The Triumph of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  The small boot marks indisputably led northwards.

  “Get the ponies.” Hargorin turned around. “We can rest when we’ve caught up with this dwarf.”

  Girdlegard

  Elf realm of Ti Lesîndur

  6492nd solar cycle, winter

  Ireheart would have had every reason to be content following the meeting of the high kings. Elves, humans and dwarves were at last on the same page. They had unity, save for a few details. It was so complete that the dwarf wondered how there had been discord and strife for so many tens and hundreds of cycles in the past. But he was still unsettled. If only that brat weren’t involved.

  Ireheart was sitting in front of the ruler’s palace wrapped in a warm coat, inhaling the sharp cold air. He had finished the pipe he had been smoking.

  This orbit the other crowned heads were due to arrive in Barrenbrig to discuss what contribution each kingdom should make. And all this hammering, sawing and banging. I could do without it. The elves were hard at work: masons, carpenters, and painters were transforming the town to their own taste. How about a bit of peace and quiet? I need to think.

  He picked up his crow’s beak and went back inside the wooden building, strolling through the corridors to find a place that was less noisy. And a beer would be nice.

  There were no guards to stop him exploring. If he met any servants, they unfailingly asked if he needed any help. The whole place smelled of incense. There were pots of sand in the niches with fragrant sticks burning. As the smoke drifted it seemed to form runes in the air like a constant blessing. Chimes tinkled.

  But he could still hear the construction noises: thud, crash, bang.

  I wonder if they’ve put in a cellar? He walked to where he thought the stairs might be. I’m sure to find a beer down there.

  But the stairs led up, not down. All the steps in the entire place went up, not down. He took them anyway. A short while later he arrived at the entrance to a steel chamber with a complicated lock. He was filled with curiosity. The runes engraved on the doors did not help him at all.

  I didn’t know elves stored treasure. Ireheart took a look around him. There were no guards and he could not hear any footsteps. Vraccas, would you like me to have a look?

  He placed his calloused hand on the door. Steel. Cold. No alarm sounded.

  It may turn out to be the Naishïon’s privy. Ireheart laughed to himself. If so, I’m sure as High King I’ve every right to put my fat behind on it. It would not make a very good excuse should he be found, but he was not going to miss this opportunity.

  He looked at the lock and tapped the walls and door, examining the hinges. Ireheart was full of admiration for the metalwork but thought it badly mounted. He found the weak places in the joins and the closing mechanism. His people were better than anyone else at this sort of thing. He knew Freeling dwarves would occasionally work for outlaw bands, using their knowledge, instincts and specialised tools to break open the locks of rich humans’ safes and treasure boxes. Ireheart himself punished any Freeling caught at such an activity.

  But right now I could use one of those guys. He thought Beligata might be able to help, but she was away on a mission. I’ll have a go myself. He took a metal fastening and bent it to shape; he used this and his dagger. Here I am, High King of all the Children of the Smith. Steel will obey me. He poked around in the lock mechanism, sweating with effort and cursing under his breath, but persisting with his endeavours. Suddenly there was a loud clunk.

  “Aha!” he exclaimed.

  A series of clicks ensued and then a low grinding sound set in. Bolts snapped back and the metal door started to open before him. In the nick of time he caught an elf’s voice through the opening crack.

  Someone’s coming out. He looked at the piece of bent metal with a grin. And there was I thinking I’d had a brainwave and cracked it.

  He moved swiftly behind the angle of the opening door where he would not be seen.

  Ataimînas stormed out of the chamber, wiping his hands on a linen cloth that he discarded; the door began to close automatically behind him.

  Thanks, Vraccas. You will have known what you were doing just now. Ireheart forced himself into the narrow aperture, slipping off his coat to get through. Otherwise he would have stuck fast, squashed like a grape.

  He found himself in a dimly lit room whose walls were lined with small drawers and lockers. It looked at first glance like a huge reinforced safe, but then Ireheart realised it was a prison cell. A naked elf was chained to the floor, his body covered with cuts, some of which were freshly inflicted and bleeding.

  But when Ireheart saw the fury lines on the face, he knew he was wrong. This was in fact an älf, even though the eyes were white. An älf, of course.

  The captive looked up in astonishment. “A rock-grubber,” he said, settling into a less uncomfortable position, the chains clanking as he moved. “So you are working with the elves nowadays? Ataimînas bored of torturing and he’s sent you in his place?” Then it dawned on the shackled älf. “Or have you broken in? Thought you’d find elf treasure, did you, you greedy mountain maggot?”

  The door slammed shut and the bolts closed.

  Ireheart would have to put his mind to finding how to get out later. For the present he was too intrigued by what he had found. “Don’t expect any sympathy from me.”

  “Then give me a swift death!” The älf proffered his bared throat. “Go on, strike me.”

  The High King laughed at him. “As far as I’m concerned, you can go on being tortured for all eternity.” He looked at the little drawers as if their contents were of more interest to him than the prisoner, which was understandably not true.

  The Naishïon had never mentioned the existence of this älf. There must be a reason for keeping it quiet and it couldn’t merely be the pleasure of clandestine torturing. The fact there was a secret room at all spoke volumes.

  Do the black-eyes have an aristocracy? But even that was no reason for keeping him hostage. There was no point negotiating with älfar.

  “Kill me,” whispered the älf.

  “What would I get from that?”

  “I can tell you secrets first.”

  “Of course you could.” Ireheart snorted with disgust. “A black-eyes who wants to die and who speaks the truth.”

  The älf hissed furiously and laid his head on the ground, staring at the ceiling. “Then in that case I shan’t tell you about the prophecy.”

  Now Ireheart had to laugh. “That’s a cheap trick you’re trying.”

  “Let’s make a deal where neither of us will lose or win.” The älf’s voice was quiet but insistent. “I’ll tell you about the prophecy and you can challenge Ataimînas on it. He won’t like it one jot.” He smiled. “A secret as well-guarded as everything else in this room.”

  “But I’m in here.”

  “That’s true.” The älf grinned. “I’d love the door to open now for the Naishïon to come in.”

  “So he can enjoy looking at your face.”

  “Yes. Because then he’d have to kill you to keep his secret safe.” He drew a rattling breath. “Whoever you are, mountain maggot, he’d kill you. Then war would break out between the grubbers and the pointy-ears and that would be a joy to me.” He gave a pained laugh. “Go on, off you go and ask Ataimînas. I’d ask you to draw a picture of the face he makes so I can see it, but with your fat dwarf fingers you’d never be able to do it.”

  Malice is one of the strongest weapons in the black-eyes’ arsenal. But then again, there might be something to it.

  Ireheart checked the rows of drawer handles and lockers but could not read the labels. “What’s in them?”

  The älf shrugged. “Ask Ataimînas. He brought the chamber with him.” The älf seemed to be thinking. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “And why should I? Lies do more damage than any weapon.”

  “The truth is deadlier than any lie.” The älf laughed, with difficulty. “The truth, and this mi
ght sound strange, kills trust. Try it yourself. Always speak the truth and people will hate you for it.” His breath was shallow and quick. He was not in good health. “Will you swear to ask Ataimînas about the prophecy?”

  Ireheart laughed and shouldered the crow’s beak.

  The älf looked at him. “Do you know how to get out of here?”

  Ireheart had already observed that there were no handles or knobs or signs for operating the door mechanism. “I’ll find a way.”

  “Ataimînas will find you first. And then you’ll never be seen again.” The älf shut his eyes. “But I know what to do,” he said with a joyless smile. “That means I hold the key to your life. Isn’t that ironic? Here I am, in chains and your sworn enemy. But you need me.”

  Ireheart chose to ignore him. He tapped the walls but the sounds gave him no clues. He did not like the situation at all. And he suddenly felt thirsty.

  Extremely thirsty.

  His heart started pounding and the blood rushed through his arteries. With every breath he took, the steel chamber seemed to shrink in size and with it the amount of available air.

  “Do let me know when I can help you. Despite the chains,” the prisoner mocked.

  Ireheart intensified his search for the opening mechanism, his movements clumsier now and more frantic. He was exhausting his reserves of strength and getting nowhere. The feeling of unease was overwhelming and the onset of a raging fury announced itself.

  He tightened his hold on the handle of the crow’s beak. It’s no use to me. The steel is too thick. But maybe there’ll be something in one of the strongboxes that’ll help me get out.

  “I’m starting to feel sorry for you,” said the älf with a laugh. “I’ll tell you the place you have to press to open the door. But first”—he looked him in the eye—“listen to part of the prophecy.”

  “No.”

  But the captive was already speaking:

  In the new empire

  My untainted children

  Will live in harmony

  With their purified brother-killers

  And behold,

  A new era shall dawn

  Ireheart was too late in putting his fingers in his ears and then felt foolish, so he stopped.

  “And that’s supposed to be important?” He would have liked to smash the älf’s head in for making him listen to those lines. I’m not going to do him that favour. In exasperation, he ran his hands through his hair where his scalp was itching. I’ve got to get out of here! At once!

  “Second symbol on the left in front of you. Looks like a tripartite moon over a pond.” The älf shut his eyes.

  Ireheart could not take the confined space any longer. He tried the symbol. The heavy door slid open to let the dwarf out. He stepped outside, drawing a deep breath and looked at the prisoner, motionless now on the floor.

  Freedom!

  The door swung shut and the bolts snapped into place again. Ireheart would have loved to know how the whole thing was constructed.

  Prophecy. He exhaled, picked up his coat and left. He just made that all up, to … But as he marched through the palace, he could not think of any reason at all why the älf would have made it up.

  At last Ireheart located a door from which an enticing smell of food came. Beer would not be far away. When I’ve a mug or three I’ll be able to think more clearly.

  Ireheart had found more than four mugs and then settled down for a little nap to help him think about things. As soon as he woke up he found a courier standing in front of him. He was from the Grey Mountains and must have ridden like a demon to reach Barrenbrig.

  He had with him a report from Balyndar about progress on the fortifications and the new weaponry at the Stone Gateway. And there was also a message from whoever was sending the ghaists out. The threatening lines demanding Sha’taï be handed over were enough to sober the High King instantly.

  I knew she was trouble! Ireheart was more concerned about how the letter’s author in the Outer Lands knew what was happening in Girdlegard. A ghaist loose in the Fifthling kingdom. That will mean losses for the tribe before Balyndar manages to destroy it.

  He ordered a generous portion of goulash but did not ask for an extra beer. He choose instead a stimulating herbal mixture to help shake off the mists in his mind before the forthcoming talks. There was nothing for it: he would have to broach the matter in the hope of averting harm to Girdlegard. Even though the humans would reject out of hand the demand for the girl or her dead body to be surrendered and the elves would probably do the same.

  And what about me? Ireheart found he was leaning toward sacrificing Sha’taï, though there was no certainty the anonymous threat would be followed up.

  It might be that the author of the message wanted to gain more magic power. Perhaps he needed the girl for a ritual or a special spell, or maybe there were difficult inheritance squabbles that would be laid to rest if she were dead.

  Well then. Ireheart took the last mouthful and scraped his bowl. It’s going to be some picnic, these talks.

  Wiping his beard and combing his hair in front of the mirror, he considered his appearance. Worrying is giving me wrinkles. Wish I could shave the sides of my hair and be a simple warrior again. Like before. The office of High King made huge demands. “Oink, oink,” he murmured. “What a long time ago.”

  Ireheart gave himself a shake and turned back towards the assembly hall, taking three of his own warriors with him as usual. With the exception of Rodario, all the powerful figures of Girdlegard were already gathered there. Dirisa and Ataimînas were talking and Isikor was reading through a pile of papers and making notes that he then handed to Astirma to skim through. Today Astirma was wearing simple clothing; there was nobody that needed impressing.

  Mallenia, in armour, beckoned Ireheart to her side. “Any news of Coïra?”

  Ireheart kept his face immobile. “She’s not been seen in our kingdoms searching for magic sources. Why do you ask?”

  “Since leaving elf territory she hasn’t been heard of. I got a message from home.” The blonde Idoslane leader turned away from the others and lowered her voice. “The captain of a unit that patrols the Toboribor area reported finding bodies in the ruins of an old orc fortress: three women, all slain by älfar arrows, and an älf whose throat had been slit.”

  “Oh.” Ireheart had to suppress a desire to belch. It would have been unseemly to cover the queen of the double state in a cloud of goulash and beer fumes.

  “A group of dwarves had previously entered the area saying they were on the lookout for Carmondai. They wanted the bounty money.” Mallenia gave him a stony stare. “One of the group was recognised: Hargorin Deathbringer. Can you tell me, High King, what the ruler of the Thirdlings was doing in Idoslane? I am sure you know the answer.”

  Why bother to lie? “I sent him and a trusty band out to search for the maga.”

  “So why didn’t they say that was why they were there?”

  “They didn’t want any rumours going round.”

  Mallenia fell silent for a few heartbeats. “Why did the murderer get his throat cut?”

  “To kill him, perhaps?” Ireheart suggested with a grin.

  “Your dwarves would have hacked him to pieces. This injury was carried out with sophistication.” Mallenia’s stare became even more intense. “It sounds like the work of Carmondai.”

  This genuinely surprised Ireheart. “You think he’s travelling with them?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Ireheart did not know what to make of this.

  In the meantime, Rodario and Sha’taï had arrived. The former actor had not wanted to miss an opportunity for flamboyant dress: his colourful robes would have put a summer flower meadow to shame. The girl, on the other hand, was wearing a simple, deep pink dress.

  The assembled members of the council seemed to be waiting for Mallenia and Ireheart to stop chattering so that the talks could begin.

  Look at that showman too long and it’ll make your
eyes go all funny. Ireheart shook himself. “Take an älf with them? I can’t imagine they’d do that. And why would he have killed an assassin of his own race? Wouldn’t it have been more likely that they’d have got together and wiped my dwarves out?”

  “The old älf knows many Girdlegard secrets. Tion and Samusin alone know what he’s up to.” Mallenia bent down to speak quietly. “If something happens to Coïra and your dwarves are involved in any way, Rodario will go crazy. He won’t be answerable for his actions. Make sure things don’t get to that point.” She placed her hand on his shoulder, before sweeping past him to take her seat.

  But Rodario’s always doing stupid things. How’s it going to get any worse? Ireheart was still amazed at what he had heard. He went over to his special chair, so lost in thought that he missed the start of the Naishïon’s opening speech. He was wondering if Mallenia could be right.

  The assembly first addressed the question of which kingdom would take on what responsibility in the interests of the community as a whole in order to strengthen Girdlegard. There were a few intelligent proposals: in case of outside threat, new strongholds and fortified towns should be run jointly with multi-racial garrisons on standby. More famuli, male and female, should be trained and troops held in reserve.

  Families should be settled in remote, underpopulated areas, to work on clearing the land and preparing it for agriculture, in the expectation that they would no longer be forced to rely on Tabaîn as their sole source of grain. A large project was mooted for Urgon, and in Sangpûr the plan was to double the number of irrigation channels.

  Ireheart only half-followed the enthusiastic debate. His own people had enough of a task protecting the place. No time left to go off clearing forests or levelling hills. And then there was this news from the Grey Mountains. The message was burning a hole in his pocket.

  “How much can the dwarf mines supply in the way of ore?” This was Ataimînas’ question to Ireheart.