The Triumph of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  Raikan uttered a cry of despair. “No! It can’t be true! Natenian would—”

  Ataimînas pushed his foot down.

  Two rows of razor sharp fangs pierced the young man’s neck, turning Raikan’s last words into an incomprehensible gurgle. He flailed wildly, aggravating the damage.

  Ataimînas applied yet more pressure. Raikan hung there in the creature’s jaws, groaning and choking. Blood ran from many wounds and dripped onto the ground.

  The future ruler slowly bled to death and his limbs ceased to twitch as the life went out of him.

  “Palandiell,” he prayed with his last breath. He did not know why he had to die—Natenian had only to say that he wanted to go on reigning and Raikan would have accepted it. Palandiell, avenge me …

  Ataimînas stamped down, and the prince’s neck broke.

  The severed head fell, splashing down into a pool of blood before rolling aside in the dust.

  Totally impassive, the Naishïon looked at the corpse. “It’s Sitalia who holds sway here,” he said coldly, “not your goddess.” Striding back to the palace, he ordered the guards to pull out the other Tabaîner and arrange for the same injuries. “Send the bodies back to Tabaîn. And the beast as well. The king will want to mourn his brother properly.”

  Ataimînas was almost at the bronze door.

  “Naishïon!”

  He halted and looked back over his shoulder.

  “The other one’s disappeared.”

  He frowned and turned round. They had concentrated on Raikan too much. “Find him. Follow his tracks and bring him back alive so he can be killed here like his leader.”

  “At once, Naishïon.”

  Ataimînas pressed his lips together and went on back to the palace. “And watch out for the other two beasts that are roaming around. Kill them. We don’t need them any longer.”

  He clenched his fists, furious at himself. A few heartbeats of inattention and his clever plan was in danger. It had been a real bonus when the narshân beast had turned up. Nobody would ever suspect anything untoward when there had been a heroic death like that.

  He won’t get far. Ataimînas had seen the wounds the man had received. Sure, he might be a veteran soldier, strongly built and with great stamina. But the fangs of a narshân beast were not only sharp but contaminated. Wouldn’t give him more than four miles.

  Ataimînas came to an abrupt stop. “Where’s that metal phial?” he said.

  “It’s not here, Naishïon. He … must have taken it.”

  The ruler closed his eyes and silently begged Sitalia to use her powers to fell the man who had escaped. Any other outcome could put paid to his dream of a mighty elf empire.

  If anyone finds him before we do …

  If Vraccas had intended his children to be cut down with ease, he would have made them out of wood.

  Dwarf saying

  II

  Girdlegard

  United Kingdom of Gauragar-Idoslane

  Freestone

  6492nd solar cycle, early summer

  Rodario hurried through the inn complex with a healer and three Urgon soldiers to reach the rooms where the young foundling girl had been waiting to be summoned to the assembly hall.

  To the Incomparable Rodario, it seemed that the corridors extended for miles, and every step he and his companions took was tiny and laborious.

  At last they were getting near.

  The door to her chamber stood open and the all-too-familiar smell of blood hung in the air. He rushed in, terrified for the child—and found Sha’taï crouched in a corner of the room. Her nurse and a guard had both been butchered, their throats neatly cut. The soldier had not had time to go for his weapon.

  Sha’taï’s dark brown dress with bright yellow embroidery had black splashes on it. Blood ran from a small cut on her throat. She’s alive!

  “My little one!” Rodario knelt down, putting an arm round her. He beckoned the healer over with his other hand. The woman approached and carefully inspected the cut while the guards carried the bodies out.

  “Night was falling,” said Sha’taï, her accent showing she was not from Girdlegard. “Then the älf attacked us and he—” She fought down the tears. “I wanted to call for help but I was so afraid.” She burst into tears and clutched Rodario’s arm.

  “He can’t hurt you now.” He stroked her dark hair to calm her. “We’ve killed him.”

  “I don’t think poison has been used,” whispered the healer, giving the injured girl a dose of a calming essence from a dark blue phial. “It’s quite deep, though, and needs stitches. We need to ensure the wound closes up properly.”

  Rodario nodded and rocked Sha’taï gently to and fro until he felt her body relax and fall into a restorative sleep.

  Thank the gods! Lifting her, he stood up and carried her into an adjoining room. He laid her on the bed, ignoring the bloodstains on his exquisite robe.

  The healer was at his side, pressing a cloth onto the wound. While the child slept, she took out needle and thread and swiftly sewed the edges of the cut together. It could have ended quite differently.

  Rodario looked at Sha’taï, wondering at how quickly the young girl from the Outer Lands, probably not more than twelve cycles old, had acquired his language and adapted to the culture of Girdlegard. When she had first been found in the deserted village in the Grey Mountains, the dwarves were adamant that she should not be brought to Girdlegard; they were suspicious of the fact that she spoke only the älfar tongue. One of them had even tried to kill her.

  But despite this opposition from the others, Rodîr Bannerman had brought the child to Mallenia, who had immediately taken her under her wing and made the girl her ward. Since the queen had no children of her own, Mallenia saw this as a gift from Samusin.

  How little we know about the Outer Lands. Sha’taï had talked about being forced to flee from mighty cities plagued with family feuds. The girl had also mentioned älfar settlements that had been destroyed in a terrible war.

  And she had spoken of Aiphatòn. The shintoìt seemed to have been involved in events, though the girl was not able to say whether or not he was still alive.

  So he kept his vow to destroy his own people. Rodario twirled the end of his moustache and smiled down at the sleeping child. She can tell us so much about the Outer Lands to the north. And that was why she had been brought along to Freestone. Mallenia wanted her to give a report to the assembled heads of state and disperse any suspicions. The dwarves in particular seemed to view Sha’taï as evil incarnate, in the form of a child.

  The healer applied an ointment to the stitches and then bandaged the wound before rising to her feet, bowing and making her way out of the room.

  Once she addresses the crowned heads, everyone will see they’ve been mistaken about her. Rodario sat on the edge of her bed and held the girl’s hand in his.

  “Sleep,” he murmured into her dreams. “You’re safe here with us.”

  “That’s what you think,” she whispered back, to his surprise. Her eyelids were still shut. “Not even you are safe. You rely too heavily on the dwarves and their gates.” She turned her head towards him and opened her eyes abruptly. “But they’ve been defeated once before. It will happen again.”

  Rodario noticed her frightened expression and how utterly convinced she was that her prophecy would come true. He shuddered at the thought. “High King Boïndil and the Children of the Smith are well prepared. They have strengthened the fortresses.”

  “There are powers no axe or stone or shield is effective against,” she contradicted him.

  “Magic. I know,” he said with a smile. Her little hand was grasping his more tightly now. She must be afraid. “But we have Coïra. She is clever and powerful and she has trained all the new magi and magae. And anyway, we’ve got more elves living here now than ever before. They are renowned for their military prowess.”

  Sha’taï was not to be persuaded.

  “You have no idea what kind of magic the
nhatai are capable of,” she said softly, half-asleep again. “The power they have can break through any gate, no matter how secure, and can defeat the strongest of armies.”

  She swallowed hard and her eyelids fluttered. “I saw …”

  The girl fell back into slumber, her fragile little hand still tightly clasped round his fingers.

  Rodario shuddered again. They had spoken of Girdlegard before but Sha’taï had never seemed this frightened.

  “What are the nhatai?”

  He jerked round at the sound of the deep voice behind him.

  “Since when do dwarves creep around silently?” Rodario asked the High King, who was standing on the threshold.

  “I knocked … Hard.” He showed how the head of his crow’s beak had banged on the door frame. “I was worried. I gave my little speech about the dwarf kingdoms and wanted to come along and see for myself where you’d got to.”

  Rodario smiled. “I was deep in thought, that’s all.”

  “Thinking about the nhatai?” Boïndil shouldered his weapon and grinned. “Don’t tell me it’s the first time you’ve heard her mention the name?”

  It had been. “Maybe the sleeping draught has affected her mind.”

  The High King pulled himself to his full height and looked deep into Rodario’s eyes and then down at the child. “If there’s magic that can compromise the security of the fortresses at the pass, I need to know, Incomparable One,” he stressed, whirling the crow’s beak, causing a draught that made his facial hair flutter. His beard had survived the fighting in top condition. “We need to know what’s what so we can be ready for it.”

  “I’ll ask her again.”

  “It’s me who should ask her,” Boïndil insisted, concerned and commanding.

  “You forget that I’m as much of a king as you are.” Rodario forgave the High King the patronising way he had spoken, and placed his free hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “You forget it when you’re dealing with many of us.”

  “Ho! You’re forgetting you used to be a showman. Some thespian on a throne wants to tell me how best to look after Girdlegard’s interests?” He gave a belly laugh. “I hope for Urgon’s sake the country made the right decision.”

  Rodario’s face darkened. It must be the beer talking. “Now you’re speaking out of turn.”

  “I am High King and a Child of the Smith. I’m allowed to speak out of turn.” Boïndil pointed at Sha’taï. “We’ve both made sacrifices for the liberation of our homeland. Liberating Girdlegard from all evil. But I still don’t know what to make of this child. Her first words were in the älfar tongue.”

  “She is innocent and good-hearted.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” The dwarf took a deep breath in and blew it out again. The smell of beer wafted over to Rodario. “You and Mallenia brought her here so she could give an account of herself.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then wake her up and we’ll start questioning her. If she satisfies the Council, then I’ll be ready to change my tune. Otherwise I say it would be better to send her back.” Boïndil made no attempt to conceal his distaste. “And anyway, she could tell us anything she likes. We won’t know if it’s true.”

  Rodario grinned. “You mean to say you think she’s made them up? These nhatai you’re so scared of?”

  “No, that sounded genuine enough. There was fear in her voice. And …” He stopped in surprise and glanced down. “By Vraccas!”

  Sha’taï’s other hand had reached for his and appeared to be seeking his protection, too.

  “There, look at that. She seems to like you.” Rodario tried not to laugh. “She wants an alliance with the High King of the Dwarves.”

  But Boïndil was not impressed. He took a step backward and extricated his hand from her fingers. “Have you thought about why that black-eyes chose to come to her room first instead of attacking the Council straightaway?”

  “He needed armour. As a disguise.”

  “He could have seen to that on the way. As it is, he risked getting caught in a murder. If Sha’taï had screamed, his plan would have been scuppered.” Boïndil went over to the door, his steps heavy and slow. “Maybe she was helping him.”

  “Nonsense! He had her paralysed with fear,” Rodario disagreed hotly, not wanting to allow the dwarf’s suspicions to raise doubts about the girl’s innocence.

  “A child that speaks älfar, comes from the Outer Lands and survives a visit by a black-eyes who goes on to butcher multiple experienced guards. Could work on the stage, of course,” said Boïndil, keeping his voice steady. “But just have a little think as to why I might find this hard to believe.” And he left the room.

  Rodario looked at the door, hearing the hobnailed dwarf boots echo down the corridor. Pig-headed and stubborn. Vraccas certainly did chisel you dwarves out of the mountains.

  “Why don’t you have a High King?”

  He looked down at Sha’taï, who was watching him intently with eyes blue as the sea.

  “You’re awake? Were you just pretending to be asleep?”

  She avoided answering. “If the dwarves have one to unite their tribes, surely Girdlegard should have one, too.” She sighed and stroked his arm before turning her head and closing her eyes again. Her dark blonde hair brushed his arm. “You’d be the one to choose. I think I’ll make you emperor, uncle.” She let go of his hand and curled up like a cat.

  Rodario wondered if he had dreamt that last bit. The words seemed to have such conviction in her young mouth.

  She had not hesitated or shown any doubt. It had sounded like a declaration of intent that would be followed through. Rodario gave her a kiss on the forehead, pulled the blanket up over her and got to his feet. And how would you do that? The one-time actor smiled to himself and smoothed his moustache. He stood tall and tried out his best heroic stance. But it would be the biggest audience a showman could ever wish for.

  Girdlegard

  United Kingdom of Gauragar-Idoslane

  Gauragar

  6492nd solar cycle, early summer

  As his trusty black and white pony trotted along, Ireheart was only partially aware of the landscape: soft hills, interspersed with gentle hollows and meadows. Occasionally there would be the odd little patch of forest with pine, oak and beech trees predominating. The sun was high in the sky and it was a sweaty old ride.

  And no sign of any cold beer.

  Since leaving Freestone, he had not been able to stop thinking about what had happened. The pony kept steadily to the road to the north; they were approaching the Grey Mountains. All the while his thoughts were going round and round like cogwheels, making a great deal of noise but not actually connecting with each other.

  His own homeland and Goda and the children, grown now, would have to wait. He needed to talk to Balyndis.

  The queen of the Fifthlings was a friend and she was wise and she’d be sure to help him make sense of things. She was good at that. She could help him brew a good steel, as the dwarf adage went, or grease the cogwheels.

  Following on from the attack, the Council had met again the next day to discuss the situation in Girdlegard.

  If it had not been for the assassination attempt and the Outer Lands girl with the funny accent, Ireheart would have left the conference a happy High King.

  But Rodario, King Rodario, of course, had to bring the child into it.

  As soon as the girl entered the council chamber, Ireheart had felt thing change. Everyone seemed to fall for the creature, hanging on her every word, listening attentively and nodding agreement. Some of them took notes when she spoke. They asked her a few questions. She had answered politely and told them all about life in the north of the Outer Lands. The elves kept their distance, but were friendly.

  And yet she’s lying through her teeth, I’m convinced she is. Ireheart had questioned her on the nhatai.

  Suddenly, it seemed, she had forgotten the name. She claimed just to have made it up. She said the healer’s sleepi
ng draught had made her confused. Rodario said she had spoken of a threat, but tried to allay fears generally.

  After that Sha’taï went from chair to chair, bowing prettily and having the kings and queens pat her on the head, stroke her hair or pinch her cheek.

  So I’ll have to see what I can do about it. Ireheart was angry, impatient, and, worse, thirsty.

  Very thirsty.

  The old rage he and his twin brother had so feared was still hovering in every fibre of his being, waiting to break out. The zhadár elixir had exacerbated it.

  The fury made him crave the zhadár drink, however revolting it was. But the zhadár, a strange fighting unit of Thirdlings created by the älfar, were no more. There was only one of them still in existence in the Outer Lands.

  So Ireheart would never lay his hands on the drink again, no matter how desperate he was for it. Even though he had noted a slight improvement over the previous cycle, it was still difficult to counteract the destructive rage bubbling up, or to quell his craving for the drink. As long as he had some alcohol in his blood, he could keep the rage at bay and cool the fury.

  Is that an inn over there? Ireheart stood up in the stirrups, optimistic. He made out a farm on the horizon, next to a large field with horses. That’ll be the way-station for the couriers.

  He estimated he would arrive before the end of the orbit. So he would have a bed for the night and stabling for his valiant pony.

  Ireheart sat back, his mood improving; he clapped the pony’s neck, making dust rise. “Looking good,” he told it. “Let’s give your poor back and my poor behind a little rest first. There’ll be something good to eat later, you’ll see. For both of us.”

  He laughed as he led the pony over to the shade of a giant oak tree whose full, green roof of foliage would shelter them from the glaring sun.

  The dwarf dismounted and sat down on the grass. The pony walked on a few steps to drink from the stream.

  There was no undergrowth to speak of and thus no danger of attack, so Ireheart leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes. His warrior instincts would warn him if anyone approached.