The Revenge of the Dwarves

  “Look out. It will use the chains like a whip,” guessed Tungdil, speaking tensely. “Boïndil and I will attack simultaneously. Goda, watch the door.”

  The dwarves went for the monster from both sides, but saw that in spite of its huge size they had a cunning and damnably agile adversary.

  Ireheart ducked under the flying chains, but was kicked in the chest and crashed back against the place where the pots and pans were stored. The wooden door gave way under the impact, shelves fell out and buried Boïndil under the contents of the cupboard.

  At first Tungdil had better luck. He too lowered his head, avoided the whirling chain, and heaved Keenfire up with both hands in an attempt to whack it into the belly of the monster; but the creature’s other claw shot forward and grabbed the haft.

  Something extraordinary happened.

  The ax head started glowing, the inlay flamed up and the diamonds blazed like tiny suns, so that Tungdil closed his eyes against the glare.

  The monster shrieked in anger and shock. It had let go of Keenfire and was stumbling backwards, as the dwarf could hear. There was the smell of burning flesh.

  Hardly had Tungdil caught sight of his opponent as a shadowy form than he hacked at it. The ax Keenfire, dragging a comet-like fire behind it, stopped short at the monster’s hip and was jerked aside. Tungdil nearly lost hold of it.

  Glowing chain links wrapped themselves around the head of the ax, stopping its impetus. With a great hiss the magical power of both weapons collided and red and green sparks flew through the kitchen, scorching wood and stone alike. And what was worse: the sparks fizzled in Tungdil’s beard, burning holes. Slowly but surely the handle was growing hot.

  “What the hell is happening here?” yelled Boïndil, struggling out of the mound of frying pans. He’d lost his crow’s beak in the heap of broken pots. “Magic?” He picked up a particularly sturdy casserole dish and hurled it at the creature. “Stop that now, frog! Fight like a proper monster!”

  The casserole smashed into its broad chest.

  With a grunt the creature spun round and looked at the warrior, who had just found the handle of his weapon and was extracting it from the debris, ready to use. It swung its left arm, allowing the second chain to surge forward suddenly with a snake-like movement. This time the chain glowed dark green and made no bones about concealing its magic powers.

  Boïndil swerved to avoid it, but the creature knew full well how to use its unusual weapons to best advantage. A short jerk and the chain changed direction in mid-flight, wrapping itself around the dwarf’s neck.

  Ireheart gave a sharp, strangled cry, dropped his crow’s beak and fell to the ground.

  Tungdil pulled the ax free with a shout, and the chain rattled to the floor.

  “Get back or the groundling dies,” commanded the fiendish creature. As if to back up his claims the älfar engravings on the left wrist band lit up, and the chain tethering Ireheart glowed more intensively. He began to make convulsive movements and gurgling noises escaped his throat as he collapsed.

  Suddenly Goda was standing at Tungdil’s side. “What shall we do?”

  “Let it go!” he hissed through clenched teeth as he stepped to one side. He did not want to lose Boïndil. “We can get the diamond back when it thinks it is safe and has let Ireheart go.”

  The green glow faded. The monster pulled the captive dwarf over toward it, winding the chain back round its wrist until it showed only half an arm’s length. Ireheart was being forced to his feet. He stood swaying on his tiptoes so as not to throttle himself. The chain was hot and had scorched his lovely black beard and long hair. “Don’t follow!” the creature ordered as it went past Goda and Tungdil.

  It went backwards through the tunnel, keeping one eye on the dwarves. It sniffed loudly, getting its bearings from the smells to locate an exit from the vaults; its nostrils were flared wide. It continued on its way, dragging Ireheart in its tracks, panting and choking.

  “When do we free him?” asked Goda in a hostile whisper. “He can’t breathe!”

  “As long as he’s still making some kind of noise he’s all right,” answered Tungdil, racking his brains for some ploy to use against the enemy. It seemed Goda was completely ignoring the intruder’s magic, which probably had not yet been used to its full potential. Keenfire would protect him from sorcery, as it had done at the Blacksaddle when he fought the Mist Demons. But a well-aimed strike on the head with the heavy chains would certainly cause a very serious injury.

  The creature had found the passageway leading to the gate and was increasing its pace. With a swift movement it loosened the throttle-hold on Ireheart’s neck and he collapsed on the ground, gasping for air. Horrified, he groped the singed beard and hair ends: “I’m crippled! For that I’m going to strip the skin off you and slice it into pieces, frog,” he grated, as he pushed himself up onto his feet. “Your weapon, Goda!”

  “No, master. You said yourself a warrior never lets his weapon out of his hand.”

  “Goda, this is not another silly test! Give me your weapon.” It was an indistinct cough rather than speech. A quiet but horrified exclamation from Tungdil made him look. Balyndis was standing directly in front of the creature, blocking its way to the exit.

  “Get out of the way,” yelled Tungdil, “Otherwise…”

  The warning came too late. Boldly Balyndis was attacking with her hatchet, fending off the spiraling chains with her shield. She was in range for a hit.

  The monster used its chain-wrapped left forearm as a decoy. Hardly had the blade touched the links of the chain before magic was released.

  A green lightning bolt struck the weapon, which burst into pieces, showering the dwarf-woman with a hail of shrapnel. The shield was penetrated in several places. Balyndis staggered and fell first against the tunnel wall, then slowly to the ground.

  “Balyndis!” Tungdil rushed to her aid. Ireheart and Goda followed him.

  The creature turned around with a roar, lifted up a wooden spar from the broken gate and hurled it in their direction.

  The aim was true and swept all three of them to the ground; they were helpless against the force of the blow. By the time they were on their feet again, the monster had disappeared.

  “After him!” Tungdil commanded Boïndil and looked at Goda. “You, see to Balyndis.” She nodded, wordlessly passing her night star flail to her master.

  The dwarves ran out of the vaults and pricked up their ears. Moon and stars were shining brightly down on Idoslane. The excellent night vision they both possessed showed them a still and sleeping silver landscape, peaceful and calm.

  “Where did it go?” whispered Ireheart, observing the ground for tracks. “It ought to have left some marks big enough for a child to hide in. There’s nothing here. Froggy must have hopped away.”

  Tungdil could make out a movement in the distance. “It has indeed.” He sighed, pointing toward the west. “There it goes.”

  Where he was indicating a figure crossed the rough terrain by leaps and bounds, eschewing the roads and pathways. It jumped over bushes and small fruit trees as if on an athletics training run.

  “It’s taking the shortest route home,” Tungdil ventured.

  “Wretched devil-creature!” Boïndil stamped on the earth in anger. “Why the west?”

  “Why not the west?” countered Tungdil. “We know nothing about it or its two siblings. West is as good as east.”

  “Yes. But I thought it would head for Toboribor. The caves of the old realm of the snout-faced orcs would make an excellent hiding place.”

  “Maybe it’s trying to trick us.” He couldn’t make the figure out anymore. The dark edge of the forest had swallowed it up and was providing all the cover it might want.

  Ireheart shouldered the weapon he had taken from Goda. “Shall we get after it?”

  “There’s no point. Did you see how fast it was traveling? No rider could overtake it.” They returned to the vaults. “We’ll look for tracks in the morning. Pe
rhaps they’ll lead us somewhere we can find out more about these monsters. I will let Prince Mallen know what has happened, so that he can send us a squad of soldiers.”

  Goda had levered Balyndis up into a sitting position. There was blood streaming down from her many wounds. One long thin metal fragment had narrowly missed her right eye, and now jutted out of her skull. She was biting her lips so as not to scream with the pain. She grabbed Tungdil’s hand, desperate for his help.

  “You’ll be fine,” he said to her cheerily.

  Ireheart pointed out a large red stain under the chain mail. “That looks bad. We need a healer right away to look at these wounds and remove all the splinters.” He spoke in a hushed voice so that Balyndis wouldn’t hear.

  She pulled her husband nearer. “I’m going to pass out, Tungdil,” she managed to say. “Only Vraccas knows whether I shall wake again, so you must listen to me.” The grip of her hand was so tight that it hurt him. She was racked with a wave of pain and then her eyelids fluttered. “Djern…” she groaned, then her body went limp.

  Horrified, Tungdil listened for her heartbeat. “It’s still beating,” he said in relief. “Quick, Ireheart. We’ll carry her to her bed. Goda, run to the settlement and fetch a healer. No matter what he’s in the middle of. Just bring him here.”

  “Yes.” She nodded eagerly, but smiled when she saw Boïndil’s mistake. To pick up Balyndis by the feet he had leaned the night star against the passage wall. She grabbed her weapon. “Now, master, it’ll be your turn to drag the beam today. You know where I’ve left it,” she called out cheekily and raced away.

  He watched her go. “What a…” He spared himself the rest.

  With Balyndis resting on her bed, and with most of the sharp-edged iron splinters removed carefully by Tungdil, the healer arrived to look after her and calm was restored.

  Tungdil made use of the time to search the laboratorium to ascertain the unwelcome truth. Like many of the rooms he passed, it had been totally ransacked. Not a shelf was left in place.

  He soon came to the conclusion that the creature had found the diamond by chance. There was a huge bloodied footprint by the pile of glass. It must have stepped on the shards, injuring its foot, and then must have noticed the diamond amongst the shattered fragments.

  “Damnation!” he shouted in anger. He went into Lot-Ionan’s old study, where there was an immense collection of books. He sat at the desk and started a letter to Prince Mallen, telling him what had happened. He found himself occasionally picking his nose with the end of the quill pen—a bad habit from the old days, the not-so-very-old days. He rapped himself on the knuckles, took a new nib and started again.

  There was a knock on the door and the healer stepped into the room. He was wearing a dark gray robe over his white nightshirt; his boots were still undone. Goda really had dragged him from his bed. “Excuse me, Master Goldhand.” He ran his hands through his medium-length gray hair, which was standing up around his head. “I’m done here. I’ve stitched the wounds and treated them with salves. She will recover. The tincture I have given her will let her sleep for two orbits.”

  Tungdil nodded to him, reached into the drawer of the desk and took out a gold coin. “This is for your trouble,” he said. “In the morning, please bring me anything else she may need.”

  “Thank you, Master Goldhand.” The healer took the money, then looked at the dwarf. “What happened? If I may ask? It looks as if a horde of orcs had broken in.”

  “You may ask,” replied Tungdil shortly. But he preferred to keep the truth to himself. There were already too many rumors circulating in Girdlegard. “Thieves. We chased them off. I’d prefer it if you’d keep this to yourself. If anyone asks, say it was an accident.” He threw him a second coin.

  “Of course, Master Goldhand. You may rest assured on that count. I wish your lady wife a speedy recovery.” The healer bowed, and as he did so the sides of his robe swung gently under him. “Make sure she has bed-rest for at least forty orbits.”

  “Why?”

  He indicated his right side. “One of the largest fragments has damaged an internal organ, as far as I can see, but I specialize in healing humans and not dwarves. It looks all right, but as I said…”

  “She will remain in bed,” Tungdil nodded for him to go. “Thank you.” The man turned and left the room.

  Tungdil was finishing his letter to Mallen when Ireheart came in. He had put on his leather jacket and chain mail now. “Balyndis is fast asleep,” he reported, settling into the armchair by the fireside. With his short hair and ruined beard he looked very odd. “What next?”

  “We’ll see at sun-up,” Tungdil replied as he signed the letter and placed his seal on it. He did not hold out much hope that they would find the creature, but said nothing.

  “Look what froggy has done to me. I’m like a plucked chicken,” Ireheart complained, tugging at the remains of his beard. He had trimmed its ragged edges so that, although very short, it still looked reasonably tidy; it would be many cycles before it was back in all its long glory. And his hair was only shoulder length now. “I’ll be laughed at. If for nothing else it deserves to die for doing that.” He put his feet up. “Do you think it’s maybe always the same creature but appearing in a different guise each time?”

  “Hard to say. I don’t think so.” Tungdil was chewing over his wife’s last word before she fell unconscious. He told his friend about it.

  “Djern? Old Tin Man?” Ireheart thought back to Andôkai’s huge bodyguard. “Did she mean froggy was one of those? It was the right size. And that was from the Outer Lands, too.”

  “No, I don’t think they’re related. This creature bled like an orc. Djern’s blood was bright yellow.”

  “Mm,” said the warrior, at a loss. “Then I’ve no idea what she could have meant…”

  “Of course!” Tungdil clapped himself on the forehead with the flat of his hand. “Djern’s armor!”

  “But it wasn’t wearing any armor,” retorted Ireheart.

  “No, but those wrist bands, and the chains.” Tungdil frowned into the flames. “I think Balyndis was trying to tell me that they were made of the same metal as Djern’s armor. Do you remember? It carried the magic.” He stood up and came over to join his friend at the fireside.

  “That must mean that others have got the formula?”

  “More than that, Boïndil. It means they’ve found a way to store magic power to use when they need it. It is more than protection. It is a reservoir that they can have recourse to for stocking up on magic now that Girdlegard has lost its magic source.” In a frenzy he racked his brain.

  “And what if it’s the other way around?”

  Tungdil stared at Ireheart’s wrinkled face in irritation. “What do you mean?”

  “Perhaps froggy itself is magic?” He stroked the remains of his beard ruefully. “Like the wire the eoîl put leading up to the roof of the building from the magic source. That siphoned the energy up so it could be used at will.”

  “An upside-down storm-milker?”

  “A what?”

  “A storm-milker. In one of the ancient alchemy tomes I read that you can do certain experiments when there’s a thunderstorm. Copper and iron attract the lightning bolts, it said.” Tungdil hurried over to the bookshelves and climbed the ladder to look for the book in question. “Here it is!” He opened the pages. “ ‘Place the ingredients in an iron bath when a thunderstorm is nigh. Let the bath be carried to the top of a mountain and stick a lance upright in the tub. Lightning will enter the tub and the energy released will effect the transformation.’ ” He slammed the book shut again. “With these creatures it’s the other way about: they are the thunderstorm and the energy shoots out through the metal.”

  “There you are,” joked Ireheart. “That’s a scholar for you.”

  “Yes,” sighed Tungdil, his enthusiasm failing. “Of course it’s only a theory,” he said with regret. “We don’t have anyone who knows enough about magic to advise us.
”

  “Makes sense all right to me,” Boïndil consoled him. “Why not tell Mallen what you think?”

  Tungdil hesitated. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  He returned to his seat by the fire. “Who knows the formula, Ireheart?”

  “The special metal? Well, Balyndis and Andôkai. And the eoîl, I think, but it’s dead.” Boïndil studied Tungdil, not knowing what he was getting at.

  “I wonder how likely it is that one of the Outer Land races knows magic and is in possession of the formula for this alloy.”

  Now Boïndil was following. “You think the beasts don’t come from the Outer Land?”

  “There are lots of possibilities, I admit,” nodded Tungdil. “But where have the indestructible siblings got to? Rodario and I couldn’t find a trace of the unslayables on the tower. Of course, that was after the Star of Judgment fell. There was neither armor nor ash like with the älfar and the orcs that were wiped out by the Star’s force.” He leaned back. “Balyndis told some of our people the details of the special alloy before she left the Gray Range. And thirdlings have spies all over the place.”

  “You’re not saying the embittered thirdlings and the unslayables have made common cause?”

  “I don’t know.” Tungdil lowered his head, massaging his temples. “Damn it all. We’re completely in the dark here, Ireheart. We’ll have to step carefully through the pitch blackness, throwing light on the individual secrets as we go.”

  Ireheart stood up. “Then let’s make a start in the morning, as we’d planned. We’ll find froggy.” He made for the door. “I’ll send Goda to the gate to take first watch.”

  “Have you dragged your beam yet?” Tungdil baited him about his mistake.

  “No,” Boïndil growled.

  “But you’ll be wanting to set a good example, won’t you?”

  Ireheart turned round and stepped out into the passage. “Fine friend you are,” he said, quite offended. “Go on, take my pupil’s side. You thirdlings are bound to stick together.” His footsteps died away.