Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

“The Dragon won’t know at first what’s happening. He’ll think it’s rebels and he’ll leave it to the orcs to put the insurgency down-that is, until he notices what’s missing,” explained Tungdil. “By that time we’ll be halfway to Lot-Ionan. At least! We’ll have to ride all day and change horses when they tire. Without that head start we’ll never make it. If he catches us, then…” he glanced over at Coira “… we’ll have to kill Lohasbrand. But if that happens we lose a vital element in our strategy to weaken Lot-Ionan. If he gets too close, we’ll attempt to drive him off.”

“You’re putting a whole lot of responsibility my way,” said the queen, looking doubtful.

“I am. Because I have to. It’s in battle we get our warrior hearts, not when we sit listening to tales about war.” He fixed his eye on her. “Come right out and say if you’re too scared. Then I’ll change the plan.”

Coira’s maga-pride was hurt. “Of course we’ll manage to defeat the Dragon, and the magus, too. By the time we arrive, Lot-Ionan will be weak enough, so I, too, assume our strategy will succeed.”

The sun disappeared behind the clouds and the first raindrops fell noisily onto their metal armor.

Tungdil turned his pony and rode away from the valley entrance. “There are caves over there. We’ll make camp till the Zhadar return and report the outcome of their mission.”

They found shelter before the rain got heavier. Soon it was streaming down over the cave entrance. It washed away the last of the snow and removed any trace of the company’s tracks.

Dwarves and humans settled in the large cavern to rest before the attack they would be launching on the Lohasbranders and the orcs. Ireheart saw to his pony and wandered around, observing the Desirers. Hargorin was selecting his messengers so that they could leave at first light to take the news to Aiphaton, the resistance fighters and the dwarf-tribes. There’s no stopping it now.

Then he went over to the Invisibles to see how the preparations were going for their night’s work.

They were sitting talking quietly with Barskalin. They had short beards all, were black from head to foot and were heavily armed. I really can’t tell them apart. Do I dare to talk to them? he wondered. Who knows how many of them will return?

This thought did not arrive unprompted. The doubters in his head were demanding to know how many would return. Whoever knew the sign for controlling the Scholar’s armor and making it freeze would know more about the runes generally. It was important. He’d already decided how he would approach the subject.

He waited until the Zhadar had stopped talking, then went slowly nearer, taking care to ensure Barskalin was looking the other way, because he would be sure not to want his people talking to a secondling. Talking? Being interrogated, more like.

“Might I have a closer look at your weaponry?” Ireheart asked the nearest of the warriors, who was sitting on the ground sharpening his dagger. He smiled and squatted down. That way he would not attract attention.

The Zhadar turned and looked up, puzzled. “Of course,” he said, handing Ireheart the weapon.

“Do you lot like jokes? My favorite’s the one about the orc and the dwarf.”

“Really? I’ve never really got that one,” replied the Zhadar. “Why would an orc ask one of us the way?”

Ireheart was at a loss there. “But that’s what makes it so funny.”

“Funny? I just think it’s… unlikely. Any greenskin knows that a dwarf would cut his head off.” He laughed. “And then there’s the punch line! What the dwarf says and does… Very strange. But not funny.”

“Ah,” said Ireheart, confused. “Tastes differ, it seems.” He decided to change his tactics, away from the topic of jokes. He turned the dagger in his hands and admired the runes and the strength of the blade in order to flatter the Zhadar. “What do these symbols mean?”

The other dwarf explained patiently that the runes promised death to the enemy.

“Just like us,” Ireheart said, a little clumsily. “I mean to say, you used to be like us…” He stopped short and handed the knife back.

Now it was the Zhadar’s turn to grin. “What is it you want to know, Doubleblade?”

“Is it so obvious?”

“Yes. You’re an excellent warrior but a terrible spy.”

“It’s not really my thing. I like to do things more directly.” Ireheart laughed and sat down; he heard and felt his flask slip off his belt onto the cave floor. He drew a symbol on the floor similar to the rune that Tungdil bore on his armor.

The Zhadar said, “You’ve seen it on the high king’s armor. Frak told us he’d given Goldhand quite a shock.”

“Frak?”

“The Zhadar you came across in the Outer Lands.”

“So do you know the secret of the armor?”

“Is there one? Because it’s magic?”

Ireheart nodded. “Yes.”

“It’s not a secret. Any magus or maga and anyone that knows a bit about magic will see it straightaway on the high king. Or was it a particular sort of magic?” The Zhadar went back to sharpening his dagger. “I’m not allowed to talk about it.”

“But I must know. If an alf casts a spell at Tungdil and locks him into the armor again, I’ve got to be able to unfreeze him without taking my crow’s beak to him every time.” He found the black, almost empty eye sockets of his opposite number unsettling. It was hard to have a proper conversation with a dwarf whose eyes you could not read.

“You used your weapon to release him from the armor?” The dwarf laughed. “It’s a miracle your hands didn’t explode.”

“I was careful.” Ireheart was getting quite excited. He seemed to be close to solving a few puzzles. He glanced over at Barskalin and Tungdil. Both were busy. “Tell me, please! The high king’s life may depend on it.”

“It probably will.” The Zhadar put down his whetstone. “Remember these words.” He uttered some sounds that Ireheart was not able to copy.

Hurt, Boindil regarded the other dwarf, suddenly convinced that he was talking to the one he called the Trouble Maker. His sounded like the joker’s voice. “I can’t say that.”

“Then practice. For the high king’s sake.” He chortled, then stopped and swore, grimacing. The whole thing took only a couple of seconds, but it was enough to scare Ireheart into taking hold of his weapon. But the Zhadar had calmed down. “What else?”

“So they are really alf runes?”

“Yes. The ones on our armor are pure alf but there are some on the high king’s armor that I can’t read,” the Zhadar admitted. “It’s obvious. But they’ve got something alf-like about them. And dwarflike.” He saw Barskalin had just turned round, and frowned. “There’s something I’ve got to do,” he said, getting up.

“Hey, hang on! Wait a moment. I knew all that. The explanation?” Ireheart was disappointed but realized he was not going to get any more secrets out of the Zhadar. But he’d been told the words needed to release the paralysis of the armor.

He wondered how many commands there were to make his friend’s armor perform other tricks, whether the wearer wanted to or otherwise. He really ought to take it off when we meet Lot-Ionan in battle. I shall have to sell him the idea somehow , he decided.

He reached for his flask and opened it without looking, while continuing to watch the Zhadar company. They were working quietly, sharpening their weapons and exchanging the armor of the Black Squadron for their own. They kept stopping, closing their eyes and seeming to pray before carrying on.

Ireheart’s lips were on the neck of the flask and liquid sloshed into his mouth; he swallowed without paying attention.