by Markus Heitz
Ireheart could not catch what the couriers were saying. But he did not need a crystal ball to know the dwarves were the object of more than idle curiosity. The zhadár was the most remarkable figure and, like Hargorin, known in these parts.
I wonder what they think? Ireheart paid up and came back to the table with the beers. He expected the couriers’ captain would have them evicted. As long as he doesn’t tell the elves, it doesn’t matter.
As he sat down and distributed the drinks, the look on Hargorin’s face told him that the one-time leader of the Black Squadron was the most sceptical of the group. “You were going to say you need more proof that this is from the genuine Tungdil.”
The others said nothing, taking hold of their tankards.
“Let me explain how the message fell into my hands.” Ireheart told them of the beast and the struggle, explained how the warrior who fell out of the tree had helped to save his life. He related the soldier’s dying words.
“There’s no doubt at all in my mind,” he summed up.
“My chancellor insisted I get shown the message before entering the dark depths and putting my life at risk. I have heard how the message reached you.” Hargorin picked up his beer, gesturing at the disc with the tankard. “But where is the proof, High King?” The red-haired dwarf leaned back. “Give me one clear piece of evidence and I’m with you. First in line.”
“I’ll always be in front. Or maybe I’ll be behind you,” Carâhnios tittered. “You’ll think I’m your very shadow, Hargorin Deathbringer.”
Ireheart had been expecting this.
He turned the palladium disc over and showed the golden inlay on the obverse. “It’s the exact dimension and shape of the gold mark in the flesh of Tungdil’s hand that he got in the fight for the throne. No one else could know it so exactly and reproduce it in such detail.”
Hargorin muttered. “What kind of proof is that?” He took a long draught of beer.
“But choosing to use those beasts?” objected Belogar. “Couldn’t he have sent friendlier messengers?”
Beligata spoke up, putting a fat tobacco roll between her lips: “They don’t do friendly down there. The savagery of the beasts was what guaranteed they would survive long enough to reach the surface.” She went over to the fireplace to rummage in the ashes for glowing embers. “Sounds sensible to me.” Puffing her lit tobacco roll, she re-joined the others.
“How are we going to find our way through elf territory unnoticed, to seek out the entrance?” Belogar demanded. “They have eyes and ears everywhere. Well nigh impossible, unless Vraccas sends us an invisible cloak.”
Ireheart sighed. He hadn’t expected this much opposition. “I am your High King and if you don’t trust my instinct—powerful enough to lead me to search for the Phondrasôn entrance myself—then I’ll have to command you to go.”
He was surprised to see Carâhnios reach for the disc, grasping it with his armoured gauntlet.
“I don’t need your command,” he whispered. “Phondrasôn doesn’t hold any terrors for me. I’ll bring back the one who calls himself Tungdil.” He stared at Ireheart as he drained his mug; then he belched and laughed. “Then you can decide, High King, if it’s the right one this time.”
Without waiting for a response the zhadár turned and made for the door, whistling.
Belogar raised his bushy eyebrows. “Is he going without us?”
Beligata got to her feet and followed Carâhnios. “Without you,” she corrected.
Gosalyn stood up, grinning. “Some decisions are easy to make.”
Ireheart was relieved. “As soon as you get back, send word to all the dwarf kingdoms,” he told Hargorin, who was slowly pushing himself up from his seat. “I shall be taking care of Girdlegard and the concerns of our people.”
“I ask nothing more.” The red-haired dwarf warrior stomped out; the despatch riders watched him go.
“But you still haven’t given me proper proof,” he called from outside.
I’ll accept your apology. Just bring back my Scholar. Ireheart kept his response silent. He waved Heidor over. He was going to need more beer.
Girdlegard
Elf realm of Ti Lesinteïl, formerly known as
Dsôn Bhará under the älfar
6492nd solar cycle, summer
Phenîlas held his bow half-spanned diagonally, ready to fire off the specially-made hunting arrow.
He and ten companions were pursuing the third of the wolf-like beasts seen skulking in the vicinity of the palace before it suddenly took off towards the south, out of the area that was once the älfar crater of Dsôn Bhará.
It seemed to Phenîlas that the creature was on the trail of something. But where was it headed?
The troop moved slowly forward, step by step, through a black birch grove that had many thorn bushes and the occasional giant willow. Just the right habitat for a creature like this.
The hunters to his right and to his left faced the gentle breeze; five of them carried boar spears, while the other five had the short bows suited for shooting round or over impenetrable undergrowth.
The weapon smith had designed the arrows with particularly sharp tips for piercing the wolf beast’s thick hide. They were unsuitable for long distance, but the additional weight would let them penetrate thin steel, releasing highly acidic poison from a glass tube that shattered on impact.
The elves kept their breathing steady and the leather soles of their shoes made no sound on the leafy woodland floor. Phenîlas could see from the older tracks that the second specimen had followed the injured Tabaîn warrior. He had probably been devoured by now. No need to worry about him. The brave folk in Gauragar would kill the beast.
Despite the initial rush of the hunt, Phenîlas had noted that this beast, too, had had a wire round its neck from which a black metal capsule dangled. He had not been able to decipher what was written on it.
Could it possibly contain some magic artefact? Something that would enable evil to regain entry to Girdlegard and, more to the point, to penetrate the elves’ new territory?
Phenîlas caught a rustling sound from the bushes. We’ll find out, as soon as we’ve killed it.
Learned elves had identified the creatures as narshân beasts, called night-biters by dwarves and humans. Hundreds of cycles ago they had found a way into Girdlegard through the Grey Range when the Stone Gateway fell, but they had all been swiftly exterminated because of the damage they caused.
So these ones must have come directly out of Phondrasôn. He gave a curt nod to two pike-bearers and they made their way forward, jabbing at the undergrowth with long lances that had forked tips and an extra retaining blade lower down the shaft. Perhaps the creature is trying to get back there?
Again there came the sound of twigs and breaking; a number of diamond pheasants took to the air, their plumage sparkling as they flapped off.
The elf next to Phenîlas laughed quietly. “They’d be good to eat.”
With a mighty roar a shadow leaped out from the curtain of hanging branches of a particularly large willow tree. As it sprang it opened its jaws, taking the first pheasant with a single bite and using the claws on its front legs to drag two further birds out of the air.
Phenîlas and his crew stared at the beast—it was even larger than the one they had killed. White teeth agleam, it was intent on devouring its prey.
At that very moment the wind turned, bringing the hunters’ scent to the creature.
It cocked its ears and gave a bloodcurdling growl.
“Loose your arrows!” Phenîlas shouted, firing first. “Pike-bearers, beware! Don’t let it through or none of us will survive.”
The narshân wolf launched itself upward, crushing the pheasants under its blood-drenched paws. The creature propelled itself straight up to disappear among the branches.
The first arrows missed it. This one is bigger and faster than the others. The beast used the hanging branches of the willow to get to a position directly overhead and
hurled itself down on the elves like an eagle swooping down on a calf.
The pike-bearers had been watching and were prepared. They held their weapons vertically while the bowmen, notching their next arrows, knelt to take aim.
The animal realised its mistake too late and slammed head first onto the long blades.
The two pike-bearers who had been standing in the thicket threw their weapons, hitting the beast in the flank. The bowmen loosed more arrows and this time each one hit home.
The narshân slid down under its own weight, shattering the thick wooden poles. Fatally injured, it snapped and snarled, sending the elves on a hasty retreat.
Although Phenîlas felt the touch of the creature’s fangs on his forearm guard he did not sustain a bite. But the screams, and the spurting fluids that splashed his face and throat—combined with the smell of blood—all told him that at least one of the hunters was critically injured.
Barking and roaring, the beast continued its attack despite its own death throes; it snapped at legs, arms and throats, leaving open wounds before Phenîlas boldly grabbed a handful of arrows from his quiver.
You must die! He hurled himself on to the narshân and rammed the arrow tips into the wound on the creature’s neck.
This action came too late to save the screaming elf whose arm had been snatched into the animal’s jaws, but the beast collapsed, its right hind leg still pounding the forest floor. It finally expired with a whimper and a snort.
“Look to the wounded!” Phenîlas ordered, as he cut through the wire round the giant wolf’s neck to release the bloodied capsule. He got up.
Dwarf runes! he realised with a shock. But the Children of the Smith would never breed and keep such animals, let alone set them to work.
There remained the possibility that the zhadár might once have tried to use them as hunting dogs.
But in that case they’d have been seen at least once before now. Word would have got round. Phenîlas opened his water flask and washed away the blood and dirt from the chiselled runes.
For Ireheart.
The elf studied the runes several times to ensure he had got the correct meaning. They were shaped differently from the ones used by the five Girdlegard tribes.
There was something, surely, inside the black tionium casing. When he shook it he could hear a slight ringing. Could be palladium, he thought: an extremely valuable white metal the elves liked to use in their armour.
And every child in Girdlegard knew who was meant by the name Ireheart.
Who would be sending the High King a message by means of a narshân? Phenîlas looked round. They had lost four huntsmen to the beast. It doesn’t bear thinking about if the creature had taken us by surprise.
“Unamîl, see about transport for the wounded and get the beast carried to the palace as evidence. I must report to our ruler at once,” he told his troop, as they looked after the injured.
Phenîlas held the matt black capsule tightly and ran back through the edge of the grove where they had left their horses.
He could not make any sense out of his discovery and prayed to Sitalia that the Naishïon would be able to solve the puzzle.
Don’t run with your weapons drawn, except in battle.
Dwarf saying
V
Girdlegard
Grey Mountains
Kingdom of the Fifthlings
Stone Gateway
6492nd solar cycle, summer
Balyndar Steelfinger, of the clan of the Steel Fingers, from the Fifthling tribe, stood watching the Stone Gateway—or rather, stood staring into a wall of damp fog presently concealing the mighty gate. “Vraccas is in his forge, I see, plunging hot blades into cold water,” he said. “Must be getting ready for war.”
“As long as it’s not our turn again when it all kicks off,” was the lacklustre comment from the duty watchman.
I can’t remember this guard’s name. I ought to spend more time here.
As they paced the walls together the watchman stopped to reprimand a solder for sloppy equipment. “Let’s hope the north is spared for a change. Time for someone else’s turn.”
It had been raining continuously for orbit after orbit. The surrounding peaks of the Great Blade and the Dragon’s Tongue were shrouded in heavy mist that appeared light grey, then white and then dark. Neither sun nor wind had managed to dispel the fog. “We will do what is expected of us: our duty,” was Balyndar’s response. The damp air had made his dark brown hair curlier than ever, despite the braids. His beard was trimmed short and under his thin mantle he wore armour that combined chainmail and linked metal discs. Where he used to carry a double morningstar club, he now had the legendary Keenfire stuck in his belt. He was the son of Balyndis Steelfinger of the Firstlings, Queen of the Fifthling tribe, and following the battle at the Black Abyss he had been chosen to carry the celebrated weapon.
Balyndar was a warrior through and through.
He also possessed a marked similarity in appearance to Tungdil Goldhand. There was a reason for this: Balyndar’s mother and the Scholar had once been partners. However, they had long gone their separate ways and Balyndis had left for the Grey Mountains, where she had entered the iron union with the king of the Fifthling tribe. A child was soon born, a son. Officially, Balyndar was accepted as the son of the ruler, whom his mother had succeeded. The Fifthlings had been re-established from various tribes to take on the legacy of the original protectors of the Stone Gateway, who no longer existed.
Balyndar stopped and looked at the inner courtyard between the gate and the entrance to the mountains. The sound of constant hammering could be heard. “They’re making good progress.”
Below, masons were chiselling away at blocks of stone, in readiness for repairs to the towers. Now the kordrion had been done away with and the old dangers no longer existed, the point was to reinforce the defences against whatever new peril might lurk in the wings.
“Very good progress.” The guard indicated the tower whose outline was looming up in front of them out of the fog. “The foundations have been strengthened and the outer walls are now two paces wider than before, and they’ve used a straw and mortar mix on the joints to absorb the impact of bombardment. We’ve added stone buttresses and raised the granite gates, incorporating the defensive walkway.” He pointed down. “Those bolts are new—we’ve installed ten now like your mother said, instead of the original five.”
Two bolts for each of the tribes. Balyndar could make out the scaffolding and the pulley systems for hauling building materials and the hefty beams up into place.
The dwarves were indefatigable, working all day and continuing through the evening by the light of the night stars. The battlement walkway had been widened to accommodate a larger class of catapult. The first of the giant slings was being erected.
“What with our improvements to the fortress and the new weaponry, there’s no chance evil will get through.” Balyndar was proud of the new defences. He eyed the thirty-pace-wide road, the end of which disappeared into a foggy void half a bolt-flight away.
“I really hate this weather.” The watch stepped up to the edge of the battlements, peering into the mist to the right and to the left. “Looks like Tion sent it. Don’t think it was Vraccas.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It would be hot steam and carry the smell of glowing steel and burning coals. I’d prefer that.” The soldier placed a hand on the chest-high battlement wall. “It’s not a good orbit. I can sense it.” He cast a glance at the diamond-encrusted blade of Keenfire. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Balyndar had no idea why the sentry was being so gloomy. “Things are looking up in Girdlegard,” he said. “After the long period of austerity and suppression, the good times are coming. There are more dwarves than ever being born. Fifthling numbers are doing well.” The soldier said nothing. He stared into the fog.
“Remind me of your name,” Balyndar said.
“Goïmbar Gemfinder of the Opal Eyes cla
n,” the other dwarf answered briefly. “I’ve only recently joined the squad here at the fortress.”
The curtains of mist whirled about; they made strange shapes that turned out to be real figures wearing long white mantles. They came stumbling out of the fog as if they had been spat out, their clothing torn, armour in disarray, cloaks and weapons splashed red.
“I knew it,” muttered Goïmbar. “Bad orbit.”
A curt command from him had the catapult teams running from their quarters in well-practised moves to get the contraptions ready for action.
“You with your stupid talk. You were asking for it.” Balyndar stepped forward and looked at the tall strangers. “By Vraccas! They’re dressed like elves,” he said quietly. “That’s odd. That’s the first time we’ve seen elves arrive from the north.”
“Mind, though—they could be black-eyes in disguise, coming to trick us,” Goïmbar pointed out. Extra torches were being hurriedly put in place. He tightened the belt of his chainmail jerkin and wiped the condensation from his axe.
Spear-throwing machines and bolt-launchers were pushed, rattling, to their stations. Cogs clunked into place, yanking on the sturdy ropes. Dwarves loaded lumps of rock ready to hurl death and destruction over the side of the battlements.
Balyndar felt the sentry was overreacting. It was only a handful of elves, after all. But he did not interfere. It was important to exercise the utmost caution, especially in the north where the beasts had always been most vehement in their attempts to storm the barrier and get into Girdlegard. “Yes. You’re right. It could be a trick.”
And even if it wasn’t, it made no difference. The High King had decreed that no more elves be allowed to pass into Girdlegard. It seemed Samusin was taking a perverse delight in sending some along now when entry would be refused.
Balyndar watched the figures approach and could now see the type of injuries the elves had sustained. They’ve not been shot at. And it doesn’t look like sword or axe cuts. The ravaged armour looked as if claws had attacked them, tearing off great gobbets of metal, clothing and flesh. One elf was missing half a leg, two were lacking armour and another had lost part of a shoulder joint.