The Triumph of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  In response, Ireheart raised his tankard to her. “And we’ve got more than enough ammunition to eliminate the magicians’ armies. If they are committed to losing their fighting forces, we’ll be happy to help them out.” He saw how relieved everyone was. Until a few minutes ago it seemed they were facing the prospect of an unstoppable enemy, but this new knowledge meant that they would be in a position to destroy him. “We, the Children of the Smith, will ensure the safety of all Girdlegard’s peace-loving inhabitants, the duty that Vraccas laid at our door.”

  “Is that right?” Phenîlas appeared to be implying something else.

  His comment fell on fertile ground.

  His breathing laboured, Natenian turned to stare. “What do you mean, my good friend? Have the dwarves ever given us cause to doubt them? They threw themselves into battle for our sake, regardless of the cost to themselves, and have always kept the gates secure.”

  “And they refuse my people entry.” Phenîlas stood up suddenly. “I have to speak about it. For some time now the flow of elf immigration has been held up. When I sent out messengers to the mountains to find out what was happening, my delegates weren’t allowed to pass. Even when they said they only wished to go to the other side of the gate, which is the right of each and every Girdlegard inhabitant. They were not permitted to pass.” He glared at Ireheart in challenge. “Why don’t you tell us what is happening in the mountains?”

  I’m more than happy to take this up. Feeling the blood rush warm in his veins, Ireheart reached for his beer. “Why don’t you tell us what is happening in Tabaîn?” he countered, smooth as silk.

  “You’re asking the wrong person.”

  “Perhaps I should summon your Naishïon for him to explain things to the Council of Kings?” The dwarf was relishing the elf’s discomfiture. Phenîlas looked as if he wished the subject had never been broached. “And while we’re at it: what is a naishïon when it’s at home?” Ireheart noticed how pale the elf had gone. It was as if he was shrinking into himself. You realise that I know more than you thought.

  “Let’s not confuse the two issues,” said Phenîlas, trying to bring the debate back as he awkwardly returned to his seat. “This is about the refusal of the dwarves to admit elf- immigrants.”

  “The two issues are closely connected in my view.” Ireheart reached into his pocket and fished out the bloodied ring he had taken from the dead warrior’s hand. He held it high. “This piece of jewellery used to belong to a Tabaîn warrior who helped save me from a night-biter’s attack, even though he was half-dead himself. As far as we knew, night-biters had been exterminated in Girdlegard. He told me the creatures had come from Phondrasôn and had dug their way up through the earth into elf territory.” He placed the soiled ring in the middle of the table for all to see. That’s got everyone’s attention.

  “That’s … the seal of the royal house of Hoge. It must have been Tenkil’s,” Dirisa exclaimed. “He went to Lesinteïl along with Raikan, didn’t he?” She picked up the ring.

  Natenian’s breath was coming in tortured gasps; one of his carers started to mix medicine to administer.

  “I thought the beast had devoured him?” Dirisa looked at Phenîlas accusingly. “Were you lying?”

  Cries of indignation and disbelief sounded round the table.

  Look at the pointy-ears now. He’s really regretting ever having opened his mouth. Ireheart got to his feet and looked from Natenian to Dirisa. He consciously suppressed the growing rage in his belly. The fact that he was winning the argument helped a great deal. “More importantly: the dying warrior imparted to me the news that the elves had murdered the young king.” The hum of comment grew louder, but the dwarf’s dark tones could be clearly heard above the tumult. “The Naishïon is behind it all. He made a pact with Natenian. Natenian wanted to retain power.” When the noise got too loud, Ireheart slammed his fist down on the table for silence. “And now, Phenîlas, you will understand why I gave the order that no elves were to be permitted to cross into Girdlegard until the circumstances surrounding Raikan’s death had been investigated.”

  The assembled nobles all stared at the blond-haired elf, who remained seated, his face ashen and expressionless.

  The tension in the room was electric.

  “Naishïon means supreme ruler.” Some of the audience reacted with a start when Carmondai made this pronouncement. “It is a concept that goes back to the creation myth the elves tell of their gods.” He laughed quietly. “I would never have thought I would live to see the day a Naishïon would be nominated. Even in the old days when the elves were at the height of their power, they never appointed a Naishïon. There must be a reason for this new development.”

  Phenîlas shot up from his chair. “You have no right to …”

  “Let the black-eyes finish speaking,” thundered Ireheart. “It’s obvious from your reaction that he’s telling the truth.”

  Nonetheless, Carmondai waited until Mallenia told him to continue.

  “The title of Naishïon may only be applied when the elf kingdoms are united into a great empire as envisaged by their goddess Sitalia in the scriptures.” He gave a faint smile. “It seems someone couldn’t wait. I would assume it’s one of the new arrivals. Ilahín and his spouse Fiëa won’t have been pleased about it. But that’s the price cowards have to pay for hiding in the woods when there’s trouble. The elves only joined forces with the humans against my race when …”

  “That’s quite enough,” Mallenia admonished.

  Dirisa raised her arm and pointed accusingly at Phenîlas. “And just now in my chamber you tried to get me to enter a pact with you. The elves want grain and they want to purchase land. The wound you all see on his cheek was my response.” She spat at Natenian. “May the gods punish you more than they have done already! You had the elves murder your own brother. Back in Tabaîn you will be condemned to death for that.”

  “It’s a lie,” mumbled Natenian. He was dribbling and shaking now. “It’s not true.”

  Although Ireheart kept his eyes on the elf, he still noticed Carmondai’s malicious smile. The älf was enjoying this. He was only telling the truth. “How do you answer these allegations, Phenîlas?”

  The elf replied slowly. “Please excuse me. I am not at liberty to disclose anything further. Only my … lord can pronounce on these matters. I shall report to him what has been said here in the Council of Kings. He will decide what must be done.”

  “Once a Naishïon has been appointed,” Carmondai added coolly—and no one rebuked him for taking the stand once more—“ it is written that he must not rest until he has established the united elf empire.” The älf crossed his arms with the air of an official prosecutor. “As far as I am aware, any means at all are considered legitimate in pursuit of this aim. Do correct me, elf, should I have misremembered what is contained in the scriptures.”

  Phenîlas said nothing, but his facial muscles were twitching. He was under tremendous strain.

  Ireheart was beginning to doubt the wisdom of making his discovery so public. The important thing was to have all the kingdoms working together against the elves if the Naishïon was unable to dispel their concern. What was at stake—namely, the elves assuming supreme power in Girdlegard—was something nobody present could welcome.

  We won’t stand for that. Ireheart had to inform the dwarf kingdoms what had happened. In the north, in the Grey Mountains, Balyndis’ throne would be in jeopardy. They shan’t overcome us.

  At that point the young Sha’taï, frightened, slipped off her stool and sought Mallenia’s hand.

  The blonde queen of Idoslane smiled reassuringly. “Everything will be alright, my dear,” she said, standing to address the Council. “It looks as if Girdlegard may be at a crossroads. It is time to demand answers, both from the elves and from Natenian. But before we reconvene, let us reach out to each other and pray in silence to our gods that they may help us find a way out of our difficulties.” She looked at each member of the Council resol
utely. “We must continue to stand united at this critical time, when an enemy may soon be at our gates. Let us ask Vraccas, Palandiell, Sitalia and Samusin to be our guides.”

  Sha’taï reached for Natenian’s hand, Rodario took Astirma’s, and so on, round the table. The only one not included was the älf.

  With great reluctance Ireheart forced himself to stand and hold his neighbours’ hands.

  His skin started to crawl and tingle, a most unpleasant sensation. Am I the only one that can feel it? Has my hand gone to sleep? When he looked at the others he noted an inexplicable peacefulness in their faces. All the previous fury, outrage and suspicion seemed to have vanished. All the rulers were standing together harmoniously, their eyes closed.

  Ireheart was not prepared to consider the possibility of divine intervention. Coïra might have an explanation for what’s just occurred.

  But the maga remained unaccountably absent. Nobody else seemed concerned about that.

  It’ll be up to me and the dwarves to sort out this mess. Ireheart would have loved to grab himself a drink. There it was on the table, enticingly near. But he was stuck holding hands with the others. It always falls to us to sort the mess out.

  Take cloves and cinnamon

  and a pinch of pimento.

  Add honey and spices

  to taste,

  according to your palate.

  Boil up with water in a pot

  until reduced to an essence.

  Put a suitable amount in a tankard

  and fill up with strong black beer.

  Recipe for dwarf spiced beer (serve cold)

  IX

  Girdlegard

  United Kingdom of Gauragar-Idoslane

  Gauragar

  6492nd solar cycle, late summer

  It was a long time before Gosalyn, Hargorin and Beligata managed to make their way, under Tungdil’s leadership, through the crevices and hollows of the collapsed cave system and then up through the narrow passages to the open air.

  It was arduous. Dirt and sand combined with their sweat to form crusts on their skin and the dwarves all suffered discomfort: itching, grazes, blisters and rashes.

  Deathbringer’s leg injury was what held them back most, but the females also had various wounds that caused them to require frequent rest. They had little drinking water left and no food to speak of. All of these factors made the journey extremely difficult.

  As they passed they noted more cracks in the walls, as Tungdil had already pointed out. Several times they heard worrying subterranean rumblings, when some tunnel further back gave way and collapsed. They were slowly but surely leaving evil behind them.

  Vraccas took pity: when they finally emerged, at night, exhausted and emaciated, it was in a different place from where they had entered. There were no vicious thorn bushes awaiting them and no beasts ready to attack.

  They crawled out through the root system of a giant tree and found themselves in a blue-apple grove. They sheltered from the light rain under the trees. They were too tired to even wash off the dirt in the drizzle.

  Except for Tungdil. He seemed in better shape than the others. He lit a fire, gathered their drinking flasks and went off to collect the rainwater dripping from the foliage. He then brought the flasks back to the dwarves.

  Gosalyn watched him, too tired to do anything but wonder: Is it really him? She thought of Belogar and suppressed her tears. His death was so cruel and such a waste.

  By now the hero of Girdlegard was dressed only in a tattered linen tunic that exuded a pungent smell of sweat and various layers of dirt.

  He stepped out into the rain once more to gaze at the night sky, entranced, even though no stars were visible. He did not mind getting wet. On the contrary, he was glad to catch enough water in his hands to wash his disfigured face.

  Beligata undid Hargorin’s bandage and drew in her breath. “It’s infected.”

  “Who knows what that wretched black-eyes dosed his sword with,” growled the red-haired dwarf, squinting down at the wound. “It looks really bad. There’s a black line leading up from the injury.”

  “We need to get help quickly.” Gosalyn washed her face with water from her flask. She had lost weight with all the tribulations of the journey, as they all had. “I’m going to climb up and see where we are.” The others tried to talk her out of it but she was already halfway up the tree, despite the excruciating pain in her muscles. The branches and trunk were wet and slippery but she still managed to gain the top.

  The sky was cloudy. There was nothing to be seen except for dark woodland. No sign of lights or even a clearing. Without stars it was impossible for Gosalyn to get her bearings. They would have to wait till first light to decide which direction to take. But she did enjoy the feel of the rain on her skin, soaking the encrusted filth away.

  Climbing down she picked a few blue-apples to share with the others. The sharp, fresh taste would do them all good.

  She reached the ground just as Tungdil was distributing the water flasks he had refilled. The group perked up somewhat when she showed them the fruit she had gathered.

  “I’ll take first watch,” Tungdil announced, going to sit next to Hargorin. He no longer stank so badly, but his clothes were in urgent need of soap and a washboard. “You understand we’ll have to take your leg off if we can’t get you to a healer?”

  The veteran warrior nodded. “If it comes to that I’ll have a new leg made. Silver, I think. I might have to change my name, but I’d be able to kick a few skulls in successfully. Or at least take a door down,” he replied with black humour. The others laughed.

  “Why do you want to keep watch?” Beligata asked as she checked out her battered armour. “We should be safe from the elves and the beasts won’t have been able to follow us out here. The only way out of the passage was through that cave.”

  Tungdil smiled. Somehow that made his disfigured face look even worse. “Maybe it’s best if I just keep one eye open when everyone else has theirs shut.” He tapped the trunk. “You never know: a tree might fall on us.” He brushed his wet hair back with his hands and squeezed the rain out of his beard.

  He’s so glad to be alive now he’s out of Phondrasôn. Gosalyn was tired after climbing the tree. She could feel all her bones aching and her eyelids were heavy. But she still had so many questions she wanted to ask Tungdil. He, on the other hand, did not seem at all curious to know what had occurred during his long absence of two hundred and fifty cycles, wandering in the labyrinths of the underworld. He did not ask about the present state of affairs in Girdlegard.

  “Why didn’t you bring Bloodthirster with you?” she murmured sleepily.

  Tungdil was feeding the fire with twigs he had gathered from round the base of the tree. The fire crackled away merrily. Beligata and Hargorin were already asleep.

  “Because the weapon has no place in Girdlegard,” he replied with a smile. “It carries the evil of an Inextinguishable älf. I deemed it a triumph when I forged his sword anew and made it my own. But evil was still embodied in the metal. The same was true of the tionium armour I wore. It had a hold over me.” His voice grew quieter. “I am excluding everything that’s bad.”

  “What was the issue with the armour?”

  “It served me well and protected me. But when it was made it was decorated with älfar runes and imbued with harmful magic I no longer wish to make any use of.” Tungdil pulled off his soiled tunic and threw it outside the shelter of the branches. He sat only in his loin cloth. “I still stink as if I’d been swimming in the sewers.”

  Gosalyn made a face. “We’re none of us too fragrant.” If her eyes did not deceive her, Tungdil’s body was covered in scars: long ones from sword cuts, smaller ones from stab wounds or arrows. Some of the welts seemed be of an ornamental nature.

  Tungdil picked up a blue-apple, closing his eye as he took a bite. His face relaxed and he chewed with great attention.

  “Can’t get these in the demon land I’ve just escaped from, yo
u know,” he whispered. “Delicious. It tastes amazing. One could almost want to die, knowing there’ll never be anything better.”

  “There are many better things still to come,” she assured him. “What about the beer only the dwarves know how to brew?”

  He laughed warmly. “Oh, yes, that was one of the memories that helped to keep me alive.” He opened his eye. “I’m so looking forward to drinking a toast with my old friend Ireheart. To his new high office.” He took another bite. “The other Tungdil is dead, I understand?”

  She nodded. “He was killed with Keenfire.”

  “Who struck the blow?”

  “Kiras. A descendant of …” Gosalyn was finding it hard to keep her thoughts clear.

  “Of Sirka,” he said, sadness in his voice. “I have been away far too long. It was never my intention. My soul is tired and wants to find a place it can recuperate. Forgive my seemingly harsh attitude when we first met.” He saw she was fighting a yawn. “Go to sleep. We must make swift progress tomorrow. We need to find a healer or Hargorin will be getting that silver leg he joked about.”

  He raked the fire and watched the small branches crumple into the flames. The heat and the sound of the rain were sleep-inducing.

  Tungdil placed some larger logs on the fire. “I’ll keep watch, Gosalyn. I’ll watch over you and your friends. And soon, I hope, I’ll be keeping our homeland safe again.”

  “Will you do that?” she asked, hardly able to keep her eyes open. The fire crackled and sparks shot up towards the branches that were swaying gently in the rising heat.

  “As soon as my soul has rested and recovered. I shall.”

  Gosalyn slumped back against the apple tree trunk and fell into a deep slumber.

  She was woken by a half-stifled scream. She bolted up, grabbing her short axe.

  The sun was up but there was some early morning mist. Birds were singing and flying about. The fire was more or less out apart from glowing embers.