The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,161

forge had once been set alight by the breath of a dragon. Lohasbrand, in contrast, seemed to have no really dangerous flames at his disposal.

But the Scaly One’s roar erupted again, from the back of the cave.

Now they could see the dark-green dragonhead perched on top of a long neck. The elongated skull was visible over the top of a boulder and smoke was rising from the nostrils at the end of its narrow snout. It was a threat, to force them to leave the cave.

Ireheart took a firmer grip on his weapon. “How did it get there so fast?”

Soldiers appeared from behind the stone and took up their positions. Ireheart reckoned there were about eighty warriors, all wearing lamellar plated armor and emerald green cloaks: On their heads they wore familiar helmets in the shape of a dragon, and they carried spears and shields.

“The mighty Dragon Lohasbrand commands you to leave here immediately,” one of their number called out. “Or he will kill you and all your families.”

“That’s exactly why we are here,” said Coïra, stepping forward. “To stop this. We have put up with him and you for far too long.” She was relying on support from Tungdil Goldhand and the dwarves. Should a warrior heart be beating quite so fast? “Weyurn demands the return of its freedom!”

One of the Lohasbranders lowered the tip of his spear to aim it at her. “The Dragon laughs at your crazy attempt to seize power. If you disappear, now, he is prepared to forget what you have planned.”

Ireheart thought this conduct on the part of the man, and particularly on the part of the Dragon, was very strange. It ought to have been easy for such a monster to intimidate them all by sheer size and strength. They say the Dragon is fifty paces long and ten paces broad. A glance at Tungdil assured him that his friend was thinking along the same lines—or had he already worked out what was happening? Had he missed some clue from Wielgar’s interrogation?

He studied the block of stone above which the dragonhead rose up. “That little rock is never going to be big enough to hide Lohasbrand,” he murmured, and waved to Slîn to join him. “Shoot the dragon in the eye.”

“Did Tungdil say to?”

“No, we don’t need him.”

“Charming…”

He shoved him. “Come on. Hurry up!”

Slîn hesitated. “You want to provoke an attack?”

“Get on with it!” snarled Ireheart. “Nothing will happen.” He stood so that the archer could aim at the target without being seen by the Lohasbranders.

Slîn took a deep breath and held it while he drew back the trigger mechanism. A click, and the bolt whizzed through the air, hitting the creature in the middle of the right pupil.

“You never missed?” asked Ireheart accusingly.

“No, of course not!” Slîn was furious. “I couldn’t miss a target like that even after a jug of brandy and a barrel of black beer!” He loaded the weapon again to prove his point and a second projectile landed up touching the first. “Charming, indeed! It doesn’t feel any pain!”

Nobody had spotted what they were up to.

The rationale behind this extraordinary phenomenon suddenly occurred to Ireheart. He looked at Slîn excitedly. “At this rate we might stud him all over with bolts and he wouldn’t notice at all.”

“True.” The fourthling shuddered. “An immortal dragon? By Vraccas…”

“No.” Ireheart laughed out loud. “That’s it! That’s why he’s not coming out from behind the rock.”

“What?” called Slîn. “Why not?” He did not get an answer.

Ireheart went over to Tungdil and whispered his idea.

The Scholar smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well done! If you carry on like this, Girdlegard won’t need me at all. Splendid, Ireheart! I could sense something wasn’t right. That explains everything. You’ve taken away the Dragon’s power.” He lifted Bloodthirster and looked along the ranks. All the dwarves were awaiting his orders. “Maga Coïra, you and Mallenia and Rodario keep back behind our lines. If the Dragon attacks you then go into action. We’ll do the rest.” Then he lowered his sword and stormed forward.

The Zhadár and Black Squadron were close on his heels, yelling fit to bust and brandishing their weapons.

They may have looked like a random horde but these warriors were well trained and adopted a distinct formation. Hargorin’s soldiers went in as the first wave, to carve out gaps in the enemy lines. The Zhadár would then push through these breaks to attack like shadows from behind to confuse the foe.

Ireheart threw himself into