Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

“He’s gone mad,” came the voice of one of the clan leaders. “What kind of expedition would be able to do all that?”

“So do you not have any fresh heroes? Was it just a cheap excuse-let’s do nothing at all until Tungdil comes back?” Tungdil whirled round. “I can see some strong arms and watchful eyes here in this room. Take Balyndar with you. He’s an obvious choice.” He pointed at Ireheart. “Don’t forget my old comrade. He and his crow’s beak will sort out enemy skulls and armor, no problem. Get yourself a skillful cross-bowman and send a handful of brave hearts along with them. When you’ve found them, offer prayers to your god, and send them on their way.”

“And you won’t be with them?” The king of the fourthlings was aghast.

“No.” Tungdil sat down heavily in his chair. “After over two hundred cycles of constant war, battle and combat, enough is enough. I shall find myself a nice little place and shall watch from the sidelines as you eliminate evil. It’s enough for me to know that I have given you the plan.”

Balyndar had swallowed his anger and looked extremely disappointed. “So this is the great hero, whose deeds are so far out of our league. He looks like one of Tion’s warriors and the speeches he makes demand the impossible of us. Then he sits down and takes his ease to watch us fail.” He laughed joylessly. “Thank you, Tungdil Goldhand.”

Ireheart heard the clan leaders talking quietly among themselves and observed that they were not following what was going on at the hexagonal table anymore. As for himself, he was still trying to think through the strategy his friend had outlined. This meeting mustn’t end in discord! He took a deep breath, raised his voice and announced “The Scholar is right!”

Silence fell in the hall. All of them stared at him.

“He’s right,” Ireheart repeated, laying his hand on the map of Girdlegard. “We don’t have massive armies to march in with. Our strongholds have been destroyed for the most part, and in those fortresses that still exist we sit waiting for death to take us. Either with alfar arrow, kordrion attack, fever, or dragon fire.” He stood up. “Our only hope is to employ the tactics Tungdil has described.” He placed his hand on his crow’s beak. “I shall be of the party riding out to save our race. The fate of the dwarves must be decided by the dwarves themselves.”

Frandibar studied him carefully, then looked at Tungdil. “There’s certainly some truth in what we’ve heard,” he said, speaking gravely. “And it will have an impact if we can say that Boindil Doubleblade rides at the head of a band of daring warriors. But the one we really need is the most famous of us all.” His eyes fixed on Tungdil. “I beseech you. Go with him. The time for rest is when Girdlegard is at peace once more.”

Balyndar cast a contemptuous glance at Tungdil. “Otherwise we will have witnessed the most pointless return of a hero there has ever been in Girdlegard.”

The one-eyed dwarf smiled maliciously. “Neither threat nor entreaty can move me. I have been through too much for that. I have lived through too much.”

A thought flashed into Boindil’s mind that seemed perverse and monstrous enough to make some sort of sense. His friend could not be motivated by the offer of treasure or by appeals to altruism. He had been heaped with glory and wealth on the other side of the Black Abyss. But there is one honor he is missing… “And what if you were to lead us as high king of the dwarves, Scholar?” Ireheart spoke his thoughts out loud.

At once a clamor of voices broke out.

“Quiet!” demanded Frandibar, raising his arms. “Be quiet and let him finish.”

Unruffled, Ireheart elucidated his idea. “This is not just a random suggestion. Think about it: With one of their own tribe at our head we have a chance to negotiate with the thirdlings. Imagine if we could do that… if Tungdil could do that-if he could convince them they’d be better off holding back while we fight the alfar, and waiting to see what happens. Or even supporting us in our fight.”

No outcry ensued. The dwarf folk discussed the matter quietly among themselves, gesticulating and nodding or shaking their heads.

Ireheart and Tungdil exchanged glances. The smile had altered and now showed a mixture of amusement, disbelief and satisfaction.

Balyndar was frowning, his hand gripping his morning star. “I would have to vote in favor, even if he is not my first choice,” he announced, turning to the assembly. “Boindil Doubleblade’s suggestion is not to be dismissed out of hand. We are in a position to elect Tungdil Goldhand as our high king. The generations coming after us can decide if we have acted sensibly in this crisis. We must not forget the effect it will have on Lot-Ionan when Tungdil appears. He was once his foster-father, after all.” Balyndar turned to Tungdil. “But I have my doubts. I say this openly.” “Let it be a further reason to take part in the campaign yourself,” said Ireheart, not able to quell his own growing misgivings when he saw Tungdil’s smile. Vraccas help us.

Frandibar stayed silent for a time before getting to his feet. “Our race has never had to make a decision like this. Not until this orbit. It is important that every clan leader, man or woman, be asked his or her opinion.” He pointed to the first dwarf of the fifthling tribe and recorded his approval of the plan.

It took a long time to ask each member of the assembly for their view.

But finally the decision was unanimous. All eyes rested on Tungdil when Frandibar opened his mouth to address the hero.

Ireheart came to Tungdil’s chamber. A single candle still burned; tiny flames flickered in the fireplace, casting a dark-red glow over the room.

His friend was sitting by the fireplace in full armor, his back to the door. Although his chair was large, he only just fitted. His right hand lay on the pommel of Bloodthirster, while the tip of the weapon rested on the floor. The golden eye patch shimmered blood-red in the firelight and the inlaid patterns on the black tionium armor glowed as if they had come alive, warmed by the flames.

Ireheart saw that food on a plate next to Tungdil was untouched, but the beer jug lay empty on its side. “You’re not happy with how the vote went, Scholar,” he stated.

Tungdil did not answer.

“Scholar?” Ireheart came around the armchair to look at his friend’s face. He was horrified. The remaining brown eye had changed its color, taken over by green whirling patterns. Then dark-yellow spots appeared from the depths and suppressed the green. The black pupil looked glassy and dead.

Ireheart bent forward. “What’s happening…?”

Tungdil’s gaze grew sharp again and once more his eye was brown. “I’m sorry, I was asleep,” he said in greeting, rubbing his face as if he wanted to make sure everything was back in place. “What can I do for you?”

Boindil pulled his head back, fighting down his astonishment and shock. “I wanted to know how you were feeling. If you were satisfied with how the vote went.” He took a seat opposite Tungdil.

“Is that the real reason you came?” Tungdil was breathing heavily. “Or did you want to see what I get up to when I think no one is watching?”

“You’re surely immune to being taken by surprise in that armor of yours.” Ireheart attempted a light tone, his smile awry.

Tungdil looked at his friend and Ireheart was pleased to see the old familiar expression. He had no doubt about it; this was his true Scholar.

“I didn’t ever ask you what you thought of my suggestion,” Tungdil said. “About how we take on the enemy.”

“Bit late for that now, surely? The decision is made.”