The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,102

as if they had dozens more where they come from,” came a deep voice. “The dwarf world will be hit hard by the loss. What will the tribes do without their figureheads and famous icons of bravery? Will the others emigrate? Commit suicide?”

Slîn bent and quickly lit two torches he had taken from his rucksack; he kept one and handed the other to Balyndar.

“Come out of the dark and I’ll clobber your big mouth for you,” Ireheart bellowed in rage. “Are you a coward?”

“No. I am someone who likes the dark and knows it is his ally,” the speaker replied. “Why should I step into the light? You come over here!”

“Is there something wrong with your voice? You sound like a girl,” shouted Ireheart. He tried to challenge the stranger. “Did a gugul bite off your manhood?” An insult like that and his own combat fire would certainly have flared up.

“Why are you following us? Are the dwarves now worshippers of the kordrion and want to return his offspring to him?”

“We demand you give us the cocoon you stole,” answered Tungdil, motioning Boïndil to desist from his next vocal onslaught. But I’d just made up such a good new insult, thought the latter, ruefully. Ah well, I’ll just have to save it for another occasion.

“Too late,” said the voice in the darkness. “We’ve got it, we need it and we won’t give it up.”

“Then we’ll come and take it!” Tungdil drew Bloodthirster. “There’s only ten of you. And even though your footprints tell me you belong to our race we shall not spare you.”

Silence ensued.

“We’re not dwarves,” said another voice just behind them, a voice out of the dark as deep as the grave. “Not anymore.”

Why can’t I see them? Boïndil stared intently into the blackness until he thought he could make out a shape. Then, as if from nowhere, appeared the form of a warrior; he was the size of a dwarf, in the same armor as the dwarf-hater they had come across in the Outer Lands. It was as if the passage itself had given birth to him; his helmet was closed and in his right hand he held a tionium spear with a long, pointed end.

“That’s an älf’s weapon,” growled Ireheart, pushing in front of Slîn. “It goes with the runes on your armor, you traitor! The thirdlings have gone too far. They can’t be allowed to rule.”

The dwarf came to a halt two paces away.

Slîn was aiming the crossbow at him, Balyndar covered the rest of the passage, and Tungdil rested his own weapon against his shoulder. Nothing in Tungdil’s demeanor showed he felt fear, although both he and his companions knew themselves to be surrounded.

“You didn’t listen to what I said, Boïndil Doubleblade,” said the stranger, lifting his visor. “We’re no longer dwarves.” Ireheart inhaled sharply. At first he thought the dwarf had no face, but then he realized the blackness was the dye used for his beard. “You still look like one to me,” he responded. “Right, are you going to hand over the cocoon?”

The stranger laughed, pleasantly now. “I’ve stepped into your light, so you should reciprocate and come into the dark.” He lifted his left hand and clenched his fist.

The torchlight suddenly went out, leaving only a dull red glow.

“Älfar tricks,” Ireheart spat out, caught by surprise. “Vraccas, strike them with your hammer. The skirt-wearers have betrayed your creation.”

There was a loud click when Slîn fired the crossbow. The sound of splintering wood told them his bolt had missed its target.

“We can see you as clearly as if you stood in the full light of day,” the dwarf said to them. “When your torches light up again, don’t move, or we’ll kill you.”

The torches flared up.

Ireheart cursed. He was flanked by two dwarves in black armor and the blade of a curved dagger was at his throat; another knife hovered by his eye. Again, he had neither heard his adversaries approach nor noticed a current of air. “May Vraccas toss you in his furnace and burn your treacherous souls,” he said contemptuously. He couldn’t see what effect his words had; the visor was still shut.

Tungdil was surrounded by three of the armored foe and saw spears aiming at him. No one was trying to get very close.

“I’ll ask you again: What do you want the embryo for?” Their leader had not moved. “To stuff it up your arse,” was Ireheart’s venomous reply. “Leave me enough room for my crow’s beak and I’ll