The Triumph of the Dwarves

  “She’d be …”

  “The fortress catapults can hit anywhere in front of the gate. She would be no safer away from the wall. And we need her here.” He took a few deep breaths. “Only she and Barborin Doughtyarm know the secret words that release the bolts.” He laid one hand on the black stone. “And Barborin is on the other side. As the gate won’t open for us, I can only assume he is dead.” He took a step forward and clanged Keenfire against the place where the two halves of the gate touched, leaving hardly a seam visible. But his legendary weapon left not a scratch on the stone surface. This was not going to help them gain entry.

  Tungdil went cold all over. Kneeling next to the dwarf-woman whose face had featured in his every dream back in Phondrasôn, giving him the strength needed to survive that ordeal, he stroked the brown hair away from her face. The rim of her helmet had cut into her brow. “I ask your forgiveness for everything I put you through,” he said. “Everything …”

  “Take cover!” came a shout.

  There was a whizz and a whistling sound as a shower of bolts rained down onto the shields. Grim responses to pain and loud curses rang out; two dwarves fell.

  Tungdil seized the shields they had dropped and held them over Balyndis. “Wake up, I implore you. I have brought you back your ring. It protected …” He stared in horror; four bolts had pierced the queen’s body. Blood was flowing freely. The one blink of an eye when she had been left vulnerable had sufficed. The deadly shots had found their target. On impact Balyndis opened her eyes wide, tears coursing down her cheeks. The pain had torn her out of her faint.

  “Here comes another bombardment!” came the warning. A new barrage of shots rained down on the steadily decreasing numbers of dwarves.

  Tungdil was past caring. “Don’t do this to me,” he whispered. “Let me suffer if you will; reject me, if you must, but do not die. There would be no hope at all if you were no more.”

  Gasping, Balyndis looked at him. “Be there for him,” she said, forcing the words out. “Help your son be a good king. That is what I was going to say to you when we met for our meal together.” She lifted her arm with difficulty and placed her right hand on the nape of his neck, pulling his head closer to her blood-spattered lips. “Hear this: you were always in my heart, Tungdil, every cycle of the two hundred and fifty you were away. Longer, though you cast me off. That is another thing I wanted to tell you. And for that I curse you.” She breathed a kiss onto his ear and her dying breath fanned his face. The light went out of her eyes and her body fell back.

  “Watch out!”

  Tungdil stood up and threw the shields aside. He marched through the hail of bolts, remaining untouched but for one injury that tore off the tip of his left pinkie and another shot that went through his foot. He yanked it out without missing a step. He felt neither wound.

  He felt nothing at all except for boundless hatred for the archers who had stolen all hope from him. What he had dreamt of the entire duration of his long absence. Blackness spread in his soul, seeping out into every fibre of his being. He would use the strength it gave him.

  You have returned to take me over. Tungdil placed his hands on the gate and shut his eyes. I will allow it, for once.

  Closing his eyes did not make the image of his dead love disappear. He could smell her blood, could feel the sensation of her breath on his skin and could hear her words as she uttered that curse. Something broke out inside him: something dark he had long repressed and had never intended to let come to the fore again.

  Cold energy streamed out of his left hand, hot energy from his right. He heard the shocked cries of the dwarves at his back. He kept his eyes shut as the energy flowed. He could feel the blood pulsing through his temples as the bolts started to pull back.

  “Did she tell you the code?” Balyndar was amazed.

  Open! Tungdil shoved the gates apart.

  The granite—heavy as a mountain with all the extra weight it bore from the catapults and the vast stone blocks—let itself be moved by his hands as if it were no more solid than a feather, or kindling. The two doors flung inwards.

  He opened his eyes and lowered his arms. “The path is free,” he said darkly.

  The gates crashed back against the rock walls, making the mountain shudder. Rubble slid down into the empty courtyard from the hillside. The impact caused the battlement constructions on the top of the gates to collapse, falling next to the dwarves. Siege machines started to roll about on the walkways, tipping over or shattering on the ground below. Panic broke out on the levels where the burning pitch was held ready to pour on the invaders.

  Balyndar strode slowly past Tungdil, advancing on the inner court. “Find the traitors!” he bellowed, his voice full of rage. “For the queen’s sake, find them!”

  Tungdil was unable to move. He kept his eyes fixed on the yard, noticing it contained corpses as well as the ruins of battlement sections. Dwarves. Elves. Their bodies were for the most part decomposed or scavenged by vultures. These were not fresh deaths.

  “There is no more hope,” he said under his breath, and went back to Balyndis. He closed her eyelids tenderly. None at all. He stayed kneeling, motionless at her side while the surviving dwarves streamed through to secure the stronghold.

  The catapults were silent.

  Tungdil did not move until the dwarves came with a stretcher to carry Balyndis away. He still took no notice of the injuries to his hand and foot. His body was numb. He watched in silence as they lifted her body and carried her in to the fortress. Blood left a path of droplets on the stone as they bore her along.

  If a boulder had fallen on Tungdil from the walkways at that moment, he would not have moved aside.

  He would have welcomed it with open arms.

  Girdlegard

  Grey Mountains

  Kingdom of the Fifthling dwarves

  Stone Gateway

  6497th solar cycle, summer

  Ocâstia was seated opposite the dwarf leaders in the Fifthlings’ conference chamber. This was where judicial hearings normally took place. “I could not restrain Venîlahíl. He was … insane!”

  The elf-woman with the black and white hair looked careworn. She had suffered significant injuries and had lost weight. The dwarves had found her in the dungeon in an even worse state; she had been cowering in the same cell where the corpse of one of the sorânïons lay.

  “Venîlahíl was obsessed with the idea of our being taken over by the botoican.” Ocâstia had told her story several times: how one of her warriors had secretly started killing dwarves and elves with poison, until his madness grew so bold that he took over the walkways and used the machines and catapults to put down resistance. Only a few had survived and they had hidden in the extensive mountain tunnels. “How did you kill him?” she asked.

  Tungdil listened with the kings and the clan leaders. Occasionally there was a brief muttered discussion amongst the audience, but nobody interrupted her. This has to be sufficient, Vraccas. We have suffered enough. “He was hit by crossbow bolts. Two of them. We found his corpse next to a catapult he was about to load.”

  “Praise be to Vraccas and Sitalia! Here is the letter that started it all.”

  A message on the stone table in front of Ocâstia was written in dwarf runes and bore the High King’s signature and his personal seal. This false missive had set the scene for the tragedy that had played out in the fortress while the dwarves were campaigning in the Outer Lands.

  Ireheart picked up the document. It looked genuine enough in everything, from the type of paper to the handwriting, from the phraseology to the actual signature and seal. “And it was a dwarf who brought you the message?”

  “Yes.”

  “And his name was?”

  “I don’t know. The dwarves met with him. Then Barborin Doughtyarm came and told me the High King had written to say the botoican had unexpectedly won the battle and captured most of the dwarf army. The stronghold was immediately made ready to repel invaders.” Ocâstia wip
ed the tears from her cheeks; she had been deeply affected by events. “That’s when Venîlahíl went berserk. When I confronted him, he stabbed me and had me imprisoned. Together with the injured elf I was unable to save.”

  Boïndil looked round at the assembled faces. Balyndis, of course, was missing. Balyndar was there in her place, his face marked with grief at her passing.

  “Seven hundred and eleven dead, three hundred and seventy wounded. That’s more than we lost in the battle against the beasts,” Boïndil thundered, hurling the letter to the floor. “And we’ve lost Balyndis! Venîlahíl’s poison also saw to a further three hundred here. Sha’taï’s trick worked a treat.”

  “Why do we think the botoican was behind it?” Xamtor wanted to know.

  “It’s devious enough. But I disagree. It must have come from an älf.” Balyndar gripped his hands together. “I say it was Carmondai’s parting gift to us.”

  They’re looking for the simplest reason. Tungdil frowned. “Carmondai saved the High King’s life.”

  “Only because he knew he could cause more mayhem later.” Balyndar pointed to the letter. “The forgery is perfect in every detail. Even the royal seal. For a master in word and image like him this would be no problem.”

  “But he had no motive,” Tungdil insisted.

  “He is an älf,” his son retorted. “Why would he need a motive? It’s in his nature. Just because you had him along on your trek doesn’t mean the doddery black-eyes has turned harmless. In his core”—here the dwarf laid his hand on his own heart—“he is warped. He is Inàste’s creation. Like Aiphatòn.”

  “If that were the case,” said Frandibar, “where did the dwarf messenger come from? A gnome in disguise? Hardly.”

  Gordislan cleared his throat. “Hargorin, what do you say?”

  “I don’t know what I could contribute.” The King of the Thirdlings continued to scowl.

  “Perhaps that you considered the dwarf feud to be over, but there still might be some of your tribe who do not share your enlightened opinion?” Gordislan was making an effort not to sound accusatory, but his tone of voice was making things worse.

  This is how trust is destroyed. Tungdil expected Hargorin to fly into a rage and grab Gordislan, but the red-bearded dwarf remained admirably calm. “It’s no secret, if you know it.” He nodded. “Everybody knows it. But the Thirdlings made up the majority of our army. It can hardly have been their idea to wipe themselves out in this way.”

  Xamtor snorted, “We won’t get nearer the truth till we’ve questioned the traitor who delivered that message.”

  And since Ocâstia never saw him, she can’t tell us who it is, even if he is among the survivors. This realisation brought Tungdil to a conclusion the dwarf rulers were not going to like. “Put that aside for now. We need to concentrate on Sha’taï.”

  “I am not going to put it aside.” Balyndar was indignant. “And I want Carmondai found and punished!”

  “You know the situation. Tell me how you think you’re going to be able to find him.” Tungdil gave the faintest of smiles. “Are you planning on sending out a hunting party to get the älf? Where? The Outer Lands? At a time the Fifthlings are reduced to eleven hundred?”

  Balyndar was about to launch into a reply but thought better of it.

  He’s come to see sense. Good. “Vraccas will send us an opportunity to get to the bottom of things when the time is right.” Turning to Ocâstia, Tungdil asked: “Did the false news get out into Girdlegard, about the army being defeated?”

  “Possibly.” She looked unsure. In her right hand she was clutching a figurine bearing Rognor’s symbol.

  “That would mean they all mistrust us, and will think we’re controlled by the ghaist. As soon as Sha’taï hears, she’ll hit us with everything she’s got. Everyone will join in her side out of affection for her.” Tungdil helped himself to some water. One trial after another. “We need to come up with an idea fast.”

  “You really ought to be High King,” Boïndil found himself saying.

  “Never!” snapped Balyndar. Tungdil understood his passionate response. He saw the elf-woman wanting to add something.

  “Before things got out of hand, we’d heard that Coïra had retired into her tower,” said Ocâstia.

  “Tower? What tower?” Boïndil was as surprised as all the others. Then he remembered there had been talk of it at their last meeting. There’s so much to take in.

  “Soon after you left, the maga used her magic to build herself an eight-sided tower, measuring around a hundred paces in diameter at the base. It’s supported by buttresses that rear up over the town, it’s so big.” Her words and gestures were compelling. The dwarves were able to picture the magic building. “It reaches up to the clouds, many hundreds of paces high. If the botoican girl has taken refuge there and is amassing an army to defend herself, we’ll never get her out.”

  Xamtor laughed. “No tower is stronger than its foundation.”

  “Undermining it won’t work. It’s no doubt built on the magic source,” Tungdil told them, quashing that idea. But what can we do? Each of those present deliberated in silence about how the tower might be captured without a tremendous loss of life or destroying the building, and without recourse to a time-consuming siege. The gates still had to be protected. And anyway, Coïra could conjure herself anything she needed.

  This is worse than fighting the ghaist. “If we had the wind-älf it’d be easy,” muttered Boïndil. “He could have blasted the Sha’taï girl straight out through the window.”

  Wind! Now there’s an idea! “You may’ve come up with something, my friend. Let’s send out scouts. Before taking any course of action, we need to assess the situation in the interior.”

  The rulers agreed.

  Ocâstia gave Tungdil a smile. “And, you know, you are their king,” she said quietly, so quietly that only he could hear it. “Of course I shall be at your side when you march out to capture the young girl.” She stood up. “Has it been decided what to do with her?”

  Nobody spoke.

  The elf-woman came to her own conclusions. “I understand. That will be the best thing.”

  Girdlegard

  United Kingdom of Gauragar-Idoslane

  Idoslane

  6497th solar cycle, autumn

  A building that is only held up by magic. Tungdil observed the octagonal tower, which was larger and taller than anything Girdlegard had ever previously seen. The dwarves had halted a safe distance away and were making their preparations. The mighty tower looked impregnable. And it’s partly my fault it exists. It was me that brought Coïra to the source.

  A strong wind swept through Idoslane, driving the clouds from the west to disperse round the topmost third of the edifice.

  “It’s the magic source that keeps it erect.” Tungdil looked at the town that appeared insignificant under the massive flying buttresses that were one hundred paces wide. “The supports are just for show.”

  “I can see what you mean. A battering-ram would be no use at all.” Boïndil scratched the closely shaved side of his head and then readjusted his helmet. “Looks like your plan is the only way, Scholar.”

  “It may well cost us more dwarves.” Tungdil turned to look at the army that Sha’taï had mustered—it was all of Girdlegard’s fighting forces. The troops surrounding the tower like living ramparts were ready to sacrifice their lives for the young woman. “They outnumber you four to one. But it’s important not to inflict too much damage on them.”

  “I hope they’ll see we’re the good guys.” Boïndil lifted his new crow’s beak. He had created the whole thing out of wood and padded it with fabric. “This shouldn’t cause too much damage.”

  “It won’t be as heavy as the original, but be careful who you’re hitting. It could still crush a skull or tear a throat.” Tungdil bade his friend farewell. “And before you ask again: no, I shan’t be standing as High King. I have to help my son to be a good ruler. I promised Balyndis.”

&n
bsp; Boïndil nodded. “Did you tell him the code?”

  “No. And that’s the only reason he lets me stay near him. Without my say-so, the gates won’t close or open.” Tungdil could not tell his friend the truth about how he did it. Not without a protracted revelation of all the events during his time in Phondrasôn.

  “I get it.” Boïndil swung himself into the saddle. “Balyndar told me something that should make your doubters quieten down.”

  Tungdil frowned. He won’t be meaning the grief I feel, surely? “Did he?”

  “Keenfire. He said the diamonds did not light up in warning when the two of you were standing together. May Vraccas and Samusin be with you.” He galloped off.

  “May they be with us all, old friend,” Tungdil watched him ride off to join their army. So my own weapon has declared me innocent.

  The remaining dwarf forces were waiting for their High King at the south of the tower. Against all normal practice, the warriors were armed only with wooden clubs and sturdy shields. Their catapult projectiles and crossbow bolts had padded tips, intended merely to knock their opponents off their feet or to stun them.

  The army had been equipped specifically with the aim of causing no deaths. The injuries amongst the elves and humans would be broken limbs, bumps and bruises. The dwarves knew their opponents doing battle against them were not in possession of the full facts and therefore should be treated magnanimously. They did not, however, expect any such clemency for themselves. The troops had taken pains with their armour, expecting bolts and blades.

  “A brave band.” Beligata came up to Tungdil, attaching leather straps over her shoulders and fastening them to her belt. “We’ll try to get this over with quickly.” She handed him a set of leather straps and steel rings. “We have a favourable wind. We’ve been waiting a long time.”

  Tungdil slipped into the harness and made sure the straps were tight. His leg still hurt but that must not be allowed to impede him. All he took to defend himself with was the slim acronta dagger. He wore no metal plate armour. It would have weighed him down too much.