The sentry nodded. “I know what you mean. It’s like setting out every orbit to fight a dragon, only to wake up one morning and find that he’s dead. I don’t know how you celebrate a thing like that.” He rested his back against the tower and smiled. “Although a bit of drinking and feasting won’t go amiss.”
“I wonder what will happen to Girdlegard,” said Boëndal after a time. “Maybe we’ll see a new era of friendship. With the elves and the dwarves on the same side, we’ve never been more united. A victory like this could put a stop to our feuding.”
A look of skepticism crossed the sentry’s bearded face. He rubbed his nose doubtfully. “And rabbits might fly,” he said in a low voice.
“Girdlegard would be stronger if we were united,” countered Boëndal. “Tion’s beasts have been plaguing our borders for cycles. Just because Nôd’onn has been defeated doesn’t mean our kingdoms are safe.” He smiled at the sentry. “It’s not as if we’d move in with them or anything—perish the thought! I’m just saying we ought to talk to them, maybe meet with them every cycle. It might help us get along.”
The sentry burped and spat over the wall. A blob of saliva flew through the air, turning into a tiny ball of ice as soon as it left his mouth, and plopping into the snow-covered fortifications below. “I suppose so,” he said hesitantly. “But the high king can take care of it. I don’t want to meet any pointy-ears. They’re too—”
“Arrogant? Conceited?” suggested Boëndal.
“Girly,” said the sentry, pleased to have found the right word. “The humans think the elves are so creative, so arty, but what’s the point of being arty if you can’t defend your forests from an älf?” He thumped Boëndal on the back. “You and I are made of rock. We’re the opposite of girly. The pointy-ears wouldn’t have stood a chance at the Blacksaddle if it hadn’t been for us.”
Boëndal was about to venture a different opinion when he glimpsed something in the distance. He peered through the snow: A comet, no bigger than a coin, was shooting toward them from the east, blazing a trail through the sky.
“Look,” he said to the sentry. The comet was getting closer and closer, changing from white to pink as it hurtled their way. Suddenly it flared up, dazzling them with bright red light, then burst apart. Nothing remained except a cluster of crimson dots that faded and were swallowed gradually by the dark night sky.
Boëndal was reminded of spattered blood.
“Was it a good omen or a bad omen, do you think?” asked the sentry uncertainly.
“Well, it didn’t hit us,” said Boëndal dryly, “which in my book makes it a good omen. Maybe Vraccas sent a spark from the eternal smithy to…”
Just then a second comet shot into view. Whooshing toward them from the east, it arced through the sky, falling toward the firstling kingdom. This time it didn’t burst apart.
“By the fire of Vraccas,” stammered the sentry, gripping his shield as if a rectangle of wood and metal could protect him from a blazing orb. “Are you sure they’re sparks from Vraccas’s smithy and not Tion’s revenge?”
“Look!” shouted another sentry, alarmed. “It’s falling! The burning star is falling!”
“It’s the sun!” a dwarf cried fearfully. “She’s rolled out of her cradle—we need to wake her up!” He brought his ax against his shield, banging frantically.
The comet, which seconds ago had been no bigger than a coin, grew to the size of a leather pouch. In no time at all, it was larger than a windmill with vanes ablaze.
With a roar, the comet burned through the cloud, swooping toward the stronghold in an arc of crimson light and bathing everything beneath it—walls, watchtowers, and dwarves—in a strange red glow. In the fearsome heat, dancing snowflakes turned to raindrops and froze where they fell.
Before the dwarves could draw breath, the battlements, bridges, and staircases were glazed with thick ice.
“Run for cover!” shouted Boëndal, diving across the flagstones. A sheet of ice had formed on his chain mail, fusing his helmet to his back; it shattered with a high-pitched tinkle.
Skidding on his stomach across the ice, he grabbed hold of a corner of the brazier and came to a halt. The scars on his back were telling him to be careful, but he cursed them impatiently and gritted his teeth.
Some of the dwarves followed his example and dived for cover, while others stared at the sky in horrified fascination, unable to move or look away. A few of the sentries, convinced that the sun had fallen from its cradle, banged their weapons against their shields to rouse the burning orb.
In a shower of sparks, the shooting star sped toward them, screeching and thundering through the sky. Boëndal braced himself for the impact, but the comet swooped over the stronghold and disappeared beyond the mountains to the west.
But the danger hadn’t passed.
The tail of the comet blazed red in the sky, showering debris large enough to crush a human house. The dwarves heard a drawn-out whistle, then an ear-splitting bang. The ground shook and trembled like a frightened beast. Plumes of snow shot upward, looming like luminous towers in the dark night sky. The air hissed and angry clouds of moisture rose from the vaporizing snow. Thick white fog wrapped itself around Boëndal like a blindfold.
“To the stronghold!” he commanded, realizing that watchtowers and battlements were no match for celestial might. “We’ll be safer inside!” Bracing himself against the brazier, he tried to get to his feet; a moment later, one of the sentries was beside him, pulling him up.
Boëndal lost his bearings in the strange-smelling fog, but his companion knew the way without seeing. They ran, skidding and sliding every few paces until they resigned themselves to crawling and pulling themselves forward on their axes. “Quick, we need to…”
Boëndal’s command was cut off by a droning from above. He knew exactly what it meant: The battlements were about to be hit by a volley of burning rock.
There was no time to shout a warning. The fog had already turned a muddy orange, darkening to black-streaked red as an unbearable screeching filled the air.
Vraccas protect us! Boëndal closed his eyes as a gigantic slab of burning rock hurtled toward him. A moment later, it slammed into the solid stone walkway. Boëndal heard faint shrieks as dwarves in front of him tumbled to their deaths. He couldn’t see where the rock had landed because of the fog.
“Turn back!” shouted Boëndal, crawling away from the shattered stone. Hampered by his injured back, he longed for his old agility. “To the northern walkway!”
Flagstones quaked beneath their feet as the colossal towers swayed like reeds in the breeze. Cracks opened in the groaning masonry and sections of battlement plummeted to the ground.
The bombardment continued as they hurried along the northern walkway to the highest tower. Skidding and sliding, they came to a halt at the bridge. The single-span arch construction was the only way into the kingdom and the safety of the firstling halls. Beneath the bridge was a yawning chasm, two hundred paces deep.
A gusty wind swept the watchtowers, chasing away the mist. At last they could see the gates leading into the mountain—and safety.
“Vraccas forfend!” cried one of the sentries, who had turned and was pointing back at the lifting mist.
The fortifications of East Ironhald were in ruins.
Only four of the nine towers were still standing; the rest had been crushed, toppled or flattened, leaving five rings of masonry protruding like rotten tooth stumps from the ground. The mighty ramparts, hewn from the mountain by dwarven masons, were riven with cracks wide enough for a band of trolls to breach the defenses with ease.