The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,148

saying.”

Tungdil turned round suddenly and, for a blink of an eye, looked as if he were going to hit Boïndil. His face was full of fury. “If I need a crossbowman, I’ll find a new one. If I need a maga, what do I do then?” he countered the rebuke. “It’s good that Slîn is safe. No more than that. Without Coïra our chances of prevailing against Lot-Ionan are diminished. It’ll make no difference not having Slîn with us. He won’t have the kind of weapon that can kill a magus outright.” He looked at the fisherman and directed, “Hard to port.”

Ireheart did not know what to say. This was a real blow.

The boat slipped round and headed for some of the floating rubble.

It was still rocking about and the lake had not yet settled. The fisherman reefed the sails to decrease their speed; he did not want to hole the boat. There were constant bumps and clanks as driftwood and flotsam collided with the hull.

Tungdil had a boathook in his hand, held like a harpoon. “Look out for survivors. If you see a woman tell me at once. The others can pick up the men.”

Ireheart lifted a net and stared out at the water. “A woman!” he called, pointing to a blonde girl in leather armor, motionless, face up, floating next to an empty barrel.

Tungdil used the hook to pull her nearer and the Zhadár heaved her up over the side. “Is that the maga?” he asked the fisherman.

“No, sir, the queen has black hair,” was the reply.

Ireheart laid the girl down by the mast and quickly covered her with a blanket before Tungdil could think of chucking her overboard again; her lips were blue and quivering. “That’s good,” he said reassuringly. “You’re alive.” She looked pretty tall and strong for a human. A warrior-girl, then.

One of the Zhadár whistled and pointed to starboard.

They changed course to head for what he had seen. Tungdil fished the next woman out of the lake. She was wearing a black robe and had long dark hair. She, too, was unconscious. And she wasn’t breathing!

“That’s her,” whispered the frightened fisherman. “That’s the queen! Elria, be merciful!”

“Elria? I’ll show Elria!” Ireheart turned her over and trod on her back with his boots till the water gushed out of her mouth and she started to cough. “There! Hurrah! I am a born healer!” He helped the maga to turn over and wrapped her in a new blanket. “You owe your life to Vraccas,” he told her kindly.

“It felt more like the sole of a boot,” she groaned.

Tungdil came over and looked down at her. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Coïra Weytana, queen of Weyurn.”

She coughed again and gave him a grateful nod.

“This is High King Tungdil Goldhand,” said Ireheart, introducing his friend first, then himself and then the others on board. “We arrived just in time.”

There was a splash next to the boat and a man’s hand was seen clamped to the railing; then the second hand appeared and a torso pulled itself up over the side. Brown hair was slapped tight to his head and his aristocratic face was beardless. “I assume I am allowed on board?” He looked at the assembled crowd in astonishment. “Well I never. A sailing barge full of dwarves!”

“By all the spirits of the dead!” Ireheart’s eyebrows were raised in amazement, because he thought he was seeing the ghost of a man who had long since died. The clean-shaven ghost of a man. “Rodario?”

XVIII

Girdlegard,

Former Queendom of Weyurn,

Lakeside,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

Nobody in the quiet hamlet of Lakeside could have dreamed that they might one day have the privilege of offering hospitality not only to their queen, but also to those illustrious dwarf-heroes of cycles long past, Tungdil Goldhand and Boïndil Doubleblade, the celebrated Mallenia of Ido, and a descendant of the fabled Rodario the Incredible. Not even the best storyteller in the village could have imagined such a company in their midst.

The eminent visitors were gathered in the taproom of the harborside inn, drinking hot tea, mulled wine or spiced beer. The villagers had withdrawn out of respect and were pushing and shoving each other at the window and the doorway, trying to get a glimpse of the high personages. They sent in a few of their number to convey their best wishes or make presentations of gifts, but without a specific invitation none of them dared to approach closer than four paces.

“You’re positive the magic