The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,12

arms to encourage the audience, but the clapping was sporadic and died away quickly.

“By all the gods,” said Loytan, amused. “What a miserable figure he makes in the midst of all those peacocks! He won’t even get a consolation prize.”

“I think it’s… quite clever,” Coïra said in defense. She felt some sympathy for this particular descendant of Rodario. He bore a certain tragic charm. “He’s… different.”

“He’s definitely different.” Loytan laughed out loud.” In my opinion he’ll be the first of the last again. Shall we have a bet, Princess?” He smiled at her happily, then something caught his eye just past her and his expression lost its merriment.

A broad shadow fell over them; Coïra swirled round in fear.

Behind them, four of the Lohasbrander henchmen had entered the tribune unnoticed and were making their way to the first row. They had heavy armor hung with discs of metal under their cloaks and their helmets were in the form of a dragon with folded wings. Each wore an amulet on a silver chain—a dark-green dragon scale, the sign of undisputed power in Weyurn. Thus they outranked all except for their master.

Coïra leaned forward searching the crowd in the square until she located the orcs. They belonged to the Lohasbranders and were their devoted servants. There they were, hanging out in one of the side streets, stuffing their faces. Because of the cold, the meat they were eating was steaming. Coïra didn’t want to know whether it was freshly stewed or just very fresh.

The man at the front grinned at Loytan. He was fat and muscular at the same time; his broad face sported a light blond beard. “Did I just hear you say something you’d better have left unsaid? You know the law, Count Loytan of Loytansberg. It holds even for nobility like yourself. Or especially for nobility like yourself.” He gathered a mouthful of saliva and spat at the young man. “But I’ll overlook it for now. I don’t want to spoil the atmosphere.” He thumped down the steps to take his place straight in front, so that his helmet spoiled Loytan’s view of the stage. “I recommend that you are no longer there when I get up to go. If you’re still there I shall be implementing the orders of Master Lohasbrand.” His comrades laughed as they took their seats.

“Here comes the first round, ladies and gentlemen. You love this part of the contest,” announced the man in white. “It’s the quick-fire slander session that starts here in Mifurdania, where the Incredible Rodario had his theater for so long.” He surveyed the audience, hands on hips. “I can see from quite a few of your faces that your great-grannies used to enjoy going to the Curiosum, but going backstage, of course, I mean.”

The crowd loved it.

Coïra restrained Loytan’s hand, which had wandered to the sword at his belt. “Don’t,” she whispered urgently.

He was shaking with anger. “But…”

“You might get him, but the orcs will finish off your entire family. The Dragon will punish everyone, not just the individual—have you forgotten that?” Coïra took her handkerchief to remove the globule of green spit from Loytan’s face, but he turned aside and wiped it on his own sleeve.

“One day nothing will save him from me,” Loytan growled.

The woman released her hold. The danger was over for the moment. “Leave rebellion to others,” she said quietly. “To those who don’t have families.”

He turned his eyes to the stage again. “You mean leave it to that cowardly rhymester?”

“He’s a proper poet, not just a ballad writer, and he’s certainly not cowardly. The writings he puts on Weyurn’s doors at night have done more to change things than any sword or arrow.” Coïra had noted the jealousy in Loytan’s voice, but it was quite unfounded. Loytan already had a wife of his own and Coïra regarded him more as a big brother and protector. She had so far not met anyone to whom she could give her heart and her innocence.

“What he writes brings only death to those that read and follow it,” Loytan retorted promptly. “I can see the tufts of hair stuck in the blood. The poor wretches had their heads cut off for demanding freedom for the kingdom and for your mother.”

“One more word from you, Loytansberg,” threatened the Lohasbrander in front of them, “and you’ll be the next candidate for the block. Enough of your stupid nonsense. Keep your mouth shut or I’ll make sure you never open it again.” His