Ax raised and shield held in front of him, Djerun knelt by the entrance, blocking it like a wall. His helmet glinted, the demonic visor coming alive in the dying firelight. For a fraction of a heartbeat, Tungdil thought he glimpsed a purple glow behind the eyeholes.
Boлndal damped the flames lest their shadows be seen through the canvas. The three dwarves stood back-to-back, the maga beside them.
For a few moments it was quiet; then agonized screams rent the air. Now sounds could be heard from the other tents as people emerged from their flimsy shelters, their voices mingling in a clamor of questions as each tried to establish the cause of the noise. Willowy silhouettes and strange shadows flitted across the canvas walls, while all around there was a clunking of metal as shields knocked against tent poles, armor was donned, and weapons were unsheathed. Roused abruptly from its slumber, the village among the dunes was preparing to fight.
"What's going on?" asked Tungdil in a whisper. "Do you think it's a trap?"
Just then a human voice cried out in terror, "Orcs!" Swords met in a ringing din. The battle had commenced.
The beasts stopped skulking through the settlement and abandoned all pretense at stealth. Listening to their grunts and snarls, Tungdil was reminded of Goodwater, of Ionandar, of those who had died…
He was torn between staying in the tent and running to the aid of the people outside. His instinct was to help, but for all he knew, the дlfar were out there, waiting for him and his companions to emerge.
"What do we do?" he asked the battle-hardened twins.
"We wait," came Boлndal's strained reply. He tightened his grip on his crow's beak.
The clash of swords was getting louder and more violent, mingled with the screams of dying men. Sounds of fighting echoed from every corner of the village. The orcs had evidently surrounded the settlement and were attacking from all sides simultaneously, making it impossible for anyone to escape.
As the fighting raged around them, Tungdil and the others followed the progress of the battle on the walls of their tent, men and orcs locked in combat like figures in a shadow theater.
Boпndil held a whispered conference with his brother. At last a decision was reached. "We need to get out of here," he announced. "The runts will sack the settlement and we can't risk Tungdil getting-"
An orc burst through the tent flap, grunting and waving his sword. He ran full tilt into the expanse of unforgiving metal that was Djerun's shield.
Nose gushing with blood, he staggered groggily to the side, only for the giant to hew his collarbone with a downward swipe of his ax. The force of the blow cleaved armor and bones, slicing the ore diagonally in two. Blood and guts spilled from the body in a horrible, reeking mess.
"Hey! I thought I told you to leave the runts to me," protested Boпndil. "The next one's mine, all right?"
A second orc stormed into the tent, and Andфkai called out to Djerun, who swung his shield obediently to the side. The beast ran on unhindered, failing to notice his fallen comrade or the colossal warrior.
"That's more like it!" Boпndil rushed forward and stopped the beast without ado. Felled by his axes, the ore died with a final grunt.
"No more tomfoolery, Boпndil," his brother said sternly. He cut a slit in the rear of the tent and peered through the gap. "All clear." The sharp blade of his crow's beak tore neatly through the canvas and he slipped outside. When he was sure it was safe, he signaled for the others to follow.
They had taken no more than a few paces when a long, slender shadow appeared in front of Boлndal and attacked.
Only the dwarf's helmet prevented the sword from cleaving his skull. Even so, the force of the blow brought him to his knees.
"Elf or дlf, prepare to die!" His brother hurled himself at the figure with a blood-curdling shriek.
As their assailant stepped back, his cloak fell open to reveal a black metal breastplate that reached to his thighs. His beautiful face and pointed ears removed any doubts about the identity of their attacker.
Another дlf appeared out of nowhere and challenged Djerun, while a third bore down on Andфkai. Stretching out her hand, the maga conjured a glimmering black sphere and cast a bolt of lightning in his direction.
Tungdil expected the creature to burst into flames, but his hopes were disappointed. The дlf produced an amulet, which intercepted the spluttering charm, absorbing the magic and leaving the target unharmed. Cursing, the maga drew her sword.
Tungdil glanced round, looking for a possible fourth attacker. To his horror an дlf leaped from a nearby cart and landed in front of him. His eyes took in the crimson gloves, long spear, and golden hair… It was one of the two дlfar who had parleyed with the orcs near Goodwater. Sinthoras! His lips appeared to be moving.
"Speak up!" commanded Tungdil, dwarven bloody-mindedness conquering his fear. He had no intention of surrendering.
"Look at me: Sinthoras is your death," the fair-haired дlf whispered softly. "I will take your life as I have taken the life of every groundling before you."
"We'll see about that. Vraccas helped us to kill one of your kind in Greenglade and he'll help us again." Tungdil decided not to wait for the дlf to attack. "For Lot-Ionan and Frala!" Raising his ax, he charged.
Sinthoras laughed, easily evading the energetic but poorly planned attack. Realizing at once that he was dealing with a novice, he decided to have some fun with his victim before dealing the fatal blow.
His spear flashed forward, its long, tapered point boring through Tungdil's mail shirt and passing through his undergarments. The tip pierced his left shoulder, deep enough to hurt him but too shallow for serious harm. The wound enraged the dwarf further and he redoubled his efforts, little realizing that the дlf was toying with him.
Slowly but surely Sinthoras drew his victim away from his companions, leading him into the jumble of tents. While the дlf skipped and danced ahead, Tungdil blundered among the guy ropes and tent pegs, grimly focused on staying on his feet.
The дlf's weapon approached with such speed that Tungdil gave up trying to block its attack. One moment the creature would be in front of him; the next his spear would be buried in his back. He was losing blood from myriad perforations that smarted abominably.
At last Tungdil looked round and realized his mistake. Amid the confusion of ropes and tents he had lost sight of the others and even the giant was gone. A moment later, Sinthoras vanished as well. The дlf was enjoying his murderous little game.
Wherever Tungdil looked, men were fighting with a courage born of despair, knowing with grim certainty that the orcs would show no mercy. Meanwhile, the beasts kept coming at them, more determined than ever to sink their teeth into the traders and their wares.
A number of tents had been pulled to the ground and the canvas caught fire. Flames and glinting swords reflected in the surface of the lake, the watery image of destruction warped by rippling waves.
"Where are you hiding?" Tungdil was learning to his cost that дlfar were harder to deal with than orcs. He decided to rejoin his friends while he still had the chance.
But Sinthoras wasn't finished with him.
"Over here!" The дlf loomed up behind him, thrusting his spear violently into the dwarf's right shoulder.
Something seemed to tear inside Tungdil's arm, the pain surging through him like liquid fire. His hand opened and the ax fell from his grasp.
The dwarf's tormentor pulled his legs from under him, tipping him face-first to the ground. Crouching over him, Sinthoras threaded the spear through his mail shirt on a level with his heart. The metal spike ground against the rings.
"What did I tell you?" said a whisper in Tungdil's ear. "Sinthoras is your death. It would have been wiser to leave the books in Greenglade, but it's too late for that now."