The Triumph of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  “I expect … I can find out,” Ireheart said cautiously. “Why?”

  “If I can work out what ingredients he and the älfar used to distil the älf blood and alter its composition, I can make an antidote.” The scholar gave a slight nod. “It shouldn’t be difficult. I’ve learned a lot. Perhaps I can use it to help free you from that burden.”

  Ireheart’s joy was short-lived and suspicion surged in to take its place. How do I know I can trust him? He could give me anything he likes.

  “I’ll look into it,” was his non-committal response.

  “I’m at your service. Thank you for confiding in me.” He pointed at the weapon lying under the chair. “And get rid of that. Once and for all.”

  “While we’re dispensing advice: tell me what you think about the elves.”

  “I’d need to know more.” Tungdil bent forward, elbows on knees, folding his scar-ravaged hands with their faded tattoos. “I assume there’s a specific issue?”

  Ireheart nodded and related what he had learned about events in Tabaîn, explaining that the elves were in the process of forming a united empire from their three previously separate realms. “Their ruler is pushing the idea with vigour and there are several camps of pointy-eared would-be immigrants outside Girdlegard’s gates, begging to be admitted.”

  “How many?”

  “There are ten thousand already in with us and about four thousand waiting outside for admittance. I’ve sent a messenger to Ataimînas to inform him about the phial with eye-white.”

  “Good. Until the eye business has been investigated, I would suggest keeping the gates closed and avoiding any contact,” he said after due reflection. “The tincture you describe sounds like älfar work, true enough. It will cause unrest among the elves. Their supreme ruler must at all costs establish how many disguised mortal enemies he has in his ranks. He would never admit it but I expect he is secretly relieved that you are refusing entry to newcomers.”

  Ireheart scratched his initials into the surface of the table with his nail. “And what they’re up to in Tabaîn?”

  “Let them sort it out for themselves. Remember how strong the dwarves are: we hold the gates and we’ll take up arms if Girdlegard is in danger.” Tungdil adjusted his eye patch. “You might find all this commotion blows over quickly.”

  Ireheart gazed at him in astonishment. “Killing the heir to the throne … you call that a commotion?”

  “These events don’t impinge on Girdlegard as a whole, do they? Hold back. See what happens and don’t get involved.” He sat up. “Pay heed to the gates. The elves on the outside, if they’re forced to wait, will move heaven and earth to find a way to get in. And any disguised älfar will be the first to try it.” He got up wearily. “My bed is calling, if you can save your other questions for tomorrow. And Hargorin wants me to make some improvements to his new leg.”

  “You’ll think of something, Scholar.”

  He smiled. “Has our wild young thing of a Beligata ever told you how she got her scar?”

  “Never.”

  “I see.” Tungdil turned and went over to the stairs. They had given him a room in the attic so that he wouldn’t be in close contact with the other dwarves in the barn, seeing that his background had not been verified.

  I see. Is that all? Ireheart was about to follow him but forced himself not to. It was vital not to leave Bloodthirster unsupervised. He would not put it past Beligata to snatch it back if an opportunity arose.

  The flames crackled and flickered in the fireplace and attracted Ireheart’s attention again. There was much he had heard that needed thinking through, from the zhadár’s laboratory to the scar and the advice to steer clear of events in Tabaîn.

  If only there were someone I could ask about the Scholar’s magical powers.

  He got Heidor to bring him another beer. He wasn’t going to stop drinking as long as alcohol reliably held his wild rages in check. It might be harmful in the long term but it was essential for now.

  He urgently needed to speak to Coïra, but nobody knew where the maga currently was. There had been no signs of life apart from the letter Ilahín had read out to the assembled monarchs.

  Ireheart raised his head and saw Hargorin talking to Gosalyn and Beligata. They have all been part of a small miracle, even if the Scholar did find his own way to the surface. He drank some more of the ice-cold beer; no matter how much he drank, it never tasted any better. He got to his feet and walked over to their table. A small miracle. I could do with one of them.

  Girdlegard

  Grey Mountains

  Kingdom of the Fifthling dwarves

  Stone Gateway

  6492nd solar cycle, autumn

  Balyndar muttered a curse as he paced along the broad battlements of the right-hand section of the gate. He peered into the grey. It was coming closer and closer to the gate, which was now securely shut. Vraccas, use your divine bellows and blow this fog away.

  He was accompanied by the silent figure of Girgandor Summitstormer, his second in command. The two dwarves were similar in stature but Girgandor had shaved his head and had a long blond beard reaching to his middle; with its occasional black strands and woven braids, it was a work of art.

  The heavy mist had not budged, despite the wind and the sun above the fortress walls peeking through the grey cloud like a yellow ball.

  Every five paces he encountered the next guard posted on the walls. They were all listening out for trouble. Great caution was the order of the day but there was no panic or fear.

  Balyndis had taken the unusual step of issuing a command to bring wild ravine wolves to the fortress. These animals with their thick, brown pelts had a fantastic sense of smell; they could catch the scent of any enemy ages before the soldiers spied anything untoward. They would not miss a thing.

  The wolves lay in their cages, gnawing at bits of bone.

  With the beginning of autumn, temperatures in the Grey Mountains fell sharply, so guards and commander wore thick coats and animal furs over their chainmail. The fog settled on the armour, collecting in transparent droplets.

  Now Balyndar cast his eyes over the rows of defensive equipment standing ready for use. “Wonderful machines,” Girgandor commented. “It’s difficult not to give in to the desire to let off a trial shot or a flare.”

  The catapults had been loaded with petrol bombs, as the High King had commanded. The thin leather skins could be filled in seconds from the open barrels, then set on fire and sent off. Since they now knew how to defeat the ghaist, the crew on duty were not particularly apprehensive about the possibility of it turning up again.

  “Not a bad idea.” Balyndar was less enthusiastic about the thick curtain of fog filling the ravine and spreading to nearly fifty paces from the gate itself. It was not just that the eye couldn’t penetrate the mist; it also deadened the sound of any noise an enemy might give off.

  Fifty paces was also too short a distance for the powerful catapults with their petrol-bomb projectiles. The dwarf craftsmen and researchers had already created some weapons that could send fire in a straight line for this eventuality; they had come up with a throwing device that used earthenware pots. It was similar to a catapult sending shot, but the items to be hurled at the enemy were burning porous containers that would burst on impact, letting the petrol spread and ignite. The weapon with its eight-pace-long adjustable barrel was specially designed to be able to shoot downwards.

  Balyndar came to a standstill, running his hands over the machine and pointing it towards the Gateway. I have no objections to the quiet. All we need now is for the fog to disappear. “Let’s load one up. We’ll see if we can drive away fog with fire.”

  Girgandor was thrilled and shouted for the team to come over.

  Questions had cropped up after Queen Balyndis’ report was read out in Council, particularly from the elves. A few orbits previously a delegate from Lesinteïl had turned up but after they had shown him that there were no elves there, he disappeared, t
o report back to his ruler. None of the Fifthlings had told him the elves had not been allowed through in their greatest need. There would have been no point.

  Girgandor and Balyndar watched the automated pulley load the catapult’s counterweight system with an earthenware vessel the size of a dwarf’s torso. There was a soaked lint wick at the top and the whole pot had a coating of flammable seeds to ensure it would catch even if the fuse were lost. The speed of trajectory flight would never manage to extinguish both sources. A whole magazine of these projectiles waited at the foot of the catapult, so it was possible to keep up a near constant barrage.

  “What about the ‘dragons’?” asked Balyndar. “Are their wings mature enough?”

  “Not yet. But they’re being well-looked-after and they’re coming along splendidly,” Girgandor replied. “They’ll be a majestic sight when they take off in our defence.”

  Balyndar tucked his hands into his belt. “Magnificent.”

  From the right-hand tower a lightly armoured dwarf came running up with a leather roll in his hand. “A message from the queen,” he panted, hand outstretched as if running a relay race along the ramparts.

  “Must be important, if you’re in such a rush.” Balyndar opened the container and extracted a paper bearing his mother’s handwriting. A brief scan of the contents was enough to explain the urgency.

  “Hold your fire,” Girgandor told the catapult crew. “I want you to enjoy the spectacle, Balyndar. Has the queen sent new orders?”

  “It’s new information.” Balyndar was at a loss to understand what had got into the powers that be. What was happening in Girdlegard? “Imagine! Mallenia has handed over parts of Gauragar to the elves!”

  “Handed over as in given away?”

  “I think so.”

  Balyndar took out a second sheet with a sketch map depicting the new borders. “Under the Naishïon’s rule, the elves’ grand empire stretches right up to our Grey Mountains.”

  Girgandor studied the map and grimaced. “Looks like Tabaîn’s done the same.” Parting the decorative curtain of his blond beard, he scratched his chin. “If I’ve got this right, the queen of Idoslane has voluntarily given away half of Gauragar. Her people won’t be best pleased.”

  Balyndar scanned the letter for any mention of what was to happen to the human residents of these territories now they were to live under an elf regime. “They’ll have to pay levies or else they’ll have to go.”

  “If I know the pointy-ears, they’ll want exclusive rights to the land.” Girgandor shook his head, unable to understand. “And Council allowed it?”

  “Apparently the monarchs are all of one mind. I suppose it oughtn’t to affect us if they choose to give their land away.”

  “What can have been the price? Even a gift has some kind of a price. An invisible one that everyone will come to feel.”

  “If you have the elves for allies you have nothing to fear. That’s what Mallenia and Dirisa will have thought.” Balyndar rolled up the papers and replaced them. “But old friends would surely be more important.”

  “We can’t really call ourselves their friends.” Girgandor raised his head, noticing a change in the wind. It was switching from south to north. “We stayed true to our god Vraccas and fulfilled the task he gave us.”

  “And don’t we live in peace and harmony with the humans as a result?” Balyndar thought his deputy was being simplistic. “Let’s wait and see what these changes will involve. Perhaps Girdlegard will benefit from them and flourish as never before.”

  “I still see this as a cleverly-disguised occupation. What the Perished Land, the älfar, the monsters and demons couldn’t do, the pointy-ears have managed: they’ve inveigled their way in under the blanket of friendship.” Girgandor gave the signal to light the fuse in the amphora. “Vraccas seems to have turned his bellows on that damned fog, so let’s see what kind of a range our new catapults have got.”

  Balyndar dismissed the messenger. There was no need to send an acknowledgement. “I really hope this takeover of land in Tabaîn and Gauragar can be effected without some kind of revolt from the settled inhabitants.”

  “The elves are clever. They’ll be handing out glass beads and wine; the natives will grin and leave the fields their ancestors ploughed, thinking they’ve done well out of it.” Girgandor had the barrel set almost perpendicular, as if the projectile was intended to send a new small sun into the firmament. “Ready when you are, Balyndar.”

  He trained his brown eyes on the retreating strands of fog which were being driven back by the gusts of wind. Now you could see for seventy paces. “Fire.”

  The catch was released and the tensed wire propelled the sledge with its fiery cargo through the iron tunnel and up and out. The earthenware vessel hissed and sparked on its way, flying into the mist and beyond.

  Balyndar and Girgandor listened out for the impact, waiting for a burst of flames. Nothing.

  Disappointing.

  “Maybe it broke up in mid-air,” suggested Balyndar, but one of the crew vehemently dismissed the possibility. They had calculated the strength of the wind exactly.

  Girgandor reacted pragmatically. “Reload. Fire when ready. And I want absolute silence.”

  In a few blinks of an eye the second projectile was underway, flying between the parapet’s crenellations above the great gate, to pierce the fog that was now eighty paces away.

  The guards were stock still, listening intently for the impact.

  Again, nothing. No crash, no shattered pottery, no burst of flame.

  “Is it the fog?” Balyndar leaned over the battlements, turning his head right and left to pick up any sound. “Come on, Vraccas, send us a wind straight from your forge. Get rid of this mist for us,” he muttered, extremely concerned by now.

  “Look!” Girgandor pointed down.

  Balyndar looked over at the Stone Gateway.

  Two lights were floating across at head height in the swirling fog. Then the outline appeared of two naked, muscular arms, carrying the two amphorae. The next thing to emerge was the torso in a brown leather reinforced doublet, then the booted legs, and finally the white runes on the polished copper helmet that covered head and face.

  He’s caught them! Balyndar screamed out the order to stand by all the catapults. Alarm bugles sounded and bells clanged. From all sides came the sound of running feet and the clanking of chains.

  Girgandor went round urging his troops to their stations and encouraging them to work more swiftly.

  Balyndar looked at the ghaist, which was standing motionless, flaming earthenware vessels in its hands. As a magic being, composed of banned souls and a powerful spell, no pain could reach it.

  “Don’t shoot,” Balyndar called. “Not till I say.”

  “Why not?” Girgandor came over to his side, not understanding. “We won’t get a better sighting of the target.”

  “It’s going to hurl those fire pots and I want to know how far it can throw.” Balyndar wanted to know as much as possible about their adversary before destroying it with tremendous heat. “It’s clearly not afraid of fire.”

  “As long as the copper helmet doesn’t melt it can stand there for orbit after orbit like a lighthouse at our gates,” Girgandor laughed. “Not a bad addition to the overall look of the fortress, don’t you think? We should keep it there.”

  “It’s not just standing there.” Balyndar suddenly realised what was happening. “It’s signalling!”

  The wind blew the remains of the fog further back—to reveal legs, bodies and heads belonging to the most incredible mixture of creatures. Like a curtain, the mist drew back from the army that had assembled on the thirty-pace-broad approach road.

  The majority of the throng on the gateway path seemed to be humans but there were also beasts that would normally have eaten them. Orcs of various builds, two ogres and other monsters from Tion’s realm all waited silently, eyes fixed on the fortifications.

  “Only a few thousand.” He heard Gir
gandor’s confident guess. “A random collection of fighters. We’ll soon see them off. It’ll be a quick blood bath.”

  They don’t have any battering rams or siege ladders and they’re not carrying ropes. Balyndar wondered what their intention could be. They would never climb the smooth surface of the granite gates with hands and feet alone. Very few of them seemed to be armoured and armed. What’ve they got up their sleeves? He stared into the lifting mist with great concentration. Are they waiting for siege towers to arrive? Even then he was at a loss to work out how they planned to attack. The Children of Vraccas here at the fortress had never been faced by so ill-prepared an onslaught.

  Are they undead, perhaps? Balyndar couldn’t work it out, but he felt that his people had all the right equipment to repel the attack. He did not, however, want to count his chickens before they were hatched.

  As the mist drew away from the army, it was clear that the column stretched back along the road between the mountains.

  And back.

  And back.

  Several thousand, standing densely packed on the road. Not moving. Silent.

  The breeze played with the flags on the battlements, making the fabric rustle. That was all you could hear.

  In spite of himself, Balyndar felt a shudder go down his spine when he confronted those impassive faces. I shall have to recalculate. “They’re packed in so tightly. Every time a fire bomb or a catapulted boulder hits home, it’ll kill hundreds of them,” he said to Girgandor.

  The sun shone down on the poorly assorted throng, showing the dwarves they had no reason to be worried. Not even the sheer weight of numbers ought to be a problem.

  “That should save us ammunition,” the dwarf replied drily. “And we—”

  Without any discernible signal from the ghaist, the mass of soldiers started to move. They stormed along in silence, skirting round their copper-helmeted leader. If anyone collided with the magic being by mistake, he was thrown back or squashed against it by the rest of the crowd, then trampled mercilessly under the boots of his fellow-fighters.