The War of the Dwarves (67 page)

“Who would have thought it?” exclaimed Rodario, surprised. “The little pussy cat doesn’t know who they are. Haven’t you heard
the legend of the avatars?” On seeing the älf’s puzzlement, he proceeded to explain the history of the demigods, throwing
in the odd fantastical detail here and there to make the avatars seem more terrifying. He pointed into the distance. “And
your warriors were consumed by the avatars, fiery crusaders of purity descended from Tion, the god to whom you pray. Is that
not deliciously ironic?”

“They won’t stop until every last one of us is dead,” said Ondori slowly. At last it made sense: her nervousness before the
attack, the searing pain in her forehead, the failure of the dark water… And she knew without a doubt that Dsôn Balsur would
fall to the invaders.
Unless…
“A bitter irony indeed. Our survival depends on those who seek to destroy us.”

“Actually,” began Tungdil, looking at her gravely, “we’re asking you to join us. We need to fight together if we’re to drive
them out.”

“We can’t fight them, groundling,” she said with a shudder, remembering the murderous wave of heat and light. “It’s like asking
a snowball to put out the sun.”

“It depends on the size of the snowball,” he replied, cutting her bonds. “Forget the enmity between us and hurry back to Dsôn
to tell your leaders what you’ve heard. We’ll need every warrior in Girdlegard if the avatars are to be stopped.”

“I will deliver your message.” Ondori picked up her mask and slipped it over her head, hiding her scars.

A woman in black leather armor appeared before her. Her face was slender, too slender for a human. “My name is Narmora the
Unnerving. Andôkai the Tempestuous was my teacher,” she said in älvish. Her accent was abysmal and her pronunciation atrocious,
but Ondori understood. “Tell the immortal siblings that the älfar must join our troops. We won’t fight your battles unless
you’re prepared to risk your lives as well.” Her eyes darkened with menace. “We can always stand by and watch the avatars
raze your homeland to the ground. I’d be happy to provide directions to the royal palace. Tell Nagsor and Nagsar to think
very carefully before refusing our request.”

She’s one of us
. Ondori nodded reluctantly. “I’ll tell the immortal siblings,” she rasped, shaking the ropes from her wrists. She straightened
up.

“Swear on your blood that you’ll do it,” the maga said darkly, grabbing the älf’s left arm and cutting a gash in the back
of her hand. She held the glistening blade in front of the älf’s face. “Break your word, and I’ll destroy you. My magic will
follow you like a huntsman follows his prey.”

Ondori nodded meekly. Narmora’s threat was all too believable. “I swear I’ll do it,” she stammered. “You can trust me, I promise.
There’s a groundling near here…” She quickly described the place where she had left her captive, then hurried away, vanishing
into the night.

“What the blazes did you say to her,” asked Boïndil suspiciously. “Do you have to speak in that tongue?”

“It depends on whether you want to help a poor dwarf who’s waiting to be rescued,” she said, smiling. Her eyes had returned
to their normal color. “I’ll send Djer
n to fetch her—unless you’d rather go.”

She needn’t have asked. No dwarf could stand by when one of their kinsfolk was in trouble, so Boïndil left with Tungdil, his
brother, and thirty volunteers to release the captive dwarf.

They soon found the place.

Someone had gotten there before them, as they could tell from the melted snow and footprints in the sludge. A rope was wrapped
around the tree trunk, marking the place where the dwarf had been tied up.

“The avatars beat us to it,” said Tungdil, trudging around the tree in the hope of finding something that might identify the
missing dwarf. Amidst the footprints, half buried in the slush, he found a broken necklace of beautiful steel links and gold
balls.

He recognized it at once

“Balyndis,” he gasped, picking up the chain and wiping it lovingly on his jerkin. The avatars had kidnapped his one true love,
and with her, the instructions for forging Djer
n’s armor.

“One darned problem after another,” grumbled Boïndil. “I don’t mind a challenge, but this is a joke.”

Boëndal laid a comforting hand on Tungdil’s shoulder. “It’s a sign that we have to destroy them, scholar. Don’t worry; we
won’t let your Balyndis come to any harm.”

“She’s not my Balyndis, remember?” Tungdil fastened the necklace around his wrist, over the neckerchief given to him by Frala,
his childhood friend who had died at the hands of the orcs.
I’ll get her back regardless, even if I have to take on the avatars myself.

“I know she forged the iron band with Glaïmbar,” Boëndal said simply, “but she’ll always be your Balyndis.” He paused, hesitating.
“I wish Vraccas would make her properly yours.”

So do I
, thought Tungdil sadly.

T
ungdil and the twins led the unit of ten thousand thirdlings on a forced march to outflank the avatars’ army. On reaching
the forest on the outskirts of Dsôn Balsur, they came to a halt. Tungdil ordered the bulk of the warriors to block the path
that the allies had blazed through the woods. Two battalions of a thousand warriors apiece hid in the trees on either side.
After a while, the masked älf appeared and told them that her kinsfolk had agreed to a temporary ceasefire. Most of the dwarves
had guessed as much, having been neither struck down by quarterstaffs nor feathered with treacherous arrows.

Others before them had met with a harsher fate. Tungdil and his comrades were appalled to see that the älfar had erected sculptures
made of human corpses to mark their victory over the allied troops. The branches were festooned with flags made of human skin,
embellished with symbols painted in blood. The summer months had taken their toll on the artwork, but the autumn frosts had
saved them from further decay, and a fine layer of snow covered the sculptures and flags like a clean white cloth, hiding
the grisly details. Tungdil and his friends were tempted to leave the älfar to their fate.

If the thirdlings were nervous, they didn’t show it. Their tattooed faces looked unerringly to the south as they waited in
silence for the avatars to arrive. Shield in one hand and weapon in the other, they stood shoulder to shoulder in disciplined
rows.

The sight of the thirdling warriors made a big impression on Boïndil who, like his brother, refused to move from Tungdil’s
side. Without discussing the matter, they had decided that Tungdil needed protection from Lorimbas’s warriors, and they saw
it as their duty to watch his back. The dwarven folks had united against the avatars, but they still regarded each other with
mutual distrust.

The afternoon was almost over when a scout came running to make his report. “They’re here,” he panted. “The avatars are coming,
but Lorimbas’s unit is half an orbit behind. I saw them on the horizon.”

Tungdil thanked the scout and sent him to join the thirdling ranks. “Half an orbit until Lorimbas gets here,” he told the
twins. “We’ll have our work cut out.” He remembered how quickly the avatars had dispatched the unit of four thousand älfar.
We’ll be lucky if we survive.

“It won’t be easy, but it’s not impossible,” said Boïndil, trying to be upbeat. He had drawn one ax, now he drew the other.

Several hours later, a warm wind blew in from the south; the avatars were approaching.

Tungdil instructed his runners to take a message to the leaders of each battalion. “Tell them to stay in formation. When they
see the fire coming, they need to lift their shields, drop to the ground, and let the flames pass overhead.”

They heard thundering hooves. The avatars’ cavalry swung round and came to a halt in two long lines. An advance guard of foot
soldiers raised their swords and spears, ready to form a buffer between the horses and the enemy in the event of a counterattack.

The dwarves watched impassively, waiting for the light to become stronger and brighter before tying scarves around their heads
to protect their eyes.

A gleaming figure detached itself from the enemy ranks and hovered above the ground. Slowly it glided toward the dwarves,
leaving a trail of melted snow in its wake.

Ten paces from Tungdil, it came to a halt. The light was too bright for him to make out its features.

“You are the dwarves,” said a voice of infinite kindness. “For thousands of cycles you and your forebears fought for Girdlegard
and defended its borders against Tion’s hordes. We share a common goal. Why do you seek to destroy us?”

“You and your brothers must leave these lands,” called Tungdil. “Your presence is harmful to Girdlegard, to the ground beneath
you, to our villages and towns.”

“We have a mission, Tungdil Goldhand,” the voice replied amicably. “Girdlegard is infested with älfar, ogres, and orcs. We
won’t leave these lands until Tion’s beasts have been destroyed and their master humiliated. Ridding you of this plague will
give us new strength. The time will come when Tion himself won’t be safe from our wrath.” The avatar edged closer and the
temperature rose a few degrees. “Let us pass, and no harm will come to you or your kinsfolk.” His shimmering hand pointed
to the north. “Our quarrel is with the inhabitants of the city, not you.”

“Think what your strength will do to our lands. We can’t allow you to boost your powers.” Tungdil raised his shield, expecting
to be dazzled by ferocious white light. “Our mission is to protect Girdlegard from harm, and you’re harmful to Girdlegard.
We can’t let you pass, not even if—”

Djer
n charged forward. He covered the distance in three giant strides and grabbed the avatar by the neck, wrapping his hands
around his throat and tightening his grip.

The avatar screamed and enveloped itself in searing light. Djer
n was bathed in fire, but he didn’t let go. The smell of
hot metal filled the air, and shouts went up from the enemy ranks.

Just then there was a loud ripping noise, like a curtain being torn in half. It was accompanied by cracking bones.

The light disappeared, and Djer
n roared in triumph. When the dwarves looked up, he was holding the avatar’s head in one
hand, and his body in the other. The avatar’s face, clearly visible against the gray sky, looked unmistakably human. It belonged
to a man of some thirty cycles whose beige robes were drenched in blood.