Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

“Of course I know the name…” The alf was unsure of himself and looked at the standard. “What does the flag mean? It’s written neither in alfar nor in dwarf-language. It seems to be a mixture of the two…”

“It means that I am commander and king at the same time. In the land beyond the Black Abyss.” Tungdil had his pony move to the front, right up close. With the dwarf on its back even the small pony seemed superior to the firebull, showing no fear of the massive bulk and threatening horns.

“You claim to be Tungdil Goldhand and to have returned from that place? How would that have been possible?” Utsintas was gradually regaining his composure.

“The barrier fell for a few moments. That’s how I managed to get back.” Tungdil’s face darkened. “Now I have to speak to the Dson Aklan. Do you wish me to ride past you or will you accompany me and Hargorin Deathbringer?”

Ireheart felt like laughing out loud. My Scholar is treating the alf like his messenger boy.

“Other creatures are not permitted to set foot in the holy crater.”

Tungdil’s laugh was unpleasant. “I was in the real city of Dson long before you, Utsintas.” The Black Squadron sniggered, joined in the fun, humiliating the alf even more. “Be the one who crowns the pact between the thirdlings and your own folk.” He touched the hilt of Bloodthirster, as if by accident. “I am on my way to Dson. With or without you.”

Utsintas stared at Tungdil and then nodded. “I shall take you.” And, indicating Hargorin, “He can wait here with your people.”

“No. I am entitled to an escort,” Tungdil contradicted. “Thirty men at the very least. Do not attempt to argue.”

The alf paused. “Thirty. No more than that.”

Tungdil signaled to the Zhadar, Ireheart, Slin and Balyndar to join him. “These are Hargorin’s best men. They instantly swore allegiance to me and they shall be rewarded with the sight of Dson.”

Utsintas sent them a warning glance. “You are to follow me, not taking any other path. Anyone contravening this order will be killed. This holds for you as well, Tungdil Goldhand.” He turned his firebull’s head and led the way.

Tungdil’s smile was full of malice. “ You would not be able to kill me.”

The chosen band of dwarves followed him; Hargorin fell back to wait for them. Ireheart had to restrain himself from talking to Slin. He thought Tungdil’s acting was superb.

The last few miles through the crater toward the new Dson they rode in silence. Gruesome sculptures and monuments were to be seen as they passed; they had a certain aesthetic quality to them but were hideously cruel in concept, formed as they were from bones wired together with gold, tionium and other precious metals; dead trees had been adorned with skulls, and elsewhere there was a structure reminding Ireheart of a large windmill moving in the breeze. He got the distinct impression that those sails were made of skin. He did not wish to learn what sort of skin had been used.

The nearer they got to the deep crater, the more numerous the works of art became until there was hardly any space between the sculptures. They appeared like a nightmarish forest. It all stemmed from the alfar obsession with the transience of nature; they imitated death in all its forms. It did not do much for morale.

Ireheart was finding it hard to hold his tongue. The grim statues made him talkative. He wanted to speak to the Scholar about what he could see, and wanted to ask Balyndar and Slin their impressions. But it had been agreed in advance that strict silence would be observed.

The Zhadar had been given their orders: They were to get the sledge with the kordrion’s young unobtrusively into the center of the city and leave it hidden there; perhaps they could even take it into the palace itself.

I wonder if the alfar rulers have rebuilt the Tower of Bones? The old tower in Dson Balsur had been constructed out of the skeletons of slain enemies, but would two hundred cycles have been long enough to amass sufficient quantities to build anew? Ireheart stretched up in his saddle for a better view but could not see any tall buildings rising up out of the vast hole the city occupied.

Noticing a particular artwork he had to overcome the impulse to attack Utsintas and the other alfar with his crow’s beak; from Slin’s helmet, too, emerged a groan of horror. Walls specially erected for the purpose had been decorated with carved reliefs, showing the alfar defeating their foes. But where the alfar were shown life size and worked in silver and tionium, the artist had used real bodies for their enemies. Ireheart was having to look at the rotting corpses of fellow dwarves.

“There must be a hundred at least,” exclaimed Balyndar, unable to control his disgust. “Such an end is an insult to any child of the Smith!” he went on, in a lower voice this time. “To decay and disintegrate like worthless orcs and all for the enjoyment of the black-eyes-we can’t accept this. They need proper burial…”

“Quiet!” Tungdil ordered. “Be quiet or your lust for revenge will endanger a much more important mission.”

Utsintas turned round. “One hundred?” he repeated in amusement; he seemed not to have heard the rest of the exchange. “The artist needs to replace them every quarter-cycle. The bodies keep better in the winter of course. New humans are relatively easy to supply. Dwarves are difficult to get hold of. We harvest them mostly from the fourthlings. They’re the easiest ones.”

“ Harvest? ” exclaimed Ireheart.

Utsintas grinned. This time he had heard. “I’m surprised that a Desirer should be such a sensitive soul. You’re the ones that bring us the material.” “Don’t mind him. He got out of bed on the wrong side,” said Tungdil. “I have to put up with his moodiness all the time.”

“If you wish to be rid of him…” The alf gestured toward the wall relief.

“Ho! I could cut you down to size so you fit, yourself, black-eyes!” Ireheart retorted. He would have been delighted to drive the arrogance out of this uppity alf.

“Enough!” snarled Tungdil peremptorily. “Or I shall take up the offer Utsintas just made.”

Ireheart noted with distress that Tungdil’s words had not sounded remotely like acting.

They soon reached the sharply winding path that led down into the heart of the crater.

Boindil uttered a gasp of surprise at the sight. At first glance he had realized that the walls of the crater had been dug vertically; the diameter had to be about twelve miles and the depth of the vast hole nearly three.

The floor of the crater was black; the alfar had covered the ground with some material that made it look deeper still. Around two hundred strangely shaped houses had been positioned in a specific pattern round the central mountain. A contrasting mixture of white and black wood had been used to great effect for the buildings. In some cases the roof was pointed, in others it took the form of a gentle diagonal slope with balconies; other houses had hexagonal towers, and sharp corners were a feature used throughout.

I’d like to take a closer look , thought Ireheart. I wonder how their furniture is constructed. The black-eyes who live there must have to keep their helmets on all the time so as not to bang their heads on the sharp bits. Sculptures had been erected in the open spaces between the houses.

Ireheart reckoned the mountain itself must be a mile high, and two miles wide. A rectangular building of dark gray marble had been built, crowned with a shimmering, sparkling dome of black glass. A massive tower rose at the back of the mountain, easily twenty paces by twenty, and a hundred paces high. Wires ran from the tip of the tower, criss-crossing the city and reaching the edges of the crater.