The Triumph of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  “No! He was one of yours,” she replied in surprise. “I didn’t know him. Otherwise I’d have sent him over to you. I’m quite alert enough to have noticed.”

  None of the other sorânïons said a word. It was one officer’s word against another’s. They were the leaders. And they could not abide each other.

  Rognor had the gate opened. “We found our älf. That’s what counts,” he said, trying to break the ice. “That ruse about the tell-tale traces round the eyelids worked really well. And all without using any violence at all.”

  “Thank you, Chancellor,” Ocâstia bowed her head in acknowledgement.

  “I still say he wasn’t one of the ones I interrogated,” Phenîlas repeated, sheathing his sword. “I would have known.” He dropped the shattered phial on to the body, turned on his heel and went back to the fortress.

  The other officers looked at each other meaningfully, then followed their commander.

  The new settlers passed through, moving more quickly than before, keen to leave the horror behind them; the cart wheels clattered as they left.

  Ocâstia stared at the älf corpse as it was lifted and carried away by the dwarves. The body would be flung into the ravine for the ravens to devour. The bones would bleach in the sun.

  “They knew each other,” she said, lost in thought. “And he was definitely not one of the ones I examined. I swear by all that is sacred to me as a sorânïan.”

  “But why would Phenîlas have a pact with a black-eyes? What would he have to gain from letting an älf through?” Rognor tried to work out a reason. He had a sudden idea. Could it have been intended as justification for continuing the harsh regime of interrogations?

  “It would mean he had discovered an älf and let him through on purpose.” Ocâstia’s visage darkened. “Calculated treachery in order to strengthen his own position here. In order to continue his cruel procedures with the next new arrivals,” she said, coming to the same conclusion as Rognor. She shook her head in disbelief. “No. It’s not possible. There must be another reason.”

  Like what? “Let’s not overthink it. Let’s just be glad we unmasked a black-eyes.” The two of them walked back together through the passageways, past the bloodstains on the floor.

  The chancellor still nursed a silent hope that Phenîlas would swiftly be recalled. We have to get rid of this tent city. He wanted nothing more to do with it. And with Phenîlas still less. Before something terrible happens.

  Girdlegard knew nothing of what its hero was doing.

  That he was hunting down his own kind as the Thirdlings had once done in Girdlegard.

  For there were dwarves in Phondrasôn, those lost when excavating mines in the depths or those dragged out of their tunnels by beasts.

  The Triplets’ potion influenced the hero’s mind and he felt invincible—a creature born to rule over others.

  But as soon as he saw a dwarf he turned into a veritable monster and did all he could to kill or capture him. And he did terrible things to those he took prisoner.

  Whether there are still dwarves down in Phondrasôn?

  He did not know.

  Secret notes for

  The Writings of Truth

  written under duress by Carmondai

  XXIII

  Somewhere in the Outer Lands

  Tungdil gradually regained consciousness to find himself in darkness. But he was neither chained nor tied up. Wherever he was, it seemed the acronta had not found him.

  Vraccas, I owe you some prayers. Tungdil got to his feet and felt around.

  The walls of the narrow vertical shaft he was in were of roughly hewn sandstone; no care had been taken in their construction. Rubble and fallen stones crunched under his boots. It was a wonder he wasn’t hurt when he fell.

  “Beligata?” he whispered, hoping against hope that she would answer. Nothing.

  He encountered symbols in several places on the walls but apparently further excavations had been abandoned.

  It’s a dead end. With caution, Tungdil started to climb, hoping to escape from his hiding-place. It was only a question of time before his pursuers looked for him here.

  His strong fingers grasped the walls and he pushed his feet into the smallest of cracks. He continued his ascent in this manner until finally catching sight of light above his head; he levered himself onto a narrow ledge.

  During the course of his escape, he must have found a passageway abandoned by the acronta because it led nowhere. He snaked his way cautiously to the next corner. Not twenty paces in front of him there was a corridor that had been properly shored up and was illuminated by the familiar ceiling-hung fire dishes.

  The flames gave only a dim light, showing the bare sandstone walls where further symbols were visible. It seemed the constructors had marked places for subsequent planned excavations, but there was no attempt at decoration of any kind. Sandstone. That means we are in the Grey Mountains. Tungdil got up and made his way stealthily to the opening, peering round the corner. No one. They must all be searching elsewhere. He probed around, listened and sniffed the air, hoping for some clue.

  He could not remember taking this route. The gas had wiped him out. He must have found his way here like some drunkard. He grinned. It didn’t matter. He had managed to give the acronta the slip. Tungdil kissed the ring Balyndis had given him.

  The air in the corridor was cool and clear and there was no sign of any rubble or refuse. Walls and ceiling were timber-lined and the floor was soft sand, making progress pleasant and silent. Occasionally he heard distant roars but not one of the acronta was to be seen.

  He returned his thoughts to Beligata and Hargorin. It was not right that they had had to die. With no chance to defend themselves.

  The passages were slightly curved. Did acronta not like straight lines? The huge doorways to the right and to the left were oval and always firmly locked. The dwarf had no tools with which he might have broken them open so he had to keep walking. He had been hungry and thirsty for some time now.

  At long last he came to an entrance that stood open; he could hear familiar acronta sounds coming from inside. Tungdil decided to dare it.

  He peered round the corner—and was astonished to find something he would never have guessed. The acronta had a library!

  The room he came across was a series of little cells like a beehive. He found himself on the topmost gallery of a hall that was eight storeys high: thirty paces in all. Each gallery was full of shelves and glass-fronted cabinets. Rolls of paper, parchments, books and large volumes were stacked everywhere; symbols and marks on the storage units denoted, he thought, the various categories of subject matter.

  The acronta had taken more trouble here than they had in their tunnels. The painted shelves were ornate, with decorative inlay work. The floor was of black and white tiles and there were desks at which armoured acronta could be seen writing. It presented a strange contrast. They had light from glass-shaded lamps and mirrors on the sides of the galleries. Diagonally below Tungdil stood two of the warrior creatures studying a document together. They seemed to be discussing its contents in heated tones, but in an unintelligible language.

  It all reminded Tungdil of the time in his youth he had spent with Lot-Ionan, but the archives the acronta had were immeasurably greater in size. I must find out what they have stored here.

  It might be records taken from races they had subjugated or it could be their own writings. The challenge was to get to grips as soon as possible with the language these giants used.

  One of the two nearest acronta suddenly looked up and spotted the dwarf. He gave a roar and the second one rolled up the parchment and ran to the stairs.

  Curses! Tungdil backed into the corridor and started running.

  He had ruined his chances of grabbing one of the library volumes, even if his warrior soul was furious with him for having wasted time and effort here. His priority must be to locate and liberate his friends and then to escape from this mountain. Or whatever this is.


  He raced along, up slopes and down steps. His made a note of the different kinds of timbers used to line the walls; he hoped to have the opportunity at some time in the future to find his way back to the fascinating library. He could hear his pursuers’ heavy steps. They would not give up easily. How can I escape?

  The smell that met his nostrils was familiar: fire, hot iron, steam, soot. There must be a forge in the immediate vicinity. He turned towards where the smell was most intense and found himself in a searingly hot workshop that would have done any dwarf tribe proud.

  Iron ore was being processed in cauldrons and molten iron ran through channels in the sandy floor into moulds; in other places huge rolls as big as mill wheels were pressing metal flat; acronta were standing at anvils forming weapons and armour with hefty hammer blows. They were not wearing metal coats themselves because of the overwhelming heat.

  Tungdil could see their human-like bony skulls with broad jaws and a row of needle-sharp protruding teeth; instead of a nose they had three breathing holes. The skin stretched over their muscular bodies was pale, with veins standing out in bright yellow. Light from the furnace flames played on their bodies as if on a canvas screen.

  The forges had braziers as big as a tabletop, with flames licking round the side of the basic lumps of metal, bellows fanning to increase the heat; sparks flew up to the ceiling and water in buckets and pails hissed and bubbled when the hot metal was plunged to cool it.

  Tungdil did a hasty calculation and came up with altogether about one hundred leather-aproned acronta working in the forge, intent on their tasks and with no eye for the silent observer. If their attention slipped for a moment, it would result in faulty workmanship—a blade with imperfections or pieces of armour with defects. And we thought there were only a few of these creatures.

  Nearby there were tables where engravers were hard at work, chiselling or etching the metal. The master craftsmen sat in rows decorating suits of armour with ornate lines and inlays. Others were fabricating hinge joints, springs, pins, hooks and other tiny parts that would ensure a warrior’s suit of armour showed no gaps and was flexible enough to allow the optimum range of movement in combat.

  Vraccas, I thank you for letting me see this. Hearing his pursuers hard behind him, Tungdil gave a last look around the forge. He knew it would need a ventilation shaft to take away the exhaust fumes and steam and extreme heat. That would be my quickest escape route.

  Instead of one big chimney, he noted several metal-lined shafts in the roof. They would be just wide enough to admit him. Excellent! They won’t be able to follow me up there.

  He hurried along the wall, keeping behind forges, stacks of coal and huge bellows for cover and thence to a chain he could climb. Clouds of water vapour meant he was temporarily shrouded from view.

  The chain he ascended led to a pulley on the ceiling. It was an arm’s length away from one of the ventilation shafts. With consummate skill and strength, he managed to launch himself off and catch hold of the edge of the copper hood. Hanging there, he blinked while the smoke and fumes attacked his eyes and airways, and tried to make out what kind of shaft this was.

  The interior was smooth, offering no purchase for fingers or shoes. He would have to work his way up by pressing his shoulders and feet against the walls. It would take an enormous amount of effort to climb. Several acronta were gathering below. His presence had been discovered. Now the guards who had been pursuing him joined them, realising his intentions.

  They fetched spears with tips red-hot from the smithy.

  Out of here! And fast! Tungdil swung himself into the ventilation duct and squirmed upwards, his shoulders and feet pressed against the walls. He must avoid at all costs falling on to the floor of the forge. He had underestimated the temperature of the walls. He would have to move quickly before the heat got through the thin-lined garment he was wearing. And he must not make the mistake of pressing the back of his neck against the sides.

  The red-hot tip of the first spear came sailing past. It threw light on the inside of the duct before it lost momentum and started to clatter back down. Even though the tip was now pointing away from him, it would be painful when it hit. Then it surprisingly got stuck half way.

  So there’s a shaft that goes off to the side! Good news! Panting, he forced his way up the smooth walls, coughing and retching from the fumes. Two more spears came at him and both just missed, getting tangled up with the first one on their descent, forming a wooden framework he would soon be able to hang on to.

  The hot copper had burned his skin in several places already and blisters were starting to form on his hands and his neck.

  The volume of smoke suddenly increased, making it impossible to breathe. The acronta were planning to smoke him out.

  With his last ounce of strength and senses reeling, he grabbed the first spear and pulled himself up. Just as the wood broke under his weight, he got hold of the second one and heaved himself around into the side passage, dragging himself along on his stomach.

  Fighting for breath, he rolled over on to his back and gasped for air. Breathe! Breathe!

  And now, get on! he urged himself. They know where I am and they’ll think of something to bring me down.

  It was more than just his own life at stake. The whole of Girdlegard was counting on him, as were his friends. He kissed the ring once more. And it’s about her. The talisman seemed to be working.

  With this in mind he pushed himself up, took hold of two of the spears and wrenched off one tip, now cooled, to use as a short sword if need be. He concealed it in his clothing. Grasping the other spear he stumbled off, still finding it difficult to breathe. Tungdil knew he could not rest despite pain from the burn blisters and the retching and coughing—if he stayed he would suffocate.

  He jumped over smoking outlets and after what seemed an eternity, he reached a narrow passageway the acronta had constructed for extra ventilation. Fresh air entered the shaft from here, causing a draught.

  He soon realised he was in a complex system of air ducts similar to those the dwarves would engineer to ensure access to fresh air in deep mines and remote galleries. He could walk erect but an acront would be forced to crawl along. An excellent development.

  Tungdil listened out and made markings at various junctions. He looked down into rooms and corridors, and again, scribbled marks on the walls.

  Occasionally he came across a grating placed vertically in the air ducts as defence against vermin or monsters, but he was able to use his spear to lever them out. The sandstone offered little resistance.

  His thirst and hunger became intolerable. When he spied a room from which the smell of food rose up, he could not resist removing the grating and letting himself down, although he was half-expecting a trap.

  He landed, spear in hand, in a room that had the air of a kitchen. He knew nothing of the acronta eating habits away from the field of battle but he found loaves of bread as big as wagon wheels, sausage, cheese and tubs of salted meat. This must be the stores for their prisoners. He could not imagine the acronta on a diet of cheese on toast. From what he remembered about Djeru˚n, the maga’s bodyguard used to devour defeated monsters raw.

  He did not waste any time before cutting himself a hunk of bread with his spear. It tasted rough and slightly acidic but was definitely edible. He swallowed it down and helped himself to the other foodstuffs. Except for the salted meat. Not knowing its provenance, he preferred to leave that out.

  Just as he was in the middle of chewing his meal, he heard a quiet rumble behind him.

  Before he could act he was thumped on the back and thrust onto the floor. He felt a foot holding him down on boards that had been laid on soft sand. Nearly choking from the lump of bread in his mouth, he managed to spit it out. He had lost his spear and now he was pinned down under the boot of an acront who had crept up on him silently. “I surrender,” he cried, in dwarf language at first and then in the common language of all Girdlegard people. He did not doubt it
would be understood.

  A gauntleted hand came in view, wrenching the floorboards aside to reveal the sand. The acront growled reassuringly and the steel-clad finger formed dwarf runes: “You are the one they call Tungdil Goldhand. I can see by the mark on your hand.”

  “That is so,” the dwarf replied, but he could not move under the foot pressing him down. Any more pressure and his spine would crack.

  “I have heard tell of you but I thought you’d gone to the Black Abyss. And that you had died there, with the axe Keenfire in your breast,” the acronta wrote in the sand.

  “Oh, it’s a long story.”

  The gauntleted hand wiped the runes away and formed new ones. “You don’t have much time. Convince me.”

  Tungdil told him as much as he could in the circumstances, trying to keep the narration lively. “And what you see before you is the real Tungdil.”

  “Your arrival is unexpected,” was the next message. “My young Acïjn Rhârk picked you up because they did not know what to do with you. An älf and a handful of dwarves. It seemed too odd an occurrence, so they didn’t want to kill you all and march on.”

  “They did well.”

  “We don’t know that yet.” The acronta gave a low growl.

  “We are allies. I fought once with one of your kind. His name was Djeru˚n, and I campaigned with the ruler of Letèfora to keep out evil,” he recounted. “A very large acront. He had wings.” Tungdil presumed the acront who had caught him eating was not just any old warrior but someone of status. “It would have been a crime to cause harm to me and my companions.”

  “I have had your friends given nursing treatment; even the half-dead one, if that’s any relief for you to know,” the steel finger wrote in the sand. “They stand every chance of recovering from their wounds and will serve to increase our young warriors’ knowledge.”

  “So it was really a test, when Hargorin and Beligata were made to fight?”