Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

The slim adversary avoided the blade and grabbed the blacksmith’s balled fist with his left hand. But he had underestimated the man’s strength and was forced backwards against a wine barrel.

Arnfried brought a knee up and rammed it into Tirigon’s ribs; the armor grated. Concerned, the female alf cried out in her own language.

Mallenia used her left-hand sword to jab at the alf, who stepped aside at the last moment. The tip of her sword went through wood, releasing a stream of white wine behind him that made the floor slippery.

“Respect,” growled Tirigon, addressing the smith and parrying his next attack with his other hand. There was a click and two metal discs shot out from the long outer side of his forearm bracers. Like lightning he drew them across the man’s breast. Arnfried yelled out and jumped backwards, losing his balance on the wet floor. As he fell, the alf was directly above him and smashed a mighty blow into his solar plexus. Bones cracked and buried themselves in the lungs; the smith rolled in the mud in agony.

Without hesitation Mallenia threw herself at Tirigon to pull him to the ground. He had noticed her coming at him out of the corner of his eye and leaped away-becoming a victim of the wet floor like the smith. His right foot slipped. Although he tried to steady himself he crashed against the tub of salted meat that Mallenia had earlier fallen foul of.

The female alf cried out.

Mallenia hurled both her swords at the enemy as he lay; one aimed at his head, the other at his groin. He would not, she hoped, be able to parry both strikes. But Tirigon, acting on reflex, jerked up his plated arms: The first sword was deflected and flew off into a corner of the cellar, the second broke up on striking the tionium.

Nevertheless the alf emitted a groan.

Mallenia could not believe her eyes. A long thin splinter of blade had pierced the alf’s cheek, nailing him to the barrel. Not a fatal wound by any means but certainly very painful. And, above all, it had destroyed the perfection of his countenance.

Behind her, Mallenia heard the sound of fast steps and metal scraping.

Meanwhile Tirigon raised his hand and said something she did not understand; the injury to his face made the words sound terrible.

“You promised to spare our families,” said Mallenia. She did not have to turn around to know that the alf woman was behind her with a drawn sword in her hand, ready to kill her. “Do you keep your word?”

The alf uttered a low “Yes.”

“And I shall leave this cellar alive?”

“Never!” came a hiss at her back. But the defeated brother confirmed the agreement was to be honored.

“And you thought we couldn’t kill you,” Mallenia said carefully, her left hand on the handle of her knife. She bent down and cut off a lock of his black hair. “This will be a reminder of my triumph over you and your arrogance.”

The murderous look in Tirigon’s eyes said all there was to say.

“Look after your luck, last of the Ido line,” came the warning from the second alf at the door. “You will be able to leave the cellar. The conspirator families will be allowed to live. As far as we’re concerned, that is. But what Emperor Aiphaton does, when he hears about it, is another matter.”

“He will certainly hear of it,” said the alf sister gleefully.

Mallenia turned around angrily. The siblings were standing behind her, and the sister did indeed hold a sword in her hand. “I should have known you would find a loophole, a way of breaking the agreement!”

“It’s not a loophole. It is an exact interpretation.” The alf, identical to his wounded brother apart from the fact that his sword was different, bowed slightly. “If I were to interpret it even more minutely, I could say that, in reality, Tirigon injured himself and it was not you who wrought a miracle.” He pointed to his sister. “Firusha would be happy were we to come to that view of things. As long as we are still deliberating how to construe the significance of your victory you will be able to reach the door unharmed.” He took a deliberate step to the side to allow her to pass.

Mallenia did not hesitate, and hurried out of the room, with its awful stench of blood, guts, wine and salted meat.

As she left, she unfastened her hand-crossbow from under her cloak, cocked it and turned on the threshold. She pointed it at the wounded alf, aimed at his head and fired.

The bolt flew out and struck Tirigon in the neck.

Mallenia cursed. She had been aiming at the head but her hand had been shaking. But if the gods-apart from Tion-were on her side she was now rid of this enemy.

She stepped out of the door in great haste, slamming it behind her. The key was on the outside, because the sheriff had forgotten to remove it. Thus she was able to lock the siblings in and make her escape. She would need the head start this gave her.

The alfar would be pursuing her , so the conspirators’ families should be safe. For the moment. She could worry about everything else later.

Mallenia turned and saw the alfar mounts only five paces away. Shall I?

No one had ever dared ride one of the night-mares-or rather, nobody had lived to tell the tale.

She knew that taking one of these animals would give her the best chance of getting away. Conventional horses were hopelessly inferior to these tamed unicorns.

“Let’s see if I can trick you,” she murmured, approaching the beasts with the lock of Tirigon’s hair in her outstretched hand. She watched the nostrils of the night-mares attentively and thought she could identify which one was reacting to the smell of the tuft of hair.

She rubbed the lock of hair over her own face and arms, torso and legs. “Here, smell that? Tirigon has said I can ride you,” she said gently as she walked round the big black animal, its dreadful red eyes seeming to glow like molten lava. She put one foot in the stirrup and swung herself up into the saddle.

The night-mare reared up and whinnied; it sounded more like a screech. Then it stamped its hooves on the paving stones, striking white sparks that left scorch marks on the stone.

Mallenia grabbed hold of the animal’s neck and made herself flat, so as to avoid being bitten, but she stayed on determinedly; then she dug her heels into the creature’s flanks. “If you don’t want to obey…” she threatened, and banged the handle of her dagger against the creature’s forehead blaze.

The night-mare shot off and galloped through the dark streets. Sparks flew whenever its hooves struck the ground. As they rushed along, flashes lit up the walls like lightning in a storm.

Mallenia took hold of the reins and forced the night-mare to her will. This was like no horse she had ever ridden before. The skin round a normal horse’s mouth would have torn or the neck vertebrae would have been damaged by the violence. But it seemed not to mind, and eventually obeyed her instructions. They raced toward the town gate; the attentive watchmen had already opened it for her. They must have thought she was one of the alfar.

Riding like the wind she left Topholiton and thundered along the road to the west.

The Outer Lands,

Seventy-four Miles Southwest of the Black Abyss,

Winter, 6491st Solar Cycle

Tungdil and Ireheart rode side by side, covering the miles to the fourthlings’ stronghold through which they could gain access to Girdlegard. To their old home…

A meeting had been arranged with the remaining dwarf-rulers; messengers had been sent out in advance.

Boindil had selected a white pony with brown markings; a second animal, heavily laden, was on a lead rein attached to his saddle. Tungdil rode a befun, after the habit of ubariu warriors.