The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,59

he defeated the dwarves.”

“What do you mean? He made the tunnels fall in?”

“Exactly, Scholar. He sent one earthquake after another and our halls and strongholds collapsed. Passageways filled up with molten rock and water flooded the shafts. Thousands lost their lives, and then he lay in wait for the wave of refugees at the fortress Ogre’s Death, and struck them down with magic spells.”

Ireheart’s eye filled with tears of anger and grief that rolled down his cheeks into his beard, where the freezing wind turned them to gems of ice. “There are hardly a hundred of them left. They took refuge with the freelings.”

Tungdil grimaced. “That doesn’t sound like the man who brought me up,” he muttered. “I’ve no reason to doubt you, my friend. Something in the past must have contaminated him with evil. Perhaps the source that awakened him?”

Ireheart wiped the pearly tears away. They melted in his fingers. “No one knows. You’re the only one who would dare take up arms against him. You, and maybe the Emperor Aiphatòn.”

“The High Pass—is it open?”

“He closed it up after the black-eyes from the south marched through. He didn’t want to let too many of Tion’s monsters in, I suppose,” said the dwarf dismissively. “Are we sticking to your plan, Scholar? Or have you thought of another way to defeat an adversary like him so that we can force him to serve us?”

Tungdil did not answer. He stared straight ahead at the hut. “Someone’s expecting us,” he said quietly. “I wonder why they haven’t got a fire going.”

Ireheart’s eyes widened in anticipation. “Here we go! You think there are some footpads waiting to ambush us?” Secretly he was wondering how Tungdil could have spotted the enemy. The wind was blowing away from the hut, there were no tracks in the snow and he himself would have heard the tiniest of sounds in the stillness. He supposed it was down to the constant experience of battle sharpening his friend’s senses. He got ready to wield his crow’s beak, but Tungdil motioned him not to.

“I don’t know how many they are. We’ll act as though we haven’t seen anything. That way he, or they, will think we’re an easy target,” he suggested.

“Because if they have crossbows they could shoot us out of our saddles. I get it,” said Ireheart, pretending to be checking the buckles on the harness. “I hope the place is full of robbers,” he said. “Ho, this’ll be fun!”

“Not much fun for whoever’s going to have to fight us.” Tungdil patted his befún’s neck. “Shall we have a bet?”

“No, not this time,” said Ireheart with a grin.

VII

The Outer Lands,

Seventy-six Miles Southwest of the Black Abyss,

Winter, 6491st Solar Cycle

The oddly assorted dwarf-pair continued to ride toward the apparently deserted hut.

It was a mystery to Ireheart how Tungdil had sensed someone was lying in wait. He squinted over to his friend, looked ahead and shifted in the saddle.

They were thirty paces from the hut now and there was no sign of anyone.

“Are you sure, Scholar?” Ireheart enquired, laughing out loud as if they were telling each other jokes; that should fool anyone watching them. He saw that a couple of the runes on his friend’s dark armor were glowing.

There was a smile on Tungdil’s lips. “You’ll see. Get ready.”

“What if it’s just some innocent travelers?”

“Sitting in the cold? Travelers who haven’t stepped outside for orbits?” a disdainful Tungdil retorted.

“They…” Ireheart did not know what to say. Whatever he came up with made no sense at all.

Their animals halted some way off from the cabin and the dwarves dismounted.

“And now?” Boïndil wanted to know, slipping his pony’s reins over a post. He didn’t tie them in case they needed to leave in a hurry. “Do we storm in?”

“No,” said Tungdil firmly, drawing Bloodthirster. “Go and knock.” He grinned and tapped on the head of Ireheart’s crow’s beak. “With that.”

“Good idea! Off we go!” Ireheart laid his pipe on the ground near the door so that it wouldn’t get damaged in the fighting. He took his faithful weapon and smashed it against the door. The lock splintered away from the wood and the door flew open so violently that the hinges broke off. It crashed to the floor.

Ireheart stormed in with a roar—and stared at the empty tables and benches; it was icy cold in the hut and there was no sign that anyone was or had recently been there.

“Well, then,” he muttered, disappointedly. “Hey, Scholar! Did your senses fool you? Come and