The Dwarves Omnibus

by Markus Heitz

  “I’d have liked to have seen it all, but they wouldn’t let me go with them.” Ireheart was curious about the Invisibles’ special skills.

  “It was probably better this way.” Tungdil pulled out Bloodthirster. “It wouldn’t have been your sort of fight, Ireheart. You’re not silent when you attack orcs: You normally brandish your crow’s beak, yell and swear a lot, and smash up their armor. It gets quite loud.”

  A Zhadár stood waiting for them at the first of the wooden gates, now open.

  As they hurried through they saw a couple of dozen orcs lying in the mud, with their throats cut. Others had received dents and slashes to their armor and some had their heads entirely missing.

  This image was regularly repeated. A Zhadár stood at each of the gates with massacred guards behind him in the mire.

  Ireheart was impressed. “Well, fry me an elf!” he murmured.

  At last they arrived at the pass that led to the Red Mountains. The orcs had erected a further wooden palisade; this time it was Barskalín who was waiting for them.

  “We killed the sentries like you said,” he reported to Tungdil. “No alarm was sounded.”

  “I would have expected nothing less and am very pleased,” Tungdil praised him. “How many orcs so far?”

  “We killed a hundred and fourteen of them and two Lohasbranders who were in the guardroom. They were acting as officers,” the sytràp explained. “We took a third one prisoner because we thought you’d want to interrogate him.”

  “Excellent.” Tungdil followed him inside; Ireheart and the rest joined them.

  The cave was high-ceilinged, stark and bare. The orcs and Lohasbranders had not troubled to make it homely. On closer examination faint remains of dwarf-runes and masonry carvings could still be seen. At the front of the cave, right next to the palisade fence, there were two wooden barrack buildings where the orc crews would have been quartered; nearby were two smaller sheds. Barskalín explained one was a storeroom and the other was a jail cell whose two orc occupants they also slaughtered.

  Ireheart listened in surprise. These Zhadár are as dangerous as the black-eyes!

  Hargorin told his soldiers to guard the cave and to spread out over the four passageways. None of the tunnels was large enough to admit a full-grown dragon, they were relieved to note. Lohasbrand would not be able to attack them in here.

  On the way into the first of the barrack buildings, where the Zhadár were holding the captive Lohasbrander, Ireheart inspected the corpses. “It’s a mystery how the Invisibles managed to do all that without the pig-faces putting up any resistance,” he remarked to Slîn, so astonished that he could not help commenting.

  “They’ve learned a frightening amount from the älfar,” the fourthling agreed. “I keep thinking about how well they know my native land. They could easily do the same thing in the Brown Mountains.” He looked at Balyndar. “Or with the fifthlings. Or the freelings. Just imagine what might have happened had the älfar trained up some thirdlings keen to kill the other dwarves! We’d have been wiped out ages ago.”

  “They wouldn’t have found it this easy,” Balyndar observed, looking at one of the dead orcs, whose throat had been cut.

  “But the losses would have been terrible,” Ireheart replied, as he went inside the building.

  Tungdil was standing with Barskalín in front of the captured Lohasbrander, who they had forced to his knees and chained to a wooden pillar. He wore black lamellar armor and had light fair hair sticking up all over his head. In stature he was podgy yet strongly built, and the fair beard on his broad face was stained red with the blood oozing from a cut on his left cheek.

  “That’s Wielgar!” cried Coïra. “He’s one of the Lohasbranders who were in Mifurdania recently. He’s the one who had The Incomparable Rodario executed.”

  “Well, well, the little maga,” he groaned. “That attempt at rebellion will cost you dear. The Dragon will reduce your land to rubble and ashes!”

  “We’ve things planned for Lohasbrand. He won’t have time to get up to any such tricks.” Tungdil planted himself in front of the man. “Where will we find the magic source and the Dragon’s treasure?” Wielgar started to laugh. Tungdil went on, “Before you do that, think hard. I am a past master in administering pain.” He drew up a small bench, released the man’s right arm and forced it down onto the wood. “We’ll start with the fingers, bit by bit. I’ll hammer each segment flat as a pancake.” He bound up the upper arm so that the blood loss would not prove fatal. “Then I’ll make my way up the limb, cutting it into slices. I’ll let you see them before I shove them in your mouth to keep your strength up. Then we’ll have a go with the other arm.”

  Wielgar seemed worried. “I am an admirer of the Dragon and one of his highest officers…”

  “I couldn’t care less.” The flat side of Bloodthirster’s blade flashed down and the tip of one finger was transformed into a mushy mess; the nail fell off and blood flowed.

  Wielgar yelled. “You shall all die!” he vowed. “Give up now.”

  Tungdil reminded him, “You know what my questions are. Do we have any answers yet?”

  “There is no magic source,” he moaned. And, as the sword was lifted again, he screamed, “There is no magic source! Believe me! We know the rumors but we’ve never found anything.”

  “How would you? You’re not magi,” Coïra remarked.

  “The Dragon told us,” he countered, one eye on Bloodthirster, which was hovering over his hand. “I swear by Samusin that there’s no magic at all in the Red Range. Except for the maga.”

  Coïra looked at Mallenia and implored her silently not to think of mentioning her present weakened state. “That’s all right,” she said, feigning indifference. “I’ve got enough magic to kill ten dragons. But I shall use a spell to check whether or not he’s telling the truth; if his next answer is a lie, his head will burst open.” She moved her fingers, closed her eyes and touched his brow with her left index finger. “Is there a magic source?”

  “No!” Wielgar cried out, beside himself with terror. “No, by all…”

  “And the treasure?” Tungdil reminded the Lohasbrander and took aim for a further blow.

  “Miles away, seventy miles to the west,” he said straightaway. “He had everything moved there, all the tribute collected in his name.”

  Ireheart could not restrain himself anymore. “How many pig-faces does he have under his command?”

  Wielgar shrugged. “Thousands. We counted them.”

  “Right, right. Thousands, then.” Tungdil slammed the weapon down and shattered the little finger completely. “Try again. Or do you want the maga to do another spell, to make your head…”

  “Not more than seven thousand,” Wielgar shouted. “They live in the caves and we call them up when we need them. Then there’s another thousand traveling around with the governors in Weyurn.” He stared at the dwarf in rage. “They’ll be here any time now and they’ll wipe you out. A report has gone out about this attack.”

  “It has certainly not,” Barskalín contradicted. “Apart from him no one was left alive, Tungdil. Nobody escaped.”

  “You missed one.” Wielgar gave a sly grin. “A second lookout position, in the rocks above the entrance. The guards will be on their way.”

  “We should get out of here,” said Coïra uneasily.

  “Without nicking a single thing from the treasure hoard? Why should Lohasbrand bother coming after us?”

  “We need something to make the Dragon follow us,” Tungdil said.

  “How about this guy?” suggested Rodario, pointing at Wielgar. “If he’s really as important as he claims to be, Lohasbrand is sure to want to have him back.”

  Wielgar laughed again. “Another of those stupid Rodarios. They get absolutely everywhere. But he’s just right for this farce.”

  A loud hissing roar echoed around the cave; excited shouts came through from outside, and steps approached the barracks.

  “Lohasbrand!”
Mallenia looked at everyone. “He’s found us!”

  “He can’t get in through the passages. We’re safe from him.” Ireheart looked at the doorway, where one of the Black Squadron came rushing through. “But he’s not safe from us!”

  “The Dragon is coming, sir,” the squadron soldier reported to Tungdil. “We heard his roar through the second passageway. Hargorin wants to know what your instructions are.”

  Wielgar laughed triumphantly. “If you ask me, you should run for your lives. Perhaps you’ll find a little hole outside—somewhere to hide in.”

  Tungdil studied the Lohasbrander at length, making his confident merriment ebb quickly away. “We attack,” he announced. “Then I’ll come back and cut your head off.” He ran out.

  “Huzzah! We’re off to get the Dragon!” Ireheart raised his crow’s beak. “I still need to cross him off my list of monsters.” He followed his friend.

  Slîn sighed as he looked at his crossbow. “I’ve got the wrong weapon again. What use am I against dragon scales?”

  “Shoot him in the eye?” came Rodario’s helpful suggestion. “If I were a dragon I’m sure that would annoy me terribly.” He looked at the women. “It’ll be a tough battle, but we have an excellent maga on our side. I’ll cover you but you’ll have to kill Lohasbrand for me.”

  Coïra attempted a smile, and failed. Mallenia put her hand on the queen’s shoulder to encourage her. Together they ran off after the dwarves, who had raced out like a black cloud toward the second passageway.

  Again came the Dragon’s deafening roar, and hot stinking steam entered the corridor. Surely a prelude to worse to come.

  Ireheart did not move from Tungdil’s side; they reached a further cave.

  Without warning, a burst of flame shot down on them!

  The Zhadár and the Black Squadron raised their shields to defend themselves against the fire.

  Ireheart could feel the heat swarming over them, but the shields had protected them from severe burns. Isn’t that a bit on the harmless side? We should have been incinerated! There’s nothing hotter than a dragon’s breath! “Overhead,” he called. “He must have climbed up on the ceiling, the coward!”

  But, however hard he looked, there was no dragon to be seen clinging to the ceiling. When he looked at his shield he noticed there was only a little soot on it. The fifthlings’ forge had once been set alight by the breath of a dragon. Lohasbrand, in contrast, seemed to have no really dangerous flames at his disposal.

  But the Scaly One’s roar erupted again, from the back of the cave.

  Now they could see the dark-green dragon-head perched on top of a long neck. The elongated skull was visible over the top of a boulder and smoke was rising from the nostrils at the end of its narrow snout. It was a threat, to force them to leave the cave.

  Ireheart took a firmer grip on his weapon. “How did it get there so fast?”

  Soldiers appeared from behind the stone and took up their positions. Ireheart reckoned there were about eighty warriors, all wearing lamellar plated armor and emerald green cloaks: On their heads they wore familiar helmets in the shape of a dragon, and they carried spears and shields.

  “The mighty Dragon Lohasbrand commands you to leave here immediately,” one of their number called out. “Or he will kill you and all your families.”

  “That’s exactly why we are here,” said Coïra, stepping forward. “To stop this. We have put up with him and you for far too long.” She was relying on support from Tungdil Goldhand and the dwarves. Should a warrior heart be beating quite so fast? “Weyurn demands the return of its freedom!”

  One of the Lohasbranders lowered the tip of his spear to aim it at her. “The Dragon laughs at your crazy attempt to seize power. If you disappear, now, he is prepared to forget what you have planned.”

  Ireheart thought this conduct on the part of the man, and particularly on the part of the Dragon, was very strange. It ought to have been easy for such a monster to intimidate them all by sheer size and strength. They say the Dragon is fifty paces long and ten paces broad. A glance at Tungdil assured him that his friend was thinking along the same lines—or had he already worked out what was happening? Had he missed some clue from Wielgar’s interrogation?

  He studied the block of stone above which the dragonhead rose up. “That little rock is never going to be big enough to hide Lohasbrand,” he murmured, and waved to Slîn to join him. “Shoot the dragon in the eye.”

  “Did Tungdil say to?”

  “No, we don’t need him.”

  “Charming…”

  He shoved him. “Come on. Hurry up!”

  Slîn hesitated. “You want to provoke an attack?”

  “Get on with it!” snarled Ireheart. “Nothing will happen.” He stood so that the archer could aim at the target without being seen by the Lohasbranders.

  Slîn took a deep breath and held it while he drew back the trigger mechanism. A click, and the bolt whizzed through the air, hitting the creature in the middle of the right pupil.

  “You never missed?” asked Ireheart accusingly.

  “No, of course not!” Slîn was furious. “I couldn’t miss a target like that even after a jug of brandy and a barrel of black beer!” He loaded the weapon again to prove his point and a second projectile landed up touching the first. “Charming, indeed! It doesn’t feel any pain!”

  Nobody had spotted what they were up to.

  The rationale behind this extraordinary phenomenon suddenly occurred to Ireheart. He looked at Slîn excitedly. “At this rate we might stud him all over with bolts and he wouldn’t notice at all.”

  “True.” The fourthling shuddered. “An immortal dragon? By Vraccas…”

  “No.” Ireheart laughed out loud. “That’s it! That’s why he’s not coming out from behind the rock.”

  “What?” called Slîn. “Why not?” He did not get an answer.

  Ireheart went over to Tungdil and whispered his idea.

  The Scholar smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well done! If you carry on like this, Girdlegard won’t need me at all. Splendid, Ireheart! I could sense something wasn’t right. That explains everything. You’ve taken away the Dragon’s power.” He lifted Bloodthirster and looked along the ranks. All the dwarves were awaiting his orders. “Maga Coïra, you and Mallenia and Rodario keep back behind our lines. If the Dragon attacks you then go into action. We’ll do the rest.” Then he lowered his sword and stormed forward.

  The Zhadár and Black Squadron were close on his heels, yelling fit to bust and brandishing their weapons.

  They may have looked like a random horde but these warriors were well trained and adopted a distinct formation. Hargorin’s soldiers went in as the first wave, to carve out gaps in the enemy lines. The Zhadár would then push through these breaks to attack like shadows from behind to confuse the foe.

  Ireheart threw himself into the fray with passion. “Hey there, Lohasbranders! Let’s have your shields out of the way!” he bellowed enthusiastically, smashing the first one with a crow’s beak broadside. He ducked under a darting spear tip, took a step to the left and hacked his metal spike into the opponent’s ribcage; there was a gratifying scream.

  Ireheart sprang through into the gap, pushing away the Zhadár trying to follow him. “Get off! This is my place!” he snarled, yanking the metal spur out of the dead body to thrust it into the living body of the next foe careless enough to leave himself undefended.

  The iron hook tore the lamellar garb apart and sliced through the flesh beneath it. The Lohasbrander fell groaning to the floor.

  “One less!” cheered the dwarf, delivering a sharp kick to another’s shield, making the holder fall backwards. Ireheart jumped onto the shield, crushing the man underneath. “It’s always going to be dark for you now, dragon friend,” he growled, whacking the flat side of the crow’s beak into the man’s face.

  Behind his stone the Dragon was roaring and raging—but he wasn’t coming out.

  Ireheart had foug
ht his way through the ranks of men, clearing a path the Zhadár were making use of. They, Tungdil and he sneaked round behind the boulder to launch themselves on Lohasbrand with loud oaths.

  What they saw made them stop in mid-attack.

  A dozen men and women were operating the dragon-head and neck on long poles, which they were raising and lowering to give the impression the creature was moving. Others were making the snout open and close; directly adjacent five more of them were banging away on boxes and drums and metal sheets to create the dragon’s roaring voice. They had constructed a sort of funnel arrangement to increase the volume of noise.

  “Puppeteers! Will you look at that! Just what I thought!” Ireheart grinned. “You can’t trick a dwarf that easily, you idiot play actors!” He sprang into their midst, whirling his crow’s beak in circles; the Zhadár and the squadron followed suit.

  The wooden poles that were wielded against them soon fell, smashed by powerful blows; Ireheart’s battle-fury kicked in, sending a red mask of rage over his face.

  Yelling and cheering he dealt out shattering blows with his weapon, feeling blood spurting, and hearing the cries and groans of the wounded and dying—until his friend’s voice reached him. With immense difficulty he forced back the tide of fever, the fire in his veins, the bloodlust that had taken him over. He rubbed his eyes and surveyed the carnage.

  Human remains lay scattered around.

  They had not put up much of a fight and Ireheart had been disappointed at the lack of resistance. Catching his breath, he aimed a kick at the stuffed dragon-head. Sweat was pouring off him. “Ha! Dead!” He cleaned off his weapon in a foul temper. “What a let-down. I still can’t cross off killing a dragon on my list.”

  Hargorin came round the rock with a troop of his men expecting to help Ireheart fight the Dragon. He halted the soldiers and came over to inspect what was left of the enemy soldiers and the monster. “Wielgar has a lot of explaining to do,” was his only comment. Coïra, Mallenia and Rodario also arrived and stared in astonishment at the bloodbath and the dragon cadaver.