The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,153

coming,” replied Coïra warmly. “Who would be able to resist this alliance of determined groups?”

He smiled at her.

Ireheart rubbed his hands in glee. “Excellent! We’ve got everything we need. If Rodario contacts his friends and Mallenia gets in touch with hers, the storm can break. So we can concentrate entirely on the south, now, Scholar, can’t we?”

Tungdil rubbed his forehead and touched the scar. His brown eye stared rigidly into space; he did not seem to have been listening.

“What about Sisaroth?” Barskalín wanted to know. “I know him. Among other things he trained the Zhadár, and he won’t give up until he has avenged the death of his sister. If he realizes the queen and Mallenia are still alive, we’ll have a dangerous älf on our tails, ready to pick us off one by one.”

“Hmm. I’m sure he’s more likely to hold back and wait for the Dragon to attack,” Hargorin said, disagreeing with him. “I’ve known the Dsôn Aklán for a very long time. They would do anything to preserve their city in Dsôn Bhará from harm. We understand they intend to found a new älfar empire there. Sisaroth must think that Lohasbrand will be sending at least a scouting party out into the älfar regions to investigate what has been happening on his own territory.”

Barskalín thought about it. “That could be so.”

“And if Elria’s having a good day, the black-eyes could just have drowned in the tidal wave,” Ireheart chipped in cheerfully. “That’s if he was anywhere near just now.”

Suddenly, Tungdil’s body convulsed. He sank with a moan onto the table, holding his head. Blood oozed out between his fingers.

The dwarves sprang up and pulled out their weapons, thinking there had been an attack, but Ireheart saw that the old scar on his friend’s forehead had opened up. “Come on, give me a hand, let’s get him up to his room,” he told Hargorin and Barskalín.

“Shall I?” Coïra had risen. “A healing spell…”

“No, no magic!” Boïndil was emphatic on that score, not knowing how the armor would react. “It’s an old wound. He must have hit his head back there on the ship and the scar has come open. I’ll put in some stitches. We leave at sun-up.” He left the company and he and Hargorin and Barskalín carried Tungdil to bed through the taproom and up to the guestroom at the back, where they laid him on the bed.

“Thanks.” Ireheart sent the dwarves away and waited until they had left the room.

The door closed just in time.

Tungdil opened his eye suddenly and Ireheart saw once more the mysterious vortex of colors round the black of the pupil.

The open wound closed itself with a slight plop, and the facial bones moved gratingly, giving the dwarf a thinner countenance that reminded the horrified Ireheart much more of the way an älf would look.

“By Vraccas!” he groaned, staggering back two paces and grabbing the handle of his crow’s beak. It looked as if his friend were changing shape.

Fine black lines appeared from under the golden eye patch, seeming to cut the face into segments. Drops of blood dripped out—then all the runes on the armor glowed, forcing Boïndil to shut his eyes.

When he could see again, his friend looked as he had done before he had swooned. There were no more wounds on his face, the scar had healed and the black lines had gone; the familiar visage of old.

Ireheart approached the bed carefully. “What shall I do with you, Scholar?” he whispered, swallowing hard. “Whenever I think I can trust you something happens to feed my suspicions.” He pulled a stool over and decided it would be better if he kept watch in the room that night.

And he could not even say for sure whether it was to protect Tungdil, or to protect their group from his influence.

Girdlegard,

Former Queendom of Weyurn,

Entrance to the Red Mountains,

Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle

Ireheart rode behind Tungdil with his eyes on the slopes of the Red Mountains. Even though he gave the impression of studying the landscape, he was thinking about that night when Tungdil had, for a time, undergone a short-lived change. A frightening change…

They had never spoken about it and their company believed the fairy story about his having fainted. What is wrong with him? Is it a demon inside him? Is it a curse he’s under? The chorus of doubters in Ireheart’s head was singing fit to bust.

On Tungdil’s orders they had taken the old path leading to a narrow valley that