Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

Tungdil was listening but gave no sign that he knew how the story went.

“The monsters had nearly overwhelmed the fourthlings when the acronta rolled in over the plain and hunted down the orcs as if for sport, like a dog might chase a cat.” He laughed and slapped his thigh. “What wouldn’t I have given to have seen that and to have fought at their side!”

“Didn’t the acronta eat the orcs afterwards?”

“Oh, yes, they did. Do you remember Djerun, Andokai’s bodyguard-Andokai the Tempestuous?” Boindil looked at the walls, which had been repaired two hundred and fifty cycles ago, twice as thick as before, even though in truth the more dangerous enemies lay to the south of the dwarf realm. But in those times there had been no way of knowing that.

Two flags flew on the highest towers: One for the kingdom of the fourthlings and one for the union of all the dwarf realms. It was a nice fancy, because there was now no true community of dwarves as in the old times under the high king.

Tungdil patted the befun’s neck. “No,” he said honestly. “There are large parts of my life I know hardly anything about.” He touched the scar on his forehead and looked at Ireheart. “Tell me about this Djerun character.”

Ireheart gave a dismissive wave. “He’s not important, Scholar. I just wanted to talk about the acronta and… it doesn’t matter.” He took his bugle, put it to his lips and sounded it. It was not long before an answering fanfare came from the walls. On hearing that he blew a different set of notes.

Slowly but surely, the gates of Silverfast were opened for them.

Tungdil and Ireheart rode up to the entrance in silence. A troop of dwarves stood in formation at the gate, pikestaffs in their hands.

The one-eyed dwarf noted that crossbow marksmen were manning the battlements. “We don’t seem to be particularly welcome,” he commented.

“They don’t have anything against us personally. It’s regulations,” explained Boindil. “Frandibar Gemholder of the Gold Beater clan adopted the procedure on my advice. Nobody gets through to the other side without undergoing a thorough check. Not even me.” Ireheart was concerned about how the envoys of the dwarf-races would react to this folk hero, now so sadly changed.

They rode up to the guards.

“Not sure, Ireheart?” Tungdil’s voice was devoid of bitterness or reproach. He smiled sadly. “There will be others to whom the notion of my being an impostor or a phantom will occur, when they see me. Especially when they hear my new suggestions for forcing Lot-Ionan to his knees. Because that’s what we need to do: We have to bend him to our will, and not kill him. That, Ireheart, is going to be the most difficult thing, with a determined and desperate opponent.”

“Desperate? Lot-Ionan is a magus; why should he be desperate?”

“The longer we fight against him, the more he will be overwhelmed with despair. Believe me.” Again his features displayed a frightening mirth. The expression would have suited a demon. Ireheart would not have wanted to turn his back on Tungdil at that moment, but he returned his smile.

They had reached the sentries now: Heavily armed and grim-faced dwarves in thick coats. They held their pikes ready to be used instantaneously.

“State your names and your business,” said the captain of the guard. Tungdil left the explanations to Boindil.

Boindil noticed that the guards’ attention was focused on the Scholar. In his flamboyant armor and mounted as he was on a very unusual animal, he aroused curiosity and suspicion; that altered when they learned the somber dwarf’s name.

“By Vraccas!” exclaimed the captain; he bowed to them both. “Can it be true that the two greatest dwarf-heroes have arrived to free Girdlegard? We did not expect you so soon. The delegates have not all come yet.”

“Then we’ll begin the strategy meeting without them,” said Tungdil abruptly. “Can we pass?”

“Of course, Tungdil Goldhand,” said the captain at once and gave a signal. The guards drew back to let them through.

“How do you know I am the real Tungdil Goldhand?” he asked darkly from atop his befun. “Do I look like a child of the Smith? In this armor? And what do the runes on the tionium signify? What if they meant death to observers?”

“Well… you’re riding with Boindil Doubleblade. He identified himself with the bugle signal. I thought…” The dwarf-captain hesitated and looked at Ireheart. He had not expected to be blamed and criticized for the warm welcome he had given the new arrivals.

“Thank you. We’ll find our own way in,” said Boindil in much friendlier tones. “Give us a soldier who can guide us swiftly and directly through the Brown Mountains to King Frandibar Gemholder. There is not an orbit to be lost. And the pressure of the crisis affects even such heroes as Tungdil Goldhand. Forgive the harshness of his manner.” He spurred his pony on.

The captain saluted and called out a name; as soon as Ireheart and Tungdil had passed under the archway, an opening large enough to have admitted even a kordrion, a dwarf came riding after them to act as their guide. He kept his distance. The words of the somber hero had been noted.

“What was all that about, Scholar?” whispered an angry Boindil. “Isn’t it enough if they get suspicious gradually? Do you enjoy sowing doubts?”

“I thought there would be some kind of a check,” he replied. “But they let us waltz in without asking us even to dismount. They should have searched our luggage at the very least.” His right hand touched the breastplate and stroked one of the runes. “And with this armor, these runes, he just let me in. Did you see how they stared at me? As if I were a monster.”

“At the moment that’s just what you sound like, Scholar,” Ireheart retorted, feeling insulted. “You’re not happy, whatever people do. What advice would you have given him?”

“Go and tell the captain he must not admit a single dwarf after us,” Tungdil said. “No matter who he is or who he claims to be. We saw one thirdling in the Outer Lands and I don’t think he was the only one. They will try to break into the realm of the gem cutters from the north.

“A spy, then,” Boindil surmised. “Of course! They’ll circumvent the Brown Range and check out the lie of the land and see where the defenses are weak before they attack.”

Tungdil offered ironic applause. “Now you’ve understood. I hope you can see, then, why I acted as I did.”

But Ireheart couldn’t really, even though the explanation made some sense. Surely the Scholar could have spoken rationally and calmly to the captain. “I’ll tell our leader. He’ll pass it on to the Silverfast troops. They’ll be more careful in future.”

The main gate of Goldfast stood open in welcome for the heroes, and here again the dwarves were received with cheers of frenetic rejoicing, fanfares and drum rolls. All the guards had left their posts to greet the pair.

Waving and smiling to the crowd, Ireheart sneaked a look at Tungdil. The Scholar cast a stony gaze to right and left. He rested one hand on his thigh as he rode; the other held the reins of the befun. He entered the fortress like a grim, war-weary general: No hand raised in acknowledgment, no greeting, no smile. The only clues to his state of mind were the spark in his eye, his pride and his awareness of his own power.

They continued without delay and Tungdil urged their guide to make swift progress.

Ireheart was still thinking about the thirdling they had encountered at the mountain refuge. “It would mean,” he blurted out while they were riding through a large cavern where the walls were covered in a film of water, “that the skirt-wearers have done more than merely form an alliance with the black-eyes.”