Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

Vraccas protected Tungdil. Apart from a few scratches and a shallow gouge on his right calf from a spear tip, there was nothing. So he struggled out from under the wing and found himself standing right in the middle of the opposing army. He had not been noticed.

The foremost ranks of the ubariu and undergroundlings were an arrow’s flight away, and the entrance to the chasm fifty paces from him.

“Well, Vraccas, whatever your plan is,” he said, looking round, “I’m very keen to know how it all ends.”

Again he heard the sound of the kordrion. Stone cracked and a landslide of rubble buried several beasts. Immediately there was stillness and the warriors’ eyes all turned to the entrance to the ravine.

A pale claw as wide as three fortress gates shot up out of the blackness of the abyss and took hold of the outer edge of the ravine, trying for a hold. Cracks formed and rock crumbled under the pressure and weight of the creature that was still down there in the dark attempting to free itself. Its claw fastened into the rock again, the long nails taking hold.

The most dwarven of Tungdil’s virtues came to the fore. When all about him was hopelessness, he kept his head and drew on the qualities of steadfast stubbornness and pigheadedness or whatever other folk thought of when they spoke of the dwarves.

He climbed up the corpse of the winged beast so that both friend and foe should see he was there. He took his bugle from his belt, placed it to his lips and replied to the call of the kordrion, sounding the battle signal into the horrified silence.

“I shall not allow you out of your prison,” he bellowed down into the chasm. He raised Bloodthirster, drenched as it was with the black lifeblood of all the creatures he had vanquished. “The weapon I snatched from evil shall be the one to stop you, whatever you are. Fire fights fire.”

He stormed straight through the ranks of the beasts, and hacked to pieces every assailant that dared to cross his path; it was as if their armor was but butter and their bodies but straw.

Behind him he heard Flagur’s voice, then the ubariu yelled and the undergroundlings hallooed, joining their efforts with his own.

Hope began to blossom.

F lagur saw Tungdil suddenly appear between the enemy ranks and the cadaver of the monster. He had sounded his horn as fearlessly as if standing in safety behind the walls of Letefora. His words resounded clearly, echoing over the death-filled field. Then he sprang forward.

“Ubar, you have sent us a true hero, whose courage surpasses even that of an acront,” he avowed, lifting his sword. “Let us follow him!” He sent his rallying cry to right and to left. “We shall be the first to defeat a kordrion. For Ubar!” Stepping forward, his weapon grasped in both hands, he cut the beast that reared up before him into two halves, slicing from skull to groin. He was covered in its dark blood and the smell of it spurred him on.

His warriors joined their voices to his own and sallied forth. Turning their enormous shields they charged ten paces deep into enemy lines. There they halted: the first ubariu formed a protective metal wall, cutting off the antagonists now behind them from the main army of monsters.

Following in the wake of the ubariu, the undergroundlings bombarded this isolated section, felling monsters so swiftly with their combat batons that the creatures could not coordinate any defense.

Meanwhile, pressure was increasing at the shield barrier where the Black Abyss hordes were menacing the ubariu.

“Again!” yelled Flagur, calling for the lance with his banner affixed. They repeated the maneuver: turn shields aside, let some of the assailants through, hem them in and butcher them.

“Take care!” called Flagur to the front line overlooking the field, holding his banner aloft to ensure the enemy knew what name death bore.

At that moment he felt a searing pain in his side. Suddenly there was an arrow sticking out between his ribs, making breathing a torture. Yet Flagur did not surrender to the pain. His fingers contracted around the shaft of his lance and he used it to support himself. Show no weakness. The battle must first be won. “And change… now!”

Those fighting at the front withdrew and were neatly replaced by a second line of fresh warriors, so that the onslaught kept up its momentum. Their enemy floundered when faced with well-drilled strategy like this. The monsters were exhausting themselves in their relentless attack.

Losses, however, were many.

More than once Flagur saw a good friend fall, heard a death cry and chimed with it in his soul.

On the outside no weakness could be seen, even though he would have wished his fallen warriors out from underneath the carcasses of slaughtered monsters. They deserved a better resting place. Several of them he had known for countless star cycles; he had trained them himself. To watch them die like this hurt as badly as the arrow in his side. Mourning would have to wait, as always in battle.

Flagur saw that one of the armored vehicles was set sideways-on to provide cover for their advance. Flurries of arrows and spears were whizzing out over the heads of their own troops. The archers knew their stuff. Five whole rows of the enemy were felled by these missiles, and a second salvo mowed a wide path through the heaving, screaming throng.

“Onwards and forwards!” commanded Flagur, his spear aloft and the pennant cracking in the breeze, signaling the major assault.

G oda climbed up. Now she had reached a crossbar and slid along on it toward Furgas. Beneath her, Sirka and Ireheart were thumping the life out of the beasts; Rodario had a short bow and a quiver taken from one of the creatures and was loosing arrows at the foe. No matter if your aim was not very good-in this crush you would always hit a target.

Ireheart gave full vent to his battle rage. He used the madness coursing through his veins to make him insuperable in combat. The crow’s beak whirred without rest, denting helmets, shattering bones, slicing through armor and hurling the victims a good two paces through the air.

Sirka for her part was fighting like the water element, slipping into gaps and using the barb on her slim weapon to strike and the hook to fend off blows, to wrench swords out of assailants’ hands, or to thrust into unprotected flesh. She never stayed long in one position, but moved with flowing grace.

Goda had nearly reached Furgas.

He was watching her. “What do you think you are doing?” he asked. “I’m curious to see…”

Goda drew out her night star, her favorite weapon, with its three hefty spiked globes. She would have to be careful not to lose her footing if she missed her mark. She balanced cautiously, stepping out along the narrow strut, and raising her right hand.

Furgas pushed himself backwards out of range. “You won’t get me like that.” He squinted down, looking for the next reinforcing bar. “Time is on my side, dwarf. Always the most reliable of allies.” When Goda came closer still, he jumped off and dropped down, his fingers outstretched to catch the next bar.

Even though she only had one weapon with her Goda decided to contravene the first rule of combat: she hurled the night star at Furgas.

The three spiked balls hit his hands and smashed his fingers; screaming, he plunged, landing on his belly in the very setting the diamond was destined for-a central setting ringed with spikes.

“No!” He shrieked in agony, working the spikes even deeper into his flesh as he struggled. His blood flowed down over the hub and cascaded to the ground. His movements became gradually weaker. Finally his screams died away.

Goda sent a prayer of thanks to Vraccas, climbed carefully down to the central hub where Furgas’s body hung. The next problem would be to locate the stone. “How do I find it?” she called out to Ireheart.