The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,54

easily despite the weight of his armor, he landed behind Frederik and stabbed him in the back of the neck so that the sword emerged from his open mouth. From the front it looked as if the man were sticking out his tongue—a tongue made of pointed steel.

“Not a bad try, Mallenia,” the älf mocked. “If the bold butcher hadn’t been standing behind you, you’d be dead now.” With a sudden jerk he twisted the blade and pulled it up vertically. The metal had been sharpened to such a degree that the head was cut in two halves. Blood, brains and liquid gushed out, splashing onto the floor of the cellar, then Frederik dropped forward where he stood, the butcher’s cleaver crashing to the ground. The two halves of his head shifted, giving him a grotesque appearance.

Mallenia whirled round, one sword aimed at Tirîgon’s head, the other at his belly. But now he was no longer standing behind her—or rather, yes, there he was, again.

The young woman felt the draft go through her blond hair, while her sword thrust met empty air. Then she was hit on the back, a blow that sent her flying against one of the stone sauerkraut vessels.

She landed against it, banging her hip, fell over it and came to rest lying by a tub of salted meat. She twisted on the floor and held her two blades up, crossed in front of her body for protection.

Not a moment too soon: Blades clashed and her arms took the force of the recoil. The älf had delivered a mighty blow. His weapon was a finger’s breadth away from her nose.

With an angry roar she shoved his blade aside and kicked him in the middle. Even though the armor took much of the impact Tirîgon was forced backwards.

He laughed and circled his blade in the air, then gripped it again with both hands while Mallenia stood up and moved away from the stone tub.

She wanted a wall at her back. The enemy was too quick for her, and was superior in skill and strength. She did not think she stood a chance of leaving the cellar alive, being well aware that the älf was playing a game with her. Arrogance often came before a fall, however.

Her friends had moved back out of her way, following this uneven duel with fascination.

“Is this cellar full of cowards?” Tirîgon mocked. “There are twenty of you… nineteen to one, if you so wish! Mallenia was right: If you don’t kill me, your families will die—and yet still you are standing around like lemons, doing nothing?” He winked at Mallenia. “I owe your courage this mark of respect: You’ll be the last one to die. Watch me and learn. You will need the knowledge to use against me.” He took two swift steps, leaped on to the tub and launched himself into the air.

He landed feet first on the wall and ran up it diagonally to the ceiling and down the other side. As he ran he wielded his sword so nimbly against the conspirators gathered below him that the eye could not follow its movements. With every slash blood spurted high out of deep wounds. Screams echoed around.

He landed gracefully on a wine barrel and held his sword diagonally away from himself, surveying the scene with satisfaction at the speed of his attack. More than half of the rebels lay dead on the floor of the cellar. He left no wounded. “The art lies in avoiding the bones to save them for future use,” he explained to the survivors, lifting the bloody blade. “As you know your fate now, are you ready to defend yourselves yet?”

Three women turned tail and made for the door.

But two more älfar were standing there, unmistakably the missing siblings Mallenia had warned them of. The Dsôn Aklán were all accounted for. They blocked the doorway with their mere presence and without drawing a weapon. Dark smiles were threat enough.

Tirîgon 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 älf 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.