Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

The alfar reared up, then shrank down, attempting to ward off the slashing blades with his metal gauntlets. It was hopeless. The runes on his armor flickered and died as the slim body fell slack to the floor.

The unslayable wasted no more time. His beloved sister was in terrible danger and the bastards were not able to protect her.

As he drew nearer to her cavern the sounds of fighting ceased abruptly. It was not a good sign.

He entered at the rear of the cave and suppressed a cry of horror when he saw what had happened.

Elves. Elves in the white armor worn by the eoil’s followers had taken over the cave. One of their archers was finishing off the last of the groundlings with a shot through the eye as he reached the group. One bastard lay dead, surrounded by the ruins of his machine over by the wall, and the cave floor was littered with dwarf corpses.

No! Don’t let them have taken you, beloved sister! He saw her beheaded torso lying on the altar. Her sacred black blood streamed down the sides, down the steps, and onto the floor of the cave. An elf woman held Nagsar Inaste’s head in her hands and an elf was reverently holding out the diamond to her. The stone had ceased to shine.

Despair overwhelmed the unslayable. My fault! It is my fault! If I had not failed she would be living still. He leaned against the wall, feeling his strength ebb away, his limbs frozen.

The sight burned itself into his brain. He could smell her blood, see it still trickling still from the stump of her neck.

Images of the past rose up in his mind. Wonderful images. The time they had looked out from the highest window in the Dson tower to survey their realm in delighted pride; when they had celebrated their victories over the elves of the Golden Plain and Lesenteil’s followers; when they had made love-the pain and deep devotion-a passion that was never-ending…

Such memories were drowning in his sister’s blood and being washed away. An elf strode up to the altar and prodded the corpse with a spear. It dropped down on the far side of the altar, rolled down the steps and came to rest awkwardly, like so much rubbish.

I shall avenge your death, my beloved Nagsar Inaste, as never a true wife was avenged by a loving spouse. Blind anger forced strength back into his muscles. Slowly he raised his swords. The elves by the altar were congratulating themselves on a presumed victory, praising the eoil. I shall leave Girdlegard. I shall take the diamond with me and decipher its secrets. And when I return nothing shall withstand my fury. He circled slowly toward the elves. Everything will perish in my storm. Like these elves.

The unslayable one came up behind the first of them unobserved, their bloody destruction thus assured.

Those who had stowed their weapons fell first, with nothing to hand to fend off the attacker’s double blades. Those still holding them were quickly overwhelmed. Finally, with less than a third of their number still standing, outright slaughter turned into battle.

“The princess! Guard her!” echoed the cry. The elves put up tough resistance but were no match for the unslayable, powered as he was by his fury. Any injuries he took hardly slowed him. His whirring blades sliced at throats and arms, severing wrists and legs, plunging through skulls and chests. The old orc skeletons underfoot drank up the blood of new victims.

The unslayable lashed out furiously until only three warriors and the elf princess remained.

He fended off the first assault, spinning his assailant round so that the offending blade pierced the belly of the next foe. Swiftly he shattered the elf sword with his own; and with his other weapon he batted a sharp fragment into the third attacker’s face.

He parried a thrust from the last elf coming at him with a jagged blade, severing the elf’s arm below the elbow. Using his swords like scissors, he cut off the soldier’s head, sending it flying through the air. Then he plunged his two blades with massive force right and left of the neck stump straight down into the warrior’s body. Arms, shoulders and upper body parts were sliced off to fall on the heap of orc bones.

The screams and the scent of elf blood were still not enough to cool the raging fury within. “So you are their princess!” With one stride he was close, ducking under the elf woman’s sword lunge and cutting through the tendons at the back of her knees with a swift right-handed swipe. She fell to the ground with a shriek of pain and he stood on her sword hand. “And Liutasil?”

She stared at him, mouthing something.

“Oh no, you’ll put no eoil curse on me.” His left arm shot forward and he pierced her wrist, causing her to open her fingers so that the diamond rolled away with a clunk to land among the pile of old bones. “You, lady, have caused me more pain than I have ever felt; I shall distribute this pain among all the elves of Girdlegard.” Withdrawing his sword, he rummaged around in the pile of bones until he had located the stone, lifting it up with a triumphant gesture. “It is mine now. As soon as I have learned how to put its powers fully to use I shall bring to your people the annihilation they so narrowly escaped before. Dson Balsur may have fallen but you will never be safe from the alfar.”

In the princess’s unwavering turquoise gaze, however, there was no trace of doubt: the blind faith of elves. “The eoil will protect us. They will return. The symbols in the holy shrines promise…”

“Return? If they do I shall be here to destroy them. But you won’t be around to see it happen, princess.” The unslayable had caught the sounds of approaching footsteps and gruff voices coming from the passage. A second wave of undergroundlings burst in. His wounds smarted badly and his limbs felt weak now. Retreat. They are too many . Pocketing the diamond and sheathing one of his swords, he took the handle of the second in both hands. “And there will be no more elves for the eoil to find. Not in Girdlegard.”

The blow he dealt Rejalin cut right through her torso, the blade slicing slantwise from shoulder to hip and crunching into the orc skeletons beneath her. He regretted that her end was swift. He would have preferred to torture her until the end of time, using her blood as a constantly renewable source of paint.

Beloved sister. He knelt by Nagsar Inaste’s head and put out his hand gingerly to touch it… then stopped. He could not look at her features for a final time. The heartache would kill him.

Instead he stroked her long black hair and cut off a hank as a reminder. Then, clutching the lock in his blood-smeared hands, he bounded off into the tunnels as fast as his injuries would permit.

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Idoslane,

The Caves of Toboribor,

Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

D eath was standing right in front of him, in the terrible image of the alfar that had escaped back on the island.

Towering proudly over the recumbent figure, death clasped a slender spear in one gloved fist while the other arm hung loose. The slim torso was partly naked and partly protected by armor.

The black depths of the eye sockets were trained on the dwarf. “You shall not die, Tungdil Goldhand,” spoke death in friendly tones, bending over him. The long black hair framed a narrow face that was at one and the same time cruel and fascinating. Death’s right hand touched Tungdil’s chest. “I still need you.”

The alfar runes on armor and weapon gave off a greenish glow and a sudden warmth suffused the dwarf’s body. As the icy cold was displaced, his grateful heartbeat grew strong and his ears filled with the sound of rushing blood.

“Nagsor Inaste has escaped with the diamond you were seeking,” death explained in a clear voice. “He will return to the island to reach the tunnel Furgas devised. It was nearly completed before you killed the magister. If Nagsor Inaste can finish the work he can get through to the Outer Lands. And the stone will be lost forever.” Death stood up. “Nagsor Inaste will return with a huge army, greater than anything Girdlegard has ever seen. Neither you nor the orcs will be able to halt its progress.”