by Markus Heitz
“That would be the end for more than just my own people.” Phenîlas moved slowly back towards the lift platform.
“Stay here and listen to my accusations!” the former regent lunged at Phenîlas, but the latter turned adeptly, so that Natenian’s sticky fingers only brushed the elf’s silken collar.
Damn! He’s ruined my shirt. “If you live to see it, you’ll understand my words. We shall make the writings of the Creator public when the due time comes. I am not at liberty to tell you when that will be.” He pointed at the half-demolished piles of fruit and fragments of cake. “Although by then maybe you’ll have stuffed yourself with everything that is bad for you and you’ll be dead.” With an impatient gesture he tugged at his own collar and frowned at the obvious marks.
Natenian lowered his head and the strands of his brown hair now looked black. “I don’t know how you can live with it.” He looked down at his fingers with their juice stains from the berries.
The elf smiled blandly. “Find yourself a drug that’ll give you sweet dreams. Let my master know what you have in mind as compensation for the throne you have given up.” He turned and went to the lift. What a pointless meeting. I still don’t know why he wanted to see me.
“Tell your Naishïon that his betrayal will cost him dear,” the old man called after his retreating figure.
Phenîlas was tempted to stop and advise him not to threaten the elf realm, but after a short hesitation, he continued on his way. The disempowered king needed to vent his anger and hurt and feelings that he had been the victim of treachery. He would understand if he knew Sitalia’s writings. “Have some more berries if they’re so bad for you. And eat them fast.”
There was no response.
When Phenîlas had reached the lift shaft with its heavy stone-flagged cover, he touched the activator with his foot. This alerted staff inside the house and the grinding of cogs and gears began. The next sound, however, was a dull thud from behind him.
The elf turned back to Natenian.
But the man had disappeared; shouts of dismay were heard. Natenian had thrown himself over the edge of the terrace. It seems he thought it would take too long for the fruit to kill him.
A bell rang, the shaft cover opened and two servants arrived with the platform. They stared at him aghast. Their eyes travelled down to the marks on his collar tabs. The fingermark stains. The elf realised just what picture the scene presented: the broken crockery, the shouts, the crutches leaning against the table, and the nobleman himself lying in a heap in the courtyard—everything pointed to a violent struggle.
And murder.
Girdlegard
United Kingdom of Gauragar-Idoslane
Gauragar
6492nd solar cycle, early winter
“How far still to go?”
Gosalyn drew in her breath in exasperation on hearing Beligata’s nervous question. It must have been the fourth time that orbit.
“We’ll be there soon,” she threw back the answer over her shoulder, getting a mouthful of snowflakes for her pains. “Tomorrow at the latest.”
Hargorin grunted agreement and silence fell once more as the little band of dwarves continued on their way through Girdlegard on the secret mission directed by the High King.
Their first destination lay to the south, in the Blue Mountains.
To get there they had to get through Gauragar and then attempt the crossing of the desert kingdom of Sangpûr. They were all three dreading that. The soft hills of sand often shifted position and one could sink down and disappear in the dunes. Forbidding stretches of bare hot scree where nothing grew offered no shelter from the pitiless sun. Nights would be cold and there would be no fuel for a fire to warm them.
But for now they were still riding through Gauragar.
Winters here in the southern region adjoining the Sangpûr border were milder and kinder than those the mountain dwarves were accustomed to. So Hargorin, Beligata and Gosalyn had not bothered with cumbersome furs and had made do with lined cloaks worn over their doublets and chainmail. They were too hot more often than they were cold. But they presented an odd picture to the locals in their flimsy get-up as they passed through the towns and villages, trotting southward-bound on their ponies.
And they call this cold. Gosalyn was tickled at the thought. Not even an infant dwarf would be shivering in this weather. Anyone who had ever stood keeping watch at a dwarf festival knew the biting winds that put icicles in your beard; they made you feel like your eyeballs were freezing over or your limbs were about to shatter.
What the Gauragarian winter was offering was more like late autumn. Hargorin, riding out in front, headed for a thatched farmhouse a little way back from the road. The border town of Blackground was only four miles away but the dwarf seemed to have a reason for diverting from the main route.
“What’s the matter?” asked Gosalyn. “You hungry?”
“The pony’s going lame. I think he needs shoeing. Talek’s done well so far and I don’t want to overdo it with him. We’ve a long journey ahead of us and he has to know I appreciate him.” Hargorin and Gosalyn heard the clearly audible groan.
The two Fifthlings declined to comment on Beligata’s attitude. She had been complaining ever since they set out. She did not like the pace of progress, she did not like the route chosen and she did not agree with decisions about when and where to stop for rests. If she makes one more remark, I’ll confront her.
They reached the farm.
Hargorin indicated that Gosalyn should dismount and knock. Though they were far enough south that there was less likelihood any of the locals would recognise the red-bearded one-time delegate of the Black Squadron, a female dwarf face would ensure a better reception. Gosalyn stomped through the mounds of heavy, wet snow. This was not a bit like the soft flakes that fell in the mountains.
A couple of loud knocks on the wooden door brought a response. The door opened a crack and a wrinkled, stubbly masculine face appeared. He looked out at the wrong level at first, over Gosalyn’s head.
“Oh, so there you are,” the old man giggled, looking down. His teeth were yellow and misaligned and his breath smelt of food and red wine. “Three Children of Vraccas. Looking for somewhere to stay the night.” Sulphur-coloured hair hung thin across his pate.
Gosalyn nodded. “Would you have somewhere for us?”
A gouty finger emerged and pointed at the barn. “Over there. You can sleep in the barn. It’s warm there. I’ll send you over some food.” And the door slammed shut.
Hospitality of sorts. The long’uns are full of surprises.
“I suppose that was a no?” Beligata called. She was already turning her pony.
“No.” Gosalyn jogged over. “He said we could stay in the barn.”
The scar-faced dwarf-woman corrected her pony’s direction and headed for the attached stables.
“Well done,” Hargorin said. “Do you think he’d let me use his forge?”
Oh dear. Gosalyn knocked once more.
The door opened again, just a little. “What is it?”
“Can we use your forge? We need to fix a horseshoe.” She couldn’t see the man through the slit. Strange behaviour.
“Since when do dwarves wear horseshoes?” croaked the old man, opening the door a little wider and handing out a tray with black bread, some cheese and smoked meat. “Here you are. Sure, you can use it but don’t burn the place down.”
And the door slammed shut again.
Wonder what’d happen if I knocked again. She grinned. Best not try. Or I might have to give the food back.
“That’s a nice welcome,” Hargorin said with a grimace. He took the reins of Gosalyn’s pony and led it over to the barn while the dwarf-woman carried the food.
Beligata had already opened up the stable door and ridden in. There was a loud moo and the smell of cattle steamed out into the air. The vicinity of the animals would warm them in the hayloft.
Gosalyn quickly lit the petroleum lamp that hun
g on one of the pillars. The three tethered their ponies at the back of the stable, keeping them apart from the poorly-tended cows with their dangerously long horns. It was not a given that herd animals would be friendly to other beasts.
A cow would be no substitute for a pony. Gosalyn tried to picture Beligata riding a long-horned cow, bouncing up and down on its curved back. The thought made her laugh.
The cattle were starting to settle and the ponies fed on the dried grass. Gosalyn unsaddled them and rubbed them down, while Hargorin made for the little forge.
Beligata sat up in the hayloft, letting her legs dangle over the edge, melted snow dripping from her boots, as she watched what Gosalyn was doing. “Do you think we’ll find anything at all in the magus’ writings?” She sounded doubtful as to the outcome of their mission.
This put Gosalyn into a bad mood. “Why else would the High King have sent us out?”
“Because he doesn’t know what else to do?” Beligata stared at the roof supports. “Bad construction, this. He’ll lose his thatch the next time there’s a big storm. The wires are loose.”
“Why not mend it? It could be our way of thanking him.”
“Do I look like an artisan?”
“You’re a Freeling, aren’t you? You people can do anything,” was Gosalyn’s acid reply, referencing the fact that the warrior woman actually belonged to the Thirdling tribe.
“I can do more than you can, that’s for sure,” said Beligata, taking up the gauntlet. “It wouldn’t be hard to beat you.”
Gosalyn raised her head slowly. “Beat me? At what?”
Acting innocent, the dark-haired dwarf-woman swung her legs faster, making some of the hay fall down; the light of challenge shone in her light-coloured eyes. “It doesn’t matter. Anything. You choose and I’ll win. I’ll wipe the floor with you.”
Gosalyn laughed and went on grooming the ponies. “Sure.”
“Are you waiting to be told what to do?”
“I’m not playing your game. The High King told us our mission is to get to the Blue Mountains and give his wife a message. We also have to look at Lot-Ionan’s sketches and plans to see if there are any indications of other magic sources in Girdlegard.”
“I was stood right next to you when he said that,” Beligata crowed, sticking a dried flower stem between her teeth and flicking it up and down, sending petals everywhere. “But we’d need an expert to understand the books. Or are you any good with magic formulae and the secret language of a magus? That is, if the writings still actually exist and haven’t been destroyed ages ago by the Secondlings.”
The Secondling dwarves had been obliged to cleanse their homeland from the influence of the magus. It was extremely unlikely they would have treated the books with care if that was where all the evil had started.
Then she pointed out, “Can you see the Scholar anywhere?”
“No,” said Gosalyn, controlling her anger.
Beligata spat the flower out. “He should have come with us.”
“Tungdil needs rest. Have you seen how many scars he has?” Gosalyn went to the next pony and took a couple of handfuls of fresh straw to rub it down with. “He must have gone through appalling experiences in the last two hundred and fifty cycles.” She thought back to that night under the shelter of the tree when she’d seen his upper body naked as they sat together at the fireside. Plenty of pain for body and soul.
“Exactly the same as the other Tungdil.” Beligata gave a harsh laugh. “There’s probably a mould in some smithy back in Phondrasôn for turning out Tungdils. New one each cycle, I shouldn’t wonder. Wake them up, breathe magic into them and send them to us.” She stopped swinging her legs. “But he would still be useful.” Gosalyn had been thinking during the journey along much the same lines.
“I agree with you.” The brown-haired Fifthling rubbed the pony’s back. “We could do with having him along.”
“If we don’t find the books and we don’t find any clues—or even any records and sketches”—Beligata went on—“what then?”
“Then we carry on searching.”
“What for? Searching for the source or for Coïra?”
“Both.” Gosalyn was wishing Hargorin would come back. The veteran soldier would know better than she would and could explain things. He could make Beligata shut up. “If you don’t think we can succeed, I don’t see why you came.” She looked up at the Freeling.
“I obey the High King. Well, almost.” Beligata grinned and reached between the hay bales at her side. To Gosalyn’s surprise, she drew out and brandished Bloodthirster. “And anyway, I want a chance to try out this beauty.”
“Where did you get that?”
The scar-faced dwarf-woman laughed at her. “I took it, showed it to the High King and he … let me have it.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“He did express it slightly differently, I admit,” Beligata said. “But he can’t really object.” She laid the weapon across her knees. “Finders-keepers. And I’m looking forward to slicing some beast in half with it. Bloodthirster’s said to be able to do that.”
What recklessness. Vraccas must have hewn her ancestors from particularly rebellious stone. Gosalyn exhaled sharply. “Does Hargorin have any idea that you’re doing your own thing here?”
“No. And it makes no difference. I’m keeping it.” Beligata laid the weapon lovingly onto the ground at her side. “I wonder if there are still any monsters in the Blue Mountains? Do you think the Secondlings eliminated them all? People say the gate was open for quite a time when Lot-Ionan was in charge. Perhaps there’ll be one of those nice little freaks mooching around in the valleys for me to kill.”
Gosalyn moved to tend the last of the ponies. “There are hardly any more beasts. You won’t need that terrible blade.”
“What if the elves attack?”
Gosalyn rolled her blue-brown eyes. “The elves are glad we’re keeping the gates closed.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Beligata cut herself a slice of cheese the farmer had given them. “They could have captured the maga. Maybe they’re lying to us. As soon as they hear we’re looking for Coïra, they might think they need to get rid of us.”
“If you could give me one”—Gosalyn held up one straw—“very, very good reason why and how the elves would have put a maga in chains, then you’ll have won.”
Beligata grinned and bit into her cheese. “I’ll have a think.” She chewed. “There’s that elf they’re holding in Wheattown for murdering Natenian.”
“What’s that got to do with the maga?” The dwarves had picked up the news about the events following the coronation on their journey. Dirisa had to keep the suspect in prison until investigations were complete. This was infuriating both the Tabaîn population and the elves’ supreme leader. “That’s only just happened and Coïra’s been missing for ages.”
“Hang on! I’ve got something better.” Beligata waved her free hand to and fro. “The united elf state must not be endangered in any way. Who could stop them? Human soldiers? Hardly.” She lifted one finger. “Here’s your answer: Coïra. She is the only one powerful enough to oppose Ataimînas. If they eliminate her, the elves can do anything they want. Apart from here in our dwarf regions.” She wiggled her finger triumphantly. “And who’s won the argument, do you think?”
“Coïra went to Ilahín and his spouse Fiëa as a friend and ally,” Gosalyn objected, only to earn raucous laughter.
“You know how quickly things can change.” Now her voice lost its mocking tone. “Combat comrades can become enemies.” She lifted Bloodthirster again, pointing its tip to the roof. “That can happen in the very midst of battle.” Her features took on a cruel tinge. “Take Hargorin and me: we’re both Thirdlings. Known as the dwarf-haters, heirs to Lorimbur,” she hissed. “And you, Gosalyn? What are you?”
“Your king declared the feud was over. And anyway, you call yourself a Freeling.”
“My tribal designation doesn’t have anyth
ing to do with how I feel.” Beligata frowned down at Gosalyn. “Perhaps I left the tribe so I wouldn’t have to renounce the feud.” She was speaking quietly, her voice merciless. “Quite a few Thirdlings did the same.” At this the scar on Beligata’s face opened, releasing deep red blood that trickled down her cheek like a stream of dark tears.
Gosalyn swallowed hard. She wasn’t afraid for her own safety, being a hardened fighter who knew how to defend herself, but Beligata’s words sounded plausible. Our own unity is at stake.
Noticing the trickle of blood, Beligata wiped it away and pressed her hand on the scar. “We call ourselves …” she began, bending forward, but then the stable door slammed shut with a crash.
Both the dwarf women were startled, eyes turned to the doorway.
Good thing he’s come back, thought Gosalyn.
But there was no sign of Hargorin. It must have been the wind. The girls looked at each other questioningly. Without voicing their concerns, both of them were worried that their leader had been out so long.
“I’ll go and check on him,” Gosalyn said. “Perhaps he’s having trouble with his leg.”
“And a warrior like him wouldn’t be able to sort himself out or call for help?” Beligata slid over to the edge of the hayloft platform and got ready to jump down. Her scar had stopped bleeding. “I’ll come with you. We don’t know who else might be in the house with the old fellow.”
This was fine by Gosalyn. She turned to go out, loosening the fastening of her short axe. “I didn’t hear any voices, but you’re right.” And it’ll divert her attention from this stupid challenge she thinks she’s won.
When she reached the door she still hadn’t heard the sound of Beligata landing in the soft straw.
“What’s the matter? Scared?” She looked back over her shoulder.
There was no dwarf-woman up in the hayloft and there was no sign that anyone had jumped into the pile of straw on the floor.
Gosalyn drew her weapon and moved cautiously sideways, her back to the brick wall, the better to look up at the loft and roof beams. If this is some kind of a joke …