The challenge met with no response. The älf had melted into the darkness and the moon wasn’t strong enough, or maybe brave enough, to deliver the shadowy figure to the dwarf’s vengeful eyes.
Bundror was under no illusions. The älf’s knowledge of dark arts exceeded his axmanship, but he was spurred on by hatred for the villain who had murdered his comrades.
The next blow came from nowhere. Hearing a low swish, Bundror ducked just in time. The quarterstaff slashed the air above him, only to swing round suddenly and knock him off his feet. A blade cut into his forearm, and pain stabbed through his arm, forcing his fingers apart. His heavy ax, his only protection against the murderous älf, fell from his grip.
He looked up to see the sole of a narrow boot. A moment later, he felt the pressure on his throat.
“Did you really think you were a match for me, groundling?”
Gasping for breath, he peered up and saw a tall, slim figure clad in armor. A mask of tionium covered the top half of the älf’s face, and a veil of black gauze covered the nose, mouth and chin. The älf’s features were framed by a hood attached to a dark gray cape.
“Count yourself lucky,” he spat back, struggling for breath. “If you hadn’t lurked in the shadows like a coward, I’d have cut you in two.”
“You want to fight me, do you?” laughed the voice behind the veil. The black gauze rippled gently. “Is that your dying wish?”
“Yes,” he spluttered.
The boot lifted from his throat. “Granted.”
Bundror staggered to his feet, reached for his ax, and saw blood streaming from the gash in his forearm. Hiding his pain determinedly, he gritted his teeth and squared his shoulders. From the voice, he guessed that his antagonist was female, but the mask, cloak, and armor made it impossible to tell. “Vraccas will give me the strength to prevail.” He glanced round hurriedly, but there was no sign of an älvish army. Surely there must be others? How could she kill a whole unit by herself? Can she work magic?
“You’ll see my warriors when they want to be seen,” she said coldly, as if he had spoken aloud. She windmilled her quarterstaff. “I’m waiting, groundling.”
He charged toward her and hurled his ax—only for her to deflect it with her staff.
Still, the tactic worked; it gave him a fraction of a second in which to act.
Bending down, he borrowed a less cumbersome ax from one of his dead companions and snatched up a shield. Thus equipped, he charged again at the älf, hoping that the lighter weapon would lend him the necessary speed.
The duel that unfolded among the corpses of his companions was hopelessly one-sided.
Both ends of the quarterstaff seemed to jab toward Bundror at once, striking him here and there, clattering against his wooden shield, slamming into his chain mail, forcing the air from his lungs, and breaking the occasional rib. He fought back whenever he had the opportunity, which was seldom enough—and each time the agile älf parried the blow or batted away his weapon, leaving him to grunt in frustration.
Bundror soon realized that it was hopeless and he was destined to die. He decided to try another, very dwarven, approach. Vraccas be with me. He hurled the ax toward her, forcing her to skip aside, then picked up his shield with both hands and sprinted in her direction, hollering at the top of his voice.
The unconventional tactic took her by surprise. The shield slammed into her, and he heard a thud as he knocked her, groaning, to the ground.
“Take that, you pointy-eared scumbag!” he shouted, his voice mingling hatred and delight. “I’ll cleave your head from your shoulders.” He bounded through the air and hurled himself at her chest, the lower edge of his shield pointing toward her throat.
Just then two things happened.
From her supine position, the älf managed to plant the lower end of the quarterstaff into the ground and point it toward him like a lance. Under other circumstances, Bundror would have done his utmost to avoid it, but a large black shadow swept toward him and he was caught.
He heard a gravelly roar and saw a pair of glimmering red eyes. The creature opened its mighty jaws, enveloping him in foul-smelling breath. Even as he realized that the teeth were impossibly close, something rammed into his belly, passed through the links of his chain mail, and exited the other side. His mind closed down.
The corpse-strewn field was bobbing around him, and he felt himself rising and falling as if he were impaled on a moving palisade. His helmet flew off, followed by his shield, weapons belt, and one of his boots. He felt the jerk of something leaving his belly, and he was free.
He flew through the air and landed on a corpse. Through a haze of blood he saw that it was Gisgurd.
It won’t be long, my friend. Fire up the furnace, I’m on my way. He rolled over. His mouth filled with a coppery-tasting liquid that seeped into his beard and fell in thick, viscous drops onto his chest. I must warn the others.
His fingers scrabbled over Gisgurd’s rucksack and, summoning the last of his strength, he lifted the mighty bugle and put it to his shredded lips. The effort of drawing breath caused his lungs to fill with blood, but nothing could turn him from his purpose.
A single, piercing note left the bugle of the butchered dwarf and echoed over the hills. His lifeblood trickled into the instrument, and silence returned. Bundror hoped that the elves in Liútasil’s camp would recognize the signal and sound the alarm.
The heavy bugle fell from his hand as his strength ebbed away. He looked up to see the tionium mask of his antagonist. “You won’t achieve anything by attacking our allies,” he spluttered determinedly. “They’ve been warned.”
“Perhaps, but they won’t have heard your bugle in the Gray Range.” She bent down and lifted her mask to reveal her face. It was the elf maiden who had sat and conversed with them by the fire. “Look at me,” she said menacingly. “Ondori is your death, and I will take your life as your kinsfolk killed my parents. May your soul wander helplessly for the rest of time.” A scythe-like blade glinted in the light of the stars, and the älf muttered something in a low, sinister voice.
Bundror guessed the meaning of the incantation and prayed for help.
He was still begging Vraccas to gather him to the eternal smithy when the blade slashed his throat, severing his last fragile link to the world of the living.
III
Borengar’s Folk,
Eastern Border of the Firstling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
Tungdil looked searchingly at the firstling queen. Muffled in warm furs and perched reluctantly on a pony, Xamtys was staring at the snowy peaks of the Red Range. She was looking for a sign, a hint of a threat, evidence of a catastrophe that had occurred in her absence and shrouded the stronghold in silence.
The snow-covered mountains towered into the sky, sometimes vanishing behind the fast-moving cloud. Here and there, a gentle ray of spring sunshine broke through the cloud and caressed the flanks of the mountain, revealing patches of fiery red rock where the snow had melted.
“They’re still here,” said Tungdil. “The mountains are still standing, Your Majesty.”
She turned to face him. “I can’t rejoice until I’ve seen my kinsmen,” she said anxiously. “Remember the state of the tunnels? Who knows what damage has been done to my halls.”
The tunnels to the east of the firstling kingdom had collapsed, hence the reason for traveling overland. It had taken sixty orbits to make the journey on foot. In some places the snow was too deep, in others too soft and sticky. The roads and tracks were covered in slush, and the dwarves and ponies had disappeared up to their knees, which slowed their progress and sapped their strength. Tungdil, Balyndis, and Boïndil were accustomed to the rigors of marching, but the rest of the company had struggled with the difficult terrain.