The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,248

weapon shouldered.

Balyndar sat alone in the chamber, his eyes on the model of the abyss and his right hand on the hilt of Keenfire. “I’ll do whatever I think is right,” he said, leaning forward. He had discovered a figure that looked very like Tungdil.

He reached out for it, tossed it into the air and chopped it in half with Keenfire’s blade.

Ireheart made sure that he could not be seen, then knocked at the door.

Ilahín opened up, looking surprised. “Well, what brings you here, Boïndil Doubleblade? What can I…?”

“Let me in,” Ireheart said, pushing past the elf. “Forgive my coming unannounced, but there’s a very… unpleasant matter I need your help with.” He sat down, his shoulders drooping. “Help me, Ilahín.”

The elf shut the door and pulled out a chair for himself facing the dwarf. “You know, friend dwarf, that I will gladly help you. What’s on your mind?”

Ireheart took out the drinking pouch that Balodil had given him. “Smell that and maybe you can understand. This used to belong to a Zhadár and I drank out of it by mistake.”

Ilahín took the vessel, opened it and fanned the air to get the scent. All his amiable helpfulness disappeared. “This is… elf blood!”

“And it’s the reason the älfar hunted you all down. They needed it to brew a concoction that turned selected thirdling warriors into Zhadár,” he explained, looking at the elf. “My drinking it was a mistake,” he insisted. “One of the Zhadár told me only an elf would be able to liberate me from the curse of having drunk it.” He rubbed his nose awkwardly.

Ilahín gave no answer. Instead he called Fiëa, held the pouch out to her and pointed to Ireheart. There followed a long and involved exchange that grew more and more heated. The dwarf got the impression the two elves did not agree. But about what?

“Forgive me if I interrupt you,” he called out after a long tense wait. “Is there any remedy against the thirst or not?”

The elves stared at him.

Ilahín took a deep breath. “The thing is, Boïndil Doubleblade, we don’t really know,” he admitted. “Your guilt is very serious.”

“Ho, damn it! But I had no idea.”

“That is neither here nor there,” said Fiëa sharply. “If you kill a human and then say you didn’t know it was wrong, the other humans will still hunt you down and bring you to trial, won’t they?”

Ireheart had to nod in agreement.

“What you’ve done is to commit blasphemy and the fact you did it unwittingly does not help. That’s unfortunately the fact of the matter,” said Ilahín in friendlier tones. “However, you are one of our folk’s benefactors, so we believe the goddess will perhaps be merciful in your case and reduce the punishment.”

“I don’t understand. What’s going to happen? What have I got to do?”

Fiëa took the leather pouch and cut it open. The dark viscous liquid spilt onto the floor and formed a stain. “You will have to pray to Sitalia, Boïndil Doubleblade, and beg her to release you from the curse.”

“But…” He saw the stain growing in size until the elf-woman covered it with a cloth to wipe it up. Then the cloth flew into the fire and there was a hissing sound. Black flames shot out and then the nightmare was over. “But I need…”

“No, Boïndil Doubleblade.” Ilahín interrupted him. “Each new sip of that liquid would take you one step nearer damnation.”

Ireheart tugged at the silver and black hairs on his scalp in frustration. “It’s the only way to combat the thirst! You have no idea how it burns!”

They looked at each other again. Fiëa took a small bag from her belt. “In here are some herbs, Boïndil Doubleblade, which will help you with the symptoms. But the thirst will only disappear if Sitalia pardons you. Pray to her, that is what we counsel. Pray with fervor and humility.”

“But I did nothing wrong!” Ireheart felt a fool constantly reiterating his innocence, but he did not know what else to do.

“Tell Sitalia,” advised Fiëa. “We believe you. Your deeds speak for you.”

Ilahín touched the despairing dwarf on the brow. “You must convince the goddess. She will show herself to you if you do things properly.”

“Or else?” he asked uncertainly.

“The herbs will not help you forever, and you…” Fiëa grimaced. “You know what will happen, friend dwarf.” They looked at him, challenge in their eyes. He understood.

He got up, dragged himself to the door and went out. “Thank you,” he said as he