The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,89

hot coals down you could see off an army.

The gate opened and a messenger and watchtower guards were waiting to greet them in the queen’s name.

There was no rejoicing when they rode in, no fanfares sounded to announce their arrival in the Gray Mountains. The walls had not been adorned to celebrate their coming and there were no flags flying from the battlements. No dwarves had come to welcome them.

Ireheart was angry, but said nothing.

He knew that Balyndar had dispatched a warrior to announce their approach, but the reception was cool in the extreme. Dislike Tungdil’s conduct and demeanor as one might, he was still the dwarves’ high king. Respect for his high office should have made it automatic to show deference to the troops under his command, who would no doubt soon be expected to carry out heroic deeds.

“We’re entering the realm of the fifthlings as if we are some third-rate undesirable merchants,” said Slîn, nudging his pony up next to Boïndil’s. His remark was loud enough for Balyndar and the messenger to hear. “Has the queen forgotten who it is she’ll be receiving?”

“She has not,” replied her son at the front of the train. “Unlike the fourthlings, our dwarves have been faced with an overwhelmingly tough task and are having to fight the kordrion as well as this deadly fever. Both adversaries have weakened us. We have better things to do than to stand in rows,” he said disdainfully, “cheering and waving at heroes from the past. You will be given food and drink and, if you want singing and dancing, let me know. But it might be hard to make jolly hosts out of a tribe that’s in mourning.”

“No need to be so thin-skinned, Balyndar.” Slîn bared his teeth. “I need hardly remind you that this welcome is not in accordance with the dignity of the high king you helped to elect.”

Ireheart sent him a look that said to hold his tongue. “Let it go,” he bade him quietly. “We don’t need quarrels here. You’ll be going into battle together, remember.”

Slîn grinned. “But I shall, of course, be standing behind him,” he said, placing a hand on the stock of his crossbow. “The prerogative of archers.”

They rode through the passages in silence. The corridors were different now. Ireheart did not recognize anything, and they would have been hopelessly lost without their guide.

They were led to a hall, where they left their ponies and the befún and then continued on foot.

Their fifthling contingent peeled off from the troop one by one to return to their own clans, leaving the fourthlings, Tungdil and Ireheart alone with Balyndar.

“Feels a bit like a trap,” whispered Slîn to his companions. He had his crossbow hanging on his back, and wore a nifty ax at his belt. “But, of course, we’re among friends.”

A second messenger joined them and said something quietly to Balyndar.

“My mother is looking forward to meeting the brave dwarves under the command of the High King Tungdil Goldhand,” he announced, and gestured them toward a large simple iron gate guarded by two sentries with halberds. “Wasn’t the throne room on the other side?” asked Ireheart in surprise. “I know there’ve been a lot of changes…”

“You’re right. This is not the old throne room we’re coming to,” Balyndar interrupted. “That was in the region of the Gray Mountains where the fever kept recurring. We don’t go there anymore and won’t make an exception to that rule, even for important visitors.” He preceded them. “This is our new throne room.” He signaled to the sentries to open the double doors.

Cool silvery light fell on them. The whole chamber was dressed out in polished steel. All the furniture shone cold in the lamp glow. Even the tall columns supporting the ceiling seemed to be made of burnished steel, so smooth that it reflected the surroundings perfectly.

Elaborate ornaments had been engraved and decorated to give emphasis to them. Confusing to the eye, the colored patterns seemed to move if you stared at them.

In another place the artist had chiseled likenesses of dwarf-rulers, decorating them with jewels or precious metals. It was obvious that the queen who used this room had once belonged to the tribe of the firstlings, talented smiths and metal-workers just as she was herself.

“It seems the mountain itself gave birth to this room,” murmured one of the fourthlings. “Everything fits together so smoothly—no joins or sharp edges.”

Balyndis Steelfinger was seated on the raised throne before them. Her long dark-brown hair was