The Triumph of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  “The shard of glass has destroyed a vital section of her brain. What happened is akin to a technique previously used to pacify dangerously obstreperous patients,” Tungdil explained. “The process entails inserting a narrow point past the eye, through the socket and into the brain itself, where it severs the tissue. The patients so treated lose their savage behaviour and other negative attributes.”

  “So that means we let her live.” Hargorin did not look happy at the thought.

  “I’m not putting a young woman to death when she only acted out of fear for her own safety.” Tungdil surveyed the assembled heads of state. “Do any of you want us to decree she be killed?” There was silence. He announced that on his own initiative he had had her taken to an unspecified location. “It’s extremely remote. And she is under constant supervision.” He looked at the Thirdling king. “To reassure you: if she should ever try to use her powers, the guards are under orders to kill her.”

  “Then that’s fine by me.” The red-bearded dwarf nodded assent.

  After that the elves, dwarves and humans discussed what measures were needed to ensure lasting peace in Girdlegard. There were plans for a combined army and they talked about a fair system of food distribution to prevent want in any one section of the community. Food would still be paid for, but equitable prices would be set centrally, allowing the farmers to cover their outlay.

  As the grain the elves had brought with them was doing spectacularly well in Tabaîn, Ataimînas offered to send the surplus to areas where there was currently a dearth. The elf corn could be processed to make it palatable to humans and dwarves and their cattle.

  Tungdil was only half-listening. It was Balyndis that occupied his thoughts. He was not happy with the conclusions he came to. Hope is gone. The dream that kept me alive in Phondrasôn is no more. I was not able to save the love of my life as I had vowed to do. He looked at Balyndar. A fine figure of a son. But he hates me. And now I must spend my life in the Grey Mountains because I am the only one who can open the gate.

  Was that the curse Balyndis had wished on him? Tungdil pulled himself together. I must stop feeling so sorry for myself. Others are grieving, too. It’s not just me. He looked at Rodario, who was playing down his own sadness at the loss of Coïra. Well, that’s the advantage of being an actor. And Mallenia had lost both a friend and her own precious foster child; the pain was visible in her face. She had grown noticeably older.

  And the dwarves in the Grey Mountains have lost their nearest and dearest. Tungdil forced himself to pay attention to the debate. I owe it to every fallen comrade to act the hero now. A hero capable of supporting others through difficult times. He glanced at Balyndar again. I promised Balyndis. From now on he would make every effort to see his task not as a curse but as a mission. I have nothing else to lose. So I can surrender myself if need be. “Now that we have discussed the main items,” said Boïndil, “I want to be the ruler who abdicates successfully, where the actor failed.” There was polite laughter on all sides and Rodario smirked. “In hard times I held the throne. But reluctantly. I am not really suited to being High King.” He ran his hands over his temples where the hair was shorn short. He looked at Tungdil. “I therefore nominate Tungdil Goldhand to be High King.”

  “And I thank you and turn down your kind offer,” said Tungdil, taking up the thread. “I am as little suited as any to be High King. Phondrasôn took all my energy. I am more attuned to books and writings than I am to warfare nowadays. If I fancy an adventure, I’ll go and investigate the abandoned settlement in the Grey Mountains. That will suffice.”

  “That’s not the feeling we got in the Outer Lands,” objected Hargorin. “I’d vote for you without hesitation.”

  The other dwarf kings clattered their axe shafts on the floor in agreement. All of them except for Balyndar. He stared at his tankard in silence, his hands palm-down, flat on the tabletop.

  “Then suggest someone you think could take it on,” Boïndil said. “But not the Fourthling,” he whispered. “I told you before. Frandibar is a weakling.”

  Tungdil’s brown eyes came to rest on Balyndar. “The bearer of Keenfire should be the one to lead the five tribes. As I understand it, he earned respect at the battle of the Black Abyss and his leadership at the Stone Gateway is without equal. He is young and yet rich in experience.”

  “I would entrust my tribe’s safety to him.” Hargorin immediately raised his short axe as a sign of approval. “Balyndar Steelfinger of the Clan of the Steel Fingers from the tribe of the Fifthlings: the Thirdling tribe will follow you.”

  One by one the dwarf leaders chose Balyndar; his features displayed at first disbelief, then pride and delight. When Boïndil asked him whether he would accept the high office, he was practically speechless with emotion. He blurted out a “By Vraccas” through tears.

  The tribal leaders slapped him on the back and Mallenia, Rodario, Dirisa, Astirma and Isikor all congratulated him; Ataimînas joined in, shaking his hand enthusiastically.

  “Right! Time to celebrate,” announced Boïndil, “then let us go down to the town. The people are waiting for us.”

  Tungdil withdrew to a quiet corner. The party would not be overly rowdy: painful losses were still too fresh. The festivities in the street would honour the names of those who had given their lives and would celebrate those who had survived.

  Tungdil watched his son receive his compatriots’ congratulations. The young dwarf was having to raise his jug each time he was toasted and was making slow progress. There was a young brown-haired dwarf girl always nearby, accepting gifts on his behalf and passing out freshly filled tankards, making herself generally useful. At first Tungdil thought it might be Gosalyn until he remembered that she, too, was one of the fallen. Ocâstia should have received a slower and more painful death for her part in all this. A death such as Phondrasôn dealt out. Observing the dwarf girl closely, Tungdil saw she bore the crest of the Fourthlings. She’s making herself very useful. Who is she, I wonder?

  Beligata emerged from the crowd. She came over to bring Tungdil a mug of beer and he drank to her health. “You know they chose him because it was clear you would be standing by and instructing him?”

  He nodded. “That’s what they think. But Balyndar does not need me. He has made many good decisions. He is wise, through and through.”

  “Much like his father.” Beligata drank. Tungdil said nothing.

  Things were calming down and the assembled company had now joined the throng that was surging merrily along in the carnival atmosphere of the streets. Tungdil and Beligata remained in the hall for a moment.

  Beligata said, “I thought I’d come with you to the Grey Mountains. You’ll need warriors to defend the Stone Gateway.”

  “You will be very welcome, I’m sure. And that way”—he turned to examine the state of her scar—“I’ll be able to keep my eye on you.”

  “There’s no need to issue threats. I was there when you killed the last zhadár.” Beligata was not discomforted by his intense stare.

  “Then mind you don’t forget. I shan’t put up with the presence of evil. This is Girdlegard.”

  “You have ensured that Girdlegard is once more secure and safe.” Beligata looked out through the glass wall at the jollifications on the streets below. “I expect I will occasionally set off to hunt down the odd black-eyes. It’s thought that there are still some in hiding. I don’t like unfinished business.”

  “You may as well try. But keep away from their blood.”

  “May it gush out and seep away into the ground.” She leaned forward. “I shall never be more than a half-zhadár, you know.” Beligata waved at Hargorin, who had popped his head round the door and was encouraging her to join the others. “He’ll be wanting me to join the Thirdlings. But I know my place.” She levered herself away from the wall and left.

  Tungdil looked down at the Naishïon’s ring on his hand; it sat on his finger near the talisman that Balyndis had given him. Any elf I meet … He gri
nned at the thought when he spotted Ataimînas in the crowd. I wonder if he realises he’s included in that, himself? Tungdil had the feeling that he would be taking advantage of the ring’s promise sooner or later. I could have some fun with this. Maybe I’ll ask them for something really impossible. Or I’ll demand something entirely un-elf-like.

  He looked out through the glass towards the Grey Mountains in the north where Balyndis was buried. He would soon be with her but he would now never reach her. Never. An eternity of never.

  You were so proud of your son. I shall not disappoint him. A tear spilled over. Tungdil was not ashamed of it as he kissed her dear ring.

  Perhaps there’ll be something else to write about their great hero when I find the time.

  But first they are forcing me to chronicle the defeats of my own race.

  What a waste.

  The adventures Tungdil lived through, so far away, are of such great import, so incredible in scope, so cruel. They inspire me and my hand flies over the page.

  I shall write them down as soon as I have found a way out of Girdlegard and a way to escape from my prison guards.

  It could become a classic.

  Secret notes for

  The Writings of Truth

  written under duress by Carmondai

  Epilogue

  Girdlegard

  Black Mountains

  Kingdom of the Thirdling dwarves

  Eastern Gate

  6497th solar cycle, late autumn

  Let them celebrate if they want to. I have stuff to do. Rognor had politely turned down his king’s invitation to return to the maga’s abandoned tower to participate in the festivities. “Have the elves all gone now?”

  One of his female officers handed him a list of names showing who had occupied the pass to the east to protect it against attack while the Thirdlings had been away in the Outer Lands.

  “They have all left, Chancellor,” she reported. “The elves are all on their way to Ti Lesîndur.”

  “Then make sure everyone gets an extra ration of beer. We’ll drink the health of the new High King.” The happy end was a relative kind of success. Rognor was glad to have survived the Outer Lands campaign, glad to be back in post, commanding the Thirdlings’ stronghold.

  Friendship between the races was all well and good but Rognor was sure the mountains were secretly relieved to have the dwarves back in charge of everything. He had half-expected the mountains to rampage in their absence with avalanches, mudslides and raging torrents, in an effort to wash the elves away from the slopes. But the Black Mountains must have guessed that the elves were only there as visitors, nothing permanent.

  “Thank you, Chancellor.” She saluted and strode off, calling out orders and spreading the news that the black beer barrels were to be rolled out. “To the health of High King Balyndar!”

  The cheers resounded. They know the young king is a half-Thirdling. Father and son will be sharing the throne. They need good soldiers in the north. Balyndar is the best. He laughed to himself. Though generally the best ones live here, of course.

  He strolled out through the gate and observed the plain stretching out in front of the dwarf-head ramparts. His hand played with the end of his blue-dyed beard. It was still strange to see no tents out here. There were no more elves arriving; they had passed through to found settlements in Girdlegard’s forests.

  He would have liked to see the Idoslane tower everyone was talking about—they described it as some sort of wonder—but he was worried Hargorin would use the opportunity to appoint him king of the Thirdlings. He would not be able to turn down the title if there were witnesses present, so he chose to avoid the situation entirely. It was too soon to promote him from chancellor to higher office. There were preparations to undertake.

  The orbit will come. Rognor looked at the mountain escarpment that stretched steeply away towards the east, a seemingly never-ending range. Then I shall set about strengthening the link to our ancestor Lorimbur. He touched the tattooed rune on his face.

  The intertribal feuds were over, but Vraccas had left the Thirdlings in the lurch and Rognor was not prepared to forgive him. They had suffered appalling losses at the Stone Gateway when the mad elf had opened fire. It was important to bring Lorimbur to the fore. Hargorin tended to forget this and preferred to swan around with the kings.

  “What beauty,” Rognor said, as he admired the mountains, bowing to them. “Accept my thanks for your protection.”

  Rognor returned to the interior of the stronghold and closed grating and door behind him to keep the wind from whistling round the courtyard. It was growing chillier and the snowline was nearing their ramparts. Braziers were lit, and torches in sheltered spots illuminated the walkways and rooms in the fortress. The wind picked up, playing with loose straw in the yard, spiralling it into the air and letting it drop.

  Rognor thought about the kites the Fifthlings had used to get up onto the maga’s tower. The plans had arrived for the Thirdlings to study and their workshops were busy producing replicas to help with the eastern defences. Excellent idea. As long as Samusin cooperated, of course.

  He walked in to the accommodation quarters. A child’s plaything adapted to rain death down from the skies. The mere idea of hanging from one of these devices and going up into the clouds sent shivers up and down his spine. Quite a dangerous undertaking. And if we’ve had the idea, our enemies may have worked out the same technique.

  He would ask Hargorin to speak to the High King about these concerns. If birds had no problems crossing the mountains, it was entirely possible that a more sophisticated aerial contraption might be able to sail clear over their ramparts.

  Rognor checked the rooms the elves had been allocated. They would have to be sorted out in case any travellers needed accommodation.

  He heard the first round of songs from the troop quarters. Tambourines and small drums gave the rhythm, while horns and bagpipes joined in, with a barrel organ and a set of bells picking out the melody, soon drowned out by the chorus of dwarf voices.

  Break out the barrels!

  Good red wine

  Or spiced dark beer.

  If your throat is dry

  Then your soul will wonder why

  And will set off in despair.

  But take my word for it

  Drinking is the cure for it

  Out with the bung! Out with it!

  Pour it out! Pour it out!

  Fill the glasses, mistress dwarf!

  One for me and one for you

  So you stay happy when I’m gone

  From village or castle, that’s all one

  If you take my fancy, I’ll take yours

  Pour it out! Some more, of course!

  Drain the cask, drain it dry!

  Everything tastes better

  In Vraccas’ smithy to the letter

  He has the coolest cellars

  And a furnace for fire wine

  Drain the cask, and drain it dry!

  Rognor relished the festival atmosphere that had broken out. The dwarves had gone through hard cycles with battles, losses and triumphs. They had earned their celebration.

  He arrived at the generously proportioned room where the sorânïons had had their quarters, first under Phenîlas and latterly under Ocâstia.

  He stopped and mused in the clean and tidy room where the elves had been accommodated. Insanity seemed to have been common amongst the sorânïons. It was perhaps related to the type of work they did: it demanded merciless dedication to duty, irrespective of the pain and distress caused by the vetting of their fellow elves. Phenîlas was the first to fall victim to madness, then Venîlahíl, and he had heard it rumoured that the same thing had happened to Ocâstia: she had become power-hungry. An elf-woman on Girdlegard’s throne? As if we would have permitted that to happen! Rognor entered the room, noting it needed sweeping; there was a lot of dust on the floor.

  As the festivities were in full swing and he did not want to recall his men, he
grabbed the broom himself. A chancellor and commander was not above lowly domestic duties. And with all that dust, his throat would be readier than ever for the beer.

  Shifting the beds aside, he swept along the wainscot and saw there was a crevice in the wall. He bent down, frowning, to investigate. The opening gaped between the stones. There was no question of it having been caused by damp or burrowing insects. The mortar looked to have been deliberately scraped out.

  Rognor lit a lantern to examine the cavity. Something inside the slit reflected the light. He took out his knife and ferretted around, finally retrieving a folded piece of paper. It will be a message left by one of the sorânïons. He opened the paper carefully, where he found not writing, but crystalline powder.

  Medicine? Drugs? The chancellor now became suspicious. He undertook an intensive search of the whole room, while outside, songs, music and exuberant dwarf voices reflected the mood of the orbit.

  Rognor called a sentry over and told him to take the find to one of the alchemists who could examine it in the laboratory where they normally worked on the production of inextinguishable fire.

  Nearby he noticed another stone with a crack in it. More of the same? He scrabbled with his knife and part of the stone came away in his hand. It had been fashioned to hide another cavity. And in that cavity he found a phial.

  He fished it out. The tiny vessel was empty. But when he stared at it in the lantern light, the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. It bore an älfar rune.

  Elf eyes!

  Rognor wanted to believe that one of the officers had discovered the empty bottle in the pocket of one of the examinees—maybe some älf they had exposed—and had wanted to hide it away for safe-keeping.

  But there was another, more terrible explanation.

  Lorimbur! No, No, No. Rognor raced through the fortress to get to the laboratory. It was essential he knew the truth straight away, this very night. I don’t care if they have to stay up till dawn.