by Markus Heitz
“We still have too many of them anyway,” said Lombrecht, getting Xara to bring him a jug of beer, which he emptied at one draft. A loud belch ensued.
Slîn applauded. “Well done, old man. Nice quality. Now I know how he lost his teeth,” he chuckled to Ireheart. “We could make him an honorary dwarf, don’t you think?”
Balyndar shook his head. “We should get to bed. We don’t know what we’ll have to do tomorrow.” He got up.
Rilde stood up. “Of course. You can sleep in the barn. Or in the cowshed loft. It’ll be warmer there.”
“The loft for me,” said the fifthling at once. “I’d rather smell of cows and be warm.”
They went to their quarters and Grolf and Lirf brought them a stack of old horse blankets to keep out the cold.
The warmth and smell of cattle came up through the floorboards and Ireheart soon started to doze off, exhausted.
His last thought was that they had forgotten to inform Hargorin where they were staying. That meant they would have to rise early and knock at the door of the fortress. He did not want Rilde or her family to know. They should not connect the honest dwarves of Girdlegard with either the Black Squadron or the Zhadár.
Ireheart, Slîn and Balyndar managed to pack their things and leave the farm without being observed.
They walked along at the edge of the settlement and approached the second gate of the fortress, where they knocked. Even though the guard recognized them at once and, in Hargorin Deathbringer’s name, invited them in, they refused to enter the courtyard. The sentry sent someone to tell the thirdling leader.
It was not long before he reappeared. Behind him came three servants carrying a bench and a table laid with a meal for them.
“You can eat outside if you prefer,” they were told. “But be quick. The troop is about to head for Dsôn Bhará.”
The three dwarves looked at one another and started to eat in silence outside the gates of the fortress. This conflicted with Ireheart’s plan to keep their presence secret. The sun was not yet fully risen, but word would soon get around.
“We should have used false names,” said Balyndar, sipping his hot tea. “Now they’ll think we’re with the dishonorable ones.”
“That won’t go down well in songs about us,” sighed Slîn, nodding toward the courtyard where the servants were bringing out stands bearing black armor. “Those’ll be for us.”
“Well, I’m not going to put that stuff on in full view.” Ireheart desperately looked around for somewhere to withdraw to. There was no way though that he would step inside Vraccas-Spite.
They used their cloaks as curtains to help each other robe up and put on armor and weapons.
Ireheart thought Balyndar looked more and more like his father now. It was obvious whose son he really was.
Slîn, on the other hand, did not look right in his borrowed get-up. Several of the pieces were too loose for the cross-bowman. He fiddled with his armor unhappily and the metal squeaked. “You two at least have the air of warriors,” he said to Ireheart and Balyndar.
“You look a bit like a gnome in disguise,” teased Boïndil.
The Black Squadron were assembling in the courtyard, with Tungdil, Hargorin and Barskalín in cavalry armor riding in front. It was an impressive and worrying picture. Stable hands hurried over with ponies for the three dwarves waiting outside.
“Good morning,” Tungdil greeted them. “We missed you.”
“Was there a reason you didn’t let us know where you spent the night?” Hargorin’s query sounded harmless but Ireheart thought he was suspicious.
“Didn’t ask their names,” he said quickly, before Slîn could answer.
The fortress commander was not satisfied with that. “Which house was it, then?”
I shan’t betray them. Ireheart swung himself up into the saddle and moved up to be next to Tungdil. Hargorin had to move aside. “No idea. Some house where all the furniture was too big for me.” He gave an innocent grin.
Slîn laughed out loud and Balyndar joined in. They mounted up and the band of riders set off.
Ireheart looked around: They were now a group of over a hundred and fifty. “I assume the Zhadár and the Black Squadron have mingled?”
“Indeed, Ireheart.” Tungdil’s response was not ironic. “The Dsôn Aklán are to think they are still busy trying to steal kordrion eggs.”
“What about the strategy meeting, Scholar?” asked Ireheart, pushing down his visor. “Where are we holding that?”
“We’ve already had it. We brought it forward.” Tungdil looked at him amicably and reprovingly at one and the same time. “We didn’t know where to send the messenger to tell you.”
Ireheart saw the sense in that. “Then tell me what’s been decided.” The one-eyed dwarf turned to the front and raised his arm in a signal to the company. Behind him a standard was hoisted high, displaying the unfamiliar rune that seemed a mixture of dwarf and älfar script. “There’s time enough to tell you on the way.” He lowered his head slightly. “What do you say to my coat of arms, Ireheart? Isn’t it fine?”
Boïndil nodded. But it wasn’t fine. Not fine at all.
XIV
Girdlegard,
Former Queendom of Weyurn,
Lakepride,
Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles
Wey’s mouth moved, her hands jerked into the air, forming signs to avert approaching doom—but the spell her daughter had invoked came too fast. She closed her eyes and held her breath.
“Mother!” Coïra exclaimed at the sight of the flames.
Sisaroth had provoked her into using her magic without thinking and now a disaster had occurred. The magic fire burned like glowing coals.
Coïra had attempted a counter-spell but could only watch the flames imprison her mother. The young woman shook and her lips went numb.
The älf had not left. He had ducked away under the ball of magic and was crouching on the floor. From there he could attack with his two-hander; the blade tip was close to Coïra’s throat.
“Watch out!” Mallenia saw the maga was paralyzed with horror, and pulled her out of the way. The knife blade missed her narrowly.
Sisaroth followed through but was held back by the swords of the Ido warrior maid. The two-hander clanged as it crashed into her blades. “Aha! Our rebel!” He gave an evil laugh and kicked sharply in her direction. “This time you won’t get away.”
Mallenia dodged the flying boot and dropped back onto the bed. “Coïra! Do something!” The älf leaped toward her. She had to admire the incredible elegance of his movements, but she was poised either to parry or to dodge his next attack. “Coïra! For goodness’ sake!”
The flickering light in the corridor died and there was the sound of a body falling to the floor.
Mallenia glanced past Sisaroth. Queen Wey the Eleventh lay on the marble floor slabs, a smoking blackened bundle; her wide-open eyes were the only touch of white in the scorched face. Her skin hung off her in shreds and her hair had been burned away. But—did the eyes not just move? She looked more closely. “Coïra! Your mother is alive!”
The älf laughed. “Death has not forgotten her.” He threw his two-hander at the Ido, striking her on the upper arm just where the night-mare had bitten her. His blade cut through her flesh as if it were soft butter, nailing Mallenia through the bone to the wardrobe.
Groaning, she dropped one of her own swords, but pointed the second at her enemy’s face. “By the gods, Princess. Hurry! Or we are done for!”
Coïra took two paces and held fast to the doorframe, looking wildly around her, still in deep shock.
Sisaroth watched the maga before turning back to deal with Mallenia. He sat down on the bed in front of her. “The last of Prince Mallen’s line,” he said. “You have caused us much trouble, but the hunt has been enjoyable. Now the chase is over.” He looked over to the corridor and gave a signal to someone outside. “You will die in your own land in full view of all, Mallenia of Ido. O
n the executioner’s block. Your blond hair will fall into your own blood. This is the punishment for rebellion, conspiracy and murder.”
“I know your plans,” she answered in the language of the älfar. “You can’t fool me.”
Sisaroth scowled in pain. “What excruciating pronunciation! Who taught you that? Tell me his name, so I can kill him.”
“So I’ve found out how to torture you?” She laughed.
The älf hardly moved, it was more a jerk; he punched her in the face. Her knees gave way. As she sank down the two-handed sword cut deeper into her arm. Another metallic clang: She had dropped her second sword.
“Use our language again and I will tear out your tongue.” Sisaroth opened the cupboard door Mallenia was fastened to. He moved the door so that she should see what was happening in the passage: The älf woman was bent over Wey, sticking the point of her two-handed sword into the queen’s back. “The name of her death is Firûsha,” he said in a low, dark voice.
“No!” cried the Ido woman in despair. “Kill me but let her live. What use is her death to you?”
“We will gain the Dragon’s gratitude. We have done what he does not dare to do himself.” Sisaroth raised his hand, his sister nodded.
“She sent a message to Lohasbrand,” Mallenia gasped. “The Dragon will guess that you killed not only her but also the orcs and Präses. He will wage war on Idoslane and the älfar regions. Everywhere! Your plan will fail.” She looked down at the injured monarch. “Only she can keep you safe.”
Sisaroth’s face lost its superior expression. His sister looked at him. “If she speaks true then we should let her live.”
“Why? So she can tell Lohasbrand more lies? Or so she can go back to her magic source for fresh energy and launch a campaign against us in revenge?” Sisaroth’s decision had been made. “It was the will of Tion and Samusin that brought us to Lakepride. Now it’s time changes were wrought among the mighty of Girdlegard. Why not start in Weyurn and shoot the first arrow here?”
“Is that the right choice?” wondered Firûsha. “Yes.” He stood up, drew his dagger and went out to the corridor. “A shame not to be able to take the bones with us. What a waste.” The älf knelt down and stabbed the maga at the base of the neck. He quickly decapitated her and discarded the head to ensure no healing magic could ever reunite skull and torso. He raised his eyes and looked at Coïra. “The daughter must follow. You shall be her death, sister.”
Mallenia gritted her teeth and let herself drop. The blade she was pinioned by severed flesh and bone, and blood streamed out—but she was free. Her fingers closed around the sword handle and she ran to the defenseless young maga to protect her from Sisaroth. A final act of defiance.
Firûsha sprang to intercept her and struck a blow that shattered the Ido’s blade. “These human weapons are worth nothing.” She laughed and grabbed hold of Mallenia’s wound, pressing hard, then she tossed her back onto the bed. “Good blood,” she said over her shoulder to her brother. “We should collect it when we execute her. Who knows what we could create with that.” Then she looked at Coïra. “Sweet maga blood. That will add a certain something to any work of art.” Then she gave a sigh of regret. “But we have nothing to save it in.”
She dimly heard voices out in the corridor. The guards must be coming.
“Help! We’ve been attacked!” shouted Mallenia.
Firûsha and Sisaroth laughed. They were not going to be put to flight by the soldiers charging up to them. The palace would soon have more dead to mourn.
The älf came up to Coïra, bloody knife in hand. Watching the countenance of the distraught young woman in order to follow her death throes, he made to thrust the dagger in.
At the same moment he was hit on the head by a helmet and Sisaroth’s strike missed its target. The blade met wood and broke off. The helmet bounced, rattling across the floor.
The älf whirled around, drawing his second double-bladed knife but was engulfed in a wave of fire!
“Cowardly murderer!” someone shouted. “You can’t kill a descendant of the Incredible Rodario that easily!” The next wave of flame shot out with a hiss but Sisaroth dodged this one.
Mallenia recognized Rodario’s voice. “Fetch help!” she called, assuming the man would be unable to hold the älfar off for long.
Firûsha struck her on the head with the blade’s broadside; the Ido girl fell, half concussed, to the cushions. The female älf sprang to her brother’s aid…
… but was met by a bright yellow flash that struck her in the breast. A hole the size of a man’s hand was punched through her body and she was thrown across the room and out through the window. The impact shattered the glass and the panes melted in the magic force. Firûsha had not uttered more than an agonized gasp.
Mallenia turned quickly and saw Coïra’s clear eyes and outstretched arms. “Thanks be to the gods,” she croaked.
“Thanks? For what? For the death of my mother?” the maga replied bitterly, hurrying out in the direction of the noise of fighting.
The Ido girl was too weak to stand. She saw the reflection of flashes; they were followed by crackling noises like those of a great fire, then shrieks and the clash of weapons. The fight against the remaining älfar sibling was in full swing. She felt her spark of life was dwindling. She had lost too much blood.
Her eyelids fluttered; they seemed heavier than an anvil. The pain had faded. She struggled against the overwhelming desire to give up, to sleep and sleep and sleep…
Girdlegard,
Dsôn Bhará,
Twelve Miles North of Dsôn,
Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles
The winter had already lost much of its strength and snow was now melting in the hills and on the meadows. From all sides there came the sound of running water, and small streams swelled to raging torrents as, drop by drop, the last of the ice disappeared.
Tungdil’s group with the Zhadár and the Desirers was riding through boggy terrain, clothes soaked through and armor suffering from the frequent showers.
Nevertheless they were making steady progress toward their first destination: Dsôn, the second city of that name, and home to the northern älfar.
“No sign of the kordrion,” Ireheart said. “I wonder if he’s given up the chase?”
“As long as his young is alive he will keep searching,” Tungdil reassured him.
Ireheart sighed and reflected that it had been a reasonably quick journey under the circumstances. It was down to Hargorin Deathbringer that they had been able to approach the älfar capital without being stopped by any of the patrols; everyone knew the Black Squadron and its leader.
Ireheart noticed a band of riders: Älfar, long lances in their hands, mounted on firebulls. I was counting my chickens before they hatched. He grinned. Maybe there will be work to do.
Tungdil glanced at Hargorin. “Let me speak to them. They’ll be wanting to know the meaning of the standard.”
The älfar brought their bulls to a halt and their leader gave a curt order to his soldiers to lower their pikes, while he urged his own snorting bull a few paces forward. “We understood you rode alone, Hargorin Deathbringer. But we are told you have a dwarf with you who bears an unusual device on his coat of arms.” As he looked at Tungdil the eyes took in every detail and every rune on the armor.
Ireheart watched the älf, whose long blond hair was visible below the tionium helmet, forming a collar round neck and shoulders. His face was like all the others: Handsome, cruel and with black eye sockets. I’d love, just once, to see a fat älf. A fat, clumsy älf, uglier than the mate of the ugliest pig-faced orc. And with crooked teeth. The dwarf grinned to himself behind his closed visor. Like Slîn, Balyndar and the twenty-three Zhadár, he managed to merge unobtrusively with the mass of the squadron’s soldiers. Their disguise must not be noticed. It was vital for the success of their mission.
“Greetings, Ùtsintas,” said Tungdil in a deep voice that commanded respect, a voice Ireheart ha
d never heard his friend use before. Hargorin had told him the name of the älf leader. “I am Tungdil Goldhand, high king of the dwarf-tribes in Girdlegard, and a member of the thirdling folk.”
Ùtsintas opened his mouth. “It’s not as easy…”
But Tungdil carried on regardless. “Take me to the Dsôn Aklán. I have a bargain to strike. Now.”
Ùtsintas closed his mouth again. This prompted another hidden grin from Ireheart. That black-eyes has never been spoken to like this before.
Tungdil leaned forward on his pony. “Did you hear me, Ùtsintas? Or perhaps you do not know my name? Are you so young that you have never been told about the dwarf who razed the original city of Dsôn to the ground?”
“Of course I know the name…” The älf was unsure of himself and looked at the standard. “What does the flag mean? It’s written neither in älfar nor in dwarf-language. It seems to be a mixture of the two…”
“It means that I am commander and king at the same time. In the land beyond the Black Abyss.” Tungdil had his pony move to the front, right up close. With the dwarf on its back even the small pony seemed superior to the firebull, showing no fear of the massive bulk and threatening horns.
“You claim to be Tungdil Goldhand and to have returned from that place? How would that have been possible?” Ùtsintas was gradually regaining his composure.
“The barrier fell for a few moments. That’s how I managed to get back.” Tungdil’s face darkened. “Now I have to speak to the Dsôn Aklán. Do you wish me to ride past you or will you accompany me and Hargorin Deathbringer?”
Ireheart felt like laughing out loud. My Scholar is treating the älf like his messenger boy.
“Other creatures are not permitted to set foot in the holy crater.”
Tungdil’s laugh was unpleasant. “I was in the real city of Dsôn long before you, Ùtsintas.” The Black Squadron sniggered, joined in the fun, humiliating the älf even more. “Be the one who crowns the pact between the thirdlings and your own folk.” He touched the hilt of Bloodthirster, as if by accident. “I am on my way to Dsôn. With or without you.”