The Revenge of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  Bruron turned to her. “What makes you say that?” Her light blue gaze was directed first to the obstinately silent dwarf, then to Mallen. Receiving no indication from him she went on, “You know the thirdlings well, prince, because you made use of their services against the orcs. How great a thirst for revenge might they be harboring?”

  “They always hated the other dwarf folks, but the need to sustain Girdlegard must rank higher for them,” he replied. “You remember, King Lorimbas wanted to eradicate them all and to take on the task of protecting the passes himself?”

  “I am not speaking of hatred for other dwarves.” She looked round the circle. “I am speaking of hatred toward us, the humans.” She turned her pale, stern face to Ortger. “The thirdlings were almost completely annihilated in the course of mad king Belletain’s attack on the Black Mountains.” Her gaze fell on Mallen once more. “Do you think them capable of breaking a new tunnel through to the Outer Lands for monsters to come through, bringing disaster and destruction to our homeland, prince?”

  “If that were the case there’d be armies of orcs in one of the kingdoms by now,” ventured Mallen.

  Tiwalún had not taken his eyes off Glaïmbli and had seen the bearded face of the dwarf twitch briefly as Queen Isika spoke these words. “Even if you vowed just now that you would say no more, Glaïmbli Sparkeye, I must insist you let out some more of the truth that you are holding back between clamped teeth,” he said quietly, but clearly enough for all to hear. “I ask you to tell us, so that our suspicions, vague as yet, may give us more insight into how we can stave off the threat of Evil and protect Girdlegard.”

  “No!” returned the obdurate Glaïmbli.

  There was a sharp intake of breath from Bruron. “You may be here as the high king’s representative, but you bear responsibility for the fates of humans and elves. I implore you in the names of Vraccas, Palandiell and Sitalia. Speak!”

  Again, at first, the dwarf was silent. Not until he had exchanged glances with Prince Mallen did he open his mouth. “After the orc raid there was another attack by a thirdling machine,” he reported reluctantly. “The orcs pushed it into the lift to cover their escape.” Glaïmbli’s mouth was distorted. “High King Gandogar thinks the orcs and the thirdlings are working hand in glove. They have set up their encampment on the far side of the Stone Gateway up on the Northern Pass to the Outer Lands. It’s from there that they are launching their attacks. We’ve seen nothing yet of the creatures that bear the älfar runes on their armor.”

  “So the thirdlings are against all of us and not just at war with the other dwarf folks.” Tiwalún’s face was full of concern and Vilanoîl looked downcast. “What is Gandogar undertaking against the traitors in his midst?”

  “They are outside Girdlegard,” reiterated the dwarf, throwing him a hostile glance.

  “I beg to differ on that point,” said the elf courteously. “The thirdlings used to have spies in all the dwarf realms and why should these spies no longer exist? Admittedly, in the past five cycles things have been more or less peaceful between the tribes. I agree with Queen Isika. Who is to say that the thirdlings are not plotting to open up all five gateways at once, to flood Girdlegard with Tion’s monsters?”

  “The Revenge of the Dwarves,” murmured Ortger.

  “If it were revenge, it would be revenge of the misguided thirdlings, not of all the dwarves,” corrected Mallen, turning to the elves. “And you are exaggerating with your fears, Tiwalún,” he warned. “Anyone would think you had persecution mania.”

  “Am I exaggerating?” The elf smiled persuasively. “A degree of persecution mania, as you choose to call it, Prince Mallen, would well become us all. Personally, I fear the worst when I hear that the thirdlings have formed a pact with orcs from the Outer Lands in order to steal the diamonds.”

  “He is right. Gandogar must sift out and reject the poisoned corn in his peoples.” With a smile, Queen Isika added: “Or, to phrase it better, he must sort the false gold from the genuine article. Only if he roots out the concealed thirdlings in the dwarf tribes can we have any security.”

  “And just how is that to be done?” objected Glaîmbli.

  “Interrogations? Investigations? Torture?” suggested Vilanoîl helpfully. “The sooner we find and eradicate the spies, the better it will be for humans, elves and dwarves.”

  Mallen held his breath, seeing Isika, Nate and Ortger nodding in approval, and then the face of the dwarf, suffused and dark red with anger.

  “You’re seriously suggesting we arrest and torture dwarves who may be completely innocent?” Glaïmbli growled at the elves. “It may be that your folk do things like that but it’s certainly not our way—it’s not the way of the children of the Smith.”

  “Leave the decision to your high king,” came the reproof from Isika. “You said yourself that you only represent him. Let us deal with the question of what the orcs and the thirdlings can possibly want with the diamonds.” She took a sip of her wine and ignored the vicious looks winging her way from the dwarf.

  Mallen was getting the impression more and more that the elves were trying to drive a wedge between the participants, endangering the harmonious community of the different peoples and various dwarf folks. With Nate, Isika and the inexperienced Ortger they had already achieved a measure of success. Alvaro’s distrust of the proud elf race seemed increasingly justified.

  “They are aware that one of the stones has particular properties. But there have never been any dwarves with the slightest desire to learn or use the magic arts,” said Tiwalún. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Glaïmbli. The thirdlings wouldn’t know what to do with the power latent in that stone. And the stupidity of the orcs is well known.”

  “And we have these appalling creatures in their tionium armor,” Nate reminded the assembly. “By Palandiell, if there’s not magic involved there where on earth else do they get their powers?”

  “So they’re out looking for the diamonds independently of the thirdlings and the orcs… in order to take over control?” Ortger gestured to the map. “There are no magic force fields any longer, so these beasts must be from the Outer Lands. How did they get in and how did they find out about the stones? Are they capable of sensing magic?”

  “No. Otherwise they would not be wasting their time stealing the false stones.” Mallen tasted his wine, hoping that the effects of the alcohol would calm him. “That’s obvious. None of the three groups has yet found the real diamond that the eoîl invested power in.”

  A servant bearing the insignia of Idoslane entered the council tent, bringing a message, and waiting for the ruler to read its contents.

  Mallen’s eyes flew over the page and, when he had finished reading, he drained the wine in his cup. “It seems that evil does not merely have the diamonds in its sights,” he said out loud, laying the letter on the table. “One of my villages, Calmstead, has been razed to the ground. There are no survivors. People were burned to death in their houses. Why the village was singled out I have no idea. The commander of the neighboring castle reports there are signs that orcs were responsible. He has sent scouts into the caves of Toboribor.”

  “I thought the caves were empty,” said Nate. “Didn’t you have all the passages searched that time?”

  “That was five cycles ago. If orcs have found a new entry into Girdlegard they may have reactivated their old breeding grounds.” Mallen rose. “You must excuse me. I must issue orders for the soldiers.”

  “We ought to defer the rest of our talks in the circumstances, until High King Gandogar can be with us,” suggested Bruron. “In the meantime we can ponder further on these issues. If anyone would be interested in inspecting the site for my new palace…?”

  “I move that the remaining diamonds be collected together in one place and guarded with the greatest force we can muster between us in Girdlegard.” Queen Wey, a woman around fifty cycles of age, wearing a floor-length dark dress studded with numberless diamonds, raised her voice and surprised e
verybody with her proposal. She did not belong to the circle of those known for their military prowess. “Apparently the individual races are not in a position to keep their stones safe from these robbers. Why shouldn’t all of us help? Let’s have them behind the walls of the strongest castle, surrounded with all the engines of war at our disposal, and have thousands of soldiers guarding them. Then no one would be able to steal them. Kept separately they are much more vulnerable.”

  Nate nodded assent at once. “Excellent idea, Queen Wey.”

  “Indeed,” Isika spoke warmly. “We might all have come to that conclusion, dear sister.” This form of words surprised no one. The two queens, so different in appearance, addressed each other as siblings in order to stress their unity of purpose. She raised her hand. “I am in favor.”

  All the assembled monarchs followed her example.

  Glaïmbli and the two elves, however, did not stir. “Wait for Gandogar,” was the only response from the unwilling dwarf.

  Tiwalún and Vilanoîl promised to inform their prince and to tell the assembly of his decision. “By the time Gandogar arrives we shall have Liútasil’s view on this,” said Tiwalún. “Now, I should be delighted to see the progress on your new building. Were your builders able to make use of the advice we gave you, King Bruron?”

  Mallen went past them and hurried over to find his horse, puzzling as he walked. So far no elf delegation had appeared in his own kingdom to negotiate any exchange of skills. Bruron, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying the privilege of benefitting from landur knowledge already.

  He doubted whether Idoslane was still a candidate after the quarrel with Rejalin. So he was more than amazed on returning to his accommodation to find waiting for him a letter from Liútasil announcing the arrival of a deputation.

  Mallen was not at all sure he wanted them in his kingdom.

  VII

  Girdlegard,

  Kingdom of Idoslane,

  Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

  Tungdil lay next to Balyndis staring at the ceiling. Then he stared into the darkness just underneath the ceiling. It didn’t make a whole lot of difference. He might just as well have stared into the fire, at the sun or into the abyss.

  He thought hard. He thought so hard and so long that in spite of physical exhaustion he was unable to sleep.

  Something was wrong.

  The joy at being back again with Balyndis had not ebbed; in the same way, their mutual avowals of affection, and the tender gestures which they had exchanged for the first time in ages—it all felt genuine.

  But still, everything he did and said had a touch of emptiness. It was like spring with no blossom. Things were growing, but colors and fragrance were missing.

  And because he felt so absurdly discontented and unfulfilled, he hated himself. He was starting to destroy their newfound happiness—and totally without reason. In past cycles he had attributed this feeling to his guilt about the death of their son. But that wasn’t it.

  Carefully, so as not to risk waking the dwarf-woman by his side, he got up, put on his nightshirt and left the bedroom.

  He strolled through the vaults but even there he didn’t have the feeling that he was at home.

  Tungdil went into the kitchen, prepared some herbal tea with yarrow, hellebore and fennel, sipped it slowly and waited for the calming effect that would stop his brain spinning.

  Just when his eyelids were growing heavy and his head was sinking slowly onto the table he heard a dull thud somewhere near the front of the vaults. A rotten beam giving way would have sounded different. Someone was busying themselves at the entrance door, trying to break in. Tungdil feared the worst.

  Calm was out of the window; all his senses were on alert. He ran back into the bedroom, threw on his chain mail shirt, thrust his feet into his boots, and grabbed Keenfire.

  “What’s happening?” Balyndis sat up.

  “We’ve got visitors,” he replied swiftly. “Ireheart!” he bellowed. “Get up! There’s work for your crow’s beak.” He buckled his weapon belt on and turned to her. “Do you think you can help us?”

  She grinned. “What impression did I make on you just now in bed?” Balyndis was on her feet, already putting on a chain mail shirt. After a second’s hesitation she made her choice and picked up a hatchet and a shield from the weapon-rack.

  “Where’s the fight?” Boïndil had not bothered to put on armor. He stood bare-chested, his hair unbraided, his beard flowing free. At least he had on his leather breeches and boots, and his crow’s beak weapon shone in his fists. Next to him Goda appeared, having taken a little longer to get armed. “What do you mean…”

  Another crash came from the entrance and they heard the splintering of wood.

  “Right, I get it,” Boïndil said grimly. “Someone’s hoping to pick up a stone that doesn’t belong to him.”

  Either that or the elves had taken the dirty fingerprints on the monolith more seriously than they could have dreamed. But Tungdil had not wanted to tell the womenfolk anything about their less-than-heroic adventures in landur. “Let’s take a look,” he commanded, and crept along the passageway.

  The evening air reached them and the flames of the oil lamps flickered in the breeze. There was a smell of dew-laden grass and damp warm earth…

  That shouldn’t be so! It would mean the gate was open and their uninvited guest already inside the vaults!

  They turned round a corner and saw that the double gate had been destroyed; it lay in pieces on the ground.

  “Has he got a battering ram?” whispered Boïndil, looking around. There were any number of openings in the tunnel they were in. The enemy might jump out at them from any of these.

  “If it’s one of those monsters, it won’t need a battering ram,” replied Tungdil. He listened intently. There was another sound. It came from the back of the section where Lot-Ionan’s old magic school had been. “Quick!” he called out, sprinting along to the laboratorium. “It’s looking for the diamond in exactly the right place.”

  Balyndis dropped back behind the others. She was still grappling with the after-effects of her illness. The others mustn’t be held back because of her. They hurried on, even though now their numbers were reduced.

  “I wonder which of the beasts we’re fighting this time,” said Ireheart as they ran. “The one in armor or the device that rolled into the throne room?” His eyes sparkled with life and fighting spirit. Goda and the new tasks had rekindled the warrior’s vital life-forge. “Ha! We’ll thrash it out of its metal and hack it into tiny pieces, if…”

  In a flash the fiend stood before them.

  It seemed to emerge from the shadows, with no warning and no sound. The sight was enough for the dwarves to know that it was neither of the beings they had already heard described. They had a third variety of monster facing them.

  It was twice their size in height and breadth. Its body was covered in gray and green blotches, like an orc’s; it consisted entirely of muscles without a hint of fat. Long black hair hung in strands from its head, where two pointed ears stuck up.

  The face reminded them in a terrible way of an elf, but instead of their refined beauty, there were dead eyes and sharp incisors, which the creature was baring viciously.

  It wore only a leather loin cloth and carried a rucksack. No iron in its body, no tionium here, no machine this time. Round its forearms were slung white chains and under them iron bands to which the last link in the chain was fastened.

  “Out of the way, groundlings,” it said in an elf-high voice, its dark eyes flashing green.

  “You won’t get past us, monster,” said Ireheart, full of confidence, crashing the blunt end of his crow’s beak weapon against the passage wall. “What shall I call you? You don’t look like one of the snout-faces.”

  Goda watched her master in confusion; why in the face of this terrible being was he quibbling about nomenclature? She had heard strange tales about Boïndil and she was starting to fear they were all true.<
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  “Do you have the stone?” Tungdil demanded, as he brandished his famous Keenfire ax in the creature’s direction. “Give it back. You know how things will end for you otherwise.”

  “But it’ll end badly whatever happens, won’t it?” Worried now, Ireheart mouthed at his friend.

  The monster shook its dreadful head. “Get away,” it repeated, taking a step forward.

  Boïndil bared his teeth and lowered his head; his hair fell down over his forehead. “The old way, Scholar?”

  “The old way, Ireheart.” Tungdil attacked the right hip, giving no warning, and turned in toward the enemy, his friend following through at his back.

  A split second before Tungdil’s blow hit home Boïndil crouched down and sliced at the creature’s right shin. It wouldn’t be able to parry both strikes at the same time, and, more importantly, what could it defend itself with?

  The movement with which their opponent evaded their blades came too fast and too unexpectedly for the dwarves.

  The creature launched itself off the ground, sprang diagonally against the passage wall and ricocheted over Goda’s head. Her attempt to hit at it failed, and the robber escaped into one of the side tunnels.

  “Hey! It can hop like a frog!” Boïndil was furious. “Come back here, froggy!” He raced past Goda, reproving her for her badly aimed blow. “You’ll be dragging beams again for that.” She hurried after him, her eyes downcast in shame.

  They took on the pursuit together.

  The monster had lost its sense of direction in the maze of tunnels, as Tungdil soon realized, because it was running off toward the kitchen. There was no way out from there.

  They stormed into the room and confronted it just as it was trying to force its way up into the flue. Its shoulders were too broad for it to escape up through the chimney.

  When it heard its enemies approach it came back out of the fireplace and stared at them. A brief shake of the arms was enough to free up the chains it bore; the runes glowed on the wrist bands. Its fists closed in a grip at the ends of the chains.