The Triumph of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

A creature like Djeru˚n. “No, don’t! It won’t hurt us!” Tungdil shouted, seeing Hargorin punched by the armoured gauntlet and thumped back against the wall.

  “I am made of stone.” The red-bearded dwarf picked up his long-handled axe with a growl and answered the attack. “Try my steel!”

  Gosalyn jumped to his side.

  Beligata appeared in the corridor behind him, her double axe raised to strike against the armoured figure’s knees. “And mine!”

  Their adversary kicked back, hitting the dark-haired dwarf-woman in the chest, face and neck. She was hurled backwards into the tunnel, then, half-stunned, she turned over on to her front to clamber back on to her feet, pulling herself up with the help of a boulder.

  Parried with a steel war-club, Hargorin’s wood-handled axe snapped off under the impact.

  Gosalyn’s hand axe met the foe’s armour-clad hip, making a dent in the metal. The creature snorted and replied with a kick the dwarf-woman managed to dodge—only for her to fall victim to the end of the war club. The blunt end struck her on the left shoulder, causing her to collide with Tungdil, who had been about to thrust himself between the combatants with arms outstretched.

  “The acront is not our enemy,” he shouted to Hargorin urgently. “He’s jumping to the wrong conclusion because we have an älf with us.”

  “I know that.” The red-bearded dwarf ducked under his opponent’s weapon which then struck the wall, breaking a piece of rock off as easily as if it were constructed of plaster. “But how’s he going to get the picture? They don’t speak our language.”

  A deep rumbling sound ensued that had nothing to do with the raging storm. The beam of purple light from the helmet eye-slits seemed to want to root the dwarves to the very spot they stood on. Tungdil recalled the same effect the Djeru˚n had had on monsters, and remembered how they had fled in terror.

  Even though the main motive of an acront was to hound and destroy evil, it would clear any hindrance from its path. In the present situation that unfortunately meant the dwarves.

  Beligata had got unsteadily to her feet and bent down to get her double axe. She cast her cloak aside because it was hampering her movements. “Enough is enough,” she said, speaking with difficulty because of her split lip. She drew a rasping breath and held her side; ribs appeared to be fractured. “I’ll get him out of that armour.”

  “What else?” Hargorin took a hand axe from his belt. Compared to the war-club the giant adversary was wielding, which was the size and weight of a full-grown dwarf, this seemed faintly ridiculous.

  Before Tungdil could answer, steel fingers had grabbed Gosalyn’s skull in a headlock.

  She yelled and hacked at the arm but the only effect was that her blade was damaged. Her helmet was squashed out of shape and the inlaid pattern pieces fell onto fur and floor.

  “Let go of her!” Beligata shouted, reeling towards them.

  The acront whirled round, going down on one knee and sweeping his club at her sideways; there was a faint sound of his flexible metal armour creaking. Beligata managed to fend off the blow but was sent flying backwards. The enemy held her pinned against the wall; she was powerless to move or to harm the acront.

  I have no choice. “Get down!” Tungdil ordered Hargorin, who was about to launch a senseless attack.

  Without questioning, Hargorin dropped to his knees. Tungdil took a run, used the crouching dwarf as a ramp and flew through the air, short knife in his hand.

  He landed on the back of the acront, placed one hand round its visor and with the other hand inserted the sharp point between the giant’s helmet and the throat.

  But he did not press the blade home, leaving it as a deadly threat. Let’s hope he gets the message.

  The acront froze into the statue of a warrior, snarling; the purple light dimmed and died.

  Increasing the pressure on the knife-blade, Tungdil could not help a silent laugh. So I’ve brought him down with an apple-peeler.

  The steel-gauntleted fingers slowly released Gosalyn’s head.

  She fell half a pace to the floor, wrenched the twisted helmet off her peat-brown hair and collapsed to the ground, blood oozing out of cuts on her head caused by the broken metal.

  Hargorin hurried over to see to her injuries.

  Then the acront took away the war-club that had held Beligata against the rock wall. The young dwarf-woman dropped her double axe; she slipped to the ground, holding her side. Her shuddering breath came like that of someone drowning. She kept pointing at the acront but forming words was beyond her.

  “He won’t hurt us now.” Tungdil wracked his brain for a means of practical communication. The languages he had picked up in Phondrasôn would be of little use and if he fell back on the älfar tongue he feared it would only inspire more violence. Shall I try in elvish?

  Their adversary put down his club and seemed to be waiting to see what the dwarf on his shoulder would do next.

  “She’s in a bad way,” he heard a worried Hargorin say. “I think her skull is fractured.”

  Tungdil looked over at Beligata whose arm was still raised. “Acronta,” she gasped, coughing.

  Violet light fell on Tungdil from behind. The rumblings behind him made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in fear. Acronta. That was the plural form.

  The hard sideways swipe came from diagonally above him, meeting and snapping his collarbone. He felt the blood run warm. His arm and fingers became useless. He was brushed off the acront’s back as easily as a fly might be swatted.

  With his good arm he attempted to grab hold of something but he slid down the armour and came crashing face-first to the stony floor of the cave.

  He could taste blood and his teeth were in bad shape. He sank down, all the strength gone out of him. He lost consciousness.

  After the Triplets had left, handing him a recipe for the potion that was supposed to endow him with great strength, he began the search for an empire of his own.

  For he thought he belonged to these regions and he intended to subjugate the place.

  He looked for mercenaries, gave them riches in abundance and bound them to himself with threats. They in their turn made plans. They conspired to kill him.

  They stayed loyal to each other as long as things went well.

  One cave after another fell to Tungdil, who had forgotten his origins: he had forgotten that he was a Child of the Smith.

  Secret notes for

  The Writings of Truth

  written under duress by Carmondai

  XXI

  Somewhere in the Outer Lands

  Tungdil awoke to the sensation of the ground moving beneath him. With his senses not fully functioning yet, he assumed he was imagining it.

  He had more certainty about the condition of his hands, which were tied together behind his back. They were tethered to his right ankle somehow. A blindfold cut into the bridge of his nose.

  He concentrated on taking deep breaths and waited to feel pain. Surely my shoulder should be hurting? He remembered being struck and hearing the collarbone go. But, strangely, he found he could wriggle arm and shoulder joint without any soreness. It was only the fetters restricting his movements.

  Odd. Either he had been dosed with a pain-deadener or magic treatment had been given—but it was the first he had heard of acronta using the magic arts. Andôkai the Tempestuous would never have kept Djeru˚n as a bodyguard if that had been the case.

  Tungdil felt around on the ground. It felt cold. Cold and metallic.

  Sitting up as well as he could, he swivelled round on the seat of his breeches to stretch his legs out. It must be a relatively large space.

  The slight rolling motion had not ceased. The ground wobbled from time to time, but it did not feel like being on a boat. Is it a sledge of some kind? With his eyes bound he had no idea of his surroundings except for the sensation of clean, warm air. There was rough fabric covering him instead of the furs and cloak he had been wearing. “Where am I?” he whispered.

/>   “Here.” This was Hargorin’s voice, coming from nearby. “We’re in some kind of a shed on a sledge, I think.”

  “How long have we been here?”

  “I’ve only just woken up myself.”

  They were interrupted by a groan. Gosalyn, sounding bewildered, asked, “Where are you both? I’ve got a blindfold on.”

  “So’ve we,” Tungdil replied, trying to sound reassuring. “The good thing is, we’re still alive.”

  “The three of us, at least,” Hargorin corrected.

  “Four.” This was more a groan than a voice from Beligata. “Why do I feel as heavy as lead?”

  We’ve all woken up at the same time. Can’t be coincidence. “Anyone hurt?” All of them said no. “Why have they taken us with them and why have they seen to our injuries?”

  “Maybe they understood they made a mistake,” Hargorin attempted an explanation. “Do you think the black-eyes is still alive?”

  “Yes, it is,” said Carmondai, drowsily. “If it had been a Dorón Ashont mistake, then you’d be free and I’d be dead. My thanks go to Inàste for ensuring I might wake.”

  “Don’t count your blessings too soon,” Beligata warned. “We’re all tied up, right?” They all agreed. “We should all try to get rid of the blindfolds and describe where we are.”

  “Each of us is in a cage and we’ve got a tarpaulin over us. There are two metal braziers between our prison cells,” Carmondai reported. “And if I’m not mistaken we’re being pulled along on a giant sleigh. But I can’t smell any horses or other animals so it must be the Dorón Ashont themselves pulling us.” He cleared his throat. “And we’re wearing garments made of unbleached linen. Flax.”

  He’s damned clever. Tungdil tried to dislodge his blindfold by rubbing the side of his face on the floor. Despite these efforts he only succeeded in getting the bandage to slip a little, but it afforded him a view of the surroundings. The älf had not lied: Tungdil saw exactly what Carmondai had reported. Beligata, Hargorin and Gosalyn were still working at their own blindfolds.

  The vehicle appears to have been constructed for the purpose of transporting captives and with thought given to minimising weight. The cages were made of twisted metal wire that would need an axe or pliers to cut through. “Where could they be taking us?”

  “And what are acronta doing in the mountains?” Hargorin wanted to know.

  “I presume,” said Carmondai in measured tones, “that the älfar runes are behind this. The Dorón Ashont are bitter enemies of my people. They defeated us once and destroyed the old empire of the Unslayables when we had attempted to eradicate them with poison. Poison, because we were not able to overcome them in battle.” He made the sign in the air. “Follow! I will wager that the älf who wrote that did not expect the Ashont would be the ones to find and read the message hundreds of cycles later.”

  Tungdil thought back to the adventure he had had with the maga Andôkai and her bodyguard. “It’s a struggle without end.” He realised with a jolt that Carmondai was not manacled.

  Carmondai showed his arms were free. “I found a sharp bit of wire that was just right to pick the padlock with. But how to get out of the cage is another matter entirely. So far I’ve not come up with anything.” He smiled. “An älf with a load of dwarves. That’ll have aroused their curiosity. That’s why they’re taking us with them.”

  “Did the älfar know more about the acronta?”

  “The Towers That Walk, we called them. A mystery to us. They would turn up out of the blue, bringing carefully calculated death, sometimes with the orcs as their targets, then the fflecx and other monsters Tion and Samusin had invented.” Carmondai tried to spy out through the tarpaulin but it was too thick. Impossible to say, with that canvas and the glow from the brazier, whether it was light outside.

  “Carefully calculated. You mean deliberate planning of the strength of their attacks?”

  “They always homed in on exactly the race they felt was the most dangerous at any one time. They eliminated those who outnumbered them or those who were subjugating others by means of technical supremacy or tricks.” Carmondai seemed to be sorting through his memories, as if he had a set of meticulously filed records concerning every event he had lived through. “Except they would attack us whenever the opportunity arose. Because of the eternal feud.”

  “Did you know how their armies were led?” Hargorin asked, finally ridding himself of the blindfold.

  “No. If we had known that it would have made things easier for the Inextinguishables. We knew there were several different specimens, but apart from that, no details really. Only that they are clever and full of tricks.” He laughed. “So full of tricks that they were able to inflict a sickness on us that killed us in our hundreds, destroying the old Dsôn.”

  “All the more reason for wondering why they’ve left you alive.” Beligata had, by now, also freed herself from the bindings over her eyes.

  Tungdil frowned when he looked at her face. The green scar had lengthened and forced itself further out from her skin. It did not look inflamed and did not appear to have suffered a recent cut. The green glow from the scar was getting longer, forming a straight line.

  A glance at Carmondai told him the älf had also noticed this change. The älf’s expression was one of surprise but also of satisfaction. This was never a good sign in an älf.

  “We will learn why we have been spared,” the historian said, tapping a finger against his lower lip as he wrestled with his thoughts.

  “Perhaps because we put up a brave fight?” Hargorin knelt down. “That ploy with the fruit knife was splendid.”

  Carmondai felt along the cage side. “Fruit knives won’t be much help if you are faced with more than one adversary.”

  “Still better than lying about in a faint,” retorted the red-bearded dwarf with a cackle.

  “I am old. Forgive me, groundling.” The älf took the jibe with humour. “I confess I have no idea how much time has passed. But my wounds have healed and I can’t find any bruises. There would have been a cracker of a bruise after I was punched with that gauntleted fist. I would say, working on the size of an acront and how strong the blow was, we might have been underway for at least ten or fourteen orbits.”

  Tungdil judged the period must have been three times that long. After all, his collarbone had healed while they were out. “They’ve kept us drugged for longer.”

  “And they’d planned for us all to come round at the same time.” Agile as an acrobat, Beligata managed to pass her bound hands beneath her and over her legs in order to have her fingers in front of her. “So we would appear to be near our destination?”

  “How fast can an acront run?” Gosalyn looked at Carmondai expectantly.

  “They could doubtless cover eighty miles in an orbit. If the going is easy then probably a hundred,” he reckoned. “But if there’s snow, and the acront’s own weight and that of his armour taken into consideration, plus pulling a sledge, let’s say, no more than thirty.”

  “More than a thousand miles.” Tungdil gave a grunt of admiration. On taking a deep breath he was aware that he had no difficulties. So we are no longer at altitude. “That’s quite a stretch they’ve carried us.”

  “And they never even asked us first.” Beligata was testing the wire for weakness, but she did not look hopeful. “And knowing our luck, they’ll have brought us in totally the wrong direction. It’ll take ages to catch up again.”

  Hargorin laughed good-naturedly. “The optimism of youth. She already knows we’re going to escape.”

  “Well, we’ll have to, one way or another.” Tungdil suppressed the fear his calculations had aroused in his mind. “Their plans will be different from ours.”

  “Of course.” Carmondai listened carefully and placed his hand flat on the floor of the cage. “It’s not shaking so much. We’re slowing down.”

  He was right. The rocking movement had stopped.

  Nothing else happened.

  “Shame
I can’t get to the hollow compartment in my metal leg. I could use that knife right now.” Hargorin glanced at the round metal braziers that were keeping them warm. “Maybe the coals are hot enough to melt the wire. What do you say, Scholar?”

  It was strange being addressed by that name, unless it was Ireheart talking. “That should work.” Tungdil looked around. “But if the sparks touch the tarpaulin, which is not unlikely, it’ll catch fire and we’ll be roasted alive.”

  “They’ll be even happier with an älf in that state.” Beligata passed her hand over her face, touching the scar with her fingertips. She hesitated when she reached the place, but said nothing.

  “In my experience they prefer raw meat,” Carmondai said laconically.

  “We’ll wait and see what happens,” decided Tungdil. “If they’re merely taking a rest they’ll have placed a guard and he’d hear what we were up to.” Particularly since they’ve planned for us to be awake by now.

  They fell silent and concentrated on what they could pick up from outside. They heard only muffled sounds that gave them no clues as to what the acronta were doing.

  At that moment the vehicle gave a jolt and tipped slowly forward, making them slide against the walls of their cages. Then the sledge picked up speed.

  Tungdil hoped this was intentional and that they had not torn loose. “Stand up against the wire with your backs to the direction of travel,” he called to the others. If there were an impact this should reduce the likelihood of serious injury.

  The journey went at high speed, with many a curve. And then they came to a stop. Through the covering they could hear a continuous rushing sound.

  The tarpaulin was pulled back and they could see where they had been taken. They were in a dome-shaped hall constructed of simple stones, nothing overly sophisticated. Light fell through a ring of holes in the roof. There was a smell of excrement and sweat.

  That rushing sound proved to be a low murmuring and muttering from about a hundred prisoners in similar cages placed in niches in the circular walls. Turning his head, Tungdil saw he would have to amend his calculation: there were seven layers, one on top of the next. They were the only dwarves among the captives, it seemed. And he did not catch sight of any other älfar, either.