The Fate of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  “But Boïndil said nothing.” Kiras could discern monsters behind the red screen running across the plain round the Black Abyss and marking certain places out with flags.

  “And he never will. Unless the dwarf pretending to be Tungdil Goldhand finally admits that he is an impostor.” Their attempt to force his hand had failed. Goda looked both ways along the battlements. They were manned at all times, the catapult teams at their stations, ready to take immediate action if the fiends attacked.

  “That’ll never happen. Those dead soldiers we found are evidence that he’s pursuing his own ends with every conceivable means.” Kiras lowered the telescope to look at Goda. A flash caught her eye and when she turned in its direction she saw that it came from the eastern battlements. One of the guards had polished his shield so well that it was dazzling her. She thought she could even feel the heat of the reflection it sent. “Is it true they’ve made him high king?”

  The maga nodded. “And I thank Vraccas that I’m here in Evildam! This way I’m not subject to his commands.”

  The undergroundling leaned against the parapet. “I wonder what happened to the real Tungdil: Dead, captive or has he become something even worse than this thing, this fraud calling himself the hero?”

  Goda sighed. “There’s no way of knowing.”

  Kiras suddenly brightened up and looked across at the red sphere. “What if we captured one of the monsters for interrogation? Can’t you make a hole in the screen big enough for me and a few ubariu?”

  Goda found the idea ridiculous at first but, on reflection… “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Because you’ve got too much to think about. You have to command the fortress and be our maga, constantly on guard against sorcery.” Kiras offered this excuse with a smile, grasping Goda’s hands. “I don’t tell you this often enough: You are like a mother to me. I can never thank you enough for what you have done for me.”

  “That’s why I shan’t find it easy to send you in there. Not only because of the monsters—there’s a magus over there as well. And who knows how long I’ll be able to hold the opening for you?” Goda shook her head. “No, we’ll drop that idea.”

  A fanfare sounded, drawing their attention to the scene. The women picked up their telescopes.

  A variety of creatures were running around, busy as ants, dragging stones to the places marked with pennants and building protective walls. Judging from the speed they were working at they had to be trying to get things completed by nightfall.

  Elsewhere, large fat creatures with broad long-taloned paws were digging furiously. As soon as the holes had reached a certain depth they motioned over other workers to bring tubs of molten metal to tip in. Then long iron spikes were set at angles into the cooling substance.

  “They’re making fixtures for siege machines.” Kiras surveyed the scene through her telescope.

  “Catapults, I’d say. Like the one I destroyed that they were using down in the ravine.” Goda summoned one of the ubariu and asked his opinion; he agreed with her.

  While they spoke, other beasts raced up behind the screen, dozens of them dragging huge long timbers. One of the fat monsters supervised their orderly construction and, bit by bit, the confused heap of wood became a siege tower.

  “You were right,” said the maga to Kiras. “And over there they’re making an undercarriage for a battering ram.” She called for two of her children, Sanda and Bandaál, who she had been training up in magic skills. “We can’t wait any longer. The magic sphere must be held back before those machines can reach our walls.”

  Kiras stared. “What are they doing?”

  Goda looked down.

  The monsters had half erected the first four siege towers, and then switched to the task of carrying stone blocks over and placing them on the wooden platforms; other workers brought long coils of rope, one end of which dangled back down into the ravine.

  “Weights,” decided the undergroundling. “I don’t know what they’re for yet, but they look like counterweights.”

  “They’ll be putting up a bigger catapult in the ravine itself, I suppose,” said the ubari soldier, screwing up his pink eyes to see better. “One of the beasts has got a white flag. He’s coming up to the gate.”

  Goda assumed it was a herald come to negotiate. If it had not been for the barrier and the enemy magus she would have nailed the creature to the ground with a rain of arrows, then buried it under a rock the size of a house so that the brood of Tion could see what the dwarves had in store for all of them. But in the present situation this seemed unwise. Negotiations, even if Goda did not intend to put the results into practice, would take time. And treasure chests full of time were what she needed, waiting for Ireheart to return with enough allied soldiers to confront the enemy magus.

  It would not be easy. Her husband and the one-eyed dwarf calling himself Tungdil had a daunting task; everyone knew that. Unlike the soldiers defending Evildam, Goda was not optimistic about being able to face down Lot-Ionan and force him to his knees.

  The creature heading for the gate was walking more slowly now. It stopped three paces away and called out in a quavering voice. The guards passed on the message.

  “Has it brought a list of demands?” Goda asked the others. “I wonder.”

  The three of them hurried down. Goda, Kiras and the ubari went to the lift along corridors and past battlements and catapults. The open cabin took them down to ground level for the main gate. A soldier came up, a roll of parchment in his hands. “It was posted through the barrier into the spy-hole, Maga,” he explained.

  “Put it down,” Goda instructed him. “Carefully.”

  The guard looked surprised. “It’s only parchment.”

  “Do what you are told!” snapped Kiras. “Who knows what spell they might have put on it. It could be a trick.”

  The soldier did as he was ordered.

  Goda approached the roll and spoke a security incantation to check whether the enemy magus had impregnated the parchment with a spell that would start to work when it was unrolled. She relaxed when the green flickering cloud did not change color—a sure indication that all was in order.

  She picked it up, unrolled it and read:

  Defenders,

  I, Bearer of Many Names on this side of the Abyss and beyond, demand that you surrender the fortress with immediate effect. Open the gates and withdraw!

  Further, I demand the entire hinterland be instantly subjected to my rule. I am inclined to be merciful if this happens without delay. If not, pity will be shown neither to soldiers nor citizens and I shall instruct my warriors that everything is to be destroyed.

  I, Bearer of Many Names, am in possession of power beyond anything your own magus can compete with. Your magus should surrender to me voluntarily. If, on the other hand, I am forced to, I shall use my might to sweep him aside, and then shall have my troops wreak greater havoc still on the land.

  The reply to this announcement must be received within seven sun courses, no more.

  If the reply is not forthcoming within the set period I shall consider my demands to have been rejected and I shall know how to proceed to achieve my justified claims.

  Nothing and no one can save you from my anger if you challenge me.

  Goda handed the parchment to Kiras. “Insolent is too harmless a word for this fanatical rubbish!”

  “Arrogant,” judged the undergroundling on skimming the content. “Arrogant and stupid. Someone’s getting rather big for his boots today.”

  The maga went to the gate and had the sentry open the spy-hole. Directly in front of her she saw the red shimmer of the sphere the foe had erected, providing cover for war engines to be moved in close. You would not make demands like that unless you had great power, there was no disputing that. “Maybe he really is that powerful.” She clutched one of the diamond splinters and prepared a spell to attack the red sphere.

  A narrow bolt of lightning sped through the spy-hole from the tip of her middle f
inger; it hit the barrier.

  There was a humming sound like in a beehive and then a dark coloring spread where the spell had struck. Red turned to orange and then finally to dazzling yellow.

  “Close up the spy-hole!” Goda commanded, stepping away from the gate.

  Kiras and the guards could no longer see what was happening on the other side but they heard a loud explosion.

  The fortress gate, although reinforced with iron plates, bolts and rods, shuddered under the impact. The hinges shrieked and flakes of rust flew off the metal. The blast was so strong that the entrance opened up a little as some of the metal fastenings fractured, flying in splinters around the heads of the defenders. The ubari standing at Goda’s side was struck and fell to the ground groaning; the undergroundling cried out and grasped her head. Shrapnel had torn off half her ear.

  Goda, attending to the needs of the wounded, vowed never to try an experiment like that again. It doesn’t bear thinking about what would have occurred if I’d used a really strong spell.

  She knew now that the barrier would return any attack with tenfold magic firepower.

  Girdlegard,

  Protectorate of Gauragar,

  Twenty Miles South of the Entrance to the Gray Mountains,

  Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

  Ireheart watched the vanguard of the Black Squadron—whatever that might be—come riding out of the little valley to arrive ten paces away from where Tungdil was standing in a dip in the landscape. He could do nothing to prevent this. He could make out ponies and dwarves with dark armor remarkably similar to that of the Invisibles.

  As soon as the squadron noticed the sledges they fanned out, covering the entire breadth of the hollow; there was no way through.

  Tungdil halted his sledge and the Zhadár, one by one, slowed down, then dismounted, forming a circle, using their shield-sledges as protection to create a mini fortification with Tungdil and Barskalín in the center. Slîn and Balyndar came up and joined them.

  Damn and blast. This is not going to go well. Ireheart doubted he could reach them before the Black Squadron tightened their ring round the Zhadár. Oh, what the blazes… I’ll barge my way through. “Nothing on this mission is going as planned. Not even when we haven’t got a plan!” he cursed under his breath and made himself as small as possible so as to offer the wind less resistance.

  In an audaciously dangerous maneuver he swerved past the pony legs, headed for the last gap in the squadron’s ranks and crashed his sledge full tilt against a Zhadár shield.

  Ireheart was hurled up into the air, then he slammed into the protective wall and slid into the snow, springing back on his feet immediately, his weapon at the ready. “Get back!” he yelled at the rider in front of him, but he could hardly see what he was doing, what with the melting snow dripping into his eyes. “I swear I’ll get you with my crow’s beak where it’ll really hurt.”

  A chorus of loud laughter broke out.

  “There are not many children of the Smith who carry a weapon such as yours and who are as old as you,” someone scoffed, but still with a trace of respect in the voice. The dwarf sprang down from the saddle, chains clinking.

  Boïndil swiftly wiped the snow off his face. Now he could see the dwarf-warrior clearly: He bore a long-handled ax in his right hand. A thick mantle was worn over reinforced chain mail and the bright red beard had black streaks in it. Green eyes surveyed Ireheart; the body was tensed and the warrior was watching out for a surprise attack born of desperation.

  “It would be a pleasure to try my strength against yours,” said the unknown dwarf. “Boïndil Doubleblade.” Then he turned to the Zhadár. “What’s this about, Barskalîn? Since when are you afraid of me and my soldiers?”

  “I’m not afraid of them or of you. But I was not sure you were still their leader, Hargorin Deathbringer.” On his command all the shields were lowered and then Barskalín approached his friend. “I wasn’t expecting to meet you and the Desirers on my travels.”

  Ireheart’s gaze went from one to the other. “What—by the Smith—is happening here?” He looked at the riders’ dark armor. “Desirers?”

  “They collect tribute for the älfar from what was once Idoslane.” Balyndar spoke with hearty disdain. “Robbers and murderers, nothing more.”

  “Don’t be so hasty.” Barskalín held out his hand to Hargorin and introduced Slîn, Balyndar and Ireheart. “Now bend the knee before the new high king of the dwarflands,” he announced dramatically. “For he is one of your own, a thirdling. Tungdil Goldhand!”

  Hargorin took a step back in surprise and stared at the one-eyed dwarf emerging from the ranks of the Zhadár; then his gaze took in the armor, and Bloodthirster, and finally the hard facial features. He saw the insignia of a high king. “Well, I’ll be…” His voice trailed off in disbelief, then he sank onto one knee and bowed his head, proffering Tungdil his ax.

  The Black Squadron dismounted and one hundred and fifty warriors, male and female, all made their reverences to the ruler of all dwarves.

  Ireheart looked around with a grin. “If this happens every ten miles or so all the way to Dsôn Bhará, we’ll soon have a decent army to put the wind up the älfar and chuck them out of Girdlegard,” he laughed. “Scholar, will you take a look at this! Thirdlings showing you respect!”

  Tungdil commanded Hargorin and his squadron to stand. “If I understand Barskalín and yourself correctly may I assume you share the same views on the älfar?”

  Hargorin glanced at the sytràp, who nodded permission to continue. “Lord, many of us have been waiting for you to return to lead your tribe against all the enemies.” As he spoke he seemed radiant with delight. “You don’t know it but our folk recount legends about your fame.”

  Tungdil looked at Barskalín, who shrugged and said, “I haven’t had time to tell you.” This will make a good story for the campfire. Ireheart gave a broad grin. “So, my Scholar… A fairy-tale hero fêted by the thirdlings now.”

  “If he’s so popular with the thirdlings, this gives us untold opportunities,” remarked Slîn.

  “Not all revere him,” Hargorin was quick to point out. “But very, very many do.” He beamed at Tungdil. “One of the legends describes your heroic deeds on the far side of the Black Abyss. When I see you wearing this armor it feels like it was a prophecy. The story describes you exactly like this.”

  Barskalîn gave two of his Zhadár orders to watch the sky for any signs of the kordrion’s approach. “We need to find ourselves somewhere nice and quiet where we can talk properly,” he suggested. “Have you got a place near here, old friend?”

  Hargorin nodded. “Half an orbit’s ride away. It’s one of my fortresses. Let’s harness our ponies to your sledges and make for the stronghold.”

  “Is it strong enough to withstand a kordrion attack?”

  Hargorin’s expression did not change. “It can hold up for a good while, at least. And if the tower were to collapse we can still escape through the tunnels.” He looked at Barskalín. “What have you been up to? Why is the beast after you?”

  The sytràp laughed. “We’ll tell you later. Take the high king to your home and look after us well. Then we’ll have time to talk.” He became serious. “You will have to come to a decision about whom to serve,” he said, suddenly formal.

  “I did that many cycles ago.” The thirdling bowed to Tungdil. “Whatever leads you to the land of the älfar, from now on I and the Black Squadron shall serve only you, Sire. You will bring us glory. As our legends promise.”

  Balyndar rolled his eyes. But a happy Slîn on the other hand appeared gratified. “Absolutely charming.”

  “Charming sounds… feminine. But I certainly find it all… extraordinary.” Ireheart was pleased that instead of the battle he had been fearing they were now celebrating with their new brothers-in-arms. But he could not shrug off his disquiet at the amount of black there was around him. It was like a weather front of gathering thunderclouds; would it discharge
itself into a terrible storm? If so, it was clear that at its very eye would be standing none other than his friend Tungdil.

  “It will suck us all in,” he said under his breath, remembering that he too would soon be donning the dark armor of the Zhadár. “Vraccas, don’t let me turn into one of them just because I have to wear their black plating.”

  Again it was Slîn who overheard. This fourthling had highly developed hearing. “You’re afraid you might become like them? Boïndil, it’s only black steel we’re going to be putting on.” He tapped himself on the chest, then touched his head. “Our hearts and minds will still belong to us. Look on it as a harmless disguise.” He threw one end of a rope to one of the riders; the other was tied to his sledge. “If you like, I’ll look after you, my poor little dwarf.”

  Ireheart laughed. “You’re right to make fun of my childish thoughts.” He got his sledge ready.

  Pulled swiftly across the snow, they soon learned the disadvantages of this mode of travel: The ponies’ hooves kicked up the snow and whirled icy clouds into their faces such that, before long, they’d all taken on the appearance of small, grim, bearded snowmen.

  Through the snow Ireheart saw the twenty-pace-high curtain wall loom up in front; he also saw blasphemous insults daubed on it that would make any decent dwarf shudder in his boots.

  This was nothing less than pure hatred of Vraccas in the form of runes. The symbols swore total annihilation of all the tribes. Shameful slogans daubed on many of the blocks of stone: Vraccas the Cripple, Vraccas the Powerless, Vraccas the Impotent…

  Ireheart was not the only one to notice.

  “I’m not setting foot in there,” cried Slîn, and Balyndar nodded in agreement. “This is appalling. Vraccas would be enraged if we accepted hospitality from Hargorin Deathbringer. And I can’t help feeling we’re definitely going to need the Creator-God on our side in the next few orbits.”

  Ireheart agreed. “We’ll find ourselves somewhere else to stay—in one of the village houses.”