The Triumph of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  “You are frightened of the unknown.” Hargorin glared at him.

  A clever move. Ireheart thought he knew where the red-haired dwarf was going with this. He was prepared to let the row take its course for the moment, but was ready to intervene if necessary. He mastered his own hot blood with difficulty.

  “Our race marched out to battle against evil once before. And we won.” Hargorin reminded the Assembly about the battle of the Black Abyss. “Perhaps the times have passed when our mission was to sit in our mountains and guard the gates. Perhaps we have to march out and confront the enemy in his lair, where he is gathering strength. And perhaps we have to spread the word in Girdlegard first to make sure everyone knows what we are doing for them. Humans and elves must be told what we are undertaking. We need to work together. As a community. Only then. No more arrogant isolation for us.”

  Ireheart was impressed by what the Thirdling king had said. Hargorin’s deep tones had added authority to his words. Good thing it wasn’t me talking. I’d have stammered and stuttered. “I think I’ll get you to make all my speeches from now on,” he said, raising his tankard in acknowledgement of the other’s undoubted rhetoric. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.” I’m rubbish at being High King, really. Hargorin should take over. Or Balyndar. Either one would be better.

  “I agree. We’ll set out with all our forces and hand the strongholds over to the elves to guard.” Balyndis appeared thoughtful but decisive.

  Frandibar sighed. “People will suspect the elves of secretly planning to murder our children while they sleep once their fathers are away on campaign.”

  “So you’re against this?” Ireheart looked straight at Frandibar. This eternal feuding irritated him. First the smooth talker, and now the gem cutter’s namby-pamby views. A red mist started to form. He grasped his beer mug quickly.

  “Indeed not. He agrees with me,” Balyndis replied determinedly. “And I’m definitely in support”—she pointed at the place on the map where the Idoslane magic source was located, Coïra’s present abode—“of tackling this question afterwards. I don’t want to have to argue with every soul in Girdlegard that we have gone to the Outer Lands to do battle to protect.”

  “I agree,” Xamtor faced Hargorin. “In case you and Gosalyn are unaware: a town has been built there, quite a considerable size. It has a mighty tower in the middle. Sha’taï spends quite a bit of time there. She is now a young woman and very popular everywhere in the whole country. Emperor Rodario takes her with him wherever he goes. Word has got round that he likes to move amongst his subjects and seek their admiration. He is in good favour with the elves, too. This is all due to his adopted daughter’s influence, we think.”

  Hargorin and Gosalyn exchanged glances. This was the first they had heard of it.

  “For now, the botoican at our northern gates has priority.” Ireheart was relieved to note the mood in the debating chamber had changed, even though this was entirely down to what Hargorin and Balyndis had said. It had nothing to do with his own authority. Sending out practically every dwarf to do battle was an incredible risk to take. Greater than any in our entire history. But future observers would ascribe the responsibility for any disaster to him, Boïndil, alone.

  He was extremely concerned about Sha’taï and her influential foster parents. Ireheart had wanted to have a talk with Rodario about the dangers the young woman posed, but this plan had not come to fruition. He had not even bothered to have a word with Mallenia. She was utterly devoted to her little one. And there was no evidence of an ill nature or observable untoward conduct. On the contrary. She was a sweet young thing, you’d say. If you didn’t know better.

  “Are we positive now that the true Tungdil Goldhand has come back to us?” Gordislan asked. “That, in my opinion, is the ultimate point we need to agree on.”

  “Of course it’s him!” Ireheart would entertain no doubts on this score. His right hand clutched the handle of his tankard and squeezed it for emphasis. “We’ve been talking for too long,” he thundered, demanding a refill. Who does this wretched idiot think he is, telling me my business? He had a violent urge to get up and bash Gordislan on the head. He was High King, after all. There’s bound to be some law or other that gives me the right to kill him. He kept his chestnut-coloured eyes firmly fixed on the Freeling dwarf.

  “Go on, give me an excuse,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Excuse?” Gordislan asked. “Excuse for what?”

  “I too am absolutely sure we have the right Tungdil Goldhand,” Gosalyn said swiftly. “I have travelled with the dwarf for several cycles. He has saved our lives and led our band well.”

  “That’s what Tionium Tungdil did, too,” Gordislan objected.

  Ireheart leaped up from his seat, his temper frayed to breaking point. “I won’t have—”

  “I would have known if there was even a spark of evil in him.” Gosalyn made a gesture to placate the High King. “I would trust him with my life and I would trust him with the safety of our homeland.”

  “The same goes for me.” Hargorin placed his hand on the dwarf-woman’s shoulder. She smiled at him.

  I must give vent to my anger or I’ll launch myself at him. Ireheart slammed his fist down on the tabletop with such force that it sent jugs and beakers flying. The board creaked under the impact.

  “Enough talk!” he declared, aware of a certain feeling of relief. “I will inform the Naishïon of our plans. I expect him to support them and to send his best warriors to take over our fortresses. The vital thing is to establish trust.”

  “You can’t command trust,” Frandibar objected, horrified by the High King’s attitude. “But I’ll go along with that.”

  Balyndis and the other rulers indicated agreement.

  “And we won’t tell the citizens about the change in guard,” Ireheart ordered, breathing heavily. “Otherwise Sha’taï might find she wants to take advantage of the opportunity.”

  “To do what exactly?” Gordislan was all attention now.

  “Use your head, clev—” He bit his tongue. “How should I know what the little botoican girl has planned?” he replied, sitting down again. “So, no word to anyone outside this room. The elves will join us in secret. No one is to know.”

  They all nodded.

  “Let’s get down to planning.”

  Lamps and candles were lit now that night had fallen. The dwarf leaders discussed strategy, troop numbers, how units would proceed on the march to the Outer Lands, how they would be catered for, how many horses and oxen they would need, what equipment to take, which route to use, and so on. Hargorin and Balyndis took the minutes, with the High King’s approval.

  Ireheart was suddenly aware that it would be many orbits before this enormous undertaking was ready. Victory was not possible without meticulous planning. The dwarves knew nothing of the hundred miles of terrain leading to the mine. Their forces would not have to reckon with any beast-attack but it was essential they kept the element of surprise. That would be the only thing working in their favour if they had to face the botoican and his half a million in combat.

  I hope the Scholar can get us enough information. Ireheart held back, not interfering in the planning proceedings. He kept drinking to keep his anger in check. He was bothered by the long hair on his temples. Must get it cut.

  The candles had started to gutter and smoke and the lamps to dim before the company broke up, ready for bed, still confident that the right course of action was being taken. Only Balyndis and the High King were left.

  Thousands of dwarves, male and female, would be under arms. Ireheart pulled the beer jug over to him. He was as exhausted as if he had been in single combat all day. Every warrior we possess. Vraccas, support us in this. I don’t want to be the ruler that leads your people to disaster.

  “Protection.” Balyndis had spoken under her breath.

  Ireheart looked at her and took a sip. “What?”

  “Not us. The girl.” The queen of the Fifthli
ngs stood up. “I’ve been thinking about what she’s attempting to achieve by making herself and the emperor more popular than any other figure in Girdlegard.”

  “To protect herself.”

  “She’s collecting loyal supporters to defend her against any threat.” Balyndis went on: “She ran away from her enemies and had to live in fear for a long time. That made her the way she is. If we show her that she is safe here in Girdlegard—then perhaps she will lay her powers aside.”

  “Do you think it’s that simple?” Ireheart put the empty jug back down.

  “Could be. It’s worth considering before we do anything when we return. We might regret making her frightened again. It could lead to a catastrophe.” Balyndis studied Ireheart’s face. “What was happening in here tonight?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Your outburst. You looked as if you first wanted to kill Xamtor, then Frandibar and finally Gordislan.” The queen gave a worried smile. “Is it the old problem? The rage?”

  “I … was …” Ireheart felt the fury well up again. “I’m no speech-maker and they were wasting precious time, and …” He clenched his fists. “I’ll get rid of my rage on the battlefield and then I’ll be able to calm down.”

  “Will you?” She turned for the door. “Look after yourself, old friend. I am fond of you.” Balyndis left the room before he could ask her about Tungdil.

  Ireheart watched her go. He gave the jug a bad-tempered shove. It slid over the table, stopping at the edge. They’re all so bloody clever. So much bloody insight. Someone else should take over as High King. He was totally at a loss with the responsibility of office.

  This made him angrier than ever. Rage engulfed him.

  I’m a warrior! I need to fight. Vraccas knows why he makes my inner forge so hot. Grabbing the table, he hurled it across the room. Chairs followed, crashing against the wall. When the landlord came in, concerned about his furniture, Ireheart slung coins his way and threw him out.

  Only when the room was in ruins did he plonk himself down in despair. The raging fury subsided, but Ireheart knew it could return at any moment. He knew it was the älfar elixir that caused it.

  This has got to stop or I’ll kill one of my own kind. He took out the little bottle Tungdil had given him, removed the wax seal and pulled out the cork. I trust you, my Scholar.

  He downed the contents of the phial.

  Girdlegard

  Grey Mountains

  Kingdom of the Fifthling Dwarves

  Stone Gateway

  6497th solar cycle, early summer

  “Are you sure you know how to operate the mobile catapults?” Balyndar looked quizzically at the elf-woman at his side. They were at the reworked constructions for the clay bottle launchers. The defensive walkway had been given an additional storey and extra fortification and the munitions engineers had ironed out the residual faults in the new system. None of the other dwarf strongholds could hold a candle to this one.

  Ocâstia vaulted onto the narrow seat next to the machine and slunk down to get in the right position to view the crosshairs in the aiming viewer next to the long barrel. “In sequence.” She pointed in turn at two locks, a bolt and the trigger. “Then I can fire.”

  “And how is the machine moved?” It was too soon to give praise. But I would have expected nothing less from her.

  She took her foot off the rest and placed it on the rotation disc that operated the system of cogs for turning the wheels. She turned to him, a broad smile on her face. “Satisfied?”

  “Relieved. Not satisfied.” Balyndar returned the friendly smile and stuck his thumbs in his belt. “At least I can leave knowing that you lot can be trusted with the stronghold.”

  “Of course you can.” Ocâstia slipped off the operator’s stool and glanced down at the courtyard where the dwarves’ advance guard was mustering. The banners and pennants of the various tribes and clans fluttered in the wind, dotting the army with colour. “It’s taken nearly a full cycle for you to get this far.”

  “That’s because you took such a long time learning how to use all our equipment, and mastering the gate-opening mechanism,” he teased in return. He wanted her to join in the high spirits rather than worry, as other elves might have done. “Good preparation wins over swift defeat.”

  “You’re right there.” The elf-woman in her white armour let her gaze sweep over the assembled mass of male and female warriors and their mounts. From up here everyone looked tiny. “I thought the army would set out in spring.”

  “Still too much snow around. It was a tough winter. The meltwater would have washed us away or barred our progress with raging torrents.” Balyndar was brought up in the mountains. The generals, under the command of the High King Boïndil, had faith in his opinion. “It all looks more promising now.”

  “How long do you think it will take you to get to the mines?” Ocâstia took her eyes off the hundred-strong unit that would be setting out to reconnoitre and warn others of potential hazards.

  “Hard to say. If we managed thirty miles an orbit with all the wagons and equipment, I’d be happy. There’s so much to bear in mind. We can’t just storm in there.”

  He signalled down to the waiting force to indicate the road was free. His mother Balyndis would now pronounce the formula that opened the ten bolts on the gates.

  “But we’ll be back with you by autumn, or winter at the latest,” he told the elf-woman.

  “I look forward to welcoming you all back.” Ocâstia placed her hand on the launcher. “And I wish you all the support you need on the journey.”

  “Thank you.” Balyndar felt the granite shudder as the bolts were slowly activated one after the other, the runes glowing bright in response to the prescribed phrase. “We’ll need it.” He handed Ocâstia a leather-bound volume. “This has got drawings of all the defence devices and instructions on how to deal with any faults, if a mechanism gets stuck or fractures.”

  “But you’ve left us craftspeople,” she smiled, taking hold of the heavy book.

  “Not many, and between ourselves”—he bent forward—“some of those we’re leaving behind are not the most agile, because of their age. We can only use the swiftest reactions in combat. Things can move fast in battle.”

  “Or tortuously slowly.” Ocâstia placed her hand on the brown leather cover. “Thank you.”

  If only all the elves were like her. Balyndar took out a map, folded small, and handed it to her. “This will show you the places marked on both sides of the road where the engineers have dug their traps. Don’t activate them unless there’s really nothing else for it. A last resort.”

  “Activate how?”

  “With this.” He tapped the side of the launcher. “The traps are relatively small. Train your eye. Practise locating them so if you need to, you’ll find them fast. They can be triggered by arrow if you prefer.”

  Ocâstia grunted in approval. “I knew you dwarves were inventive.” She fastened her hair back to stop the wind playing with it. “Just take these big machines, for example. But what you’ve just shown me is the icing on the cake. Very clever.”

  Balyndar’s armour creaked and clanged as he placed his strong brown hand on the paper. “It’s vital no one else learns about where the traps are placed,” he said urgently.

  “Why tell me? Shouldn’t it be the next commander when he arrives? I think the Naishïon is sending someone competent …”

  “I’ve discussed this with the queen my mother. There’s been a change.” He addressed her formally. “You are to take charge of the stronghold if danger comes. The stronghold is in your hands.”

  Ocâstia recovered quickly.

  “I am only a sorânïan but I give you my solemn oath, Balyndar Steelfinger: I shall hold the fort. Come what may.” She stowed the book and the map under her left arm and held out her right hand to him. “Take my vow with you. I swear by my own life. Nothing will get me to abandon the Stone Gateway to enemies.”

  He coul
d see that she felt honoured. We have chosen the right one.

  The dwarf nodded. “I know. I trust you. And that is why you are our choice. You know the place inside out. And you’ve been without a clear responsibility for over a cycle, with no elves turning up needing checking over. No need for boredom now.”

  Ocâstia laughed. “I shall miss your sense of humour. Come back safe, Son of the Smith. Have you taken enough of my special pickled meat?”

  Balyndar gestured to one of the heavily laden wagons. “It constitutes my entire diet.”

  She grinned, placing a hand on the battlements. “I shan’t go to bed until the last of the army has ridden out.”

  “It may be some time yet.”

  “Oh, but I have eternal life.” The sorânïan grinned and Balyndar burst out laughing.

  The gates creaked and scraped the ground as they opened. Stone dust tumbled off in clouds.

  “When was the last time the gates were opened?” Ocâstia wanted to know.

  Balyndar could not answer: he was so moved by the sound of drums and trumpets and the magnificent glory of the troops in their splendid armour. They were waiting for the gap to get wider and let them through as the warm breeze played on their faces.

  His mother, Queen Balyndis, was at the head of the unit and she was now lowering her arms. She had held her hands in the air while speaking the solemn words that released the locking mechanism and the gates opened as if by some higher power. The portal represented the might of Vraccas. The god’s strength, combined with the masterly metal-working skills of his people, had produced the ten securing bolts.

  This is our kind of magic. Balyndar was overcome with emotion and filled with energy. “I must go,” he whispered, shuddering with excitement. “Keenfire is desperate to be released. The axe wants to see some action.” Balyndar glanced at the elf-woman.

  “I shall protect Girdlegard. I swear.” Ocâstia nodded to him. “Ride.”

  Balyndar turned and went down on the lift platform. He hurried to his quarters to collect the legendary weapon. You will bring us victory.