Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

“Of course. But it’s not nearly as much as I would have absorbed on my normal long exposure.” She spoke hesitantly. “I’m pinning my hopes on finding another source in the Red Mountains.”

Now the Ido girl was paying close attention. She picked up the flask again. “If this pouch represents your potential reservoir, how much would you say you had at the moment?”

Coira unscrewed the top and let the contents pour out in a thin stream until there was only a third left. Wordlessly, she put the lid back on and handed it back.

“Is that all?”

The maga shook her head. “That’s it. But it’ll be enough to deal with the orcs. The new source will give me back all my previous strength.”

“And it won’t be difficult to locate?”

“I have a feel for such things. There is a spell for detecting the presence of magic. That’ll help a lot.”

Mallenia gave her attention to her second sword. “You were right. I’d rather rely on cold steel for my defense.”

Rodario came over to them. “And here we have the most enchanting ladies in all Girdlegard,” he greeted them cheerily. “And the most powerful.”

“He’s overdoing it,” Mallenia said to Coira. “And anyway, enchanting would only apply to the maga.” She picked up her sword and pointed it at Rodario. “I, on the other hand, am as sharp as steel and have winning ways, Rodario the Seventh.” She flashed her eyes at him maliciously, while the dark-haired girl put her hand quickly over her mouth to stifle her giggles.

A bewildered Rodario turned from one to the other. “I get the impression that something has been cooked up in my absence. I feel I am the focus of a conspiracy.”

“No. Don’t worry. We wouldn’t concern ourselves with trivial things,” the maga returned, with a wink, helping herself to more food.

A Zhadar came back into camp with the news that the five gates were now open. At once the dwarves, together with the remains of the decimated Black Squadron, set off to join the Invisibles.

“They’ve not been gone long,” Slin said to Balyndar, loading his crossbow as he walked. They left the cave together and ran down to the valley through the rain.

“I’d have liked to have seen it all, but they wouldn’t let me go with them.” Ireheart was curious about the Invisibles’ special skills.

“It was probably better this way.” Tungdil pulled out Bloodthirster. “It wouldn’t have been your sort of fight, Ireheart. You’re not silent when you attack orcs: You normally brandish your crow’s beak, yell and swear a lot, and smash up their armor. It gets quite loud.”

A Zhadar stood waiting for them at the first of the wooden gates, now open.

As they hurried through they saw a couple of dozen orcs lying in the mud, with their throats cut. Others had received dents and slashes to their armor and some had their heads entirely missing.

This image was regularly repeated. A Zhadar stood at each of the gates with massacred guards behind him in the mire.

Ireheart was impressed. “Well, fry me an elf!” he murmured.

At last they arrived at the pass that led to the Red Mountains. The orcs had erected a further wooden palisade; this time it was Barskalin who was waiting for them.

“We killed the sentries like you said,” he reported to Tungdil. “No alarm was sounded.”

“I would have expected nothing less and am very pleased,” Tungdil praised him. “How many orcs so far?”

“We killed a hundred and fourteen of them and two Lohasbranders who were in the guardroom. They were acting as officers,” the sytrap explained. “We took a third one prisoner because we thought you’d want to interrogate him.”

“Excellent.” Tungdil followed him inside; Ireheart and the rest joined them.

The cave was high-ceilinged, stark and bare. The orcs and Lohasbranders had not troubled to make it homely. On closer examination faint remains of dwarf-runes and masonry carvings could still be seen. At the front of the cave, right next to the palisade fence, there were two wooden barrack buildings where the orc crews would have been quartered; nearby were two smaller sheds. Barskalin explained one was a storeroom and the other was a jail cell whose two orc occupants they also slaughtered.

Ireheart listened in surprise. These Zhadar are as dangerous as the black-eyes!

Hargorin told his soldiers to guard the cave and to spread out over the four passageways. None of the tunnels was large enough to admit a full-grown dragon, they were relieved to note. Lohasbrand would not be able to attack them in here.

On the way into the first of the barrack buildings, where the Zhadar were holding the captive Lohasbrander, Ireheart inspected the corpses. “It’s a mystery how the Invisibles managed to do all that without the pig-faces putting up any resistance,” he remarked to Slin, so astonished that he could not help commenting.

“They’ve learned a frightening amount from the alfar,” the fourthling agreed. “I keep thinking about how well they know my native land. They could easily do the same thing in the Brown Mountains.” He looked at Balyndar. “Or with the fifthlings. Or the freelings. Just imagine what might have happened had the alfar trained up some thirdlings keen to kill the other dwarves! We’d have been wiped out ages ago.”

“They wouldn’t have found it this easy,” Balyndar observed, looking at one of the dead orcs, whose throat had been cut.

“But the losses would have been terrible,” Ireheart replied, as he went inside the building.

Tungdil was standing with Barskalin in front of the captured Lohasbrander, who they had forced to his knees and chained to a wooden pillar. He wore black lamellar armor and had light fair hair sticking up all over his head. In stature he was podgy yet strongly built, and the fair beard on his broad face was stained red with the blood oozing from a cut on his left cheek.

“That’s Wielgar!” cried Coira. “He’s one of the Lohasbranders who were in Mifurdania recently. He’s the one who had The Incomparable Rodario executed.”

“Well, well, the little maga,” he groaned. “That attempt at rebellion will cost you dear. The Dragon will reduce your land to rubble and ashes!”

“We’ve things planned for Lohasbrand. He won’t have time to get up to any such tricks.” Tungdil planted himself in front of the man. “Where will we find the magic source and the Dragon’s treasure?” Wielgar started to laugh. Tungdil went on, “Before you do that, think hard. I am a past master in administering pain.” He drew up a small bench, released the man’s right arm and forced it down onto the wood. “We’ll start with the fingers, bit by bit. I’ll hammer each segment flat as a pancake.” He bound up the upper arm so that the blood loss would not prove fatal. “Then I’ll make my way up the limb, cutting it into slices. I’ll let you see them before I shove them in your mouth to keep your strength up. Then we’ll have a go with the other arm.”

Wielgar seemed worried. “I am an admirer of the Dragon and one of his highest officers…”

“I couldn’t care less.” The flat side of Bloodthirster’s blade flashed down and the tip of one finger was transformed into a mushy mess; the nail fell off and blood flowed.

Wielgar yelled. “You shall all die!” he vowed. “Give up now.”

Tungdil reminded him, “You know what my questions are. Do we have any answers yet?”

“There is no magic source,” he moaned. And, as the sword was lifted again, he screamed, “There is no magic source! Believe me! We know the rumors but we’ve never found anything.”

“How would you? You’re not magi,” Coira remarked.

“The Dragon told us,” he countered, one eye on Bloodthirster, which was hovering over his hand. “I swear by Samusin that there’s no magic at all in the Red Range. Except for the maga.”