by Markus Heitz
From nowhere a long, shadowy shape sprang down from one of the horizontal beams, landing silently in front of her. The figure brandished Bloodthirster and slowly pointed its tip at her. Everyone in Girdlegard knew the face—old for an älf—with the branding marks on the cheeks.
It must be that Carmondai person. Gosalyn raised her weapon determinedly. “I don’t care if you’re the queen’s pet lapdog, black-eyes. I’m going to hammer you to shreds if you’ve hurt my friends.”
The älf directed a superior smile at her. “I am no longer the property of the Ido queen. I freed myself.”
He sprang overhead to the side wall and launched himself off, landing on one of the beams and merging back into the shadows. The lamp went out and the stable was pitch black.
“You’re welcome to kill me,” came a disembodied voice; then Gosalyn received a sharp push to the back of the knees, sending her face first to the straw-covered ground. A foot was placed on her wrist, preventing her from using her axe. “That’s if you can, of course.” The voice was at her ear now. A cold blade touched the nape of her neck. “But I think I’ve won. Wouldn’t you say so?”
Girdlegard
Grey Mountains
Kingdom of the Fifthling dwarves
Stone Gateway
6492nd solar cycle, autumn
Balyndar aimed the glowing diamond blade of Keenfire at the copper helmet in which the banned souls lay magically imprisoned, keeping the freakish being alive.
The ghaist shot up an arm in self-defence. Instead of attempting to block the blow by grabbing the axe handle, the creature seemed to be relying on its own indestructible nature. It was futile—the weapon swept through the limb, meeting no resistance. The giant creature recognised its mistake too late and tried to step back, bending its neck to keep the helmet out of the range of the diamond-encrusted axe blade.
“You shan’t escape!” Balyndar had aimed with skill, having included this possible reaction in his calculations. Perish as all evil perishes when struck by this weapon.
The glowing gem-encrusted edge crashed into the polished amber metal, making a dent and creating several individual holes that merged into a single cut. There was a noise like steam escaping from a pressurised boiler. With a screaming hiss, a dazzling white stream gushed straight up into the air.
The air smelt of melting metal and burning stone as the ghaist staggered around. The souls that had been so abruptly freed shot upwards in a surge of fiery sparks.
Balyndar raised Keenfire once more. Was one blow sufficient?
He made sure he did not come into contact with the stream of escaping souls. The myths about the weapon held that it would protect whoever wielded it against any spell—this he knew from the battlefield—but what he was confronting here was an entirely new form of energy born of the Outer Lands. He would take no chances.
The shrill whistling sound grew stronger as the pressure increased.
The giant creature laid a hand over the opening in the helmet, but its fingers were torn off by the strength of the light-stream. The helmet started to glow and the white spell runes melted together.
If it was good enough against a demon, it should be good enough for this thing! Balyndar leaped forward, intending to slice the helmet through with a powerful horizontal blow, allowing the banned souls a swifter departure. “For Vraccas!”
But before the blade even touched the magic creature, there was an explosion that burst the helmet wide open, sending shrapnel in all directions; the ear-splitting bang was followed by a pressure wave that swept over all the dwarves on the battlements.
Balyndar felt several metal splinters hit his helmet and chainmail. Keenfire could not shield him from the force of the detonation: it was only effective against magic and this was pure energy.
The fortress captain was lifted up like a leaf in the wind and whirled through the air. Many of his soldiers were also caught up in the tornado, and ownerless weapons, shields and parts of the catapults were flying around. All he could hear was the echo of the explosion. Balyndar stumbled and blundered in a spiralling cloud of debris. Now it was the stronghold beneath him, now the sky, and finally the fortress walkway again. He crashed down onto the battlements. Landing on his back, all the breath thumped out of him, he dropped Keenfire. He heard a crack and hot pain raced up his back. He had broken something.
Before he could assess the damage or grab his weapon, there was a bolt of lightning. He threw himself onto his front and instinctively jammed his helmet on tight, just as a wave of heat rolled over him. It was as if a god had tipped a huge furnace crucible over the fortress walls. Holding his breath to stop his lungs from burning, he prayed to Vraccas that his clothing wouldn’t catch fire. He could already smell his hair singeing. And he seemed to have gone deaf.
As soon as the heat let up, he raised his head to see what had happened and to gauge the extent of the damage.
He was now lying at the other end of the walkway, close to the tower by the gate hinges. Where the ghaist had been, the granite-block wall had been blasted away, leaving an opening two paces deep and ten paces long. The battlements had been demolished in that section and none of the machines were intact.
Many dwarves must have been hurled off the top of the gates; Balyndar could only see a few guards. Some lay under rubble or had been fatally injured by flying debris. It would look no different on the western side.
The metal wolf-cages had withstood the blast but they were glowing. What remained of the animals was grotesquely deformed, their bones broken and sticking out through burned fur. No survivors.
The ghaist has been exterminated.
As the pain from his injuries hit, Balyndar uttered a loud cry that to his own ears was almost inaudible. With a great effort and the last of his strength, he pulled his axe over and used it to help him get to his feet. He leaned against the wall to look over and see what had happened to the attacking army.
It seemed catapults and spear-throwing machines had done their work well before the devastating explosion had occurred. The road up to the gates was ablaze, and with it, the remains of the tattered rag-tag army had burned to ashes. The ramp they had erected had collapsed.
Balyndar sent a prayer of thanks up to Vraccas. He looked straight down at the outer gates, seeing nothing but smouldering flesh, bones and clothing.
He cried out in pain again, then bit down on his lower lip. He knew he was bleeding from several small, but deep, wounds where the copper fragments had torn into his body. He was about to lose consciousness and his vision blurred.
“Over there! There he is! Quick, get the healers up here!” He could just hear Girgandor’s voice, but it was indistinct. “You’re alive! Vraccas be praised!” A hazy outline of a figure approached.
Before Balyndar collapsed he thought he had seen something marked where the gates met. It could have been the point the man at the topmost point of the living ramp had reached before being crushed by the scalding pitch.
“They’ve … marked it,” he whispered to Girgandor, tasting blood on his burnt lips. “On the outside … they’ve marked how high they got.”
“I’ll go and check,” his deputy promised. “You killed it! A miracle! We’ve sent scouts to hunt down the other ghaist.”
Balyndar gave a sigh of near despair as his senses started to leave him. He had forgotten about the second ghaist.
Nobody will be able to stop it without Keenfire. Evil was making its way through the Grey Mountains into the heart of Girdlegard. And I’m just lying here. In confusion he tried to struggle up but Girgandor restrained him. “Get the dragons. We need them. We …”
It was no use. Everything had gone black.
Girdlegard
United Kingdom of Gauragar-Idoslane
Gauragar
6492nd solar cycle, early winter
Gosalyn knew which blade it was that she could feel pressing against the nape of her bare neck.
All she could think about was the fact that this sword w
as being deployed once again by an älf against a dwarf, for the first time in many cycles. And that she had Beligata to thank for it. She was about to die by a stroke from Bloodthirster.
Face down in the straw, she waited for the fatal blow that would extinguish the fire in her life-forge and send her to the Eternal Smithy to be reunited with friends and forebears.
“Your two companions are still alive,” Carmondai whispered in her ear. “I have merely put them out of action so you don’t all attack me at once when I have shown myself.”
“You’re going to let us live?”
“Of course. What use are your crooked bones to me?” He laughed and removed the tip of the weapon from her skin. “Just a joke. I’m not in the mood for bone-sculpting.”
Gosalyn reviewed the situation. Since he hadn’t killed her he must have some other aim. Taking hostages? Surely not. They weren’t important enough.
The letter to Boïndil’s wife? Hardly.
The knowledge from Lot-Ionan’s books? Gosalyn pushed herself up to sitting among the straw. “Where are my friends?” She looked at the älf who was wearing a long black mantle over simple dark-coloured clothing. Although his skull bore only stubble and his thin face had lost much of its beauty due to the branding, he still had an impressive aura of distinction. It had nothing to do with fear.
The lamp regained its brightness.
“I’ve tied Hargorin to the anvil. Beligata will wake up sooner or later with her mouth full of hay.” Carmondai held Bloodthirster like a seasoned warrior. She could tell the älf was capable of more than merely writing. Not only had he retained his agility, it was obvious he knew how to wield the blade.
“How do you know our names?”
He gave a friendly smile. “I have been listening to you for some time. You all seem quite at ease in spite of being on a secret mission for your High King. There could be assassins lurking.”
“Ones like you, black-eyes?”
He sat down cross-legged in the straw so they could look each other comfortably in the eye. “That’s better.” He seemed alert but not on edge. “I’ll talk to you first since you’re the most sensible one.”
“I know what is said of you. You can charm anyone with your flattery.”
“No, that’s Rodario you mean,” he said with a smile. “I prefer to use my intellect rather than dazzle. Same as you.” The älf pointed north. “I had to flee from Oakenburgh because that little girl from the Outer Lands accused me of a deed I did not commit.”
“Well, of course.” Gosalyn made a dismissive gesture. “We all know your race is famous for being peace-loving.”
“Did I spare your life or didn’t I?”
“Only because you want to lull me in a false sense of security and then use me for your own ends.”
Carmondai sighed. “The celebrated stubbornness of the groundlings.” He sat up straight and rubbed his back. “I used to find it easy to jump like that.”
The dwarf-woman grinned maliciously. “You should be glad that you’re getting older.”
“I’m not glad yet. Maybe one day.” He looked her over. “That Outer Lands child has magic powers,” he continued. “I know what she is and that she has used spells to subject all of Girdlegard’s heads of state to her will. Mallenia has given all that land away to the elves, and then there’s the weird reconciliation between Dirisa and Natenian. And that’s only the beginning. By the time she’s older and more powerful, she’ll have entire regions under her thumb.” Carmondai inclined his head a little. “She belonged to the magician families from the Outer Lands who send out the ghaists as scouts.”
“Rubbish!” Gosalyn tried to contradict the älf’s words, spoken with such calm clarity. But she remembered what the High King had said about the assassin who had broken in to the council meeting. He couldn’t understand how the älf missed his mark with the child.
“Ask your ruler. He was in that session recently when sworn enemies were suddenly all hand in hand and best friends.” Carmondai looked at her. “You will have talked about it. I can see it in your face.”
Gosalyn did not tell him she had been part of the troop that had originally found Sha’taï in the abandoned settlement.
“Can the girl influence an älf, too?” She told Carmondai what had happened during and after the attack at the first Council meeting in Freestone—and was horrified when she saw him nod.
“We do possess an inherent degree of magic that can protect us to a certain extent, but we’re not wholly immune,” he said thoughtfully.
“How come she didn’t get you under her spell?”
Carmondai nodded again. “Good question. I think it was because she’s not strong enough yet to break my will. I’m too experienced. Simply too old.”
“Like the High King, I suppose.” It slipped out.
“Did she try it with him?”
“He said he felt pins and needles when everyone was praying to the gods and they all held hands. And Sha’taï was standing right in the middle.” Gosalyn had stopped fighting against everything Carmondai was telling her. It all seemed to make sense when she compared it with what her own monarch had said. “So she wants to take over as ruler.”
“She wants power in Girdlegard,” he corrected. “She’s clever enough not to launch a direct attempt. She will put a figure on the throne who thinks he is in charge, but in reality she’ll be the one driving him. I think she’s planning to use the kings and queens for her own ends until she’s strong enough to do it herself.” He slid his hands along Bloodthirster’s blade. “Nobody listened to my warning.”
“Who’s going to believe what an älf says?” said Gosalyn.
Carmondai tapped out a little applause on the weapon with his free hand. “I need someone people are going to trust, who can rip Sha’taï’s mask of cute innocence off.”
“Us, of course!”
“I’m afraid it was the missing maga I was thinking of,” he replied politely. “You and your friends are looking for her. I’ll help you. And between us we’ll make sure Girdlegard doesn’t fall under yet another yoke of subjugation.”
Gosalyn had to laugh. “Don’t tell me there’s such a thing as an honourable älf? Never. Inàste and Tion gave you black souls. There’s something else you’re working towards. Perhaps you’re in cahoots with Sha’taï and you’re making fools of us.”
“Or perhaps I’m telling the truth, little dwarf. And if so, you’d regret not believing me till the end of your days. And the end of your days would arrive soon enough if you confront that child.”
“What if we don’t want to go along with your plan?”
“I’ll carry on the search on my own and leave you to your fates. But in my view we’d have a better chance of success if we work together.”
“You’ll get no thanks for it.”
“All I want is a pardon.” Carmondai seemed to have a sudden thought. “Did I mention that I’ve got a good idea where there might be other magic sources in Girdlegard?” He placed both slender hands on Bloodthirster. “I don’t want to boast, but I’ve been here for a very long time. There are secrets that only I know.”
Gosalyn hated herself for it but she got up from the straw and headed for the door. “I’ll get Hargorin. I think we can talk him round.” Carmondai smiled at her; it made him look more dangerous than ever. Wielding the black weapon that used to belong to the Inextinguishables, he had tremendous presence. He looked authoritative and dynamic enough to found his own empire.
Gosalyn left to see how the red-haired dwarf was. She would not trust the älf. No matter how he whispers and flatters.
And anyway, Hargorin might come storming into the barn to cut the runaway history-teller’s head right off.
A dwarf will always avoid long fights and long speeches. It simply takes too much effort.
Dwarf saying
XIII
Girdlegard
United Kingdom of Gauragar-Idoslane
Gauragar, Highstead
6492nd solar cycle, winter
Mallenia was truly delighted to see so many familiar faces in Highstead’s temple to Palandiell. The only thing that made her uneasy was her own attire: she was wearing a dress rather than her normal warrior’s garb and it made her feel somewhat weak and vulnerable. She noticed the men looking at her in a way they wouldn’t have done if she had been wearing armour. Why do women like to dress like this?
On this sacred festival-orbit of the goddess, shortly after the winter full moon when night and day were equal, the United Kingdom of Gauragar-Idoslane’s contract with the elf realm of Ti Lesîndur was to be finalised, relinquishing possession of a large number of square miles of land to the northeast.
The circular green and white marble form of the consecrated building was highly symbolic. There was a ten-pace tall statue of the goddess at the south side and the walls bore murals depicting the deeds of Palandiell. No benches or chairs were present. The floor was soft raked earth and since it was still warm, plants and flowers decorated the temple. Some wooden planks formed a pathway so that the nobles’ shoes stayed clean.
The goddess was portrayed carrying an abundant sheaf of grain in her outstretched right hand and a cornucopia under her left arm. A wreath of grapes and vine leaves crowned her head and golden grass sprouted under her feet. The sculpture was in magnificent white marble left unpainted for the stone’s warmth to be admired. She towered over the assembled throng.
Directly in front of Mallenia there were five steps leading to a long, steel altar heaped with gifts and offerings to be burned. The sacrificial stone for the killing of animals was off to one side. Mallenia had issued instructions to the priests that there was to be no blood sacrifice today; she did not consider it appropriate for a gift ceremony.
Apart from Rodario, those present for the ceremony included Dirisa, Astirma and even the oft-absent Isikor. Pomp and circumstance ruled the day and guards lined the walls behind the heads of state in case the älfar made a new assassination attempt.