The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,124

now forty paces from the mighty marble façade. Boïndil doubted that a crossbow bolt could reach the height of the roof where the dark dome shimmered and shone.

“And what kind of palace has the emperor built for himself?” Tungdil wanted to know.

“As far as I know he does not have one. I have never had the chance of visiting him.” Ùtsintas led them to the door at the end of a row of giant columns supporting the entrance canopy.

Ireheart grinned again. You won’t be allowed to because the black-eyes from the south won’t let you in, he thought. He suddenly realized that the älfar patrols in Dsôn Bhará were not for quelling Gauragar resistance but for keeping their own unwelcome relatives off their backs. I’ll take any bets no southern älf has ever been in this crater.

The älfar had not lost their love of working with all types of bone. The dwarves saw bones of all shapes and sizes fixed to the walls as adornment, arranged to make fascinating patterns, leading the beholder’s gaze along to the entrance itself. The portal, which was seven paces high and four wide, was decorated with slices of bone arranged with studious accuracy; skulls filled the gaps. The head shapes of all the races in Girdlegard were represented here. Except for the älfar.

Four sentries guarded the entrance and opened the door for the visitors. Beyond the portal was a high dark corridor, its walls covered in carmine red fabric. No gruesome pictures, no bonework, nothing to upset or horrify you.

Hmm, not as I thought at all. Ireheart was slightly puzzled as he followed Tungdil and Ùtsintas along winding passageways. The company halted in front of a black door.

“I will tell the Dsôn Aklán you are here and what you want.” Their leader knocked on the door and an älf wearing a long robe let him in.

Outside, Ireheart could not contain himself. He pushed up his visor. “I can’t believe it!” he said quietly, wiping the sweat off his face. The climb had made him quite hot. “I’m right in the middle of the black-eyes’ realm!”

Tungdil quickly snapped his friend’s visor shut. “Don’t say a word. They may be watching us.”

Ireheart pushed it up again. “But my tongue is on fire. I need…”

“Will you be quiet?” snarled Balyndar, giving him a shove. The visor clanged shut once more. “He’ll be the death of us if he can’t stop talking.”

“Push me around again, fifthling, and…”

Ùtsintas reappeared and led them through a second, dark-red door. Here they were received by seven älfar in long black robes. They did not seem concerned that they would be significantly outnumbered should it come to a fight. They ushered Tungdil and his escort into the presence of the ruler of Dsôn.

The dwarves entered the black-painted hall. Blue flames flickered in shallow braziers. Dark red lengths of fabric hung from the ceiling and there was a smell of smoldering spices.

They walked toward an elevated throne covered in a white velvet throw, which contrasted effectively with the dark-haired älf in full armor who sat there. He held a white fan in one hand to shield his face from their inquiring eyes.

I could try numbering them so I don’t mix them up, thought Ireheart, smiling to himself behind his visor.

Tungdil halted and sketched a bow. “I am…” “I know who you are,” the älf interrupted. “Even if you do use a different name.”

Ireheart was taken aback. A feeling of unease made the hairs on his arms stand up. He checked the exit and gripped his crow’s beak.

The älf rose, elegance itself, and strode down the four steps. “I did not think I should ever see you again.”

Tungdil’s eyes narrowed. Boïndil saw that he was struggling with his memory.

“How long has it been? Two hundred cycles?” The älf lowered his fan and gave the one-eyed dwarf a friendly smile of welcome. On his neck there was a narrow wound caused by a crossbow bolt and his cheek also bore a scar.

“Tirîgon!” Tungdil beamed and opened his arms wide.

Then something happened that was, from Ireheart’s point of view, quite appalling: The älf bent down and hugged the Scholar as if greeting a very close friend. Both of them were laughing. “Can I call you Balodil or shall we leave it at Tungdil?”

The dwarf behind Ireheart gave a sob of exasperation and turned away in distress. Presumably one of the Zhadár, thought Boïndil, given a theatrical and emotional performance like that. “Keep quiet, can’t you?” he whispered,