by Markus Heitz
Balyndar gulped. “You sound like his spokesman, not his enemy.” It was hard to believe what he was hearing. Behind Lot-Ionan he suddenly made out a vague slim shape moving. “No, don’t!” he shouted.
Tungdil and the magus both turned.
Coira stood behind them, her arms half raised as she prepared a spell. Over her breast her clothing hung in blood-soaked tatters and the naked skin revealed below the garments was lighter in some places than in others.
Even if nothing remained of the terrible wound, Balyndar could see by looking at Coira’s widened eyes that she had not recovered from the shock. She seemed determined Lot-Ionan should pay for the injury inflicted on her. Could she have forgotten that their mission needed him alive?
Do we really need him? The thought came flying into his mind from somewhere and it started to take root. He looked at his magic ax which had served so well against magi and monsters of all kinds. Why would it not work against Tungdil Goldhand’s master?
Tungdil looked at the young woman. “Maga, stop whatever it is you are doing! No force is needed. He will come with us to the Black Abyss.”
Coira’s lips were moving. Her palms glowed red and a beam three fingers wide was released, hissing, toward Lot-Ionan, who held out an arm, the hand turned upwards, pointing at the ceiling. The beam collided with the palm of his hand and dissipated, with smaller rays diverted in all directions. And so the duel ended.
And that was how she was planning to vanquish him? Given this pitiful performance on the part of the maga Balyndar was glad that they had settled the matter without her help.
Tungdil changed position and came to stand between Coira and Lot-Ionan.
Balyndar went up to her. “Can you hear me, Majesty?” he asked gently, holding Keenfire so that he could use it to defend himself against a spell.
The young woman lowered her head until she could look him directly in the eyes. “I nearly died,” she declared blankly, and he could see fresh blood on her lips. “I nearly died, but…” She looked down at herself. “I am not decent. The alf tore off my clothes and…” Coira sobbed. “I have failed against Lot-Ionan, because I used up my magic to heal myself.” She buried her face in her hands, weeping hysterically. Her words were for the most part unintelligible but the name Sisaroth occurred again and again.
Balyndar looked helplessly at Tungdil. “What’s wrong with her?”
“What would be wrong with her, do you think? Death had her in its hands and she was in pain great enough to unman any stout warrior and make him lose his senses.” The one-eyed dwarf put Bloodthirster away. “It may be a long time before her mind recovers.”
“Or maybe it never will.” Balyndar watched her sadly. Taking her in his arms to offer consolation would not be right for him. And not only because of the difference in their heights.
“All the more vital that we have Lot-Ionan.” Tungdil bent down to pick up one of the splinters from the onyx jewel. “You broke his staff. That weakens him, he tells me, but he is still capable of creating powerful spells.”
Balyndar studied the magus. The man was not looking at him and his eyes were wandering past him as if he were some trivial object. “Can’t he speak for himself?”
“Not with you or any other. He does not consider you to be of equal status.”
“But you are?” Balyndar’s retort was louder than he had intended, and more scornful.
“I am his foster-son.”
“If we want to know something we have to speak through you?” Balyndar could not grasp it. Tungdil had found yet another way to make all of them dependent on him, dwarves and Girdlegarders alike.
The one-eyed dwarf nodded. “Exactly. I don’t like it either but that’s the way he wants it.”
“He wants it!” Balyndar laughed outright. “It’s not up to him to want it! He is our prisoner!”
“He surrendered voluntarily. It’s different.”
“Then let’s make him our prisoner.” Balyndar swung Keenfire. “I can knock him down. This weapon gives me the power and he won’t be able to do anything to defend himself.”
Tungdil was angry now. “You know that is not true. He could have you buried under the collapsing tower and Keenfire would have to let it happen.”
“But…”
Tungdil took a step toward him. “Control yourself, Balyndar Steelfinger! You are an excellent warrior with a legendary weapon, but I am the high king! Do what I tell you or I will give you a lesson in respect. And by all that is infamous: I will do it!” He looked at the doorway. “We have not finished here. The alf Sisaroth has got away. He nearly robbed us of our maga.” He marched off. Lot-Ionan followed him, not even glancing at Balyndar.
Balyndar went up to Coira and touched her arm. “Forgive me, Majesty, but we must leave,” he told her gently.
She wiped her face on her sleeve to dry her tears, then smiled bravely and followed the others. As she went, her eyes searched the dark corners of the hall in fear.
Balyndar noticed that she stayed very close to him. She was terribly afraid of the alf who had escaped.
In a state of high alert they left the throne room where, until recently, Aiphaton had resided. That was all in the past. Like the kordrion. Like the Dragon Lohasbrand and his vassals. Balyndar thought Lot-Ionan’s name would fit nicely in the list of dead monsters.
While the group made their way down the stairs, he placed his right hand on the sigurdacia wood handle. He would ensure the magus did not return alive to Girdlegard after the battle at the Black Abyss.
Balyndar could see Lot-Ionan’s bald head in front of him. There were such stories about him. The originally affable magus had turned into an evil despot whose cruel deeds and indifference to the suffering of others were well known. And he had practically annihilated the entire tribe of secondling dwarves.
This thought alone was enough to bring Balyndar’s rage to boiling point, making him snort with fury. He did not believe now and would not in a hundred cycles ever believe that Lot-Ionan had joined forces with them without having evil in mind. He and Tungdil have come up with a plot. Perhaps they had decided to split Girdlegard between the two of them? What he would have given to have been able to overhear those negotiations.
Lost in thought he was suddenly made aware by Keenfire that an ambush threatened.
The inlay pattern flared up and Balyndar whirled round with a shout, the ax lifted ready to strike dead the alf who had crept up on him. “May Tion take you!”
But nobody was there.
A sharp pain burned its way down through his shoulder.
Balyndar dropped to the floor, thus freeing his body from the sword that had skewered him. He rolled onto his back, just in time to see the second thrust coming and to avert it with his own ax; the sword tip clattered onto the basalt floor tiles, leaving a furrow in the stone.
Sisaroth was suspended above him!
The alf had braced his feet against two of the ceiling arches on the stairway and had been lying in wait there like a falcon. Now he sprang down to land behind Balyndar, stabbing over the top of him at the maga’s retreating back and injuring her afresh. Then he dragged his long sword downwards. Coira stumbled and fell.
Quickly the dwarf moved to avoid the blade slicing into his flesh. But the parrying stick stabbed him painfully under the collarbone. With a growl he hefted Keenfire upwards, but Sisaroth dodged the blade and kicked Balyndar’s hands, so that he almost lost his grip on his weapon. There was a crack. Some bone somewhere had fractured but as yet he felt nothing. The wound in his shoulder hurt too badly for him to be aware of any other pain. In spite of his many injuries he is lethal and he is fast. Confounded creature!
The alf took two swift steps and sprang up against the wall to run up along the ceiling to attack Lot-Ionan.
Tungdil and the magus had been alerted by the sound of fighting and the maga’s scream as she collapsed on the stairs. But Coira had fallen against Lot-Ionan, knocking him off balance. Fortunately this caused Sisaroth�
�s attack to fail, otherwise the blade would have struck the magus on the head. Tungdil parried the first blow with a swift movement, then Sisaroth landed in front of him and thrust at him again.
Tungdil arrested the blow just above his head, kept his weapon raised and approached the alf. The raucous scrape of metal on metal as the blades met made Balyndar’s hair stand on end.
Sisaroth dodged the charging dwarf, taking two steps to the right and then to the left, planning to run up to the ceiling again, but Tungdil speared his wounded leg with an upward stroke that took him by surprise. Blood flowed out of the gaping wound, where the bone was now exposed.
With a shout, Sisaroth fell on the basalt stairs and lost his sword. The dwarf expedited the weapon down the stairs with a hefty kick.
The alf was far from having given up. He hurled the first of his double-daggers at the one-eyed dwarf-but the magic decorations on the armor blazed out and the weapon was stopped in mid-flight before it could touch the tionium. It fell harmlessly onto the stone floor.
Sisaroth had already drawn his second dagger but was hesitating. The sight of Tungdil’s armor seemed to distract him or bring home to him perhaps that this was a foe he would not be able to defeat. But then he gave a sudden laugh and spoke an incantation in his own language.
The runes flared one after another and Tungdil, who had been about to attack the alf, froze like a statue and fell. He rolled down the stairs with a terrible clatter, keeping tight hold of Bloodthirster and making no attempt to save himself.
Sisaroth was still laughing and turned, knife in hand, to Lot-Ionan. “Who would have thought the tide would turn?”
The magus, bleeding from a wound on his brow from when he had hit the wall after colliding with Coira, found himself hampered by the veil of blood.
Balyndar clenched his teeth and gathered himself for a mighty throw.
Keenfire started its arced flight and went straight at the alf.
Ireheart saw the bolt flying toward him and could not believe his eyes. There was no time to react-the shot was upon him…
… and missed his left eye socket by a finger’s width. The dwarf heard it whirr and felt the wind of its passing. Then it thudded home behind him.
Ireheart knew what that meant. He ducked down, twirling round, his crow’s beak held at head height. He saw the arm with the double-bladed knife swipe above his head and then his own metal spike thudded deep into Tirigon’s left side.
“It’s time you knew when to give up and die, black-eyes!” he yelled at the alf, in whose heart the crossbow bolt was buried.
Without a sound Tirigon fell to his knees and tipped on his side.
“I’m not taking any chances this time,” growled Ireheart, hammering the alf’s skull flat with the crow’s beak. He dragged the corpse to the edge of the crater and tossed it over. “Have a good flight!” He watched as the body fell three miles down, bashing against the rocks on the way before crashing into the ground. No one could survive a fall such as that.
“At last!” He heard the relief in Rodario’s voice. The actor was hanging from his badly bent sword, which had got stuck in a cleft in the rocks; he had rammed it into a crevice as he fell, thus saving himself.
“Ho! And what have you done with your horse?” Ireheart had to ask, grinning in spite of himself. “Why didn’t you grab hold of it with those long legs of yours?”
“Ireheart! I need your help!” Slin called. “Mallenia’s badly hurt. We have to bandage her.”
He looked down to where Rodario hung. “The sword will hold for a bit. I have to look to your darling girl,” he shouted and rushed off to the fourthling, who was kneeling at the woman’s side, assessing her injuries.
Ireheart could see that she was still breathing. The arrow in her neck might have cut through flesh and sinews but, to judge from the bleeding, it had not touched an artery. He was more worried about the arrow in her back.
“There’s nothing we can do except try to keep her alive until Coira comes back to heal her magically,” he told Slin, helping him to apply bandaging. “Keep talking to keep her awake. I’ll see what I can do for the actor before the steel snaps and he follows black-eyes down into the crater.” He put his hand on the fourthling’s shoulder. “Thank you. I am in your debt.”
“No. You’re not,” said Slin. “We are a group and everyone looks after everyone else.” He hesitated. “At least we children of the Smith must always try to.”
“You’re right.” Ireheart stood up and took the horses’ reins, knotting them together to make a long rope. While he was doing so, Balodil came over. He had bandaged his own injured arm. Tossing a drinking flask to Ireheart, he said, “The owner won’t be needing this anymore. But you will.” Then he sat down and, in spite of his injury, helped Ireheart tie the reins together.
They walked over to the edge and lowered the leather rope down to Rodario, who was swinging to and fro in the breeze. “High time!” he greeted the dwarves. “I can’t hold on much longer.”
“If you had kept the horse between your knees it would have been harder still. Catch hold,” called Ireheart. “We’ll pull you up.”
Balodil and Ireheart managed to liberate Rodario from his precarious situation; the actor was able also to save his bent sword, having yanked it out of the crevice.
“What will you use that for?” wondered Ireheart. “Attacking round corners?”
“I’ll keep it. As a souvenir.” Rodario went pale when he saw Mallenia on the ground. He ran over and cushioned her head on his knee. “We must do something…” he said in desperation.
“We can only wait,” said Ireheart. “The injury is too grave, and none of us is a healer. We need the maga to come and close up the wounds.”
Rodario swallowed hard and nodded.
The wind changed and the inferno in Dson died down. Ireheart looked across at the tower where his friend was, with Coira and Balyndar, hoping to subdue Lot-Ionan. “Vraccas, let them succeed,” he prayed, and looked at Balodil, who was kneeling next to the body of his dead comrade, muttering a prayer which, if he had heard aright, the Zhadar was also addressing to the god Vraccas.
Keenfire struck Sisaroth in the right shoulder, knocking him off his feet and onto his back. The alf hurtled down several steps until he came slithering to a halt.
Fighting for breath, Balyndar ran up to Sisaroth to finish him off. The alf was just struggling upright, Keenfire still embedded in his shoulder, dark blood streaming from the wound and down over his armor.
Balyndar opened his mouth in a yell and vaulted forward, gripping the hilt of Sisaroth’s sword ready to use it and holding on to the parrying stick.
Sisaroth attempted to dodge but his own blade caught him in the groin. It pierced the armor with a grinding noise and he screamed out in agony.
Balyndar laughed and grabbed Keenfire by the haft. “That’s the sound for me!” He snatched the ax back while Sisaroth tried a final stab at his throat, but the dwarf cut his head clean off his shoulders. A fountain of blood shot up all the way to the vaulted ceiling and the decapitated alf fell back down the stairs.
Still gasping for air, Balyndar had to sit down. He felt dizzy and his limbs were like lead. He could hardly move. Keenfire weighed more than four full sacks of gold.
A shadow fell on him. It was Lot-Ionan, staring down at him, a malicious smile on his lips.
Balyndar thought there was no earthly chance of stopping the magus if he wanted to kill them all. He felt exhausted. Tungdil was nowhere to be seen and Coira presented no danger to the man. “Don’t even think of it,” he threatened Lot-Ionan nevertheless.
The magus seemed to shake his fingers, and suddenly a blue flame shimmered over to Balyndar, creeping inside his mouth and nose.
A warmth overcame him; it felt like being granted shelter, love and joy. His body received new strength and his wounds tickled and fizzed. When these sensations ceased he saw that his skin where the injuries had been was now without blemish, as if he had never been to
uched by a sword.
Lot-Ionan passed him by without a further glance.
Meanwhile Coira, groaning, struggled to sit up, holding her head. She saw the dead alf, then Balyndar, and followed the magus with her eyes until he had disappeared down the spiral staircase. “What happened?”
“A lot,” the dwarf replied crisply, getting to his feet. He felt as if he had slept through half an orbit and was awakening refreshed. Lot-Ionan had kept to his side of the bargain and healed him. “And a small miracle, too. Come on, let’s find Goldhand!”
Together they hurried down the tower steps.
Tungdil Goldhand lay in his rigid armor next to an exhausted Mallenia by the campfire a mile north of the crater.
Lot-Ionan had transported the paralyzed dwarf out of Dson and up onto the plateau by magic, while Coira had ministered to the wounded of their party with her remaining powers. She was not able to restore the blood that Mallenia had lost and thus the freedom-fighter was as weak as a little child.
Rodario looked after her tenderly, but they knew Mallenia could not accompany them any longer. Speed was of the essence on their journey and she could not travel. They planned to leave her to be cared for at the nearest farmstead. She would follow on as soon as she was sufficiently recovered.
Ireheart pushed Tungdil’s visor up and rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “So this time it was the alf?”
“Yes. He recited a formula.” Tungdil tried to lift his arm. “Nothing.”
Balodil stood on the far side and uttered some strange dark words. Not a single rune shone out. He shrugged his shoulders regretfully and stomped back to the fire.
Ireheart grinned and raised his crow’s beak. “You know what that means?”
“Yes,” replied his friend roughly. “And I don’t like it.”
“Wait!” called Coira. “Do we know what kind of phrase was used?”
Ireheart explained concisely what had happened the previous time, leaving out any details that the maga did not need to know.
