Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

“Your siblings will follow your lead, or do I have to fight the three of you when I’ve polished off the enemies in the north and south?” Tungdil’s question had a trace of mirth but its core was serious.

Tirigon helped himself to some of the food, putting small slices slowly into his mouth. “They will approve of our pact.” He closed his eyes in pleasure. “That was the first time I’ve been able to enjoy my food since being wounded.” He invited his guest to eat. “We shall inform you when Aiphaton and his false followers leave to attack Lot-Ionan. Where do we send the message?”

“To Hargorin’s estate in the north. That’s probably the best place to find me while we’re preparing for the campaign. And if I’m not there someone will know how to contact me.” Tungdil tried some of the meat.

Let it have been an animal, Vraccas, and not anything else. Not anything they didn’t have a use for in their art , prayed Ireheart. The sight of pink roast flesh made him hungry. It smelled good, even if he had never wanted to sink his teeth into black-eye food.

“I’ll get over to Aiphaton as quickly as possible and pay him a call,” stated Tungdil, helping himself to more of the wine. “The emperor must not think I’m against him. My last meeting went peacefully, and I want to tell him, for form’s sake, that we can continue the alliance.”

“So you’ll be offering him the same pact?”

“Yes. But for the campaign against Lot-Ionan, my atrocious foster-father.” Tungdil grinned. “Then I shall withdraw and promise to return with a huge army of troops.”

“He will have the surprise of his life.” Tirigon laid his cutlery aside. “But can’t I tempt you to stay?”

Sacred forge! Don’t let us spend a single night in Dson! Ireheart hoped fervently that Tungdil would turn down the offer of hospitality.

“I’m afraid not, old friend. We’ll have to move swiftly if we want to meet up with the emperor, I should think?”

“Yes. You should find him in the former Alandur. He has given the realm to his friends from the south.” The alf spoke with open dislike.

“And what about Dson Balsur? Has it been rebuilt?”

Tirigon shrugged. “It’s all one to me, while they’re living there. It will take us some time to remove their unwholesome influence in the place. They have no appreciation of art at all, or beauty, poetry, painting or other aesthetic concepts.” He shuddered. “It is impossible that Tion created them.”

“Unless he was drunk?” suggested Ireheart, over-hastily.

Tirigon and Tungdil turned their heads slowly in his direction. “So you have people in your escort who enjoy a pleas-antry,” the alf noted with amusement.

“He never usually has a good joke to tell.” Tungdil tutted and shook his head. “Perhaps a rare spark of inspiration.”

“Don’t let him tell that one to the emperor. It could be his best and final joke.” The alf rose. One of the robed alfar approached with a whispered message. “I won’t detain you any longer, Tungdil Goldhand.” They embraced. “Our pact is settled. You shall have the dwarf realms and we shall have Girdlegard.” His laughter was cold. “The land is in desperate need of our art. It will be a pleasure for me to reform it to our taste.”

“Even two hundred cycles ago your reputation as an artist was brilliant. I am keen to see what you are capable of now.” Tungdil clasped the alf’s right hand and beamed at him. “In three cycles at the outside it will be us in charge and no one else! Give my greetings to your siblings.” He turned and went to the door. His escort of Invisibles surrounded him and Ireheart was at his side.

“Tungdil,” called Tirigon, as they reached the door. They stopped and the one-eyed dwarf turned to face the alf. “What about the barrier? Is it holding again?”

“Yes,” lied Tungdil, cold as ice.

“That’s good. It would be bad if your master were to turn up here to demand the return of his armor.” Tirigon paused. “Or did you kill him in the end, perhaps?”

“I tried to. It didn’t work. That’s why I want the dwarf realms: No one shall be allowed through the gate.” Tungdil turned and marched off. “Tion is with us, Tirigon. Be sure of that.”

They left the hall and the seven silent alfar led them out through the palace to the open air.

“At last!” Ireheart took a deep breath and pushed his visor up. “I couldn’t have stood it in there much longer. I don’t know what it was I was eating but it doesn’t smell nice when it comes up again.”

Slin laughed and opened his own visor as well. “Onions and preserved gugul mince? I saw you had a jar of that in your pack. Goda send you off with that, then?”

“You never gave us any.” Tungdil gave him a disapproving look. “How mean of you.” Then he grinned. It was obvious that he was relieved to have got in and out of the palace safely. And with such success. “Ireheart, you must curb your tongue in future. We were in luck. It was a good thing Tirigon found your remark funny.” After a short pause he added. “So did I, by the way.”

Darkness had fallen. But when Ireheart looked up at the sky he saw no stars! “By Vraccas!” he exclaimed, horrified. “What have the alfar done?”

All the dwarves looked up and stared.

“The constellations have all disappeared!” Balyndar whispered, fearfully.

“The stars must be refusing to shine on an alfar city,” suggested Slin.

Ireheart conquered his incredulity and turned to the tower with its cables spreading out in all directions. “It’s to do with that tower.”

Tungdil followed his gaze and thought. “Let’s get on or we’ll be arousing suspicion. And pull your visors down in case we meet anyone.”

They went down the steps to where their ponies were waiting. Overhead they caught a slight rustling sound.

“I don’t believe it,” said Slin in amazement as he looked up at the sky.

A starry firmament had appeared above their heads but it was different from the one the dwarves were familiar with. The heavenly bodies they saw now were not as they knew them. And there were shimmering moons, three or four times the size of Girdlegard’s own.

“I don’t know how they’ve done it, but the city must have moved to another place entirely.” Boindil could not get his fill of the splendid sight.

Balyndar snorted. “What do you mean?”

“Perhaps you never stick your head out of the caves but I’ve traveled a lot in Girdlegard. Wherever I went, the stars were always the same.”

“There’s a deep insight for you,” mocked Slin. “Only here they’re not. But we’re still in Girdlegard.” “Exactly. That’s why I said they’ve moved the city out of Girdlegard. I admit it doesn’t sound very likely.”

“So how do we get back?” Slin mounted and turned to look at the winding cliffside path. “Who knows where we’ll end up?”

“Over to you, Scholar.”

Tungdil looked up. “Canvasses.”

“Canvasses.” At first Ireheart did not understand. “Oh, I see, like curtains, but… sideways?” He looked up again. “They pull them across the crater on those ropes to give the alfar down here an artificial night sky to admire-is that what you mean?”

“Exactly, Ireheart. That’s what I mean. I expect they cover the city on especially bright days, or when it’s very hot. A protective screen.”

“That’s an amazing amount of trouble to go to.” Balyndar seemed relieved at the explanation.

“But it’s also beautiful. You’ll have to give them that.” Tungdil rode ahead, followed by the Zhadar and the rest of the company.

Ireheart was pleased to note they were not escorted. Tirigon must trust his dwarf-friend completely if he was letting them wander the streets unaccompanied. Trust and black-eyes: That’s a weird combination. That Tirigon must have something up his sleeve. At the bottom of the winding climb he thought he could make out Utsintas and the alfar on their firebulls. I’m not going to let anyone entice me into a trap.