The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,119

slabs, a smoking blackened bundle; her wide-open eyes were the only touch of white in the scorched face. Her skin hung off her in shreds and her hair had been burned away. But—did the eyes not just move? She looked more closely. “Coïra! Your mother is alive!”

The älf laughed. “Death has not forgotten her.” He threw his two-hander at the Ido, striking her on the upper arm just where the night-mare had bitten her. His blade cut through her flesh as if it were soft butter, nailing Mallenia through the bone to the wardrobe.

Groaning, she dropped one of her own swords, but pointed the second at her enemy’s face. “By the gods, Princess. Hurry! Or we are done for!”

Coïra took two paces and held fast to the doorframe, looking wildly around her, still in deep shock.

Sisaroth watched the maga before turning back to deal with Mallenia. He sat down on the bed in front of her. “The last of Prince Mallen’s line,” he said. “You have caused us much trouble, but the hunt has been enjoyable. Now the chase is over.” He looked over to the corridor and gave a signal to someone outside. “You will die in your own land in full view of all, Mallenia of Ido. On the executioner’s block. Your blond hair will fall into your own blood. This is the punishment for rebellion, conspiracy and murder.”

“I know your plans,” she answered in the language of the älfar. “You can’t fool me.”

Sisaroth scowled in pain. “What excruciating pronunciation! Who taught you that? Tell me his name, so I can kill him.”

“So I’ve found out how to torture you?” She laughed.

The älf hardly moved, it was more a jerk; he punched her in the face. Her knees gave way. As she sank down the two-handed sword cut deeper into her arm. Another metallic clang: She had dropped her second sword.

“Use our language again and I will tear out your tongue.” Sisaroth opened the cupboard door Mallenia was fastened to. He moved the door so that she should see what was happening in the passage: The älf woman was bent over Wey, sticking the point of her two-handed sword into the queen’s back. “The name of her death is Firûsha,” he said in a low, dark voice.

“No!” cried the Ido woman in despair. “Kill me but let her live. What use is her death to you?”

“We will gain the Dragon’s gratitude. We have done what he does not dare to do himself.” Sisaroth raised his hand, his sister nodded.

“She sent a message to Lohasbrand,” Mallenia gasped. “The Dragon will guess that you killed not only her but also the orcs and Präses. He will wage war on Idoslane and the älfar regions. Everywhere! Your plan will fail.” She looked down at the injured monarch. “Only she can keep you safe.”

Sisaroth’s face lost its superior expression. His sister looked at him. “If she speaks true then we should let her live.”

“Why? So she can tell Lohasbrand more lies? Or so she can go back to her magic source for fresh energy and launch a campaign against us in revenge?” Sisaroth’s decision had been made. “It was the will of Tion and Samusin that brought us to Lakepride. Now it’s time changes were wrought among the mighty of Girdlegard. Why not start in Weyurn and shoot the first arrow here?”

“Is that the right choice?” wondered Firûsha. “Yes.” He stood up, drew his dagger and went out to the corridor. “A shame not to be able to take the bones with us. What a waste.” The älf knelt down and stabbed the maga at the base of the neck. He quickly decapitated her and discarded the head to ensure no healing magic could ever reunite skull and torso. He raised his eyes and looked at Coïra. “The daughter must follow. You shall be her death, sister.”

Mallenia gritted her teeth and let herself drop. The blade she was pinioned by severed flesh and bone, and blood streamed out—but she was free. Her fingers closed around the sword handle and she ran to the defenseless young maga to protect her from Sisaroth. A final act of defiance.

Firûsha sprang to intercept her and struck a blow that shattered the Ido’s blade. “These human weapons are worth nothing.” She laughed and grabbed hold of Mallenia’s wound, pressing hard, then she tossed her back onto the bed. “Good blood,” she said over her shoulder to her brother. “We should collect it when we execute her. Who