The Fate of the Dwarves

XII

Girdlegard,

Dwarf Realm of the Fifthlings,

In the North of the Gray Range of Mountains,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

Tungdil stood at the edge of a snowy stretch of ground between two mountain slopes, completely at a loss. The tracks made by the cocoon-thieves ended abruptly at the tips of his own boots. The prints disappeared at the edge of a precipice. “They’ve climbed straight down the cliff.” He bent forward to spy into the depths. It was impossible to see the foot of the cliff. “Must be at least three hundred paces to the bottom. Can’t make head or tail of it.”

Balyndar and Ireheart were waiting at his side. “Or perhaps they can fly, after all,” said the fifthling, checking overhead. “I can’t make anything out on the rocks above us, either.”

Ireheart searched around in the snow until he found solid rock. “And there’s no secret passage. I’d be able to hear it.” He noticed the funny looks the others were giving him. “So? I just wanted to make sure.”

Tungdil went a couple of paces to one side on the virgin snow of the plain. “Not a bad idea.” He bent down and carefully brushed off the thin top layer of freshly fallen snow. In the older ice crystals underneath there were clear marks of something being dragged. “Clever of them,” he acknowledged. “They’ve put a load of snow on one of the sledges and they’re using it to conceal their tracks. To make us think they’ve abseiled down the cliff. But in reality they’ve gone this way.” With a grin he gave the signal for them to march on.

“It’s a good thing I’m here,” joked Ireheart. “If I hadn’t checked for underground passages we’d all have had to shin down that precipice on a bit of string. I’m a brainy dwarf, of course.”

“If you say so. They’re heading east,” stated Balyndar. A thin layer of ice had formed on his mantle; every time he moved there was a rustling sound. “If they keep on in this direction they’ll come to the Red Mountains. The path dates from old times, when the fast tunnels had been forgotten. The track hasn’t been maintained properly by the tribes and it’s sure to be hard going. More a climb than a walk.”

Ireheart had another new idea. “If they’re planning to take the kordrion’s young off to Lohasbrand… perhaps it’s a bunch of mini orcs we’re on the trail of? The Dragon’s bred them specially small so they can use our tunnels and narrow mountain paths? The long-uns, of course, used to breed tiny dogs for going down badger setts and foxholes. Why shouldn’t it work with orcs?”

“It’s worrying, the things you come up with sometimes,” said Balyndar, surveying the plain. “What would the Dragon want with the cocoons?”

“How should I know? To break the kordrion’s will and enforce his loyalty?”

The fifthling tutted, not even bothering to respond to that. “If we head out across the plain the enemy will be able to see us coming. Shall we hug the cliffs?”

“We’ve not a grain in the hour-glass to lose. Straight across,” ordered Tungdil, setting off. Ireheart followed him at once. “What about my theory, Scholar?” he urged, with the eagerness of a young child. “Seems obvious to me.”

“Possible but not probable,” replied Tungdil. “Perhaps the firstlings had the same idea as us and sent out a scouting party.”

“Playing the monsters off against each other to free themselves from the Dragon’s clutches and destroy the kordrion, who’ll have been weakened from the fighting?” Ireheart had a good long think. “Could be. But it’s pretty odd they’re putting the idea into practice at the same time as us.” The more he considered it, the less he liked his own theory. “Nonsense. They would have gone to see Balyndis and asked for permission and support for the expedition. That’s what you do if you’re on someone else’s territory.”

Suddenly Tungdil stood stock still. “Ireheart, Balyndar, Slîn,” he whispered. “Come with me. The rest of you keep going to the other side of the plain and wait for our signal.” He hurried off, bent low, going toward a cleft in the rocks that Ireheart and the others hadn’t noticed.

“It’s a bit of a miracle the way he finds things,” said Slîn. “I wouldn’t have seen that till I’d walked into it.”

“Vraccas has a soft spot for our Scholar,” laughed Boïndil. “It’s always been like that as long as I’ve known him.” Nothing’s changed.

The little band stepped cautiously into the cleft in the rock; it was dark but the air smelled fresh, not stale.

“A tunnel,” whispered Boïndil.

“They probably won’t have come upon it purely by chance. Whoever destroyed the nest and stole the cocoons—it’s been a long time in the planning.” Tungdil led them along a sloping passage. They found crudely hewn steps leading further down.

From below they heard muffled voices.

“We’ve got them,” whispered Ireheart, full of anticipation. “Let me go in first, Scholar! I’ll finish them all off! No one will escape me in these narrow…”

“Pull yourself together,” hissed Tungdil.

“Go on, let him,” said Slîn softly. “It’s fine with me…”

At that very moment the kordrion’s screeching roar was heard outside! Wind shot through the tunnel, leaving them standing in whirling snowflakes.

Boïndil shuddered and remained motionless for a second before coming to his senses. He thought at once of the others in his party, who would be left facing the kordrion on the plain. “May Vraccas be with them!” he prayed. “Let them find shelter before it gets to them. We need every man jack of them if we are to free Girdlegard.” He was about to put in his wax earplugs and go over to Tungdil, but his friend was already heading down the steps. There was no time to give support or employ caution. The kordrion young had priority.

The steps were old, crumbling away in places under their feet. Slîn lost his balance and was only saved by Balyndar’s presence of mind; otherwise he would have tumbled head first down the stairs.

“Shouldn’t we go back to help the others,” asked the fifthling. “They’ll be killed…”

“And so will we if we move out into the open without the cocoon,” interjected Tungdil. “And anyway, to the kordrion Ireheart smells like his offspring’s murderer. We’re no use if we fall in battle—the only ones to benefit would be our enemies. They will have to look to their own devices.”

Finally they reached the ground level and the passage became wider. They fanned out, with Tungdil and Ireheart in the first row, followed by Balyndar and Slîn.

“This leads due east,” said Ireheart. “Our forefathers will have made the tunnel because they knew the high passes would not always be free.”

Tungdil stopped abruptly and Slîn cannoned into him.

A loud and furious laugh swept through the passage. “They’re sending out their heroes as if they had dozens more where they come from,” came a deep voice. “The dwarf world will be hit hard by the loss. What will the tribes do without their figureheads and famous icons of bravery? Will the others emigrate? Commit suicide?”

Slîn bent and quickly lit two torches he had taken from his rucksack; he kept one and handed the other to Balyndar.

“Come out of the dark and I’ll clobber your big mouth for you,” Ireheart bellowed in rage. “Are you a coward?”

“No. I am someone who likes the dark and knows it is his ally,” the speaker replied. “Why should I step into the light? You come over here!”

“Is there something wrong with your voice? You sound like a girl,” shouted Ireheart. He tried to challenge the stranger. “Did a gugul bite off your manhood?” An insult like that and his own combat fire would certainly have flared up.

“Why are you following us? Are the dwarves now worshippers of the kordrion and want to return his offspring to him?”

“We demand you give us the cocoon you stole,” answered Tungdil, motioning Boïndil to desist from his next vocal onslaught. But I’d just made up such a good new insult, thought the latter, ruefully. Ah well, I’ll just have to save it for another occasion.

“Too late,” said the voice in the darkness. “We’ve got it, we need it and we won’t give it up.”

“Then we’ll come and take it!” Tungdil drew Bloodthirster. “There’s only ten of you. And even though your footprints tell me you belong to our race we shall not spare you.”

Silence ensued.

“We’re not dwarves,” said another voice just behind them, a voice out of the dark as deep as the grave. “Not anymore.”

Why can’t I see them? Boïndil stared intently into the blackness until he thought he could make out a shape. Then, as if from nowhere, appeared the form of a warrior; he was the size of a dwarf, in the same armor as the dwarf-hater they had come across in the Outer Lands. It was as if the passage itself had given birth to him; his helmet was closed and in his right hand he held a tionium spear with a long, pointed end.

“That’s an älf’s weapon,” growled Ireheart, pushing in front of Slîn. “It goes with the runes on your armor, you traitor! The thirdlings have gone too far. They can’t be allowed to rule.”

The dwarf came to a halt two paces away.

Slîn was aiming the crossbow at him, Balyndar covered the rest of the passage, and Tungdil rested his own weapon against his shoulder. Nothing in Tungdil’s demeanor showed he felt fear, although both he and his companions knew themselves to be surrounded.

“You didn’t listen to what I said, Boïndil Doubleblade,” said the stranger, lifting his visor. “We’re no longer dwarves.” Ireheart inhaled sharply. At first he thought the dwarf had no face, but then he realized the blackness was the dye used for his beard. “You still look like one to me,” he responded. “Right, are you going to hand over the cocoon?”

The stranger laughed, pleasantly now. “I’ve stepped into your light, so you should reciprocate and come into the dark.” He lifted his left hand and clenched his fist.

The torchlight suddenly went out, leaving only a dull red glow.

“Älfar tricks,” Ireheart spat out, caught by surprise. “Vraccas, strike them with your hammer. The skirt-wearers have betrayed your creation.”

There was a loud click when Slîn fired the crossbow. The sound of splintering wood told them his bolt had missed its target.

“We can see you as clearly as if you stood in the full light of day,” the dwarf said to them. “When your torches light up again, don’t move, or we’ll kill you.”

The torches flared up.

Ireheart cursed. He was flanked by two dwarves in black armor and the blade of a curved dagger was at his throat; another knife hovered by his eye. Again, he had neither heard his adversaries approach nor noticed a current of air. “May Vraccas toss you in his furnace and burn your treacherous souls,” he said contemptuously. He couldn’t see what effect his words had; the visor was still shut.

Tungdil was surrounded by three of the armored foe and saw spears aiming at him. No one was trying to get very close.

“I’ll ask you again: What do you want the embryo for?” Their leader had not moved. “To stuff it up your arse,” was Ireheart’s venomous reply. “Leave me enough room for my crow’s beak and I’ll make you a bigger hole.”

“Truth would be appropriate at this stage,” said Tungdil surprisingly. “Because I hope we can come to an agreement. Meeting dwarves—beings like yourselves here and with the booty that was to be ours—makes me hopeful that the gods intended this.” He looked at the spear points that threatened his face, throat and groin. “We wanted to steal the offspring of the kordrion and bring them to Lot-Ionan, to provoke the monster to attack the magus. Then a dwarf-army would have set out to destroy the sorcerer, who would have been weakened by then.” He studied the leader. “You are heading east. I don’t see any Dragon emblems on you, so you don’t belong to Lohasbrand. I expect you had a similar plan to our own. You wanted to drive the kordrion to attack the Dragon and then to take on the victor in battle. Am I right?”

Their leader gave a smile of acknowledgment and nodded. “You are indeed, Tungdil Goldhand.”

“Who are you working for? For the älfar? Do they want to take over the west and north of Girdlegard like they did in the east?” Tungdil remained as calm as a rock, as if it were he who had the upper hand.

“That’s none of your business. But I have a suggestion to make to you.”

“Keep your suggestions,” growled Ireheart, wondering in which order he should attack his guards. He worked out a strategy that would free him. By Vraccas! You traitors will see what a warrior like me is made of.

“Go ahead. Anything that prevents unnecessary bloodshed will be accepted gladly,” replied Tungdil. Astonished and indignant, Ireheart heard his friend giving in. “But not by me, Scholar!” he contradicted. “These are our deadly enemies! Murderers and traitors because they’re with the älfar…”

Tungdil’s gaze silenced him. He looked round at the others, but Slîn was shuffling his feet and Balyndar was chewing his own cheek. Nobody spoke up in support.

The spears were withdrawn and Tungdil went a few paces further into the passage to discuss things. Away from his party.

Ireheart caught the words of the first few sentences the two exchanged but did not understand the content. The sound was familiar but it took him some time before his mind registered what his heart had rejected as a possibility. They were speaking the älfar tongue! The very last thing you’d expect.

“Charming,” said Slîn, annoyed. “Our high king goes over to talk to dwarves who don’t want to be dwarves, thinking instead that they are really vertically challenged älfar.” He turned to look at his captors. “Might we learn what you call yourselves?” No answer was forthcoming.

Balyndar uttered a curse. “What shall we do, Boïndil?”

“How should I know? I’m a warrior, not a thinker.” Ireheart’s muscles tensed almost imperceptibly—but the blade at his throat was pressed closer. His guards were on the ball. “Yes, all right, all right. I won’t move,” he said to appease them. He watched Tungdil and the other dwarf talking.

After a long time—to Ireheart it seemed endless—Tungdil and the leader returned.

At a signal from the stranger the guards lowered their weapons and moved behind their commander; Tungdil came to Ireheart’s side.

“We have won ourselves some new friends,” he announced, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “If you would care to introduce yourself to my companions?” he suggested, replacing Bloodthirster in its sheath.

The dwarf nodded. “I am Barskalín, the sytràp of the Zhadár. The Zhadár is an älfar word that means The Invisible Ones. Sytràp just means commander.” His left arm described a semicircle. “These are my ten best Zhadár and the rest are waiting at a secret place for our return. To explain why we’re here, I’ll need to go into more detail.”

“There’s no time for that! What about our companions out there on the plain?” said Ireheart sharply. “We have to help them against the kordrion!” With an angry glance at Tungdil he added, “Maybe our new friends could give us a hand and show us what they’re worth.”

Barskalín shook his head. “They are dead, Boïndil. The kordrion wiped them out. One of my invisible Zhadár placed at the cave entrance told me that before I showed myself to you. It was wise of you to follow us into the tunnel.”

Balyndar gasped. “Dead?”

“The kordrion caught them on the plain. How could they have escaped his white fire?” Barskalín nodded down the passage. “We should talk about it later and put a few miles between us and the beast for now. It will follow our scent.”

Ireheart looked first at Slîn and Balyndar, and then at Tungdil. “And where do we go now?”

He had been thinking the Scholar would answer, but it was the sytràp who said, “To the south, to the Red Mountains.” How did the Scholar do that? Ireheart had not expected this, and to judge by the astounded faces of Slîn and Balyndar, they had not reckoned with it either. But he felt no relief.

Nor was he relieved when they were shown something he assumed to be the cocoon, which the Zhadár had hidden under a thick pile of warm furs and dragged along the passage on a shield on rollers.

Girdlegard,

Dwarf Realm of the Fifthlings,

In the North of the Gray Range of Mountains,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

Indistinguishable one from another and vaguely ominous in their identical armor, the Zhadár marched swiftly in the company of the surviving members of the fourthling and fifthling band. They had fastened the cocoon and their equipment and provisions onto a shield and were pulling it along.

“How did you talk them into cooperating, Scholar?” asked Boïndil as they went.

“We’ll have to keep an eye on them,” Balyndar chipped in. “And more important still—what do they want in exchange?”

Slîn looked round. “I shan’t be able to sleep, I can feel it in my bones. Not one of them has shown us his face. Except for Barskalín.”

“You’ll be told next time we stop. It’s better if you hear it from him,” Tungdil placated them, then moved on quickly to catch up with the commander. “They’re chatting again. Like old friends.” Slîn nudged Balyndar and pointed toward Tungdil’s back, indicating a particular rune. “The Zhadár have got the same one on their armor,” he mouthed. “You know what? I bet it’s no coincidence that we’ve teamed up. The plan about the nest was Tungdil’s—perhaps these are his warriors and are just pretending to be… Zhadár?”

“Maybe you’re right,” said the fifthling pensively.

“Stop that nonsense!” commanded Ireheart in the uncomfortable knowledge that he could not tell them what to do.

Balyndar looked at him disapprovingly. “You keep changing your ideas, Boïndil Doubleblade. One minute you’re on his side, then you start to wobble, then you change your mind again.” He stuck his hands in his belt. “You’ll have to come to a decision. When it’s all over.”

Ireheart was angry. “We’ve got a job to do and we’ll do it, and it doesn’t matter who helps us as long as it serves Girdlegard,” he said, avoiding the issue. “There have been losses. Now we have new soldiers and we have the kordrion’s young.”

“He’s right,” said Slîn. “We’re better off like this than being a pile of ash out on the plain. Or devoured by the monster.” He fell silent.

When they came to a cave with a water source, Tungdil signaled to the company to halt and Barskalín complied.

“It’s pretty clear which of them gives the orders,” commented Ireheart, bursting with curiosity. He, Slîn and Balyndar settled down away from the Zhadár to eat. I want to know what the story is with these Zhadár. Vraccas can’t be giving his blessing to this. He glanced at his friend, who was talking to the sytràp. They were studying a map that they had unrolled and spread out, each running their fingers over the lines. Eventually they seemed to have finished and came over.

Barskalín sat down on a boulder. “I owe you an explanation about myself and the Zhadár,” he began. He released his helmet strap, revealing a shaved skull dyed black. “As I was saying: We used to be thirdlings. Each of us is more than four hundred cycles old and we’re all excellent warriors. When Aiphatòn and his southern älfar marched in and it became clear no one could stop them, our king suggested a pact. To our astonishment they agreed.” His gaze wandered over the dwarf-faces. “After about twenty cycles the Dsôn Aklán made us an offer: They were looking for volunteers to train up and learn certain crafts. In exchange it was arranged that this particular unit would eliminate all the dwarf-tribes of Girdlegard.”

“May Vraccas shove a red-hot hammer through their stupid ears!” Ireheart took a swig from his flask.

“They wanted Girdlegard naked, without a single defender.” Balyndar’s expression darkened. “It would have meant the end.”

“The älfar from the south are different from those in the sagas?” Slîn wondered.

Barskalín confirmed this with a nod. “They are wilder, more cruel…”

Ireheart laughed. “Am I hearing aright? More cruel? How could that be?”

“It can be, Boïndil,” answered a subdued Tungdil. “Believe me, it can.”

“They aren’t the only ones. A few hundred älfar from the north have somehow managed to enter Girdlegard without Aiphatòn’s help. He’s known as emperor among the southern älfar.” Barskalín continued his report. “It was the Dsôn Aklán who aided the northerners.”

Boïndil turned to Balyndar. “How did they get past you?”

“They didn’t!” insisted the fifthling. “We keep the Stone Gate and nothing got through. It’s nonsense!”

Barskalín threw him a disapproving glance. “They got into Girdlegard without your knowledge. The dwarves couldn’t have stopped them. The älfar rediscovered an old passage they had used many cycles ago to invade the elf realm Lesinteïl.”

“By Vraccas! Then we must find the entrance and close it up.” Slîn looked at Ireheart. “There’s no point in keeping up the fortresses, otherwise.”

“The passage no longer exists. It collapsed and it’s underwater now.” The sytràp folded his hands. “In any case, there’s conflict now among the älfar. The Dsôn Aklán and their followers consider themselves to be the rightful successors to the Unslayables and, as such, morally and in every way superior to their cousins from the south. The northerners were the ones we had an alliance with.” The sytràp grinned maliciously. “I’m sure they would have sent us to fight the southern älfar sooner or later. I’d bet anything.”

“Well, well.” Ireheart stroked his beard. “That’s useful to know. So the black-eyes don’t like each other either.”

“The southerners are in the majority and they’ve taken over Dsôn Balsur and the former elf realm of landur. The northern älfar have rebuilt the city of Dsôn in an artificial crater in the former elf realm of Lesinteïl, now renamed Dsôn Bhará—the true Dsôn. Yours, Tungdil Goldhand, is a name they pronounce with hatred. They haven’t forgotten that it was you who sent the city of the Unslayables up in flames.” Barskalín looked round at the others. “They taught us everything and trained us in their arts and skills.”

“How? Dwarves and magic? What’s more, magic originating from our oldest and most terrible foes?” Balyndar cut himself a piece of ham.

“It was a long and painful process involving many gruesome rituals,” Barskalín explained, seeming distressed. “It felt as if they had burned out the very souls that Vraccas endowed us with. What you see is the outer shell, filled with something that would make you shudder with fear if you ever caught sight of it.”

Boïndil glanced at Tungdil and remembered the vicious scars covering his torso. Perhaps he had also undergone that transformation? Is that why his face had the fine black älfar-like lines?

Barskalín cleared his throat. His voice had gone and he needed something to drink before he could continue his story. “After one hundred cycles in their service the Dsôn Aklán considered us to be loyal followers.” He looked at Slîn. “We spied on your strongholds and killed anyone in our path. I could find my way through Goldfast and Silverfast blindfold. There are no secrets. If we wanted to,” he lowered his voice, “we could lead the älfar or the thirdlings straight into the fourthling realm. You wouldn’t be able to stop us.”

The fourthling gulped. “That’s… impossible.”

Barskalín pointed to Tungdil and Boïndil. “Ask them. They came across one of my Zhadár in the Outer Lands. He had been traveling through the Brown Mountains, on a reconnaissance mission through your territory. Then he was going to spy out Evildam and follow up the rumors about the return of the greatest dwarf-hero.” He laughed. “He reported the rumors had been correct. He only just managed to escape from you.”

Ireheart spluttered and spat out his drink. “He survived the White Death?”

“We’re tough.” Barskalín smiled mysteriously.

“And they sent you to steal the cocoons?” Balyndar had not taken his eyes off the sytràp.

“Yes. The älfar… the Dsôn Aklán, want to stir up a war in the west to further their own plans. A diversion only. That’s purely my interpretation, of course.” Barskalín looked at Ireheart. “Emperor Aiphatòn is preparing for a campaign against Lot-Ionan. He intends to march to the south to overthrow the magus and his famuli. Then he will open the High Pass to allow more älfar through.”

“That’s good news!” Slîn filled his pipe. “We don’t need to start any wars! Let the two of them sort things out between them and we’ll hang around and see who wins. Let’s kill the kordrion’s young and bide our time.”

Balyndar placed his fingertips together thoughtfully. “I thought our own plan was… better.” He addressed Barskalín. “I want to know the reason you and I are sitting peaceably next to each other instead of fighting. You are working for our enemies but you’re still ready to help us take the cocoon to Lot-Ionan?”

“Treachery,” Tungdil said calmly. “The Zhadár never obeyed wholeheartedly, but have been waiting for an opportunity to change sides.”

“That’s right.” Barskalín nodded. “Tungdil Goldhand is a thirdling. A lot has changed in the thirdlings’ way of thinking and the dwarf laughed at for many cycles has become our greatest hero. He stood alone to fight against immense odds. And now he is the high king of all the dwarf-tribes—who else could we follow with both our head and our heart? We have been waiting for so many cycles to eliminate the älfar. To destroy them with their own weapons and arts.”

“That was what you planned when you volunteered?” Ireheart stared at the sytràp, finding it hard to grasp the immensity of what they had taken on. “By Vraccas, quite a sacrifice!”

“If what he says is true.” Balyndar sounded less than convinced.

“I believe him.” Slîn nodded and chewed on the stem of his pipe.

Barskalín smiled, a row of white teeth shining in the dark face. “To follow Tungdil Goldhand and help to free Girdlegard. That was always our intention. And now we have the opportunity, we’ll be able to carry out that plan.” He indicated his nine companions. “Altogether there are twenty-three of us…”

Balyndar’s laughter was ironic. “That’s plenty to make the älfar run off, tails between their legs.”

Now, for the first time, the commander of the Zhadár showed impatience. “Each one of us can deal with twenty opponents without exertion. In conventional combat. But if we use our special powers we can confound a small army, let me tell you, Balyndar Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers! If you thought the only thing our älfar skills are good for is to put the lights out you’ve got another think coming.” He scowled. “I’ve walked past you five dozen times during the course of your life and you never knew. I stood at your cradle, I stood at your bed while you slept. The Gray Mountains hold no secrets for me or my Zhadár.” His hand lay on the handle of his curved dagger. “You have me to thank for the fact I didn’t lead the thirdlings into your mother’s kingdom. The strongholds would have fallen as well.” He stood up and came over to the fifthling to speak low into his ear. “I know all your secrets, heir apparent to the fifthling crown,” he whispered, then straightened up. “So you are in the best of hands. It is an honor for us to be able to serve the high king.”

Balyndar sat thunderstruck; he had turned as pale as a linen shirt.

Tungdil shook hands with Barskalín, who returned to his Zhadár troops; the two groups of warriors bedded down for the night in separate corners of the cave.

Ireheart could not understand why Balyndar was suddenly monosyllabic, but he was still mulling over what the sytràp had reported. “Vraccas, now I’m positive that it was your work: Letting us meet the Zhadár warrior in the mountains. I thank you,” he prayed quietly. “Now grant victory to the Invisibles and ourselves. I would give anything to hear dwarves and humans able to laugh again.”

“Would you give your life?” Slîn asked, having overheard. “Would you die for the cause?” He turned over and put his hands behind his head, his pipe clamped in the corner of his mouth. “I would. But only if at least one of us survives to report our heroic deeds. Otherwise even the most glorious of deaths is a waste of time.”

Ireheart wanted to reply but his throat had gone dry. Perhaps it was better not to answer.

He might have said the wrong thing.

Girdlegard,

Protectorate of Gauragar,

Twenty Miles South of the Gray Mountains,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

Ireheart was feeling uneasy.

They had taken off his chain mail and any clothing that had been in contact with the cocoon and had tied it to a horse bought for the purpose, in order to duplicate the scent trails and keep the kordrion busy. As soon as the beast found the horse and consumed it, iron rings, shirt, hose and all, it would know it should have followed the other track; Ireheart was wearing random cast-offs that his companions could spare.

“I feel like some ragged peddler,” he said, down in the dumps.

“And what is wrong with my trousers?” asked their crossbow specialist with a grin. “If you burst the seams with your fat arse, you’ll have to buy me some new ones.”

“It’s not fat, it’s all muscle. You fourthlings don’t have any. Your trousers would just about fit our children.” Ireheart looked back at Balyndar, who was holding the älfar dagger they had taken off the dead archer. He turned the weapon, running his fingers over the blade, and then struck it at a certain angle against his forearm protectors.

It was not a strong blow—but the blade sang out and snapped in two.

“As I thought,” muttered the fifthling, discarding the useless weapon.

“What did you think?” asked Ireheart, and Balyndar gave a jerk. He had not known he was being observed. “That the dagger was faulty?” “Yes. Something was wrong, but I didn’t know what.” He tried to explain. “We firstlings have a good eye for metalcraft. I knew a dwarf had made it, but something wasn’t right. The smith had included a fine layer of a hard, brittle metal. It hadn’t fused to the steel and I could see that, if subjected to stress—for example in combat—the blade would break off.” Balyndar looked at Ireheart. “It was constructed deliberately as an inferior piece of work. It wasn’t a mistake.”

“So the thirdlings are sabotaging the black-eyes’ plans, too, like the Zhadár,” noted Boïndil with satisfaction.

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. It could be a single dwarf with a conscience.” The fifthling dampened Ireheart’s enthusiasm. “If there were a lot of this treachery going on, even the älfar would notice and there’d be consequences for the thirdlings. Fatal consequences.” He looked at Tungdil, who was up front at the Zhadár commander’s side, climbing the next slope. “The thirdlings may be good warriors, better than all of us. But they can’t win against the älfar. The black-eyes have far superior numbers.”

“It’s a bit early to be seeing them as allies on the strength of one faulty dagger,” Ireheart agreed. He looked up, surprised at the swift approach of a cloud.

When Slîn followed his gaze, his arm shot up into the air. “Kordrion! To the north!”

Ireheart was angry with himself that he had not seen it. “I think I must be getting old.”

They dived for cover among the rocks, while Ireheart raced off to tell Tungdil. “What do we do, Scholar?”

The one-eyed dwarf stood straight and unruffled, his right hand shielding his brow as he scanned the sky. “It’s closer than we’d want. Our trick with the false trail isn’t working anymore.”

Boïndil was sulking. “So I lost my clothes and armor for nothing?”

“It’s given us a good head start. But that seems to be over.” Tungdil spotted the kordrion between the clouds. “He’s keeping a lookout. It won’t take him long to spot us.”

“That means we’ll never make it to Lot-Ionan, Scholar?”

“Precisely.” Tungdil looked back over his shoulder. “But we can take our gift to someone else. We’ve got to use the opportunity to cause our enemies maximum damage.”

Ireheart recognized where they were heading. “Dsôn Bahrá.”

“It would be the safest. The path will be downhill most of the way and our sledges will help. And there’ll be caves we can hide in when the kordrion gets too close.” Tungdil looked at Barskalín, who nodded in agreement.

“That sounds like fun: slipping in unnoticed among the black-eyes. What a challenge!” Ireheart signaled to Slîn and Balyndar to come over; the Invisibles left their hiding places and began pushing the sledges uphill.

“I don’t intend to slip in unnoticed,” said Tungdil. “It wouldn’t work, anyway. I’ll introduce myself as a transformed Tungdil whose greatest wish is to wipe out dwarfdom completely. I’ll offer the älfar my assistance. We’ll offload the baby kordrion secretly and wait to see what happens. We’ll have an alternative plan ready.” He looked at his friend. “Ireheart, you, Balyndar and Slîn will have to wear Zhadár armor.”

“Charming,” was the unhappy fourthling’s comment. “Don’t worry. They’ll have something in your size,” joked Ireheart. “One of their women’s outfits.”

Balyndar put his hands on his hips. “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it. I am your high king so you’ll do what I say.” Tungdil sounded extraordinarily calm and determined. “The kordrion is too fast for us and you can’t argue with me on that score. If there’s a chance to deploy the embryo against the enemy, we’ll do it.” He swung himself onto one of the sledges. “We’ll be in Dsôn Bahrá in a couple of orbits. Follow me!” He pushed off and sailed down the slope.

The Zhadár followed him one by one, racing downhill; Slîn and Ireheart prepared to do likewise.

But Balyndar was standing next to his sledge staring at the others. “I don’t know if we’re doing the right thing here, Boïndil Doubleblade,” he said broodingly.

“The stories they write about us will show whether it was right or not, Balyndar,” Ireheart said in consolation. “I don’t know the answer, and I’m sure the Scholar doesn’t know either yet. Our plan is up the spout and we’ve got to make the best of things. With the help of Vraccas perhaps we will achieve more than we think.” He patted him on the shoulder. “Trust your father.” The words had already left his lips before Ireheart realized what he had said.

Balyndar slowly turned to face him. “What idiocy are you babbling?”

Boïndil gave a forced laugh. “A joke, to cheer you up a bit.”

“Then it didn’t work. Not with that joke.” To Ireheart’s great relief the fifthling went off to his sledge and started to push it. “Don’t you know a better one?” “What about the one where an orc asks a dwarf the way?”

Balyndar made a dismissive gesture. “Boring. Every dwarf knows that one.”

“But not my version,” Ireheart replied proudly and took a deep breath. “An orc comes along and sees a dwarf and he wants to know…”

“Horsemen!” Slîn called excitedly. “Down there, to the right of the sledges in the little valley. They’re heading straight for the Zhadár!”

Why does he always see the danger before I do? Ireheart looked where Slîn had pointed.

Balyndar tried to calculate how many riders there were. “The Black Squadron,” he exclaimed in consternation, launching himself onto his sledge on his stomach. “Quick, we’ve got to catch the others up and warn them!” He raced off.

Slîn did not wait to be told twice. He zoomed down the slope in the same daring pose.

“Hey! Hey! Wait for me!” Ireheart pushed his sledge off, ran alongside it a few paces and then jumped on. “By Vraccas! How am I ever supposed to tell a joke properly?”