The Revenge of the Dwarves (65 page)

“A fine sight,” Ginsgar laughed roughly, and the others joined in. “It was a good idea, paying the elves a visit and paying our respects to Gandogar, wasn’t it?”

“Good thing you saw them coming,” agreed Bilandel Lighthammer of the clan of the Hammer Heads, wiping blood off his face with a bit of rag. The two were alike, but his beard was brown whereas Ginsgar’s was red. They would be taken for brothers were they not from different clans.

Ginsgar climbed onto the nearest rock to have a better view. He and his clan’s five hundred warriors were the contingent from the Red Mountains sent as reinforcements for the Toboribor siege. The news of Gandogar’s death had reached them as they marched. Dwarf spirit had flared up in fury and his soldiers were of one angry mind.

Seeing the numbers of elf dead did not cool his blood. He was eaten up by the thought that there were still elves alive. “What are these few paltry corpses? Âlandur is full of them,” he murmured belligerently.

Bilandil looked up. “I agree. When it’s over someone will find a way of explaining away what the pointy-ears
have done and they won’t get the punishment they deserve.”

Ginsgar looked at his friend. “Hear me, children of the Smith!” he called. The dwarves thronged in front of him, not a trace of regret showing on any face. “Our high king has been taken from us. And we know who perpetrated his treacherous murder. They tell us the elves were dazzled and led astray by the avatars and the elf-woman that led them.” He raised his hammer and pointed north. “Remember the wars our folk have waged against the elves over thousands of cycles. We never sought such wars but were forced into them by the aggression of the elves: their cruel deeds or malicious threats. Even the älfar are more honest than they are. I say the elves never wanted peace with our people. The slaying of Gandogar shows their true colors. We tried to negotiate reconciliation; may Vraccas be our witness that we tried. And this is how they repay us.” He struck the rock a mighty blow with his hammer. “Enough! Let us make for Âlandur and tear the deceiving evil heart out of the elf-folk before another malevolent fruit ripens on the trees of their glades!”

And the dwarves roared approval in a frenzy of victory and blood-lust. They put aside the task they had been given.

“Long live Ginsgar!” shouted Bilandel, brandishing his morning star. “Let him lead us to Âlandur. And if our kind track down the diamond, we shall make sure no pointy-ears are alive to grab it!” He headed the march. “To Âlandur! Vengeance for Gandogar!”

Ginsgar was hoisted up and carried on a shield. “Vraccas
is with us!” he promised his dwarf-following. “Death to all elves!”

Above the heads of the warrior throng he held his shield up with one hand and raised his warhammer in the other.

To see the impressive figure of the red-bearded dwarf was immediately to recognize the new high king of the dwarves—one who would preside over bitter and terrible times.

Girdlegard
,

Kingdom of Idoslane
,

The Caves of Toboribor
,

Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

I
reheart took a peek round the corner. The passageway, as yet unexplored, lay dark and abandoned before them. Or rather, it gave the impression of being abandoned.

“What happens if we meet elves, Scholar?” he said, before jumping round, his crow’s beak raised.

“Depends how they behave. If they attack, we fight back,” Tungdil answered. “But I don’t want to see any of us lift a weapon first,” he warned his companions.

He was leading one of the dwarf bands that in the last ten orbits had penetrated deep into the former orc territory. As well as Ireheart, Goda and Sirka, he had fifty heavily armored experienced warriors who had already shown their mettle in battles on the Blacksaddle and against the avatars and orcs in the Gray Range. Resolute veterans
all, they feared no peril and would fight Tion himself if need be.

Lot-Ionan could not be with them. Instead, they had Dergard to counter the magic of the unslayables or perhaps of the elves. The dwarves were taking over all the fighting.

Ireheart poked at a long thin object with the tip of his boot. “Orc bones. Not very old, but not very recent.” He bent and picked up his find. “A snout-face’s thigh bone. Severed with one blow.” It was a clean cut. “Must have been an extremely sharp blade,” he said, admiration in his voice. “Not a sword and certainly not the kind of ax the orcs use.”

“The ubariu?” suggested Goda hesitantly. “Did they get in here secretly…”

“No.” Tungdil moved forward cautiously, his right hand clasping Keenfire. “The unslayables. They killed the orcs.”

Boïndil shook his head doubtfully. “Do you think they’d simply do away with the last of their allies for the hell of it?”

“No, not just for the hell of it. But they’d do it. Perhaps they’d carried out their task and weren’t needed anymore.”

From in front of them came a loud hiss and two large green spots glowed in the darkness. There was a rumbling sound as at terrifying creature made of tionium picked up a metal foot and moved toward them.

“That must be the thing King Ortger was describing,” Ireheart called out, raising his crow’s beak. “Anybody remember where the weak spot is for this particular freak?”

“No, don’t look for a weak spot,” Tungdil ordered. If
Furgas was really the mastermind behind these monsters there wouldn’t be any weak spots. “Let’s get it another way.”

Dergard pushed to the front, lifted his hands and started to intone a spell, but Tungdil stopped him. “Keep your magic for when we face the unslayables,” he said. “Don’t forget that some of the parts are coated with an alloy that conducts magic.”

“You are right.” Dergard lowered his arms. “It would help rather than harm them.” His gaze wandered upwards toward the roof. “But they presumably would be vulnerable to a rockfall?”

“Save the idea for emergencies. We’ll try something else.” He indicated to the dwarves who were carrying their climbing gear. “Take the ropes. Tie its legs together and trip it up.”

The oversized suit of armor was pushing closer, rattling and hissing. The massive hands opened and closed with loud clicks as if it could not wait to grab hold of the dwarves. In the meantime they had glimpsed the monster’s face behind the thick porthole at breast height. It was inwardly raging, the noise of the machinery drowning out its shouts.

“Can we get near enough before it realizes what we’re up to?” one of the warriors wondered.

Tungdil gave a dark laugh. “We’ll bring it to you. Get ready.”

“Yes! That’s what I like!” laughed Boïndil and gave the crow’s beak a trial swing. “Let’s knock. Maybe the thing inside will just open up and ask us in.”

“Provoke it and get it to chase us. But be careful. We
don’t know if Ortger’s told us everything it can do,” warned Tungdil. “Take it in turns.”

“I’ll go first,” demanded Ireheart and rushed off with half the dwarves after him. The others watched tensely as the first feigned attacks were made.

The creature was astonishingly flexible for its huge dimensions. Fatally flexible.

One overbold attacker lost his life. An iron-clad foot kicked him through the air and he collided with the wall of the tunnel, breaking his neck.

Over the creature’s breast area openings became visible; then the monster bent forward and sent a hail of missiles shooting at the dwarves. All of them missed.

Ireheart was doing well. Although the fire of battle was raging in his veins and he was slamming away at the boots and joints of the monster, he was staying alert enough to keep walking backwards, luring the living suit of armor after him.

“Our turn now!” called Tungdil, raising Keenfire. It was time to find out what they could achieve. Would the alloy coating protect it?

Sirka bent and kissed Tungdil wordlessly, then smiled at him. “Just in case one of us doesn’t make it out of the caves alive,” she said, whirling her staff. “Shall we?”

He nodded and stormed ahead. Those few words of Sirka’s echoed round his head and threatened to distract him from the task at hand. He pulled himself together and ducked to avoid the grasp of the machine’s snapping fingers, feeling the draught as the blow narrowly missed. He attacked with Keenfire.

To his inordinate relief the ax head flamed into life, gathering power to strike the foe.

The blade hit home above the iron ankle. Lightning flashes blazed and the runes on the armor shone dark green. A jerk went through the machine and a new noise erupted inside like the twanging of a breaking bow string.

“It’s still alive, Scholar!” Ireheart screamed from behind. “The thing in the glass case. It’s still there. And I think it’s laughing!”

Furious now, Tungdil drew back his weapon, there was dark green blood, nearly black, sticking to it. At least Keenfire was able to injure it. Then he saw the elf runes on the monster’s right breast. The word he read was
deaths
.

“Take care,” Sirka warned, but it was a second too late.

The flat iron hand hit him and catapulted him away. He lost his helmet and his belt came loose, tangling itself round his boots. Caught upside-down like a bound gugul he could see the monster stomping toward him, sharp iron nails underneath its boots, with fragments of bone and armor from previous encounters hung between them.

“Come here and I’ll slit your tin can open!” he taunted the colossus, raising his ax.

Then Sirka was there, dragging him along by his belt. Their giant adversary followed them—and stepped into the trap.

Hardly had Tungdil and Sirka passed than the rope was tautened and the ends fastened round a rock.

It caught the monster’s iron foot; its pace slackened. The rope burst apart but the beast had lost its balance. It managed
to bring its arms forward to break the fall and to prevent itself falling onto its porthole.

“Now!” bellowed Ireheart sprinting off and using his momentum to swing the crow’s beak upwards with tremendous force.

The blunt end hit the thick porthole in front of the monster’s face. Clunk! Four cracks appeared in the curved pane of glass. The three iron balls of Goda’s night star completed the destruction. Shards fell down on her and Ireheart.

Sirka had freed Tungdil from his involuntary bondage. “Everything all right? Or have I dragged the skin off your bones?”

“No, you have stolen my heart.” This time he was the one who planted a kiss, then he sprang up to help Boïndil, looking on in fury as the machine struggled up.

“Stay where you are, infernal bucket!” raged Ireheart, whacking the iron arms, in an attempt to break them, in spite of being underneath. “You have killed your last dwarf!” He struck an elbow joint.

The combination of the creature’s massive weight and this well-aimed blow caused the material to yield. One of the holding bolts snapped, and the forearm broke off. The machine toppled and could not right itself.

“You’re mad! Get out from under there!” called Tungdil.

But Ireheart was too far gone in his battle-lust to hear. “I’ll smash your ugly nose and the rest of you to boot!” he promised the beast, thumping his crow’s beak into its face. Blood sprayed out and the deformed features disappeared in a sea of black. The whole machine shuddered as if sharing
the pain the creature within was suffering. “Ha! Now it’s…”

The left arm gave way and the three-pace-long torso fell with a thud. Its fate was sealed.

Tungdil saw his friend disappear under the massive black armor. His cry of horror was drowned out by the terrible clanking and rattling, a noise that eclipsed any other sound in the tunnels. He did not dare look down to check for blood. “We’ll have to hoist it up, to…”

“That was close,” they heard Boïndil laugh. His helmet appeared on top of the armored monster, then he was up and standing on it swinging his crow’s beak. “Ha! That’s what Vraccas likes to see!” he called happily. “Now the unslayables have lost two of their beasts.”

He stamped on the creature’s metal back. “It wasn’t actually the magister’s weak point they told us about. But it wasn’t bad, was it?”

Tungdil gestured him to come down. “Get off there before the altitude gets to your brain and you attempt more stupid suicidal stuff.” He hid his relief behind the seemingly harsh words.

“Coming, Scholar.” Ireheart stroked his weapon. “Crow’s beak and I are in just the mood to take on another of these monsters.” He looked down between his feet. “There’s something like a lock here. Shall we break it open? It’ll take us to the cogwheel innards, for sure.”

With a high-pitched shriek steam gushed out of a vent next to Ireheart.

“No, let’s get on.” Tungdil did not like the sound at all. His own people’s steam machines had valves to release a
build-up of pressure. He did not know if this contraption had the same. “If the boiler blows I don’t want to be next to it.”

“Got you.” He stepped over the iron hip, walked down the leg and jumped off the foot, brown eyes gleaming with a mixture of war-rage and triumphant delight: a dangerous combination of light-headed boldness and unshakeable self-confidence. “Do you know what? We’ll have another of these down before the day is out.”

“You are incorrigible,” said Tungdil and left it at that. “Come on.”