The Fate of the Dwarves

XXIX

Girdlegard,

Älfar Realm of Dsôn Balsur,

Dsôn,

Late Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle

Through the sphere Balyndar caught sight of Lot-Ionan. The magus was exactly as they had so recently seen him portrayed. The sturdy dwarf needed all his strength to keep hold of Keenfire and brace it against the pressure stemming from the magic attack. Tungdil’s armor, as far as Balyndar could see, was doing its job well in protecting its bearer from lightning bolts delivered by the magus.

“Coïra!” Balyndar shouted in warning to the young woman; conscious, however, this would rob them of the element of surprise. He did not know how long he and Keenfire would be able to maintain their defense.

But there was no sign of their maga.

The assault ended and the magic barrier around him died away. “Vraccas!” he called, to give himself courage as he charged toward Lot-Ionan, blade upraised.

The magus stared at the ax, then looked at Tungdil and executed a swift movement. Above the dwarf’s head the ropes anchoring the lengths of fabric gave way and the banners unfurled about Tungdil’s ears. Balyndar understood: Lot-Ionan wanted to confront his attackers one by one.

An extra burst of speed took him nearly up to the magus.

As Lot-Ionan brandished the onyx-headed staff at him an orange-colored beam shot out, striking the stone panels around him and tearing them out of their fixtures. The magus, having understood that his adversaries were immune to direct magic attack, forced the young dwarf ten paces into the air directly in the path of the falling stone.

And Balyndar was falling now.

He struck out with Keenfire and hit one of the horizontal flag supports. The ax head hooked itself over and he swung to and fro on the banner as if on a rope. Serious injury or death would result from a fall from this height.

Balyndar looked down at Coïra and froze in horror. The wound he saw in her body had to be fatal, surely, but how had it occurred? Too late he remembered that Lot-Ionan had been fighting an älf when they arrived. The älf must have used the chance to escape and have attacked the maga.

However distraught he was about Coïra, he had to act.

Gathering the material in his hands, he locked both arms around it and used the flag to slide safely down to ground level.

On the way down he witnessed Tungdil and Lot-Ionan talking together! He could not hear what they were saying because he was too far away, but they were standing face to face, neither attacking the other. What did it mean?

Tungdil leaped forward and swept Bloodthirster at the magus, who laughed as he made a gesture that had the dwarf suddenly enveloped by one of the flags; then he reached out at full stretch to land a blow on Tungdil with his staff.

Hardly had the onyx stone touched the embroidered material than the fabric turned into a gigantic snake wrapping its coils around Tungdil’s body. Muscles worked feverishly and the armor creaked in protest but the dwarf was unable to move.

Balyndar was on the ground by this time and rushed over toward Lot-Ionan, Keenfire at the ready. The diamonds and inlay pattern shone with inner fire and the heat it gave out was like being in a forge.

Bald-headed Lot-Ionan saw him coming and turned to face him. “So what are the children of the Smith doing, coming to the aid of the älfar?” The ends of his beard waggled and the sharp-featured face was an uncanny picture of malice.

“We’re not here on their behalf.” Balyndar leaped at the magus, swinging Keenfire in a powerful stroke; Lot-Ionan did not have to know that he only intended to hit him with the flat side of the weapon.

The magus sidestepped with surprising agility, raising his own staff to strike Balyndar.

Keenfire and onyx clashed in mid-air.

The explosion that ensued stunned and dazzled Balyndar. He could hear a rattling sound as if pebbles were being dropped. Blinded, he stumbled forward under the impetus of his own attack and staggered into a pillar, which broke his fall.

He ducked and whirled round, holding Keenfire in front of himself as protection. Gradually his sight returned.

Tungdil was still locked in the clutches of the enormous snake.

Lot-Ionan waved the remains of his broken staff accusingly in Balyndar’s direction. The top end had snapped off and the onyx jewel lay in fragments around the throne.

“By Samusin!” gasped the magus, flinging the broken pieces at him. “By Samusin!” he shrieked in fury, lifting his arms. “If only you were a mere stain on the ground as I intended!” Invisible powers must still have been issuing from the magus, for the flagstones, the pillars and everything near Balyndar started to shake and move toward him. “I shall squash you like squeezing a lemon, dwarf! Your bones will be ground to powder and be banished to eternal oblivion with the rest of the tower.”

With a loud roar Tungdil tore the snake in two with his bare hands, not needing Bloodthirster. He kicked the weapon up with his foot, catching it adroitly to go in for the attack.

The quaking walls round Balyndar ceased their movement. The young dwarf breathed a sigh of relief and threw himself on the magus. “For Girdlegard!”

But to his surprise Tungdil ran past the wizard, heading instead straight for him!

Ireheart did not hesitate.

Grim and stubborn, he ran full tilt at the älf, not wasting a thought on the fact that a black arrow could strike at any second.

“Parry this if you can!” he bawled, slamming his crow’s beak down murderously, the spike targeting the älf’s left flank.

Tirîgon acted swiftly. He brought down his two-handed sword, plunging the tip into the earth, thus blocking the first attack; then, supporting himself on his parrying stick, he dealt a two-footed kick into Ireheart’s face.

The dwarf staggered back, spitting blood. His nose was broken and already swelling up. He could see the white of the exposed bone. Two of his teeth were loose. “You’ve made me bite my tongue,” he raged at the älf.

“It won’t be your last injury.” Tirîgon leaned on the parrying stick, staring at the flames engulfing the city. “That destruction is hardly all down to you.”

“I wish it was.” Ireheart came up to his adversary and feigned a strike at his head, but altered direction, aiming the flat edge of the crow’s beak at the älf’s right thigh.

Tirîgon took an evasive sidestep and placed a hand on his sword, pulling it to one side. Once more the dwarf-weapon clashed on steel. And again the älf launched a mighty kick, striking Ireheart in the neck.

With a curse Ireheart charged forward, landing on his knees in the dust. “This is not a proper fight!” he yelled angrily. “Come on, fight like a decent warrior!”

“But I’m not fighting against a decent warrior, so why should I?” the älf returned scornfully, leaning on his tall sword. “I always thought the famous Ireheart was an excellent fighter, but I’m disappointed to find him as lame as an orc.” He put his head on one side and winked. “I’ll grant you one wish: How would you like to die?”

Ireheart whirled the crow’s beak. “Drinking a beer, black-eyes!” He pushed forward. “As you don’t have any beer with you, I’m safe.” This time he struck diagonally.

Tirîgon ducked and used the two-hander again to block the blow.

But in his arrogance he had underestimated the dwarf’s furious strength. The blow thrust the älf back onto the ground and, although the weapon itself did not strike him, the sharp end of his own parrying stick was forced right into his shoulder.

I’ve got you! Ireheart followed through swiftly, striking at Tirîgon and missing his head by the breadth of a beard hair. The älf executed a backwards somersault, intending to grab his two-hander, but the dwarf stamped on the sword, grinning.

Tirîgon grinned arrogantly back and drew out both his double-daggers at the speed of light; the stabs ensued in a flowing movement.

Ireheart saw the two arms with their four blades heading for him. He had to decide which to parry. He blocked one with his weapon haft and the blades swished past his face. But the second knife hit him.

The double blade did not penetrate the chain-mail shirt, but the blow winded him badly.

The next assault followed fast and Ireheart tried to back away from Tirîgon.

The älf did not let up, but kept attacking with the daggers. Still with a smile on his finely chiseled features, he appeared not to have exerted himself at all.

Ireheart’s hands were cut, as was his face and every part of his body that was not covered in chain mail.

“You see, I’m out to cut you, not to kill you,” the älf explained with a laugh. “Are you getting tired, dwarf? If you collapse and breathe your last before my very eyes I shall watch carefully and store up the moment in my memory. I can use it in a picture? Or a drawing?”

“You’re only slashing at me because you are not fast enough to catch me properly, black-eyes!” Ireheart had detected a pattern to the attacks. I know what you are going to do next. “And anyway,” he taunted, dodging the dagger thrust and plunging the spike of his crow’s beak directly into the älf’s belly. “You won’t be doing any more painting.” He tossed the paralyzed Tirîgon onto his back and tore the weapon downwards in his flesh to widen the entry wound. “Except in the dirt here, clawing with your fingers!” He levered the weapon out of the body cavity, tearing the guts. He studied the bloodied tip with satisfaction. “You guys really aren’t anything special. You’re just big, that’s all.” Ireheart kicked him viciously in the face, heard the bones crack, then spat at him. “That’s for breaking my nose.” Then he turned round.

He stared at Slîn in horror. He was sitting up and aiming his crossbow at him. He had only pretended to be wounded! “What…!”

“I should have done this a long time ago,” snarled the fourthling. And fired.

Keenfire and Bloodthirster clashed, sparks flying in all directions, fizzling against the dwarves and on the floor.

Tungdil’s weapon could not deny its origins as the sword of an Unslayable. Any other blade would have shattered under the impact of Keenfire, but Bloodthirster stood up to the onslaught defiantly.

The diamonds on the ax head increased their brilliance, infuriated not to be able to destroy Bloodthirster.

Balyndar felt that Tungdil surpassed him in physical strength several times over. He was being forced backwards against a pillar. “You traitor!” he screamed at the one-eyed dwarf, attempting to knee him in the groin. “I always suspected you were closer to your foster-father than you were to your own folk!”

Tungdil kicked his knee away and head-butted him, sending his skull crashing back into the pillar.

Balyndar saw nothing but stars; the pressure on Keenfire lessened. Tungdil had moved away. Now his sight was clearing.

The one-eyed dwarf stood in front of Lot-Ionan as if wanting to protect him. “Calm down,” he said. “He has agreed to help us.”

The fifthling shook his head to clear it. “Help?” He looked from Tungdil to the wizard and back again incredulously. “Lot-Ionan, who has oppressed the south of Girdlegard for many cycles, and whose apprentices have wiped out the population in great swathes of the land, is going to help us? And of his own free will?”

“He knows he can’t defeat both of us.” Tungdil lowered Bloodthirster. “To save himself pain and humiliation he is prepared to accept my offer.”

Balyndar gulped. “You sound like his spokesman, not his enemy.” It was hard to believe what he was hearing. Behind Lot-Ionan he suddenly made out a vague slim shape moving. “No, don’t!” he shouted.

Tungdil and the magus both turned.

Coïra stood behind them, her arms half raised as she prepared a spell. Over her breast her clothing hung in blood-soaked tatters and the naked skin revealed below the garments was lighter in some places than in others.

Even if nothing remained of the terrible wound, Balyndar could see by looking at Coïra’s widened eyes that she had not recovered from the shock. She seemed determined Lot-Ionan should pay for the injury inflicted on her. Could she have forgotten that their mission needed him alive?

Do we really need him? The thought came flying into his mind from somewhere and it started to take root. He looked at his magic ax which had served so well against magi and monsters of all kinds. Why would it not work against Tungdil Goldhand’s master?

Tungdil looked at the young woman. “Maga, stop whatever it is you are doing! No force is needed. He will come with us to the Black Abyss.”

Coïra’s lips were moving. Her palms glowed red and a beam three fingers wide was released, hissing, toward Lot-Ionan, who held out an arm, the hand turned upwards, pointing at the ceiling. The beam collided with the palm of his hand and dissipated, with smaller rays diverted in all directions. And so the duel ended.

And that was how she was planning to vanquish him? Given this pitiful performance on the part of the maga Balyndar was glad that they had settled the matter without her help.

Tungdil changed position and came to stand between Coïra and Lot-Ionan.

Balyndar went up to her. “Can you hear me, Majesty?” he asked gently, holding Keenfire so that he could use it to defend himself against a spell.

The young woman lowered her head until she could look him directly in the eyes. “I nearly died,” she declared blankly, and he could see fresh blood on her lips. “I nearly died, but…” She looked down at herself. “I am not decent. The älf tore off my clothes and…” Coïra sobbed. “I have failed against Lot-Ionan, because I used up my magic to heal myself.” She buried her face in her hands, weeping hysterically. Her words were for the most part unintelligible but the name Sisaroth occurred again and again.

Balyndar looked helplessly at Tungdil. “What’s wrong with her?”

“What would be wrong with her, do you think? Death had her in its hands and she was in pain great enough to unman any stout warrior and make him lose his senses.” The one-eyed dwarf put Bloodthirster away. “It may be a long time before her mind recovers.”

“Or maybe it never will.” Balyndar watched her sadly. Taking her in his arms to offer consolation would not be right for him. And not only because of the difference in their heights.

“All the more vital that we have Lot-Ionan.” Tungdil bent down to pick up one of the splinters from the onyx jewel. “You broke his staff. That weakens him, he tells me, but he is still capable of creating powerful spells.”

Balyndar studied the magus. The man was not looking at him and his eyes were wandering past him as if he were some trivial object. “Can’t he speak for himself?”

“Not with you or any other. He does not consider you to be of equal status.”

“But you are?” Balyndar’s retort was louder than he had intended, and more scornful.

“I am his foster-son.”

“If we want to know something we have to speak through you?” Balyndar could not grasp it. Tungdil had found yet another way to make all of them dependent on him, dwarves and Girdlegarders alike.

The one-eyed dwarf nodded. “Exactly. I don’t like it either but that’s the way he wants it.”

“He wants it!” Balyndar laughed outright. “It’s not up to him to want it! He is our prisoner!”

“He surrendered voluntarily. It’s different.”

“Then let’s make him our prisoner.” Balyndar swung Keenfire. “I can knock him down. This weapon gives me the power and he won’t be able to do anything to defend himself.”

Tungdil was angry now. “You know that is not true. He could have you buried under the collapsing tower and Keenfire would have to let it happen.”

“But…”

Tungdil took a step toward him. “Control yourself, Balyndar Steelfinger! You are an excellent warrior with a legendary weapon, but I am the high king! Do what I tell you or I will give you a lesson in respect. And by all that is infamous: I will do it!” He looked at the doorway. “We have not finished here. The älf Sisaroth has got away. He nearly robbed us of our maga.” He marched off. Lot-Ionan followed him, not even glancing at Balyndar.

Balyndar went up to Coïra and touched her arm. “Forgive me, Majesty, but we must leave,” he told her gently.

She wiped her face on her sleeve to dry her tears, then smiled bravely and followed the others. As she went, her eyes searched the dark corners of the hall in fear.

Balyndar noticed that she stayed very close to him. She was terribly afraid of the älf who had escaped.

In a state of high alert they left the throne room where, until recently, Aiphatòn had resided. That was all in the past. Like the kordrion. Like the Dragon Lohasbrand and his vassals. Balyndar thought Lot-Ionan’s name would fit nicely in the list of dead monsters.

While the group made their way down the stairs, he placed his right hand on the sigurdacia wood handle. He would ensure the magus did not return alive to Girdlegard after the battle at the Black Abyss.

Balyndar could see Lot-Ionan’s bald head in front of him. There were such stories about him. The originally affable magus had turned into an evil despot whose cruel deeds and indifference to the suffering of others were well known. And he had practically annihilated the entire tribe of secondling dwarves.

This thought alone was enough to bring Balyndar’s rage to boiling point, making him snort with fury. He did not believe now and would not in a hundred cycles ever believe that Lot-Ionan had joined forces with them without having evil in mind. He and Tungdil have come up with a plot. Perhaps they had decided to split Girdlegard between the two of them? What he would have given to have been able to overhear those negotiations.

Lost in thought he was suddenly made aware by Keenfire that an ambush threatened.

The inlay pattern flared up and Balyndar whirled round with a shout, the ax lifted ready to strike dead the älf who had crept up on him. “May Tion take you!”

But nobody was there.

A sharp pain burned its way down through his shoulder.

Balyndar dropped to the floor, thus freeing his body from the sword that had skewered him. He rolled onto his back, just in time to see the second thrust coming and to avert it with his own ax; the sword tip clattered onto the basalt floor tiles, leaving a furrow in the stone.

Sisaroth was suspended above him!

The älf had braced his feet against two of the ceiling arches on the stairway and had been lying in wait there like a falcon. Now he sprang down to land behind Balyndar, stabbing over the top of him at the maga’s retreating back and injuring her afresh. Then he dragged his long sword downwards. Coïra stumbled and fell.

Quickly the dwarf moved to avoid the blade slicing into his flesh. But the parrying stick stabbed him painfully under the collarbone. With a growl he hefted Keenfire upwards, but Sisaroth dodged the blade and kicked Balyndar’s hands, so that he almost lost his grip on his weapon. There was a crack. Some bone somewhere had fractured but as yet he felt nothing. The wound in his shoulder hurt too badly for him to be aware of any other pain. In spite of his many injuries he is lethal and he is fast. Confounded creature!

The älf took two swift steps and sprang up against the wall to run up along the ceiling to attack Lot-Ionan.

Tungdil and the magus had been alerted by the sound of fighting and the maga’s scream as she collapsed on the stairs. But Coïra had fallen against Lot-Ionan, knocking him off balance. Fortunately this caused Sisaroth’s attack to fail, otherwise the blade would have struck the magus on the head. Tungdil parried the first blow with a swift movement, then Sisaroth landed in front of him and thrust at him again.

Tungdil arrested the blow just above his head, kept his weapon raised and approached the älf. The raucous scrape of metal on metal as the blades met made Balyndar’s hair stand on end.

Sisaroth dodged the charging dwarf, taking two steps to the right and then to the left, planning to run up to the ceiling again, but Tungdil speared his wounded leg with an upward stroke that took him by surprise. Blood flowed out of the gaping wound, where the bone was now exposed.

With a shout, Sisaroth fell on the basalt stairs and lost his sword. The dwarf expedited the weapon down the stairs with a hefty kick.

The älf was far from having given up. He hurled the first of his double-daggers at the one-eyed dwarf—but the magic decorations on the armor blazed out and the weapon was stopped in mid-flight before it could touch the tionium. It fell harmlessly onto the stone floor.

Sisaroth had already drawn his second dagger but was hesitating. The sight of Tungdil’s armor seemed to distract him or bring home to him perhaps that this was a foe he would not be able to defeat. But then he gave a sudden laugh and spoke an incantation in his own language.

The runes flared one after another and Tungdil, who had been about to attack the älf, froze like a statue and fell. He rolled down the stairs with a terrible clatter, keeping tight hold of Bloodthirster and making no attempt to save himself.

Sisaroth was still laughing and turned, knife in hand, to Lot-Ionan. “Who would have thought the tide would turn?”

The magus, bleeding from a wound on his brow from when he had hit the wall after colliding with Coïra, found himself hampered by the veil of blood.

Balyndar clenched his teeth and gathered himself for a mighty throw.

Keenfire started its arced flight and went straight at the älf.

Ireheart saw the bolt flying toward him and could not believe his eyes. There was no time to react—the shot was upon him…

… and missed his left eye socket by a finger’s width. The dwarf heard it whirr and felt the wind of its passing. Then it thudded home behind him.

Ireheart knew what that meant. He ducked down, twirling round, his crow’s beak held at head height. He saw the arm with the double-bladed knife swipe above his head and then his own metal spike thudded deep into Tirîgon’s left side.

“It’s time you knew when to give up and die, black-eyes!” he yelled at the älf, in whose heart the crossbow bolt was buried.

Without a sound Tirîgon fell to his knees and tipped on his side.

“I’m not taking any chances this time,” growled Ireheart, hammering the älf’s skull flat with the crow’s beak. He dragged the corpse to the edge of the crater and tossed it over. “Have a good flight!” He watched as the body fell three miles down, bashing against the rocks on the way before crashing into the ground. No one could survive a fall such as that.

“At last!” He heard the relief in Rodario’s voice. The actor was hanging from his badly bent sword, which had got stuck in a cleft in the rocks; he had rammed it into a crevice as he fell, thus saving himself.

“Ho! And what have you done with your horse?” Ireheart had to ask, grinning in spite of himself. “Why didn’t you grab hold of it with those long legs of yours?”

“Ireheart! I need your help!” Slîn called. “Mallenia’s badly hurt. We have to bandage her.”

He looked down to where Rodario hung. “The sword will hold for a bit. I have to look to your darling girl,” he shouted and rushed off to the fourthling, who was kneeling at the woman’s side, assessing her injuries.

Ireheart could see that she was still breathing. The arrow in her neck might have cut through flesh and sinews but, to judge from the bleeding, it had not touched an artery. He was more worried about the arrow in her back.

“There’s nothing we can do except try to keep her alive until Coïra comes back to heal her magically,” he told Slîn, helping him to apply bandaging. “Keep talking to keep her awake. I’ll see what I can do for the actor before the steel snaps and he follows black-eyes down into the crater.” He put his hand on the fourthling’s shoulder. “Thank you. I am in your debt.”

“No. You’re not,” said Slîn. “We are a group and everyone looks after everyone else.” He hesitated. “At least we children of the Smith must always try to.”

“You’re right.” Ireheart stood up and took the horses’ reins, knotting them together to make a long rope. While he was doing so, Balodil came over. He had bandaged his own injured arm. Tossing a drinking flask to Ireheart, he said, “The owner won’t be needing this anymore. But you will.” Then he sat down and, in spite of his injury, helped Ireheart tie the reins together.

They walked over to the edge and lowered the leather rope down to Rodario, who was swinging to and fro in the breeze. “High time!” he greeted the dwarves. “I can’t hold on much longer.”

“If you had kept the horse between your knees it would have been harder still. Catch hold,” called Ireheart. “We’ll pull you up.”

Balodil and Ireheart managed to liberate Rodario from his precarious situation; the actor was able also to save his bent sword, having yanked it out of the crevice.

“What will you use that for?” wondered Ireheart. “Attacking round corners?”

“I’ll keep it. As a souvenir.” Rodario went pale when he saw Mallenia on the ground. He ran over and cushioned her head on his knee. “We must do something…” he said in desperation.

“We can only wait,” said Ireheart. “The injury is too grave, and none of us is a healer. We need the maga to come and close up the wounds.”

Rodario swallowed hard and nodded.

The wind changed and the inferno in Dsôn died down. Ireheart looked across at the tower where his friend was, with Coïra and Balyndar, hoping to subdue Lot-Ionan. “Vraccas, let them succeed,” he prayed, and looked at Balodil, who was kneeling next to the body of his dead comrade, muttering a prayer which, if he had heard aright, the Zhadár was also addressing to the god Vraccas.

Keenfire struck Sisaroth in the right shoulder, knocking him off his feet and onto his back. The älf hurtled down several steps until he came slithering to a halt.

Fighting for breath, Balyndar ran up to Sisaroth to finish him off. The älf was just struggling upright, Keenfire still embedded in his shoulder, dark blood streaming from the wound and down over his armor.

Balyndar opened his mouth in a yell and vaulted forward, gripping the hilt of Sisaroth’s sword ready to use it and holding on to the parrying stick.

Sisaroth attempted to dodge but his own blade caught him in the groin. It pierced the armor with a grinding noise and he screamed out in agony.

Balyndar laughed and grabbed Keenfire by the haft. “That’s the sound for me!” He snatched the ax back while Sisaroth tried a final stab at his throat, but the dwarf cut his head clean off his shoulders. A fountain of blood shot up all the way to the vaulted ceiling and the decapitated älf fell back down the stairs.

Still gasping for air, Balyndar had to sit down. He felt dizzy and his limbs were like lead. He could hardly move. Keenfire weighed more than four full sacks of gold.

A shadow fell on him. It was Lot-Ionan, staring down at him, a malicious smile on his lips.

Balyndar thought there was no earthly chance of stopping the magus if he wanted to kill them all. He felt exhausted. Tungdil was nowhere to be seen and Coïra presented no danger to the man. “Don’t even think of it,” he threatened Lot-Ionan nevertheless.

The magus seemed to shake his fingers, and suddenly a blue flame shimmered over to Balyndar, creeping inside his mouth and nose.

A warmth overcame him; it felt like being granted shelter, love and joy. His body received new strength and his wounds tickled and fizzed. When these sensations ceased he saw that his skin where the injuries had been was now without blemish, as if he had never been touched by a sword.

Lot-Ionan passed him by without a further glance.

Meanwhile Coïra, groaning, struggled to sit up, holding her head. She saw the dead älf, then Balyndar, and followed the magus with her eyes until he had disappeared down the spiral staircase. “What happened?”

“A lot,” the dwarf replied crisply, getting to his feet. He felt as if he had slept through half an orbit and was awakening refreshed. Lot-Ionan had kept to his side of the bargain and healed him. “And a small miracle, too. Come on, let’s find Goldhand!”

Together they hurried down the tower steps.

Tungdil Goldhand lay in his rigid armor next to an exhausted Mallenia by the campfire a mile north of the crater.

Lot-Ionan had transported the paralyzed dwarf out of Dsôn and up onto the plateau by magic, while Coïra had ministered to the wounded of their party with her remaining powers. She was not able to restore the blood that Mallenia had lost and thus the freedom-fighter was as weak as a little child.

Rodario looked after her tenderly, but they knew Mallenia could not accompany them any longer. Speed was of the essence on their journey and she could not travel. They planned to leave her to be cared for at the nearest farmstead. She would follow on as soon as she was sufficiently recovered.

Ireheart pushed Tungdil’s visor up and rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “So this time it was the älf?”

“Yes. He recited a formula.” Tungdil tried to lift his arm. “Nothing.”

Balodil stood on the far side and uttered some strange dark words. Not a single rune shone out. He shrugged his shoulders regretfully and stomped back to the fire.

Ireheart grinned and raised his crow’s beak. “You know what that means?”

“Yes,” replied his friend roughly. “And I don’t like it.”

“Wait!” called Coïra. “Do we know what kind of phrase was used?”

Ireheart explained concisely what had happened the previous time, leaving out any details that the maga did not need to know.

Her face became thoughtful. “But if the Zhadár could not help this time it won’t have been the same phrase.” She leaned over Tungdil and asked, “Can you give us any hint?”

Ireheart suspected Tungdil had not told him the whole truth when relating the origins and peculiarities of the suit of armor. Perhaps on purpose, buzzed the lonely doubter inside his head. He didn’t want you to know where he is vulnerable. And look where that has got him.

“He’d be able to tell me now,” he told the doubting voice. Unfortunately he said it out loud, causing Coïra to look surprised. “Nothing important. I was talking to myself,” said Ireheart, motioning Coïra to step aside. “Right there! Mind out!” he bellowed for everyone’s benefit. “There’ll be lightning flashes, so shield your eyes or look the other way.”

He positioned himself, legs wide apart, over Tungdil, lifted his weapon and slammed it down using the flat side like he had done before, in the Outer Lands.

There was a dull thud and Tungdil groaned. Despite its hardness the tionium showed a dent in the breastplate.

“What is wrong, for Vraccas’s sake?” Ireheart swung the crow’s beak up again and tensed the muscles in his upper body to put all his strength into the next blow. “You’ll start next time I touch you!”

Another crash and the armor buckled and dented again. But no flash ensued and the armor lost none of its rigidity. Tungdil groaned and gasped.

“Charming! We’re in trouble here,” remarked Slîn superfluously.

“I can see that!” snarled Ireheart. “Does it hurt a lot, Scholar?” he asked kindly.

“Only when I laugh,” coughed the dwarf. “Don’t hit me again, Ireheart. Or if you do, aim somewhere else. Or I’ll suffocate.”

“I think… the älf has… turned off the magic. Except for the… safety cut-out.” Ireheart ran his fingers over the dents in the metal. “All this hammering is no help at all.”

“We must get a cart for him,” Rodario suggested. “And that way, since we’ll only be going slowly, we can take Mallenia along, too.”

“No,” protested Tungdil. “We’ll find a way to force the armor to wake up. And we’ll do it tonight.”

“Well, charming,” murmured Slîn. “Why doesn’t Balyndar have a go with Keenfire?”

“Has the sense of all your ancestors completely deserted you? You might as well shoot him in the eye,” said Ireheart. “It could kill him!”

“How so?” asked Balyndar. “He is not one of our enemies.” He got to his feet at the campfire, chucked away the rabbit bones he’d been gnawing at, and picked up his ax. As always, the inlay pattern and diamonds glowed, giving off a faint sheen. “Let’s see. Or has anybody got any objections?”

Slîn and Ireheart exchanged glances. Even Tungdil remained silent.