Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

The alf rose, elegance itself, and strode down the four steps. “I did not think I should ever see you again.”

Tungdil’s eyes narrowed. Boindil saw that he was struggling with his memory.

“How long has it been? Two hundred cycles?” The alf lowered his fan and gave the one-eyed dwarf a friendly smile of welcome. On his neck there was a narrow wound caused by a crossbow bolt and his cheek also bore a scar.

“Tirigon!” Tungdil beamed and opened his arms wide.

Then something happened that was, from Ireheart’s point of view, quite appalling: The alf bent down and hugged the Scholar as if greeting a very close friend. Both of them were laughing. “Can I call you Balodil or shall we leave it at Tungdil?”

The dwarf behind Ireheart gave a sob of exasperation and turned away in distress. Presumably one of the Zhadar, thought Boindil, given a theatrical and emotional performance like that. “Keep quiet, can’t you?” he whispered, lifting his visor to be heard. “The Scholar knows what he’s doing.” But while the words were leaving his mouth he was himself beset with uncertainty. The familiarity with which the alf and Tungdil had greeted each other, the way those two dark figures fitted in to the world of evil, all this served to stir the doubts Boindil had so recently succeeded in putting aside.

The Zhadar swallowed another sob and fell silent, nodding. Ireheart turned to the front and watched as Tungdil and the alf clasped hands again, now deep in discussion. They must know each other from their time in the Black Abyss.

He was trying to work out how the black-eyes had been able to cross the barrier before Tungdil. Suddenly he felt sick. He remembered exactly when it was he had last heard the name Tirigon: They were standing in the presence of the perverted and legendary alf who had wiped out the last of the elves of Girdlegard. What will he do if one of our company drops his disguise?

Girdlegard,

Dson Bhara (Formerly the Elf Realm of Lesinteil),

Dson,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

“Who would have thought we would meet here in Dson Bhara, of all places?” Tirigon gazed at Tungdil in delighted surprise.

Ireheart saw that the two had enjoyed more than mere acquaintance; it did nothing to reassure him. His Scholar together with one of the worst alfar of the past two hundred cycles, the one who had eliminated the last of the elves of Girdlegard. This feels like trouble . He was itching to join in their conversation but knew he must not try. Now less than ever.

Tungdil laughed darkly. “You know that dwarves hate water as much you hate elves. I would never have been able to swim through the Moon Pond. The curse of Elria would have seen me drowned.”

“You had to wait so long to return.” The alf looked at the escort and Ireheart found the blue-eyed gaze very unpleasant when it rested on him. “But I see you have taken over our Desirers.”

“They follow me because I am the high king.” He smiled. “You have no need to fear me, Tirigon. I have come to make you and the Dson Aklan an offer.”

“I am delighted to hear it. I am only sorry that my brother and sister are not with me. They are in Gauragar, hunting down the woman who caused this.” He pointed at the injury to his face.

“You leave your revenge up to them?”

“I was at death’s door, Balo… Tungdil. It was Mallenia of Ido. The cowardly bitch shot at me with a crossbow and sent a bolt through my neck long after our duel was over.”

Ireheart noted that the alf was omitting to mention which of them had won the duel. So it won’t have been you, Scarface.

Tirigon signaled for chairs and refreshments to be brought. They sat down at a table in front of the throne. “And anyway, one of us had to look after Dson Bhara. What do you think of the city?”

“It is very different from the true Dson.” Tungdil frowned. “They tell us my name is spoken here with hatred.”

“Only by those who do not know you from the other side. Do not be concerned.” Tirigon gestured to one of the human slaves to pour their drink. The slave woman served the alf first and Ireheart last.

Ireheart guessed her beauty was perfection to human eyes, but for himself he preferred something with a little more substance, like his own Goda. This one looked more like an alf than a human: Slender, slim-faced and with graceful movements.

“Seeing you here I must assume you are still kindly disposed to us.” Tirigon sounded curious. “We once worked hand in hand and with great success.”

“That’s the way it should still be.” Tungdil drank his wine. “The dwarves have elected me their high king and the tribe of the thirdlings will serve me as their supreme ruler. My reputation with the thirdlings is now very different, Hargorin tells me.”

“You have considerable authority with them as a warrior.” The alf had understood the implication. “Thus it will be with you we negotiate when we need thirdling support to police the three kingdoms. I am pleased to hear it.” Tirigon raised his goblet. “To the old times!”

“The very old times!” Tungdil returned the toast. “Of course I am on your side. I hear there have been disputes with your relations from the south.”

Ireheart had interpreted Tungdil’s words as a message: The very old times. The good times.

Tirigon’s serenity faded. He drained his cup and called for more. “There is no evidence that they are actually related to us,” he snapped. “But it is true: We don’t like them and they don’t like us.”

Tungdil licked a droplet of wine from the rim of his goblet. “But they have superiority of numbers.”

Again, another hidden message.

“We shall be glad of your help. My siblings will be pleased.” Tirigon lifted his cup in salute. “Since I am aware that you never act without due thought and intent, tell me what you want in return.”

“All the dwarf kingdoms.” The response came swift as a bolt from a crossbow.

Tirigon lowered his head. “Tungdil, I would happily promise you that, but it is not within my gift.”

“But when our campaign is over, you will have that power.”

Ireheart saw the alf registering growing surprise but no doubt. He must trust Tungdil to the hilt.

“I have a plan…” Tirigon laughed out loud. “That cunning dwarf-mind! You always had a clever plan over on the other side. Your plans always worked, so I’ve no reason to doubt you now.” He sat back in his chair. “Tell me about it.”

Tungdil outlined the scheme to play the Dragon off against Lot-Ionan; the kordrion and the tribe of fifthlings would be destroyed together, by the thirdling army. “The route is already secure. You and your alfar will be ready to attack the southern alfar…”

Tirigon raised his hand. “No. They will be fighting Lot-Ionan under that fool, the Emperor Aiphaton. They’re off to the Blue Mountains with everything they’ve got.”

“All the better.” Tungdil pretended he had not known about the attack. “So the Dragon can launch himself on the victor. You bring your forces up secretly, and we join you as soon as we’ve got rid of the kordrion and the fifthlings. After that, Girdlegard will be yours.” He leaned forward. “That’s if you leave the dwarf realms to me.”

“Here am I, making a pact with a dwarf against my own emperor, the last of the descendants of the Unslayables,” Tirigon said thoughtfully. “That is mad enough to work. I trust you and your bright ideas, Balodil.” He frowned in annoyance. “I mean Tungdil.”

By Vraccas! When he was with the monsters he called himself by the name of his own son! Ireheart’s wavering conviction that this was indeed the true Tungdil and not an impostor started to gain firmer footing. How else could he have known that name? And, he thought, Tungdil’s approach was excellent, although fate was playing a hand in it, too.