The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,136

a hail of heavy masonry.

Aiphatòn and Tungdil had taken refuge just in time and were waiting on a balcony on the western side.

But the beast was nowhere near the end of its strength.

Thrashing its tail it destroyed the gate and stonework above, killing dozens of älfar, who fell with the collapsing wall, to be crushed by falling chunks of masonry, while others were hit by the tail and hurled through the air to fall, broken, to the ground.

The beast rose from the debris with a cry; it staggered and crashed head first into a wall.

Ireheart had reached the kordrion again. “You’ll be quiet soon enough!” He swung his arm back and whacked his crow’s beak into the area of the soft underbelly where he supposed the genitals to be. The skin ripped open and the monster uttered a shrill cry. “Ha! That’s what I like to hear,” Ireheart bellowed merrily. “Let’s have another!” He repeated his winning strike. “Sing it for me again!”

Aiphatòn and Tungdil moved in to help the sturdy warrior finish the beast off. They had to keep dodging the wildly flailing taloned limbs; its vast wings opened and closed convulsively, causing yet more damage to the fabric of Phôseon.

“Stop! Now!” Ireheart clambered boldly up the creature’s long neck and brought the spike of his weapon forcefully down through the kordrion’s skull. “Let’s have you dead, you wretched fiend!”

And now, indeed, the vast body of the kordrion slumped. With a last groan it thrashed its tail for a final time, then fell over, destroying more of the buildings. Clouds of dust rose up.

Ireheart used his plait to wipe away the sweat and other unpleasant liquids from his forehead and beard, but there was too much of it. He was merely smearing it over his face as if he had been using a paint brush. There would have to be a bath. A shallow one, though.

“By Vraccas, the dwarves done good!” he crowed, lifting his weapon so that the kordrion blood dripped off it. Close by he saw his one-eyed friend nodding approvingly. Aiphatòn was back down on the ground staring up at the bulk of the huge beast.

There were still occasional bumps, bangs and crashes as more of the plaster and brickwork came down; the distress of any surviving ponies could be also heard, mixed with the moans of the wounded.

Then there was a single cry of relief, taken up by more and more of the älfar as they realized the creature had been slain. The call echoed in chorus through the alleys and ravines of the city.

Ireheart clambered over the neck and onto the belly to join Tungdil. “I don’t get what they’re saying but it sounds as if they like us,” he said brightly, lowering the crow’s beak and putting both hands on the shaft. He looked extremely pleased with himself. “At last—my kind of adversary. There won’t be many dwarves who can outdo my deeds today.” He looked around and through the settling dust saw the faces of the älfar rejoicing.

Tungdil slapped him on the shoulder. “Well done, Ireheart. They are saying…”

“Don’t tell me, Scholar,” he interrupted. “That way I can imagine the black-eyes are adoring me instead of wanting to kill me.” He looked down at his injured foot, where the feathered arrow shaft still stuck up through the boot. “Perhaps that was one of them trying it on just now.”

Tungdil laughed and started to climb down. “Come on. I want to find out what Aiphatòn has to say about our help.”

At sunset Tungdil, Ireheart, Slîn, Balyndar, Hargorin and Barskalín assembled in the emperor’s throne room; five of the Zhadár came along as well.

They were invited to sit at a table where goblets and jugs of wine stood ready. Nothing was poured out yet. Beforehand, Aiphatòn had arranged for them to be shown to chambers where they could rest from their exertions.

They met up in the room they had first seen on arrival. The paintings on the walls had changed. The black and white silhouette designs were now full-color floor-to-ceiling landscapes of absurd beauty and if you looked carefully, the shrubs and trees were not depictions of real plants but were made up of tiny painted corpses, with wounds and cut throats.

“Just as barmy as their relations,” said Ireheart in disgust. “But that ointment they gave us really works. I can hardly feel the hole in my foot.”

“Who knows what it’s made of,” muttered Slîn. “But I’m not complaining. They treated me like a