The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,107

is wrong with my trousers?” asked their crossbow specialist with a grin. “If you burst the seams with your fat arse, you’ll have to buy me some new ones.”

“It’s not fat, it’s all muscle. You fourthlings don’t have any. Your trousers would just about fit our children.” Ireheart looked back at Balyndar, who was holding the älfar dagger they had taken off the dead archer. He turned the weapon, running his fingers over the blade, and then struck it at a certain angle against his forearm protectors.

It was not a strong blow—but the blade sang out and snapped in two.

“As I thought,” muttered the fifthling, discarding the useless weapon.

“What did you think?” asked Ireheart, and Balyndar gave a jerk. He had not known he was being observed. “That the dagger was faulty?” “Yes. Something was wrong, but I didn’t know what.” He tried to explain. “We firstlings have a good eye for metalcraft. I knew a dwarf had made it, but something wasn’t right. The smith had included a fine layer of a hard, brittle metal. It hadn’t fused to the steel and I could see that, if subjected to stress—for example in combat—the blade would break off.” Balyndar looked at Ireheart. “It was constructed deliberately as an inferior piece of work. It wasn’t a mistake.”

“So the thirdlings are sabotaging the black-eyes’ plans, too, like the Zhadár,” noted Boïndil with satisfaction.

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. It could be a single dwarf with a conscience.” The fifthling dampened Ireheart’s enthusiasm. “If there were a lot of this treachery going on, even the älfar would notice and there’d be consequences for the thirdlings. Fatal consequences.” He looked at Tungdil, who was up front at the Zhadár commander’s side, climbing the next slope. “The thirdlings may be good warriors, better than all of us. But they can’t win against the älfar. The black-eyes have far superior numbers.”

“It’s a bit early to be seeing them as allies on the strength of one faulty dagger,” Ireheart agreed. He looked up, surprised at the swift approach of a cloud.

When Slîn followed his gaze, his arm shot up into the air. “Kordrion! To the north!”

Ireheart was angry with himself that he had not seen it. “I think I must be getting old.”

They dived for cover among the rocks, while Ireheart raced off to tell Tungdil. “What do we do, Scholar?”

The one-eyed dwarf stood straight and unruffled, his right hand shielding his brow as he scanned the sky. “It’s closer than we’d want. Our trick with the false trail isn’t working anymore.”

Boïndil was sulking. “So I lost my clothes and armor for nothing?”

“It’s given us a good head start. But that seems to be over.” Tungdil spotted the kordrion between the clouds. “He’s keeping a lookout. It won’t take him long to spot us.”

“That means we’ll never make it to Lot-Ionan, Scholar?”

“Precisely.” Tungdil looked back over his shoulder. “But we can take our gift to someone else. We’ve got to use the opportunity to cause our enemies maximum damage.”

Ireheart recognized where they were heading. “Dsôn Bahrá.”

“It would be the safest. The path will be downhill most of the way and our sledges will help. And there’ll be caves we can hide in when the kordrion gets too close.” Tungdil looked at Barskalín, who nodded in agreement.

“That sounds like fun: slipping in unnoticed among the black-eyes. What a challenge!” Ireheart signaled to Slîn and Balyndar to come over; the Invisibles left their hiding places and began pushing the sledges uphill.

“I don’t intend to slip in unnoticed,” said Tungdil. “It wouldn’t work, anyway. I’ll introduce myself as a transformed Tungdil whose greatest wish is to wipe out dwarfdom completely. I’ll offer the älfar my assistance. We’ll offload the baby kordrion secretly and wait to see what happens. We’ll have an alternative plan ready.” He looked at his friend. “Ireheart, you, Balyndar and Slîn will have to wear Zhadár armor.”

“Charming,” was the unhappy fourthling’s comment. “Don’t worry. They’ll have something in your size,” joked Ireheart. “One of their women’s outfits.”

Balyndar put his hands on his hips. “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it. I am your high king so you’ll do what I say.” Tungdil sounded extraordinarily calm and determined. “The kordrion is too fast for us and you can’t argue with me on that score. If there’s a chance to deploy the embryo against the enemy, we’ll do it.” He swung himself onto one of the sledges. “We’ll be in Dsôn Bahrá in a couple of orbits.