The War of the Dwarves (79 page)

He saw the first fireball speeding toward them, and threw himself into its path. Boëndal stepped in front of the second.

The world around them disappeared in a blaze of white light and roaring flames. Tendrils of fire licked their visors, but
the charmed metal and powerful runes protected their eyes from the deadly heat.

Vraccas, give me the strength to pull through
. Faster than an ax could sever an orcish arm, the temperature shot up, and beads of sweat formed on Tungdil’s forehead, evaporating
straightaway. A few strands of hair, poking out from his leather skullcap, brushed against his helmet, releasing a smell that
reminded him of a freshly shod horse.

It lasted no longer than the angry fizzle of a burning coal in water, but Tungdil waited impatiently for his vision to clear.

Most of the thirdlings were sprawled on the ground and some of their cloaks were on fire, but everyone was alive.

“I say we kill him before he roasts us like cave crabs,” wheezed Boëndal, opening his visor and taking a gulp of fresh air.

His brother was already storming toward the palace, followed by a knot of thirdlings, who cut down the sentries and disappeared
inside. Tungdil and Boëndal ran after them as best they could. Balyndis had made their armor less restrictive, but the suits
were far heavier than ordinary dwarven mail.

They pushed past the thirdlings and scrambled up the stairs, hoping to take the avatar by surprise.

He spotted them first.

A ball of fire whizzed toward them, engulfing them in roaring, hissing flames. Sweat vaporized from their pores, but the heat
couldn’t kill them. They heard the avatar curse and saw a flash of white robe disappear around the corner.

“He’s running away!” bellowed Ireheart. “Ha, call yourself an avatar!” He hurled his ax, pinning the cloth to a wooden cupboard.

“What did you say about letting go of your ax?” asked Boëndal, sprinting past him with his crow’s beak. He turned the corner.

Tungdil was hot on his heels. “You owe us a sack of gold.”

“I’ve got two axes; it doesn’t count!” protested Boïndil, hurrying after them. “Leave him to me!”

The avatar-conjurer was a dark-haired man of fifty cycles dressed in black robes. He whirled round and pointed his left hand
at Boëndal. White lightning left his index finger and shot toward the dwarf.

“Die, undergroundling!” This time the avatar kept his finger pointed at his victim, allowing flames to crackle over his breastplate.
He seemed to realize that the armor offered no protection against the heat.

The tactic paid off.

Slowly, Boëndal’s fingers uncurled, and his crow’s beak thudded to the floor. He took a step forward, stumbled, and hit the
unyielding marble without stopping his fall. At best he was unconscious, at worst he was…

“What have you done to my brother?” shrieked Ireheart, hurling his other ax to distract the avatar from Boëndal. The flames
fizzled out. Boïndil kept running and grabbed the crow’s beak, swinging it over his head. “You’ll die for this.”

The avatar-conjurer sent another bolt of lightning toward Boïndil, but the dwarf was already upon him.

Shrieking with rage, Ireheart spun round and rammed the spur of the crow’s beak into the avatar’s belly, hitting him with
such force that the weapon embedded itself in his guts. With another terrible shriek, the dwarf jerked the crow’s beak to
the side, slicing his waist.

The avatar-conjurer didn’t have time to speak, groan, or express his surprise. He fell, blood and guts spilling from his belly
as he hit the marble floor.

Tungdil kneeled beside Boëndal and fumbled with his visor, gagging on the smell of charred flesh. Hot steam and white smoke
rose toward him. He fanned the air frantically and looked anxiously at his friend. The sight stopped his breath.
Vraccas have mercy
.

Boëndal’s face was a welter of oozing blisters, his features burned beyond recognition. Nothing but a few scorched whiskers
remained of his bushy beard. Tungdil knew without looking that the rest of his body was covered in burns as well. “Lie still,”
he told him, and Boëndal’s singed, lashless eyelids flickered at the sound of his voice. “I’ll get some snow for the burns.”

“Boëndal,” murmured his brother, appalled. “I…”

“Hurry,” whispered Boëndal. His blackened lips struggled to form the words. “Find the other avatars—don’t let them do the
same to you.” He swallowed and tried to continue, but his voice gave out.

“Follow me,” said Tungdil determinedly. “We can have one each.”

Boïndil stood up. “I’ll take the eoîl.”

T
hey jogged through the palace, looking for the staircase to the second-highest sable tower. The remaining thirdlings—thirty
in all—came with them; the others had been cut down by the palace guards or killed by the avatar’s firebolts.

They pushed on quickly, their progress unhindered by the surviving avatar and his guards. It seemed the eoîl was happy to
give them the run of the palace, which added to Tungdil’s unease.

Suddenly, a man stepped out of a doorway and hurried toward them. “Stop!”

“Die, wizard!” shouted Boïndil, raising his axes. His inner furnace was burning furiously, but somehow, miraculously, he recognized
the man. “The fatuous Rodario!” At the last second, the crow’s beak jerked to the side, thudding against the wall and splintering
the marble.

“Rodario! What are you doing here?” asked Tungdil, surprised. “I thought you and the thirdlings were…”

It was clear from the impresario’s appearance that the past few hours had taken their toll. His robes were torn and bloodied,
although the blood wasn’t his. An angry bruise graced his right cheekbone and he was glistening with sweat.

“Lorimbas and his troops are dead,” he gasped, leaning against the wall and catching his breath. “They were decimated in the
battle. We ran straight into the enemy’s traps, and Narmora left us to it. I asked for her help, but she was needed in the
palace. I was hoping to find her here.” He lifted his arm, rubbed his eyes on his winged sleeve, and blinked. “Xamtys said
to tell you that she’s holding her position, but the enemy units from the northern front are on their way to help their comrades.
She won’t last for long.” His expression was uncharacteristically grave. “I think Narmora is trying to kill the eoîl so they
won’t have a leader. At this rate there won’t be anyone left when Balendilín, Gandogar, and Glaïmbar’s armies arrive.”

“It’s down to us to stop them.” Tungdil glanced down the corridor. “Do you know the way to the second-highest tower? We think
the eoîl and the last avatar might be hiding at the top.”

Rodario grinned. “I’d be delighted to take you there: In my experience, it’s generally safest in the eye of the storm. If
you’re going to cuckold a man, you should stay in his bedroom; the dangerous part is trying to leave.” He pointed to a wide
door leading away from the corridor. “You went right past it. Incidentally, the tower in question is situated above the wellspring.”

They ran to the door and a thirdling warrior yanked the handle and leaped away. “A monster! They’ve magicked a monster to
guard the tower!”

Snarling and rasping, the creature barreled toward them through the doorway, pulling out the wooden frame and fracturing the
marble wall. Through the cloud of powdered stone they saw the outlines of a monster that was clearly the creation of an unhinged
god.

The four-legged creature towered above them, filling the six-pace-high corridor from ceiling to floor. It had a human body,
with vast white wings and four stringy arms that allowed it to strike its enemies from afar. It wasn’t armed, having no need
for swords or axes since its hands were equipped with bird-like talons, each as long as a dwarven arm and deadly sharp.

“Ye gods,” stammered Rodario, staring at the creature’s fang-lined jaws. He took a step backward. “If you ask me, this is
a job for a warrior.”

“Scholar,” whispered Boïndil. “What is it? How do we kill it?”

The creature lowered its lizard-like head and peered at the dwarves with clear, pupil-less eyes. A forked purple tongue flicked
toward them.

Tungdil had no recollection of any reference to such a creature in Lot-Ionan’s books. “It’s not from Girdlegard. They must
have brought it from the Outer Lands—what it is, I don’t know.”

The creature flapped its powerful wings as best it could in the confines of the corridor, whipping up a hefty gust. The dwarves
let go of their shields as the wind threatened to lift them into the air. Rodario was caught off guard and blown over.

Following its first, relatively harmless, display of power, the creature attacked.

Two long arms shot out and grabbed a couple of thirdlings, closing its talons around their heads and smashing their helmed
skulls like eggshells. It loosed its grip, dropped the twitching bodies to the floor, and hissed in satisfaction.

The thirdlings, determined to avenge their dead comrades, threw themselves on the beast, whose claws turned out to be surprisingly
hard. The thirdlings’ axes bounced off them, allowing the creature to bat away their blows.

“As soon as it’s sufficiently distracted, we’ll make a run for it,” said Tungdil. He didn’t want to waste time on the monster
when its masters were still at large.

“But I want to fight it,” protested Boïndil, his inner furnace spitting flames. “It’s the biggest challenge I’ve ever seen!”

“Wait till we find the eoîl,” said Tungdil, hoping to console him. He signaled to Rodario. “The thirdlings can deal with the
monster. You’re coming with us.”

“I see, you want me to be your decoy,” muttered Rodario. “Oh well, someone has to do it.” He shook the dust from his robes
and sprinted after the dwarves, who had spotted a gap between the monster and the stairs.

Almost instantly, a talon swooped within inches of his head. The impresario ducked, racing past the dwarves to the bottom
of the tower.

The creature resorted to cunning and flapped its wings frantically, creating a wind that swirled through Rodario’s robes,
causing him to topple backward and trip up the dwarves. In the resulting confusion, they failed to foresee the next attack.

The creature’s fourth arm sped toward them, hitting Tungdil’s spaulders and cutting five deep grooves. Continuing on its trajectory,
it smashed into Boïndil, hitting his breastplate level with his collarbone. One of the talons pierced the metal, eliciting
a shriek of pain and rage, but the hardy dwarf had the strength to raise his weapon and hew through the talon, leaving the
tip embedded in his chest.

“Is that the best you can do?” he shouted scornfully. “I’ll kill your masters, then come back and chop off your wings.” He
spat at the creature’s feet.

Rodario and Tungdil had to grab him by the arms and drag him away. Somehow they reached the broad staircase leading up to
the tower and kept running until the steps narrowed and the monster could chase them no more. Tungdil stopped to inspect the
broken talon in Boïndil’s chest. It was at least the width of two fingers.

“You’ll lose too much blood if I try to pull it out,” he judged. “I think we should leave it alone.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Boïndil through gritted teeth. “It doesn’t especially hurt and it can’t have penetrated further than
a fingertip or so. It’s a good job I was wearing my jerkin.” He tried to smile. “Just don’t let anyone wallop me in the chest.”
He looked skeptically at the spiral staircase winding up the tower. It presented a considerable challenge to a dwarf in full
plate armor, especially one with a hole in his chest. “This could take a while,” he said, placing his right foot on the next
step and beginning the arduous ascent.

The tower was an architectural masterpiece.

The steps extended four paces from the walls of the stairwell without a rail or central pillar, and the tower itself was ten
paces wide, leaving a gap of two paces at the core of the spiral. The slightest clumsiness was liable to end in a long and
probably fatal fall. Winter sunshine filled the stairwell, lighting the steps.

Rodario noticed a cable, about the diameter of a finger, dangling in the empty shaft. It seemed to be suspended from above,
for what purpose he could not guess.
It’s probably for a bell or a gong or something.
He dismissed the matter from his mind.

“What do they want with so many steps?” grumbled an out-of-breath Boïndil when they were two-thirds of the way to the top.

“It reminds me of a dwarven stronghold,” teased Rodario.

“Dwarves build towers for a reason. They’re crucial to our defenses, whereas this one…” He banged the crow’s beak impatiently
against the wall. “You can’t do anything with this one. No platforms, no storerooms, no nothing—it’s useless.”

“Aren’t you forgetting the fabulous view?” puffed Rodario, who was sweating profusely like the dwarves. “The magi probably
came here on clear nights to observe the celestial spectacle.”

“I wouldn’t climb all these steps just to gaze at some stupid stars,” growled Boïndil. “Besides, think of all the equipment
you’d need. It would take all night to lug it to the top.” He blew out heavily. “The architect was a fool.”

When they reached the top of the stairs they saw that the sunshine wasn’t coming from above, as they had supposed, but from
a cleverly positioned mirror that caught the light from three windows and channeled it into the stairwell. Next to the mirror
was a door leading out to a parapet. Rodario stuck his head outside and a cold breeze ruffled his hair. “They’re still fighting,”
he reported. “And unless I’m mistaken, another army is arriving from the north.” He peered into the distance. “Do you think
it could be another battalion of älfar? The armor looks very dark.”

“It’s probably Belletain,” said Tungdil, elbowing him aside. “They’re coming from the right direction, but I can’t see the
crests.”

“Who cares where they’re from, so long as they’re on our side.” Boïndil’s legs were shaking and he leaned against the wall.
“I’ll be all right in a second,” he said.

Rodario looked at the crimson tracks on the floor. Blood was trickling between the plates of Boïndil’s armor, having leached
through his jerkin. Contrary to his claims, the warrior was seriously wounded. The impresario nudged Tungdil and pointed to
the blood.