The Triumph of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  “Ore? What for?” Ireheart forced himself to bring his mind back to the discussion.

  “For weapons, for the fortresses we’ll be manning together, of course,” said the elf, with an air of having had to repeat himself.

  “And we’ll need your ideas about possible sites,” Astirma interjected. “You dwarves know everything there is to know about minerals and geology.”

  “Of course.” Ireheart felt bad about having to dampen everyone’s spirits. The Council debate was going so well, their talk overflowing with confidence and eagerness. It was obvious everyone was counting on the peace lasting at least one hundred cycles. “There are one … or two things I must bring to your attention.”

  “Surely not the price of metal ore?” Rodario was enjoying his little joke. “Even if the Children of the Smith are well known for their love of gold.”

  Ireheart plunged in. “It’s about Queen Mallenia’s ward. And about a prophecy.”

  Rodario interrupted again. “Oh, no, High King: please don’t! Not some new ghost story about evil in the form of an innocent young child. Or that a creature from the Outer Lands is threatening war. We’ve been listening to this garbage for nearly a cycle now.” He emphasised his displeasure with grand gestures, using his stage experience to drum up amusement in his audience. “Come on, we’ve got so much to discuss without your pessimism and catastrophising”

  “The prophecy is not about Sha’taï, although that would not have surprised me.” Ireheart turned to Ataimînas, fixing his eyes on him. “It’s a question of the elves and Sitalia’s predictions, brought to Girdlegard in a steel-clad chamber. This palace carries a steel cell, under thorough lock and key. It’s full of lockers and drawers such as we use for our treasure hoards.”

  Rodario blinked in astonishment. “That does indeed … sound strange.”

  All eyes focused on the Naishïon, who seemed to have been transformed into a statue.

  So the black-eyes was right. Ireheart was not pleased about that. It was not a good feeling. It felt even more worrying to know he had come across secrets affecting his homeland. “What do you say to this, Ataimînas?”

  Sha’taï grasped Rodario’s hand. He smiled down at her and touched Mallenia. The High King noted the movement run round the table. This did not include himself. Many of the monarchs, he saw, were touching feet under the table.

  What’s going on here? “I can quote from the prophecy, if you like,” Ireheart went on.

  Ataimînas raised his hand. “It is too soon for that.”

  The dwarf retorted: “It can never be too soon, when the future of Girdlegard is at stake. Tell us the prophecies.”

  “It is too soon,” repeated the Naishïon. His tone was friendly but he had gone very pale. He knew now that the High King must have been inside the steel chamber.

  I wonder if he will try to have me killed, like the black-eyes predicted? Ireheart could not read any expression in the elf’s frozen features.

  “What do you mean by too soon?” Ireheart was relieved to hear Astirma enter the debate. “Why don’t we know about it or why are we not supposed to hear it?”

  Outside, in the corridor, loud noises were heard: angry shouts, alarm horns, blades clanging, shields clashing. The guards in the hall turned towards the entrance, ready to defend their masters. There followed the sound of several heavy objects crashing into the double doors. The bolts groaned under the strain.

  The doors suddenly gave way, bursting open. They were forced off their hinges and floored several soldiers who had been standing near. Ireheart saw blood on the outside of the doors and twisted corpses in a heap on the threshold. Someone had hurled the warriors from a distance against the hall doors to force an entry.

  Above them the huge form of a ghaist loomed up, instantly recognisable with the copper helmet and leather armour though it had lost its flagpole. It was covered in blood that was streaming down its muscular arms to drip on to the light-coloured floor matting.

  Did it come through the mountains? Ireheart grabbed his crow’s beak. I should have started my speech earlier.

  The guards in the council chamber formed a defensive barricade round the crowned heads. This would be a suicidal endeavour. Two elves jumped from right and left to attack the ghaist from behind: one swung a long sword to the nape while the other wielded his weapon against the back of the creature’s knees. One of these warriors had the sword ripped out of his hands, while the other found his blade snapped in two, as if the ghaist had skin of iron. It whirled around, fists clenched, striking the brave elves in their faces with a crack loud enough to be heard at the back of the room. Bones splintered as if fragile glass, fragments protruded through the flesh. The victims were thrown bodily against a far wall.

  The ghaist stood up straight, arms stretched out to the sides, white steam leaking from the eyeholes in the full-face copper helmet. A high-pitched sound pierced the room but it did not come from the magic being—it was Sha’taï, screaming for all she was worth. The ghaist vaulted over the sprawled bodies to hurl itself feet first against the ring of soldiers. It threw five warriors aside as if they weighed no more than straw dolls. Spear shafts shattered under the impact and ineffective blades clattered to the ground, shields splintered or bent.

  Standing in the middle of the group of brave bodyguards, the ghaist reached behind itself and took out a small metal container, such as Ireheart had heard described previously, casting it on to the table with an unexpectedly deliberate action: the very table where the powerful reigning heads of Girdlegard’s people had been in council.

  Before anyone could try to grab hold of the ghaist, it took another leap and landed behind Rodario, felling the young emperor with a blow. It used its other arm to ward off a sword strike from the queen of Idoslane; the steel sang out and vibrated, but remained intact.

  Then the magic being grabbed hold of Sha’taï and clamped the shrieking child to its side before sprinting through the bank of soldiers and out of the room.

  “Nobody shoot!” yelled Mallenia, rushing off. “We must bring it down. I want my little girl back!”

  Rodario lay unconscious on the floor. Astirma hurried over to see to him. All the guards streamed out in Mallenia’s wake. Ataimînas looked at the metal capsule on the table, then glanced at Ireheart. To Ireheart’s astonishment, he gave a smile. “The prophecy,” he mouthed, “has come true.” He picked up a spear and followed Mallenia.

  Ireheart set off after the others as quickly as he was able. I shouldn’t have eaten so much goulash.

  Not that he wanted to help Sha’taï. But he was keen to see if the others would manage to fell the ghaist. Perhaps Sitalia’s wisdom had something appropriate to hand that might come in useful in the Grey Mountains.

  I talked with him a great deal.

  A very great deal.

  We had enough time, when we were incarcerated, and now I know his story.

  I know there were doubts about whether he was genuine.

  But I am absolutely positive that he is the one true Tungdil. I witnessed magic effects and waves in Phondrasôn. It would have been possible to create a copy. Realistically possible. It happened.

  The question Girdlegard must ask: what else was affected by those mysterious eruptions of magic?

  Did they perhaps change the original when they made the copy?

  It would be prudent to remain watchful, even if no one else is vigilant.

  Secret notes for

  The Writings of Truth

  written under duress by Carmondai

  XVII

  Girdlegard

  United Kingdom of Gauragar-Idoslane

  Idoslane

  6492nd solar cycle, winter

  Tungdil watched the sleeping, naked figure of the maga floating in the energy field, surrounded by scintillating sparks and the occasional lightning flash. Her long black hair fanned out as if she were swimming in water.

  He had crouched down nearby to be on hand to see to her injuries if it sho
uld prove necessary. In the few moments he had spent asleep, he had had a dream. About Balyndis and about Sirka, the women who meant a great deal to him. Sirka had died a long time ago, and he had no idea if there was any way back for him and Balyndis. He could only hope there might be a chance. He was sure of his feelings for her. Phondrasôn had given him time enough to process his thoughts and emotions.

  It’s vital the maga survives this. Girdlegard needs her. Who else is capable of training the next generation of young magi and magae?

  He had been able to close up the deep wound in her side long enough to keep her alive. But it had been a matter of a few heartbeats, trying to get her here in time. Tungdil had covered the whole way at a trot, not stopping for rest.

  Her right arm seemed to have been subjected to a different sort of injury. Tungdil assumed it was from a spell that had gone wrong. Below the elbow, the arm looked made of glass, while in other places, muscles, arteries and tendons were visible under a transparent skin. But this magic source would mend that, too.

  He had almost forgotten about this place where, in his time as a young smith, he and all others had been forbidden to go. The time in the empire of darkness had subjected his mind to harsh ordeals, stealing knowledge from him, substituting new material and changing familiar memories—sometimes for the better, sometimes not. But as he made his way through the land, letting his soul become acquainted once more with the peaceful surroundings, the memories began to come back. Even those he believed lost forever.

  For Tungdil this magic wellspring was experienced as a prickling on his skin; the magic stretched feelers out in his direction and swiftly withdrew them. It did not wish to touch him or bind him to itself.

  Tungdil saw the pearls of sweat on the maga’s forehead. The wound fever had not completely receded. This was due to the poison the älf had put on his arrow tips and sword blade, as was their assassins’ custom. A scratch would be enough to kill the victim.

  But not her. Tungdil tried to find a comfortable position on the cold, damp ground, but here the earth gave no warmth such as he was used to in the mines and tunnels. His dark red robe with its Vraccas runes and the dark grey mantle he wore over it were clammy. Only the magic field gave protection—and it was a curse at the same time.

  He kept remembering the story, as he had done during his captivity in Phondrasôn when he cast his thoughts to his homeland in an attempt not to lose his mind. But he never thought the legend would be of significance. This energy was something special: one of Lot-Ionan’s famuli had conducted a clandestine experiment, trying to influence the magic field in which their tunnel was situated. He had wanted to see if the field could be made flexible and elongated, so as to have threads of energy like slow-flowing honey or caramelised sugar.

  The basic idea behind the young wizard apprentice’s proposal was excellent: one would be able to move away from the actual field while still remaining in contact with its magical power. But the experiment failed. As a result, a small part of the field changed its nature. To protect others, Lot-Ionan had it fenced off and walled up, so that no famulus or famula would have access—except for the one who had got caught there. Tungdil believed he had seen the bones of the unlucky apprentice lying in the dirt. Punishment for having acted without authority.

  People had forgotten about the place. Apart from Tungdil, nobody that would have known about it was still alive.

  The maga Coïra would now have a price to pay for her life. But at least this way she will be in a position to pay that price. I hope she sees the situation like I do. Tungdil observed the healing taking place, leaving out nowhere on her body. Whatever diseases she might have carried until this moment would be dissolved away.

  The fact that this place still existed was gift from Samusin. The fields could have shifted and the new location might have closed off the source. I thank you, Vraccas. The dwarf had had a long search to find the entrance. The tunnel had for the most part collapsed and the roof had fallen in. Looters had left tracks, looking for plunder.

  Tungdil temporarily wondered if he should light a fire, but thought too much smoke in the confined space might suffocate him. He also did not want to leave his present position, as he needed to watch over the sleeping maga.

  Tungdil was undecided. He needed to find warmer, dry clothing. He would not be able to do that until he got to a village a few miles away. He had seen one that had been erected on the ruins of Goodmeadow, devastated hundreds of cycles previously by the orcs.

  He remembered his time with the magus, the goodhearted old man, who, according to Ireheart, had turned into one of the most dangerous opponents of dwarves and humans alike. I find that hard to believe. It had been difficult for him to take in much of what he had read in recent orbits, turning the pages of history book after history book. What cruel ordeals Girdlegard had been subjected to since he had left to enter the Black Abyss. In Tungdil’s view, it was Tion who was behind events. But that will end now.

  He was astonished to find his own history and had just lapped it up. Apparently his magic doppelgänger had arrived, armoured in black tionium and equipped with älfar capabilities, full of mystery and puzzles and yet untiring in his efforts for Girdlegard. He was rewarded by receiving the sharp end of Keenfire.

  It must have been that magic explosion. Tungdil stared at the golden mark on his hand. Back then, in the cave in Phondrasôn. Was that the reason the magic field was retreating from him? Or could it be that I, too, am but a counterfeit version, a doppelgänger? He was worried by this thought but found it funny, too. A replica, neurotic about being a fake—nice idea.

  “You brought me here,” came the voice of the woman.

  She’s woken up at last. Tungdil looked over at her and bowed. “My name is Tungdil Goldhand.” He indicated her dirtied clothing lying next to the field. “I’m sorry I had to undress you. Your garments were filthy with dirt and blood.” He admired the way she showed no disgust at his own disfigurements.

  Coïra’s bright, blue eyes explored her own body and her hands. “This … how did this …?” she stuttered in amazement, tears forming in her eyes. “Where are we? What is this field?”

  Tungdil explained. “I saw your right arm was damaged, but as soon as I surrendered you to the energy, the change set in. I hope you are not dismayed?”

  Coïra rubbed the salt drops away. “It’s wonderful! It was more than a blemish …” She laughed with relief. “Thank you, thank you so much!” she called, much moved. “You have done more than merely save my life.” She attempted to float down to ground level, putting her naked feet on the earth, toes gripping determinedly. “To be able to see my arm as it always used to be …” She touched it. “It was a spell that went wrong; the magic went off in my hand and stayed there,” she told him. “That is why I could never heal the wound completely. I could only use the magic force in me, and the less magic I had, the more the wound would hurt and break open.”

  “I expect the source has done away with the spell that was caught inside you.” Tungdil admired the immaculate skin, so different from his own scarred and tortured covering. Now we have to talk about the price.

  “Where are my apprentices?”

  “Dead. Victims of the älf. He must have been tracking you for some time, waiting for his opportunity. There was nothing and nobody in Toboribor that could have helped you.”

  “Except for you.”

  Tungdil nodded. “But it was still only enough to save you from the black-eyes.”

  She was silent for a while, swallowing down her distress. Tears ran down anew. “My famulae were trying to divert the älf’s attention away from me. They were good people that died there.” She looked at him. “You say your name is Tungdil Goldhand?”

  “Yes, and I know there’s been another dwarf from the Black Abyss everyone thought was me.”

  “Not everybody thought that. There were doubters.”

  “Were you one of them?”

  Coïra laughed. “I was too busy defending
Girdlegard. The other Tungdil was a great help. That’s all we needed.” She gazed at him. “You have collected serious injuries in your time.”

  “They healed and don’t bother me much. Unless there’s a turn in the weather. Then the scars hurt.”

  Coïra did not seem bothered by the fact that she was naked in front of the dwarf. She kept admiring her right hand and arm, which now mirrored her left. “How did you come to be in Toboribor? Were you looking for anything in particular? It’s a marvellous coincidence.”

  “Not really. I was looking for you. I had got bored with just wandering about.” He did not tell her he had looked in another place first; Ireheart had given him a description of her likely route. “People said you were looking for a magic source and I came along, wanting to tell you about the existence of this one. At first I thought you might be in Porista, then I tried the Blue Mountains where the Secondlings live, because I knew they had a magic wellspring. But on the way there a trader told me about one of your famuli that had bought supplies from him. I followed his trail and found you.” He made a regretful face. “I’m sorry I got there too late.”

  “That accursed älf!” Coïra exhaled sharply. “It’s wonderful to bathe in this energy and be full of magic again, but we must be on our way. I need clothing.” She walked a few paces, getting slower and slower. Then she tensed, digging in with her feet. She was being dragged irresistibly backwards, her heels making marks in the soft ground.

  She looked at Tungdil. “What’s happening?”

  “The field is unwilling to release any magic being that steps in.” Tungdil looked at her apologetically. “I had no choice. I knew you would die if I didn’t bring you here.”

  The maga’s pretty features lost all their colour. “I have to stay here?” she whispered, staring at the saltpetre-stained brick walls. “That must be one of your famous dwarf jokes. I’m sure Lot-Ionan would have known how to …”

  The dwarf shook his head.