The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,257

getting hard for him? She nodded reluctantly and pointed her left arm at the enemy. Lot-Ionan did the same. They must be wanting to combine forces on this.

The first of the transformed enemies must have reached the ranks of the army where fighting could now be seen. Their terror-inducing scythe-like weapons were coming into their own, the cutting edge slicing through soldiers, mowing them down, severing flesh, sinew and bone in one lethal semicircle after another. Heaps of mutilated warriors piled up all around. The invisible creatures worked their way through the army as if it were a cornfield at harvest time. Those struck not by blade but by spiked shaft were thrown off their feet and tossed, mortally wounded, through the air, landing among their own comrades. The enemy could not be seen.

The effect on the army was obvious.

On all four fronts the advance halted, many warriors turning tail in terror as they heard the whirr of approaching scythes.

The second battalion of opponents, armed with axes and swords, seemed to have formed small groups and were rampaging through the army lines, making inroads through the throng. None survived their blows.

How can these fiends be tackled? Ireheart saw that the warriors next to Coïra were being hurled through the air. Holy forge-fire! One of the invisible enemies must be approaching the maga! Lot-Ionan was still immersed in fabricating his spell as she stopped what she was doing and sprang aside with a shout.

Ireheart ran over to defend Coïra, puzzling over how he could make their opponents visible again.

The battle raged around them, the warriors desperately trying to defend themselves against their invisible adversaries but only succeeding in laying a few of them low. Hard to locate and harder still to fight. Worse still, it took an incredible number of blows to bring them down; as well as their invisibility they had their armor and shields for protection.

Ireheart had lost sight of Tungdil while trying to help the maga. Coïra possessed the power to defend herself but was retreating from the fray, shrieking in terror. Hers was no warrior spirit.

Lot-Ionan, meanwhile, had sent his magic force against the fallen master—the rays were met once again by a freshly erected barrier! Flames licked around the sides of a bright red dome before dying out.

“Stupid fool! See what you’ve done through your cowardice!” The magus cursed Coïra, who had tripped over the hem of her dress, tumbling to the boggy ground. The accident fortuitously saved her from the invisible sweep of the scythes, for to her right and left dwarves were felled mercilessly, injured and mutilated. Blood and severed limbs abounded.

Ireheart had almost reached her but could not believe how Lot-Ionan was behaving—ignoring Coïra instead of helping her up. He was making for the magic barrier behind which Tungdil’s former master was already pulling the crossbow bolt out of his head. The wound closed up as soon as the tip of the bolt had left the skull and he jumped to his feet as if nothing had happened. He could not be slain with ordinary weapons.

“Vraccas, we need your assistance!” Ireheart saw more dwarves cut to ribbons while others plunged frantically into the swamp; blood and mud splashed up. He stared at the ground and noted the huge footprints of his opponents.

“I’ve got you,” he growled, taking a running leap to aim a blow at where he supposed the creature’s neck to be. He brought down the crow’s beak with all his might. The spike shattered something and a loud cry rang out. Thudding into metal, the dwarf held on to the shaft of his weapon as firmly as he could while his adversary bucked and tossed under him like an unbroken horse trying to throw off a rider.

But Ireheart was having none of that. Refusing to loosen his grip, he hung suspended with his feet a pace and a half above the ground, swinging wildly and cackling with laughter. “Rear and buck all you like! It’s no use! You won’t get rid of me!” He quickly drew his knife out with one hand, clamping it between his teeth. Then he pulled himself up with both hands along the shaft of his crow’s beak until he reached the ax head, then plunged his knife into the wound until the blood ran free. “How do you like that, long legs?” he growled, rootling around in the flesh until he got through to a bone, where he anchored the knife.

“Off to Tion with you!” Ireheart