Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

“There’s no time for that! What about our companions out there on the plain?” said Ireheart sharply. “We have to help them against the kordrion!” With an angry glance at Tungdil he added, “Maybe our new friends could give us a hand and show us what they’re worth.”

Barskalin shook his head. “They are dead, Boindil. The kordrion wiped them out. One of my invisible Zhadar placed at the cave entrance told me that before I showed myself to you. It was wise of you to follow us into the tunnel.”

Balyndar gasped. “Dead?”

“The kordrion caught them on the plain. How could they have escaped his white fire?” Barskalin nodded down the passage. “We should talk about it later and put a few miles between us and the beast for now. It will follow our scent.”

Ireheart looked first at Slin and Balyndar, and then at Tungdil. “And where do we go now?”

He had been thinking the Scholar would answer, but it was the sytrap who said, “To the south, to the Red Mountains.” How did the Scholar do that? Ireheart had not expected this, and to judge by the astounded faces of Slin and Balyndar, they had not reckoned with it either. But he felt no relief.

Nor was he relieved when they were shown something he assumed to be the cocoon, which the Zhadar had hidden under a thick pile of warm furs and dragged along the passage on a shield on rollers.

Girdlegard,

Dwarf Realm of the Fifthlings,

In the North of the Gray Range of Mountains,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

Indistinguishable one from another and vaguely ominous in their identical armor, the Zhadar marched swiftly in the company of the surviving members of the fourthling and fifthling band. They had fastened the cocoon and their equipment and provisions onto a shield and were pulling it along.

“How did you talk them into cooperating, Scholar?” asked Boindil as they went.

“We’ll have to keep an eye on them,” Balyndar chipped in. “And more important still-what do they want in exchange?”

Slin looked round. “I shan’t be able to sleep, I can feel it in my bones. Not one of them has shown us his face. Except for Barskalin.”

“You’ll be told next time we stop. It’s better if you hear it from him,” Tungdil placated them, then moved on quickly to catch up with the commander. “They’re chatting again. Like old friends.” Slin nudged Balyndar and pointed toward Tungdil’s back, indicating a particular rune. “The Zhadar have got the same one on their armor,” he mouthed. “You know what? I bet it’s no coincidence that we’ve teamed up. The plan about the nest was Tungdil’s-perhaps these are his warriors and are just pretending to be… Zhadar?”

“Maybe you’re right,” said the fifthling pensively.

“Stop that nonsense!” commanded Ireheart in the uncomfortable knowledge that he could not tell them what to do.

Balyndar looked at him disapprovingly. “You keep changing your ideas, Boindil Doubleblade. One minute you’re on his side, then you start to wobble, then you change your mind again.” He stuck his hands in his belt. “You’ll have to come to a decision. When it’s all over.”

Ireheart was angry. “We’ve got a job to do and we’ll do it, and it doesn’t matter who helps us as long as it serves Girdlegard,” he said, avoiding the issue. “There have been losses. Now we have new soldiers and we have the kordrion’s young.”

“He’s right,” said Slin. “We’re better off like this than being a pile of ash out on the plain. Or devoured by the monster.” He fell silent.

When they came to a cave with a water source, Tungdil signaled to the company to halt and Barskalin complied.

“It’s pretty clear which of them gives the orders,” commented Ireheart, bursting with curiosity. He, Slin and Balyndar settled down away from the Zhadar to eat. I want to know what the story is with these Zhadar. Vraccas can’t be giving his blessing to this. He glanced at his friend, who was talking to the sytrap. They were studying a map that they had unrolled and spread out, each running their fingers over the lines. Eventually they seemed to have finished and came over.

Barskalin sat down on a boulder. “I owe you an explanation about myself and the Zhadar,” he began. He released his helmet strap, revealing a shaved skull dyed black. “As I was saying: We used to be thirdlings. Each of us is more than four hundred cycles old and we’re all excellent warriors. When Aiphaton and his southern alfar marched in and it became clear no one could stop them, our king suggested a pact. To our astonishment they agreed.” His gaze wandered over the dwarf-faces. “After about twenty cycles the Dson Aklan made us an offer: They were looking for volunteers to train up and learn certain crafts. In exchange it was arranged that this particular unit would eliminate all the dwarf-tribes of Girdlegard.”

“May Vraccas shove a red-hot hammer through their stupid ears!” Ireheart took a swig from his flask.

“They wanted Girdlegard naked, without a single defender.” Balyndar’s expression darkened. “It would have meant the end.”

“The alfar from the south are different from those in the sagas?” Slin wondered.

Barskalin confirmed this with a nod. “They are wilder, more cruel…”

Ireheart laughed. “Am I hearing aright? More cruel? How could that be?”

“It can be, Boindil,” answered a subdued Tungdil. “Believe me, it can.”

“They aren’t the only ones. A few hundred alfar from the north have somehow managed to enter Girdlegard without Aiphaton’s help. He’s known as emperor among the southern alfar.” Barskalin continued his report. “It was the Dson Aklan who aided the northerners.”

Boindil turned to Balyndar. “How did they get past you?”

“They didn’t!” insisted the fifthling. “We keep the Stone Gate and nothing got through. It’s nonsense!”

Barskalin threw him a disapproving glance. “They got into Girdlegard without your knowledge. The dwarves couldn’t have stopped them. The alfar rediscovered an old passage they had used many cycles ago to invade the elf realm Lesinteil.”

“By Vraccas! Then we must find the entrance and close it up.” Slin looked at Ireheart. “There’s no point in keeping up the fortresses, otherwise.”

“The passage no longer exists. It collapsed and it’s underwater now.” The sytrap folded his hands. “In any case, there’s conflict now among the alfar. The Dson Aklan and their followers consider themselves to be the rightful successors to the Unslayables and, as such, morally and in every way superior to their cousins from the south. The northerners were the ones we had an alliance with.” The sytrap grinned maliciously. “I’m sure they would have sent us to fight the southern alfar sooner or later. I’d bet anything.”

“Well, well.” Ireheart stroked his beard. “That’s useful to know. So the black-eyes don’t like each other either.”

“The southerners are in the majority and they’ve taken over Dson Balsur and the former elf realm of Alandur. The northern alfar have rebuilt the city of Dson in an artificial crater in the former elf realm of Lesinteil, now renamed Dson Bhara-the true Dson. Yours, Tungdil Goldhand, is a name they pronounce with hatred. They haven’t forgotten that it was you who sent the city of the Unslayables up in flames.” Barskalin looked round at the others. “They taught us everything and trained us in their arts and skills.”

“How? Dwarves and magic? What’s more, magic originating from our oldest and most terrible foes?” Balyndar cut himself a piece of ham.

“It was a long and painful process involving many gruesome rituals,” Barskalin explained, seeming distressed. “It felt as if they had burned out the very souls that Vraccas endowed us with. What you see is the outer shell, filled with something that would make you shudder with fear if you ever caught sight of it.”