The Triumph of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  “At once.” His deputy was about to rush off.

  “Petroleum: now.”

  “But there are no soldiers on their ramp yet.”

  “The fire will slow down the first ones and when the metal’s really hot they’ll all get burned feet as soon as they try to climb.” Balyndar took out his bugle and sounded the alarm tones for the guards to go out onto the balustrade. “May Vraccas be with us!”

  Once the signal was given, hot petroleum spewed down onto the ramp from the outlets; it all caught fire when a burning torch was thrown down from the ramparts. The construction’s burning slope looked breathtaking in the darkness: fiery cascades dripped from the sides, splashing onto the beasts waiting below. Several of the soldiers were soon ablaze.

  They’re still not advancing. Or fleeing. Balyndar gave the signal for Vraccas fire to follow on the petroleum. Vraccas fire was more viscous and flowed slowly, coating the ramp with a thick, blistering layer of flame.

  But the dwarf had miscalculated. The front of the endless column of soldiers sprinted through the puddles of liquid petroleum that now covered the road. Their breeches, boots and even their skin caught fire—but they did not stop. The first of them had reached the base of the ramp and they raced up as far as they could. Any that slipped and fell grabbed hold of the indentations and handles. The next wave surged on over them, trying to get to the top.

  “That’s …” Balyndar’s voice faltered. Vraccas, come to our aid. We need you.

  The monsters kept coming, catching fire and dying, falling off the slope like glowing comets. There was no end to the constant procession. Wind and rain fought with the flames. There was a smell of charred hair, burning flesh and scorched leather. But there was still not a single cry or shout to be heard from the injured and dying, though their torment must have been intolerable.

  Nothing deters them. Neither pain nor the prospect of death. “Girgandor, send for the grappling hooks. Fasten them to chains and catapult them out to catch in the machinery and pulleys. We’ve got to get that ramp down!”

  Taking Keenfire with him, Balyndar went out onto the balustrade. This has to work. Otherwise it was only a question of time before the attacking army reached the high end of the ramp. “Bring out the small catapults,” he ordered. “Get the slings out, quick! And the spear-launchers.” He told his men to heave the heavy boulders, ammunition for the throwing machines, anything they could, over the walls onto the ramp.

  Then what he had been fearing happened: the large stones hit their target but had no effect on the slope. They simply careered down the ramp, dragging some of the monsters with them and making a glowing track through the layer of Vraccas fire. Their destructive power was quite insufficient. And on the horizon the next wave of beasts was already advancing.

  The monsters formed a heap of bodies, as with the first attack. They had soon attained and topped the level they had reached the first time. Balyndar glanced down. “Another ten paces,” he yelled at the guards at his sides. “Let’s have more stones!” It was vital Girgandor destroy the ramp. “More stones! Send them to Tion, the lot of them!”

  “There’s a ghaist!” The cry came through the raging wind. “It’s coming! And trolls, too!”

  Trolls. That’s all we need. Balyndar saw a group of ten huge beasts forcing their way through the crowd. And behind them came the ghaist.

  “All catapults! Fire!” Let’s hope something gets through despite the weather.

  The arrows and bolts shot out into the wind, aiming for their targets. But Balyndar could see with the naked eye that the projectiles lost impetus only a few paces out. They would have no effect in this weather. Boulders and fire were more use against this silent army that continued to advance, ignoring all the perils of their campaign. One sacrifice after another, with the sole aim of making it to the top of the ramp and on to the walls.

  The giant trolls started to climb the slope, clambering over dead bodies, pushing their way through the wall of flame, never hesitating. They had already reached the wall and were climbing over each other, forming a kind of pyramid. There was no doubt that four of them would get to the gate.

  “Stand by!” Balyndar yelled, drawing Keenfire. “Stones, now! And follow through with petroleum! Turn them into torches!”

  The first troll face appeared in front of him; hairy hands grasped the top of the wall. The beast tensed its muscles and pulled itself up.

  “Never!” Balyndar sprang on to the battlements and swung the diamond-studded blade down onto the troll’s head. You shan’t come through! The gems glowed and the blade-edge went straight through the bone. Not past me!

  The sturdy fingers opened and the troll fell backwards, making way for the next one. Balyndar watched the blood on his weapon get washed away by the rain. The cold wetness ran down his collar, too. “Come on up!” he challenged, showing the trolls his legendary axe. “I’ll kill every single one of you!”

  The dwarves on the walkway cheered.

  The trolls unexpectedly grabbed some of the smaller beasts on the ramp and threw them up the last few paces to land on the ramparts.

  “Mind out! Incoming!” Balyndar bellowed. “Don’t let them succeed, my warriors!”

  Many of the beasts the trolls threw over broke their bones on landing but others rolled themselves into balls on impact and went straight in to the attack. Fights were breaking out on all sides, with the dwarves easily victorious. Their adversaries often had no armour, no weapons to speak of or were not in any position to wield their blades. But the trolls kept up the bombardment. The beasts continued to rain down like raindrops made flesh. The dwarves would eventually tire.

  “Keep it up. That’s the way. You …” And then Balyndar saw the trolls grasping and thrusting the ghaist upwards. His words stuck in his throat.

  The boiling hot, burning petroleum gurgled out of the outlets, missing the four trolls on top. The others turned to living fire, limbs ablaze. Skin, flesh, tendons all burned so they could not climb over; the large creatures fell to the ground, killing many others as they landed.

  But the ghaist and the four leading trolls had got on to the walkway.

  The huge beasts represented difficult opponents for the veteran dwarf warriors, but they were well qualified to defeat them. It was up to Balyndar to take on the ghaist. He had to use Keenfire to destroy it. No conventional weapon would have the slightest effect.

  Vraccas, spare me and my people if there’s another explosion when I hit the ghaist. He had nearly reached it and raised his axe. “I know you can’t stand up to me,” he called into the wind.

  The ghaist yanked a sand barrel that was intended to extinguish fires out of its mount on the walkway and hurled it at the dwarf with one hand. Balyndar dodged the missile and aimed a blow with Keenfire at the ghaist. But it managed to duck under his swing and pressed its outstretched hand directly into Balyndar’s face. To the dwarf’s astonishment, it did not try to gouge out his eyes or crush his skull.

  Balyndar’s features started to tingle. His scalp prickled and his throat felt warm. A strange rushing sound pervaded his mind, a curiously attractive seductive whispering.

  It’s magic! Balyndar snorted and tried to hit the ghaist, yanking his head away. “I’m not falling under your master’s spell!” he yelled, advancing on the being that was now retreating, trying to avoid being struck. Keenfire glowed brightly, wanting to bury itself in the adversary. The ghaist passed through the rows of fighting dwarves and beasts. Balyndar ignored these secondary figures and concentrated on eliminating the main opponent. His attacks were full of hatred.

  When they had arrived at the left-hand tower, the ghaist unexpectedly jumped over the dwarf’s head to get onto the battlements, where it stared down through the eye slits with their whitish shine. From there it catapulted itself back onto the Stone Gateway path. A crowd of beasts broke its fall.

  That’s lost me my chance. “Get back here!” Balyndar looked down, very tense, and saw the ghaist land. At once it be
gan to trot off, forcing its way through the river of monsters that were heading for the ramp. “I’ll get you next time. You shall die! And it’ll be me and Keenfire that does it.” He ran a hand over his rain-wet face. The ghaist had left no footprints and the lingering touch of his fingers still felt odd. He was attempting a magic spell. Probably the same spell his sovereign uses to muster his army. “You won’t break our resolve! I …”

  Balyndar did not notice until it was too late that he had been enticed away from the second tower. He turned quickly back to where the trolls had first appeared over the wall.

  Standing tall, Balyndar felt the blood drain away from his face: the rag-tag army had reached the vital point. The army swept over the top of the wall like a torrent, forcing the dwarves aside by sheer weight of numbers. Several of the orcs, humans, gnomes and other beasts were on fire; they climbed up to the gate and took several steps before collapsing and dying.

  The defending force could wreak havoc for all they were worth; that flood of bodies was never going to stop. But the rag-tag army was not interested in small skirmishes and saved them the effort: its soldiers flung themselves down, ignoring all risks, to reach the courtyard, creating a steaming carpet of bodies.

  Eventually the monsters will survive the fall and scramble to their feet, inundating the dwarf kingdom. Balyndar glanced at the Stone Gateway; the river of attackers was continuous.

  I think I need some divine inspiration.

  On arriving somewhere for the first time, always behave as a cautious friend. And if you return there later, behave equally carefully.

  Dwarf saying

  XXV

  Somewhere in the Outer Lands

  Tungdil was aware he could not escape the axe blade.

  But before it hit him, the acront cut through a heavily armoured beast whose scream ended abruptly. While the weapon sliced through iron, skin and bone, emerging in a cloud of shimmering blood, the dwarf was given two heartbeats of reprieve in which to act. With great presence of mind, Tungdil drew out two daggers that he held crosswise to protect himself.

  The weapons clanged against each other. The impact pushed Tungdil sliding along the floor until his strength gave out and he fell backwards. The reddened blade appeared again in his face, spattering Tungdil with red drops. He quickly rolled to one side and avoided the acront’s attempt to stamp on his head. Only just!

  He leaped to his feet and saw four monsters where he had been standing before. In contrast to the ones that had been defeated, these four were collaborating, working together in a formation. Two of them had long spears for defence and one had a leather strap to use as a sling for shooting spiked morningstar balls. The last of them had seven throwing spears ready. And they were waiting for the acront.

  Tungdil put more distance between himself and the huge warrior, who had turned away from him and, whirling his axe, headed for the four challengers. It seemed he was trying to deflect anything thrown at him.

  Where is it? Where is it? He searched around until he had located the second precious note Beligata had tossed his way.

  On reading it, he learned that a weak point did exist on the body of an acront, on the back where the spinal column met the pelvis. A hefty blow on that specific area, it said in the healers’ manual, could induce a short-term paralysis, whereas a stab to that part could permanently destroy the nerves to the lower body.

  Looking at the acront with all the heavy armour it wore, Tungdil realised he had nothing that would pierce that steel. What use is the knowledge, then?

  “Is that all you’ve got for me?” he shouted to Beligata, waving the note.

  “Yes, it is,” she shouted back.

  He gave a hollow laugh and glanced back through the heap of discarded weaponry. Amongst the miscellaneous assortment, he detected the long handle of a blacksmith’s hammer.

  Should be able to deliver a hefty blow with this. When he weighed it in his hands, he calculated it was twice as heavy as an axe. It would not be suitable for quick moves. So how do I get the berserk maniac to keep still?

  The acront pushed the spears aside as they were launched at him, and dodged the morningstar balls. Shouldering the mighty hammer, Tungdil walked around, studying the floor to see if there was anything he could use against his adversary. Any uneven surface or crack that might serve as a trap.

  At the same time he kept an eye on how the fight was going. The acront had given up on avoiding the morningstars. He caught hold of one of them and hurled it back with all his might. However, he did not aim at the beast who had sent it, but at one of the spear-wielders. Tungdil frowned to see the metal spikes hit the beast’s shoulder, forcing the joint out of its socket. The armour came away as well. This veteran has stupendous strength.

  The beast fell to the ground with a scream, its green blood drenching its opponent and forming a pool on the arena floor. The giant warrior drew his sword and strode onwards, continuing to ignore the dwarf and concentrating on the group of beasts.

  Word must have got round that we dwarves have lost all our fights so far, he thought with black humour. He doesn’t even see me as a threat. Tungdil kissed the ring Balyndis had given him and made sure he kept pace with the acront. Vraccas, it seemed, would give him his chance.

  The acront threw his axe flat, in a disdainful gesture; it whirled through the air at the three monsters, hitting the second spear-carrier with the blade and slicing through half the creature’s chest. When the long handle spun, it struck the morningstar thrower in the belly, making him double up in pain.

  Tungdil admired the beast’s stamina and courage: he did not waver or give a finger’s breadth. Good lad. Keep him busy for me.

  Tungdil was about ten paces away from his adversary’s back. He was close enough to the place he needed to hit with his hammer.

  The beast threw the first spear. The missile was aimed at the helmet but the acront parried the blow, deflecting the dangerous tip.

  Now. Tungdil kept in the acront’s shadow and raised his arm to take aim. Vraccas, make my aim true.

  But the acront made a sudden move to the side, leaping at the foe who kept throwing spears at him. The dwarf’s blow missed. The towering warrior jumped up in the air to dive like a bird of prey onto his opponent, sword held vertically in both hands.

  I know where you’re coming down. Tungdil ran over and swung the hammer for a second time. The acront landed and split the beast from the collar blade to the foot. The noises the creature produced were unlike any Tungdil had ever heard.

  Tungdil was concentrating on the weak point by the acront’s pelvis. That was where he had to slam the iron head of the hammer against the armour, as if wielding a metal lightning bolt. Tensing his muscles, he put everything he had into the blow.

  The hammer hit home, the head destroying the craftsmanship of the armour. Tungdil was jubilant, knowing his aim had been true.

  The three-pace-tall acronta shuddered. Instead of the normal low roar, there came a high-pitched hiss like a boiling kettle giving off steam. His body went stiff and then collapsed like jelly. The warrior fell forward, burying the bodies of the injured combatants.

  The creatures watching from their cages ceased their noise. This had not been expected. Surprise struck them dumb.

  Tungdil could see by the steady rise and fall of the armoured breast that the acront still lived. Paralysed. Not dead.

  “Good work, Beligata!” Tungdil kissed the vraccasium ring. Then, looking up to the judging panel in their box, he walked over to the acront and placed the hammer on its helmet. The judges would understand that a further blow would be final. “Is that enough proof, or do I have to kill the veteran? He has fought bravely, and could yet fight again.”

  “Knock him unconscious,” urged Hargorin. “He’ll be up again any moment.”

  Hardly had the red-haired dwarf’s words died away before the beasts in their prison cells broke into frenetic cheering. They had shaken off the shock and were celebrating Tungdil’s achievement.
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br />   The sedative gas came hissing down to quell their enthusiastic response, and one row of prisoners after the next fell asleep.

  “Go on! Is it enough?” Tungdil had just time to repeat his question to the judges before he succumbed to the gas and passed out.

  When Tungdil came round he recognised the library where he had spent more hours of his captivity than in his wire cell. Beligata was lying at his side, as were Hargorin and Gosalyn: all still unconscious. They all had fresh linen clothing.

  Carmondai, in similar garments, was seated on the black and white tiled floor. He greeted Tungdil. “Good, you’ve woken up. I think they wanted to attack me.”

  Four armoured acronta stood facing them, and one of them, much larger than the others, sat in the middle on a throne-like chair made of ornately-carved and decorated steel. The armour worn was not intended for combat. It was too sumptuous for that. The visor had a double image: a demon’s face with one side laughing and the other side weeping. Round the brow there was a crown with long hooked points.

  “I shan’t be able to stop them.”

  “But you defeated one of their number. They’ll respect you. They have only scorn for me.” He cleared his throat. “Scorn and the gift of hunger.”

  The largest of the acronta opened a gauntleted fist, releasing a rolled parchment that dropped at Tungdil’s feet. He stood and took a deep breath in and out to rid his system of the last of the gas. He picked the message up and read the dwarf runes.

  Your task is complete—one of you has defeated one of us. What is more, you spared his life.

  Your opponent’s name is Tsatòn nar Draigònt and during his career he killed one hundred and four monsters. Tsatòn runs his own unit and was expecting an award following success in the contest.

  Your skilful stroke has robbed him of that hope. He will have to wait a further ten of your cycles before he is granted a second opportunity.

  Because I promised you: you are now free to go wherever you wish. Take the paper with my seal on it. My words shall serve as proof of my decision. Show it whenever you need to.