The Triumph of the Dwarves

  “Do you think this is their collection of curiosities?” Hargorin stared at the other inmates.

  Beligata looked down. “No. This is some kind of arena. I can see some teeth that have been knocked out. And bits of armour. A broken blade over here. It must be for gladiators.”

  “They’re going to make us fight.” Gosalyn was furious. “For their entertainment.”

  Tungdil had a different idea but kept quiet.

  Nobody came for them. The tarpaulin was suspended from a hook and removed by a system of pulleys. Some curved metal arms descended from the primitively-built ceiling, clicked into place on their cages and lifted them into the air. After a short distance they were placed in adjoining niches. The hooks disengaged and were drawn up again.

  The floor of the arena was some ten paces below them. Tungdil was at the outer edge on the right. The unfamiliar monster next to him seemed to be a composite of human and wolf, which growled at the dwarf, putting its ears back threateningly. A snake-like tongue slithered out.

  “Can you understand me?”

  The beast rumbled something, barked and sat down.

  “It’s not a proper theatre or the cellar of an actual arena.” Carmondai’s cage was in the middle. The älf look around carefully. In front of the cages there were ledges for guards to stand, but there was no sign of any soldiers. Carmondai pointed up at the light openings in the roof. “Mirrors. They can illuminate the whole area if need be.”

  “So they can observe what’s happening.” Gosalyn had, like Beligata, managed to get her arms round in front of her.

  An armoured acront stepped out of the shadows, helmet-slits directed at the newcomers. He raised one arm, holding an iron staff as long as a man is tall. The stick was tapered to a sharp point.

  This sharp end of the staff was pointing at Hargorin’s cage. Hooks dropped down, catching on to the wire and manoeuvring it out of the niche.

  “Vraccas is with you!” Tungdil shouted to him.

  “Show them what it means to be a Child of the Smith,” Gosalyn yelled in encouragement.

  The cage had hardly arrived on the floor before the acront used a floor-mounted trigger to activate a spring that lifted the cage lid off. Hargorin was free.

  Now the acront threw Hargorin a key and then tossed the iron staff at his feet, taking a step back and drawing its sword.

  Tungdil had noticed smaller figures taking their seats four ledges higher up where the view would be best. They were dressed in armour but also had paper, inkwells and quills with them. They’re going to be observing and making notes. Awarding points, perhaps? Referees? Judges?

  A low whistle sounded from up there. Preparations were complete.

  “They’re not getting the creatures to fight each other,” said Tungdil. “I think they’re fighting us. They will be observing forms of combat and noting the moves.”

  The position of the mirrors was abruptly adjusted, directing the sun’s rays so that there were no shadows anywhere for Hargorin to conceal himself in.

  The noises died away. Tension was high.

  “Do you think I won’t be able to do it?” The muscular dwarf surveyed the three-pace-tall opponent, looked at the staff and bent to pick up the key. “I’ll show you …”

  “No!” shouted Tungdil. “Don’t touch it.”

  “What? Shall I let myself be beaten?” Hargorin was still in a half-crouching position. “It might save trouble but it goes against the grain.”

  “Don’t touch the key,” Tungdil insisted. “I want them to know we’re not going along with their game.”

  “Is that wise?” Gosalyn looked worried. “They could just kill him for not obeying.”

  “That result would not give them any satisfaction,” was Carmondai’s contribution. “Tungdil is right. They want to watch and learn.”

  Hargorin straightened up and folded his arms across his chest. This was a universally recognised gesture. The acront would understand.

  The armed creature pointed at the iron staff. Purple light glowed behind the eye slits and there was a dull roar that made Tungdil’s stomach churn even at this distance. Some of the other creatures shrieked in fright. “Keep steadfast!”

  “I shall,” Hargorin returned, looking at the large opponent with derision. “Even if my fingers are itching to pick up the staff to show him what a Child of the Smith is made of.”

  The acront made a sudden step towards the dwarf, grabbed him by the right arm and hauled him up into the air, to drop him crashing to the ground. Then he kicked Hargorin’s motionless body so that it flew back into the cage. He slammed the lid shut. The fastening clicked into place.

  “No!” groaned Gosalyn.

  “He’s not dead,” Carmondai reassured her. “They need him. That was punishment for disobedience. But it was … a bit sudden.”

  “They’ve still got three others. Why would they bother to spare one of us?” Beligata looked down, furious, watching the acront move towards a passageway.

  The mirrors were folded back and shadows flooded the arena. The strange being vanished into the dark.

  Hargorin’s cage was fished up with a large hook and replaced in the wall niche. Blood trickled from his mouth into the red beard and his arms were twisted painfully. At least one of them seemed broken.

  “By Lorimbur!” Beligata slammed her wrist chains against the wire. “I’ll kill that monster for that. Did you hear me? I’ll kill it for doing that!”

  “Be quiet, or else …” Gosalyn began.

  The mirrors suddenly moved, re-filling the floor with light; the acront stood in the centre.

  The hook that had moved Hargorin’s cage now shifted to Beligata’s, attaching itself and dragging her prison cell out of the hollowed-out space, taking it down to the combat arena.

  “I swear I’ll drag that helmet off your head,” the dark-haired dwarf-girl raged. “And I’ll take your skull with it.”

  She won’t, though. Tungdil looked up to the theatre boxes and saw quills dipped into inkpots.

  “There’s one good thing about her impending death: we know now that they can understand what we say,” Carmondai said. “If life is a currency, we’ll soon be running out of it.” He leaned against the side of his cage and turned his black gaze to what the fighters were doing.

  “I wish it was you paying the bill,” hissed Gosalyn.

  “Oh, I’ll be down there soon enough.” Carmondai flashed his eyes at Tungdil. “But after you, of course.” He pointed to the boxes in the gallery. “What do you think? Will you be able to convince them to stop?”

  Girdlegard

  Black Mountains

  Kingdom of the Thirdling dwarves

  Eastern Gate

  6492nd/6493rd solar cycles, winter

  Rognor and Phenîlas were seated at their evening meal in the sparsely furnished inn. The only decoration was a Thirdling banner overhead and a picture of Lorimbur on the west wall.

  The dwarf was surprised how quietly the blond elf was eating; he made no noise when chewing. In comparison Rognor was convinced that he was producing sounds like trees being felled. They were feasting on cooked vegetables, cereal broth and pickled meat that had been smoked slowly, resulting in what the dwarf found a most pleasant taste. He drank dark beer with his meal.

  Phenîlas was concentrating on the vegetable dishes, trying a little porridge out of courtesy. He preferred not to touch the meat. “Thank you again for your hospitality,” he said. He drank some of the water that he had been served.

  “It is a pleasure to have you and the sorânïons staying with us. We share a common concern for the security of the homeland,” he replied in faltering elvish.

  Phenîlas smiled in appreciation. “You are making progress with your lessons.”

  “Thank you.” Rognor had taken advantage of the opportunity to pick up some basic expressions in recent orbits, as he could not expect the new arrivals to speak the general tongue of Girdlegard. “It is important to be able to communicate.”
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  “For this, too, my thanks.” Looking through the frost patterns on the window, Phenîlas looked over at the tent city. “And for your donations. The extra heaters and coal have saved many lives.” He sighed and went on. “It stopped the mood getting ugly.”

  Rognor stopped eating and reached for his tankard. “The mood, you say?”

  “I don’t mean their despair.” Phenîlas cleared his throat and placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. Rognor recognised the gesture. He had been noticing recently that the elf often sought reassurance from his weapon. To start with Phenîlas had been friendly, but his attitude had become colder and wary. Occasionally the Chancellor even detected outright disdain when the elf spoke of his compatriots waiting in the camp outside the walls. They were risking all in their zeal to enter Girdlegard.

  The sentries told Rognor that the screams of the elves being tortured were longer than previously. Even the mountains themselves would soon surely take pity on hearing the cries of innocents.

  Rognor drank a mouthful of beer and kept his eyes trained on the elf. “You are hated,” he said, the black tattoos on his face moving as he grimaced. “They don’t like you or the sorânïons.”

  Phenîlas ran his thumb over the decorations on the highly polished grip of his sword. “I am only carrying out the Naishïon’s wishes.”

  Rognor put down his drink. The white of the elf’s armour contrasted sharply with the sooty walls, and his own dark armour and his blue-dyed beard. “You may do well to carry out your task with less cruelty.”

  “I have to be thorough.”

  “Your thoroughness causes resentment and scarred souls, Sorânïon.”

  “Would you prefer me to be more lenient and risk letting an älf through into Girdlegard?” His tone was cutting. “I would rather have expected you to urge me to be more exacting. It is your empire that the new arrivals will be travelling through. Any black-eyes would be delighted to take a little trip around your fortress. You would never notice.”

  “Indeed we would. And we would track it down.” Rognor regarded Phenîlas carefully. “How many älfar have you brought to light?”

  “None.”

  “How many do you think there are among the …”

  “Three thousand.”

  “… among the three thousand, if you haven’t even come across one so far?”

  Phenîlas pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair, keeping the other hand still on his sword. “It’s not a question of what I think, friend dwarf. There is no place here for believing or not believing. It’s certainty we’re after. We need absolute certainty.”

  “I did not intend to criticise, merely to draw your attention to the fact that the waiting elves may start protesting about these strict interrogations you and your sorânïons are carrying out.” Rognor was suddenly aware of the hostile atmosphere.

  “You refer to the possibility of rebellion?” He inhaled sharply, narrowing his nostrils. “I am conscious of such a danger. But my request to the Naishïon for more officers has not been responded to. I presume there must be too many to check at the other gates. They won’t have any other sorânïons available.” He looked the chancellor directly in the eyes. “Would you do me a favour?”

  Rognor guessed what was going to be asked. “The interrogations are entirely an elf matter.”

  Phenîlas leaned forward, one elbow on the table. “On the contrary: it is a Girdlegard matter. What if you were to collaborate with me on this?”

  “No.”

  “I would only need fifty of your warriors,” the elf continued, in euphoric vein. “They would not have to do anything apart from inflict pain on the newcomers and watch their faces. As soon as anger lines are observed”—here he pointed to his own taut features—“they can execute the black-eyes.”

  “In the light of the past animosity between our two races,” Rognor began, immutable in his refusal, “I would consider such a thing extremely unwise.”

  “The dwarf soldiers would merely be following orders,” Phenîlas wheedled. “Exactly like the sorânïons.”

  “That might be the case initially. But then voices would be raised in protest. They would accuse us Thirdlings of harsh and unfeeling conduct.” There was no way Rognor was prepared to allocate any of his soldiers for duty of this kind. “The newcomers would spread the word about the way we had treated them and the old hatred would take hold again.”

  But the elf in his white armour brushed this objection aside with a dismissive gesture. “The Naishïon would make a covering announcement, and then …”

  “I repeat. The answer is no.” Rognor pulled his tankard across to him. “I have very cogent and clear reasons. I think you have lost sight of how cruel your procedures are.”

  “The cruelty is to be ascribed to the älfar. I am doing my utmost to prevent them gaining any access to Girdlegard.” Phenîlas sat back in his seat, his displeasure and regret obvious. “Your refusal merely prolongs the agony of freezing conditions for those waiting for admittance. Now that is what I call cruelty.”

  Rognor snorted in disbelief. “Don’t try to pin the blame on me for the fact you don’t have enough sorânïons.”

  “Of course not.” Phenîlas got slowly to his feet. “I shall make my request to the High King himself.”

  Rognor, positive Boïndil would never agree to the allocation of dwarf troops, remained composed. “Go ahead.” There was more he could have said, but he bit his tongue. No point in pouring oil on to a smoking anvil.

  There was a knock at the door. A black-haired elf-woman was ushered in. Her hair was short at the sides and dyed a greyish white; Rognor could see she had a black braid hanging down her back. She wore white palladium armour emblazoned with the emblem of a sorânïan and the rune of the elf ruler. Her features, to a dwarf’s eyes, were disturbingly even, as if the work of an obsessive sculptor striving to portray divine perfection. Rognor had no time for beauty of that kind.

  The sentry and she approached the table together. Rognor and Phenîlas both realised who it was at the same time.

  “May I present Ocâstia?” the sentry asked. “She wishes to speak to the sorânïon commander.”

  “There you are, you see. Your reinforcements.” Rognor’s tone was friendly. He wanted to eliminate the ill-feeling between them. With any luck he will forget about wanting our soldiers to join in. He felt much more at ease now and played with the end of his long blue beard. “Your rulers did not turn down your request for assistance after all.”

  Phenîlas turned half-aside to see her better. “Show me your Sitalia sign,” he demanded harshly before uttering any words of welcome. His hand was firmly on the grip of his weapon.

  Bowing her head, Ocâstia walked past the guard, knelt in front of Phenîlas and took off her forearm protectors. She rolled up her sleeve. The symbol on her pure white skin denoted that she was a true elf. “Look here, Sorânïon.”

  Phenîlas ran his fingers over the place but his eyes were engaged with her beauty, Rognor was pleased to note. If she distracts him … Maybe he’ll fall for her and that’ll make him less fanatic.

  Ocâstia kept her eyes cast down. “I bring you a message from the Naishïon.” She took a leather wallet from her belt. It showed the supreme ruler’s seal. “He regrets that he is not able to send you any support. There is a situation of some urgency at the other gates, with many demanding admittance.”

  Phenîlas accepted the wallet with a nod, broke the wax seal and extracted the parchment roll. Telling her to get up, he read the message.

  “What news of Girdlegard?” Rognor asked the elf-woman courteously. “And can I offer you some refreshment? Water, beer? Some food? There is plenty.” He noticed the curved hilt of her sword.

  Ocâstia smiled and opened her mouth to reply.

  “She needs nothing,” Phenîlas interrupted, still reading.

  Ocâstia got to her feet and helped herself to black beer from the jug. “My thanks, Chancellor. Most civil of you.” She raised he
r glass to him before drinking.

  Phenîlas blinked as if he had misheard. He lifted his head and stared at her severely, but she was untroubled by his reproving glare.

  “Your beer is extremely good.” Ocâstia looked at the array of food. “And I am indeed somewhat hungry. The meat smells delicious.”

  “You can have something later in our quarters,” Phenîlas grunted.

  “If you can eat here, I don’t see why I shouldn’t,” she retorted. Turning to Rognor, she went on, “I’m afraid I don’t have any Girdlegard news. I was in Ti Singàlai for some time waiting to be examined. I had to prove my worth as a warrior before I could join the sorânïons. I did not gather much about my surroundings on the journey to the Black Mountains. Apart from the fact that your hero Tungdil has set off with a band of dwarves, not going through the Stone Gateway as expected, but taking the route that leads from the abandoned settlement.”

  Rognor laughed. “He’ll be looking for the path the little one used to reach us. The girl.” He liked Ocâstia already and was impressed that she had stood up to Phenîlas with his bad mood and reprimands. “Please help yourself.”

  The fact that she actually selected some of the meat pleased him even more.

  Phenîlas put the letter away and got up to leave. “We have work to do,” he said. “Come with me.”

  Ocâstia stayed where she was and had some more beer.

  “Sorânïan!”

  “You will have read that we both have exactly the same rank,” she responded calmly and continued to eat. “I know what has to be done.” She flashed a smile at the dwarf with her carnelian-coloured eyes, before taking her last bite and following Phenîlas, who was simmering in the doorway. “I’d love to have the recipe, Chancellor. Quite delicious. So tasty.”

  Rognor grinned as he watched them both leave.

  Something told him that conditions for the elves waiting outside in their makeshift shelters would improve. The arrival of Ocâstia might be a blessing to all and sundry.