Markus Heitz: The Fate of the Dwarves

Mallenia only grinned, one hand on the hilt of her sword. “Let’s go. Goda and Ireheart must have things to talk about.”

The two women and Rodario shook hands with the others and left.

“The long-uns are a strange lot,” said Ireheart, kissing Goda on the forehead. “Sometimes just the one of you is too much for me, but the actor wants to take on two women.”

Goda grinned and sent the children out to help with the packing. “You will make a good king. Your children will support you.” She kissed him. “As I do.”

“Do you?” he blurted out the question.

She started to reply but instead stroked his silvery black hair. “It is the only issue we disagree on, dear husband. Kiras was right to do what she did.”

Ireheart looked deep into her eyes. “You know I see things very differently. We won’t mention it again.” He turned away, teeth clenched, so as not to say more, not to hurt her. He loved her too much for that.

Ireheart heard her sigh and leave the room.

Relieved to be alone with his thoughts he turned to the table, where two items waited for his attention: The casket and the drinking pouch.

He strode over, touching first the cool vraccasium and then the leather drinking vessel. He took his own flask out from under his chain mail and was disgusted to hear the black liquid inside swill thickly about.

It’s this stuff that caused Tungdil’s death. This and the curse that rests on me.

Ireheart took his crow’s beak, stepped over to the huge fireplace and started to feed the blaze, putting log after log on the pile of burning wood until the flames rose high. He went over the events of recent orbits in his mind. So many of his questions would stay unanswered forever. You and I shall meet again in the eternal forge. Then we shall have time to talk.

“I don’t need to ask the elf goddess for mercy,” he said quietly, throwing his own drinking pouch into the flames. The heat scorched and blackened the leather and the black liquid seeped out. When it touched the glowing wood it bubbled away to dark smoke. “I am Boindil Doubleblade of the clan of the Ax Swingers, a child of the Smith and king, from the tribe of secondling dwarves.” He hurled the second vessel into the fire. “Vraccas made us out of stone and gave us life. I will overcome the curse on my own, as true as I stand here!”

He watched fascinated as the second vessel was devoured by the flames. Resting his hands on top of the crow’s beak, he drew himself up tall and straightened his back, looking every inch the born ruler.

Then he turned round and went back to the table, contemplating the vraccasium urn that shone in the reflected firelight, as if it had an inner strength. He placed a hand on it and felt its warmth.

“I shall miss you, Scholar,” he whispered. Then, picking up the urn he left the room without looking round. The Blue Mountains were waiting for their king.