by Markus Heitz
Tungdil was supporting Gandogar, who for some reason was having trouble staying on his feet. Ireheart helped him. “Gandogar, what’s wrong? Did the sword get you in the ribs?” He checked the armor: there was a scratch and slight dent.
“That’s what I call good dwarf armor,” said Boïndil proudly.
Gandogar’s eyes rolled back in his head. He tried to speak but his knees gave way and his arms hung limply by his sides.
“Quick, put him on the table,” instructed Lot-Ionan. “Let me see to him.”
They picked the high king up and stretched him out on the conference table. The dwarves took off his breastplate and the magus inspected where the impact had been.
“Nothing,” he said, “no fractures.” He touched a red mark underneath the ribs. “This area here is very vulnerable. It is possible to render someone unconscious with a single blow with one’s hand. It is possible that the blade had a similar effect through the armor.”
Tungdil saw a dark red spot appear on Gandogar’s neck. “Blood!” he exclaimed, touching the dwarf’s throat. At that moment he stopped breathing. Tungdil’s hands explored the thick beard until he found the wound. Directly under the chin his fingers came across a sharp piece of metal. The broken sword blade had bounced up and pierced his skin there. He parted the king’s jaws, fearing the worst.
“He’s dying!” shouted Ireheart in horror, looking to Lot-Ionan. But when the magus began a spell, Tungdil stopped him.
“It is over,” he said darkly and showed them Gandogar’s mouth where the sword fragment had pierced right up into his skull. The high king’s brain was irrevocably destroyed.
“By Vraccas,” whispered a horrified Ireheart. He hung his head; Goda was doing likewise.
Tungdil shut the dead man’s mouth and closed his eyes. “Put his armor back on,” he ordered. “High King Gandogar Silverbeard, of the clan of the Silver Beards of Goïmdil’s fourthlings, is on his way to the eternal smithy back into the hands of Vraccas, his creator. Take his body to the Brown Range where he shall find a resting place surrounded by his own clan and the majestic mountain peaks.”
“The elves have slain the high king of the dwarves.” Mallen looked at Esdalân. “This will not end well.”
“Not the elves. It was the atár,” said Tungdil, looking at the blood on his fingers. The death of his monarch suddenly made everything much worse.
“It will be hard to explain that difference to the tribes making their way here, and the dwarves already at Toboribor,” predicted Ireheart. “Both have pointy ears.” He looked over at Esdalân. “Saving your presence.”
A soldier entered. He stared open-mouthed at the body of the high king. “Prince Mallen, the elf princess and her escort have escaped. They have vanished into thin air. Her soldiers have gone off to the caves.”
“When was that?”
“Just after the beginning of the meeting. We thought they were following your orders.”
Mallen uttered a curse. “Rejalin guessed she would be unmasked.”
Lot-Ionan raised his arms. “Terrible though the death of Gandogar is, we have no time to mourn. The elves will try to find the unslayables and snatch the diamond.” He glanced at Tungdil. “Go and tell the dwarves what has happened. Anger makes a dwarf invincible. Speed is of the essence. Vital if we are to survive.” Then, to Mallen: “Send all your warriors into the caves and follow the dwarves. Guard all the entrances. Not a single elf must escape.” Finally he turned to Flagur: “It is your task to defend the caves from without. We are expecting a huge army of atár.”
Flagur nodded. “It will be an honor. We are experienced in stopping the broka and destroying them. Should it be necessary.” He changed into a different language and his companions withdrew. “Shall we have the stone, Lot-Ionan?” he asked.
“Yes,” spoke the magus without hesitating. “It has already caused enough trouble in Girdlegard. Take it and put it where at least it may do some good.”
Flagur gave a sketchy bow and left.
Ireheart, Goda, Sirka and Tungdil took their leave and hurried out to inform the rest of the dwarves about the death of their high king. Tungdil felt a dull ache inside. He sensed this was not a good omen.
When they reached the camp the banners were already at half-mast. The news had spread quickly. And the anger of the warrior dwarves, men and women alike, gathering around to hear him confirm the rumor, was palpable. The commanders of the freelings stood somewhat apart.
Tungdil stepped onto an upended bucket brandishing Keenfire in the air. “High King Gandogar is dead…”
A furious dwarf pushed forward. “Murdered!” he screamed. “By the pointy-ears.” There were shouts from all sides as indignation at the cowardly murder spread.
“Listen to me!” called Tungdil, as loud as he was able, to be heard over the noise of the throng. “The elves are not guilty of the king’s death. Our foes are the atár. You must not make the mistake of treating them and the elves alike.” The angry hubbub dwindled away and Tungdil was able to report what had happened in the tent. Then he pointed Keenfire at the caves of Toboribor. “The atár want to take over our homeland. Let us now fulfill the task Vraccas gave us. Stop them! For the sake of Girdlegard!”
No one spoke.
A dwarf in the first row went down on one knee, removed his helmet and leaned on the upright shaft of his war hammer. His lips moved silently. Warriors to the left and right followed his example. In a wave of clinking armor and clattering helmets the dwarves all knelt on the flattened grass. Only the dwarves of the free towns remained standing.
“What are they doing?” asked Sirka, surveying the sea of bowed bare heads. “Are they calling you their new leader? Or are they praying?”
“No, they are not praying,” answered Tungdil, all too conscious of what was happening. He could read their lips. “It is an oath of vengeance.”
XIV
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
The Blacksaddle,
Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Limasar stood contemplating the blackened remains of the table mountain from whence the eoîl and her army of light had issued. They had set the dark mountain on fire to show their power to the peoples of Girdlegard; even non-combustible elements had been transformed into sheets of bright flame.
The elf touched the rock reverently and scratched off some of the sooty deposit. Underneath, the stone was a startling white: the eoîl had driven out the evil and replaced it with purity. Only such pristine stone was fitted for the new holy shrines and palaces.
“A wonderful place to rest,” said Itemara next to him. She was a member of the warrior division he was taking to Toboribor on the orders of their princess. “It’s amazing that no one else has discovered the beauty to be found here.”
“But how could they?” Limasar, the leader of the troop, looked at the elf-woman. “They think the place is cursed. Whereas, of course, nowhere is purer. It has been purified, cleansed right down to the depths of the earth.” He raised his arms. “Can you imagine the magnificent palace we shall build for the eoîl and Rejalin?”
“Yes, Limasar,” said Itemara, visibly moved. “It is the center of a pure…” She broke off, swayed and looked down at the crossbow bolt protruding from her breast bone.
Limasar quickly ducked behind a rock. “To arms!” he shouted to his warrior elves a hundred paces away camped under an overhang. Even creatures such as they, who preferred sunshine to night, needed to take shelter from the sun’s scorching noontime rays.
Itemara wrenched the arrow out of her chest as if it had been a mere splinter, but blood spurted out onto the stone, trickling down. “Where was that…” And only then did the elf-woman collapse.
Limasar, scanning against the light, could hardly see his troops. He had led them from the Red Range of mountains in the southeast of Girdlegard. Finally he was able to make them out as they jumped to their feet.
At the same moment about fifty small creature
s with huge two-handed quarrying hammers appeared on top of the rock they were sheltering under.
“Dwarves?” Limasar pressed himself against the rock. “Look out, overhead!”
The warning came too late. Above, where the rock was vulnerable, dwarves had been hammering away to split the stone. Limasar could hear the grinding sound as it gave way.
The enormous overhang crashed down in one piece, burying the company of warriors. Weighing many tons, the gigantic boulder crushed elves and horses like grapes in a wine press.
Just seventy of his four hundred soldiers survived the attack. They crawled out of the debris. Others were pinned down and screaming for help.
The air was filled with the sound of arrows as crossbow bolts showered down on them, bringing swift death to thirty more.
With fearful roars the dwarves leaped down off the cliff and launched themselves without mercy on the wounded and helpless elves, taking no notice of pleas for help or gestures of surrender. Hammers that had made the rock face collapse were now smashing slender bones.
More and more dwarves appeared: the new arrivals, carrying axes, cudgels and shields. The remnants of Limasar’s unit were hopelessly outnumbered.
“Accursed dwarves!” Limasar yelled. “May Sitalia strike them all!”
He heard footsteps and a shadow flew past. Suddenly a red-headed brawny dwarf with a bright beard was menacing him. “What coward is crawling around here in the dirt?” the dwarf laughed grimly. “Stand up, pointy-ears. I am Ginsgar Unforce of the clan of the Nail Smiths from Borengar’s firstlings.” He was wielding a two-headed hatchet and holding a shield. “You shall follow those you have led to ruin.”
Limasar stood up and drew his sword. “How do you dare to attack us?”
“Your trickery has been exposed. All of you, you and your princess; you killed our high king—despicable treachery!” He made a great sweeping blow, but the elf dodged the ax. “We know your plans. Eoîl, huh! We destroyed her and we’ll do the same to you.”
Limasar stabbed at the dwarf, catching his shield. “You? The dwarves think they will destroy us?” He laughed at him. “Not today, not tomorrow and not when the world comes to an end.”
Ginsgar hacked at his opponent’s right flank and, when the elf parried the blow, hit him on the head with the edge of his shield. The blow met bone and sent Limasar lurching into a block of stone. “You are wrong, as you see.” He rammed the flat side of the shield onto the fist in which the elf held his sword. Putting his weight behind it he broke the fingers of the elf’s hand. The weapon fell to the ground.
Limasar yelled and drew a dagger with his other hand. “You cannot prevail against purity.”
Ginsgar struck the elf with his hatchet before he could be harmed by the dagger. The ax blade laid open the armor, and the chest beneath it. The elf collapsed.
“Bring me a hammer!” called Ginsgar, setting his foot against the elf’s shoulder and wrenching his ax blade out of the elf’s flesh. “Don’t die yet, pointy-ears!” he laughed. “My hammer wants to smash your arrogant face. It’s been waiting so long.”
Five dwarves ran up with the weapon Ginsgar wanted. On their clothing could be seen the blood of countless elves. The head of the hammer was red and sticky and had fine hairs clinging to it.
“Tell me your name,” Ginsgar demanded of Limasar, who shook his head weakly in protest. “No? then keep it to yourself and tell your false gods when you meet them.” He lifted the hammer and dropped it vertically onto the skull of the wounded elf. The bone stood no chance against the strength of the blow. The skull burst open and blood streamed out through nostrils, ears and mouth before the head was crushed beyond recognition.
“That’s for Gandogar!” he cried and spat on the mutilated corpse. He shouldered his hammer and went over to where the overhang had collapsed.
Pools of blood had formed on the rock; life-juices trickled out from underneath the huge slab of stone and from the bodies of those slain by arrow or club.
“A fine sight,” Ginsgar laughed roughly, and the others joined in. “It was a good idea, paying the elves a visit and paying our respects to Gandogar, wasn’t it?”
“Good thing you saw them coming,” agreed Bilandel Lighthammer of the clan of the Hammer Heads, wiping blood off his face with a bit of rag. The two were alike, but his beard was brown whereas Ginsgar’s was red. They would be taken for brothers were they not from different clans.
Ginsgar climbed onto the nearest rock to have a better view. He and his clan’s five hundred warriors were the contingent from the Red Mountains sent as reinforcements for the Toboribor siege. The news of Gandogar’s death had reached them as they marched. Dwarf spirit had flared up in fury and his soldiers were of one angry mind.
Seeing the numbers of elf dead did not cool his blood. He was eaten up by the thought that there were still elves alive. “What are these few paltry corpses? landur is full of them,” he murmured belligerently.
Bilandil looked up. “I agree. When it’s over someone will find a way of explaining away what the pointy-ears have done and they won’t get the punishment they deserve.”
Ginsgar looked at his friend. “Hear me, children of the Smith!” he called. The dwarves thronged in front of him, not a trace of regret showing on any face. “Our high king has been taken from us. And we know who perpetrated his treacherous murder. They tell us the elves were dazzled and led astray by the avatars and the elf-woman that led them.” He raised his hammer and pointed north. “Remember the wars our folk have waged against the elves over thousands of cycles. We never sought such wars but were forced into them by the aggression of the elves: their cruel deeds or malicious threats. Even the älfar are more honest than they are. I say the elves never wanted peace with our people. The slaying of Gandogar shows their true colors. We tried to negotiate reconciliation; may Vraccas be our witness that we tried. And this is how they repay us.” He struck the rock a mighty blow with his hammer. “Enough! Let us make for landur and tear the deceiving evil heart out of the elf-folk before another malevolent fruit ripens on the trees of their glades!”
And the dwarves roared approval in a frenzy of victory and blood-lust. They put aside the task they had been given.
“Long live Ginsgar!” shouted Bilandel, brandishing his morning star. “Let him lead us to landur. And if our kind track down the diamond, we shall make sure no pointy-ears are alive to grab it!” He headed the march. “To landur! Vengeance for Gandogar!”
Ginsgar was hoisted up and carried on a shield. “Vraccas is with us!” he promised his dwarf-following. “Death to all elves!”
Above the heads of the warrior throng he held his shield up with one hand and raised his warhammer in the other.
To see the impressive figure of the red-bearded dwarf was immediately to recognize the new high king of the dwarves—one who would preside over bitter and terrible times.
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Idoslane,
The Caves of Toboribor,
Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Ireheart took a peek round the corner. The passageway, as yet unexplored, lay dark and abandoned before them. Or rather, it gave the impression of being abandoned.
“What happens if we meet elves, Scholar?” he said, before jumping round, his crow’s beak raised.
“Depends how they behave. If they attack, we fight back,” Tungdil answered. “But I don’t want to see any of us lift a weapon first,” he warned his companions.
He was leading one of the dwarf bands that in the last ten orbits had penetrated deep into the former orc territory. As well as Ireheart, Goda and Sirka, he had fifty heavily armored experienced warriors who had already shown their mettle in battles on the Blacksaddle and against the avatars and orcs in the Gray Range. Resolute veterans all, they feared no peril and would fight Tion himself if need be.
Lot-Ionan could not be with them. Instead, they had Dergard to counter the magic of the unslayables or perhaps of the elves. The dwarves were ta
king over all the fighting.
Ireheart poked at a long thin object with the tip of his boot. “Orc bones. Not very old, but not very recent.” He bent and picked up his find. “A snout-face’s thigh bone. Severed with one blow.” It was a clean cut. “Must have been an extremely sharp blade,” he said, admiration in his voice. “Not a sword and certainly not the kind of ax the orcs use.”
“The ubariu?” suggested Goda hesitantly. “Did they get in here secretly…”
“No.” Tungdil moved forward cautiously, his right hand clasping Keenfire. “The unslayables. They killed the orcs.”
Boïndil shook his head doubtfully. “Do you think they’d simply do away with the last of their allies for the hell of it?”
“No, not just for the hell of it. But they’d do it. Perhaps they’d carried out their task and weren’t needed anymore.”
From in front of them came a loud hiss and two large green spots glowed in the darkness. There was a rumbling sound as at terrifying creature made of tionium picked up a metal foot and moved toward them.
“That must be the thing King Ortger was describing,” Ireheart called out, raising his crow’s beak. “Anybody remember where the weak spot is for this particular freak?”
“No, don’t look for a weak spot,” Tungdil ordered. If Furgas was really the mastermind behind these monsters there wouldn’t be any weak spots. “Let’s get it another way.”
Dergard pushed to the front, lifted his hands and started to intone a spell, but Tungdil stopped him. “Keep your magic for when we face the unslayables,” he said. “Don’t forget that some of the parts are coated with an alloy that conducts magic.”
“You are right.” Dergard lowered his arms. “It would help rather than harm them.” His gaze wandered upwards toward the roof. “But they presumably would be vulnerable to a rockfall?”