The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,231

of Lot-Ionan’s stature as a two-handed sword to fight a fly.”

The actor made a face. “It doesn’t look as if Aiphatòn has defeated the magus.”

Mallenia looked at the edge of the crater about a mile and a half away. Nobody was stopping them and there were no älfar in sight. “No, seemingly not. Maybe he’s been killed in battle.”

Tungdil pointed. “We ride to the edge and see what’s up in Dsôn,” he called out to the rest of the group.

They cantered over, halting their horses at the edge of the canyon.

Ireheart thought he had seen this all before. In Dsôn Bhará.

But the construction of Dsôn was different from the more northern älfar city. The ivory tower that had once risen on that hill had been replaced by a tower of somber basalt. The building glittered from inlaid strips of gold, silver and other precious metals, like veins of ore in a rock face soaking evil up out of the shady ground to supply the building.

And it was the only building still standing.

“By Vraccas! Someone’s been busy!” Ireheart looked down on the burning houses, blazing away with bright yellow fire. The flames encompassed the whole of the crater.

He drew a telescope out of his luggage to inspect the inferno. “It will be impossible to enter,” he said, bringing home to the others what a terrible state the city was in. “The flames are leaping up several paces high and the ground is covered in molten bubbling metal. It will be many orbits before we can go there without ending up like roast chicken.”

The wind turned and drove the clouds of smoke toward them—but before they lost sight of everything Ireheart made out a figure on the plateau by the tower: A figure in a black and white robe, holding an onyx-headed staff in his left hand. “Lot-Ionan!” he exclaimed, pointing excitedly.

He saw the magus send out a black lightning ray from his jewel, felling an älf who had come storming out of the tower at him. The magic beam caught him in the throat, which exploded, sending the head shooting off two paces into the air before it tumbled to the ground to roll down the dark steps. The torso fell, convulsing.

“Did you see that, Scholar?” asked Ireheart. He was feeling distinctly uneasy.

“What’s that?” asked Rodario in alarm.

“Lot-Ionan just blasted an älf’s head off with magic,” Tungdil said simply.

Ireheart looked back at the sea of flames. “He might be able to fly to escape the fire, but how are we going to catch him?”

Tungdil looked at Coïra, who nodded back at him. “Balyndar comes with us. You all wait here,” he ordered. “Magic created the fire. Magic can put it out.” He steered his horse down the steep path and the fifthling and the maga followed at once. Everybody knew there was no other choice.

Through driving clouds of smoke they watched the three make their way down the hairpin bends to reach the valley floor to the tower.

“I don’t like this,” murmured Slîn.

“Nor do I,” said Rodario, worried about the girl. “Has anyone got a suggestion what we do to while away the time?”

Mallenia grinned, opened her mouth to make a proposal, but started coughing. Blood seeped over her lips and she tipped forward out of the saddle, crashing to the ground. The black shaft of an älf arrow stuck out of her back!

“Get down!” yelled Ireheart, dropping to the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rodario’s horse struck on the haunches with an arrow. The animal whinnied with the shock and made a leap into the air and over the edge of the canyon. With the actor on its back!

Strangely enough, it occurred to Ireheart at that moment that the archer must have a twisted sense of humor. Almost like a dwarf.

Balyndar tied his neckerchief around his mouth and nose as protection against the smoke. It had already served him well in the desert when there was sand to contend with. His horse was rearing up, so he reined it in and stopped before it could throw him off. “Wait! The horse is spooked by the fire,” he called.

“Let’s leave the horses here.” Coïra dismounted and Tungdil followed suit.

“We have to get over to the tower. The last inhabitants of Dsôn will have taken refuge there to escape the magus.” The one-eyed dwarf put his hands on his hips and stared into the wind at the dancing flames. “What do you reckon, maga?”

Coïra shut her eyes