Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

Balyndar leaped in, smashing his morning star down onto the claw so that blood gushed out.

With a screech the kordrion pushed forward and tried to spread its wings, but the surrounding walls made this impossible. However, the very attempt caused further destruction.

“Look out!” Ireheart pulled Balyndar aside as a large lump of heavy plasterwork threatened to fall straight on top of him. “Even the best of helmets won’t save you from that kind of thing.”

The kordrion snapped at them and the dwarves ducked to avoid its ugly mouth.

Ireheart used the opportunity to strike one of its lower eyes. The eye immediately burst open and the creature bellowed with pain.

The spike had buried itself in a bone. Ireheart did not release his hold on the weapon and was dragged upwards as the creature raised its head. The swift movement made him giddy and drove the air out of his lungs, leaving him gasping like a landed carp-but he didn’t let go. “I won’t be shaken off!” he called. “Is that all you can do? A bit further, you hideous freak! You won’t scare me! I can take the altitude!”

Then an arrow got him in the left foot.

“Cursed black-eyes!” he yelled. “Can’t you aim straight like your northern relatives?” His arms grew heavy and his own weight, together with that of the armor, dragged at him. But to let go would be instant death.

Then he saw Aiphaton leap out of a window seven floors up above the kordrion’s back, his spear tip targeting the creature’s neck.

With that thing? Ireheart could not believe it. “Oh, Vraccas! He’s got a little needle! He’s going to prick it with a little needle!”

The monster ducked and shook its head. The crow’s beak spike came loose and the dwarf flew off to the right through the air like a missile four paces above the ground, landing in a heap of butchered ponies, whose steaming intestines cushioned his fall.

He struggled up in a rage, broke off the arrow under the sole of his foot and stood. “Now you’ve really made me mad!” The red mask of battle-fury was setting in. Only the kordrion was unmoved. “I’ll give you such a battering-I’ll have you in pieces!”

Aiphaton had leaped onto the creature’s back and was stabbing away through the spinal column, finding the spaces between the huge vertebrae.

The kordrion arched up with a screech-and Tungdil jumped down onto it from one of the lower galleries, ramming Bloodthirster into a different place on the backbone, paralyzing the creature’s right leg. It fell to its knees and lurched against the east facade, breaking the wall down. The building above it collapsed, covering the kordrion with a hail of heavy masonry.

Aiphaton and Tungdil had taken refuge just in time and were waiting on a balcony on the western side.

But the beast was nowhere near the end of its strength.

Thrashing its tail it destroyed the gate and stonework above, killing dozens of alfar, who fell with the collapsing wall, to be crushed by falling chunks of masonry, while others were hit by the tail and hurled through the air to fall, broken, to the ground.

The beast rose from the debris with a cry; it staggered and crashed head first into a wall.

Ireheart had reached the kordrion again. “You’ll be quiet soon enough!” He swung his arm back and whacked his crow’s beak into the area of the soft underbelly where he supposed the genitals to be. The skin ripped open and the monster uttered a shrill cry. “Ha! That’s what I like to hear,” Ireheart bellowed merrily. “Let’s have another!” He repeated his winning strike. “Sing it for me again!”

Aiphaton and Tungdil moved in to help the sturdy warrior finish the beast off. They had to keep dodging the wildly flailing taloned limbs; its vast wings opened and closed convulsively, causing yet more damage to the fabric of Phoseon.

“Stop! Now!” Ireheart clambered boldly up the creature’s long neck and brought the spike of his weapon forcefully down through the kordrion’s skull. “Let’s have you dead, you wretched fiend!”

And now, indeed, the vast body of the kordrion slumped. With a last groan it thrashed its tail for a final time, then fell over, destroying more of the buildings. Clouds of dust rose up.

Ireheart used his plait to wipe away the sweat and other unpleasant liquids from his forehead and beard, but there was too much of it. He was merely smearing it over his face as if he had been using a paint brush. There would have to be a bath. A shallow one, though.

“By Vraccas, the dwarves done good!” he crowed, lifting his weapon so that the kordrion blood dripped off it. Close by he saw his one-eyed friend nodding approvingly. Aiphaton was back down on the ground staring up at the bulk of the huge beast.

There were still occasional bumps, bangs and crashes as more of the plaster and brickwork came down; the distress of any surviving ponies could be also heard, mixed with the moans of the wounded.

Then there was a single cry of relief, taken up by more and more of the alfar as they realized the creature had been slain. The call echoed in chorus through the alleys and ravines of the city.

Ireheart clambered over the neck and onto the belly to join Tungdil. “I don’t get what they’re saying but it sounds as if they like us,” he said brightly, lowering the crow’s beak and putting both hands on the shaft. He looked extremely pleased with himself. “At last-my kind of adversary. There won’t be many dwarves who can outdo my deeds today.” He looked around and through the settling dust saw the faces of the alfar rejoicing.

Tungdil slapped him on the shoulder. “Well done, Ireheart. They are saying…”

“Don’t tell me, Scholar,” he interrupted. “That way I can imagine the black-eyes are adoring me instead of wanting to kill me.” He looked down at his injured foot, where the feathered arrow shaft still stuck up through the boot. “Perhaps that was one of them trying it on just now.”

Tungdil laughed and started to climb down. “Come on. I want to find out what Aiphaton has to say about our help.”

At sunset Tungdil, Ireheart, Slin, Balyndar, Hargorin and Barskalin assembled in the emperor’s throne room; five of the Zhadar came along as well.

They were invited to sit at a table where goblets and jugs of wine stood ready. Nothing was poured out yet. Beforehand, Aiphaton had arranged for them to be shown to chambers where they could rest from their exertions.

They met up in the room they had first seen on arrival. The paintings on the walls had changed. The black and white silhouette designs were now full-color floor-to-ceiling landscapes of absurd beauty and if you looked carefully, the shrubs and trees were not depictions of real plants but were made up of tiny painted corpses, with wounds and cut throats.

“Just as barmy as their relations,” said Ireheart in disgust. “But that ointment they gave us really works. I can hardly feel the hole in my foot.”

“Who knows what it’s made of,” muttered Slin. “But I’m not complaining. They treated me like a king.”

“Apart from the bath,” murmured Ireheart. “I had to get rid of most of the water before I got in. It was nearly up to my knees!”

“You mean because of Elria and her water curse?” Slin’s face bore a broad grin. “I’ve never heard of a dwarf drowning in a bath.”

“And I didn’t want to be the first!” He lifted his hand to show the amount of water for a proper bath. “From my fingertips to my wrist, that’s all it needs.”

Slin burst out laughing. “That’s only about enough to wet your manliness.”

“I understand the fourthlings are smaller in all areas than the other tribes,” Balyndar threw in.

“My bolt always reaches the target. I can always hear it hit home,” said Slin, pointing to the morning star. “But you will be built like your weapons: Too much force in the balls and only a little spike.”