The Fate of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

The catch stopped moving, then went slowly back into its original position.

  “What shall we do?” asked Coïra in a muffled voice.

  “We wait,” Mallenia hissed. She thought it could well be Rodario on the other side. Did he want to apologize? Did he want something more of her? She sighed softly. The man was driving her crazy. As if he knew she had a thing about helpless types.

  The time passed painfully slowly. Everything was quiet. Whoever had been trying to enter the room must have changed their mind.

  Then there was a scream!

  “That was in Mother’s room!” Coïra peeled herself out of the niche, ran to the door and pulled it open.

  Sisaroth stood before her, waiting with two-handed sword raised ready to strike.

  The maga did not think twice, but sent a destructive ball of pure energy at the älf—but he dodged the sphere that was shooting toward him, just as Rodario had joked he might.

  The hurtling magic ball whizzed across the corridor, hitting the door three paces away on the other side of the passage. At that moment Queen Wey’s door swung open and she stood on the threshold, face to face with her fate.

  Coïra could see the fear in her mother’s countenance. Horror-struck she watched her lips move in an attempt to form a counter-spell. Wey threw her arms up to protect herself, but Coïra felt only utter helplessness. And fear for her mother’s life.

  Girdlegard,

  Dwarf Realm of the Fifthlings,

  In the North of the Gray Mountains,

  Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

  “This is where the kordrion was last cycle.” Balyndar studied the steep cliffs intently, searching for signs of a certain distinctive shadow. “It flies around looking for prey. If it turns up, stand tight against the rock face.”

  The dwarf-group got into pairs: The narrow ravine only allowed them to go two abreast. The dark gray rock walls were rough as a whetstone and contact with anything metal caused ridges and scratches. Ireheart made use of the chance to sharpen the tip of his spike. The others took care not to scrape along the abrasive walls by accident. It would do no favors to armor, clothing or skin.

  Apart from Balyndar, Tungdil, Slîn and Boïndil, the expedition had the three warriors from the fourthling tribe with them. Balyndis had sent along five of her fifthlings, all of them excellent in combat; they pulled their equipment behind them on the sledges they intended to use for transporting the kordrion’s young.

  Tungdil stopped in the middle of the path and lifted his head, breathing in the clear, icy air.

  “The nest,” Balyndar went on, “will be on the southern side of the Dragon’s Tongue. It always lays its eggs in the south. The monster digs a hole into the rock; we’ll see it from quite a distance. It’s like a large cave, so huge the entrance can’t be concealed. After leaving the ravine it’ll take us another half-orbit to get to it. We’ll need another full orbit for the ascent.”

  “What are you doing, Scholar?” Ireheart wanted to know.

  “Smelling,” he said bluntly. “We need to hurry.” He speeded up, making for the end of the ravine.

  Balyndar glanced at Ireheart, who shrugged in response. “Can you be a bit more specific?” Ireheart asked his friend. “I don’t object to running but I want to know why I’m having to.”

  “The eggs are nearly ready to hatch!” Tungdil called back over his shoulder.

  Ireheart’s own deliberately loud sniff echoed back from the walls. “Can’t smell a thing.” He trotted up to his friend.

  “That’s because you don’t know what to expect. Did you notice the mossy odor?”

  “Yes, of course…” Boïndil fell silent. Then, after a moment’s thought, he exclaimed, “By Vraccas! It didn’t mean anything to me. I should have noticed that everything green here is covered in snow and anything containing water frozen solid. The moss should be the same.”

  “There you are, you see. If I give you a tiny clue you can work it out for yourself.”

  Tungdil emerged out into the light. A veil of mist was slowly rising in the warmth of the sun. “Excellent cover for our climb!” he said, signaling to the group to move faster. “We could be up there by nightfall.”

  “Hardly. It’s a difficult climb,” Balyndar contradicted him. “The next stretch is notorious for snowdrifts. And we’ll need to conserve energy. We’ve got an exhausting dash ahead of us with the kordrion breathing down our necks.”

  Tungdil had not slackened his pace and was a considerable distance ahead. Ireheart assumed this was his way of showing that he did not intend to discuss his commands with anyone. This mission is definitely going to be loads of fun.

  “He’s going to get us all killed,” Balyndar protested, starting to run. The rest followed suit.

  “Ah, many’s the time we thought that in the past, but the Scholar always found a way out,” Boïndil reassured him. “And anyway, he’s the high king. He’s allowed to.” He showed his teeth in a smile to show it had been a joke.

  “And how many never returned?” asked Slîn. But when he saw Boïndil’s face he did not persist. “Charming,” he murmured, panting a little from the weight of his crossbow. “Vraccas, let me be one of those who make it back home again,” muttered Slîn. “In one piece.” As he ran he grabbed a drink of water. “So what does the kordrion do all day in the Gray Mountains? It’s a pretty lonely, dead-end sort of place it rules over here.”

  “It doesn’t rule over anywhere,” snarled Balyndar who felt this was addressed to him. “It’s a verminous pest infesting the area.” He pointed south toward Girdlegard. “From what we hear, it flies off to the long-uns. After it’s wiped out a few villages, the humans voluntarily put gifts of food out on the fields to keep it off their backs. The areas it’s been targeting are in the former Gauragar and in Urgon and Tabaîn. So it affects the Dragon Lohasbrand as much as the älfar and their vassals. But none of them dares brave the mountains to get to the eyrie.”

  Slîn sniffed contemptuously. “Real heroes, then.”

  “It’s easier for everyone to wait and see when the fifthlings will finish it off,” Ireheart added cynically. “I should be angrier, but since their cowardice may be a help to us, my fury has almost faded away. But only almost.”

  The fourthling saw no sign of the beast. “Maybe Lohasbrand has made a deal with the kordrion?”

  “No,” contradicted Tungdil at the head of the column. “A kordrion wants total dominance; it’s just like a dragon, though with less mental capacity. Its size doesn’t give it any advantage over a dragon because the scaled beasts are cleverer. The kordrion has ordered its realm and feels at ease, otherwise it wouldn’t be nesting. It’s content to eat without having to hunt. Lohasbrand, on the other hand, functions precisely like a typical dragon: Reigns like a king, exacting tribute from his subjects, and so on.”

  “Nice. Charming,” said Slîn peevishly. “But it’s not right that all the monsters should end up coming to us from all over the shop, just to enjoy an easy life.”

  Ireheart laughed. “I would love to see them all killed, and to celebrate I’d sing an old song the drunkard Bavragor taught me.”

  “Bavragor?” asked Balyndar. “The name rings a bell…”

  “He was one of those who accompanied me and never came back,” said Tungdil darkly, speaking over his shoulder. “Is that enough of an answer?”

  The fifthling, caught out, nodded.

  Tungdil’s grim expression was enough to spur the group on. He rarely said a word and when he did it was a command.

  Under cover of the mist they began their ascent to the kordrion’s cave and by nightfall they had reached it. A hole in the cliff, ten paces wide, yawned at them, an overwhelming smell of fresh, damp moss emanating from within.

  Ireheart held his crow’s beak in his right hand and stared at the entrance. “You’re sure it’s not at home, Scholar?”

  “I wouldn’t have urged you to hurry if it was. Whatever Balyndar thinks of me, I wouldn’t throw us all to the be
ast as a sacrifice.” The stars were faintly reflected in the gold of his eye patch.

  “Hang on! I’ve seen you fighting a kordrion! And if you’d kept on you’d have had him down!” Ireheart butted in.

  Tungdil took another deep breath. “This one’s different; I could tell from the way he’s built his eyrie. Sometimes they just drop their eggs and leave the young to their fate. It’s unusual to have an eyrie and a nest. And as for my little victory over a kordrion: I can’t surprise this one, it doesn’t trust me. And it’s been out of captivity for too long, living in the wild. We’d need a dozen or so of me if we wanted to beat this foe.”

  “A dozen Scholars? No wonder Balyndis has had no luck.” Ireheart lowered his weapon and helped the others to haul their equipment up onto the narrow ledge. The sledges, cords, cables and hooks, together with their provisions, were suspended on ropes they had anchored to the rock every few paces of their climb.

  “We won’t find a better opponent for Lot-Ionan,” Tungdil agreed. He waited until the other dwarves had heaved up and secured their gear, then he spoke. “Eat now, then sleep till I wake you. After that, prepare to be on the run for orbits at a time. You’ll get no more sleep until we’ve got a long way away from the monster. An enraged kordrion can fly very fast.” He drew Bloodthirster. “I’ll take first watch.”

  The dwarves looked at one another and went off to the sledges to shut their eyes for a while; with warm rugs of cat fur over them and bearded faces wrapped in scarves, they lay down to rest. They trusted their high king.

  Ireheart was unsure what to do. His legs were painful and as heavy as ten sacks of lead shot, but on the other hand he did not want to leave his friend—who had made the same exhausting climb in his peculiar armor—alone on watch.

  His eyes were tired and smarting and he could hear his stomach rumbling. “I need something to eat first, Vraccas, or my insides will be louder than a thunderstorm.” He went over to the sledge that held their food supplies. “Then, perhaps, a little smoke, to aid digestion, and the world will look a whole lot better,” he muttered to himself. When he opened the first layer of leather to get at the bread something caught his eye on the edge of the rock they had pulled themselves up over. He was surprised to see a metal retaining hook, shiny and without rust. There was a dusting of snow on it… Hoar frost would have made sense, but snow?

  “What does it mean?” He leaned over and brushed the snow aside. One glimpse was enough to tell him the hook was not one of their own. “Well, I’ll be squashed flat with a hammer…” he cursed, rushing over to tell Tungdil what he had found.

  The one-eyed dwarf didn’t want to come and inspect it. Instead he turned on his heel and stormed into the cave. Ireheart followed him.

  The smell of moss grew stronger and became overwhelming, making it difficult to breathe.

  Ireheart lit a torch, intent on carefully examining what they found. What he saw caused him great concern.

  The kordrion’s brood had consisted of pale cocoons each the size of a human—until unidentified intruders had turned up and slashed them to ribbons. Opaque sticky liquid covered the floor ankle deep, almost frozen solid near the mouth of the cave; dead and dismembered embryonic kordrions lay among the mess.

  “So that’s put paid to our great plan.” Ireheart squatted down to look at the corpses. They reminded him a little of flying fish, but they had more eyes and were ten times as large. “What can have done it?”

  “They were either mad or desperate, the same as us.” Tungdil stomped about the cave, bending over to examine individual body parts. “I should say there were ten of them with very sharp weapons—you can tell from the cuts,” he imparted to his friend. “And the prints say: Dwarves.”

  “Balyndis would never have kept it from us if she’d sent people out,” said Ireheart, moving through the carnage. “Despite all this slaughter the overriding smell is still the moss. It could have been worse; anyone who’s been covered head to foot with the stinking guts from an orc’s slit belly will know what I mean.” As he walked across to Tungdil he surveyed the scene.

  The one-eyed dwarf yelled a warning at him, “No, don’t!”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Too late. You’ve trodden in it.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter.” Ireheart gestured dismissively. “It’s only moss. Perhaps Goda will like the smell.”

  “It’s not just her that will like it. The thing is, that smell will stick to your clothes. And to you. The kordrion will assume you killed his young,” Tungdil explained.

  Ireheart stared open-mouthed in distress. “Just me? What about you, Scholar?”

  “I didn’t touch anything and, anyway, nothing sticks to tionium. I can wash off any splashes,” he replied. He examined the cave floor minutely. “There was an extra cocoon just here. They’ve taken it with them.” He rubbed his nose. “I wonder why.”

  Ireheart laughed. “Not the same reason as us, surely?”

  “We’ll have to find them to stop them doing something stupid.” He pointed to the entrance. “Wake the others and tell them. I’ll check outside for tracks.” He kicked one of the mutilated dead. “When they’re grown they’re ten times the weight of a warrior in full armor. If our thieves haven’t taken to the skies we’ll find them and confront them.” They left the cave together, Tungdil to the right, Ireheart to the left.

  Boïndil woke the troops and explained. As he was summing up Tungdil came over.

  “I’ve found their tracks. They’ve climbed down on the other side of the mountain,” he informed them calmly. “We’ll follow them and get the last of the kordrion’s offspring. They can give it to us voluntarily or we can force them to hand it over. That cocoon is our only chance for a long, long time. The kordrion needs at least three cycles before it’s ready to lay again.” He looked at their faces. “It’s vital nothing injures the outer casing. It would mean death for the young, and the parent would smell that at once. There’d be no more point in its following us.”

  Except to pursue and slaughter its offspring’s killers, thought Ireheart.

  Slîn scowled. “Any idea who’s stolen a march on us? It’s almost as if our plans had been overheard. But who’s behind this? And what’s he planning to do with the cocoon?”

  “I hadn’t told them yet that we’ve found dwarf-bootprints,” said Ireheart.

  “Children of the Smith?” Balyndar gave a short mirthless laugh. “Or small humans? Or gnomes and cobolds with stolen footwear playing a trick?”

  “Courageous cobolds?” Ireheart dismissed the idea. “Cobolds would never put themselves within ten miles of a kordrion.”

  “We’ll soon see who we have to thank for this disaster.” Tungdil indicated they should break camp and stow their gear. “Boïndil, you stay close to me from now on,” came the quiet instruction. “I don’t need a nursemaid.”

  “You’ll need protection from the kordrion. Even if he’s stronger than I am I can fight him off for long enough to give us a chance to escape. I’m going to need you on this mission.” Tungdil was serious and honestly concerned for his friend’s safety. “It is only the first of many. But all of our plans must work if we are to free Girdlegard and save it from the army gathering in the Black Abyss.”

  Ireheart swallowed hard. The inner chorus of doubting voices that had previously troubled him fell silent, not a single one able to protest now against his conviction that his friend could be trusted. He nodded to Tungdil and followed him to the other side of the eyrie, where a broad set of tracks led to the steep slope.

  Tungdil surveyed the path the thieves must have taken. “What do you make of that?” he asked.

  “I don’t see the marks of any runners. So, have they used their shields to slide the cocoon down the mountain?” Ireheart raised his eyebrows. “Madness. They haven’t abseiled, they’ve just slipped and slithered down!” He thought of the dwarf-hater they had seen careering down the mountainside in the Outer Lands. Could the thirdling skirt-wearers be behind t
his?

  Tungdil looked at the other dwarves, who were catching up with them now: Bearded faces with crystals of ice around noses and mouths, eyes sparkling with determination. “Do you lot think we’re brave enough to do what those thieves have done?” His manner indicated, once more, that his questions were not questions, but commands. He took one of the sledges, pushing it off and jumping on board. Speeding over the edge, it was more a fall than a ride across the snow as he shot down toward the valley. “How many usually die on his little missions?” muttered Slîn, taking the leather band of his crossbow firmly in his hand. He shoved his own sledge downhill.

  Ireheart was ahead of him, launching himself into the wild ride with a triumphant cry, “Vraccas!”

  After a few paces, picking up speed all the time and with the strong icy wind bringing tears to his eyes, every bone in his body juddering and jarring, he knew one thing for certain: A lightning journey by tunnel car through the depths of the mountains was a princesses’ tea-party compared to this.

  XII

  Girdlegard,

  Dwarf Realm of the Fifthlings,

  In the North of the Gray Range of Mountains,

  Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

  Tungdil stood at the edge of a snowy stretch of ground between two mountain slopes, completely at a loss. The tracks made by the cocoon-thieves ended abruptly at the tips of his own boots. The prints disappeared at the edge of a precipice. “They’ve climbed straight down the cliff.” He bent forward to spy into the depths. It was impossible to see the foot of the cliff. “Must be at least three hundred paces to the bottom. Can’t make head or tail of it.”

  Balyndar and Ireheart were waiting at his side. “Or perhaps they can fly, after all,” said the fifthling, checking overhead. “I can’t make anything out on the rocks above us, either.”

  Ireheart searched around in the snow until he found solid rock. “And there’s no secret passage. I’d be able to hear it.” He noticed the funny looks the others were giving him. “So? I just wanted to make sure.”

  Tungdil went a couple of paces to one side on the virgin snow of the plain. “Not a bad idea.” He bent down and carefully brushed off the thin top layer of freshly fallen snow. In the older ice crystals underneath there were clear marks of something being dragged. “Clever of them,” he acknowledged. “They’ve put a load of snow on one of the sledges and they’re using it to conceal their tracks. To make us think they’ve abseiled down the cliff. But in reality they’ve gone this way.” With a grin he gave the signal for them to march on.