by Markus Heitz
“How nice to see you again,” the princess called, smiling. She was wearing a grape-stained apron over her warm woollen dress. “May Sitalia’s blessing be upon you.” Phenîlas swung himself down from the saddle and bowed to her. Now that times were less safe than expected, he was wearing light body armour and over it a cloak to protect him from the dust and from the weather. She must be drunk. This explanation seemed more plausible as the conversation progressed. Or maybe it’s fumes from the wine cellar. The last time they’d met she had threatened him, but now it seemed she wanted to be the best of friends. “My thanks.”
Dirisa took off her apron, arranged her black hair and came over to his side, grasping his arm. “Come with me. What a pleasant surprise. You couldn’t have picked a better moment.” She escorted him along the front of the grey estate building with its decorative murals. It had been painted to look like a rural half-timbered house.
In the distance, singing could be heard: call and response in chorus, with guitars, flutes and bagpipes accompanying the voices.
They stepped into the busy courtyard, still arm in arm. Maids were barefoot, pressing the grapes in huge tubs, and there was an intoxicating smell of sweet fresh juice. In other tubs young children were stamping happily away and further on, men were doing the same. The music was helping them keep the rhythm with their feet.
“As you see, part of the basis for my wines comes from the pressure of different sets of feet.” Dirisa explained. “That accounts for the nuances that can be tasted later, when the wine is ready. It’s to do with the weight applied to the fruit at the time of pressing.”
The workers acknowledged them with nods without breaking step. The juice ran free from the exit runnels in the sides of the tubs, where it was then filtered through linen sheeting and carried down to the cellar by the bucketful. The air was full of the sweet aroma.
“This is interesting.” Phenîlas already knew humans had this revolting practice of pressing the fruit with their feet. He did not want to think where those feet had been before. And the hairs and the dirt under the nails and the nails themselves … “We employ different methods, ourselves.”
“You don’t necessarily make better wine, though.” Dirisa winked at him. “I was about to fill a small cask as a gift for your Naishïon. This will be the first vintage in the era of peace and friendship between all the peoples in Girdlegard.”
Phenîlas thought he must have misheard. “Forgive me for speaking frankly, but what you said in Freestone did not lead me to expect …”
To his surprise, Dirisa burst out laughing and pulled him to her. He noted how thin she was and that she didn’t smell of wine at all. “My dear Phenîlas. The gods have told me how foolish my attitude was towards your race and towards Natenian. Please forgive me.”
“Of course I accept your apology,” he replied, not knowing what else to say. In his mind he was searching for some explanation for her change of heart.
“I really hope you will. Please be my guest at the coronation in two orbits’ time. It is to be held in Wheattown. It won’t be anything fancy. No pomp.” So that’s where this is leading. She wants me on her side.
“If you are crowned, Natenian will contest it. There could be unrest among the people if there are two rulers.”
Dirisa stared at him with her nut brown eyes. “So you haven’t heard?”
“Apparently not. What is there to know?”
“Natenian and I are reconciled. It happened on the ride back from the Council. He’s handing the throne over to me. He’s proclaimed his abdication with a country-wide announcement using despatch riders and posters.”
The fool! “And what were his reasons?”
“The same as ever: his failing health.” The princess pulled the elf slightly to one side so that a laden cart could pass. “He told me all about the business deal he had made with you,” she added, her voice low. “All the details.” She fished a cluster of grapes from the cart and offered it to him. “Try these.”
Phenîlas took some grapes, which burst on his palate at the slightest pressure. “Absolutely delicious,” he said, not needing to dissemble in the slightest. As long as they hadn’t yet been touched by a human foot he had no objection to eating grapes.
“Then perhaps you can work out how good the wine will be.” Dirisa ate a handful herself. “We shall never mention the contract you made with Natenian,” she said firmly. “That’s all in the past and it won’t bring Raikan back to life. It’s a shame the High King spoke to Tenkil, but our people won’t be told what he said. As far as Tabaîn’s concerned, the warrior died defending his master and was devoured by a beast.”
“I like what I hear.” But I shan’t believe it straightaway.
Dirisa turned towards him and placed a grape provocatively between her lips. She played with the fruit in her mouth. The elf did not find this attractive. “You’ll like this even more: we’ve agreed to stick with the terms and conditions of the original deal,” she said. “As soon as the coronation’s over, I shall supply the Naishïon with all the grain he wants. And I’ll sell you the land you asked for. And I’ll let you have several square miles to cultivate your own varieties. My best soldiers will guard the fields.” She pulled another grape off the stalk.
“I am … overcome. In the best of all possible senses,” he admitted. But where is the catch?
“Thanks be to the gods that they sent me the wisdom to see what is best for Tabaîn. Friendship with the Naishïon will bring us great prosperity.” Dirisa laughed gaily, thrilled her surprise had worked so well. “Friendship leads to unity, my dear Phenîlas. And after what the High King reported about events at the Stone Gateway, it looks as if we might have urgent need of it.”
“You speak the truth.” The elf had no idea what was happening here. In the cuff of his long gloves he had concealed a small bottle of poison with which he had intended to kill her. But that seemed unnecessary now. Unless she’s playing a trick.
But he wouldn’t find out until after the coronation. And after that, it would be well nigh impossible to get close to her again and poison her drink.
Had she guessed the purpose of his visit? Was this welcome an attempt to avoid an assassination?
I should get rid of her anyway. She’s too unpredictable to be a reliable ally. He gave a forced smile. “You shame me with your invitation to the coronation. I have no gift for you. As ambassador for my country, I should have some precious metalwork or an elf speciality to give you to mark the day.”
“You, my good friend, are welcome, even if you turned up naked in the Palandiell temple.” Dirisa burst out laughing. “May I ask you for something?”
“Of course, Princess.”
“Pretend you don’t know anything about the coronation if word reaches you in public.”
“I swear.” Phenîlas looked at the fruit in his hand. “Or may this grape be the death of me.” He placed the grape in his mouth.
Dirisa grinned. “Mallenia will also let you have land in recognition of your promise to be here for us if Girdlegard is ever faced with danger.” She clapped her hands. “Isn’t this great? You elves can start building your empire now.”
Phenîlas had seen many things and gone through a great deal. But this was nothing to what was awaiting him in the courtyard. He was so surprised that the grape went down the wrong way and he choked. He would have entered endingness had Dirisa not banged him on the back between the shoulder blades.
And so he had no choice but to keep his promise.
He gasped, filling his lungs with the autumn air, his face bright red. In this case staying silent and waiting to see what would happen would not be a problem. This is going to be quite a moon festival.
A dwarf who likes to fight with a sword probably likes his beer watered down.
Dwarf saying
XI
Girdlegard
United Kingdom of Gauragar-Idoslane
6492nd solar cycle, early autumn
Ireheart sat by
himself nursing his beer at the fireside in the main room. There were maybe two dozen dwarves sitting around. This was probably his fourth or fifth tankard of the evening.
He had drawn aside from the others on purpose to give himself a chance to think. Staring at the flames, he went over the events of the past few orbits and in particular the words he had heard from his friend’s mouth.
Tungdil had vouchsafed to him some of the adventures he had had in Phondrasôn, where one met with death, pain, cruelty, demons and beasts, warlords and death queens, passionate torturers, slave-abusers, and unimaginable creatures. There strange alliances were entered into with the object of strengthening evil powers.
The Scholar told of his own part, doing things that vied with the worst of deeds, purely in order to survive. But there was neither pride nor pleasure in the telling—only repugnance. Repugnance at his own behaviour. Ireheart was aware of stark contrasts between this Tungdil and the first version to arrive back.
He had none of the instability and mysterious nature of the other one. His body bore witness with numerous scars to the wars he had fought in. Though there was a powerful aura around him, there was no air of evil or treachery. Whatever the älfar Triplets had done to him, he had shaken off their influence completely. The fact that he had taken off the tionium armour that had manipulated him, and had left Bloodthirster behind, all proved to Ireheart that Tungdil had changed.
The High King did not allow his heart to have the upper hand. His head was too afraid he might make the wrong decision and it would cause a catastrophe. A catastrophe that had not occurred with the first Tungdil.
What if it’s a well-rehearsed masquerade? What if it’s a shape-shifter that’s come back to us, dead set on playing a game with the whole of Girdlegard? Ireheart wiped his furrowed brow and stroked his silver beard as if trying to calm and placate the individual hairs. I’ve been presented with yet another Scholar and I’ve no idea if it was Tion or Vraccas who delivered him.
His uncertainty was made worse by the fact that Tungdil was making no attempt to assume any power, as a true hero would. He did not demand the office of High King nor the throne of the Thirdlings tribe, as Hargorin had suggested he do.
Rest. That’s all he wants. Ireheart grunted crossly and emptied his mug of beer. I can see why he’d like to put his feet up for a bit. But his soul needs rest? What does that mean? How long does that take?
But this attitude had good sense behind it. It was probably better if the Scholar kept out of dwarf affairs at first. Everyone in Girdlegard would regard him with suspicion because they’d gone through all this before: a long-lost Tungdil coming up from the dark underworld, and an Ireheart convinced of his authenticity.
There was a bitter irony to the genuine hero being viewed with suspicion whereas the magically-conceived version had been followed without hesitation.
That’s if he is the genuine article, Ireheart added, pulling at his hair. Enough to drive you mad. Vraccas, it’s time for you to do something!
A commotion started in the room: it was the dwarves changing guard duty teams. When the soldiers came in from outside they brought with them the smell of rain. Autumn brought misty rain and fog to show the Girdlegarders that the nights had lost their warmth.
Someone approached the High King. Judging by the sound of the footsteps, it was Beligata.
The dark-haired dwarf-woman came up and bowed. She wasn’t carrying her usual double axe but something longish wrapped in a cloth. “Have you got a moment?”
“Sure.” Ireheart was glad of the interruption. His thoughts were going nowhere sensible, so they might as well stop.
He noticed her leggings and boots were soaked. “I didn’t know they’d put you on guard duty.”
“I’ve been wandering around.” Beligata cast a quick glance round the room before she took a seat and undid the fabric wrapping. A black blade appeared, one side of it adorned with long spikes.
“In case we ever need it,” she mouthed, looking at him expectantly.
Ireheart stared at the weapon then at the girl, whose facial scar was glowing. “The Scholar told me he had left it behind.”
“He did.” Beligata covered it over again. “In the general confusion, nobody noticed when I went back for it.” She placed her hand on it carefully and as she did so, her sleeve fell back, revealing a tattoo. “Bloodthirster is powerful. It is the only weapon that could rival Keenfire. It would not only suit a returned hero but also a High King.”
Young and inexperienced. Ireheart wiped his beard. It needed combing.
“You joined the Freelings,” he replied, in calm and fatherly tones. “But you think like a Thirdling. You want to be well-prepared for combat.” He placed his hand, too, on the shrouded weapon. “But this weapon is not suited for those wanting to do good. Tungdil left it behind on purpose.”
Beligata shifted uneasily on her chair. “It wasn’t easy keeping Bloodthirster hidden from the others. I expected praise, not a scolding.” Her expression was dark.
“I have given you an explanation. And I cannot let you keep the weapon.” Ireheart gave her a smile. “But I will arrange for it to disappear. For ever.” He took hold of it.
But Beligata did not release her grip, staring at Ireheart open-mouthed. There came a flash of animosity in her eyes. “I brought it back and so …” She bit her lip.
She needs someone to lead her. He maintained his friendly manner. “I think you are forgetting you are talking to your High King.”
“I’m a Freeling!”
“And you are clever. And you will sit at the same table when the dwarf kings deliberate. You can’t use that as an excuse.” He applied more pressure and felt rage begin to rise within him. Her disobedience was provoking him. His face felt hot and flushed. “You should never have gone to look for the weapon once its original owner had discarded it. Believe me: Tungdil knew why he wanted to leave it in the realm of demons.” He thought Beligata’s scar was starting to glow in the dull firelight, not unlike the illuminating moss underground. I wonder what that’s all about?
Beligata swallowed—and let go of Bloodthirster. “Then hide it somewhere I can’t find it,” she advised him, standing up briskly. “Or I’ll take it and do heroic deeds.”
“You’ve got a perfectly good double axe,” retorted Boïndil. He quickly took a swig of his drink. I mustn’t lose my temper. “It will bring you renown. But this weapon here,” he said, tapping the cloth, “would cost part of your soul.”
The girl turned on her heel and left the room.
“She’s a bold one,” came a voice out of the darkness at his ear. “But crazy.”
Tungdil stepped out of the shadows and sat down on a stool opposite his friend. He was wearing his usual red garment with its embroidered Vraccas rune over his heart. “Sometimes she reminds me of you.” He grinned. “I mean when you were younger, and launched yourself with a wild oink, oink against the orcs, as if they couldn’t possibly hurt you.”
“Well, they couldn’t, could they?” Ireheart had recovered from his surprise. “You steal around like a black-eyes.”
“I was half a black-eyes.” Tungdil laughed and tapped the white eye patch. “See this?”
“That’s a good one.”
“But I no longer use those powers. The zhadár would have had the better of me in many ways. That älf blood elixir that gave him fuel must have been tremendously strong.”
“Let’s hope he didn’t have any apprentices.” It occurred to Ireheart that Tungdil had the same grounding in alchemy. The firelight softened the otherwise alarming aspect of his disfigurement. Ireheart pointed at Bloodthirster. “I’ll have it destroyed.”
“It can withstand Keenfire. What could destroy a sword that used to belong to one of the Indestructibles? Magic?” Tungdil did not sound convinced. “All I could do was to re-shape it. If you want my advice, stick it in a catapult on one of the dwarf fortresses and hurl it out into the Outer Lands as far as it will go. It shouldn’t stay here
.” He watched the flames. “Do you know what I long for?”
“A beer?”
“A book.”
Ireheart had to grin. “That’s my Scholar.”
Tungdil made a sound somewhere between laughter and melancholy. “An empire that doesn’t respect book-learning is a lost empire. I intend to rest and to read. To read a lot. A great deal of new writing will have mounted up in the last two hundred and fifty cycles. I hear that an älf has made extensive records.”
“Indeed, there’s that and a whole range of other new works.” Ireheart placed Bloodthirster under his chair; he was delighted that his friend was not even attempting to steal a glance at it. “In the last few orbits you’ve been telling me about your life, terrible things.”
“And you had to soften the effect with beer,” Tungdil cut in, laughing. “Mind you don’t drink too much. You’ll recall I used to. Someone who drinks excessively won’t be able to make sensible decisions, and he’ll go downhill, always seeking to deal with his own needs first.” He put his hand on Ireheart’s shoulder. “I’d like to see you drinking less, old friend. Or can I guess the reason? It has something to do with the alteration.”
He can actually tell. The High King busied himself putting extra logs on the fire and got ready to reveal the truth about the zhadár potion. It was a tremendous effort but he forced himself to relate the story in detail.
“And ever since I tasted it, I’ve been addicted to it. It brings back the madness. It’s only when I have enough beer or spirits that I can keep the fury in check.” He struck himself on the chest. “It’s the old anger. If I hadn’t had a skinful, I’d have shouted at Beligata till her ears rang.”
Tungdil was thoughtful. “Do you know where the zhadár’s laboratory was?”