The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,203

was not merely a herbal distillation, as he had at first hoped. Until now he had completely forgotten that he had helped himself from another’s flask. What did it all mean? And why, by Vraccas, had it taken so long to show the effects?

Tossing and turning on his blanket helped not a jot. He got up and went over to the Zhadár. “Oy, wake up,” he said, shaking him by the shoulder. “Tell me what’s happening to me.”

The Invisible’s eyes opened and a grin appeared on his face. “Come with me.” He bounded up, grabbed the dwarf by the sleeve and tugged him over to a gap in the rocks. “Nobody must see us,” he whispered. “It is forbidden to reveal our secrets.” He crouched down, pulling Ireheart down, too. “Elf blood, distilled and…”

“You told me that already… but is it the truth?” Ireheart interrupted angrily. “What is it doing to me and how does it change the color of my soul? Will I ever get to the eternal forge now? Will Vraccas admit me?”

“Perhaps not all of your soul,” the Zhadár conceded regretfully. “Vraccas may have to burn out the affected part and let the rest of you enter. If he is kindly disposed to you.”

“Listen… have you got a name?”

“Balodil,” said the Zhadár, the answer shooting out like an arrow.

“That’s nonsense. That’s the name the Scholar took when he went into the beasts’ realm of eternal terrors.”

“But it was mine first,” came the sulky response.

Ireheart’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so? Then tell me who gave you that name.”

Balodil said nothing but pointed silently at Tungdil as he slept.

“Of course,” groaned Ireheart. “Vraccas, what else do you have in store for me? A crazy Zhadár who pretends to be the Scholar’s son.”

“He dropped me into the river when we were crossing on the bridge,” said Balodil resentfully. “I can remember how the current took hold of me and dragged me under. I couldn’t breathe. Some time later I woke up. I was with some humans. They fed me and made me work for them but then they sold me and I escaped when the älfar invaded.” He told his story quickly and without a pause. “I ran all the way to the caves of Toboribor. I lived there for many, many cycles. That’s all. I survived from orbit to orbit by stealing from the outlying farms. Until Barskalín found me and took me off to join the Zhadár.” He grinned, raising his arms and flexing his muscles. “I’m the strongest of all of them.” Balodil pointed back to Tungdil. “It was him that dropped me in the water. Even if he used to look different. I recognized him straightaway.”

Ireheart could hardly believe what he was hearing. A chilling story; abstruse enough to be true? It could all be a pack of lies. Did Tungdil maybe tell him about losing his son?

He shook his head. Very few people knew the story of Tungdil and Balyndis’s first child: The effect on Tungdil of the child’s loss had nearly driven him mad with alcohol and grief. And after all the cycles that had passed in the meantime. There were so many other tales that could be told.

Ireheart looked at Balodil and tried to spot similarities between him and Tungdil or, indeed, Balyndis. He saw no resemblance and was angry with himself for giving any credence to the words of a crazy Zhadár. “Whatever… Balodil: Just tell me what I can do about all this.”

The Zhadár glanced furtively back over his shoulder. “You have the curse of the elves on you now.”

“You don’t mean to say you used their blood for this revolting stuff?”

“Yes, we did. We found the last of the elves and took them prisoner…”

“I thought the älfar had eliminated all the pointy-ears?”

“No, they didn’t get all of them. We finished the task off. All except two. They cursed us all and anyone who would partake of the drink. If anyone can free you from the stain on your soul it will be one of the two elves still alive.” Balodil cocked an ear. “I must get back to the others. Barskalín has woken up. If I’m away too long he’ll think something’s wrong.” He put his hands on Ireheart’s shoulders. “Swear you’ll not betray me. Nobody must know that we spared the lives of two of the elves. Not until all the älfar have been wiped out.” The grip on his shoulders was painful.

“All right, I swear, for Vraccas’s sake.”

Balodil