Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

“Samusin is on our side again,” he nodded, watching the men shifting away the loose earth and hacking through the vaulted cellar roof.

“Don’t speak too soon,” said Lia. “Let’s not thank the god of retribution until we’ve got the statue safely out of Porista.”

With a crack, a section of the tunnel roof gave way; two of the men fell though to the cellars, yelling out as they dropped down.

Franek looked round in alarm, checking with their watchers. Nobody seemed to have heard the noise. “Quick! Get them out of there!” Five others jumped down with lanterns in their hands.

“Get the statue first,” called Lia after them anxiously, stepping a couple of paces back from the hole in case another section should cave in. “Then get the injured out.”

The others worked at the entrance to make the opening wider while another group put the pulleys and the hoist together. They tossed ropes down to fasten round the stone figure.

Soon the statue was winched up, rising in the dark to the surface. It was covered in a fine coating of dust and there was a huge red stain-the blood of the young boys who had paid for their find with their lives. It looked as if it were the statue that was bleeding.

“Bring the cart over here,” ordered Franek, lifting a lamp and giving the prearranged signal. Soon the wheels were turning, muffled with cloths to avoid making any sound; the horses’ hooves had been wrapped in hessian as well.

Lia was getting more and more uneasy. “Come on up; hurry!” she called down into the vaults. “Let’s get out of here.”

The rope snagged, the pole bent under the weight, but did not break. The men climbed out of the hole and heaved the heavy statue onto the sacking that had been put on the wagon in readiness.

“The guards!” came a shout from across the site, echoing back to Franek and Lia.

“Stupid idiot!” Franek cursed their watchman, who had meant well with his warning, but had certainly risked alerting Bruron’s soldiers. They saw pinpricks of light-torches coming nearer. “Take the rags off,” he told the others and leaped up onto the wagon. “They’ve seen us now-the noise won’t make it any worse.”

Lia followed him and jumped up to crouch beside the statue. The whip cracked and the wheels rattled along.

“Halt!” They heard the challenge from the guards. “Stop in the name of King Bruron!” There were no more niceties-arrows were already flying in their direction, most of them falling short, but two buried themselves in the wood of the wagon, one hit the statue and broke, and one caught Lia in the leg. She cried out.

By the light of the torches they could see the guards falling on the men who had helped them with the statue. Anyone who put up a defense was killed outright-the rest were taken prisoner. Bruron had issued a strict new law five cycles ago, protecting people’s property and condemning to death anyone suspected of pilfering. The fact that they had emptied the vaults belonging to a man who was dead made no difference.

Out of the darkness of the side streets four mounted guards came galloping up; they had heard the noise and it was simple for them to overtake the wagon.

“Stop!” the first rider shouted to Franek. “I can…”

Her friend turned, whip in hand, and caught the soldier full in the face. His eyeball burst under the force of the slashing leather and he fell from the saddle. The next rider had to swerve to avoid him, and lost ground.

One of the guards made a bold leap straight onto the cart and hit Lia in the face with his balled fist to silence her, then climbed over the statue to get at Franek.

“Look out!” she croaked in warning, swallowing her own blood. Groaning, she drew her dagger and crawled across the swaying cart to reach the guard.

Another rode past them, heading for the gate to get the sentries to stop the unscrupulous thieves escaping with their plunder.

Franek had seen him. He hurled his sword at the man when he was three arms’ lengths away from him, catching him in the side. At full gallop he fell to the ground, rolled over and over, and was crushed under the back wheel of the wagon.

Just as the last of them was attacking Franek from behind, Lia thrust her dagger into his upper arm.

She had been aiming for his neck, but the wagon was rocking so violently it was impossible for her, especially with the injury to her leg, to be more accurate. She swayed, falling on her opponent and dragging him down with her. Together they fell over the statue and tumbled off the speeding wagon.

This time Lia was out of luck.

She landed under the heavily armored man and broke his fall with her own body. As her head crashed against the cobblestones of Porista’s streets, she felt her skull crack and a sharp pain in her breast. Warmth surrounded her head; then she was weightless, outside her body.

“Lia!” she heard her friend calling-she could just hear his voice above the noise of the hooves and the wheels.

“Keep going,” she said, speaking with difficulty, and knowing that he would be unable to hear her. “We have taken the first step, Samusin,” she whispered up to the stars. “For that I gladly surrender my life, O god of retribution.” Lia tried to smile before death turned her face to stone. She could not.

The guard who was lying half conscious a few steps away sat up slowly and reached for his bugle to warn the sentries at the gate. But the bugle was not hanging at his belt. He found it buried in the girl’s breast. As they had fallen from the wagon it had pierced her flesh and bone and shattered. Blood was pouring out of it as if it were an upturned funnel. He would not be placing it to his lips again.

“Curses,” he muttered angrily as he staggered to his feet. The thief had got away with his booty. And if he had seen aright back there on the wagon, the prize that had been stolen was something very special: it was the magus Lot-Ionan, turned to stone.

Girdlegard,

Black Mountain Range,

Realm of the Thirdlings,

Late Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle

K ing Malbalor White-Eye from the clan of the Bone Breakers in the thirdling folk of Lorimbur read through the message brought him by the envoy of Queen Xamtys. It spoke of a machine and of dwarf runes promising death. There was to be an assembly, and the rulers and freeling city kings were to travel to the Gray Range.

“This will open the old rifts,” he said to the representatives of the clans of the four other dwarf tribes sitting round the table with him in the hall.

The realm of the thirdlings had survived in name only. At the demise of Lorimbas Steelheart and the almost complete annihilation of the thirdlings by the army of the now-deposed mad king Belletain, the other dwarves had sent warriors to the east to protect the passage into Girdlegard. There were only a few thirdlings remaining in the Black Range and they were in the minority. People said it was a minority that was tolerated.

“You know that most of the survivors of my race have made peace and now live side by side with you.” Malbalor held the paper aloft. “These lines threaten our new community.”

“If it ever was a new community,” muttered somebody.

The king could not work out who had expressed those words. He rose up in anger, showing his impressive stature. He was a classic thirdling: tall, sturdily built and battle-hardened. Over his mail shirt he was dressed in armor formed of thin metal plates; his legs were protected by chain mail. His brown eyes sent out sparks of fire.

“It is remarks like that which open up the old rifts,” he called out, pounding the table with his fist; his long blue-dyed beard quivered. “Don’t you see it is a contrivance? The runes are intended to incite hatred and sow distrust of the thirdlings who live amongst you in peace. Have we not shown, we the descendants of the dwarf-killer Lorimbur, that we do not desire the death of the other dwarves?”