The Dwarves

XII

Underground Network, Girdlegard, Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle The windswept dwarves sped through the tunnel, hair and beards streaming behind them as the wagon thundered along the rail, swooping and juddering at an incredible rate. The speed of the descent pinned them to their seats, and Tungdil felt himself being pushed and pulled in ways he had never thought possible.

Bavragor had stopped singing after choking on something that had flown into his mouth, leaving Boпndil to whoop and bellow with untrammeled enthusiasm, exhilarated by the stomach-turning ride.

Goпmgar was praying with his eyes closed and beseeching Vraccas to protect him from harm. His mortal terror betrayed a lack of confidence in Gandogar's sense of fair play.

The carefully hewn walls flashed past so rapidly that all they could see was a blur of polished stone. After a while the tunnel opened out, becoming at least as wide as the wagon was long.

"You'll burst my eardrums if you keep yelling like that," Boлndal told his twin. "It's even noisier at the back because of the wind."

Boпndil roared with laughter. "Isn't this fun? It's a million times faster than boring old ponies. I'd like to shake our forefathers by the hand!"

"I don't know," grumbled Bavragor, wiping brandy from his eyes. "They could have made it a bit easier for me to drink."

Tungdil smiled quietly. Being with other dwarves almost made up for the ordeals he had suffered since leaving Ionandar, and he had no regrets about visiting Ogre's Death, even though it meant embarking on another trip. At least this time he wouldn't be traveling alone. "If only it weren't for their blasted feuding…," he said, not realizing that he was speaking aloud.

"Blasted what?" Boпndil bellowed. "Speak up! I can't hear you!" Tungdil gave a helpless shrug.

Their steep slide into darkness ended as abruptly as it had begun and they continued at a more agreeable pace, with a few gradual climbs and the occasional gentle downhill.

They clattered over two junctions without being thrown off the rail.

"I hope we're on the right track," called Boлndal from the rear. "Has anyone seen any signposts?"

"I saw some levers before both sets of points," Tungdil shouted back. "There was dust and lichen all over them. I don't think anyone's used them for some time." He hoped to goodness he was right.

The tunnel stopped widening, and the view, now that they had slowed enough to see it, was disappointingly monotonous. Save for the odd patch of lichen or moss, the walls were smooth and unchanging. Twice they spotted stalagmites on the rail; then the wagon ran over them, snapping them in two.

"There's your proof that Gandogar didn't come this way," said Bavragor, uncorking his leather drinking pouch and using the leisurely tempo to drink a few sips before the next descent. "Do you think they might have switched the points?"

"No," Tungdil said firmly. "The levers definitely hadn't been touched." Where else could they have gone, though?

"Maybe they lifted the wagon across the rails so we wouldn't be able to tell," surmised Boпndil.

Tungdil didn't argue, but privately he was wondering whether Gandogar's company had taken an entirely different route. What if they've found another tunnel that will get them there more quickly? It was conceivable that Gandogar had come into possession of a proper map that showed more than just entrances and exits. Then again, maybe Bavragor was right and the points had been changed so that he and the others had been tricked into traveling in the wrong direction while Gandogar and his companions raced west. He decided not to mention his concerns.

Meanwhile, the wagon was purring along the rail as if it had been making the journey every orbit for a hundred cycles. In time the tunnel widened again and they reached a vast hall that served as an interchange with three other rails. They rolled to a halt.

Tungdil jumped down stiffly. "Come on, you lot, let's see where we go from here." He was glad of the chance to stretch his legs after hours of sitting down.

Between them, they explored the hall and discovered an array of hoists and cauldrons similar to the setup in the secondling kingdom.

"It's a kind of junction," murmured Boлndal, shouldering his crow's beak. He scanned the hall to make sure nothing had taken up residence in the underground network without the dwarves' knowledge.

"Hey, Shimmerbeard! What are you doing?" boomed Boпndil.

The fourthling sprang away from the wall, revealing a tab- let of light gray granite. It was roughly the height and width of a gnome and held in place with long rusty nails. "I was…" He cleared his throat. "I was wiping the dust away," he said defiantly. "I wanted to see what it said."

"It looks like a map," said Tungdil, hurrying over. "Well done, Goпmgar. You've got sharp eyes."

He knew the fourthling didn't deserve his praise: Goпmgar had been scratching out the lines with his dagger to disadvantage the expedition and allow the fourthling king to get ahead. Tungdil had no means of actually proving it, so he kept the observation to himself and made a quick sketch of the map. I'll have to keep an eye on him.

"Look, Tungdil," Bavragor said cheerfully. "We're on the right track; it's this way."

"That's all we need: directions from a one-eyed dwarf," muttered Goпmgar just loud enough for Bavragor to hear.

The mason turned on him, snarling with rage. His right hand shot out, his fingers winding their way into the artisan's wavy beard and pulling him close.

"Come here, you pathetic excuse for a dwarf," he growled, raising his free hand and peeling back his left eyelid to expose the shriveled remains of an eye. A shard of rock was impaled at its center. "You think I'm blind, do you? Ha! Let me tell you about my eye. One orbit the mountain tired of my masonry and exacted its revenge. A splinter of rock as sharp and fine as a needle flew up and robbed me of my sight, but Vraccas took pity on me and made the other eye ten times as strong. That's ten times, Shimmerbeard. My one eye sees more clearly than ten!" He pushed the delicate artisan away and laughed grimly. "It sees the slightest flaw in the rock, the pores of your skin, and the fear in your eyes; what do you have to say about that?"

Goпmgar backed away from the mason's mighty hands and rubbed his chin. He had endured the humiliation silently, but now that Bavragor had released him, he felt brave enough to vent his fury in a threat. "You'll regret this, Hammerfist. Just wait until Gandogar is high king: The mountain won't be the only one to exact revenge!"

"That's right, run to Gandogar! You're a coward as well as a weakling."

"Let's call it quits now," Tungdil said sharply. "You've both said more than enough." In fact, Goпmgar's threat about Gandogar being high king was proof that he intended the expedition to fail. "I don't want to hear another insult from either of you. In any case, it's time to go."

He strode back to the wagon, the other four following in silence. The strained atmosphere was a worrying portent for the company's future.

What happens when I can't stop them from quarreling? His spirits sank lower when he remembered that Bavragor and Goпmgar weren't the only ones at loggerheads: Boпndil and Bavragor couldn't stand each other either. Only the calm and practical Boлndal hadn't made any enemies. Who knows how long that will last? It's not easy being a leader, he thought gloomily. Vraccas give me strength.

Boпndil, ever hopeful of finding someone or something to fight, wandered over to the mouth of the tunnel. He opened the door and peered inside. "It goes straight down. The wagon will need a bit of a push; then the slope will take care of the rest."

The next leg of the journey awaited them. They hauled their vehicle to the top of the ramp and jumped aboard, save for Boлndal, who waited a moment longer to give them a final shove. Soon they were hurtling westward, squeaking and rattling through the tunnel to the kingdom of Borengar's folk.

Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin, Girdlegard, Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle The scouts returned on horseback with news that Porista was going about its usual business, untroubled by the twin-flanked advance of forty thousand soldiers under the command of Girdlegard's finest human warriors.

Gentle sunshine bathed the lush green countryside, bringing out the rich autumn hues of the trees. Everywhere the foliage was putting on a last show of splendor before the winter frosts.

All the same, the air was decidedly chilly, so Tilogorn and Lothaire had erected an assembly tent to guard against the winds. They stood outside and listened to the scouts' report.

The first envoy sent to Porista to negotiate on their behalf had returned with a list of preposterous demands, not to mention tidings of the magi's deaths. Many orbits had passed since then, but the brief exchange had taught them that Nфd'onn was the real enemy and would have to be destroyed.

Clasping flasks of hot tea, the kings of Idoslane and Urgon studied the sketched map of fortifications and marveled at Porista's meager defenses. A single wall protected the city from attack.

Tilogorn was wearing plain but solid armor. He was heartened to see Porista's vulnerability: There were villages in his kingdom that were better defended than the capital of Nфd'onn's realm. "Victory will be swift, provided the magus doesn't jinx us. We made the right decision in not waiting for reinforcements."

"Between us we'll bring the villain to his knees. He can't be in two places at once: One of the gates will fall and Porista will be ours," Lothaire said confidently, checking the buckles on his lightweight leather mail.

Each was wearing armor in keeping with the style of combat in his kingdom. In Idoslane, Tilogorn was accustomed to fighting heavily armed and powerful orcs, which called for heavy- duty protection against axes and swords, whereas a solid suit would be impractical in Urgon because of the lakes and hills. Agility and speed were of the essence when death was the likely consequence of stumbling on a narrow mountain pass.

The mismatched sovereigns were in command of an army that was similarly diverse. Each of the seven human kingdoms had sent units to Porista, but the other monarchs were content to let Tilogorn and Lothaire direct the motley troops. Another forty thousand soldiers were already on their way, ready for the next stage in the campaign: the assault on Dsфn Balsur.

Queen Umilante had sent her lightly armored and sparely clad warriors to line up with Queen Wey IV's waterguards and Queen Isika's guerrillas, whose favored territory was the forest. Not a soldier among them had ever stormed a city, and so it fell to Lothaire's and Tilogorn's units, who, along with King Nate's cavalry, formed the mainstay of the army, to show them what to do.

It's a good thing we're attacking Porista first. The men could use the experience before they cross blades with the дlfar. Lothaire pointed to the city gates. "Tilogorn, you attack the northern gate; I'll approach from the south. The catapults and ladders are ready and waiting." He held his head high. "I'll go in first. Take up position with your twenty thousand men, but don't advance straightaway. As soon as you see my signal, charge through the other gate and attack the palace from the north."

"Agreed." Tilogorn reached for his helmet. "Then let's rid Girdlegard of Nфd'onn. After that we can focus on routing the дlfar and the orcs. May Palandiell be with us."

"She's with us already, there's no doubt of that." They shook hands, mounted their horses, and rode to join their units three miles from Porista's walls.

Lothaire ordered the fanfare to be sounded and the men raised their standards in a billowing sea of cloth. The divisions attacked from the south as agreed, the first wave of soldiers pushing wheeled screens of wood in front of them to shield their advance.

Porista waited until they were within firing distance before waking from its doze. A dark shadow whooshed toward them, arrows and missiles raining on the troops.

The men huddled behind their wooden defenses and all but a handful escaped the storm unscathed. Lothaire's archers returned fire and the advance continued behind the moving screens. The men reached the wall, flipped the panels over, and held them aloft while others banged posts into the soil on which to balance the wooden shields. With the makeshift roofs overhead, there was no risk of injury from bombardment from above. Soon ladders were clattering against the walls. It was then that Nфd'onn gave them a taste of his might.

Tilogorn was watching on horseback while his foot soldiers stole toward the northern gates. There was no opposition worth speaking of: Porista's guardians had been tricked into thinking that the opposite side of the city was the focus of the attack. By the time news of a second invasion reached the troops in the south, Tilogorn and his men would be through the northern gates and advancing on the palace.

We'll soon decide the matter in our favor, he told himself firmly. There was something unsettling about fighting magic with manpower, but he couldn't think of any other way.

Tilogorn had opted to ride at the head of the five-thousand-strong cavalry and he planned to bear down on the palace and take the magus by storm. In a battle against the wizard's magic, he needed every advantage of speed and shock to survive.

Two lone riders looped toward him, raising their flags as a signal for the king and his units to advance.

"Palandiell protect us." Tilogorn checked each of his weapons, making sure his sword and dagger were at hand. On his orders, the bugles were sounded, heralding the attack. The first eight thousand men swarmed toward the gates like ants. Lothaire had used the same tactic on the other side of the city, only two miles farther south.

The attacking force met with almost no resistance. A few arrows were loosed from the parapets but the damage was minimal.

In no time ladders had been laid against the walls and the first of Tilogorn's warriors were scaling the defenses to grapple with the handful of plucky soldiers left in charge of the northern gates.

Tilogorn watched as Idoslane's flag was raised on the ramparts. He buckled his helmet and pushed down the visor. "For Girdlegard!" He and his five thousand cavalrymen pounded toward the open gates.

The first block detached itself from the parapet and shot toward them like a missile from a catapult. The slab of stone, as long as a forearm in its shortest dimension, struck a soldier in the chest, his body compressing like honeycomb beneath the mass of granite.

It was the start of a bombardment more gruesome than anything the men had ever witnessed. Most of them weren't destined to survive it.

Block by block, the city wall was coming undone. Starting from the top, the stone slabs hurled themselves from the parapet, hitting the attacking army with such force that neither shields nor armor could save them. The massive projectiles crashed straight through the wooden barricades, flipping them over or smashing them to pieces and showering the nearby troops with a lethal hail of wood and stone.

Each of the blocks met its target. Everywhere armor was shattering, bones splintering and granite embedding itself in the ground. Shouts of terror gave way to screams for help and the anguished howls of the dying. Soon there was nothing left to support the ladders and they toppled back among the troops.

"Pull back!" commanded Lothaire, wheeling his horse about. A block struck his stallion's head and it fell to the ground, twitching.

The king tumbled from the saddle and was trapped beneath the fallen mount. When at last he dragged himself free, he realized that his leg was wounded, perhaps broken. Barely able to stand, let alone walk, he was rescued by two of his guards, who carried him to a ditch, the only place that offered any protection against the flying granite.

"Curse the magus and his wizardry," muttered Lothaire, gritting his teeth as pain shot through his injured leg. The situation was worse than anything he had imagined: Nфd'onn was using his terrible powers to bring death and destruction to the allied troops. He tried not to think about the quantity of blocks in the wall; it was a formidable arsenal by anyone's standards.

At last, when the thudding and pounding had ceased, the king raised his head and looked out of the ditch.

The flat ground at the foot of the gates was littered with stone slabs of varying sizes: Even the base blocks, each the length of a fully grown man, had lifted from the foundations and hurled themselves at the troops. Limbs, broken lances, warped shields, and snapped spears protruded from beneath the masonry, the hunks of stone providing grisly markers for every corpse.

Lothaire's gaze traveled over the debris and settled on the unprotected streets and houses beyond. Bereft of its wall, the capital of Lios Nudin lay defenseless before him. Only the watchtowers on either side of the gates were still in place.

"This is our chance," he said, straining to speak through the pain. "We've got to attack." With the help of his guards he left the trench to spur on his army.

Barely three thousand of his twenty thousand men had survived the bombardment, and over half of those had taken flight, their courage defeated by the invisible malice at work. Who can blame them? he thought bitterly.

The sight of their leader strengthened the soldiers' resolve and Lothaire was soon surrounded by a loyal cohort of fifteen hundred men, all determined to invade the city and storm the palace.

Just then the masonry came back to life. The biggest blocks were the first to move, rising one by one and lowering themselves into position. Next came the smaller slabs, piling one on top of the other until the wall loomed once again above the horrified troops, only this time it glistened red with the blood of their comrades.

That was the moment when Lothaire stopped believing that Nфd'onn could be defeated. Lowering himself onto the blood-drenched grass, he stared at the insurmountable obstacle in their path. Fragments of armor, broken weaponry, and mutilated body parts stuck to the wall like trophies, daring the army to launch another doomed assault. Ye gods, what can I do?

Weapons at the ready, his soldiers hesitated. Lothaire was still praying for inspiration when the voice of the magus sounded from above.

"How thoughtful of you to bring me an army, King Lothaire."

"Enjoy your monstrous work while you can," Urgon's ruler shouted furiously. "Your cruel dominion will soon be over."

There was a flash of dark green cloth and the magus came into view through an embrasure. Lothaire looked up at the great white oval of his bloated face.

"You thought you were invading a defenseless city. It wasn't your only mistake. The human eye is easily misled." He raised his arms and gestured with an elegance belying his bulk. "All the best with your final battle, King Lothaire. Don't worry: This time you'll be fighting humans, not stones." He withdrew and disappeared behind a merlon.

On looking round, Lothaire was rooted with horror. The grass beneath him was turning gray before his eyes. All around him the trees were drooping, the branches shedding their richly colored leaves, whose pigment faded as they fell. This was the true face of Lios Nudin, disguised by the magus to trick them into setting foot in the Perished Land.

Lothaire knew what it meant for him and his fifteen hundred men.

The Perished Land knows no such thing as death. Lothaire had heard stories about the northern pestilence and the thought of it made him shudder with horror. Closing his eyes, he prayed to Palandiell and other benevolent deities to deliver them from their fate.

His desperate prayers were cut short by the sound of low groans from all over the battlefield. The dead soldiers were rising, clambering clumsily out of block-shaped craters and pushing their way through shattered blockades. Depending on the extent of their injuries, they crawled, limped, or staggered toward the surviving troops. A few walked without impediment, but their open wounds and terrible deformities gave them away. Already there were a hundred of them, each clutching a sword, lance, or other weapon, and their ranks were swelling all the time.

"But they're… It's impossible! What are we to do?" cried a terrified officer.

"We fight our way out," ruled Lothaire. "If we stay, our courage will be of no greater use to anyone than it was to these men; the Perished Land will enslave us. We'll head south." His loyal guards had been waiting for his signal and offered him their shoulders to lean on. A dozen warriors surrounded the trio and shielded the wounded king. "Make haste! And may Palandiell be with us!"

With that, Lothaire and his men surged forward to break through the ring of undead soldiers who had once been their allies.

The cavalry thundered through the deserted streets of Porista with no regard for their own limbs or the safety of their mounts. Tearing round the corners, many of the horses skidded on the treacherous cobblestones and careened into houses. Those behind leaped over the bodies and galloped on.

Their goal was already in sight. Towering above the rest of the city, Nфd'onn's palace, once the seat of the council of the magi, pointed them on their way.

To Tilogorn's relief, the citizens of Porista did nothing to halt the charge. The assault on the gates had gone according to plan and now the invaders could focus on the purpose of their mission-subduing the magus himself.

The king trusted entirely to the power of numbers, believing his army to be stronger and more powerful than any wizard's spell. To think otherwise would be irresponsible-the men would sense his hesitation and an anxious army was easy to defeat.

The riders streamed through Porista like a torrent of shimmering water, channeled by the streets into three separate tributaries, which flowed toward the palace walls and collected in the marketplace outside the palace gates.

Ahead of them a crowd of people had gathered in front of the entrance. Judging by their dress, they were ordinary citizens, mainly women and children, who barred the way without weaponry or aggression.

From the throng of three hundred souls an unarmed youth stepped forward with his hands in the air. "Leave the magus in peace, men of the east," he called. "He has done nothing to hurt you and wishes you no harm."

Prince Mallen, clad in the armor of the Ido dynasty, pushed his mount through the rows of horses and drew alongside Tilogorn. "Nфd'onn has bewitched them," he whispered urgently. "Break them up or we'll lose our advantage." He glanced nervously at the turrets. "We're a sitting target out here."

"Prince Mallen? Didn't Lothaire…"

"The attack failed. Girdlegard is depending on you and your men."

I was right to fear the wizard's magic. He sat up tall in the saddle. "Move aside, good people. Our quarrel is with Nфd'onn, not you."

"You can trample us into the ground if you like," their spokesman retorted. "You'll have to kill us if you want to get past." He turned his back to them and returned to the others, who closed ranks, leaving no room for a horse to pass.

Tilogorn ordered three hundred riders to advance in a line and push the crowd through the gates. The row of armored horses bore down on the townspeople like a wall of steel, pushing them aside, while a second line of cavalrymen prevented them from rushing back to the entrance.

Suddenly one of the riders tumbled from his horse, clutching his leg and howling in pain. A moment later, a citizen of Porista took his place in the saddle and whipped out a cudgel spiked with nails. The unsuspecting rider to the left was struck in the face before the right-hand neighbor could reach across and run the intruder through. As the young man fell, his simple garments disintegrated, revealing an armor-plated orc. The snarling beast hit the ground and died.

With that, the spell was broken and the unarmed crowd became a war band of orcs. It was conclusive proof, if any were needed, that Nфd'onn was in league with Tion and his minions.

"Cut them down!" shouted Tilogorn. "Kill every last one of them! It's an illusion!"

The formerly peaceful crowd hurled themselves on the cavalry, attacking the horses and riders with cudgels, axes, and notched swords. Thrown off guard by the transformation, dozens of soldiers were killed.

On recovering from the initial shock, the riders discovered that it was impossible to land an accurate blow amid the jostling bodies. They endeavored to leave the scrum.

The green-hided beasts chased after them, hacking at the horses' legs, slashing their flanks, and hanging off their manes like rabid dogs until the poor animals bolted in agony and terror.

Wild with panic, the horses charged the waiting units, and the chaos was complete.

Meanwhile, the orcs were everywhere, snarling, striking, and ducking out of sight. The horses kicked out, making no distinction between friend and foe, whinnying, snorting, and pawing until they were seized by an overwhelming urge to flee. Even the best riders were unable to stop the stampede: The instincts of the herd were stronger than any bridle or spurs.

Mallen and Tilogorn lost valuable time as they struggled to round up their men and regroup in the marketplace. By then the foot soldiers had arrived and were readying themselves to join the charge through the gates.

In the blink of an eye, the orcs disappeared, leaving only the dead and wounded as evidence that a savage confrontation had occurred. The two commanders didn't stop to worry about the whereabouts of the enemy, but gave the order for the gates to be breached.

Three thousand riders tore into the palace forecourt. Tilogorn dispatched the units in different directions and the search for Nфd'onn began. Racing up the broad, flat steps, the horses sped through the corridors and halls, unimpeded by defenders or orcs.

"Stay down here and continue the search," Tilogorn instructed the bulk of his men. He eyed the highest turret, where his instincts told him that Nфd'onn would be waiting. "I'm going up there." He dismounted and wound his way up the flight of stairs with Mallen and three hundred men. As the staircase narrowed and steepened, he lifted his visor so he could breathe.

On entering the first chamber, he glanced at the large window through which the southern streets of the city could be seen. An armed unit was heading for the palace, the flags of Urgon and their other allies fluttering in the breeze.

"Look, Mallen," he said, relieved to see the reinforcements. "King Lothaire has taken the gates. The wizard is at our mercy."

The fair-haired prince of Ido stared in astonishment. "But Lothaire was… I mean, I thought I saw him…" He trailed off, puzzled, and followed the king. Buoyed by new courage and energy, they strode down the corridor until they came to an imposing door, which they opened by force.

Their persistence was rewarded. Twenty paces away a colossal figure in dark green robes was standing with his back to them. The magus was studying the commotion at the base of the turret and didn't turn round.

Without waiting for Tilogorn's order, the men spread out and silently leveled their bows. The target was so broad that it seemed the arrows couldn't fail to hit their mark, but on nearing the magus's back, the tips rusted, the shafts disintegrated, and wood dust trailed through the air. Soon nothing remained but fragments of metal, which tinkled against the marble floor.

"Welcome, King Tilogorn," the magus greeted them, his back still turned. "You have entered the enchanted realm of Lios Nфd'onn. What brings you here?"

"The plight of our kingdoms," Tilogorn replied steadily, drawing his weapon in readiness for a duel. "You are a danger to Girdlegard."

"And you, King Tilogorn, have invaded my realm, stormed my palace, and threatened my life. Should I consider you a danger?"

"You're a traitor, Nфd'onn-a murderer and a traitor."

"A murderer, yes, that much is true. But I killed only because 1 had to, because I wanted to save Girdlegard-like you. Humankind is facing a much greater danger, a danger that only my friend and I are powerful enough to combat, and for that we need mastery over Girdlegard. The races of men, elves, and dwarves must cede their lands for the greater good-or die." Turning at last, he looked at them sadly with watery green eyes. "It pains me greatly that some have chosen death already. You'll join me, won't you?" He took a step toward Tilogorn and held out his hand.

"Never!" The king signaled for his men to attack and a dozen soldiers stormed forward.

They were still charging when their weaponry, mail, clothes, flesh, and bones perished like the arrows. The unseen power worked so swiftly that there was no opportunity for them to retreat. A semicircle of dust surrounded the magus, four paces from his feet; then an autumn gust dispersed the disintegrating men. The remaining soldiers drew back in fear.

"You underestimated my power, King Tilogorn," the magus said slowly. "You refused a hand extended in friendship. Your men are paying for your arrogance."

The fresh wind carried the sound of fighting to Tilogorn's ears. He listened intently.

"You thought the battle was over, did you?" Nфd'onn gestured to the window. "Why don't you see for yourself what has become of King Lothaire and his men?"

Tilogorn kept the magus in his sights and sent a soldier to the window to report on the skirmish below.

"They're fighting our men," he said in consternation. "The soldiers are waving Urgon's banners, but they're… They're joining forces with the orcs!" He gasped. "Palandiell have mercy on us! The dead soldiers are rising! They're still alive, and they're killing our troops!"

Nфd'onn chuckled. "You have been treading the Perished Land for some time, King Tilogorn. I created the illusion to draw you to me and sure enough, you brought me the army I desired-"

He broke off midspeech, racked by violent coughing. Blood dribbled from his lips and two dark streams formed beneath his nostrils. He sank to his knees, still spluttering, and more blood gushed from his mouth, forming a crimson pool on the immaculate marble floor.

"This is our chance," shouted Tilogorn, rushing toward him. "For Girdlegard!" His soldiers joined the charge.

Most of the valiant warriors were turned to dust, but the magus's weakness had damaged his magic shield. Thirty men, among them King Tilogorn, penetrated his guard and were able to attack. Three, then four arrows embedded themselves in the bloated body, and the soldiers rushed in, hacking at Nфd'onn's prostrate form. Seconds later, Prince Mallen joined the fray.

Terrified that they too would fall prey to some wizardry, the men attacked with preternatural force. Their arms rose and fell in a savage frenzy, the blows raining harder and faster all the time. Blood seeped from every inch of the mutilated body, washing over the floor and poisoning the air.

Tilogorn saw a flicker of movement in the open wounds. There's something alive in there, he realized with a shudder. He threw all his strength behind his blade. "Die, why don't you!"

"No!" screeched Nфd'onn. Even as he spoke a gust of wind swept his assailants off their feet, knocking them backward. "Girdlegard will be ruined without me!" Black lightning shot from the onyx on his staff, zigzagging in all directions and incinerating the flesh and armor of all in its path.

"Don't listen to him!" Tilogorn sprang forward and raised his sword. "Keep fighting," he gasped. His right arm swooped toward the magus. "Keep-"

A bolt raced toward him and seared through his armor, piercing his heart. With a groan he sank down and let go of his sword, which clattered to the ground and disappeared among the muddle of legs and feet. He was filled with a sense of crushing failure.

"Congratulations, Prince Mallen," Nфd'onn said mockingly. "I suppose this makes you Idoslane's new king." He stepped forward and made to shake his hand. "The question is: Will you join me, or lose your kingdom as quickly as you gained it?"

The last of the Idos didn't stop to consider. Picking up Tilogorn's sword, he helped the wounded king to his feet. "Let's go," he said to Tilogorn. "We'll deal with Nфd'onn another time." He dragged the monarch to the door, protected by a guard of men.

The magus watched incredulously. "Not you as well?"

"How could I ally myself with Idoslane's enemy?" Mallen lifted Tilogorn's arm over his shoulder and half carried, half propelled him down the stairs. Nфd'onn strode after them.

"Then you shall die together!" he shouted hysterically. "You're no use to me!"

A volley of bolts crackled toward them, searing through the last remaining guards. Mallen slung Tilogorn over his shoulder and raced down the stairway. "I'm not leaving you with that monster. I'll get us out of here if it's the last thing I do," he said, gasping under the strain.

"Rule our kingdom more wisely than your forebears." Tilogorn was fading, his voice little more than a whisper. A trickle of blood leaked out of his mouth and onto the prince's armor. "Listen carefully: Wait for the other units at a safe distance from Porista. Rescue the wounded and be sure to burn the dead. If you don't, you'll face an army of revenants that nothing and no one can defeat. Whatever happens, Nфd'onn mustn't be granted his invincible undead."

"You can't die on me, Tilogorn. I need you to help me exact our revenge." The prince had to fight for breath as he struggled beneath the extra weight. "Don't tell me you're prepared to leave your kingdom to an Ido!" he said harshly, hoping to stir the king's anger and galvanize his will to live. "What's the matter with you, Tilogorn?"

"Promise me you'll make a better king than your grandfather. Promise that you won't tear Idoslane apart!"

"You have my word."

"Burn the dead," the king whispered. "You must save Idoslane. Palandiell be…" The tension left his body.

I shall honor my promise, Tilogorn of Idoslane. Mallen laid the body gently at the foot of the turret. To regain the throne at such a price…He took the dead king's sword, clasp, and signet ring and ran on.

It was only through sheer determination and good fortune that he and his remaining men escaped the violent fury of the revenants.

As they left the city, they set fire to the buildings, creating a sea of flames that no amount of wizardry could contain. Even the rain invoked by Nфd'onn could not prevent Porista from being razed to the ground, leaving nothing save the palace and the foundations. King Lothaire and King Tilogorn were never to rise from the blaze.