The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,120

knows what we could create with that.” Then she looked at Coïra. “Sweet maga blood. That will add a certain something to any work of art.” Then she gave a sigh of regret. “But we have nothing to save it in.”

She dimly heard voices out in the corridor. The guards must be coming.

“Help! We’ve been attacked!” shouted Mallenia.

Firûsha and Sisaroth laughed. They were not going to be put to flight by the soldiers charging up to them. The palace would soon have more dead to mourn.

The älf came up to Coïra, bloody knife in hand. Watching the countenance of the distraught young woman in order to follow her death throes, he made to thrust the dagger in.

At the same moment he was hit on the head by a helmet and Sisaroth’s strike missed its target. The blade met wood and broke off. The helmet bounced, rattling across the floor.

The älf whirled around, drawing his second double-bladed knife but was engulfed in a wave of fire!

“Cowardly murderer!” someone shouted. “You can’t kill a descendant of the Incredible Rodario that easily!” The next wave of flame shot out with a hiss but Sisaroth dodged this one.

Mallenia recognized Rodario’s voice. “Fetch help!” she called, assuming the man would be unable to hold the älfar off for long.

Firûsha struck her on the head with the blade’s broadside; the Ido girl fell, half concussed, to the cushions. The female älf sprang to her brother’s aid…

… but was met by a bright yellow flash that struck her in the breast. A hole the size of a man’s hand was punched through her body and she was thrown across the room and out through the window. The impact shattered the glass and the panes melted in the magic force. Firûsha had not uttered more than an agonized gasp.

Mallenia turned quickly and saw Coïra’s clear eyes and outstretched arms. “Thanks be to the gods,” she croaked.

“Thanks? For what? For the death of my mother?” the maga replied bitterly, hurrying out in the direction of the noise of fighting.

The Ido girl was too weak to stand. She saw the reflection of flashes; they were followed by crackling noises like those of a great fire, then shrieks and the clash of weapons. The fight against the remaining älfar sibling was in full swing. She felt her spark of life was dwindling. She had lost too much blood.

Her eyelids fluttered; they seemed heavier than an anvil. The pain had faded. She struggled against the overwhelming desire to give up, to sleep and sleep and sleep…

Girdlegard,

Dsôn Bhará,

Twelve Miles North of Dsôn,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

The winter had already lost much of its strength and snow was now melting in the hills and on the meadows. From all sides there came the sound of running water, and small streams swelled to raging torrents as, drop by drop, the last of the ice disappeared.

Tungdil’s group with the Zhadár and the Desirers was riding through boggy terrain, clothes soaked through and armor suffering from the frequent showers.

Nevertheless they were making steady progress toward their first destination: Dsôn, the second city of that name, and home to the northern älfar.

“No sign of the kordrion,” Ireheart said. “I wonder if he’s given up the chase?”

“As long as his young is alive he will keep searching,” Tungdil reassured him.

Ireheart sighed and reflected that it had been a reasonably quick journey under the circumstances. It was down to Hargorin Deathbringer that they had been able to approach the älfar capital without being stopped by any of the patrols; everyone knew the Black Squadron and its leader.

Ireheart noticed a band of riders: Älfar, long lances in their hands, mounted on firebulls. I was counting my chickens before they hatched. He grinned. Maybe there will be work to do.

Tungdil glanced at Hargorin. “Let me speak to them. They’ll be wanting to know the meaning of the standard.”

The älfar brought their bulls to a halt and their leader gave a curt order to his soldiers to lower their pikes, while he urged his own snorting bull a few paces forward. “We understood you rode alone, Hargorin Deathbringer. But we are told you have a dwarf with you who bears an unusual device on his coat of arms.” As he looked at Tungdil the eyes took in every detail and every rune on the armor.

Ireheart watched the älf, whose long blond hair was visible below the tionium helmet, forming a collar round neck and shoulders. His face was like all the others: Handsome,