The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,78

you know I am the real Tungdil Goldhand?” he asked darkly from atop his befún. “Do I look like a child of the Smith? In this armor? And what do the runes on the tionium signify? What if they meant death to observers?”

“Well… you’re riding with Boïndil Doubleblade. He identified himself with the bugle signal. I thought…” The dwarf-captain hesitated and looked at Ireheart. He had not expected to be blamed and criticized for the warm welcome he had given the new arrivals.

“Thank you. We’ll find our own way in,” said Boïndil in much friendlier tones. “Give us a soldier who can guide us swiftly and directly through the Brown Mountains to King Frandibar Gemholder. There is not an orbit to be lost. And the pressure of the crisis affects even such heroes as Tungdil Goldhand. Forgive the harshness of his manner.” He spurred his pony on.

The captain saluted and called out a name; as soon as Ireheart and Tungdil had passed under the archway, an opening large enough to have admitted even a kordrion, a dwarf came riding after them to act as their guide. He kept his distance. The words of the somber hero had been noted.

“What was all that about, Scholar?” whispered an angry Boïndil. “Isn’t it enough if they get suspicious gradually? Do you enjoy sowing doubts?”

“I thought there would be some kind of a check,” he replied. “But they let us waltz in without asking us even to dismount. They should have searched our luggage at the very least.” His right hand touched the breastplate and stroked one of the runes. “And with this armor, these runes, he just let me in. Did you see how they stared at me? As if I were a monster.”

“At the moment that’s just what you sound like, Scholar,” Ireheart retorted, feeling insulted. “You’re not happy, whatever people do. What advice would you have given him?”

“Go and tell the captain he must not admit a single dwarf after us,” Tungdil said. “No matter who he is or who he claims to be. We saw one thirdling in the Outer Lands and I don’t think he was the only one. They will try to break into the realm of the gem cutters from the north.

“A spy, then,” Boïndil surmised. “Of course! They’ll circumvent the Brown Range and check out the lie of the land and see where the defenses are weak before they attack.”

Tungdil offered ironic applause. “Now you’ve understood. I hope you can see, then, why I acted as I did.”

But Ireheart couldn’t really, even though the explanation made some sense. Surely the Scholar could have spoken rationally and calmly to the captain. “I’ll tell our leader. He’ll pass it on to the Silverfast troops. They’ll be more careful in future.”

The main gate of Goldfast stood open in welcome for the heroes, and here again the dwarves were received with cheers of frenetic rejoicing, fanfares and drum rolls. All the guards had left their posts to greet the pair.

Waving and smiling to the crowd, Ireheart sneaked a look at Tungdil. The Scholar cast a stony gaze to right and left. He rested one hand on his thigh as he rode; the other held the reins of the befún. He entered the fortress like a grim, war-weary general: No hand raised in acknowledgment, no greeting, no smile. The only clues to his state of mind were the spark in his eye, his pride and his awareness of his own power.

They continued without delay and Tungdil urged their guide to make swift progress.

Ireheart was still thinking about the thirdling they had encountered at the mountain refuge. “It would mean,” he blurted out while they were riding through a large cavern where the walls were covered in a film of water, “that the skirt-wearers have done more than merely form an alliance with the black-eyes.”

Tungdil had shut his eye and was listening carefully to the falling drops of water in the wall niches.

“The armor carried älfar runes, didn’t it?” Boïndil insisted, urging his pony to keep up with the befún. “I thought everything about the enemy dwarf was strange. That powder he strewed in my face, blinding me… where did he get that? The thirdlings usually rely on their military prowess and wouldn’t use dirty tricks like that. And he moved in such an unusual way, not like a dwarf at all. He very nearly,” he said, turning his face toward Tungdil, “made me think of Narmora. What do you think?”

Tungdil opened