The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,88

formation. “When you go up to check on the älfar, have a look: I should have got both of them through the heart. If not, I owe you two gold coins.”

“That exact?”

Slîn nodded. “I always aim for the heart. Whether it’s women or my other victims.” He winked and Ireheart had to laugh.

“I’ll have a good look.” He hurried off to join the others, who were already over by the rocks.

It was quite obvious how excellent Slîn’s eye was. Both älfar lay in the snow with skewered hearts. The reinforced bolts had penetrated their armor and Boïndil found himself wondering if Tungdil’s special armor would withstand such an impact.

“They’ve tethered their night-mares on the other side,” Tungdil said in greeting.

Ireheart fingered the crow’s beak. “They will follow their masters into death.” He looked at the älfar archers’ bodies and ordered them to be searched. Balyndar and his dwarves got to work.

Under the whitish gray mantles was the typical älfar lamellar armor; their swords lay unused in the scabbards, the two älfar having been given no opportunity to draw them against the dwarves. The dwarf-warriors were not interested in the food supplies the älfar had with them, but there was a fine dagger that one had carried in his belt.

Balyndar noticed it first. “By Vraccas!” he cried angrily, pulling the knife out of its sheath. “That is the work of a dwarf-smith!” He turned the blade, held it to the sunlight, and ran his finger along it. “No question: This dagger was fashioned by a dwarf.” He bent down to study the armor. “Unbelievable!” he exclaimed. “The thirdlings have been co operating more closely with the älfar than I had ever feared.”

Ireheart glanced over at Tungdil and thought of the dwarf-hater they had encountered in the Outer Lands. “The thirdlings made this armor?”

Balyndar looked up. “I’m absolutely sure of it.”

“The thirdlings can expect no mercy from us when we’ve defeated the älfar,” growled Boïndil. “Betraying the other tribes like that is unforgivable. They have given away the secrets of the forge.”

“And yet you have a thirdling for your high king.” Tungdil appeared very calm. He pushed the älfar body away from him with his boot. “Did the dwarf-armor help him any? As long as we have the better crossbow bolts the thirdlings can carry on making armor for them.”

Balyndar turned the knife in his hands and ran his fingers over it. “There’s something wrong.” He started to unclothe the älfar bodies.

Tungdil called him back. “What are you doing?”

“I want to take the armor. To investigate it further. I think…”

“No time for that.” The one-eyed dwarf beckoned the band to move off. “Go with Ireheart and help him deal with the night-mares. Then we leave. The patrol will soon reach another garrison belonging to the count and they’ll be reporting what’s happened here.” Balyndar was about to respond but Tungdil raised his hand. “I’m ordering you.” He stared at the fifthling, who shook his head but got up and made off, morning star in hand.

It had not escaped Boïndil’s notice that, unseen by Tungdil, Balyndar had pocketed the knife. “Well, I’ll be off,” he said cheerily and followed Balyndar. But when he heard grinding sounds behind him he turned round. Tungdil was striking the bodies again and again, thrusting his weapon through their chests.

“What are you doing, Scholar?” he called in surprise.

“Making sure,” replied Tungdil, wiping Bloodthirster on the snow and then getting back on his befún. “Hurry up. I want to get to the Gray Mountains.” He let his mount move on so that he could take up the lead.

“He was destroying the runes,” Balyndar said from behind. “Did you see them, too, Doubleblade?”

“Rune?” He came up to the fourthling, whose morning star was covered in blood. The night-mares were no longer alive. “I don’t understand.”

Balyndar drew a shape on the snow with the blood dripping from his weapon. “That’s what I mean. If you look at the left side of your friend’s armor, Doubleblade, you’ll find that same symbol.” He left Ireheart standing there and went back to his pony.

Girdlegard,

Dwarf Realm of the Fifthlings,

Gray Mountains,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

Access into the realm of the fifthlings had changed dramatically. A new stone building rose twenty paces high in front of the gate itself. There were many small apertures in the tower wall; the actual entrance was a relatively narrow door, just wide enough for a befún to pass through.

Ireheart guessed what the apertures were for. If you tip molten pitch and