The War of the Dwarves (49 page)

“I don’t know,” he said with a shake of the head. “I was a baby when my foster father, Lot-Ionan, bought me from some kobolds
who came knocking one night at his school. I can’t remember a thing about my parents. I didn’t realize I was a thirdling until
the battle of the Blacksaddle.”

She looked up sharply. “How old are you?”

“Sixty cycles, maybe more. I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”

Sanda was staring at him intently. “I’ve been trying to figure out why your face looks familiar. You look exactly like her!”
She turned away, eyes fixed on the city. “Sixty cycles ago something happened that made me leave my clansfolk and flee the
fifthling kingdom. It hardly seems possible but…” Her gaze lifted to the statue of Vraccas. “It’s the will of the Smith,”
she whispered gratefully. “My decision saved Girdlegard. All my suffering wasn’t in vain!”

Tungdil laid a hand on her shoulder. “What is it, Sanda? Do you know my parents?” he asked, heart beating wildly.

She laid a hand over his and looked at him tenderly. “I knew your father, Tungdil. His name was Lotrobur, and your mother
was Yrdiss. They called you Calúngor. Yrdiss was promised to another, and her love for Lotrobur was born of an ill-fated flame,
but their feelings were too strong to ignore. You were born in secret. Your father tried to smuggle you out of the kingdom
because he knew Yrdiss’s guardian would kill you if he could.” She took a deep breath. “I followed Lotrobur through the tunnels.
My orders were to kill father and son.”

“Did you…?”

“No. I caught up with him, we fought, and I won.” Her eyes glazed over as her mind traveled back to the past, and the events
of sixty cycles ago came to life. “I raised my ax,” she continued, tapping her weapons belt. “I was going to cleave his skull
with this very blade, but I heard you crying. It was a pitiful whimpering, but it softened my resolve. I looked into your
father’s eyes and decided that I never wanted to kill another dwarf. It was then I realized that I’d never been a proper dwarf
killer.” She lowered her eyes and stroked her weapon. “So I helped him up and told him to hurry.”

Tungdil said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

“When I got back, I told them that Lotrobur had run away. That was when they showed me the corpses—your mother’s body and
your father’s head. I wasn’t the only one who’d been ordered to kill them. Yrdiss’s guardian, your great-uncle, had murdered
them and thrown you into a chasm. Vraccas couldn’t save your parents, but he let you live because he knew a glorious future
lay ahead of you. He shaped your fate and led you to the magus.” She smiled at him fondly. “And now he’s brought us together,
sixty cycles later.”

Tungdil swallowed. “What was my great-uncle called?”

“Salfalur Shieldbreaker, King Lorimbur’s right-hand dwarf. He’s still alive, as far as I know. Your father was his best friend,
which is how he met your mother. If things had happened differently, he would have taken over from Salfalur as commander-in-chief.
Lotrobur was our second-best warrior, after Salfalur.”

“Is that when you left?”

“I became a mercenary in Idoslane until I met a dwarf who told me about a group of exiles living underground. Every dwarf
needs kinsmen, so I made my way to Trovegold.”

Tungdil took her hand and shook it vigorously. “Thank you, Sanda. I can’t tell you how much it means to know the names of
my parents—although I wish they hadn’t died because of me.”

“I wish they were alive to meet their famous son,” she said sincerely. “But you’re not to blame for their deaths. The laws
are at fault—Lotrobur and Yrdiss loved each other, but she was promised to another against her will. The freelings have done
away with forced marriages. That’s another reason why I like this realm.”

Tungdil got to his feet. “Will you drink with me to my parents?”

“It would be an honor,” replied the commander. They made their way to the nearest tavern and raised their tankards to Yrdiss
and Lotrobur. Sanda seemed happy to talk about Tungdil’s parents, for whom she had nothing but respect.

Listening to her stories, Tungdil, who had no memory of his parents, felt an overwhelming urge to avenge their deaths. His
hatred for Glaïmbar was supplanted by hatred for a thirdling by the name of Salfalur.

After a few tankards, he summoned the courage to ask Sanda to help him with his axmanship.
I’ll be the best warrior in the history of the thirdlings,
he decided.
Salfalur will pay…

Porista,

Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

T
he maga’s distinguished guests were greeted by the magnificent architecture of the new Porista. Under Rodario’s supervision,
the city had risen from the rubble, the ruined buildings restored to their former glory. A bright future lay ahead for the
realm.

By the time the last of the delegates reached Porista, the city had begun to resemble a military camp. Flags and banners fluttered
above the streets and houses, marking the territory of the different kingdoms. To no one’s surprise, Liútasil’s banners were
situated as far away as possible from the crests of the clans in Gandogar’s entourage.

The shops and hostels of Porista welcomed the visitors. For the first time since its destruction, the city was booming. Takings
were up, and the streets and alleyways were full of men, elves, and dwarves.

But the tension was palpable.

Everyone had heard about the conflict between the elves and the dwarves, and no one could say for certain whether the old
enemies would talk peacefully or go for each other’s throats. A repetition of the incident in Dsôn Balsur would put paid to
the great alliance, not to mention the assembly. The other delegates were relying on the threat of the maga’s magic to bring
order to the proceedings.

When the appointed orbit dawned, the leaders of Girdlegard descended on the palace. The meeting was to be held in the conference
chamber, where the council of the magi had met for the last time. There was no sign of the battle that had claimed the lives
of Lot-Ionan, Maira, Turgur, and Sabora. The cracked flagstones and fallen pillars had been cleared away, and the gleaming
copper dome and pristine marble testified to the skill of Porista’s artisans. In the eastern corner of the chamber stood Lot-Ionan,
whom Nôd’onn had turned to stone.

Waiting to greet the delegates was Narmora, dressed in an embroidered robe that matched her crimson headscarf and went perfectly
with her eyes. Andôkai stayed out of sight; by arriving last, she intended to underline her power and signal to the kings
and queens of Girdlegard that she outranked them all.

“Scrubs up nicely, doesn’t she, brother?” boomed a voice that Narmora recognized instantly as belonging to Boïndil. It seemed
to be coming from somewhere behind the delegation from Weyurn. “It’s nice to know she made an effort on our behalf.”

As the last of the Weyurnians entered the conference chamber, the dwarves came into view. At the head of the procession was
King Gandogar, flanked by the twins. Representatives from the four allied kingdoms made up the rest of the deputation.

She welcomed the high king first, then turned to the twins, who shook her hand vigorously. “Do you still dream about me?”
she asked Boëndal with a smile.

The dwarf shuddered. “Vraccas protect me from älvish nightmares,” he said, pulling a face. “You look older, Narmora. I thought
Andôkai would teach you the secret of everlasting youth.”

“I’ve had a lot on my mind,” she said evasively, unwilling to share her worries with every kingdom in the land. “I’ll tell
you about it later.” She spotted Balyndis at the back of the delegation. Standing beside her was a broad-chested warrior whom
Narmora didn’t recognize. “Where’s Tungdil?” she asked the twins.

“Tungdil?” said Boïndil. “He’s—”

His brother cleared his throat. “He stayed behind in the fifthling kingdom,” he said, conscious that Gemmil might not thank
them for revealing the freelings’ existence. In his opinion, it was a strictly dwarven concern. “He couldn’t join the delegation.
Sentry duty, I’m afraid.”

Narmora nodded sagely, although Boëndal was obviously lying. Gandogar, overhearing, avoided her gaze.

“I wouldn’t mention him to Balyndis,” said Boïndil moodily. “They’re not together anymore. She forged the iron band with the
king of the fifthlings. It’s a touchy subject.”

I’m not the only one to whom fate has dealt a bad hand
… “Thanks for the warning,” she said aloud. “The assembly is about to begin. We’ve put you next to the door—as far away as
possible from the elves.” Stepping aside, she ushered them into the hall.

When the last dwarf had taken his seat, she left her post, entered the chamber and closed the doors behind her. The benches
and tables were arranged in a semi-circle with Andôkai’s throne-like chair at the center. Narmora sat down on the only remaining
seat and waited for her hated mentor.

On the other side of the chamber, Liútasil was talking in hushed tones to two members of his delegation. Every now and then
they looked up, glowered in the dwarves’ direction and continued their whispered conversation.

I wonder what they’re plotting
, thought Narmora, wishing she could read their thoughts. She watched their lips move soundlessly and discovered to her astonishment
that every word, every syllable was perfectly audible inside her head. Unfortunately, she couldn’t make sense of the discussion—elvish
was nothing like älvish, and she had never learned the elven tongue.

Just then a powerful gust blew open the double doors.

Everyone in the chamber swiveled round and the dwarves reached for their weapons, prompting the elves to raise their bows.

Andôkai was standing in the doorway. Like Narmora, she was dressed in a crimson robe, but the cut and embroidery were more
elaborate. In her left hand she held a sheathed sword.

Proudly she surveyed the assembled delegates. “Rulers of Girdlegard, welcome to Porista,” she called. “Kings and queens of
dwarves, elves, and men, I welcome you and your courtiers to my palace.” She swept past the benches to her chair, from which
she gazed down at the other rulers. At the back of the chamber, the doors swung shut, as if of their own accord. “I have something
to tell you, something that bodes ill for our kingdoms.” She paused for a moment, allowing her words to take effect. “Ten
powerful avatars are laying waste to the Outer Lands. They were created from the flesh of Tion, hewn from his body by the
red-hot hammer of Vraccas. These creatures see it as their mission to destroy the darkness created by the god from whom they
were born, an objective that most in this room would approve of, were it not for the trail of destruction they leave in their
wake. The avatars are demigods, fiery beings who scorch the ground and care nothing for human casualties. At their service
is an army of warriors who share their commitment to destroying Tion’s creation, whatever the cost.”

The delegates’ faces mingled fear and alarm.

“I’m sure you all remember the comet that passed over Girdlegard and brought death and destruction to a number of our kingdoms,”
continued Andôkai, looking gravely at her audience. “It wasn’t a comet. The ten demigods have a long-lost brother who descended
from the skies to join them in the Outer Lands. According to legend, the eleven brothers can only be defeated by beings with
pure hearts and noble souls. It seems we must prepare ourselves for an attack.”

Queen Wey, a woman of some fifty cycles dressed in a long blue robe trimmed with diamonds, was the first to speak. “If what
you say is true, we need a fighting force more powerful than the allied army at Dsôn Balsur.” She inclined her head toward
the maga. “Most of all, we need your help.”

“You shall have it,” promised Andôkai. “But I can’t guarantee that my famula and I can defeat them. An army is exactly what—”

“An army of innocents,” exclaimed Nate, the fur-wrapped king of Tabaîn. His eyes were as green as lily pads, and his thinning
hair was the color of ripe corn. “You said they can only be defeated by pure souls,” he continued. “I propose we raise an
army of maidens and youths unsullied by the pleasures of the flesh. We can train them to fight.”

“Poppycock,” yapped King Belletain, apparently addressing his goblet. He gave it a playful spin. A dwarf at his side monitored
his every movement, watching for early signs of a seizure. “I say we use children. Stick them in a mangonel and fire them
at the comet-gods. That should do it.”

“Supposing the men and women were pure to begin with, would they retain their purity if we trained them to fight?” enquired
the bronzed queen of Sangpûr. Despite wearing several layers of clothing, Umilante was suffering from the cold. The climate
in Porista was decidedly frosty compared to her desert realm.

“We could pull their legs until they’re long and stringy and sharpen their heads to a point. Put them in a trebuchet, and
whoosh
!” Belletain made a hissing noise like a flying missile and stuck out his index finger, aiming for the goblet. “
Ker-plung!
” The goblet crashed to the ground. “See, it works!”

The king of Urgon’s ramblings went uncommented on by everyone else in the room.

Prince Mallen turned to King Nate. “Your suggestion strikes me as plausible—but perhaps Lord Liútasil can offer some advice.”
He turned to the elven lord. “These demigods… Have your people heard of them? How might one defeat them?”

Before the auburn-haired lord could reply, the elf to the left of him jumped up and stabbed a finger at the dwarves. “What
about the traitors in our ranks? The groundlings cut down our archers.” He glowered at them furiously. “You can’t use the
threat of the avatars to get away with your crimes.”

Boïndil jumped to his feet. “Take that back, you pointy-eared liar, or I’ll—”

“Sit down, Boïndil!” roared Gandogar, as Boëndal and Balyndis reached forward to drag the furious warrior into his seat.