The Revenge of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  “We come here because of the cellar,” said Risava, who had come to a halt in the entrance. She touched a special place on the wall and steps appeared, leading down, when a stone slab moved aside. From the vaulted basement Tungdil caught the familiar smell of paper and parchment. “Is this Nudin’s library?”

  “No, it’s mine,” said the woman, lighting a lamp and leading the way.

  Soon they were all crowded into the small cellar room with walls full of shelves and books. In the middle stood Lot-Ionan’s petrified statue inside a circle drawn with magic symbols; several runes had been sketched on the surface of the statue itself.

  “We’ve got everything ready,” she explained. “All we need to revive him is the magic.”

  “How did you get him here?”

  Risava indicated the steps. “Carried him down. It took nearly all night.”

  Ireheart walked round the statue. “There are a few bad scratches,” he said, running his fingers over the grooves.

  Tungdil examined the damage. It was a strange feeling. Was he looking at a statue or a person? Perhaps Lot-Ionan would soon be emerging from the stone, the magus he had lived with for many cycles, his own foster-father. They could not afford to make any mistakes. “Should we fill the marks in with mortar before trying to bring him to life? We can’t have him bleeding.” He saw a hole in the stone robe near the spine. “Or he might fall down dead.”

  “What do you think?” he passed his query to the famuli.

  Dergard shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that.” He studied the hole, a finger’s width. He seemed surprised. “I didn’t see that before. Could have been rats or something else like that.”

  “I agree.” Tungdil ordered the dwarves to get the carrying belts from the wagon. “It would be like a foreign body to introduce mortar into his flesh. If it wasn’t part of him when he was turned to stone then it won’t be changed back when he is restored to life.”

  Ireheart bent down, picking up some of the powder he saw on the floor. “Stone dust.” He scratched around the opening. “It all fits. This hole has been drilled on purpose.” He turned to Risava and Dergard. “I don’t know of any animal outside of the mountains that eats stone.”

  The two humans looked at each other helplessly. “I swear by Samusin it wasn’t us,” said Risava.

  “Perhaps a fourth famulus, still loyal to Nôd’onn and who wants to see Lot-Ionan dead?” suggested Goda. “The hole was concealed. It was probably to serve as a fallback in case we managed to bring him back to life.”

  “Then they would have knocked his head off, apprentice,” Ireheart said, looking at her crossly. “That should cost you fifty push-ups, but I’ll be generous.”

  Tungdil tore an empty page out of a book, rolled the paper into a spill and pushed it into the hole to see how deep it went. “As deep as my little finger. A person should be able to survive that.” He ran his hands over the statue. “And anyway, he’d be able to heal himself at once. We must just risk it.”

  The dwarves came back with the leather harness. With a combined effort they managed to load the stone figure of the magus onto the wagon, bedding it down on the straw.

  The diamond!” The monster’s dark eyes shone green as it shook the chains free from its forearms. The älfar symbols glowed and transferred their light to the iron links. Then it swung the chains at Rodario and Gandogar; both were caught within the coils.

  At the next moment and before any of the spectators could move, the creature launched itself into the air, catapulting straight through the stage scenery, dragging its captives after it as if they weighed nothing at all. Pieces of the stage flats broke off and fell down, one of them hitting Tassia and trapping her while dwarves and soldiers rushed off in pursuit. “Help!” she sobbed. Planks collapsed, bringing down sections of canvas from the tent. Smoke started to rise. Tassia could hear people stampeding past her to escape from the monster. There was no time to come to the aid of some actress.

  At last Furgas came over to free her from her distress. She wept and threw herself at him, grabbing hold of his shoulder. He froze. Finally he put his arms hesitatingly around her and consoled her.

  “Come along, let’s get you out of here.” He yelled orders to the theater group, most of whom were standing rooted to the spot in terror: they must put out the fires. He carried Tassia out and sat her on a makeshift bed. “You’ll be safe here,” he said. “I must go and save Rodario.”

  She nodded and calmed down but the pain, coupled with the shock of the monster’s appearance, had hit her hard.

  Furgas ran off, following the sounds of commotion. He could see from Porista’s lighted windows that the townspeople had been aroused. It wasn’t long before he found a crowd of soldiers and dwarves surrounding Rodario and Gandogar.

  Whereas the actor had got away comparatively lightly, the monster had torn off Gandogar’s forearm. The dwarf king lay unconscious on the cobbles, being attended to by a healer who was binding up the stump.

  Rodario was bleeding from numerous cuts and grazes. Both he and the high king had burn marks on their clothing from the red-hot chains. He was holding his head. “Awful,” he said indistinctly. “I was nearly dragged to my death. It has the strength of twenty horses.” He looked over at Gandogar. “This courageous dwarf refused to give up the diamond and actually attacked the monster. It simply wrapped the chain around his arm and yanked…” He turned pale and covered his mouth with his hand. “I mustn’t think of it.”

  “Where did it go?” one of the soldiers asked.

  “I don’t know.” Rodario pointed up to the roofs. “It made one great leap and disappeared. It had no trouble getting right up to the rooftop and then jumped to the next one. You won’t catch it now. It’ll be over the city walls.”

  Bruron appeared, surrounded by his bodyguards. He saw he had arrived too late. “Summon the assembly,” he commanded one of his servants. “And get Tungdil Goldhand. We need to make a new plan and must hurry if we are to save Girdlegard. There’s no doubt now that the unslayables possess all the diamonds.” Cursing, he turned and walked back to the tent.

  Furgas gave Rodario a helping arm.

  “How is Tassia?”

  “She has a scratch on her shoulder,” Furgas told the actor calmly. “Nothing serious.”

  “Amazing.” Rodario looked up at the rooftops as if he could still see the monster. “I had the most powerful of the gems and had not noticed.” He gave a wry laugh. “I am stupid enough not to be able to tell a crystal from a diamond.”

  Furgas patted his shoulder. “Don’t fret. You didn’t know what the stone looked like. It wouldn’t have helped if you had known—it wouldn’t have stopped this catastrophe.”

  Rodario nodded and fell silent.

  Hey! Take care, you clumsy idiots, or you’ll have his nose off!” Ireheart called with a grin. “He’d turn you into a gnome for that.”

  The dwarves sweating with the effort of heaving up Lot-Ionan’s statue laughed and renewed their endeavors to lower the magus gently down.

  Then they heard the alarm boom out through the night. There was no more peace and quiet in Porista now.

  “What does that mean?” growled Ireheart. “Are they hunting down the impresario?”

  There was a clink and a green glowing iron chain shot down from the sky, coiling itself around Risava’s neck.

  She grabbed at it, gasping for breath, but at once skin, muscles and vertebrae were ripped apart as if made of paper and rotten wood. The torso remained upright for a moment then collapsed convulsing to the ground. Blood pumped out of the neck stump. The famula’s head fell to the cobbles with a dull thud.

  “Stand against the wall!” Tungdil ran to the side and pressed himself against the side of the house, to give the whipping chains no chance. He raised Keenfire and looked up.

  “The damned froggy,” growled Boïndil. “This time you won’t get away. I’m going to pull off your fine legs and I’ll have you crawling. You will pay for ruining my be
ard!”

  The creature scurried over the roofs to right and left, covering huge distances effortlessly. Every so often it would show itself to the dwarves to mock them.

  “What does it want here?” Goda wondered, not taking her eyes off the roof-line.

  Tungdil looked at Risava’s corpse. “It must have felt that hope was emerging for Girdlegard.” He turned to Dergard and signaled ten dwarves over to protect him. “Ireheart and Goda, you lead them. The rest go with me,” he ordered, running off to the wagon on which Lot-Ionan lay. “Let’s get him away from here.”

  The chains hissed close and tore both the dwarves nearest to Tungdil screaming into the air; they crashed down, ripped in two halves, as if a giant child had broken and dropped them.

  Then the creature leaped on to the street to face Tungdil, bared its teeth triumphantly and let the chains sway and dance.

  “I shall kill you all,” it promised in a clear voice. A jerk with one arm was sufficient and the chain killed one of the undergroundlings as the tip smashed the dwarf’s head.

  Sirka appeared at Tungdil’s side. “Let’s get going. I’ll distract it and you strike,” she said earnestly, attacking the monster without waiting for Tungdil’s reply.

  While she was moving in on the creature the second chain came whipping out and wrapped itself around her weapon, making the iron glow red hot.

  With a scream the undergroundling released her hold but she was not giving up. She drew a dagger and stabbed at the monster.

  Tungdil swung Keenfire, swiveled on his heel and slashed at the thigh of his huge opponent. The ax flamed up, diamonds blazing out a cold light and the weapon-head drawing a fiery circle after itself.

  The creature saw the danger and swerved to the side, taking the relatively harmless dagger-blow to its belly and avoiding the swipe from Keenfire. The ax had missed by a hair’s breadth.

  But the long spur of a crow’s beak smote it on the kneecap. “Ha, how do you like my brother’s ax, froggy?” came Ireheart’s malicious laugh, as he jerked the haft of his weapon to bring the monster down. “You didn’t think that I would hold back when I can kill this beast, did you, Scholar?”

  The creature yelled out. In the high elf-like tones the animal sounds of an orc-voice could be heard. Then it thrust its hand out and grabbed Ireheart by the shoulder. The älfar runes on its forearms started to glow.

  The dwarf cried out, held stubbornly fast to the handle of his crow’s beak and kept pulling.

  “Mind out!” Tungdil swung Keenfire again. This time the blade bit home and the monster’s forearm sheared off, together with the wrist guards and the chains.

  The enemy stared at the severed arm and at its own gushing black blood, staggered backwards and launched itself howling from the floor. In spite of its injury and the crow’s beak in its knee it managed to jump onto the next roof. Thatch and shingles tumbled down to the street. The monster had gone.

  Goda ran off after it.

  “Stop! Come back!” Ireheart crouched on the floor. A cloud of steam rose from his shoulder and there was a smell of burnt flesh, hot iron and scorched leather. “Look at that! Froggy’s got me!” he spoke through clenched teeth. “We nearly did for it, though?”

  Tungdil saved his remonstrations; the pain was punishment enough for his friend. The mail tunic had heated up with the effect of the magic and had burnt through all the layers of clothing, stencilling a black pattern. “You are mad, Boïndil,” he said, helping him to his feet. “Let’s find Goda.”

  The dwarf-girl was back already. In her hands she bore the bloodied crow’s beak, its spur missing. “I heard it break and went off to see,” she explained, handing the weapon to her master.

  “That fine spur,” he grumbled, examining the damage and running his hands over the jagged edge. “I’ll have to get it repaired.”

  Goda slipped under his arm to support him and he used the remains of the crow’s beak as a stick. “You must rest now and get that wound looked at.”

  “Oh that’s nothing,” he said, playing it down. “I’ve had worse than that, great gaping wounds with blood and guts spilling out. A bit of burnt skin is not tragic.”

  Tungdil looked at the group of dwarves round Dergard, then at Risava’s body, already starting to grow cold. “So now we have only two magi,” he murmured. “We’ll have to protect them well. This won’t be the last attack.” He gave the signal to return to their quarters and was just about to send a messenger to call in the assembly when a soldier came running up.

  “There you are, Tungdil Goldhand! King Bruron is looking for you everywhere. The monster has stolen the final diamond,” gasped the man. “It happened during the performance. It surprised us all. We had no chance to stop it. We need you there so they can decide what to do next.”

  “Damn! The froggy had the stone. And we’ve let it escape,” groaned Ireheart. “Oh Vraccas! How did that happen?”

  Tungdil exhaled sharply and looked at Sirka. “The dwarves and the undergroundlings have one thing in common at least.” He wanted to clap her on the shoulder in acknowledgment, but put his hand on her back instead and to his own surprise left it there. She held a strong attraction for him. He watched her face, thought about that kiss and would have gladly repeated it. Now, right now.

  “Courage?” she said, laughing.

  “Exactly,” he agreed swiftly, because he had left far too long a pause and had been staring at her. His behavior had been noted by Ireheart and Goda. He swiftly took his hand away from Sirka’s back. First he had to talk to Balyndis.

  They hurried through Porista’s lanes and narrow streets, now full of guards.

  “One more thing, Tungdil Goldhand,” the messenger addressed him. “We found a dead body in your room. It looks as if he had been stabbed and died as a result of his injuries.”

  “That can’t be so,” Tungdil replied at once, as they approached the assembly marquee. “He was an intruder I confronted. I wounded him on the leg and on his side. The injuries weren’t dangerous.”

  “Very strange. I saw the dead man myself and I assure you, the body had been carefully slit right up the middle.”

  “The froggy! The monster got to him as well!” Ireheart exclaimed, looking at Dergard and the dwarf-guards who surrounded him. “Don’t leave him for a second, even if he needs to have a shit, right?”

  Tungdil and Sirka exchanged glances and he could read her thoughts: The monster might have ripped the man to pieces, chucked him off a roof, torn his throat out, but it would never have sliced him through with a clean sharp blade. He would know more when he had seen the body.

  The undergroundling came to his side, her hand this time on his back. She put her face down to his ear. “I think you have a traitor in your midst, Tungdil,” she whispered.

  He shared her assumption. The thirdlings had a long arm and it reached all the way to Porista.

  Girdlegard,

  Kingdom of Gauragar,

  Porista,

  Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

  Under the circumstances I don’t think it would be advisable to split our forces,” said Ortger. “Tungdil Goldhand must protect the magus with Keenfire until he is able to defend himself against the attacks from the unslayables and the monsters.” He regarded the men and women in the assembly. “Besieging Toboribor seems pointless now. Soldiers cannot combat these powers. Not now the enemy holds the genuine diamond.” He indicated Dergard, who was sitting between Gandogar and Tungdil. “Let us send him and the dwarves to Weyurn to seek out the island.”

  Tungdil rose. “Indeed. The sooner we take Dergard and Lot-Ionan to the source, the better.” He moved over to the map of Girdlegard. “The unslayables will need to find a way to use the stone. The eoîl stole it from evil but transformed it into a power for good. I don’t think the älfar will immediately work out how to use it.” He circled Toboribor with his finger on the map. “And we should keep the siege going. We ought to send raiding parties into the caves to harass the unslayables. Have yo
u considered why they never set out themselves to find the diamonds?” Tungdil paused. “I think they are too weak and so they sent out their creatures instead. We must not give them a moment’s rest. Even if it means risking the lives of more of our troops. If they acquire the stone’s power before we revive Lot-Ionan and before Dergard can cast any spells, we are lost.” He sat down.

  “Are any better suited to combat in caves than the children of the Smith?” Rejalin’s question was friendly. “It would be madness to send such experienced fighters out to storm an island when they’re invaluable underground, because they can see in the dark better than a human or an elf.” She looked at Gandogar. “I trust the dwarves, Your Majesty. You should send your warriors to Toboribor, every man you can spare from duty on the gates.”

  Tungdil grew hot under the collar. He cursed the fact there had been no opportunity to give the high king Sûndalon’s report about the broka. He sensed a trap in the elf princess’s suggestion. He could not pin it down; her words had seemed eminently sensible. Dwarves were indeed excellent at fighting in tunnels.

  Sirka, standing behind Tungdil, now leaned forward. “That broka is up to something,” she warned, reinforcing his unease.

  Gandogar, however, was flattered by Rejalin’s words and was ready to accept the proposal. “You are right, Your Highness. But I must insist it should be our people who take the thirdlings’ island. If the other sovereigns are in agreement I shall send our warriors to Toboribor.” Pain was audible in his voice; the sedative herbs were only a slight help in stilling the agony from his injured shoulder and mutilated arm. All those present in the assembly admired his stamina.

  “It will take too long,” Tungdil objected. “At least sixty orbits. We would be wasting precious time. The cave attacks must start much sooner than that.”

  Queen Isika had not yet—luckily for Tungdil—accepted Rejalin’s idea. “We mustn’t forget that there may still be traitors in the dwarf tribes looking to make common cause with our enemies.”