by Markus Heitz
“Except it’s the left,” said Ireheart with a grin, crossing his arms. “We’ll soon have you back in battle.”
“Of course, my king,” Hargorin replied, taking cautious steps across the room to accustom himself to the feel of the new limb. “I shall deliver only the most deadly of kicks.” He asked Tungdil: “Can you fit a blade on the end?”
The Scholar stood up with a laugh. “Sure.”
“I can already see him in the front line,” joked Beligata. “He won’t need his axe at all.”
Heidor brought full tankards and put them on the table before turning swiftly back to his bar. Ireheart noted with regret that the boy obviously no longer felt at ease with the dwarves, ever since first recognising Deathbringer.
They took hold of their tankards and the ten guards took off their helmets and went over to order for themselves. The ponies’ hooves clattered on the cobbles outside as they were led to their stabling.
“It’s that easy to get outranked,” said the way-station captain, but he did not sound annoyed. His curiosity was blatant. Presumably no one had thought to tell him who the dwarf with the burned face was.
And let’s leave it that way.
“You’ll get back your status soon enough,” Ireheart called, raising his beer in a toast. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
“Anything in the cause of friendship between our peoples,” the officer replied, raising his glass of spirits.
Ireheart tugged Tungdil’s sleeve and led him over to a small table in the corner. “Let’s start the inquisition.” He was trying not to yawn.
Hargorin, Beligata and Gosalyn were talking together and admiring the new leg. Other dwarves came over to join them bit by bit. The room filled up.
“Shall we leave it till the morning?” the Scholar suggested. “You’ve a long ride still in your bones.”
Ireheart secretly thought this a great idea but he was reluctant to waste any time. There were many Girdlegard matters he wanted to discuss with his friend. But first I have to be sure it is him. He laughed, earning a curious look from Tungdil. Any surer than you were a cycle ago?
“Let’s start with the obvious ones,” he began. “You bear no weapon, you wear no armour. You haven’t even got a dagger, as far as I can see.”
“I don’t need those things now. I am home.” Tungdil seemed calm and relaxed. “I made a vow to the Divine Smith: if I ever managed to get back to Girdlegard alive, I would never bear arms again, or wear armour.” He indicated his clothing. “This is all I need. That and ”—he reached under his collar and took out a pendant with the Vraccas rune—“this.”
Ireheart’s eyes widened. “You’re joking? Hero, warrior, and …”
“Scholar and smith,” he cut in. “That’s the way my life originally started. And that’s what I want to get back to. Let my soul breathe for a time. After that, we shall see what Vraccas holds in store for me.”
“How long will that take?”
“It’ll take as long as it takes. But I’m already feeling better. One cycle, perhaps ten. Who knows?”
“But …” The High King was lost for words.
One Tungdil had turned up bristling with tionium, furious and eager to fight, and full of new talents he’d learned from the älfar. This one wanted only a quiet life, it seemed: a bit of smithing, a bit of sitting with dusty, boring old books. Or maybe a bit of consulting work.
I don’t have to ask if he wants to be High King. Ireheart was starting to yawn again. “Tell me how the doppelgänger came about,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll try it.”
“You’d need a miracle.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I saw it happening but I don’t understand it.” Tungdil grinned, and it was a grin Ireheart knew through and through.
But the High King held back. It was too soon to celebrate. The other Scholar had been equally convincing.
“It was like this: I was in the middle of a battle against a great number of foes in an endless underground realm and we were suddenly all swamped by a wave of magic. It filled the entire cave we were in and randomly created doubles of anything it touched: bits of buildings, objects, älfar, living creatures. There was no rhyme or reason to it. In the midst of this confusion I saw myself. The magic wave had created a copy of me. It escaped from the cave and went on living its own existence. From then on there were two of me.” Tungdil looked at his friend. “I hear the forgery died with Keenfire in his breast at the Black Abyss. The original version is sitting opposite you now.” He took a mouthful of beer. “Now let’s have your questions.”
Girdlegard
Elf realm of Ti Lesinteïl
6492nd solar cycle, early autumn
“It had not been on the agenda that the älf would speak at the Council session.” Phenîlas addressed the Naishïon in the minimalist but impressive reception hall of his palace; as was appropriate, he was kneeling, wearing his light travel outfit with a red mantle over it. He had to admit to a defeat and was acutely embarrassed. “It made a mockery of all my careful planning. I tried to silence him but he evaded my attack.”
“You are not to blame. Sitalia sometimes shatters things with the intention that we put it all back together differently.” Ataimînas remained on the dais, attired in a close-fitting black tunic and a flowing white cloak. The rays of sunlight that shone down on him through the overhead windows were less powerful now autumn had come. He surveyed the empty room, studying the painted walls where the reflected sparkle from his rings danced merrily. “However, our plans are no secret any longer.”
“Indeed they are not, Naishïon.”
“Then there is no need to wait. The warriors will move out in the course of the next orbits. I shall expedite arrangements. Ti landur, Ti Singàlai and Ti Lesinteïl will unite to form one over-arching state: Ti Lesîndur.” Ataimînas looked at Phenîlas. “The foreign-held lands between us will be occupied and isolated. Subsequent to that, we will conduct negotiations with Tabaîn and Mallenia.”
“The queen of Idoslane isn’t likely to agree, even if she was civil to me when I left and assured me she would study the purchase terms.” Phenîlas recalled her words. “We should not risk losing her goodwill with a premature land grab.”
Ataimînas inhaled sharply, his nostrils narrowing. “I think you underestimate me. We shall tell the humans that we are still hunting the dangerous beasts that are after them. If we do that, we’ll be able to shift camp and get our soldiers in position before they realise what’s happening.”
Phenîlas bowed his head. “Forgive me. That argument would be a winner with Mallenia.”
“Exactly.” Ataimînas stood up and indicated that the other should accompany him. “I have received a message from the Gauragar way-station near our border, saying that a group of military dwarves has arrived. And one of the dwarves is being addressed by the name of Tungdil.”
“Yes, I heard.” Phenîlas followed him to the bronze door.
“And did you hear what happened to our hunting party?” Ataimînas’ voice grew hard.
“It was the first piece of news to reach me after my return. It seems the circumstances have yet to be investigated.”
“They had found the entrance the dwarves used to enter the caves. From the tracks, it is clear they went in and did not come back out. I have occasioned the hole to be filled in with rubble. The fact we have experienced some subsidence locally indicates that other parts may have caved in. There is no hope for our soldiers.”
“I would never have thought they would find him so quickly.”
“The carcass of a beast was found near the entrance. Tungdil must have defeated the creature and then returned to the tunnels to find the dwarves. Otherwise our soldiers would surely have triumphed.” Ataimînas reached under his sash. “This was also found.”
Phenîlas took the small bottle and studied the älfar inscription.
“Elf eyes,” he read out. “Is this what Tungdil had on him?”
“I fe
ar trouble is brewing.”
In front of the imposing palace, preparations were underway for the festival in honour of the Creating Spirit. It was scheduled to take place in ten orbits’ time, when the moon would be high. Grandstands were being erected around three giant, spanned drums, each four paces across. They were the size of huge wine barrels and the drumskins were decorated with the goddess’s symbols. They would be beaten by the best elf drummers in the land and there would be a sung accompaniment. The Naishïon would open the ceremony of unification against the sound of drumrolls. From then on, there would be but the one empire.
“What is the trouble you fear?”
Ataimînas watched the preparations without a word and then held out his hand for the phial. “Let’s assume the älfar have found a way to prevent their eyes reacting to daylight—how could anyone tell us and them apart?” He pointed to the square where the artisans and the public were going about their legitimate business. “How many älfar might we have there, in the local population?”
Phenîlas found the idea deeply disturbing. He handed the phial back. “If that’s true, the swine may already be infiltrating our towns and we’d have no idea.”
“They could have come up through the same passage the dwarves used. Perhaps they followed this Tungdil. Or they smuggled themselves in to Girdlegard with the new wave of immigrants. The border guards would not be able to identify them. There could have been a traitor within our own search party.” Ataimînas tossed back his mane of black hair and clasped his gloved hands behind his back. “It’s essential we find out the numbers involved.”
“But there are over ten thousand new arrivals.” Phenîlas was at a loss to know how they could be tested.
“The elf-eyes mixture won’t stop anger lines forming when they’re injured or insulted.” Ataimînas turned to head to face the warrior. “That will be your task. Form a unit and traverse all the elf territories. Every elf, male or female, must be checked, no matter what their age is. You and your people will interrogate them comprehensively. If you find any älfar, send them here to me. They are not to be executed in situ.”
Phenîlas considered the size of the various elf territories. “Word will get round that we’re hunting disguised älfar. The ones we’re looking for will go into hiding and won’t come out till we’ve moved on to a different town.”
“The neighbours would see.” Ataimînas gave him a hard stare. “This task I’m entrusting you with is the most important one of our new empire, Phenîlas. The enemy within is far more dangerous than any foe threatening Girdlegard from outside. We have to be able to trust our fellow elves in battle. If we’re busy worrying about whether our comrade is a black-eyes about to fall on us, we’ll never be safe.”
“I shall do what needs to be done, Naishïon.” Phenîlas bowed. “I will honour my duty.”
“It’s a good thing they’re not letting any more elves in. Let’s hope it stays like that till we can be sure there are no black-eyes in our midst.” Ataimînas nodded and went on watching the workers. “But first, you must finish what you started in Freestone. You have an opportunity to put things right. And when you come back, you’ll be appointed sorânïon with special rights.”
Phenîlas heard the implied reproach. “I will make haste to Tabaîn and see to the matter.”
“That’s the spirit.” The Naishïon looked up at the brilliant blue sky. “The harvest is in; the barns and the grain sacks will be full. Make sure we get as much of it as we possibly can. We know the king of Tabaîn; he’ll provide for us together with the purchase of land we want. That rival of his, on the other hand, is no good to anyone.”
Phenîlas bowed. “I’ll leave at once.” The blond elf hurried down the steps and went to the stables to collect his horse.
Don’t fail this time. My patience has its limits. Ataimînas turned and went back inside the palace. Once the food supply for his empire was assured, other concerns would disappear.
His steps took him over reed matting across the main room and out through a side door in the panelling, leading to a corridor. Going up a series of steps, he headed for a steel-framed chamber. The huge palace was, apart from this one room, constructed entirely of timber, making it comparatively easy to dismantle and move to a new location.
He was worried about the existence of the älfar medicinal drops that changed the properties of light-sensitive eyes. We have misread the Creating Spirit’s scriptures on this point. Many of her prophecies regarding Girdlegard seem to mirror actual events.
The investigations must not on any account arouse disquiet in the populace. It would be vital in the coming orbits and cycles to stress the need for unity. But with the potential of treacherous death lurking in the elf ranks, this would be difficult. He would have to rely on Phenîlas. But only if he can finally sort out the situation in Tabaîn.
Phenîlas was unaware of the Naishïon’s plan to get rid of him if he fell short. He was a popular figure but this was no proof against punishment if he were to fail again.
Ataimînas had reached the steel door that secured the chamber. He pulled out a key from his sash and placed it in the lock, giving it four turns to the right and two to the left. He touched a combination of elf runes on the door.
Only then did the lock click and release the key. The door opened.
The Naishïon stepped inside the palace treasure house, which contained a number of lockable drawers for the safekeeping of valuable papers, works of art, and gems or relics from the old elf kingdoms that the new arrivals had brought him. The door closed behind him. Fragrant oil lamps shed enough light and the air supply was good. That was important.
A naked, black-haired älf formed part of the collection. He was kept tethered and chained on the hard metal floor with only a mat to lie on. He had been captured quite some time ago when he had made an attempt on Ataimînas’ life. A conventional prison cell had not been thought secure enough.
“What a good thing we showed mercy.”
“I don’t call torture showing mercy,” the älf replied. He had refused to give his name. His mouth was bruised and his white torso showed wounds that had been stitched, together with fresh scars; many of the marks shimmered red or violet.
Ataimînas crouched down and took out the phial. “We have been more merciful to you than you deserve. Humans are much more brutal to your kind than we are.” He examined the injuries. “You seem to have recovered well.”
The älf gave a contemptuous laugh and spat at the Naishïon.
Ataimînas grasped the älf’s face and forced the eyelids apart, dropping some of the phial’s contents into each eye.
“What’s that?” the älf fumed. “Another attempt to drive the evil out of me?” He yanked on his chains and lines of fury started up on his visage. “I was made by Inàste and none of your preparations will work on me. I shall never worship Sitalia! You cannot change my mind-set.”
Ataimînas observed how tears and surplus medication trickled out of the corner of the eyes. “We shall see. The prophecies demand we try, at the very least.” He stood up and activated the door mechanism by touching certain runes. “‘In the new empire, my untainted children will live in harmony with their purified brother-killers,’” he said, reciting a prophecy from the times in exile. “‘And behold, a new era shall dawn.’”
Sunlight flooded in to the chamber, and onto the disdainful captive.
Ataimînas ignored the älf’s gestures and watched the effect on his eyes: the part of the eye round the iris did not turn black. Not a trace of colour change.
Noticing how quiet the elf was, the prisoner stopped laughing. “What are you staring at?” He turned his head to face the light and realised the familiar tugging at the corners of his eyes had not occurred. “To Tion with you! You may have made my eyes white but you can never make me one of you!” He caught a glimpse of the phial in the Naishïon’s hand although the elf tried to hide it. “Wait. That’s not an elf remedy?” Then he laughed. “Praise be to In�
�ste! My people have found a way to circumvent the eye change.” His eyes sparkled with delight. “Now we can infiltrate your population. No one will be able to tell the difference and the elves will all start mistrusting and fearing each other!”
Ataimînas raised his foot and stamped down hard on the captive’s hand, making him cry out in pain; dark lines zigzagged across his face until it looked about to shatter into pieces.
“That’s how we’ll recognise you.” He put the remedy away and left the chamber. The door closed and locked itself automatically. I’ll find a way to bring Inàste’s creations down.
Pain would be the best way to differentiate between elves and imposters, though he hoped Phenîlas would not have to go so far in order to determine who he had before him. It would make a bad impression if his own folk were subjected to a regime of torture right at the beginning of his rule. The most lavish of moon festivals would not alter that.
Girdlegard
Kingdom of Tabaîn
6492nd solar cycle, early autumn
Phenîlas doubted his own senses when Dirisa came over with a broad smile to welcome him. Has she dosed herself with some friendship potion?
He was on the princess’s estate where she was taking part in the grape harvest. She swore her presence there always made for a fine vintage. One of her curious whims, as the elf had learned.
She had been responsible for the construction of the artificial hill on which the vineyards were planted, because Tabaîn was too flat otherwise for successful viticulture. Phenîlas had ridden across miles and miles of harvested grain fields where the first ploughing was going ahead. The straw stalks were turned over under the soil to make the ground fertile for the next sowing. This broad, terraced mound was around three hundred paces in height and it rose up like the stump remaining after a mountain top had been sliced off. It faced south to ensure optimum sunshine for the grapes.
The estate house was at the base of the hill, and this was where Phenîlas had reined in his horse. The dust of his arrival had hardly settled before Dirisa strode out to welcome him. Like all of Tabaîn’s buildings, it was a stone construction, made to withstand the vicious winds the region was prone to. Whirlwinds were the curse of a flat country.