The Triumph of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  “You’ve just made the price go up,” said Tungdil, rubbing his palm on his breeches. He was trying to break my will. Good thing it didn’t work. He shook himself.

  “Is that so?”

  He nodded. “You just tried to take me over like the rest of the beasts and the humans. Not very polite of you. I should eliminate you on the spot, even if that means your master will have to create a new one.”

  The blonde älf-woman gave another false, high-pitched laugh, her face vacant. “You are a clever rogue. But you have not guessed right. And anyway, you can’t destroy me. You haven’t got the right things to do it with.” The ghaist stood up. “What’s your price for showing me the way through the Grey Mountains?”

  What’s all this in aid of? “There is no way through the mountains,” Tungdil replied, realising his answer had come out too fast. Too fast and too loud.

  “Oh, I get it. You people are known to be greedy. I think your memory will improve if more money is on offer. Is that right?”

  The ghaist indicated Aiphatòn.

  “My good friend—my henchman and Irïanora’s lover—he followed the route once, but my scouts have failed to locate his signs,” the älf-woman explained. “The dwarves must have removed it. But since you two have managed to get here and they didn’t let you go through the gates, my suspicion is that you know exactly where the path lies.”

  Quicker than Carmondai could react, the ghaist placed a hand round his neck. He froze.

  “This one here,” said Irïanora dully, “cannot resist my powers. The älfar ceased to be resistant a long time ago. No living creature can withstand my influence, apart from the wretched dwarves. They seem to have the trick of it. Plague take them.”

  The ghaist turned its gleaming white gaze on the history-teller.

  “I will need strength to overcome your will, but it’s not impossible. Now help me out and tell me who I have here and what your intentions are. I shan’t let myself be deceived.”

  Vraccas, get ready to step in. Tungdil wondered how fast he could snatch at Bloodthirster. He covertly kissed his talisman ring. An attack might yet succeed. I’ll be needing …

  “The dwarf’s name is Tungdil Goldhand,” Aiphatòn said unexpectedly, with a cold smile. “I think they are in charge of a reconnaissance unit camped on one of the surrounding hills.”

  Tungdil froze. I got him wrong.

  “I recognised you at once but I pretended not to so you and Carmondai would follow me. I presume it’s our historian I have here? There were rumours that the Triplets had imprisoned him.” He laughed, brandishing his spear. “I wasn’t sure at first, Scholar, because I thought you were dead but I must have got that wrong. You look pretty alive to me, Girdlegard’s Great Hero. I wonder what your story is.” The spear tip swept around. “Are you leading a troop of spies? Are they up there on the hill?”

  We’ve been found out. Now everything pointed to a fight—but first he would have to give a signal to the dwarves and the acronta, telling them to attack.

  Loud roars and grunts were heard outside. Looking out of the window, he saw the beasts and the humans picking up the tools they had been producing. They were storming off towards the hill. Well, I shan’t have to bother giving a signal.

  “You have lost your ally to me,” Irïanora said. “Your life will soon be forfeit likewise.”

  When Carmondai drew Bloodthirster out of its sheath and pointed the tip at him, Tungdil knew the danger had never been greater. He would have stood a better chance in an arena heaving with monsters. If the botoican is capable of breaking Carmondai’s will, then Beligata, Gosalyn and Hargorin are done for. His instinct told him the outlook was getting grimmer. Nothing for it, Vraccas. You’ll have to send a miracle.

  Tungdil launched himself past the threat of Bloodthirster’s tip and grabbed Carmondai’s sword hand.

  But Tungdil heard something appalling: he kept being told that he had already been somewhere when he knew he was there for the first time.

  At first he treated it as a joke but then he recalled the wave of magic that had brought multiple versions of the Triplets.

  And had he not caught sight of himself in that wave?

  And so began the long search for himself.

  Secret notes for

  The Writings of Truth

  written under duress by Carmondai

  XXVII

  Girdlegard

  Grey Mountains

  Kingdom of the Fifthling Dwarves

  Stone Gateway

  6496th solar cycle, late summer

  “I’d like to ask the gods why dead flesh has to stink so when it goes off.”

  Balyndar turned round at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. It was too clear in pitch to belong to a dwarf-woman. Our visitor.

  An elf-woman in palandium armour stepped down off the lift platform and came along the recently repaired walkway past all the machines. She was dressed simply and her breastplate showed the seal of the Naishïon and the symbol denoting her a sorânïan.

  She strode along determinedly. At the sides her hair was short and coloured grey and white, while the rest was black. A long braid fell on her breast. Her left hand rested on an ornate sword hilt.

  “That’s so the crows can locate it,” Balyndar answered. She does look unusual. “If it had a pleasant smell it would confuse the bees.”

  She laughed and held out her hand in greeting. “That makes sense.”

  They shook hands. “They told me you were coming. Ocâstia, right?”

  “That’s correct.” She smiled warmly and took a look over the battlements down to the road on the other side of the ramparts where there were iron tracks leading out north from the gate, going straight through the mountain of corpses. “I can see the crows now. They are pretty fat.”

  “Plenty to feed off.” Balyndar studied the slim figure of the elf-warrior. Like the other sorânïons, her task was to carry out the vetting examinations in the name of the Naishïon. “Nothing there for you, though.”

  “I wouldn’t eat dead monsters.”

  He grinned. “Living ones, then?”

  “Nope.” She leaned back against the wall, amused, her carnelian-coloured eyes still fixed on the mountain of dead bodies. “You’re hinting at the fact there are no more elves to test.”

  Balyndar called Girgandor over. “Not really hinting. There haven’t been any at all. Not for cycles now.” He looked at her. “Is there something I don’t know?”

  She clicked her tongue. “I heard the beasts got over the gate. Judging by the state of the inner courtyard this must be true. Should I be worried?”

  “Girdlegard is safe.” Balyndar’s delight in the quick-wittedness and humour of the elf-woman faded. She was interfering in matters that did not concern her. And she’s casting doubt on our ability to do our job defending Girdlegard. “You can go any time you want, if you are afraid and don’t feel safe here. I shan’t stop you.”

  Ocâstia realised she had spoken out of turn. “Oh, I did not intent to imply the Children of the Smith were not up to the task of defending our homeland.” She looked distraught. “What I meant to say was that it must have been tough. Did you have heavy losses?”

  “They did,” he replied drily. “For the most part what we lost was ammunition.”

  Girgandor joined them and updated the commander on the progress of the clearing-up process. “Another thirty cartloads and we’ll have cleared away the corpses.”

  “What do you do with the bodies?” Ocâstia inquired. “Hey, I like your beard; it’s great.”

  “We load them on tubs, roll them to the gate along the rails and heave them up by crane. Once we have them on this side of the wall, we place them on another set of rails and take them to the forges and burn them, together with any metal they have on them. Any iron we can extract in this way we use to make ammunition.” Girgandor explained it all as if Ocâstia were a child. He had not been impressed by her attempt at flattery.

  Ocâstia clapped. “
Very practical.”

  “It’s clean,” Girgandor replied. But he did smile and run his hands over his fine beard as if stroking a cat. “In the old days we’d have left the corpses to rot but that just attracts vermin, and anyway, dwarves don’t like waste.” He nodded to his superior officer. “After that we can start shoring up the tunnels.”

  “Good.” Balyndar pointed to the walkway on the battlements. “I want those rails up here, too. It’ll be a big improvement when we’re shifting the small catapults from place to place.”

  Girgandor nodded and went to the lift platform. “Thank you, elf-woman,” he called back from a distance.

  “Shoring up?” Ocâstia crossed her arms and sounded interested. “Have you got new plans for the fortifications?”

  “Yes.” The way he said this made it clear to the sorânïan that he would not be more forthcoming. If she wanted more, she’d have to work for it. “How long do you intend to stay?”

  “As long as you’ll put up with me.” The elf-woman held her nose as a tub full of corpses was heaved into the air. “My sovereign said that someone should be available in case any elves turn up.”

  “It is only monsters that come here.”

  “That’s not to say that won’t change. Even in the heat of battle. And that’s not quite correct, there have been elves at these gates.” Ocâstia dodged the drops of foul liquid that were escaping from the tubs. “By Sitalia,” she said, retching. “How do you stand it?”

  “Oh, we’re used to it. We tend to have more battles here than you do in your safe little groves,” he said mischievously.

  “If beasts turn up again”—she tapped the hilt of her curved sword—“you can count on me. It would be an honour for me to fight with you, side by side.” Ocâstia gestured towards the courtyard and the entrance into the mountain. “Have you got room for me and my officers anywhere?”

  “Officers? I thought you’d come on your own.”

  “Never. The Naishïon sent twenty good warriors along with me. You should see it as a sign that shows elves and dwarves can work together.” She pulled out a note and handed it to Balyndar. “And there’s a gift for you.”

  “From your master?”

  “No. From me.”

  He accepted it. “A poem, I suppose,” he grunted. Vraccas! It’ll be stuff about sunsets and unicorns.

  “It’s a recipe. For the best pickled meat I’ve ever tasted. A dwarf gave me the recipe and I’ve refined it a bit.”

  Balyndar studied the lines. Sounds delicious! His mouth started watering. Right, she’s made up for the initial insult.

  He followed her. “I’ll have them arrange quarters for you all. I’ll tell them to find somewhere the ceilings will be high enough,” he said with a grin. “We can also take the ends off the beds for you, but you might find you get cold feet.”

  Ocâstia laughed again.

  Somewhere in the Outer Lands

  Hargorin watched the fortified farmhouse with its tower where Tungdil and Carmondai had vanished. They had seen the ghaist and the älf-woman disappear inside.

  The skinny pale älf with the mask—the one they thought must be the Voice of the Wind—was still sitting outside on the bench, sorting his papers.

  It would be easy to get rid of him.

  The five acronta lay nearby like metal-clad tree trunks. They also were observing the village.

  “Did you see that? Nobody challenged Tungdil and the black-eyes at all.” Beligata’s tone betrayed her eagerness for some action. “I’d like to bet the beasts wouldn’t notice if we marched straight down the village street and killed the älf.”

  “Yeah, great idea. Except it would endanger Tungdil.” Gosalyn shook her head in disbelief. “He’s in there with Aiphatòn, the älf-woman and the ghaist. That’s at least two opponents too many.”

  “But he’s got Carmondai to help him,” Beligata objected.

  “Yeah, that one can swap sides any time he likes,” Gosalyn argued. “We hang on here till we get the signal.”

  Hargorin found the wait tortuous. “What if they’re about to kill Tungdil or they force him to say why he’s there? There’s nothing to be gained in those circumstances if we’re just sitting here on our backsides. I don’t like him being out of sight.” He came out of his hiding place and moved carefully in the direction of the wall. “Beligata, Gosalyn, come with me. The acronta can stay here till we send them a signal. If one of us shouts,” he said, addressing Tsatòn, “you lot need to attack. Understood? You’ll figure out the best way to do that. But if I put my arm in the air twice, that means I want you to create some kind of a diversion. No attack.”

  The veteran growled in response.

  “I don’t like the idea,” Gosalyn protested, but she followed the red-bearded dwarf nevertheless.

  “I don’t care. We’re here to keep Girdlegard safe from harm.” Hargorin was already hobbling down the hill.

  “Just as long as you’re sure that’s the Voice of the Wind down there.” Beligata sent Gosalyn a disapproving glance. “Stop making that face. We’ve only got Carmondai’s legend and the story the emperor-mother told us to go on. We don’t have any proof that this älf is the one they were talking about.”

  “Look, he’s got a mask stopping him speaking. That’s good enough for me.” Hargorin had reached the wall and was clasping his hands together to give the others a leg up. “We’ll creep up on him, kill him, and get rid of the body before anyone even notices.”

  “Fantastic,” Gosalyn said scornfully, placing one foot in Hargorin’s cupped hands.

  “This is not the time for sophisticated long-term planning.” Hargorin chucked her bodily over the obstacle. “We’re in the Outer Lands here. Any little victory counts.” Beligata nodded in agreement but said nothing.

  Once over the stone wall, they went stealthily through the village. From every corner came the sound of hammering, hot metal being plunged into water troughs, clanging and steam hissing. The orc and beast and human craftsmen were trying to demonstrate how quickly and accurately they could work. All the better for the dwarves: no one would hear them approach.

  It’s working. Hargorin piloted his group through the narrow alleyways, avoiding confrontations with any beasts or humans. Even when they were seen, it did not seem to cause any reaction. The villagers must have thought the dwarves were workers like themselves.

  They soon arrived at the small house where the masked älf was sitting outside. They approached from behind.

  Beligata spied through a window that had lost its glass. “Sleeping quarters,” she reported. “It’s empty.”

  “Excellent. We’ll get him, drag him in here and finish him off.” Hargorin looked at Gosalyn. “And if you’re thinking of coming up with another objection: Voice of the Wind or not—he’s still an älf. His life is therefore forfeit.” He hurried off, bent double, sneaking up behind the älf who was sitting reading.

  Opportunities have to be seized when they present themselves.

  “He’s right.” Beligata followed him. “Gosalyn, you open the door for us.”

  The general level of noise from the smithies covered any sound Hargorin’s steps might have made. When he reached the unsuspecting älf, he swung and smashed the hand-made grip of his axe into the back of the älf’s neck.

  Beligata grabbed the älf and dragged him off the bench and through the open door into the shed.

  These are coming too. Hargorin gathered up the papers and hurried in to where the two dwarf women were. The floor was covered with straw and jute sacks. There was a smell of stale sweat.

  They held their breath and listened. No alarm sounded and there was no sound of footsteps. No one had noticed. The dwarves grinned at each other.

  “As you can see, I haven’t actually killed him.” Hargorin gave Gosalyn the pages he had picked up. “Read that lot and find out what it’s all about.” He nodded to Beligata. “You and I will deal with the älf.”

  “What do you intend to do?” Gosalyn ask
ed. “I’m curious. That’s all.”

  Hargorin and Beligata propped the unconscious älf against the wall and investigated his mask. It had only a tiny hole in front of the mouth. Nothing bigger than a piece of straw would have fitted. The mechanism that kept the mouthpiece shut looked fragile enough but it was covered in runes warning of the danger of triggering magic spells if it were touched.

  “That’s a shame. We haven’t learned anything at all.” Hargorin lifted his axe. “Let’s kill him, even without learning what the Voice of the Wind sounds like.”

  Beligata stepped back so as not to be splashed.

  Gosalyn held the papers up in the air and spoke urgently. “Do you know what this is?”

  “If it doesn’t describe the opening in the mask, you can tell me in a minute,” Hargorin mumbled.

  “It’s the army they’re mustering. The third army. Exact lists of what provisions they’ll be needing, iron ore, coal, workforce, slaves, everything for a campaign.” The dwarf girl held the papers out to Hargorin. “They’re only just starting their planning.”

  Vraccas, thank you! He turned his bearded visage towards her in delight. “Does it say where they’re gathering their troops?”

  Gosalyn rustled the pages. “If I’ve read it correctly, it’ll be in the old mine the acronta was telling us about. That’s where they’ll start from.”

  A clicking sound attracted Hargorin’s attention. When he glanced at their captive, he saw Beligata—with the älf’s black mask in her left hand.

  That was quick. “How did you do that?”

  “Pure chance,” she answered, but it didn’t sound convincing—he made a mental note to ask her again later. The scar on her face was bleeding and the drops looked black. “Let’s wake him up!” Beligata placed the edge of her short axe against the snow-white throat, cutting through some of the glassy strands of long hair, which rustled to the floor. “We can force him to use his power against our enemies.”

  Hargorin imagined threatening the älf into using wind power against the monsters. A victory with no losses on our part. “Not a bad idea.” Looking round he discovered a bucket of water with a ladle in it, which he promptly emptied on their captive’s head. Hargorin did not react to Gosalyn’s shout.