Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

The vraccasium-clad dwarf clashed his hammers one against the other, and hardly had the noise rung out than the burnished shields on the battlements disintegrated. The soldiers who had been holding them and directing the light were suddenly blasted with sharp fragments and fell in chaotic disarray. Loud cries of fear and agony rang out.

“That,” Tungdil told Balyndar darkly, “was only the beginning. An initial flash of lightning before the storm proper.” He nodded to Lot-Ionan and stepped forward.

As the two sections of the dwarf-army came together, the one-eyed dwarf and magus moved away, heading toward the enemy.

Balyndar followed, pulling Coira along by the sleeve; from the other side he could see Goda and Ireheart approach. Of Slin there was still no sign.

The monster warrior who had served the enemy dwarf as a mouthpiece raised his voice once more: “He who bears many names laughs at your pathetic attempt to harm him. For the present he will be lenient and not impose harsher punishment. He will spare the fortress and all the lands on this and the other side of the mountains. If the thief is surrendered…”

“Save your breath,” Tungdil retorted. “You will neither pardon nor be lenient. You are here to kill.” He held Bloodthirster out. “Once, this weapon spared your life. It will not happen a second time.”

Ireheart watched the ranks of enemy warriors. They must carry special powers or why else would they confront our vastly superior numbers? Or perhaps they were extremely stupid. “What do you know about these soldiers?” he said under his breath to Tungdil.

“No idea,” his friend replied, without turning his head. “But even in those relatively small numbers they’ll be dangerous. Or he wouldn’t have brought them out.”

“He who bears many names will make this offer only once. Everything that subsequently happens will be your own fault,” the spokesman called out, while his master stood motionless at his side, hammers held loosely in his hands.

The undergroundlings appeared at the army’s flank and saw that they had arrived too late for the first battle. Kiras, their leader, called them to a halt. A few thousand more adversaries to confront the fighters from the ravine.

Is that all there’s going to be? Ireheart kept expecting another wave of Tion’s monsters to surge up out of the Black Abyss, maybe another kordrion, a dragon or two, anything that would stand at the side of these pitiful two hundred creatures for the inevitable battle. He was getting ever more concerned that no extra troops were appearing on the other side. “When’s it going to start?” he whispered. “Scholar, how long do we wait?”

Tungdil took two paces forward. “Here stands a famulus to challenge his master!” he called. “Let us see who prevails. After that, the armies can meet in battle if they still care to.”

Thundering and clanking, the contingent of humans appeared and the ubariu army crested the wall of rock. They, too, took up their formations. Thus the pincer movement was complete and the last two hundred and one enemies were surrounded.

Ireheart found the tension unbearable. “How can he remain so calm?” he asked.

“Goldhand or the other one?” responded Balyndar.

“The other one.” Ireheart scanned the gathered forces of humans, ubariu, undergroundlings and dwarves. “Even I would be a bit nervous faced with this lot.”

“Not if you had a pact with your supposed enemy,” Balyndar remarked, glancing at Goda. “It could be that we are the victims of the most scurrilous, duplicitous plot in the history of Girdlegard.”

“Nonsense,” grunted Ireheart. “The Scholar would never do a thing like that.” His fingers tightened on the shaft of his ax. “May Vraccas be my witness: If the two of them don’t start fighting soon, I will.”

Tungdil advanced toward the vraccasium-clad dwarf, his left arm stretched out in a gesture of challenge.

His opponent gave a harsh growl and stomped forward, lifting both hammers and twirling them playfully.

The armies watched closely what their leaders were doing and waited, tense and alert, for the duel to begin: Famulus versus master.

Ireheart glanced over at Lot-Ionan. The magus twitched his fingers almost imperceptibly and his lips moved in a silent incantation. What is he up to?

Before the two opponents had reached each other, the dwarf in vraccasium uttered a further sound and pointed one of his hammers at Tungdil.

The fact that nothing happened seemed to disturb both of them, as Ireheart could see from their body posture. The Scholar was the first to recover composure: He made a swift leap forward, swinging Bloodthirster at his opponent’s head.

It took a while for Ireheart to work out what had occurred. The opposing dwarf had tried to freeze the tionium armor and paralyze Tungdil, but it had not happened! Ireheart spotted a satisfied expression on the face of their own magus. Had he counteracted the spell? Had the course of action been agreed in advance with the Scholar… or was it the overture to an act of treachery?

The master warded off Tungdil’s strike, halting it with his crossed hammers, pushing back the attacker, who spun on his heel and forced the blade up against the evil dwarf’s throat.

Again the hammers were crossed, forming scissors, then their master turned them and hooked the hammer heads together so that Tungdil was prevented from extracting Bloodthirster. The dwarf-magus ducked down, wrenching back Tungdil’s lethal blade.

The maneuver was successful and the united armies let out a horrified cry as Bloodthirster flew through the air and got stuck in a bog ten paces away from Tungdil. Hollow laughter rang out from under the master’s helmet and he pushed his visor up. The repulsive sight of the disfigured face made Ireheart retch.

A whirring sound-and suddenly a bolt flew from out of the midst of the assembled dwarves, hitting the dwarf-master in the face. Slin had obviously been waiting for precisely the right moment.

Ireheart could see clearly that the projectile had penetrated the nose plate. Blood oozed out, the injured dwarf swayed and took two steps to the side, to be caught by one of his own troops hurrying to his aid. He uttered a loud groan and made useless gestures with the hammers. Tungdil raced over to retrieve Bloodthirster while Lot-Ionan raised his arms to cast a spell.

“By Vraccas! Now it’s going to start,” said Ireheart.

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Urgon,

Passview, in the Northeast,

Thirty-one miles from the Entrance to the Realm of the Fourthlings,

In the Brown Mountains,

Early Summer, 6492nd Solar Cycle

Rodario was just about to scold Mallenia for having got up, but then he fell silent and sat down on the edge of the bed to watch her.

She was standing at the window in her nightgown looking out over the hills of Urgon and over to Borwol, where the troll realm had once been. The light from the window made the fabric of her night attire transparent, showing an appealing silhouette; in spite of her muscular build she still had feminine curves. In his arms, Mallenia always felt quite different from Coira. Rodario was aware of his outstanding good fortune.

“I’m amazed,” said the Ido girl, half turning to him.

“Are you? What about?”

“How you ever managed to survive. You’ve no idea how to move silently, Rodario.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” he said with a smile. “I didn’t want to startle you.” He tried to put on a stern face. “You should be in bed. You’re supposed to be resting. The journey tired you.”

“That’s what journeys do. I don’t want to miss the outcome of the battle. In all of Girdlegard there’s talk of nothing else.” She leaned out again, watching the people in the streets outside the inn. “Some of the men are going off to volunteer for the army.”