The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,113

of the stronghold?”

“It may not bother you, Scholar.” He pointed to the inscriptions. “But it bothers me! I worship Vraccas and that’s why I won’t enter this fortress, where his name is insulted and his words are dragged through the mud.” He got up and brushed the snow off his mantle. “We’ll find a bed with the villagers.”

“You know that the kordrion will hunt you down as the murderer of its young because of the scent on you of the cocoon?” Tungdil warned. “You won’t have much protection in one of those flimsy huts. You won’t even have woken up before the white fire gets you.”

Boïndil indicated the Invisibles. “The Zhadár walked through the same blood and smashed eggs.”

Barskalín looked a bit shamefaced when he said, “But our armor is made of tionium.”

“Blasted bloody orcshit! That would have to happen to me!” He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t care. Vraccas will protect me, because I shan’t go in there,” he said, pointing to the door. “Not under any circumstances.” Slîn and Balyndar stood at his right and left.

Boïndil was aware that the group had formed into two distinct fronts. On the one side was the Black Squadron with Barskalín and on the other was him and two dwarves he did not know very well, but one of whom, at least, he found tolerable enough.

And it seemed to him that Tungdil would be going over to the dark ones’ side and not to his own.

Hargorin, with Tungdil’s permission, ordered his squad to enter the fortress. The Zhadár followed them in. Deathbringer came slowly over to the three adamant dwarves. “I understand you full well, Boïndil. But trust me when I tell you that the appearance of my house is purely a front.” He pulled out a pendant from under his chain mail: a vraccasium hammer with the sign of the Smith. “I am his,” he whispered. “The whole squadron is his. But we had to disguise our intentions, like the Zhadár, so the älfar wouldn’t suspect us. That has meant we can move around freely all over the lands where the black-eyes are in power. We know a lot about Idoslane and about the resistance movement. Even if the humans consider us unspeakable, we are really on their side. One orbit we shall need this knowledge in order to break the oppressive rule of evil.” Hargorin smiled. “Believe me, Boïndil. For every stone bearing an insult to Vraccas I have begged the creator’s forgiveness and I know that I will receive mercy when I reach the eternal forge. The deception has been essential. These have not been the times for open warfare.” He looked over his shoulder. “But with Goldhand’s return the fight has begun.”

Ireheart looked at Balyndar, then at Slîn. They seemed not to want to be convinced. “I shall be staying out here in the village,” he repeated, a little less aggressively this time. “Blasphemy is blasphemy. Can you recommend somewhere we can stay?”

“Perhaps one of the cheaper ones. Our war coffers are not overflowing,” added Slîn.

Hargorin gave up. “Say that I sent you and you won’t be charged anything. When we meet to arrange the rest of the journey we’ll come to the house you choose. Just let me know where you’re staying.” He turned away and exchanged a few words with Tungdil and Barskalín.

The one-eyed dwarf lifted his hand. “We’ll be there when the kordrion comes to get you,” he called. “Sleep well.” Then he disappeared into the fortress with the others; the door closed with a dull clang, robbing the three dwarves of the sight of the high king. “Three against three,” remarked Slîn.

“What?” flashed Balyndar.

The fourthling pointed to the little gap through which they could just see glimpses of tionium armor. “Us three against those three. I’ll take Hargorin. He’s a good target. Ireheart should fight Tungdil and Balyndar can challenge Barskalín.”

“I’ll have Tungdil,” said the fifthling.

“What are you blethering about? You’re splitting the hairs in my beard,” Ireheart thundered. “We will not be fighting each other.”

“It was just a thought. Forgive me. I got carried away.” Slîn stared at the tips of his boots and was really embarrassed. “It won’t happen again, Boïndil.”

Ireheart thought that Balyndar’s tone of voice showed he shared the same thoughts. Serious thoughts. “Let’s find somewhere to stay. Any preferences?”

Slîn swiveled round to look at the little stone and half-timbered houses ringing the walls of Vraccas-Spite. “They all look the same. I can’t decide.”

“Then let’s go for the one that’s