Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

Balyndar did not hesitate. He walked along the gangway she had created, the head of his ax shimmering and forming a protective sphere around him that was large enough to encompass Coira and Tungdil. The maga had to tilt her head and walk along hunched over in an uncomfortable posture, but at least the flames could not harm her.

Coira secured their progress by repeatedly magicking the stones behind them to whizz round to form a roadway in front. The heat made things difficult for her, but Tungdil displayed no discomfort. Balyndar occasionally had to wipe sweat off his brow but, as a dwarf, he was used to the temperatures in a forge.

They made their way along the broad causeway toward the mountain. They had no time to consider the dying beauty of the place. Not that there was much left of Dson’s charms; all the wooden buildings had gone.

Tungdil, Coira and Balyndar reached the steps leading up to the basalt tower. They knew it would be an extremely strenuous ascent but the only way was to take it one step at a time.

They climbed, with the dwarves having to make an extra effort because the steps had been designed for the legs of alfar, not those of the children of the Smith. As they climbed they looked around them to check no one was following.

The crater edge where Ireheart and the others were waiting was veiled in smoke and even the top of the tower was enveloped in acrid clouds. They would not be visible to their friends.

Gasping for air and with protesting leg muscles they finally reached the platform where they had seen Lot-Ionan. The headless alf corpse lay where it had fallen, surrounded by a pool of black blood.

“I wonder if they use their own blood in their paintings,” Balyndar said scornfully.

“There won’t be any of them left to try,” Tungdil replied, hurrying off to the gate that led to the interior of the tower. They stepped through one after another, with the one-eyed dwarf and the fifthling in front, followed by the maga.

It was cool and quiet inside. Coira closed and bolted the door behind them. The rattle of the bolts sliding home echoed throughout the building. The sound of the fire, the flash of sparks, and the crash of falling timbers and walls-all this was outside. Given the silence, it felt as if the tower had been built on some distant lonely mountain peak. Peaceful and welcoming.

Coira could smell the stone and an overlay of incense and strong spice.

“To the staircase,” Tungdil held Bloodthirster steady in his firm hands and stomped up the spiral stairway.

It was Balyndar and not Coira who asked to take a break after they had gone up countless twisting steps. “I can’t feel my feet anymore,” he explained quietly. “I don’t know how you manage with your heavy armor, Goldhand, but I can’t go any further.”

“You can’t ?” Tungdil came down toward him, grabbing him by the collar. “This is not some petty quarrel between the alfar and a wizard. This is about the fate of Girdlegard. And the future of the dwarves!” He dragged him upright and gave him a shove with the hilt of Bloodthirster. “Get in front! If you slow down, I’ll stab you.”

Coira did not know how to take this threat. But it was enough to stop Balyndar complaining any further. Her own physical exhaustion distressed her but her brain was on high alert. She was expecting an alf to appear at any second. Or Lot-Ionan himself.

Small blue glowing crystals set into the walls gave some illumination. The tower had no windows.

After climbing a hundred steps they arrived in an anteroom in which they found four dead alfar. Their ribcages had been torn open. Their shredded leather armor had offered no protection against the magic attack.

“We’re getting closer,” Balyndar whispered excitedly, taking a firmer hold on Keenfire.

Tungdil marched through the hall and strode over to the far side of the tower.

They had located the throne room that the Dson Aklan had wanted for themselves, rather than surrendering it to Aiphaton. The room was dark, ten paces high, with filigree metal columns supporting the ceiling, although these seemed too thin and fragile to be able to bear the weight of all the upper floors.

Between the pillars ropes were tied from which floor-length banners were suspended, guiding the visitor’s gaze to the great throne that stood on a raised platform. Seven steps led up to the throne itself, which was constructed out of tionium and palandium, thus combining the two elements that represented good and evil.

Seven more dead alfar lay on the floor, displaying scorch marks and burns on their bodies; their weapons had melted or burst under the influence of some mighty power.

Balyndar was about to ask a question but there came a sudden crackle and through the swathes of material they perceived a dazzling flash. A loud scream rang out, followed by a second voice laughing. Then a clank sounded as a weapon of some kind hit the floor.

Tungdil ground his teeth. “You know what that means,” he whispered to the maga and fifthling. “We need to distract his attention. Coira, you wrestle him to the ground when he’s whipped himself into a frenzy against us.” His one brown eye fixed its gaze on her. “Do not kill him!” he emphasized. “Forget revenge. He’s our last chance, the only means we have to save the realm from a fate worse than anything ten dragons could come up with.” He gave Balyndar the sign to proceed.

The maga waited until they disappeared behind the first hanging lengths of material, then she followed. Her arms were half raised, so her fingers would be ready to draw the necessary shapes in the air. Her heart was beating faster than normal and sweat coursed down her spine. She was frightened. The sheltered life of a princess had been no preparation for these tasks.

She had, of course, always wanted to be given an opportunity to use her magic skills to destroy Lohasbrand, to turn his orc army to dust and to rain down punishments on his vassals. But to meet a magus in battle was another kettle of fish entirely: A completely new challenge.

Coira had never had the chance to compete against another magician. Her mother, due to her imprisonment, had been unable to teach her any of the required skills, so she had gathered much of her knowledge from Wey’s historical archive, and whenever she had needed to ask something she had been forced to couch her queries in generalized terms so as not to arouse the suspicions of the soldiers guarding her mother.

All this and memories of the dangerous journey they had endured, taxing her beyond endurance much of the time-all this flew through her mind, making it hard for her to prepare confidently for what would be a baptism of fire.

Then she heard Balyndar call, followed by a hiss and an explosion heralded by a lilac flash. The shock waves blew the banners aside, allowing her to see that the dwarves had confronted the magus!

Balyndar was again protected by his sphere, while the magus sustained a magic ray attacking the shield; lightning flashes issued from his onyx-headed walking staff, shooting toward Tungdil, whose armor runes were fully ablaze. Then the wind created by the force of the explosion dropped, and the flags and banners fell back into place, concealing events from her once more.

Coira was afraid. To create a double spell and to keep both going simultaneously, surely that was not possible! Lot-Ionan’s powers must be enormous.

She pulled herself together. “I can’t abandon them,” the young woman told herself, and she ran off to join the dwarves. So far Lot-Ionan had no idea there was a maga present who might represent a danger. This was presumably a considerable advantage. “Be with me, Mother,” she prayed as she drew the first of the hanging fabric screens aside.

She did not see the alf standing diagonally behind the curtain until it was too late; she had been concentrating on the magus.