Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

Three dwarves helped Tungdil get over to the altar. Ireheart was standing in front, holding the diamond triumphantly in his right hand. “Here, Scholar,” he called. “We’ve got it! Thank Vraccas! Come and hack off this pointy-ear’s head so we can go and tend to our wounded.” He got ready to throw it. “Here! Catch!”

An arrow whirred past and struck Ireheart on the left side. His hand was knocked sideways, the fingers opened and he dropped the stone; it fell onto the alfar’s breast, rolled down onto her belly and came to rest by her folded hands.

Ireheart stared at the second arrow lodging in his forearm. “Treacherous elves!” he groaned. Then three more arrows hit him in the chest and he collapsed on top of the alfar woman.

Three dozen archer elves streamed out of the second entrance, raining arrows on the dwarves.

“Boindil!” yelled Tungdil, distraught, as he stormed to meet them, ax held high. Now was no time to act out the role of scholar.

Before the other dwarves recovered from their surprise, fifteen of them had been felled. Those of Tungdil’s band still alive hurtled to their leader’s side to launch themselves at the hated foe and to stop the diamond being stolen.

These were the longest-lasting thirty-seven strides that Tungdil had ever taken in his entire life.

On all sides dwarf death-screams resounded. The skilled archers aimed at any gaps in the wall of shields and their deadly missiles repeatedly hit home.

Some of the arrows even penetrated the iron shields, nailing shields to forearms; or, going deeper still, they robbed a warrior of his life.

As the noise of war shouts, scurrying boots and rattling chain mail subsided, Tungdil, only three paces from the elves, realized he was the sole survivor. Behind him lay a trail of dwarf dead.

Eyes awash with tears of fury and hatred, he raised the ax and swung it at the nearest elf, only to receive a vicious blow on the head and a cut through his left eye. The pain was excruciating and erupted like a thunderstorm inside his head.

He lost all power in his muscles. Everything weighed a ton and Keenfire suddenly seemed as heavy as a mountain. Tungdil slid to the ground at the feet of an elf.

A boot turned him on his back and Rejalin’s face floated above him. “The time of peace between our peoples, Tungdil Goldhand,” she said icily, “is over. None of the groundlings will survive our test. You are all corrupt.” She reached past him and lifted up Keenfire. “Heavy. But unique, in that it fights for good. It will serve us better than it has served your people.” She stood tall. “We, the eoil atar, will shepherd Girdlegard into an age of immaculate purity. The era of weakness and decay and dissolution is over.”

Tungdil tried to reply but his senses deserted him. Death was knocking at his door ready to escort him to the eternal smithy.

Before he closed his eyes, giving in to an irresistible compulsion, Tungdil thought he saw a figure in black alfar armor step out of the shadows to approach the elf ranks from behind. In each raised hand a naked blade was clasped.

Warm rain… But was he imagining it? Where would warm rain come from in a cave?

Then his thoughts fragmented…

W hy have you done this to me?”

The unslayable one woke up, suddenly confronted by the beautiful face of his son, who was crouched down at his side, a spear in one armored glove, his hand touching the metal plates sewn into his perfect flesh.

“I have not harmed you. I have had you made mightier than all other beings in Girdlegard.” He sat up, rose swiftly from the couch and seized his helmet from the weapon stand. He had only intended to allow himself a moment’s rest before returning to the fray. The battle seemed to be going increasingly against them. The dwarves and undergroundlings were fighting fiercely in the tunnels and for some reason the elves had also arrived in search of the diamond. This rivalry brought no advantage to himself and his sister Nagsar Inaste.

“Mightier than you, creator?”

“Why aren’t you back in the tunnel where I told you to stay?” he censured his son.

“I needed to speak to you, creator father.” His son stood up. “I don’t wish to spill any more elf blood.”

The unslayable froze. “Get back to your post at once,” he said, his voice ice cold. “You are to kill every elf you meet.”

“But they are just like us! We are killing them but they look like us. They must be friends…”

“We are not like them at all! Do friends come to your house and try to kill you? And try to steal your treasure?” He put on his helmet. “Do what you are told, boy. You are responsible for your creator mother.” He turned abruptly toward his son. “Do you want her to die before she has ever clapped eyes on you?”

“Why are my brothers different from me?”

“They are not your brothers.”

“But they said she is their creator mother too.”

“They are lying. Have nothing to do with them.” He made to thrust him out of the chamber into the passageway.

But the young alfar ducked under his arm and would not yield. “Take these plates off me,” he demanded harshly. “They hurt. I can’t take them off by myself.”

“No. You will need them. They will protect you in battle.”

“Your armor goes on top, not right inside you. Why can’t I have armor like that?” the young alfar argued stubbornly, his black gaze unwavering.

The unslayable hated such confrontations. “It is special metal that gets the powers working in you.”

“But I still don’t want it.”

“I am supremely indifferent as to whether you want it or not. You are my son and you will do what I say.”

“I…”

The unslayable one grabbed him by the throat. “Hold your tongue! We don’t have time to argue about this nonsense. The safety of your creator mother is more important than any petty wish of yours. Have you understood?”

The black eye sockets of the young alfar sparked with anger. “But it hurts so much!”

“Deal with it!” The unslayable hurled him brutally out of the chamber. “You know where you’re supposed to be.” He wanted to waste no more time.

The alfar stumbled against the wall, growled and lifted his spear; immediately the runes on it blazed up, giving out a dark green light. “Take the metal out. I’m not asking, I’m telling you.”

The unslayable stopped in his tracks. “Put down your weapon this instant!” he menaced, drawing his own two swords. “You do not threaten your father.”

“You don’t do this to me, either!” the alfar accused in reply, looking down at the black trickles of blood on the armor plating.

The unslayable one narrowed his eyes. “Did you go back to the island?”

“I wanted them to take the plates off, but the human wasn’t there and the groundlings refused to help. All I could do was take some more of the power to make the pain less.” He was watching the other’s movements carefully. “I don’t want to hurt you, creator father. Just let me be like you.”

They stood wordlessly glaring at each other.

From nearby the clank of weapons could be heard. One of the bastards was screaming and bellowing amongst an uproar of dwarf yells.

“The enemy has found Nagsar Inaste’s cavern. Happy now?” shouted the unslayable. “It was your task to guard that passage.” He lifted his foot, but the spear was already leveled at his throat. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I’ve told you. You shall not leave until you have done what I want.”

The creator father considered his handiwork: beauty and perfection on the outside, disappointing failure within. How had his sister borne him progeny such as this? Perhaps the fault could be traced back to the orcish violations she had been subjected to. His offspring’s fine looks were no use to him at all. There was no place for a son who challenged him and made demands instead of obeying. The swords flashed swifter than arrows to find the gaps in the armor plating and pierce the breast and throat of the stupefied young alfar. “You are no longer any son of mine,” declared the unslayable, with a sidestep deftly avoiding the leveled spear, behind which there was little force now. “Better ones will follow: sons who know how to obey their originator. Even if I and the creator mother have to wait another thousand cycles.” He kicked his son in the belly, felling him; the swords slid back out of the torso, black blood spurting out of the wounds. “You wanted me to take the pain away?” He stabbed again with both swords.