The Dwarves (83 page)

One of the bögnilim rushed ahead to announce the arrival of the heroic älf. The company strode purposefully between the tents,
heading in the direction that the bögnil had taken.

“So I was right,” came a muffled voice from Rodario’s helmet. “I knew it had to be Nôd’onn’s tent.”

“Silence,” commanded Narmora in her sinister älf’s voice, and the impresario refrained from further comment.

By now they had a clear view of the dark green cloth that was housing the source of Girdlegard’s ills. They were only twenty
paces away when the tent opened and an old acquaintance emerged: pointy ears, handsome features, and long fair hair. “Sinthoras,”
gasped Tungdil in horror.

Boïndil leaned over. “Was he in the story too?”

The älf was smiling maliciously. He was wearing a tionium breastplate and a long tionium mail shirt that reached as far as
his knees. He was prepared for battle. “It’s always a pleasure to see you,” he said to Tungdil with a bow. Then he turned
to Narmora. “Congratulations on capturing the prisoners, Miss… ?”

“Morana,” she said, furnishing herself with an älf name.

“Morana,” he repeated. “Tion must prize you highly. Caphalor and I hunted the groundlings across the length and breadth of
Girdlegard with no success.” His cruel eyes roved coldly over the little band. It was impossible to tell exactly who he was
looking at. “We inflicted some casualties, it seems.”

“And yet they evaded you,” she said scornfully. She decided not to be intimidated and to play the part of the arrogant stranger.

“Yes, they evaded us.” Sinthoras sighed with feigned regret. “But we have them now. I’ll take them to Nôd’onn. You may go.”

Narmora stood her ground. “I captured them. Why should I let you steal my reward?”

Sinthoras circled her menacingly. “You’ve got courage, young älf. It’s strange that I’ve never heard your name.”

“Dsôn Balsur is a big place. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“You’re from Dsôn Balsur? I know every inch of our kingdom; I founded it.” He stopped in front of her. “What of your mother
and father? Where do you live, Morana?”

“That needn’t concern you,” she retorted, unmoved. “Hurry up and tell Nôd’onn I’m here to see him — or get out of my way.”

“The magus is asleep.”

“Then wake him.”

Tungdil was still reeling from the shock of meeting Sinthoras.
What are we to do? Should we walk past him? If it comes to a fight, some of us will die.
He glanced at Nôd’onn’s tent, which was tantalizingly close.
If we wait too long, we’ll only attract an audience, which is the last thing Narmora needs.
He couldn’t see that they had a choice.

“Come and listen to this, Caphalor.” Sinthoras threw back his head and laughed. “I’ve got a young älf here who isn’t afraid
of her elders. It could be the death of her one day.”

“She ought to be taught some respect,” someone said behind them.

Rodario was caught off guard by the voice and whipped round, almost taking Balyndis’s head off with his lance. His armor,
which was slightly too big for him, clunked noisily.

Behind them was an älf with long dark hair. Tungdil recognized him immediately as the sinister bowman who had shot at him
in Goodwater and tracked the company through the Red Range. He knew they had to do something, but he couldn’t for the life
of him think what.

“I knew a Morana once, but she didn’t look like you. Besides, the Morana I’m thinking of is dead.” Caphalor’s fathomless eyes
settled on Narmora. He was wearing tioniumplated leather armor that seemed to swallow the sunlight. “You’re not from Dsôn
Balsur, are you?” He laid his slender fingers on the hilt of his sword. “Why did you lie to us? Tell us where you’re from.”

By now Boïndil was becoming restless. His eyes darted back and forth and he glanced at Tungdil, waiting for his command.

Should we attack? If we do, they’re bound to overpower us
. Tungdil didn’t know what to do. The älfar’s ambush was entirely unexpected and it looked as though neither Sinthoras nor
Caphalor had any intention of allowing Narmora to deliver her prisoners to Nôd’onn.

“I’ve had enough of your games,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. For all her acting experience, she couldn’t control
her fear. “If you won’t take me to him, I’ll call him myself.” She shouted out to Nôd’onn.

The älfar laughed.

“That’s too bad,” Sinthoras said spitefully. “You’re not the only one who’s been lying. The magus is mustering his troops
by the tower. We’re just about to join him. My spear is looking forward to whetting itself on dwarfish blood.”

“The tower?” She glanced at the mercenaries and the dwarves. “Then that’s where I’ll take them.” She was about to push past
Sinthoras when he whipped out his sword. Before the blade reached her neck, she parried the blow. “Another trick like that
and I’ll kill you,” she said menacingly.

A knife whistled over the dwarves’ heads, its sharp point embedding itself in the half älf’s armpit. She cried out in pain.

“
My
Morana sounded different as well,” Caphalor said grimly.

Furgas couldn’t contain himself any longer and lunged at the aggressor. The älf stepped nimbly out of the way of his spear,
drew his sword, and feigned a swipe at his head. Furgas fell for the ruse and readied himself to parry the blow. The dark-haired
älf rammed his sword into Furgas’s belly. The prop master sank to his knees, groaning.

“Quick,” Tungdil shouted to Rodario, who was rooted with shock. The impresario grabbed the sack and tossed the weapons to
the dwarves. Throwing off their leather manacles, they seized their axes and hurled themselves on their hated foes.

A
s Rodario backed away from the smiling Sinthoras, Ire-heart leaped into the breach, his axes twirling ferociously.

“So you want to dunk your toothpick in some dwarf blood, do you, hollow eyes?” He slashed at the älf’s hips, forcing him away
from Rodario. The impresario seized his chance and fled. Ireheart took another step toward his opponent. “You’d better be
quick because my axes are hungry for älf flesh.” They fell on each other, and Balyndis and Gandogar threw themselves into
the mix, ignoring Boïndil’s indignant shouts.

Andôkai and Tungdil were left to deal with Caphalor, while the injured Narmora went to Furgas’s aid.

The half älf’s wound was relatively minor. The knife had missed the vein, nicking the flesh and drawing blood, but Furgas
was in a critical state. By the time Narmora got to him, he was breathing shallowly, fumbling with his visor, and struggling
for air.

“Furgas, my love,” she said soothingly, pressing on his abdomen to stem the bleeding. The color returned to her eyes as she
tended to him anxiously. Blood continued to gush from the wound. With a wild curse, she jumped to her feet, pushed Andôkai
away from Caphalor, and harried the älf with a series of blows. “I’ll take care of him. You see to Furgas,” she ordered. “He’ll
die if you don’t.” Her eyes darkened to hollows.

Andôkai retreated with a nod.

“How moving,” Caphalor said scornfully. “I shouldn’t worry, though. You’ll be united in death.” He dodged her weapon and kicked
Tungdil elegantly in the chest. The dwarf fell backward and sat down with a thud. Caphalor smiled at Narmora. “Let’s have
some fun before I kill you.”

He parried her next blow and punched her in the face. Struggling to keep her balance, she managed to duck beneath his sword,
but his knee powered into her nose and she straightened up, placing herself unknowingly within reach of his blade.

Without stopping to think, Tungdil hurled his only ax at the älf. Boïndil would have disapproved of the tactic, but he didn’t
know what else to do.

The blade whistled as it arced through the air, alerting Caphalor to the danger.

In a movement so swift that Tungdil scarcely saw it happen, Caphalor caught the weapon by the haft and tossed it back. The
älf used the momentum to whirl like a spinning top toward Narmora and knock her sideways. He raised his sword to kill her
as she fell.

Tungdil had no time to dodge the flying ax, which hit him poll-first in the chest. His ribs cracked audibly and the pain was
terrible, but it could have been far worse.

“Leave her to me, Caphalor,” a hoarse voice commanded. The älf froze and turned to see Nôd’onn, who had appeared out of nowhere.

“But, Master, you…”

His confusion lasted long enough for Narmora to sit up and thrust her blade into the crouching älf’s neck. The blow almost
parted his head from his shoulders, but Caphalor took one last lunge at her, slashing at her throat, then toppling over and
burying her beneath him.

Sinthoras let out a terrible howl. He realized that his friend was dead and that the distraction was the work of an impostor.
Glancing at his opponents, he decided that the odds were against him. He had sacrificed his amulet already and was no match
for the maga on his own. “We’ll meet again,” he promised. “Sinthoras will be your death.” With that he disappeared into the
tent.

Tungdil and his companions chased after him but found the magus’s quarters deserted.
Damn that älf! He’s tricked us again.

Rodario, still posing as the magus, had stayed outside to disperse the crowd of startled beasts. He instructed them to return
to the battle and kill any of their comrades who weren’t fighting savagely enough. “I’ll take care of the treacherous sorceress
myself.” He stabbed a finger at Andôkai and muttered a few unintelligible words. “Take that!” The maga sank obligingly to
the ground. Impressed by the magus’s power, the orcs and bögnilim backed away, bowing respectfully.

“An unsophisticated audience is a gift from above,” he murmured gratefully into his malachite cowl. His heart had been in
his throat throughout the scene. He checked that the coast was clear and beckoned to Andôkai. “No one’s looking. Come quickly,
Estimable Maga! Narmora needs your help!”

The maga crouched over the half älf and began a healing incantation to close the wound, while Rodario stood in front of them,
spreading out his voluminous robes to hide them from view. “Incidentally, you’d make a wonderful actress. I’ve never seen
anyone die with such conviction.”

“This is no time for flattery,” she rebuked him, concentrating on her charm.

As quickly and discreetly as possible they carried the dead älf and their two wounded companions into the tent and held a
whispered conference. Boïndil peered out of the flap and kept watch.

“Sinthoras is bound to tell the magus about us,” said Tungdil. He glanced down at Furgas’s motionless form. Andôkai had induced
a deep healing sleep in the hope that he would recover. Narmora was stroking his hand comfortingly, but she herself was shaking
all over and her throat was smeared with blood.

“Nôd’onn will be expecting us,” said Andôkai, glancing around the tent. “It won’t make things any easier, but at least we’ve
got another älf outfit.” She stripped the dead Caphalor unceremoniously of his mail and strapped it to her body. It was tight
in some places and loose in others, but with her visor down and in the company of Narmora she looked reasonably convincing.
“With any luck, Nôd’onn won’t notice the difference until it’s too late.”

“How do you feel about posing as the magus again, Rodario? Do you think you’d be able to get us as far as Nôd’onn?” Tungdil
was already working on a new plan.

“With pleasure.” He tugged on the straps that looped beneath his improvised stilts. He was standing on a pair of helmets.
“I get quite a kick out of being a notorious wizard.” Grinning, he made a final check of his flamethrower and rearranged the
air-filled leather pouches that inflated his girth. “Let the show begin! Our beastly spectators are waiting.”

“Don’t lay it on too thick or they’ll tear you to pieces before we can stop them,” warned Tungdil. “All right, here’s the
story.” He pointed to Balyndis, Boïndil, Gandogar, and himself. “The four of us are defectors. We’re under your spell, and
we’re showing you how to infiltrate the stronghold.”

Andôkai picked up Furgas’s helmet and placed it on her head. It didn’t look right with the elaborate älf armor, but at least
it hid her face.

“Blasted ogres,” gasped Boïndil, peering through the tent flap. “They’ve pushed the tower right up against the mountain. They’re
going to do it this time.” He screwed his eyes up in concentration. “I think I can see the magus. He’s on the middle platform
and he’s —” He stopped short, too anxious to continue.

The others rushed to the door to see for themselves what was happening.

The Blacksaddle was quaking under the force of Nôd’onn’s attack. Black bolts sped from his staff and zigzagged over the slopes.
The noise of crackling, spluttering lightning carried as far as the tent.

The stubborn mountain stood firm, resisting the assault. Just then a mighty bolt slammed into its flank, forcing it apart.

A mass of fractured rock thundered down the slopes, raising vast clouds of dust. Ledges and overhangs collapsed, laying open
the passageways that led into the stronghold.

The troops on the tower prepared to disembark. Each platform was equipped with hastily constructed gangplanks, which the beasts
angled toward the pitted surface of the once-sheer slope. The first orcs were halfway across before the planks had touched
down. They stormed into the stronghold, to be met by dwarven axes.

Nôd’onn made certain that enough troopers were inside, then stepped onto a gangplank and followed them unhurriedly into the
stronghold.

At least we know where he is
. Tungdil took a deep breath. “We’ll have to leave Furgas here,” he decided. “It’s safer than taking him with us. Are you
ready?”

Narmora and Rodario nodded.

As they strode past rows of kneeling beasts who were too dim-witted to see through their disguise, Boïndil had a sudden feeling
that they had forgotten something important, and he couldn’t think what.

T
hey remained on guard, knowing that Sinthoras was still at large and could ambush them at any moment. Mercifully, the crowds
were too thick for him to take aim at them with his bow, so he would be forced to attack at close range. He hadn’t shown himself
yet.