The Dwarves d-1

by Markus Heitz

  "No wonder your kind is dying out if they're all as weak and pathetic as you." Gandogar's adviser stayed as cold and unbending as the many valuable trinkets that he wore. He tugged on the wire, tightening the leather band around the neck of his slave.

  Sverd struggled to loosen the magic collar, but with no more success than at any other time during his forty-three cycles of bondage. The choker contracted and he sank to his knees, wheezing and panting. Bislipur waited until he was almost unconscious before slackening the leash.

  "Thank you, master. Thank you." The gnome coughed. "Another joyous orbit at your side. How can I repay you?" He sank onto a stool. "Your pernicious plan failed. By all reports, the heir to the throne is still alive. Sadly, the same can't be said for our bounty hunters. There were no other takers for your cowardly mission and I didn't have time to start a proper search. Girdlegard is changing."

  Bislipur took no notice of his reluctant henchman's sneers. From the beginning of his enslavement, Sverd had been trying to provoke him into killing him, but Bislipur chose to ignore him. The gnome deserved to suffer. "What happened?"

  "I trailed the dwarf and the secondlings to Lot-Ionan's vaults. They were attacked by orcs…" Enchanted Realm of Ionandar, Girdlegard, Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle The beasts' approach could be heard from a hundred paces. Suddenly the clunking of their armor was interrupted by a clamor of snarls and grunts: The orcs had discovered the lifeless revenant.

  On rounding a bend in the passageway, the three dwarves found themselves face-to-face with their foes. The exit to the vaults lay fewer than three hundred paces ahead, but it seemed to Tungdil that every inch of that distance was filled with orcs. A bristling thicket of weaponry blocked their escape.

  "What fun!" enthused Ireheart, squaring his shoulders. "See how narrow the tunnel is? We'll have the pleasure of killing every last runt!" His whirled his axes energetically.

  "Oink, oink! By the hammer of Vraccas, this is excellent sport!"

  "The three of us will fight in formation," his brother told Tungdil soberly. "I know you've never done this before, but stand back-to-back with us and make sure you can feel us behind you. That way we'll all be safe." His brown eyes sought Tungdil's. "Trust us to watch your back, and we'll trust you. You're a child of the Smith, remember."

  Tungdil took up position, wedging his back against the twins'. Trust in the others, he reminded himself, his heart thumping wildly. Stand by me, Vraccas. He swallowed and forgot about his fear. For Lot-Ionan, Frala, and Girdlegard!

  "No more talking now!" Ireheart snapped at them, his eyes flashing wildly. "We've got skulls to cleave and shins to splinter!"

  As the twins commenced their dance of death, Tungdil did his best to keep pace with them, nearly tripping over himself in his eagerness not to ruin their guard.

  During the first few rotations, Tungdil could still see most of his surroundings. He glimpsed leering orc faces, saw green-hided flesh encased in various types of armor, spotted pillars among the jumble of legs, and occasionally sighted a whirling black plait.

  But soon they were moving so fast that it all became a blur. Swords, daggers, and cudgels swooped toward him and he focused on dodging or parrying the blows. From time to time his ax met with resistance and after a while his blade was coated in glistening green, leading him to suppose that some of his blows had struck true.

  It was the same basic strategy that the twins had used in the Eternal Forest. Back-to-back, the dwarves spun onward, boring their way through the enemy ranks, striking out furiously and never stopping for an instant, making it impossible for the beasts to land a proper blow.

  Tungdil was glad of his chain mail. He lacked the secondlings' experience and was unable to field every strike, but his metal tunic protected him from the worst of it. He was willing to endure bruises, grazes, and even broken bones if it meant staying alive and saving the artifacts from Nфd'onn's fleshy hands.

  He could hear Boпndil laughing behind him, his frenzied cackles competing with the orcs' dying shrieks. Boлndal was far less vocal, preferring to conserve his breath.

  After a while the strain was beginning to tell on Tungdil's arms, but the battle was far from over. In addition to the orcs in front of them, there was also the problem of the survivors who were attacking from behind. In his despair, Tungdil came up with an alternative solution.

  "The struts!" he yelled, straining to lift his voice above the jangling steel. "Cut down the struts!"

  "Good thinking, scholar." Boлndal checked a blow, then rammed the offender with the butt of his crow's beak. A few moments later his weapon powered into a wooden pillar.

  The force of the blow sent a strut crashing to the floor, followed by a shower of stone and dirt. The three dwarves repeated the maneuver until the unsupported ceiling collapsed behind them. Tion's minions disappeared under an avalanche of debris as ton after ton of rock blocked the tunnel, securing their rear.

  The surviving orcs ran for the exit, afraid of being buried alive. Ireheart chased after them, swinging his axes furiously and felling all in his path. He stopped just short of the exit and waited for his companions.

  "Come on," he urged them breathlessly. "There's another twenty of these runts waiting outside. It would be a shame not to kill them."

  They closed ranks again. For all his hatred of orcs, Tungdil secretly hoped that the surviving beasts had seized their chance and fled. His weary arms were reluctant to lift much higher than his belt.

  Spinning in formation, they whirled out of the tunnel and into the darkness outside. The stars cast a silvery shimmer over the waiting orcs. A hundred pairs of green eyes glinted menacingly in the moonlight. The beasts were growling and snarling under their breath.

  "I thought you said twenty?" Tungdil muttered accusingly, his heart quailing at the sight.

  "Like I told you, some challenges are bigger than others," Boпndil assured him, glossing over his mistake. "This is one of the bigger ones."

  "Should we go right or left?" asked Tungdil, who was keen to establish their strategy.

  "Straight through the middle. If they start slaying one another by accident, we'll have a better chance of making it unscathed. I'll deal with their chieftain, and when we're out the other side, we'll attack the flanks and hew down the rest."

  "Tungdil is new to this, remember," his brother put in. "The high king told us to bring him back to Ogre's Death, not to purge the countryside of runts."

  Tungdil was profoundly relieved. He hadn't wanted to say anything for fear of disappointing the twins, but Boлndal was less reckless than his brother and his sharp eyes had noted his exhaustion.

  "Oh, all right, then," conceded Boпndil a little indignantly. "We'll go straight through the middle and forget about the flanks."

  The plan established, they decided to act, not wanting to give the orcish archers an opportunity to use their bows. At first their tactic worked perfectly and they were mowing their way toward freedom at a tremendous rate when the enemy received unexpected support.

  The ranks thinned around them as the orcs backed away, clearing a path.

  "Hey! Come back here, you pug-faced monsters!" bellowed Ireheart, venting his frustration at the retreating beasts. "I'm not finished with you yet!"

  The orcs continued to back away from them, and a lone man stepped forward instead. Tungdil knew the bloated figure from the apparition that had conversed with the famulus. The dark green robes cloaking the swollen body belonged to Lot-Ionan's killer.

  The wizard looked doubly repulsive in the flesh. Blood trickled down his cheeks and his skin hung in flabby folds, occluding his features. He smelled as if he had been rolling in a pile of rotting rubbish.

  "You've done well to get this far, but enough is enough," he purred. Fixing his gaze on Tungdil, he extended a bloated hand. "Give me the artifacts and the books you stole from Greenglade. After that, you can go."

  Tungdil gripped his ax stubbornly. "These items belong to my master and I'll be damned if I'm givi
ng them to you."

  Nфd'onn chuckled. "How terribly valiant of you." He took a step toward them. "The artifacts belong to me. I'm in no mood for a discussion." The end of his staff struck the ground and he leveled the onyx-encrusted tip at Tungdil.

  No sooner had he done so than the knapsack and the leather bag jerked away from Tungdil, struggling against him and trying to wrest themselves from his grip. He hung on to the straps as best he could, but his efforts were no match for the wizard's sorcery. The leather ripped and slipped from his fingers. He brought his foot down on one of the drawstrings just in time.

  "I'll destroy the pouch and everything in it," he threatened, raising his ax.

  "Be my guest. It would save me some work." Nфd'onn held his right arm on high, splayed his fingers, then clenched them into a fist.

  The bags left the ground with such force that Tungdil could do nothing to stop them. Their flight ended when they dropped into the arms of an enormous orc, who clutched them to his chest with a grunt.

  The magus was seized by a coughing fit. Blood leaked from his nostrils and he wiped it hastily away. "Go back to your kingdom, dwarves, and tell your ruler that I require his land. He can give it to me willingly, or my allies will take it by force. The choice is his." He gestured in Tungdil's direction. "Take him with you. I don't need him."

  The two brothers said nothing. Gripping their weapons with steely determination, they were biding their time for an opportunity to attack. When the requisite diversion presented itself, they would hurl themselves on Nфd'onn and cut him to ribbons, but it was no good attacking while they were under the surveillance of the wizard and his hordes.

  Suddenly there was confusion in the ranks. Beasts were pushing and shoving, and angry words were exchanged; then a particularly strapping specimen drew his sword against his neighbor and, snarling furiously, buried it up to the hilt in his gut. Within the space of a few heartbeats, the orcs were slaughtering one another.

  Ireheart squared his shoulders, a sure sign that he was preparing to attack. His brown eyes were fixed on Nфd'onn's knees.

  "Tungdil, you chop up his staff," he ordered in dwarfish. "The fatso won't stand a chance against the three of us." As always, he showed not a flicker of self-doubt.

  "Ordinary weapons won't harm him." Tungdil glanced out of the corner of his eye at the iron-clad beast who was guarding the knapsack and the artifacts. "Our priority is to get the bags. Nфd'onn seems determined to destroy them, so they're obviously important."

  Ireheart nodded. "You know what to do, Tungdil. On my signal…" The dwarves were preparing to leap into action when someone got there first.

  From the crest of a nearby hill, a bolt of lightning flashed toward the magus and struck him in the side. Gasping, he dropped his staff and crumpled to the right.

  The next bolt sped toward the orcs, reducing ten of their number to charred metal and flesh. The remaining beasts snarled in confusion, looking for the source of the attack. Spotting the figure at the top of the hill, they closed ranks and charged.

  Nфd'onn raised his head and stretched out his right palm; the staff sprang into the air and flew into his hand.

  This was the opportunity that the dwarves had been waiting for. Shrieking, Ireheart bore down on him, planting his axes into his legs, while Boлndal swung his crow's beak above his head and rammed it into Nфd'onn's broad back. He raked the blade upward, and the magus slumped to the ground.

  The wizard's orcish protectors were too distracted by the arrival of the powerful new adversary to notice his plight. As they raced up the hill, black clouds formed above them, and a roll of thunder announced the coming storm.

  The first orcs were paces away from their target when the tempest was unleashed. Lightning crackled to earth, striking the front line of orcs and splitting their skins like sausages in boiling water. The dazzling flashes blinded those farther back, and the assault on the summit faltered and stopped altogether.

  A wind whipped up, raging among the beasts and knocking them over like skittles. Pitching into one another, the orcs were hurled against trees or dragged to their deaths by the gusts.

  Meanwhile, Boлndal had skewered the magus on his crow's beak and was pinning him to the ground. Ireheart leaped to his brother's aid, raining four fearsome blows on the magus's neck and cleaving his vertebrae. Nфd'onn's head rolled across the grass, and foul-smelling black blood spilled from the gushing stump.

  Ireheart opened his breeches and was about to sprinkle the corpse with dwarven water, but was stopped by his brother. "The artifacts!" Boлndal reminded him sternly, pulling him away.

  A moment earlier, Tungdil had summoned his remaining strength for an all-out assault on the orc who was guarding his bags. He let his instinct, combined with his recently acquired knowledge, guide his ax. The beast fell sooner than he expected, the speed of his victory taking him by surprise. I can hold my own without the twins, he thought, gratified, quickly grabbing the bags.

  Boлndal ran up, his plait swinging vigorously as if it were alive. "We did it! Girdlegard is free of the traitor."

  They hurried off, with Tungdil and Boлndal in the lead and Ireheart covering their backs. "It was child's play," he boasted, taking the opportunity to slay another couple of orcs. "We showed the traitor who's…" Ireheart's eyes shifted sideways and he let out a terrible howl of rage. "By the beard of Beroпn, I thought we'd…"

  Nфd'onn was rising to his feet. His headless body straightened, and he stretched out a hand, beckoning to his skull, which flew toward him and settled on his severed neck. Not a scar remained to show where Ireheart's axes had raged. The magus seemed as strong and alert as ever. He ordered the remaining orcs to deal with Tungdil and his companions, then turned to the hill to destroy his magical foe.

  "Seize the artifacts and the books," he boomed through the darkness. "And kill the dwarves!"

  The onyx on the end of his staff throbbed with light as he raised his hand toward the knoll. The ground quaked, a deep furrow opening in the earth and burrowing toward the figure on the hill. Bolts of lightning shot from the dark clouds, only to melt harmlessly into the protective shield that cocooned Nфd'onn's body.

  I knew it! Ordinary weapons can't harm him. Tungdil grabbed his companions. "This way," he panted. "The path leads south."

  The trio raced off, slipping into a ditch to throw off their pursuers. They listened to the heavy trample of boots as the orcs charged past without seeing them.

  "We should have stood our ground," Boпndil whispered crossly.

  "And been killed!" Tungdil pushed himself deeper into the warm soil of the trench. "Didn't you see what he did back there? He got up, even though you'd beheaded him! It proves he's more powerful than the Perished Land." He pointed to the leather pouch that they'd managed to salvage. "The key to his destruction is in that bag."

  "You're the scholar," Boлndal told him. "Find a way of killing him and leave the rest to us. It's time we got back to Ogre's Death. Our kingdoms are in danger and we need to warn the assembly of Nфd'onn's plans. You might be the only one who can stop him."

  "I don't know about that." Tungdil's hopes were centered on their mysterious rescuer, who had fought magic with magic, thereby saving their lives. Please, Vraccas, let it be Lot-Ionan, he prayed, unable to fight his tiredness any longer as he drifted off to sleep. Beroпn's Folk, Secondling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

  … and I was following them into the woods when they suddenly disappeared," said the gnome in conclusion. He tugged at the leather collar that had left him with a weal around his throat. "I had to get out of there quickly because the orcs were on my tail."

  Bislipur was already deep in thought. Sverd's news obliged him to rethink his plans. "They're on their way here, then," he muttered to himself.

  "Who? The orcs or the dwarves?" When Bislipur didn't answer, Sverd tried another tack. "You're not going to keep the news to yourself, are you? Didn't you hear what I said? The magus wants to attack the dwarven k
ingdoms! Only a real scoundrel would-"

  Bislipur limped to the door. "Wait here," he ordered. "Don't show yourself unless I tell you."

  "Yes, cruel master." With a sigh, the gnome settled on a stool, his short legs dangling above the floor.

  Bislipur rapped on Gandogar's door. "It's me," he shouted. "Put your cloak on. We've got business to attend to."

  Gandogar stepped out into the corridor and gave his adviser a bewildered look. "Wouldn't you rather come inside?"

  "The exercise will do us good. Besides, there's enough gossip about me already. Apparently, I spend my time behind closed doors, plotting against the high king." He snorted derisively. "They're welcome to see us talking, if that's what they want."

  Gandogar threw a light cloak over his mail and followed Bislipur through the stone labyrinth that was Ogre's Death.

  All around them were carvings and ornaments. The secondlings had sculpted great artworks out of the humble stone, but the masonry was all the more striking because of its lack of pretension. Gandogar marveled at its simple beauty, but his reverie was cut short.

  "I was just saying," Bislipur repeated softly, "that everything will be ruined if they keep us waiting any longer. The high king is an obstinate fool."

  "Then what do you suggest?"

  "I've consulted with the other chieftains. They think we should defeat the elves before the Perished Land gets there first."

  At last he had Gandogar's attention. "Then let the Perished Land defeat them. It would solve the problem for us."

  "Actually, Your Majesty, it would make our task harder. Remember what the Perished Land does to the fallen? They rise again! Our warriors would never prevail against an army of undead elves. The Perished Land is immensely powerful, remember." Bislipur's mail clunked slightly as he limped beside his king. "And what if the elves were to flee the threat and ensconce themselves somewhere quite unreachable?

  Their crimes against the dwarves would go unpunished and your father and brother would never be avenged."