Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

“No!” cried the Ido woman in despair. “Kill me but let her live. What use is her death to you?”

“We will gain the Dragon’s gratitude. We have done what he does not dare to do himself.” Sisaroth raised his hand, his sister nodded.

“She sent a message to Lohasbrand,” Mallenia gasped. “The Dragon will guess that you killed not only her but also the orcs and Prases. He will wage war on Idoslane and the alfar regions. Everywhere! Your plan will fail.” She looked down at the injured monarch. “Only she can keep you safe.”

Sisaroth’s face lost its superior expression. His sister looked at him. “If she speaks true then we should let her live.”

“Why? So she can tell Lohasbrand more lies? Or so she can go back to her magic source for fresh energy and launch a campaign against us in revenge?” Sisaroth’s decision had been made. “It was the will of Tion and Samusin that brought us to Lakepride. Now it’s time changes were wrought among the mighty of Girdlegard. Why not start in Weyurn and shoot the first arrow here?”

“Is that the right choice?” wondered Firusha. “Yes.” He stood up, drew his dagger and went out to the corridor. “A shame not to be able to take the bones with us. What a waste.” The alf knelt down and stabbed the maga at the base of the neck. He quickly decapitated her and discarded the head to ensure no healing magic could ever reunite skull and torso. He raised his eyes and looked at Coira. “The daughter must follow. You shall be her death, sister.”

Mallenia gritted her teeth and let herself drop. The blade she was pinioned by severed flesh and bone, and blood streamed out-but she was free. Her fingers closed around the sword handle and she ran to the defenseless young maga to protect her from Sisaroth. A final act of defiance.

Firusha sprang to intercept her and struck a blow that shattered the Ido’s blade. “These human weapons are worth nothing.” She laughed and grabbed hold of Mallenia’s wound, pressing hard, then she tossed her back onto the bed. “Good blood,” she said over her shoulder to her brother. “We should collect it when we execute her. Who knows what we could create with that.” Then she looked at Coira. “Sweet maga blood. That will add a certain something to any work of art.” Then she gave a sigh of regret. “But we have nothing to save it in.”

She dimly heard voices out in the corridor. The guards must be coming.

“Help! We’ve been attacked!” shouted Mallenia.

Firusha and Sisaroth laughed. They were not going to be put to flight by the soldiers charging up to them. The palace would soon have more dead to mourn.

The alf came up to Coira, bloody knife in hand. Watching the countenance of the distraught young woman in order to follow her death throes, he made to thrust the dagger in.

At the same moment he was hit on the head by a helmet and Sisaroth’s strike missed its target. The blade met wood and broke off. The helmet bounced, rattling across the floor.

The alf whirled around, drawing his second double-bladed knife but was engulfed in a wave of fire!

“Cowardly murderer!” someone shouted. “You can’t kill a descendant of the Incredible Rodario that easily!” The next wave of flame shot out with a hiss but Sisaroth dodged this one.

Mallenia recognized Rodario’s voice. “Fetch help!” she called, assuming the man would be unable to hold the alfar off for long.

Firusha struck her on the head with the blade’s broadside; the Ido girl fell, half concussed, to the cushions. The female alf sprang to her brother’s aid…

… but was met by a bright yellow flash that struck her in the breast. A hole the size of a man’s hand was punched through her body and she was thrown across the room and out through the window. The impact shattered the glass and the panes melted in the magic force. Firusha had not uttered more than an agonized gasp.

Mallenia turned quickly and saw Coira’s clear eyes and outstretched arms. “Thanks be to the gods,” she croaked.

“Thanks? For what? For the death of my mother?” the maga replied bitterly, hurrying out in the direction of the noise of fighting.

The Ido girl was too weak to stand. She saw the reflection of flashes; they were followed by crackling noises like those of a great fire, then shrieks and the clash of weapons. The fight against the remaining alfar sibling was in full swing. She felt her spark of life was dwindling. She had lost too much blood.

Her eyelids fluttered; they seemed heavier than an anvil. The pain had faded. She struggled against the overwhelming desire to give up, to sleep and sleep and sleep…

Girdlegard,

Dson Bhara,

Twelve Miles North of Dson,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

The winter had already lost much of its strength and snow was now melting in the hills and on the meadows. From all sides there came the sound of running water, and small streams swelled to raging torrents as, drop by drop, the last of the ice disappeared.

Tungdil’s group with the Zhadar and the Desirers was riding through boggy terrain, clothes soaked through and armor suffering from the frequent showers.

Nevertheless they were making steady progress toward their first destination: Dson, the second city of that name, and home to the northern alfar.

“No sign of the kordrion,” Ireheart said. “I wonder if he’s given up the chase?”

“As long as his young is alive he will keep searching,” Tungdil reassured him.

Ireheart sighed and reflected that it had been a reasonably quick journey under the circumstances. It was down to Hargorin Deathbringer that they had been able to approach the alfar capital without being stopped by any of the patrols; everyone knew the Black Squadron and its leader.

Ireheart noticed a band of riders: Alfar, long lances in their hands, mounted on firebulls. I was counting my chickens before they hatched . He grinned. Maybe there will be work to do.

Tungdil glanced at Hargorin. “Let me speak to them. They’ll be wanting to know the meaning of the standard.”

The alfar brought their bulls to a halt and their leader gave a curt order to his soldiers to lower their pikes, while he urged his own snorting bull a few paces forward. “We understood you rode alone, Hargorin Deathbringer. But we are told you have a dwarf with you who bears an unusual device on his coat of arms.” As he looked at Tungdil the eyes took in every detail and every rune on the armor.

Ireheart watched the alf, whose long blond hair was visible below the tionium helmet, forming a collar round neck and shoulders. His face was like all the others: Handsome, cruel and with black eye sockets. I’d love, just once, to see a fat alf. A fat, clumsy alf, uglier than the mate of the ugliest pig-faced orc. And with crooked teeth . The dwarf grinned to himself behind his closed visor. Like Slin, Balyndar and the twenty-three Zhadar, he managed to merge unobtrusively with the mass of the squadron’s soldiers. Their disguise must not be noticed. It was vital for the success of their mission.

“Greetings, Utsintas,” said Tungdil in a deep voice that commanded respect, a voice Ireheart had never heard his friend use before. Hargorin had told him the name of the alf leader. “I am Tungdil Goldhand, high king of the dwarf-tribes in Girdlegard, and a member of the thirdling folk.”

Utsintas opened his mouth. “It’s not as easy…”

But Tungdil carried on regardless. “Take me to the Dson Aklan. I have a bargain to strike. Now.”

Utsintas closed his mouth again. This prompted another hidden grin from Ireheart. That black-eyes has never been spoken to like this before.

Tungdil leaned forward on his pony. “Did you hear me, Utsintas? Or perhaps you do not know my name? Are you so young that you have never been told about the dwarf who razed the original city of Dson to the ground?”