Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

The archer’s sword was stuck deep in Goha’s arm, and the impact had forced her backwards-right up against the rings of the artifact.

“Vraccas! No!” yelled Boindil, thinking of what Flagur had said. In his mind’s eye he saw Goda transformed to ashes, torn by lightning bolts, consumed by flames…

But nothing happened.

Before he could realize how surprised he was, he felt a sharp pain in his side. It had a hellish kick. Turning, he faced the flying fist of the archer-woman.

“Not so fast!” he exclaimed and hit at her hand with the flat of his battleax. There was a loud crack on contact and the finger bones crunched. Without waiting to see what she was doing, he dealt her an uppercut with the jagged edge, shattering her chin.

She fell to the ground but still slashed out with her dagger.

Ireheart sprang to one side and the glistening knife-tip missed him. “My turn,” he laughed, lifting his weapon high over his head to slam it down with all his strength. “What does a skull do when it bursts?”

The woman had no answer. Under the blow from his ax her head demonstrated the solution to his riddle.

From far above Furgas shouted. He had found his footing on one of the cross-bars and sat there, condemned to watch and wait, which was what he had demanded the others should do.

“We’ll deal with you in a minute,” Ireheart called up. He raced to Goda’s side. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said. “I was careful, master.” Laying his hand on the sword handle he pulled it out of her arm. Goda gave a quiet moan. He showed her the sword. “Never throw your weapon unless you have a second one,” he reminded her. “She still had her little toothpick.”

Goda noticed the blood trickling out of his side. “I can see.”

“That? Only a scratch.” He inspected her back for any scorch marks on the armor. Nothing. A slight giddiness forced him to plant his feet firmly on the ground.

“Goda, Ireheart!” called Sirka. “Come over here. The magus has something to say.”

It was only now that the two dwarves saw Lot-Ionan stretched out on the ground next to Rodario. “Oh no! Did he fall?” asked Boindil somberly. “Now we’ll need a catapult to get him up there.”

They ran to the magus. His breath was short and he was obviously in great pain. Sweat glistened on his forehead. “I didn’t fall. The artifact rejected me,” he explained.

Ireheart looked up at Furgas. “Fine artifact this one is. Why doesn’t it grill him instead of you?”

Lot-Ionan turned his pale blue gaze on Goda. “You must go and complete the task.”

“Me?” The dwarf-maiden raised her night star as if in excuse. “I’m a warrior and-”

“The rune master knew and I saw it with my own eyes, too,” he interrupted, speaking hoarsely. “Goda, you bear within you the gift to use magic. And unlike mine your soul will be pure and innocent.”

“Innocent?” Rodario scoffed. “It’s a good thing the artifact does not have ears, after what I heard in Pendleburg.”

Goda blushed. Ireheart looked sternly at Rodario. “We were doing wrestling drills, actor. She is still untouched.”

Lot-Ionan gazed steadily into Goda’s brown eyes. “I don’t know how-perhaps from the magic source, or perhaps you’ve had it from birth.”

“Is that what you and the rune master were talking about at the campfire that night?” Rodario remembered the evening he had shared the strange spice with Flagur and seen the two men talking.

“Yes. I did not want to tell Goda until we had completed our mission. You might have been my famula.” He shut his eyes, and his teeth were chattering. “Climb up, Goda.” His words could hardly be heard now. “Kill Furgas, put the diamond in the setting and save Girdlegard.”

“And my homeland, too,” added Sirka.

O n the left more and more beasts were breaking through, heading for the artifact. Tungdil rode back and forth, felling one creature after another, but there were far too many. Three dozen were coming their way.

Sirka pillowed Lot-Ionan’s head on her mantle, then she took her combat stick and nodded to Ireheart. “I think we’ve got work to do.”

Rodario broke the arrow off close to the entry wound and got to his feet. “Well, you’ll be needing me, as well. I can’t miss a third opportunity to be a hero.”

Ireheart gave Goda a tender kiss. “Hurry. But not too fast. Leave a few for me and my crow’s beak.” He turned to face the foe. Again the world seemed to waver in front of his eyes and he needed to blink before his sight cleared.

“Irrepressible,” was all Goda said. She went to the nearest ring and sought a hold for her fingers as she started to climb.

“Just you try,” shouted Furgas. “I’ll kill you.”

Sirka twirled her weapon and looked at Ireheart. “Can I ask a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Tell me the joke about the orc and the dwarf?”

“Now?”

“Might be our last chance.” Sirka grinned. The first monster was ten paces away, swinging a huge sword.

“Hurry.”

“Well, one orbit, a dwarf meets an orc at the Stone Gateway.” Ireheart raised his crow’s beak. “The orc saw him and said, ‘Little man, can you tell me where…?’ ”

Sirka’s adversary arrived and grabbed her attention with a hefty swipe.

“Later,” she called to Ireheart as she put her heart and soul into the fight.

Tungdil spurred his befun across the battlefield, striking at the monsters’ heads with Bloodthirster. Each strike took a life.

The refashioned alfish blade raged amongst the enemy throng. It seemed as if the sword were helping of its own accord, directing its own attack, and seeking out the most vulnerable places to strike. The weapon was uncanny but fascinating.

But whatever efforts the ubariu and the undergroundlings made, more and more creatures broke through the defenses, as soldiers were lost.

The winged monsters could not be stopped. They seemed immune against attack by arrow or crossbow bolt and had overturned two of the armored wagons, falling in swarms on the others. Swift as the wind they tore off the heavy plating to slaughter the crew inside.

The remaining vehicles gave the infantry some cover and kept up a spear attack, but they too were damaged.

“Curses!” Tungdil halted his befun to study the artifact. He saw Furgas was at the top and that a small figure was making its way up on the outside ring. “Goda?”

The befun cowered and emitted a furious roar. All at once it was dark round Tungdil, and a foul-smelling wind touched him. Claws slashed to the right and the left, lodging in the flesh of his steed, then up he soared…

The ground fell back and he was hovering over the battlefield witnessing the butchery on both sides of the chasm; it was a miniaturized version of what he had been experiencing himself.

“What…?” Tungdil turned to see the hideous face of one of the winged monsters, its muzzle agape.

His first thought was to plunge Bloodthirster between the teeth of the beast to kill it. But it would have meant his own death. From one hundred paces up in the air a fall was certain death.

Instead, he leaped off his injured steed to land on a claw of the flying beast, who dropped the befun and uttered a fearful cry. The animal tumbled to earth, smashing four ubariu beneath itself as it fell into their own ranks.

“You won’t shake me off,” snarled Tungdil, stabbing the monster in the belly, making a gash half a pace long, out of which a stinking liquid gushed to drench him.

Screeching, the dying beast tried to land, coming down over the line of undergroundlings and skimming over the spears of the Black Abyss army before it came to earth with widespread wings, blundering through the ranks and killing or maiming maybe fifty.