Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

Boindil glanced at Tungdil and remembered the vicious scars covering his torso. Perhaps he had also undergone that transformation? Is that why his face had the fine black alfar-like lines?

Barskalin cleared his throat. His voice had gone and he needed something to drink before he could continue his story. “After one hundred cycles in their service the Dson Aklan considered us to be loyal followers.” He looked at Slin. “We spied on your strongholds and killed anyone in our path. I could find my way through Goldfast and Silverfast blindfold. There are no secrets. If we wanted to,” he lowered his voice, “we could lead the alfar or the thirdlings straight into the fourthling realm. You wouldn’t be able to stop us.”

The fourthling gulped. “That’s… impossible.”

Barskalin pointed to Tungdil and Boindil. “Ask them. They came across one of my Zhadar in the Outer Lands. He had been traveling through the Brown Mountains, on a reconnaissance mission through your territory. Then he was going to spy out Evildam and follow up the rumors about the return of the greatest dwarf-hero.” He laughed. “He reported the rumors had been correct. He only just managed to escape from you.”

Ireheart spluttered and spat out his drink. “He survived the White Death?”

“We’re tough.” Barskalin smiled mysteriously.

“And they sent you to steal the cocoons?” Balyndar had not taken his eyes off the sytrap.

“Yes. The alfar… the Dson Aklan, want to stir up a war in the west to further their own plans. A diversion only. That’s purely my interpretation, of course.” Barskalin looked at Ireheart. “Emperor Aiphaton is preparing for a campaign against Lot-Ionan. He intends to march to the south to overthrow the magus and his famuli. Then he will open the High Pass to allow more alfar through.”

“That’s good news!” Slin filled his pipe. “We don’t need to start any wars! Let the two of them sort things out between them and we’ll hang around and see who wins. Let’s kill the kordrion’s young and bide our time.”

Balyndar placed his fingertips together thoughtfully. “I thought our own plan was… better.” He addressed Barskalin. “I want to know the reason you and I are sitting peaceably next to each other instead of fighting. You are working for our enemies but you’re still ready to help us take the cocoon to Lot-Ionan?”

“Treachery,” Tungdil said calmly. “The Zhadar never obeyed wholeheartedly, but have been waiting for an opportunity to change sides.”

“That’s right.” Barskalin nodded. “Tungdil Goldhand is a thirdling. A lot has changed in the thirdlings’ way of thinking and the dwarf laughed at for many cycles has become our greatest hero. He stood alone to fight against immense odds. And now he is the high king of all the dwarf-tribes-who else could we follow with both our head and our heart? We have been waiting for so many cycles to eliminate the alfar. To destroy them with their own weapons and arts.”

“That was what you planned when you volunteered?” Ireheart stared at the sytrap, finding it hard to grasp the immensity of what they had taken on. “By Vraccas, quite a sacrifice!”

“ If what he says is true.” Balyndar sounded less than convinced.

“I believe him.” Slin nodded and chewed on the stem of his pipe.

Barskalin smiled, a row of white teeth shining in the dark face. “To follow Tungdil Goldhand and help to free Girdlegard. That was always our intention. And now we have the opportunity, we’ll be able to carry out that plan.” He indicated his nine companions. “Altogether there are twenty-three of us…”

Balyndar’s laughter was ironic. “That’s plenty to make the alfar run off, tails between their legs.”

Now, for the first time, the commander of the Zhadar showed impatience. “Each one of us can deal with twenty opponents without exertion. In conventional combat. But if we use our special powers we can confound a small army, let me tell you, Balyndar Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers! If you thought the only thing our alfar skills are good for is to put the lights out you’ve got another think coming.” He scowled. “I’ve walked past you five dozen times during the course of your life and you never knew. I stood at your cradle, I stood at your bed while you slept. The Gray Mountains hold no secrets for me or my Zhadar.” His hand lay on the handle of his curved dagger. “You have me to thank for the fact I didn’t lead the thirdlings into your mother’s kingdom. The strongholds would have fallen as well.” He stood up and came over to the fifthling to speak low into his ear. “I know all your secrets, heir apparent to the fifthling crown,” he whispered, then straightened up. “So you are in the best of hands. It is an honor for us to be able to serve the high king.”

Balyndar sat thunderstruck; he had turned as pale as a linen shirt.

Tungdil shook hands with Barskalin, who returned to his Zhadar troops; the two groups of warriors bedded down for the night in separate corners of the cave.

Ireheart could not understand why Balyndar was suddenly monosyllabic, but he was still mulling over what the sytrap had reported. “Vraccas, now I’m positive that it was your work: Letting us meet the Zhadar warrior in the mountains. I thank you,” he prayed quietly. “Now grant victory to the Invisibles and ourselves. I would give anything to hear dwarves and humans able to laugh again.”

“Would you give your life?” Slin asked, having overheard. “Would you die for the cause?” He turned over and put his hands behind his head, his pipe clamped in the corner of his mouth. “I would. But only if at least one of us survives to report our heroic deeds. Otherwise even the most glorious of deaths is a waste of time.”

Ireheart wanted to reply but his throat had gone dry. Perhaps it was better not to answer.

He might have said the wrong thing.

Girdlegard,

Protectorate of Gauragar,

Twenty Miles South of the Gray Mountains,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

Ireheart was feeling uneasy.

They had taken off his chain mail and any clothing that had been in contact with the cocoon and had tied it to a horse bought for the purpose, in order to duplicate the scent trails and keep the kordrion busy. As soon as the beast found the horse and consumed it, iron rings, shirt, hose and all, it would know it should have followed the other track; Ireheart was wearing random cast-offs that his companions could spare.

“I feel like some ragged peddler,” he said, down in the dumps.

“And what is wrong with my trousers?” asked their crossbow specialist with a grin. “If you burst the seams with your fat arse, you’ll have to buy me some new ones.”

“It’s not fat, it’s all muscle. You fourthlings don’t have any. Your trousers would just about fit our children.” Ireheart looked back at Balyndar, who was holding the alfar dagger they had taken off the dead archer. He turned the weapon, running his fingers over the blade, and then struck it at a certain angle against his forearm protectors.

It was not a strong blow-but the blade sang out and snapped in two.

“As I thought,” muttered the fifthling, discarding the useless weapon.

“What did you think?” asked Ireheart, and Balyndar gave a jerk. He had not known he was being observed. “That the dagger was faulty?” “Yes. Something was wrong, but I didn’t know what.” He tried to explain. “We firstlings have a good eye for metalcraft. I knew a dwarf had made it, but something wasn’t right. The smith had included a fine layer of a hard, brittle metal. It hadn’t fused to the steel and I could see that, if subjected to stress-for example in combat-the blade would break off.” Balyndar looked at Ireheart. “It was constructed deliberately as an inferior piece of work. It wasn’t a mistake.”