Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

Tungdil waited until everyone had gathered around the fire, had their food and gone away again. Slin had his toolkit spread out and was working on his crossbow, and Balyndar was looking at Keenfire, which still was refusing to quieten down.

“Only a minority elected me to the office of high king,” Tungdil started cautiously. “The fourthlings and fifthlings. What if the firstlings and secondlings speak out against me? What then?”

“You have the thirdlings’ support.”

“Yes, but the thirdlings don’t count. Not in this.” Tungdil contemplated Balyndar. “He’d be a much better high king. Or his mother could be high queen. The other three tribes would be happy with that.”

Ireheart took the proffered palm brandy and swallowed some, choking and spluttering. “I’m used to a lot of things,” he croaked, “but this is rough enough to eat your eyeballs up! And you’ve only got the one!” Tungdil laughed. “It sounds as if you want to give the title up! And to think I had to use it as bait to get you to join us, Scholar!”

“I only wanted it to force the dwarves to follow my orders,” he admitted. “The word of a high king has more weight than the word of Tungdil Goldhand, especially if lots of people are saying he’s not even the real one. Do you get me?” He gave a faint smile. “Most of them will be surprised when I hand the title back when our mission is over.”

“ Hand it back? ” Ireheart slapped his thigh. “Ho! Only our very own genuine Scholar could come up with something like that! A doppelganger would have been enjoying his power and would abuse it.” He laughed. “Yes, it will take them by surprise.” He nodded over at Balyndar. “Why don’t you tell him now?”

“Why would I?”

“So he changes his attitude toward you.”

Tungdil took another slug of the palm brandy. “I don’t want him to. It’s better if things stay as they are. If he makes it to king of the fifthlings the blemish on his pedigree should not be public knowledge. It’s better if he’s seen to have a different father. He can keep his secret.”

“Well, he could, but for the resemblance…”

“Coincidence, no more than that. I shall never refer to him as my son.” He gave Ireheart a steady stare. “And neither will you.”

“Of course not, Scholar. That’s a matter between yourself, Balyndis and Balyndar.” His throat still felt dry in spite of what he had drunk. He was aware what this signified and did not care for it at all. Shall I ever manage to resist this thirst? He was stubborn enough to be able to, surely. “Do you know who you would suggest as the next high king?”

“No. I shall keep out of things. I want to retire to somewhere in Girdlegard where I won’t have to deal with any of our tribes. That’s what I’m working toward.” Tungdil’s hard face lost its hostility. “If anyone wants to come visiting, that’s fine. But I won’t live with dwarves anymore.”

“Have you grown to hate your own folk while you were in exile?”

“No, it’s the other way around.” He played with his fingers. “Some of them cheer when they see me, but the others no longer understand me. The changes wrought by two hundred and fifty cycles of war, evil and violence cannot be undone. I’d rather live at peace and be lonely than live in the midst of crowds and have people hate me. That way I can make sure that only the ones who trust me will come to visit.” His single brown eye glinted warmly. “I’d be glad, Ireheart, if you would be one of that number.”

The warrior was touched. “Have I ever deserted you, Scholar?” His speech was beginning to slur. The thirst he had on him was burning through his whole body; he would not have been surprised to see little black clouds coming out of his mouth. He stood up. “I want to stretch my legs and go for a dwarf-water break. I’ll go and see what Troublemaker and Growler have to say for themselves.” He moved away quickly, leaving the campfire, off past the humans and into the half-light.

Panting, he ran to the small wood. “Troublemaker?”

Ireheart listened out, choking, as his gullet stung and bubbled. His throat was burning ever hotter and there was a whistling sound when he breathed in. He felt as dizzy as if he had just drunk the last of ten tankards of black beer.

“Troublemaker!” he coughed, sinking down on his knees, gasping, and wondering if he would feel better if he swallowed a knife to make his throat wider.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a black hand proffering a drinking flask.

Greedily Ireheart snatched the flask and took one or two sips before it was wrenched back out of his fingers; the burning sensation ceased abruptly and his breathing normalized.

He turned his head and saw the Zhadar circling round and squatting in front of him. “Thank you.”

Balodil threw the drinking pouch back over. “Take it. It belonged to the Zhadar we lost in the desert. There’s hardly any left, but it should be enough for you. If I die you’ll have my flask, too.”

“But… it’s no good,” said Ireheart in despair, with the taste of blood still in his mouth. “I’m turning into a half-Zhadar!”

Balodil sat down and leaned against a tree trunk. “There’s a way for you to escape that fate and save your soul. I told you before.” He gave a stupid little chuckle, sang the beginning strain of a dwarf-song and sneezed. “Barskalin was utterly convinced that one of the elves we spared would be able to free us from the curse. Because our intentions had been good.”

“And how would the pointy-ears manage that?”

“I don’t know. It’s up to you. But the elf will be able to break the spell that’s on you, because you never wanted to become one of us,” the Zhadar breathed, rocking his upper body in time to some melody that only he could hear. “First find your elf and ask him what to do,” he hummed in a singsong tone. “You won’t have much more time before you change permanently.”

“I haven’t changed!” Ireheart said sullenly.

“Oh, yes, you have. I can smell that you have.” Balodil laughed. “I don’t know how the elf will do it but he will have heard your name and will know you are considered one of the good ones who took the side of the elves in the old days, so I don’t expect the pointy-ears will let you die.”

“Did I just hear the word die ?”

Balodil made a face as if he were thinking hard to recall what word he had just said, then he whistled like a bird. “Yes, die. If you run out of this stuff for slaking your thirst, you will die.” Clucking quietly like a hen he got up and marched off back to the camp.

“That’ll be better than going mad like you,” muttered Ireheart, forcing himself upright. He stowed the nearly empty flask under his chain-mail shirt. “So I have to place my hopes on some pointy-ears taking pity on me. And first of all I’ve got to find him. But how?” he grumbled, as he followed Balodil.

In his mind’s eye he saw an elf-trap composed of a cage with a plate of salad as bait. Ireheart couldn’t stop himself grinning.

Girdlegard,

Former Kingdom of Gauragar,

Near Dson Balsur,

Late Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle

Wherever the group galloped past on their horses the freedom-fighters had been there before them.

In some places they saw castles burning or estates in ruins, elsewhere they saw bodies dangling at crossroads or bordering their route. The corpses had been stripped and presumably tortured before being hanged; some bore signs listing their crimes.

“The courts of the simple folk work quickly here in Gauragar,” was Rodario’s comment.

“I can’t blame them,” said Mallenia.

“It won’t just be here this is happening,” Coira assumed. “This prairie fire of public anger will be burning in Idoslane and in my own realm.”