The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,207

we shouldn’t remain here for a time. Right?”

Coïra hesitated, then nodded. “No reason not to.” She went back into the house with Rodario, her conscience pricking her. Her right arm was burning and throbbing: Not a good sign.

Curiosity got the better of Ireheart, Slîn and Balyndar, overcoming their professed intentions and their common sense.

They wandered round the streets, ready for combat, searching abandoned houses for signs of recent occupation. The Zhadár were protecting the group at the jewelers’ market and the three dwarves felt strong enough to see off any attacks by robbers or wild animals.

Slîn held his crossbow against his shoulder. “We should make less noise,” he said.

Balyndar laughed at him. “That’s because you’re the one with a weapon that always has to be reloaded.”

Ireheart grinned. “Come on, let’s find where they traded dwarf-goods,” he suggested, turning down one of the side streets, where he saw two crossed hammers on a sign over a shop doorway. That was a good enough clue for him. It might be a blacksmith’s; he would feel at home there. He wiped the sweat off his forehead. “I hope they’ll have some oil for my chain mail. I’m nearly out of it.”

“What shall we do if we find things our own folk have made?” Slîn wanted to know. “Can we take them with us?”

“That’s what I was thinking. I don’t envy the long-uns their wealth, but if the town is going to disappear under yet more sand, I’d like to salvage things made by our own tribes.” Ireheart stepped into the shop, where he found tools of every sort, ranging from nail clippers to quarry drills.

Two of them sifted through the items on show while the third kept watch outside. They worked their way from shop to shop until they reached the edge of the immense dune. A number of booths had already been half swamped by the encroaching sands, and it proved to be these that were advertising dwarf-wares.

The trio hesitated at the buildings, whose facades were cracked. They knew that the sand represented an enormous weight, even if the individual grains were so light.

“Looks dangerous to me,” said Slîn.

“But it might be worth the risk.” Balyndar gestured with the morning star toward a sign reading Weapons made by the Children of Vraccas. The door had already been broken open, and swords, spears and axes lay scattered around. “Someone’s already done their shopping, it seems, without asking the owner.”

Ireheart rubbed his cheeks, tossed his black plait out of the way and strode in. It was obvious that he had made his decision. “Slîn, you stand guard,” he ordered. “If the roof falls in, at least one of us will survive.”

“That’s a nice thought,” the fourthling beamed. He stayed outside under the porch while Ireheart and Balyndar stepped carefully over a heap of daggers, knives and axes.

It was clear at once that they had stumbled on a small treasure trove—but it had already been pillaged. The display cases were empty, the glass fronts shattered. Only the normal run of weapons—still, however, of excellent quality—remained hanging on the walls or from the ceiling.

“What a shame,” said Balyndar as he stepped over the mess.

“This stuff on the floor isn’t dwarf-manufacture,” muttered Ireheart, crouching down. “They’re forgeries,” he snorted. “The robbers could obviously tell the difference between quality stuff and fake.”

“By Vraccas,” Balyndar called out excitedly. Ireheart hurried over. “Do you see what I see?”

The warrior saw a cabinet with a broken pane of glass. Inside was a velvet cushion and below that was a piece of parchment with wording in human language: “The legendary Keenfire—the original weapon.” Next to it lay a little booklet and a certificate verifying authenticity, issued by the shopkeeper, one Esuo Wopkat, and vouchsafing the return of the purchase price should the weapon prove to be a forgery.

Ireheart laughed outright. “Yet another of them!”

“I know, they were a real hit with the souvenir shops,” said Balyndar, reaching into the vitrine to retrieve the booklet. “This says how it was found.”

“Let me guess,” called Ireheart, enthusiastic as a young child with a riddle. “Hmm, let’s see… it was found this time on the top of the Dragon’s Tongue? Or in the caves of Toboribor? No, wait… In the lost vaults of Lot-Ionan?”

“No, none of those.” Balyndar cleared his throat and began to read:

Esteemed customers, collectors and experts,

The ax you hold in your hands is made from the purest, most durable of steel; the claws at the end are of stone, the handle is