The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,177

and pulled. He was getting nowhere. He tugged again.

“Wait!” He got a foothold against the rock. Now he had a strong enough hold to heave the maga out of the water. At that moment he had no eyes for her breasts and her slender body. He saw something clinging to her leg that looked like a white tentacle. It let go of its victim and Coïra shot out of the water as Rodario pulled her hard.

Rodario fell over backwards and the maga landed full length on top of him. She had dark-red lines along her leg but no injuries. She was furious and resentful. “That was all your fault! You made that thing grab me!”

“It was your own idea,” he said defensively. “How was I to know the pool would have the power to make your thoughts come true?” In one hand he held something made of leather.

“You said the land was enchanted! You could have worked it out for yourself!” Coïra had talked herself into a fury, even if some of it was put on for his benefit. Because she was naked she felt she ought to stay where she was, so as not to show him even more of herself. Even more than he had already seen. “What if it comes out?”

“But you can detect magic, can’t you?”

Coïra opened her mouth to give some sharp retort. Then their eyes met. And melted. Their bodies exchanged warmth and fanned the inner fires that poets and bards have so often sung about. Neither was able to resist a surge of passion as their lips touched, and they kissed tenderly.

And again.

And once more.

“Your glove, my queen,” said Rodario croakily, his feelings getting the better of him. He held the leather item out to her. “It came off your arm when I pulled you out of the water.”

Without thinking she snatched for it—and Rodario caught sight of her right forearm. The daze of happiness on his face was wiped away as if he’d been given a smack in the face. From the elbow down the arm was transparent and glassy in places, while other parts were raw flesh, showing muscles and tendons and veins, under a see-through layer of skin. “Oh, ye gods!” he stammered. “What a ghastly…”

Coïra sprang up with a sob, grabbed her clothes and ran off.

Ireheart sat next to Tungdil at the campfire, where they were cooking meat, bread and vegetables on little spits. “What a shame we’ve got no more cheese,” he said.

“I can still remember the stink of it!” retorted Tungdil, who had taken off his helmet, gauntlets and greaves. “Very well indeed. Trying to forget.” He tasted the meat, which had been hopping through the fields half an hour earlier in the form of a rabbit. “I prefer this.”

Ireheart was giving his ration a more critical inspection.

Tungdil finished chewing. “What’s the matter? Doesn’t it smell bad enough?”

He turned and twiddled the spit as if looking for something wrong with it.

“Do you think it might have absorbed some of the magic?”

“What magic?”

“How should I know?” Ireheart snapped. “If it ate a… flower that one of the famuli had modified?”

“Are you starting to believe your own fairy tales? Or is this some myth put about by our young Rodario?” Tungdil went on eating, unconcerned.

“It’s just what they’re all saying.” He looked around. “Where’s he got to, anyway?”

“He’ll be wherever Coïra’s disappeared to.” Tungdil pointed over to the bushes.

“Aha!” was Ireheart’s grinned, rather than spoken, comment.

“Gone for a swim. Not to have it off. The Zhadár are keeping an eye on them, Barskalín tells me. They’ll be safe enough from attack.”

Ireheart put the piece of roast rabbit down. “So it’s true.”

Tungdil sighed. “What do you mean—so it’s true?”

“Magic!”

“No, not magic, by all that’s unholy!” Tungdil said. “I said attacks! Wild animals or unfriendly forest-dwellers.” He slammed his hand down on the ground. “There isn’t any magic here. And there aren’t any famuli here either. Never have been. The land is safe and the rabbits are especially safe.”

“The rabbits weren’t safe from us, though, were they?” Ireheart glanced at the runes on Tungdil’s armor and grew deadly serious. “Those runes: They’d light up, wouldn’t they, if the food was going to harm you?”

Slowly, very slowly, Tungdil put his food down. “Yes, they would,” he grunted in reply. His patience was coming to an end. “Give me your rabbit. I’ll eat it.”

“Right you are, Scholar.” Ireheart handed his meat over. “But just take a bite.”

“What?”

“Take a bite. I just want to