Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

A spluttering, paddling Slin grabbed hold of the rope tied to one of the floats and pulled it over, but he continued to sink due to the weight of his armor. He was fighting for his life, they could see. It was only when he managed to pull the other three floats over that he was able to keep his head above water. It was enough to enable him to breathe.

Ireheart was relieved and went back to join Tungdil in the bows. “We’ve saved him. One of the other boats will pick him up.”

“Good.” He stretched up to see more distinctly something he had caught sight of through the spray.

“You might just as well have said ‘I couldn’t care less,’ Scholar,” Ireheart said reproachfully. “That’s what your tone of voice was saying.”

Tungdil turned round suddenly and, for a blink of an eye, looked as if he were going to hit Boindil. His face was full of fury. “If I need a crossbowman, I’ll find a new one. If I need a maga, what do I do then?” he countered the rebuke. “It’s good that Slin is safe. No more than that. Without Coira our chances of prevailing against Lot-Ionan are diminished. It’ll make no difference not having Slin with us. He won’t have the kind of weapon that can kill a magus outright.” He looked at the fisherman and directed, “Hard to port.”

Ireheart did not know what to say. This was a real blow.

The boat slipped round and headed for some of the floating rubble.

It was still rocking about and the lake had not yet settled. The fisherman reefed the sails to decrease their speed; he did not want to hole the boat. There were constant bumps and clanks as driftwood and flotsam collided with the hull.

Tungdil had a boathook in his hand, held like a harpoon. “Look out for survivors. If you see a woman tell me at once. The others can pick up the men.”

Ireheart lifted a net and stared out at the water. “A woman!” he called, pointing to a blonde girl in leather armor, motionless, face up, floating next to an empty barrel.

Tungdil used the hook to pull her nearer and the Zhadar heaved her up over the side. “Is that the maga?” he asked the fisherman.

“No, sir, the queen has black hair,” was the reply.

Ireheart laid the girl down by the mast and quickly covered her with a blanket before Tungdil could think of chucking her overboard again; her lips were blue and quivering. “That’s good,” he said reassuringly. “You’re alive.” She looked pretty tall and strong for a human. A warrior-girl, then.

One of the Zhadar whistled and pointed to starboard.

They changed course to head for what he had seen. Tungdil fished the next woman out of the lake. She was wearing a black robe and had long dark hair. She, too, was unconscious. And she wasn’t breathing!

“That’s her,” whispered the frightened fisherman. “That’s the queen! Elria, be merciful!”

“Elria? I’ll show Elria!” Ireheart turned her over and trod on her back with his boots till the water gushed out of her mouth and she started to cough. “There! Hurrah! I am a born healer!” He helped the maga to turn over and wrapped her in a new blanket. “You owe your life to Vraccas,” he told her kindly.

“It felt more like the sole of a boot,” she groaned.

Tungdil came over and looked down at her. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Coira Weytana, queen of Weyurn.”

She coughed again and gave him a grateful nod.

“This is High King Tungdil Goldhand,” said Ireheart, introducing his friend first, then himself and then the others on board. “We arrived just in time.”

There was a splash next to the boat and a man’s hand was seen clamped to the railing; then the second hand appeared and a torso pulled itself up over the side. Brown hair was slapped tight to his head and his aristocratic face was beardless. “I assume I am allowed on board?” He looked at the assembled crowd in astonishment. “Well I never. A sailing barge full of dwarves!”

“By all the spirits of the dead!” Ireheart’s eyebrows were raised in amazement, because he thought he was seeing the ghost of a man who had long since died. The clean-shaven ghost of a man. “Rodario?”

Girdlegard,

Former Queendom of Weyurn,

Lakeside,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

Nobody in the quiet hamlet of Lakeside could have dreamed that they might one day have the privilege of offering hospitality not only to their queen, but also to those illustrious dwarf-heroes of cycles long past, Tungdil Goldhand and Boindil Doubleblade, the celebrated Mallenia of Ido, and a descendant of the fabled Rodario the Incredible. Not even the best storyteller in the village could have imagined such a company in their midst.

The eminent visitors were gathered in the taproom of the harborside inn, drinking hot tea, mulled wine or spiced beer. The villagers had withdrawn out of respect and were pushing and shoving each other at the window and the doorway, trying to get a glimpse of the high personages. They sent in a few of their number to convey their best wishes or make presentations of gifts, but without a specific invitation none of them dared to approach closer than four paces.

“You’re positive the magic source has been destroyed?” Tungdil addressed Coira, who was now wearing the simple garb of a fisherwoman and had wrapped herself in a blanket.

“I realized straightaway,” she answered despondently. “All the energy was released and I managed to absorb some of it, but… now… it is dead. There is nothing left at all where the source used to be.”

Ireheart thought back to the fizzing sensation and how the runes on Tungdil’s armor had started to glow. That must have been the reason: Magic had been set free into the air! Personally, he could have done without that experience, but the loss of the magic source would be of terrible significance for them all!

Coira smiled at her subjects even if she found it hard. None of this was their fault and she did not want to disappoint anyone. She gestured to a little girl with a basket of gifts, accepted the presents graciously and stroked the girl’s blond hair. “Thank you very much.” Curtseying prettily, the young girl hurried back to the others waiting outside.

“I simply can’t think what kind of creature was responsible for Lakepride’s collapse and the destruction of the magic source,” said Tungdil.

The maga shook her head and gave her attention to the gifts she had been brought: There was a brooch made of fish bone with an image of the island engraved on it. Sighing, she clasped it in her hand.

“I think it must have been Lot-Ionan.” Rodario the Seventh looked round the circle. “The magus must have created that monster and sent it here, either to kill the maga or to destroy her source of magic. Once it knew that it was dying it threw itself down the shaft to carry out its mission.” He touched his throat. “I saw quite clearly that it was wearing a chain with an onyx pendant. Perhaps that was the cause of the explosion?”

“Possibly.” Coira nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps he put a spell in the stone. It must have been some very powerful sorcery to have an effect like that.”

“This brings us to a vital issue. Are you prepared to help us fight the magus?” Tungdil looked at her searchingly. “More to the point: Are you capable of helping us?”

“So you want to pursue the Dragon first and then go off to the south,” she summarized. “If we accept Rodario’s idea, Lot-Ionan won’t have attacked me and the source for no reason. Sooner or later he will attempt to conquer Girdlegard, and this act will have been the opening gambit for a takeover of Weyurn. He knows I need the source to be able to put up any lasting resistance.”