by Markus Heitz
“Follow me!” Ireheart leaped.
His flight was a short one. He landed in a blossom hedge that covered him from head to foot in white pollen dust. Now I look like a fairy, he thought, and grinned. A pretty little bearded fairy. He fought his way free of the hedge, sneezing, and made for the bridge that led to the level the kordrion was attempting to gain forcible entry to. What, by Tion…
Balyndar and Slîn landed next to him, their fall broken by the dense black-leaved foliage of some small trees. They both crawled out of the tangle of branches, cursing, bits of leaf and twigs stuck in the gaps on their armor. No time to get rid of all that. They pursued the kordrion with utmost haste.
Ireheart had nearly caught up with the monster and could see it clearly.
The wings were folded close to its muscular body, with no room to extend them in these narrow corridors. One was a little shorter than the other, as if it had regrown after an injury, perhaps. It was using its sharp claws to move its long, gray, wrinkled body, measuring twenty paces high and sixty in length. It dragged itself along through Phôseon, pushing forward with its legs.
It had crouched down as flat as it could, like a cat stalking a bird. Its back scraped against the ceiling of the arcaded corridor, damaging the stonework and causing large cracks. The floor was also suffering under a weight load it had never been designed to bear.
Ireheart had reached the tip of the tail and was unsure how to proceed. Shall I overtake it and attack from below? Shall I hack at the tail tip and attack when it turns round?
Before he could come to a decision, the kordrion suddenly slipped into the next vertical shaft and disappeared.
“What are you looking for, Bug-Eyes?” Ireheart was now at the edge and could see the monster several levels beneath him, creeping back into the building. “You’re looking for something, that’s for sure.” He turned and found a long flag hanging from the wall. Pulling it away, he wrapped one end round a column and used it to climb down to the floor that the kordrion had selected. When he landed he took out his crow’s beak again. “You’re not getting away from me that easily.”
Slîn and Balyndar slid down the flag to arrive behind Ireheart. They were breathless from the effort as the three of them pursued the monster.
The kordrion encountered no resistance. The älfar had never reckoned with a creature like this breaking into their city. The dwarves passed bitten-off limbs and pools of blood or smashed and mutilated bodies; these were the simple inhabitants of the town, as could be seen by the clothing they had worn. They had neither weapons nor armor at their disposal.
“It’s gone off to the right!” called Balyndar. “Over there in the wide passage.”
“I can see for myself,” growled Ireheart, who had grown tired of all this chasing about. He wanted a proper fight and was not interested in completing an endurance test.
They rounded the corner and were confronted with a broad gap in the walls, forming a path through to the gate they had entered by.
And that was where the kordrion was heading, still crouching low against the ground. Its back scraped some of the hanging gardens, making them sway and come away from their anchorages so that soil and plants rained down. Its claws hurled any älfar aside who had not sought cover; some of them the creature gobbled up or chewed to get at their blood, spitting out the remnants.
“Ho!” shouted Ireheart, hurrying onwards as fast as his legs could carry him. “Ho! You with the ugly face! Stand still for a change!”
“What’s it want at the gate?” Balyndar did not seem so bothered by all the running. “So it’s not you it’s trying to follow, Doubleblade.”
Slîn dropped behind. “Don’t wait for me,” he panted. “I’ll catch up. This armor is so heavy…”
Ireheart grabbed him by his forearm protectors. “You are a child of the Smith! Make a bit of an effort; you need to win your share in the glory of killing the kordrion. When will a fourthling ever get a chance like this again?” Secretly he was wondering where on earth Tungdil and Aiphatòn had got to.
He stepped over the debris and piles of sand from the hanging gardens; they kept having to make detours round broken lumps of masonry that had fallen from the façade. The vibrations caused by the kordrion’s progress, together with the violent swinging of its powerful tail, were destroying Phôseon.
“It’s… got… to the… gate.” Slîn could hardly speak, he was so out of breath. They were a hundred paces behind their quarry. “I’m… done for.” He stopped and rested his crossbow on a tree trunk. “I’ll cover you… from here.”
Ireheart and Balyndar hurried on. “Have you got a plan?” asked the fifthling. “Yes. To kill it,” replied Ireheart. “The simplest plans are always the best ones.”
They reached the open square in front of the gate.
The kordrion turned and twisted as if possessed, crouching down and arching its back and seizing the Black Squadron’s ponies. The animals neighed loudly in terror and bolted, running chaotically about, but they could not escape the predator’s claws. A slaughter ensued and there was an overwhelming stink of fresh blood, with red smears and spatters on the walls. The sandy floor was soaked.
The dwarves had withdrawn to hide in the arcades and were bombarding the monster from under cover. A few of the älfar soldiers were helping out, loosing their arrows or casting their lances or spears from the upper galleries.
“So it doesn’t like ponies?” Ireheart was surprised. “Is that why it’s not bothering with the murderer of its own young?”
Balyndar had been looking around and had found a pack-horse that was attracting the kordrion’s attention. “Look over there. It’s not attacking that one.”
“Maybe it likes horses?” Ireheart attempted a joke, but grew serious. “I know what you mean. That’s the one Tirîgon sent with us. Did the älf get our provisions confused with kordrion feed? Let’s have a look and see what’s really in there.” Balyndar followed him.
In the meantime three of the firing towers on the roof had rolled forward to the edge. The barrage was now becoming dangerous for the mighty beast; more and more älfar were in the courtyard and soon the kordrion was losing blood from countless wounds. It gave a maddened scream, thrashing with its tail and causing untold damage.
But it’s not trying to escape, although it must know that every minute spent here brings it closer to death. Ireheart was quite near to it now.
One of the talons touched the packhorse, but very cautiously.
Ireheart had caught up. With a vicious swipe of the crow’s beak he attacked the long investigating finger. “That stays here!!” he yelled furiously, yanking the handle of his weapon. With a loud tearing sound the blade ripped through the pale gray skin. “That’s our horse!”
Balyndar leaped in, smashing his morning star down onto the claw so that blood gushed out.
With a screech the kordrion pushed forward and tried to spread its wings, but the surrounding walls made this impossible. However, the very attempt caused further destruction.
“Look out!” Ireheart pulled Balyndar aside as a large lump of heavy plasterwork threatened to fall straight on top of him. “Even the best of helmets won’t save you from that kind of thing.”
The kordrion snapped at them and the dwarves ducked to avoid its ugly mouth.
Ireheart used the opportunity to strike one of its lower eyes. The eye immediately burst open and the creature bellowed with pain.
The spike had buried itself in a bone. Ireheart did not release his hold on the weapon and was dragged upwards as the creature raised its head. The swift movement made him giddy and drove the air out of his lungs, leaving him gasping like a landed carp—but he didn’t let go. “I won’t be shaken off!” he called. “Is that all you can do? A bit further, you hideous freak! You won’t scare me! I can take the altitude!”
Then an arrow got him in the left foot.
“Cursed black-eyes!” he yelled. “Can’t you aim straight like your northern relatives?” H
is arms grew heavy and his own weight, together with that of the armor, dragged at him. But to let go would be instant death.
Then he saw Aiphatòn leap out of a window seven floors up above the kordrion’s back, his spear tip targeting the creature’s neck.
With that thing? Ireheart could not believe it. “Oh, Vraccas! He’s got a little needle! He’s going to prick it with a little needle!”
The monster ducked and shook its head. The crow’s beak spike came loose and the dwarf flew off to the right through the air like a missile four paces above the ground, landing in a heap of butchered ponies, whose steaming intestines cushioned his fall.
He struggled up in a rage, broke off the arrow under the sole of his foot and stood. “Now you’ve really made me mad!” The red mask of battle-fury was setting in. Only the kordrion was unmoved. “I’ll give you such a battering—I’ll have you in pieces!”
Aiphatòn had leaped onto the creature’s back and was stabbing away through the spinal column, finding the spaces between the huge vertebrae.
The kordrion arched up with a screech—and Tungdil jumped down onto it from one of the lower galleries, ramming Bloodthirster into a different place on the backbone, paralyzing the creature’s right leg. It fell to its knees and lurched against the east façade, breaking the wall down. The building above it collapsed, covering the kordrion with a hail of heavy masonry.
Aiphatòn and Tungdil had taken refuge just in time and were waiting on a balcony on the western side.
But the beast was nowhere near the end of its strength.
Thrashing its tail it destroyed the gate and stonework above, killing dozens of älfar, who fell with the collapsing wall, to be crushed by falling chunks of masonry, while others were hit by the tail and hurled through the air to fall, broken, to the ground.
The beast rose from the debris with a cry; it staggered and crashed head first into a wall.
Ireheart had reached the kordrion again. “You’ll be quiet soon enough!” He swung his arm back and whacked his crow’s beak into the area of the soft underbelly where he supposed the genitals to be. The skin ripped open and the monster uttered a shrill cry. “Ha! That’s what I like to hear,” Ireheart bellowed merrily. “Let’s have another!” He repeated his winning strike. “Sing it for me again!”
Aiphatòn and Tungdil moved in to help the sturdy warrior finish the beast off. They had to keep dodging the wildly flailing taloned limbs; its vast wings opened and closed convulsively, causing yet more damage to the fabric of Phôseon.
“Stop! Now!” Ireheart clambered boldly up the creature’s long neck and brought the spike of his weapon forcefully down through the kordrion’s skull. “Let’s have you dead, you wretched fiend!”
And now, indeed, the vast body of the kordrion slumped. With a last groan it thrashed its tail for a final time, then fell over, destroying more of the buildings. Clouds of dust rose up.
Ireheart used his plait to wipe away the sweat and other unpleasant liquids from his forehead and beard, but there was too much of it. He was merely smearing it over his face as if he had been using a paint brush. There would have to be a bath. A shallow one, though.
“By Vraccas, the dwarves done good!” he crowed, lifting his weapon so that the kordrion blood dripped off it. Close by he saw his one-eyed friend nodding approvingly. Aiphatòn was back down on the ground staring up at the bulk of the huge beast.
There were still occasional bumps, bangs and crashes as more of the plaster and brickwork came down; the distress of any surviving ponies could be also heard, mixed with the moans of the wounded.
Then there was a single cry of relief, taken up by more and more of the älfar as they realized the creature had been slain. The call echoed in chorus through the alleys and ravines of the city.
Ireheart clambered over the neck and onto the belly to join Tungdil. “I don’t get what they’re saying but it sounds as if they like us,” he said brightly, lowering the crow’s beak and putting both hands on the shaft. He looked extremely pleased with himself. “At last—my kind of adversary. There won’t be many dwarves who can outdo my deeds today.” He looked around and through the settling dust saw the faces of the älfar rejoicing.
Tungdil slapped him on the shoulder. “Well done, Ireheart. They are saying…”
“Don’t tell me, Scholar,” he interrupted. “That way I can imagine the black-eyes are adoring me instead of wanting to kill me.” He looked down at his injured foot, where the feathered arrow shaft still stuck up through the boot. “Perhaps that was one of them trying it on just now.”
Tungdil laughed and started to climb down. “Come on. I want to find out what Aiphatòn has to say about our help.”
At sunset Tungdil, Ireheart, Slîn, Balyndar, Hargorin and Barskalín assembled in the emperor’s throne room; five of the Zhadár came along as well.
They were invited to sit at a table where goblets and jugs of wine stood ready. Nothing was poured out yet. Beforehand, Aiphatòn had arranged for them to be shown to chambers where they could rest from their exertions.
They met up in the room they had first seen on arrival. The paintings on the walls had changed. The black and white silhouette designs were now full-color floor-to-ceiling landscapes of absurd beauty and if you looked carefully, the shrubs and trees were not depictions of real plants but were made up of tiny painted corpses, with wounds and cut throats.
“Just as barmy as their relations,” said Ireheart in disgust. “But that ointment they gave us really works. I can hardly feel the hole in my foot.”
“Who knows what it’s made of,” muttered Slîn. “But I’m not complaining. They treated me like a king.”
“Apart from the bath,” murmured Ireheart. “I had to get rid of most of the water before I got in. It was nearly up to my knees!”
“You mean because of Elria and her water curse?” Slîn’s face bore a broad grin. “I’ve never heard of a dwarf drowning in a bath.”
“And I didn’t want to be the first!” He lifted his hand to show the amount of water for a proper bath. “From my fingertips to my wrist, that’s all it needs.”
Slîn burst out laughing. “That’s only about enough to wet your manliness.”
“I understand the fourthlings are smaller in all areas than the other tribes,” Balyndar threw in.
“My bolt always reaches the target. I can always hear it hit home,” said Slîn, pointing to the morning star. “But you will be built like your weapons: Too much force in the balls and only a little spike.”
Ireheart roared with laughter.
Aiphatòn’s entrance put a swift end to the dwarves’ banter. He shook everyone’s hands—except for those of the Zhadár—then took his seat at the head of the table. Two älfar came up to pour out a variety of wines.
The emperor studied his visitors closely, his eye sockets black as night.
So he does not wish to put aside the blemish—or perhaps he can’t? Ireheart wondered.
“You and your friends have amply demonstrated that you are not among Phôseon’s enemies.” Aiphatòn’s voice was calm and steady as he raised his cup in salute. “For this and your support in our hour of need I thank you.” He drank a toast to them.
“The kordrion young we found on the packhorse had been smuggled into our train,” replied Tungdil. “In my view Tirîgon is the only one who could have done this. And that means that at least one of the Dsôn Aklán is against you.” He looked at the emperor expectantly.
Aiphatòn slowly replaced his goblet. “Your tone suggests to me that you know more, Tungdil.” He gestured to his älfar to leave the chamber, then ran his eyes over the dwarf-faces. “Before we go on, I should like to ask that only those permitted to hear all the truth remain in the room with us.”
Tungdil nodded, but continued, “As some of them still do not trust me because I returned after two hundred and fifty cycles of forced exile and they doubt my integrity, I shall not ask anyone to leave the room. I want all of them to hear what th
e emperor of the älfar and the high king of the dwarf-tribes have to say to each other.”
Ireheart breathed a sigh of relief. He had feared that only he would be allowed to stay. That would have meant yet more bad blood.
“Our original plan was different,” Tungdil began, after taking a swig of wine. He explained to the älf leader what they had first intended to do with the kordrion’s young. He described what was waiting in the Black Abyss and told him they needed Lot-Ionan and what they planned to do with the Dragon and his treasure: To get the Dragon to the magus and provoke a war between them.
Aiphatòn listened with no sign of emotion.
“Things have happened differently,” Tungdil summed up. “And a good thing too, because I think the southern älfar will be better as our allies than as our foes when we march against Lot-Ionan. That was what you were planning, yourselves.”
“To march against a magus is pure suicide,” answered Aiphatòn soberly. “That is why I gave in to what my subjects from the south have been urging.” He poured himself more wine and smiled. “I see you are surprised?”
Ireheart looked around. Nobody spoke, so he said, “I thought you meant to go to your own death?”
Aiphatòn leaned slightly forward, chin on his hand. “I never wished to be like my father. I always said that. And yet I have become like him. It would be too easy to find excuses for what I have done to Girdlegard, but I admit it all. That is why I shall lead them to the south to ensure their eradication in battle with Lot-Ionan.”
“Hurrah! That’s the right attitude!” Ireheart applauded in spite of himself, and then coughed to cover his embarrassment.
“I have been dazzled for too many cycles, inebriated by my own power. I have made conquests, taken lives and broken the will of the people. Not because I had to but because I could. Because I was stronger,” the emperor explained. “That terrible intoxication has passed now, but the memory of my guilt remains. With every new day I see the suffering I inflicted on Idoslane, Urgon and Gauragar. It has to end. And I shall end it.”