The Triumph of the Dwarves

  “A very young warrior whose future had not yet been decided. Thanks to you we realised he was not suitable for the path in question. You serve us well, you and your friends.” The finger continued to inscribe runes in the sand. “What were you and the älf looking for in the mountains?”

  Why not let me stand up? My back is giving me hell under that boot. Tungdil summarised the purpose of their mission, aware a lie would not help the situation. Maybe he could persuade the acront to come over to his side. I know they take arms against evil. Why shouldn’t they be allies in our fight against the botoicans?

  “We left on a quest to see what was happening outside our borders. Join with us. You and your race destroy evil in all its forms, don’t you?” he said in conclusion.

  The deep rumbling growl took on what seemed to be an amused tone. “We fight monsters. What you’ve been telling me sounds like a normal sort of war. We don’t take part in those. We don’t take sides.”

  “But a ghaist can do worse things than any monster.” Tungdil was sticking to his ground in this argument. “If the botoicans turn on the acronta, your whole race may be wiped out.”

  “We know about the botoicans. They gather lost creatures round them to help them carry out their feuds. But they never presented any danger to us. Our scouts don’t make mistakes.”

  “They were mistaken when they attacked us.”

  “No. They were searching for an älf and they found him,” came the written answer. “There were älfar runes on the stones and they were following these signs.”

  “Those marks were ancient,” Tungdil contradicted. “The älf who’s with us owes his life to us. We brought him because he’s travelled the Outer Lands.”

  “I could see he’s very elderly. Not a good opponent.” The glove wrote swiftly and firmly. “But that means the runes led you to us and not the other way round?”

  “That’s right.” A disappointed growl.

  “The young ones thought they were on the tracks of fresh älfar. The two cities we had selected as targets have been utterly laid waste to. No survivors, apart from one black-eyes that got away. He had escaped from the dwarves many cycles ago and found his way to us.”

  “Yes.” Then, “Forgive the question. You mentioned two älfar cities?”

  “One by the sea and one on a rock. We found both of them destroyed. Someone got there before us but we don’t know who it was.” The glove smoothed the sand over. “You won’t know, either.”

  “No.”

  “What a shame.”

  Tungdil saw no chance of wriggling out from under the heavy foot. He resented being in this position and hated being powerless to act. “Take me to the ones who rule your people,” he tried, attempting another tack.

  “Why?”

  “We could make a pact against the botoicans and together spy on them to find out their intentions.”

  “Pay more attention. I told you: we’re not interested in other people’s wars. Our aim is to eradicate the beasts and to reach Kân Thalay.” The acront appeared to have lost interest. “Tell me what you have to offer, Tungdil Goldhand, hero as you are in the wrong place. Why should I let you live?”

  Might be worth a try. “I have knowledge.” The words groaned their way out through his lips. One of his ribs had just snapped and his breastbone was creaking ominously.

  “Let’s get down to business, then. Knowledge—about what, exactly?”

  “A place chock-full of beasts. Exactly what you and your people have been waiting for. The älfar call the place Phondrasôn and it’s full of monster scum. Enough to feed you and your friends for all eternity.”

  “Sounds intriguing.” The writing sped up. “How do we get there?”

  “It’s not that easy. We could do a deal. I tell you where you’ll find an entrance and what to expect when you get there, and you let me and my companions go free.”

  “No way.” The rumbling voice took on a threatening tone. “But I’ve got another proposal: once a cycle, one of you will be selected to take the arena against one of my Acïjn Rhârk. If you win, I’ll set all of you free and you get a handful of my young nrotai to assist in your campaign against the botoicans. They can gain some experience with you. Till then, you tell me all about the place the beasts are to be found and I’ll have your story checked out.”

  Did it just write “one of my Acïjn Rhârk”? The choice of words confirmed that this was not an ordinary warrior who had caught him. “And if we don’t win?”

  “Then you and your friends remain our prisoners. For cycles on end.”

  “As long as the älf isn’t harmed and he’s provided with enough paper, ink and quill pens to write with, you’re on.” Tungdil agreed to the deal to avoid a worse outcome. As Hargorin and Beligata were both apparently still alive, nothing should change. We need Carmondai too.

  “Then we are in business, Tungdil Goldhand. I am only agreeing to this because your reputation precedes you,” the gauntlet scratched in the soft sand. “I acknowledge your feats and respect you.”

  There was a loud rumble. Less than four heartbeats later four armoured acronta turned up, taking Tungdil between them and marching him off with no chance to look back.

  The passages they marched through were strangely-shaped corridors that he was seeing for the first time. They reminded him of Letèfora. The palace where the acront and king of the city had lived had been constructed in a similar way.

  Tungdil longed to know who he had been conversing with. I’m relying on the word of an acront I’ve not even seen face to face. Vraccas, please make sure I’m not going completely insane here.

  It did not take long before he found himself back in the great arena hall. He was shoved back into his cage. To his right Hargorin was snoring and smacking his lips in his sleep. On the right Beligata lay slumbering in her metal containment cell. The hidden compartment in the Thirdling’s artificial leg was open and empty. Their trick had been discovered.

  The acront was keeping his word. Tungdil could see Carmondai was surrounded by reams of paper, inkwells and feather quills. The älf nodded to him; he had already begun drawing.

  “We have a new task,” he said, loud enough for both Gosalyn and the history-recorder to hear. He told them briefly what had happened to him. But, expecting to be overheard by the guards, he did not mention he still had a spear-tip concealed under his clothing. It will provide the key to a second plan.

  A dwarf such as he was would not rely on being able, at some time in the future, to defeat one of the acronta in combat. He kissed the vraccasium ring. Being prepared was key. Preparation and opportunity.

  Girdlegard

  Black Mountains

  Kingdom of the Thirdling dwarves

  Eastern Gate

  6493rd solar cycle, early summer

  “That was quick!” Rognor stared in astonishment at the wagons with their heaps of sacks. Ropes prevented the loads slipping during the journey. The early crop of the seed variety the elves had provided had already reached the Black Mountains. The cereals had flourished and ripened under the first rays of warm sunshine and had been harvested. The Naishïon had decreed that the tent-city dwellers were to have a foretaste of life in the new homeland.

  “The harvest is eighty days ahead of our oats, barley and wheat,” Rognor said to the elf who had driven the wagon.

  “Sitalia blessed this variety for us. The second crop is due in late summer.” The elf reached behind and opened one of the sacks to show the dwarf the quality of the grain. “See for yourself.”

  Rognor did not know much about agriculture or grinding corn, but he was struck by the fatter grains this strain produced compared to what was normally grown in the valleys.

  He bit on a stalk. At first it was mild and sweet but it had a bitter aftertaste. Rognor spat it out. “It burns on the tongue. Are you sure it’s all right?” He shook the remains out of his blue beard.

  “It’s elf corn. Hardly likely to appeal to a dwarf,” the coachman smiled. ?
??Don’t worry. It’s not poisoned and it’s quite edible. It’s just not designed for your palate. Nor for humans’. That is part of Sitalia’s plan, to ensure there’s enough for us and that no other race will try to grab our harvest from us.”

  “It’s working; I’d never want bread made of that stuff,” Rognor joked. As always when he smiled, the tattoos on his face changed their shape. Only the Lorimbur rune stayed constant. “Ten wagons with fifty sacks each. Have I got that right?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Not much each by the time it’s distributed.” Rognor envisaged how the hungry would-be settlers would cluster round the wagons, desperate to taste what the goddess had provided. The freezing winds of winter were past and gone, but their conditions were still far from ideal. They were chronically short of food despite the generous donations the dwarves continued to make. “I’ll send some guards along with you to keep your elves from getting too eager.”

  “Thank you, Chancellor.” The elf got the rest of the wagon train to move up to the front of the gate.

  Rognor knew sorânïons were out and about in the camp; the interrogations had been progressing more slowly ever since the incident of the älf. Ocâstia was taking more time, too, to conduct her examinations. And because of the milder weather, more elves had turned up, so numbers had increased. All in all, the dwarf reckoned there must be close to four thousand elves now waiting for admittance. Rognor sent a hundred warriors to the gate to surround the wagons with a wall of shields and armour.

  “I’ll come along to speak to Phenîlas about the distribution.” Rognor climbed up next to the driver and the portcullis was pulled up. He regretted the Naishïon had not sent a replacement for Phenîlas. Indeed, no word about it had come. Presumably there are more important things happening in Girdlegard.

  The huge dwarf face on the fortress wall looked as if it were spitting out the carts. The wagon train attracted the attention of the elf children first of all. They dropped their toys and stopped their games to run over and stare at the loads.

  “Stop over there where the road is a bit wider,” Rognor instructed the coachman. “Nobody’s to get any corn until I come back here with one of the sorânïons,” he told the elf and his own guards. He jumped down.

  “If people get too curious, keep them talking, friend elf, and tell them how generous the Naishïon is being.”

  “I’d do that anyway.” The coachman gave a wave and stood up to blow a call on his silver bugle.

  The camp started to come to life and the first inhabitants began to make their way over. The wagon train was visible from quite a distance and their ruler’s emblem on the tarpaulins was distinctive.

  Rognor hurried through to get to one of the tents used for interrogating the elves.

  As he approached, he noticed a crowd had formed. People were talking amongst themselves but he could not hear what they were saying. Rognor pushed his way past.

  An elf-woman at the entrance appeared inconsolable, her eyes red with crying. There was blood on her arm. She had already undergone the procedure and as she had been found to be a non-älf, she had received the special mark. She was holding something that looked like a toy. She pressed it to her breast in desperation.

  He won’t have tortured an infant? “Is Phenîlas in there?” Rognor asked one of the sorânïons.

  “He is.”

  “I want to speak to him. The Naishïon has sent a delivery of grain and we have to discuss how it’s to be shared out.” The bystanders started whispering to each other.

  “He’s currently conducting an examination.”

  “And I’ve got ten wagons with cereal the camp inmates will be glad to see,” Rognor said, pushing the elf aside. “Who is going to stop them helping themselves to the sacks? You?” He put his hand on the tent canvas.

  A high-pitched scream came from within, full of fear and pain. The elf-woman at the entrance sobbed loudly and threw herself at one of the elves; those waiting moved closer to the tent as if they wanted to storm it.

  The officer in white armour placed his hand on the hilt of his sword as a warning. “Get back,” he ordered, but it was clear he too was affected by her suffering.

  This has to stop. Rognor stormed in. Phenîlas is off his head.

  Another sorânïon was standing guard with his back towards Rognor. He turned but let the dwarf pass unchallenged.

  Phenîlas was bending over a black-haired elf-girl Rognor thought must be about three or four cycles old. The child was tied down on the interrogation table, one shirt sleeve rolled up to the shoulder to receive Sitalia’s mark; the soles of her bare feet showed small cuts and stripes from being hit with a cane.

  “Give her the mark and let her go,” Rognor said darkly. “We have more important things to discuss.”

  “I haven’t finished,” Phenîlas said, his eyes showing a faraway glaze. “Certainty.” He lifted the bloodied cane. “Extreme caution.”

  “Wagons with corn have arrived. The Naishïon has sent them,” the Chancellor said swiftly, to try to get the elf’s attention. “You have to tell me how you want it distributed. There might be enough for everyone if it’s handled well.”

  The cane whizzed through the air and landed on the soles of the girl’s bare feet, hitting exactly in the cuts from previous strokes. She shrieked and sobbed.

  Phenîlas kept his gaze focused on her face. “Yes, yes. That’s good,” he mumbled, giggling. “Could there be an älf hidden inside you?” He raised his hand for the next blow. “Show me. Show me!”

  Rognor saw the officer by the entrance shaking his head and grimacing; this was obviously not to his taste. “Is this the child of the elf-woman you’ve just tested?” Rognor asked Phenîlas accusingly. “Can’t you see the resemblance? Stop hurting her.”

  “Weakness is our enemy.” Phenîlas gave a scornful glance over his shoulder. “I must not be weak. I am hard. Hard as granite. Hard as the Black Mountains. Hard as stone.” His eyes shimmered with madness and there were tiny blood splashes on his face. “Caution, Chancellor. Extreme caution. Certainty is called for.” He stretched out his arm. “They all get ten blows of the cane and ten cuts. This candidate has only had four.”

  I can’t watch him do this. Rognor stood between Phenîlas and the child, who lay whimpering on the table, her whole body quivering. “It’s enough! How can the child be an älf if you’ve already tested her mother?”

  Phenîlas widened his eyes and stared at the dwarf. “Move aside!”

  “No!”

  The cane swished down, hitting Rognor in the face. His beard took some of the force out of the impact but the flexible wood still cut his skin open.

  “I said: move aside.” Phenîlas drew his sword with his other hand. “I am carrying out the Naishïon’s will. Caution. Care. Certainty. Granite hard,” he said, speaking automatically. “No one is to hold me back.” He laughed out loud. “No one!”

  “That almost touched my Lorimbur rune.” Rognor ran his fingers over the cut and looked at the blood. He is out of his mind. His task and the pain he is inflicting have destroyed his ability to think clearly.

  “You are to stop this and you are to go with me to the wagon train,” he insisted. “The girl is no älf.”

  The dwarf had anticipated the sword-swipe and dodged it. The blade hit the table a finger’s breadth away from the young girl.

  Rognor pulled out his bladed morningstar, the protective covers dropping to the floor. “Don’t you dare, Phenîlas! You are in the Black Mountains. We tolerate your presence here because—”

  He got no further because the elf attacked him with a wild cry, wielding his weapon in both hands with the obvious intent of killing him. The sorânïon on duty at the entrance did not intervene to help his superior officer.

  Twisting his shoulder out of the path of the oncoming blow, Rognor laid into the elf with his morningstar, striking Phenîlas in the groin and leaving a noticeable dent and a gash in the palladium armour.

  The force of th
e bladed iron sphere hurled the elf backwards against the tent wall, where his sword slit the canvas; the sorânïon fell out of the tent into the open.

  The migrant elves drew back with amazed cries at the sight of the combatants; they could hear the little girl calling for her mother.

  Rognor stormed out through the tent wall to pursue his opponent, his morningstar held at the ready. “Stop this,” he warned. “You need a healer. Your mind is disturbed.”

  “Certainty is all!” Phenîlas shrieked, saliva flying from his lips. “Extreme caution!” He leaped to his feet and stabbed at the chancellor with his sword. The dwarf used his chain to ward off the blow and then pulled his adversary over, planning to wrench his weapon away.

  But Phenîlas guessed Rognor’s intention and struck out with his cane. Rognor caught it on his forearm. Retaining hold on his sword, the elf aimed the blade straight for the dwarf’s head. The morningstar came into its own once more, striking the steel and deflecting its trajectory.

  The sorânïon who had been on guard outside the tent tried to grab his commander’s weapon hand. “Calm down!”

  “You traitor!” Phenîlas kicked him in the stomach and thrashed him across the face with the cane, splitting the cheek straight through to the jaw bone, revealing the teeth. “You’ll regret this later,” he thundered and stabbed at one of the spectators who attempted to help the wounded guard. “Get back! You might be an älf, whispering poison into my men’s ears!” Phenîlas had lost it completely. He waved the bloodied sword around, bringing its tip to a halt in front of the elf-woman whose child he had been torturing. “Maybe I got it wrong about you? Are you one of them after all?” he muttered. “Why is everyone so very concerned about your sprog? Even the dwarf!” He raised his weapon for a fatal blow. “Have I discovered your secret?”

  The elf-woman screamed and leaped out of range, holding out her arm with the safe mark.

  “No!” Ocâstia came storming through the crowd, sword drawn, to prevent the murder her superior officer was about to commit. But just as she drew near, she tripped and fell, dropping her weapon.