The War of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  “Are you sure they’re not dangerous?” ventured Rodario nervously. “If I were an avatar, I’d give myself up.”

  “If you were an avatar, Girdlegard would be safe,” commented Boïndil. He sniffed loudly and snotted on the warriors below, missing a ferocious tattooed thirdling by a dwarven whisker. “The famous dwarf killers. I know they’re on our side, but I’m not inclined to trust them. I recommend you watch your backs.”

  Tungdil straightened up and clapped the twins on the shoulders. “We’re needed in West Ironhald. It’s time to save Girdlegard—this time without Keenfire’s help.”

  They traveled through an underground tunnel beneath Xamtys’s halls to reach the fortifications on the other side of the range.

  West Ironhald was a perfect copy of its counterpart on the eastern flanks of the range. Queen Xamtys had rebuilt the walls to match the improvements made to East Ironhald, ensuring that both strongholds were sturdy enough to withstand the winter snow. Six fortified walls barred the steep-sided gully leading from the Outer Lands to West Ironhald, protected by twin ramparts, nine towers, and a bridge.

  Tungdil and the others were greeted by a remarkable sight: Lined up on the ramparts beside the firstlings were Gemmil’s freelings and Lorimbas’s thirdlings. The three groups, divided by history, tradition, and outlook, had been brought together by a common goal: the protection of Girdlegard against invaders. Shoulder to shoulder they waited for the avatars to arrive.

  Tungdil took up position in his favorite observation post and surveyed the thirdlings from the highest of West Ironhald’s nine towers. According to his estimates, Lorimbas had summoned over twenty thousand warriors. Xamtys was right. It would take more than the firstlings and freelings to defeat the thirdling army. He turned back to the gully and looked for signs of the enemy, although he didn’t know what to expect.

  It was nearly dusk when he spotted a fierce white light at the end of the gully. Steadily the light drew closer, like a pure white sun rolling toward the range, sending its scorching rays skyward and lighting up the clouds.

  Even from a distance, Tungdil could tell that it was dazzlingly bright. He could barely look at it without screwing up his eyes.

  “This is it,” said Narmora, joining him in the tower. She placed her hands on the parapet and stared at the glow. “Suppose we were to tell them that Nôd’onn and the Perished Land have been defeated? They might call off the invasion.”

  “How would we get them to listen to us?”

  “With the help of a maiden.”

  “Is Djern hungry again?” enquired Rodario, stationing himself beside the maga. “Don’t be foolish,” she reprimanded him. “The avatars respect purity, so they won’t kill an innocent maiden—well, I’d be surprised if they did.” She turned to Tungdil. “We need someone to walk out and tell them that Girdlegard is safe. I’d do it myself, but I’m not sure the avatars would listen to a follower of Samusin.”

  “Will they listen to anyone?”

  “We won’t know unless we try,” she said. “Sometimes the simplest solution is the best.”

  That night, a young dwarf wrapped in white furs left the stronghold. At only twenty-four cycles, Fyrna Goodsoul of the clan of the Ore Finders was a child by dwarven standards. Xamtys had chosen her from the group of volunteers—young dwarves who were yet to be melded.

  The wording of the message had been given to her by Narmora. “Stick to the script,” the maga reminded her. “If they want to negotiate, tell them you’ll pass on their demands. Don’t mention our army or our plans.”

  The young dwarf listened attentively and set off briskly through the gully, heart quickening as she left the safety of the fortified walls.

  The dwarves watched as she hurried through the sweeping gully and disappeared from view. All they could do was wait and pray.

  The bright light moved closer and closer.

  Some time around midnight, when the moon was high above the range, the light came to a halt, sparking a flurry of excitement among the anxious dwarves.

  “They’ve found Fyrna,” whispered Xamtys. “Vraccas, protect the dear child.”

  Narmora rested her elbows on the parapet and leaned forward, focusing on the glow. “I hope it’s enough to dissuade them from invading.”

  “Look!” shouted Boïndil, tugging at Tungdil’s sleeve. “It’s fading!”

  “Vraccas be praised!” cried Xamtys. “I’ll melt down every ingot in my kingdom in honor of the Smith.”

  As they watched, the light faded to a faint glow on the mountain slopes; then the gully was shrouded in darkness once more.

  It worked! Tungdil smiled and turned to Narmora. “You were right! The simplest solution turned out to be the best!”

  Everyone in the stronghold and on the ramparts was watching as well. As soon as the light went out, they cheered and hugged each other. Firstlings, thirdlings, and freelings, together they rejoiced, their differences forgotten—temporarily, at least.

  “Let’s see what Fyrna has to say.” Tungdil shook the maga’s hand and went to fetch a mug of hot spiced beer before hurrying back to the tower to wait for the plucky firstling to return.

  The night wore on.

  At dawn, the sun rose over the ridge, warming the shivering dwarves with its soft yellow rays. Their confidence grew.

  But there was still no sign of Fyrna Goodsoul.

  By noon, snow clouds were gathering over the gully, and Xamtys dispatched a band of warriors to hunt for the missing dwarf. It wouldn’t be safe to leave the stronghold once the weather closed in.

  Several hours later the warriors returned with Fyrna, unconscious but alive. The maga examined her and diagnosed a mild case of frostbite from sleeping in the snow.

  “She’ll be fine,” said Narmora, after reviving Fyrna’s fingers and toes. She patted the dwarf on the cheek to wake her and handed her a beaker of hot lichen tea.

  Fyrna gulped it down. “I failed, Your Majesty,” she said, shivering. She bowed her head wretchedly. “I’m sorry, Queen Xamtys.”

  “Sorry? What’s the matter with her?” spluttered Boïndil, peering over the parapet. “The avatars have gone. There’s no sign of them anywhere—unless they’re too darned pure for me to see.”

  “Shush,” growled Boëndal, giving him a warning prod.

  “I got as close as I could, like you told me to, but the light was really bright. In the end, I called out, and a creature of pure light flew toward me and asked me what I wanted.” The young firstling glanced at Narmora. “I repeated the words you taught me, Estimable Maga, but the creature just laughed. The noise went straight through me; it was high-pitched and cruel.” She took another sip of tea. “The creature said not to worry, it would be over really soon. Then it touched me, and I… The next thing I knew, I was here.”

  Tungdil looked at his friends’ worried faces. “If they’re not here or in the gully, where are they?”

  “In the tunnels,” rasped a voice behind them. King Lorimbas had joined them and heard the end of Fyrna’s story. “One of my tunnels comes up in the gully.”

  Tungdil shuddered. “They’ll go straight to the Blacksaddle. Your guards won’t be expecting them—and the rest of your army is here.”

  An appalled silence descended on the group. In their minds, they could see the pure light hovering over the Blacksaddle while the avatars poured out of the stronghold, laying waste to Girdlegard as they hunted for an evil that didn’t exist.

  “What are we waiting for?” said Boïndil after a time. “We know where we’re needed!”

  Blacksaddle,

  Kingdom of Gauragar,

  Girdlegard,

  Early Winter, 6235th Solar Cycle

  Theogil Hardhand gripped the chain with both hands and pulled as hard as he could. The block and pulley system made lifting the driverless wagon relatively easy. He hoisted it into the air and swung it away from the rail.

  The real question was how it had got there.

  He had arrived at th
e depot to find an empty wagon blocking the rail. He guessed it had rolled through the tunnel from a disused platform, in which case it was lucky it hadn’t collided with a convoy of dwarves. At any rate, it had to be shifted: The last few thirdlings were preparing to leave the Blacksaddle to join Lorimbas in the west.

  “Let’s get you moving,” he muttered, pushing the wagon with one hand. It was linked by a cable to a runner on the ceiling, so he barely had to steer.

  He stopped at the rear of the hall where the extra wagons were kept. Carefully, he lowered it to the ground, unhooked it from the cable, and placed his hands on the back to push it the final few paces. Just then he heard a noise.

  It seemed to be coming from the tunnel, and it sounded like a convoy of wagons rattling down the rails.

  New arrivals? he thought in surprise, ticking off the battalions in his mind. Every single thirdling unit was either waiting to depart from the Blacksaddle or already en route to the west. Lorimbas’s summons had caused consternation among the thirdlings, but orders were orders, and the warriors had left without delay.

  He abandoned the wagon and made his way carefully to the mouth of the tunnel. Holding his breath, he listened intently until he was sure of the source of the noise. It was as he thought. The rumbling and clattering was getting louder.

  Darned fools, he grumbled irritably. What’s the point of having a braking zone if they can’t be trusted to leave a proper gap? They’ll cause a pile-up.

  He hurriedly tossed a few extra sacks of straw onto the buffers in the hope of saving the passengers from serious harm, then he took up position in the signal box, intending to throw the lever as soon as the convoy arrived. By diverting the wagons onto different platforms, he could reduce the risk of a crash. He couldn’t help wondering why the wagons were heading in his direction at all.

  Staring into the dark mouth of the tunnel, he waited for the lead wagon’s lanterns to come into view.

  A few moments later, he glimpsed a light—a light so bright that he wondered briefly whether the sun had fallen through the rock. No dwarven lantern could cast a glow like that. As the wagons drew nearer, Theogil turned away, dazzled by the glare.

  What is it? A new invention, perhaps? Keeping his back to the tunnel, he decided to rely on his hearing instead.

  At last he heard screeching metal as the brake blocks pressed against the narrow wheels, forcing them to slow. The wagons’ arrival was heralded by a sudden rush of air.

  Theogil detected a strange smell that wasn’t dwarven or human, and had nothing to do with elves or beasts. The wind tugged at his beard, set his chain mail aquiver, and brought him the odor of oiled weaponry, polished metal, and clean hands. All in all, it smelled somehow pure. The first wagon shot out of the tunnel, illuminating every corner of the hall.

  “Put the darned thing out,” he shouted. The brightness was so unbearable that his eyes brimmed with tears and he had to close them. Thereafter he worked in darkness, pumping the lever up and down and switching the points in time with the clattering of each wagon. “Everyone out,” he ordered, raising his voice above the din. “Get the wagons off the rails or we’ll have a collision.”

  The light intensified, becoming so bright that he could see the red of his eyelids. The light shone straight through them, as if he were looking directly at the midday sun.

  He felt a sudden wave of heat, and someone grabbed him by the shoulder, and pulled him away from the lever. “Hey, you’re burning me!” he protested, feeling the searing pain in his shoulder. He opened his eyes and blinked.

  The creature in front of him was made of pure light. It was as tall as a human and wreathed in a white halo that was painful to behold. The air in the hall seemed to shimmer. “Greetings, undergroundling,” the creature greeted him in a kindly voice. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you if your soul is true.”

  Theogil reached for his club and took a step backward. “Who are you?” he asked gruffly. “And who said you could use our wagons?”

  With his free hand, he unhooked a horn from his belt and held it to his lips, but before he could sound the alarm, the creature stretched a hand, sending a bolt of light toward the horn, which ignited with a roar.

  Theogil dropped the bugle before his beard went up in flames. He knew without a shred of doubt what was happening: The avatars had arrived.

  In proper dwarven fashion, he gripped the club with both hands and brandished it menacingly. “Be off with you. You’ve no right to bring death and destruction to these lands.”

  “I beg your pardon,” the creature said politely, “but our mission is to stamp out evil in all its forms. A dwarf-girl told us that Nôd’onn has been destroyed, but we’ve heard of other creatures, creatures that worship Tion or were fashioned by his hand.” The avatar took a step closer, and Theogil, who had spent countless orbits in the forge, was forced to draw back from the heat. “Honorable undergroundling, descendant of the worthy Essgar, tell us where we can find the älfar. Our soldiers will wipe out their army and burn their evil souls. You’ll never have anything to fear from them again.”

  “Be off!” commanded Theogil, raising his club. “We’ll deal with Inàste’s pointy-ears ourselves. No one asked for your help. You wipe out good as well as evil.”

  “Only the pure can look on us and live. Those who perish were found wanting.”

  Before Theogil could react, the avatar’s hand was resting on his head. “Are you pure, undergroundling, or will you perish in our flames?”

  Theogil felt crippled by the terrible heat. Red-hot metal seemed to press against his temples, cutting through his skull, and desiccating his brain. His arms grew heavy and fell to his sides, and his fingers unfurled, letting go of the club.

  “You should have told the truth,” the creature admonished him. “Why didn’t you tell us about the orcs? Toboribor is the name of their kingdom, is it? And what of the ogres? I see mountains swarming with ogres… The realm of Borwôl, northeast of here…” He laughed, satisfied. “Our army will be busy in Girdlegard. Soon the men, elves, and undergroundlings will be freed from Tion’s beasts.” The creature released its searing grip on his head. Dazed, Theogil stumbled back and steadied himself against a metal rail. “Don’t interfere with the will of the deities,” the avatar warned him, stepping back. “Anyone who stands in our way is an ally of evil.”

  Theogil shielded his face with his hands to block out the light and peered through his fingers at the rest of the hall.

  Warriors were descending from the wagons and forming orderly lines. Their armor and banners were white, and they didn’t seem to mind the glare, which was so intense that Theogil was afraid his eyes would shrivel in their sockets. He blinked, just in case.

  The commotion in the depot came to the attention of the thirdlings in the other halls.

  Theogil spotted a group of sentries creeping down the wide stairway. As soon as they saw what was happening, they sounded the alarm. A bugle call echoed through the passageways and galleries of the Blacksaddle, calling the children of Lorimbur, few of whom remained in the stronghold, to arms.

  The avatar paused and marched back to Theogil, who reached for his club. “Poor stubborn undergroundlings,” the creature said sadly. “We should be allies, but you’ve chosen to oppose us. We can’t be held responsible for your deaths.”

  “Our deaths? I’ll teach you to respect a dwarven warrior,” growled Theogil. He let out a ferocious war cry and bounded forward, swinging his club.

  Even before he reached his fiery antagonist, the heat became unbearable. His chain mail burned red against his skin, the air reeked of scorched leather, and his sinew and blood evaporated faster than a drop of water in a fire.

  Nothing remained of Theogil Hardhand but a mound of ashes and a few blackened bones. A moment later, they too were crushed and scattered by the pounding boots of the avatars’ soldiers as they charged the defending dwarves.

  Kingdom of Gauragar,

  Girdlegard,

  Winter,
6235th Solar Cycle

  Boïndil trudged through the freshly fallen snow that lay like a coating of icing sugar over the fields, trees, and tents. He was the last to arrive at the meeting, and he made his way straight to the campfire and helped himself to a tankard of warm beer. Like the others, he was keen to have a nice, restful evening in preparation for their arrival at the Blacksaddle at noon the next orbit. They were expecting to find the avatars in the dwarven stronghold.

  “They’ve got a funny way of wiping out evil,” said Boïndil vehemently. “You can tell they’re descended from Tion; nothing good ever came of him.” He drained his tankard and went back for more. His pinprick eyes settled on Tungdil. “Any news from our scouts?”

  “Only that the avatars’ cavalry has arrived in the stronghold,” chimed in Lorimbas. “They rode part of the way underground, and the tunnels collapsed behind them.”

  “How do you know?” asked Boïndil.

  “Because of the cracks on the surface,” explained the thirdling king. “Most of our tunnels have been destroyed. Anything left standing after the comet and the earthquake has been brought down by the avatars and their army.”

  Xamtys nodded. “I heard the same from my scouts. The underground network around the Red Range is dangerously unstable. Balendilín, Gandogar, and Glaïmbar will have to send their armies overland.”

  “It won’t be easy,” said Tungdil, turning back to the map. In his mind, he charted the rest of the avatars’ route, which, assuming they stuck to their current course, would take them straight to Dsôn Balsur. “From their point of view, it makes perfect sense to attack the älfar,” he said. “They’re the biggest threat to our safety, especially with the added power from the dark water. I’d say they were a worthy target for a band of demigods.”

  “It’s a pity the avatars are so destructive,” said Xamtys. “I mean, it’s almost tempting to let them get on with it. They’re capable of wiping out the älfar, which isn’t true of us. Ever since the älfar butchered an entire camp of allied soldiers in Dsôn Balsur, the human soldiers have been deserting in droves. No one wants to face the älfar.”