The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,229

he changes his attitude toward you.”

Tungdil took another slug of the palm brandy. “I don’t want him to. It’s better if things stay as they are. If he makes it to king of the fifthlings the blemish on his pedigree should not be public knowledge. It’s better if he’s seen to have a different father. He can keep his secret.”

“Well, he could, but for the resemblance…”

“Coincidence, no more than that. I shall never refer to him as my son.” He gave Ireheart a steady stare. “And neither will you.”

“Of course not, Scholar. That’s a matter between yourself, Balyndis and Balyndar.” His throat still felt dry in spite of what he had drunk. He was aware what this signified and did not care for it at all. Shall I ever manage to resist this thirst? He was stubborn enough to be able to, surely. “Do you know who you would suggest as the next high king?”

“No. I shall keep out of things. I want to retire to somewhere in Girdlegard where I won’t have to deal with any of our tribes. That’s what I’m working toward.” Tungdil’s hard face lost its hostility. “If anyone wants to come visiting, that’s fine. But I won’t live with dwarves anymore.”

“Have you grown to hate your own folk while you were in exile?”

“No, it’s the other way around.” He played with his fingers. “Some of them cheer when they see me, but the others no longer understand me. The changes wrought by two hundred and fifty cycles of war, evil and violence cannot be undone. I’d rather live at peace and be lonely than live in the midst of crowds and have people hate me. That way I can make sure that only the ones who trust me will come to visit.” His single brown eye glinted warmly. “I’d be glad, Ireheart, if you would be one of that number.”

The warrior was touched. “Have I ever deserted you, Scholar?” His speech was beginning to slur. The thirst he had on him was burning through his whole body; he would not have been surprised to see little black clouds coming out of his mouth. He stood up. “I want to stretch my legs and go for a dwarf-water break. I’ll go and see what Troublemaker and Growler have to say for themselves.” He moved away quickly, leaving the campfire, off past the humans and into the half-light.

Panting, he ran to the small wood. “Troublemaker?”

Ireheart listened out, choking, as his gullet stung and bubbled. His throat was burning ever hotter and there was a whistling sound when he breathed in. He felt as dizzy as if he had just drunk the last of ten tankards of black beer.

“Troublemaker!” he coughed, sinking down on his knees, gasping, and wondering if he would feel better if he swallowed a knife to make his throat wider.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a black hand proffering a drinking flask.

Greedily Ireheart snatched the flask and took one or two sips before it was wrenched back out of his fingers; the burning sensation ceased abruptly and his breathing normalized.

He turned his head and saw the Zhadár circling round and squatting in front of him. “Thank you.”

Balodil threw the drinking pouch back over. “Take it. It belonged to the Zhadár we lost in the desert. There’s hardly any left, but it should be enough for you. If I die you’ll have my flask, too.”

“But… it’s no good,” said Ireheart in despair, with the taste of blood still in his mouth. “I’m turning into a half-Zhadár!”

Balodil sat down and leaned against a tree trunk. “There’s a way for you to escape that fate and save your soul. I told you before.” He gave a stupid little chuckle, sang the beginning strain of a dwarf-song and sneezed. “Barskalín was utterly convinced that one of the elves we spared would be able to free us from the curse. Because our intentions had been good.”

“And how would the pointy-ears manage that?”

“I don’t know. It’s up to you. But the elf will be able to break the spell that’s on you, because you never wanted to become one of us,” the Zhadár breathed, rocking his upper body in time to some melody that only he could hear. “First find your elf and ask him what to do,” he hummed in a singsong tone. “You won’t have much more time before you change permanently.”

“I haven’t changed!” Ireheart said sullenly.

“Oh, yes, you have. I can smell that you