Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

She was lying half covered with a dirty cloth on a shabby table standing away from the wall; someone had placed a second cloth over her face to hide her terrible beauty. Her thighs had been forced wide apart and bruises and bloody marks betrayed the shameful acts wrought upon her.

Eight orcs had been sitting nearby playing cards and did not notice him. The orc with the winning hand had stood up to the jeers and complaints of the other players. His hand was at the buckle of his belt as he made his way to the table where Nagsar Inaste lay…

The unslayable one stopped in his tracks as he recalled the moment. Memories of that sight of his humiliated sister overcame him and forced him to seek support from the wall.

The first eight orcs he had killed more quickly than an arrow singing from the bow to its target. Then he had continued the carnage until the last of the beasts lay destroyed at his feet; dark green blood had flowed like water.

The countless acts of violation committed by the orcs against his sister in past cycles had left five hideous fruits. When he discovered the bastards in a neighboring cave he had nearly beheaded them all, but then a groundling had appeared and suggested a pact. A good pact, which he had agreed to. The creatures could be made use of, though he would not spare them once they had fulfilled their role.

The unslayable one struggled for breath and forced himself to walk on. He entered the chamber where his armor was kept. Piece by piece he took it down off the stand and put it on. His thoughts moved to his son, a pure-bred sintoit.

In order to show his paralyzed sister that he was with her once more he had made love to her devotedly after he had killed the orcs, giving her the kind of pain and passion that a sintoi desires. To compensate for the five ugly beings that had crawled out of her body, she had then borne him a son. Hundreds of cycles they had waited for such a one, and finally in the midst of all this horror the longed-for event had occurred.

But on returning from the magic wellspring, disappointment had followed. The son had turned against him; he did not understand his task and refused to take it on. I hope I can change his mind. Nagsar Inaste must not be disappointed in him. He tightened the final chain; his armor was ready.

Now he would have to be watchful and guard the entrances. The scout girl that had escaped would bring the army. But until he had completed his preparations, no soldier should enter the depths of Toboribor. Not until the helpless Nagsar Inaste had opened her eyes.

He drew his swords out of their sheaths, studying them in the lamplight. He was pleased to see how immaculate the blades were. In spite of the intense use they had been put to they showed neither scratches nor notches.

It doesn’t matter to them whether they slice through tough flesh or thick iron, he thought, and gave a vicious smile thinking back to the orcs he had slaughtered. He had sprung among them, his swords taking three or four lives with one swipe, while they had writhed and yelled. They are simply too slow; they cannot stand up to risen gods. I have never understood why the humans fear them.

Those three hundred orcs had been the beginning.

He put the swords back again in their sheaths. Only serve me as you have done, my good friends. Let us bring such fear to the humans that they are too dazzled to see our true intentions.

The unslayable one fastened his long black hair back under a black cloth and put his helmet on his head. The beauty of his face, not to be revealed to any other than Nagsar Inaste, disappeared behind the visor.

It would be wasted on others.

Girdlegard,

The North of the Kingdom of Gauragar,

Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

E ven at the beginning now of the cycle’s best season, Girdlegard was wreathed in a sense of depression. Although Nature was at its most bountiful, the sun warm, the first harvests in and delicious fruits ripening, promising variety for jaded palates, it was not enough to lighten the mood.

In the interim, the human kingdoms had learned of uncanny and terrible events. The rumors did not merely furnish descriptions of the monsters. Each tale spoke of threats and dangers, made greater by a hundredfold every time it was retold.

“Have you heard? Now it’s said they can fly, become invisible or transform themselves into a mountain.” Goda rode along a little ahead and to the side of Ireheart and Tungdil. Behind them there followed a troop of dwarf warriors, male and female; they were escorting the diamond from the Gray Range to Immengau. They had ten small armored wagons with them and in each was a newly made imitation of the diamond they were taking to Paland.

It had been Tungdil’s idea to increase the number of stones in the hope of complicating things for would-be thieves, be they undergroundlings, pink-eyed orcs, monsters or the immortal unslayables. The fourthlings were busy producing yet more copies.

“You forgot to add that one glance is enough to kill a grown man and that they spit fire,” sighed Tungdil. They heard these stories everywhere. The latest rumor of the return of an unslayable sovereign, one of the mightiest of the alfar, had brought deep and widespread fear. “I can understand the long-uns being worried,” he mused. “If one of the immortal alfar has managed to survive the effect of the Star of Judgment, then I would think, if I were a human, that maybe more of them survived.”

“That was rumor number seventy-three,” said Goda flatly. “There’s an army collecting in Toboribor ready to send out raiding parties.”

Ireheart turned to her in surprise. “You’re really keeping score?”

She grinned. “Of course. It’s helpful to see how quickly a handful of enemies can become an undefeatable army. The monsters got bigger, more terrible and impossible to vanquish, as we moved through the villages. We didn’t beat that thing in the vaults but we could have done.”

Tungdil looked back at their troop. All was in order.

“And in the last town there were the first rumors of a powerful artifact in Paland.” Goda looked at Tungdil. “People have noticed that soldiers from all the different kingdoms are gathering in the old fortress.”

“But no dwarves,” muttered Ireheart.

Tungdil knew that this fact, widely known, was fomenting talk about quarrels between dwarves and elves, dwarves and humans, the high king of the dwarves and the kings of the human realms.

“Have you heard number seventy-four?” Goda loved being able to tease her master with news. “These monsters can steal a maidenhead with a single word.”

“If I have to listen to this nonsense a moment longer I shall put wax in my ears,” said Boindil bad-temperedly. “You’d almost think people prefer the bad news to the good.”

“You may be right there,” nodded Goda. “It is a thing the humans do, seeing the bad side rather than praising the good.”

“They aren’t all like that.” Tungdil softened the reproof, knowing that what the dwarf-girl was saying was largely true. He found it worrying since she had only recently come into contact much with humans. “We can hardly tell them the truth, can we? We’re lucky the ordinary folk have no idea what the monsters are really after. The secret of the diamond’s power has been kept so far.”

“Yes, you’re right again there.” Boindil slipped from the saddle, preferring to walk beside his small horse. His buttocks were too sore. “I’ll never really get used to this way of traveling. It may be quicker, but your bottom gets as broad as the pony you ride on.”

Without saying a word Goda also dismounted. She was persevering with Ireheart’s instructions, and was capable now of physical feats that surprised both of the dwarves.