The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,219

eye patch with an audible clink.

“I’ve made arrangements to ensure that the majority of them will not survive the fighting. There are substances toxic enough to poison a whole lake with one drop.” The älf looked at Tungdil. “The water supplies for my warriors have been treated with this poison. They will all die after two orbits, either in the desert or in the Blue Mountains. That will be the ideal moment for you to get the magus from me.”

“That’s good news!” Ireheart was relieved. Clearly, Aiphatòn had had the same idea as Mallenia. “And then you’ll be off to Dsôn Bhará on your own to eradicate the northern älfar before disappearing forever?”

Aiphatòn was amused by the way the dwarves reacted to his plan. He was not offended by the question. “Yes, Boïndil Doubleblade. That is what I shall do. I shall leave, taking an evil away from Girdlegard.”

“That’s going to be quite an orbit.” Ireheart rubbed his hands, looking forward to it. “Then, after all that, off to the north!”

The älf stood up and nodded to them. “I shall go back and tell my soldiers that I have encountered and killed some traveling merchants. That way you won’t be pursued by my forces.” He raised his hand in leave-taking before going out of the cave.

“Mallenia scored a bull’s eye with her idea about poison.” Ireheart was glad that the älf had gone. “We’ll get Lot-Ionan sooner or later, Scholar.”

Tungdil nodded. “Indeed.” He put his hand on his friend’s back, his brown eye warm. “Get some rest, my friend. You need your sleep just as much as Rodario and his two women.”

There’s absolutely no trace of eye-swirl or sparks. Ireheart suppressed a yawn. “Yes. But don’t forget to wake me. Putting the Zhadár on watch together is not a good idea. We’ve just seen how they let the most dangerous long-ears in the whole of Girdlegard walk in,” he said, exaggerating wildly. “The legendary Zhadár! Ha! We’ve got two of them left. And what did for the others? Magic creatures.”

“The only things able to defeat the Invisibles,” guessed Tungdil. He considered his options. “I think we should keep them both safely out of the action.”

“What? I can’t be hearing right, Scholar!”

“Troublemaker and Growler, as you call them, know all the secrets of the Dsôn Aklán,” he said with emphasis. “If Aiphatòn were to fail, their knowledge would be vitally important in helping us to defeat the black-eyes. Only then will Girdlegard find peace.”

Ireheart looked dismayed. “Does that mean it’s my job to look after Troublemaker and Growler, and not the other way around?”

Tungdil made as if to applaud and then slipped back down onto his blanket.

“If we go on like this, I’ll be drinking from an älf flask of my own free will.” Ireheart stuck his finger in his ear crossly and stomped off to tell Balyndar and Slîn the outcome of their strategy discussion.

XXVII

Girdlegard,

Blue Mountains,

Realm of the Secondlings,

Late Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle

Ireheart was overwhelmed by his impressions.

He was back in the homeland he had left so long ago; because of Lot-Ionan it had been impossible since for him even to make visits. He took a deep breath and recognized the unique smell of the Blue Mountains, remembering these same tunnels from the old days. He was dismayed by the dilapidation.

Vaults, passageways, caverns, halls and chambers—everywhere was in need of attention. A mountain is not dead, as humans tend to assume. Things there are always on the move. Rocks shift as the mountain grows, shudders and sways. Places die away, and the inhabitants of the mountain have to adjust accordingly. Supports have to be put in, rubble cleared, new chambers hewn. Since Lot-Ionan’s takeover, none of the maintenance had been carried out.

“Cracks, roof falls, leaks,” he noted with distress. “What a disgrace! For that alone the hocus-pocus wizard deserves a good beating!”

“Quite apart from the wanton destruction,” added Slîn.

“That’ll have been the experiments he and the famuli carried out,” said Franek, who was at the head of the company alongside Tungdil.

“Then you deserve the same beating,” growled Ireheart, giving him a shove. “A mountain will be resentful. I hope it doesn’t take it out on us, when my folk move in again.”

“I’m sure it will be glad to have you back,” said Slîn. “It must be totally sick of magic by now.”

The humans followed the dwarves, with the Zhadár bringing up the rear. In the temperate cool of the mountain they had regained their strength; they had located an underground