The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,112

now.”

“If he’s so popular with the thirdlings, this gives us untold opportunities,” remarked Slîn.

“Not all revere him,” Hargorin was quick to point out. “But very, very many do.” He beamed at Tungdil. “One of the legends describes your heroic deeds on the far side of the Black Abyss. When I see you wearing this armor it feels like it was a prophecy. The story describes you exactly like this.”

Barskalîn gave two of his Zhadár orders to watch the sky for any signs of the kordrion’s approach. “We need to find ourselves somewhere nice and quiet where we can talk properly,” he suggested. “Have you got a place near here, old friend?”

Hargorin nodded. “Half an orbit’s ride away. It’s one of my fortresses. Let’s harness our ponies to your sledges and make for the stronghold.”

“Is it strong enough to withstand a kordrion attack?”

Hargorin’s expression did not change. “It can hold up for a good while, at least. And if the tower were to collapse we can still escape through the tunnels.” He looked at Barskalín. “What have you been up to? Why is the beast after you?”

The sytràp laughed. “We’ll tell you later. Take the high king to your home and look after us well. Then we’ll have time to talk.” He became serious. “You will have to come to a decision about whom to serve,” he said, suddenly formal.

“I did that many cycles ago.” The thirdling bowed to Tungdil. “Whatever leads you to the land of the älfar, from now on I and the Black Squadron shall serve only you, Sire. You will bring us glory. As our legends promise.”

Balyndar rolled his eyes. But a happy Slîn on the other hand appeared gratified. “Absolutely charming.”

“Charming sounds… feminine. But I certainly find it all… extraordinary.” Ireheart was pleased that instead of the battle he had been fearing they were now celebrating with their new brothers-in-arms. But he could not shrug off his disquiet at the amount of black there was around him. It was like a weather front of gathering thunderclouds; would it discharge itself into a terrible storm? If so, it was clear that at its very eye would be standing none other than his friend Tungdil.

“It will suck us all in,” he said under his breath, remembering that he too would soon be donning the dark armor of the Zhadár. “Vraccas, don’t let me turn into one of them just because I have to wear their black plating.”

Again it was Slîn who overheard. This fourthling had highly developed hearing. “You’re afraid you might become like them? Boïndil, it’s only black steel we’re going to be putting on.” He tapped himself on the chest, then touched his head. “Our hearts and minds will still belong to us. Look on it as a harmless disguise.” He threw one end of a rope to one of the riders; the other was tied to his sledge. “If you like, I’ll look after you, my poor little dwarf.”

Ireheart laughed. “You’re right to make fun of my childish thoughts.” He got his sledge ready.

Pulled swiftly across the snow, they soon learned the disadvantages of this mode of travel: The ponies’ hooves kicked up the snow and whirled icy clouds into their faces such that, before long, they’d all taken on the appearance of small, grim, bearded snowmen.

Through the snow Ireheart saw the twenty-pace-high curtain wall loom up in front; he also saw blasphemous insults daubed on it that would make any decent dwarf shudder in his boots.

This was nothing less than pure hatred of Vraccas in the form of runes. The symbols swore total annihilation of all the tribes. Shameful slogans daubed on many of the blocks of stone: Vraccas the Cripple, Vraccas the Powerless, Vraccas the Impotent…

Ireheart was not the only one to notice.

“I’m not setting foot in there,” cried Slîn, and Balyndar nodded in agreement. “This is appalling. Vraccas would be enraged if we accepted hospitality from Hargorin Deathbringer. And I can’t help feeling we’re definitely going to need the Creator-God on our side in the next few orbits.”

Ireheart agreed. “We’ll find ourselves somewhere else to stay—in one of the village houses.”

They shouted to the squadron to stop but, not hearing them, the band rode on through the settlement, heading for the main gate of Vraccas-Spite. Finally, the three dwarves cut through the ropes and got off their sledges. Hargorin and Barskalín turned round, and Tungdil ordered a halt.

“What’s going on, Ireheart?” The one-eyed dwarf was surprised. “Why don’t you want the safety