The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,179

risk he was taking. He screwed his eyes shut to be on the safe side and lifted his hand to shield his face.

The wooden spit hit the armor and fell to the ground. There were no flashes or any other magic effects. Tungdil did not seem to have noticed.

Ireheart was about to say something but thought better of it. The soft voice of the last of his doubters demanded it. Who knows what this knowledge might be good for, it whispered in his ear, warning him not to betray himself. “Scholar! Tell me about these unholy ones? You know I like a good story,” he urged his friend.

“The unholy ones,” Tungdil began in a deep voice, “are ghostly beings. They show themselves in the blood of those who are sacrificed to them. This lifeblood can give them shape and form. A terrifying form that only the priests may behold without losing their minds.”

“And were you one of them?”

“No. But I was able to look on them and keep my wits.”

“Maybe that’s why your mind has holes in it now.”

“Firstly, my mind does not have holes in it. My memory does. And secondly, I’ve had enough of telling horror stories now.”

Ireheart hugged his knees and wiggled his toes. “How many unholy ones are there? What do they do to be worshipped like that? Do they help in warfare?” He looked at Tungdil, who was already asleep. “Oy, Scholar! Give me a chance to learn something!” Should he dare to throw another piece of wood? “How do you know Tirîgon so well? I mean, what did the two of you get up to over there? And why on earth did you take the name of your dead…?”

“That’s enough!” The eye shot open and Ireheart was greeted with a stare that delivered physical pain. The brown iris was penetrating as an arrow, then it disappeared to be replaced by a greenish pulsating light, which transmuted into a pale blue. One last flicker and the brown returned. “I want to sleep, Ireheart. There are many orbits ahead of us on our ride to the Blue Mountains and I will tell you more each time we make camp for the night. But not now!” He spoke with emphasis, regal and sharp, annihilating any objection. Then he shut his eye and arranged himself in a more comfortable position.

“Hmm,” said Ireheart, kicking up the dust. That was the false Tungdil again. Without thinking, he picked up a branch and started whittling away at the end. His movements gradually became slower; his gaze rested on the sleeping dwarf.

“Then I’ll sing a song to stave off boredom,” he decided, and began a tune that Bavragor had taught him. He tapped out the rhythm on his leg armor.

But Tungdil did not react. Annoyingly.

At that moment Rodario came tearing through the bushes, his clothes awry, as if he had dressed in a hurry. “The queen has gone!” he called out in agitation.

“Disappeared off the face of the earth or has she run away because you were importunate?” Ireheart grinned. “Thought you were having a bathe. Not likely!”

Rodario came up to him. “She was scared… and ran away.”

“Scared of your one-eyed trouser snake, I suppose.”

“Listen to me!” He grabbed the dwarf by his broad shoulders. “She’s run off into the undergrowth.”

“You still haven’t said what scared her, but never mind.” He called Barskalín to ask which way the queen had gone.

But the Zhadárs’ leader did not know. “My men were following her. We were watching the surrounding area, we weren’t watching her and the actor,” he explained to Ireheart.

“You were spying on us?” fumed Rodario.

“No. Or this would never have happened,” muttered Boïndil bad-temperedly, turning to Tungdil. “Scholar, wake up. We’ve got to find the maga and catch her. The nervous little filly has been shocked by a trouser snake and has run off into the undergrowth somewhere.”

A very sleepy Tungdil opened his eye reluctantly. The glance he shot at Rodario promised him a long, unpleasant death.

They raced through the thickets downstream in a long line.

They could not take the ponies with them so the Zhadár and dwarves had to go on foot to pick up the queen’s tracks.

The Invisibles easily found her trail but the maga had a head start. Their short legs put them at a disadvantage, but they could not let Rodario or Mallenia run off ahead under their own steam, for neither had the skills needed to follow the faint marks left by the maga’s feet.

The part of