Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

“These are your mountains. I considered it more appropriate to leave their cleansing to you,” answered Aiphaton. “My contribution was to poison them. That made it possible for you to defeat them. Otherwise I would probably have stepped into the fray on your side.” He surveyed the heaped bodies. “I was never one of them, even if I believed it for a time. It was a mistake that I have now corrected.” He looked at Ireheart. “The southern gate has not been touched and the few who escaped the magic spells of Vot and Bumina have now died in the tunnels.” He pointed to Tungdil. “He ought to take the armor off. Or it will take possession of him more and more.”

“Possession?”

“Didn’t you know?”

Ireheart grabbed his water flask and moistened his dry throat. “I suspected it,” he replied quietly. “How much do you know about it?”

“Nothing at all. But I can read the symbols. It indicates a pact between the armor and the one who wears it that each will protect the other and that they will never part. Then the day will come when the wearer will never want to take it off at all. Not even to sleep. Not even when he eats. Not even when he defecates. His flesh will be rubbed raw by it, gangrene will set in and Tungdil will die in his own excrement.” Aiphaton saw the horror in the dwarf’s face. “Make him take it off.” He strode past, toward the door. “I am going to Dson Bhara, to finish my mission.”

“Perhaps it won’t be necessary.” Ireheart explained what Vot had vouchsafed to them.

The alf considered the implications. “Then I shall see what the magus has left. If he and I encounter each other I shall overpower him and leave him bound and tethered for you to find.” He winked at Ireheart. “Look after your friend if his life is dear to you.” With these words he left the hall.

The dwarf followed him with his eyes, then looked at Tungdil, who was still seated on the remains of the throne, staring at the wall, one hand stroking his thigh guards, lost in thought.

Girdlegard,

Former Queendom of Sangpur,

At the border with Gauragar,

Late Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle

The desert was safely behind them now-their journey had been speeded up by the horses they had acquired at an oasis.

If they maintained present progress they would soon be in the central region of the alfar realm and thus near Lot-Ionan. Only short rests were accorded, enough to refresh the horses. Dwarves and humans ate while they rode.

During one of these evening pauses Rodario was sitting opposite the two women, his face indicating that he had an important announcement to make. “I accept,” he stated.

Coira and Mallenia exchanged glances.

“The clause about not sharing a bed with the two of you at the same time: I accept,” he repeated. “I don’t want to have to do without either one of you. The last few orbits have brought this home to me. And if two such charming ladies make me an offer of the kind you’ve made, I would be mad to turn it down.”

Coira leaned forward, beaming, to give him a resounding kiss on the left cheek, while Mallenia did the same on the right. A dutiful little gesture to seal an unusual pre-liaison agreement.

Ireheart had been watching the three of them and shook his head. “I’ll never understand these long-uns,” he told Tungdil. “Would you take a look at that constellation over there?”

“If they’re fond of each other and are happy with the relationship, what’s wrong with that?” Tungdil put a large branch on the fire over which their supper was roasting: Slin had shot them four rabbits. “I’d be the last person to criticize their arrangements.” He put his hand on his back to ease it.

“Shall I help you take the armor off? It must be uncomfortable.” Ireheart stretched out his hand to undo the buckles but his friend evaded him.

“Our mission is dangerous. Anything could occur. I won’t want to lose vital minutes putting my armor on and I can’t risk being injured through only having my normal leather jerkin on just because it’s more comfortable,” said Tungdil, rejecting his offer of assistance.

“When was the last time you took it off?”

“A long time ago.”

“Indeed it was, Scholar.” Ireheart passed him a rabbit thigh. The meat was piping hot and smelled delicious. “Here, eat this. It’ll make you big and strong so that you can continue doing those great deeds we saw in the Blue Mountains.” He started eating the other thigh. “I don’t know how you do it: All that energy and stamina. Even at my wildest I don’t come near.”

“I’ve had a deal more practice than you, my friend,” Tungdil replied. He ate his food but displayed little appetite.

Ireheart pretended to have seen something on the back of the tionium armor. “There you are! There’s dirt on it. And here’s a big dent. How did that happen? We should give it a thorough clean. Or it might get fractious and stop protecting you. It might even go all hard again, like a steel girder, and then I’ll have to bash away at it as though I’m ringing a bell, just to get you out of it!” He attempted levity.

Tungdil turned to him curiously. “Why on earth do you want me to take it off?”

“Me?”

“You’re a rotten actor, Ireheart. You always were.” He chewed and swallowed the meat. “What have you got against it?”

Ireheart had no idea how he could get out of answering that mercilessly direct question, so he went on the offensive: “I’ve heard some stories about suits of armor like that and they can take over whoever wears them. The poor sods end horribly, stuck in their metal casing, and I wouldn’t want that to happen to you,” he blurted out, gesturing with the rabbit bone. “All I know is, you haven’t taken it off for thirty orbits and I’ve seen you stroking the leg protectors as if they are made of the skin of a virgin dwarf!”

Tungdil was about to reply but then fell silent. “You’re quite right,” he said quietly, chucking the remains of his rabbit piece in the fire. “It would be very difficult for me to leave it off. Very difficult.”

“Then take it off now. At least for tonight. I’ll keep watch twice as thoroughly as usual,” Ireheart made an effort to encourage him.

But straightaway the runes lit up, shining like the eyes of a wild animal. “No,” his friend said, refusing to comply. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“Then tell me when you do intend to take it off.”

“When it’s all over,” Tungdil replied tiredly. “Let’s not argue about it, Ireheart. I swear I’ll take it off when the Black Abyss is closed up and we’ve defeated my former master.” He held out his hand. “Will that do?”

“Yes, Scholar!” Ireheart shook hands, and then the warrior turned back to the rabbits. “Grub up!” he shouted, so loud that the dwarves and humans all jumped. That made him grin. He could not see the Zhadar anywhere; they must be sitting in the shade somewhere keeping a weather eye out.

“So then, what do you think of me now?” Tungdil took his drinking flask, which he had filled with palm brandy. He took out the stopper and swallowed a deep draft of the strong liquor.

“Because you won’t take the suit of armor off?”

“No. What do you think of me?” He wiped some of the strong-smelling fruity liquid out of his beard. “Do you think I am the genuine Tungdil?”

Ireheart smiled. “I’ve thought that for a long time. Sometimes there’s a little gnome at the back of my mind that makes me notice minor things about you that you never used to have. But we all change, don’t we?” he answered, truthfully. “I’m positive you’re you, Scholar, and not a doppelganger or an illusion or anything evil sent by the powers of the Black Abyss.”