The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,126

The good times.

Tirîgon’s serenity faded. He drained his cup and called for more. “There is no evidence that they are actually related to us,” he snapped. “But it is true: We don’t like them and they don’t like us.”

Tungdil licked a droplet of wine from the rim of his goblet. “But they have superiority of numbers.”

Again, another hidden message.

“We shall be glad of your help. My siblings will be pleased.” Tirîgon lifted his cup in salute. “Since I am aware that you never act without due thought and intent, tell me what you want in return.”

“All the dwarf kingdoms.” The response came swift as a bolt from a crossbow.

Tirîgon lowered his head. “Tungdil, I would happily promise you that, but it is not within my gift.”

“But when our campaign is over, you will have that power.”

Ireheart saw the älf registering growing surprise but no doubt. He must trust Tungdil to the hilt.

“I have a plan…” Tirîgon laughed out loud. “That cunning dwarf-mind! You always had a clever plan over on the other side. Your plans always worked, so I’ve no reason to doubt you now.” He sat back in his chair. “Tell me about it.”

Tungdil outlined the scheme to play the Dragon off against Lot-Ionan; the kordrion and the tribe of fifthlings would be destroyed together, by the thirdling army. “The route is already secure. You and your älfar will be ready to attack the southern älfar…”

Tirîgon raised his hand. “No. They will be fighting Lot-Ionan under that fool, the Emperor Aiphatòn. They’re off to the Blue Mountains with everything they’ve got.”

“All the better.” Tungdil pretended he had not known about the attack. “So the Dragon can launch himself on the victor. You bring your forces up secretly, and we join you as soon as we’ve got rid of the kordrion and the fifthlings. After that, Girdlegard will be yours.” He leaned forward. “That’s if you leave the dwarf realms to me.”

“Here am I, making a pact with a dwarf against my own emperor, the last of the descendants of the Unslayables,” Tirîgon said thoughtfully. “That is mad enough to work. I trust you and your bright ideas, Balodil.” He frowned in annoyance. “I mean Tungdil.”

By Vraccas! When he was with the monsters he called himself by the name of his own son! Ireheart’s wavering conviction that this was indeed the true Tungdil and not an impostor started to gain firmer footing. How else could he have known that name? And, he thought, Tungdil’s approach was excellent, although fate was playing a hand in it, too.

“Your siblings will follow your lead, or do I have to fight the three of you when I’ve polished off the enemies in the north and south?” Tungdil’s question had a trace of mirth but its core was serious.

Tirîgon helped himself to some of the food, putting small slices slowly into his mouth. “They will approve of our pact.” He closed his eyes in pleasure. “That was the first time I’ve been able to enjoy my food since being wounded.” He invited his guest to eat. “We shall inform you when Aiphatòn and his false followers leave to attack Lot-Ionan. Where do we send the message?”

“To Hargorin’s estate in the north. That’s probably the best place to find me while we’re preparing for the campaign. And if I’m not there someone will know how to contact me.” Tungdil tried some of the meat.

Let it have been an animal, Vraccas, and not anything else. Not anything they didn’t have a use for in their art, prayed Ireheart. The sight of pink roast flesh made him hungry. It smelled good, even if he had never wanted to sink his teeth into black-eye food.

“I’ll get over to Aiphatòn as quickly as possible and pay him a call,” stated Tungdil, helping himself to more of the wine. “The emperor must not think I’m against him. My last meeting went peacefully, and I want to tell him, for form’s sake, that we can continue the alliance.”

“So you’ll be offering him the same pact?”

“Yes. But for the campaign against Lot-Ionan, my atrocious foster-father.” Tungdil grinned. “Then I shall withdraw and promise to return with a huge army of troops.”

“He will have the surprise of his life.” Tirîgon laid his cutlery aside. “But can’t I tempt you to stay?”

Sacred forge! Don’t let us spend a single night in Dsôn! Ireheart hoped fervently that Tungdil would turn down the offer of hospitality.

“I’m afraid not, old friend. We’ll have to move swiftly if we