The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,264

journey, Xamtor the longest.

Ireheart strolled off through Evildam, the casket under his arm. He was deep in thought. Cracks had appeared on all the walls. It was time for the rest of the garrison to leave; other parts of the building were threatening to cave in, despite the engineering supports hurriedly put in place.

The last Zhadár suddenly stood in front of him with a demonic grin, as if he had been spat out by the darkness. “Are you off home?”

Ireheart contemplated the dark armor that the dwarf, who called himself Balodil, had never taken off. “Yes, what about you? You are a thirdling…”

He denied it vehemently. “No, I’m a Zhadár, created by the älfar. And I want to hunt them down until I’ve smoked the last of them out of their hidey holes.”

“Aiphatòn was going to take that on. If you’re going to do it, at least take a party of the former Black Squadron along under your command.”

“Aiphatòn would never be able to find them all. I know their secrets but he doesn’t. They tricked their own emperor; he seems keen to forget that. I’ll go alone. The thirdlings are good fighters but they’re not the right ones to hunt down the älfar.” Balodil took his flask off his belt. “This is for you.”

Ireheart stared at the gift and reached out for it. “But… I thought you need it yourself?” He looked around carefully to see if he could be observed.

The Zhadár chuckled, then barked like a dog, though he soon seemed quite normal again. “I can make my own stuff.” He leaned forward. “From älfar blood,” he said in a voice as deep as a well. “I squash them like you squeeze fruit to get the juice out.” He ran his tongue over his lips and his eyes glittered.

Ireheart could not deny that he found Balodil weird. “What will you do after you’ve found them all?”

He shrugged his shoulders and puffed out the air in his lungs, looking like a dwarf-child being told off by its mother. “This and that. Perhaps I’ll go to the freelings, perhaps I’ll leave Girdlegard, perhaps I’ll jump off a cliff.” He gurgled and rubbed his beard. “Or perhaps I’ll go to the Outer Lands and look for an army to invade Girdlegard with.” He watched Ireheart’s face carefully. “Well?”

“You wouldn’t do that.” Ireheart studied him. “You know there are too many heroes who can stop you.” Now Ireheart bent forward. “And I know your weak point: Tungdil’s son could never destroy his own father’s inheritance.”

Balodil jerked back and gave a malicious laugh. “No, I was never his son. I picked up the story and liked the idea of joking around with the name.” He giggled again. “It fooled you, didn’t it?”

“Nearly,” Boïndil admitted, relieved. “I wish you luck with your plans.”

The Zhadár saluted. “If you ever need me, call my name to the east wind. The wind is my friend and will send me your message,” he said earnestly, stepping out into the outer corridor, where the torches had suddenly been extinguished. “May your god protect you.” And with that he was gone.

Almost too late Ireheart remembered. “Where did you hear Balodil’s story?”

“A friend told me,” came the answer out of the darkness. “The one you called the Growler. He claimed he was Tungdil’s son.”

The dwarf felt his blood run cold. “What?” He followed the Zhadár into the dark. “Is that true?”

There was no answer.

With a head full of thoughts Boïndil went back to his quarters. Some dwarves were leaving, carrying heavy boxes and wooden chests.

The move was underway. Everything had been packed and was ready to go to its real home.

It’s really a bit of a shame. Ireheart was beginning to feel nostalgic and passed his hand over the granite of the walls. Evildam had been built according to his plans and had been home to him, his children having grown up here. I shall often come back, even if the journey’s only in my mind.

He entered the room where his family were sitting with Coïra, Mallenia and Rodario. His wife was talking with the maga and waved him to come in as soon as she noticed him.

Ireheart knew she had attended the funeral for Kiras: A swift and simple ceremony. He had not gone, himself. The murderess of his best friend could expect neither pity nor respect.

“Ho! Have the magae been dividing up Girdlegard?” he joked, putting casket and flask on the table.

“No. We shall live in peace and harmony