The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,105

that be?”

“It can be, Boïndil,” answered a subdued Tungdil. “Believe me, it can.”

“They aren’t the only ones. A few hundred älfar from the north have somehow managed to enter Girdlegard without Aiphatòn’s help. He’s known as emperor among the southern älfar.” Barskalín continued his report. “It was the Dsôn Aklán who aided the northerners.”

Boïndil turned to Balyndar. “How did they get past you?”

“They didn’t!” insisted the fifthling. “We keep the Stone Gate and nothing got through. It’s nonsense!”

Barskalín threw him a disapproving glance. “They got into Girdlegard without your knowledge. The dwarves couldn’t have stopped them. The älfar rediscovered an old passage they had used many cycles ago to invade the elf realm Lesinteïl.”

“By Vraccas! Then we must find the entrance and close it up.” Slîn looked at Ireheart. “There’s no point in keeping up the fortresses, otherwise.”

“The passage no longer exists. It collapsed and it’s underwater now.” The sytràp folded his hands. “In any case, there’s conflict now among the älfar. The Dsôn Aklán and their followers consider themselves to be the rightful successors to the Unslayables and, as such, morally and in every way superior to their cousins from the south. The northerners were the ones we had an alliance with.” The sytràp grinned maliciously. “I’m sure they would have sent us to fight the southern älfar sooner or later. I’d bet anything.”

“Well, well.” Ireheart stroked his beard. “That’s useful to know. So the black-eyes don’t like each other either.”

“The southerners are in the majority and they’ve taken over Dsôn Balsur and the former elf realm of landur. The northern älfar have rebuilt the city of Dsôn in an artificial crater in the former elf realm of Lesinteïl, now renamed Dsôn Bhará—the true Dsôn. Yours, Tungdil Goldhand, is a name they pronounce with hatred. They haven’t forgotten that it was you who sent the city of the Unslayables up in flames.” Barskalín looked round at the others. “They taught us everything and trained us in their arts and skills.”

“How? Dwarves and magic? What’s more, magic originating from our oldest and most terrible foes?” Balyndar cut himself a piece of ham.

“It was a long and painful process involving many gruesome rituals,” Barskalín explained, seeming distressed. “It felt as if they had burned out the very souls that Vraccas endowed us with. What you see is the outer shell, filled with something that would make you shudder with fear if you ever caught sight of it.”

Boïndil glanced at Tungdil and remembered the vicious scars covering his torso. Perhaps he had also undergone that transformation? Is that why his face had the fine black älfar-like lines?

Barskalín cleared his throat. His voice had gone and he needed something to drink before he could continue his story. “After one hundred cycles in their service the Dsôn Aklán considered us to be loyal followers.” He looked at Slîn. “We spied on your strongholds and killed anyone in our path. I could find my way through Goldfast and Silverfast blindfold. There are no secrets. If we wanted to,” he lowered his voice, “we could lead the älfar or the thirdlings straight into the fourthling realm. You wouldn’t be able to stop us.”

The fourthling gulped. “That’s… impossible.”

Barskalín pointed to Tungdil and Boïndil. “Ask them. They came across one of my Zhadár in the Outer Lands. He had been traveling through the Brown Mountains, on a reconnaissance mission through your territory. Then he was going to spy out Evildam and follow up the rumors about the return of the greatest dwarf-hero.” He laughed. “He reported the rumors had been correct. He only just managed to escape from you.”

Ireheart spluttered and spat out his drink. “He survived the White Death?”

“We’re tough.” Barskalín smiled mysteriously.

“And they sent you to steal the cocoons?” Balyndar had not taken his eyes off the sytràp.

“Yes. The älfar… the Dsôn Aklán, want to stir up a war in the west to further their own plans. A diversion only. That’s purely my interpretation, of course.” Barskalín looked at Ireheart. “Emperor Aiphatòn is preparing for a campaign against Lot-Ionan. He intends to march to the south to overthrow the magus and his famuli. Then he will open the High Pass to allow more älfar through.”

“That’s good news!” Slîn filled his pipe. “We don’t need to start any wars! Let the two of them sort things out between them and we’ll hang around and see who wins. Let’s kill the kordrion’s young and bide our time.”

Balyndar placed his fingertips together thoughtfully. “I thought our own plan was…