The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,61

to him!” Boïndil raised the crow’s beak. “That’s what this is for!” He dashed up to the dwarf, who bore a round shield in one hand and a weapon like a sword in the other. The base of the sword was thick to withstand heavy blows, then the blade thinned out to form a slender point, ideal for striking through gaps in an opponent’s armor. “I’ll break your rods in half!” he promised with a roar, turning inwards on the attack to make his strike impossible to parry.

The thirdling, however, was not going to place himself in the path of a crow’s beak strike. He leaped to one side and lifted the arm that held the shield. Boïndil noticed far too late that something was being thrown at him.

A cloud of black powder exploded over him and he tumbled straight into it. His eyes smarted and streamed. It hurt to breathe now and he was coughing badly, unable to take in any air.

His battle-fury was inflamed now and he lashed about blindly, but his strength was dwindling and he soon collapsed, panting, into the snow.

The madness left him, and the snowy whiteness melted under the warmth of his body, washing the sting out of his eyes. When he lifted his head he could see again. He spat. The saliva was black, like the snow he was lying on.

Tungdil and the unknown fighter were locked in combat, blades clashing repeatedly. The mountains sent the sound back as an echo as the two of them circled around in a lethal dance. Their whirling movements and maneuvers were nothing like those seen in conventional fighting. Ireheart had never seen anything of the kind before.

For Boïndil it was as if two brothers were fighting. In their black suits of armor they were so similar that it was only their weapons that distinguished them.

Tungdil’s adversary had taken quite a beating. His shield was cut to shreds and the tip of the strange sword was missing. His armor hung open in places. Blood trickled out, red drops falling onto the snow.

Ireheart pushed himself up onto his feet. Gasping for breath and groaning, he raised the crow’s beak. “Wait, Scholar! I’m coming!” he called, stumbling forward. “That skirt-wearer has got something coming to him from me!”

Tungdil took a strike on his armor, letting the blow slip past Bloodthirster. When the iron met the tionium there was a yellow flash of lightning and the enemy cried out. He had been forced to let go of his weapon; the sword fell and vanished, hissing, into the snow, sending up steam.

The unknown warrior withdrew three paces and lifted his left hand, uttering an unintelligible word—it sounded like the language of the älfar—from inside the helmet, and all the runes on Tungdil’s armor lit up, bright as the sun! Boïndil’s friend disappeared for a moment in a sea of dazzling rays.

Ireheart shielded his eyes with his hand and ran towards the enemy. “Let’s be having you, you fiend!” But when he reached the place where his adversary had stood there was only a footprint leading away. Has he jumped over the top? The tracks went over the edge of a steep slope, almost a sheer drop.

Far below he could make out a figure tumbling and somersaulting toward the valley before pulling out the damaged shield and sitting on it to sail down the mountainside at high speed on the icy snow. Round about him the drifts were starting to slide. An avalanche was going to accompany the thirdling to the valley floor.

“Ho! Skirt-wearer! Tion’s not going to be on your side for much longer!” he shouted happily after the fleeing dwarf. “The White Death can have you, as far as I’m concerned!” Boïndil waited until he saw the snow swallow the figure up.

He turned back to Tungdil with a grin on his face. His friend was a few paces away. “Just a pity we didn’t get to ask him a few sharp questions first. With this.” He fingered his weapon. “Would you have let him live, Scholar?”

His friend said nothing and remained motionless.

Full of apprehension Ireheart hurried over to Tungdil and yanked his visor up using the end of his crow’s beak. Tungdil’s features were devoid of expression and his eyes looked through Ireheart into the distance. “Oh, by Vraccas! What’s he done to you?” He tapped the armor. “Or was it this armor that did the damage? This black tin seems to have its drawbacks, too.”

Ireheart picked up a handful