The Triumph of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  He took his flask and drained what was left: honey beer that was far too warm. That’s the last of it till this evening.

  He rested his head on the trunk of the oak and hummed a typical dwarf ditty, trying to quieten the grinding cogs in his head. He made the words up as he went along:

  Here I sit in my cellar

  With a barrel of good dwarf beer

  Happy as a hog with my black beer keg

  Bring on your best beer, landlord

  Hand me a tankard every time I wave

  And I’ll drink and I’ll drink and I’ll drink

  I’m plagued by the demon thirst

  So to see him off

  I’ll have a tankard in each hand first

  Give us a try of your excellent mead

  The whole world’s looking honey-coloured

  I could split the skull of the biggest orc

  If I’ve got a drink, drink, drink

  But the more I drink the greater my thirst

  That’s the snag, that’s the worst

  For a proper mead wine drinker

  But I’ll find good cheer

  When I slip from my chair,

  As long as there’s a tankard in my hand

  Steady, steady, stop! I won’t spill a drop,

  As long as I can drink, drink, drink

  The sound of the insects buzzing and the leaves rustling on the branches would have lulled him to sleep had it not been for the penetrating smell of resin.

  The dwarf lifted his head and inspected the tree trunk. He did not find anything untoward on the side next to him so he lay back on the grass to have a look at the other side—and was astounded at what he saw.

  The bark had been almost completely scraped off by sharp claws making a zigzag pattern, and the wood underneath had been splintered. Curls of bark lay trampled into the ground and golden tree-blood was leaking from the trunk.

  Must have been a bear! Ireheart sat up and saw his pony was still drinking from the stream. It didn’t appear to have been spooked by the presence of a predator. That’s a relief.

  He started to search the ground for tracks to see whether his first assumption had been correct. More like a dog’s prints. But a dog would never tear at the hard timber of an oak like that.

  Ireheart put his head back and looked up to see if there was any reason an animal would climb the tree; perhaps it had just been sharpening its claws. If it had been hungry, a predator of this size would have had its choice of horses at the nearby way-station.

  A gust of wind let lances of light stream down through the moving leaves, preventing any clear view of the upper branches.

  Is that someone up there or is it a bunch of mistletoe? Ireheart took a few steps to the side to get out of the dazzling light.

  At that moment there was a high-pitched whinny of fear as the stream erupted into a fountain of shimmering droplets. A huge black wolf-like creature thrust its way up out of the water and towards the pony. Its strong jaws gaped wide, fastened on the animal’s neck and bit through.

  The horse fell in the shallow waters of the stream, flailing about with its hooves as it tried in vain to scramble back up the bank. Ireheart’s heavy crow’s beak lay near where the pony finally lay still: it might have served him well in what was to come.

  “By Vraccas!” He stared at the beast heading his way, pony blood dripping from its fangs. The two short axes on his belt found their way automatically to his hands. “It’s down to you that I’ll have to walk all the way to the farm now!” He swerved out of the reach of the wildly snapping teeth. “And how you stink!” The long claws shot past his face, missing his nose by the length of a beard.

  Ireheart felt the accursed fury rising in him; this time he gave it free rein.

  A red veil obscured his vision and his body became searing hot.

  The beast snapped at the dwarf, growling, and received the blade of an axe in its glowing row of teeth. It shrieked with pain as its fangs splintered.

  Using the momentum, Ireheart swivelled round and sank his second blade in the mysterious wolf’s thick skin; its eyes glowed white. But the axe did not go deep enough.

  “So how do I kill you?” he yelled at the beast, bursting its sensitive nose with a sharp blow from his armoured elbow. The blood streaming out was white in colour. “Huzzah! You’re not keen on that, are you?”

  The predator leaped back and lowered its head, its ears erect. Its roar was like a bark: loud and full of spite; the dwarf’s axe was lodged in the tough skin of its side.

  “Get back here! You’ve stolen my axe!” Ireheart tossed the remaining blade from one hand to the other and jerked his long braid neatly over his shoulder. “That’s not going to save you, monster. No matter what nest of demons you’ve crawled out of, I’m going to split your belly!” He would have shouted Oink, Oink, his battle cry for orcs, but this beast would not have understood.

  He noticed a wire with a long thin metal capsule fastened round its throat. What’s the significance of that? He’d be able to investigate once he’d killed the creature.

  Ireheart made a move to the side in order to get nearer to the pony’s carcass where his crow’s beak lay. The spike on that should be strong enough to pierce the creature’s hide. A weapon that had brought night-mares to heel would surely put paid to this adversary—just as long as he could get his hands on it.

  The monster seemed to guess his intention. It kept its distance, watching Ireheart and wearing the axe as if it were a trophy. Its ears were still erect, but its eyes narrowed to slits.

  “What’s the matter, you stinking dog?” The hot rage prevented Ireheart from taking the sensible option. “Here you are, I’m bringing you my other axe!” He charged.

  So did the beast, throwing up mud and bits of grass from under its talons.

  Ireheart laughed and stretched out to land a thundering blow—but a shadow threw itself down from the oak to attack the back of the animal.

  A blood-encrusted human in tattered chainmail drove his double-edged long sword into the creature’s body with all the force from his leap.

  But the monstrous wolf did not die.

  It hurled the man off, snapped at him and then made for Ireheart, limping now.

  Overcoming his shock, the dwarf ran over to the bank of the stream. I must get my crow’s beak.

  He could hear the beast approach and he quickened his own pace, laughing out loud. His armour clinked, a further taunt.

  “Come on! Try a little bit harder!” he mocked, reaching the edge of the stream.

  He slid feet-first down the bank past his dead pony.

  He snatched the long handle of the crow’s beak with one hand and hacked the spike in to the soft earth, abruptly curtailing his descent before he could fall into the water. He did not want to chance his luck with the goddess Elria.

  “Got you!” Still lying on the ground, he grabbed the crow’s beak with both hands and yanked it out of the earth; the beast was glowering down at him, drooling, jaws agape. “Huzzah!”

  The long steel spike went through the back of the creature’s neck, piercing the spine at the base of the skull. Ireheart jerked the handle and the monster flew over him. This dislodged the weapon. The beast landed in the water and lay still.

  “To Tion with you!” The dwarf sprang to his feet and crushed the creature’s skull with hammer blows from the side of his weapon. Ireheart was in such a frenzy that he continued to belabour the battered head until he was boiling hot and exhausted. He stopped, gasping for air, and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Filthy cur.”

  His fury ebbed away, the thirst did not.

  With great caution, not wanting to fall in, he bent down and scooped a handful of water from the stream. What I wouldn’t give for a long, cool honey beer.

  He went back to where the warrior had leaped from the tree. The black-haired man lay in the grass, gasping for breath. The beast had pulled half his arm out from the shoulder. There was a smell of rotten flesh. Older wounds had bec
ome infected and gangrene had set in. There was no helping this soldier. As he lay there, a pitiful spectacle, he had no fear in his eyes. He seemed clear that he was about to die and was not raving with fever.

  “A Child of the Smith,” he murmured, attempting a smile. “Vraccas must have known I would meet you.”

  “He did know.” Ireheart took the man’s hand. “My thanks for your action. My name is—”

  “There’s something in my leather bag. Get it. A capsule with runes, dwarf runes. It was round the neck of a beast just like the one you killed. The monsters come from Phondrasôn and they’ve found a way through into the elf realm.” He spoke quickly, knowing death was upon him. “Take them to your king. And know this: the elves murdered my young king. Their Naishïon is behind everything. They made a pact with Natenian—he wants to stay ruler of Tabaîn …” The man’s bright eyes dimmed in the space of his final heartbeat.

  Ireheart had listened intently to what the dying man had told him. I’d better write it down before I forget. He cut a large piece of bark from the oak and used the warrior’s blood to note key words. That’ll have to do till I get to the courier station. He could write it up properly on paper or parchment once he was there.

  Ireheart found the small, matt-black metal container secured with a safety lock and inspected it closely.

  The runes were certainly of dwarf origin, though exaggerated, as if to attract attention.

  They formed a name.

  “By Vraccas!” Ireheart leaped to his feet and ran back to the beast’s cadaver, breaking the wire round its neck and looking at the second capsule.

  He rinsed it in the stream, still taking care not to go too near. He did not trust the goddess.

  The same runes. The two monsters had been sent as messengers.

  The name of the intended recipient was clearly punched in.

  “‘For Ireheart,’” he read, dumbfounded.

  There was only one dwarf who had gone to Phondrasôn and would know him by that name.

  Girdlegard

  Kingdom of Tabaîn, Wheattown

  6492nd solar cycle, early summer

  King Natenian felt the sweat coming out from every pore, and it was staining his wide yellow robe, either as droplets or large patches. He limped along, flanked by two nurses, heading for the throne room of the simple palace building that was more a fortress than anything else. This was where the nobles of the land were meeting to determine who should be his successor.

  On the face of it, at least.

  The news of his younger brother dying a hero’s death had spread like wildfire across the kingdom. The elves had packed the Tabaîn delegate’s remains in ice and delivered it before decomposition could set in.

  The body of the popular heir apparent had been embalmed and put on show for three days in the Palandiell temple, so that the citizens could pay their last respects. The unmistakable bite wounds on the other deep-chilled bodies that had been transported at the same time, together with the carcass of the beast itself, dispelled any doubts in people’s minds. What the elves told them must indeed have been what happened.

  Only one body was missing: Tenkil, the young king’s best friend, was said to have been devoured completely. Skin and hair and all.

  Natenian had summoned all the nobles to get to the bottom of why Raikan had ever gone to Lesinteïl in the first place.

  The guards at the entrance to the throne room saluted and opened the double doors for their king.

  Natenian stepped in, escorted by his carers. He walked slowly past all the courtiers in their finery and made his way to the top of the table. The sound of his laboured breath echoed back from the walls.

  Portraits of earlier rulers hung from the walls; they stared down on the proceedings as if to ensure that everything was done properly. Antique tapestries covered the stone walls and dusty banners hanging from the ceiling beams showed the coats of arms of distinguished families.

  Although the sun was still high, lamps and candles had been lit. No one knew how long the meeting would go on, and anyway, the windows were only narrow slits, which did not allow much light to come through. The kingdom suffered from frequent gales and storms so the traditional method of building eschewed extra storeys or wide windows. The palace itself was half-sunk in the earth, like a crouching animal.

  His breath whistling, Natenian sat down in his special chair that gave the necessary support for him to sit upright. The nurses accompanying him both stepped back a little, remaining on hand if needed.

  The seat to the king’s right was empty and a black sheet covered the chair. Everyone knew who was missing.

  “My brother,” Natenian began, “was a traitor.”

  Lightning hitting the centre of the table could not have made more impact. The assembled nobility stared at him; nobody spoke.

  Natenian drew breath with a groan. “You’re thinking I have lost my mind. But I am just as horror-struck as yourselves.” When he made a gesture, a servant went to open a side door to admit a blond elf belonging to the delegation from Lesinteïl. He was wearing a white robe with a black sash draped around his hips as a sign of mourning. “This is Phenîlas. He has the evidence with him.”

  A murmur ran round the room as the elf approached the table, taking the contract out of its leather case.

  “Honourable ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice as soft as velvet. “Here you see the pact that Raikan wanted to make with my people. We pretended to go along with it, in order to then inform Natenian and the people of Tabaîn without delay.” He passed the parchment around. “His conduct seemed strange, although he assured us he was about to be appointed king, irrevocably.”

  “He was planning to go behind my back. Perhaps he was going to have me murdered, to make sure he would come to power! This is treachery of the highest order. Against me. Against you. Against Tabaîn.” He had the appearance of a man utterly shocked; his breath rasped with emotion. “The shame he has thus brought on the whole family—no word of this may ever leave this room. I am counting on your discretion.”

  The nobles swore an oath or nodded compliance.

  “You will understand that under the present circumstances I can no longer remain in office as monarch,” he said, his voice breaking. “The stigma of shame taints me, too. And I am growing weaker by the orbit.” Incensed voices were heard calling on him not to abdicate. Natenian raised his hand. “My thanks. I understand your objections. However …”

  “Your Majesty,” came an interruption from the red-haired Cledenia, friendly in tone but firm. Her high-collared black gown made her face appear hard. “The people know you and hold you in high regard. Your brother has become a legend because of his heroic death. As no one will ever learn what he did in secret, nothing would reflect badly on yourself.”

  “Ah, but I know about it.”

  She pointed at the others. “We all know about it. But it does not upset us.” Again, shouts of agreement were heard. “Your family enjoys a good reputation and you emerged unscathed from all the confusion when Lohasbrand’s reign crumbled. Your character is spotless and, combined with your stamina and determination to carry on despite your state of health, you provide a wonderful example for us all—from the highest to the lowest of the population.” Cledenia bowed. “Remain as our king until the gods call you to join them.”

  Natenian glanced at Phenîlas and the elf permitted the slightest of smiles to cross his face.

  “Well, then.” He levered himself up out of the chair and indicated to the nurses that he wanted to try to stand by himself. The women stepped back once more. “If no one speaks against me, then I swear by all the gods that I shall do everything in my power to eradicate the shame my brother has brought. I will be a wise ruler. Tabaîn shall blossom and my subjects shall flourish under my regency. This I swear by Palandiell”—he turned to Phenîlas—“and by Sitalia. My thanks to your people, friend elf.”

  Phenîlas sketched a bow. “Girdlegard is not in need of more deceit and
falsehood,” he replied. “We fight together against injustice.”

  Natenian seemed to grow a little taller at the uproar of applause from the nobility. He relished the attention and esteem he would not in normal circumstances have merited. You’re all pitiful. He smiled at each of them in turn. You won’t be around for too long. You are not included in my plans.

  “Forgive me,” Cledenia said when the applause started to die away. “Who have you selected as your heir in place of Raikan? Do let us know who you think is worthy of succeeding you. We’re dying to know.”

  Natenian lifted his crippled left hand and pointed a bony finger at Dirisa. That’ll set the cat among the pigeons and get them all jealous of each other. A good diversionary tactic. “Dirisa would be my choice. She is young and healthy and intelligent and a second cousin to Queen Astirma. Alliances among the kingdoms are all the rage nowadays,” he answered. His veiled reference to Mallenia and Rodario was met with laughter.

  Dirisa got to her feet, adjusted her pink dress and bowed graciously. “My gratitude.”

  To Natenian’s surprise, the beautiful ebony-haired woman with the slender figure of a young boy left her place and went to remove the black sheet on the seat to the king’s right hand.

  A sudden silence fell.

  She gathered her skirts and sat down as slowly and carefully as if the seat were made of glass. “I have been thinking about your words. I understand why you would want to abdicate after the shame your brother has brought on your family.” She shot him a devastating smile. “You are wise, and I accept.”

  Natenian was at a loss. His plan was crumbling away and he was finding it hard to breathe. His heart was pounding with rage against this usurper. He sat back with a groan, in a coughing fit. Then he choked and swallowed his tongue; it seemed he might suffocate. One of the nurses rushed up, took hold of his lower jaw and forced it down. She reached two fingers inside his mouth and saved his life with a skilful move. He had not intended to leave office in that way.