The Fate of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  “That will be the old emergency exit gate,” Ireheart supposed. He was occupied in trying to count the helmets he could see. “I think they’ve only got about twenty guards. Pig-faces.”

  “Why would they put any more here?” said Slîn, his eyes glued on the sky. “Who would want to enter the lair of a dragon?”

  “Dwarves,” replied Ireheart briskly. “Our ancestors drove off the dragons and we’ll be doing it again.” He looked at Tungdil. “You want us to ride into the valley in broad daylight?”

  “No. The Zhadár can show us what they’ve learned from the älfar,” he said, looking at Barskalín. “You take on the gates one after another. Don’t open them until all the guards are dead. Find out how we can get inside without the Dragon knowing.”

  “If we want to empty his treasure hoard wouldn’t it be better if we slipped in without killing the guards? It will only draw attention to ourselves if we attack them,” Rodario pointed out. “Lohasbrand will act more swiftly then than we would like.”

  “The orcs will die silently. It will be some time before their deaths are noticed.” Tungdil pointed to Hargorin. “We’ve been discussing the matter en route and feel that we should split up as soon as we’ve plundered the hoard. The Zhadár will go with us and Hargorin will lead the Black Squadron. They’ll take a different route to the south and some of them will go off to the dwarf realms as messengers to request they send their armies so that we can proceed against Lot-Ionan. Others will ride to Aiphatòn.” He indicated Rodario. “And they’ll take his letters to the descendants of the fabulous Rodario the Incredible.”

  It’s a good thing we met up. We wouldn’t have been able to scrape that many messengers together from our original numbers. I suppose they’ll be reliable. Ireheart was not upset to learn they would be losing the Desirers. “We’ll rendezvous by the Blue Mountains, I suppose,” he said.

  “Preparations should be finished by the middle of spring. Ours and the emperor’s. We can start then.” Tungdil glanced up at the imposing mountain glowing red in the light.

  “I still don’t understand how we get away from Lohasbrand if, as they say, he can smell you from miles away.” Rodario was not satisfied yet. “And don’t tell me I’m just an actor with no idea about warfare.” Mallenia and Coïra gave him silent support on this.

  “But that’s what you are,” said Hargorin contemptuously.

  “The Dragon won’t know at first what’s happening. He’ll think it’s rebels and he’ll leave it to the orcs to put the insurgency down—that is, until he notices what’s missing,” explained Tungdil. “By that time we’ll be halfway to Lot-Ionan. At least! We’ll have to ride all day and change horses when they tire. Without that head start we’ll never make it. If he catches us, then…” he glanced over at Coïra “… we’ll have to kill Lohasbrand. But if that happens we lose a vital element in our strategy to weaken Lot-Ionan. If he gets too close, we’ll attempt to drive him off.”

  “You’re putting a whole lot of responsibility my way,” said the queen, looking doubtful.

  “I am. Because I have to. It’s in battle we get our warrior hearts, not when we sit listening to tales about war.” He fixed his eye on her. “Come right out and say if you’re too scared. Then I’ll change the plan.”

  Coïra’s maga-pride was hurt. “Of course we’ll manage to defeat the Dragon, and the magus, too. By the time we arrive, Lot-Ionan will be weak enough, so I, too, assume our strategy will succeed.”

  The sun disappeared behind the clouds and the first raindrops fell noisily onto their metal armor.

  Tungdil turned his pony and rode away from the valley entrance. “There are caves over there. We’ll make camp till the Zhadár return and report the outcome of their mission.”

  They found shelter before the rain got heavier. Soon it was streaming down over the cave entrance. It washed away the last of the snow and removed any trace of the company’s tracks.

  Dwarves and humans settled in the large cavern to rest before the attack they would be launching on the Lohasbranders and the orcs. Ireheart saw to his pony and wandered around, observing the Desirers. Hargorin was selecting his messengers so that they could leave at first light to take the news to Aiphatòn, the resistance fighters and the dwarf-tribes. There’s no stopping it now.

  Then he went over to the Invisibles to see how the preparations were going for their night’s work.

  They were sitting talking quietly with Barskalín. They had short beards all, were black from head to foot and were heavily armed. I really can’t tell them apart. Do I dare to talk to them? he wondered. Who knows how many of them will return?

  This thought did not arrive unprompted. The doubters in his head were demanding to know how many would return. Whoever knew the sign for controlling the Scholar’s armor and making it freeze would know more about the runes generally. It was important. He’d already decided how he would approach the subject.

  He waited until the Zhadár had stopped talking, then went slowly nearer, taking care to ensure Barskalín was looking the other way, because he would be sure not to want his people talking to a secondling. Talking? Being interrogated, more like.

  “Might I have a closer look at your weaponry?” Ireheart asked the nearest of the warriors, who was sitting on the ground sharpening his dagger. He smiled and squatted down. That way he would not attract attention.

  The Zhadár turned and looked up, puzzled. “Of course,” he said, handing Ireheart the weapon.

  “Do you lot like jokes? My favorite’s the one about the orc and the dwarf.”

  “Really? I’ve never really got that one,” replied the Zhadár. “Why would an orc ask one of us the way?”

  Ireheart was at a loss there. “But that’s what makes it so funny.”

  “Funny? I just think it’s… unlikely. Any greenskin knows that a dwarf would cut his head off.” He laughed. “And then there’s the punch line! What the dwarf says and does… Very strange. But not funny.”

  “Ah,” said Ireheart, confused. “Tastes differ, it seems.” He decided to change his tactics, away from the topic of jokes. He turned the dagger in his hands and admired the runes and the strength of the blade in order to flatter the Zhadár. “What do these symbols mean?”

  The other dwarf explained patiently that the runes promised death to the enemy.

  “Just like us,” Ireheart said, a little clumsily. “I mean to say, you used to be like us…” He stopped short and handed the knife back.

  Now it was the Zhadár’s turn to grin. “What is it you want to know, Doubleblade?”

  “Is it so obvious?”

  “Yes. You’re an excellent warrior but a terrible spy.”

  “It’s not really my thing. I like to do things more directly.” Ireheart laughed and sat down; he heard and felt his flask slip off his belt onto the cave floor. He drew a symbol on the floor similar to the rune that Tungdil bore on his armor.

  The Zhadár said, “You’ve seen it on the high king’s armor. Frak told us he’d given Goldhand quite a shock.”

  “Frak?”

  “The Zhadár you came across in the Outer Lands.”

  “So do you know the secret of the armor?”

  “Is there one? Because it’s magic?”

  Ireheart nodded. “Yes.”

  “It’s not a secret. Any magus or maga and anyone that knows a bit about magic will see it straightaway on the high king. Or was it a particular sort of magic?” The Zhadár went back to sharpening his dagger. “I’m not allowed to talk about it.”

  “But I must know. If an älf casts a spell at Tungdil and locks him into the armor again, I’ve got to be able to unfreeze him without taking my crow’s beak to him every time.” He found the black, almost empty eye sockets of his opposite number unsettling. It was hard to have a proper conversation with a dwarf whose eyes you could not read.

  “You used your weapon to release him from the armor?” The dwarf laughed. “It’s a miracle your hands didn’t explode.”


  “I was careful.” Ireheart was getting quite excited. He seemed to be close to solving a few puzzles. He glanced over at Barskalín and Tungdil. Both were busy. “Tell me, please! The high king’s life may depend on it.”

  “It probably will.” The Zhadár put down his whetstone. “Remember these words.” He uttered some sounds that Ireheart was not able to copy.

  Hurt, Boïndil regarded the other dwarf, suddenly convinced that he was talking to the one he called the Trouble Maker. His sounded like the joker’s voice. “I can’t say that.”

  “Then practice. For the high king’s sake.” He chortled, then stopped and swore, grimacing. The whole thing took only a couple of seconds, but it was enough to scare Ireheart into taking hold of his weapon. But the Zhadár had calmed down. “What else?”

  “So they are really älf runes?”

  “Yes. The ones on our armor are pure älf but there are some on the high king’s armor that I can’t read,” the Zhadár admitted. “It’s obvious. But they’ve got something älf-like about them. And dwarflike.” He saw Barskalín had just turned round, and frowned. “There’s something I’ve got to do,” he said, getting up.

  “Hey, hang on! Wait a moment. I knew all that. The explanation?” Ireheart was disappointed but realized he was not going to get any more secrets out of the Zhadár. But he’d been told the words needed to release the paralysis of the armor.

  He wondered how many commands there were to make his friend’s armor perform other tricks, whether the wearer wanted to or otherwise. He really ought to take it off when we meet Lot-Ionan in battle. I shall have to sell him the idea somehow, he decided.

  He reached for his flask and opened it without looking, while continuing to watch the Zhadár company. They were working quietly, sharpening their weapons and exchanging the armor of the Black Squadron for their own. They kept stopping, closing their eyes and seeming to pray before carrying on.

  Ireheart’s lips were on the neck of the flask and liquid sloshed into his mouth; he swallowed without paying attention.

  Then he noticed the foul taste—not a bit like the herbal tea he had filled his flask with. He spat the second mouthful onto the sandy floor of the cave. The liquid was a dull blackish red, viscous and slow to disperse.

  “What’s that?” Ireheart looked at the flask. That’s not mine! His own still lay on the ground where it had fallen.

  Revolted by the taste he spat again, then grabbed his own bottle and rinsed his mouth out. The metallic taste reminded him of blood and strong alcohol and it stayed heavy on his tongue, like pitch.

  “Whose is this?” he called out, holding up the flask after he had screwed the top back on.

  The Zhadár he had been talking to came running up. “It’s mine,” he said, annoyed. “I must have dropped it.” He grabbed hold of it as eagerly as if it contained one of Girdlegard’s prime wines.

  “What’s it got in it?”

  The Zhadár looked shocked. “Why? You didn’t drink any, did you?”

  Something in his voice warned Ireheart not to admit he had. Instead he pointed to the damp patch in the sand. “No, but it can’t have been closed properly and the stuff that’s leaked looks odd and smells peculiar,” he lied, hoping Vraccas would not make him blush. “Is it herb brandy?” He grinned. “Maybe that’s where you get your special powers! A magic drink, eh?”

  The dark dwarf leaned forward. “It’s distilled elf blood,” he muttered to Ireheart. “It’s been modified with terrible älfar magic, then distilled, boiled up and diluted with brandy.” Then the Zhadár pulled a face again, and gave four weird laughs before looking normal once more.

  Ireheart felt sick. “Elf blood,” he repeated. “What’s it good for?”

  “Our magic,” sang the Zhadár. “Our magic.” Then he turned and went back to his comrades.

  “O Vraccas! What have I done that you punish me like this?” Ireheart murmured in distress, placing his hand on his stomach. “Who knows what that stuff will do to me?”

  So long as he did not notice any change, he decided, he would keep his misfortune to himself. Maybe the crazy Zhadár had just been having him on and it was, perhaps, merely a harmless liqueur.

  XIX

  Girdlegard,

  The Former Queendom of Weyurn,

  The Entrance to the Red Mountains,

  Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle

  When darkness fell the Zhadár set off out from the cave in the pouring rain and disappeared into the murk after only a few paces, lost to Ireheart’s view. Having glided out into the night, they seemed to become part of it.

  “Odd fellows.” Rodario nodded at the women. “I wonder what Boïndil has learned from that Zhadár.” He went over to Ireheart.

  Rodario’s continued transformation had not escaped Coïra. She noted he now wore chain mail and carried a sword at his side. Having not shaved since his involuntary unmasking, he now sported a short beard on his square-jawed face. This and his manly bearing meant he had nothing in common with the figure everyone was familiar with: The eternal failure in the Mifurdania competitions.

  Mallenia, on the other hand, was watching the maga, her rival, while at the same time berating herself for having fallen for a man who had never existed. Her heart had been captivated by a stage character, a seemingly vulnerable, clumsy man who had suddenly turned out to be brave and bold. The former incarnation had appealed to Mallenia more because she was a born protectress. But still…

  Coïra sighed. “Who would have thought it?”

  “That he’s a real man?” Mallenia gave a bitter laugh and cut herself a slice of bread to spread with seed oil. “I’m as surprised as you.”

  The maga reached for her flask and took a drink. She looked at the Ido girl. “How does he kiss?” she demanded directly.

  “What?” Mallenia nearly choked.

  Coïra’s eyes shone; she clasped her knees to her as she sat. “He stole a kiss, didn’t he? What was it like? Tell me, do!”

  “Are you in love with him?”

  “Maybe,” she answered daringly. “He’ll think I’m a lovesick young girl if he finds out. But I don’t care.”

  “Isn’t he a bit too old for you? He’s more my age, about thirty cycles, and you’ve surely only seen twenty?” Mallenia realized that her tone was unfriendly.

  Coïra noticed it as well and looked at the Ido girl in puzzlement. “Is that a touch of jealousy?”

  “No,” she snapped—and next moment she was furious with herself. That had been as good as an acknowledgment. She had little experience in affairs of the heart. The struggle for freedom had left no room for that kind of thing. There had been only two short outings into the realm of physical passion.

  “It seems to me his kiss has done more than you want to admit,” said the maga, putting her leather drinking pouch back on the floor. She pushed back her dark hair and tied it at the nape. She could not help grinning. “So there we are, in the middle of a great adventure, just about to launch an attack on the Dragon, and we find we both fancy the same man. The gods have a strange sense of humor.”

  At first Mallenia wanted to deny everything, but she dismissed that idea. Why should she not own up to her feelings? “It’s much harder for me, Coïra,” she said. “I actually preferred him when he was Rodario the Clumsy.”

  “Then be glad you never saw him the way I did. You would have run a mile! We’ll get him to play the helpless clown and audacious hero on alternate orbits.” She handed the other girl her flask. “Let us vow never to fall out over him.”

  “Fall out?” Mallenia was not aware of any pact of friendship. She stared indecisively at the flask.

  “Look! You’ll soon be on the throne of Idoslane and I shall be taking over from my mother in Weyurn. How nice it would be if, as two future rulers, we were to get on well and not start fighting and feuding over some man. Otherwise we may end up with a war between our two countries.” Even if it was clear from her smile that she did not mean these words seriously
, there was a grain of truth in them.

  So Mallenia accepted the flask, unscrewed the top and drank to sisterhood. Coïra then did the same. “He kisses in the most masculine way,” the Ido girl confessed. “I was puzzled at the time but did not worry about it. My suspicions were overcome by his acting talents.” She continued eating. “Are you going to tell him how you feel?”

  “Tell him I love him?” The maga sighed. “I don’t know. It would be… it would be so humiliating if I told him and he laughed at me. Or if he turned me down for another.” She looked Mallenia in the eye. “It was you he stole the kiss from, not me. My jealousy is bound to be stronger than yours.”

  Mallenia hesitated. “Well, if you say so… But I think he saw it as a sort of game. It wasn’t serious. He has no idea how I feel about him.”

  They smiled at each other and both turned to look at Rodario, who seemed to sense their eyes on him. He swiveled round to meet the double gaze, and waved before turning back to his discussion with Ireheart.

  “Men.” Mallenia drew out her sword and proceeded to sharpen it.

  Coïra cut herself a slice of ham. “You’re better off than me.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Mallenia.

  “You’re good with weapons. I need magic to defend myself. And without a magic source my inner reserves are quickly exhausted.” The maga chewed on the tasty meat. “And I’m not terribly brave. I’ve never needed to be.”

  “You’re joking! You stood up to the älfar!”

  “But I had lots of magic power in me then. No bravery required.”

  “You said you got some energy from the source in Lakepride when it was released in the explosion.” Mallenia raised her head. “So you’ve got enough to cast some spells?”

  “Of course. But it’s not nearly as much as I would have absorbed on my normal long exposure.” She spoke hesitantly. “I’m pinning my hopes on finding another source in the Red Mountains.”