Authors: Markus Heitz
The Dwarves
“You are mistaken, my friend. We are the älfar, and we have come to slay the elves,” the voice said softly.
“The gates may be closed, but the power of the land will raise you from the dead and from that moment on, you will be one
of us. You know the incantation; you will open the door.”
“Never! My soul belongs to Vraccas!”
“Your soul belongs to the land, and you will belong to the land until the end of time,” the velvety voice cut him short. “Die,
so you can return and deliver Girdlegard to us.”
The spear’s sharp tip pierced the flesh of the helpless, dying dwarf. Pain stopped his tongue.
Sinthoras raised the weapon and pushed down gently on the battered body. The final blow was dealt tenderly, almost reverently.
The creature waited for death to claim its prey, watching over Glandallin’s pain-ravaged features and drinking in the memory.
Finally, when he was certain that the last custodian of the gateway had departed, Sinthoras left his vigil and rose to his
feet.
Copyright © 2005 by Piper Verlag GmbH, Munich
English translation copyright © 2009 by Sally-Ann Spencer
Excerpt from
The War of the Dwarves
copyright © 2010 by Piper Verlag GmbH, Munich
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written
permission of the publisher.
Orbit
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: November 2009
Originally published in Germany as
Die Zwerge
by Heyne Verlag, 2003
Orbit is an imprint of Hachette Book Group. The Orbit name and logo are trademarks of Little, Brown Book Group Limited.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and
not intended by the author.
ISBN: 978-0-316-08860-2
Contents
A PREVIEW OF
THE WAR OF THE DWARVES
“Appearances are there to be ignored, for the biggest hearts may reside in the smallest and unlikeliest creatures. Those who
fail to look beyond the surface will never encounter true virtue — not in others and certainly not in themselves.”
— From “Collected Wisdom of a Dead Stranger” in
Philosophical Letters and Texts
from the archive of the Hundred-Pillared Temple of Palandiell in Zamina, Kingdom of Rân Ribastur.
“Dwarves and mountains have one thing in common: It takes an almighty hammer and a tremendous amount of persistence to overcome
them.”
— Traditional saying from the Murk region, northeast Idoslane.
“Fleeing from an angry dwarf requires fleetness of foot. For consider this: The target of dwarven wrath must be capable of
outstripping the irate warrior’s flying ax. Those lucky enough to escape with their lives should take pains to alter their
appearance. The dwarven memory is dangerously good. Even after twenty cycles the threat remains and no one can predict when
the chamber might ring with vengeful dwarven laughter as a tankard smashes against the offender’s head.”
— From “Notes on the Races of Girdlegard: Singularities and Oddities” from the archive of Viransiénsis, Kingdom of Tabaîn,
compiled by the Master of Folklore M.A. Het in the 4299th Solar Cycle.
Prologue
Northern Pass,
Stone Gateway to the Fifthling Kingdom,
Late Summer, 5199th Solar Cycle
P
ale fog filled the canyons and valleys of the Gray Range. The Dragon’s Tongue, Great Blade, and other peaks towered defiantly
above the mist, tips raised toward the evening sun.
Slowly, as if afraid of the jagged peaks, the ball of fire sank in the sky, bathing the Northern Pass in waning red light.
Glandallin Hammerstrike of the clan of the Striking Hammers recovered his breath. Leaning back against the roughly hewn wall
of the watchtower, he cupped his hand to his bushy brown eyebrows and shaded his eyes from the unaccustomed light. The ascent
had been grueling and his close-woven chain mail, two axes, and shield weighed heavy on his aged legs.
There was no one younger to stand watch in his stead.
Only a few orbits previously, the nine clans of the fifthling kingdom had been attacked in their underground halls. Many had
lost their lives in the battle, but the young and inexperienced were the first to fall.
Then came the sickness. No one knew where it had sprung from, but it preyed on the dwarves, sapping their strength, clouding
their vision, and enfeebling their hands.
And so it was that Glandallin, despite his age, was guarding the gateway that night. Two vast slabs of solid rock erected
by Vraccas, god and creator of the dwarves, stemmed the tide of invading beasts. For some the sight of the imposing gateway
was not enough of a deterrent; bleached bones and twisted scraps of armor were all that remained of them now.
The solitary sentry unhooked a leather pouch from his belt and poured cool water down his parched throat. A few drops spilled
out of the corners of his mouth, flowing through his black beard. Elegant braids, the work of untold hours, hung from his
chin and rested on his chest like delicate cords.
Glandallin replaced the pouch, took his weapons from his belt, and laid them on the parapet. The steel ax heads jangled melodiously
against the sculpted rock, carved like the rest of the stronghold from the mountain’s flesh.
A ray of sunlight glowed red on the polished inscriptions, illuminating the runes and symbols that promised their bearer protection,
a sure aim, and long life.
Glandallin turned to the north, his brown eyes sweeping the mountain pass, thirty paces across, that led from the watch-tower
into the Outer Lands. No one knew what lay there. In times gone by, human kings had dispatched adventurers in all directions,
but the expeditions were rarely successful and the few who returned to the gateway brought orcs in their wake.
He scanned the pass carefully. The beasts learned nothing from their defeats. Their vicious, choleric minds compelled them
to throw themselves against the dwarves’ defenses. They were bent on destroying anyone and anything in their path, for their
creator, the dark lord Tion, had made them that way. The raids were conducted in blind fury. Raging and screaming, the beasts
would scale the walls. From the first tinges of dawn light until the setting of the sun, armor would be cleaved from flesh,
and flesh from bone. A tide of black, dark green, and yellowy-brown blood would lap against the impregnable gates, while battering
rams and projectiles shattered as they hit the stone.
The children of Vraccas suffered casualties, deaths, and crippling injuries too, yet it never occurred to them to quarrel
with their fate. They were dwarves, Girdlegard’s staunchest defenders.
And yet we were almost defeated.
Glandallin’s thoughts turned again to the strange beings that had invaded the underground halls, killing many of his kinsfolk.
No one had seen them approach. Outwardly they resembled elves: tall, slim, and graceful, but as warriors they were savage
and ruthless.
Glandallin was almost certain that the creatures were not elves. There was no love lost between the dwarves and their pointy-eared
neighbors. Vraccas and Sitalia, goddess and creator of the elves, had ordained the races with common loathing from the moment
of their birth. Their differences had resulted in feuds, the occasional skirmish, and sometimes death, but never war.
Then again,
he thought critically
, I might be wrong. Perhaps the elves hate us enough to draw arms against us — or maybe they’re after our gold.
A bitter northerly wind whistled round the mountaintops, gusting through Glandallin’s braided beard. Suddenly, his brow furrowed
angrily as his nostrils detected a stench that offended the core of his being: orcs.
Spilled blood, excrement, and filth — that was the perfume of orcs — mixed in with the rancid odor of their greasy apparel.
They basted their armor with fat, believing that the dwarves’ axes would slither over the metal and leave them unharmed.
No amount of fat will save them.
Glandallin did not wait for the ragged banners and rusty spears to appear over the final incline of the path. Standing on
tiptoe, he placed his callused hands on the coarse wooden handles of the bellows. A low drone vibrated through the shafts
and galleries of the fifthling kingdom.
The dwarf worked two bellows in rotation to produce a constant stream of air. Gathering in volume, the drone became a single
piercing note, loud enough to rouse the soundest of sleepers. Now, as so often in their history, the fifthlings were being
summoned to fulfill their noble duty as Girdlegard’s protectors.
Sweating from the exertion, Glandallin glanced over his shoulder.
Tion’s beasts had formed a wide front and were marching on the gateway, more numerous than ever before. Elves would have fled
to the woods and a man’s heart would have stopped at the sight of the monstrous hordes. The dwarf stood his ground.
The attack on the gateway came as no surprise to Glandallin, but the timing was unsettling. The coming battle would stretch
the dwarves’ resources more than usual.
More bloodshed and more death.
T
he defending warriors lined up on the battlements on either side of the gateway, their movements slow, some lurching rather
than walking, weak fingers wrapped loosely around the hafts of their axes. The band of dwarves stumbling to the defense of
the gates numbered no more than a hundred brave souls. A thousand would have been too few.
Glandallin’s watch was at an end; he was needed elsewhere.
“Don’t forsake us, Vraccas. We’re outnumbered,” he whispered, unable to wrest his eyes from the stinking stream of orcs that
poured along the path. Grunting, shouting, and jostling, they headed for the gates. The bare rock cast back their bestial
cries, the echo mingling with their belligerent chants.