Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

“No, no, no!” yelled Ireheart. “Come back here!” Stupid animal!

Slin and Balyndar came over to him.

“What’s it doing?” groaned the fourthling, watching the tip of the monster’s tail disappear.

Balyndar was holding his side in pain and gasped. “It’s crawling in like a bear into a beehive.”

They both looked accusingly at Ireheart. “Wasn’t it supposed to be attacking you ?”

“Well, yes.” Boindil wiped the sweat from his forehead using the end of one his braids. “There must be something in Phoseon that’s more interesting than me.” Then he laughed. “Let’s go! We’ll do for it. If Vraccas is on our side the beast will get stuck down there and we’ll be able to cut it into tiny slices.”

He ran over to the edge of the ravine and saw that the kordrion was pushing its way past the hanging gardens, looking for a horizontal passage wide enough for its massive bulk.

“Follow me!” Ireheart leaped.

His flight was a short one. He landed in a blossom hedge that covered him from head to foot in white pollen dust. Now I look like a fairy , he thought, and grinned. A pretty little bearded fairy. He fought his way free of the hedge, sneezing, and made for the bridge that led to the level the kordrion was attempting to gain forcible entry to. What, by Tion…

Balyndar and Slin landed next to him, their fall broken by the dense black-leaved foliage of some small trees. They both crawled out of the tangle of branches, cursing, bits of leaf and twigs stuck in the gaps on their armor. No time to get rid of all that. They pursued the kordrion with utmost haste.

Ireheart had nearly caught up with the monster and could see it clearly.

The wings were folded close to its muscular body, with no room to extend them in these narrow corridors. One was a little shorter than the other, as if it had regrown after an injury, perhaps. It was using its sharp claws to move its long, gray, wrinkled body, measuring twenty paces high and sixty in length. It dragged itself along through Phoseon, pushing forward with its legs.

It had crouched down as flat as it could, like a cat stalking a bird. Its back scraped against the ceiling of the arcaded corridor, damaging the stonework and causing large cracks. The floor was also suffering under a weight load it had never been designed to bear.

Ireheart had reached the tip of the tail and was unsure how to proceed. Shall I overtake it and attack from below? Shall I hack at the tail tip and attack when it turns round?

Before he could come to a decision, the kordrion suddenly slipped into the next vertical shaft and disappeared.

“What are you looking for, Bug-Eyes?” Ireheart was now at the edge and could see the monster several levels beneath him, creeping back into the building. “You’re looking for something, that’s for sure.” He turned and found a long flag hanging from the wall. Pulling it away, he wrapped one end round a column and used it to climb down to the floor that the kordrion had selected. When he landed he took out his crow’s beak again. “You’re not getting away from me that easily.”

Slin and Balyndar slid down the flag to arrive behind Ireheart. They were breathless from the effort as the three of them pursued the monster.

The kordrion encountered no resistance. The alfar had never reckoned with a creature like this breaking into their city. The dwarves passed bitten-off limbs and pools of blood or smashed and mutilated bodies; these were the simple inhabitants of the town, as could be seen by the clothing they had worn. They had neither weapons nor armor at their disposal.

“It’s gone off to the right!” called Balyndar. “Over there in the wide passage.”

“I can see for myself,” growled Ireheart, who had grown tired of all this chasing about. He wanted a proper fight and was not interested in completing an endurance test.

They rounded the corner and were confronted with a broad gap in the walls, forming a path through to the gate they had entered by.

And that was where the kordrion was heading, still crouching low against the ground. Its back scraped some of the hanging gardens, making them sway and come away from their anchorages so that soil and plants rained down. Its claws hurled any alfar aside who had not sought cover; some of them the creature gobbled up or chewed to get at their blood, spitting out the remnants.

“Ho!” shouted Ireheart, hurrying onwards as fast as his legs could carry him. “Ho! You with the ugly face! Stand still for a change!”

“What’s it want at the gate?” Balyndar did not seem so bothered by all the running. “So it’s not you it’s trying to follow, Doubleblade.”

Slin dropped behind. “Don’t wait for me,” he panted. “I’ll catch up. This armor is so heavy…”

Ireheart grabbed him by his forearm protectors. “You are a child of the Smith! Make a bit of an effort; you need to win your share in the glory of killing the kordrion. When will a fourthling ever get a chance like this again?” Secretly he was wondering where on earth Tungdil and Aiphaton had got to.

He stepped over the debris and piles of sand from the hanging gardens; they kept having to make detours round broken lumps of masonry that had fallen from the facade. The vibrations caused by the kordrion’s progress, together with the violent swinging of its powerful tail, were destroying Phoseon.

“It’s… got… to the… gate.” Slin could hardly speak, he was so out of breath. They were a hundred paces behind their quarry. “I’m… done for.” He stopped and rested his crossbow on a tree trunk. “I’ll cover you… from here.”

Ireheart and Balyndar hurried on. “Have you got a plan?” asked the fifthling. “Yes. To kill it,” replied Ireheart. “The simplest plans are always the best ones.”

They reached the open square in front of the gate.

The kordrion turned and twisted as if possessed, crouching down and arching its back and seizing the Black Squadron’s ponies. The animals neighed loudly in terror and bolted, running chaotically about, but they could not escape the predator’s claws. A slaughter ensued and there was an overwhelming stink of fresh blood, with red smears and spatters on the walls. The sandy floor was soaked.

The dwarves had withdrawn to hide in the arcades and were bombarding the monster from under cover. A few of the alfar soldiers were helping out, loosing their arrows or casting their lances or spears from the upper galleries.

“So it doesn’t like ponies?” Ireheart was surprised. “Is that why it’s not bothering with the murderer of its own young?”

Balyndar had been looking around and had found a packhorse that was attracting the kordrion’s attention. “Look over there. It’s not attacking that one.”

“Maybe it likes horses?” Ireheart attempted a joke, but grew serious. “I know what you mean. That’s the one Tirigon sent with us. Did the alf get our provisions confused with kordrion feed? Let’s have a look and see what’s really in there.” Balyndar followed him.

In the meantime three of the firing towers on the roof had rolled forward to the edge. The barrage was now becoming dangerous for the mighty beast; more and more alfar were in the courtyard and soon the kordrion was losing blood from countless wounds. It gave a maddened scream, thrashing with its tail and causing untold damage.

But it’s not trying to escape, although it must know that every minute spent here brings it closer to death. Ireheart was quite near to it now.

One of the talons touched the packhorse, but very cautiously.

Ireheart had caught up. With a vicious swipe of the crow’s beak he attacked the long investigating finger. “That stays here!!” he yelled furiously, yanking the handle of his weapon. With a loud tearing sound the blade ripped through the pale gray skin. “That’s our horse!”