Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

Balyndar sat alone in the chamber, his eyes on the model of the abyss and his right hand on the hilt of Keenfire. “I’ll do whatever I think is right,” he said, leaning forward. He had discovered a figure that looked very like Tungdil.

He reached out for it, tossed it into the air and chopped it in half with Keenfire’s blade.

Ireheart made sure that he could not be seen, then knocked at the door.

Ilahin opened up, looking surprised. “Well, what brings you here, Boindil Doubleblade? What can I…?”

“Let me in,” Ireheart said, pushing past the elf. “Forgive my coming unannounced, but there’s a very… unpleasant matter I need your help with.” He sat down, his shoulders drooping. “Help me, Ilahin.”

The elf shut the door and pulled out a chair for himself facing the dwarf. “You know, friend dwarf, that I will gladly help you. What’s on your mind?”

Ireheart took out the drinking pouch that Balodil had given him. “Smell that and maybe you can understand. This used to belong to a Zhadar and I drank out of it by mistake.”

Ilahin took the vessel, opened it and fanned the air to get the scent. All his amiable helpfulness disappeared. “This is… elf blood!”

“And it’s the reason the alfar hunted you all down. They needed it to brew a concoction that turned selected thirdling warriors into Zhadar,” he explained, looking at the elf. “My drinking it was a mistake,” he insisted. “One of the Zhadar told me only an elf would be able to liberate me from the curse of having drunk it.” He rubbed his nose awkwardly.

Ilahin gave no answer. Instead he called Fiea, held the pouch out to her and pointed to Ireheart. There followed a long and involved exchange that grew more and more heated. The dwarf got the impression the two elves did not agree. But about what?

“Forgive me if I interrupt you,” he called out after a long tense wait. “Is there any remedy against the thirst or not?”

The elves stared at him.

Ilahin took a deep breath. “The thing is, Boindil Doubleblade, we don’t really know,” he admitted. “Your guilt is very serious.”

“Ho, damn it! But I had no idea.”

“That is neither here nor there,” said Fiea sharply. “If you kill a human and then say you didn’t know it was wrong, the other humans will still hunt you down and bring you to trial, won’t they?”

Ireheart had to nod in agreement.

“What you’ve done is to commit blasphemy and the fact you did it unwittingly does not help. That’s unfortunately the fact of the matter,” said Ilahin in friendlier tones. “However, you are one of our folk’s benefactors, so we believe the goddess will perhaps be merciful in your case and reduce the punishment.”

“I don’t understand. What’s going to happen? What have I got to do?”

Fiea took the leather pouch and cut it open. The dark viscous liquid spilt onto the floor and formed a stain. “You will have to pray to Sitalia, Boindil Doubleblade, and beg her to release you from the curse.”

“But…” He saw the stain growing in size until the elf-woman covered it with a cloth to wipe it up. Then the cloth flew into the fire and there was a hissing sound. Black flames shot out and then the nightmare was over. “But I need…”

“No, Boindil Doubleblade.” Ilahin interrupted him. “Each new sip of that liquid would take you one step nearer damnation.”

Ireheart tugged at the silver and black hairs on his scalp in frustration. “It’s the only way to combat the thirst! You have no idea how it burns!”

They looked at each other again. Fiea took a small bag from her belt. “In here are some herbs, Boindil Doubleblade, which will help you with the symptoms. But the thirst will only disappear if Sitalia pardons you. Pray to her, that is what we counsel. Pray with fervor and humility.”

“But I did nothing wrong!” Ireheart felt a fool constantly reiterating his innocence, but he did not know what else to do.

“Tell Sitalia,” advised Fiea. “We believe you. Your deeds speak for you.”

Ilahin touched the despairing dwarf on the brow. “You must convince the goddess. She will show herself to you if you do things properly.”

“Or else?” he asked uncertainly.

“The herbs will not help you forever, and you…” Fiea grimaced. “You know what will happen, friend dwarf.” They looked at him, challenge in their eyes. He understood.

He got up, dragged himself to the door and went out. “Thank you,” he said as he turned on the threshold. “Praying to Sitalia,” he muttered under his breath. “Begging the pointy-ears’ goddess for favors! It’s come to that! I’m innocent !” Depression and prevarication had given way to the familiar stubborn resistance. “Then I’d rather die a hero’s death in battle! So there! That’s all the elves will get out of me!”

He stomped off down the corridor to his own chambers with grim determination. Vraccas will help me.

The Outer Lands,

The Black Abyss,

Early Summer, 6492nd Solar Cycle

It was pouring down.

A violent storm had broken out overnight, deluging fortress and ravine alike as if to wash the defending forces from the very battlements and to flood the chasm of the evil beasts.

By daybreak the thunder and lightning had passed but the rain remained. The attack was still scheduled to take place. Tungdil had insisted on this.

The units stood ready behind each of the four gates. This time they were strictly divided: Humans at the eastern gate, the ubariu to the west, undergroundlings north and the dwarves in the south. The intention was to confuse the beasts by disguising the direction of the major attack.

And this main focus was to be from the south, with Tungdil, Balyndar, Ireheart, Goda, Coira, Lot-Ionan and the dwarf contingents. The humans would divert and feign an attack together with the undergroundlings at the northern entry point, while the ubariu were to come to the dwarf-army flank in support.

Ireheart stood up in his stirrups to survey the massed army of male and female warriors. Their banners and standards high in the gray air displayed their pride in the newfound harmony among the children of the Smith. A victory would unite them still more firmly. “I thank you, Vraccas,” he murmured and turned to the gate. Even if I find my own death today.

Around him were gathered the heroes of the first mission, as well as Goda and Lot-Ionan. The dwarf-woman would not look at the magus and always kept her distance. She would have refused to speak a single word to her former master even if he had wished it.

Ireheart saw from his wife’s expression that she would rather have been confronting the magus in combat than the beasts from the ravine. Again he noted Goda and Balyndar exchanging rapid glances. The fifthling looked at Slin, who was observing him intently and tapping the shaft of his crossbow, as if by chance.

Ireheart scratched his silvery black beard. What are they up to? There was something he was not privy to and it worried him. He would not be able to stop in the heat of battle to play nursemaid to them in order to head off some harebrained scheme.

He was about to wheel his pony toward Tungdil, but the one-eyed dwarf was already giving the signal to attack.

The double doors of the mighty gate swung wide open and Ireheart knew the same would be happening at the other three entrances, sending these disparate armies on their way. If he had got it right there would be one thousand humans fighting under the leadership of the elves, four thousand undergroundlings, a solid ten thousand ubariu and then another force of ten thousand dwarves, of which the six thousand thirdlings made up the largest section.