The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,128

do you mean?”

“Perhaps you never stick your head out of the caves but I’ve traveled a lot in Girdlegard. Wherever I went, the stars were always the same.”

“There’s a deep insight for you,” mocked Slîn. “Only here they’re not. But we’re still in Girdlegard.” “Exactly. That’s why I said they’ve moved the city out of Girdlegard. I admit it doesn’t sound very likely.”

“So how do we get back?” Slîn mounted and turned to look at the winding cliffside path. “Who knows where we’ll end up?”

“Over to you, Scholar.”

Tungdil looked up. “Canvasses.”

“Canvasses.” At first Ireheart did not understand. “Oh, I see, like curtains, but… sideways?” He looked up again. “They pull them across the crater on those ropes to give the älfar down here an artificial night sky to admire—is that what you mean?”

“Exactly, Ireheart. That’s what I mean. I expect they cover the city on especially bright days, or when it’s very hot. A protective screen.”

“That’s an amazing amount of trouble to go to.” Balyndar seemed relieved at the explanation.

“But it’s also beautiful. You’ll have to give them that.” Tungdil rode ahead, followed by the Zhadár and the rest of the company.

Ireheart was pleased to note they were not escorted. Tirîgon must trust his dwarf-friend completely if he was letting them wander the streets unaccompanied. Trust and black-eyes: That’s a weird combination. That Tirîgon must have something up his sleeve. At the bottom of the winding climb he thought he could make out Útsintas and the älfar on their firebulls. I’m not going to let anyone entice me into a trap.

“This is the ideal chance to get rid of the kordrion young,” he mouthed to Tungdil.

“Already done,” answered one of the Zhadár. “We left the cocoon on the stairway up to the palace behind one of the pillars. They won’t find it—unless they’ve got a nose like a kordrion.”

Ireheart was impressed. “And now?”

“Let’s ride off to the Dragon as fast as we can. Then we plunder his treasure hoard,” said Tungdil, putting his plan to them. “Isn’t that a messenger over there with Ùtsintas?”

“If you say so. I can only see some scrawny black-eyes and overweight fighting cows.” Ireheart had given up being surprised about the Scholar’s unnaturally good vision.

Tungdil had been correct. When they reached the älf and their escort, an imperial messenger was waiting with an invitation to visit landur, now known as Phôseon Dwhamant. This came from the Emperor Aiphatòn himself. They could not decline it.

And so the lie Tungdil had told came true after all.

Tirîgon was on his throne watching the slave woman clear the table. Such lowly occupations were beneath the dignity of any älf. She fulfilled her function well enough and was not so ugly as to offend the eye. It had taken some time to find a halfway acceptable slave for the palace.

“Tell me, why are most of your kind just so revolting to look at?” he mused, as he sipped from his glass of wine.

The slave looked round at him in fright. He had used his own language and she was not sure she had understood an instruction aright. Anyone in the service of an älf knew what the punishment would be.

“Don’t worry,” he said, this time in the tongue spoken in Gauragar. “Get on with your work.”

One of the robe-wearers came over to him. “Dsôn Aklán, it is as you suspected.” He knelt before the throne. “They had the kordrion’s young with them.”

“Those confounded Zhadár! Did they really think I would not recognize them in the armor of the Desirers? Nobody deceives me! They are our creatures and we are their masters! We created them,” he raged, hurling his wineglass across the room. “Deserters like Hargorin Deathbringer. They shall die!” He took a deep breath. “Do you have the cocoon now?”

The älf nodded. “We had to search for ages, but we found it in the end.”

“Then pack it up well, disguise it as provisions and send a messenger with it to accompany Goldhand to Phôseon Dwhamant. A splendid gift for an emperor,” he commanded. “Has the kordrion been sighted again?”

“Yes, Dsôn Aklán. Not four miles from here. It is following the scent of its young.”

Tirîgon nodded in satisfaction. “Good. Does Goldhand suspect anything? Did he accept the messenger as genuine?”

“He thinks he’s genuine. They are making their way southwest.”

“Then make sure they get my provisions.” Tirîgon waved the slave girl over to give him more wine. “And instruct the patrols that any Zhadár found on Dsôn Bhará territory are to be