“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? Boindil 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 alf’s weapon,” growled Ireheart, pushing in front of Slin. “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.
Slin 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, Boindil 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.
“Alfar 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 Slin 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 alfar? 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 alfar…”
Tungdil’s gaze silenced him. He looked round at the others, but Slin 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 alfar tongue! The very last thing you’d expect.
“Charming,” said Slin, 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 alfar.” 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, Boindil?”
“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 Barskalin, the sytrap of the Zhadar. The Zhadar is an alfar word that means The Invisible Ones. Sytrap just means commander.” His left arm described a semicircle. “These are my ten best Zhadar 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.”
Barskalin shook his head. “They are dead, Boindil. The kordrion wiped them out. One of my invisible Zhadar 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?” Barskalin 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 Slin and Balyndar, and then at Tungdil. “And where do we go now?”
He had been thinking the Scholar would answer, but it was the sytrap 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 Slin and Balyndar, they had not reckoned with it either. But he felt no relief.