Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

Mallenia had heard enough of his self-glorification. She charged up to the alf, her swords in her hands.

Her opponent laughed with delight. “What bravery! What passion! Your bones will form an exquisite decoration. I do appreciate boldness and courage.” He took his sword in both hands and held it out horizontally in front of him. The blade measured at least two arm-lengths and on a conventional battleground would bring its bearer enormous advantage of range-but between the barrels, tubs and shelves in the cellar the long sword imposed its own restrictions. This is what Mallenia was counting on.

Frederik followed her lead and swung his butcher’s cleaver.

“Mind out!” she shouted to the men and women. “They are triplets. There will be two more somewhere.” Then she had reached the alf and thrust his sword aside, ducking down and stabbing with her second weapon.

But the enemy had a devilish turn of speed and possessed skills she could not have dreamed of.

Tirigon took off from the ground, leaping off the side wall and using the momentum to run several steps up toward the ceiling. After this acrobatic achievement, which he managed easily despite the weight of his armor, he landed behind Frederik and stabbed him in the back of the neck so that the sword emerged from his open mouth. From the front it looked as if the man were sticking out his tongue-a tongue made of pointed steel.

“Not a bad try, Mallenia,” the alf mocked. “If the bold butcher hadn’t been standing behind you, you’d be dead now.” With a sudden jerk he twisted the blade and pulled it up vertically. The metal had been sharpened to such a degree that the head was cut in two halves. Blood, brains and liquid gushed out, splashing onto the floor of the cellar, then Frederik dropped forward where he stood, the butcher’s cleaver crashing to the ground. The two halves of his head shifted, giving him a grotesque appearance.

Mallenia whirled round, one sword aimed at Tirigon’s head, the other at his belly. But now he was no longer standing behind her-or rather, yes, there he was, again.

The young woman felt the draft go through her blond hair, while her sword thrust met empty air. Then she was hit on the back, a blow that sent her flying against one of the stone sauerkraut vessels.

She landed against it, banging her hip, fell over it and came to rest lying by a tub of salted meat. She twisted on the floor and held her two blades up, crossed in front of her body for protection.

Not a moment too soon: Blades clashed and her arms took the force of the recoil. The alf had delivered a mighty blow. His weapon was a finger’s breadth away from her nose.

With an angry roar she shoved his blade aside and kicked him in the middle. Even though the armor took much of the impact Tirigon was forced backwards.

He laughed and circled his blade in the air, then gripped it again with both hands while Mallenia stood up and moved away from the stone tub.

She wanted a wall at her back. The enemy was too quick for her, and was superior in skill and strength. She did not think she stood a chance of leaving the cellar alive, being well aware that the alf was playing a game with her. Arrogance often came before a fall, however.

Her friends had moved back out of her way, following this uneven duel with fascination.

“Is this cellar full of cowards?” Tirigon mocked. “There are twenty of you… nineteen to one, if you so wish! Mallenia was right: If you don’t kill me, your families will die-and yet still you are standing around like lemons, doing nothing?” He winked at Mallenia. “I owe your courage this mark of respect: You’ll be the last one to die. Watch me and learn. You will need the knowledge to use against me.” He took two swift steps, leaped on to the tub and launched himself into the air.

He landed feet first on the wall and ran up it diagonally to the ceiling and down the other side. As he ran he wielded his sword so nimbly against the conspirators gathered below him that the eye could not follow its movements. With every slash blood spurted high out of deep wounds. Screams echoed around.

He landed gracefully on a wine barrel and held his sword diagonally away from himself, surveying the scene with satisfaction at the speed of his attack. More than half of the rebels lay dead on the floor of the cellar. He left no wounded. “The art lies in avoiding the bones to save them for future use,” he explained to the survivors, lifting the bloody blade. “As you know your fate now, are you ready to defend yourselves yet?”

Three women turned tail and made for the door.

But two more alfar were standing there, unmistakably the missing siblings Mallenia had warned them of. The Dson Aklan were all accounted for. They blocked the doorway with their mere presence and without drawing a weapon. Dark smiles were threat enough.

Tirigon sprang down from the wine barrel to face the survivors, who now were determinedly drawing their swords and knives and surrounding him. “That was a long time coming,” he observed maliciously. “My promise is this: If you can injure me-give me the slightest of scratches-your families shall live. Because you won’t be able to kill me,” said the alf complacently. He placed his sword in the scabbard he wore on his back. Presenting himself, unarmed, to the crowd, he stretched out his arms and turned on the spot. “What are we waiting for?”

Mallenia looked at the two alfar by the door. They had not moved. They were leaving their sibling to take his pleasure as he wished-then the alf woman turned to face Mallenia.

The haughty expression on the alf sister’s countenance turned to curiosity. She was about to move forward, but her brother held her back. Her blue eyes stayed fixed on the Ido princess, as if she were studying the face of an old friend.

Mallenia had no idea why she was attracting such interest. Shaking off her sense of unease, she stepped over the dead bodies to reach the handful of her loyal followers about to enter the fray.

If she died, she wanted to die among her own people, fighting for Gauragar. Her movements were governed by an obsession to inflict a wound on the alf Tirigon, thereby saving their families.

Tirigon adjusted his tionium arm protectors and waited with a smile.

Uwo, a little man and the town’s only fishmonger, thrust with his sword, making a quick move to one side.

The alf blocked the jab with his forearm and the blade broke into three from the impact. While the pieces were still in mid-air, Tirigon grabbed one of them and hurled it at Uwo, hitting him in the chest. The man sank to the floor.

Already, Tirigon had snatched the next piece of blade, which he threw at another attacker heading his way. The metal sliced through his throat and he fell, gurgling, hands clasping his neck, trying to close the gaping wound.

The courage of desperation drove the conspirators to a joint attack on the enemy, who was enjoying his sport, avoiding jabs and thrusts and deflecting blows in other directions, so that their blades hit their own friends.

By the end, only Mallenia and Arnfried the blacksmith were left to stand against the alf. The rest had fallen or were cowering on the earthen floor, fatally injured.

The smith, a strong man with a long beard and impressive muscles, was bleeding from a wound in his right shoulder, but he had his dagger gripped fast in his hand and was snorting with fury.

Tirigon regarded the red splashes on his armor. “Regrettable,” he said. “That should not have happened. The blood runs into the engraving and then clots.”

Arnfried sprang abruptly forward to surprise the enemy. He feigned a stab with his knife and at the same time launched a punch to the face. Mallenia stormed in, taking advantage of the alf’s defensive move.