The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,159

to Tungdil. “No alarm was sounded.”

“I would have expected nothing less and am very pleased,” Tungdil praised him. “How many orcs so far?”

“We killed a hundred and fourteen of them and two Lohasbranders who were in the guardroom. They were acting as officers,” the sytràp explained. “We took a third one prisoner because we thought you’d want to interrogate him.”

“Excellent.” Tungdil followed him inside; Ireheart and the rest joined them.

The cave was high-ceilinged, stark and bare. The orcs and Lohasbranders had not troubled to make it homely. On closer examination faint remains of dwarf-runes and masonry carvings could still be seen. At the front of the cave, right next to the palisade fence, there were two wooden barrack buildings where the orc crews would have been quartered; nearby were two smaller sheds. Barskalín explained one was a storeroom and the other was a jail cell whose two orc occupants they also slaughtered.

Ireheart listened in surprise. These Zhadár are as dangerous as the black-eyes!

Hargorin told his soldiers to guard the cave and to spread out over the four passageways. None of the tunnels was large enough to admit a full-grown dragon, they were relieved to note. Lohasbrand would not be able to attack them in here.

On the way into the first of the barrack buildings, where the Zhadár were holding the captive Lohasbrander, Ireheart inspected the corpses. “It’s a mystery how the Invisibles managed to do all that without the pig-faces putting up any resistance,” he remarked to Slîn, so astonished that he could not help commenting.

“They’ve learned a frightening amount from the älfar,” the fourthling agreed. “I keep thinking about how well they know my native land. They could easily do the same thing in the Brown Mountains.” He looked at Balyndar. “Or with the fifthlings. Or the freelings. Just imagine what might have happened had the älfar trained up some thirdlings keen to kill the other dwarves! We’d have been wiped out ages ago.”

“They wouldn’t have found it this easy,” Balyndar observed, looking at one of the dead orcs, whose throat had been cut.

“But the losses would have been terrible,” Ireheart replied, as he went inside the building.

Tungdil was standing with Barskalín in front of the captured Lohasbrander, who they had forced to his knees and chained to a wooden pillar. He wore black lamellar armor and had light fair hair sticking up all over his head. In stature he was podgy yet strongly built, and the fair beard on his broad face was stained red with the blood oozing from a cut on his left cheek.

“That’s Wielgar!” cried Coïra. “He’s one of the Lohasbranders who were in Mifurdania recently. He’s the one who had The Incomparable Rodario executed.”

“Well, well, the little maga,” he groaned. “That attempt at rebellion will cost you dear. The Dragon will reduce your land to rubble and ashes!”

“We’ve things planned for Lohasbrand. He won’t have time to get up to any such tricks.” Tungdil planted himself in front of the man. “Where will we find the magic source and the Dragon’s treasure?” Wielgar started to laugh. Tungdil went on, “Before you do that, think hard. I am a past master in administering pain.” He drew up a small bench, released the man’s right arm and forced it down onto the wood. “We’ll start with the fingers, bit by bit. I’ll hammer each segment flat as a pancake.” He bound up the upper arm so that the blood loss would not prove fatal. “Then I’ll make my way up the limb, cutting it into slices. I’ll let you see them before I shove them in your mouth to keep your strength up. Then we’ll have a go with the other arm.”

Wielgar seemed worried. “I am an admirer of the Dragon and one of his highest officers…”

“I couldn’t care less.” The flat side of Bloodthirster’s blade flashed down and the tip of one finger was transformed into a mushy mess; the nail fell off and blood flowed.

Wielgar yelled. “You shall all die!” he vowed. “Give up now.”

Tungdil reminded him, “You know what my questions are. Do we have any answers yet?”

“There is no magic source,” he moaned. And, as the sword was lifted again, he screamed, “There is no magic source! Believe me! We know the rumors but we’ve never found anything.”

“How would you? You’re not magi,” Coïra remarked.

“The Dragon told us,” he countered, one eye on Bloodthirster, which was hovering over his hand. “I swear by Samusin that there’s no magic at all in the