Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

Balyndis gave him an encouraging smile. “You will be more than capable, Boindil. I know from our previous acquaintance that you always love a challenge.”

Ireheart gave a faint grin in response. “Let’s hope Vraccas is listening, Queen Balyndis.”

“We still have to settle the matter of appointing our next high king,” said Frandibar thoughtfully.

“Let’s leave that question open. For the next twenty cycles,” suggested Xamtor. “I don’t think it would be fitting to choose a replacement for Tungdil Goldhand in a rush. Let the throne remain empty for now. We shall see who proves worthy of the high office of supreme leader of all the dwarf-tribes.”

“If it were up to me,” Hargorin said, indicating Boindil, “it would be him.”

Ireheart raised his hand, rejecting the honor. “I thank you for your nomination but I should not want to accept the title. Xamtor’s suggestion is the best. Let us meet once a cycle and report what occurs in each of our dwarf realms. In twenty cycles’ time we will summon the clan leaders and let them decide.” His speech was greeted with applause.

Frandibar looked at the model of the Black Abyss, which still showed the rocks and fortress. “Evildam will be left in the care of the ubariu and undergroundlings, Boindil.”

“Yes. There is no reason to hold on to the fortress or repair it. They can let the fortress decay or use the materials to build something else. I heard talk about erecting a statue to Tungdil’s memory.” He consulted the lined faces round him. “Is there anything else we need to discuss?”

Nobody had any new issues to bring to the table and so the assembly broke up, with the delegates taking leave of each other before making their way back to their own realms. Frandibar would have the shortest journey, Xamtor the longest.

Ireheart strolled off through Evildam, the casket under his arm. He was deep in thought. Cracks had appeared on all the walls. It was time for the rest of the garrison to leave; other parts of the building were threatening to cave in, despite the engineering supports hurriedly put in place.

The last Zhadar suddenly stood in front of him with a demonic grin, as if he had been spat out by the darkness. “Are you off home?”

Ireheart contemplated the dark armor that the dwarf, who called himself Balodil, had never taken off. “Yes, what about you? You are a thirdling…”

He denied it vehemently. “No, I’m a Zhadar, created by the alfar. And I want to hunt them down until I’ve smoked the last of them out of their hidey holes.”

“Aiphaton was going to take that on. If you’re going to do it, at least take a party of the former Black Squadron along under your command.”

“Aiphaton would never be able to find them all. I know their secrets but he doesn’t. They tricked their own emperor; he seems keen to forget that. I’ll go alone. The thirdlings are good fighters but they’re not the right ones to hunt down the alfar.” Balodil took his flask off his belt. “This is for you.”

Ireheart stared at the gift and reached out for it. “But… I thought you need it yourself?” He looked around carefully to see if he could be observed.

The Zhadar chuckled, then barked like a dog, though he soon seemed quite normal again. “I can make my own stuff.” He leaned forward. “From alfar blood,” he said in a voice as deep as a well. “I squash them like you squeeze fruit to get the juice out.” He ran his tongue over his lips and his eyes glittered.

Ireheart could not deny that he found Balodil weird. “What will you do after you’ve found them all?”

He shrugged his shoulders and puffed out the air in his lungs, looking like a dwarf-child being told off by its mother. “This and that. Perhaps I’ll go to the freelings, perhaps I’ll leave Girdlegard, perhaps I’ll jump off a cliff.” He gurgled and rubbed his beard. “Or perhaps I’ll go to the Outer Lands and look for an army to invade Girdlegard with.” He watched Ireheart’s face carefully. “Well?”

“You wouldn’t do that.” Ireheart studied him. “You know there are too many heroes who can stop you.” Now Ireheart bent forward. “And I know your weak point: Tungdil’s son could never destroy his own father’s inheritance.”

Balodil jerked back and gave a malicious laugh. “No, I was never his son. I picked up the story and liked the idea of joking around with the name.” He giggled again. “It fooled you, didn’t it?”

“Nearly,” Boindil admitted, relieved. “I wish you luck with your plans.”

The Zhadar saluted. “If you ever need me, call my name to the east wind. The wind is my friend and will send me your message,” he said earnestly, stepping out into the outer corridor, where the torches had suddenly been extinguished. “May your god protect you.” And with that he was gone.

Almost too late Ireheart remembered. “Where did you hear Balodil’s story?”

“A friend told me,” came the answer out of the darkness. “The one you called the Growler. He claimed he was Tungdil’s son.”

The dwarf felt his blood run cold. “What?” He followed the Zhadar into the dark. “Is that true?”

There was no answer.

With a head full of thoughts Boindil went back to his quarters. Some dwarves were leaving, carrying heavy boxes and wooden chests.

The move was underway. Everything had been packed and was ready to go to its real home.

It’s really a bit of a shame. Ireheart was beginning to feel nostalgic and passed his hand over the granite of the walls. Evildam had been built according to his plans and had been home to him, his children having grown up here. I shall often come back, even if the journey’s only in my mind.

He entered the room where his family were sitting with Coira, Mallenia and Rodario. His wife was talking with the maga and waved him to come in as soon as she noticed him.

Ireheart knew she had attended the funeral for Kiras: A swift and simple ceremony. He had not gone, himself. The murderess of his best friend could expect neither pity nor respect.

“Ho! Have the magae been dividing up Girdlegard?” he joked, putting casket and flask on the table.

“No. We shall live in peace and harmony with one another,” Coira answered. “We have decided that I shall use and guard the magic source in the former alfar realm. I shall do this together with the two elves. It is regrettable but I shall have to govern Weyurn from a distance. Goda will protect the source in the Blue Mountains.”

“The new king of Gauragar may not like that idea.”

“She will,” said Mallenia. “The new king is going to be a queen.”

“You?” Ireheart bowed in her direction. “You have really earned it after so many cycles fighting for freedom. I offer my hearty congratulations, Queen Mallenia. Is our actor friend going to be taking Idoslane under his wing perhaps?” He winked.

“No. I’m happy for her to reign in both those lands. I’m applying for Urgon,” Rodario answered calmly. “The assembly there is interviewing candidates; I’ll address it on my way home. What with my heroic deeds and the legendary theater tours I’ve undertaken, the throne should be in my pocket.”

Mallenia and Coira both laughed at him. “And he really believes it, the poor thing,” the Ido woman teased.

“Yes, I do!” Rodario pouted. “You’ll see! I’ll be ruler there!”

“In your dreams or your next life,” joked Coira. “You should have enough on your plate, going to and fro between your two women. You wouldn’t have time for such an important office.” She put on a sad face. “Or are you saying that we don’t mean as much to you as a throne?”

Rodario burst out laughing. “If you ever get fed up with running a country and being a maga you can always get a job in my theater.”