Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

Whereas the actor had got away comparatively lightly, the monster had torn off Gandogar’s forearm. The dwarf king lay unconscious on the cobbles, being attended to by a healer who was binding up the stump.

Rodario was bleeding from numerous cuts and grazes. Both he and the high king had burn marks on their clothing from the red-hot chains. He was holding his head. “Awful,” he said indistinctly. “I was nearly dragged to my death. It has the strength of twenty horses.” He looked over at Gandogar. “This courageous dwarf refused to give up the diamond and actually attacked the monster. It simply wrapped the chain around his arm and yanked…” He turned pale and covered his mouth with his hand. “I mustn’t think of it.”

“Where did it go?” one of the soldiers asked.

“I don’t know.” Rodario pointed up to the roofs. “It made one great leap and disappeared. It had no trouble getting right up to the rooftop and then jumped to the next one. You won’t catch it now. It’ll be over the city walls.”

Bruron appeared, surrounded by his bodyguards. He saw he had arrived too late. “Summon the assembly,” he commanded one of his servants. “And get Tungdil Goldhand. We need to make a new plan and must hurry if we are to save Girdlegard. There’s no doubt now that the unslayables possess all the diamonds.” Cursing, he turned and walked back to the tent.

Furgas gave Rodario a helping arm.

“How is Tassia?”

“She has a scratch on her shoulder,” Furgas told the actor calmly. “Nothing serious.”

“Amazing.” Rodario looked up at the rooftops as if he could still see the monster. “I had the most powerful of the gems and had not noticed.” He gave a wry laugh. “I am stupid enough not to be able to tell a crystal from a diamond.”

Furgas patted his shoulder. “Don’t fret. You didn’t know what the stone looked like. It wouldn’t have helped if you had known-it wouldn’t have stopped this catastrophe.”

Rodario nodded and fell silent.

H ey! Take care, you clumsy idiots, or you’ll have his nose off!” Ireheart called with a grin. “He’d turn you into a gnome for that.”

The dwarves sweating with the effort of heaving up Lot-Ionan’s statue laughed and renewed their endeavors to lower the magus gently down.

Then they heard the alarm boom out through the night. There was no more peace and quiet in Porista now.

“What does that mean?” growled Ireheart. “Are they hunting down the impresario?”

There was a clink and a green glowing iron chain shot down from the sky, coiling itself around Risava’s neck.

She grabbed at it, gasping for breath, but at once skin, muscles and vertebrae were ripped apart as if made of paper and rotten wood. The torso remained upright for a moment then collapsed convulsing to the ground. Blood pumped out of the neck stump. The famula’s head fell to the cobbles with a dull thud.

“Stand against the wall!” Tungdil ran to the side and pressed himself against the side of the house, to give the whipping chains no chance. He raised Keenfire and looked up.

“The damned froggy,” growled Boindil. “This time you won’t get away. I’m going to pull off your fine legs and I’ll have you crawling. You will pay for ruining my beard!”

The creature scurried over the roofs to right and left, covering huge distances effortlessly. Every so often it would show itself to the dwarves to mock them.

“What does it want here?” Goda wondered, not taking her eyes off the roof-line.

Tungdil looked at Risava’s corpse. “It must have felt that hope was emerging for Girdlegard.” He turned to Dergard and signaled ten dwarves over to protect him. “Ireheart and Goda, you lead them. The rest go with me,” he ordered, running off to the wagon on which Lot-Ionan lay. “Let’s get him away from here.”

The chains hissed close and tore both the dwarves nearest to Tungdil screaming into the air; they crashed down, ripped in two halves, as if a giant child had broken and dropped them.

Then the creature leaped on to the street to face Tungdil, bared its teeth triumphantly and let the chains sway and dance.

“I shall kill you all,” it promised in a clear voice. A jerk with one arm was sufficient and the chain killed one of the undergroundlings as the tip smashed the dwarf’s head.

Sirka appeared at Tungdil’s side. “Let’s get going. I’ll distract it and you strike,” she said earnestly, attacking the monster without waiting for Tungdil’s reply.

While she was moving in on the creature the second chain came whipping out and wrapped itself around her weapon, making the iron glow red hot.

With a scream the undergroundling released her hold but she was not giving up. She drew a dagger and stabbed at the monster.

Tungdil swung Keenfire, swiveled on his heel and slashed at the thigh of his huge opponent. The ax flamed up, diamonds blazing out a cold light and the weapon-head drawing a fiery circle after itself.

The creature saw the danger and swerved to the side, taking the relatively harmless dagger-blow to its belly and avoiding the swipe from Keenfire. The ax had missed by a hair’s breadth.

But the long spur of a crow’s beak smote it on the kneecap. “Ha, how do you like my brother’s ax, froggy?” came Ireheart’s malicious laugh, as he jerked the haft of his weapon to bring the monster down. “You didn’t think that I would hold back when I can kill this beast, did you, Scholar?”

The creature yelled out. In the high elf-like tones the animal sounds of an orc-voice could be heard. Then it thrust its hand out and grabbed Ireheart by the shoulder. The alfar runes on its forearms started to glow.

The dwarf cried out, held stubbornly fast to the handle of his crow’s beak and kept pulling.

“Mind out!” Tungdil swung Keenfire again. This time the blade bit home and the monster’s forearm sheared off, together with the wrist guards and the chains.

The enemy stared at the severed arm and at its own gushing black blood, staggered backwards and launched itself howling from the floor. In spite of its injury and the crow’s beak in its knee it managed to jump onto the next roof. Thatch and shingles tumbled down to the street. The monster had gone.

Goda ran off after it.

“Stop! Come back!” Ireheart crouched on the floor. A cloud of steam rose from his shoulder and there was a smell of burnt flesh, hot iron and scorched leather. “Look at that! Froggy’s got me!” he spoke through clenched teeth. “We nearly did for it, though?”

Tungdil saved his remonstrations; the pain was punishment enough for his friend. The mail tunic had heated up with the effect of the magic and had burnt through all the layers of clothing, stencilling a black pattern. “You are mad, Boindil,” he said, helping him to his feet. “Let’s find Goda.”

The dwarf-girl was back already. In her hands she bore the bloodied crow’s beak, its spur missing. “I heard it break and went off to see,” she explained, handing the weapon to her master.

“That fine spur,” he grumbled, examining the damage and running his hands over the jagged edge. “I’ll have to get it repaired.”

Goda slipped under his arm to support him and he used the remains of the crow’s beak as a stick. “You must rest now and get that wound looked at.”

“Oh that’s nothing,” he said, playing it down. “I’ve had worse than that, great gaping wounds with blood and guts spilling out. A bit of burnt skin is not tragic.”

Tungdil looked at the group of dwarves round Dergard, then at Risava’s body, already starting to grow cold. “So now we have only two magi,” he murmured. “We’ll have to protect them well. This won’t be the last attack.” He gave the signal to return to their quarters and was just about to send a messenger to call in the assembly when a soldier came running up.