The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,125

lifting his visor to be heard. “The Scholar knows what he’s doing.” But while the words were leaving his mouth he was himself beset with uncertainty. The familiarity with which the älf and Tungdil had greeted each other, the way those two dark figures fitted in to the world of evil, all this served to stir the doubts Boïndil had so recently succeeded in putting aside.

The Zhadár swallowed another sob and fell silent, nodding. Ireheart turned to the front and watched as Tungdil and the älf clasped hands again, now deep in discussion. They must know each other from their time in the Black Abyss.

He was trying to work out how the black-eyes had been able to cross the barrier before Tungdil. Suddenly he felt sick. He remembered exactly when it was he had last heard the name Tirîgon: They were standing in the presence of the perverted and legendary älf who had wiped out the last of the elves of Girdlegard. What will he do if one of our company drops his disguise?

XV

Girdlegard,

Dsôn Bhará (Formerly the Elf Realm of Lesinteïl),

Dsôn,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

“Who would have thought we would meet here in Dsôn Bhará, of all places?” Tirîgon gazed at Tungdil in delighted surprise.

Ireheart saw that the two had enjoyed more than mere acquaintance; it did nothing to reassure him. His Scholar together with one of the worst älfar of the past two hundred cycles, the one who had eliminated the last of the elves of Girdlegard. This feels like trouble. He was itching to join in their conversation but knew he must not try. Now less than ever.

Tungdil laughed darkly. “You know that dwarves hate water as much you hate elves. I would never have been able to swim through the Moon Pond. The curse of Elria would have seen me drowned.”

“You had to wait so long to return.” The älf looked at the escort and Ireheart found the blue-eyed gaze very unpleasant when it rested on him. “But I see you have taken over our Desirers.”

“They follow me because I am the high king.” He smiled. “You have no need to fear me, Tirîgon. I have come to make you and the Dsôn Aklán an offer.”

“I am delighted to hear it. I am only sorry that my brother and sister are not with me. They are in Gauragar, hunting down the woman who caused this.” He pointed at the injury to his face.

“You leave your revenge up to them?”

“I was at death’s door, Balo… Tungdil. It was Mallenia of Ido. The cowardly bitch shot at me with a crossbow and sent a bolt through my neck long after our duel was over.”

Ireheart noted that the älf was omitting to mention which of them had won the duel. So it won’t have been you, Scarface.

Tirîgon signaled for chairs and refreshments to be brought. They sat down at a table in front of the throne. “And anyway, one of us had to look after Dsôn Bhará. What do you think of the city?”

“It is very different from the true Dsôn.” Tungdil frowned. “They tell us my name is spoken here with hatred.”

“Only by those who do not know you from the other side. Do not be concerned.” Tirîgon gestured to one of the human slaves to pour their drink. The slave woman served the älf first and Ireheart last.

Ireheart guessed her beauty was perfection to human eyes, but for himself he preferred something with a little more substance, like his own Goda. This one looked more like an älf than a human: Slender, slim-faced and with graceful movements.

“Seeing you here I must assume you are still kindly disposed to us.” Tirîgon sounded curious. “We once worked hand in hand and with great success.”

“That’s the way it should still be.” Tungdil drank his wine. “The dwarves have elected me their high king and the tribe of the thirdlings will serve me as their supreme ruler. My reputation with the thirdlings is now very different, Hargorin tells me.”

“You have considerable authority with them as a warrior.” The älf had understood the implication. “Thus it will be with you we negotiate when we need thirdling support to police the three kingdoms. I am pleased to hear it.” Tirîgon raised his goblet. “To the old times!”

“The very old times!” Tungdil returned the toast. “Of course I am on your side. I hear there have been disputes with your relations from the south.”

Ireheart had interpreted Tungdil’s words as a message: The very old times.