Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

“Of course.” Tungdil understood at once what she meant. “The magi of Girdlegard left nothing to chance when selecting their own prime locations. They chose to be within the magic force fields: their power source. When the magi left the fields they would find their magic diminished after a few spells,” he explained. “Andokai the Tempestuous and my own foster-father Lot-Ionan once told me how it all worked. Only by using the power of the magic source were they able to perform their incredible feats with words, gestures and immense concentration.” He stopped to catch his breath. “I assume these machine monsters function by the same principle. They will have to reload with the magic, never mind what complicated mechanics they employ.”

Gandogar slammed his fist down on the table. “At last! A weak point!” he exclaimed with relief. “Magister Furgas! Where exactly is this source?”

Furgas shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Somewhere at the bottom of Weyurn’s lake.”

“You’ve no idea? A clue? Some island in the vicinity?” Isika gave an agonized groan. “By Palandiell, get thinking, man! It’s you we have to thank for this whole ghastly plague!”

“Most of my islands float, Queen Isika,” Queen Wey came to his rescue. “Even if he had noted one of them it wouldn’t help us.”

“Then,” said Tungdil Goldhand slowly, “we must bring up the island together with its thirdlings and just ask them.”

“We’ll be with you there.” Gandogar grinned. “For a cause such as this even dwarves shall take to water and defy the curse of Elria.” He looked at Queen Wey. “This is a matter for our folk, Your Majesty. I shall send you a contingent of my best warriors, dwarves of untarnished reputation without the slightest shred of a thirdling connection. They will be glad to fill the gaps in the ranks of your own army to make good the losses sustained in the Paland massacre. The island of the thirdlings will be taken by storm. And the magic source will be protected.”

Queen Wey inclined her head in agreement.

“I suggest we retire now and convene again in the morning for the last time. Then the groups will leave and do what has to be done,” announced King Bruron. “At long last we have an opportunity to do something about the dire threats that paralyze our native land. Palandiell will protect us.”

“May I help alleviate the shock and worry?” offered Rodario, bowing deeply. “I invite the mighty rulers this evening to attend an exclusive premiere performance in the Curiosum. The production is an exquisite comedy which should restore some laughter into these serious times. If we lose the ability to laugh, we have lost everything.”

Tungdil turned to Ireheart. “Your brother in spirit. Another who enjoys a joke.”

“Nobody tells them like I do,” the warrior replied quietly.

Rodario grinned. “Entrance will of course be free of charge. I shall not discourage you, however, from making a small donation to reward the troupe for their skill and artistry.”

To his surprise the monarchs promised to attend. It would be the most important performance of his entire life.

T ungdil, Ireheart and Goda had found a big room near the square where Bruron’s new palace was being built and the assembly marquees stood. The undergroundlings were staying in the same house. The landlord was a little more puzzled by them than by the dwarves, now a familiar sight.

They were brought a decent meal and a large jug of beer.

Goda was getting a lesson from the warrior twin about standing firm in battle. Boindil was showing her the various methods of sweeping an opponent off his feet with the edge of a shield.

“You have to make yourself heavy,” he explained, ramming his own shield against hers. There was a loud crash and the dwarf-woman retreated two paces. “Make yourself heavy, I said!” he scolded.

“But I had my whole weight on the floorboards,” she protested.

“Standing firm is a skill.” He waved her back into position. “But it’s more than just having broad feet and sturdy thighs. Stand so that your center of gravity is between your two feet, then bend your knees slightly and bring your head in and down.” He demonstrated. “Now try to push me over.”

Goda lifted her shield, took a run-up and slammed against her instructor. The noise was ear-splitting.

Boindil didn’t budge. “That’s what I meant by making yourself heavy. It’s important to be able to withstand an opponent’s attack-an orc in a fury, if need be.” He rubbed his belly. “And they’re twice as heavy as me.” He tapped her shield. “Try again. We’ll practice all night if we have to.”

“Ho, stop there,” called Tungdil, who was writing notes on the discussion in the assembly. There were still some puzzles. Speaking to Balba Chiselstrike, the only one to escape from Paland, had not thrown up any clues. She couldn’t recall any of the elf runes on the wheeled monster. Even Furgas could not remember any elaborate runic designs. But Tungdil knew the rune was there. Each of the creatures had been carrying one. Now he was annoyed not to have peace and quiet to work things out. “I’m trying to think. How can I when you two are carrying on like a couple of Vangas?”

“What are you trying to work out? It’s time for fighting now, not thinking, Scholar.” Ireheart’s eyes were blazing. “We haven’t found any orcs yet but these machines are quite something.” He whirled his shield around. “Ha! I’m itching to measure my skills against one of the undergroundlings!”

“Haven’t you already done that?” Tungdil remarked. “You lost, didn’t you?”

“That wasn’t a proper fight, for Vraccas’s sake. That was like trying to catch an eel.” He gave himself a shake. “When I say fight I mean axes and blades and heavy weapons. Crashing and clattering. I don’t really think they’re related to us.”

The way he said it, he’d already made up his mind: dismissive of them. Tungdil looked up. “They are dwarves. Nothing can change that.”

“Well, they see themselves as brothers to those orcs.” Goda’s answer was too swift. It seemed the two of them had already been discussing this during their combat exercises. “Their god created them at the same time. What was it they call him?”

“Ubar,” Tungdil supplied. He put his arm on the back of the chair, his expression reproachful. “I’m glad you two agree about something for once. But you sound just like the elf princess.”

Ireheart made a face. “Scholar. We can’t make common cause with the undergroundlings. They’re taller than us, they fight differently and they don’t even use axes. Only this…” He made the shape with his hands. “… this toothpick thing. No, we weren’t made from the same stuff as them.” He nodded at Goda, who charged at him again. Another mighty crash.

“You are being unfair,” said Tungdil, shaking his head.

“And you are obsessed,” the dwarf countered. “I saw how you were constantly watching them. It was obvious you wanted to talk to them to find out more. It stops you being objective. That’s science for you.”

“On the contrary. My judgment is extremely objective.” Tungdil wasn’t taking this lying down. “I’m probably the only one in all the five dwarf folks who is looking at them clearly. From everything you say it’s obvious how blinkered your viewpoint is. And you’re one of the few who are more open to new ideas…”

“And you have the right to judge others?” Ireheart charged Goda, who was steadier on her feet this time. This earned her a nod of respect. And a long gaze right into her eyes. Perhaps overlong.

She lifted her shield to cut his stare short.

“I’m not judging anyone.” Tungdil sat sighing over his notes. He was regretting this conversation. He knew it was no use talking to a stubborn dwarf like Ireheart. Every word would be misunderstood. “I’ll speak to Furgas later, to see if I can find out anything else about these creatures’ weak points. We won’t stand much of a chance without that knowledge. None of us-not even you.”