Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

Sisaroth was suspended above him!

The alf had braced his feet against two of the ceiling arches on the stairway and had been lying in wait there like a falcon. Now he sprang down to land behind Balyndar, stabbing over the top of him at the maga’s retreating back and injuring her afresh. Then he dragged his long sword downwards. Coira stumbled and fell.

Quickly the dwarf moved to avoid the blade slicing into his flesh. But the parrying stick stabbed him painfully under the collarbone. With a growl he hefted Keenfire upwards, but Sisaroth dodged the blade and kicked Balyndar’s hands, so that he almost lost his grip on his weapon. There was a crack. Some bone somewhere had fractured but as yet he felt nothing. The wound in his shoulder hurt too badly for him to be aware of any other pain. In spite of his many injuries he is lethal and he is fast. Confounded creature!

The alf took two swift steps and sprang up against the wall to run up along the ceiling to attack Lot-Ionan.

Tungdil and the magus had been alerted by the sound of fighting and the maga’s scream as she collapsed on the stairs. But Coira had fallen against Lot-Ionan, knocking him off balance. Fortunately this caused Sisaroth’s attack to fail, otherwise the blade would have struck the magus on the head. Tungdil parried the first blow with a swift movement, then Sisaroth landed in front of him and thrust at him again.

Tungdil arrested the blow just above his head, kept his weapon raised and approached the alf. The raucous scrape of metal on metal as the blades met made Balyndar’s hair stand on end.

Sisaroth dodged the charging dwarf, taking two steps to the right and then to the left, planning to run up to the ceiling again, but Tungdil speared his wounded leg with an upward stroke that took him by surprise. Blood flowed out of the gaping wound, where the bone was now exposed.

With a shout, Sisaroth fell on the basalt stairs and lost his sword. The dwarf expedited the weapon down the stairs with a hefty kick.

The alf was far from having given up. He hurled the first of his double-daggers at the one-eyed dwarf-but the magic decorations on the armor blazed out and the weapon was stopped in mid-flight before it could touch the tionium. It fell harmlessly onto the stone floor.

Sisaroth had already drawn his second dagger but was hesitating. The sight of Tungdil’s armor seemed to distract him or bring home to him perhaps that this was a foe he would not be able to defeat. But then he gave a sudden laugh and spoke an incantation in his own language.

The runes flared one after another and Tungdil, who had been about to attack the alf, froze like a statue and fell. He rolled down the stairs with a terrible clatter, keeping tight hold of Bloodthirster and making no attempt to save himself.

Sisaroth was still laughing and turned, knife in hand, to Lot-Ionan. “Who would have thought the tide would turn?”

The magus, bleeding from a wound on his brow from when he had hit the wall after colliding with Coira, found himself hampered by the veil of blood.

Balyndar clenched his teeth and gathered himself for a mighty throw.

Keenfire started its arced flight and went straight at the alf.

Ireheart saw the bolt flying toward him and could not believe his eyes. There was no time to react-the shot was upon him…

… and missed his left eye socket by a finger’s width. The dwarf heard it whirr and felt the wind of its passing. Then it thudded home behind him.

Ireheart knew what that meant. He ducked down, twirling round, his crow’s beak held at head height. He saw the arm with the double-bladed knife swipe above his head and then his own metal spike thudded deep into Tirigon’s left side.

“It’s time you knew when to give up and die, black-eyes!” he yelled at the alf, in whose heart the crossbow bolt was buried.

Without a sound Tirigon fell to his knees and tipped on his side.

“I’m not taking any chances this time,” growled Ireheart, hammering the alf’s skull flat with the crow’s beak. He dragged the corpse to the edge of the crater and tossed it over. “Have a good flight!” He watched as the body fell three miles down, bashing against the rocks on the way before crashing into the ground. No one could survive a fall such as that.

“At last!” He heard the relief in Rodario’s voice. The actor was hanging from his badly bent sword, which had got stuck in a cleft in the rocks; he had rammed it into a crevice as he fell, thus saving himself.

“Ho! And what have you done with your horse?” Ireheart had to ask, grinning in spite of himself. “Why didn’t you grab hold of it with those long legs of yours?”

“Ireheart! I need your help!” Slin called. “Mallenia’s badly hurt. We have to bandage her.”

He looked down to where Rodario hung. “The sword will hold for a bit. I have to look to your darling girl,” he shouted and rushed off to the fourthling, who was kneeling at the woman’s side, assessing her injuries.

Ireheart could see that she was still breathing. The arrow in her neck might have cut through flesh and sinews but, to judge from the bleeding, it had not touched an artery. He was more worried about the arrow in her back.

“There’s nothing we can do except try to keep her alive until Coira comes back to heal her magically,” he told Slin, helping him to apply bandaging. “Keep talking to keep her awake. I’ll see what I can do for the actor before the steel snaps and he follows black-eyes down into the crater.” He put his hand on the fourthling’s shoulder. “Thank you. I am in your debt.”

“No. You’re not,” said Slin. “We are a group and everyone looks after everyone else.” He hesitated. “At least we children of the Smith must always try to.”

“You’re right.” Ireheart stood up and took the horses’ reins, knotting them together to make a long rope. While he was doing so, Balodil came over. He had bandaged his own injured arm. Tossing a drinking flask to Ireheart, he said, “The owner won’t be needing this anymore. But you will.” Then he sat down and, in spite of his injury, helped Ireheart tie the reins together.

They walked over to the edge and lowered the leather rope down to Rodario, who was swinging to and fro in the breeze. “High time!” he greeted the dwarves. “I can’t hold on much longer.”

“If you had kept the horse between your knees it would have been harder still. Catch hold,” called Ireheart. “We’ll pull you up.”

Balodil and Ireheart managed to liberate Rodario from his precarious situation; the actor was able also to save his bent sword, having yanked it out of the crevice.

“What will you use that for?” wondered Ireheart. “Attacking round corners?”

“I’ll keep it. As a souvenir.” Rodario went pale when he saw Mallenia on the ground. He ran over and cushioned her head on his knee. “We must do something…” he said in desperation.

“We can only wait,” said Ireheart. “The injury is too grave, and none of us is a healer. We need the maga to come and close up the wounds.”

Rodario swallowed hard and nodded.

The wind changed and the inferno in Dson died down. Ireheart looked across at the tower where his friend was, with Coira and Balyndar, hoping to subdue Lot-Ionan. “Vraccas, let them succeed,” he prayed, and looked at Balodil, who was kneeling next to the body of his dead comrade, muttering a prayer which, if he had heard aright, the Zhadar was also addressing to the god Vraccas.

Keenfire struck Sisaroth in the right shoulder, knocking him off his feet and onto his back. The alf hurtled down several steps until he came slithering to a halt.

Fighting for breath, Balyndar ran up to Sisaroth to finish him off. The alf was just struggling upright, Keenfire still embedded in his shoulder, dark blood streaming from the wound and down over his armor.