by Markus Heitz
Except for Phenîlas. But this thought pleased Rognor more than it troubled him. Phenîlas had met his match there.
Take red wine
and simmer with honey, cinnamon and cloves,
aniseed and citrus fruits
until the mixture starts to thicken.
Stir in some clear brandy
and place in a tankard,
then top it up with strong black bitter beer.
Recipe for dwarf spiced beer (serve cold)
XXII
Somewhere in the Outer Lands
The cage door had hardly opened over Beligata before she sprang out, picked up the key and unlocked the cuffs on her wrists and ankles. Then she picked up the iron staff. “You’ll suffer just like my friend has suffered! Don’t trust your armour to protect you.”
The acront pointed at her with his sword to indicate he accepted the challenge. He did not move otherwise; it seemed he wanted her to have the first strike.
Tungdil looked up at the box where the judges were sitting. “Gosalyn, keep your eye on the acront and watch how he fights. Whatever he can do, we can match.”
“Did she just refer to Deathbringer as her friend?” Carmondai mimed applause. “We will learn from this. Beligata will be paying the same price as Hargorin here.”
“He needs help!” Gosalyn found it difficult to tear her eyes away from the Thirdling king; a pool of blood was collecting round his head. From time to time one of his limbs would jerk but it was not a conscious movement.
“Observe the combat,” Tungdil repeated, still looking up at the box. Notes were being taken.
Beligata feigned a strike against the hip, making the acront parry the blow he expected from the iron baton, whereas she had turned and changed her attack. The pointed tip pierced the acront’s instep, taking him completely by surprise.
Beligata pulled her weapon out and jumped back behind the metal cover to avoid a counter attack and look for her next opportunity. The acront gave a roar and looked at the hole in his armoured boot, seeing the bright yellow fluid seeping out.
Carmondai was following the combat more acutely than Gosalyn, who was dividing her attention between Hargorin and what was happening. “I wonder how the ashont will respond.”
Tungdil noticed that the fight was being discussed up in the box, and there was furious scribbling. They had not been expecting her to score a single hit.
The opponent hobbled over to Beligata, where in her linen shift she was dodging between the cage and her adversary. The half-hearted blows being launched at her got stuck in the grating of the metal cage. The acront pulled the blade out again each time.
Tungdil called out to get the attention of the people up in the box. Then he went back to watching the progress of the contest. Let’s learn about the enemy from watching how he fights. Sooner or later he might find himself confronting one of them.
Beligata suddenly jumped out from behind the open cage and launched a blow with the spear-length staff against the acront. He fended it off and stabbed at her in his turn, but the bars of the cage stopped his blade. Beligata used the opportunity to force her sharp end through the acront’s armour and then to withdraw it again sharply.
The adversary roared louder than ever and stumbled. Beligata darted round the acront and ducked under a sword swipe that might have sliced her in two. She stabbed through the calf of the acront’s injured leg and then punched another hole in his armour.
With a growl the acront swung round but the dwarf-woman kept behind him and ventured another blow, this time attacking the heel of his left leg. There was the sound of a whip cracking when the tendon snapped and the acront slumped down. He turned and kept his dogged opponent at a distance by waving his sword.
“You’ve nearly got him!” Gosalyn yelled excitedly. “Kill him!”
“Don’t kill him!” Tungdil commanded. “We’ve got to show we’re different from the beasts they usually deploy.”
“No way is this a trained ashont.” This was Carmondai’s considered opinion of events. “The movements he’s using are uncoordinated. He’s not accustomed to wearing armour and he’s got no tricks up his sleeve. He stands no chance against Beligata.”
“She’s very good.”
The älf laughed out loud. “An ashont defeated several of our warriors. Nothing against the dwarf-woman, but if this had been an experienced fighter she’d have been finished off twice over.”
“Is that true?” Tungdil had an inkling what was going to happen next in the arena; he had gone through something similar in the past.
“I’d need to know more about the ashont as such, but if I put together everything I can see, this must be a very young Walking Tower. They must want to know if he has potential in the field. They’re keen to see if he’d be any use against monsters.” Carmondai nodded up towards the box. “This contest is less about how we fight; they want to see how this guy shapes up.”
Using her staff, Beligata took a run-up and vaulted feet first against the acront, hitting him from the side before he could strike her.
Together they fell in a heap, but the dwarf-woman was uppermost, swinging her weapon around and slamming the tip between the acront’s helmet and armour. “Look: can be done without a fruit knife!” she shouted up to Tungdil, her voice exuberant.
“Indeed it can,” he confirmed.
The acront felt the metal against his throat and did not struggle, emitting only a roar that was echoed from the box above them.
She remained where she was, atop the giant, not letting the iron staff budge a jot. She waited nervously. “What should I do now?”
Her adversary’s left arm shot up, and, before Beligata could pull her weapon away, the acront had grabbed it and plunged it into his own throat. Glowing yellow blood flowed right and left to soak the sand on the arena floor.
“By Lorimbur!” Beligata hopped down. “What was that in aid of?”
“They gave him an order from the box.” Carmondai pushed himself away from the bars of the cage and sat down on the floor. “He had demonstrated lack of competence. He failed as a warrior and they can’t tolerate weakness.”
“Get back in the cage!” Tungdil called out to Beligata. “We’ll show them that we have understood what they wanted.”
He expected a loud protest on her part, but Beligata stepped back into her cell.
The mirrors travelled to their original positions, leaving the dwarves in darkness.
Tungdil’s eyes needed a little time to adjust but then he saw that an acront had entered the hall to lock the lid of Beligata’s cage.
The hook came down from the roof, grabbed the cage and brought her back to the niche. Above them the scribes were getting up to leave their observation box. Meanwhile a soldier thrust one hand under the breastplate of the corpse and dragged the victim out.
Only when the gate closed behind the last acront did the other prisoners set to yelling defiance and jubilation. The beasts celebrated Beligata’s victory: she had humiliated one of the enemy and driven it to take its own life.
“I don’t suppose that happens often,” Carmondai commented, holding his hands over his ears. “Appalling noise.”
“We don’t seem to be at risk of vengeance.” Tungdil looked to see how Hargorin was doing. He was no better. “How can we help him?”
Beligata pulled at the cage bars and managed to bend several sections. “There was more than one reason for using the cell as cover,” she announced, forcing the bars apart wide enough to slip through. “The acront’s sword was a tremendous help, even if it didn’t help him much.”
She hurried over to where Tungdil was and examined the mechanism. She looked around for some kind of tool. “I can only break the lock with a sharp blow on the pin, but …”
“What about Hargorin’s leg?” Gosalyn suggested. “That could work. Or the little knife he keeps in it.”
Beligata scurried over to Hargorin’s cell and put her arm through the bars but was unable to reach the me
tal limb.
The dark-haired dwarf-woman stripped off her linen shift and tossed it through the bars to fall like a net over the artificial leg. At the fourth attempt she was successful: the fabric caught on the metal. She dragged Hargorin by the limb over to the bars until his leg was close enough to unfasten.
Smart work. Tungdil and Gosalyn kept lookout, but the noise the beasts were making had not yet brought sentries in. All the better.
After Beligata had pulled the garment back out and dressed again, she yanked the leg through the bars. She extracted the knife from the cavity and put it on the ground. “Too delicate. I’ll try something else.” She went back to Tungdil’s cage and inserted the thinnest section of the metal leg in the cage door. Then she lay down, took aim and kicked hard, attempting to sever the latch.
Tungdil noticed the beasts had calmed down. They had gathered what was happening. More and more eyes were focused on the dwarves. Will they betray us now?
“I wonder if they’ll let us get away?” Carmondai was also on his feet. “And where do we go? The ashont will be onto us immediately.”
“We’ll stand no chance of succeeding if we stay here.” Tungdil saw Beligata try a second kick.
With a click the catch opened and the spring caused the lid to lift.
Noise broke out again: loud shouts, insistent voices. Words were not needed. It was clear the inmates were demanding their own release. The guards were sure to notice the change in tone.
“Shut up, the lot of you,” Beligata shouted furiously, but her voice was swamped by their cries.
“Quick! Hargorin first,” Tungdil ordered, getting out of his prison.
Together they knelt by the cage of the badly injured dwarf and Tungdil tried to open the cage using the same method to activate the catch.
“Look out,” murmured Carmondai. “On your left.”
A door was opening on one side of the corridor and the silhouette of an acront became visible. As soon as he appeared the volume of noise increased and the beasts started throwing pebbles to alert the guard. They wanted to bring attention to what the captive dwarves were doing, just as Carmondai had feared.
They resent our break for freedom. Tungdil’s first kick failed. It was not enough to budge the catch. Tion take them all!
The guard roared out when he saw them and started to run in their direction.
“Get away now!” Gosalyn urged. “Make good your escape and save the mission!”
“Come back and rescue us,” Carmondai insisted. “Don’t forget: you’ll be needing me if you are going to survive in the Outer Lands.”
“As if you’ve been any help so far,” Beligata grunted.
Tungdil gave another kick and the lid lifted. But the acront had almost reached them. If they tried to carry the unconscious form of Hargorin they would never get away. “Run! Now!” He jumped up and sprinted along the balcony rail.
“Wretched beasts,” Beligata cursed, hurrying after him. “I’d like to split their stupid skulls for them.”
“We’ll come back for you,” Tungdil yelled to the abandoned älf and the dwarf-woman.
Because the door would not open, Tungdil and Beligata jumped down from cage roof to cage roof aiming for the dimly lit arena floor, toward the light coming through an opening on the right-hand side.
Better a slim hope than none at all. Tungdil was the first to reach the arena. He spied out through the doorway. “No one in sight,” he called to Beligata, then he glanced up to the balustrade.
Up there the acront was like a monumental statue. Purple light streamed out of his visor and in his right arm he held the seemingly lifeless form of Hargorin Deathbringer as if it were no more than a large doll. Tungdil could see tubing that led over the acront’s shoulders into his helmet near the mouthpiece.
What is that contraption? Dwarves at work among toxic gases in the mines used breathing devices made of leather sacks or animals bladders. Is that what that is?
There was an audible hissing.
Suddenly the cries of the beasts ebbed away. Beginning at the topmost rows the captives started to slump down in their cages. One level after another was silenced in this way. Gosalyn and Carmondai passed out.
“Get out!” Tungdil yelled to Beligata, already feeling light-headed. Some vapour heavier than air and with no detectable smell was being fed into the chamber. It reminded him of the death pits in the mountains where the dwarves mined, where gas would collect. Any creature that strayed in would succumb. The acronta seem to be using a modified form of the death pit gas to keep their captives quiet.
The two of them had to cling to the wall for support, feeling their knees go weak. With iron will they made themselves carry on and leave the arena. They reached a high-ceilinged corridor with suspended lights in wide dishes. Whatever was burning caused neither soot nor smell.
“Which way?” Beligata asked quietly. Staggering, she was held up by Tungdil. “I … the gas …”
“Breathe deeply in and out. Expel it from your lungs like that,” he counselled, struggling to breathe just as he had on the highest peak of the Grey Mountains. “The further away we get, the better we’ll feel.”
He was surprised the acront had not overtaken them. Perhaps pursuing escapees was less important than supervising the captives and looking to Hargorin.
The two dwarves, vision blurring, stumbled on as best they could, taking side passages without any notion of where they might lead.
Keep going. Tungdil hardly recognised his surroundings. The sedative effects of the gas seemed to stick in his airways, or maybe they had already seeped into his bloodstream. The fire-dishes above their heads appeared like floating moons, and the corridor itself a never-ending ravine with no possibility of escape.
“Let’s keep going,” he encouraged, reaching behind him for Beligata’s hand. “We need somewhere to hide until we have recovered.”
But his fingers met empty air.
Tungdil turned round and leaned against the wall, exhausted. The dwarf-woman was slumped over a few paces back, hands on her thighs, retching.
In the same instant the acront appeared next to her, dragging Hargorin along. The outsized warrior still had the tubes attached to its helmet, but now it also had its sword drawn. Its intentions were deadly.
“Be with you soon,” she said faintly, not noticing their adversary. She vomited.
Vraccas! No! “Behind you!” Tungdil just managed to say but the long sword blade pierced her back from above, pinning her to the ground.
The dark-haired dwarf-woman’s body jerked and twitched and then was still. It was obvious that captives who tried to escape were not shown the mercy accorded to victorious combatants. A shadow crossed her face and her scar glowed and throbbed, only to fade and dim.
Oh Vraccas. What have I done to you that you must make me watch the good ones die? Tungdil had no strength left to shout in protest. He turned and tried to run away from the guard, knowing that the penalty for attempted escape, if he were caught, would be death.
His legs moved automatically but the movement caused him great pain. His lungs felt as small as a pea and he could not catch his breath. Tungdil forced himself not to give in, but to keep going, chopping and changing between identical-looking passages, stumbling through doors whose shape he could see only vaguely.
All of a sudden the ground gave way under his feet and he plummeted down.
As he fell he lost consciousness. It was thus a matter of indifference to him where he landed.
Girdlegard
Black Mountains
Kingdom of the Thirdling dwarves
Eastern Gate
6492nd/6493rd solar cycles, springtime
Rognor stood on the walkway watching as Ocâstia held out her hand to one of the tortured elves in the camp and made the sign of a blessing over his head. She smiled graciously as if she were a ruler, granting her subjects a boon.
The elf in front of her—who had received severe pain at Ocâstia’s hands in order
to prove that he was no älf—bowed his head in gratitude and moved over to join the group. Then the next small band marched up to the gate of the fortress to be admitted to the dwarf kingdom of the Thirdlings and thence through to Girdlegard. As they left they waved to Ocâstia.
“Quite a difference,” the blue-bearded dwarf murmured, enjoying the warm breeze with its hint of snow melt and new greenery. “They seem to love this sorânïan.”
Phenîlas, on the other hand, had become more brutal and rigid since Ocâstia’s arrival; he now tended to prolong the painful testing procedures. It had happened twice that examinees had died at his hands. They were then declared to have been älfar, in order to prevent any unrest in the camp. But the troop leader was still the object of grumblings and resentment, whereas the remaining sorânïons took Ocâstia’s side.
The watch should be kept at double strength. Rognor observed the procedures carefully. The left side of his face throbbed with the new tattoos decorating temple and forehead. He had asked for a rune showing him to be an admirer of Lorimbur. The feud with the four tribes might be at an end, but he was never going to betray his ancestors. With any luck the plain outside our gates will soon be empty.
Ocâstia’s methods were gentler, but still thorough, and she created a better rotation for the elves’ journeys to get magic for the stamps. In recent orbits the numbers being interrogated and processed in this way had been greater than expected. Phenîlas had complained that she was being too lax, but people liked her so there was little he could do.
From time to time desperate elves would make clandestine attempts to scale the walls, knowing that their families were already in Girdlegard, but both Thirdlings and the female sorânïan put a stop to such endeavours. Whereas Phenîlas would have declared these reckless elves black-eyes and executed them on the spot, Ocâstia preferred a different approach: she had an artist record their faces and had them sent back if they ever won a place by lot. In this way, they lost their chance to leave the tent city until the very end.