The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,127

want to meet up with the emperor, I should think?”

“Yes. You should find him in the former landur. He has given the realm to his friends from the south.” The älf spoke with open dislike.

“And what about Dsôn Balsur? Has it been rebuilt?”

Tirîgon shrugged. “It’s all one to me, while they’re living there. It will take us some time to remove their unwholesome influence in the place. They have no appreciation of art at all, or beauty, poetry, painting or other aesthetic concepts.” He shuddered. “It is impossible that Tion created them.”

“Unless he was drunk?” suggested Ireheart, over-hastily.

Tirîgon and Tungdil turned their heads slowly in his direction. “So you have people in your escort who enjoy a pleas-antry,” the älf noted with amusement.

“He never usually has a good joke to tell.” Tungdil tutted and shook his head. “Perhaps a rare spark of inspiration.”

“Don’t let him tell that one to the emperor. It could be his best and final joke.” The älf rose. One of the robed älfar approached with a whispered message. “I won’t detain you any longer, Tungdil Goldhand.” They embraced. “Our pact is settled. You shall have the dwarf realms and we shall have Girdlegard.” His laughter was cold. “The land is in desperate need of our art. It will be a pleasure for me to reform it to our taste.”

“Even two hundred cycles ago your reputation as an artist was brilliant. I am keen to see what you are capable of now.” Tungdil clasped the älf’s right hand and beamed at him. “In three cycles at the outside it will be us in charge and no one else! Give my greetings to your siblings.” He turned and went to the door. His escort of Invisibles surrounded him and Ireheart was at his side.

“Tungdil,” called Tirîgon, as they reached the door. They stopped and the one-eyed dwarf turned to face the älf. “What about the barrier? Is it holding again?”

“Yes,” lied Tungdil, cold as ice.

“That’s good. It would be bad if your master were to turn up here to demand the return of his armor.” Tirîgon paused. “Or did you kill him in the end, perhaps?”

“I tried to. It didn’t work. That’s why I want the dwarf realms: No one shall be allowed through the gate.” Tungdil turned and marched off. “Tion is with us, Tirîgon. Be sure of that.”

They left the hall and the seven silent älfar led them out through the palace to the open air.

“At last!” Ireheart took a deep breath and pushed his visor up. “I couldn’t have stood it in there much longer. I don’t know what it was I was eating but it doesn’t smell nice when it comes up again.”

Slîn laughed and opened his own visor as well. “Onions and preserved gugul mince? I saw you had a jar of that in your pack. Goda send you off with that, then?”

“You never gave us any.” Tungdil gave him a disapproving look. “How mean of you.” Then he grinned. It was obvious that he was relieved to have got in and out of the palace safely. And with such success. “Ireheart, you must curb your tongue in future. We were in luck. It was a good thing Tirîgon found your remark funny.” After a short pause he added. “So did I, by the way.”

Darkness had fallen. But when Ireheart looked up at the sky he saw no stars! “By Vraccas!” he exclaimed, horrified. “What have the älfar done?”

All the dwarves looked up and stared.

“The constellations have all disappeared!” Balyndar whispered, fearfully.

“The stars must be refusing to shine on an älfar city,” suggested Slîn.

Ireheart conquered his incredulity and turned to the tower with its cables spreading out in all directions. “It’s to do with that tower.”

Tungdil followed his gaze and thought. “Let’s get on or we’ll be arousing suspicion. And pull your visors down in case we meet anyone.”

They went down the steps to where their ponies were waiting. Overhead they caught a slight rustling sound.

“I don’t believe it,” said Slîn in amazement as he looked up at the sky.

A starry firmament had appeared above their heads but it was different from the one the dwarves were familiar with. The heavenly bodies they saw now were not as they knew them. And there were shimmering moons, three or four times the size of Girdlegard’s own.

“I don’t know how they’ve done it, but the city must have moved to another place entirely.” Boïndil could not get his fill of the splendid sight.

Balyndar snorted. “What