Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

Balyndar was on the ground by this time and rushed over toward Lot-Ionan, Keenfire at the ready. The diamonds and inlay pattern shone with inner fire and the heat it gave out was like being in a forge.

Bald-headed Lot-Ionan saw him coming and turned to face him. “So what are the children of the Smith doing, coming to the aid of the alfar?” The ends of his beard waggled and the sharp-featured face was an uncanny picture of malice.

“We’re not here on their behalf.” Balyndar leaped at the magus, swinging Keenfire in a powerful stroke; Lot-Ionan did not have to know that he only intended to hit him with the flat side of the weapon.

The magus sidestepped with surprising agility, raising his own staff to strike Balyndar.

Keenfire and onyx clashed in mid-air.

The explosion that ensued stunned and dazzled Balyndar. He could hear a rattling sound as if pebbles were being dropped. Blinded, he stumbled forward under the impetus of his own attack and staggered into a pillar, which broke his fall.

He ducked and whirled round, holding Keenfire in front of himself as protection. Gradually his sight returned.

Tungdil was still locked in the clutches of the enormous snake.

Lot-Ionan waved the remains of his broken staff accusingly in Balyndar’s direction. The top end had snapped off and the onyx jewel lay in fragments around the throne.

“By Samusin!” gasped the magus, flinging the broken pieces at him. “By Samusin!” he shrieked in fury, lifting his arms. “If only you were a mere stain on the ground as I intended!” Invisible powers must still have been issuing from the magus, for the flagstones, the pillars and everything near Balyndar started to shake and move toward him. “I shall squash you like squeezing a lemon, dwarf! Your bones will be ground to powder and be banished to eternal oblivion with the rest of the tower.”

With a loud roar Tungdil tore the snake in two with his bare hands, not needing Bloodthirster. He kicked the weapon up with his foot, catching it adroitly to go in for the attack.

The quaking walls round Balyndar ceased their movement. The young dwarf breathed a sigh of relief and threw himself on the magus. “For Girdlegard!”

But to his surprise Tungdil ran past the wizard, heading instead straight for him !

Ireheart did not hesitate.

Grim and stubborn, he ran full tilt at the alf, not wasting a thought on the fact that a black arrow could strike at any second.

“Parry this if you can!” he bawled, slamming his crow’s beak down murderously, the spike targeting the alf’s left flank.

Tirigon acted swiftly. He brought down his two-handed sword, plunging the tip into the earth, thus blocking the first attack; then, supporting himself on his parrying stick, he dealt a two-footed kick into Ireheart’s face.

The dwarf staggered back, spitting blood. His nose was broken and already swelling up. He could see the white of the exposed bone. Two of his teeth were loose. “You’ve made me bite my tongue,” he raged at the alf.

“It won’t be your last injury.” Tirigon leaned on the parrying stick, staring at the flames engulfing the city. “That destruction is hardly all down to you.”

“I wish it was.” Ireheart came up to his adversary and feigned a strike at his head, but altered direction, aiming the flat edge of the crow’s beak at the alf’s right thigh.

Tirigon took an evasive sidestep and placed a hand on his sword, pulling it to one side. Once more the dwarf-weapon clashed on steel. And again the alf launched a mighty kick, striking Ireheart in the neck.

With a curse Ireheart charged forward, landing on his knees in the dust. “This is not a proper fight!” he yelled angrily. “Come on, fight like a decent warrior!”

“But I’m not fighting against a decent warrior, so why should I?” the alf returned scornfully, leaning on his tall sword. “I always thought the famous Ireheart was an excellent fighter, but I’m disappointed to find him as lame as an orc.” He put his head on one side and winked. “I’ll grant you one wish: How would you like to die?”

Ireheart whirled the crow’s beak. “Drinking a beer, black-eyes!” He pushed forward. “As you don’t have any beer with you, I’m safe.” This time he struck diagonally.

Tirigon ducked and used the two-hander again to block the blow.

But in his arrogance he had underestimated the dwarf’s furious strength. The blow thrust the alf back onto the ground and, although the weapon itself did not strike him, the sharp end of his own parrying stick was forced right into his shoulder.

I’ve got you! Ireheart followed through swiftly, striking at Tirigon and missing his head by the breadth of a beard hair. The alf executed a backwards somersault, intending to grab his two-hander, but the dwarf stamped on the sword, grinning.

Tirigon grinned arrogantly back and drew out both his double-daggers at the speed of light; the stabs ensued in a flowing movement.

Ireheart saw the two arms with their four blades heading for him. He had to decide which to parry. He blocked one with his weapon haft and the blades swished past his face. But the second knife hit him.

The double blade did not penetrate the chain-mail shirt, but the blow winded him badly.

The next assault followed fast and Ireheart tried to back away from Tirigon.

The alf did not let up, but kept attacking with the daggers. Still with a smile on his finely chiseled features, he appeared not to have exerted himself at all.

Ireheart’s hands were cut, as was his face and every part of his body that was not covered in chain mail.

“You see, I’m out to cut you, not to kill you,” the alf explained with a laugh. “Are you getting tired, dwarf? If you collapse and breathe your last before my very eyes I shall watch carefully and store up the moment in my memory. I can use it in a picture? Or a drawing?”

“You’re only slashing at me because you are not fast enough to catch me properly, black-eyes!” Ireheart had detected a pattern to the attacks. I know what you are going to do next. “And anyway,” he taunted, dodging the dagger thrust and plunging the spike of his crow’s beak directly into the alf’s belly. “You won’t be doing any more painting.” He tossed the paralyzed Tirigon onto his back and tore the weapon downwards in his flesh to widen the entry wound. “Except in the dirt here, clawing with your fingers!” He levered the weapon out of the body cavity, tearing the guts. He studied the bloodied tip with satisfaction. “You guys really aren’t anything special. You’re just big, that’s all.” Ireheart kicked him viciously in the face, heard the bones crack, then spat at him. “That’s for breaking my nose.” Then he turned round.

He stared at Slin in horror. He was sitting up and aiming his crossbow at him. He had only pretended to be wounded! “What…!”

“I should have done this a long time ago,” snarled the fourthling. And fired.

Keenfire and Bloodthirster clashed, sparks flying in all directions, fizzling against the dwarves and on the floor.

Tungdil’s weapon could not deny its origins as the sword of an Unslayable. Any other blade would have shattered under the impact of Keenfire, but Bloodthirster stood up to the onslaught defiantly.

The diamonds on the ax head increased their brilliance, infuriated not to be able to destroy Bloodthirster.

Balyndar felt that Tungdil surpassed him in physical strength several times over. He was being forced backwards against a pillar. “You traitor!” he screamed at the one-eyed dwarf, attempting to knee him in the groin. “I always suspected you were closer to your foster-father than you were to your own folk!”

Tungdil kicked his knee away and head-butted him, sending his skull crashing back into the pillar.