The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,202

hear the slightest of noises, even the very grains of sand as they were shifted by the breeze. But Ireheart knew perfectly well that his hearing was not good. All that noisy clanging and battering in battles had taken their toll and in recent cycles he had been having trouble with the higher-pitched tones.

But tonight it was different.

After two paces he was overcome with thirst; the need was so strong that it could not wait until after he had talked to Slîn. So he turned on his heel and went back to where he had been lying, to collect his flask.

Ireheart drank and drank and drank, but the thirst could not be slaked. Water seemed to increase his need rather than quench it!

Out of breath from drinking so fast, he tossed the flask aside and took hold of Balyndar’s. There was not enough coming out for his liking, so he took his knife to the pouch, forcing the last drop down his burning gullet.

In a fury he chucked the empty leather to the ground. Vraccas, what is wrong with me? He was already stretching his hand out for the next soldier’s drinking vessel. As he lifted his hand he felt a sharp pain in his wrist.

A scorpion had been hiding under the flask and had defended itself with its sting. Ireheart stamped on the insect and drew out his knife to open the wound and suck out the poison.

But when he looked at his arm he saw the wound was glowing yellow! There was a shimmer surrounding the sting; he could feel the heat coursing up his arm, and then the glow died away.

Ireheart sat down on the sand. Have I just healed myself from the poison? Or was that a miracle sent by Vraccas?

Thirst flamed up once more, torturing him. He clutched at his throat with both hands to try to soothe his discomfort. Then he stuffed a handful of sand in his mouth to stop the burning sensation. It did not work.

He swayed and tipped sideways as the stars above his head swirled and circled.

Then the agony began.

Ireheart was well acquainted with the pain of burns; he had suffered sword injuries or arrow wounds; he knew how it felt to have a dislocated shoulder or a sprained ankle; he had known toothache and fever. If he put all those tortures together and multiplied them tenfold he was getting close to what he was now suddenly subjected to.

His breathing stopped and he could not move a muscle. His mind was drawn upwards to the stars and he felt he was floating like a layer of gold leaf in the warm air of the forge.

Then he tasted blood in his mouth and all around abruptly went dark.

Blinking, he saw the stars once more as tiny specks of light against the black firmament; next to him he saw a Zhadár stowing away his flask and smiling at him.

It’s that confounded crazy troublemaker! “It would have to be you,” muttered Ireheart, before he spat out a mouthful. He knew this taste well. It was that stuff that was apparently distilled elf water. “Did you just give me that Tion water?”

The crazy Zhadár bared his teeth and nodded. “It’s the only thing that helps when you’ve got the bad thirst,” he piped, in a high voice like a castrato. “It’s the only thing! One drop and the fire dies down.” He chuckled and laid his finger to his black lips. “Shhhh! We must not tell anyone that I gave you some of that. Barskalín would be furious. We haven’t got much of it and it’s the most precious thing we have.”

Ireheart waited. His thirst had actually gone. Sand scrunched between his teeth, but there was no more water left to rinse his mouth out with.

“It’ll keep you going for a few orbits. Then the thirst will return,” the Zhadár mouthed, giggling. “Do you notice how wonderful it makes life? The most obscure secrets of the universe make sense and it makes you as strong as a giant!” He stood up and made an exaggerated bow. “Ireheart, Ireheart. Soon you’ll be one of us. A little bit like us. Your soul has changed color and is starting to become as black as ours,” he fluted in his high-pitched tones, then adding in a bass note: “Soon!” He stepped back silently and rejoined his comrades, lying down on his blanket.

Ireheart found it impossible to get back to sleep.

He had been shown clearly that the liquid