Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

“Close up the spy-hole!” Goda commanded, stepping away from the gate.

Kiras and the guards could no longer see what was happening on the other side but they heard a loud explosion.

The fortress gate, although reinforced with iron plates, bolts and rods, shuddered under the impact. The hinges shrieked and flakes of rust flew off the metal. The blast was so strong that the entrance opened up a little as some of the metal fastenings fractured, flying in splinters around the heads of the defenders. The ubari standing at Goda’s side was struck and fell to the ground groaning; the undergroundling cried out and grasped her head. Shrapnel had torn off half her ear.

Goda, attending to the needs of the wounded, vowed never to try an experiment like that again. It doesn’t bear thinking about what would have occurred if I’d used a really strong spell.

She knew now that the barrier would return any attack with tenfold magic firepower.

Girdlegard,

Protectorate of Gauragar,

Twenty Miles South of the Entrance to the Gray Mountains,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

Ireheart watched the vanguard of the Black Squadron-whatever that might be-come riding out of the little valley to arrive ten paces away from where Tungdil was standing in a dip in the landscape. He could do nothing to prevent this. He could make out ponies and dwarves with dark armor remarkably similar to that of the Invisibles.

As soon as the squadron noticed the sledges they fanned out, covering the entire breadth of the hollow; there was no way through.

Tungdil halted his sledge and the Zhadar, one by one, slowed down, then dismounted, forming a circle, using their shield-sledges as protection to create a mini fortification with Tungdil and Barskalin in the center. Slin and Balyndar came up and joined them.

Damn and blast. This is not going to go well. Ireheart doubted he could reach them before the Black Squadron tightened their ring round the Zhadar. Oh, what the blazes… I’ll barge my way through. “Nothing on this mission is going as planned. Not even when we haven’t got a plan!” he cursed under his breath and made himself as small as possible so as to offer the wind less resistance.

In an audaciously dangerous maneuver he swerved past the pony legs, headed for the last gap in the squadron’s ranks and crashed his sledge full tilt against a Zhadar shield.

Ireheart was hurled up into the air, then he slammed into the protective wall and slid into the snow, springing back on his feet immediately, his weapon at the ready. “Get back!” he yelled at the rider in front of him, but he could hardly see what he was doing, what with the melting snow dripping into his eyes. “I swear I’ll get you with my crow’s beak where it’ll really hurt.”

A chorus of loud laughter broke out.

“There are not many children of the Smith who carry a weapon such as yours and who are as old as you,” someone scoffed, but still with a trace of respect in the voice. The dwarf sprang down from the saddle, chains clinking.

Boindil swiftly wiped the snow off his face. Now he could see the dwarf-warrior clearly: He bore a long-handled ax in his right hand. A thick mantle was worn over reinforced chain mail and the bright red beard had black streaks in it. Green eyes surveyed Ireheart; the body was tensed and the warrior was watching out for a surprise attack born of desperation.

“It would be a pleasure to try my strength against yours,” said the unknown dwarf. “Boindil Doubleblade.” Then he turned to the Zhadar. “What’s this about, Barskalin? Since when are you afraid of me and my soldiers?”

“I’m not afraid of them or of you. But I was not sure you were still their leader, Hargorin Deathbringer.” On his command all the shields were lowered and then Barskalin approached his friend. “I wasn’t expecting to meet you and the Desirers on my travels.”

Ireheart’s gaze went from one to the other. “What-by the Smith-is happening here?” He looked at the riders’ dark armor. “Desirers?”

“They collect tribute for the alfar from what was once Idoslane.” Balyndar spoke with hearty disdain. “Robbers and murderers, nothing more.”

“Don’t be so hasty.” Barskalin held out his hand to Hargorin and introduced Slin, Balyndar and Ireheart. “Now bend the knee before the new high king of the dwarflands,” he announced dramatically. “For he is one of your own, a thirdling. Tungdil Goldhand!”

Hargorin took a step back in surprise and stared at the one-eyed dwarf emerging from the ranks of the Zhadar; then his gaze took in the armor, and Bloodthirster, and finally the hard facial features. He saw the insignia of a high king. “Well, I’ll be…” His voice trailed off in disbelief, then he sank onto one knee and bowed his head, proffering Tungdil his ax.

The Black Squadron dismounted and one hundred and fifty warriors, male and female, all made their reverences to the ruler of all dwarves.

Ireheart looked around with a grin. “If this happens every ten miles or so all the way to Dson Bhara, we’ll soon have a decent army to put the wind up the alfar and chuck them out of Girdlegard,” he laughed. “Scholar, will you take a look at this! Thirdlings showing you respect!”

Tungdil commanded Hargorin and his squadron to stand. “If I understand Barskalin and yourself correctly may I assume you share the same views on the alfar?”

Hargorin glanced at the sytrap, who nodded permission to continue. “Lord, many of us have been waiting for you to return to lead your tribe against all the enemies.” As he spoke he seemed radiant with delight. “You don’t know it but our folk recount legends about your fame.”

Tungdil looked at Barskalin, who shrugged and said, “I haven’t had time to tell you.” This will make a good story for the campfire. Ireheart gave a broad grin. “So, my Scholar… A fairy-tale hero feted by the thirdlings now.”

“If he’s so popular with the thirdlings, this gives us untold opportunities,” remarked Slin.

“Not all revere him,” Hargorin was quick to point out. “But very, very many do.” He beamed at Tungdil. “One of the legends describes your heroic deeds on the far side of the Black Abyss. When I see you wearing this armor it feels like it was a prophecy. The story describes you exactly like this.”

Barskalin gave two of his Zhadar orders to watch the sky for any signs of the kordrion’s approach. “We need to find ourselves somewhere nice and quiet where we can talk properly,” he suggested. “Have you got a place near here, old friend?”

Hargorin nodded. “Half an orbit’s ride away. It’s one of my fortresses. Let’s harness our ponies to your sledges and make for the stronghold.”

“Is it strong enough to withstand a kordrion attack?”

Hargorin’s expression did not change. “It can hold up for a good while, at least. And if the tower were to collapse we can still escape through the tunnels.” He looked at Barskalin. “What have you been up to? Why is the beast after you?”

The sytrap laughed. “We’ll tell you later. Take the high king to your home and look after us well. Then we’ll have time to talk.” He became serious. “You will have to come to a decision about whom to serve,” he said, suddenly formal.

“I did that many cycles ago.” The thirdling bowed to Tungdil. “Whatever leads you to the land of the alfar, from now on I and the Black Squadron shall serve only you, Sire. You will bring us glory. As our legends promise.”

Balyndar rolled his eyes. But a happy Slin on the other hand appeared gratified. “Absolutely charming.”

“Charming sounds… feminine. But I certainly find it all… extraordinary.” Ireheart was pleased that instead of the battle he had been fearing they were now celebrating with their new brothers-in-arms. But he could not shrug off his disquiet at the amount of black there was around him. It was like a weather front of gathering thunderclouds; would it discharge itself into a terrible storm? If so, it was clear that at its very eye would be standing none other than his friend Tungdil.