Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

“What are five cycles?” came another objection.

This time the heckler was betrayed by his neighbor turning to him and asking, “Why don’t you stand up and speak out, instead of hiding away like a coward, Ginsgar Unforce of the clan of the Nail Smiths of the firstling folk of Borengar?”

Thus exposed, the dwarf rose to his feet; he was broad in the chest and wore a fire-red beard and long locks of hair. In his left hand he held raised his war hammer, as befitted a dwarf from the clan of the best smiths. “I have never liked the thirdlings. I despise them for their baseness, their trickery and their lack of honor,” he spoke out fearlessly, looking the king in the face. “That it’s one of your kind, Malbalor, that has invented this devilry of a machine, comes as no surprise to me. I see that thirdlings are at their killing again, and that is even less of a surprise.” He turned to face all those present. “Let us send out an army to destroy the camp in the Outer Lands. Then let’s drive all the thirdlings together and take them captive. Then we will have peace and quiet for once.”

The neighbor who had placed him in the spotlight raised his eyebrows. “There are thirdlings who pretend to belong to another dwarf folk in order to stir up trouble. To hear you talking like that, and to see your physical appearance, one might reach strange conclusions.”

Ginsgar whirled round and brandished his hammer. “You dare to call me a thirdling?” he yelled furiously. “My clan has been living in the Red Range for countless cycles and-”

“Enough!” ordered Malbalor. “Sit down again, Ginsgar. I couldn’t care less who you belong to. I will not tolerate any such inflammatory talk. Not here in this hall and not here in this kingdom. We will all keep cool heads.” He took a deep breath. “I have asked you all here for you to warn your people to keep their eyes open for danger, but to steer clear of making unfounded accusations. From today the mines and tunnels will only be entered by gangs of forty dwarves at a time to continue the repair work. They must take long iron poles, hooks and chains. So equipped I would hope that you will be able to bring down these machines.” He looked at the assembled dwarves intently. “They are machines! If dwarf hand has made them then a dwarf hand can destroy them. May Vraccas help us to withstand this test. In two orbits’ time I shall be setting off for the northwest, to take counsel with Gandogar and the others.” He nodded to them all and dismissed them.

M albalor waited until he was alone in the hall, then sank back like lead onto his seat. When Gandogar had asked him to become king and he was elected to the role, he had never for a moment thought the task would be so onerous.

Five dwarf folks had united to form an army-Glaimbar Sharpax had managed it with no trouble at all in the Gray Range. It was a melting pot there, giving rise to a new form of dwarf. But in the Black Range it was not working. Nothing was melting in this pot, nothing integrating. On the contrary, the individual elements were getting harder and more determined than ever not to form new compounds and combinations.

The superstitious amongst their people said it was the curse of Lorimbur, the founding father of the thirdling race, that was invested deep in the stones of mountains here and preventing any chance of peaceful coexistence. Malbalor was starting to believe it.

He took some of the water in the carafe in front of him, and regarded the reflection of his tired countenance. Worry had driven deep furrows in his face, and chiseled out lines around his eyes and on his brow. The rest lay hidden behind his beard; that was best so. He had no wish to appear any older than he already felt.

The cool water ran down his throat; refreshed, he got up and left the hall in order to make preparations for his coming absence. As he strode through the high galleries he made the decision to appoint Ginsgar as his deputy, so the trouble-maker could experience first-hand what responsibility the role of king involved. He thought this would be suitable revenge.

When he turned the corner, a company of dwarves approached: having been hard at work, they looked and smelled as if they had just come out of a quarry after an orbit’s solid laboring. They only wore short breeches and heavy knee-high boots; thighs and upper torsos were naked. To protect their heads from falling stones they also wore helmets, and they carried pickaxes and shovels. Over their mouths and noses they had bound cloths to keep the fine dust out; the ends of their beards peeked out below.

On the face of it the appearance of such a group had nothing strange about it. In any other part of the Black Range Malbalor would quickly have dismissed the memory of meeting a group of twenty dwarves.

But two things seemed wrong. For a start there was no reason for them to be there; there was no dwarf accommodation near and no collapsed tunnels needing repair; and then not a single one of them greeted him as they passed, although he had nodded to them in acknowledgment.

Malbalor was not one of those rulers who absolutely had to see every head bowing in deference but a certain amount of respect he did demand. He stopped and turned. “Hey, you! Wait a moment!”

They went on walking.

Now his suspicions were aroused.

He caught up with the last of the group, grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. Seen from close up the helmets appeared unusual; their shape was different from any he knew. The nose protector was longer and reached down to the chin, while iron wires formed a cage which hid the eyes from view.

“I’m speaking to you!” the king said severely and he pulled down the cloth over the lower parts of the face. Horrified, he took a step back. For the first time in his life he saw an adult dwarf without a beard. The black curls that had showed at the edges of the cloth were just stuck on as a disguise. The deception had worked up to now. “By Vraccas, what the…” His hand fastened tightly on the handle of his club.

Without warning, the dwarf struck him on the head with the flat of his shovel, sending Malbalor flying back against the wall half senseless.

“Treachery!” he shouted as loud as he could, but then his heavy eyelids closed.

When he opened his eyes again soon after he saw Ginsgar’s concerned face with its red beard floating into his field of vision. To his surprise he was no longer lying in the corridor but on his own bed. He must have been unconscious for some time.

“He’s coming round,” Ginsgar called over his shoulder, “So, king. We have news for you that will make you doubt the honor of your own people,” he said, enjoying his words. Then he stood back to make way for another dwarf.

Malbalor knew this one: Diemo Deathblade from the clan of the Death Blades commanded the troops in charge of protecting the passage to Girdlegard and the way to the treasure house. Seeing this dwarf and being told there was news made the king very uneasy.

“King Malbalor-there’s been an attack,” he admitted reluctantly. “We are the victims of a malicious ambush from within our own forces.”

Malbalor sat up and got to his feet. “You don’t have to tell me: There were about twenty of them-they looked like laborers,” he guessed calmly. “One of them laid me low just now.”

“Yes, the guards at the treasure house saw them and thought they had taken a wrong turning. By the time they noticed it was all a trick it was too late. They were attacked with shovels and overcome…”

“Overcome or killed?”

“Overcome. Slight injuries and cuts and bruises mostly, and hit over the head like yourself, Your Majesty.”

Malbalor was pleased to be alive, of course, but he was surprised at the sudden restraint the thirdlings were showing with dwarves not of their own kind. “They weren’t thirdlings,” he said firmly and directly to Ginsgar. “I pulled the face cloth off one of them. None of us would willingly forgo a beard.”