Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

The army split into sections, driving the weakened enemy before it. Axes sliced and crashed through shields, armor and trunks, shattering weapons and bones, sending opponents bleeding to the sodden ground.

The children of the Smith were letting nothing stop their onslaught; they clambered over corpses, battering and slaying anything in their path. Ireheart had Goda at his side and she increased the enemy’s confusion with a few strokes of magic; Coira and Lot-Ionan were with Tungdil and Balyndar was nearby. Ireheart expected Slin must be behind somewhere, sending out death with his crossbow bolts.

Ireheart surrendered to his battle-fury, yelling and laughing like a madman, wielding his crow’s beak with irresistible force.

The weapon’s spike cracked open every type of armor plating, smashing every shield and bone it touched; the blunt side hammered helmets, ribs and kneecaps flat and rendered faces a jellied pulp. Finally Ireheart’s rampaging was halted somewhat by the amount of enemy blood clouding his vision. He had to stop and wipe his face with his beard.

That was when he realized he had led his section of the army right through to the last ranks of the foe. There was no more resistance to face.

Ireheart swung his crow’s beak up in triumph and trumpeted a wild resounding “Vraccas,” taken up by the voices of all the dwarves at his side. He turned to see how Tungdil was doing.

At that moment the figure of a lone dwarf emerged from the ravine. His vraccasium armor glowed golden red in the sunlight.

His appearance brought everything to a halt, smothering their joy at their initial victory as surely as if a bucket of manure had been emptied on their heads.

Ireheart found himself compelled to stare at the dwarf and forgot the commands he had been about to give. The others reacted similarly on seeing their weird new opponent. He was imposing in spite of being so small in comparison with the beasts, and an aura of dark power enveloped him, notwithstanding the brightness of his armor.

The dwarf raised an arm and, at his signal, monsters marched out of the abyss behind him, all fully a head taller than the largest ubariu.

The monsters wore heavy gray metal armor topped with dark animal skins and helmets sporting the horns of wild beasts, with visors in the shape of ugly masks to hide their faces. In one hand they bore mighty swords or huge axes, while in the other they held long shields as protection against arrows.

Ireheart counted a hundred of them. One hundred particularly large challenges.

They came to a halt behind the dwarf and, at a shouted command, rammed the points of their shields down into the earth so that it shook at the impact. Then a second unit came marching out of the abyss, similarly armored, taking up position behind the front line. These beasts were holding scythe-like weapons; the shafts were reinforced with iron bands and the top ends were equipped with spikes the length of a finger.

The dwarf in vraccasium armor waited until the clash and clank had ceased, then took his two hammers and slammed them into one another, creating a cacophonous metallic noise, loud and extraordinarily unpleasant. Ireheart shook his head to deal with it. Wax plugs were no help. He looked at Tungdil, who had also led his troops in the first phase of the battle to victory. Thus roughly eight thousand fighting-fit children of the Smith were confronting two hundred opponents. This should be pure slaughter. But the size of their adversaries was no clue to their skill in combat.

One of the giant soldiers stepped up next to his master. “He who bears many names demands to know,” his voice echoed over the battlefield, “where the thief is who stole his armor. Who betrayed him. Who tried to kill him as a coward kills.”

At that, Goda put her bugle to her lips and gave the guards on the battlements a new command. At once the mirrored rays focused on the unknown dwarf, aiming to cook him inside his own armor!

Balyndar had fought his way through the enemy ranks at Tungdil’s side. He would never have considered himself a clumsy or unwieldy fighter, but that was the way he came across next to the agility of the one-eyed dwarf. While the fifthling was still busy dealing with extricating Keenfire out of enemy flesh after one deadly strike, Tungdil had already sliced up two opponents and was hurling himself on the third. Bloodthirster was a frightening weapon and was giving all honor to its name.

Balyndar had tried his level best but was unable to keep up.

Coira and Lot-Ionan, preserving their strength, were leaving all the vanquishing up to the dwarves. The fifthling thought this strategy eminently sensible.

Their victory had been shockingly easy and they had allowed themselves a few moments’ respite before marching onwards to the Black Abyss.

Balyndar tried to locate Slin but could see no sign of him. The threat the fourthling had made against him was not going to stop him doing what he and Goda had planned. Girdlegard had to be made safe for the next thousand cycles and that would only happen if every source of danger were eradicated. Every single one!

He noted that it had grown quieter but then a painfully loud cry assaulted his ears, making him start. Balyndar turned and saw the dwarf in red-gold armor in front of new adversaries. Quickly he pushed through to reach Tungdil’s side. Lot-Ionan and Coira joined them.

He could see the maga was frightened. This would be her first real experience of warfare, and that encounter with Sisaroth had left her with mental scars that had yet to heal. All the blood, the stink from steaming torn guts, the debris and the shouts were all hard to bear for the young woman.

Balyndar reckoned she would soon withdraw to seek safety in the fortress. So he touched her gently on the elbow and smiled at her encouragingly. It did not occur to him that he was no reassuring sight with his filthy smeared face and Keenfire dripping blood.

Coira’s smile was more of a grimace, and he noticed that her leather armor bore traces of vomit.

There was movement on the other side of the battlefield. One of the gigantic warriors had stepped up next to the dwarf in vraccasium armor. “He who bears many names,” so echoed the voice, “demands to know where the thief is who stole his armor. Who betrayed him. Who tried to kill him as a coward kills.”

Tungdil lifted his visor and opened his mouth to reply, but a bugle sounded.

The mirrors focused the beams and targeted the unknown dwarf, whose armor glowed in response.

“Excellent!” cheered Balyndar. Magic would be no help here, as the monsters had recently found out behind their seemingly impregnable barrier. “He’ll be stewed like a rabbit in a pot.”

“What infernal idiocy,” Tungdil exclaimed, shouting out his orders. The dwarves were to gather into a single army, with himself, Lot-Ionan, Coira and Balyndar at the head of it.

“Why? Do you call it idiocy because it wasn’t you who thought it up?” Balyndar was proud that Goda had come up with the trick with the mirrors.

“She ought to have asked me,” snarled Tungdil, sounding as dangerous as a wild animal. “This is exactly what I didn’t want to have happen.” He pointed to the dwarf. “Now he will use all his energy to make us pay.”

“Your instruction was that no one should confront him,” Balyndar began, wanting to excuse Goda’s action.

The one brown eye flashed in fury and Balyndar could see it change color as Tungdil glared at him! Uncanny green clouds and spirals whirled and black spidery lines shot out across the skin under the golden eye patch. “Trying to kill him: Would you not call that confronting him ? It certainly is in my book.”

Balyndar was still reeling from shock. He had never seen weird black lines like these except on an alf: Never on a dwarf before. “Proof, at last,” he murmured, watching Keenfire’s diamonds sparkle. “My conscience will be clear.”