The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,121

cruel and with black eye sockets. I’d love, just once, to see a fat älf. A fat, clumsy älf, uglier than the mate of the ugliest pig-faced orc. And with crooked teeth. The dwarf grinned to himself behind his closed visor. Like Slîn, Balyndar and the twenty-three Zhadár, he managed to merge unobtrusively with the mass of the squadron’s soldiers. Their disguise must not be noticed. It was vital for the success of their mission.

“Greetings, Ùtsintas,” said Tungdil in a deep voice that commanded respect, a voice Ireheart had never heard his friend use before. Hargorin had told him the name of the älf leader. “I am Tungdil Goldhand, high king of the dwarf-tribes in Girdlegard, and a member of the thirdling folk.”

Ùtsintas opened his mouth. “It’s not as easy…”

But Tungdil carried on regardless. “Take me to the Dsôn Aklán. I have a bargain to strike. Now.”

Ùtsintas closed his mouth again. This prompted another hidden grin from Ireheart. That black-eyes has never been spoken to like this before.

Tungdil leaned forward on his pony. “Did you hear me, Ùtsintas? Or perhaps you do not know my name? Are you so young that you have never been told about the dwarf who razed the original city of Dsôn to the ground?”

“Of course I know the name…” The älf was unsure of himself and looked at the standard. “What does the flag mean? It’s written neither in älfar nor in dwarf-language. It seems to be a mixture of the two…”

“It means that I am commander and king at the same time. In the land beyond the Black Abyss.” Tungdil had his pony move to the front, right up close. With the dwarf on its back even the small pony seemed superior to the firebull, showing no fear of the massive bulk and threatening horns.

“You claim to be Tungdil Goldhand and to have returned from that place? How would that have been possible?” Ùtsintas was gradually regaining his composure.

“The barrier fell for a few moments. That’s how I managed to get back.” Tungdil’s face darkened. “Now I have to speak to the Dsôn Aklán. Do you wish me to ride past you or will you accompany me and Hargorin Deathbringer?”

Ireheart felt like laughing out loud. My Scholar is treating the älf like his messenger boy.

“Other creatures are not permitted to set foot in the holy crater.”

Tungdil’s laugh was unpleasant. “I was in the real city of Dsôn long before you, Ùtsintas.” The Black Squadron sniggered, joined in the fun, humiliating the älf even more. “Be the one who crowns the pact between the thirdlings and your own folk.” He touched the hilt of Bloodthirster, as if by accident. “I am on my way to Dsôn. With or without you.”

Ùtsintas stared at Tungdil and then nodded. “I shall take you.” And, indicating Hargorin, “He can wait here with your people.”

“No. I am entitled to an escort,” Tungdil contradicted. “Thirty men at the very least. Do not attempt to argue.”

The älf paused. “Thirty. No more than that.”

Tungdil signaled to the Zhadár, Ireheart, Slîn and Balyndar to join him. “These are Hargorin’s best men. They instantly swore allegiance to me and they shall be rewarded with the sight of Dsôn.”

Ùtsintas sent them a warning glance. “You are to follow me, not taking any other path. Anyone contravening this order will be killed. This holds for you as well, Tungdil Goldhand.” He turned his firebull’s head and led the way.

Tungdil’s smile was full of malice. “You would not be able to kill me.”

The chosen band of dwarves followed him; Hargorin fell back to wait for them. Ireheart had to restrain himself from talking to Slîn. He thought Tungdil’s acting was superb.

The last few miles through the crater toward the new Dsôn they rode in silence. Gruesome sculptures and monuments were to be seen as they passed; they had a certain aesthetic quality to them but were hideously cruel in concept, formed as they were from bones wired together with gold, tionium and other precious metals; dead trees had been adorned with skulls, and elsewhere there was a structure reminding Ireheart of a large windmill moving in the breeze. He got the distinct impression that those sails were made of skin. He did not wish to learn what sort of skin had been used.

The nearer they got to the deep crater, the more numerous the works of art became until there was hardly any space between the sculptures. They appeared like a nightmarish forest. It all stemmed from the