The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,114

furthest away from the blasphemous inscriptions.” Balyndar went off, dragging his sledge behind him, going back the way they had come.

They reached a farmhouse with a large barn and knocked. It was not long before someone opened the door.

A young woman stood on the threshold studying them from head to foot. “You’re not one of Deathbringer’s people?” she said in surprise. She popped her head out to look toward the stronghold. “Quick, come in, before they see you! They’ll kill you if they see you!”

Ireheart found her solicitude for three total stranger dwarves quite touching. “Good woman, do not concern yourself…”

Balyndar pushed past him. “May Vraccas bless you! Thank you for the warning.” Unobserved, he winked at Ireheart. He was obviously planning to pretend he was a newcomer and nothing to do with the thirdling leader. He told her their names. “We thought it was a dwarf-fortress holding out against the älfar, but when we saw the runes we knew we were wrong. But we’re too tired to travel on.”

Slîn had grasped the idea and pretended he was afraid. “Blasted dwarf-haters!”

Ireheart was still hovering in the doorway; it did not seem right to deceive these humans. On the other hand, they could learn things about Hargorin Deathbringer that he would not be vouchsafing to his guests. “Again, our thanks,” he said and entered the house. “May Vraccas always keep your hearth warm to reward you for your bravery and generosity.”

Ireheart, Slîn and Balyndar were led to a large kitchen where the rest of the family was gathered. Ireheart counted eleven, ranging from ancient to newborn, round the table. The food smelled of cooked cereal of some kind and hearty smoked bacon.

“Grolf and Lirf! Go and put their sledges in the barn, then hide their tracks,” the young woman ordered. Two young fellows jumped up. “We have guests,” she said, introducing the dwarves. “True children of the Smith and not thirdlings.”

“By Palandiell, you’ve chosen the worst place to stop in the whole of Gauragar,” called the old man, whose mouth showed only two teeth. His laugh was as hollow as an empty tin. “They’re going to spend the night here. We can think about how to get them away in the morning without being seen. The thirdling lord won’t let them live if he finds them.” The young woman put her hand to her brow. “By the gods! I have forgotten to tell you who I am. I am Rilde, and this is my farm.” Then she went round the table doing the introductions.

“Boïndil Doubleblade?” An older woman, called Mila, was staring at him. “The Boïndil, who fought so many battles for Girdlegard?”

Ireheart felt himself grow taller with pride.

“Then he’s come to kill Hargorin,” whooped the girl called Xara.

“Be quiet!” Lombrecht hushed her. He was the toothless old farmer to whom the farm had once belonged. “Hargorin is a good overlord. Who knows who would succeed him?”

Ireheart saw that Lombrecht had a pendant depicting Sitalia. “A human who worships the elf goddess?” he said, while a bench was being dragged over for them. “That’s a rarity.”

“And brave.” Slîn nodded to the window to show that the thirdlings disliked the elves even more than they hated the dwarf-tribes.

“Someone has to keep their memory alive,” answered the elderly farmer, while Rilde filled wooden bowls for them. “They were always a part of Girdlegard and must not be forgotten.”

The three dwarves exchanged surprised glances.

“I thought all the elves had fled to a secret hiding place,” Ireheart said, eating his first spoonful. It wasn’t bad, though not a patch on Goda’s minced gugul. “They’re in a grove somewhere, waiting for the children of the Smith to pull the diamond out of the fire again before they get burned. Isn’t that so?”

Rilde sat next to them and Xara brought them three cups and a jug of light beer. “It would be nice if that were the case,” she sighed. “But the legends of my people tell a different story.”

“I think I should spend more time with the long-uns,” Slîn whispered to Balyndar, as he tamed his hunger. “This is where to get the latest news.”

Ireheart looked at Rilde. “Tell us what you know. Where are the last of the elves?”

“I’ll tell you the story of how the älfar came back to Girdlegard and destroyed the last of the elves.” Lombrecht cleared his throat. “It was over two hundred cycles past. A pair of elf lovers met at a pond, the Moon Pond, over where the old