Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

Ahead they discerned a glow of light, in the middle of which a monstrous creature was rearing up, completely blocking the tunnel. It was whirling its many shining claws and bronze-colored arms, while the dwarves of the work gang were desperately attempting to hold it back. But their picks had not the slightest effect on the skin of this monster, and the handles broke like matchwood.

Every time a claw hit home there was a bloodcurdling scream from the victim. Dwarves flew through the air to lie motionless on the passage floor.

“Vraccas, help us! What on earth is this?” Horrified, Fidelgar had to watch as a hideous claw penetrated one dwarf, exiting on the other side of his body; then the arm was withdrawn, pulling the quivering prey close enough to reach with another set of claws. The living dwarf was quartered as he lay and torn to shreds.

Only one of the work squad was still alive, and badly injured, lying groaning on the ground, trying to crawl to safety. Meanwhile the monster made its way forward.

“We must help him,” said Baigar, running to the injured dwarf. Fidelgar had no hesitation in following.

As the pair approached the monster they realized their error. This was not some creature of flesh and blood but a diamond-shaped thing advancing, point foremost.

Its skin was a covering of riveted armour plating. The arms, a good two paces in length, were made of metal, too, ending in blades and toothed claws, which were grabbing and snapping shut randomly. They could not see the monster’s means of locomotion. Below, there was a metal skirt protecting the mechanism from attack.

“This is not a living beast,” cried Baigar in horror, staring at the victims’ blood that dripped from the claws and coated the metal surfaces. He could make out runes on the plating, and their meaning sent shudders through him. He needed to get out alive to report to his queen.

“Mind out!” Fidelgar pulled him back by the sleeve, so that a grabbing claw missed him by a beard-hair’s breadth. He stumbled backwards. “We need to get out. Here, take hold.” The two dwarves lifted the injured man up and helped him along.

The thing hissed and covered them with a cloud of steam that stank of oil, making breathing impossible. Coughing and spluttering, they dragged their comrade back with them away from the machine come alive that was following them.

The beast had no intention of giving up, but thrust its bloody claws into the heavy repair vehicle that carried the tools and the portable forge, simply pushing it backwards along the rails.

“Stop it!” called Fidelgar, jumping into the wagon and pulling hard on the brake. At once the advance of their unearthly opponent was slowed but the wagon was still moving relentlessly on. The strength of the thing was enormous.

“That should give us enough of a start,” said Fidelgar and he hopped out of the wagon on his way back to Baigar and the injured dwarf. They hurried along the tunnel as fast as they could with their burden.

When they had reached the open hall, Baigar prepared to leave them. Fidelgar handed him his smoke roll. “I’ll maneuver another wagon into the tunnel,” he explained breathlessly. “Get him to a healer as quickly as you can and alert more of the guards.” He made one of the wagons fast with an iron hook attached to a chain that they used for the giant pulley. Because it would take too long to start the steam engine that normally dealt with the heavy lifting, he had to rely on the strength of his own muscles. He used the emergency winding gear; the chain clanked slowly into place and took up the slack.

“Tell them to bring long iron rods,” he called after Fidelgar.

The guard dragged the wounded dwarf out. “What shall I say when they ask what sort of monster it is?”

“Tell them it is a new fiendish device of the thirdlings’ design,” answered Baigar.

Fidelgar could not believe it. “How can that-”

“I saw dwarf runes on the armour plating.” Baigar was sweating heavily from the exertion and just managed to lift the wagon with the help of a pulley. “ Beaten but not destroyed, we bring destruction,” he quoted through gritted teeth. “It can only be the thirdlings. Tell the queen this for me if I should die.” The muscles of his arms and upper body swelled and flexed as he pushed the heavy wagon over to the rails.

In the nick of time. Hissing sounded out of the passage and a white cloud flew out through the mouth of the tunnel, signaling the murderous monster’s approach.

“Off you go!” yelled Baigar. “I don’t know how long it can be held back!” He made ready to let the wagon down.

“Vraccas protect you!” Fidelgar nodded, took the wounded dwarf over his shoulder and ran off.

He had never moved faster in his life and for the first time it struck him that the vast extent of the dwarf kingdoms was not an advantage. He shouted out to attract attention. The other dwarves left their work and rushed to arm themselves, so that he had soon collected fifty warriors about him. He left the wounded dwarf in someone’s care and then hastened back to the hall with his companions.

Yet they arrived too late.

The wagons lay overturned on the rails blocking the tunnel mouth diagonally like a barricade. They had prevented the monster from passing into the hall and thus into the firstling kingdom.

But they could not find the courageous Baigar-only part of his leg, a scrap of his jerkin and the blood-soaked smoke roll. It was impossible to make out where the rest of him was amongst the remains of the other dwarf corpses, in scattered heaps against the walls and piled up to the roof.

Fidelgar looked back along the tunnel but could see no sign of the monster.

Their new enemy had retreated and must be waiting in one of the passages, ready to attack. The thirdlings had declared war on their brothers and sisters again after an armistice that had lasted five cycles. He would inform the queen of this himself, as Baigar had asked.

Girdlegard,

The Gray Range on the Northern Border of the Fifthling Kingdom,

Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle

T ungdil set out on his way through Glaimbar’s kingdom toward the Stone Gateway, on the same road as before, when he had traveled with Balyndis and Boindil.

The beauty of the landscape distracted him from his usual worries, and from the discontent that had insinuated itself into his mind. But not from the pain which waited in some corner of his brain ready to pounce like a vicious animal; all too often it emerged, fixing its cruel claws into the most vulnerable part of his being, into his very soul. Ever since that fateful day the two had been his constant companions: discontent and pain.

The slight distraction that let him forget momentarily was shattered when his ear caught the sound of a child’s carefree laughter. It cut through his heart and tore at his soul so that it bled afresh until Tungdil stilled the bleeding with alcohol. But beer was too fluid a bung to stop the loss and it had to be constantly topped up. That was how habits started.

Swaying slightly, Tungdil reached the great gate with its two huge doors that only once had been breached by treachery. Apart from that one time the doors had withstood all monster attacks for thousands of cycles.

And that was how it would be again. The damage had been repaired by the stonemasons; the five bolts were in place, only to be moved when the secret password was spoken.

“If you had only one eye and were singing I’d take you for Bavragor Hammerfist,” bawled a voice behind him, jolting him out of his reverie.

“One dead man speaks about another?” he replied, whirling round too quickly for his own feet. Two strong arms held him fast to save him from falling.

“Well, Scholar, does a dead man look like this?”