarf killer, but it robbed him of the chance
to avenge his murdered parents—and poor Myr. “Do you think the news has reached the eternal smithy? I’d like his victims to
know that he’s dead.”

“I’m sure they do,” she said, bending down to kiss him on the forehead. For a moment they allowed themselves to feel at one,
united by the love that would bind them together for the rest of their lives.

Just then the fur drape at the entrance to the tent was pulled back, and Furgas charged in. He scanned the wounded dwarves,
spotted Tungdil, and rushed to his side. His eyes were red from crying.

“Tungdil, thank goodness you’re all right!” He clasped the dwarf’s hand and shook it vigorously. “They said you might know
where to find Narmora. I’ve been looking for her everywhere. One moment, she was fighting at the gates, and then she…” A tear
trickled down his cheek and his lower lip quivered. “Where is she, Tungdil?” he whispered thickly. “I’ve just buried my daughter.
I can’t bury my wife.”

A chill came over Tungdil.
Even little Dorsa wasn’t spared
. Inside he railed at the eoîl and the implacable stone of judgment. It was true that Narmora’s daughter was quarter älf,
but no baby deserved such a fate.

“She died in a duel with the eoîl,” said Tungdil. He wanted Furgas to remember Narmora as a heroine who had given her life
in the fight against evil. “She tried to save Dorsa from the power of the diamond, but the eoîl was too strong. None of us
could stop him draining the force fields.”

Furgas let out a despairing howl and buried his hands in his face. His loud sobs echoed through the dwarves’ hearts, bringing
tears to Tungdil’s eyes. Furgas had paid more dearly than anyone for the avatars’ defeat. Balyndis, moved by his grief, put
her arm around his shoulders.