The Triumph of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  The remaining dwarves sat round in silence, leaning against their rucksacks. They had made the fire with petroleum and coal in the shelter of an overhang and they were holding bits of sausage to the flames to thaw them out and make them edible. Sucking fresh snow stilled their thirst.

  The mountains were hidden under thick cloud. The world around them consisted only of the colour white. We have many miles to travel still over ice and snow. Tungdil’s gaze switched from the älf’s hands down to Bloodthirster, which Carmondai was sitting on.

  “You’re wondering how to get it back, aren’t you?” Carmondai was amused. He took out his charcoal and notebook. “You’ll have to be quick. Beligata is wondering the same thing.”

  “I would hurl the weapon over into the ravine so it disappears for ever,” Tungdil admitted. “My hands will never wield Bloodthirster again. I have sworn an oath.”

  “Then I vow that I shall look after it extremely well.” He started sketching the group as they sat warming themselves at the fire. “It saved your lives, after all.”

  “I could have cut the rope with my axe,” said Gosalyn, objecting.

  “Of course, if you had actually hit it.” Carmondai was working swiftly, perhaps concerned his hands would get too cold to draw.

  “Which brings me to the question of why you didn’t warn us how dangerous this was,” Beligata reproached Gosalyn. “If we had guessed there was only the thinnest of ice to each side of the path we would have been more careful. The others could still be alive.”

  “There was nothing about it in Belogar’s description,” Gosalyn defended herself. “I just had very precise instructions where to place my feet. Nobody should have deviated from that path.”

  “Perhaps he intended for any enemies using his notes to fall to their deaths,” Tungdil suggested, not wanting his team arguing.

  The young Thirdling seemed to him to have a temper as fiery as Ireheart’s. The scar on her cheek the älf had alluded to and which he had previously noticed glowing green was now concealed under layers of scarf. But he had not forgotten it.

  Gosalyn felt the accusations were a slur on her honour. She fished out the notes. “Read for yourself, if you don’t trust me,” she demanded, thrusting the papers at Beligata. “I would never have wilfully put you all in danger.”

  The dark-haired dwarf-woman refused to look and concentrated on eating. She had nothing more to say on the matter. Gosalyn put the papers away and began to eat as well.

  With Beligata’s face more exposed now, Tungdil could see the shimmering green scar on the right-hand side. The edges of the wound had not healed. A drop of blood squeezed its way out and trickled down her face. She wiped it away with an oath and pressed her hand against the open sore.

  “If you were all wondering whether I’d be sticking with you,” said the älf, “let me put your minds at rest.”

  “You owe me your life, remember,” Hargorin growled.

  “And I’ve just saved yours, together with your friends here. I would say we were quits, wouldn’t you? Not to mention this is the second time I’ve saved you all, so if anything, the balance is tipped in my favour. But this is the kind of adventure I’ve been missing—the unpleasant events of recent cycles notwithstanding—and I’m very keen to know how it ends.”

  “Perhaps you will end before the mission does,” Beligata mocked.

  “I’m sure, if we help each other, I shall survive to see the task completed.” Carmondai put down his drawing instruments. “You’ll be needing my knowledge. More than you think.”

  Beligata snorted in scorn. Taking a handful of snow, she pressed it against her face to stop the bleeding. “A story-teller’s not going to be any use to us.”

  “But a very old one? With countless cycles of experience?” Tungdil interrupted. “Remember, he knew Sinthoras and Caphalor when they were in charge of the war against Girdlegard. He was there when our history happened.”

  “But in the Outer Lands we’re all on the same footing.” Gosalyn chucked another piece of coal on the fire to keep it going. It was not giving enough warmth to melt the snow on their coats.

  Tungdil looked at the älf and his disfigured features. “Tell us why the young girl wanted to kill you. Didn’t she accuse you of lusting after her blood and bones for your artwork?”

  Hargorin laughed grimly. “Not difficult to believe.”

  “She planned it impeccably.” Carmondai nodded. “All because I dared to resist her. I have since thought it through carefully and collated a number of facts about her. I have come to the conclusion she belongs to the sorcerers known as botoicans.”

  The dwarves raised their eyebrows. They had never heard the term before.

  Even Tungdil was unaware of it. “We don’t have them in Phondrasôn.”

  “Sinthoras and Caphalor came across them soon after the victory over Girdlegard. Caphalor told me many cycles later about the expedition the two of them had been on and how they came across these sorcerers, capable of influencing the minds of any creature … of nearly any creature, manipulating them so that they would do anything the botoicans wanted.”

  Hargorin speared another slice of sausage and held it to the flames. “So who is able to resist?”

  “It seems the Children of the Smith are less susceptible to their wiles.” Carmondai gave a friendly smile. “That would be due to their stubborn and pig-headed natures, I expect.”

  “Vraccas knew what he was doing when he created us.” Gosalyn sighed. “My dear good Belogar. You always knew it.”

  Tungdil studied the tale-weaver’s face. “Are your people immune in the same way?”

  Carmondai nodded. “I assume so—or rather, let’s say I hope so. Perhaps due to the magic power we’re born with.”

  “So why hasn’t she tried to take over, if she’s capable of subjugating the will of humans and elves?” Beligata chucked the red-stained snowball aside. The bleeding had stopped.

  “She has not yet grown into her full powers, I think.” The älf held his fingers very close to the fire. “She won’t have completed her training. She had to flee, running away from a rival family of botoicans, and there won’t have been time or opportunity to study. She told us her uncle died in that deserted village. She was very clever. She didn’t arouse any suspicions. With the elves and humans manipulated into appointing Rodario as emperor, she’s got everything her own way already.”

  “And she’ll be going from strength to strength.” Tungdil could see the problems this would give rise to. “She will drop her mask of sweetness at some stage but people will be past caring.”

  “We can’t just kill her.” Hargorin was still eating his simple fare and had grease dripping on his red beard. “Not now. She’s wary of us.”

  “And she knows she’s got no power over dwarves,” Carmondai added. “She’ll be hatching a scheme to attack you but she’ll get the others to implement it.” He opened and closed his fists. “Be on your guard.”

  “We already are.” It seemed strange to Tungdil to regard an älf as an ally. He won’t be above playing games with us. “Let’s find out first who is sending the ghaists.”

  “Can’t we make common cause with whoever that turns out to be?” Beligata suggested.

  “Against Sha’taï?” Hargorin looked at Tungdil. “A pact with a demon?”

  “Could go badly wrong,” Carmondai pointed out laconically. “We älfar could tell you a thing or two about that.”

  “Does the botoican influence end with the victim’s death?” Tungdil wanted to know.

  “As far as I know,” said Carmondai, picking up his drawing implements. “The concept of a pact is a dangerous one. The botoican trying to get at Sha’taï will be far more powerful than she is. The reports from the Stone Gateway impressed me. And I’ve seen epic battles in my time.”

  “Caution is needed, then.” Tungdil scratched his brown beard, brushing off the small lumps of ice that had formed. “If that sorcerer were to get through our defences, Girdleg
ard would fall.”

  “No pact, then.” Hargorin was calm. “A major evil to drive out a minor evil is a pretty silly way to proceed.”

  “Let’s take things slowly here. I wouldn’t want to dismiss the idea of an alliance.” Beligata was trying to win the others round. “Perhaps we’ll need the other botoican to help us get rid of the child and the elves, too.”

  “What’s it got to do with the elves?” Gosalyn shook her head. “We’re working with them.”

  “They do nothing but blather about some prophecy that you can interpret this way or that. That prophecy book is thick. There’ll be a lot of other stuff in there. Maybe it’s all just to cover an attack on the dwarf tribes as soon as things quieten down?” Beligata looked at Hargorin, expecting him to agree with her.

  “One step at a time is my advice,” said Gosalyn.

  “Like back there on the ice, you mean?” Beligata said nastily. “And then we wonder why the bad things happen to us?”

  Gosalyn jumped to her feet. “I’ve told you already …”

  “Quiet, the both of you,” Tungdil bellowed. The wildest thoughts were spinning round in his head. Nothing makes sense. Not yet. “We’re here to reconnoitre. We’re going to find out who’s been sending the messages. And after that we’ll make our decision.”

  Gosalyn sat down abruptly and Beligata kicked at the snow crossly. Carmondai finished his sketch and put it down. “Follow.”

  Hargorin frowned. “Tungdil doesn’t need your say-so, black-eyes.”

  The älf’s laugh was arrogant. “Follow.” He pointed his charcoal over their heads to the overhang.

  Tungdil turned to look.

  Almost imperceptible symbols were visible on the rock face.

  Hargorin got to his feet to examine the inscription, then he squatted down and felt around in the snow. “It’s been rubbed away. There’s fragments of stone here. Someone didn’t want the symbol to be seen.”

  “Perhaps it was an älf spy looking for a path thorough the Grey Mountains.” Carmondai looked at the fragments Hargorin had sticking to his glove. “It’s got paint on it. Only we can see it,” he said, indicating his black eyes.

  “The path the child used to get to Girdlegard had previously been used by älfar. But someone who recognised the paint has removed it,” Tungdil summed up. “I think we’re on Aiphatòn’s trail. It will be him that scratched it off.” Tungdil looked up at the clouds. “As soon as the mist clears we’re setting off.”

  “There’s a cave over there.” They had been travelling now for many orbits and the whole journey was, for Tungdil, merging into a single emotion. “We could camp here overnight. Looks like there’s a storm coming.”

  Gosalyn, walking ahead with the älf, raised her arm to signal she had understood, and turned west. Tungdil could not say how long they had been marching. Their journey had provided a never-ending succession of paths, ravines, steep slopes, snowfields, ice sheets, mountain passes, fantastic views and heavy white mist. All-pervading: bitter cold and utter exhaustion.

  After all the cycles in the caves of Phondrasôn, Tungdil was not used to an environment where the elements so conspired against one. Sunshine and wind were often of frightening intensity and the view past the peaks to the never-ending distance made his heart beat faster. There is no relief in sight.

  The älf came across other instances of rune paint being scratched off. During their frequent rests to regain stamina he would tell them about the group of ten who had been sent out by the Triplets to explore the deserted settlement and to kill the elves who were also headed in that direction. All in all it was starting to look as if one of that original group had managed to make his way over the Grey Range, evading all the deadly traps the mountains held in store. This proved an added incentive to the dwarves.

  Gosalyn, who lived with the Fifthlings, had more endurance than the rest and saw the exercise as a memorial to Belogar. But then they came to the end of her friend’s notes. This was as far as he had got. From that point on, they had to rely on the almost illegible runes and their own instincts.

  The group was about half a mile from the entrance to the cave, with the setting sun drenching the slopes in a red glow. The snow had turned to frozen blood, as if a battle of immense proportions had taken place. Or maybe the battle is up in the clouds and the rain drops down as blood. Tungdil had to keep reminding himself to use both eyes. This was his gift from the magic source. Will Coïra ever find out how to free herself from its power?

  Approaching now to within two hundred paces, Carmondai came to sudden halt and knelt down by Gosalyn’s side, eyes fixed on the cave entrance. “Over here!”

  “Well, well. We seem to have a new leader!” Beligata mocked.

  “No, just someone with better eyesight than you lot.” Carmondai pointed out the tracks where the snow had been trampled. “We don’t seem to be the only ones wanting to set up camp.”

  “Mountain goats?” was Hargorin’s theory. “They’ll have felt the thunderstorm coming on.” He turned to the southern sky where black clouds were threatening to extinguish the sunset. There was the occasional flash within the dark mass.

  “No. The tracks weren’t made by narrow hooves.” Carmondai sounded sincere. “But who else would be roaming around in these parts?”

  “Aiphatòn,” said Tungdil, wondering whether the älf would have left traces in the snow, given that he could not have taken off his armour. Carmondai did not seem to leave much in the way of tracks, himself. The extra weight of furs, cloak and armour made it impossible for the älfar trick of invisible footsteps to work, but his prints were noticeably fainter than those the dwarves made.

  “Or monsters,” Beligata contributed helpfully.

  “Or a ghaist,” Gosalyn added.

  “A nice selection of nasty surprises,” Hargorin said. The storm was piling in, and the first rumbles of thunder could be heard. “But we don’t have a choice. We won’t survive out in the open.”

  Tungdil nodded in agreement. “Let’s find out who we’ll have to share our shelter with.”

  The group stamped their way through the snow over to the hole in the rock. The wind was growing stronger and sending blasts of ice crystals into their faces as if trying to prevent them from reaching the shelter. The icy needles penetrated their face masks and stung their eyes. They had to hold their hands in front of them or to walk with their heads down.

  The sun went down and took with it its crimson colour, apart from the spot just in front of the cave. The red was at its deepest here and made long stripes in the snow.

  It’s real blood! It looked like a blood wave had run out of the cave, staining everything it touched. Hargorin uttered a curse and grabbed his axe with both hands. Carmondai drew his own weapon and Gosalyn was ready with her hand-axe. They split up, going to each side of the opening, trying to look inside.

  The darkness gave forth the reek of cold blood and ripped intestines. There must have been a terrible slaughter here, and recently at that.

  But where are the bodies? Tungdil could not see anything but blocks of stone. One of them had red prints on it that could have come from orcs and the ground was covered in a crusted sheet of blood that was partially frozen.

  He stepped gingerly into the cave. The walls were uneven and sported deep niches and recesses where enemies might be hiding. Carmondai and the other dwarves followed cautiously. The thin veneer of ice crackled under the soles of their boots.

  With great vigilance they stepped through the blood; they could taste it in the air they breathed. It left a hint of copper on the tongue.

  Suddenly Tungdil heard a noise. Something cracked. He signalled to the others to stop. From further on in the cave came the sounds of bones being snapped and raw flesh being ripped.

  The hunter enjoying the spoils. Tungdil expected to see a horde of orcs with their booty of mountain goats. These beasts would devour their prey cold. And anyway, there was no wood up here to provide fuel. He waved Beligata over, assumin
g she was the strongest of them. “Go and take a look. Tell me how many green-skins there are,” he whispered. “Note exactly where …”

  “I know what to do,” she said, slipping her rucksack off and disappearing silently round the corner.

  “Get ready, everyone,” he ordered. “Hargorin first, then Carmondai. Gosalyn and I will bring up the rear.”

  “Without a weapon?” Hargorin made to hand him a dagger.

  “I’ll come up with something.”

  The dwarf and the älf nodded, tensely.

  The snapping of bones continued, with the sound of more flesh being torn off and chewed. The echo made it impossible to guess how many were involved.

  A thunder-clap came from the mouth of the cave and a lightning flash illuminated the walls for a split heartbeat. The storm was at its height, with gusts of wind howling round the cave in a shrill whistle. This unlooked-for concert drowned out the sounds they made; their enemies would not notice danger approaching.

  If we hadn’t made it to the cave, that wind would have swept us off the mountain by now. Tungdil peered past Hargorin and Carmondai into the depths of the cave.

  The darkness did not permit a view of anything except for the vaulted tunnel into which Beligata had vanished. Her boots had left prints on the frozen surface of the blood-covered floor.

  How high is the cave? Tungdil looked up.

  At the same moment a shadow of imposing size dropped from the six-pace-high roof to land with a crash in front of Carmondai. It then unfolded to its full height.

  A flash of lightning illuminated the walls. The light fell on the figure, nearly three paces tall, in an artistically engraved and embossed set of armour. The helmet was closed and formed in the shape of a skull, with three horns sticking out of the forehead.

  “Dorón Ashont!” Carmondai shouted, moving back. “Get back! He …”

  A steel fist the size of a head zoomed out of the dark, hitting the tale-weaver full in the face, lifting him off his feet and sending him flying into the air to slam down onto the rock by the cave opening; Bloodthirster clattered down beside him.