by Markus Heitz
The bolt whizzed off.
The shot was too fast for their foe’s reflexes. It whirred in between the edges of two shields and buried itself in the body. There was a clatter, and the whole creature fell and disintegrated.
But the various parts—swords, daggers, spears and other blades—had not lost their momentum. A whole arsenal was flying directly at the three dwarves. The weapons’ combined weight alone would have been lethal.
“Move aside!” yelled Ireheart, throwing himself through a closed door, which burst open at the first impact. Surrounded by bits of wood he found himself in a hallway. He could feel something on his foot but no pain.
He quickly rolled onto his back to check on his companions. He sighed with relief when he saw they had dodged the hail of weapons by diving for cover under a courtyard arch. The alley they had all been standing in was littered with steel weapons that had buried themselves in the flagstones.
“I’ll never criticize a crossbow again. Or Slîn, for that matter,” Ireheart mumbled. He stood up, dusted himself off and stepped out into the sun. Now he could see the extent of the damage: Flying weapons had sunk into the very walls.
“I don’t believe it,” said Balyndar, looking at Slîn, who was grinning as he reloaded his crossbow. “What are those bolts made of? Let’s use them against Lot-Ionan!”
Coïra and Mallenia suddenly stood before them. It was obvious who they really had to thank for their deliverance. Slîn made a face, and the fifthling laughed.
They retrieved their own weapons from the tumble of iron and steel, not forgetting Keenfire, before hurrying to join the ladies.
“We were just in time,” said Mallenia, staring at the alleyway that bristled with weapons. “We met similar creatures back where we were resting.”
Vraccas—I’ve a bone to pick with her! Ireheart planted himself squarely in front of the maga. “Didn’t you tell us there was no magic here? Perhaps you’re not as good at your job as you profess to be,” he complained, until Rodario interrupted.
“Not now! We have to get back to protect the others from the water-creature. There was a stone creature following us as well, but Coïra dealt with that one.” Mallenia supported her friend, who had gone very pale in spite of the sunburn. Ireheart feared she might have next to no magic powers still at her disposal. “Follow us.”
The dwarves checked behind and then the five of them clambered over bricks and broken roof tiles to reach the jewelry market. Mallenia explained to them that the debris represented the remnants of the disintegrated stone monster that had been chasing the girls.
“Will there be enough for one more spell?” the Ido girl whispered to her as they walked.
“There will, but I can only do weak spells now. It’ll be enough to break up a shape formed from magic, but it won’t be powerful enough to eradicate it completely. We must leave town,” she urged breathlessly. “The magic fields are tied to this place. We’ll be safer out in the desert.”
Mallenia cursed Bumina and the trap she had set, which had been intended for Franek and not for them.
They reached the square and found puddles everywhere. Rodario lay on the ground coughing and spluttering, trying to collect up his papers but then discarding them in disgust. Tungdil’s armor was steaming gently and his hair hung down wet, as if he had just taken a bath.
“What happened, Scholar?” Ireheart helped Rodario up.
“The magic cannot withstand my armor. The water-shape left as soon as it tried to swallow me,” he said grimly, turning to Coïra. “And your advice is?”
“To leave. We cannot destroy the magic, but it cannot get away from here,” she said, holding her side. Her right forearm felt as if it were made of raw flesh—which was in fact the case when magic was not sustaining it. It would not be long before she lost the limb.
“Right, then we’ll do that before the next…” Tungdil stopped, fascinated by the ax Ireheart bore in his left hand. The ax head was glowing, the inlays and the diamonds shining out dazzling as any star. “What, by all that’s infamous…?”
Ireheart likewise noted the way Keenfire was glowing. “It wasn’t doing that just now,” he said, taken aback. He saw Barskalín come out of a shop doorway. “Ah, that explains it. The ax doesn’t like the Zhadár.” He lifted it up and studied it carefully. “By Vraccas! It must be the real Keenfire!” he exclaimed, when he realized what was happening. “Scholar, your old weapon has made its way back to you!!” He went over to the one-eyed dwarf and held out the ax. “Take it. It is back with its rightful master—a fit weapon for a high king.”
Tungdil looked at it and Boïndil thought he saw fear in Tungdil’s eyes. “Give it to Balyndar,” he ordered after a while. “My weapon is Bloodthirster.”
“Scholar!” exclaimed Ireheart, horrified. Three steps backwards!
“Bloodthirster has been with me for hundreds of cycles and we know each other now.” He pointed to the fifthling. “He is the son of the valiant dwarf-woman who was there when Keenfire was forged. The ax will be aware of the connection and will serve him now as well as it ever served me.” He called Barskalín over and gave orders to set off immediately.
Ireheart pressed Keenfire into Balyndar’s hand. The ax head was still shimmering, and would presumably continue to do so as long as the Zhadár were in the vicinity. Or Tungdil, of course, added a little doubting voice. “Take good care of it,” was all he said.
Balyndar was touched and awed to have been given this weapon, as was obvious from the way he received it. “Vraccas, I vow I shall destroy your enemies and those of my own folk, whenever there is need,” he vowed simply. He discarded his own morning star, not dignifying Tungdil with a single glance or bestowing on him a word of thanks for the more-than-generous gesture.
The company proceeded swiftly toward the east, escaping from the town and its magic ambushes. Going east was the shortest way out. Dwarves, humans and Zhadár all kept their eyes peeled, wary for danger.
The ground beneath Coïra’s feet seemed to sway and rock. She held on to Rodario’s arm and was about to say something but her strength abandoned her. He carried her and marched on.
The desert loomed up ahead of them. It was less than forty paces to the gate of the settlement.
“We’re almost out of the town now,” Ireheart said happily. “Our maga can rest now. Ho, that…”
An old friend in new garb confronted them. Knives, shields, swords and lances had turned themselves into a form four paces high, on legs and with a squat little body. Stretched out toward them were four arms with rotating blades going so fast that they appeared as a metallic shimmer, whistling and humming as the wind blew up the dust on the road behind them.
“There’s no time to wake the maga,” ordered Tungdil, indicating the next alleyway. “Split up. We’ve got to get past this beast. As soon as we’re in the desert we’ll be safe.”
“Mind your weapons,” warned Ireheart, grasping the crow’s beak with all his might. “You’re not skipping away from me again,” he muttered to the weapon. “And if you do, then take me with you and we’ll have this magic monster in little pieces.”
Their flight began in earnest.
The group sprang apart, each finding their own way past their adversary. Ireheart, Slîn and Balyndar had decided to go with Rodario. In spite of all his heroic bravado they did not trust the actor to be able to get past the creature fast enough carrying the maga.
Ireheart looked at the enemy, which had selected itself an easier target. Its whirling blades had sliced two Zhadár to ribbons. Several of the blades broke off during this exercise, and some of the spears fell off as well, but new items from the arsenal replaced them; guts and odd bits of flesh from the victims flew through the air.
“Whatever happens, don’t let it get you,” Ireheart urged his companions.
Somehow they reached the safety of the desert, Rodario not stopping until he was twenty paces into the deep sand. He was exhausted. Sinking to his knees he let Coïra sli
p to the ground. Then he turned and looked back at the town.
He and the three dwarves looked on helplessly as the blade monster continually changed shape to insinuate itself into the narrowest of alleyways, taking out one Zhadár after another. The Invisibles seemed to be its favorite targets.
Eventually, Tungdil, Franek and Mallenia emerged to join them, but they waited in vain for Barskalín and his troops. As if the iron creature had not been danger enough, now a being the size of a house and composed entirely of sand was stomping through the streets.
“Our Troublemaker,” called Ireheart, seeing three Zhadár come running out of a courtyard and race toward them.
More did not survive.
The Outer Lands,
The Black Abyss,
Fortress Evildam,
Late Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle
Goda sat in her chamber sorting through the latest messages from Girdlegard.
Had she been asked to summarize them, she would have said that everywhere else things were going better than they were in Evildam.
Rebellion against the Lohasbranders had broken out in Weyurn and Tabaîn, and it was clear that neither a dragon nor any additional orc reinforcements had turned up there to quash it. The freedom-storm let loose by Rodario’s descendants could not now be contained.
There had been deaths and injuries but the humans in the oppressed regions had driven the pig-faces back into the Red Mountains. The Lohasbranders and their vassals had been tried and then, mostly, executed. Goda was amazed that after two hundred cycles of despotic rule, the newly liberated humans were bothering to use the courts to apportion blame and decide punishment.
The Red Mountains were back in the hands of the children of the Smith. That was where the next message was from: Xamtor, king of the firstlings, had written to say that all the orcs who had fled there from the revenge of the humans in Weyurn and Tabaîn had been killed.
Goda consulted a map of Girdlegard and ran her hand down the western edge. The chains of oppression had been smashed. “Vraccas, don’t take away your protection,” she prayed. There was a knock at the door. “Come in!”
Kiras stepped into the room. She was wearing a headband to cover the burn on her forehead. “You were asking for me?”
“Yes.” She indicated a chair. “How are my poor children? I expect you were with them?”
The undergroundling sat down. “Yes, but the guard told me you visited them this morning.”
“That was this morning.”
Kiras placed her hand on Goda’s. “Your son seems better and Sanda’s mind is clearing after the torture she was put through. She’ll soon be herself again. Apart from the fingers she chopped off when she was so disturbed.”
Both of them knew things would never be the same as before.
“There is news. Good news.” Goda showed her the letters and opened up another message, scanning the content. “Oh, excellent. The fire of freedom has crossed the border into Gauragar. The thirdlings have left their garrison and retreated into the Black Mountains, so as not to have to fight against the humans. According to these reports,” she said, handing the letter over to Kiras, “the southern älfar are already at the Ogre’s Death fortress.”
“We haven’t received any news from Ireheart, though.”
“That’s right. I’m very concerned.” Goda listened to her heart, trying to gauge by instinct whether her partner was alive or dead. She felt no premonition that he might be ill or dead, so supposed his group must be approaching their target: Lot-Ionan. “I know they will prevail.”
“That’s good. We need the help of a magus…” Kiras looked at Goda.
The dwarf-woman tried to smile. “I know what you mean.”
Kiras smiled back. “The guards report that everything is quiet at the barrier. The monsters have not attempted to set up new camps. It seems their attack on the northeastern gate left them with a bloody enough nose to discourage them from attempting a repeat performance.”
Goda was relieved to hear it. There was only one more splinter of diamond—the one she must have dropped on the stairs when she fell—and no matter how many of her servants had searched on their hands and knees, she’d been unable to locate it. Nobody knew about the unfortunate state of affairs with the magic reservoir. “I wonder how seriously I managed to injure the dwarf. Maybe that is the reason they haven’t attacked again?”
“He has seen what power you possess. He presumably thought it would be easy to overcome our defenses. But now he knows better.” The undergroundling adjusted her headband.
Goda looked at the girl’s bald head. “Does it hurt?”
“No. Just a feeling of heat and pressure from the wound.” Kiras made light of her discomfort. “What bothers me is the thought that I’m carrying around some sort of symbol and I don’t know what it means.” She looked at the maga. “So I will go to a healer later on and have it cut out. I’d hate to think the dwarf has branded me in order to take possession of me whenever he wants to. I won’t have that.”
“I don’t think it’s anything magic, but I understand you want to be on the safe side.” She smiled. “I want you to tell the officers about our news at the briefing. That’s why I summoned you.”
“Won’t you be there? What shall I say when they ask where you are?”
“Tell them I’m investigating something.” Goda could see the undergroundling was keen to know what she was hinting at, but did not want to go into details.
When she was alone again, Goda wrapped material around her knees, and padded her hands in the same way, leaving her fingers free. Then she went back to the stairs to search for the splinter again.
She was more than ever reliant on its power. It must be found.
The dwarf-woman was convinced she would be able to find it, even if it took her several orbits of searching. In the next battle that very splinter would be crucial.
But as she strode through her rooms an unpleasant thought occurred to her: Perhaps someone had already found it and was keeping it. Without reporting it to her. And Sanda had been on those stairs.
Girdlegard,
Former Queendom of Sangpur,
Southwest,
Late Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle
The Blue Range was no longer merely a dark line on the horizon with an almost invisible promise of lofty peaks, but a discernible chain of mountains rising from the desert, like a life-saving island in the middle of an ocean.
“What do you say, Scholar? Eighty miles to the fortress?” Ireheart felt his chain-mail shirt was a little looser now. They had all lost weight; their food had been scant and the journey strenuous.
“About that. But we’re not heading for Ogre’s Death.” He called Franek over. “You were saying we should go a different way?”
The famulus nodded. “Bumina always took a certain path when she wanted to leave the tunnels and escape from Lot-Ionan’s surveillance in order to conduct her experiments in the desert.”
Ireheart made a face. “Oh, that would be the same Bumina that set all those traps for us in the desert trading station because she knew you’d be coming back?”
“She didn’t realize I knew her secret,” Franek replied. “It’s not dangerous.”
“In this land there’s absolutely nothing that’s not dangerous,” said Ireheart crossly, kicking at the sand. “Even the grains of sand are waiting to kill you.”
“But times are coming soon when everything will be peaceful again.” Tungdil set off, letting the famulus lead the way.
Their little group was sadly reduced in strength, meaning their confidence had also dwindled, or so it seemed to Ireheart. The only one who clung steadfastly to his belief in the success of their mission was the one who at first had refused to join them, and who could not be fully trusted: Tungdil Goldhand.
Of the three Zhadár who had survived, now only two remained: Ireheart had named them Troublemaker, Gasper and Growler. Gasper, however, had been found dead at the fireside one morning, an em
pty Zhadár drinking flask clutched in his hands.
Tungdil had assumed the Invisible had died of thirst, but Ireheart knew better. Unfortunately. He expected the same fate awaited him, but so far the deadly thirst had been staved off. For now.
“What a bunch of heroes,” he muttered. The totally exhausted maga had, by now, to be half carried; they would have to drag her to the magic source. Let’s hope we don’t run into that Bumina. Or friend Vot.
They continued marching, sweeping southwards at nightfall, and hugging the foothills on all subsequent orbits. At last they saw the Ogre’s Death fortress not ten miles away.
And saw it was already under siege!
Aiphatòn had led his troops south in a forced march. Ireheart and Tungdil observed the army camp carefully. It had been pitched at a considerable distance from the fortress and they could see that some of the älfar had set up tents on the slopes to the left and right of the fortress walls.
“They’ve got no siege towers with them,” noted Ireheart in surprise. “Do they reckon Lot-Ionan is just going to open the front door?”
“Aiphatòn has defeated the magus once before. So Lot-Ionan won’t want open combat. He’ll send the älfar into the tunnels to attack the emperor,” Tungdil guessed. “Lot-Ionan’s famuli will have to play gatekeeper while he waits to see what happens.”
“How many black-eyes do you think there are?” Balyndar was fastening the string on a sack where he was keeping Keenfire. The ax kept glowing all day long and seemed very disconcerted by the presence of the Zhadár. He had concealed it in the sack so that, to the ax in the darkness, they would not be so conspicuous.
“Difficult to say. But I’d reckon at least fifty thousand.” Ireheart handed him the telescope. “They won’t wait long before they attack for, in the desert, they’d soon run out of water and provisions with an army that size.”
“One up to Lot-Ionan, then,” said Mallenia. “He can sit back and wait for them. And for Aiphatòn it’s even better. If he really wants to get rid of all the southern älfar all he has to do is poison their food.”