The Revenge of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  The hook sat firm. The chain came taut with a clank and pulled the new weights down toward itself. Because of the tons of extra ballast the chain was prevented from unwinding, so the lift came to a standstill.

  “Are you all right down there?” he called down the shaft. The cage with the workers must be a hundred paces down, he reckoned, judging by the chain length. They’d stopped by one of the secondary galleries. “Good,” he shouted. “Now unload the shale-tailings or some of you will have to get out. Otherwise it’ll never move.”

  He waited a while to be sure they had followed instructions, then removed the counterweights and set the winding-gear into action, to get the lift up at last. For brake power he took a long iron bar and inserted it into one of the smallest cogwheels; as soon as the cage arrived he jammed the bar all the way in to block the cog. The cage had come up.

  “That was a near thing.” Ingbar wondered why the lights had gone out. The faint glow given by the lamps in the engine room was not strong enough to show what was inside the cage. The iron door rattled open. “I’ll have to close the shaft down till we’ve renewed the brakes. What were you…?” What he saw robbed him of the power of speech.

  Huge figures stepped out of the lift cage. They were armed to the teeth, carrying cudgels and shields with unfamiliar writing. But one glance at the brutal faces with the jutting tusks was enough to tell the dwarf what he had here: Orcs!

  “To arms!” he screamed, drawing out his ax. “Greenskins!” Before he knew it, a missile flew toward him and hit him on the brow. It knocked him flying and he collapsed. Half conscious, he imagined he saw a pink-eyed orc bending over him, fingering his skull, then disappearing…

  When Ingbar came round later he was still lying in the engine room. He could hear the rattle of chains. Groaning, he struggled upright and felt for the lump on his head. Next to him a stone lay on the ground. The orcs must have thought he was dead, no two ways about it. They would never leave a dwarf alive.

  Footsteps were approaching and in the torchlight he could see a band of warriors coming up. “Ingbar! Did the greenskins come this way?” one of them asked him urgently.

  “They came up here, but whether…” He looked for the lift cage. It was gone! “No… Look! They’re on their way down.”

  The warrior stared grimly and helped him to his feet. “Then bring them up again!”

  Ingbar limped over to the machinery, adjusted some of the cogwheels and attached extra weights again. The orcs had collected a lot of booty during their raid on the Brown Mountains, it seemed. The cage was overloaded. “What happened?”

  “We hoped you could tell us that,” replied the dwarf. His companions arrayed themselves in a semicircle round the shaft, crossbows at the ready; the enemy would be met with a hail of bolts. “The orcs appeared from nowhere, overcame the guards and stole the diamond.”

  “The diamond?” Ingbar was horrified. “What are the monsters planning to do?”

  One of the warriors took a look down the shaft. “Another twenty paces, and they’re up,” he reported, moving into place.

  “We don’t know. Notice anything unusual about them?” asked the dwarf.

  “No, not…” Ingbar hesitated. “Yes! One of them had pink eyes.” He gave a brief description of events. “And when I came round, you arrived.” He stopped speaking, for the cage had arrived. The door stayed shut. So maybe the orcs were afraid to come out.

  “Come out and face us, you cowards!” called the warrior. “You can’t escape!” Nothing happened, so he sent one of his men over to open the iron door.

  That was when Ingbar realized what had been bothering him: the cage was too heavy! Whatever was in there it couldn’t be the orcs; because before he’d pulled them up with the conventional forty hundredweight. Now he’d applied the forty plus the extra counterweights. No diamond in the whole of Girdlegard was that heavy!

  The soldier who’d been sent forward to the lift freed the catch and pulled the door open a little way.

  A steel arm shot out through the narrow gap and forced the doors wide. A cloud of steam hissed from the cage, enveloping the astonished dwarves. They staggered, fighting for air; the scorching fumes hurt their lungs and stung their eyes; water droplets formed on their cold armor.

  Clicks, clanks and rattles; a rain of crossbow bolts shot through the air randomly, mowing down several of the soldiers. They fell to the stone floor, dead or injured.

  “Get back!” cried Ingbar. He knew what it was that had got itself transported up in the lift. All the dwarf regions had by now received the warnings of the death machines wreaking havoc in the mines of the children of the Smith. There were at least a dozen of these machines now, that was for sure. And he knew there was little chance of combating them.

  The mist cleared enough for him to see his immediate surroundings. “I’ll send it back down before it can get out of the cage,” he coughed into the vapor cloud. He unhooked the weights from the winch-pulleys and stretched out his arm for the iron rod blocking the vital cogwheel.

  At that point a monstrous shadow appeared out of the fog next to him. An iron vice-grip snapped at him, biting down on his left arm.

  Ingbar was lifted up and whirled against the roof as if he were a doll. It felt like being in the mouth of a dragon. From up here he could see the back of the devilish machine, as strongly armored as the front. Dwarf-warriors were courageously attacking, but the machine rolled steadily forwards over the bodies of the dead and wounded.

  He could see how the rod was slipping under the cogwheel. It was being forced out of true. The winch gave way under the sheer weight, having no ballast, and the cage shot down to the depths.

  Pulleys, cogwheels and rollers worked faster and faster, chains unwound at great speed. But Ingbar’s plan had failed. The devil machine had already left the cage.

  The metal grab-hand gave him another mighty shake, a sharp pain shot through his shoulder, then he was thrown to one side.

  The death machine had aimed well. Ingbar was hurled straight into the mess of whirring cables and winches. He crashed against a speeding chain, landed under a huge rotating cogwheel and he and his chain mail armor were crushed to pieces.

  Girdlegard,

  Kingdom of Gauragar,

  Porista,

  Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

  Prince Mallen sat in his room on the top floor of the house he and his companions had been assigned. Through the window he observed the cranes on the site of the new palace, constantly in motion, turning, lifting, lowering. A continuous stream of carts loaded with stone rolled through the streets, and the army of laborers grew from orbit to orbit. The breeze brought the sounds of a new beginning to Mallen’s ears: banging, clattering, sawing, hammering—and there was singing and the workmen’s shouts.

  King Bruron was losing no time. The empty space in the middle of Porista was to be filled with a splendid building which promised to outshine Nudin’s palace in opulence. Five towers and three keeps were planned, arranged stepwise and connected by smaller transept buildings. The architects had estimated the work would take five cycles, and the foundation stone was already in place.

  Mallen stood up, and now he could see the tips of the tent poles emerging from the top of the huge white canvas marquee erected in the center of the cleared site. This was where the kings and queens were meeting this afternoon. Bruron wanted the great monarchs assembled on the spot whence in former times the mightiest power of Girdlegard had issued. In the place of the magic wellspring they now had unity and harmony among the rulers—this was the sign for all of their peoples.

  Mallen chose a light fabric coat to throw over the bright red robe. He strode out of the room. The bodyguard waiting outside fell in beside him. On horseback he moved through the busiest streets of the town, where the crowds drew back respectfully, proud to be providing hospitality to such visiting dignitaries.

  In silence the prince rode on, not responding to the occasional cheer. As so often, he was preoccupie
d with thoughts of the terrible raid on Goldensheaf; he was missing his trusted comrade in arms, Alvaro, whose dead body he had examined in minute detail. It had been the slash to the throat that had robbed him of his lifeblood and he knew it had not been the terrible creature that had inflicted this wound. Of that he was convinced. Since that day he had never turned his back for a second on Rejalin or any other elf. The matter of the elf runes he had kept from the other rulers when he described the events of that day. He could not have said why this was. He wanted to speak to Liútasil in private about it.

  His troop reached the marquee. Young pages hastened to take hold of the guests’ horses.

  The prince stepped inside the airy enclosure; the tent was lined with colorful silks and decorated with ribbons and painted banners. It must have taken several orbits to bring in all the furnishings—the long table, the heavy chairs and cupboards—so that the meeting hall looked dignified and stately in spite of being under canvas.

  Apart from himself only one other was present: a man in dark attire. The frog-like eyes and short black hair identified him as King Ortger of Urgon. Mallen went up and shook hands. “It is good to see you again,” he greeted the young ruler.

  “The last time we met it was at the celebrations for the third cycle of my reign,” Ortger nodded. He was obviously pleased to meet the blond-haired Idoslane prince again, having found him from the start to be someone he trusted. “The occasion for our present meeting is far more serious.”

  “I heard that you too have suffered under an attack from one of these monstrous beings.” Mallen let go of his hand and sat down opposite Ortger. Servants brought wine and water, and then withdrew discreetly. “I don’t want to jump ahead of the plenary discussion, but can you tell me what happened?”

  “It was quite a different type of creature from the one you had warned me about in your letter,” sighed the young king as he took a mouthful of wine to give him courage. “A monster made of tionium, black as evil itself and as strong as ten oxen, but more cunning than a nest full of malicious vipers. And inside it there was something alive, staring out at us from behind a glass window.” He took a drawing out of the bag that lay next to him. “Some say it had wings of iron, others that it flew up to the heavens on flames and transformed itself by magic into a black cloud. Here, that’s what it looked like.”

  King Nate entered the tent, dressed in dark green ceremonial robes embroidered with stylized depictions of ears of corn. “My greetings. You are at work already?” He made a perfunctory bow to the two men and joined Ortger to study the picture. “No, it’s not in the slightest like the creature that robbed me of my diamond and of three of my fingers,” he said after a preliminary look. He was about to add something but stopped because all the other kings and queens from the human realms were now entering the tent. The ceremony of welcome took some time. Mallen would have liked to ask them all to get straight to business.

  His mood did not improve when two elves simply attired in white joined their circle and introduced themselves as Vilanoîl and Tiwalún. They had traveled to Porista from landur on the orders of their elf lord to give his excuses and to represent him in the talks.

  This gave Mallen a valid reason for his ill-feelings. “Why would Liútasil stay away from this conference?” he enquired, although it would have rightly been the office of their host, King Bruron, to ask this. “We’re not here for fun. There are vital issues to discuss. The presence of the prince of the elves could have been expected.”

  The kings and queens threw him looks that ranged between surprise and displeasure. To use such a sharp tone with the elven envoys was not, in their view, justified.

  Mallen thought they were acting in their own interests. He considered they were afraid that if he were brusque with the elves their promised knowledge-sharing would be jeopardized.

  “And where are the dwarves, then?” asked King Nate, jumping to the defense of the elves.

  “I can explain.” Bruron lifted his hand. “High King Gandogar told me that they have themselves called a gathering of their clans to discuss events that have occurred recently in their tunnels. When that meeting is over, he writes, they will come here to Porista. But one of their representatives is on his way to us.”

  “It is a similar circumstance that makes it impossible for my own lord to be with you,” said Tiwalún, following this with a smile. “We too are holding an emergency meeting about occurrences in landur.” He bowed again, as did Vilanoîl. “I offer our apologies once more.”

  “You must forgive Prince Mallen’s way,” King Nate requested, taking a sideways glance over to the fair-haired Ido, “but in the attack on my castle he lost a close friend. It will be his grief that overwhelms him and lets him speak out of turn and unfairly.”

  “It is kind of you to speak for me, but it has nothing to do with the unfairness you accuse me of,” objected Mallen. “I was speaking about the status of this meeting, the vital importance of our assembly.”

  “And since that attack he tends to view the peoples of landur with the same mistrust his fallen comrade had harbored,” continued Nate.

  “I understand,” said Tiwalún with regret. “My commiserations, prince.”

  A messenger entered with a message for King Bruron. He gestured over to the entrance. “How good to see that you, Glaïmbli Sparkeye from the clan of the Spark Eyes in the kingdom of the fourthlings, have been able to make the journey so swiftly,” he greeted the dwarf at the door. “You are welcome. Please take your place at our table. We are about to tackle the real reason for calling this assembly,” he added quickly, before Mallen had a chance to challenge the elves on anything.

  “My thanks, King Bruron.” The dwarf bowed to Bruron and to all the others gathered there. His plated armor glinted immaculately, as polished as a silver salver; his dark hair and beard were well groomed. He must have changed and washed before appearing.

  Mallen, who knew his dwarves, recognized immediately that this was a fourthling. A slighter figure and slimmer build told of his race, and the gemstones worked into his armor gave another indisputable clue.

  “I bring you greetings from the high king and his regret that he and the other delegates of the dwarf folks, and also those from the Five Free Towns, will not be arriving in Porista for a few orbits. Until they come I am to represent them.” He took his seat and was acknowledged by all with nods of welcome.

  “Let us begin.” Bruron looked at the assembled participants. “The events are extremely worrying. In the meantime five diamonds have either been stolen or have simply disappeared.” In response to Bruron’s gesture, servants brought out and displayed a large map of Girdlegard. “Tabaîn, Rân Ribastur, Urgon, and the dwarf kingdoms of the thirdlings and fourthlings have all been robbed of their jewels. As far as Tabaîn and Urgon are concerned, we know that the raids were carried out by creatures, the like of which have never been seen before. Not even when the Perished Land had everything under its influence in our realms. Furthermore I have been brought the news that it was orcs who stole the fourthlings’ diamond.” He hit the map. “Orcs! These beasts have not appeared for over five cycles, not since the Star of Judgment fell. What is behind this? Does anyone have an idea?”

  “The beings Ortger and I were faced with look like a cross between several monsters. They use magic and bear runes on their armor, runes like the ones the älfar are described as having,” said Nate. “It all points to unknown creatures from the Outer Lands suddenly invading our realms.”

  “The passes are guarded and defended,” Mallen pointed out. “They could never have got past the axes of the dwarves.” Glaïmbli nodded in agreement.

  “Perhaps not past them.” Tiwalún smiled him down. “If you can’t get past an obstacle you can sometimes go under it.”

  Ortger nodded. “The same thought had occurred to me. There’s none of the evil left in Girdlegard, if we discount the malice of some of the thirdlings that I’ve heard about.” With his protruding eyes, he gazed directl
y at Glaïmbli, awaiting an answer.

  The dwarf opened his mouth, then hesitated. “I don’t know if I should speak for my high king on that matter.”

  “Oh, then I misunderstood you. I thought you said you were his representative, Glaïmbli Sparkeye,” interjected Tiwalún.

  “I certainly am. But it is not my place to reveal everything. There are some issues about which only the high king himself should speak.” He crossed his arms over his chest in an unambiguous gesture of refusal; he was like a defensive wall of muscle and bone: the embodiment of the innate stubbornness of dwarves.

  Queen Isika, a woman of middle age, pale-faced, with long black hair and with a penchant for luxurious clothing, turned to Mallen. “Prince, be good enough to explain to our friend here how unfortunate the whole situation is. You get on better with dwarves than I do.”

  Mallen leaned forward, his arms on the table. “Look, Glaïmbli, we’re just trying to explore the connection between the horrific incidents of the last few orbits. If you’ve got something to contribute, please let us know. Then your high king can fill us in later on the details.” He looked the dwarf directly in the eyes. “I’m asking you, please, to tell us what you have learned.”

  Glaïmbli fidgeted uneasily on his chair. He disliked having so many people staring at him. He dropped his head down between his shoulders—the age-old reaction of a dwarf in trouble. Only when he spotted the haughty smiles of the elves did he let himself be moved to comment. “The thirdlings have declared war on us again. They are making war with machines.”

  “Machines?” echoed Nate in surprise. “It’s the first I’ve heard of this. What sort of machines?”

  “A device that can travel through our tunnels and attack our people. More I cannot say. You must wait till our high king arrives.” Glaïmbli’s head sank even lower and his eyes sparkled defiantly; he’d not tell them anymore now.

  “This is news to me as well,” said Queen Isika sharply. “If you put this information together with what we had already heard one could surmise that the thirdlings have formed a united front with these malformed nightmare progeny of Evil.”