The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,87

towered over his fallen prisoner, crow’s beak in one hand as he pushed down on the man with his right foot. “How long have you been following us? What’s your business?” he barked. “If you tell the truth you will live.”

“We followed your tracks,” the man groaned, pain distorting his voice and features alike. “We’ve been coming after you for two orbits. The älfar wanted you drawn into an ambush, so we could interrogate survivors to find out what you’re up to. We were told not to attack you until they had opened fire.”

Balyndar came over to join Ireheart. “Did you drop a messenger off first to send news of having found us?” he asked the captive, dangling the bloodied globe of his morning star above his face.

“No,” he moaned. “We’re the only ones who know about you being here.” Tungdil stomped over through the snow, his eye on the patrol retreating into the distance. “It makes no odds,” he said darkly. “They’ll be off to the nearest garrison to make a report. By that time we’ve got to be in the Gray Mountains. The älfar will be able to work out for themselves that a large dwarf-party will have something serious in mind that’s not going to be good news. Those were the days, when we had the old tunnel system.”

“What we need is the good old tunnel system,” said Ireheart with regret.

“The tunnels are all flooded. I told you,” said Balyndar. “We think that’s where the water from Weyurn’s dried-up lakes has ended up. It can’t all have gone through to the Outer Lands.”

Tungdil gave the order to remount and then placed Bloodthirster’s tip at the nape of the captive’s neck. “Anything else we should know?”

“I’ve told you everything!”

“Then you’re no more use to us.” His arm jerked forward, the blade he held slicing through skin, muscles and sinews; vertebrae cracked apart. “Right. Let’s deal with the black-eyes,” he said calmly to Balyndar and Ireheart.

“I promised I would spare his life!” Boïndil blurted out incredulously.

“If he told the truth. That’s what you said,” retorted Tungdil, going over to his befún, climbing into the saddle and heading over to the rocks where the dead älfar lay, sprawled in unnatural postures. “How would you know if he was lying to you?”

Balyndar watched the black-armored dwarf go, then turned his gaze to the corpse on the ground, the blood still welling. “I’m not wasting any sympathy on the long-un,” he said thoughtfully. “But I can’t go along with Goldhand’s action either. We could just have left him. The winter would have finished him off.” He walked away to get his pony.

Ireheart pulled the end of his crow’s beak out of the man’s leg, cleaned it on the fellow’s cloak and marched over to the rocks. The old Tungdil would never have done that. “Yes, he would,” he muttered. “We had to do it. The Scholar was right. It wasn’t nice, but it was necessary.”

“Did you say something, General?” the dwarf with the crossbow turned to ask. “I didn’t catch it.”

Ireheart stopped and looked at the fourthling. Under an open mantle he was wearing light armor composed more of leather than of mail. The resultant lightness made for ease of movement; he wore a broad metal strip over the breast to protect heart and lungs. Shoulder-length brown hair was visible below the helmet; his beard, of the same color, was braided along the jaw line, with silver wire around the individual plaits. It gave him a dandyish air.

At his side hung a quiver with crossbow bolts and a device for anchoring the loading mechanism when he retightened the bow. The thick bowstring of the long-range weapon had to be cranked by hand. The firing force was immense, as the älfar and members of the mounted patrol had learned to their cost.

Boïndil examined the stock. “Actually,” he said, “I’ve never liked crossbows and archery. They take all the fun out of fighting. But today I gave thanks to Vraccas that he let us have you by our side.” He proffered his hand. “What is your name?”

“Goïmslin Fastdraw of the clan of the Sapphire Finders, fourthling. But they call me Slîn,” he said, fastening his crossbow to the saddle so that he was free to shake hands. “I know that all children of the Smith prefer the blade to the bolt. But if, like me, you’re not so quick with the sword, then this is the only option.” He pointed up to the rock