The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,230

have.” Balodil laughed. “I don’t know how the elf will do it but he will have heard your name and will know you are considered one of the good ones who took the side of the elves in the old days, so I don’t expect the pointy-ears will let you die.”

“Did I just hear the word die?”

Balodil made a face as if he were thinking hard to recall what word he had just said, then he whistled like a bird. “Yes, die. If you run out of this stuff for slaking your thirst, you will die.” Clucking quietly like a hen he got up and marched off back to the camp.

“That’ll be better than going mad like you,” muttered Ireheart, forcing himself upright. He stowed the nearly empty flask under his chain-mail shirt. “So I have to place my hopes on some pointy-ears taking pity on me. And first of all I’ve got to find him. But how?” he grumbled, as he followed Balodil.

In his mind’s eye he saw an elf-trap composed of a cage with a plate of salad as bait. Ireheart couldn’t stop himself grinning.

Girdlegard,

Former Kingdom of Gauragar,

Near Dsôn Balsur,

Late Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle

Wherever the group galloped past on their horses the freedom-fighters had been there before them.

In some places they saw castles burning or estates in ruins, elsewhere they saw bodies dangling at crossroads or bordering their route. The corpses had been stripped and presumably tortured before being hanged; some bore signs listing their crimes.

“The courts of the simple folk work quickly here in Gauragar,” was Rodario’s comment.

“I can’t blame them,” said Mallenia.

“It won’t just be here this is happening,” Coïra assumed. “This prairie fire of public anger will be burning in Idoslane and in my own realm.”

Tungdil did not waste a single glance at the cadavers. He probably did not even find it particularly shocking. “A prairie fire purifies, but it must not be allowed to get out of control or there’ll be utter chaos. The rule of law must be quickly re-established.”

“We’re almost there,” shouted Ireheart, laughing. “Catch Lot-Ionan, fill in the Black Abyss and we’re finished. You’ll see. In sixty orbits it’ll all be done and dusted. If not sooner.” Slîn and Balyndar grinned and the humans all laughed. The Zhadár were as quiet as ever.

With frequent changes of mount when the horses tired they raced onward, even if the dwarves did not look especially elegant bouncing up and down. The horses were certainly faster than the ponies they normally used. But all of them, except Tungdil, vowed never to sit on a horse ever again once their mission was over.

They could tell from the environment that they were now in Dsôn Balsur, the oldest part of the älfar territory. It was from here that the älfar had spread their influence to the south.

They passed hideous sculptures made of bone, dead plants and other objects that were oddly fascinating but morbid in the extreme, repelling dwarves and humans alike. It was, however, impossible to deny that the älfar were perfectionists.

Of course it was Tungdil who saw the cloud of smoke first. “Dsôn is on fire,” he announced, pointing to the north.

Now the others could see it, too.

“I thought it was a thunder cloud,” said Rodario.

“Lot-Ionan is already at work destroying the city.” Ireheart looked at the distant crater in which the city lay. “How many black-eyes has he bumped off so far, I wonder?”

“Let’s hope he’s wiped them all out.” Rodario felt the fear rising in him. Nobody knew exactly how they were going to confront the magus. There was no set plan, just a vague idea: Tungdil and Balyndar would distract his attention and Coïra was then going to overwhelm him somehow. The rest of the group would hold itself in readiness to move in where needed. The rest: That was him and Mallenia. The Zhadár were under Tungdil’s command and presumably they would be willing to attack the magus directly. They were not afraid of death.

“What do you think we will be allowed to do?” Rodario asked the Ido girl, who rode at his side as deep in thought as he was himself.

“That depends whether Vraccas and Samusin are with us,” she replied. The wind was whipping her hair around her face, although she had gathered it in with a ribbon. “Our leader has condemned us to inaction, though I’m finding it hard to agree with him on this: You and me, Rodario, are as useless in a struggle against a magus