The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,111

they fanned out, covering the entire breadth of the hollow; there was no way through.

Tungdil halted his sledge and the Zhadár, one by one, slowed down, then dismounted, forming a circle, using their shield-sledges as protection to create a mini fortification with Tungdil and Barskalín in the center. Slîn and Balyndar came up and joined them.

Damn and blast. This is not going to go well. Ireheart doubted he could reach them before the Black Squadron tightened their ring round the Zhadár. Oh, what the blazes… I’ll barge my way through. “Nothing on this mission is going as planned. Not even when we haven’t got a plan!” he cursed under his breath and made himself as small as possible so as to offer the wind less resistance.

In an audaciously dangerous maneuver he swerved past the pony legs, headed for the last gap in the squadron’s ranks and crashed his sledge full tilt against a Zhadár shield.

Ireheart was hurled up into the air, then he slammed into the protective wall and slid into the snow, springing back on his feet immediately, his weapon at the ready. “Get back!” he yelled at the rider in front of him, but he could hardly see what he was doing, what with the melting snow dripping into his eyes. “I swear I’ll get you with my crow’s beak where it’ll really hurt.”

A chorus of loud laughter broke out.

“There are not many children of the Smith who carry a weapon such as yours and who are as old as you,” someone scoffed, but still with a trace of respect in the voice. The dwarf sprang down from the saddle, chains clinking.

Boïndil swiftly wiped the snow off his face. Now he could see the dwarf-warrior clearly: He bore a long-handled ax in his right hand. A thick mantle was worn over reinforced chain mail and the bright red beard had black streaks in it. Green eyes surveyed Ireheart; the body was tensed and the warrior was watching out for a surprise attack born of desperation.

“It would be a pleasure to try my strength against yours,” said the unknown dwarf. “Boïndil Doubleblade.” Then he turned to the Zhadár. “What’s this about, Barskalîn? Since when are you afraid of me and my soldiers?”

“I’m not afraid of them or of you. But I was not sure you were still their leader, Hargorin Deathbringer.” On his command all the shields were lowered and then Barskalín approached his friend. “I wasn’t expecting to meet you and the Desirers on my travels.”

Ireheart’s gaze went from one to the other. “What—by the Smith—is happening here?” He looked at the riders’ dark armor. “Desirers?”

“They collect tribute for the älfar from what was once Idoslane.” Balyndar spoke with hearty disdain. “Robbers and murderers, nothing more.”

“Don’t be so hasty.” Barskalín held out his hand to Hargorin and introduced Slîn, Balyndar and Ireheart. “Now bend the knee before the new high king of the dwarflands,” he announced dramatically. “For he is one of your own, a thirdling. Tungdil Goldhand!”

Hargorin took a step back in surprise and stared at the one-eyed dwarf emerging from the ranks of the Zhadár; then his gaze took in the armor, and Bloodthirster, and finally the hard facial features. He saw the insignia of a high king. “Well, I’ll be…” His voice trailed off in disbelief, then he sank onto one knee and bowed his head, proffering Tungdil his ax.

The Black Squadron dismounted and one hundred and fifty warriors, male and female, all made their reverences to the ruler of all dwarves.

Ireheart looked around with a grin. “If this happens every ten miles or so all the way to Dsôn Bhará, we’ll soon have a decent army to put the wind up the älfar and chuck them out of Girdlegard,” he laughed. “Scholar, will you take a look at this! Thirdlings showing you respect!”

Tungdil commanded Hargorin and his squadron to stand. “If I understand Barskalín and yourself correctly may I assume you share the same views on the älfar?”

Hargorin glanced at the sytràp, who nodded permission to continue. “Lord, many of us have been waiting for you to return to lead your tribe against all the enemies.” As he spoke he seemed radiant with delight. “You don’t know it but our folk recount legends about your fame.”

Tungdil looked at Barskalín, who shrugged and said, “I haven’t had time to tell you.” This will make a good story for the campfire. Ireheart gave a broad grin. “So, my Scholar… A fairy-tale hero fêted by the thirdlings