by Markus Heitz
Random objects flew smoking over their heads. Tandibur ducked automatically under his shield.
Silverfast’s commander had been praying for them to arrive. With two arrow wounds in his right arm already, he had now been struck on the leg with a bolt and he could not remove it for fear of severe bleeding. He limped to a standstill some paces away, indicating a heap of stones. “Vraccas be thanked you have come! Take these and send them over the side.” He hurried off. “Target the team on the battering ram.”
Tandibur was motionless from shock. Then he picked up a rough boulder and heaved it on the battlements above the gate. He looked over. Spread out on the plains in front of Silverfast, monster was jostling monster. Thousands of them, mostly orcs, surged forward, yelling and storming the gates. Further back, horrible ogres, tall as giants, and their relations, big ugly hairy trolls, were constantly reloading the huge catapults to give the defenders not a moment’s respite. They were also hurling smaller missiles into the gaps in the battlements. Their aim was depressingly good.
Tandibur froze. Only a few minutes before he had encouraged a fellow dwarf to action but his own spirit now failed him.
Directly underneath, maybe thirty paces down, a hundred ogres were wielding the biggest battering ram he had ever seen. Several trees must have been felled to make it and a huge iron monster head fronted the tip. Only ogres, with their titanic strength, were capable of lifting the dreadful siege weapon.
The gate was yielding inch by inch to the successive blows from the ram. The bolts and hinges were still holding but were so badly deformed that Silverfast would soon fall.
Tandibur shook off his fear and offered a prayer to Vraccas. The fortress must not be taken. He dropped his stone over the edge and pulled his head back in to avoid enemy fire. A shrill scream next to him told him not everyone had been so lucky. He bent over the victim. “Lie still. You’ll be fine,” he said, trying to sound convincing. A missile had shattered the other’s face; the dwarf could scarcely breathe and blood was bubbling out of what was left of his nose.
“We do not give up,” croaked the dwarf, trying to grasp Tandibur’s hand, but as he made the movement his body went limp. The woven carpet of corpses had a new thread for its weft.
“Vraccas, take his soul.” Tandibur brushed aside grief. Now was no time for tears.
He saw four heavy enemy rocks hit home, one after the other, in the center of the second highest tower, leaving a wide hole. Too wide. The building swayed and great fissures appeared in the masonry. Tandibur could see the warriors at the top scampering away from the edge in panic.
The top of the tower was poised over the left flank of the orc army; the tower broke in the middle. An eleven-pace section crashed down onto the foe and sent rubble bouncing back up behind the lines, bombarding orcs further back.
A gray dust cloud stopped Tandibor seeing what damage the hordes had suffered. The falling tower had killed many, and Silverfast’s catapults were having some success against the enemy’s infantry, who were screeching in terror.
“Tandibur!” Sigdal Rubiniam of the clan of the Gem Stones ran over and grabbed his arm. He was a young dwarf, not even fifty cycles, and one who tended to give up rather than see things through. That was when it was a matter of gem polishing. There was blood all over his mail tunic and he had a cut on his face which revealed white bone underneath. Where he had been standing, the battle still raged.
“We have to get back behind the ditches and retreat to Goldfast,” he panted.
“We have orders,” replied Tandibur, not able to wrench his eyes from the smoke-shrouded fallen tower.
“But it’s useless,” protested Sigdal, spreading his arms wide. “Look! The missiles have crushed three of my friends and I am drenched with their blood. It won’t be long before Silverfast falls. Let’s save those who still live. We can combat the next wave from the second fortress, in Goldfast.”
Tandibur turned to find the defenders’ commander. He turned just in time to see that dwarf enveloped in a wall of fire to fall like a burning comet from the castle walls. The next meeting of battering ram and iron gate had the stones under their feet shuddering so that wide cracks opened up. The age-old granite was starting to give way.
The wind brought new low rumbles from the monsters. These deep threatening tones reached Tandibur’s ears for the first time and no instrument he knew of could have produced them.
Sigdal looked over the balustrade. “Look! They have reinforcements!” There was no holding him now. “We’ve got to abandon the stronghold.”
Only a fool would have persisted in the face of what was so obvious. “You are right,” said Tandibur, reaching for his bugle to call the troops. Now their commander was no more, the army would follow his orders.
Then came the strident screeching of orc trombones and the merciless bombardment stopped abruptly. No more arrows or stones or firebombs hit Silverfast. All was as still as the grave.
“What’s going on?” Sigdal chanced a quick glance into the distance. “A trick?”
“It sounds as if they’re turning the catapults round,” Tandibor interpreted, coming to stand next to him, his shield held high as protection from stray arrows.
On the other side of the plain a broad black front was rolling nearer. Compared to the numbers of monsters round Silverfast this was not a whole army of fresh replacement troops. Tandibur calculated it must be about two thousand. But each armor-suited warrior was double the height of a dwarf.
“What are they?” asked Sigdal, fascinated. “See how they run? By Vraccas, it looks like they’ve got bodies of iron but they’re running like ponies!”
Meanwhile some of the catapults had been rotated. Frantic ogres and trolls were loading and firing at the advancing troops, but the missiles did no damage at all, hitting the ground harmlessly behind them. They were traveling too fast for the artillery to reload and adjust the trajectory.
The threatening metallic sound of crashing armor-plating got louder.
The monsters were still staring in disbelief at the approaching foe. Then the front line started to shriek and one of the orcs pushed back through the throng in the direction of Silverfast, where it tried to scale the walls using fingers and toes.
This was the sign the hordes had waited for. Their paralysis was over.
Grunting and screeching, the orcs renewed their onslaught on the stronghold, throwing up siege ladders, but now total confusion reigned. They hurled away whatever they carried: weapons or armor. Some broke their sword blades off to help them clamber up the sheer sides of the fortress. If their progress was impeded orcs wrenched slower colleagues off the walls. Two ogres made a run for it, trampling a band of orcs. They tried to scramble up the rungs of a ladder far too frail to carry their weight and the wood shattered, sending them plunging back down, to lie motionless at the foot of the walls, orc bodies crushed beneath them.
“Hang on! Drive them back!” Tandibur bellowed orders right and left. “It’s easier than swatting flies. Don’t let a single one pass.” He raised his ax and struck an orc between neck and collarbone. Dark green blood spurted skywards and the orc fell back, pulling four of his kind with him to their deaths.
Fighting was easier now that the monsters, in their terror, had stopped using crossbows and covering fire from their catapults. This meant that the dwarves could risk showing themselves between the battlement merlons and use cudgels on the orcs’ broad ugly heads as soon as they appeared.
Then the black-armored attackers arrived.
Shortly before the clash of the ranks they opened their visors and violet light streamed out.
Tandibur heard the bone-marrow-shaking noise of their hissing and growling, like an army of snakes and the thunder of a volcanic eruption. It warned of the danger and merciless bloodlust of these creatures before they tore through the orc mass like a sharp blade slicing rotten wood.
They did not halt but ran straight into the throng of monsters, each wielding two weapons. Crushed
and mutilated or split in half, orcs littered the ground at Silverfast.
“By Vraccas! What beasts are these?” The dwarves felt the hairs on their necks rise in horror. Tandibur now shared the orcs’ deadly fear. Instinctively he hid behind the battlements. What reached him was the ineradicable memory of the appalling noises: sharp screeches and bellows, pain stopped abruptly mid-howl. A chorus of dying so terrible that it ate away even at the mind of a dwarf.
Sigdal looked at Tandibur. “I have heard of a creature like this,” he remembered. “It was the bodyguard of Andôkai the Tempestuous, the maga. No one knew where it was from but it was said to look like those things down there. They called it Djern. It was the king of all the monsters that Samusin and Tion ever created.”
“But you can’t see anything inside the armor?”
“No, it’s that dazzling light.” Sigdal pointed to the face.
Tandibur shook himself.
A third dwarf hurried up. “Shall I have the towers shoot at them, Tandibur?” he asked. “They make big targets—we can’t miss.”
Tandibur looked at Sigdal. “Andôkai’s bodyguard, you think?”
“If the stories are true,” said the dwarf, leaving a slight trace of doubt in the air.
The noise of battle on the other side surged closer to the walls. Tandibur looked down.
The black-plated beings had traversed the plain, cutting a bloody swathe through the orc army, now in disarray. It looked as if a wild animal had got into a chicken coop. The attackers had only lost a handful.
The orcs were so panic-stricken that their only urge was flight. They stormed away in small groups toward the far edge of the plain. Just before they reached the Outer Lands they were confronted by a new wall of black iron.
Tandibur yelled. “Look at that! They’ve drawn the green-skins into a trap! They’re butchering them!”
“So do we fire or not?” asked the dwarf once more.
Tandibur shook his head. “Wait and see what they do next.”
Until the evening fell they watched the unknown creatures harry and kill the orcs one by one; then ogres and trolls fell to their superior strength.
Night covered the narrow gorge that led to Girdlegard and with the darkness came silence.
There were no screams from the orcs. The dwarves heard no more groaning. Not a breath was left in the heap of bodies at the foot of Silverfast’s high towers. The unknown beings wandered through the carnage, checking cadavers, and if anything twitched in the confusion of tangled limbs and heads, they followed through with a deadly blow from their blood-stained weapons.
The stars hid themselves behind thick clouds, unwilling to view the results of the massacre. Soon the dwarves noticed the sound of scraping and scrabbling.
“Any idea what they are up to?” asked Sigdal as he spied out at the scene. “It is so devilishly dark that even with eyes like mine I can’t see.”
Tandibur took a burning torch and tossed it down from the battlements.
The faint light showed black-armored warriors moving about, dragging two or three orcs by the feet from the field of slaughter.
“What will they do with them?” wondered Sigdal.
Tandibur pointed. To the left more of the strange beings were stripping the flesh from the bones of ogres and trolls. With great blows from their weapons they shattered the bones so that the marrow could be sucked out. Victory was providing its own celebration banquet.
“By Vraccas!” mouthed Sigdal in horror.
“The king of the monsters, eh?” said Tandibur, glad when the torch gave out, veiling these ghastly activities in darkness once more. “Then it seems we have here a whole folk of kings.” He went to the steps. It was time to give Goldfast a full report of the action. “Get the gates repaired and have more rocks brought up here to the walkways. These creatures must be kept under constant observation. They may have freed us from the threat of the orcs’ attack but we don’t want them getting curious about the taste of dwarf flesh.”
Tired and with aching limbs he walked down the stairway. Then, escorting the walking wounded, he moved off along the basalt planking toward the second fortress.
Tandibur was sensing they would have to confront whatever hid behind the black visors of these new warriors. “But with what weapons?” he whispered. “How can they be stopped?” He prayed to Vraccas that this small army of giants at Silverfast would not concern themselves with the dwarves. Not today, not tomorrow, not in ten thousand cycles.
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Idoslane,
Ten Miles from the Caves of Toboribor,
Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Lot-Ionan sat quietly by the fire warming his hands. The nights had lost their summer mildness and after his six petrified cycles there was permanent cold within him; neither hot tea, nor warm brandy nor thick blankets could drive it out.
Dergard was already asleep. Ireheart cut himself a piece of the rabbit from the spit-roast. He chewed away making unsatisfied noises.
“Magus, are you sure we can’t get you those last few miles? It’s not far now.”
Lot-Ionan raised his white head. “Trust me, Boïndil. I would rather sleep in a warm tent than in the open air.” He eased his back with his right hand. “My back is too painful to get back in the saddle.”
Ireheart was calculating what the old man might weigh. “I could carry you.”
Tungdil cut a morsel of meat for Sirka. During the journey he had spent hours thinking about Girdlegard’s precarious situation. He had confided in Lot-Ionan but even with help from the magus no satisfactory course of action had emerged.
Otherwise he observed an iron silence. Not even Ireheart had been taken into their confidence. Since the incident on the farm there was a split in a friendship that had withstood tests in the past. This time it seemed difficult to get over. Not speaking meant an uncomfortable atmosphere between the two of them. “Leave it, Ireheart, let the magus get some rest. It’s no good if he’s thoroughly exhausted when we get there.”
Sirka took the slice of meat and placed it between pieces of bread. She tasted it gingerly. “Now I know what I love about my own land,” she said, fighting down a mouthful. “The meat tastes better.”
“Probably how they feed the animals,” grinned Tungdil.
“Well, I like it,” mumbled Ireheart, making light work of the rest of the rabbit after Rodario had indicated he did not want any more. The playwright was sitting next to Lot-Ionan, scribbling away by candlelight.
“Say, Sirka, could you tell us about where you’re from?” he said suddenly, dipping his pen in the ink. “We can see you, we saw your soldiers and we’ve heard about the adventures in Girdlegard…” The quill made circles in the air. “But what’s it like back in…?” He paused expectantly.
“Letèfora,” she completed. “Why do you want to know?”
“To go in this play. And I’m curious.” Rodario laughed. “Exotica goes down well on stage. The punters love a whiff of the Outer Lands.”
Sirka’s close-shaven head shimmered in the light, her dark skin enhancing the whiteness of her teeth. “Letèfora is a city where many races live: humans, acronta, ubariu and ourselves. The buildings are finer than any in Girdlegard. Not even the dwarves can match us for our architecture.” She noted the indignation in Ireheart’s face. “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t mean the dwarf buildings are not good. They are just…” She shrugged her shoulders. “… smaller.”
“So what’s the deal with monsters and things?” asked Rodario.
“Oh, I expect you’ll find even their monsters are bigger than ours. And they probably fly. Their screams will deafen you and the mere sight of one will strike you dead,” scoffed Boïndil. He wiped the meat juices off his over-short beard. “Just like Djern.”
Sirka nodded, “You’re right, Boïndil. Absolutely spot on, even if I don’t know what a Djern is. Our beasts are very varied. We have phottòr… winged orcs, and enough other creatures to make the b
ravest warriors quail and take flight.”
“Only human soldiers, I’d wager,” Goda joined in, earning a grateful look from her tutor. “Or elves, perhaps. But never the children of the Smith.”
Before the harmless storytelling could develop into a fully fledged row about the dwarves and their courage, Tungdil threw in a question. So far he had listened with great interest, hanging on every word from Sirka’s dark lips. “When we were traveling north through to the Outer Lands we found this rune on the wall.” He sketched a shape in the sand.
Sirka reflected and drew a clearer version next to it. “It must have been this one. It’s an ancient sign that indicates a safe mountain pass. Long ago our people reconnoitered the whole of the northern range.”
“Aha,” said Ireheart, pointing at her with the end of a rabbit bone he had been chewing at. “So you were preparing to attack Girdlegard.”
“Yes,” said Sirka, “but when we learned that dwarves were manning the gates, we gave up. We assumed the land behind the gates would be in your hands.” She said all this in a tone of voice that could have been lies or truth. Nobody could work it out.
“Very enlightening,” said Rodario and went on writing. “In view of the situation I’ll be circumspect on the matter of invading Girdlegard.” He put on a serious face. “The audience might not like it. We can do without upsetting people right now.”
“That’s if it’s true,” said Goda, taking firm hold of her night star to sharpen the blades with a whetstone. “Sounded to me like she was having us on.”
Sirka grinned. “Who knows? Perhaps our scouts are still out there waiting for their opportunity?”
“Ho, a sense of humor. Do you know the one about the orc asking a dwarf the way?” Boïndil was starting to warm up.
