The Fate of the Dwarves

XVIII

Girdlegard,

Former Queendom of Weyurn,

Lakeside,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

Nobody in the quiet hamlet of Lakeside could have dreamed that they might one day have the privilege of offering hospitality not only to their queen, but also to those illustrious dwarf-heroes of cycles long past, Tungdil Goldhand and Boïndil Doubleblade, the celebrated Mallenia of Ido, and a descendant of the fabled Rodario the Incredible. Not even the best storyteller in the village could have imagined such a company in their midst.

The eminent visitors were gathered in the taproom of the harborside inn, drinking hot tea, mulled wine or spiced beer. The villagers had withdrawn out of respect and were pushing and shoving each other at the window and the doorway, trying to get a glimpse of the high personages. They sent in a few of their number to convey their best wishes or make presentations of gifts, but without a specific invitation none of them dared to approach closer than four paces.

“You’re positive the magic source has been destroyed?” Tungdil addressed Coïra, who was now wearing the simple garb of a fisherwoman and had wrapped herself in a blanket.

“I realized straightaway,” she answered despondently. “All the energy was released and I managed to absorb some of it, but… now… it is dead. There is nothing left at all where the source used to be.”

Ireheart thought back to the fizzing sensation and how the runes on Tungdil’s armor had started to glow. That must have been the reason: Magic had been set free into the air! Personally, he could have done without that experience, but the loss of the magic source would be of terrible significance for them all!

Coïra smiled at her subjects even if she found it hard. None of this was their fault and she did not want to disappoint anyone. She gestured to a little girl with a basket of gifts, accepted the presents graciously and stroked the girl’s blond hair. “Thank you very much.” Curtseying prettily, the young girl hurried back to the others waiting outside.

“I simply can’t think what kind of creature was responsible for Lakepride’s collapse and the destruction of the magic source,” said Tungdil.

The maga shook her head and gave her attention to the gifts she had been brought: There was a brooch made of fish bone with an image of the island engraved on it. Sighing, she clasped it in her hand.

“I think it must have been Lot-Ionan.” Rodario the Seventh looked round the circle. “The magus must have created that monster and sent it here, either to kill the maga or to destroy her source of magic. Once it knew that it was dying it threw itself down the shaft to carry out its mission.” He touched his throat. “I saw quite clearly that it was wearing a chain with an onyx pendant. Perhaps that was the cause of the explosion?”

“Possibly.” Coïra nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps he put a spell in the stone. It must have been some very powerful sorcery to have an effect like that.”

“This brings us to a vital issue. Are you prepared to help us fight the magus?” Tungdil looked at her searchingly. “More to the point: Are you capable of helping us?”

“So you want to pursue the Dragon first and then go off to the south,” she summarized. “If we accept Rodario’s idea, Lot-Ionan won’t have attacked me and the source for no reason. Sooner or later he will attempt to conquer Girdlegard, and this act will have been the opening gambit for a takeover of Weyurn. He knows I need the source to be able to put up any lasting resistance.”

“How much magic power were you able to absorb?” Tungdil wanted to know.

“Enough for now.” Coïra sat up straight in her chair. “I’d need more if I were to campaign against Lot-Ionan. That will be what you were asking, Tungdil Goldhand.”

“To be frank, I doubt you would be powerful enough to do anything to stop him.”

Ireheart listened as his friend deliberately provoked the young maga. Any minute now he’ll be needing his armor! But to his surprise she responded with a friendly smile.

“I know what you think of me: A young woman, hardly out of training, and one who’s managed to bungle things so badly as to kill her own mother. But I assure you that I am spurred on by these drawbacks. Perhaps a warrior heart will be bestowed on me yet.” She paused. “I shall accompany you to the Red Mountains.”

“Your Majesty!” objected Rodario. “To wage war on the Dragon is…”

“… is an excellent decision,” interjected Tungdil. “I know why you wish to come with us: I’ve heard the rumors that there may be a further magic source in the firstlings’ realm.”

The same idea had just occurred to Ireheart. Goda had occasionally mentioned that merchants traveling from the west to trade with the fourthlings had spoken of mysterious lights in the Red Mountains. She had deduced the lights might have a connection with magic. However, it had been no more than rumors and vague speculation.

“Exactly. I will come with you and will collect as much magic power as I can; then I can help you against the magus.”

Rodario raised his hand. “Permit me to speak. What assurance do we have that Lot-Ionan hasn’t sent more of these creatures up into the mountains or over to where the älfar are?”

“There’s no guarantee. But Lohasbrand can deal with them as easy as pie. I don’t suppose the älfar would be able to do the same, unless they’ve got Aiphatòn at their side,” Tungdil replied.

Mallenia had kept quiet throughout this exchange, limiting herself to furious glances at Hargorin Deathbringer. But she had held her tongue for the sake of peace. Ireheart could tell she was finding it difficult. In her opinion the Deathbringer had committed too many crimes in the name of the älfar. Ireheart had to admit she had a point. “I don’t like the pact we’ve entered into with the black-eyes. They’ve oppressed my people for so many cycles now and suddenly it’s all sweetness and light with Aiphatòn and he’s planning to lead the älfar to their deaths and to destroy their empires?” Her mouth narrowed to a very thin line. “I don’t believe it.”

“Who says the thirdlings are going to join us?” Rodario asked them to consider. “Right, one of their number has become high king—but don’t they still despise the other dwarf-tribes?” He glanced at Hargorin and Barskalín. “How can you remove my doubts for me?”

“Your doubts?” asked Hargorin in astonishment. “You’re an actor. You’re only sitting at this same table because you invited yourself. You have no part in decisions concerning the future existence of Girdlegard. You can’t even fight. But I suppose we can take you along as a mascot.” Barskalín laughed in agreement.

Now a smile, dangerous enough to rival Tungdil’s best, crept onto the actor’s visage. “Try to strike me and you’ll have to take back those words.”

Coïra leaned over to speak to Mallenia. “If I’m not mistaken, his face is looking much thinner.”

The Ido girl agreed. “And the lake has torn off a few beard hairs, I see.” Looking more closely she noted a distinct dark shadow round his chin, throat and cheeks. “But they’ll be growing back with a vengeance, stronger than ever, I expect.” The two girls exchanged glances, each reading the other’s suspicions.

In the meantime Hargorin had got up from his seat and had planted himself in front of Rodario. “You don’t know what you’ve taken on.”

“Yes, I do,” he said confidently. “But it is not nice to fight in the presence of ladies. It would not be fitting to smear the place with your blood and guts while they are watching. And at the moment we have a more pressing task.”

“Stop it! Both of you!” Tungdil called impatiently.

“But I’m not being taken seriously merely because I appear on the stage. I can’t accept that. My question was not stupid: I was wondering about the loyalty of the thirdlings,” Rodario returned. “What if they decide to help the älfar? They’ve served them for over two hundred cycles. If there’s a shift in the balance of power they’ll suffer great losses—never mind that, they’ll be exposed to the rage of the humans in Urgon, Idoslane, and Gauragar. They’d be definitely better off if there’s no change at the top.”

“It’s worth considering,” Mallenia agreed. In gratitude Rodario sent her a long, warm look.

Rodario placed his hands on the table. “Can you understand why I’m hesitating here? What if the dwarf-haters were to attack the fourthlings and fifthlings while they’re marching south? We’d never manage a campaign against Lot-Ionan after that.”

“We follow Tungdil Goldhand,” smoldered Hargorin.

“We—do you mean all the thirdlings or a substantial majority?” Rodario tried to pin him down to specifics. “It would be interesting to learn what the minority might get up to? And what about the freelings? Where are they?”

Barskalín broke in: “They’ve dug themselves in in the last of their cities and are fighting off the thirdlings…”

“Aha!” said Rodario. “There you are, you see! The thirdlings are still attacking the other tribes.” He folded his arms belligerently. “I don’t see, with all due respect, any change in their attitude.”

“That will be because I haven’t issued any commands to them to stop what they are doing.” All heads swiveled round to Tungdil. “If the thirdlings suddenly changed their tune the älfar would smell a rat. Then Aiphatòn’s plan would be jeopardized and the northern älfar would be suspicious, too. That’s why I haven’t told them to stop their attacks. I can’t do that before Aiphatòn has set out with his army. The freelings will just have to bide their time and hold them off.”

Nobody dared to respond.

Finally, Ireheart cleared his throat. “So, tomorrow we’ll set off to Lohasbrand’s hideout. We’ll pinch his best bits of treasure and then hie ourselves off to the magus. As soon as we hear from the emperor of the black-eyes, we’ll send off some riders to order the thirdlings and the other dwarf-tribes to get to the south to capture a weakened Lot-Ionan.” He looked at the queen. “With your help.”

“Neatly summed up,” commented Rodario. “I’m with you.”

“Me too,” said Mallenia. “Idoslane will do its bit to free Girdlegard just as it did under my ancestor. We can’t provide an army, but I can fight for you. The rest of my resistance fighters will deal with any älfar still at large. I’ll write to them straightaway. They will watch for a suitable opportunity.”

“Good.” Tungdil seemed satisfied.

Rodario put up his hand again. “How would it be if we were to announce to the people, and not just to the resistance, that Girdlegard is about to be liberated? If we have supporters who have sniffed the wind of freedom and want to rise up against the Lohasbrander and the last vassals of the älfar, they’ll be unstoppable.”

“Girdlegard’s too big for that,” Tungdil contradicted him.

“Somebody shove something in that actor’s mouth. Preferably something sharp,” murmured Hargorin.

Rodario pointed to his throat. “If I had an ugly beard like yours I’d be more careful who I insulted.”

Ireheart grimaced. Dwarves normally enjoyed a joke, even quite earthy ones, but you could not ridicule a dwarf’s beard with impunity. Mockery and fire were the worst enemies of a beard. “Stop that now if you want to get out of here with your life and fine features intact,” he called to him quietly. “Apologize to him…”

Hargorin had sprung up to confront the actor. “You’re just desperate for a beating, aren’t you?” he yelled, waving his fists.

“Forgive me,” said Rodario nicely to the two ladies, then he shot out his foot, fished out the tip of the long beard in question, grabbed it with his right hand and yanked. His left arm flew up and his elbow crashed against the dwarf’s forehead, making him gasp.

Rodario slipped out of his seat without letting go of the beard, pulling Hargorin after him. He pushed his feet against the dwarf’s stomach and overturned him so that he landed on his back on the wooden floor.

The actor did a backwards somersault and ended up sitting on the dwarf’s barrel chest, still holding the beard, which he pulled sharply to one side. Once he had anchored it under his foot the dwarf was completely helpless.

Ireheart had been taken as much by surprise as all the others in the room.

From somewhere or other Rodario had pulled out a knife and was holding it at the dwarf’s exposed neck. “I think it’s a real shame that one is considered a true man only if one can either fight or go round grabbing all the women in sight,” he breathed, but his eyes were hard and were watching for any movement his opponent might attempt. “I’ve convinced you now, haven’t I, Hargorin Deathbringer?”

Mallenia’s picture of the helpless failed actor disappeared in a puff of smoke and Coïra saw him in a totally new light. The women stared at him wondering how this change could have been so sudden. It could only have been that the previous incarnation had been a deceit.

Cool as a cucumber, Rodario let go of the beard, stood up and offered Hargorin his hand.

The thirdling got up without accepting any help. The shame had been too deeply felt and his beard had suffered, too.

Ireheart knew that the leader of the Black Squadron was never likely to forgive Rodario for this. Blood will be spilt.

“A charming interlude indeed,” commented Slîn happily.

“Tell us how an actor learns to fight like that,” Tungdil challenged Rodario.

“And why you took so much trouble not to look like your forefather,” added Coïra. “If I think of you with a beard and mustache you’re the spitting image of him.”

“That’s just what I said,” mumbled Ireheart. “As soon as I saw him clamber on board.”

Rodario returned to his seat and bowed to the ladies. “I must apologize to both of you, because I have been playing a part up till now. But now it is time to remove the veil from the secret of the unknown poet.”

“You? You say that was you?” Coïra exclaimed, laughing in disbelief. She looked at him full of curiosity. “You’re having us on.”

“Impossible,” said Mallenia at once. “You…” She stopped, in confusion.

Rodario bowed as if facing an adoring audience of theatergoers. “But, yes, indeed, I am the unknown poet,” he answered. “Who would ever have suspected me—me who resembled fabulous forefather Rodario so little—of being the freedom-fighter and rabble-rouser, slayer of Lohasbranders and their orcs? Deception provides the best protection, as always.”

Ireheart could not stop himself looking across at Tungdil when he heard these words—and he noted a sly smile playing round his friend’s lips. Only coincidence, he fervently hoped.

Rodario stroked his prominent chin. “I noticed very soon how similar my looks were to those of my famous ancestor. On stage in Idoslane, Tabaîn and Gauragar I never wore make-up, but when the performances were over I would put on my disguise,” he laughed, sitting down. “I made myself act the fool and lost the competitions on purpose, wanting to make sure nobody credited me with any intelligence.”

Coïra pictured him that night when they had met in the tower in Mifurdania. “I really did have you down as a clumsy loser and clown,” she said in surprise. “And I bet you do know how to ride?”

“Well, yes, I do, Your Majesty,” he replied. “It was a role I was playing. And of course I do know how to swim or I would never have survived the fall from the walls of the shaft.”

“A real hero,” said Mallenia with a grin. “There we were, thinking the poor man was needing help, when all along he’s a trained fighter. And a good one, at that, as I’ve just seen.”

Rodario winked at her. “Thank you… must I say ‘Your Highness’ to you?” She dismissed the thought with a gesture. “But that is only part of the truth. Because there is not just the one unknown poet.”

“What are you going on about?” Ireheart frowned. “You just told us…”

“There isn’t just the one.” Rodario raised his forefinger, smiling as he did so. “The competition in Mifurdania is a brilliant front for us all. The descendants of the Incredible Rodario have been working for freedom ever since the Dragon took over. Whether male or female, we have dedicated ourselves to the fight for liberty and have been working against the occupying powers wherever we go with our traveling theaters. We hang our poems on doors and walls and keep the thought of freedom alive in people’s hearts. We can travel everywhere in Lohasbrand’s conquered lands and we fight the Dragon with our own means.” He took a gulp of wine. “The competition serves the purpose of letting us exchange news, write new lines, make new plans. We are always ready to support the people against the vassals of the Scaly One as soon as the gods grant us an opportunity. We know their weaknesses, their habits, their secret camps—everything!” He lifted his glass in salute and toasted Tungdil. “Thanks to you, Tungdil Goldhand, the opportunity has now arrived. The gods have sent you to us.” He drank to Tungdil’s health and the assembled company joined in the toast.

Coïra looked hard at him, eager questions on her lips. “Tell me: What really happened that evening at the tower?”

Rodario laughed. “We freed The Incomparable but we forgot to take his valuables with us. There were a few very rare pieces and I dared to return for them. When you found me I had already collected them. And I handed them back to The Incomparable Rodario in the alleyway without your seeing what I was up to.” He beamed at her and struck a pose.

“Just like the Incredible Rodario,” Ireheart acknowledged. “Add a little beard and I’d be convinced he had survived the last two hundred and fifty cycles, just like me.”

The queen nodded.

“The death of this friend pained me very much, but luckily it escaped your notice,” he went on. “I knew the cause would continue to exist. Today I can see the fight was worth it.”

“And why did you accompany Coïra when she escaped?” Mallenia wanted to know. “Did I get that bit right?”

“Well, there was a sudden opportunity to get to know the maga slightly better and to find out whether or not she could be won over to our cause, namely to prepare for a rebellion. If I had got the impression that she was a devout little woman, I would have pushed off, sharpish.” Rodario bowed again. “But I quickly realized that you were anything but submissive. So I stayed and observed you and how you acted. Increasingly I realized that things would work out.” He looked at the Ido girl. “When you and the älf turned up, Mallenia, the scales fell from my eyes: Girdlegard was heading for freedom. Or for ruin. The first option I wanted to support; the second to prevent.”

“I see freedom coming,” replied Coïra warmly. “Who would be able to resist this alliance of determined groups?”

He smiled at her.

Ireheart rubbed his hands in glee. “Excellent! We’ve got everything we need. If Rodario contacts his friends and Mallenia gets in touch with hers, the storm can break. So we can concentrate entirely on the south, now, Scholar, can’t we?”

Tungdil rubbed his forehead and touched the scar. His brown eye stared rigidly into space; he did not seem to have been listening.

“What about Sisaroth?” Barskalín wanted to know. “I know him. Among other things he trained the Zhadár, and he won’t give up until he has avenged the death of his sister. If he realizes the queen and Mallenia are still alive, we’ll have a dangerous älf on our tails, ready to pick us off one by one.”

“Hmm. I’m sure he’s more likely to hold back and wait for the Dragon to attack,” Hargorin said, disagreeing with him. “I’ve known the Dsôn Aklán for a very long time. They would do anything to preserve their city in Dsôn Bhará from harm. We understand they intend to found a new älfar empire there. Sisaroth must think that Lohasbrand will be sending at least a scouting party out into the älfar regions to investigate what has been happening on his own territory.”

Barskalín thought about it. “That could be so.”

“And if Elria’s having a good day, the black-eyes could just have drowned in the tidal wave,” Ireheart chipped in cheerfully. “That’s if he was anywhere near just now.”

Suddenly, Tungdil’s body convulsed. He sank with a moan onto the table, holding his head. Blood oozed out between his fingers.

The dwarves sprang up and pulled out their weapons, thinking there had been an attack, but Ireheart saw that the old scar on his friend’s forehead had opened up. “Come on, give me a hand, let’s get him up to his room,” he told Hargorin and Barskalín.

“Shall I?” Coïra had risen. “A healing spell…”

“No, no magic!” Boïndil was emphatic on that score, not knowing how the armor would react. “It’s an old wound. He must have hit his head back there on the ship and the scar has come open. I’ll put in some stitches. We leave at sun-up.” He left the company and he and Hargorin and Barskalín carried Tungdil to bed through the taproom and up to the guestroom at the back, where they laid him on the bed.

“Thanks.” Ireheart sent the dwarves away and waited until they had left the room.

The door closed just in time.

Tungdil opened his eye suddenly and Ireheart saw once more the mysterious vortex of colors round the black of the pupil.

The open wound closed itself with a slight plop, and the facial bones moved gratingly, giving the dwarf a thinner countenance that reminded the horrified Ireheart much more of the way an älf would look.

“By Vraccas!” he groaned, staggering back two paces and grabbing the handle of his crow’s beak. It looked as if his friend were changing shape.

Fine black lines appeared from under the golden eye patch, seeming to cut the face into segments. Drops of blood dripped out—then all the runes on the armor glowed, forcing Boïndil to shut his eyes.

When he could see again, his friend looked as he had done before he had swooned. There were no more wounds on his face, the scar had healed and the black lines had gone; the familiar visage of old.

Ireheart approached the bed carefully. “What shall I do with you, Scholar?” he whispered, swallowing hard. “Whenever I think I can trust you something happens to feed my suspicions.” He pulled a stool over and decided it would be better if he kept watch in the room that night.

And he could not even say for sure whether it was to protect Tungdil, or to protect their group from his influence.

Girdlegard,

Former Queendom of Weyurn,

Entrance to the Red Mountains,

Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle

Ireheart rode behind Tungdil with his eyes on the slopes of the Red Mountains. Even though he gave the impression of studying the landscape, he was thinking about that night when Tungdil had, for a time, undergone a short-lived change. A frightening change…

They had never spoken about it and their company believed the fairy story about his having fainted. What is wrong with him? Is it a demon inside him? Is it a curse he’s under? The chorus of doubters in Ireheart’s head was singing fit to bust.

On Tungdil’s orders they had taken the old path leading to a narrow valley that wound its way to a dark-red mountain.

Older memories rose up in Ireheart’s mind as they approached the entrance.

There were five bends in the valley and in the old days the firstlings had erected strongholds here, thick defensive ramparts with gates secured by dwarf-runes to keep their enemies out. The two of them had once fled here to escape from the älfar Sinthoras and Caphalor when they were looking for a firstling smith, and had found one in the shape of a dwarf-woman: Balyndis Steelfinger, now the fifthlings’ queen.

The old buildings had gone. Today there were wooden palisades instead of walls. Behind the pointed stakes he could see the glint of helmets and spears; judging by their size, these would be orcs.

“Up there,” Tungdil pointed at the Red Mountains, “is where the entrance used to be.”

“Not anymore. It disappeared when the stronghold went. The Dragon demolished everything that smacked of the firstlings.” Rodario pointed to one side. “Behind that heap of stones there’s said to be a huge cavern. It’s a passage the Scaly One made for himself and the Lohasbranders use it to get into the dwarves’ cave system.”

“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.