by Markus Heitz
“He told me he’d mixed it himself. From essences.” Beligata pointed to the hill. “I can cope with the scar. It won’t kill me. Now, let’s get on with the job in hand.”
“Leave the luggage here.” Tungdil took the lead.
The dwarves, Carmondai and Tsatòn made their way up the grass-covered mound to look down at the small valley on the far side.
The acronta scout had been telling the truth. There was a fortified village where all kinds of creatures were swarming about—creatures that normally never would have been seen in a settlement like this. Tungdil could make out the forms of humans, orcs, gnomes and other beasts he was not familiar with. They were working at improvised forges, making tools. If they were not busy with hammers they were bringing fuel and scrap metal. Others were making handles from wood scavenged from the houses.
“Spades and pickaxes?” Beligata wondered what they were for. “Are they planning to attack a field? Or dig a mine?”
“You could be right.” Tungdil surveyed the scene. “They could be getting ready for tunnelling.”
“To get more metal ore for making weapons,” Hargorin carried the thought on. “There’s probably not enough local iron and steel to melt down and re-use.”
“So it’s not ploughshares to swords but the other way around. The monsters are useless.” Beligata shielded her eyes against the sun. “But where’s the mine?”
“There are deposits in the north, along the route to the Grey Mountains,” the acront wrote on the ground. “An old quarry ancient peoples used. It’s in the form of a funnel, going very deep down. Deep as a mountain is high. There’s activity there again.”
“How far is it?”
“About four hundred miles away.” Tsatòn wrote the answer. “Our scouts saw smoke rising. I thought it might be the local coalfields that had caught fire but it seems they have been firing up the furnaces and smithies.”
“They’re getting ready to equip a new army. But the soldiers are not gathering here in this village.” Tungdil knew these monsters were no soldiers. “These are smiths and craftsmen,” he said under his breath.
“Shall we kill them all? We’ll have wiped out a supply chain the army depends on,” Hargorin suggested.
“There’re four thousand of them,” Gosalyn pointed out. “We are five acronta, four dwarves, and an älf. Nobody minds a good fight, but those are silly odds.”
“Not really. They’re not trained soldiers. Without an experienced leader, they’ll be easier to slaughter than a herd of sheep.” Hargorin seemed wedded to the idea of eradicating this unit of craftspeople.
“Shouldn’t we assume they’ve been forced to do this work by the botoican?” Carmondai voiced his objection. “I’m sure many of them would be glad to return to their families when the effect of the spell wears off.”
Beligata stared at the älf. “You? You’re appealing for clemency? I don’t believe it.” She pointed in the direction of the village. “But we’re in a position to halt or delay their campaign against Girdlegard.”
“It’s your decision,” Carmondai replied calmly. “I just wanted to have mentioned it.”
“There! On the right! An älf!”
They focused on the edge of the village where a small fortified building could be seen.
Aiphatòn emerged in the company of an älf with hair like glass, wearing a mask that covered his mouth and lower jaw. A blonde female älf joined them, carrying a thick pile of papers she was trying to read through as she walked.
The former emperor of the älfar was wearing wide breeches like a divided skirt. His upper body with its tionium plates sewn in to the skin was bare. He wore his long black hair in a double braid on the back of his head.
It really is Aiphatòn. Tungdil took out the telescope and studied the three älfar.
In his opinion they were acting normally. They were communicating with the gagged älf by means of signs. Aiphatòn and the female älf chatted and laughed—and then he kissed her passionately. Shouldering his spear he turned and went along the street, visiting each forge to inspect the workmanship.
The female älf, wearing no armour, had a close-fitting grey dress with a white pattern. She sat down on a bench in front of one of the houses and continued her reading. A monster brought her a jug and a cup, placing them on a table in front of her. The älf with the transparent hair kept her company, helping her sort through her papers and passing sheets to her. He was wearing leather armour in black, which contrasted with his own pale appearance.
He’s death incarnate. Tungdil could not see any of the botoican’s white runes. “Can anyone see someone who looks like a magician?” he asked the others, passing around the telescope. No one could. Maybe they are spells she’s studying? Could she be the botoican?
“It all looks idyllic,” said Beligata ironically. “If we didn’t know our enemies were down there working their socks off, you might think monsters and humans were dedicating themselves to peace.”
“An älf with hair like glass,” Carmondai mouthed, pulling out a sheet of paper to start a new drawing. “It’s the Voice of the Wind! It’s Nodûcor!”
Tungdil had made up his mind. “I’m going down to try to talk to Aiphatòn. He can tell us where the botoican is. If we can do away with the magician, a lot of innocent lives will be saved.” He nodded to Carmondai, who was stowing away his sketching materials. “You’re coming with me.” When the dwarves made ready to accompany them, he stopped them. “You are needed to protect us from behind. Tsatòn, please go and fetch the other four acronta. If anything goes wrong, all of you attack. Your priority will be to kill the älfar, including the Voice of the Wind.”
Gosalyn looked at Carmondai. “He’s an älf, too.”
Hargorin and Beligata were amused. Everyone’s in the mood for a joke. Tungdil grinned. “No. You don’t include him. We can deal with the beasts and the humans later if they attack, but I’m pretty sure they won’t.”
Tsatòn slid down the incline, ran to the wood and called his warriors. Beligata, Hargorin and Gosalyn drew their weapons and held themselves in readiness.
Tungdil and Carmondai moved stealthily down the other side of the hill, bending low to avoid being seen and using the bushes as cover. They approached the little wall that surrounded the village. No guards were in sight and they were not challenged. The wall was simply rocks piled on top of each other, a dry stone wall with no mortar.
Carmondai helped Tungdil climb over, and leaped the obstacle with ease himself, which the dwarf noted. Our elderly älf is full of surprises. They found themselves at the rear of a squat building that had a smithy attached. Aiphatòn came along the unmade road, getting nearer to the iron works.
“Get inside,” Tungdil whispered to the history-weaver, and both of them squeezed in.
The forge had several pieces of rough metal ready for smelting. Two monsters were operating the bellows and air shot hissing into the hot coals, fanning the blaze. Two orcs and demi-creatures with human features but hairy bodies were working at the anvils. Sparks had burned holes in their fur and there was a smell of singed horn.
Tungdil and Carmondai hid as well as they could. They wanted to overhear what was being said.
“Show me what you’ve made so far,” came the voice of the former älfar emperor before he stepped in to the forge, a spear in his right hand. The orcs and the monsters bowed to him, holding out half-fashioned tools whose purpose was clear from their shape.
“Not bad. But you are working too slowly,” Aiphatòn complained, pointing his blade at the throat of the nearest orc.
“Then get us coal that will enable us to reach higher temperatures,” a green-skinned monster dared to protest. “If we didn’t have the bellows, the metal would hardly get warm.” He displayed his formidable muscles. “I am strong, but if the metal isn’t red-hot there’s not much I can do.”
Tungdil could not read the expression in Aiphatòn’s black eyes. Is he doing this voluntarily or has he been forced to by
the botoican? Carmondai had once said that not all älfar were immune to the effects of this magic.
“Carry on with your work and stop complaining. I want you to show me the pickaxe you’ve made by evening. If it’s no good, you will forfeit your life.” Aiphatòn examined the tool the furred creature had produced. “Look: he’s managed to make one. And without a fuss.” Without any further word, Aiphatòn left the premises.
Now. Tungdil pulled Carmondai outside; they stayed by the wall of the forge for protection.
“Psst.” Tungdil hissed to get Aiphatòn’s attention.
“Have you gone crazy?” the historian mouthed. “What if—”
Aiphatòn halted and looked round. His dark eyes fixed on the dwarf and his companion standing in the shadows. He frowned and walked slowly over to them both, not seeming alarmed or even concerned.
Is he … angry? Tungdil raised his hand in greeting. I wasn’t expecting that.
“Why have we got a dwarf here not working at the forge or instructing the beasts how to use a hammer properly?” Aiphatòn snapped, using the crude common language of Girdlegard. The tip of his spear swung to point at Carmondai. “And you? Where are you from? Obviously not from one of the two cities,” he added in the älfar tongue.
“He doesn’t recognise you,” the historian blurted out.
It must be the effect of the botoican’s magic. Or has he lost his mind? Tungdil bowed. “I have just arrived with my friend. We heard you’re looking for good craftsmen. He’s built cities, if that is something you are in need of.”
Aiphatòn stared at him, eyes narrowed. “Who’s been saying that?”
“We overheard a conversation,” Tungdil said, keeping things neutral. “And I see it’s true.”
“So you came here on your own initiative?” the älf laughed. “That doesn’t happen often, I must say. Stay as long as you want. We can talk about wages later. But I want to know what really brought you both here.” The runes on his spear took on a threatening greenish glow.
“I can hardly believe it,” whispered Carmondai. “He’s under some kind of spell.”
“We escaped from Girdlegard. Times have changed there,” Tungdil lied. “Perhaps you recall?”
“What? Girdlegard? Of course. But that was a long time ago. We like a bit of news.” He went back to the street and motioned them both over with a gauntleted hand. “Come with me. I’ve got questions. Lots of questions.”
“You shall have answers to all of them.” Carmondai was putting on a brave face as he entered into the spirit of this dangerous game. The three of them went back to the fortified house Aiphatòn had just left. The other two älfar did not look at them; they were still deep in their papers, making notes and marking passages.
“Are these your friends?” Tungdil asked, pointing at the älf-woman and the älf with the mask. I’d love to know what they’re studying.
“Irïanora and Nodûcor. They help me with everything.” Aiphatòn looked at Carmondai. “Beware: her beauty will catch your eye and dazzle you, and you’ll be overwhelmed with love and desire. So I’m telling you now: it’s only me that belongs to her.” He opened the door and let them go ahead of him. “If you touch her I’ll knock your head off, älf.”
Tungdil entered the room. He could see it was a guardroom; it must be where the officials in charge of village discipline had their quarters. There was a narrow spiral staircase to a lower floor where cells were and upstairs he could see more rooms and a look-out post. “A bit grim.”
“It serves. Until we move on.” Aiphatòn pushed his way in after Carmondai and indicated two seats that Irïanora and Nodûcor must have been using recently. The stove was still warm and tea was simmering on the hotplate. Three mugs contained fresh dregs and a jar of honey and some crumbs were on the table. There was a faint smell of spices. “Right. Tell me what’s been happening in Girdlegard.”
“There have been many changes. It would take many orbits to tell you everything.” Tungdil selected the chair with a view of the road where he could watch the two elves talking. Carmondai took the stool and sat down with his back to the wall. “But why should you care? And what are you doing with all these tools the smiths are making?” He laughed. “Do you intend to tunnel your way out?”
Aiphatòn sat down opposite him. “Nonsense. The ground is too hard here.” He was sitting upright like a monarch; the sewn-in tionium plates were scratched. On one of them, there was a hole where the edges appeared to have melted as if a red-hot bolt had pierced it. “Talk, dwarf.”
I’ve got to break through the spell that’s clouding his mind. Tungdil told him a few trivial facts, filling him in on the victories over evil, and he also talked about the älfar, not mentioning Aiphatòn’s name. “I’m one of the most dedicated followers of Lorimbur,” he lied. “Not all of my tribe disliked what the black-eyes were doing.” He pointed at Carmondai. “We jumped ship as soon as we noticed things were not going our way. And you can see how badly he’s been treated.”
“I can.” Aiphatòn nodded. “But tell me how the people reacted to the attacks.”
“I told you already.”
“You’re telling me things from way back. I mean the attacks on the Stone Gateway a few orbits ago.” Aiphatòn grimaced with disappointment. “Or have you and your companion been on the road for so long that you can’t tell me anything new at all?”
“Oh, I see, you mean those attacks. Did you send them, then? It’s said they were led by a botoican and a ghaist.” Tungdil was trying to get more information. Did he notice how shocked I was?
“Just tell me what they think in Girdlegard,” Aiphatòn repeated.
“Perhaps I could help.” Carmondai took over at this point, and started a lengthy, rambling speech.
A movement on the road outside caught Tungdil’s eye and he stopped listening to what Carmondai was saying. A ghaist with a rune-decorated copper helmet sporting noticeable dents had come running up the street to stop where Irïanora and Nodûcor were.
Irïanora got to her feet and went to the ghaist with some sheets of paper, while the Voice of the Wind went on sorting documents. From the älf-woman’s demeanour it was clear she did not regard the ghaist as an inferior being.
Look what’s turned up; the botoican’s lethal arm and messenger. All we need now is his master. If we wipe them all out, we’ll have removed the danger threatening our homeland in one fell swoop. Quicker than the elf prophecy foretold. Tungdil looked around him carefully. I wonder if he’s anywhere nearby?
The älf-woman handed over several pages and the ghaist approached the house. Tungdil wished he had some magic in reserve or at least Keenfire with which he could split the copper helmet open.
His glance caught Bloodthirster, hanging at Carmondai’s side. He doubted the elderly älf could hold his own with a ghaist. But maybe I could. Since leaving Phondrasôn he had vowed never to use evil again, not even in the pursuit of good. Was that a foolish promise to make?
The huge giant did not knock but stood waiting at the threshold, white mist emerging from the helmet’s eye holes. It seemed surprised to see the new arrivals. Irïanora had obviously not mentioned their presence. Tungdil gave a placatory signal to Carmondai, who had placed a hand on the hilt of his weapon: not yet.
“Now I don’t need you two to tell me what’s happened,” Aiphatòn said, gesturing to the ghaist to enter. “How did it go at the Stone Gateway? Since you’re here I suppose the defenders came up with some trick or other?”
The ghaist came in slowly, the floorboards creaking under its weight. Irïanora followed, ready to speak. Her expression was distant, her eyes blank. “Yes, they did,” she intoned. “They destroyed our ramp at the last minute. We were nearly there. They destroyed the whole army. Next time we’ll succeed, I swear.”
Tungdil masked the surprise he felt. The ghaist can’t speak and he’s using her to give his report. He now knew without a doubt that the älf-woman was not the botoican. The way she stood and the way she spoke i
ndicated her own will had been paralysed.
The ghaist came over to Carmondai.
“An älf. With a pretty tattoo message on his forehead.” The älf-woman’s voice was without inflection. “And from Girdlegard. What a nice surprise.”
For a magic being controlled by a botoican, it is acting quite independently, not at all like a slave, Tungdil thought. Could this be the botoican in the guise of a ghaist?
Carmondai sketched a bow. “I left because I didn’t like it there anymore.”
“And I don’t like it here anymore,” Irïanora said, speaking for the ghaist. The ghaist turned to look at Tungdil. “There is no doubt about where you are from. But dwarves don’t usually leave their homeland. Certainly not in the company of an älf.”
Tungdil repeated his story and the ghaist listened acutely.
“I don’t know what you mean by Thirdling, but as I see it, you and the black-eyes were allies in the past.” His words came via Irïanora’s mouth. “So if you can’t stand your own people any longer, would you do a favour for me?”
“That’s why I came.”
“He says that’s why he came,” Irïanora’s delight was feigned. “How marvellous to hear it.”
The ghaist bent down, visor slits on a level with Tungdil’s eyes. “You all defy me. Too rebellious for me to control. I will have to kill you all. You are in my way.”
“Nothing to do with me.” Tungdil pretended to be relaxed about things. “I couldn’t care less about the others.” He raised his hand. “But we should discuss payment. I’d like to speak to your master about it.”
Irïanora, deputising, laughed and repeated, “To my master?”
“Whoever made you and whoever you obey like the others do.”
“Let’s play a game.” The ghaist pressed the tip of his finger into Tungdil’s palm. “What do you say to that?”
The scarred surface of his hand started to tingle and a slight flash of light appeared then vanished. Nothing else happened.
“How I hate your kind,” said Irïanora, cursing without passion.