Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

Tungdil rubbed his forehead and touched the scar. His brown eye stared rigidly into space; he did not seem to have been listening.

“What about Sisaroth?” Barskalin wanted to know. “I know him. Among other things he trained the Zhadar, and he won’t give up until he has avenged the death of his sister. If he realizes the queen and Mallenia are still alive, we’ll have a dangerous alf on our tails, ready to pick us off one by one.”

“Hmm. I’m sure he’s more likely to hold back and wait for the Dragon to attack,” Hargorin said, disagreeing with him. “I’ve known the Dson Aklan for a very long time. They would do anything to preserve their city in Dson Bhara from harm. We understand they intend to found a new alfar empire there. Sisaroth must think that Lohasbrand will be sending at least a scouting party out into the alfar regions to investigate what has been happening on his own territory.”

Barskalin thought about it. “That could be so.”

“And if Elria’s having a good day, the black-eyes could just have drowned in the tidal wave,” Ireheart chipped in cheerfully. “That’s if he was anywhere near just now.”

Suddenly, Tungdil’s body convulsed. He sank with a moan onto the table, holding his head. Blood oozed out between his fingers.

The dwarves sprang up and pulled out their weapons, thinking there had been an attack, but Ireheart saw that the old scar on his friend’s forehead had opened up. “Come on, give me a hand, let’s get him up to his room,” he told Hargorin and Barskalin.

“Shall I?” Coira had risen. “A healing spell…”

“No, no magic!” Boindil was emphatic on that score, not knowing how the armor would react. “It’s an old wound. He must have hit his head back there on the ship and the scar has come open. I’ll put in some stitches. We leave at sun-up.” He left the company and he and Hargorin and Barskalin carried Tungdil to bed through the taproom and up to the guestroom at the back, where they laid him on the bed.

“Thanks.” Ireheart sent the dwarves away and waited until they had left the room.

The door closed just in time.

Tungdil opened his eye suddenly and Ireheart saw once more the mysterious vortex of colors round the black of the pupil.

The open wound closed itself with a slight plop, and the facial bones moved gratingly, giving the dwarf a thinner countenance that reminded the horrified Ireheart much more of the way an alf would look.

“By Vraccas!” he groaned, staggering back two paces and grabbing the handle of his crow’s beak. It looked as if his friend were changing shape.

Fine black lines appeared from under the golden eye patch, seeming to cut the face into segments. Drops of blood dripped out-then all the runes on the armor glowed, forcing Boindil to shut his eyes.

When he could see again, his friend looked as he had done before he had swooned. There were no more wounds on his face, the scar had healed and the black lines had gone; the familiar visage of old.

Ireheart approached the bed carefully. “What shall I do with you, Scholar?” he whispered, swallowing hard. “Whenever I think I can trust you something happens to feed my suspicions.” He pulled a stool over and decided it would be better if he kept watch in the room that night.

And he could not even say for sure whether it was to protect Tungdil, or to protect their group from his influence.

Girdlegard,

Former Queendom of Weyurn,

Entrance to the Red Mountains,

Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle

Ireheart rode behind Tungdil with his eyes on the slopes of the Red Mountains. Even though he gave the impression of studying the landscape, he was thinking about that night when Tungdil had, for a time, undergone a short-lived change. A frightening change…

They had never spoken about it and their company believed the fairy story about his having fainted. What is wrong with him? Is it a demon inside him? Is it a curse he’s under? The chorus of doubters in Ireheart’s head was singing fit to bust.

On Tungdil’s orders they had taken the old path leading to a narrow valley that wound its way to a dark-red mountain.

Older memories rose up in Ireheart’s mind as they approached the entrance.

There were five bends in the valley and in the old days the firstlings had erected strongholds here, thick defensive ramparts with gates secured by dwarf-runes to keep their enemies out. The two of them had once fled here to escape from the alfar Sinthoras and Caphalor when they were looking for a firstling smith, and had found one in the shape of a dwarf-woman: Balyndis Steelfinger, now the fifthlings’ queen.

The old buildings had gone. Today there were wooden palisades instead of walls. Behind the pointed stakes he could see the glint of helmets and spears; judging by their size, these would be orcs.

“Up there,” Tungdil pointed at the Red Mountains, “is where the entrance used to be.”

“Not anymore. It disappeared when the stronghold went. The Dragon demolished everything that smacked of the firstlings.” Rodario pointed to one side. “Behind that heap of stones there’s said to be a huge cavern. It’s a passage the Scaly One made for himself and the Lohasbranders use it to get into the dwarves’ cave system.”

“That will be the old emergency exit gate,” Ireheart supposed. He was occupied in trying to count the helmets he could see. “I think they’ve only got about twenty guards. Pig-faces.”

“Why would they put any more here?” said Slin, his eyes glued on the sky. “Who would want to enter the lair of a dragon?”

“Dwarves,” replied Ireheart briskly. “Our ancestors drove off the dragons and we’ll be doing it again.” He looked at Tungdil. “You want us to ride into the valley in broad daylight?”

“No. The Zhadar can show us what they’ve learned from the alfar,” he said, looking at Barskalin. “You take on the gates one after another. Don’t open them until all the guards are dead. Find out how we can get inside without the Dragon knowing.”

“If we want to empty his treasure hoard wouldn’t it be better if we slipped in without killing the guards? It will only draw attention to ourselves if we attack them,” Rodario pointed out. “Lohasbrand will act more swiftly then than we would like.”

“The orcs will die silently. It will be some time before their deaths are noticed.” Tungdil pointed to Hargorin. “We’ve been discussing the matter en route and feel that we should split up as soon as we’ve plundered the hoard. The Zhadar will go with us and Hargorin will lead the Black Squadron. They’ll take a different route to the south and some of them will go off to the dwarf realms as messengers to request they send their armies so that we can proceed against Lot-Ionan. Others will ride to Aiphaton.” He indicated Rodario. “And they’ll take his letters to the descendants of the fabulous Rodario the Incredible.”

It’s a good thing we met up. We wouldn’t have been able to scrape that many messengers together from our original numbers. I suppose they’ll be reliable. Ireheart was not upset to learn they would be losing the Desirers. “We’ll rendezvous by the Blue Mountains, I suppose,” he said.

“Preparations should be finished by the middle of spring. Ours and the emperor’s. We can start then.” Tungdil glanced up at the imposing mountain glowing red in the light.

“I still don’t understand how we get away from Lohasbrand if, as they say, he can smell you from miles away.” Rodario was not satisfied yet. “And don’t tell me I’m just an actor with no idea about warfare.” Mallenia and Coira gave him silent support on this.

“But that’s what you are,” said Hargorin contemptuously.