by Markus Heitz
As the älf had heard, Coïra had no choice but to remain in this very spot, even though she was Weyurn’s ruler. A new magic realm where Lot-Ionan used to be. He had known quite a few of the magae and magi now long gone. He had recorded their names in his histories. So much of his work—thousands of pages, drawings and even paintings—had got lost.
The älf had settled down in a broad hollow tree for warmth and shelter from the wind. He had arranged with Hargorin that he would remain nearby. He saw the Thirdling king as an ally he could make use of; after all, he would owe him since Carmondai had saved his life, as well as those of Beligata and Gosalyn. These had not been entirely selfless actions. Carmondai was still outlawed and if Mallenia’s troops found him, he would have to fight to defend himself; he could use all the support he could get. And the älf was counting on Hargorin taking him to the Black Mountains. From there I can escape into the Outer Lands.
But for now there was something he wanted to do, as soon as night fell.
Carmondai was aware of the message the ghaists had delivered so obediently. Now there was no doubt about a power threatening Girdlegard.
The älf had learned in earlier times about the botoicans. He wrote about their dynasties, based on what Caphalor and Sinthoras had told him. The exact circumstances of their meeting had been kept vague but this kind of magic to influence and manipulate masses of people had impressed him. If the Inextinguishables had known the extent of the botoicans’ power they would have gone out on campaign against them.
Apart from one small episode, those magicians had played no role at all in the fate of Girdlegard. The belt of mighty mountains, deep ravines and steep unclimbable slopes formed an effective protective barrier. But now there’s a reason to try to conquer the land. Carmondai had seen how charming the child could be—it was as if she exuded a perfume that affected hearts and minds. She is one of them.
The älf was not concerned about whether Girdlegard was going to be destroyed. His own race was no longer in power; humans had disfigured and continually humiliated him. It would give a certain amount of satisfaction to describe the fall of Girdlegard, even though he might be the only reader. He had been compliant for too long.
But he owed Sha’taï something for her attempt back in Oakenburgh to have the mob kill him. Before following Hargorin to the Black Mountains, there was a task to carry out.
When the sun went down over the snowfields that night, the älf left his hiding place.
The fact that a group of dwarf riders arrived at the farmstead at the same time was convenient. It would divert any unwelcome attention from him. This would make it easier for Carmondai to carry out his mission.
He told me about his deeds—his feats in battle, his black moments and his glorious victories.
Folk in Girdlegard had no idea what their hero had suffered.
Or what he had done.
How he subjugated a large part of Phondrasôn and then awoke from the dream without being able to escape the terror. A horrifying intoxication.
Secret notes for
The Writings of Truth
written under duress by Carmondai
XIX
Girdlegard
United Kingdom of Gauragar-Idoslane
Idoslane
6492nd solar cycle, winter
They came and are saying nothing. Tungdil let his gaze roam round the dwarf faces gathered at the table. At the beginning of the session here on the maga’s estate, he had filled them in on what they needed to know about his experiences in Phondrasôn and how his doppelgänger had come about, only to die at the Black Abyss at a blow from Keenfire.
After he had spoken, the High King took over. He told them about the prophecy, about the hammer and the anvil and how it was interpreted to mean the dwarves must take to the trail to combat and smash the evil.
From that point on silence had reigned. It was an uneasy silence, much as if something valuable had crashed to the floor or a favourite pet had died in full view of everyone.
Xamtor Boldface from the clan of the Bold Faces, King of the Firstlings, sipped at his glass of water, evaluating what he had heard, as the others were also doing. His armour was characterised by ornate steel and iron decoration, while the rings on his gauntlets and the clips in his rust-brown beard were made of vraccasium.
Balyndis Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers was looking at her hands as if she could see the future there. The queen was clad in black leather breeches, a white fur cloak and a simple mail shirt with her own device on it. Her long, dark brown hair she had piled high, held in place with a heavy, twisted gold ring.
It was not easy for Tungdil to look at Balyndis. Even after such a long time, he felt something stir inside. Two hundred and fifty cycles. Deep under the earth, hemmed in by evil, he had often thought about her—mostly with warm emotion, sometimes with melancholy and regret. Vraccas and Samusin had given them fates that drove them both apart. What will happen now I have returned? One thing he knew for certain: I want her back. But first she would have to forgive him.
Balyndis looked at him in the same way as she looked at all the others present: kind, but with no hint of anything more in her heart for him than friendship and a memory of good times in the past. Is she faking the friendly attitude? Tungdil was unsure. He glanced at her and away again, forcing himself to direct his thoughts to the assembly.
Frandibar Gemholder of the clan of the Gold Beaters, ruler of the Fourthlings, seemed lost in the engravings on his goblet. His silver armour with its polished gold inlay shone like the gemstones embedded in it. He wore his shoulder-length blond hair in ringlets; his side-whiskers grew down to his chest and his chin was decorated by a fine braided beard. The rest of his head hair was shorn short.
Brown-haired Gordislan the Younger from Trovegold, the underground city of the Freelings, seemed to be mulling things over, his expression blank. He was the only one to have eschewed armour, as if he wanted to challenge the traditions of his people. He wore a simple garment of red and brown leather.
Hargorin was the only one watching the High King. He was not surprised at the prophecy, having been close to events during the recent orbits.
“I may be King of the Thirdlings—and perhaps I really ought to be the last to speak—but if everyone’s still lost in thought, I’m happy to start.” He tapped his metal leg. “There has been much in the past in the way of measures to save Girdlegard. I never doubted what I was doing. I occasionally regretted having to make a show of carrying out the wishes of the Triplets, but I always knew where we were heading: to their downfall.” He got to his feet. “When it comes to the subject presently under discussion, I have no idea. Neither where to go with our warriors nor what we might have to contend with—nor even whether there might be any prospect of success.” He pointed to Boïndil. “I know that your word binds us all, High King, but if you let us choose, I would be against a campaign that is executed just for the sake of it.”
Frandibar tapped his goblet with be-ringed fingers, to indicate he wanted to speak. Xamtor interrupted by banging his gauntlet on the table surface. This was what Tungdil had feared. He would wait until the queen and all the kings had had their say.
Frandibar stood up, his armour shining. “Never, in the history of our race, has an anvil gone out to collect the iron that its hammer was asked to beat into shape. The horseshoe always comes to the smith, to the anvil and the hammer.” He waved his chin in the general direction of the map they had spread out on the table and his beard braid swung hither and thither. “We don’t know even how many of us are still alive.”
“We have enough,” said Boïndil.
“Enough to man the ramparts and deter a larger number from attacking us,” the Fourthling king said.
“And even then it’s touch and go with numbers.” Balyndis raised her hand, apologising for the interruption. “The ragged army demanded everything our defences had to offer. Our supplies of petroleum and Vraccas fire have been restocked but withou
t our walls to protect us, they would have overwhelmed us in open field.” She indicated to Frandibar that he could continue.
“I have nothing more to add,” said the blond king, taking his seat.
“I’m against it, too.” Xamtor stuck by what had already been said. “Enough talk. The reasons are obvious.”
“But if anvil and hammer do not take to the campaign trail,” Boïndil stressed, “our homeland might be lost.”
“Whose prophecy are you going by? The one made by the elf goddess?” Xamtor shook his head, his salt and pepper locks flying. “And to cap it all, we’re supposed to hand over our strongholds to the elves to run things? They know nothing about the tunnels and have no idea how to use our catapults.”
The others agreed with him.
“There’s no way of knowing whether or not the whole thing is a trick.” Frandibar looked at the map. “Ever since the Eoîl Atár, the elves have given us problems. We’ve never been able to trust them. Now there are thousands of them here in Girdlegard and there are thousands more at the gates. If they are in charge of controlling admission, they’ll have taken over completely. I’d be surprised if they let us back in.”
“Exactly.” Balyndis looked at Boïndil. “Before you give us your command to follow Sitalia’s predictions, please realise that I shall be resisting your orders.”
“Have we got anyone able to check the prophecy for authenticity?” Xamtor’s gaze fell on Tungdil. “They used to call you the Scholar. Any of that stuff left?”
Tungdil smiled and got to his feet. “I saw the book where the words of the goddess are recorded. It’s written in an ancient dialect and there were a few symbols I’d never seen before.” He shrugged. “These are predictions that someone has written down. We weren’t there at the time and we cannot guarantee they are authentic. Ataimînas and his subjects, on the other hand, are all totally convinced the words are beyond doubt.”
“That was an answer, of sorts, I suppose,” said Frandibar. “But it’s left us none the wiser.”
“Nothing I can say throws any light on the subject.” Tungdil was at pains not to mislead them.
“We have an old document. That much is known. For anything else, as concerns content and interpretation, we are dependent on the Naishïon.”
“That means we have nothing.” Xamtor leaned back in his seat. “I’m with Balyndis. My Firstlings won’t be shifting out of the fortress, High King. No self-respecting Child of the Smith is going to trust an elf goddess.”
Hargorin gave a tut of approval. “Same here for the Black Mountains. My Thirdlings love a campaign, but against a foe they can see. To take off into the wild blue yonder? No. No way.” His expression was apologetic. “The worst that could happen is they’d lose their confidence in me and in the High King, and that would be the end of our alliance. Going to war based on Sitalia’s prophecy would cause more harm than the loss of some of our warriors.”
I think I know where he’s coming from. Tungdil knew that there were a number of Thirdlings who did not hold with being allies with the other tribes. This was the legacy that Lorimbur had left them: keeping up the ancient feuds. It was only Hargorin’s strict regime holding them all together.
Boïndil kept stroking his black and silver beard. “This is just what I was expecting. The timing is bad, too—only one cycle after the last great battle.” He indicated the map. “Our place is here, as hundreds of cycles have shown.”
“Until the orbit the battle at the Black Abyss broke out,” Tungdil contradicted. “I have only heard about it, of course, but without the dwarf contingents, it could have ended very differently.” Before others could argue on this point he raised his hand. “I am aware the aim was to protect Girdlegard. But I still think,” he said, pointing north, “that this is an important undertaking.”
Balyndis frowned. Her round face was older now and the fuzz on her cheeks more pronounced. The burdens of high office had hardened her features. “Do I understand correctly? That you are in favour of this campaign?”
His pulse quickened, feeling her eyes on him. “I would consider it wrong to set out blind with a mighty army in tow,” he began, cautiously. “But the thought intrigues me: how about sending out an advance party to investigate? To find out where the ghaists are from? Who sent them? And what’s the story with this girl-child the humans and elves are so devoted to?”
“No! Don’t do it! No way,” thundered Boïndil, horrified. “We have not just welcomed back Girdlegard’s greatest hero merely to have him head straight back out for the wilderness.”
“Wouldn’t that be just what a hero does?” Tungdil laughed quietly and clapped his friend on the shoulder.
“I forbid it, Scholar! I’m the High King and you have to obey me!”
“Calm yourself, old friend. I’ll go and I’ll come back, trusting in Vraccas. He did keep me safe in Phondrasôn for two hundred and fifty cycles, after all.”
“And you’ll have me at your side,” volunteered Hargorin swiftly. “Rognor is an excellent chancellor and possibly even a better king than I am for the Thirdlings. I see myself cut out for other tasks. Beligata and Gosalyn will want to be there, too. Strictly speaking, we didn’t actually find you the first time. You found us. We’ve got to make up for that.”
“Then my orders are that every tribe send a warrior, male or female, to accompany you,” said Boïndil, cleverly. “Perhaps that might even fulfil the goddess’ prophecy: a united army, on the campaign trail to confront the enemy.”
“You could be a scholar yourself, Ireheart,” Tungdil laughed. “The handful of us against hundreds of thousands? But then you always did like a challenge.”
“Oink, oink,” Boïndil honked his battle cry with a glint in his eye, even though he was anything but joyful.
“Then we should focus our attention on two things,” Xamtor chimed in, satisfied with the new arrangements. “First, how do we interpret the predictions Sitalia made? Second, what do we know about the land to the north our great hero is heading for?”
“Do you mean what do we know, ourselves, or do you want to ask someone who’s been there before?” Hargorin inquired with a conspiratorial air.
Girdlegard
United Kingdom of Gauragar-Idoslane
Idoslane
6492nd solar cycle, winter
Carmondai had to admit the mission was more stressful than he originally expected. The time spent in Mallenia’s custody, more or less restricted to the tower, victim to a mixture of self-pity, melancholy and defiance, had not improved his physical condition. He had made a gradual start with exercise—as he had done in a previous era when imprisoned by the Triplets—so as not to lose muscle or agility, but this was another thing entirely, creeping up unnoticed and quickly to a heavily guarded estate building. This was no gentle wander through Girdlegard at his ease.
Wearing black clothing that he had stolen off unsuspecting washerwomen at work by a stream, he was hard to spot in the dark as long as he was not forced to move across an open snowfield. He held Bloodthirster in his left hand, and darted from cover to cover, passing the sentries and reaching the outbuilding on the left-hand side. He had been aware for some time that there was a slight magical vibe radiating out from the source field.
Breathing too loud for his own comfort, he spied round the corner. The inner yard was brightly lit and armoured dwarves, humans and elves were gathered, talking as they stood round braziers, drinking together in a relaxed atmosphere. Nobody would be expecting trouble, given the number of people present.
That, at any rate, was what Carmondai devoutly hoped.
On the other hand, he remembered there had been an attack in Freetown. It had been quite some time ago but presumably it might have led to there being additional security measures in the interior of the building. Perhaps even magic ones.
In spite of all that, Carmondai was not willing to give up his self-appointed task. But I’ll never get past all these people without being seen. He looked up to the
roof. The distance between the main building and the outhouses he calculated to be around eight paces. As an älf, this could be done if you took a run at it. Though the roof tiles were covered in damp snow, which would make take-off and landing difficult. Any bits of snow falling from the roof would also alert the sentries or the crowd in the courtyard.
I’ll have a go anyway. Carmondai fastened Bloodthirster to his back and climbed the rear wall of the adjoining building. It took some time and much effort on his part.
Once on the roof, he stayed lying in the wet snow, taking deep breaths and sending clouds of frozen white into the night air, before flipping over and making his way carefully up to the ridge. Below, the dwarves, humans and elves were still talking away to each other, laughing and joking. The alcohol in the spiced wine and beer seemed to be having its effect.
In the main building there were silhouettes to be seen at the brightly lit windows. The number of guests and serving personnel must be considerable. Carmondai tried not to think about that too much; he tied his weapons strap more securely round his body and started his run-up. Inàste, stay by me!
After a powerful sprint, pushing against the crunch of the snow, he launched himself into the air.
He did not land on the other side as he had intended; instead he crashed right below the roof ridge. He had miscalculated, underestimating the extra weight of Bloodthirster and his winter apparel. He slithered down the roof, coming to a stop at an attic dormer.
He made himself small so as not to be obvious from the yard. Stayed motionless. A window was opened.
“… heard something, I thought …” came a female voice. “I’ll tell the guards.”
That’s Mallenia’s voice! Carmondai shut his eyes for several heartbeats. The very monarch who had put a price on his head. And she was less than two paces beneath where he clung.