The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,155

scared. Then I’ll change the plan.”

Coïra’s maga-pride was hurt. “Of course we’ll manage to defeat the Dragon, and the magus, too. By the time we arrive, Lot-Ionan will be weak enough, so I, too, assume our strategy will succeed.”

The sun disappeared behind the clouds and the first raindrops fell noisily onto their metal armor.

Tungdil turned his pony and rode away from the valley entrance. “There are caves over there. We’ll make camp till the Zhadár return and report the outcome of their mission.”

They found shelter before the rain got heavier. Soon it was streaming down over the cave entrance. It washed away the last of the snow and removed any trace of the company’s tracks.

Dwarves and humans settled in the large cavern to rest before the attack they would be launching on the Lohasbranders and the orcs. Ireheart saw to his pony and wandered around, observing the Desirers. Hargorin was selecting his messengers so that they could leave at first light to take the news to Aiphatòn, the resistance fighters and the dwarf-tribes. There’s no stopping it now.

Then he went over to the Invisibles to see how the preparations were going for their night’s work.

They were sitting talking quietly with Barskalín. They had short beards all, were black from head to foot and were heavily armed. I really can’t tell them apart. Do I dare to talk to them? he wondered. Who knows how many of them will return?

This thought did not arrive unprompted. The doubters in his head were demanding to know how many would return. Whoever knew the sign for controlling the Scholar’s armor and making it freeze would know more about the runes generally. It was important. He’d already decided how he would approach the subject.

He waited until the Zhadár had stopped talking, then went slowly nearer, taking care to ensure Barskalín was looking the other way, because he would be sure not to want his people talking to a secondling. Talking? Being interrogated, more like.

“Might I have a closer look at your weaponry?” Ireheart asked the nearest of the warriors, who was sitting on the ground sharpening his dagger. He smiled and squatted down. That way he would not attract attention.

The Zhadár turned and looked up, puzzled. “Of course,” he said, handing Ireheart the weapon.

“Do you lot like jokes? My favorite’s the one about the orc and the dwarf.”

“Really? I’ve never really got that one,” replied the Zhadár. “Why would an orc ask one of us the way?”

Ireheart was at a loss there. “But that’s what makes it so funny.”

“Funny? I just think it’s… unlikely. Any greenskin knows that a dwarf would cut his head off.” He laughed. “And then there’s the punch line! What the dwarf says and does… Very strange. But not funny.”

“Ah,” said Ireheart, confused. “Tastes differ, it seems.” He decided to change his tactics, away from the topic of jokes. He turned the dagger in his hands and admired the runes and the strength of the blade in order to flatter the Zhadár. “What do these symbols mean?”

The other dwarf explained patiently that the runes promised death to the enemy.

“Just like us,” Ireheart said, a little clumsily. “I mean to say, you used to be like us…” He stopped short and handed the knife back.

Now it was the Zhadár’s turn to grin. “What is it you want to know, Doubleblade?”

“Is it so obvious?”

“Yes. You’re an excellent warrior but a terrible spy.”

“It’s not really my thing. I like to do things more directly.” Ireheart laughed and sat down; he heard and felt his flask slip off his belt onto the cave floor. He drew a symbol on the floor similar to the rune that Tungdil bore on his armor.

The Zhadár said, “You’ve seen it on the high king’s armor. Frak told us he’d given Goldhand quite a shock.”

“Frak?”

“The Zhadár you came across in the Outer Lands.”

“So do you know the secret of the armor?”

“Is there one? Because it’s magic?”

Ireheart nodded. “Yes.”

“It’s not a secret. Any magus or maga and anyone that knows a bit about magic will see it straightaway on the high king. Or was it a particular sort of magic?” The Zhadár went back to sharpening his dagger. “I’m not allowed to talk about it.”

“But I must know. If an älf casts a spell at Tungdil and locks him into the armor again, I’ve got to be able to unfreeze him without taking my crow’s beak to him every time.” He found the black, almost empty eye sockets of his opposite