Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

Vot snorted with derision. “Lot-Ionan is powerful enough to turn whole swathes of land to desert. He has learned to take up enormous amounts of magic energy. The alfar will soon be feeling the results.”

“There’s another magic source there,” Ireheart told Tungdil. “It seems Lot-Ionan wants to spread out his sphere of influence to the other side of Girdlegard.”

“He will see that neither the kordrion nor the Dragon exist. The alfar have been wiped out-and he can take over as undisputed ruler of Girdlegard,” Tungdil continued the line of thought.

“So we might just as well have waited in comfort with Aiphaton,” sighed Slin. “He would have come to us.”

“Then we wouldn’t have found the ax.” Balyndar lifted Keenfire. “It will serve us well.”

“Off to the north, then.” Rodario studied his worn-out boots. “But this time let’s get some horses so we don’t have to do the whole thing on foot.”

Troublemaker shouted a warning and drew his weapon.

The group sprang away from the entrance, abandoning Vot to his pool of blood.

“Confound it!” Ireheart saw an approaching horde of alfar stumble into the throne room from the side entrance they had been intending to leave by. Congealing black blood dripped out of their mouths and noses and many of them were swaying as they walked; when they raised their weapons to confront the group of humans and dwarves they gave the impression of being extremely weak. The poison had not killed them yet but it was winning.

Alfar were streaming in through the second door as well, and leading them-was Aiphaton. As he passed he stabbed Vot with his spear, hoisted the corpse up for all to see and made a short speech.

Mallenia interpreted. “He says the sorcerer that put the curse on them has now been killed and that they will soon recover. To get free of the spell they need to find Lot-Ionan. The…” she searched for the right word “… dwarves-that’s you-aren’t worth expending any time and effort on. The magus must be found; that is the most important thing.”

One of the alfar stepped forward to speak to Aiphaton.

“He thinks they ought to kill us first. He recognized Keenfire and is afraid we will make trouble. He thinks we probably know how to activate hidden traps from the old dwarf-times, installed to deter invaders.” Mallenia continued to pay attention. “If I’ve got this right, the alfar we see here are the last of the whole contingent.”

Hmm, difficult. Ireheart was already doing some rough calculations in his head and arrived at three hundred adversaries in total. In normal circumstances he would hardly have thought they had a chance. But their maga was newly refreshed with magic, Tungdil was a dangerous force to be reckoned with, and Balyndar had Keenfire, so the battle might be more of a competition to see which of them killed the highest number. He was the one with the worst outlook. “I’ll take Aiphaton,” he whispered to Tungdil.

“You will wait.” Tungdil told Coira to hold a defense spell in readiness in case a shower of arrows came their way.

Mallenia insisted they let her listen. “The emperor is rejecting the suggestion. He says they can take us on after the gate has been opened. First of all they need to search for the magus.”

“He’s obviously trying to protect us,” said a relieved Rodario. Like Mallenia, he too had drawn his sword.

“I don’t think he will succeed. And he doesn’t need to.” Tungdil sprang up the steps to the ruined throne, brandished Bloodthirster and called out.

“Do I want to know what he’s saying?” Rodario sighed.

“Well, I do.” Ireheart grinned in joyful anticipation. “He’ll finish off the black-eyes! They’ll be eliminated from the mountains, as is only right. We’ll do it, us dwarves!” He smiled grimly. “Vraccas, what a glorious orbit this will be!”

“Tungdil’s telling them it was him who brought the curse down on them and that they must take his life if they want to break the spell.”

A roar went through the alfar and the first of them charged forward to hurl themselves on the one-eyed dwarf.

He spread his arms and held Bloodthirster out. One rune after the other flared up on the black tionium, and the more runes that joined in, the more dazzling their light.

“Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to get anywhere this time either,” muttered Ireheart.

As the wave of alfar crashed up against the steps leading to the stage, Tungdil leaped over their heads into the very midst of his attackers and disappeared from his friends’ sight. But the sounds of metal striking metal, the shrieks of pain and the spraying blood coming over to drench them told more than any direct view could have done.

“They’re actually not touching any of us!” Rodario was astonished.

“I’m not letting this happen! I want some of this!” Ireheart began his own attack.

Balyndar followed suit with Keenfire, whose diamonds and inlaid patterns were blazing out. With each stroke the ax head left a fiery trail in the air and the blade severed everything it touched. They fought their way through the mass of alfar side by side. At first the enemy did not notice them, but soon they turned their attention to the new threat presented by the dwarves.

Now they had a battle after Ireheart’s own heart! “Bring me your lives, you long-legged land-plagues!” he bellowed enthusiastically, smashing heads indiscriminately “You’ll regret ever having set foot in my native land! Oh and how you will regret it!”

Ireheart fought one grisly fight after another, taking his share of cuts and stab wounds, but this did not deter him. He was too deeply immersed in battle-rage and saw a red mist over the whole scene. His blood was coursing faster, hotter and more vitally through his veins, and though he had lost sight of Balyndar, this did not worry him. He forgot everything in his merciless killing spree.

The ranks of the enemy grew ever thinner. Ireheart felled another alf by hooking the spike of the crow’s beak around his foot; then he whacked the flat side of the weapon into the face of the struggling warrior. Looking round, he realized that his latest victim was the last of the enemy. “Ho, are we done already?” he yelled.

Tungdil was sitting on the steps with Bloodthirster on his knee. He was staring blankly ahead. Rodario, Coira and Mallenia were standing together, looking as if they had not had to use their swords at all; dead alfar all around them had been burned beyond recognition. Such was the power of magic.

Slin wandered among the dead recovering the bolts he had shot. Balyndar knelt in front of a stone statue, his hands on the shaft of Keenfire, and his eyes closed. He was doubtless praying to Vraccas and offering thanks for the victory.

The corpses of the alfar surrounded them, blood forming a giant pool like ink on the flagstones. The Blue Mountains were refusing to let the black liquid drain away.

“Scholar?”

“He is lost in his memories,” said a soft voice behind him.

Still half intoxicated by the battle, Ireheart whirled round and struck out. The crow’s beak crashed against a slender spear. It was Aiphaton standing there. “Lucky escape,” he sniffed.

“Too slow,” the emperor corrected him amicably. “You must be tired. Otherwise I’m sure you would have got me and killed me like all the rest, Boindil Doubleblade.”

The dwarf narrowed his eyes. “I can tell when I’m being mocked.”

“That wasn’t my intention.”

“You didn’t intend to mock me or you didn’t intend I should be able to tell?”

“I didn’t intend to mock you.” Aiphaton inclined his head to Ireheart. “Forgive me.”

The dwarf made a dismissive gesture, feeling a bit stupid standing next to an alf whose armor showed no bloodstains. “You weren’t fighting?”