Slin held his crossbow against his shoulder. “We should make less noise,” he said.
Balyndar laughed at him. “That’s because you’re the one with a weapon that always has to be reloaded.”
Ireheart grinned. “Come on, let’s find where they traded dwarf-goods,” he suggested, turning down one of the side streets, where he saw two crossed hammers on a sign over a shop doorway. That was a good enough clue for him. It might be a blacksmith’s; he would feel at home there. He wiped the sweat off his forehead. “I hope they’ll have some oil for my chain mail. I’m nearly out of it.”
“What shall we do if we find things our own folk have made?” Slin wanted to know. “Can we take them with us?”
“That’s what I was thinking. I don’t envy the long-uns their wealth, but if the town is going to disappear under yet more sand, I’d like to salvage things made by our own tribes.” Ireheart stepped into the shop, where he found tools of every sort, ranging from nail clippers to quarry drills.
Two of them sifted through the items on show while the third kept watch outside. They worked their way from shop to shop until they reached the edge of the immense dune. A number of booths had already been half swamped by the encroaching sands, and it proved to be these that were advertising dwarf-wares.
The trio hesitated at the buildings, whose facades were cracked. They knew that the sand represented an enormous weight, even if the individual grains were so light.
“Looks dangerous to me,” said Slin.
“But it might be worth the risk.” Balyndar gestured with the morning star toward a sign reading Weapons made by the Children of Vraccas. The door had already been broken open, and swords, spears and axes lay scattered around. “Someone’s already done their shopping, it seems, without asking the owner.”
Ireheart rubbed his cheeks, tossed his black plait out of the way and strode in. It was obvious that he had made his decision. “Slin, you stand guard,” he ordered. “If the roof falls in, at least one of us will survive.”
“That’s a nice thought,” the fourthling beamed. He stayed outside under the porch while Ireheart and Balyndar stepped carefully over a heap of daggers, knives and axes.
It was clear at once that they had stumbled on a small treasure trove-but it had already been pillaged. The display cases were empty, the glass fronts shattered. Only the normal run of weapons-still, however, of excellent quality-remained hanging on the walls or from the ceiling.
“What a shame,” said Balyndar as he stepped over the mess.
“This stuff on the floor isn’t dwarf-manufacture,” muttered Ireheart, crouching down. “They’re forgeries,” he snorted. “The robbers could obviously tell the difference between quality stuff and fake.”
“By Vraccas,” Balyndar called out excitedly. Ireheart hurried over. “Do you see what I see?”
The warrior saw a cabinet with a broken pane of glass. Inside was a velvet cushion and below that was a piece of parchment with wording in human language: “The legendary Keenfire-the original weapon.” Next to it lay a little booklet and a certificate verifying authenticity, issued by the shopkeeper, one Esuo Wopkat, and vouchsafing the return of the purchase price should the weapon prove to be a forgery.
Ireheart laughed outright. “Yet another of them!”
“I know, they were a real hit with the souvenir shops,” said Balyndar, reaching into the vitrine to retrieve the booklet. “This says how it was found.”
“Let me guess,” called Ireheart, enthusiastic as a young child with a riddle. “Hmm, let’s see… it was found this time on the top of the Dragon’s Tongue? Or in the caves of Toboribor? No, wait… In the lost vaults of Lot-Ionan?”
“No, none of those.” Balyndar cleared his throat and began to read:
Esteemed customers, collectors and experts,
The ax you hold in your hands is made from the purest, most durable of steel; the claws at the end are of stone, the handle is made of sigurdacia wood, the inlays and runes are from all the rare metals to be found in the mountains; the blade, however, is edged in diamonds.
The weapon was forged in the hottest furnace possible. The name of the item is Keenfire.
Forget everything you have heard from the charlatans.
This one is the only true Keenfire. It was found on the dried-up floor of Weyurn’s lakes and was smuggled out of the land under the greatest of perils for the finder.
The location was near the hole from which Lohasbrand emerged. I am not able to say how this occurred.
A fisherman’s son brought the ax to me, saying his cousin had found it. He had shown it to a dwarf, who recognized its true value and killed the man. However, while fleeing, the dwarf needed to cross a river and drowned, when justice and the curse of Elria triumphed.
The fisherman wanted nothing to do with the ax because he feared the dwarves would attack him for it, so he sent his son to me with it. I made him a very good offer and so was able to take possession of Keenfire.
I know it is the legendary ax with which Tungdil Goldhand performed so many valiant deeds for Girdlegard. I was intending to keep it safely against his return, but without him it has no power, so I’ve decided to part with it. For gold.
Should the hero ever return, give him this ax. I am certain he will amply reward you.
Sincerely,
Esuo Wopkat
Ireheart whistled. “That’s the best story so far. At least the facts seem to match up nicely.”
“How do you mean?”
“It sounds genuine. If I remember rightly, the last Unslayable ran off with Keenfire and threw it away en route when we were pursuing him.” Ireheart beamed. “He will have thought a lake would be the last place a dwarf would want to search for it. So he tossed it into the water before he went down the shaft.”
“You don’t really believe it, do you?” Balyndar shut the little book and chucked it back into the broken cabinet. “And anyway, the thing’s been stolen. It could be anywhere by now.”
“Hey there!” said Slin, at the entrance, holding up a dusty ax. “Look what I found outside in the dirt. It was smack in front of my boots.”
Ireheart and Balyndar looked at each other.
The fourthling blew the encrusted sand off. “I don’t know what kind it is, but I’ll have a better idea when I’ve given it a bit of a wash.” He inspected the blade. “Are those diamonds? Who do…?” He noticed the other two were staring at him, then he fell silent, swallowing hard. “By Vraccas!” he croaked in awe, kneeling down and placing the ax reverently on the ground in front of him.
“By Vraccas,” said Balyndar and Ireheart simultaneously, coming over to the doorway and crouching down to look at the weapon.
Ireheart took his drinking flask from his belt and poured some water onto the ax head to reveal some of the fine detail. “I…” His voice died away.
“Charming!” Slin heard a chinking sound behind the two dwarves and raised his crossbow. He saw a dagger slip forward in the cabinet, fall off the shelf and drop on to the counter. He was just drawing breath again in relief when he noticed a sword releasing itself from its fastenings and sailing down to the counter as well. “Something weird is happening here,” he told his companions, who were intent on examining the runes and inlays. “We must warn the others.”
“Just shoot the silly mouse if you’re scared of it,” Balyndar said briskly, misinterpreting the sounds.
“Yes, before Franek’s spell makes it grow the size of an ox,” added Ireheart, completing the thought as he ran his fingers carefully along the ax blade. “Well, I’ll be damned!”