The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,106

better.” He addressed Barskalín. “I want to know the reason you and I are sitting peaceably next to each other instead of fighting. You are working for our enemies but you’re still ready to help us take the cocoon to Lot-Ionan?”

“Treachery,” Tungdil said calmly. “The Zhadár never obeyed wholeheartedly, but have been waiting for an opportunity to change sides.”

“That’s right.” Barskalín nodded. “Tungdil Goldhand is a thirdling. A lot has changed in the thirdlings’ way of thinking and the dwarf laughed at for many cycles has become our greatest hero. He stood alone to fight against immense odds. And now he is the high king of all the dwarf-tribes—who else could we follow with both our head and our heart? We have been waiting for so many cycles to eliminate the älfar. To destroy them with their own weapons and arts.”

“That was what you planned when you volunteered?” Ireheart stared at the sytràp, finding it hard to grasp the immensity of what they had taken on. “By Vraccas, quite a sacrifice!”

“If what he says is true.” Balyndar sounded less than convinced.

“I believe him.” Slîn nodded and chewed on the stem of his pipe.

Barskalín smiled, a row of white teeth shining in the dark face. “To follow Tungdil Goldhand and help to free Girdlegard. That was always our intention. And now we have the opportunity, we’ll be able to carry out that plan.” He indicated his nine companions. “Altogether there are twenty-three of us…”

Balyndar’s laughter was ironic. “That’s plenty to make the älfar run off, tails between their legs.”

Now, for the first time, the commander of the Zhadár showed impatience. “Each one of us can deal with twenty opponents without exertion. In conventional combat. But if we use our special powers we can confound a small army, let me tell you, Balyndar Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers! If you thought the only thing our älfar skills are good for is to put the lights out you’ve got another think coming.” He scowled. “I’ve walked past you five dozen times during the course of your life and you never knew. I stood at your cradle, I stood at your bed while you slept. The Gray Mountains hold no secrets for me or my Zhadár.” His hand lay on the handle of his curved dagger. “You have me to thank for the fact I didn’t lead the thirdlings into your mother’s kingdom. The strongholds would have fallen as well.” He stood up and came over to the fifthling to speak low into his ear. “I know all your secrets, heir apparent to the fifthling crown,” he whispered, then straightened up. “So you are in the best of hands. It is an honor for us to be able to serve the high king.”

Balyndar sat thunderstruck; he had turned as pale as a linen shirt.

Tungdil shook hands with Barskalín, who returned to his Zhadár troops; the two groups of warriors bedded down for the night in separate corners of the cave.

Ireheart could not understand why Balyndar was suddenly monosyllabic, but he was still mulling over what the sytràp had reported. “Vraccas, now I’m positive that it was your work: Letting us meet the Zhadár warrior in the mountains. I thank you,” he prayed quietly. “Now grant victory to the Invisibles and ourselves. I would give anything to hear dwarves and humans able to laugh again.”

“Would you give your life?” Slîn asked, having overheard. “Would you die for the cause?” He turned over and put his hands behind his head, his pipe clamped in the corner of his mouth. “I would. But only if at least one of us survives to report our heroic deeds. Otherwise even the most glorious of deaths is a waste of time.”

Ireheart wanted to reply but his throat had gone dry. Perhaps it was better not to answer.

He might have said the wrong thing.

Girdlegard,

Protectorate of Gauragar,

Twenty Miles South of the Gray Mountains,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

Ireheart was feeling uneasy.

They had taken off his chain mail and any clothing that had been in contact with the cocoon and had tied it to a horse bought for the purpose, in order to duplicate the scent trails and keep the kordrion busy. As soon as the beast found the horse and consumed it, iron rings, shirt, hose and all, it would know it should have followed the other track; Ireheart was wearing random cast-offs that his companions could spare.

“I feel like some ragged peddler,” he said, down in the dumps.

“And what