The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,62

of snow and threw it at his friend’s face. At once the lids fluttered and the gaze returned to focus on him. “Aha, you can move again!” Ireheart sighed with relief.

“Not quite.” Tungdil’s face was red with exertion. “I’ve been trying, but the armor has me stuck fast!”

“What?” Ireheart put down his weapon, grabbed Tungdil’s right arm and tried to push it up by force. The hinges stayed where they were, immobile, as if riveted in position. All he achieved was to set Tungdil rocking, such that he toppled backwards into the snow.

“Well done, Ireheart,” he said sarcastically. “I’ll freeze to death in here now.”

“Might be better than being smothered in your own excrement?”

“I don’t think that’s funny, Ireheart!”

“Don’t you worry. I’ll look after you. We’ll get your tin can open.” Boïndil checked on the befún. “But not out here. The befún can pull you to the hut and the pony can tug you in through the door. I’ll get you warmed up and then I’ll have a think about what to do.”

He was true to his word. After a bit of pulling and shoving Tungdil lay in his unwished-for, but secure, prison by the fire that Ireheart had lit. The door he had broken down earlier was now resting upright against the opening, jammed in place by a table to keep out the freshening wind. Boïndil prepared a simple but delicious meal from the provisions they had with them.

“Shall I feed you?” he offered, grinning. There was gloating pleasure in his tone, despite the worry that perhaps the armor would never release his friend: Maybe it would stay rigid forever. It had lost its somber and threatening nature, its aura of fear and awe. “Just a heap of expensive junk that doesn’t work anymore,” he muttered.

“No, I don’t want you to feed me. Who knows where you’d drop the food,” growled his bad-tempered companion, staring up at the dusty sausage still hanging from the rafters. Ireheart ate with a healthy appetite. “Has this ever happened before, Scholar?” he asked, his mouth full.

“No. But I’ve never fought a thirdling before that speaks like an älf,” he replied crossly.

Ireheart chewed and put his mind to the problem at hand. If the armor was forced to go solid like that because the black-eye word was used, I wonder who created it in the first place. Who wore it before Tungdil?

Before he had left them all and gone to the abyss, his friend would never in a million cycles have thought of using armor that was obviously of evil origin.

His brown eyes focused on the blade. Had he misjudged the hero? After all, Tungdil had once made himself a new weapon out of one belonging to an älf—Bloodthirster! Boïndil was pleased with the idea: Perhaps this very blade held the key to the change in Tungdil. He had become a dark and dangerous dwarf. Although, of course, present circumstances rendered him less than effective.

“Hope you don’t want to make dwarf-water?”

“Not yet,” said Tungdil impatiently.

“I could tip you over so that it runs out of your helmet?”

“You would, too.”

“Of course.” Ireheart laughed.

“By all that’s infamous! If only I knew the counter-incantation.”

Now Boïndil’s jaw dropped open, showing the mouthful he had been chewing. “That thirdling put a spell on you? A dwarf-hater that can do magic?” He picked up his cup of tea. “Vraccas help us! It’s getting more and more complicated.”

“No, it wasn’t magic. It was… a command,” Tungdil said, attempting to explain the effect of the thirdling’s words.

“Right. Like with a pony; I say whoa and it stands still.” Ireheart pointed at the armor with his spoon. “Why would it do that?”

“So the wearer can be sure nobody else uses the armor,” sighed the one-eyed dwarf. “It would take too long to go into it.”

“Oh, I’ve got masses of time.” He licked the spoon clean. “So’ve you, Scholar.”

“I don’t feel like explaining, dammit!”

“So, if I’ve understood correctly, it could happen again. For example, when you’re having to deal with an orc. And that,” Ireheart waved the spoon, “is something that’s more than likely. Certainly in Girdlegard.” He contemplated the runes. “You really should take it off as soon as it’s working again. One of these orbits. Soon.” He winked at Tungdil. “If I have to I’ll drag you back all the way to Evildam. Back in my forge I’ve got all the tools I need to crack you open. I’ve got hammers this size!” He spread his arms wide.

“It wouldn’t help.” Tungdil watched