The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,104

for now. It will follow our scent.”

Ireheart looked first at Slîn and Balyndar, and then at Tungdil. “And where do we go now?”

He had been thinking the Scholar would answer, but it was the sytràp who said, “To the south, to the Red Mountains.” How did the Scholar do that? Ireheart had not expected this, and to judge by the astounded faces of Slîn and Balyndar, they had not reckoned with it either. But he felt no relief.

Nor was he relieved when they were shown something he assumed to be the cocoon, which the Zhadár had hidden under a thick pile of warm furs and dragged along the passage on a shield on rollers.

Girdlegard,

Dwarf Realm of the Fifthlings,

In the North of the Gray Range of Mountains,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

Indistinguishable one from another and vaguely ominous in their identical armor, the Zhadár marched swiftly in the company of the surviving members of the fourthling and fifthling band. They had fastened the cocoon and their equipment and provisions onto a shield and were pulling it along.

“How did you talk them into cooperating, Scholar?” asked Boïndil as they went.

“We’ll have to keep an eye on them,” Balyndar chipped in. “And more important still—what do they want in exchange?”

Slîn looked round. “I shan’t be able to sleep, I can feel it in my bones. Not one of them has shown us his face. Except for Barskalín.”

“You’ll be told next time we stop. It’s better if you hear it from him,” Tungdil placated them, then moved on quickly to catch up with the commander. “They’re chatting again. Like old friends.” Slîn nudged Balyndar and pointed toward Tungdil’s back, indicating a particular rune. “The Zhadár have got the same one on their armor,” he mouthed. “You know what? I bet it’s no coincidence that we’ve teamed up. The plan about the nest was Tungdil’s—perhaps these are his warriors and are just pretending to be… Zhadár?”

“Maybe you’re right,” said the fifthling pensively.

“Stop that nonsense!” commanded Ireheart in the uncomfortable knowledge that he could not tell them what to do.

Balyndar looked at him disapprovingly. “You keep changing your ideas, Boïndil Doubleblade. One minute you’re on his side, then you start to wobble, then you change your mind again.” He stuck his hands in his belt. “You’ll have to come to a decision. When it’s all over.”

Ireheart was angry. “We’ve got a job to do and we’ll do it, and it doesn’t matter who helps us as long as it serves Girdlegard,” he said, avoiding the issue. “There have been losses. Now we have new soldiers and we have the kordrion’s young.”

“He’s right,” said Slîn. “We’re better off like this than being a pile of ash out on the plain. Or devoured by the monster.” He fell silent.

When they came to a cave with a water source, Tungdil signaled to the company to halt and Barskalín complied.

“It’s pretty clear which of them gives the orders,” commented Ireheart, bursting with curiosity. He, Slîn and Balyndar settled down away from the Zhadár to eat. I want to know what the story is with these Zhadár. Vraccas can’t be giving his blessing to this. He glanced at his friend, who was talking to the sytràp. They were studying a map that they had unrolled and spread out, each running their fingers over the lines. Eventually they seemed to have finished and came over.

Barskalín sat down on a boulder. “I owe you an explanation about myself and the Zhadár,” he began. He released his helmet strap, revealing a shaved skull dyed black. “As I was saying: We used to be thirdlings. Each of us is more than four hundred cycles old and we’re all excellent warriors. When Aiphatòn and his southern älfar marched in and it became clear no one could stop them, our king suggested a pact. To our astonishment they agreed.” His gaze wandered over the dwarf-faces. “After about twenty cycles the Dsôn Aklán made us an offer: They were looking for volunteers to train up and learn certain crafts. In exchange it was arranged that this particular unit would eliminate all the dwarf-tribes of Girdlegard.”

“May Vraccas shove a red-hot hammer through their stupid ears!” Ireheart took a swig from his flask.

“They wanted Girdlegard naked, without a single defender.” Balyndar’s expression darkened. “It would have meant the end.”

“The älfar from the south are different from those in the sagas?” Slîn wondered.

Barskalín confirmed this with a nod. “They are wilder, more cruel…”

Ireheart laughed. “Am I hearing aright? More cruel? How could