Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

“It will suck us all in,” he said under his breath, remembering that he too would soon be donning the dark armor of the Zhadar. “Vraccas, don’t let me turn into one of them just because I have to wear their black plating.”

Again it was Slin who overheard. This fourthling had highly developed hearing. “You’re afraid you might become like them? Boindil, it’s only black steel we’re going to be putting on.” He tapped himself on the chest, then touched his head. “Our hearts and minds will still belong to us. Look on it as a harmless disguise.” He threw one end of a rope to one of the riders; the other was tied to his sledge. “If you like, I’ll look after you, my poor little dwarf.”

Ireheart laughed. “You’re right to make fun of my childish thoughts.” He got his sledge ready.

Pulled swiftly across the snow, they soon learned the disadvantages of this mode of travel: The ponies’ hooves kicked up the snow and whirled icy clouds into their faces such that, before long, they’d all taken on the appearance of small, grim, bearded snowmen.

Through the snow Ireheart saw the twenty-pace-high curtain wall loom up in front; he also saw blasphemous insults daubed on it that would make any decent dwarf shudder in his boots.

This was nothing less than pure hatred of Vraccas in the form of runes. The symbols swore total annihilation of all the tribes. Shameful slogans daubed on many of the blocks of stone: Vraccas the Cripple, Vraccas the Powerless, Vraccas the Impotent…

Ireheart was not the only one to notice.

“I’m not setting foot in there,” cried Slin, and Balyndar nodded in agreement. “This is appalling. Vraccas would be enraged if we accepted hospitality from Hargorin Deathbringer. And I can’t help feeling we’re definitely going to need the Creator-God on our side in the next few orbits.”

Ireheart agreed. “We’ll find ourselves somewhere else to stay-in one of the village houses.”

They shouted to the squadron to stop but, not hearing them, the band rode on through the settlement, heading for the main gate of Vraccas-Spite. Finally, the three dwarves cut through the ropes and got off their sledges. Hargorin and Barskalin turned round, and Tungdil ordered a halt.

“What’s going on, Ireheart?” The one-eyed dwarf was surprised. “Why don’t you want the safety of the stronghold?”

“It may not bother you, Scholar.” He pointed to the inscriptions. “ But it bothers me! I worship Vraccas and that’s why I won’t enter this fortress, where his name is insulted and his words are dragged through the mud.” He got up and brushed the snow off his mantle. “We’ll find a bed with the villagers.”

“You know that the kordrion will hunt you down as the murderer of its young because of the scent on you of the cocoon?” Tungdil warned. “You won’t have much protection in one of those flimsy huts. You won’t even have woken up before the white fire gets you.”

Boindil indicated the Invisibles. “The Zhadar walked through the same blood and smashed eggs.”

Barskalin looked a bit shamefaced when he said, “But our armor is made of tionium.”

“Blasted bloody orcshit! That would have to happen to me!” He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t care. Vraccas will protect me, because I shan’t go in there,” he said, pointing to the door. “Not under any circumstances.” Slin and Balyndar stood at his right and left.

Boindil was aware that the group had formed into two distinct fronts. On the one side was the Black Squadron with Barskalin and on the other was him and two dwarves he did not know very well, but one of whom, at least, he found tolerable enough.

And it seemed to him that Tungdil would be going over to the dark ones’ side and not to his own.

Hargorin, with Tungdil’s permission, ordered his squad to enter the fortress. The Zhadar followed them in. Deathbringer came slowly over to the three adamant dwarves. “I understand you full well, Boindil. But trust me when I tell you that the appearance of my house is purely a front.” He pulled out a pendant from under his chain mail: a vraccasium hammer with the sign of the Smith. “I am his,” he whispered. “The whole squadron is his. But we had to disguise our intentions, like the Zhadar, so the alfar wouldn’t suspect us. That has meant we can move around freely all over the lands where the black-eyes are in power. We know a lot about Idoslane and about the resistance movement. Even if the humans consider us unspeakable, we are really on their side. One orbit we shall need this knowledge in order to break the oppressive rule of evil.” Hargorin smiled. “Believe me, Boindil. For every stone bearing an insult to Vraccas I have begged the creator’s forgiveness and I know that I will receive mercy when I reach the eternal forge. The deception has been essential. These have not been the times for open warfare.” He looked over his shoulder. “But with Goldhand’s return the fight has begun.”

Ireheart looked at Balyndar, then at Slin. They seemed not to want to be convinced. “I shall be staying out here in the village,” he repeated, a little less aggressively this time. “Blasphemy is blasphemy. Can you recommend somewhere we can stay?”

“Perhaps one of the cheaper ones. Our war coffers are not overflowing,” added Slin.

Hargorin gave up. “Say that I sent you and you won’t be charged anything. When we meet to arrange the rest of the journey we’ll come to the house you choose. Just let me know where you’re staying.” He turned away and exchanged a few words with Tungdil and Barskalin.

The one-eyed dwarf lifted his hand. “We’ll be there when the kordrion comes to get you,” he called. “Sleep well.” Then he disappeared into the fortress with the others; the door closed with a dull clang, robbing the three dwarves of the sight of the high king. “Three against three,” remarked Slin.

“What?” flashed Balyndar.

The fourthling pointed to the little gap through which they could just see glimpses of tionium armor. “Us three against those three. I’ll take Hargorin. He’s a good target. Ireheart should fight Tungdil and Balyndar can challenge Barskalin.”

“I’ll have Tungdil,” said the fifthling.

“What are you blethering about? You’re splitting the hairs in my beard,” Ireheart thundered. “We will not be fighting each other.”

“It was just a thought. Forgive me. I got carried away.” Slin stared at the tips of his boots and was really embarrassed. “It won’t happen again, Boindil.”

Ireheart thought that Balyndar’s tone of voice showed he shared the same thoughts. Serious thoughts. “Let’s find somewhere to stay. Any preferences?”

Slin swiveled round to look at the little stone and half-timbered houses ringing the walls of Vraccas-Spite. “They all look the same. I can’t decide.”

“Then let’s go for the one that’s furthest away from the blasphemous inscriptions.” Balyndar went off, dragging his sledge behind him, going back the way they had come.

They reached a farmhouse with a large barn and knocked. It was not long before someone opened the door.

A young woman stood on the threshold studying them from head to foot. “You’re not one of Deathbringer’s people?” she said in surprise. She popped her head out to look toward the stronghold. “Quick, come in, before they see you! They’ll kill you if they see you!”

Ireheart found her solicitude for three total stranger dwarves quite touching. “Good woman, do not concern yourself…”

Balyndar pushed past him. “May Vraccas bless you! Thank you for the warning.” Unobserved, he winked at Ireheart. He was obviously planning to pretend he was a newcomer and nothing to do with the thirdling leader. He told her their names. “We thought it was a dwarf-fortress holding out against the alfar, but when we saw the runes we knew we were wrong. But we’re too tired to travel on.”