by Markus Heitz
“It belongs to you, Chancellor.” The unknown elf smiled at him in gratitude. “You won’t remember perhaps, but my loved ones and I were picked on by Phenîlas and held to be suspects. My youngest”—he placed his hand on the shoulder of the girl to his right—“would have died at his hands if had it not been for you. For this I owe you ten times what I can give you now. So please accept this. If you have no use for the jewels yourself, then give them to a good cause.” He knelt before the dwarf and made to kiss his feet. That was a bit much for Rognor. “Stop!” he cried, preventing the gesture. “I accept your gratitude with pleasure—and by all means praise my name and my people—but I only let defeated enemies, preferably dead ones, kiss my feet.”
The elf gave a broad smile and strode out, his family in tow.
“May Sitalia be with you,” the girl said, waving to him. “I shall name my first child after you.”
Rognor placed the chest on the table next to him and sighed with relief, looking at Ocâstia. “We’ve done it.”
“Indeed.” The female sorânïan ordered her officers to go on ahead and get the horses saddled. “An elf child bearing the name of a dwarf,” she said with a smile. “That I will like to see. And I shall take to preparing my slow-cooked potted meat using the recipe you gave me. Can there be a better indicator of friendship between our peoples?”
“I would never have thought it possible.” Rognor could not take his eyes off the pile of offerings. The table had the look of a treasure house. “If I were a Fourthling I would be keen to know where these precious emeralds are to be found. They’ve given me a king’s ransom.”
“Because you ensured they kept the most precious thing: their lives.” Ocâstia came to sit next to him, looking at the gifts and then at him. “Given Phenîlas’ disturbed state of mind, there would have been many more victims if he had been allowed to continue. It would have led to insurrection or massacre. You, Chancellor, did something very important.” She wiped away her tears. “What a king you would make.”
“Are you feeling a bit sentimental?” He could not stop the teasing tone in his voice.
Ocâstia laughed out loud and searched for a handkerchief. She blew her nose and dabbed away the tears. “We have spent a good deal of time in each other’s company, dwarf, and I have grown fond of you. I appreciate your wisdom and your insight and your great heart. When I depart with my officers”—she swallowed and stretched out her hand—“it is a friend I leave behind.” Ocâstia gripped his hand. “Thank you for the trust you gave me, Rognor Mortalblow. You have heard many of us express gratitude, but you will have to put up with me doing it as well.”
He mumbled in his beard. “Do you have a new mission?”
“I shall be riding back to Ti Lesîndur where I’m sure the Naishïon will give us another task. There is plenty afoot at the other gates. And I think the sorânïons are doing spot inspections in the elf realms, for the security of all. Random inspections will deter black-eyes from infiltrating us. That’s if there are any still in existence.”
“Hidden, perhaps,” Rognor was sorry that the elf-woman was leaving. “They’ll always keep hidden. Like evil of all kinds.” She had shown herself to be exceptionally open, keen to learn and keen to teach; they had played strategy games together and he seldom won. But she was never competitive. She also told him about the new elf settlements and the Naishïon’s plans for a united elf empire, saying a new era had begun: the era of cooperation.
“Wise words, Chancellor.” Ocâstia reached into her purse and pulled out a thimble-like object wrapped in red velvet. “Take this. It represents the blessing of my goddess. Wear it secretly. It will save your life when you are least expecting it.”
Rognor’s eyes widened. “My thanks.” He felt ashamed, having nothing to offer in return. But then his eye fell on the gaming-board on which they had played. He picked up the model chariot and scratched the rune of his own name and that of the Lorimbur sign on the piece with his dagger.
“It is nothing compared with what you have given me. I can send you away with my god’s blessing but I’d feel better if I made a promise.” Rognor grasped her right hand and placed the figure in her palm. “Whenever you are in need: send the chariot and I’ll come running to help you.”
“Do you swear that?”
“I swear it.” More tears flowed down her beautiful cheeks.
“You would be a great king. Who knows if Deathbringer will ever return?” she breathed, tightening her hand round the figurine. “Fare well, dwarf. And I hope that when we meet again it will be a happy occasion.” Ocâstia got to her feet, wiped away her tears and left the room.
Rognor watched her go. Such a shame. I shall miss her. He unrolled the velvet wrapped around her gift. Inside he found a little silver brooch with intricate engraving—the writing was not in the elf language nor in any other script he recognised. Several symbols had been combined to create a single ornament. He could not read it.
He was not surprised. Elves from outside had their own culture, their own dialects and their own way of writing. So Sitalia’s seal can look like this, too. He rubbed the symbol, pouring himself some beer with the other hand. I hope you will serve me well. He fixed the brooch to the underside of the collar of the black leather garment he wore under his chainmail.
While he emptied his tankard he mused over recent cycles he had spent with Ocâstia.
No one had expected the rush of would-be immigrant elves to be so huge. It was good for Girdlegard, in his view, to have these new settlers. Cooperation between elf and dwarf would be the best defence against attack from outside. The Naishïon won’t hide away any longer.
News from the various human kingdoms also made him feel optimistic.
At first he had been sceptical about Rodario’s capabilities as emperor, but the actor was doing well—if you ignored his penchant for extravagant attire and overlong speeches. There were no ongoing quarrels between the rulers, and people were following the emperor’s suggestions and decrees. Apart from little arguments amongst the nobility, there was a general atmosphere of peace. The gods must have sent it. As soon as Rodario turned up with the child in tow—though she was a young woman now—the hottest tempers cooled and the emperor’s witticisms calmed the disputing parties.
Coïra, it was said, was exploring the power of the source and training her pupils, teaching them magic spells. Of course the famuli had to keep their distance from the magic field so as not to become prisoners like the maga herself—which did make things more complicated—but they managed.
If there was good news from the Grey Mountains, things would almost be perfect. Everyone united. Rognor stared at the bottom of the tankard. He stood up to get a refill. But I don’t trust that Sha’taï girl.
The chancellor left the room and marched along to the kitchen where there was a barrel of beer. One more tankard and then he would go to bed and dream about the gifts the elves had left with him; he had to figure out what to do with it all. Rognor filled his jug with the foaming black brew. I wonder what my master is up to right now in the Outer Lands?
Apart from the danger threatening from the north, the fate of Tungdil and of King Hargorin was unknown. They had set off over the Grey Mountains many cycles ago. After that there had been no word.
He remembered the lively discussion High King Boïndil had led, suggesting a search party be sent out. But the other dwarf monarchs had turned down this idea. It was madness, anyway, to travel through the mountains; they did not want to lose more valuable dwarves. There had been a charged atmosphere, but finally it was agreed that they would wait a total of five cycles. Three of those cycles were past now.
Ocâstia’s words rang in his ears.
Me, a good king? He had acted as a king for all intents and purposes for a long time, whereas Hargorin had only pretended to be a vassal of the älfar.
He drained his tankard. “Maybe it is time to be a king. Crown and title and everything.” He did not doubt the Thirdlings would supp
ort him. And if Hargorin returns, then …
With the confusing realisation that he had no answer, he left the kitchen.
The idea of being ruler of the Thirdlings became firmer in his mind. After all, he already had a nice statue. There could hardly be a better candidate.
Tungdil told me he had had fortress after fortress built. He had authority over those who had once been loyal to the Gålran and his like.
And when the mercenaries he had gathered around him started clamouring for the power he had, he killed their leaders and destroyed the golden towers of the Gålran Zhadar to demonstrate his dominion.
No trace of the hated former ruler should remain, he decreed.
But in private he thought: you shall have no other gods beside me.
Secret notes for
The Writings of Truth
written under duress by Carmondai
XXVI
Somewhere in the Outer Lands
You could easily forget where we are. On the tenth orbit, hilly grasslands with occasional copses formed the landscape the dwarves, the älf and the acronta were marching through. Narrow valleys alternated with plains bordered by small hills no higher than three hundred paces.
Tungdil’s party had no idea of the location of the acronta hive where they had spent over two cycles. Blindfolded, they had been carried bodily by the acronta for two orbits. Apart from refreshment breaks when the scarves were lifted, they had seen nothing of their journey. On the third orbit the head coverings were removed. There had been little variation in the landscape since then.
It was warm but not so much as to make them sweat. However, the pace they set was demanding.
The grass rustled under their feet and insects buzzed round them. Luggage had been kept to a minimum, with very little in the way of provisions included. They drank from streams, gathered fruit on the way and occasionally the acronta killed animals for food.
It reminded Tungdil of his trek with Ireheart in the company of Djeru˚n and the maga Andôkai, when they tried to keep the homeland safe.
But this is different. In order to save Girdlegard, they had to traverse the Outer Lands, and instead of Djeru˚n, they now had five acronta in full armour, strangely marching more quietly than the dwarves who had little in the way of equipment. For the Towers That Walk, the urgent pace set by the dwarves merely meant they lengthened their stride.
We’re covering up to fifty miles an orbit but they must think we’re snails. A bead of sweat stung Tungdil’s eye. They kept up a constant jog, heading for the location the scouts had reported coming across Aiphatòn and his troops.
Tsatòn nar Draigònt was in command, the veteran whose life Tungdil had spared. They communicated with him using signs or scribbles in the soil.
Tungdil regretted having to leave the four-storeyed library. There was so much knowledge that could have helped us.
The veteran acronta led them to a group of trees for a rest break. “Our scouts leave messages for us here,” they were told. “We have many places like this, dead letter boxes, if a scout can’t hang around to wait for us.”
“Good trick.” Hargorin was wearing a light suit of borrowed armour he had adjusted for his needs. None of them had properly fitting armour. There had been no time to do other than take what they were offered. The dwarves were unhappy about this. They also did not like the weapons they had been landed with: badly balanced steel dumped by some beast. “It’s a good thing the Towers That Walk don’t roam Girdlegard.”
“They wouldn’t be your enemies. It might be no bad thing to have them there for protection.” Carmondai was dressed in reinforced leather. He liked the look and it fit his body well. He was the only one of them to have been allowed his own weapon back. The acronta had confiscated Bloodthirster when they were first captured, recognising its unique nature. Beligata had not attempted to fight for it.
They advanced into the wood, with two acronta going first and three bringing up the rear.
Tsatòn led them through to a small clearing that had some rocks at one edge. They settled there, the armed giants keeping watch as the dwarves and the älf rested and ate the fruit they had picked en route. Carmondai took out some paper and did a successful sketch of the clearing and their whole company.
A master of word and image. Tungdil was impressed.
The veteran opened up a small chamber in one of the stones to retrieve a locked metal box. Pressing symbols on the top in a particular order, he got the lid open.
Tungdil noted the code. Just in case.
Tsatòn took out a parchment scroll and unrolled it. The message was in acronta shorthand that Tungdil could not quite follow. Something about a village and a period of time. The frowns on the other dwarves’ faces showed they were experiencing similar difficulty reading it. The acronta scratched a translation in dwarf runes on the ground. They all chose to let him believe they could not read any acronta script.
“There is a village behind the hill they can force to join their army.” Hargorin read, taking out his flask.
“Might be four thousand souls,” Tsatòn wrote.
“That’s not very many.” Carmondai looked weird with his dark eyes. It was sight the others simply could not get used to.
“Four thousand is nothing. If they head for the Stone Gateway the Fifthlings will soon deal with them,” Gosalyn threw in. “We’ve got catapults and spear-throwers that …”
“The Voice of the Wind trumps all of that,” the älf interrupted her. “Its power is legendary. Don’t forget the ashont themselves have told us about the regions laid waste by the north wind. Think about it: flying blades of basalt and obsidian that can tear through the slightest gap in someone’s armour. And then the sheer force of the gusts.” Carmondai turned back to his sketchbook, chucking away the core of the apple he had been eating.
“Before we decide strategy, we need to have a good look at whatever’s on the other side of the hill,” said Tungdil. “It’s vital we find out what has happened to Aiphatòn and what’s brought about the change of heart.”
“That’s if the black-eyes was ever being honest in the first place.” Gosalyn spat out a cherry stone and was fiddling with her belt buckle.
“He certainly was. As far as I know, he betrayed his own people and poisoned them,” Carmondai intervened in the talk again. “Why would he make things difficult for himself and go to the trouble of attacking Girdlegard from outside when he’d had every opportunity earlier to take the whole place over with his troops after Lot-Ionan died?”
“An älf will always take an älf’s part,” Hargorin muttered. He was carving a new handle for the long axe he was given; curls of shaved wood were collecting in his red beard. “I know you lot.”
“You used to serve my lot,” retorted Carmondai, still sketching. “For quite a long time, at that. And you cope with your conscience by saying that the entire time you really were on the side of the good.” He stopped drawing and glared at Hargorin, his eye sockets dark. “Does that make it right, King of the Thirdlings? Weren’t there orbits when you enjoyed the power you had when you led the Desirers and went round oppressing humans who never used to accord you any respect?”
“You have a sharp tongue and it’s full of poison,” Hargorin snapped. “I know your kind. The Triplets were no better.” He pointed the new axe handle at the veteran. “We should let the acronta eat you. Nobody needs you now with them showing us the way. And the stuff you know hasn’t helped us one jot so far. I doubt you’re of any use at all.”
Gosalyn and Beligata grinned in anticipation.
“Why don’t we vote on it,” suggested the red-haired dwarf. “What do you all say?”
Tungdil helped himself to some of the spiced dried meat from their provisions. “Leave him be. We’ve got enough stuff to worry about without thinking about feeding an old älf to the acronta.”
The other dwarves laughed. It was clear they would not regret Carmondai’s passing, in whatever way it occurred. The historian threw T
ungdil a quick glance and went back to his pen and paper. Then he stored the page wrapped in waxed paper in his leather pouch. “You will certainly have need of me,” he murmured. “Treat me well and I shall help you.” His smile was cold as a winter’s night.
Once an älf, always an älf. Tungdil shook out his painful legs and rubbed the talisman on his little finger. I hope you are safe, Balyndis. You and my son. He was looking forward to the promised shared meal with the two of them. He was not expecting more than that. But to be sitting at the same table with them was a beginning. So is the ring she gave me. “Leave me in peace. I don’t want to know about your precious herbs.” Hearing Beligata’s rough words, Tungdil raised his head.
“I’m only trying to help,” Gosalyn said, a bandage spread with crushed leaves in her hands. “That scar of yours is looking bad. The edges have gone black.”
“It’s the ink. I told you.”
“I thought you said the ink was green?” Gosalyn laid the herbs aside.
“Green and black.” Beligata moved away from her impatiently.
“How did the tattooist manage to ruin your face like that?” Hargorin wanted to have his say on the matter. He fixed the axe head on to the new handle, hammered new horseshoe nails through the wood, then bent them round. “There! That’s good enough to smash a few skulls. It’s not elegant but it’s a whole lot better than the crude club it was before.” He turned to Beligata. “Who was it that did the tattoo?”
“A friend,” she snapped back, irritated as usual by any reference to the scar. “I wanted to do him a favour. His other tattoos had been fine.” She shook her dark-haired head. “How often do I have to tell you?”
Carmondai laughed quietly to himself.
“I’m just concerned about you.” Gosalyn rolled the bandage up and put it away. “The scar is getting bigger and the black is spreading.”
“What kind of ink was it?” Tungdil helped Hargorin to his feet. They were preparing to move off.