The Triumph of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  Hargorin grinned. “You’re right. He wasn’t.” He demonstrated the crude substitute prosthesis. “Otherwise I’d have added a couple of nice swirls and a picture of a tankard. But it should serve.”

  Tungdil put down the knives, which were lighter than he had expected. “Let’s see to Gosalyn’s broken arm. We can re-set it and get a splint on her while she’s out cold.”

  While they were dealing with Gosalyn, Beligata came around, followed closely by their patient.

  Tungdil gave them a potted summary of events and distributed the sword-length daggers. “We can turn them into more suitable weapons when we’ve got somewhere safe to work.” He led his group up towards the copse at the brow of the hill.

  “What about Carmondai?” Gosalyn shook the dirt out of her peat-coloured hair and stared at the devastation.

  “He didn’t get up when the other followers did,” Tungdil said. “I assume he’s dead. Neither Hargorin nor I have seen him.”

  “I never trusted him.” Beligata swung the dagger and tested its edge. “He would have betrayed us sooner or later.”

  Tungdil saved himself the trouble of a reply. She’s probably right.

  They set off, leaving the ruined settlement behind them. Climbing the hill, they made for the little grove of trees and made themselves comfortable near a pile of rocks. They lit a fire.

  Gosalyn explained what she had found in Nodûcor’s papers: details of ore deposits, requirements for coal, slaves, workers, provisions. There were exact specifications for parts to be made for a planned, larger construction.

  Tungdil considered the implications. Everything hinted at the ghaist’s master mustering a third army for a new onslaught on the dwarves’ homeland. And this time, the botoican was not relying on sheer numbers of soldiers bent to his will. With Aiphatòn at his side, his chances of success would increase.

  Gosalyn tried to move her broken arm, with a sharp intake of breath at the discomfort. “I looked at their calculations and worked out the numbers he was catering for. I reckoned a fighting force of five hundred thousand including slaves.”

  Quite a challenge. Tungdil could see his friends were yawning. He was tired as well, despite the shocking developments. “We’ll discuss it tomorrow and decide what to do. Let’s eat now and then we need to get some rest.”

  Beligata, Hargorin and Gosalyn nodded in agreement. They took a few mouthfuls of the food they had brought and then, one by one, they fell asleep. Apart from Tungdil. He kept watch and attempted to sort out his thoughts, twisting the vraccasium ring on his little finger.

  He wondered about the botoican’s power. Neither the älf nor the acronta had been able to resist its force. Only the Children of the Smith were immune because of their stubborn natures. But will our immunity persist?

  The sorcerer might ramp up his magic power. In that case, no further attack would be necessary. It would suffice for the botoican (or his ghaist henchman), merely to touch one of the dwarves in the defenders’ ranks. That unhappy dwarf would then turn on his own kind like the acronta had done.

  Tungdil cast his thoughts to Balyndis: she would be in grave danger, along with all her Fifthlings. Nothing must happen to her. He kissed the ring. I promise I shall keep you safe.

  His thoughts then drifted to Sha’taï, who was almost certainly another botoican, and only at the beginning of her vocation, at that, in Carmondai’s opinion. So the threat came not only from the unknown magician with its fervent hatred for the young girl, it came from her as well. I wonder how long it is since we left? What has happened since then? Tungdil raked the embers and threw two logs on the fire to drive off the night’s cold from the circle of stones where they were camping.

  His gaze fell softly on his sleeping companions. Their dreams were not free of the horrors they had lived through. Occasionally one of them would shudder or start mumbling. I know that feeling. I never slept properly when I was in Phondrasôn. I would wake up screaming practically every night.

  There was only one possibility for him to undertake action against the ghaist’s controller and the army that was being gathered, and as soon as the others woke up, he would tell them his decision. He expected objections, but he was going to insist that Gosalyn and Hargorin go straight back to Girdlegard. The girl had a broken arm and the other was missing a serviceable artificial limb—they would be no use on his mission. He would send them back to tell Ireheart what had happened and get him to summon the Assembly.

  It was clear to Tungdil that the only army that stood any chance at all in battle against the botoican’s hordes had to be composed entirely of dwarves. All other races and species were susceptible to the manipulating magic spell and would be drawn into the botoican’s sphere of influence. Even acronta had succumbed.

  Hammer and anvil. That’s what the prophecy said.

  The dwarf army was to ride out under the leadership of Hargorin and Gosalyn, heading for the mine where he and Beligata would be exploring the situation. He and she would spy out every minute detail to get the information needed for a swift and decisive dwarf victory. By the time the dwarves get here with their army, we will have found out what the botoican looks like and determined a way to win.

  In the meantime, something would have to be done about Sha’taï. He refused to entertain the idea of having her killed until there was sufficient proof that she was acting from sheer evil and depravity. So far she had done nothing but bring peace. But we need a solution before the rest of Girdlegard falls victim to her spell.

  How long would it take for his messengers to reach Ireheart? How long would the dwarves need to muster their army? How many orbits or even cycles would it take for them to arrive? Only Vraccas could know.

  But we will face the foe. Tungdil stared at the place on his hand where the ghaist had touched him and he smiled. A cold, grim smile.

  Take strong, full-bodied black beer

  with a powerful kick.

  Heat gently in a pan

  with cinnamon, honey and cloves,

  aniseed and citrus fruits to taste.

  Add the juice of cherries or blackberries

  and even some heady dark brandy.

  Enjoy your beer

  whenever the wind whistles cold about your ears

  and the first snowflakes start to fall.

  Recipe for dwarf spiced beer (serve hot)

  XXVIII

  Girdlegard

  United Kingdom of Gauragar-Idoslane

  Freestone

  6496th solar cycle, winter

  “Let us debate the matter again. But this time, let’s learn from our mistakes.” Ireheart surveyed the familiar round of faces. It was essential he win support for his views. They will have to listen to the new developments with open minds.

  The dwarf leaders had assembled with little ado, as Ireheart had stipulated, in the heart of Girdlegard and with only a few dozen warriors in attendance. Without the tunnel-ways for swift communication and transport, the simplest thing was to summon everyone to the centre.

  Freetown took them in without any great upheaval. The residents had got used to all the banners, regiments and heroes. The local landlord welcomed them as old friends, ushering the company into a quiet chamber where they would be undisturbed. Refreshments were ready in an anteroom.

  Gosalyn and Hargorin had arrived in Freestone, travelling with Balyndis. They had brought the Scholar’s message with them.

  They had traversed many miles of the Outer Lands to get to the Stone Gateway, encountering no problems on the way. The botoican’s army of monsters was being mustered elsewhere and so the surrounding landscape was free of threats. Hargorin referred to their journey as having been a “boring hike” until they had come across some stray ponies. After that the trek had turned, according to Gosalyn, into “torture by saddle.” The red-bearded dwarf had been happy enough on horseback but the dwarf-woman had hated it.

  Having read the Scholar’s message, Ireheart was now up to date with events, and listened attent
ively to Hargorin and Gosalyn while waiting for the arrival of the other tribal heads. They had told him how they had been taken prisoner, how the acronta had kept them in their home hive, how Tungdil’s combat skills had won them freedom, and then how they had met with the ghaist and Aiphatòn. The High King was now convinced that the other dwarf leaders would not be able to shut their ears to the growing crisis.

  Gosalyn did not look any the worse for the strenuous trek through the Outer Lands and the Thirdling king was as sturdy as ever. “Vraccas has sent them back to us after four cycles so that we may listen to what they have to say,” Boïndil began. “And so that we may act. We have waited around for long enough.”

  “How true, High King!” Balyndis nodded in agreement. “My son has repelled two waves of attack more dangerous than anything previously experienced,” she broke in, ignoring Gosalyn’s attempt to be heard. “We have strengthened the fortifications and are undertaking a range of further measures on the Stone Gateway in the hope of forestalling or delaying an army. But I fear a third attack may overwhelm our defences.” She related how the rag-tag army had scaled the granite gates and the use they had made of ramps, and how the mighty wind had rendered their weapons powerless. Her audience listened agog. Only when she had finished her description of the assault wave did she notice that Gosalyn had raised her hand. “Excuse me, Gosalyn. I just had to share. Please, proceed.”

  Gosalyn pulled out a map of Girdlegard and unrolled it, placing it on the table. She opened her mouth to speak but again she was interrupted.

  “The Fifthlings aren’t able to defend us? They can’t guarantee to keep us safe from invasion?” This outburst came from Xamtor Boldface, King of the Firstlings.

  “Not as things stand. The fortifications present little more than a hurdle for these beasts to overcome. We’ve had the ghaist actually standing on our walls, as you know. For the second time. This one tried to force my son under his master’s influence. But it did not work.” Balyndis asked for a glass of water. “They know everything about our defences that they need to put us in extreme difficulty, even if we had thousands of soldiers on our walls.”

  Frandibar Gemholder, this time in a suit of polished vraccasium armour decorated with patterns picked out in rubies, malachite and agate, encouraged Gosalyn and Hargorin to enlighten them. When he talked the golden strands in his beard appeared to dance. “We’re keen to hear what you have to say.”

  “I shall begin with a verse,” said Gosalyn, relieved to be given the chance to speak at last. Her skin had gone dark brown and leathery from travelling in the sun. “It was recited to us once and then it faded away.” She took a deep breath.

  With hammer and anvil.

  Only those

  do not let themselves be turned.

  Only those

  are true to form and mighty, destructive enough

  and able to withstand storm and fire and steel.

  Only those

  are hammer and anvil.

  Send the hammer and the anvil out

  to the north, always to the north.

  Let them find the evil

  let them destroy the evil and let them shatter it.

  None but those

  will succeed.

  Gordislan the Younger from the Freelings gave a disdainful smile. “Those are the words of the elves’ creator. Not a good beginning.”

  “No, it’s not, but it finally makes sense.” Hargorin, also deeply tanned, got up from his seat. “We have been through so much. We can’t tell you everything in detail here—let’s save that for long winter evenings round the fire with good friends and a glass of beer when the icy wind whistles outside and we relish telling our stories—but now is the time for action.” He raised his hand and pointed north. “Let me emphasise: if we as dwarves had not held back three cycles ago, if we had not been so sceptical about the prophecy, we might already have triumphed.”

  “First, let me say how glad I am to see you both safe returned,” said Gordislan. “Praise be to Vraccas for having kept his protective hand over you, and over Tungdil and Beligata, too, I gather. I look forward to those tales by the fireside. But I must insist you put us in the picture now.”

  Xamtor chimed in his support. “Just tell us the main events that kept you from us for three long cycles while we waited, so concerned about your safety. Tell us how you know so definitively that we need to march.”

  Smooth talker. Ireheart normally liked Gordislan and Xamtor but at the moment he could do without the political rhetoric. He was impatient to get down to business.

  Ireheart still had Tungdil’s bottle of special essence in his pocket; it was supposed to be helpful whenever thirst and anger got out of hand, but he had never taken any of it. He could not say why not. Perhaps the fear that it was not the actual Tungdil but a counterfeit copy of his friend, and that the imposter might want to poison him.

  It did not look as if Xamtor was about to give in gracefully, and Ireheart had to sit through a new recital of Hargorin and Gosalyn’s exploits in the Outer Lands. He kept his temper in check with the help of a large tankard of beer and a generous application of heavy sighs.

  He used the time to plan ahead.

  Ireheart was sure the dwarves would eventually agree to campaign. They would gather at the mine and attack the botoican’s forces mustering there. There’s nothing else for it. If we delay, they’ll overrun us at the Gateway and gain entry. Or they’ll find a different way through the Grey Mountains. With the power to influence and manipulate minds, it was horribly plausible that the botoican could send out thousands of scouts to look for concealed mountain passes.

  Ireheart assumed some of this had already been attempted with Aiphatòn’s assistance. But he took comfort in the fact that the leaden-hued mass of rock did not welcome everyone who approached. It was not kind to beasts and humans without the correct equipment to withstand the elements. Crossing the mountains in snow and icy winds, struggling with scree and dealing with extreme altitude would put paid to most attempts within a few orbits.

  They might be able to storm victoriously across a plain, but being a mighty army won’t help them in the mountains. Ireheart helped himself to more tepid beer. The landlord here knew not to serve it too cold.

  He was relieved to hear that the Voice of the Wind had been eliminated. So was Balyndis, who had experienced first-hand the destruction that was wrought, not only on their defences, but on their people. Would a hurricane have sufficed to open the gates? Ireheart was glad not to know the answer to that.

  But this did not alter the fact that the botoican was building an army that, in size and scope, outnumbered anything seen before in Girdlegard, and probably in the Outer Lands as well. Gosalyn had not had time to go through the papers thoroughly, but she spoke of half a million soldiers about to gather in the quarry.

  Five hundred thousand. A solid block of flesh and bone. But they had no choice—Ireheart was afraid Girdlegard would fall under the sway of the botoican if he breached their wall. The homeland would serve only to provide the magician with more battlefield-fodder. Better troops. More possibilities. Once he got rid of Sha’taï, that is. Ireheart shuddered to think what would happen if she did it as well.

  He was not sure how many people lived in the human kingdoms but it must be several million, he thought. And the pointy-ears had excellently trained warriors. He imagined an army surging out in all directions while the botoican sat in the middle like an evil spider controlling them and their fate. A shiver went up and down his spine.

  Our Scholar will deal the ghaist a death blow with Keenfire and then we’ll have the urgently needed time of quiet. Ireheart noticed that Hargorin and Gosalyn had finished speaking. All eyes were on him now.

  Taking a swig of beer to moisten his throat, he asked, “Do you understand now why we have to go to war?”

  “We do.” Xamtor fiddled with the tips of his grey-speckled beard, looking thoughtful and ready to cooperate.

  “And we need ever
y hand that can wield a weapon,” Gosalyn urged.

  “But there’s still the question of whether we can trust the elves to hold our fortresses for us.” The blond-haired Frandibar played nervously with his bejewelled signet ring. The gem cutters liked to show off how good they were at their craft. “And what if we lose too many of our best dwarves?” Then he added, after a pause, “What if we lose all of them? There was nothing in the prophecy about the hammer and the anvil getting back home safely.”

  The large chamber fell silent. The last of the evening winter light fell through the leaded bottle-glass windows. Lamps and torches were being lit outside.

  Curses. He’s got a point. “It might be useful to look at the full version of the prediction,” Ireheart said, furious with himself for not having thought of this before. Anger boiled up inside him, stoked by his concern about his friend and the northern border. It’ll mean losing valuable time. “I’ll ask the Naishïon …”

  “I don’t give a damn about the prophecy,” Hargorin bellowed. “We know our people are not susceptible to the botoican’s magic. We take our warriors and we march!” He crossed his arms defiantly under the impressive red beard. “Vraccas will know what fate awaits us and that’s good enough for me. I don’t need Sitalia’s prophecies to know what we have to do.” The Thirdling king looked at Frandibar. “Girdlegard is relying on us yet again, on us and on our axes. If we do nothing, we go down with them.”

  “You’re seeing this too simplistically, Hargorin Deathbringer,” Frandibar retorted.

  “I am not. I have done battle with beasts you can’t even dream of. I have come through the wilderness one-legged to get here, collect a new limb and go straight back to fight,” he thundered. “You are scared!”

  “Scared?” Frandibar jumped up to answer the challenge, ignoring the fact that he was much smaller in stature. “How dare you accuse me of cowardice!”