The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,183

his robe.

“I forgot about Droman,” whimpered the famulus, clutching his leg. The bandage was already soaked through with blood. “I swear by Samusin that I didn’t send your friends off to danger on purpose.”

“Well,” said Slîn, “pain’s good for making you remember.” He did not regret having shot the man.

Rodario got up and went to the gate, opening it a crack. He looked at the crippled, charred trees.

There were particularly tall ones by the barn, stretching up into the night sky, and they cast long shadows. He could neither see nor hear anything of the Ido girl or the dwarves.

“How strong is Droman?” he called back into the yard.

“His sorcery, you mean?” Franek groaned, tearing off a second bandage from his clothing to stop the bleeding. “He’s not as good as me if my magic is working properly. But my magic powers are exhausted. I can’t even heal myself.” He looked at Slîn. “So I’d be as vulnerable as you or this mole fellow here.”

Rodario saw a shadow in the woods. It was bent double and making its way over to the barn, dodging from tree to tree. “Not nice,” he murmured, both in reply to Franek’s words and in response to the sight.

The worrying thing was that the longer he stared, the more shadows he thought he could see. The silhouettes did not look human.

He quickly locked the gate and returned to the fire, throwing more logs on. “Votons,” he explained. I hope they’re afraid of fire. Now would be a good time to show off your skills, Slîn.”

“Charming!” The dwarf took his bolts and stood up. “As long as there are no more than fifty of them we should be all right. After that I run out of ammunition.”

Rodario did not answer. He thought there might be more.

They were running through the twilight, with two Zhadár at the front. The size of more footprints they had found indicated they were probably made by Coïra.

But they had also found a number of different tracks that were not so easy to identify. Without what they had heard from the famulus about the Votons they would probably have thought them made by a herd of cattle, but the creatures responsible for these seemed to have both human and animal feet. Barskalín identified cattle prints alongside the human first, but there were also the pad marks of bears and other wild animals.

“I know why I don’t like magic,” said Ireheart grimly. “Unnatural animals! They may have legs like cows, but you won’t be able to cut them up and roast them on a spit to eat.”

“Isn’t your wife a maga? And two of your children, too?” Tungdil jumped over a fallen tree with ease, as if the armor didn’t represent any additional weight.

Ireheart took a little longer to get over the obstacle. “That’s a different sort of magic,” he corrected. “Dwarf-magic. It’s never hurt me, not in two hundred cycles. Never harmed me or anyone else.”

“But if Goda had remained with Lot-Ionan, who do you think we would have been campaigning against now?” Tungdil’s voice sounded like a chief negotiator picking holes in the argument of the other side. “And perhaps it would have been you wearing my sort of armor.”

“Never,” Boïndil blurted out. “I mean, Goda would never have allied herself to evil…”

“Fair enough. I was only putting an idea out there.”

Tungdil swung to the left at a signal from the Zhadár. The trees were thinning out and they found the queen face down on the scorched earth.

“Vraccas, don’t let her be dead,” Ireheart prayed, leaping forward and waving his crow’s beak threateningly. “Ho, you mad magus-inspired creatures! Stay in your hiding places!” He lowered his head. “Or, better still, come out and let me rearrange your limbs for you!”

Tungdil knelt down next to the girl and turned her over; the Zhadár surrounded them, keeping a sharp lookout over the surrounding area. “She’s still breathing,” he said to Ireheart. “I can’t see any injuries. Perhaps she’s just overcome with exhaustion.”

Coïra’s eyelids flickered. “Take care,” she whispered weakly. “They have set a trap for you… a famulus…”

A bright stream of magic shot out from behind the trees and struck one of the Zhadár full in the face. His head vaporized and his torso tumbled convulsing to the ground, as if the body was trying to carry out avoidance tactics. Blood came spurting out of the stump, splashing everyone.

“Get under cover!” Tungdil leaped forward, trying to locate the famulus in the shadows.

Ireheart certainly