The Fate of the Dwarves d-4

by Markus Heitz

  Tirigon sprang down from the wine barrel to face the survivors, who now were determinedly drawing their swords and knives and surrounding him. “That was a long time coming,” he observed maliciously. “My promise is this: If you can injure me-give me the slightest of scratches-your families shall live. Because you won’t be able to kill me,” said the alf complacently. He placed his sword in the scabbard he wore on his back. Presenting himself, unarmed, to the crowd, he stretched out his arms and turned on the spot. “What are we waiting for?”

  Mallenia looked at the two alfar by the door. They had not moved. They were leaving their sibling to take his pleasure as he wished-then the alf woman turned to face Mallenia.

  The haughty expression on the alf sister’s countenance turned to curiosity. She was about to move forward, but her brother held her back. Her blue eyes stayed fixed on the Ido princess, as if she were studying the face of an old friend.

  Mallenia had no idea why she was attracting such interest. Shaking off her sense of unease, she stepped over the dead bodies to reach the handful of her loyal followers about to enter the fray.

  If she died, she wanted to die among her own people, fighting for Gauragar. Her movements were governed by an obsession to inflict a wound on the alf Tirigon, thereby saving their families.

  Tirigon adjusted his tionium arm protectors and waited with a smile.

  Uwo, a little man and the town’s only fishmonger, thrust with his sword, making a quick move to one side.

  The alf blocked the jab with his forearm and the blade broke into three from the impact. While the pieces were still in mid-air, Tirigon grabbed one of them and hurled it at Uwo, hitting him in the chest. The man sank to the floor.

  Already, Tirigon had snatched the next piece of blade, which he threw at another attacker heading his way. The metal sliced through his throat and he fell, gurgling, hands clasping his neck, trying to close the gaping wound.

  The courage of desperation drove the conspirators to a joint attack on the enemy, who was enjoying his sport, avoiding jabs and thrusts and deflecting blows in other directions, so that their blades hit their own friends.

  By the end, only Mallenia and Arnfried the blacksmith were left to stand against the alf. The rest had fallen or were cowering on the earthen floor, fatally injured.

  The smith, a strong man with a long beard and impressive muscles, was bleeding from a wound in his right shoulder, but he had his dagger gripped fast in his hand and was snorting with fury.

  Tirigon regarded the red splashes on his armor. “Regrettable,” he said. “That should not have happened. The blood runs into the engraving and then clots.”

  Arnfried sprang abruptly forward to surprise the enemy. He feigned a stab with his knife and at the same time launched a punch to the face. Mallenia stormed in, taking advantage of the alf’s defensive move.

  The slim adversary avoided the blade and grabbed the blacksmith’s balled fist with his left hand. But he had underestimated the man’s strength and was forced backwards against a wine barrel.

  Arnfried brought a knee up and rammed it into Tirigon’s ribs; the armor grated. Concerned, the female alf cried out in her own language.

  Mallenia used her left-hand sword to jab at the alf, who stepped aside at the last moment. The tip of her sword went through wood, releasing a stream of white wine behind him that made the floor slippery.

  “Respect,” growled Tirigon, addressing the smith and parrying his next attack with his other hand. There was a click and two metal discs shot out from the long outer side of his forearm bracers. Like lightning he drew them across the man’s breast. Arnfried yelled out and jumped backwards, losing his balance on the wet floor. As he fell, the alf was directly above him and smashed a mighty blow into his solar plexus. Bones cracked and buried themselves in the lungs; the smith rolled in the mud in agony.

  Without hesitation Mallenia threw herself at Tirigon to pull him to the ground. He had noticed her coming at him out of the corner of his eye and leaped away-becoming a victim of the wet floor like the smith. His right foot slipped. Although he tried to steady himself he crashed against the tub of salted meat that Mallenia had earlier fallen foul of.

  The female alf cried out.

  Mallenia hurled both her swords at the enemy as he lay; one aimed at his head, the other at his groin. He would not, she hoped, be able to parry both strikes. But Tirigon, acting on reflex, jerked up his plated arms: The first sword was deflected and flew off into a corner of the cellar, the second broke up on striking the tionium.

  Nevertheless the alf emitted a groan.

  Mallenia could not believe her eyes. A long thin splinter of blade had pierced the alf’s cheek, nailing him to the barrel. Not a fatal wound by any means but certainly very painful. And, above all, it had destroyed the perfection of his countenance.

  Behind her, Mallenia heard the sound of fast steps and metal scraping.

  Meanwhile Tirigon raised his hand and said something she did not understand; the injury to his face made the words sound terrible.

  “You promised to spare our families,” said Mallenia. She did not have to turn around to know that the alf woman was behind her with a drawn sword in her hand, ready to kill her. “Do you keep your word?”

  The alf uttered a low “Yes.”

  “And I shall leave this cellar alive?”

  “Never!” came a hiss at her back. But the defeated brother confirmed the agreement was to be honored.

  “And you thought we couldn’t kill you,” Mallenia said carefully, her left hand on the handle of her knife. She bent down and cut off a lock of his black hair. “This will be a reminder of my triumph over you and your arrogance.”

  The murderous look in Tirigon’s eyes said all there was to say.

  “Look after your luck, last of the Ido line,” came the warning from the second alf at the door. “You will be able to leave the cellar. The conspirator families will be allowed to live. As far as we’re concerned, that is. But what Emperor Aiphaton does, when he hears about it, is another matter.”

  “He will certainly hear of it,” said the alf sister gleefully.

  Mallenia turned around angrily. The siblings were standing behind her, and the sister did indeed hold a sword in her hand. “I should have known you would find a loophole, a way of breaking the agreement!”

  “It’s not a loophole. It is an exact interpretation.” The alf, identical to his wounded brother apart from the fact that his sword was different, bowed slightly. “If I were to interpret it even more minutely, I could say that, in reality, Tirigon injured himself and it was not you who wrought a miracle.” He pointed to his sister. “Firusha would be happy were we to come to that view of things. As long as we are still deliberating how to construe the significance of your victory you will be able to reach the door unharmed.” He took a deliberate step to the side to allow her to pass.

  Mallenia did not hesitate, and hurried out of the room, with its awful stench of blood, guts, wine and salted meat.

  As she left, she unfastened her hand-crossbow from under her cloak, cocked it and turned on the threshold. She pointed it at the wounded alf, aimed at his head and fired.

  The bolt flew out and struck Tirigon in the neck.

  Mallenia cursed. She had been aiming at the head but her hand had been shaking. But if the gods-apart from Tion-were on her side she was now rid of this enemy.

  She stepped out of the door in great haste, slamming it behind her. The key was on the outside, because the sheriff had forgotten to remove it. Thus she was able to lock the siblings in and make her escape. She would need the head start this gave her.

  The alfar would be pursuing her, so the conspirators’ families should be safe. For the moment. She could worry about everything else later.

  Mallenia turned and saw the alfar mounts only five paces away. Shall I?

  No one had ever dared ride one of the night-mares-or rather, nobody had lived to tell the tale.

  She knew that taking on
e of these animals would give her the best chance of getting away. Conventional horses were hopelessly inferior to these tamed unicorns.

  “Let’s see if I can trick you,” she murmured, approaching the beasts with the lock of Tirigon’s hair in her outstretched hand. She watched the nostrils of the night-mares attentively and thought she could identify which one was reacting to the smell of the tuft of hair.

  She rubbed the lock of hair over her own face and arms, torso and legs. “Here, smell that? Tirigon has said I can ride you,” she said gently as she walked round the big black animal, its dreadful red eyes seeming to glow like molten lava. She put one foot in the stirrup and swung herself up into the saddle.

  The night-mare reared up and whinnied; it sounded more like a screech. Then it stamped its hooves on the paving stones, striking white sparks that left scorch marks on the stone.

  Mallenia grabbed hold of the animal’s neck and made herself flat, so as to avoid being bitten, but she stayed on determinedly; then she dug her heels into the creature’s flanks. “If you don’t want to obey…” she threatened, and banged the handle of her dagger against the creature’s forehead blaze.

  The night-mare shot off and galloped through the dark streets. Sparks flew whenever its hooves struck the ground. As they rushed along, flashes lit up the walls like lightning in a storm.

  Mallenia took hold of the reins and forced the night-mare to her will. This was like no horse she had ever ridden before. The skin round a normal horse’s mouth would have torn or the neck vertebrae would have been damaged by the violence. But it seemed not to mind, and eventually obeyed her instructions. They raced toward the town gate; the attentive watchmen had already opened it for her. They must have thought she was one of the alfar.

  Riding like the wind she left Topholiton and thundered along the road to the west.

  The Outer Lands,

  Seventy-four Miles Southwest of the Black Abyss,

  Winter, 6491st Solar Cycle

  Tungdil and Ireheart rode side by side, covering the miles to the fourthlings’ stronghold through which they could gain access to Girdlegard. To their old home…

  A meeting had been arranged with the remaining dwarf-rulers; messengers had been sent out in advance.

  Boindil had selected a white pony with brown markings; a second animal, heavily laden, was on a lead rein attached to his saddle. Tungdil rode a befun, after the habit of ubariu warriors.

  The befun resembled a large gray-skinned orc on four legs with a short stumpy tail. The body was muscular and as broad as a horse, the nose flattened, which made the head quite short. Its squarish, three-fingered hands, covered with toughened skin, were adept at grasping things.

  Ireheart knew that a befun would stand erect in battle, aiding its rider by the use of its claws as an extra weapon. A special saddle with a long, curved back support ensured the rider had the right posture and could not easily be dislodged.

  The two dwarves made a strange pair. The companions were different in so many ways, not simply in their choice of mount.

  Ireheart presented the classic dwarf-figure familiar throughout Girdlegard from ancient times, when the small-statured folk had campaigned heroically against Nod’onn or the avatars or the creatures from the Black Abyss, described in so many heroic tales. Those grand days were long past; recent battles had ended in defeat: Against the alfar, against Lot-Ionan, against the Dragon… But the dwarves were still respected.

  Ireheart sported an impressive braided beard and had a memorably wrinkled dwarf-face. He wore his reinforced chain-mail shirt under a light-colored fur coat with a hood. He had his crow’s beak weapon fastened to his saddle, and was puffing away at his pipe while humming a tune.

  Tungdil in his dark armor seemed more like a small squat alf. The fact that he rode a befun emphasized the spooky impression, and the weapon Bloodthirster at his side-the reforged alf sword he used-did not help to make him look like a friendly child of the Smith. Any dwarf of the thirdling tribe, the dwarf-haters, would have treated him with respect, assuming him to be one of their own.

  It was thoughts such as these that occupied Boindil constantly; he tried hard to push them out of his mind and not to think about the obvious changes in his friend.

  Puffing blue smoke, he brought out his drinking flask. So that the water in it did not freeze, Ireheart carried the flask close to his body. “Well, do you remember the way?” he asked his friend, as he took a long draft from the flask. “I prefer to rely on my pony’s memory. His head is bigger.” He put the stopper back. “It must be a hundred and fifty cycles since I was last anywhere near here.”

  Tungdil laughed. “That makes two of us. But I can add a further hundred cycles.” He looked round. “No, try as I might, without the path I’d be completely lost. Or, at the very least, I’d take a very long time.”

  The companions fell silent again.

  The clattering of hooves on stone was thrown back as an echo by the mountains; a light breeze chased the new-fallen snow and formed it into drifts in places, hazardous for the ponies.

  “No questions at all, Tungdil?” Boindil finally asked. He attempted a smoke ring.

  Keeping his gaze solidly toward the front, Tungdil opened his mouth and said, “I’m still trying to come to terms with what you’ve told me. Lot-Ionan the Forbearing. What can have changed him so? Magic?” He was lost in thought for a time, then sighed deeply. “There are so many things I want to remember, to convince you that I really used to know them. To convince you that it’s really me, your comrade-in-arms.” He touched the scar on his brow. “It was this blow, I presume, that robbed me of my memories, both happy and sad. It was my master who delivered the blow and it nearly did for me. It didn’t kill me but it wiped away images of my past. It’s the only explanation I can come up with.”

  Ireheart studied the scar. “I’ve heard of that happening, someone losing their mind if they’ve been hit on the head in a fight. But losing your memory is the lesser evil, surely,” he said, sounding relieved. “I should have realized…”

  “… except that all the people around you were telling you to fear the worst. They made you think I was not your old friend, the Scholar, who owes you so much.” Tungdil fell silent again, lost in thought.

  Ireheart let him be. He would ask him some other time about this master he had mentioned. But not now.

  “I know! When I saw Lot-Ionan last he had a light blue robe and was wearing white gloves…” Tungdil seemed alarmed. “The gloves, Ireheart!” he cried excitedly. “I can see it clear as day; he needed gloves to cover the burns he sustained touching the artifact. The skin had healed but had stayed black.”

  “That’s the idea, Scholar!” Ireheart greeted this successful recollection gladly. “The artifact treated the magus harshly. I had a bad feeling even then,” he added angrily. “But I’m glad you can remember it. The artifact had denied him access because he was not pure in thought. At the time we thought it meant he had lost his purity through some trivial misdemeanor, but we’ve known for some time now that it must have been something much worse.” Ireheart wished he had a whole band of pig-faced orcs at hand to take out his fury on. He had been blaming himself for several cycles for not having acted against Lot-Ionan; he had let Goda talk him round. “In part it is my fault. If we had stopped him then and there, or imprisoned him, the tribe of the secondlings would not have been practically eradicated.”

  “Goda was his apprentice?”

  Ireheart nodded. “She was his famula for about ten cycles. The ubariu couldn’t find anyone else to be their rune master. But then she noticed that the artifact was reacting differently from usual. When she touched the dome to refresh her magic, it was very painful. She thought her own purity of soul was in danger, but couldn’t explain what the reason was. She had given birth to our firstborn quite a long time beforehand, so it wasn’t that.”

  Tungdil adjusted the golden eye patch, and the polished metal flashed in the sunshine. “So the change was gradual?�
�

  Ireheart looked at his friend and started wondering, despite himself. Did he always wear the patch on the right side? Wasn’t it the left eye that he’d lost? He could not be sure, but the thought did nothing to put his mind at ease. He pulled himself together to reply.

  “That’s right. Until he tried to teach Goda some magic spells that she thought were just too cruel. When she refused to cooperate he fell in a rage and walked out. After that, a few letters came, asking her to go to him in Girdlegard so that they could talk it all through, but she did not want to leave the artifact unattended. The last letter was full of threats and said some dreadful things. We took it as confirmation that we’d made the right decision.” Ireheart caught sight of a mountain hut on the road to the pass where travelers could shelter rather than spend the night out in the open. “Look! It’ll be a bit basic, but much better than sleeping in the snow.”

  “And Girdlegard just sat back and watched him conquer the Blue Mountains?” objected Tungdil, unable to believe it.

  “But what could they do against a magus, Scholar? After he’d been freed from petrification by bathing in the magic source his strength grew greater with each coming orbit. You would have thought he had the skills of two magi.” Boindil clenched his fists in helpless anger. “That was how he managed to wipe out nearly the whole of my tribe. He subjugated the very rocks to his commands. And with that power he defeated the dwarves.”

  “What do you mean? He made the tunnels fall in?”

  “Exactly, Scholar. He sent one earthquake after another and our halls and strongholds collapsed. Passageways filled up with molten rock and water flooded the shafts. Thousands lost their lives, and then he lay in wait for the wave of refugees at the fortress Ogre’s Death, and struck them down with magic spells.”

  Ireheart’s eye filled with tears of anger and grief that rolled down his cheeks into his beard, where the freezing wind turned them to gems of ice. “There are hardly a hundred of them left. They took refuge with the freelings.”