The Triumph of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  The älf’s eyelids opened and he glared at the dwarves with his uncannily dark eyes. He quickly took in his situation and did not move.

  Hargorin waved the axe blade in front of the älf’s face. “You are going to do us a favour,” he said, speaking in the älfar tongue. “Use your strength to destroy the village. Except for this shed and the fortified building with the little tower. If even the faintest breeze tickles my red beard hairs in here, you die and no botoican or ghaist will bring you back. Understood?”

  The pale-skinned älf nodded. He opened his mouth slowly, dry lips splitting and issuing drops of dark red blood from the cracks.

  At first the dwarves heard nothing. Then there was a low groaning sound, perhaps the noise a dying man would make. Is that it?

  “Gosalyn, check what’s happening outside,” said Hargorin.

  She went over to the window and watched the sky. “The bushes on the slope are moving but not much. No hint of a storm. It’s all quiet. And …”

  As if from nowhere, great gusts screamed in through all the windows of the little hut, knocking the dwarves off their feet. Feathers, flower petals and specks of gold danced through the room. Splinters of glass and tiny blades of stone pelted the dwarves. The air smelled of rain and stone and fresh fruit and blossom and iron and soil.

  The raging winds played with the dwarves as if they were puppets made of straw. Hargorin was hurled against the door, forcing it off its hinges. He flew back and landed on the table at which the älf had recently been sitting. Cursed black-eyes. He staggered up, rubbing his neck, bewildered to see his own armour in shreds and scratches and cuts all over his limbs.

  He looked around the hut.

  The älf was standing in the middle. The dwarf girls were being spun round, in whirling clouds of blossom, feathers, straw, and gold fragments. The papers they had been looking at were cut to ribbons by the glass splinters. The relentless gusts kept coming, pushing great volumes of air into the building, sustaining the whirlwind and rattling at the walls. Any moment now Beligata and Gosalyn would be ground to powder by the wind and the shed would collapse. In the village, none of the beasts and humans were still working. The spectacle had grabbed everyone’s attention.

  The winds will keep coming as long as he keeps calling them. Hargorin lifted the axe. We should have killed him when we had the chance. Nothing else for it. Hargorin drew breath for a loud shout and bellowed for the acronta to attack. I’ll take the blame.

  The five huge figures appeared on top of the hill, roaring. They stormed down the hillside, weapons at the ready, heading for the terrified beasts in the village. Near-panic broke out. The villagers took hold of anything they could find in the way of weapons and prepared to face the invaders.

  The storm inside the hut dropped abruptly. Beligata and Gosalyn slumped to the floor with the shredded pages fluttering down to cover them. The pale älf stepped out of the doorway, eyes fixed on the acronta. He inhaled deeply in order to summon up the gusts anew.

  They can’t win. No one can win in a storm like that. Hargorin twirled the axe round his head and threw it at the Voice of the Wind. But the älf had noticed the movement and stopped mid-summons, ducking under the flying weapon. Drawing a knife from his belt he turned on the dwarf, opening his lips once more. A single groan sufficed and the gusts recommenced, protecting him.

  “Would you dare?” Hargorin took up another hand axe and made a challenging gesture.

  But the älf came no closer. He threw the knife and the wind carried it. The Thirdling king could not parry the strike—at the last moment the tip turned sharply in the wind. The dagger sank through his armour into his right breast. It felt as if the wind was pushing the iron blade further in to his flesh.

  In great pain, Hargorin grabbed hold of the hilt and stopped its progress. If I’m going down, I’ll take you with me! With a fiery rage, he brandished his axe.

  “Let’s have you!” he yelled. “I’ll cut you to ribbons!”

  The pale älf had other things in mind. He had a second dagger in his hand and just as he raised it to hurl, he froze in mid-movement.

  A broken chair leg was sticking out of his chest and blood streamed like water down his black leather armour. Despite sinking to his knees, he kept his black eyes fixed on Hargorin. He dropped the dagger.

  Gosalyn’s unsteady figure appeared at his shoulder, bleeding from a number of wounds. “You were right,” she gasped. “He is indeed the Voice of the Wind.” She looked about her for a weapon with which to finish off the dying älf.

  Distant noises announced that the acronta had clashed with and were defeating the first wave of beasts; the screams of the dying were heard.

  “Take my axe,” Hargorin said, trying to get up. “Over by the door.” The pale älf grasped the shattered chair leg and pulled it out of his body, causing a stream of blood to gush out. He drew in a lungful of air like someone about to suffocate and glared at Hargorin, black lines making wild patterns over his visage.

  “By Vraccas! Break his neck!” Hargorin shouted. “Break his neck before—”

  She placed her hands on each side of the älf’s head as he opened his lips for one last loud hate-filled shout.

  The wind answered him, raging on all sides.

  Tungdil swung Bloodthirster, which was still gripped by Carmondai. He directed it at the ghaist.

  But the blade, once the sword of an Inextinguishable, left only a long cut in the armour and the form beneath. Since the ghaist was not human, the stroke did not kill him. The ghaist sprang away, snorting furiously. The eye slits shimmered white as if a silver star were rising slowly through the mists.

  It’s the helmet I’ve got to aim for. That’s where the power is. Tungdil elbowed Carmondai in the face and tried to wrench the sword out of his grasp. Battle noise and the roars of the acronta came from outside. His friends must have decided to attack when he and Carmondai had not reappeared.

  A stab in his hip made him grunt with pain. Tungdil turned to see the tip of the rune spear sticking out, the symbols glowing green.

  “I can kill you, Tungdil Goldhand,” Aiphatòn threatened. “A single thought. A touch with my magic and you will burst open and be spattered all over the walls.”

  “That would be a shame,” said Irïanora, speaking on behalf of the ghaist. “I could experiment on him to see when dwarf resistance finally breaks. Let me do that at my leisure. Maybe I can wear him down.”

  Never. Tungdil put his hands round the spear shaft and yanked the blade free. Where he held it, the runes stopped flickering. I’d sooner kill myself.

  Aiphatòn opened his black eyes wide—but before he could cast a spell, a piercing death scream reverberated through the village.

  At the next moment a hurricane was unleashed.

  The storm hurled itself howling at the thick walls, demolishing them instantly. Windows shattered, sending shards of glass everywhere. Furniture was seized by the gusts and flung aside.

  The wind caught hold of Tungdil and lifted him off his feet. He shot past Aiphatòn as if he were a missile. He was swirled around with no idea where the wind was taking him, Carmondai, the ghaist or the others. The dwarf closed his eyes and protected his head between his arms against the force of the gale as he was blown hither and thither. He felt as if he were going up but he did not dare glance out from between his arms. This is what it must be like for a leaf in autumn.

  Bits of rubble hit him, covering him in painful cuts, and yet he was surprised to register, in all the destruction, the spring-like fragrance of fresh blossom. He could hear wood fracturing in the teeth of the wind and stone being ground on stone. Sparks crackled in the confusion eddying around him.

  As quickly as the hurricane had arrived, it died away.

  Tungdil plummeted to the ground. Before he could spread his arms to soften his fall he landed in a prickly bush, then somersaulted out of it onto wet grass. He turned over and over as he rolled to a halt, feeling pain everywhere.

  I am sti
ll alive, though. Tungdil lifted his head, still feeling giddy, to see where he had ended up.

  The storm had carried him up the hillside. The entire settlement had ceased to exist; all the buildings were smashed to pieces, as if some giant had arrived to clear the place and build it anew. Fires were smouldering where there had been forges; the glowing coals had been spread abroad by the wind.

  Monsters and humans lay motionless in all the destruction, many of them with broken limbs at strange angles. Bodies had been split open. Some cadavers were so deformed that it was impossible to guess what kind of creatures they might have been. Two acronta had been felled, their armour ripped open to disclose hideous gashes in their grey-skinned flesh, which oozed bright yellow blood.

  Tungdil assumed the death scream had come from the Voice of the Wind and that he had instigated the vicious storm. He could not see any sign of the älf with the glass-like hair and hoped that Hargorin, Beligata and Gosalyn had killed him. This power would be unstoppable.

  An attack of vertigo forced him to lie still in the tall, wet grass, though he was keen to jump up and search through the devastation for his friends.

  He saw the ghaist get to its feet in the ruins of a house as if nothing were amiss, before going over to rummage in the rubble.

  It would have been too much to ask. Tungdil’s lips narrowed in disappointment. Does this mean there is a living creature inside the ghaist? Or does it mean there isn’t?

  First the ghaist pulled the limp body of Aiphatòn out from under the pile of dust and stones. It slapped his face a few times to bring him round. Then the two of them dug with their hands in the rubble to bring Irïanora out. The älf laid her carefully over his shoulder.

  Is she alive as well? Inàste’s power is obviously stronger here in the Outer Lands than it is in Girdlegard. Tungdil did not move. He would be easy pickings in his present state and he was not going to give his enemies that victory.

  Meanwhile the three remaining Acronta began to come to their senses. Their armour was badly dented, some of it missing. However, their injuries did not seem serious.

  Tungdil caught sight of Hargorin’s flaming red beard on the field of devastation; Beligata and Gosalyn were lying nearby. Not one of the dwarves was moving. Vraccas, let them still be alive. You are surely as powerful as Inàste. There was no sign of Carmondai.

  The acronta did not want the älfar to escape. The long-running feud dictated they pursue them. And they were hungry by this time, too. The veterans drew their sword-length daggers and the three of them spread out.

  Aiphatòn shrunk back, either dismayed by the superior numbers or concerned for the safety of the motionless figure of the älf-woman he was carrying over his shoulder.

  The ghaist, on the other hand, did not waver. In his right hand he was holding a squashed head with glass-like hair, that of the Voice of the Wind. The ghaist’s glowing eye slits were fixed on the bloodied skull and Tungdil could hear its disappointed snorts. No matter how concerned he was about his companions, Tungdil could not help experiencing a sense of triumph at this sight. The Wind älf will no longer present any threat to the Stone Gateway.

  The ghaist tossed the head away and turned on the acronta. Dodging the first acront’s attack, it rolled through its legs, touching an open wound on the warrior’s grey-skinned calf where the armour had been torn off.

  The acront shuddered.

  No! So they are susceptible to the ghaist’s influence, too. Aghast, Tungdil slipped under the shelter of a bush.

  The veteran acront, now possessed by magic, turned round with a roar to attack his own kind, taking them completely by surprise.

  The ghaist seemed content at this and ran off, the acront’s yellow blood glistening on its hand. As it passed through the devastated village, beasts and humans got up to follow. Some collapsed back immediately due to the severity of their injuries, while others crawled along, dragging broken limbs. Aiphatòn followed as well, the lifeless form of Irïanora over his shoulder. He had located his spear and was holding it in his free hand.

  The ghaist and the älfar made off along the valley towards the south, with ever more figures stumbling along in its wake. If even the slightest spark of life remained, they would follow the call of the botoican. Perhaps a hundred craftsmen were left, of whom seventy would not be able to stand at an anvil.

  I should follow; it will lead me to its master. Tungdil was still feeling unsteady. That’s if it has a master. But we need to know, one way or another.

  With his head still whirling, he had only a vague idea of what was happening with the acronta. The armoured giants crossed his field of vision more than once. One of the veterans fell but the battle continued. The last two still standing were fighting each other in the ruins, using stones to bash each other with. Their struggles were so violent the ground shook.

  Tungdil could not say if one of the two was Tsatòn. It’s of no consequence. I must find my friends.

  He made his way down the incline, clambered over the rubble and heard the roars of the acronta grow fainter. They were fighting some distance away and presented no immediate danger.

  At last he got to where Hargorin lay.

  “Can you hear me?” Tungdil whispered, noting the dagger stuck in Hargorin’s armour. He pulled it out gently and saw the wound was not a deep one. But it needs immediate attention. “King of the Thirdlings, awake! Or Lorimbur’s fury will strike you.”

  “I serve Vraccas!” Hargorin’s eyes shot open and he saw Tungdil. “Is the älf dead?”

  “The Voice of the Wind? Yes. There’s his skull.” He pointed to where the head had landed. “Can you get up and give me a hand? We have to help the women.”

  Hargorin unbuckled his armour to examine his injury. The bleeding was slower now. He pressed his hand against the wound to stop the blood flow. “I’ll be all right,” he grunted, then he looked down at himself in horror. “By Vraccas!”

  “What is it?” Tungdil searched for a second wound.

  Hargorin lifted his stump. “I’ve lost my leg!” He grinned and Tungdil had to laugh with him. “But I can still cope if I hop. And we’ve already won a victory for Girdlegard.” He took his axe and used it as a crutch.

  “Indeed we have.” But we’ll be needing a whole host of other victories soon, I fear.

  The climbed over to where Beligata and Gosalyn were lying half-buried and together they shifted the stones and beams and rubble. There was no sign of the last acronta. They had probably killed each other by now.

  Whenever a human or a beast dug their way out, Hargorin or Tungdil would kill them with a stab to the heart to make sure they did not follow the ghaist. Even death comes as relief. Tungdil surveyed the corpses. This was no time to feel pity. There was no hope for any of these brainwashed victims unless the botoican were run to ground and eradicated.

  At last they succeeded in freeing the two unconscious dwarf women. Tungdil examined them carefully for injuries. Gosalyn had a fractured arm, but apart from that and some scratches, the two of them seemed to have got off lightly. Beligata’s scar had increased in size and the black ink made little rivers like veins.

  “That old dwarf-saying is true.” Hargorin was relieved. “The smaller you are, the harder you fall.”

  “We need somewhere to rest. We can’t stay here in the village, with these fires smouldering and spreading fast. Let’s get back to the wood.” Tungdil thought about how best to transport the two women while they were still unconscious. We can cobble something together out of a few broken carts.

  A large shadow fell on them.

  “Get down!” Hargorin barely had time to knock Tungdil to the ground before a wooden beam swung over his head.

  An acront rose up next to them, purple light flooding out of the eye-slits in his visor. Before the dwarves could take evasive action, Tsatòn flung himself against the hostile acront, hurling him to the ground and shattering his helmet and the skull within with a mighty blow from his fist.

  A dagger in
Tsatòn’s back had gone in up to the hilt. His unusually coloured light yellow blood was already streaming down from the wound.

  Tungdil got up and hurried over to the wounded veteran, who had buried his adversary under his own bulk. The dwarf knelt down. “Accept my heartfelt thanks,” he said. “You saved our lives.” He looked at the deep cut. “What can we do?”

  The veteran acront was dying. His gauntleted finger wrote a last message in the dirt. “Preserve the Acïjn Rhârk. You must …” The writing ended.

  “I shall do,” Tungdil replied, getting up. “I promise I shall.” He pulled out the fatal knife and took it with him. The steel was of an extraordinarily high quality. Perhaps something suitable for a dwarf’s hands could be formed from it.

  “Let’s see if we can locate the other acronta. We need good weapons.” Tungdil indicated the dwarf-women. “Maybe they’ll have woken up by the time we get back.”

  Hargorin glared at his stump. “I’d rather have a leg than a new weapon. I’m no rabbit hopping through the grass. And it’s a waste of a good axe, using it as a crutch.” He searched in the rubble for a viable piece of wood. “Let me put something together here. You go and collect up the acronta knives.”

  “Watch yourself, then,” Tungdil stepped round Tsatòn and went to locate the acronta; they at least would be easy to see because of their stature. He collected quite a few daggers while listening out for any sign of danger. It seemed that Vraccas was looking after them now.

  While he was there, he scratched messages on the acronta armour in their own script. The emperor-mother would be sending out search parties as soon as she realised her warriors were missing. The bodies would be found. His message would warn them about the botoican’s power. Perhaps they’ll finally join us in our struggle.

  When he came back, he saw the Thirdling king had managed to carve himself a provisional limb that he could fasten to his knee with strips of leather. “I never thought Lorimbur was much of a carpenter.”