He studied the block of stone above which the dragonhead rose up. “That little rock is never going to be big enough to hide Lohasbrand,” he murmured, and waved to Slin to join him. “Shoot the dragon in the eye.”
“Did Tungdil say to?”
“No, we don’t need him.”
“Charming…”
He shoved him. “Come on. Hurry up!”
Slin hesitated. “You want to provoke an attack?”
“Get on with it!” snarled Ireheart. “Nothing will happen.” He stood so that the archer could aim at the target without being seen by the Lohasbranders.
Slin took a deep breath and held it while he drew back the trigger mechanism. A click, and the bolt whizzed through the air, hitting the creature in the middle of the right pupil.
“You never missed?” asked Ireheart accusingly.
“No, of course not!” Slin was furious. “I couldn’t miss a target like that even after a jug of brandy and a barrel of black beer!” He loaded the weapon again to prove his point and a second projectile landed up touching the first. “Charming, indeed! It doesn’t feel any pain!”
Nobody had spotted what they were up to.
The rationale behind this extraordinary phenomenon suddenly occurred to Ireheart. He looked at Slin excitedly. “At this rate we might stud him all over with bolts and he wouldn’t notice at all.”
“True.” The fourthling shuddered. “An immortal dragon? By Vraccas…”
“No.” Ireheart laughed out loud. “That’s it! That’s why he’s not coming out from behind the rock.”
“What?” called Slin. “Why not?” He did not get an answer.
Ireheart went over to Tungdil and whispered his idea.
The Scholar smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well done! If you carry on like this, Girdlegard won’t need me at all. Splendid, Ireheart! I could sense something wasn’t right. That explains everything. You’ve taken away the Dragon’s power.” He lifted Bloodthirster and looked along the ranks. All the dwarves were awaiting his orders. “Maga Coira, you and Mallenia and Rodario keep back behind our lines. If the Dragon attacks you then go into action. We’ll do the rest.” Then he lowered his sword and stormed forward.
The Zhadar and Black Squadron were close on his heels, yelling fit to bust and brandishing their weapons.
They may have looked like a random horde but these warriors were well trained and adopted a distinct formation. Hargorin’s soldiers went in as the first wave, to carve out gaps in the enemy lines. The Zhadar would then push through these breaks to attack like shadows from behind to confuse the foe.
Ireheart threw himself into the fray with passion. “Hey there, Lohasbranders! Let’s have your shields out of the way!” he bellowed enthusiastically, smashing the first one with a crow’s beak broadside. He ducked under a darting spear tip, took a step to the left and hacked his metal spike into the opponent’s ribcage; there was a gratifying scream.
Ireheart sprang through into the gap, pushing away the Zhadar trying to follow him. “Get off! This is my place!” he snarled, yanking the metal spur out of the dead body to thrust it into the living body of the next foe careless enough to leave himself undefended.
The iron hook tore the lamellar garb apart and sliced through the flesh beneath it. The Lohasbrander fell groaning to the floor.
“One less!” cheered the dwarf, delivering a sharp kick to another’s shield, making the holder fall backwards. Ireheart jumped onto the shield, crushing the man underneath. “It’s always going to be dark for you now, dragon friend,” he growled, whacking the flat side of the crow’s beak into the man’s face.
Behind his stone the Dragon was roaring and raging-but he wasn’t coming out.
Ireheart had fought his way through the ranks of men, clearing a path the Zhadar were making use of. They, Tungdil and he sneaked round behind the boulder to launch themselves on Lohasbrand with loud oaths.
What they saw made them stop in mid-attack.
A dozen men and women were operating the dragonhead and neck on long poles, which they were raising and lowering to give the impression the creature was moving. Others were making the snout open and close; directly adjacent five more of them were banging away on boxes and drums and metal sheets to create the dragon’s roaring voice. They had constructed a sort of funnel arrangement to increase the volume of noise.
“Puppeteers! Will you look at that! Just what I thought!” Ireheart grinned. “You can’t trick a dwarf that easily, you idiot play actors!” He sprang into their midst, whirling his crow’s beak in circles; the Zhadar and the squadron followed suit.
The wooden poles that were wielded against them soon fell, smashed by powerful blows; Ireheart’s battle-fury kicked in, sending a red mask of rage over his face.
Yelling and cheering he dealt out shattering blows with his weapon, feeling blood spurting, and hearing the cries and groans of the wounded and dying-until his friend’s voice reached him. With immense difficulty he forced back the tide of fever, the fire in his veins, the bloodlust that had taken him over. He rubbed his eyes and surveyed the carnage.
Human remains lay scattered around.
They had not put up much of a fight and Ireheart had been disappointed at the lack of resistance. Catching his breath, he aimed a kick at the stuffed dragonhead. Sweat was pouring off him. “Ha! Dead!” He cleaned off his weapon in a foul temper. “What a let-down. I still can’t cross off killing a dragon on my list.”
Hargorin came round the rock with a troop of his men expecting to help Ireheart fight the Dragon. He halted the soldiers and came over to inspect what was left of the enemy soldiers and the monster. “Wielgar has a lot of explaining to do,” was his only comment. Coira, Mallenia and Rodario also arrived and stared in astonishment at the bloodbath and the dragon cadaver.
“I don’t need Wielgar.” Boindil looked at Tungdil. “The Dragon must have died some time back and the Lohasbranders kept quiet about it so that the people would carry on obeying them. And the pig-faces, too, I suppose.” The one-eyed dwarf nodded.
The maga clenched her fists. “To Tion with the lot of the bastards! They deserve their deaths three times over. How long have they been pulling the wool over our eyes?” She almost did not want to know the answer so that she would not have to reproach herself with anything. Had they not been terrified of reprisals from the Dragon they would surely have driven out the occupying forces from their island realm and her mother would have been able to free herself much sooner from her shackles. Then she would never have been slain in battle with the alfar…
Hatred flamed up in her heart on a scale she had never experienced before. She wanted every last one of the enemy to know her feelings.
Coira whirled round on her heel and hurried back to the barracks to confront Wielgar.
“Follow her.” Tungdil ran after her and left it up to Hargorin and Barskalin to finish off the wounded and guard the cave entrance.
They reached the hut in time to see the maga slicing off the struggling, shrieking Wielgar’s ears and hurling them disdainfully at him. She swung her sword arm in preparation for a blow to his heart, but Tungdil restrained her and pushed her aside.
“No, Your Majesty! First he has to answer some questions, then you shall have your revenge,” he said to calm her. Rodario and Mallenia held Coira back, and stopped her lunging at the prisoner, knife in hand.
Tungdil confronted Wielgar, whose shoulders were now drenched in the blood that was streaming down left and right. “We have defeated your friends, Lohasbrander. How long have you been playing this trick on the people of Weyurn?”
“All is lost. It’s all over.” The man sobbed and let himself hang drooping in his chains.
Ireheart threw some water over him. “Talk, longlegs. Or I’ll get salt to rub in your wounds.”
“Forty cycles,” he whimpered.
“Forty?” yelled Coira, quite beside herself. You’ve oppressed us for forty years without reason, letting us live in fear, just so you could live in luxury?” She lunged forward again. If it had not been for Rodario and Mallenia, she would have killed him there and then. “I curse you, Wielgar! I curse you and all your band!”