Ireheart agreed. “We’ll find ourselves somewhere else to stay-in one of the village houses.”
They shouted to the squadron to stop but, not hearing them, the band rode on through the settlement, heading for the main gate of Vraccas-Spite. Finally, the three dwarves cut through the ropes and got off their sledges. Hargorin and Barskalin turned round, and Tungdil ordered a halt.
“What’s going on, Ireheart?” The one-eyed dwarf was surprised. “Why don’t you want the safety of the stronghold?”
“It may not bother you, Scholar.” He pointed to the inscriptions. “But it bothers me! I worship Vraccas and that’s why I won’t enter this fortress, where his name is insulted and his words are dragged through the mud.” He got up and brushed the snow off his mantle. “We’ll find a bed with the villagers.”
“You know that the kordrion will hunt you down as the murderer of its young because of the scent on you of the cocoon?” Tungdil warned. “You won’t have much protection in one of those flimsy huts. You won’t even have woken up before the white fire gets you.”
Boindil indicated the Invisibles. “The Zhadar walked through the same blood and smashed eggs.”
Barskalin looked a bit shamefaced when he said, “But our armor is made of tionium.”
“Blasted bloody orcshit! That would have to happen to me!” He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t care. Vraccas will protect me, because I shan’t go in there,” he said, pointing to the door. “Not under any circumstances.” Slin and Balyndar stood at his right and left.
Boindil was aware that the group had formed into two distinct fronts. On the one side was the Black Squadron with Barskalin and on the other was him and two dwarves he did not know very well, but one of whom, at least, he found tolerable enough.
And it seemed to him that Tungdil would be going over to the dark ones’ side and not to his own.
Hargorin, with Tungdil’s permission, ordered his squad to enter the fortress. The Zhadar followed them in. Deathbringer came slowly over to the three adamant dwarves. “I understand you full well, Boindil. But trust me when I tell you that the appearance of my house is purely a front.” He pulled out a pendant from under his chain maiclass="underline" a vraccasium hammer with the sign of the Smith. “I am his,” he whispered. “The whole squadron is his. But we had to disguise our intentions, like the Zhadar, so the alfar wouldn’t suspect us. That has meant we can move around freely all over the lands where the black-eyes are in power. We know a lot about Idoslane and about the resistance movement. Even if the humans consider us unspeakable, we are really on their side. One orbit we shall need this knowledge in order to break the oppressive rule of evil.” Hargorin smiled. “Believe me, Boindil. For every stone bearing an insult to Vraccas I have begged the creator’s forgiveness and I know that I will receive mercy when I reach the eternal forge. The deception has been essential. These have not been the times for open warfare.” He looked over his shoulder. “But with Goldhand’s return the fight has begun.”
Ireheart looked at Balyndar, then at Slin. They seemed not to want to be convinced. “I shall be staying out here in the village,” he repeated, a little less aggressively this time. “Blasphemy is blasphemy. Can you recommend somewhere we can stay?”
“Perhaps one of the cheaper ones. Our war coffers are not overflowing,” added Slin.
Hargorin gave up. “Say that I sent you and you won’t be charged anything. When we meet to arrange the rest of the journey we’ll come to the house you choose. Just let me know where you’re staying.” He turned away and exchanged a few words with Tungdil and Barskalin.
The one-eyed dwarf lifted his hand. “We’ll be there when the kordrion comes to get you,” he called. “Sleep well.” Then he disappeared into the fortress with the others; the door closed with a dull clang, robbing the three dwarves of the sight of the high king. “Three against three,” remarked Slin.
“What?” flashed Balyndar.
The fourthling pointed to the little gap through which they could just see glimpses of tionium armor. “Us three against those three. I’ll take Hargorin. He’s a good target. Ireheart should fight Tungdil and Balyndar can challenge Barskalin.”
“I’ll have Tungdil,” said the fifthling.
“What are you blethering about? You’re splitting the hairs in my beard,” Ireheart thundered. “We will not be fighting each other.”
“It was just a thought. Forgive me. I got carried away.” Slin stared at the tips of his boots and was really embarrassed. “It won’t happen again, Boindil.”
Ireheart thought that Balyndar’s tone of voice showed he shared the same thoughts. Serious thoughts. “Let’s find somewhere to stay. Any preferences?”
Slin swiveled round to look at the little stone and half-timbered houses ringing the walls of Vraccas-Spite. “They all look the same. I can’t decide.”
“Then let’s go for the one that’s furthest away from the blasphemous inscriptions.” Balyndar went off, dragging his sledge behind him, going back the way they had come.
They reached a farmhouse with a large barn and knocked. It was not long before someone opened the door.
A young woman stood on the threshold studying them from head to foot. “You’re not one of Deathbringer’s people?” she said in surprise. She popped her head out to look toward the stronghold. “Quick, come in, before they see you! They’ll kill you if they see you!”
Ireheart found her solicitude for three total stranger dwarves quite touching. “Good woman, do not concern yourself…”
Balyndar pushed past him. “May Vraccas bless you! Thank you for the warning.” Unobserved, he winked at Ireheart. He was obviously planning to pretend he was a newcomer and nothing to do with the thirdling leader. He told her their names. “We thought it was a dwarf-fortress holding out against the alfar, but when we saw the runes we knew we were wrong. But we’re too tired to travel on.”
Slin had grasped the idea and pretended he was afraid. “Blasted dwarf-haters!”
Ireheart was still hovering in the doorway; it did not seem right to deceive these humans. On the other hand, they could learn things about Hargorin Deathbringer that he would not be vouchsafing to his guests. “Again, our thanks,” he said and entered the house. “May Vraccas always keep your hearth warm to reward you for your bravery and generosity.”
Ireheart, Slin and Balyndar were led to a large kitchen where the rest of the family was gathered. Ireheart counted eleven, ranging from ancient to newborn, round the table. The food smelled of cooked cereal of some kind and hearty smoked bacon.
“Grolf and Lirf! Go and put their sledges in the barn, then hide their tracks,” the young woman ordered. Two young fellows jumped up. “We have guests,” she said, introducing the dwarves. “True children of the Smith and not thirdlings.”
“By Palandiell, you’ve chosen the worst place to stop in the whole of Gauragar,” called the old man, whose mouth showed only two teeth. His laugh was as hollow as an empty tin. “They’re going to spend the night here. We can think about how to get them away in the morning without being seen. The thirdling lord won’t let them live if he finds them.” The young woman put her hand to her brow. “By the gods! I have forgotten to tell you who I am. I am Rilde, and this is my farm.” Then she went round the table doing the introductions.
“Boindil Doubleblade?” An older woman, called Mila, was staring at him. “The Boindil, who fought so many battles for Girdlegard?”
Ireheart felt himself grow taller with pride.
“Then he’s come to kill Hargorin,” whooped the girl called Xara.
“Be quiet!” Lombrecht hushed her. He was the toothless old farmer to whom the farm had once belonged. “Hargorin is a good overlord. Who knows who would succeed him?”