by Markus Heitz
introducing
If you enjoyed
THE DWARVES,
look out for
THE WAR OF THE DWARVES
by Markus Heitz
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 watch-towers 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 ice 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. 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.
“Keep moving!” Boëndal urged them. “You can worry about the ramparts as soon as we’ve made it to safety. Walls can be rebuilt.”
He and the others had barely set foot on the bridge when they heard a low rumbling like distant thunder. Then the earth moved again.
The falling boulders from the comet’s tail had shaken the fortifications and caused the walkways to quake, but this time the tremor was deeper and more powerful, causing walls, towers, dwarves, peaks, and ridges to shudder and sway.
The Red Range had stood firm for thousands of cycles, but nothing could withstand the violent quake.
Most of the dwarves were knocked off their feet, hitting the flagstones in a jangling of chain mail. Axes flew through the air and clattered to the ground, while helmets collided with stone. Two of the surviving towers collapsed with a deafening bang, raising clouds of dust that shrouded the rubble.
Boëndal thought of the vast orb that had passed overhead. He had only one explanation for the tremor: The comet had landed in the mountains to the west, sending shock waves through the ground. He tried not to imagine what was happening in the underground halls and passageways, how many firstlings were dying, how many dead.
The rumbling grew fainter, the quaking subsided, and at last it was still. The dwarves held their breath, waiting for what was next.
An acrid smell burned their throats. The air was thick with dust from the ruined masonry, and smoke rose from scattered fires.
The fearsome heat had passed with the comet, and it was snowing again. From a distance, the stillness could have been mistaken for tranquillity, but it was born of destruction. Death had visited the Red Range and ravaged the firstlings’ home.
“Vraccas have mercy,” whispered Boëndal’s companion, his voice as sorrowful and defenseless as a child’s.
Boëndal knew what he was thinking. Dwarves were fearless: They threw themselves into battle regardless of the odds and defended Girdlegard against the invading hordes. Their axes and hammers brought death to the most monstrous of Tion’s beasts, but no dwarven weapon could match a foe like this. “We couldn’t have stopped it,” he told him. “Even Vraccas can’t catch a falling star.”
Leaning over the bridge, he realized that the base of the tower was seriously unstable. Cracks, each as wide as an outstretched arm, had opened in the stone and were spreading through the masonry. He could almost hear it breaking. “Quick, before the tower collapses and takes us with it!” He set off quickly across the bridge, followed by a handful of survivors.
They were almost halfway when a large clump of snow struck Boëndal on the neck. What a time to play stupid games… He brushed away the snow and kept walking.
The second snowball hit his left shoulder, showering him with snow. He whirled round to confront the hapless prankster. “By the hammer of Beroïn, I’ll — ”
Before he could finish, the dark sky opened up and pelted him with clumps of snow. Powdery snowballs hit the bridge, his helmet, and the other dwarves. Boëndal heard a faint rumbling and the bombardment intensified; he knew what it was.
The mountains, not his companions, had started the assault.
Boëndal’s stomach lurched as he scanned the peaks around him. Although the comet had hit the ground many miles to the west, it had called forth a monster that lurked above the dwarven halls. Boëndal had seen it hundreds of times while standing watch in the secondling kingdom. The White Death, roused by the rain and the tremors, had mounted its steed near the summit and was galloping down the slopes. In the space of two breaths it filled the mountainside, crushing and consuming everything in its path.
Like a vast wave, the snow rolled down the mountain, throwing up powdery spray. Everything before it was toppled, stifled, and dragged on its downward plunge.
“Run!” shouted Boëndal. His legs seemed to move of their own accord. After a few paces, he slipped over, but someone grabbed him by the braid and he stumbled to his feet. Two dwarves slotted their hands under his armpits and pulled him on. Driven by fear, they stumbled over the bridge, more skating than running.
Even as the gates swung back to admit them, the White Death reeled them in.
Hurling itself triumphantly over the precipice, it fell on the dwarves like a starving animal. Its icy body smacked into the bridge, knocking them into the chasm.
Boëndal’s shouts were drowned out by the roaring, thundering beast. His mouth filled with snow. He clutched at the air until his right hand grabbed a falling shield, which he clung to as if he were drowning.
His descent was fast — so fast that his stomach was spinning in all directions. He had no way of orienting himself in the snow, but the shield cut through the powder like a spade.
Tiring of the dwarf, the White Death dumped him and covered him over. The weight of the cold beast’s body pushed the air from his lungs.
A little while later Boëndal blacked out. Night descended on his consciousness and his soul was ready to be summoned to Vraccas’s smithy. At least it would be warm.
Markus Heitz, The Dwarves
