The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,77

As he spoke, his breath formed a white cloud. “The pig-faced orcs, ogres and trolls would have hurled themselves at those walls and started to climb.” He pointed to the right. “Over there the original watchtower collapsed under the constant catapult fire, killing hundreds of beasts.” He sighed. “And then they got closer and closer, stormed up the ladders and were about to swarm through the gem-cutters’ corridors, but…” he paused and looked at Tungdil, “… but then they appeared!”

Tungdil was listening but gave no sign that he knew how the story went.

“The monsters had nearly overwhelmed the fourthlings when the acronta rolled in over the plain and hunted down the orcs as if for sport, like a dog might chase a cat.” He laughed and slapped his thigh. “What wouldn’t I have given to have seen that and to have fought at their side!”

“Didn’t the acronta eat the orcs afterwards?”

“Oh, yes, they did. Do you remember Djern, Andôkai’s bodyguard—Andôkai the Tempestuous?” Boïndil looked at the walls, which had been repaired two hundred and fifty cycles ago, twice as thick as before, even though in truth the more dangerous enemies lay to the south of the dwarf realm. But in those times there had been no way of knowing that.

Two flags flew on the highest towers: One for the kingdom of the fourthlings and one for the union of all the dwarf realms. It was a nice fancy, because there was now no true community of dwarves as in the old times under the high king.

Tungdil patted the befún’s neck. “No,” he said honestly. “There are large parts of my life I know hardly anything about.” He touched the scar on his forehead and looked at Ireheart. “Tell me about this Djern character.”

Ireheart gave a dismissive wave. “He’s not important, Scholar. I just wanted to talk about the acronta and… it doesn’t matter.” He took his bugle, put it to his lips and sounded it. It was not long before an answering fanfare came from the walls. On hearing that he blew a different set of notes.

Slowly but surely, the gates of Silverfast were opened for them.

Tungdil and Ireheart rode up to the entrance in silence. A troop of dwarves stood in formation at the gate, pikestaffs in their hands.

The one-eyed dwarf noted that crossbow marksmen were manning the battlements. “We don’t seem to be particularly welcome,” he commented.

“They don’t have anything against us personally. It’s regulations,” explained Boïndil. “Frandibar Gemholder of the Gold Beater clan adopted the procedure on my advice. Nobody gets through to the other side without undergoing a thorough check. Not even me.” Ireheart was concerned about how the envoys of the dwarf-races would react to this folk hero, now so sadly changed.

They rode up to the guards.

“Not sure, Ireheart?” Tungdil’s voice was devoid of bitterness or reproach. He smiled sadly. “There will be others to whom the notion of my being an impostor or a phantom will occur, when they see me. Especially when they hear my new suggestions for forcing Lot-Ionan to his knees. Because that’s what we need to do: We have to bend him to our will, and not kill him. That, Ireheart, is going to be the most difficult thing, with a determined and desperate opponent.”

“Desperate? Lot-Ionan is a magus; why should he be desperate?”

“The longer we fight against him, the more he will be overwhelmed with despair. Believe me.” Again his features displayed a frightening mirth. The expression would have suited a demon. Ireheart would not have wanted to turn his back on Tungdil at that moment, but he returned his smile.

They had reached the sentries now: Heavily armed and grim-faced dwarves in thick coats. They held their pikes ready to be used instantaneously.

“State your names and your business,” said the captain of the guard. Tungdil left the explanations to Boïndil.

Boïndil noticed that the guards’ attention was focused on the Scholar. In his flamboyant armor and mounted as he was on a very unusual animal, he aroused curiosity and suspicion; that altered when they learned the somber dwarf’s name.

“By Vraccas!” exclaimed the captain; he bowed to them both. “Can it be true that the two greatest dwarf-heroes have arrived to free Girdlegard? We did not expect you so soon. The delegates have not all come yet.”

“Then we’ll begin the strategy meeting without them,” said Tungdil abruptly. “Can we pass?”

“Of course, Tungdil Goldhand,” said the captain at once and gave a signal. The guards drew back to let them through.

“How do