The War of the Dwarves (80 page)

“You’ll have to stay here,” said Tungdil, worried about his friend. “You won’t be any good to us if you collapse in front
of the eoîl. You’re in no state to fight.”

Boïndil was unbending. “Nice try, scholar, but you said the eoîl was mine.” He took up the crow’s beak and marched with dwarven
stubbornness to the door. “What are you waiting for, Sir Prattlemouth?” he demanded, winking to show that Rodario shouldn’t
take offense. “Open the door!”

The impresario was staring at the cable, which ran from the top of the stairs across the floor and out of the tower through
a hole in the wall. A pile of dust indicated that the hole was quite recent.
Did the avatars put it there?
His deliberations were interrupted by the last of the avatars.

The door flew open and a shimmering creature appeared before him, filling the tower with light.

“I knew you were here,” said a woman’s voice. She hurled a bolt of blue lightning at Bo��ndil, who wobbled under the double
strain of the heat and his wounded chest. She saw that he was struggling and smiled. “Your armor won’t save you. It’s too
late to stop the eoîl.”

Rodario summoned his courage. “Desist, shining conjurer, or I, Rodario the Fablemaker, first-grade apprentice to Narmora,
will take your life.” He uttered a few nonsensical words, waved his arms, and activated his tinderboxes, firing burning lycopodium
spores into the air.

The avatar wove a counterspell, reciting an incantation capable of defusing the most powerful magical firebolt. It had no
effect whatsoever on Rodario’s props. Shrieking in pain, the startled avatar went up in flames.

The bright light went out, and Rodario and the dwarves saw that their enemy’s hair and robes were on fire.

“Ha, not so confident now, are you? Let’s see how you like this…” Encouraged by his success, the impresario hurled a phial
at the avatar’s chest.

It hit her robes, bounced off, and exploded on the floor. Luckily for him, the avatar was so intent on putting out the flames
that she stepped forward obligingly and put her right foot in the puddle. Smoke rose as the acid ate into her leather sole
and burned the bottom of her foot.

“Good work, famulus!” whooped Boïndil. With a terrible laugh, he swung the crow’s beak at the avatar’s shoulder, impaling
her on the spur. He maneuvered her to the ground, and, in an instant, Tungdil was beside them, ax raised and ready to strike.

The avatar did the first thing that came into her mind.

Instead of attacking the dwarves with firebolts, which wouldn’t have worked because of their suits, she focused on the ax,
casting a spell to wrest it from Tungdil’s hands toward Boïndil’s head, causing the blade to smack into his helm.

Boïndil let out a muffled groan. The blow wasn’t enough to crack his skull, but he stumbled sideways, landing inelegantly
on his rear. The weight of his armor carried him backward, and he skidded onto the steps.

“Scholar, I’m…” Clutching desperately at the air, he tumbled into the empty stairwell.

“No!” Rodario darted forward and made a grab for the dwarf, catching hold of a leather strap that instantly broke. He watched
in horrified disbelief as the dwarf plummeted down the shaft of light, becoming smaller and smaller until he disappeared from
sight.

Tungdil rammed his armored fist into the avatar’s face, punching her again and again until her features were a bloody pulp
and her limbs stopped twitching. Drawing his dagger, he stabbed her through the heart. “I’d kill you a thousand times if I
could.” His eyes welled with tears as he raised his ax and planted it in her body to punish her for Boïndil’s death.

Visor and face specked with blood, he straightened up and strode outside to tackle the eoîl.

“Where are you?” he called, looking both ways. He pressed himself against the wall and advanced along the circular ledge.
Rodario followed behind him.

The shimmering figure ahead of them was attaching a diamond to a crystal container dangling by a cable from the flagpole.

“You made it all this way,” said a warm voice that left them wondering whether the speaker was male or female. Shining fingers
tugged on a rope and the crystal container shot to the top of the flagpole, jigging up and down in the wind. “I admire you
for your persistence, but I won’t be distracted from my purpose. If you continue to oppose me, you and your friends will die.”

“What difference does it make? You’ve killed thousands already.” Slowly, Tungdil stepped toward the eoîl. “How can you claim
to be fighting for good if you wipe out everyone who gets in your way?”

“I don’t expect you to understand. You’re too wrapped up in the details to see that casualties are inevitable in the fight
against evil. I’m not afraid to make sacrifices for the greater good.”

Rodario eyed him scornfully. “You’re only interested in power. Lirkim told me that you’re planning to carve up Girdlegard—I
suppose that’s why you killed her.”

“Killed her?” The eoîl sounded surprised. “Is Lirkim dead?”

“You killed her yourself.”

“On the contrary, I was planning to rescue her—she and the others were loyal friends. I’m sorry about what happened to them,
but I don’t need them now. They wanted territory and power, and I promised to give it to them. I’m interested only in the
destruction of evil in all its forms. Sadly, undergroundlings aren’t generally counted as
evil
.” The bright oval that was the creature’s face tilted slightly as if to focus on something behind them. “If you want to know
who killed Lirkim, I suggest you ask her.”

“Don’t look,” said Tungdil, gripping his ax. “It’s bound to be a trick.”

Rodario glanced over his shoulder. “Narmora?”

Porista,

Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6235th/6236th Solar Cycle

T
he half älf was standing right behind them. Her eyes were two dark pits and fine lines zigzagged like cracks across her face.
“Don’t listen to him.” She pushed past Rodario and took up position next to Tungdil. They heard her utter a single magic word.

A dark green bolt shot from her mouth, hitting the astonished eoîl who toppled backward and hit the floor. “Your trail of
destruction ends here.” She raised her arms, and green lightning flew from her fingers, crackling toward the eoîl.

Tungdil watched with bated breath.
Surely it can’t be that easy to kill an eoîl?
He tensed his muscles, ready to charge at the eoîl with his ax. Meanwhile, Rodario gripped his last phial of acid and prepared
to hurl it at the luminous figure, should Narmora’s magic fail.

The eoîl, surrounded by malachite lightning, got to his feet and let out a tinkling laugh. His shoulders shook with mirth.
Narmora lowered her head, summoning her strength to intensify the attack.

To no avail.

The eoîl raised his hand gracefully and pushed aside the web of lightning. The bolts disintegrated, setting him free. “You’ll
have to explain to your friends where you got your power,” he said mildly. “No ordinary being would be capable of channeling
so much energy—but you’ve got a secret, haven’t you? Maybe you should tell them.”

“Silence!” she screeched furiously, opening her mouth to begin another spell. An apple-sized ball of light sped toward her
and exploded against her chest. Screaming, she dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around her stricken body.

“You’re carrying it inside you,” he said triumphantly. “You’re giving shelter to what’s left of the demon. What will your
friends say, half älf?” He hurled another ball of light toward her, and she writhed on the ground, moaning. “Why did you kill
Lirkim?”

“Enough!” bellowed Tungdil, striding toward him. “I won’t be distracted by your lies. Vraccas told his children to guard these
lands, and I’ll fight you to the death.”

With Narmora incapacitated, the eoîl turned back to the dwarf. “You’re determined and you’re spirited,” he said approvingly.
“I like that, undergroundling, which is why I’m proposing a deal.” He reached down to pick up the cable. “Let me go about
my business, and I’ll order my warriors to lay down their arms. Girdlegard won’t come to any harm—with the help of the wellspring,
I’ll rid your lands of evil, and every impure soul within the five ranges will perish in my flames.” He pointed to the crystal
tube. “Their energy will be channeled through this stone and converted to good. Afterward, I’ll be strong enough to take on
the lord of darkness himself.” The luminous oval turned to Tungdil. “It won’t take long, then I’ll leave you in peace. I’m
giving you and your kinsfolk a better world—a world without älfar or beasts. Nothing that bears a trace of evil will survive
the stone of judgment. Isn’t that what you want?”

Although the proposal was appealing, Tungdil couldn’t bring himself to trust the eoîl. He decided to probe a little further.
“What will happen to the force fields? If you drain the wellspring, Girdlegard will be thrown into chaos and you’ll devastate
the land. We’ve seen the effects of your meddling already.”

“Change means risk. Thanks to your smith, I can use the source to give me power. She gave away the secret of your armor.”

“Balyndis didn’t tell you anything.”

“No one can resist my power. The undergroundling endured unimaginable pain—she won’t remember what she said.” The eoîl glanced
over the parapet. “Älvish reinforcements,” he observed. “The immortal siblings are with them—I can feel their dark power.
They know I intend to wipe them out. Their dark-hearted leaders aren’t as indestructible as they claim.” He turned back to
Tungdil. “Which will it be? Will you let me destroy the älfar—or do you want your friends to die?”

Rodario suddenly grasped what the eoîl was up to. The cable was made of Balyndis’s special alloy, and the eoîl was using it
to connect the diamond to the spring.
I need to distract him.
“The decision isn’t ours to take,” he said. He took a sideways step, holding the phial behind him and dropping it on the
cable at the point where it left the wall. “Tungdil can’t agree to anything without the backing of the other kings. He can’t
speak for the dwarven rulers, let alone the men and elves, so if you don’t mind, I’m afraid we’ll have to—”

The eoîl raised his hand, and the impresario lifted several paces off the ground and slammed against the wall of the tower.
He toppled forward and slumped over the parapet, too dazed to move.

“I didn’t ask for his opinion,” snapped the eoîl. “Well, Tungdil, what do you say?”

“I can’t agree to your proposal.”

“There’s a thin line between courage and folly.” Pointing at Tungdil with his right hand, he uttered a magic formula, but
nothing happened. The acid had eaten through the cable, cutting the link to the spring.

“Courage and folly can defeat the most powerful conjurers,” retorted Tungdil, rushing forward and swinging his ax to cut down
the eoîl.

Even as he raised his weapon he was overtaken by a pair of dark figures, who ran past him on either side. They were dressed
in magnificent suits of black tionium with elaborate älvish helmets, and their swords were as delicate as they were deadly,
with razor-sharp, finger-width blades.

Before he had time to regain his composure, Tungdil was knocked off his feet from behind. He fell, rolled over, and prepared
to fight.

“You again?” He looked into the masked face of Ondori.

She lifted her black veil and smiled coldly. “The immortal siblings will handle the eoîl. It’s no job for a groundling.” She
thrust her quarterstaff toward him, hitting his helmed head. Tungdil was momentarily deafened, but amid the ringing in his
ears he heard her whisper, “I told you it would end this way. Look at me: Ondori is your death.” She said something in a strange
tongue, then leaned forward again. “I’m going to take your life, groundling.” A blade shot out from the end of her quarterstaff
and pressed against his throat. “To blazes with your soul.”

W
ith that, the fight against the eoîl faded into insignificance as Tungdil focused his energies on survival.

Ondori raised the quarterstaff, preparing to pierce Tungdil’s throat, but he rolled to the side as best he could, gasping
as the blade nicked his skin. He smelled the blood trickling from the right of his throat, a strong coppery odor, characteristic
of dwarves.

Ondori kicked out, striking him just as he tried to right himself like a clumsy beetle. He flew through the air, landed and
ducked beneath her blade, coming dangerously close to the parapet. Straightening up, he was just in time to anticipate the
next assault.

“You killed my parents, groundling.” The tip of the quarterstaff sped toward him, and he batted it aside with his ax, only
for her to flip the haft of her weapon into his visor. His head jerked back with a sickening crack. The blow would have broken
the neck of a human, but it wasn’t enough to fell a determined dwarf.

“My friends killed your father—and I’ll kill you too.” He slashed at her with his ax, fully expecting her to block the blade
with her quarterstaff. “I warned you the first time, and I’m a dwarf of my word.” He hooked his ax around the staff, jerked
the älf toward him, and swung his blade to the right.

The tactic paid off. Ondori, desperate to keep hold of her weapon, wasn’t quick enough, and the ax cut into the back of her
right hand, almost chopping it in two. Dark blood gushed to the marble floor.

“I’ll sculpt a tombstone for my parents with your bones!” She stabbed at Tungdil with her staff, ramming it into his leg.
He stumbled against the parapet and reached down to yank the weapon from his thigh. The blade had cut through his armor and
pierced his flesh to the bone. A scream rose inside him, but he gritted his teeth, clamping his jaws until he thought he would
explode.

Reaching for her belt, Ondori drew another set of weapons similar to Narmora’s crescent blades, and rushed forward to finish
him off.

The duel was a fight to the death. The dwarf and the älf were both injured, but neither could land the decisive blow. They
were fighting so energetically, so determinedly, that there was no time to follow the battle between the immortal siblings
and the eoîl. A moment of inattention on either part would result in death.