The Dwarves (85 page)

“Finish her off, and bring the ax to me,” she heard the magus order. The clicking of his wooden staff against the flagstones
receded into the distance.

Little by little her eyes cleared and she caught a hazy glimpse of the malachite robe disappearing down the staircase. Gasping
with pain, she struggled up, intent on running after the traitor and cutting him down. The amulet would protect her.

She was almost on her feet when a shadow hurtled out of nowhere. Whooshing over her head, the dark figure landed lightly on
the walkway in front of her. Two short swords pointed menacingly at her chest.

“You should have known that the Perished Land would allow me to avenge myself,” said Caphalor.

Narmora stared at the deep wound where her blade had gashed his throat. “If I thought you were a danger, I would have beheaded
you,” she said coldly. “You’re no threat to us.” She held the ax on high, knowing that Caphalor would kill her if he sensed
she was afraid.

The älf lunged at her, snarling, and Narmora realized that she would never keep pace with his attack. She retaliated with
an offensive of her own and laid open the undead warrior’s shoulder. The ax cut into his flesh, but Caphalor was undaunted.

“I’ll cut you to ribbons, eat your flesh, and paint a portrait of your ravaged body with your blood,” he spat, raising his
weapons again. Harrying her with his swords, he maneuvered her closer and closer to the edge of the walkway. Belatedly she
noticed that she was only a hand span away from plummeting to her death.

Caphalor dropped down suddenly and swiped at her calves. She leaped over him, whirled around, and swung her ax to finish his
undead existence.

But the älf had thrown himself to the floor and rolled over, ready to thrust his swords toward her as she delivered the final
blow.

The ax head scraped along the stone floor, sparks flying everywhere, then sliced sideways into the älf’s neck, settling the
matter forever. Caphalor’s eyes widened.

But his final maneuver had not been in vain.

His swords had pierced Narmora’s armor and embedded themselves beneath her collarbone. The half älf found herself skewered
above his corpse, unable to think or move. Through the haze of her consciousness she saw the amulet fall from her neck, hit
Caphalor, and bounce off the walkway. The leather band, sliced in two by the älf, unraveled onto his chest.

I still haven’t…
She tried to call to the others, but her gored chest and her ebbing strength turned her shout to a whisper. She could feel
herself slipping out of consciousness and there was nothing she could do.

Her legs gave way and she slumped over Caphalor, her chest still propped up by his swords. Suddenly she felt unbearably cold.
Incapable of even the smallest movement, she dangled above her foe.

Furgas…
She had nothing left to give. Her fingers opened against her will, and Keenfire fell from her grip. Clattering to the walkway,
the ax bounced against the flagstones and flew over the edge.

Blacksaddle,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle

T
ungdil glanced up and saw Narmora on the walkway. The sight of her impaled on Caphalor’s swords filled him with helpless rage.

Meanwhile, Nôd’onn was descending the final steps of the staircase only paces away from Tungdil and the others. They were
running out of time.
We’ll be lost without Keenfire.

“I’ll get the ax,” he shouted to Balyndis. “Keep the orcs busy and watch out for Nôd’onn. Andôkai will have to take care of
him until I get back.”

The firstling nodded grimly and felled a beast that was about to lunge at Tungdil. “Hurry!”

Tungdil detached himself from the scrum and blew his horn to summon the warriors of the three dwarven folks who were fighting
in the other halls. His call was answered by blaring bugles and the sound of dwarven axes on orcish mail. He hoped that the
upsurge in fighting would preoccupy the enemy and allow him to slip past unnoticed.

“Vraccas, your name will be worshipped forever if you help me now.” He finished his quick prayer, took a deep breath, and
charged into the jumble of stinking armor and legs.

No matter how tempting it was to clear a path with his ax, he knew that his safety depended on stealth. Crouching low, he
tried to scurry past the beasts without brushing against them. It would have been easy for a scrawny gnome like Sverd, but
Tungdil was considerably broader.

Every now and then he was spotted by an orc, but he kept moving to avoid being caught. Twice he was seized by a clawed hand
and had to use his ax to slice his way free.

At last he reached the place where Keenfire had fallen to the ground. He scanned the flagstones, but the ax had vanished.

“Tungdil, I’ve got something for you. Over here!” He turned in time to see the back of a dwarven warrior disappear from view.
Keenfire’s ax head glittered in his hands. “Come and get it.”

This is no time for silly games.
Tungdil set off in pursuit, dragging his wounded leg across the floor. He left the muddle of orcish shins and made for the
shelter of a pillar. The beasts rushed on, too focused on defeating the dwarven army to notice what was unfolding behind them.

To his surprise, the dwarf turned and held out Keenfire toward him. Tungdil stared at him in bewilderment. “You?”

“Looking for this?” asked Bislipur. His body was twisted out of shape, his face a mass of shattered bone. Judging by his fractured
skull, he had fallen from a great height. Tungdil could barely stand to look at him.

“I see you’ve been punished for your plotting, then,” he said grimly, gripping his ax in readiness.
He must be a revenant.
“I told King Gandogar —”

“I don’t give a damn about Gandogar.”

“You lowered yourself to all kinds of trickery to have him crowned and now he means nothing to you?”

“All I ever cared about was having a high king who would do my bidding, a high king whom I could control.” He swung the ax
playfully. “A war against the elves — that’s what I wanted. I even murdered Gandogar’s father and brother so I could blame
the elves and stoke his fury. How was I to know that I wouldn’t need the pointy-ears? It’s turned out better than I expected.”
He pointed to the dwarves locked in combat around them and laughed. “Don’t you get it, Tungdil?” he said, noticing the other’s
uncomprehending stare. “I’m a thirdling — and so are you.”

“No,” whispered Tungdil. The shouts, screams, and ringing metal seemed to fade into nothingness as he stared into Bislipur’s
knowing eyes. He tried not to remember how he had initially felt drawn to him. “A thirdling? But I can’t be. I’m a fourthling,
a dwarf of Goïmdil.”

“Like me, you mean?” Bislipur laughed in his face. “Tungdil, our destiny is revenge. Lorimbur was scorned by his brothers.
They wouldn’t share their talents and they mocked the thirdlings because they thought they were better. The gifts they received
from Vraccas made them arrogant like the elves. Don’t you see how they treated you?” He took a step forward. “Noble Gundrabur
and his loyal counselor, Balendilín, used you to suit their purpose. Why else do you think they were interested in you? If
Lot-Ionan’s letter had arrived at any other time, they would never have bothered fetching you from the long-uns. That’s how
much they care! They’re worthless, every last one of them. They all deserve to die.”

Tungdil felt the words cut into his heart and found himself succumbing to Bislipur’s hypnotic stare. “No,” he said hesitantly.
“Balyndis…”

Bislipur laughed spitefully. “So you’ve fallen for someone, have you? And how do you think she’ll react when she finds out
you’re a dwarf killer and a traitor? Your future is with the thirdlings, not here. You’ll die with the others if you stay.”

“A traitor?” Tungdil stared at the battle in sudden understanding. At last he grasped the full meaning of Bislipur’s words.
“It was you! You betrayed us to Nôd’onn!”

“Nôd’onn is a great ally, the greatest. I promised him that the thirdlings would do nothing to stop him, provided that the
other kingdoms were destroyed. It was the perfect opportunity.”

Tungdil swallowed and tightened his grip on his ax. “You’re crazy. You delivered up Girdlegard just because —”

“No!” the thirdling screeched suddenly. “Not
just
because of anything! This is our destiny! For thousands of cycles we’ve been waiting for a moment like this. No deed could
be more glorious, Tungdil. Our folk, the dwarves of Lorimbur, will rule all five ranges of Girdlegard once the others are
dead!”

“I don’t want anything to do with you or your folk! I came here to stop Nôd’onn and save the dwarves. I don’t belong to Lorimbur!”

“You’re one of us,” Bislipur told him fiercely. “I knew it from the moment I saw you. Look inside your heart and embrace your
hatred. You’re a thirdling, believe me.”

“Believe
you?
Why should I believe a traitor?” Tungdil glared at him scornfully and took a deep breath. “Now give me Keenfire.”

Bislipur stared at him suspiciously. “Why?”

“So Nôd’onn can be killed. As for your punishment, I’ll leave that to Gandogar and the others to decide.”

“It’s like that, is it?” He thumped the ax regretfully. “I’m afraid I’ll have to kill you, Tungdil. You risked everything
for Keenfire, and now the weapon will be your death. It seems a shame to —”

Tungdil raised his ax without warning, but Bislipur countered his blow. From then on, both dwarves fought mercilessly, but
neither could win the upper hand.

“So you still think you’re not a thirdling, do you?” the traitor asked mockingly. “How else would you have learned to fight
so well in such a short space of time? You were born a warrior.”

“No!” thundered Tungdil, slashing at him furiously. “I’ll
never
be a thirdling.”

The two axes collided, and Keenfire shattered Tungdil’s weapon. The ax head spun into the air and struck Tungdil’s nose guard
with enough force to make him see stars.

Bislipur didn’t wait for him to recover, but moved in fast. Tungdil tried to step out of the way and stumbled. At the last
moment he pulled Bislipur with him, and they wrestled each other to the ground.

The battle continued on the floor, the two dwarves hacking at each other until Keenfire fell from Bislipur’s grasp. He whipped
out a dagger and rammed it into Tungdil’s arm. Gasping, Tungdil grabbed his knife and plunged it into Bislipur’s throat.

“You’re wasting your time,” Bislipur said derisively. “See what Balendilín did to me? He couldn’t kill me; the Perished Land
wouldn’t let him.” He landed a punch that knocked off Tungdil’s helmet, then seized his chance to scramble to safety. A well-aimed
kick sent Tungdil’s knife flying out of his hand. “It’s not a fair fight, Tungdil, and you’re about to lose.”

His fingers wound their way into Tungdil’s hair and hauled him up. “I’ll give you one last chance because you’re a thirdling,”
he snarled. “Do you want to die with the other scum, or come back with me and celebrate our victory?”

Tungdil had run out of weapons and had only one option. Fumbling in his pouch, he pulled out Sverd’s collar and looped it
around the startled Bislipur’s neck.

“The gnome’s choker? What good will that do? I’m dead already! I don’t need air!”

“Sure, but you can’t do without your head.” Tungdil shoved him backward. The maneuver cost him a clump of hair, but allowed
him to reach for the magic wire on Bislipur’s belt. “And it’s your head that I’m after.”

A sudden jerk, and the noose closed around Bislipur’s neck. The collar tightened, cutting into Bislipur’s throat. At last
the thirdling realized what Tungdil was intending to do.

Grunting inarticulately because of the pressure on his throat, he jabbed his dagger toward Tungdil, who tugged on the wire.
The choker passed through Bislipur’s neck, slicing through his spinal cord. The wire ran through its clasp, the noose sprang
open, and the traitor’s head rolled across the floor. The hateful collar fell apart, its evil charm broken.

There was no time for Tungdil to savor his victory. Gathering up Keenfire, he ran as fast as his injuries would permit him,
determined to stand by his friends in the fight against the magus.

The ax was back in their possession. Now all they needed was an enemy of the dwarves who could wield it against Nôd’onn.

T
he orcs drew back to let the magus through. Suddenly everyone stopped fighting.

“Hello, Andôkai,” rasped Nôd’onn, inclining his head toward her. “You should have allied yourself with me from the beginning,
instead of squandering your strength in futile resistance. I’ll need your power to fight the peril from the west.”

“The peril is here already. It lives within you, confusing your thoughts and steering your deeds.” She focused her energy
on maintaining her protective shield. “The demon is using you, Nudin.”

“He’s my friend, a loyal friend of Girdlegard.” He shook his head despairingly. “You don’t understand. No one understands.”

“You’re right, Nudin; we don’t understand. How many men, elves, and dwarves must die so you can protect our kingdoms? It seems
a high price to pay, especially when the supposed peril is a figment of your poisoned mind.”

“My name is
Nôd’onn!
” His voice became a shrill, nasal shout. “When you see what’s coming from the west, you’ll be grateful that my friend and
I protected you. Lay down your weapons, and I’ll spare you.” There was an urgency to his doublefold voice; he seemed fully
convinced of everything he said. “I did what I did because you gave me no choice. If you’d relinquished your power, it would
never have come to this.”

Andôkai’s sword flashed as she raised her arm defiantly. “How I am supposed to believe you after all the suffering you’ve
caused?”

He looked at her sadly. “In that case, we’ll have to finish things properly. You’ve had your chance.” With a wave of his hand,
he shattered her protective spell.