What a mess, he thought glumly. Things had turned out worse than he could have imagined. His errand had seemed simple enough, but now he was caught up in a succession crisis and everyone he had known and loved was dead, leaving him and his two companions to flee for their lives across Girdlegard while a crazed magus waged war on their kingdoms and tried to steal his bags. And I don't even know what's inside them.
Tungdil pulled the twigs and foliage out of his hair and beard. He was still fretting over Nudin's threat: The magus had declared war on all Girdlegard, men and elves included, and was planning to do battle with the dwarves.
"You look as though something's bothering you," said Boпndil, handing him some bread and cheese. He pointed to the woods. "Come on, you can eat on the way."
Tungdil fell in behind them. "Warning the dwarven kingdoms is a big risk. Nudin wouldn't mention the invasion unless he thought he could win."
Boпndil snorted. "Ha, that was before we chopped off his head!"
"Not that it had much effect," his brother reminded him gravely. "What did you make of it, scholar? Is it normal for magi to survive a mortal wound?"
Tungdil shook his head. "Wizards are just ordinary humans. They live a little longer than most, but they're susceptible to injury like everyone else. Lot-Ionan once cut himself on a knife and wove a spell to heal the skin. I asked whether his magic could counteract death, but…" He pictured Lot-Ionan and Frala and was too choked to continue. His companions didn't press him.
"Magi don't have the power to thwart death," he said finally.
"Nфd'onn was definitely dead," Boлndal told him. "He had my crow's beak buried in his back and his ugly mug was rolling on the ground. Maybe it's something that only dark wizards can do."
"If you ask me," said Boпndil, "it's a special kind of jiggery-pokery taught to him by the Perished Land."
Tungdil didn't know what to make of it all. Seeing the magus recover from his beheading had put pay to any theories about him being a revenant, leaving the dire possibility that Nudin had discovered the secret of eternal life-in which case, Girdlegard was doomed.
"We should have chopped him into tiny pieces and burned the lot," growled Boпndil.
"It wouldn't have worked," said a voice from the trees. The clear tones rang through the forest. "No known weapon can harm him. Swords, axes, magic-nothing will kill him. I tried and failed."
The trio whipped out their axes, and Ireheart wheeled round to cover their rear. "It can't be an orc," Boлndal whispered to Tungdil.
"Maybe, maybe not," said his brother. "I'm game for any kind of challenge, big or small."
The man who stepped out from among the pines drew a gasp of amazement from Tungdil. He had never imagined that a human could attain such dimensions; this one had a chest like a barrel and was as tall as two dwarves.
Although Tungdil had seen pictures of suits of armor in Lot-Ionan's books, nothing had prepared him for the sight of a real plated warrior. The man's breastplate, gorget, spaulders, and greaves were made of fine tionium and forged in such a way that the metal mimicked the curve of bulging muscle. The rings of a mail tunic, worn to give extra protection, were visible between the plates. A thin layer of cloth separated the segments of metal and dampened the clunking.
Sabatons protected the warrior's huge feet, and his head was encased in a helmet. A demon's face stared out from the elaborately engraved visor and a ring of finger-length spikes encircled his helm like a crown.
In his left hand he held a shield, while in his right he gripped a double-bladed ax, the mighty weapon raised effortlessly as though it were made of mere wood. A cudgel and a scabbard hung from his belt, the long blade resembling a dagger because of his great size. And as if this arsenal were not weighty and powerful enough, a two-handed sword was slung across his back.
Boпndil glanced over his shoulder to see what was going on and was instantly transfixed by the colossus.
"Swap places with me," he begged his brother. "You cover our backs and I'll bring down this mountain of metal." His eyes flashed eagerly. "That's what I call a big challenge. Better than a pack of runts!"
"Shush," Boлndal silenced him sharply. "Wait and see what he wants."
"His voice seems very high for a man of his size," said Tungdil, bewildered.
A blond woman with a severe face and a long plait stepped out from behind the warrior. "The voice wasn't his." Her blue eyes pierced the trio. "It was mine."
Tungdil appraised her commanding features and striking garb and wondered whether they had met before. She was athletic in appearance and wore black leather boots, gloves, and a tunic of dark brown leather, slit at the sides to give maximum movement. Her right hand rested on the pommel of her sword. There was something about her that reminded Tungdil of a woman that Lot-Ionan had once described.
"Are you Andфkai the Tempestuous?" he ventured at last.
The maga nodded. "And you need no introduction: Tungdil and his two friends who cheated Nфd'onn's wrath." She pointed to the warrior who was standing motionless beside her like a sculpted god of war. He was five heads taller than her. "This is Djerun, a loyal ally." Boлndal eyed her suspiciously. "What do you want?"
Tungdil took over quickly. "What's happened to Lot-Ionan? Is he alive?"
Andфkai looked at him with angry, tortured eyes. "Lot-Ionan is dead-and so are Maira, Turgur, and Sabora. They're all dead. Nфd'onn didn't want them to interfere with his plans, so he killed them."
Tungdil bowed his head. It hurt to have the truth confirmed. The pain of losing his foster father gnawed away at him, leaving a void inside.
"Our senior famuli met a similar fate. Nфd'onn was careful to ensure that none survived who could challenge his power," she continued grimly.
"Then it was you who cast lightning at him!" Boпndil said excitedly. "I hope you caused more damage than we did."
"He survived. I did everything in my power to kill him, but it was useless. As soon as I saw him recover from your attack, I feared the worst, and I was right; we can't do anything to stop him."
"Wretched long-uns," Boлndal muttered crankily. "We dwarves tear our beards out patrolling the ranges and fighting Tion's hordes, and what do the humans do? Plot their own downfall! Vraccas should have made us into nannies, not warriors. Humans can't be trusted on their own."
"I'm afraid you're probably right." Andфkai took a step toward them. "I came here because I wanted to ask what Nфd'onn was after." She crouched in front of Tungdil. "We were watching from the hillside. You must have something that he covets. What is it?"
"Er, nothing really," he fibbed. "Just a few things that belonged to Lot-Ionan. I kept them to remember him by, but Nфd'onn wanted to destroy them. He and my magus can't have been good friends."
"There was a time when they liked each other well enough." She smiled wryly. "Lot-Ionan wasn't terribly fond of me."
That triggered Tungdil's memory. As far as he could recall, Lot-Ionan had disapproved of her values and her worship of Samusin. If the twins find out that she keeps orcs in her realm, things could turn nasty, and we're bound to come off worse. Not only would the maga attack them with her wizardry, but her companion looked capable of snapping trees with his hands.
"To be honest," said Boпndil, who had decided not to beat around the bush, "I don't much like you either. You go your way, and we'll go ours. We've problems enough of our own."
"Problems?" Andфkai said scornfully. She straightened up. "Your problems won't seem important when Nфd'onn invades. The dwarven kingdoms will fare no better than the realms of men and elves. The magus has allied himself with the Perished Land and together they seek absolute, unlimited power." Her chin jutted out and she eyed Boпndil with a look of contempt. "Run along and hide in your mountains. Tion's creatures will storm your strongholds from both sides."