The Triumph of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  “Greetings, Chancellor.”

  Her voice betrayed how weak she had become. “May Sitalia be with you,” he responded courteously. “I’ll have some food brought down, if you’d like.”

  “Very kind. But we will manage with what we have.”

  “We have not been tasked with standing idly by, watching you all starve.” Rognor pushed up his face-protection, revealing his tattoos. “But I am still not permitted to let you enter.”

  “I shall save my breath and not try the usual pleading.” Chynêa tilted her head slightly forward. “It’s not just a childish whim that we want to get to Girdlegard. It is our duty,” she explained, her voice breaking. “The Creator called us and we are following her lead.”

  “I understand. But I have no powers to change anything.”

  “It is our sacred duty, Chancellor.” She looked at him seriously. “The number of those wanting to follow the call of the goddess is increasing all the time.”

  This caught Rognor’s attention. “We have our own duty, decreed by Vraccas and Lorimbur.”

  “I know.” She bit her lips. “But I shan’t be able to hold them back for long. The atmosphere is very tense. The constant privation is causing friction.”

  I can’t do more than offer food. “Then turn around and go back,” he urged. “Three orbits’ march from here. You wouldn’t have to go further than that. Wait there until there is better news from Girdlegard. I promise to send a messenger straight to where you are to keep you in touch with events here.”

  Chynêa gave a grateful smile. “It is wonderful to find we have your sympathy. We had been told that the old enmity between elves and dwarves had perhaps not, in fact, ceased to be.”

  “If the elves had taken more part in the freedom struggles of the recent past, I’m sure no trace of enmity would remain.” Rognor smiled. “It will work out in time.”

  Chynêa looked less convinced. “I am afraid of the nights,” she confessed.

  “You are safe here, at our gates.”

  “I’m not troubled about any danger that might befall us.” The elf placed her thinly gloved hand against the grating. “The rebellious ones amongst us could use the cover of darkness to force their way into your fortress. Only the gods know what would happen then.” Her voice took on a resigned fragility. “Say ten of them try—and maybe they attack, or injure or even kill one of your guards in the attempt—what would the response be? I know about the boulder-throwing machines and the arsenal of deadly weapons you have.” Chynêa pushed her arm through the grating. “May I ask for your word, Chancellor? That you would not punish those that are innocent?”

  Rognor saw the fear in her big, sunken eyes. “I promise your camp will not be destroyed if some of you manage to cross the walls,” he said with ceremony, taking hold of her hand. It feels like a dry branch. “No innocent elf shall be made to suffer for the failings and mistakes of the guilty.” He was reluctant to press her hand too hard, thinking he might fracture some bones.

  Chynêa was relieved. “You are an honest Child of the Smith,” she said. “I will try my hardest to prevent such an attempt being undertaken.” She bowed. “I hope we shall meet again.” She turned and walked back to camp with graceful and yet unsteady steps.

  Rognor was thoughtful watching her go. She was giving me a warning, wasn’t she? She was warning me about an attack.

  He looked up. “Bolîngor!”

  “Sir? Shall I send the first payload of flour?”

  “Double the guard. And call the section commanders and the artillery masters to a briefing.” He stamped through deep snow across to the other side of the fortress where the main quarters and the assembly halls were.

  Rognor could not take it amiss that the elves would attempt to scale the walls. But for all he knew, the attackers would not show the same mercy to the defenders. Would they be pitiless in their quest for admittance?

  It won’t be us spilling the first blood. He intended to issue orders that would limit the killing. On both sides.

  Carrying a lidded mug of hot chicken broth, Bolîngor went to the look-out post on the tip of the dwarf stronghold’s helmet. He relished the salty taste and the warmth and fullness in his stomach as he stood surveying the Black Mountains. The chancellor had forbidden the watch to drink any hot beer, which might give rise to unwise actions.

  It had been seven orbits since Rognor had summoned the section commander and the artillery master of the fortress to give them his orders: no elves were to be killed if they managed to scale the walls. Wounded perhaps, but not killed.

  Bolîngor entered the guards’ shelter with its observation windows. They afforded good views to the east round the ramparts and also vertically, to ground level. To stop the icy draught coming through the floor gratings, there were iron covers that could be fastened shut. Straw was stuffed into any gaps to keep out the cold, otherwise there would be a constant whistling that would rob the guards of their sleep.

  The five guards, male and female, saluted him.

  “Nothing to report,” said one. “The moon is bright. We can see everything that’s happening in the Black Mountains. And it’s exactly nothing.” He grinned.

  “Let’s hope it stays that way.” Bolîngor went over to the right, walking past the narrow windows to get a look at the mountain peaks, shimmering magically in the silvery light.

  He liked snow and he liked winter. The air was clearer and you could see further than in the heat of summer. He flipped the lid of his mug open with his thumb and drank a mouthful of soup, while staring meditatively at the landscape. “Anything else in the watch book?”

  He gazed at the peak named Stone Fir. Wind and weather had shaped the rock like a fir tree. As a child he had once climbed it for a dare. Legend had it that Lorimbur would reward such bravery. That was a long time ago.

  “Nothing to report,” came the answer again. “Though one of their tents got blown away.”

  “Where?” Bolîngor scanned the camp.

  “Over on the right, on the very edge. See that ledge?”

  He could not see from his window so he asked them to open the shutters on the floor on the right-hand side. They really ought to have reported that to the main watch. If a shelter had been lost, it meant there had been no one living in it, otherwise the tent would have been rescued and secured.

  Two guards wrestled with the shutters but could not open them.

  “Frozen shut?” Bolîngor took another swig of hot soup.

  “Looks like it.”

  Bolîngor tried a different window. But this one was equally impossible to open, as if an invisible force was resisting.

  “Get it open.”

  They tried with their axes, using them as levers.

  The iron plate screeched in protest as it was forced, the dwarves grunting with effort. Something snapped off and the shutter plate flew open, allowing cold air to surge in.

  Bolîngor leaned forward, screwing up his eyes to peer through the icy covering that had formed on the grating.

  He dropped his soup with surprise. It clanged onto the criss-cross iron bars, sending the contents cascading down through the freezing night air to form crystals.

  The tiny droplets showered past figures scaling the wall on ropes; small grappling irons secured the flimsy-looking ropes to the grating itself.

  “Sound the alarm,” Bolîngor ordered, going down on one knee and pulling out his dagger to sever the ropes.

  But the elves had been warned by the shower of crystallised soup particles. One of them glanced up and gave a signal to those below. Four of the climbers swung themselves on to different parts of the fortress walls and disappeared from view.

  The sharp blade sliced through the finger-thick rope and the two elves that had been left with no safe place to cling to plunged fifty paces deep to the snows beneath. If Sitalia loves them, they will survive.

  Alarm bugles rang out and in the distance gongs were sounded. The whole of the stronghold jumped into life and th
e hunt began for the intruders.

  I hope the guards remember Rognor’s orders.

  “Open up the other shutters,” Bolîngor commanded, running to the stairwell. “Tell the chancellor if any elves turn up at the gates. The noise may arouse their curiosity and they’ll want to help their comrades.”

  He raced down the stairs, holding his club at the ready. It was easier to control the strength of a blow from a club. You did not have the same control using an axe or a morningstar. This was the reason Rognor had decreed the watch bear only blunted weapons.

  In no time at all, the fortress was ablaze with light. Groups of four hurried past him, sticks and shields in their hands. Bolîngor made his way down to the right eye of the fortress’s dwarf-face. Two elves had swung themselves in through this opening. He wanted to deal with them personally. All this running about was getting him warm.

  Best replace those gratings with a different solution. He assumed the elves had shot the grappling irons up with arrows or maybe a small catapult. In the case of a siege, these methods would not have succeeded, but it was important to iron out these loopholes in the defences.

  An elf jumped out in front of him, wearing a grey and white spotted leather doublet and breeches, which afforded excellent camouflage in the wintry conditions. However, in the dark corridors of the fortress he stood out boldly.

  Bolîngor raised his club.

  “We have no quarrel with you or the elves,” he said, speaking clearly. “And we know that it is important for you all to enter Girdlegard. But this can only happen with our permission.” He pointed east with his club. “If you go now of your own accord, nothing will happen to you. If not, I am afraid you’ll be suffering a few broken bones.”

  The elf listened and retreated a few paces; he had a short sword hanging from his weapons belt. He did not try to draw it.

  “We are going to open the gates,” the elf replied. “Once we are in your territory, you’ll have no option but to let us all through.”

  Bolîngor shook his head firmly. Calling out loudly, “I’ve got one of them here,” he moved to attack, deliberately aiming not at the head but at the legs, to topple him.

  “Forgive me for taking this shortcut.” The elf swerved to avoid the blow, then leaped up onto a roof beam, making his way along overhead.

  That’s not the way it’s supposed to be. The dwarf threw his weapon and hit the elf in the side.

  This was enough to make the elf lose his balance. First the club and then the elf crashed to the ground.

  Dwarves came running up the corridor from both directions.

  “Block the exits!” called Bolîngor, pouncing on the elf to bring him down. “Two of you. Over here, now. Let’s get him tied up.”

  The intruder managed to struggle free but was soon outnumbered. They cornered him and he raised his arms in surrender.

  Bolîngor was impressed the elf had not attempted to use his short sword. “Tie him up and take him down to the gate. Wait there till the others are caught.” He turned to the right-hand doorway.

  “That’s not going to happen,” came the voice of a second elf that was standing over four felled guards, his long sword bloodied. “Your ugly fortress will go up in flames before that.”

  What nerve! This idiot has actually dared to hurt my guards! Bolîngor picked up his club. “You’re forgetting. Stone doesn’t burn.” He stomped over to the elf without another word.

  If this elf had deliberately ambushed and killed four of his men, there was no mercy to be shown. The Chancellor would have to see there was no other way.

  Bolîngor pressed a catch on the shaft of his club and long spikes snapped out from the metal.

  The notches on a blade tell us much about the owner.

  Dwarf saying

  XV

  Girdlegard

  Elf realm of Ti Lesîndur

  Barrenbrig

  6492nd solar cycle, winter

  Ireheart and his companions rode ever deeper into the newly-formed united empire of the elves. This time he was accompanied by a larger contingent, and not only because it suited his status. And not only because of possible älfar ambush.

  He felt ill at ease in the presence of the small girl from the Outer Lands. He had noted at the temple how quickly she had been able to change people’s minds as soon as she appeared on the scene. Surrounded as he was by his best warriors, male and female, he was protected should the mood go against him.

  Perhaps he was wrong, but he was convinced that the rapid changes taking place in Girdlegard all stemmed from Sha’taï’s influence. He had to admit that she had—to her credit—brought about a sense of harmony and peace when things had been critical with the elves in Highstead, but there was a weird aspect to her good work: the inexplicable, sudden friendliness of all present.

  Since the coronation of Rodario, a mysterious cheerfulness had spread abroad, as Boïndil had noticed as he travelled. Friendliness was stretching its tendrils out, wrapping itself round people and changing the way they thought. Except for a few critical voices in remote parts of Girdlegard, there was no dissent at the naming of Rodario the First as Emperor. It seemed that at long last the humans considered themselves equal to the elves and the dwarves. Everyone seemed euphoric. Ireheart was not bothered by the all-pervading good humour but he was sure it was not a natural phenomenon.

  He looked ahead to the front of their cavalcade. The vanguard had entered a small village and sounded a bugle signal indicating No Danger. Further on there was a small pine forest, and beyond that still was the meeting-place.

  “Yet another abandoned settlement,” said Aurogar Broadhand of the clan of Silver Seekers, a fine figure of a warrior from the Fourthling tribe. “Mallenia’s subjects are leaving fast.”

  “Who would want to stay here if your pockets are full of gold?” Ireheart sat tall in the saddle and put his hands on his lower back. His buttocks were painful as well. We need to get the fast tunnel system up and running. All the riding he had had to do in the last few orbits was wearing him out. He was not used to it. “If I had no conscience and no scruples, I’d get a bunch of blokes together and roam around robbing the humans.”

  Aurogar nodded. “Good thing we dwarves are always so honest. Though we do like gold, of course.” The High King joined him in the laughter.

  The military cavalcade wound its way across the snow-covered landscape that had until so recently belonged to Gauragar. Even the unprecedented gift of territory seemed to provoke no objection. Elves and humans were growing closer, making Girdlegard stronger than ever. That was what everyone was saying.

  Ireheart could not stop sighing about the present state of affairs. He was lost in thought. The fact that Tungdil had disappeared did not make anything easier. They’ll be asking me about him. They all will.

  Towards evening they reached the town of Barrenbrig, abandoned by its previous inhabitants. The elf standard was flying above its walls and in spite of the icy conditions, craftsmen had started to remove the sharp corners, replacing them with softer, rounder contours; painters were decorating the walls in red, purple, gold and black.

  “Not bad progress,” Aurogar conceded. “But they’re trying to put curved lines into solid rock. That’s not going to work. And they’re using the wrong sort of tools.”

  “They’re not from here, are they?” Ireheart grinned. “You should go and point out their mistakes. I expect your remarks will fall on deaf … I mean, pointed ears.”

  The dwarves nearby all roared with laughter at the joke.

  The elf-soldiers at the gate saluted and let them through.

  “Never thought I’d see the day,” Aurogar commented, returning the salute with respect.

  Like all the others he remained on his guard. The matter of the white eyes treatment meant that any elf could be an älf in disguise. If we forget that, we could lose our life-spark quicker than a badly-secured axe head can fly.

  The sound of hammering resounded out of every street and alleyway as
they passed. The town was being transformed by its new residents to comply with their own elf-aesthetic and to make their newcomers feel at home. Occasionally there would be a crash as part of a wall was demolished or roof tiles fell off, throwing up clouds of snow.

  The dwarves arrived at the market place. Several of the surrounding buildings had been replaced by circular gateways, linked one to another. A tall house took pride of place in the middle. It was made entirely of wood and was several storeys high, with overlapping curved roof elements, small bells on the jutting beams and statues on top.

  Gargoyles in the form of beasts had been fashioned to sit at the end of the roof gutters. The mighty roof beams were painted white and decorated with runes in red and gold. Long black banners with white flower runes hung from the highest storey, fluttering in the wind.

  On examination of the construction, Ireheart could see that despite its impressive size, the building had been pieced together in kit form. Quick to put up and take down. The Naishïon seemed to prefer to sleep in his own palace, wherever he went.

  “We should try prefabricating a dwarf stronghold,” he mused with a grin.

  “I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t mean the design itself. I meant it is clever to have a portable fortress you can put together quickly.” He was keen on the idea, but he knew it would not work for them because of the weight involved.

  Aurogar smiled. “Great idea. We could put up a dwarf refuge wherever we were. We should have thought of that earlier. It would have been a help in battle.”

  Ireheart halted his party and told his companions to dismount. They formed an escort around him on foot and they made their way over to the building, which had a row of elves guarding it. “What good is all that if they’ve got black-eyes lurking in their midst?” wondered Aurogar.

  Shortly before they arrived at the stairway leading up to the broad, bronze entrance gates, half of the dwarves held back. The rest marched forward, up the steps. The gates swung open.