Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

Balyndar opened his mouth in a yell and vaulted forward, gripping the hilt of Sisaroth’s sword ready to use it and holding on to the parrying stick.

Sisaroth attempted to dodge but his own blade caught him in the groin. It pierced the armor with a grinding noise and he screamed out in agony.

Balyndar laughed and grabbed Keenfire by the haft. “That’s the sound for me!” He snatched the ax back while Sisaroth tried a final stab at his throat, but the dwarf cut his head clean off his shoulders. A fountain of blood shot up all the way to the vaulted ceiling and the decapitated alf fell back down the stairs.

Still gasping for air, Balyndar had to sit down. He felt dizzy and his limbs were like lead. He could hardly move. Keenfire weighed more than four full sacks of gold.

A shadow fell on him. It was Lot-Ionan, staring down at him, a malicious smile on his lips.

Balyndar thought there was no earthly chance of stopping the magus if he wanted to kill them all. He felt exhausted. Tungdil was nowhere to be seen and Coira presented no danger to the man. “Don’t even think of it,” he threatened Lot-Ionan nevertheless.

The magus seemed to shake his fingers, and suddenly a blue flame shimmered over to Balyndar, creeping inside his mouth and nose.

A warmth overcame him; it felt like being granted shelter, love and joy. His body received new strength and his wounds tickled and fizzed. When these sensations ceased he saw that his skin where the injuries had been was now without blemish, as if he had never been touched by a sword.

Lot-Ionan passed him by without a further glance.

Meanwhile Coira, groaning, struggled to sit up, holding her head. She saw the dead alf, then Balyndar, and followed the magus with her eyes until he had disappeared down the spiral staircase. “What happened?”

“A lot,” the dwarf replied crisply, getting to his feet. He felt as if he had slept through half an orbit and was awakening refreshed. Lot-Ionan had kept to his side of the bargain and healed him. “And a small miracle, too. Come on, let’s find Goldhand!”

Together they hurried down the tower steps.

Tungdil Goldhand lay in his rigid armor next to an exhausted Mallenia by the campfire a mile north of the crater.

Lot-Ionan had transported the paralyzed dwarf out of Dson and up onto the plateau by magic, while Coira had ministered to the wounded of their party with her remaining powers. She was not able to restore the blood that Mallenia had lost and thus the freedom-fighter was as weak as a little child.

Rodario looked after her tenderly, but they knew Mallenia could not accompany them any longer. Speed was of the essence on their journey and she could not travel. They planned to leave her to be cared for at the nearest farmstead. She would follow on as soon as she was sufficiently recovered.

Ireheart pushed Tungdil’s visor up and rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “So this time it was the alf?”

“Yes. He recited a formula.” Tungdil tried to lift his arm. “Nothing.”

Balodil stood on the far side and uttered some strange dark words. Not a single rune shone out. He shrugged his shoulders regretfully and stomped back to the fire.

Ireheart grinned and raised his crow’s beak. “You know what that means?”

“Yes,” replied his friend roughly. “And I don’t like it.”

“Wait!” called Coira. “Do we know what kind of phrase was used?”

Ireheart explained concisely what had happened the previous time, leaving out any details that the maga did not need to know.

Her face became thoughtful. “But if the Zhadar could not help this time it won’t have been the same phrase.” She leaned over Tungdil and asked, “Can you give us any hint?”

Ireheart suspected Tungdil had not told him the whole truth when relating the origins and peculiarities of the suit of armor. Perhaps on purpose , buzzed the lonely doubter inside his head. He didn’t want you to know where he is vulnerable. And look where that has got him.

“He’d be able to tell me now,” he told the doubting voice. Unfortunately he said it out loud, causing Coira to look surprised. “Nothing important. I was talking to myself,” said Ireheart, motioning Coira to step aside. “Right there! Mind out!” he bellowed for everyone’s benefit. “There’ll be lightning flashes, so shield your eyes or look the other way.”

He positioned himself, legs wide apart, over Tungdil, lifted his weapon and slammed it down using the flat side like he had done before, in the Outer Lands.

There was a dull thud and Tungdil groaned. Despite its hardness the tionium showed a dent in the breastplate.

“What is wrong, for Vraccas’s sake?” Ireheart swung the crow’s beak up again and tensed the muscles in his upper body to put all his strength into the next blow. “You’ll start next time I touch you!”

Another crash and the armor buckled and dented again. But no flash ensued and the armor lost none of its rigidity. Tungdil groaned and gasped.

“Charming! We’re in trouble here,” remarked Slin superfluously.

“I can see that!” snarled Ireheart. “Does it hurt a lot, Scholar?” he asked kindly.

“Only when I laugh,” coughed the dwarf. “Don’t hit me again, Ireheart. Or if you do, aim somewhere else. Or I’ll suffocate.”

“I think… the alf has… turned off the magic. Except for the… safety cut-out.” Ireheart ran his fingers over the dents in the metal. “All this hammering is no help at all.”

“We must get a cart for him,” Rodario suggested. “And that way, since we’ll only be going slowly, we can take Mallenia along, too.”

“No,” protested Tungdil. “We’ll find a way to force the armor to wake up. And we’ll do it tonight.”

“Well, charming,” murmured Slin. “Why doesn’t Balyndar have a go with Keenfire?”

“Has the sense of all your ancestors completely deserted you? You might as well shoot him in the eye,” said Ireheart. “It could kill him!”

“How so?” asked Balyndar. “He is not one of our enemies.” He got to his feet at the campfire, chucked away the rabbit bones he’d been gnawing at, and picked up his ax. As always, the inlay pattern and diamonds glowed, giving off a faint sheen. “Let’s see. Or has anybody got any objections?”

Slin and Ireheart exchanged glances. Even Tungdil remained silent.

The Outer Lands,

The Black Abyss,

Early Summer, 6492nd Solar Cycle

As they rode up to the Evildam fortress they saw flags and banners wafting proudly in the wind. But the walls had suffered damage.

Ireheart turned to Tungdil, who, with Lot-Ionan’s help, was now able to move again in his armor, “What can have been happening?”

He recalled how the magus, recently, had maliciously let them all spend the whole night puzzling over the frozen armor before getting up at dawn, executing two swift gestures and throwing a dark purple veil over the tionium. After that the armor had worked perfectly, even repairing the dents to its own bodywork, whereas previously it had failed to respond even to Keenfire. The magus gave no explanation for what he had done. Not even to his foster-son.

Afterwards everything had moved fast.

They had left Mallenia and Rodario back at a farmstead and headed off in a breathless gallop toward the Brown Mountains, crossing directly through to the Outer Lands. They stopped for nothing and were answerable to no one-Tungdil was high king and did not have to justify his actions. His word was law.

Ireheart glanced at the magus. We’re going to have trouble with him.

Tungdil had also noted the cracks in the fortress walls. “As long as Evildam is still standing we have not lost,” he said, relief in his voice. “The most important thing is that we aren’t too late.”