The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,57

dug her heels into the creature’s flanks. “If you don’t want to obey…” she threatened, and banged the handle of her dagger against the creature’s forehead blaze.

The night-mare shot off and galloped through the dark streets. Sparks flew whenever its hooves struck the ground. As they rushed along, flashes lit up the walls like lightning in a storm.

Mallenia took hold of the reins and forced the night-mare to her will. This was like no horse she had ever ridden before. The skin round a normal horse’s mouth would have torn or the neck vertebrae would have been damaged by the violence. But it seemed not to mind, and eventually obeyed her instructions. They raced toward the town gate; the attentive watchmen had already opened it for her. They must have thought she was one of the älfar.

Riding like the wind she left Topholiton and thundered along the road to the west.

The Outer Lands,

Seventy-four Miles Southwest of the Black Abyss,

Winter, 6491st Solar Cycle

Tungdil and Ireheart rode side by side, covering the miles to the fourthlings’ stronghold through which they could gain access to Girdlegard. To their old home…

A meeting had been arranged with the remaining dwarf-rulers; messengers had been sent out in advance.

Boïndil had selected a white pony with brown markings; a second animal, heavily laden, was on a lead rein attached to his saddle. Tungdil rode a befún, after the habit of ubariu warriors.

The befún resembled a large gray-skinned orc on four legs with a short stumpy tail. The body was muscular and as broad as a horse, the nose flattened, which made the head quite short. Its squarish, three-fingered hands, covered with toughened skin, were adept at grasping things.

Ireheart knew that a befún would stand erect in battle, aiding its rider by the use of its claws as an extra weapon. A special saddle with a long, curved back support ensured the rider had the right posture and could not easily be dislodged.

The two dwarves made a strange pair. The companions were different in so many ways, not simply in their choice of mount.

Ireheart presented the classic dwarf-figure familiar throughout Girdlegard from ancient times, when the small-statured folk had campaigned heroically against Nôd’onn or the avatars or the creatures from the Black Abyss, described in so many heroic tales. Those grand days were long past; recent battles had ended in defeat: Against the älfar, against Lot-Ionan, against the Dragon… But the dwarves were still respected.

Ireheart sported an impressive braided beard and had a memorably wrinkled dwarf-face. He wore his reinforced chain-mail shirt under a light-colored fur coat with a hood. He had his crow’s beak weapon fastened to his saddle, and was puffing away at his pipe while humming a tune.

Tungdil in his dark armor seemed more like a small squat älf. The fact that he rode a befún emphasized the spooky impression, and the weapon Bloodthirster at his side—the reforged älf sword he used—did not help to make him look like a friendly child of the Smith. Any dwarf of the thirdling tribe, the dwarf-haters, would have treated him with respect, assuming him to be one of their own.

It was thoughts such as these that occupied Boïndil constantly; he tried hard to push them out of his mind and not to think about the obvious changes in his friend.

Puffing blue smoke, he brought out his drinking flask. So that the water in it did not freeze, Ireheart carried the flask close to his body. “Well, do you remember the way?” he asked his friend, as he took a long draft from the flask. “I prefer to rely on my pony’s memory. His head is bigger.” He put the stopper back. “It must be a hundred and fifty cycles since I was last anywhere near here.”

Tungdil laughed. “That makes two of us. But I can add a further hundred cycles.” He looked round. “No, try as I might, without the path I’d be completely lost. Or, at the very least, I’d take a very long time.”

The companions fell silent again.

The clattering of hooves on stone was thrown back as an echo by the mountains; a light breeze chased the new-fallen snow and formed it into drifts in places, hazardous for the ponies.

“No questions at all, Tungdil?” Boïndil finally asked. He attempted a smoke ring.

Keeping his gaze solidly toward the front, Tungdil opened his mouth and said, “I’m still trying to come to terms with what you’ve told me. Lot-Ionan the Forbearing. What can have changed him so? Magic?” He