Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

Franek came up behind the dwarves and addressed Bumina. “You didn’t expect this, did you?” he said with malicious glee. “Oh dear, did the alfar hurt you?” He pulled out his dagger. “That’s nothing to what I’m going to do to you! You destroyed my town! The trap had your signature all over it.”

“Lot-Ionan made me do it.” Bumina studied the dwarves and tried to gauge what they would do. She raised her arms. “Get out of the way and let me into the source.”

Tungdil and Balyndar both raised their weapons at the same time.

Rodario called down the shaft, but there was still no answer from the queen. Uttering a curse, he jumped down, directing his fall as best he could by bracing hands and feet against the walls. He landed by Coira, who had collapsed; he, too, was covered in a white light, but he felt nothing.

“What is it?” he said, helping her up.

“The source is incredibly… powerful,” she groaned. “I’m not used to it and it really hurts! It’s drenching me with power, more than I’ve ever known.” Her next sentence was a muffled groan and her fingers clutched at Rodario’s collar. “I can’t concentrate on finding the right spell to get out of here,” she stammered. “Help me…” Her body became rigid and then repeatedly convulsed unnaturally.

Rodario took her girdle and told Mallenia to throw down the improvised rope. He tied the belts together, fastened them to Coira’s hands and threw the other end back up. “Pull her up!” he shouted, crouching down to lift her onto his shoulders. “I’ll support her from below.”

The rope tightened and soon the young woman was being pulled gradually out of the sphere of magic influence.

The clicking ceased, and the grille slid sideways under Rodario’s feet!

The dwarves up at the doorway knew nothing of this.

Franek was still laughing at Bumina. “If you really had any magic power you would have cast a spell at us.”

“You haven’t used magic either, so I can only assume your reservoir is as empty as mine.”

Ireheart looked over his shoulder. Coira was being heaved up out of the shaft by Mallenia. The queen thanked her, gasping for air, and then stood up. She no longer looked as drained as she had done and there was a new spark in her eyes. “But now we have a maga strong enough to magic the two of you into the ground.”

Tungdil turned quickly round and nodded at Franek, who could hardly wait to get down into the source. “Your turn now.” Without warning he plunged Bloodthirster twice into the stomach of the famulus. “Go to Samusin or to whichever god you want.”

Franek collapsed onto the stone flags, gurgling horribly, still moving his lips inaudibly. His fingernails scratched at his killer’s tionium shin protectors. By the time his head hit the floor he was dead.

Ireheart was not distressed but he was surprised. Another deed the old Tungdil would not have carried out.

“He told us about your secret path,” Tungdil said to Bumina. “That’s how we got in.” He lifted Bloodthirster, red and dripping. “Where is Lot-Ionan? Don’t even think about running away.”

The famula recoiled. She turned and started to run, but Tungdil hurled his weapon at her with a furious roar. It hit her on the back, exactly where the arrow had struck. Screaming, she fell to the ground, felled by the impact.

With one bound Tungdil was by her side, brutally tearing Bloodthirster out of her flesh; he used his boot to turn her over, then placed the weapon’s sharp tip at her throat. “I’ll count to three and if I don’t get told where to find him you will die,” he snarled. The deep voice sent shivers up Ireheart’s spine. “ One…! ”

“Die and lose your soul!” Bumina whimpered.

“It’s no good trying to protect your master. You’ll be harming yourself, not him. Two! ” He increased the pressure he was exerting, and the blade penetrated her flesh.

“Gone! He’s gone!!”

“ Three! ” Without showing any emotion Tungdil pushed Bloodthirster through her throat. The famula attempted to gasp for air, coughing and spluttering, her hands grasping the deadly weapon instinctively, but the arm of the dwarf was like steel. Bumina fought death-and lost. Her eyes went dull and her life left her.

“We’ll look for him ourselves,” Tungdil announced. “He can’t be far away.”

“Nor can the black-eyes,” said Ireheart, unable to take in what his friend had just done. These humans had deserved to die. But the way he had done it: That was extraordinary. Thorough.

“Help!” they heard Mallenia’s voice. “I need your strong arms!”

Ireheart was about to turn round and help the Ido girl but at that moment he saw alfar charging round the corner. He reckoned there must be about seventeen of them, all wearing black leather armor, with iron plates over the breast. Their weapons were of various kinds, but similar to swords. His battle-lust flared up on the spot. “I’ll be with you in a tick,” he called. “I’ve just got a few black-eyes to flatten!” He raised up his crow’s beak and hurled himself at the enemy with a mighty war cry to Vraccas.

A black shadow overtook him.

“Oh no! Scholar, don’t spoil my fun,” he complained. “You go and help Mallenia! Leave them…”

To me is what he had intended to say, but Bloodthirster crashed horizontally into the side of the first alf, slicing into him as easily as if he had been made of wax. While that enemy was still falling to the ground, Tungdil was already striking the next one, making a hole in his chest before yanking out the dripping steel spike to plunge it into the neck of a third alf. Blood was everywhere.

Ireheart stared at his friend in astonishment. He had never seen him fighting so brutally.

The swiftness of his movements was such that he was faster than the black-eyes he was fighting; the alfar did not know what had hit them. They had never fought dwarves before and had certainly never met an adversary like this. Black blood was raining all around, severed limbs fell, weapons and armor shattered at each of Bloodthirster’s strikes.

Tungdil was screaming like a mad dog on each attack he launched. He mowed his way through the ranks of the alfar, cutting a path. The fallen were blocking Ireheart’s view. When the last of the enemies was slain, he saw Tungdil standing with his back to him at the far end of the corridor. He had blood all over him, dripping from his armor and helmet.

“Vraccas help us!” he heard Balyndar say.

Turning round he saw a very pale fifthling at his right hand. Balyndar had also followed the course of the combat. To be more exact, it had not been combat but slaughter. Faced with Tungdil those alfar were like drunken orcs. And yet Ireheart knew that he himself would never have been able to fight his way from one end of the passage to the other like that. Not nowadays and not without taking some injury.

Coira had been too busy to watch. She was staring into the darkness of the shaft. In order to be able to get Rodario out with magic she first had to be able to see him.

She lifted her hand and a torch flew into her outstretched fingers. She trained its light down into the dark shaft until she could see the actor. He was clinging to the open grille with both hands, poised perilously above the abyss.

But the grille was moving again, coming up. This would mean Rodario’s fingers would be crushed and he would fall.

This time the maga had no problem finding the right magic formula. Now that she was outside the source she no longer felt confused and overcome with the ecstasy that had robbed her of the power of clear thought.

Invisible powers took hold of the actor and lifted him, pulling him through the narrow gap between wall and grille and floating him up out of the shaft to land between the two women.