The Triumph of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  It can’t be overcome. Ireheart dismounted and climbed a few paces up the side wall to be able to see down the riverbed. It looked as if a living flame were chasing its victim, driven to destroy its quarry by a higher power or by a wizard. The burning soles left marks on the rock, showing which way it had gone.

  Midway between the small army and the speeding elf-warrior, the ghaist stumbled, grabbing its helmet in both hands, trying to press the copper together. “Everyone under cover!” Ireheart bellowed, dropping like a stone in the midst of the ponies. He was less worried about their flying hooves than about what was going to happen. He remembered what Balyndar’s report had said. And that in a narrow ravine!

  The initial detonation and the ensuing down-draught were less powerful than the dwarf had feared. But this was only the overture to the explosion that would follow: a blinding flash of light and a burst of heat surged through the gorge, followed by a terrible gust of wind.

  Burning soldiers were tossed about over Ireheart’s head, mostly elves that had been in the first rows of the group. There followed horses, aflame, turning to ash while still airborne. Red hot metal parts and armour rained down. He shook a burning shard off the cuff of his glove before the leather could ignite.

  The pressure wave hammered against soldiers and horses alike, hurling them against the rock face into so much bloody paste. Ireheart was hit several times by flying objects and his vision failed. He saw only a succession of whirling fiery circles.

  The wind dropped as quickly as it had come.

  The dwarf lay wedged under a dead pony. Using his crow’s beak as a lever, panting with the effort, he gradually forced his way free, inch by inch. His ears were ringing with the effects of the blast. Small boulders and stones kept falling from the sides of the gorge, but they missed him. The ravine itself had been damaged. A shadow fell on him. He was grabbed under the armpits and pulled out from under the dead animal.

  “Can’t leave you alone for a second.” It was Tungdil’s voice.

  Ireheart wiped the dust out of his eyes and saw the Scholar in front of him. He could hardly believe his eyes. The disfiguring burn scars had gone and his friend had two eyes now. The brown hair on his head and chin looked as they had done when the pair had first met. Only the wrinkles and a melancholy turn to his mouth betrayed the fact that two hundred and fifty cycles had passed and much had occurred in that time.

  “By Vraccas! Is that really you or is it Tungdil Number Three?” He saw the red robe and the mark of the Divine Smith at heart-height. “What has happened?”

  “I found Coïra. I’ll explain later.” Tungdil surveyed the carnage. “The survivors come first.”

  In the background, Beligata, Gosalyn and Hargorin were assisting where they were needed.

  Ireheart nodded and cast his eyes over the scene. Death and disaster everywhere he looked but his thoughts were occupied with the miraculous healing the Scholar had undergone. But then the cries of the injured caught his attention.

  Together with the other humans, elves and dwarves, they carried the wounded to safety and laid the dead bodies to one side. Mallenia was bleeding from a deep gash on her cheek. Rodario’s ribs had suffered. Ataimînas had broken his right arm but was otherwise unscathed.

  “What tremendous force,” said the elf, flabbergasted. “These creatures are more dangerous when they die than when they attack.”

  “That depends,” responded Ireheart, staring at the crater in the floor of the ravine. Where the ghaist had ended its existence, there were extensive burn marks on the stone and great boulders had been torn away, causing additional casualties to their troops. There was absolutely nothing left of their enemy. “If it storms through an army, it’ll cause more havoc and destruction.”

  Ataimînas gazed at Tungdil in surprise. “You are healed? How did that miracle occur?”

  “It was the maga’s doing. I took her to a magic source.” Tungdil quickly filled them in on his recent excursion and how it had ended. “Her life was saved. She will have to remain where she is for now, until she can work out how to break the prison-like quality of the energy’s effect.”

  “So our last maga is effectively banished, and when we need her help so urgently,” muttered the elf, turning his head on hearing hooves approach.

  The warrior who had been sent on ahead returned with Sha’taï’s body, holding her tenderly pressed against his chest.

  “Naishïon!” the elf called out, ecstatic. “She’s still alive! Her neck was not severed. But she’s hardly breathing. Death is near.”

  Tungdil and Ireheart exchanged covert glances. How strange and yet how marvellous to be able to look the Scholar directly in both eyes. But in the new eye, too, there was nothing to be read but alarm and concern. I think he too would have preferred to know the girl was safely dead. Ireheart thought his friend’s appearance now rang true. He looked so much more like the Tungdil he had missed for so long.

  Ataimînas sighed with relief. “Sitalia’s predictions! They’re coming true!” he said. His troops joined in with the rejoicing.

  Mallenia ordered the remaining few unhurt human warriors to mount up. “We’ll bring Sha’taï to where the maga is,” she announced. “Coïra will be able to help her.”

  “That’s just what I’m afraid of,” muttered Ireheart to Tungdil.

  “Right,” said the Naishïon. “We rendezvous with the maga. There is much to discuss.”

  “It looks like you got here in the nick of time, Scholar,” said Ireheart.

  “We’ll see.” He grinned. “You know, I was actually trying to give my soul time to recuperate.”

  Being king?

  Let me tell you, if you think a king’s life is one of glory and pomp:

  It means getting up every morning and having a good breakfast.

  And if you eat slowly enough you can stay sitting till it’s time for the noonday meal. And then there’s afternoon tea.

  And straight into supper and a nice bottle of wine and with any luck you can drop straight into bed again.

  How’s anyone going to get work started with all that to do?

  From: Rodario—King, Emperor and Showman

  XVIII

  Girdlegard

  Black Mountains

  Kingdom of the Thirdling dwarves

  Eastern Gate

  6492nd solar cycle, winter

  Rognor peered out through the grating into the raging storm whistling and howling round the corners of the fortress. The thin tents of the elf camp were filling with air like sails and flapping outward, shaking the snow off and letting all the warmth escape.

  This new cold snap was presenting a problem for the chancellor. He wasn’t worried about the castle—their fireplaces had plenty of wood—but rather the elves’ makeshift canvas city. They’ll be running out of fuel. They’ll die of cold in their sleep, freeze to death.

  Phenîlas had recently started the vetting procedure to allow those who proved indisputably to be of Sitalia’s creation to make their way through the gate into the Black Mountains. Lots were drawn, to make the process fair. Those who passed the examination were stamped with a magic seal on their forearms to prove that they were true elves.

  Rognor had expected more protest about the testing. But the report about älfar in disguise did not seem to outrage those waiting outside the walls. They continued to wait. Admirable patience. Presumably the elves would eye newcomers up carefully when they came drifting into camp. There would be plenty of suspicious looks.

  Conducting the examinations and awarding the guarantee seal was hard work for the sorânïons. They could not process more than ten candidates in any one orbit. A certain amount of magic was needed for the stamp and as soon as they had used up their own store, they had to go find an energy-giving source. The best known wellspring lay in the Blue Mountains and took some time to reach.

  Ten per orbit. He did his calculations. At this rate, it will take a whole cycle to get them all tested. The merciless winter conditions woul
d reduce elf numbers faster than the sorânïons could.

  No älf had yet been unmasked and this fact did not make the elaborate and harsh testing process any more popular.

  He heard a loud scream from over in the tents. High-pitched and tortured. You heard ten of those every day: men, women and children. Phenîlas and his assistants in their white palladium armour made no exceptions. Age had nothing to do with it, though the dwarf could not understand the necessity for processing newborn infants.

  Rognor was aware these sorânïon contingents had turned up in all the dwarf kingdoms to test the elves waiting at the gates and they were carrying out their investigations in ways that were tantamount to torture.

  Several heavily burdened figures appeared out of the snowstorm, faces swathed in scarves. The icy winds would attack any exposed flesh and freeze it in the blink of an eye. The newcomers were accompanied by Phenîlas and his troops, all looking as exhausted as those they were escorting.

  The chancellor counted eleven immigrants waiting to come through the heavy iron grating when it was raised. The sorânïons would stay the night in the fortress as well. “Pull the grating up,” he called to the sentries on guard at the portcullis. The grating was raised to let the elves reach the shelter of the entrance.

  “The chancellor himself.” Phenîlas ordered his men to go to their quarters to rest. “To what do I owe the honour?”

  “I was wondering whether we should provide more coal for their stoves. In this weather the warmth is quickly lost.”

  “Another fourteen froze to death last night,” said the sorânïon captain. “And that was in spite of the heaters. The stoves were burning.” He looked at the sheltered inner courtyard.

  “I know what you’re thinking. But I can’t give permission. I have my orders.” Rognor knew more would survive if they were allowed to camp here on the inside of the first wall.

  Phenîlas watched as the portcullis was let down once more to meet the fixtures in the ground. “I’ve noticed a couple of extra sections you could wall off in the corridor. You could easily still guarantee Girdlegard’s security and keep the Black Mountains safe, as long as the inner gates are closed. There’s plenty of room.”

  Rognor nodded pensively. “But the opposite might happen. It might encourage the more impatient of the migrants to try to force their way through from the courtyard. Like the six we dealt with recently.” He lowered his voice. “Even if we said those ones were älfar, we should not underestimate the degree of desperation the others are under.”

  For this reason he had tripled the guard and issued orders that any elf attempting to come closer than twenty paces was to be shot. He had done this with express approval from Phenîlas.

  “They’d be more desperate outside in the camp than they would be if you let them in,” the elf put forward, but he did not want to start an argument. “You are in charge of the fort, of course. It’s up to you to decide.”

  Rognor signalled to the sentries guarding the inner gate to the mountain. The next passage was about to open for the elves who had undergone their painful trials. “I am not the commander here. I am his representative. And I shall keep to my orders.” And I’m certainly not about to take the risk of allowing älfar in disguise into our fortress. The only ones to be granted entry will be those who have been interrogated.

  The vast gate started to move after the sound of bolts shooting back. The construction was of such thick steel that no enemy would stand a chance of breaking it down with a battering ram, even if they had managed to break through the first line of defence. But heavy though the gate was, the special design of its mechanisms allowed it to swing open as smoothly as a knife would cut through butter.

  Phenîlas made a gesture to indicate that he had understood.

  “How many are waiting outside the gates?”

  “If I subtract the number of those that died last night, it’s around three thousand. Two of my people will be leaving for the source to refresh their magic powers. We can’t afford any delays. Not with numbers like that.” The elf was about to add something but as he was watching the group, he saw something that disturbed him. “Is that eleven, going through?”

  Rognor was quite clear on that. “Yes, eleven.”

  Drawing his sword, Phenîlas set off after them. “Tell them to wait. Don’t open it yet.”

  “One too many?”

  The elf nodded and called out in his own language to the figures passing through. “Someone has taken advantage of the storm and of how tired I am.”

  Rognor followed him but did not draw his sword. He considered this an internal matter for the sorânïon to sort out. But he did alert the sentries with a gesture.

  The gate-opening manoeuvre was interrupted.

  Phenîlas issued more commands and the elves turned towards him. Then one of them ran off towards the gate, which was only open a hand’s width. This seemed to give him hope he might get through to the passageway beyond.

  As if he could escape like that. “Stop! No further!” Rognor called. “The corridor is locked. You won’t get through.”

  Phenîlas looked distressed. “It’s not enough that we have discovered älfar in disguise. Now I shall be forced to put this miserable specimen to death.”

  “What for?”

  “I told them anyone who tried to get into the fortress on his own initiative would forfeit his claim to eternity.” He pointed his sword at the cloaked form. “No point making a threat and then not carrying out the penalty.”

  The dwarf said nothing. They’re not my people.

  They had reached the figure, who was gasping for breath at the narrow gap in the gate. On turning, it proved to be a female elf. She was distraught, knowing what fate awaited her. The sword Phenîlas bore would end her life.

  Rognor was astonished when she appealed to him for mercy. “Lord of the fortress, have pity!” she begged, sinking to her knees. Her voice carried well and everyone heard what she said. She must have been hoping to make it difficult for the sorânïon to carry out his threat. “I beg you, grant me asylum. Let me stay. Throw me in your dungeons or put me in chains, but don’t let me be killed!”

  “You have no right to apply to him for anything.” Phenîlas laid his blade on her shoulder and the lamplight reflected in its polished surface. “You have not been tested and you do not display Sitalia’s mark. Why risk your eternal life in this way?”

  “I would not have lived through another night in the cold.” She placed her hand on her belly. “I had to make the attempt. I am with child. The baby must not die, and I want it to be born in our new homeland.”

  “But now it will have to die.” Phenîlas gazed at her pityingly. “How could you have done this?”

  She’s carrying a child? Rognor placed his hand restrainingly on the sorânïon’s sword arm. “Why not subject her to the examination here on the spot?”

  “Because she has forfeited her rights. She was not one of those chosen in the draw.”

  “Nobody would know,” the dwarf responded. “And she would keep silent.”

  “Of course! I’ll tell no one,” she cried. “And I’ll call my child after you! To thank you for your mercy!”

  “But will the others keep silent? And what if your guard is down? You might blab. Or your child—one day he might ask why you chose that name for him.” Phenîlas raised his weapon ready to strike and put his other hand on the hilt of his dagger. “You can take comfort in the fact that you will both die in the same instant.”

  The elf-woman tried to avoid the sharpened blade but the sorânïon had expected this. Before Rognor could speak the words granting her asylum, the thin blade pierced her belly. She opened her mouth to scream but the dagger cut through her throat. She sank to the floor with a gurgling groan.

  Phenîlas grimaced. “What a senseless waste of two lives,” he said solemnly, wiping his sword on the dying woman’s cloak.

  He shouldered his weapon and turned around, going straight through the group of ten
who had already undergone the examination and received the mark. Nobody criticised him for his action.

  “Let the others through, Chancellor,” the sorânïon said as he passed. “I must get her back to the camp to make an example of her. It’s vital we deter any such attempts in future.”

  The portcullis was opened for Phenîlas and he strode out with her body into the snow and the storm to spread the word about disobedience and the penalty for it.

  Rognor stared at the pool of blood the dead woman had left behind. It had already frozen over. “Open the gate,” he called to the sentries.

  The mechanical noises started up once more and the heavy gate swung open for the elves, male and female alike, who struggled past the dwarf to get into the shelter of the passage.

  One of them halted by the chancellor and gave him a grateful look. “Accept my thanks for trying to stop the sorânïon doing his duty. She knew what she was doing. Neither you nor the sorânïon bear any guilt in her death.” The elf proceeded past. “It’s the älfar who are at fault. They’re to blame for all this. They are evil. Were it not for them, this would never have happened.”

  Rognor swallowed hard. If I had granted her permission to stay it would not have happened. He watched them go, then looked out through the portcullis. It’s not the älfar who are responsible for that double killing. It’s to be laid at the door of the sorânïon and of the one who gave him his orders.

  With a heavy heart and dragging steps he returned to his quarters in search of a hot spiced beer.

  He would never have believed that the elves would slay a pregnant woman merely because she had not respected the regulations. I wonder what else they’re capable of if they show no mercy to their own kind?

  Girdlegard

  United Kingdom of Gauragar-Idoslane

  Idoslane

  6492nd solar cycle, winter

  Tungdil was amazed, when he arrived at the source with the rest of the company, to see what Coïra had accomplished in his absence. There was an attractive half-timbered farm with two barns and a substantial main building in which presumably the maga herself resided. “Not bad at all.”