by Markus Heitz
The trio grabbed their things and followed him.
Tirîgon kept close to Esmonäe, letting Sisaroth go a few paces ahead. Whenever his brother and the groundling went round a corner, Tirîgon kissed her. She always responded passionately. If the group leader had not yelled at them to catch up they would have stayed behind and made love in an alcove somewhere. For him it was heaven to be touching her and inhaling her scent.
She knows I am looking for reassurance, the suspicious, calculating part of his mind insisted, starting to suppress the maddening intoxicating emotions he felt towards the älf-woman. I must be watchful.
‘You are mine,’ he said, kissing her on the forehead, and stroking her shimmering hair.
‘Yes, I am,’ she answered breathlessly, pressing her body against his.
‘Hurry up, the two of you. There’s no point trying to find where we are on your precious map. Let’s get on,’ Tungdil bellowed. His heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor. ‘We’ll be there soon, anyway.’
Tirîgon grinned. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘Just as well that’s what he thinks we’re doing.’ She set off, pulling him after her, only letting go of his hand when they reached the corner. Tirîgon was the last of the little band to leave the passage and enter the cave. He put his head back to look up; there was a high wall directly in front of him. He reckoned the height up to the battlements must be about a hundred paces. You could see nothing at all of what was on the far side.
‘It goes all the way round,’ Tungdil explained. ‘It’s the outer wall and it’s twenty paces thick. But wider still in the foundations, of course.’ He indicated the gate over to the right. ‘That way. We’re nearly there.’
There was only a small space, about an arm’s length, between the massive fortification and the cave wall. Tirîgon thought it would be easy to climb. Like going up a chimney. He made a mental note of this: a useful strategic advantage should they ever choose to wage a campaign against the gålran zhadar in the future. You wouldn’t even need ladders or siege engines to get over that.
‘I can see what you’re thinking!’ laughed Tungdil. He slapped the stones with his broad palm. A thin black surface layer rubbed off. ‘Can you see where it’s been burned?’ What the älfar had thought was black paint was in fact soot. ‘If any monsters get the notion to climb the wall, they’re met with a burning mixture of pitch, sulphur and petroleum.’
I should have guessed. It couldn’t have been that easy. Tirîgon and Sisaroth looked at each other and nodded. ‘I can’t make out any guards up on the walkway. How do you know if there’s anybody down here in this ravine of yours?’
‘Magic. Simple. My master has thought of everything, don’t worry your little heads.’ Tungdil halted in front of the small gate and pressed one of the runes, murmuring a phrase.
The symbol glowed and the heavy door swung open to reveal a dimly lit corridor with a bright light at the far end.
‘Onwards and upwards. You’ll be meeting my master any time now.’ Tungdil waved them on past him, and pulled the gate closed behind them. ‘It’ll open easily. The wall knows we’re allowed through.’
That’s like what Marandëi did with the causeways over the glass sea. Tirîgon was aware of the slight tingling that usually meant magic. He guessed it would be a lethal spell that would activate if intruders appeared.
Tirîgon counted thirty paces before they emerged into the open.
What they beheld was more magnificent than any building any of them had ever seen in Dsôn.
The cave itself must be a good ten miles high, he reckoned. And twice that distance in length. A gigantic edifice reared up in the middle of the cavern. It was almost impossible to take in at first glance.
Four square towers a mile high supported a huge construction on the same rectangular principle. On top of each supporting tower was a taller version, twice as high. Above that again a new, larger tower, and a fourth surmounting that one. The lowest of the towers was also the narrowest, bearing twelve times its own weight.
These four edifices were connected by a series of rope bridges which gave the place the appearance of a giant cobweb from this distance.
If the bridges give, each of the towers can be defended as an independent unit, thought Tirîgon. Very hard to attack.
Because each of the three upper storeys was wider than the one immediately below it, the castle’s defenders could repel a besieging army by raining a veritable hail of missiles down on them.
The clear geometric lines of the design had no superfluous embellishment whatsoever. The walls were stark, grey and forbidding. The massive dimensions would make even trolls and ogres feel small.
If there were a weak point, it would be the relatively slight foundation sections.
It’s a miracle it can take the weight. What material did they use to build it, I wonder? The individual towers would have a very high centre of gravity. If a tower could be induced to sway even a little bit, it would eventually collapse.
The cave’s light all came from the lower tower windows. The surrounding land was composed of fields and lush meadows; the artificial sunlight even allowed a small forest to flourish.
Esmonäe, Tirîgon and Sisaroth were speechless with wonder but Tungdil did not pause. He was already halfway along the road. ‘Come on, hurry up,’ he urged them. ‘Your nice little palace will be going up in smoke if we don’t get a move on.’
But . . . this . . . it’s incredible! Impossible, surely!’ Sisaroth was impressed. ‘Do you see how far up it goes? And those walls must be tremendously thick, or they’d give way.’ Tirîgon saw him stretch out to take Esmonäe’s hand, but he thought better of it and pretended he was brushing dirt off his tunic instead.
Esmonäe stumbled, her eyes fixed on the top of the towers. ‘Who will have helped him build these towers? Where does he keep his slaves?’
Tirîgon stepped to her side and observed the cultivated fields. Advanced agriculture. They won’t be lacking good food. ‘The slaves will be in one of the towers.’
‘My master prefers not to have many creatures near him. He is very retiring and he keeps to his quarters at the top.’ Tungdil called, pointing to the towers and slowing down to allow them to catch up. ‘He resides in the one at the back. If you like, I’ll show you how the towers differ from each other. Just in case you decide to attack the castle one fine day,’ he said scornfully. ‘The other three are subdivided. That one on the right houses an óarco who’s a whole lot cleverer than any black-eyes. In this one here there’s a being too weird to be given a name and in the tower on the left there’s a long’un. You’d probably call him a barbarian.’
Esmonäe paused to take a draught from her flask. ‘Why do they live here? Are they allies of his?’
The groundling chuckled. ‘No. The Master doesn’t have allies. He has slaves to serve him or creatures that earn their daily bread. The three I mentioned are all mercenaries and the armies they lead are accommodated in the towers. There’s a specially trained and specially equipped regiment assigned to each of the caverns. The Master has a fleet, too. He conquered whole marine empires. The ships were taken apart and stored in the towers.’
They were only a few miles off now and the towers were looking more impressive than ever.
And there I was, making my little plans to invade and vanquish. Tirîgon could not imagine how one would begin to defeat this place. Without using magic, that is. That and the support of the gods of infamy.
The gålran zhadar’s towers would spew out thousands and thousands of warriors. They will have their own stables, their own forges and workshops to make siege equipment.
Tirîgon’s troops – infantry and cavalry – numbered four hundred in total. Until Tungdil had turned up, Tirîgon had thought Marandëi would be their secret weapon.
We are a ridiculous little band compared to what they have here in these towers. He was furious to have to discard his dream of a Phondrasôn ruled by himself and his siblings.
/> ‘Down in the basements, in the foundations, is where the slaves for menial tasks are kept. Then in the next block above that, we have the basic soldier ranks and associated workshops and stables. The third block unit is for the elite troops. The masters reside in the top units. They like to have plenty of space.’
Sisaroth glanced at his brother. ‘I told you right at the start we should get out of Phondrasôn.’ He pointed to the colossal buildings, where great flocks of birds were wheeling. Mist from the meadows swirled round the foot of the towers so the tops seemed to float in the air. ‘Our warriors are nothing in comparison. We aren’t building an empire.’
Are you trying to show me up in front of Esmonäe? ‘You’re right. Tell me again how many exits you’ve found that lead to Dsôn?’ he snapped, as they slipped into the cool fog. ‘Which of us would you say has had more success so far?’
Sisaroth opened his mouth to reply but thought better of it.
He couldn’t think of an answer that would make him look good. Under cover of the rising mist he reached for Esmonäe’s hand and pressed it.
After a short march Tungdil led them inside one of the towers. They stepped into a lift operated by a slave; it pulled them up through the edifice.
Ropes rolled up over pulleys. Tirîgon was impressed. The mechanism recalled the cabin gondolas in use in Dsôn.
They alighted and had to go the rest of the way on foot. The steps were broad, but there was no handrail or wall to hold onto. The stairs led over the top of the lift shaft. If you slipped you would fall all the way to the bottom.
At the end of the stairs there was a lobby enclosed by gates the width of a barbarian. Tungdil touched runes once more to gain access.
Tirîgon’s mood was growing darker and darker. At the outset he had believed they had a chance at victory against the gålran zhadar, but all optimism was now in dust and ashes.
The groundling brought them to a room on the outer wall of the fourth block. ‘Wait here. I’ll come back with my master.’ Tungdil left the room via a different door.
Tirîgon’s despondency did not last. He looked through the rounded window, examining every aspect of what he saw in search of vulnerabilities. Tungdil could be an ally; a useful idiot who could turn traitor and open the towers for us. We’d need more älfar. We must get our army numbers up to a thousand at least. Then we might succeed.
He could feel his brother’s eyes on him. Sisaroth was shaking his head. He knows me too well. Tirîgon decided to save his snide remark for later because Tungdil was coming back in. With company.
The gålran zhadar stood next to the groundling. His squat body was strongly muscled and his forearms were thick from heavy work. He wore an extravagantly ornate breastplate of dark red metal with brilliant white palandium inlay over a padded black tunic to protect him from cold and from blows.
‘My guests.’ He greeted them in a sinister-sounding voice as deep as any troll’s. His short black hair shone as if dressed with wax. Hair from his sideburns was long enough to reach his chest. His face had more wrinkles and furrows than Tungdil’s – even the silver headband did not distract attention from that. He looked at them genially. ‘Let’s get our business over with quickly. My dinner is waiting, and I’m sure you’ll be wanting to get back home.’ He gestured to the empty armchairs and took a seat at the head of the table. He had a leather folder in his left hand and extracted a document from it. Tungdil remained at the window.
I wonder how I’m supposed to address him? We forgot to ask. Tirîgon noticed the scent the gålran zhadar was wearing. It reminded him of home, of his father and the incense they used to burn to the gods of infamy and to Inàste.
Esmonäe spoke first. She tested the gålran zhadar with a delightful smile. ‘Do forgive us for not being appropriately dressed for our audience. Your messenger brought us through the filthiest tunnels he could find.’
‘That was what he was supposed to do,’ the gålran zhadar replied, his manicured hands placed flat on the table top. They could have belonged to a scholar or a scribe, rather than to someone who could strangle an ogre with his bare hands. He waited until they were all seated and surveyed the group. ‘There they are, our triplets. They’re not quite as similar as I had expected.’
I knew he’d be difficult to fool. Why did I agree? Tirîgon stayed calm. Perhaps it’s not too late to explain. He thought it would be better not to appear confrontational right from the start. ‘Do you know . . .’
But Sisaroth was nodding. ‘Yes, my brother and I are practically identical but with Firûsha, the gods must have thought it better just to make her beautiful.’
Esmonäe’s smile became more charming than ever.
Tirîgon clamped his jaws shut. Now the lie was out there and could not be traversed. ‘What have you heard, then, sir, about us three, the älfar triplets?’
The gålran zhadar sat upright in his chair, his piercing gaze fixed on Tirîgon. ‘That you have made yourselves a little kingdom on an island and that älfar from all over Phondrasôn are flocking to you. I was surprised how quickly you managed to conquer the various caves and hold them.’ He inclined his head in acknowledgement of this achievement, the diamonds on his silver circlet flashing cold fire. ‘And I will point out that the preferred form of address is Master.’
Sisaroth stressed that the empire-building had been his brother’s work. ‘I draw up the maps.’
‘Excellent. And Firûsha, of course, sings to keep the troops happy?’ The gålran zhadar opened the leather folder and took out several sheets of paper. ‘I have detailed things you may need,’ he said, passing the pages to Tirîgon. ‘I’ll see that you get them.’
Astonished, Tirîgon skimmed the lists of provisions, pack animals and mounts, weapons, items of equipment. ‘But why? We’ve already got most of this.’
‘Oh, come on!’ A look full of pity. ‘Your tribute vassals won’t have delivered their best quality, now will they? You won’t know the difference, of course, so they can diddle you. I can supply the finest range of hard-wearing armour and the sharpest sword blades. Your small army will be unbeatable. And it is also my army. You will be under my command.’ He jerked his thumb towards Tungdil. ‘He’s my top blacksmith. No one can work with metals like he can. He is at your disposal if you wish. I can cope without him for a bit.’
Tirîgon felt he was taking part in alliance talks between equals – except for that reference to the fact they would be under his command. Play along with it for now. Perhaps he’ll reveal his true intentions. ‘Fine by us.’
‘You are too gracious, Master,’ Esmonäe said swiftly.
‘Never. Ask Tungdil.’ The gålran zhadar laughed coldly. ‘If I were gracious, I’d let the three of you carry on what you’re doing. But you omitted to come and pay your respects and present your claim to the caves.’ He extracted further pages. ‘Here I have drawn up a list of the conquests you have made that have not been sanctioned by myself.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Tell them what the penalty for transgression is, Tungdil.’
‘Extermination, Master,’ the groundling announced in bored tones.
‘Or you buy your way out.’ The gålran zhadar clapped his hands once. ‘You have seen that your deeds have placed you in a serious position. You have been in my realm for a considerable time; the fees, together with their compound interest, amount to more than you will be able to pay.’ He inserted a sly pause. ‘Well, with coin or treasure, at any rate. But you can settle your debt in the form of service.’
The älfar exchanged looks. Sisaroth was poleaxed by the turn negotiations had taken. Esmonäe looked confused.
Now we’re getting to it. ‘I can’t imagine there’s anything you need doing that you can’t do yourself,’ Tirîgon eventually responded. ‘We saw the power that was unleashed when the magic brooch exploded.’
The gålran zhadar tapped a forefinger on the table thoughtfully. ‘I won’t deny that there is much I am capable of. But sometimes one can benefit from the skills of o
thers. For example, a smith like Tungdil, who forges exceptionally good weapons. Or the fighting prowess of an älf like yourself, when sending an army would arouse suspicion. Oh yes, and there’s always the artistry your race excels at: your gift of song. Nobody can sing like the älfar.’ He smiled. ‘I think you get my meaning.’
‘Not quite.’ Sisaroth leaned forward. ‘Do you want us to kill someone?’
‘You creep in the shadows, you bring darkness, and you instil fear in others. You can slip past guards unnoticed, kill silently, and leave no traces; no one will see you unless you wish to be seen,’ he went on. ‘If you carry out the tasks I give the three of you, without complaint, you may keep your nice little älfar realm. You will only have to pay for the supplies I provide.’
Tirîgon felt a surge of anger that he knew was unwise. Nobody had ever spoken to him in this manner before. He was being demoted to the status of a vassal! All the battles he had fought, all the enemies he had killed, all the victories he had won were as naught to this gålran zhadar. A hot tugging sensation on the skin indicated the lines of fury were spreading across his face.
‘Before any of you says something you may have cause to regret,’ the gålran zhadar said charmingly, ‘take your time. Chew over your words. Swallow them rather than spitting them out.’
‘The thing is . . .’ Sisaroth started.
‘The thing is that you are not in one of your Dsôns. You are in my domain! Your so-called Inextinguishables brought disaster to their own empire and half of Ishím Voróo with their insatiable greed. That is why I will never allow an älf to rule Phondrasôn. Understand?’ His genial mask had fallen away to an expression of distaste. ‘You are arrogant like the rest of your race. You are power-hungry. Look how far it has got you!’
‘But surely it is that same lust for power that made you ruler of this underworld,’ contradicted Esmonäe. ‘Why are you any whit better than us?’