Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

Ireheart, Slin and Balyndar managed to pack their things and leave the farm without being observed.

They walked along at the edge of the settlement and approached the second gate of the fortress, where they knocked. Even though the guard recognized them at once and, in Hargorin Deathbringer’s name, invited them in, they refused to enter the courtyard. The sentry sent someone to tell the thirdling leader.

It was not long before he reappeared. Behind him came three servants carrying a bench and a table laid with a meal for them.

“You can eat outside if you prefer,” they were told. “But be quick. The troop is about to head for Dson Bhara.”

The three dwarves looked at one another and started to eat in silence outside the gates of the fortress. This conflicted with Ireheart’s plan to keep their presence secret. The sun was not yet fully risen, but word would soon get around.

“We should have used false names,” said Balyndar, sipping his hot tea. “Now they’ll think we’re with the dishonorable ones.”

“That won’t go down well in songs about us,” sighed Slin, nodding toward the courtyard where the servants were bringing out stands bearing black armor. “Those’ll be for us.”

“Well, I’m not going to put that stuff on in full view.” Ireheart desperately looked around for somewhere to withdraw to. There was no way though that he would step inside Vraccas-Spite.

They used their cloaks as curtains to help each other robe up and put on armor and weapons.

Ireheart thought Balyndar looked more and more like his father now. It was obvious whose son he really was.

Slin, on the other hand, did not look right in his borrowed get-up. Several of the pieces were too loose for the cross-bowman. He fiddled with his armor unhappily and the metal squeaked. “You two at least have the air of warriors,” he said to Ireheart and Balyndar.

“You look a bit like a gnome in disguise,” teased Boindil.

The Black Squadron were assembling in the courtyard, with Tungdil, Hargorin and Barskalin in cavalry armor riding in front. It was an impressive and worrying picture. Stable hands hurried over with ponies for the three dwarves waiting outside.

“Good morning,” Tungdil greeted them. “We missed you.”

“Was there a reason you didn’t let us know where you spent the night?” Hargorin’s query sounded harmless but Ireheart thought he was suspicious.

“Didn’t ask their names,” he said quickly, before Slin could answer.

The fortress commander was not satisfied with that. “Which house was it, then?”

I shan’t betray them . Ireheart swung himself up into the saddle and moved up to be next to Tungdil. Hargorin had to move aside. “No idea. Some house where all the furniture was too big for me.” He gave an innocent grin.

Slin laughed out loud and Balyndar joined in. They mounted up and the band of riders set off.

Ireheart looked around: They were now a group of over a hundred and fifty. “I assume the Zhadar and the Black Squadron have mingled?”

“Indeed, Ireheart.” Tungdil’s response was not ironic. “The Dson Aklan are to think they are still busy trying to steal kordrion eggs.”

“What about the strategy meeting, Scholar?” asked Ireheart, pushing down his visor. “Where are we holding that?”

“We’ve already had it. We brought it forward.” Tungdil looked at him amicably and reprovingly at one and the same time. “We didn’t know where to send the messenger to tell you.”

Ireheart saw the sense in that. “Then tell me what’s been decided.” The one-eyed dwarf turned to the front and raised his arm in a signal to the company. Behind him a standard was hoisted high, displaying the unfamiliar rune that seemed a mixture of dwarf and alfar script. “There’s time enough to tell you on the way.” He lowered his head slightly. “What do you say to my coat of arms, Ireheart? Isn’t it fine?”

Boindil nodded. But it wasn’t fine. Not fine at all.

Girdlegard,

Former Queendom of Weyurn,

Lakepride,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

Wey’s mouth moved, her hands jerked into the air, forming signs to avert approaching doom-but the spell her daughter had invoked came too fast. She closed her eyes and held her breath.

“Mother!” Coira exclaimed at the sight of the flames.

Sisaroth had provoked her into using her magic without thinking and now a disaster had occurred. The magic fire burned like glowing coals.

Coira had attempted a counter-spell but could only watch the flames imprison her mother. The young woman shook and her lips went numb.

The alf had not left. He had ducked away under the ball of magic and was crouching on the floor. From there he could attack with his two-hander; the blade tip was close to Coira’s throat.

“Watch out!” Mallenia saw the maga was paralyzed with horror, and pulled her out of the way. The knife blade missed her narrowly.

Sisaroth followed through but was held back by the swords of the Ido warrior maid. The two-hander clanged as it crashed into her blades. “Aha! Our rebel!” He gave an evil laugh and kicked sharply in her direction. “This time you won’t get away.”

Mallenia dodged the flying boot and dropped back onto the bed. “Coira! Do something!” The alf leaped toward her. She had to admire the incredible elegance of his movements, but she was poised either to parry or to dodge his next attack. “Coira! For goodness’ sake!”

The flickering light in the corridor died and there was the sound of a body falling to the floor.

Mallenia glanced past Sisaroth. Queen Wey the Eleventh lay on the marble floor slabs, a smoking blackened bundle; her wide-open eyes were the only touch of white in the scorched face. Her skin hung off her in shreds and her hair had been burned away. But-did the eyes not just move? She looked more closely. “Coira! Your mother is alive!”

The alf laughed. “Death has not forgotten her.” He threw his two-hander at the Ido, striking her on the upper arm just where the night-mare had bitten her. His blade cut through her flesh as if it were soft butter, nailing Mallenia through the bone to the wardrobe.

Groaning, she dropped one of her own swords, but pointed the second at her enemy’s face. “By the gods, Princess. Hurry! Or we are done for!”

Coira took two paces and held fast to the doorframe, looking wildly around her, still in deep shock.

Sisaroth watched the maga before turning back to deal with Mallenia. He sat down on the bed in front of her. “The last of Prince Mallen’s line,” he said. “You have caused us much trouble, but the hunt has been enjoyable. Now the chase is over.” He looked over to the corridor and gave a signal to someone outside. “You will die in your own land in full view of all, Mallenia of Ido. On the executioner’s block. Your blond hair will fall into your own blood. This is the punishment for rebellion, conspiracy and murder.”

“I know your plans,” she answered in the language of the alfar. “You can’t fool me.”

Sisaroth scowled in pain. “What excruciating pronunciation! Who taught you that? Tell me his name, so I can kill him.”

“So I’ve found out how to torture you?” She laughed.

The alf hardly moved, it was more a jerk; he punched her in the face. Her knees gave way. As she sank down the two-handed sword cut deeper into her arm. Another metallic clang: She had dropped her second sword.

“Use our language again and I will tear out your tongue.” Sisaroth opened the cupboard door Mallenia was fastened to. He moved the door so that she should see what was happening in the passage: The alf woman was bent over Wey, sticking the point of her two-handed sword into the queen’s back. “The name of her death is Firusha,” he said in a low, dark voice.