"Reading doesn't come naturally to everyone," said Boлndal from the back of the procession. "It's just as well we've got a scholar with us. Without your-" The links of his mail shirt tinkled softly and he stopped, eyes widening in alarm. "W-what in the name of Vraccas…" he stammered, reaching behind him.
A black arrow was embedded in his back. Before he could alert the others, a second missile sang toward him, passing through his hand, piercing his armor, and tunneling into his back. By the time it came to a halt, the arrowhead had passed right through him and was protruding from his chest. Boлndal groaned and slid out of the saddle.
"Wait!" the impresario shouted frantically, calling to his companions to stop. He tugged on the reins and felt a rush of air near his throat. The arrow whizzed past him and hit his horse in the neck. With a loud whinny, the animal crashed to the ground, sending the impresario tumbling through the snow.
Djerun whipped round, only to be hit. The long arrow missed Andфkai and pierced Djerun's armor with a curious sound. Even now, the giant gave no audible sign of pain. Without hesitating, he turned away from the archer, putting himself between the maga and their foe. Andфkai cursed volubly and invoked a spell.
"What is it?" cried Furgas, who was staring in confusion with the remainder of the group.
"Over there!" Narmora pointed to a tall, fair-haired figure at the mouth of the gully. Even as they looked, the дlf nocked a fifth arrow to his bow. It hurtled toward them, this time heading straight for Tungdil.
Hurrying to escape the feathered missile, he caught his foot in the stirrups and was trapped. Suddenly he was out of time. The arrow was only a finger length away when it stopped in midflight, suspended in the air. Its tip was pointed directly at his heart. Tungdil shuddered.
"Quick, get Boлndal out of here," the maga panted. "We need to ride on. I can't maintain the charm for much longer."
Boпndil's eyes flashed dangerously. "Accursed дlfar!" he shrieked dementedly. "Look, there's another one! Leave them to me!" He made to spur on his pony.
"Stop!" Tungdil peered at the mouth of the valley. Two дlfar were standing side by side, waiting for the spell to break. "They'll shoot you dead as soon as you leave the maga's protection. Think of your brother, not revenge." He made a grab for Boпndil's reins.
"Out of my way!" raged Ireheart, staring at him without a glimmer of recognition. He raised his arm to strike.
"No, Boпndil!" shouted his brother, kneeling in the crimson snow. "You can't let it happen again!" He tried to lever himself up with his crow's beak, but one hand was still pinned to his back by the arrow. Eyes watering with pain, he mumbled something and keeled over.
Boпndil let out a terrible howl and leaped from the saddle. "Please, Vraccas, he can't be dead. He just can't." He crouched beside him. "His heart's still beating," he told them, breaking off the shafts of the arrows and gathering his brother into his arms. "We need to get him to the stronghold."
They tied the unconscious Boлndal to his startled pony and dragged the pair of them toward the next set of gates.
Tungdil felt a knot of fear in his stomach when he saw the trail of blood in the fresh white snow. Even warriors aren't safe on a mission like this.
He risked a glance over his shoulder. The fair-haired дlf looked remarkably like Sinthoras. Tungdil thought back to their last encounter in the desert village. Somehow, Sinthoras must have survived Djerun's attack. The tenacious дlf had returned to avenge himself and his mistress, whom the twins had slain in Greenglade.
Sinthoras yanked something from his neck, wound it around an arrow, and took aim. There were 250 paces between the archer and his target, but Tungdil didn't doubt for a second that the deadly missile would cover the distance and more. The дlf released the string and a moment later a second shot followed from his companion's bow.
"Look out!" Tungdil yelled to the others, promptly losing sight of the arrows, which were speeding toward them at an impossible rate.
The air crackled as the first arrow hit Andфkai's protective shield, ripping through the magic barrier and allowing the second arrow to embed itself in Djerun's back.
This time a dull moan sounded from the visor as the arrow penetrated the giant's armor and a jet of yellow fluid spurted from the wound. It was as if the tip had lanced a festering blister.
Tungdil had seen the substance once before in Sovereignston when Djerun had saved his life. He came to my aid and got hurt in the process. The giant swayed, shook his head sluggishly, and walked on, his pace considerably slowed. "We need to keep moving!" someone shouted.
They hurried on, running or riding accordingly, toward the second set of gates. Tungdil gave the command, they slipped through, and the door closed behind them; they no longer felt quite so exposed.
"Hurry!" shouted Boпndil, spurred on by the circle of blood spreading from his brother and soaking the pony's coat.
Meanwhile, the fluid seeping from Djerun's wound was turning from yellow to dark gray and his movements were increasingly labored.
They scrambled down the gentle slope toward the third set of gates. Man, dwarf, or pony, it made no difference; they were floundering to their waists in snow.
The landscape reminded Tungdil of a hill near Lot-Ionan's vaults where he used to go sledding with Frala and Sunja. He had an idea. Snatching the shield away from Goпmgar, he turned it over and laid it flat. "Put Boлndal on top. You'll get there faster like this."
They placed the wounded dwarf on the shield, his brother squatted next to him, and the pair of them swooped down the white slope, speeding toward the third door, which opened mysteriously as they approached.
The smooth underside of the shield raced over the snow, gathering speed all the time, but Boпndil could neither steer nor brake. He looked up to find himself heading straight for a group of sentries who had gathered in the gateway, weapons at the ready.
Tungdil cupped his hands to his mouth. "We're from the secondling kingdom," he bellowed, his warm breath hanging in the air. "In the name of Vraccas, lower your axes!"
The firstlings recognized that the intruders were dwarves and stepped aside just in time. The strange craft hurtled past, spraying glistening snow in all directions. Incredibly, no one was hurt.
Panting and coughing, the rest of the company sprinted to the gates, only to be stopped by the guards. Dressed from head to toe in armor and wrapped up warmly against the cold, the firstlings looked at them suspiciously through a narrow chink in their cladding of metal and fur. They leveled their spears, axes, and war hammers at the ragged group.
"May Vraccas our creator bless you and may the flames of your furnace never die. My name is Tungdil Goldhand," he introduced himself, gasping for breath and glancing back to check for дlfar. "These are my friends and companions. We were sent here by the dwarven assembly on a mission regarding the safety of Girdlegard. I need to speak with your king."
The thicket of metal parted to reveal a dwarf in chain mail, leather breeches, and a particularly striking cloak of white fur. "Many cycles have passed since we were visited by our cousins from the other ranges. Call me cynical, but isn't it strange that a collection of dwarves and long-uns should enter our kingdom just as Girdlegard is being threatened by the Perished Land?" The voice was unusually high-pitched for that of a man.
"A fine sort of welcome this is!" growled Bavragor. He took a step forward, towering over the speaker by at least a head. "Look here, dwarf-with-no-name, I'm Bavragor Hammerfist of the clan of the Hammer Fists, a child of the Smith, a descendant of Beroпn, and your equal in merit and birth. Is this what the firstlings' hospitality has come to?"
"Now, that's what I call a proper dwarven voice," said the other. The scarf was pulled away, unmasking the speaker's identity.
Tungdil gasped in surprise. The face looked distinctly feminine. There was no beard, the features were soft and delicate, and the cheeks were covered in soft down that grew thicker and darker toward the hairline.