by Markus Heitz
Underneath, the same text was written again in the acronta script.
Tungdil looked up. “I am glad you are keeping your word.” Is this the emperor-mother, I wonder?
The largest of the acronta growled quietly. It was a sound denoting agreement, the dwarf thought.
The emperor-mother rose and came over to him, bending the knee to get to his level. She was handed a slate. Even crouching down, she was still two paces taller than Tungdil. She smelled of weapon oil, warm metal and fresh straw.
Using a piece of chalk, she wrote the following in the dwarf language: “I had hoped to talk to you face to face but our languages are very different. We will stick to runes. I sent out scouts to observe the botoicans and we have learned some astounding things about them.”
Tungdil pretended he knew nothing about the acronta language. “I am honoured by your assistance.”
“We found and followed one botoican in particular. The scouts think she is a female älf. She was accompanied by two warriors from her own race. One wears a mask over his mouth that prevents him speaking. The other one carries a spear and has armour plating incorporated directly into his skin.”
“Aiphatòn has joined the botoican?” Carmondai’s expression slipped, making the Ido-mark on his face lopsided. “Didn’t you tell me he wanted to search until he had found the last of the älfar? He wanted to eliminate them all.”
“I assume it was down to him that both cities were destroyed,” Tungdil replied. “But I’ve no idea why he should have wanted to join forces with the magician. A trick to get close and then bide his time before moving in for the kill?”
Carmondai wrinkled his brow. “How would an älf-woman learn the art of a botoican? There were a few of us who could do a little magic, but it was nowhere near mass manipulation.” He thought for a while and then looked at the emperor-mother as if afraid what answer she might give. “The älf with the gagging mask: what is his name?”
“The other älf knows him as Nodûcor. But different names have been heard.” So read the words on the slate.
Tungdil glanced at the historian’s face. He is afraid!
“What do you suspect?” he asked carefully.
“It would be …” Carmondai was having trouble finding the words. “The worst thing imaginable.”
“Worst thing for whom?”
“All of us.” Carmondai was looking at the giant ruler of the acronta. “Have you noticed any instances of powerful, destructive winds in recent orbits or cycles? Unnatural winds bearing feathers, petals or pieces of gold leaf?”
“Yes,” came the written reply.
Carmondai clapped a hand over his mouth and stared in horror at the response. Tungdil did not think the älf was putting on an act. He knows something.
“What sort of wind?” Tungdil asked the emperor-mother.
“Four or five cycles ago. Our scouts reported large armies being mustered. They attacked each other. We were too far away to see exactly, but in the middle of the battle a storm arose with wind blowing in all directions at once. We observed feathers, pebbles and strange smells. The power of the winds tore the armies to pieces.”
“How did it end?” whispered Carmondai.
“The plain was covered in blood and powdered bones, broken armour and death.” The chalk scratched over the slate. “No survivors.”
Tungdil grabbed the älf by the shoulder. “What do you know?”
“It’s the Voice of the Wind.” Carmondai’s black eyes flickered between the dwarf and the acront ruler. “It’s a legend. It tells of Samusin granting a disgraced älf the ability to speak with the winds. That would explain the mask with the gag, the devastating storm, and the end of the armies.”
“Not long ago there was a similar storm front heading south,” the emperor-mother wrote. “There was more damage than is usual when the winds are high. The gusts slashed the skin of living creatures.”
“That’s the Wind of Transience,” Carmondai explained. “It smells of stone and rain and carries blades of basalt and obsidian. If it rose in the west, it would have been the Wind of War. That one smells of iron and soil and carries fragments of gold leaf and splinters of glass. These winds cause utter devastation.” He ran his slender fingers through his long brown hair. “It can only be the Voice of the Wind. By all the dark gods!”
“Too many puzzles that we can’t solve from a distance.” It occurred to Tungdil that Sha’taï must have made an enemy of this group. Aiphatòn, the Voice of the Wind and a magician who can conjure up whole armies at his behest. That’s an invincible combination. This implies the elves’ prophecy has in part come true. There is a threat. “We have to see for ourselves.”
“A large number of beasts under the command of a copper-helmet were heading south, in the shadow of the storm. Heading for where the entrance to Girdlegard is located,” the emperor-mother added. “They had something they were taking with them. It was thought to be some kind of siege tower.”
“An attack?” Hargorin muttered sleepily as he tried to sit up. The red-bearded dwarf shook the other two sleeping figures by the shoulders. “On the Stone Gateway?” Tungdil was annoyed with himself for not having woken his friends earlier. He had been too distracted by the conversation with the emperor-mother.
“We don’t know. But it’s possible,” said Carmondai slowly. “The more I think about it, the less the whole thing hangs together. Even if an älf-woman had acquired the arts of a botoican—how did she meet Sha’taï?”
Tungdil felt confident in his decision. “We’re leaving now.” He turned to the emperor-mother. “Your people hunt and destroy evil. I …”
“I know what you are going to say,” she wrote, white chalk crumbling powder on to the tiled floor. “But this is none of our business.” She growled. “However, in view of your courage, I shall send a group of veterans with you. They can observe the situation and protect you at the same time. If my spies have overlooked anything which would make it necessary for us to intervene, the warriors will report back to me on that.”
“My thanks,” said Tungdil. “That will be a great help.”
The emperor-mother got to her feet, towering over the dwarves. The many galleries of the library seemed to have shrunk in comparison. The lamps reflected on her splendidly decorated armour. “If the älf ever crosses our path again, he will die,” she wrote in älfar language and held it out for Carmondai to read. “On the spot.”
She threw the slate down at his feet. It shattered. She left the room.
Tungdil saw in his companions’ faces that they were now wide awake and looking at him expectantly. “Let us go and accomplish our task,” he said. And let us pray to Vraccas that we can solve the mysteries that surround Aiphatòn.
Girdlegard
Grey Mountains
Kingdom of the Fifthling dwarves
Stone Gateway
6496th solar cycle, summer
“The wind is dropping!” Despite his horror at the fact the beasts had gained access to the gate via the ramp, Balyndar noticed the gusts were less forceful. This meant that they could now deploy the biggest machines and catapults.
He ran over to the nearest apparatus for launching clay pots, lit their fuses in the magazine using a flint and swung the barrel round to direct fire at the attackers on the walkway.
The primed wicks gave off black smoke and the pots were immediately engulfed in flames.
Death to you all! Balyndar released the mechanism and the re-loading device sent the blazing pots off, one after the other, in an arc over the heads of his own soldiers, to hit the monsters. The enemy were knocked off their feet, enveloped in flaming liquid that spattered on those standing nearby, turning them into living torches. The heavy-duty catapults were trundled back into action. Leather bags full of petroleum and large stones were launched through the air, aimed at the monsters milling about, waiting their turn to storm the ramparts.
Then a loud metallic tearing, followed by rumbling and creaking sounds, was
heard. The noise went on for several breath-lengths.
Balyndar had fired off all the missiles from the magazine. He took a look over the battlements at the gateway. A shout of utter delight escaped his lips. The dwarves had managed to throw their grappling hooks into the mechanism holding the metal ramp—which was by now thoroughly ablaze—and brought it crashing down. The enemy’s path up to the battlements fell and foes in their hundreds died, involuntary missiles crushing those they plummeted onto. The last of the remaining monsters clambered up the pile of bodies, desperate to reach the walls, but it wasn’t high enough.
Balyndar gave a grim smile. They won’t get a chance to form a ramp with the corpses like they did last time.
“Send up the dragon-kites!” he commanded, raising Keenfire in the air. “Keep the inner gates shut. Flood the courtyard with petroleum and set fire to it!” He approached the enemies already on the walkway who were hesitating, afraid to jump down the other side. “You will regret ever having set foot on my fortress!”
The monsters seemed suddenly to have been introduced to the concept of fear. They pushed and shoved each other in their panic to find an escape route that simply was not there. Death came to meet them. The dwarves rushed the intruders from both sides at once, swinging axes, cudgels and morningstars.
“We are the Children of the Smith!” Balyndar hurried over to the battlements, laughing, slashing troll fingers away from the stonework so that the huge creatures plunged to their deaths, burying more beasts as they fell. The last one was just about to heave itself over the ramparts when Keenfire struck and killed it with one blow straight through its ugly face. The gems and inlay on the axe shone out and the dwarves cheered their commander.
“The victory is ours!” Balyndar yelled, holding up his bloodied axe. “To Vraccas!”
“To Vraccas!” his warriors echoed as they hurled themselves at any remaining enemies, a few hundred of whom—mostly unarmed and unprotected—were clinging to the portal doors.
Looking at their repulsive faces and wide-open eyes, Balyndar saw a kind of awakening. Their minds seemed to be coming free from the influence and indifference that had characterised their previous behaviour. Now they were reduced to a quivering mass of monsters surrounded by raging dwarves, flashing blades, a gaping void behind them and another in front of them. And there was no prospect of mercy.
“Kill them all!” Balyndar saw that the flames in the courtyard were as high as a house; the black smoke smothered the few that had jumped from the walls and survived. The rest met their deaths in the liquid fire the defenders sprayed on them. Balyndar turned his eyes towards the north. We shall wipe them out. Once and for all.
The retreat had begun on the Stone Gateway road. There was fire everywhere, and broken boulders were raining down on the mass of soldiers, the stones rolling destructively and crushing the enemy in large numbers.
Kites up in the sky, tethered on long ropes, dropped their burning freight in places out of range of the catapult machines. The monsters were trapped, hesitating between the pools of raging flames; they fell victim to successive waves of bolts, arrows, spears, stone and fire. For the first time since the start of their attack on the fortress, the beasts broke out in shouts, screams and roars. The spell was broken and they lost control. Suddenly they were susceptible to all the fear and pain they were experiencing.
We must have wiped out hundreds of thousands of them. Balyndar placed Keenfire down on the battlement edge and gazed out in satisfaction at the courtyard and at the road leading to the ramparts. Swathes of black smoke obscured the scene but the skilled artillery crews did not need to see their targets. There were no targets now. All the enemies had been dealt with.
The dwarves erupted in jubilant cheers, the sound echoing back from the cliffs, as if the Grey Mountains were rejoicing with them. Balyndar jumped down, grinning, clapping his men on their shoulders to congratulate them, consoling the injured and praising them for their courage. He spoke to each and every dwarf.
But he knew it was not over yet.
The ghaist had escaped.
Spreading his arms, Balyndar asked for quiet. “Today is an orbit we shall long remember,” he announced. “We have protected Girdlegard once more and will continue to do so.” He pointed to the defeated beasts on the walls with his weapon, then to those in the yard, and to the army outside the fortress. “Now it is time to clear up the mess. We must treat our injured, check over the catapults, and refill our supplies so we can be ready for the next onslaught whenever it comes.” He lowered Keenfire. “And it will come, we can be sure of that. The powers of evil want to take over Girdlegard.”
“We’ll see them off. We’ll give them the same send-off,” called a female dwarf, whose helmet and face were dripping with the blood of defeated foes.
Balyndar nodded to her. “Vraccas is with us, as he is so often. We are the Children of the Smith.”
“We are the Children of the Smith!” the massed dwarves echoed enthusiastically.
Balyndar smiled. “Let’s get started. Girgandor will be in charge.” He turned back to look at the inferno raging on the roadway, where the last of the enemy were meeting their deaths. Amongst the corpses there were a few injured creatures trying desperately to escape but they were still being shot at and soon all were dead. Liquid petroleum and Vraccas fire consumed the bodies, spreading the smell of roasting flesh.
Balyndar ran his hand over his face but encountered nothing unusual. His people would have said if the ghaist’s fingers had left a mark of some kind. He was trying to force me under his master’s spell. When that did not work he withdrew. The ghaist would be returning to its master to report that the Children of the Smith could not be won over like the other creatures. There’ll be another army soon enough.
The unknown enemy had learned much about his prospects of success at the Stone Gateway. Twice the enemy had sent thousands upon thousands of soldiers to their deaths to investigate. They will build a new ramp. It will be stronger and likely the entire width of the roadway. That’s what I’d do in their place. If the new ramp were constructed so as to reach up to the edge of the gate and able to withstand bombardment, then the next rag-tag army could be smaller in number. Swift victory would be assured.
Balyndar hoped that building a mobile threat of this kind must present some kind of a challenge to their foe, though the Outer Lands had enough beasts to provide a third army to attack the dwarves.
But if the ramp were bigger, it would present a larger target for our artillery. No help, though, if that ferocious wind occurred again to cover the attack, because many of their devices would be put out of action and the crews handling the catapults would be badly injured when they went outside.
Balyndar looked up at the mountainsides to left and right. We will have to install defences out on the roadway far beyond our gates if we want to deter the next assault. He would start planning this very orbit, despite the victory celebrations; he would meet with his mother and the top engineers to discuss strategy. It would have to involve constructions that could withstand all weathers, operate round the clock and have a devastating effect.
Have we got time to think up something new? Balyndar thought the gap between attacks had been three cycles long. I need answers. He decided to send messages to all the dwarf realms and to the elves and Coïra, to see if they could help solve this problem. A stronger storm wind would make defence virtually impossible.
The third attack might well be successful.
Girdlegard
Black Mountains
Kingdom of the Thirdling dwarves
Eastern Gate
6496th solar cycle, summer
Rognor was touched when he saw the life-size statue hewn out of black granite. It was placed where the elves had waited to be admitted to Girdlegard—waiting far longer than originally thought, following the rigorous examinations they were subjected to.
“This is more than I deserve,” he was finally able to murmur, his throat dry.
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All around him were heaps of gifts the elves had brought for the Thirdlings.
“No, it is less than you deserve,” a female elf contradicted him. Her name had slipped his mind. “Ever since the day you dealt with the mad Phenîlas, every elf will carry your name and the story of a dwarf’s brave deed into the new homeland.” She inclined her head to him. “You have cemented the friendship between our two races.”
She turned and left with her ten companions. They would take the same route as the many hundreds of elves before them. Ocâstia and her sorânïons in their white armour kept to the background. They had completed their task and limited themselves to observation.
The tent city at the gates no longer existed. Canvas tarpaulins, stakes and heaters had been removed. The river of elves had now poured into Girdlegard.
Rognor was not surprised that not a single älf had been discovered amongst them. Älfar had only been found while Phenîlas, in his state of mental disturbance, had been in charge. His reign of terror claimed innocent figures that were only declared to have been black-eyes to prevent an uprising.
But now that Phenîlas was no more, the deaths had ceased.
And where would älfar possibly have come from? Rognor placed a hand on his stone likeness. It was so lifelike he thought he could use it to take his place—given a bit of paint here and there—if there was a tedious meeting or feast he was supposed to officiate at.
The last elves, a family of five, came to stand in front of the chancellor. Ocâstia and her sorânïons had checked them. The two youngest daughters placed at Rognor’s feet a sumptuous robe embroidered with pearls and a chest of glittering emeralds of extraordinary purity.
“May Lorimbur be my witness. This is too much.” Rognor had to refuse the gift. He tugged at his blue beard in discomfort. “We were merely doing our duty. You should take the jewels to purchase all the things you are going to need.” He handed the container back to the elves, but they did not reach out to take it.