Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

“So we are not alone,” whispered Boindil, stuffing his food back into his knapsack.

“Let’s go and see,” agreed Tungdil, getting the troop to assemble.

While they crept silently back through the tunnel to the cave they picked up that same sound again. It was nearer now.

Tungdil, Boindil and Manon took a cautious look out of the tunnel mouth. At first glance there was little to see. The cave was empty and abandoned. Dust circulated in the air, and there in the center of the cave was a pile of rubble that had not been there before.

“A ghost?” Ireheart mouthed to Tungdil.

“Well, we are in the Outer Lands, but I wouldn’t jump to conclusions like that,” he said thoughtfully. “Whatever it is, it’s-”

“Up there!” called Manon, pointing out a dwarf-sized form up by the roof.

“Who can that be?” Tungdil asked him.

Ireheart looked up. “What, by all the gods, is he doing up there?”

To all intents and purposes the dwarf seemed to have hauled himself up on a pulley hoist attached by chain to the top of the rocks. Now he was settled in a leather bucket-seat arrangement, working away with a long iron chisel.

Manon shook his head. “He’s not one of ours. I’ve heard nothing about any other missions, and I haven’t got the faintest idea what he’s up to up there. Or how on earth he got there.”

The stranger positioned the iron bar, pulled a hammer out of his belt and whacked it on the end, pushing the tip of the chisel into the rock. Large chunks of rock splintered off, falling noisily to the ground, with granite dust clouding after. Now they knew what had caused the new pile of rubble they had seen.

Boindil cursed. “Look at the roof,” he called out in alarm. “There are cracks everywhere.”

“Can you do all that with an iron bar?” laughed Manon in disbelief.

“False granite,” explained Ireheart. “I’m a secondling, and even if I was never much good at handling stone, I know my minerals better than a thirdling.” He indicated the place where the clumps of stone had collected. “See how the chunks break open when they fall? Looks like granite, but it’s nowhere near as hard. The older the stone the more porous it gets.”

“That fellow is trying to bring down the whole cave!” Tungdil turned. “Let’s get out of here, or we’ll have no way back!” The others followed him at speed.

The dwarf working overhead had noticed the approach of the uninvited newcomers and was redoubling his efforts. One last mighty blow with the hammer and a boulder the size of a house broke free. It crashed to the floor and sent a great cloud of dust right up to the roof of the cave.

Immediately, the unknown dwarf shimmied down the chain and disappeared in the dry cloud of powdered stone. Only visible as a vague shape, he ran off in front of Tungdil and his troop as they coughed their way through the dust cloud to reach the safety of the side tunnel.

Above them the work of destruction continued. Perhaps the best comparison is with a vaulted roof whose keystone has been kicked out by the actions of a madman. There was no support left in place to take the immense weight of the massive ceiling and to transfer the pressure to the side walls.

More huge stones fell; two of the warriors were buried, crushed under the stone slabs as if they had been soft kashti mushrooms. Their helmets rolled between the legs of the remaining soldiers, tripping one of them up. His comrade was just in time to pull him back onto his feet. Not even the largest monster could have withstood this rockfall; perhaps even a full-grown dragon would have been brought to its knees.

The fine granite dust got into the dwarves’ airways and lungs and made it impossible for them to breathe properly. The cliff shook under them, cracking and roaring. The mountain screamed its distress out loud, outraged at the destruction.

“The bastard,” spluttered Manon as he rushed past Tungdil and Boindil to try to catch the dwarf who had brought the roof of the cave thundering down. “I’ll kill the bastard!”

Tungdil did not doubt the earnestness of Manon’s words. The thirdling had lost two of his men for no good reason.

“No, Manon!” he wanted to call out, but from his dust-stopped throat he could only produce a croak in protest. The only way to stop a murder now was to run after the two of them himself.

In the tunnel they ran into the air was clear; no clouds of dirt obscured their view. They hastened after one another as if they were threaded like pearls on a string: the dwarf first, then Manon and last of all, Tungdil, losing ground all the time. He was out of condition and had no energy left.

“Stop,” he groaned, spitting out saliva that could well have served as mortar. “Manon, wait for me! He could be leading you into a trap.” He set off again in pursuit, with the rest of the troop and Boindil following behind. “What a hothead!”

As they reached the cave where they had first seen the orc bones they caught sight of Manon disappearing down another tunnel they had not noticed before.

The chase continued.

Tungdil had a terrible stitch in his side. He gasped and his breath whistled like an old kettle; even the older Ireheart, who had bidden farewell to battles and other exertions now at his advanced age, had more stamina than he did. “Run on ahead,” he panted, falling back to a walking pace. “I’ll be along shortly. I don’t want to hold you up.”

“No need, Scholar,” said Boindil, pointing to a fork in the tunnel.

There Manon lay, his drawn sword in his left hand. He sported a bad cut just below the eye. Ireheart and Tungdil bent down to help him while the warriors provided cover. Of the dwarf they had been chasing there was no trace.

Tungdil checked the jugular vein. “He’s not dead,” he reported with a huge sigh of relief.

Boindil was holding up a stone the size of a small egg that had the thirdling’s blood dripping from it. “They got him with a slingshot!”

“Begone!” A voice echoed round the tunnel. “There is nothing here for you to find.” They could make out something the size of a dwarf, wearing nothing but a loincloth and a chain mail shirt. In its right hand the figure held a large hammer aloft. The smoke from its torch made it hard to distinguish facial features.

Tungdil stood up and made his way to the front of the band, while two of the warriors saw to Manon. “Who are you? And why did you bring down the cave-?”

Behind the figure a huge shadow filled the entire cave. Cogwheels grated and whirred loudly, mechanical parts screeched. The thing was getting closer.

“Get away from here!” the figure called to them, dropping the torch and hurling the hammer at them.

One of the warriors fielded the missile, catching it on his shield, which deflected it to crash against the low stone roof.

The events of the cave were repeated: great fragments of false granite fell onto the rock floor, and the passageway split open with a gaping hole several paces wide.

“Back! It’s too dangerous to try anything here.” In frustration, Tungdil clenched his fists. This time he stood no chance of discovering the secret of the Outer Lands.

Boindil and three warriors grabbed the unconscious Manon and ran for their lives. Not all of them escaped the fatal rain of stones. Two more were buried under the false granite and the rest managed by the skin of their teeth, coughing and gasping, to reach the cave of bones. Behind them the tunnel collapsed and belched out a fountain of deadly dust that covered the dwarves.

And that was not all.

The mountain shook in rage as if angry at what was happening within; it seemed to want to punish those who were inside it. Above their heads they could hear cracking and twisting noises, as splinters of rock started to fall.