by Markus Heitz
A wave of heat rolled up the slope, devouring whatever it came across. Tongues of fire flared up all around him, but they gorged themselves on the shrieking monsters above him. Tungdil lost a good deal of his beard and some hair but was otherwise unscathed.
Only when the temperature had dropped did he dare get to his feet to survey the devastation. The goldfireworm lay in shimmering pieces dispersed on the crater floor and on the terraces amongst the charred remains of beasts. The worm had been unable to withstand the annihilating power of the explosion.
That’s one less worry. Monsters that had survived the initial blast were fleeing in all directions and struggling desperately to get out of the crater. Their mouths gaped wide, but they made no sound. The whole scene took on elements of a nightmare. The base of the crater and the bottom six layers showed nothing but black walls and smoking cadavers. On the adjoining terraces many lay dead or dying, horribly injured by the blast-wave and the hurtling rocks. Those with thin clothing had been badly burned when the surge of heat flared through. Most of the beasts and slaves had lost skin and were writhing in agony with huge blisters forming on their flesh.
It all seemed even more unreal and horrific to Tungdil because he could hear nothing at all. The explosion had damaged his hearing. His legs gave way and he collapsed. He became aware of a spear sticking out of his left thigh. He must have spiked himself when he hurtled into the crowd of enemies.
He groaned, fighting to stay conscious. I must get to the battle, I must get to the battle.
On the other side of the crater Aiphatòn stood brandishing his green-glowing spear. He’s leading the rest of his forces into combat. When Tungdil tried to get up, fiery rings obscured his field of vision; he decided to remain seated. Vraccas was telling him he had already done his bit.
There will be warriors enough to cope, he said to himself, kissing the ring on his little finger. It had really stood him in good stead. The he pulled the blade out of his thigh.
He knew he yelled out with the pain: he had felt the vibration in his chest and in his throat. But he heard nothing.
“Over to the right! More orcs!” Ireheart urged his pony to a gallop and shouldered his crow’s beak in glee, ready to sink it into the skull of a greenskin. This kind of riding is fun. “Oink, oink, pig-faces! Are you looking forward to meeting me?”
His companions laughed.
The stars lit the way for the dwarf army as they hunted down the monsters that had survived the mine explosion. It could not be designated combat: they were skirmishes at best, with occasional bouts of thirty or forty enemies gathering together to fight back rather than let themselves be slaughtered.
I bet the Scholar was behind all that. Ireheart was delighted to see an orc force approaching. He circled the crow’s beak above his head. He will have caused the explosion.
Beligata had just begun explaining her notes and suggesting strategies against the overwhelming numbers of the enemy when the first burst of light came streaming up into the night sky. A few blinks of the eye later the noise that followed was like a volcano erupting. The earth shook. Balyndar immediately realised this meant the ghaist must have been destroyed. Jubilation broke out among the troops. Instead of having to face crushing odds as they had feared, all they had to do was mow down the terrified few running for their lives away from the smoking crater.
“Huzzah!” yelled Ireheart, slamming the flat side of his crow’s beak down onto an orc, shattering the skull. His troop of two hundred riders swept through the band of sixty opponents. None of the enemy was left alive.
Ireheart urged his pony forward and the unit regrouped. They were some distance from the mine and had been pursuing the strongest of the orcs. Now that they had tackled them, they had run out of adversaries. “Curses! Is it over already?” Ireheart took off his helmet, revealing he had shaved his temples. “Would you look at that? I’m not even sweating!”
His troops burst out laughing.
“To the southwest,” said Beligata merrily. “There are at least four hundred orcs. I counted. Some of them are nice big ones.”
“You’ve got good eyes.” Ireheart grinned, cramming his helmet back on and shouldering his weapon. This is my kind of thing. So much more fun than being king. The Scholar should take over the High King’s job and let me get on with fighting. “Let’s go for them. For Vraccas!”
The troops rode on with ecstatic battle cries, galloping at full speed in order to strike the foe with optimum force; they would smash their shields and armour.
“We’ve got visitors. Balyndar’s coming up.” Beligata pointed to the left. “He’ll get to them before we do.”
“But I’m High King! Who does he think he is?” Ireheart pretended to be outraged, provoking more merriment. “He’ll ruin my good mood. If he carries on like that, I’ll make him wear the crown.”
They spurred their ponies on, overtaking their own forces. But the orcs heard the drumming of their hoofbeats and halted. The merriment turned to tension.
The first rows of orcs knelt and placed their spears at the ready to stop the advancing riders. Behind them were the warriors, covered by lines of archers. Bowstrings were pulled back and arrow tips pointed skyward.
“We’ve picked us some beasts with a bit more sense than usual.” Ireheart spat and lifted his shield. “Watch out. When the hail stops we’ll make their blood fall like rain.”
Missiles came flying at the dwarves. Some of the ponies fell, burying their riders under them. Soldiers screamed with pain; a few took a spear through their shield or chainmail, and others fell out of the saddle without making a sound.
“We shall avenge them!” bellowed Ireheart, giving orders to swerve to the right shortly before meeting the wall of spears. His warriors were to attack the beast army’s more vulnerable flanks. This manoeuvre took the orcs by surprise, particularly because Balyndar was taking a similar tack on the left.
There we have it: hammer and anvil, thought Ireheart, charging into the enemy lines with a loud battle cry of “Oink, oink!” As it struck home, the crow’s beak reduced a shield to splinters, the long spike piercing thick armour and wrenching the orc off its feet. The dwarf troop followed at Ireheart’s heels, the crash of battle increasing in volume all the time. He saw Keenfire’s diamonds light up as Balyndar laid about him many paces ahead. The combined smells of upturned earth, grass and blood filled the air.
“Vraccas!” Ireheart whooped, yanking out an orc’s throat with the long spike. “We are the Chi—”
Green runes lit up in front of him and he was struck in the chest, tumbling from his pony with the impact. He landed in some short grass, the fall knocking all the air out of his lungs. A long spear held in gauntleted hands protruded from his breast. In a daze he recognised the bearer: Aiphatòn!
The orcs immediately formed an impenetrable defence wall of spear tips, holding the dwarves off. On the right of the shintoìt a blonde älf-warrior woman stood looking indecisive.
“I’ve got the High King,” Aiphatòn crowed. He was wearing a pair of blue leg-coverings but his upper body was bare. The tionium plates sewn into his skin absorbed the starlight just as his dark eyes did. “He’s survived one hit but I don’t think he’ll live through a second one.”
“What are you doing?” Ireheart groaned.
“Defending myself,” the älf replied coolly. “I know what you want of me.”
“Of you?” Ireheart could taste blood and hoped it came from a split lip and not from his insides. “We have destroyed the ghaist.” He would have been glad to be visited by his habitual rage—the super strength he needed to free himself from the spear—but since taking Tungdil’s potion, his raging fury had disappeared, giving way to merriment and elation.
“You want her.” Aiphatòn gestured towards the älf-woman. “No one lays a finger on Irïanora.”
The powerful orcs stayed silent as mice, watching their foes and holding axes and swords at the ready while lance-bearers and archers offered backup.
“What are your terms?” Balyndar’s voice sounded out through the night.
“Your forces retreat and I take the High King as hostage until I can be sure that Irïanora and I are safe.” Aiphatòn turned his black eyes on his surroundings. “You can count yourselves lucky that I have not used my magic powers. Or you would be ash by now.”
Ireheart’s chest was burning. “You said you wanted to find and kill all the älfar,” he gasped. He looked at Irïanora. “What made you change your mind? Or are you in league with the botoican? And bound to it by its spell?”
“The botoican has ceased to be. I serve no one now. I listen only to my own heart. I am bound by love to Irïanora.”
That’s all we need. Ireheart lowered his head onto the grass.
“You have injured him. He needs a healer,” Balyndar shouted back. “What use is a dead hostage?”
“But a High King who is wounded will make you more cautious.” Aiphatòn pointed down at Ireheart. “The longer you spend talking, the more blood he’ll be losing. Withdraw your troops. Irïanora and I will go our ways.”
Could it be some kind of spell? Ireheart coughed, tasting more blood. I forgot. Of course, love is the strongest magic there is. He grinned. Vraccas, what were you thinking of? Not some ugly pig-face but a lovelorn älf is to be my downfall.
“Then be off with you, Aiphatòn. Get yourselves to safety but know we shall regard you from this moment on as our mortal foe,” Balyndar thundered. “If anything happens to the High King, our army will hunt you down.”
He could hardly believe it when he heard the hooves of the ponies clatter off into the distance. The dwarves made off into the night.
Only some time later did Aiphatòn pull the spear out of Ireheart’s chest and heave him onto the saddle of his pony, which was prancing nervously. It did not like being near the orcs.
“Keep still,” Ireheart tried to calm the animal with his voice. He was hanging face down like a sack of wet sand and could hardly speak for the pain he was in. Blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth and he spat out more. As a veteran of many battles he knew he needed a healer’s attention. And sharpish.
One of the orcs took the reins and dragged the terrified animal along. The rest of the group of sixty beasts started to trot.
“I’m telling the truth: I’ll let you go as soon as Irïanora and I are safe.” Ireheart could distinctly hear Aiphatòn’s words. “You mustn’t die, or you won’t appreciate it when I release you.”
The dwarf held tight to the little horse’s mane and concentrated on his breathing and his heartbeat. Occasionally he lost consciousness or dozed off, while the pony kept moving swiftly on.
Next time Ireheart opened his eyes it was morning. He was lying on the grassy bank of a stream and his pony was drinking nearby. Trees were rustling their leaves in the gentle wind and birds were singing. Where are we?
“Go on. Drink. There’s plenty of water,” Aiphatòn encouraged him from the other side of the stream as he bit into an apple. Irïanora was nearby, tending to her armour. The orcs were ten paces away, devouring a deer they had killed. “What do you fancy? Fruit or venison?”
Ireheart was burning up and his limbs were shaking with fever. Or is it Tungdil’s confounded potion? With great difficulty he collected some water in his hand and rubbed his face with it, then dipped his hands again and drank as noisily as the horse. “I am too exhausted to eat.”
The clear waters of the stream splashed along between them but did not drown out the sound of the orcs tearing raw meat with their teeth. The horse danced nervously but remained near its master.
“If you don’t eat, you’ll die. It’s a miracle of your god that you’ve stayed alive so far with nothing to drink. We’ve been travelling for many orbits. But I couldn’t wake you, stubborn dwarf that you are.” Aiphatòn went on eating his apple.
Ireheart’s head was buzzing with a thousand questions he wanted the onetime älfar emperor to answer, but he was not strong enough to confront him. He dropped his head back into the cool of the damp grass. I’d rather die in battle than in this miserable fashion.
From the distance came the sound of a dwarf melody played on a bugle. It was meant as a sign to the High King that the others were still around. Balyndar. Good lad.
But it was not only Ireheart who recognised the tune.
“Go and see!” Aiphatòn ordered his orcs angrily as he chucked the apple core in the stream. “Kill the spies and then come back here quickly. Five of you stay here.”
The beasts quickly swallowed down what they were eating and set off. The five who were staying grunted happily as they chewed at the bones, breaking them open and sucking out the marrow. There would be no meat left over.
Ireheart looked across the stream. Vraccas, don’t let me die like this.
Rune-spear in her hand, Irïanora looked around. “Will it take long?”
“We’ll have to head further east until we get to the sea. From there we’ll take a boat to the island and build our new home in the ruins.” He came over to her side and embraced the blonde älf-woman, stroking her face tenderly, as if he could never be capable of any violence toward a living creature. “It will be just you and me. We’ll have all we need. There’s no better place for us.”
In Ireheart’s opinion she did not seem overjoyed to hear this. The “being in love” thing was wearing thin, he thought. The passion seemed pretty one-sided.
Ireheart forced himself to drink and then cooled his brow once more. His whole body was on fire. This is not the normal reaction to a wound. The cold drops on his face brought no relief. The Scholar has given me something that’s burning me up from the inside. It’s devoured my rage. Fire to combat fire. And I’m in flames. He crawled closer to the edge of the water, shivering when the stream soaked his clothing and cooled his hot flesh. Elria won’t be watching. She wouldn’t bother drowning a half-dead dwarf. “Good idea.” Aiphatòn looked over at the deer carcass. “Sure you don’t want anything to eat?”
There was a rustling in the bushes. Out came a slim form with an unusual sword at its side. The älfar brand on the face and scarred writing on the brow disfigured it. Long brown hair fell shoulder-length. “You should have waited for me,” said the new arrival accusingly to Aiphatòn. “You left me behind in the ruined village.”
“Carmondai!” Irïanora called his name in joy and surprise. “Wonderful to see you! We thought …”
“You thought I was dead?” He looked at the two älfar, disgruntled. The historian had got himself some sensible clothing, green, and he wore brown- and rust-coloured leather armour over it. He would be practically invisible in the woods. “You made no effort at all to find me.”
Yet another black-eyes. Ireheart groaned to himself. The water steamed off him. They stick together, don’t they?
“There was no time. The ghaist and Irïanora wanted to go on,” Aiphatòn explained. He was obviously suspicious and wanting to avoid a confrontation. “Have you come across any dwarves?”
“Yes. About a quarter of an hour from here.” He pointed. “Why are you so keen to move on?”
“It is Irïanora’s wish. Her wish is my command.” Aiphatòn beamed at her. Turning to Carmondai he said, “What do you want?”
“To come with you. As an älf hereabouts one doesn’t have much choice of travelling companion.”
“You can travel on your own. We have no use for you,” Aiphatòn snapped. “Irïanora and I have our own plans.”
Ireheart detected the jealousy in Aiphatòn’s voice. He must be very much in love. Or infatuated. He took another mouthful of water. It ran cold down his throat. The fever seemed to be receding. He looked at the pony where his crow’s beak hung.
“But perhaps Irïanora would like me to come along.” Carmondai went nearer to the älf-woman. “I’d be a splendid addition.”
“No, she would not.”
“I think you’re the one who wouldn’t like it,” the elderly älf smiled. “But i
f she should wish it, surely you will accede to her request? You just said her wish was your command.”
“Yes,” Aiphatòn said furiously. “But she won’t wish it.”
Despite his fever, Ireheart could see that Carmondai was pulling a fast one. When he spotted the bugle at the älf’s side, he guessed it had been Carmondai playing the dwarf tune. So there’s no Balyndar nearby. What plan is the älf hatching?
“Oh, but I think she will.” Carmondai approached the älf-woman but Aiphatòn shoved himself in the way. “What’s your problem? Am I not allowed to greet my friend?”
“She’s mine!” the älf roared.
“Oh, so she belongs to you, does she? I was not aware she was your slave.” The history-weaver looked past him to Irïanora. “And are you his slave? Times have changed if älfar are owning älfar.”
Ireheart saw the fear in the woman’s eyes. It was clear she had not accompanied Aiphatòn of her own free will. Despite the fact the botoican’s power had now lapsed.
“No … but he … is not right in the head,” she stuttered pathetically. “It’s not really love at all!”
“What?” Aiphatòn turned to her. “How can you say that?”
Swift as lightning, Carmondai drew Bloodthirster from its scabbard and deployed the weapon. Aiphatòn twisted his upper body out of the way and dodged the blow. He screamed with rage, black lines zigzagging across his face. The gauntleted right hand grabbed the spear from Irïanora. “You won’t take her from me.”
Carmondai threw something. A cloud of glass splinters and gold dust spread through the air, blurring Aiphatòn’s vision and spoiling his aim. He had countless tiny wounds in his face from the sharp fragments and his eyes were affected as well.
“I’m not stealing her from you.” Carmondai feigned a blow that the dazzled shintoìt tried to avoid then whirled around and rammed Bloodthirster’s long blade into the hole in his armour plating. “I’m liberating her from you.” The sword that had once belonged to Aiphatòn’s father now dug its way into the son’s body.