The War of the Dwarves (61 page)

They left the tower and waited for the system of platforms and pulleys to lower them to the ground. “Xamtys had better hurry
or Lorimbas will be sitting on her throne,” said Boïndil darkly as they hurried to the defenders’ aid.

Tungdil spotted the broad-shouldered commander in the front line of thirdlings. His long-handled hammer curved through the
air, felling freelings with every stroke. “I’ll deal with Salfalur,” he said, closing his fingers around the haft of his ax.
“You take Lorimbas.”

Molten slag poured down on the invaders from above, followed by a torrent of petroleum, which ignited as if by magic as it
neared the thirdling troops.

On the left flank of the defending army, the sky was dark with fiery smoke. Narmora and Rodario were doing everything in their
power to keep the thirdlings at bay. In the maga’s case, the magic was real, whereas Rodario relied on conjuring tricks and
imaginary curses. Meanwhile, Djer
n endeavored to protect them from attack.

But even the colossal warrior did little to deter the thirdlings, who jabbed at him from a distance with lances and pikes.

Despite their efforts, the invaders had yet to reach the ramp leading to the inner rampart. The thirdlings would have to breach
the gates, ascend the highest tower, and cross the bridge to conquer Xamtys’s halls. While the gates still stood, the thirdlings
could kill as many defenders as they liked without taking the kingdom for themselves.

Tungdil fought his way to the front, keeping Salfalur in his sights. Just then he heard a piercing scream.
Myr!

Turning, he spotted her at the gates. She was sprawled on the ground, a few paces from her medicine bag, and Sanda Flameheart
was standing over her, threatening her with a single-balled flail. Behind them, the gates to the inner rampart had opened
slightly. The thirdlings saw their chance.

Myr was right
, thought Tungdil, pushing his way through the throng of warriors to rescue his companion.
Sanda is a traitor, and I fell for her act
.

Before he could reach her, Ireheart jumped in and sent Sanda crashing to the ground.

Tungdil hurried to help Myr. Her right cheek bore a fiery handprint, the thumb and four fingers burning red against her smooth,
pale skin. Blood was trickling from her mouth and nose. “She opened the gates,” she croaked as Tungdil helped her to her feet.
“I couldn’t stop her.”

“It’s not your fault,” he said, kissing her brow and thanking Vraccas for Boïndil’s speedy intervention. “Quick, we need to
close them.” They hurried through the gates.

Tungdil cursed when he saw the traitor’s work. Sanda had sabotaged the mechanism, and the chain lay abandoned on the ground.

By now, Sanda had scrambled to her feet and was batting away Boïndil with ease, which enraged the zealous warrior. His eyes
glazed over as his fiery spirit took hold of his mind and spurred him on. “I swore to protect Myr,” he growled, slashing at
her furiously. “No one lays their murderous hands on my brother’s healer and gets away with it.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill her,” she told him, forced by his whirring axes to focus harder on her defense.

“Traitor!” He raised his right arm and feigned a blow.

“
I’m
not the traitor!
She
was the one who opened—” The ax veered sharply and struck her armpit. There was a sound of metal on metal, then the crunching
of bone as the blade passed through her chain mail and into her arm. The stunned Sanda was still gasping with pain when Ireheart’s
boot connected with her kneecap, smashing the joint, and sending her crashing to the ground.

“Liar!” screeched Myr, whipping out her dagger.

Tungdil held her back. “Look at her, Myr! She can’t hurt you now.”

“It was Myr,” gasped Sanda, trying to stem the blood with her other hand. “I tried to stop her, but I came too late.” She
swallowed. “Lorimbas is her father. “

“And I’m the mighty Vraccas,” sneered Boïndil. “We’re not stupid, you know.”

“It’s the truth,” murmured Sanda, propping herself against the wall. Boïndil’s blow had severed the vessels in her armpit,
and her tunic was drenched in blood. “I’ll never forget when she first arrived in Trovegold. I knew at once who she was, but
she swore me to secrecy. She said her father would kill my clansfolk if I breathed a word to Gemmil or anyone else.”

“Enough of your lies!” Myr pointed at her accusingly with the dagger. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble?
You’re
the thirdling, not me!”

“Remember what happened in Porista? She made it look like Romo and Salfalur abducted her because she needed to hand over the
information about Trovegold without arousing suspicion. Why else would they have spared her life?” Sanda closed her eyes and
spoke in a whisper. “I don’t suppose she mentioned that she’s been melded twice before. The first dwarf died of a fever; the
second was on his sickbed when his chamber went up in flames.” She looked at Tungdil, who gazed into her eyes and saw nothing
but honesty and concern. “I realized she was after Gemmil, so I asked him to meld me instead.”

Tungdil was busy reviewing what had happened in Porista, how he had fallen ill, and what Myr had said to him after the fire.
“Myr, that time at the inn when I nearly died in the fire,” he said slowly. “You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?”
Her red eyes looked at him uncertainly. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her aside as if she were a naughty child. “Promise
you had nothing to do with it!”

Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Tungdil, I… You can’t take her word over mine,” she protested halfheartedly.

“Promise you had nothing to do with it, and I’ll never mention it again.”

She looked at the ground. “You’ve got nothing to fear from me, Tungdil. After the fire, I realized that I couldn’t… I didn’t
mean to fall in love with you, but…” She started to cry.

“Myr, tell me you’re not Lorimbas’s daughter,” whispered Tungdil. He had never felt so betrayed. He forgot about the battle
and the threat from the avatars; nothing seemed to matter anymore.

She sniffed and dried her eyes on her sleeve, then looked him in the eye. “Sanda is right. I was sent by my father, Lorimbas
Steelheart, to spy on the freelings and prepare the way for a thirdling invasion. I’ve always been pale-skinned; nature gave
me the perfect cover. I had only to change my eye color and invent a story about my provenance. No one thought to question
my origins. Then
you
came along.” She reached for his hand. “I was supposed to kill you, but my heart wouldn’t—”

Her gaze shifted, and her eyes filled with fear. Grabbing his shoulders, she spun him around and took his place just as something
rammed into her from behind, throwing her forward. Tungdil reached out to catch her. Her mouth opened, lips moving silently,
but she could barely breathe.

Standing behind her was Salfalur. He was clutching his hammer, the haft of which was tipped with a metal spike as long as
a human arm. The end was resting against Tungdil’s chest, having passed through Myr.

“I would never have…” she sighed, clutching at him. “You mustn’t think too badly of me…” Her dainty body went limp in his
arms. In spite of the pain, she seemed to smile at Tungdil as she died.

Salfalur drew the spike from her body. It made a soft popping noise as he pulled it clear.

“Are you satisfied now?” Tungdil laid her down gently and drew his ax. “You killed my parents, and now you’ve killed my wife.”

“
Your
wife?” Salfalur was still clutching his hammer and staring at Myr. “She was
my
wife, not yours.” With his free hand he touched the blood dribbling down the haft, then rubbed it between his fingers. “Myr
was my wife, and she died because of you. I’ll make you die a thousand deaths.”

“She was your…” Aghast, Turgdil stepped back, then pulled himself together.

“Let’s settle this now,” he said grimly, preparing to fight.

They circled, waiting for the other to strike.

Salfalur was the first to attack. In his arms, the mighty hammer looked no heavier than a broom.

Tungdil braced himself, but the blow never came. In the background, Lorimbas was sounding the retreat. Looking up, Tungdil
saw a battalion of firstling warriors on the parapets—Xamtys had marched ahead with half of her army to save her kingdom from
falling to their dwarven foes.

Salfalur was torn between continuing the duel and doing his job as commander-in-chief. At last he lowered his hammer. His
brown eyes contained a silent promise to resume the duel in another place, at another time.

Tungdil nodded.

N
yr wasn’t the last to die that orbit. Sanda Flameheart was mortally wounded.

Gemmil held her in his arms while Boïndil stood beside them, not knowing what to say.

“It’s all right,” she said, her breath coming in little gasps. “I know you didn’t mean it, Boïndil Doubleblade. I’ve heard
about your curse.”

He kneeled beside her, distraught. “I’m…”

“You don’t have to explain; I forgive you.” She stretched her bloodied fingers toward him.

Boïndil took her hand and held it in silence until she passed away. “Vraccas must hate me,” he muttered. “Why can’t he kill
me and be done with it?” His face was expressionless, but his eyes welled with tears. “I should have settled for stunning
her, but my fiery spirit made me cut her down. First Smeralda, now Sanda…”

Gemmil stood up and signaled to some dwarves, who hoisted the dead queen gently onto their shoulders and carried her into
the stronghold. “Sanda was right: You mustn’t blame yourself. You fell for Myr’s lies, and Vraccas gave you a heart of fury.
It’s not your fault.” He rested a hand on the secondling’s shoulder to show there was no animosity between them; then he followed
the others to the firstling halls.

An ill-fated orbit
, thought Tungdil, gazing at Myr’s lifeless body. Her leather jerkin was crimson with blood. He gathered her up and picked
his way through the dead and wounded toward the retreating army.

“Lorimbas!” he called loudly. “Your daughter is dead, slain by Salfalur’s hammer.” He bent down and laid her gently on the
ground. “She’s yours to take if you want to bury her.”

Lorimbas stepped forward, accompanied by a score of warriors. Salfalur wasn’t among them. “Curse you, Tungdil Goldhand,” he
said, kneeling beside his daughter and stroking her pure white hair. “You murdered my nephew, and now you’ve killed Myr. Everyone
I ever loved is dead because of you.” He lifted her up tenderly. “We’ll never make peace. You’re like your father. He started
this misery, and it will end with your death.”

“Lorimbas Steelheart!” Xamtys hurried toward them, followed by a cluster of dwarves. “I’m afraid this is all that remains
of the army that you sent against West Ironhald.”

“The firstlings are better warriors than I thought.” He shot a contemptuous look at the survivors, who were covered in gashes
and burns.

“The firstlings didn’t do this,” said one of them, wincing as he spoke. “It was the avatars, Your Majesty.”

“What?” Lorimbas frowned. “What do you mean, the
avatars
? Is this why the dwarf-queen spared you, because you promised to lie?”

“No, Your Majesty, I wouldn’t deceive you.”

“The avatars don’t exist,” shouted Lorimbas. “They’re a legend, a legend designed to frighten small children, stupid beasts,
and foolish dwarves!” He hugged his daughter to his chest.

“We were marching east,” said another dwarf. “The firstlings had turned round and were on their way home. We could see them
in the range ahead of us; then the cavalry attacked from behind. They were mounted on white horses and unicorns, and they
rode straight into us as if we were unarmed. They were fearless.” He swayed, and one of his companions had to steady him.
“Then the demigods attacked. They were as dazzling as sunlit snow, shinier than a polished diamond, and five times hotter
than a dwarven forge. They were everywhere at once, attacking us with…” He paused. “I don’t know what exactly,” he whispered
wretchedly. “I was struck by a cloud of light. It knocked me over, but I got up before it could hit me again. Then I ran for
it. After a while, me and the others caught up with the firstlings. They made us surrender our weapons.”

At last he had Lorimbas’s full attention. “What happened to the rest of the army?”

The warrior bowed his head, revealing charred skin and a few blackened strands of hair. “I don’t know, Your Majesty. The wind
was coming from behind—it was warm with glowing ash.”

“We sent a scout to the Outer Lands,” chimed in Tungdil. “He told us the same story. Queen Wey’s soldiers were destroyed by
the avatars as well. It’s not a legend, King Lorimbas.”

The thirdling king hugged his daughter more tightly, smearing his armor with blood from her chest. “They can’t be real,” he
whispered. “We made them up. It’s simply not possible…”

“What now, Lorimbas?” asked Xamtys bluntly. “Do you want to fight me for my kingdom, or will you join us at the western border
to halt the avatars’ advance?”