The Dwarves (84 page)

No one challenged them as they headed for the tower. Farther away, four smaller siege engines had started attacking the stronghold.
They ascended the broad steps that led up to the platforms and strode over the gangplank that Nôd’onn had used.

To their intense relief, they survived the defenders’ hail of stones and arrows and made it safely into the Blacksaddle. Orcish
shrieks echoed through the passageway, accompanied by the peal of colliding swords, axes, and maces. A battle was raging deep
within the stronghold.

“I’ll see to it that we don’t have to worry about enemy reinforcements,” said Andôkai. She turned and focused on the besiegers’
main tower. Ogres were scaling its sides, hoping to use the uppermost platform as a stepping-stone. Unable to squeeze through
the tunnels, they were intent on assailing the defenders from the mountain’s flat summit.

“You mustn’t exhaust yourself,” warned Tungdil, scanning the area for orcs. “We’re bound to need your magic when it comes
to tackling Nôd’onn.”

“Don’t worry; I know how to deal with them.” The fair-haired maga conjured luminous blue runes that coalesced into a sphere.
Hissing furiously, the ball of energy swooped toward the base of the tower and exploded on Andôkai’s command.

The air crackled with the sound of an oncoming storm, and a gale blew up, blasting through the tower’s solid timber and blowing
away the tethers. The lower platforms folded like cardboard, causing the tower to wobble and tilt dangerously to the side.

The walls blew out, and the ogres were thrown backward, arms and legs thrashing frantically like upturned beetles. They fell
to earth amid the milling mass of orcs, bögnilim, and beasts. A moment later, the tower collapsed entirely, burying several
hundred more creatures under its weight. The shrill screams of terror sounded sweeter than the sweetest music to Tungdil’s
ears. The wreckage of the tower lay directly below the entrance to the stronghold, so the debris would have to be cleared
before any of the smaller siege engines could be wheeled into place.

“That should keep them busy for a while,” said Andôkai, eyeing her work with satisfaction.

“Now for the traitor. We’ll have to fight our way through to him, I’m afraid.” Tungdil gave up all pretense of being enslaved
to the counterfeit magus. “Enough of the act, Rodario. If our kinsfolk mistake you for the real Nôd’onn, they’ll rip you limb
from limb.”

Rodario stepped down from his makeshift stilts and took off his robe to reveal his armor. He stowed the props hastily in his
bag.

Balyndis was still scanning the besieging troops. A cloud of dust had appeared on the horizon. “We need to hurry,” she said
in alarm. “There are more of them. Where the deuce are they coming from?”

Tungdil didn’t care where they were coming from, provided that he and the others could beat them back.
How are we ever going to defeat them? Even if we kill the magus, we’ll never get rid of them on our own.
It would take a combined army of dwarves, elves, and men to see off the threat. He drew closer to Balyndis and took her hand,
drawing strength and courage from her touch. “We’ll deal with Nôd’onn; then we’ll worry about his troops.”

They raised their weapons and prepared to charge into the tunnels and overwhelm their enemies from behind. Boïndil was in
his element.

“This is the way it should be,” he whispered, eyes glinting as his fiery inner furnace took control. “A narrow tunnel, more
enemies than we can count… The first ten are for my brother, but Vraccas can have the rest.”

“Narmora is our priority,” Tungdil reminded them. “She’s the only one who can kill Nôd’onn, but the rest of us must protect
her as best we can.”

Gandogar patted his double-headed ax. “No one will touch her while I’m alive to stop them. Destroying Nôd’onn is all that
counts.”

Rodario was happy to settle for a less heroic role and stood back politely to let the others pass. While they stormed down
the tunnel, he took a last look outside.

“Come back, everyone, it’s…” He stared at the fluttering banners of an army approaching from the east. “Aren’t those the colors
of Ido? Surely Prince Mallen wouldn’t ally himself with Nôd’onn?” His eyes roved over the other banners flying above the rows
of troops.
The crests of all the human kingdoms!

The first wave of warriors flowed into the back of a unit hurrying to lend Nôd’onn their support. Rodario watched in astonishment
as the new arrivals mowed down the startled beasts.

Not having reckoned with enemy troops, Nôd’onn’s soldiers took a while to realize that they were under attack. A moment later,
the sky darkened and a hailstorm of arrows ripped through the air. The iron-tipped missiles glittered in the light as they
sped toward the beasts. The magus’s warriors forgot about the humans and tried to locate their other mysterious foes. Firebombs
were already whining toward them, crashing down and engulfing them in flames. Panic broke out.

“Bravo for the elves!” cheered Rodario, relaying the news to his friends.

Gandogar grinned. “So the pointy-ears have found their courage, have they?”

“What are we waiting for?” demanded Ireheart, fired up by the prospect of orc blood. “Do you want to kill Nôd’onn or not?”

They charged into the tunnel, their confidence buoyed.

A
s it turned out, they had nothing to fear from the orcs. Not expecting to be attacked from the rear, the runts put up almost
no resistance, and the first forty died without knowing what had hit them. The company found themselves at a junction with
no sign of beasts or dwarves.

“That was brilliant fun! Where to now?” Ireheart panted eagerly. “You know your way around here. Which direction will Nôd’onn
have taken?”

“He’s probably helping his troops at a spot where he can’t get any farther by brute force alone,” Tungdil said, wishing fervently
that the walls of the stronghold would speak to him as they had once before. Nothing happened. “The trouble is, I can’t think
where.” There was a hint of desperation in his voice. “It’s…”

A dull rumble shook the ground beneath their feet, and a fierce red light radiated from the passageway to their left. Flames
licked the walls in the distance; then the glow faded and was gone.

Tungdil didn’t need to give the order: He and the others were already sprinting toward the blaze. The smell of charred flesh
hung thick in the air, the black fatty smoke stinging their eyes and burning their lungs.

They stormed out of the passageway and entered the first of three halls. The chambers were divided by roughly fashioned walls,
but vast archways, each nine paces or more in height, allowed them to see through to the final hall.

A fierce battle was raging between the dwarves and the beasts. They seemed to be fighting for control of a wide door at the
far end of the third hall, where the clatter of blades was at its most deafening. Bright pennants fluttered above the warriors
of Borengar, Beroïn, and Goïmdil.

Poorly fashioned pillars supported the ceiling, fifty paces above. Crumbling staircases without kerb or rail wound up the
columns, which were connected by bridges that ran the length of the halls. The fighting had spread to the walkways too.

“Come on, we’re bound to find him here,” Tungdil said firmly.

At first the company passed undetected through the turmoil, but their fortunes changed in the final hall when they spotted
Nôd’onn pacing along a bridge. He was watching the dwarven warriors struggling to defend the door against his troops.

“Look! I bet he’s going to help them with his wizardry.” Boïndil ran ahead, speeding toward the staircase that would take
them to the magus’s walkway. The rest of the company made to follow, but fate had ordained that they should fight a different
battle.

A dark arrow sang toward them from the right. Tungdil felt a searing pain in his leg and looked down to see an arrow embedded
in his thigh.

“Sinthoras will be your death,” hissed the älf. He was leading a band of fifty orcs and a second arrow was notched on his
bow. “I will take your life and the land will take your soul.”

Not mine, you won’t,
Tungdil thought stubbornly. He saw Sinthoras release the bowstring and managed to raise his shield to ward off the feathered
shaft of death.

Cursing, the älf bounded toward them and ordered the orcs to attack.

“Quick, Narmora and Boïndil, you take the steps,” instructed Tungdil. “Kill Nôd’onn before he sees us. We’ll watch your backs.”
With a muffled groan he reached down and snapped the arrow shaft in two.
Stand by us, Vraccas.
Bracing himself, he raised his ax to strike an orcish knee.

T
he stone staircase crumbled as they ran. The thirdlings had chosen their material badly and over the course of time it had
chipped and fractured. Narmora and Boïndil were risking their lives with every step.

They swept up the spiral stairs, winding their way to the top and never once glancing at the fighting below. All their thoughts
were focused on the bloated man in malachite robes who was standing on the walkway. With every turn of the staircase he flashed
in and out of sight. The air was getting warmer, and there was an overpowering stench of blood and orc guts.

Only a few steps remained. Narmora rounded the final corner, only to be confronted by a famulus who was standing guard behind
the pillar.

“Who said you could come up here?” he asked rudely, mistaking her for one of Nôd’onn’s älfar. “You’re supposed to be commanding
the orcs, not —”

Boïndil charged past Narmora and rammed his left ax into the famulus’s crotch. The next ax sliced into the man’s right shoulder,
and he staggered against the pillar and collapsed.

“Ha, I guess wizards aren’t always in favor of surprises.” The dwarf grinned. He peered round the corner. “There’s no one
else in sight. I’ll wait here, or Nôd’onn will get suspicious. Just call if you need me.” He looked at her keenly. In the
darkness of the underground hall, Narmora’s eyes looked like hollows once more. “Are you sure you can do this?”

Narmora tossed the rags to the floor and practiced reaching for Keenfire. “You’re worried that my dark side will make a traitor
of me.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Well, Boïndil Doubleblade, at least you’re honest.” She bent down and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t you think it’s
a little too late to doubt my loyalty?” Her expression was as hard and cruel as an älf’s and she looked more terrifying than
ever.

He tapped his axes together nervously. Her words and gestures were making him jumpy. “Just do something so I know what’s what,”
he said grumpily.

She smiled and left the shelter of the pillar. “Very well. I’ll do something.” Her face remained an inscrutable mask.

N
ôd’onn was standing halfway along the walkway. He raised his right arm and traced a symbol in the air, conjuring the first
runes of a devastating spell that would put pay to the defenders’ determined resistance. In his bloated left hand he held
his onyx-tipped staff of white maple. The black jewel was glimmering malevolently.

Narmora could tell that it was no use sneaking up on him and that an all-out assault would be equally doomed. She would have
to rely on cunning and dissimulation to get within striking distance of Girdlegard’s most dangerous and powerful wizard.

She held her hand to her bloodied neck, pressing on her wound. All her efforts were focused on appearing injured, and she
made her performance as authentic as possible, swaying and stumbling along the bridge.

“Master,” she groaned, “they’ve destroyed the tower… It was Andôkai…”

He froze and turned sharply. His waxy skin wobbled as if it were filled with rippling water. “Andôkai?” he rasped. “Where
is she?”

“Outside, Master. She’s using her magic against our troops.” She took a few faltering steps toward him. Only ten paces remained,
an impossibly long distance. “How can we stop her?”

Nôd’onn shuffled round to face her. She saw his huge girth, the puffed-up face that bore no resemblance to Nudin’s, the blood
seeping from his pores and running in red trickles across his skin and soaking his robes. Dark patches, some still glistening
moistly, stained the green cloth that was caked with blood and grime. The smell was enough to make anyone retch.

“She’s too powerful for you,” he said, his voice cracking as if two people were speaking at once. “You won’t be able to stop
her. Show me where you last saw her and I’ll take care of her myself. Lead the way.”

Five paces.

I need to get closer to him
. Narmora stumbled and sank to her knees. “Master, I’m hurt. Have pity on me and heal my wounds so I can serve you better.”

“Later,” he told her sharply. “Get up and…” His gaze had fallen on a particularly ferocious skirmish at the center of which
was Tungdil, still locked in combat with Sinthoras and his orcs. “ Lot-Ionan’s groundling? But that’s not… I mean, I thought
the artifacts were…” He fell silent and collected his thoughts. “Well, things have got a good deal easier.”

The magus closed his eyes. Narmora saw her opportunity and decided to act.

Slowly and silently so as not to attract attention, she rose from her knees and took a nervous step toward him, then another.

Four paces, three paces, two paces. She reached for Keenfire.
One more pace.

“Master, look out!” someone shouted across the hall.

Narmora drew the ax and brought it down with all her might. Nôd’onn turned away from Tungdil and directed the curse at her.

N
armora felt as if she were staring into the sun. The dazzling light seared into her eyes, and before she knew it, she was
flying backward through the air. She thudded down, landing heavily on the walkway, still blinded, but with Keenfire gripped
tightly in her hand.

She couldn’t see Nôd’onn, but it was obvious that he’d evaded her blow.
Why am I still alive, then?
She ran her hands over her body and felt the smooth surface of the amulet given to her by Andôkai.
That must be it.