The War of the Dwarves (60 page)

“It will hurt, mistress,” he told her. Without warning, his head sped forward and he sank his teeth into her arm, slitting
the flesh from wrist to elbow. His lipless mouth sucked the wound.

Narmora felt instantly light-headed. Every drop of blood seemed to be draining from her body. At last, when she was certain
she would faint, Djer
n released her and she sank to the floor, murmuring an incantation to close the wound.

Djer
n’s eyes shone violet, the light becoming brighter and stronger, more dazzling than the sun. Beneath his armor, something
was rustling, cracking, clicking. A lance dropped to the floor from his breastplate, followed by a hail of broken sword tips,
arrow heads, and spikes.

“Your blood is good, mistress,” roared Djer
n with the energy of a young god. “You taste like Andôkai, only powerful, more
powerful. You’re a good maga—strong and full of healing.” He got to his feet like a warrior raring for battle after a good
night’s sleep. Bowing his armored head to Narmora, he began his account…

Andôkai sent me to look for the avatars.

I crossed the Red Range, marched across the flatlands, and came upon a raging fire and a band of dwarves. My mission was to
look for avatars, not groundlings, so I continued on my way.

Next I came to a crater, four times as big as the gully and full of glowing, bubbling rock. The land beyond was charred and
barren. I kept walking until I found the strewn remains of human soldiers—Weyurnians, as I realized from the crests on their
blackened armor.

Soon afterward, I saw an army.

The warriors carried white banners with ten different crests and their armor was white, so white it hurt my eyes. Their mounts
were whiter than any horse in Girdlegard.

I watched them from a distance to find out who they were and where they were going, but they discovered my hiding place and
came for me with their swords.

For every warrior I killed, four others took his place, and four became eight. At length they overwhelmed me and brought me
before seven beings, each surrounded by a ring of light that dazzled my eyes. They were wreathed in purity and I couldn’t
see their faces.

They asked me where I came from, and I didn’t reply, so they tormented me with kindness, love, and warmth.

But I didn’t die like they hoped.

Summoning my strength, I broke away, anxious to tell my mistress of what I had witnessed.

They called after me that the good, pure souls of Girdlegard should fear no more. Soon, they said, the evil that had inhabited
our kingdoms for cycles would be banished, and Tion and the spirit of evil would plague Girdlegard no more.

I ran for many suns and moons until I found the hidden path to the firstlings’ stronghold.

N
armora stroked her arm, marveling at the smooth, healthy skin.
So that’s why the avatars are marching on Girdlegard. They think we’re still in the clutches of Nôd’onn and the Perished Land.
No one’s told them that the magus was defeated.

“Thank you, Djer
n,” she said pensively.

“What about the dwarves, mistress?

“What about them? They were thirdlings.”

“Not the dwarves near the fire, I mean the others. Some of the warriors from the White Army followed me. They must have found
the dwarves by now—the thirdlings, and the dwarves on the mountain tracks.”

The maga nodded. She didn’t much care what happened to the thirdling fire-raisers, but she was concerned about Xamtys and
her dwarves. She left Djer
n and walked out into the corridor where Tungdil and the others were waiting.

As soon as she opened the door, they looked at her expectantly. She could see the curiosity in their eyes. “We were right
to fear the avatars. They’re on their way.”

Their curiosity turned to shock.

T
he angry little midgets might listen to reason,” said Rodario, feeling the weight of the silence. “We need to tell them that
the avatars are real.”

Tungdil, Gemmil, Narmora, the twins, and various dwarven dignitaries were in a meeting to discuss the coming threat. Meanwhile,
Salfalur and his warriors were barreling through the firstlings’ defenses.

Three hundred thirdlings had died in traps rigged by Furgas, but nothing could deter the fanatical dwarf killers. Very soon
they would succeed in conquering the stronghold, and the last resistance to their treachery would be crushed. But neither
Lorimbas nor his warriors suspected that the avatars were real.

Boïndil burst out laughing. “Trust you to want to talk them into submission! Just imagine: the fabulous Rodario—”

The impresario raised a hand to silence him. “
Rodario the Fablemaker
,” he corrected him. “Perhaps my short-legged, hotheaded friend could take the trouble to address me by my proper title.”

Boïndil put his hands on his hips. “Since when have you been a wizard? You’re just a cheap conjurer with the good fortune
to be acquainted with Furgas, a technician of dwarven intelligence and skill!” He tapped his forehead in mock excitement.
“Maybe you could hold a poetry reading for the thirdlings! Remember how you tried to talk the runts to death?”

“There’s no need to be rude, Master Ireheart. It was merely a suggestion.”

“A bad one.”

“In your opinion.”

“Useless, actually.”

“You can do better, I suppose?”

“Quiet, both of you,” cut in Narmora. She glared at Rodario. “He’s right, by the way. Talking to the thirdlings won’t change
anything.”

“Gang up on me, why don’t you?” he said, offended. “I was merely suggesting that we should explain the situation. The thirdlings
have guarded the Black Range for cycles. They might be murderous traitors, but they’ve done their duty in defending the Eastern
Pass.”

Boëndal made a clicking sound with his tongue. “I suppose he’s got a point. We could give it a go, but we’ll need some proper
proof. The thirdlings won’t be any more inclined to trust us than we trust them.”

“I’ve sent word to Xamtys that the thirdlings were lying,” said Tungdil. “I’ve warned her about the avatars—I’m praying that
the message will get to her in time.”

The door flew open. “You’re needed at the inner gates,” gasped the agitated dwarf. “Come quickly! They’ve nearly broken through.”

“I hate to say it, but Lorimbur’s children know a thing or two about fighting,” growled Boïndil, jumping up, axes at the ready,
and following the dwarf. “Luckily I’m here to show them that you don’t need marks on your face to be a good warrior.” He laughed.
“Let’s give the thirdlings some new tattoos.”

In spite of the bluster, Tungdil could tell that his friend wasn’t nearly as excited about slaying thirdlings as he was about
killing orcs, bögnilim, and other beasts. Deep down, he doubted that they could hold the gates.
The Red Range is living up to its name; the gully will be awash with blood before the orbit is out.

The dwarves’ hopes rested with Narmora’s magic, Djer
n’s strength, and Furgas’s technical expertise. Tungdil, after witnessing
the first battle, had been awed by the thirdlings’ discipline, power, and axmanship.

No matter what happens, Salfalur won’t leave here alive
. Tungdil was determined to kill him, whatever the cost. Taking up his ax, he left the hall and hurried over the bridge to
the highest of the nine towers from which he could survey the action.

It was an incredible sight.

Fighting wasn’t the thirdlings’ only talent. Lorimbas’s warriors had built a three-sided tower out of the rubble of the fallen
gates. The front edge of the tower was pointing straight at the twin ramparts of East Ironhald; and from Tungdil’s vantage
point, it looked like an enormous guillotine.

The structure, built at an angle, was supported by struts to which ropes had been attached.

Tungdil watched as fifty warriors stepped forward, took hold of the ropes and pulled. The struts came away, the tower tilted
forward, slowly at first, then faster and faster until it hit the ramparts, smashing through the fortifications like a colossal
blade. The stronghold had been breached, allowing the thirdlings to charge forward.

“The freelings shouldn’t have let them build the tower,” said Boïndil, gazing down at Gemmil’s dwarves. He frowned. “Fighting
isn’t their forte. In terms of pure numbers, we’ve got the advantage—not that you can tell.”