The Triumph of the Dwarves

  “Everyone knows,” he replied with a smile.

  She indicated where she wanted him to work with the comb. “Wouldn’t it be better if I were the all-out ruler? How else could we bring about closer collaboration between Tabaîn and Sangpûr?”

  “I agree.”

  “If you can’t cite any definitive arguments in favour of Natenian,” she said, turning to face him directly, “then tell me why you are continuing to support an invalid.”

  “I never said I was continuing to support him.”

  “I see.” She raised an eyebrow, a smile playing at a corner of her mouth.

  “I’m not trying to get you to change your mind. I just want to find out how serious your intentions are,” said Phenîlas.

  “And to find out whether you and I can make a deal?” She studied him carefully and then added, “Grain.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You wanted Natenian to give you access to grain. Probably a large quantity and at a favourable price.” Dirisa kept her dark eyes focused on his. “We are, after all, Girdlegard’s corn chamber. You will be in need of a good few sacks of corn if it’s true what they say about your growing population. Haven’t you had ten thousand elf-immigrants arriving?”

  Phenîlas realised he was dealing with a clever woman who had thoroughly considered her prospects for the country following her attempt to take over the throne.

  “Yes, indeed. We need corn. And we need land.”

  “To grow your own crops or for purchase?”

  “Both.” He silently complimented her on her straightforward and astute way of conducting negotiations. She is shrewder than Natenian.

  Dirisa placed an arm over the back of the chair, a graceful pose. Almost as graceful as an elf. He had to admit she was almost pretty in her way. “I must be grateful to the elves,” she said.

  “Why is that?”

  “If that beast in Lesinteïl had never … had never happened, by a weird set of coincidences, to kill the upcoming heir, I would never in my wildest imaginings have considered vying for the throne. To contest Raikan’s claim would have ensured the hatred of the people.” She narrowed her eyes. “How much grain?”

  Phenîlas saw the princess was ready to bargain. “One thousand twentner sacks.”

  “How much land?”

  “Eight hundred square miles to grow our own crops. You look after it for us. And then enough territory to take our borders over to the foothills of the Grey Mountains.”

  “We can agree a price.” Dirisa turned back and adjusted her night-robe. “I’ll name the price and you’ll pay it.”

  Phenîlas had to laugh. “You have a steely nerve, I must say.”

  “Don’t forget the tips,” she instructed. “If there are split ends, snip them off.” She watched him at work with the comb.

  “What will happen to Natenian? He has many supporters. Some members of Council are concerned about what privileges they might get. They’d have to be dealt with, too.”

  Dirisa gave a twisted smile. “How many of those beasts have you elves still got? Or what’s your plan to keep Natenian quiet?”

  Phenîlas was relieved to see a solution in the making. He would have preferred the invalid as a business partner—easier to manipulate because he had been promised treatment by elf healers—but Dirisa had a sound head on her shoulders and seemed to have few scruples. Land and corn, that was all that mattered.

  “The gods will advise us,” was his rather vague answer. “Sometimes events change overnight.”

  “Simple as that, my friend?”

  “Simple as that, princess.” Phenîlas put down the comb. “Would it …”

  “You think I’ll overlook that your race did nothing to help when we were in need of every sword and every arrow?” she said, her voice cold. “Now you fall on us in your thousands like locusts and you’d like to live in peace? A peace we fought for, after terrible suffering and adversity.”

  “But we have changed.”

  “Some things don’t change. Some things have to be eradicated.” Dirisa got to her feet and the strands of black hair slipped out of his fingers. “I have had eyes and ears in Tabaîn for over half a cycle and so I know what you and Natenian plotted. That,” she said, drawing nearer, “is the reason why I want to rule my country. I am not selling you half our harvest while the rest of Girdlegard starves, my friend.”

  Phenîlas’ expression grew dark. “You are mistaken.”

  Dirisa laughed in his face. “I know exactly what I’m saying. And everything we have discussed today only strengthens my opinion of your race: deceitful, cowardly and cunning. I would rather set fire to the entire harvest, and blame the gods, than supply the elves!”

  “That was unwise.” His lips narrowed. She tricked me.

  Dirisa grabbed the hairbrush and struck him across the face with the sharp bristles, leaving a deep scratch. “No, that was unwise of you. I see no point in dissembling. You know where you are with me and you have revealed just what I should think of you.”

  “You’re risking civil war within the ranks of the nobility and within the general population if you pursue your plan.” Phenîlas checked the scratch in the mirror. The wound was bleeding freely, letting drops fall on his robe. He blotted the scratch with his silk sleeve.

  “And risking my life?” she mocked. Dirisa pointed to the door with the bloodied hairbrush. “I know what I am letting myself in for. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I haven’t considered the consequences of my actions.”

  “Are you sure?” Phenîlas did not believe it for a blink of an eye. He strode past her to the corridor where the maid stared at him, open-mouthed.

  He hurried back to his own chamber, grabbed a towel and pressed it against the wound on his face. It is true. We both know where we stand. If the trade deal with Dirisa for corn and land had fallen through, the elves would be supporting Natenian’s candidacy. Phenîlas needed to investigate whether there might be a way to speed things up.

  There could be no attempt on the princess’s life, he decided. It would raise questions if yet another heir to the throne died in mysterious circumstances.

  The remaining option was intimidation.

  Dirisa had a weakness as every living creature does. Phenîlas vowed to find out where hers lay. Perhaps he could get her to withdraw her claim to the throne. Natenian would take more care in naming an heir next time.

  I’ll see to that. Phenîlas studied his reflection.

  His face had stopped bleeding, so he laid aside the sullied garment, washed his chin and neck and put on a fresh robe. The council were meeting that evening and Natenian would receive a visit in advance of the session.

  How do I explain the injury? He would have to think of an excuse.

  Phenîlas opened the door and stepped out into the corridor and found himself face to face with a tall, thin älf in an obviously weakened state. He was unmistakable, however, due to his stature and black eyes. His head was covered in grey stubble and his features betrayed his advanced age. Brands on face and brow proclaimed him the property of Mallenia. A red-hot wire had marked his forehead with runes stating If anyone harms this älf, the same fate shall befall him. No one was permitted to lay a finger on him.

  Phenîlas knew who this was: Carmondai, the only älf whose life had been spared. In earlier times he had kept records for the älfar and now the humans were forcing him to write up the history of the downfall of his own race. And he knew a great deal. About events in the past still affecting the present and the future, too.

  He lived out his days in a fortress in Oakenburgh, Phenîlas knew. Mallenia must have summoned him. Why? Is there something to report?

  Carmondai’s glance showed a definite lack of interest. The branded älf made his way along the corridor towards the stairs down to the main hall. He wore only the simplest of clothing, marked with the emblem of Idoslane.

  “They should have destroyed you and all your writings,” Phenîlas muttered.

&nbsp
; Carmondai halted at the top of the stairs and placed a thin hand on the banister rail. “I wish the same thing myself, elf,” he said with a broken voice.

  “Wouldn’t it be easy for you to put a stop to your unendingness?” The elf went over to him. “Why do you poison Girdlegard with your lies and fabricated stories about the black-eyes?”

  Carmondai smiled. “You would be glad if the stories were made up. But there is truth in their core.”

  Phenîlas sneered.

  “Did the settlement in the Grey Mountains really exist, or did it not?” Carmondai cut through the elf’s scornful laughter. “Then you can imagine just how true my other tales are.”

  “They are poison,” Phenîlas spat. “Your words sit fast in people’s minds and glorify your race. But there’s nothing admirable about your people. Nothing at all.”

  “It is the same with your own folk.” Carmondai regarded him without passion. “There remains much to tell that has not yet been recorded. Mallenia likes to listen to me.”

  If I were to push him now … Phenîlas came up behind the älf to place his hand on the älf’s back, but his fingers met no resistance.

  Carmondai was somehow now standing at his side, still indifferent, but with a coldness in his eyes that engendered more fear in the beholder than any älfar power. The cold came from his innermost soul.

  “If I ever consider wanting to die, elf, I’ll do it myself,” he whispered. “But try that one more time and I’ll ensure you’ll meet your end before I meet mine.” He turned and walked down the steps.

  Phenîlas watched him descend, boiling with fury. Bastard! The lie-teller was next on the list after Dirisa of people to be dealt with.

  Perhaps the easiest solution would be to raise a mob against him—to string him up, stone him or burn him alive. Some criminal act could be invented and blamed on him. Perhaps a dead child whose bones he had liked the look of.

  Something like that. But one thing at a time. Phenîlas turned round and went along to Natenian’s rooms.

  Carmondai was unfortunately correct about one thing: his stories held a core of truth.

  And there were plenty of stories where the elves had played a part.

  We are hard as stone yet we are not stone. A stone never retaliates.

  Dwarf saying

  attributed to the warrior Chonglirabur

  VIII

  Girdlegard

  Underneath the elf realm of Ti Lesinteïl

  6492nd solar cycle, summer

  The dwarves’ eyes could not penetrate the darkness the älf had brought about in the tunnel. But Gosalyn had seen her adversary place an arrow to his bow and so she dropped to the floor.

  “Get under cover,” she shouted. She did not know who the arrow had been aimed at. She could hear it hiss past but could not tell where it landed. There was no sound of a body falling so she hoped for the best.

  Suddenly her vision cleared. She could still taste the fear swirling round her, making her heart like lead.

  The älf, wearing the same kind of armour as the elf that lay dead, was standing over Hargorin, stabbing down at him with a long sword; he had thrown his bow aside. The dwarf fended off the attack with his axe and forced his opponent back.

  The älf swerved to avoid him and kicked Hargorin in the head, delivering the blow over the top of a rock used as cover. The dwarf crashed against the tunnel wall, and slid down, stunned.

  “I shall take your life, traitor,” the älf said with malice in his voice as he raised his blade. “May Tion rob you of your soul.”

  Gosalyn could not move a muscle. The fear the enemy had inflicted on her prevented her from coming to the Deathbringer’s aid. I must do something. I can’t let fear be my master. She put one foot forward and remembered the words of the song her leader had sung to her: Be bold and you’ll not stumble: Victorious to the end.

  “Over here! I challenge you,” she shouted to the älf.

  He halted his strike in mid-air and stared at her with his bright black eyes. “You’re only delaying your end and that of this mountain maggot here,” he retorted, placing the tip of his blade at Hargorin’s throat. “And you won’t stop me, anyway.” He pointed upwards. “I shall drag your corpses to the Naishïon and I’ll say I caught you spying for the High King.”

  “Never. Phenîlas knows what we’re …” Gosalyn bit her lip. How did he fool the elves? Did they know they had an älf with them? “Phenîlas knew about you, of course. Everybody does.” The älf laughed. “But I shall make a formal complaint to the Council of Kings in the name of my Naishïon and the star of the dwarves will start to fall.” He spat at Hargorin. “It’s enough to know the disputes will grow and bear fruit. Accusation alone will ensure that.”

  Him? Addressing the council? Gosalyn was given fresh hope by the news and she managed to take another step. It felt as if she was walking on the thinnest of ice and any second she could be plunging into freezing water to drown. “They’ll kill you!”

  “They’ll take me for an elf.” The älf readied himself to strike, angling to cut off Hargorin’s head. “I would invite you to come as a witness but I fear I may need your ugly skull, you dirt-digger,” he sneered. Before his blade could touch the dwarf’s neck, Carâhnios suddenly appeared at his side, emerging as if born of shadow, and stopped the vicious blow using Bloodthirster.

  “Zhadár,” the älf hissed, kicking out. “Another traitor!” Carâhnios used his armoured fist to stop the kick, forcing the älf violently backwards. The zhadár avoided the following stroke by swerving and retaliated for good measure.

  Gosalyn lost all her fear. The älf was not able to maintain his magic power. He and Carâhnios were engaged now in a swift exchange of sword thrusts.

  When the dwarf-woman tried to come to his aid he sent her back with a wave of his hand. “Look after Hargorin,” he ordered, crowing with delight. “I’m enjoying crossing swords with a black-eyes.”

  Gosalyn hurried over to Deathbringer, who was crouched down, blood covering his face.

  “It’s only a scratch,” he growled, grasping his long axe. “Let’s hack him into little pieces.”

  Gosalyn helped him to his feet and supported him with her arm.

  He swayed a little because of the kick in the head. The dent in his helmet showed that the älf was wearing reinforced boots.

  Carâhnios was now in trouble. His opponent had adjusted his attack and was employing a short sword. The intense speed and agility of the älf meant that the zhadár had to rely on parrying the attacker’s sword thrusts. Gosalyn realised that there were no gaps left by the attacker, no opportunities for Carâhnios to sink his blade into the foe.

  “Like it or not,” she called. “Here I come.”

  The zhadár seemed to lose his footing in the scree and his opponent took a side step, thrusting straight forward with his sword.

  That was apparently just what Carâhnios had wanted to happen, Gosalyn realised; he dropped to the ground, letting the blade pass harmlessly in front of his face. And because the älf was at that moment at full stretch, he presented an increased target area.

  Bloodthirster’s blade swiped diagonally into the belly of the älf, who was now aware he had made a fatal mistake. But it was too late to recover: the weapon had pierced through his armour and cut his belly.

  With a groan he sprang back, blood spurting from the wound. It had not been deep enough to put the dangerous opponent out of action.

  “You shall die with me!” the älf shouted. Black lines of fury zigzagged across his face.

  Darkness overwhelmed Gosalyn once more. She and Hargorin had almost reached the enemy.

  There was a clink of metal and Deathbringer groaned and slipped out of her arms; she was hit on the shoulder, but she fended off the blow with her axe before it could touch her chainmail jerkin and slide to her neck.

  Carâhnios was howling, too, but from rage more than anything else.

  “Underhand coward!” he bellowed. “I’ll have your blood and
I’ll boil it. I’ll let you bleed to death and you’ll wish you’d never been born!”

  Where is he? Gosalyn drew her dagger, turned round, feeling her way. The tunnel seemed wider now, in the dark.

  The darkness ebbed away after a few blinks of an eye—and there was the älf, towering over her.

  Gosalyn knew she had no time to do anything to prevent the sword plunging at her head.

  “Move.” Suddenly a figure shoved hard against her, pushing her to one side.

  She landed on the stone and saw Beligata somersaulting off her, her double war axe in both hands. Hargorin crouched nearby, clutching a badly damaged right leg with a broken shin bone protruding from the flesh. Carâhnios got up, cursing; the opponent’s sword had cut him on his right upper arm.

  Two paces further away, a stranger in a battered suit of tionium armour pushed himself in front of the älf, hands balled to fists.

  “I have met so many of your kind,” the newcomer dwarf said calmly. “Very few of them went on living.”

  The älf attacked.

  The newcomer let the blade shatter on his right shoulder where the armour was still intact. Then he hurled the stones he held in his hands. First the right, then the left.

  The sharp projectiles hit the surprised älf square in the face, leaving an open wound on the forehead. His nose was broken and impacted. He fell over backwards and lay still, blood oozing from the injuries, running over the ruined features and then dripping onto the ground.

  Gosalyn got up and stood next to Beligata. “Who is that?” She shuddered at the sight of his deformed face.

  The new dwarf took the älf’s own sword in his hands and decapitated him without further ado.

  “My name is Tungdil Goldhand,” he replied. Gosalyn closed her mouth, which had been hanging open. “I had already reached the outside world”—he pointed at Beligata with the sword—“when she told me what you were all up to. We came back to reward you for your courage.”