Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

Girdlegard,

Pendleburg, Capital of the Kingdom of Urgon,

Late Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle

Is it warmer in Gauragar than it is here?” asked King Ortger. A man of nearly twenty cycles, he was built much like any other and had regrettably protruding eyes; if it were not for the frog eyes one might have described him as dapper. He adjusted his gold-plated leather armor and took off his helmet to reveal short black hair already thinning at the back. But he did sport a thick black beard, thinking it made him appear older.

“Majesty, your journey takes you to Porista. I have heard that it is a very attractive region,” his manservant answered.

Ortger looked over at the ten chests containing his robes for the journey. “I asked whether it would be warmer there. If so, I could manage with just the one chest.”

“Only one chest?” asked his servant incredulously.

“Definitely. I want to travel fast and that will be impossible if we’re weighed down like a cloth merchant’s baggage train. I’ll take this one. The rest stay here.”

“Of course, sire.” The servant bowed and gestured to four serving women, who began the task of placing the unwanted garments back in the cupboards.

Ortger watched them, then went over to the window to gaze at the seemingly endless mountain chains that stretched out as far as the eye could see.

The palace stood on the largest of the three hills on which the capital city was built. Below, he could see the settlement with its brightly colored stone houses. There was little wood to be had in the mountains, so they used stone for construction as far as possible. Employing different types of rock gave a range of shades, so in spite of the dull squat shapes of the houses, the town was bright and colorful.

It had been something of a surprise to Ortger to accede to the throne in Urgon. When the mad Belletain had threatened, in his deluded state, to launch a further attack following the foray into the Black Mountains and the deaths of thousands of innocent dwarves, courageous officers in his army had mutinied and ousted him. Ortger was a distant relative of Lothaire, the well-loved predecessor of Belletain, and had been leading a contemplative life far away from Pendleburg, up near the border with the troll country Borwol, when the news reached him that he was to be the next ruler in the mountains of Urgon. He had not taken long to reach his decision. And he had never regretted it in all the five cycles of his reign.

There was a knock at the door and a guard came in. “The escort awaits, Your Majesty.”

“Only the swiftest horses, as I requested?” Ortger wanted to know.

“Just as you ordered, sire. The five hundred miles to Porista will be covered very quickly.”

Ortger fitted his helmet on and had the clothes chest carried downstairs. “Speed is indeed of the essence.” He called to mind again the message that had come from Prince Mallen describing the raid. The news had given him a nightmare: how violently the frightful creature had attacked the guards in its quest for the diamond! The dream had been so real that he had awoken with a start, his heart racing. The beast had been chasing him through the palace and with its bare hands tore any man to pieces that stepped in its path. He had heard the shrieks and roars as clearly as if they had come from right by his bed.

He was terrified. Ortger did not want to think about the pictures conjured up in the past night, so he let his eyes wander over the landscape: the peaceful mountains of Urgon, and his own city.

This robbery brought back thoughts of the way the first of the diamonds had been stolen, in Ran Ribastur. “Is our diamond held secure?”

“We put it where you showed us, Your Majesty.”

“How many men to guard it?”

“We have thirty men on duty, day and night. There are four spear slings ready to fire. We load and unload them in turn, so that the strings don’t get overstretched and snap.”

Urgon’s ruler was pleased with this answer. He could not provide better protection than was already being given. Anyone forcing their way through the ranks of his soldiers would be met by the stone door of the vault, deep in the heart of the palace. The door was so strong and so massive that it had had to be chiseled out of the rock right there, and afterwards hinges had been attached. Only then had they tunneled out the chamber behind it. You needed the strength of four oxen to move it with the special equipment of pulleys and rope. Not even a troll would be strong enough to shift it.

Nevertheless it was with a feeling of unease that Ortger strode through his simple palace, more a fortress than a royal residence in appearance. He reached the courtyard, swung himself up into the saddle and rode up next to Meinart, the captain of the guard. “Off to Porista at full gallop!” he ordered. The horses thundered out through the gate and down through the streets of Pendleburg toward the southwest.

They raced along roads so narrow only two could travel abreast. To their right the walls rose sheer to the skies, while to their left loomed the dark abyss, the edge of a precipice, and long rocky slopes. Ahead, the sun shone on the far peaks and mountain pastures in an interplay of light and shadow. If you were to forget for a moment where you were riding, bewitched by the beauty of the view, you would be lost: sudden death awaited the unwary.

Their swift progress made constant vigilance essential. The captain sent an advance guard to ensure they met no other vehicles or riders coming suddenly round a bend on this treacherous path. They could lose some of their number to injury or death. If you fell from the saddle or from a wagon, the chasms of Urgon’s mountains knew no pity.

They crossed a narrow pass.

Ortger remembered his dream and looked back, prompted by some vague feeling. From here there was a good view back to Pendleburg, which lay bathed in picturesque light. In one of the rays of sunlight breaking though the white clouds he caught sight of a metallic flash directly below the entrance to the palace.

“Halt!” Ortger ordered, reining his horse to a standstill and turning to get a clearer look.

Again there was a dazzling spark, this time too bright to be coming from a helmet or reflected off a shield. Immediately he saw there was smoke rising from the palace.

“We’re going back!” The king’s thoughts were with his capital city. “They’re under attack. Our diamond is in danger. We’ll take the enemy by surprise from behind.”

“Your Majesty, is it wise to return now in the thick of the attack?” objected Meinart. “Think of Prince Mallen’s message. If magic is being used you should stay well away from the fighting. Send a scout to find out…”

Ortger would gladly have followed this suggestion, but was reluctant to show any weakness. In his dream the creature had pursued him. Now it was time to turn the tables. “It’s only a creature, Meinart. It took the men of Goldensheaf by surprise, but my soldiers are forewarned and ready. We will destroy it.” Ortger thrust his spurs into his horse’s flanks and raced back the way they had come.

The place was in uproar. The townspeople were running around in the streets, pointing up to the palace where smoke was pouring out of the windows. Many had armed themselves with buckets to help with the firefighting; others carried swords and spears to go to the aid of the soldiers. News of the attack had swiftly made the rounds.

With Ortger at their head the band galloped through the ruins of the main gate. The portcullis had melted out of shape as if giant red-hot fingers had played with it. Smoldering torn-off limbs, charred spear shafts and melted sword blades lay scattered in the courtyard. In places, blackened flagstones had crackled and split asunder in the intense heat.