Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

“I think only seven people know it. I’m not one of them. He’s a confidant of Sundalon’s and serves the acront of Letefora. He was trained by him.”

This information brought more questions than clarity. “But what-?”

“Mountain ahead!” the lookout shouted down. Tungdil had to suppress his curiosity.

Dergard, standing in the cabin doorway, waved Tungdil and Furgas out. “That’s where the source is,” he yelled against the wind. “I can feel it. No doubt about it.”

“If the island has surfaced it means they’re either expecting monsters or disembarking them,” said Furgas.

Tungdil pursed his lips. Four monsters, possibly with a renewed intake of magic, would be impossible odds if they had not brought Lot-Ionan back to life first. “We don’t have a choice,” he said. “We have to storm the island and submerge it. Stand by, Dergard.” He hurried up to the helmsman and captain to give orders. “Find a place we can land.”

“Impossible. See that shoreline? Solid rock. It would slice our hull.”

“There’s no other way. We haven’t got enough dinghies and we wouldn’t be able to launch them in this weather anyway,” insisted Tungdil. “If need be, run the ships aground and wreck them.”

“You’re no sailor, Tungdil Goldhand! Have you any idea what you’re asking us to do? You’re risking all our lives!”

“Just do it, Captain. There’s more at stake than a couple of ships.” And a few lives. He came off the bridge, then down below deck to chase the dwarves and Weyurn soldiers up top to start the onslaught on the island. Lot-Ionan’s draped statue was brought up on deck and made ready for hoisting on the crane. Tungdil watched the preparations closely. There must be no mistakes.

They gathered in the bows. The nightmare alfar island grew in size as they approached.

Their ships ran aground on the basalt ledge, the spars of the keels bursting and splintering. None of the dwarves or undergroundlings made a sound; they clutched at ropes or the vessels’ superstructure. The wooden planks sliced through as if a giant knife had severed them.

“All on shore!” shouted Tungdil, sounding a bugle to alert the dwarves on the second craft. He leaped off the deck and landed on the rock.

Most of the soldiers and dwarves did the same, although a dozen or so ended up in the water after the ship was forced away from the shore by the broiling waves. They sank without trace.

Tungdil cursed under his breath. Their lives must not have been lost in vain. “Let the statue down now!” he called. He could see water flooding into the open forward section of the ship.

The crane swung round as the sailors maneuvered the winch, and the stone magus left the deck.

When it was half over the shore the ship lurched again, splitting open on the rock like a loaf of bread torn apart.

The heavy weight danced and jumped around like a murderer in a hangman’s noose. Then it proved too great a burden. The rope snapped and the statue plunged down.

Dwarves sprang out of the way to avoid being crushed to death. The figure tumbled to the shoreline shelf and started to roll toward the edge.

“Hold it fast!” bellowed Tungdil, running through water that came up to his middle. He pulled and tugged at the statue, together with five companions, but the blankets round it were sodden and it was heavier than ever. A wave threw three of the dwarves off balance. The stone figure of Lot-Ionan slipped over the edge and sank to the depths.

“No!” roared Tungdil, staring in horror at where the statue had disappeared. He stepped forward as if to dive after it.

“Let it be.” Ireheart held him back. “Who knows whether you’d ever have been able to bring him back to life. We still have a magus, Scholar. We just have to get him to his magic.”

The spell which had turned Lot-Ionan to stone was affecting Tungdil too, it seemed. He could not move. He could not speak. The wind howled in his face, and though he heard the cracking ships’ timbers breaking up, his mind was at a standstill, his plans all over the place like liberated mercury, rolling and disappearing. What happens now? The words went round and round in his head. I’ve lost him for all time. It’s my fault. This was no way to defeat the island.

“Tungdil!” bawled Ireheart in his ear, shaking him. “Come on, man. We need you.”

“Damnation!” shouted Tungdil into the storm, spray washing away his tears of despair and disappointment. Then his resolute dwarf spirit took over and he exploded into action. “Let’s get this blasted island conquered!” He raised his head. “Furgas!”

Furgas appeared, waved and jumped down off the remains of the ship. He took command and led them through the cave Rodario had encountered before. They were now faced with a massive wall. “There’s a hidden entrance here,” he explained, fiddling with a black stone let into the wall of the cliff.

Tungdil and the others stood back, checking in all directions.

Looking back through the cave entrance Rodario saw another wave lift the damaged ships and smash them against the rock, breaking them into a thousand pieces in the foaming water. A few sailors crawled onto land, but most went to the bottom with the wreck. There was nothing left but to conquer and prevail. There was no going back.

In front of them the wall moved. “This’ll take us to the corridor on the middle level of the forge,” the actor told them.

“Some of you set the captives free,” commanded Tungdil, “but the rest go on. Follow Furgas and me, straight to the thirdlings.” He nodded at them. “May Vraccas be with us. And make us once more the protectors of Girdlegard.” He glanced at Sirka, smiled and then signaled to Furgas to set off.

Two hundred warriors ran through the narrow corridor toward an iron door fastened with metal bolts and bars. Furgas knew his way through these locks and contraptions and the door opened with ease.

Rodario recognized the place at once. They were near where he had fled to hide in the cave behind the furnaces.

Soldiers and dwarves spread out.

“Hey!” shouted one of the prisoners. “Who are you?”

Those standing near him heard the shout. The Girdlegard advance party had been sighted.

“By all the good gods: the queen’s troops! Praise be to Elria! Will you save us?” the prisoner shouted, rattling his chains at them. Now there were shouts and calls on all sides. The men and women were afraid the soldiers would not free them.

Their cries brought the guards running, thinking there was a mutiny. They soon saw their mistake, but didn’t bother to offer resistance. There were too few of them. Aware they stood no chance, they threw themselves on the mercy of the invading party.

But there were ten of the enemy placed in the galleries above, shooting arrows and throwing down red-hot coals. There were injuries, there were deaths. Their swift progress was halted.

Furgas, Rodario, Tungdil, Sirka, Ireheart and Goda meanwhile were leading a group of warriors to the furnace to attack the thirdlings. The sentries here did not run away or surrender. They fought with great spirit and were not to be subdued with a few random ax blows.

“Look out!” Tungdil noticed the forges on the platform above them were tipping, about to empty their molten contents. “Take cover! Get under the rock ledge, now!”

Liquid iron, glowing red, yellow and gold, poured down on them from above, sending sparks flying. Way below, others were caught by the red-hot splashes and were horribly burned. It was an awesome spectacle. A terrible sight-and a fatal one.

Several soldiers and chained workers sank screaming in the flood of red-hot iron; stinking fumes scorched airways and burned lungs. Hisses and screams filled the air.