by Markus Heitz
“You’re a dangerous ally, Princess.”
“I fought for the resistance. We weren’t choosy about how we killed our enemies,” she replied.
Franek showed Tungdil roughly where the path was. “We should get there today. After a few hundred paces it opens up into a cavern. We can rest there and won’t be seen.”
They moved on in single file, so as not to leave incriminating tracks. The älfar would be bound to have their spies and scouts roaming around.
Slîn was humming his favorite dwarf-tune. He had learned it from Ireheart a long while ago. “It’ll be the luck of Tion if we don’t succeed,” he said suddenly to Balyndar with utter conviction. “We’ve got heroes, we’ve got weapons and we’ve got Vraccas on our side. We can’t fail.”
Ireheart suspected the fourthling was only saying this to drum up the necessary courage for himself and the rest. Lesser warriors would have turned tail after the losses their group had sustained. “Of course,” he chimed in, “but let’s keep quiet now. The pointy-ears have good hearing and they’re downwind from us.”
Without further discussion they ventured out into the stony landscape and found the path by moonlight, with Franek guiding them. After a short march he took them through a passage and indicated where they would be spending the night. The cave was practically round, measuring seven paces in diameter, and the roof was just high enough to allow the famulus to stand upright.
“Charming! It’s as if it has been designed especially for us,” said Slîn, as he touched the cave walls. “It’s nice and warm in here.”
They settled down for the night and lit themselves two torches.
Tungdil set up a guard duty rota to be shared out between the Zhadár, himself and Ireheart. The exhausted humans were to get some rest to restore themselves for the journey on the morrow. Franek and Tungdil studied the map and discussed their route: A straight line toward the Blue Mountains.
Ireheart came over and looked at the map. “That road is new,” he said. “It must have been laid out after I left for the Outer Lands to help with the construction of Evildam.” He pointed to the tunnel-system entrance. “Our folk would never have allowed such a vulnerable point in the defenses. You can tell straight off that the long-uns have no instinct for this sort of thing.”
“It wasn’t Bumina who built the road,” said Franek. “Lot-Ionan would have noticed if quarrying had been going on.”
“Then it must have been Aiphatòn that time he defeated the magus,” said Ireheart, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the possibility of any dwarf-input in constructing this new road. “I say again: The secondlings would never have built a road that leads, if not directly to the heart, to the very body of the realm! Never!” He folded his arms and his eyebrows seemed to be glued to the bridge of his nose.
“I couldn’t care less,” said Tungdil. “The path is there and we’ll use it. Tomorrow.”
He sent the Zhadár out to stand guard. His next glance was toward the humans in their company. They were huddled up by the cave wall, Rodario in the middle, Coïra on his left and Mallenia on his right. “We have Keenfire,” he said softly. “If we had known earlier what luck we would have, there would have been no need to endanger the queen like we have. Balyndar has it. You couldn’t ask for a better weapon with which to confront Lot-Ionan.”
“But the wrong dwarf is wielding it,” Ireheart blurted out.
“I’ve told you why.” The one-eyed dwarf rose to his feet. “And I’m sticking to that. Keenfire is in safe hands.” He went over to the opposite wall, sat on his blanket and closed his eyelid. This was his way of showing he wanted to be alone.
It won’t end well. You should be using Keenfire, not that älfar implement you’ve got now. Ireheart ran his hands over his chain-mail shirt and returned to Slîn and Balyndar.
“Now the Zhadár have gone I can have a look at it without us all getting dazzled,” said the fifthling, removing the cover from the ax head.
But the inlaid markings were still shining.
The three of them all looked at the sleeping figure of Tungdil.
Slîn spoke what was on his mind. “Is the ax trying to warn us about him?” He frowned. “How could he be an enemy to our folk?”
“I knew it,” growled Balyndar, packing Keenfire away again. “I never trusted that dwarf. Just because he claims to be Tungdil Goldhand…”
“Stop it, the lot of you! Brains like a load of gnomes!” Ireheart interrupted. “The blade might be worried about the famulus.” Or me, he added to himself. He did not want them suspecting anything about himself or his friend. “I wouldn’t trust him as much as I trust my Scholar.”
“Hmm,” said Slîn, uncertain now.
The three of them had something to eat and shared out the water rations, while each of them examined his own thoughts.
Ireheart looked over at Tungdil as he slept: The face, the deep lines, the golden eye patch and the long brown hair. I’m not going to lose my trust in you. Keenfire is warning us of a different danger. It can’t mean you.
A slim silhouette appeared at the cave entrance, a spear in his left hand.
“Black-eyes,” yelled Ireheart, leaping to his feet and brandishing his crow’s beak. “The Zhadár sentry must have gone blind! I’ll…”
“Slow down, Boïndil Doubleblade,” the älf said, striding forward into the light of the campfire. The armor incorporated into his body was unique: Aiphatòn! “I am not here to cause you any harm but to inform you what is about to take place.”
Tungdil was on his feet, but looking relaxed. “I have been expecting you, emperor.”
“Oh, you have, have you?” grumbled Ireheart, thumping his crow’s beak down at his feet. “So how did he find us?”
Aiphatòn pointed to the entrance. “My scouts reported a small group approaching the Blue Mountains from the west. I guessed it would be you, so I followed your tracks.” He swept his gaze over the assembled company. “Is this all you are?”
“Yes. We lost many Zhadár in battle and the Black Squadron did not join us,” answered Tungdil. “Have you heard anything from Hargorin Deathbringer?”
“No. He’s not with us.” Aiphatòn turned his slender älf face to Tungdil. “The attack starts tomorrow. Word has got round that the rebellions in the west of Girdlegard have spread to Gauragar and to my other possessions. It’s said that the thirdlings have left their positions and have withdrawn to their strongholds in the Black Mountains. The älfar want to open the gates to allow reinforcements in, to get the situation under control before the uprising turns into a prolonged civil war.” He sat down, because the low ceiling was making it uncomfortable to stand. “Is it true that Lohasbrand is dead?”
“Yes. And has been for a long time.” Tungdil gave a concise account of their recent experiences, not hiding the fact that they had killed one of the Dsôn Aklán.
“But there are still two of the triplets alive.” Aiphatòn looked at Mallenia, who was cursing under her breath. “Tirîgon survived the shot and has been convalescing back in Dsôn Bhará. I shall kill him for you, Princess. It will be on my way…” he said amiably. “But I have heard nothing more of Firûsha. She is apparently at the bottom of the lake.”
“May Elria ensure she sinks further down than the heavi est of stones, to be eaten up by fishes,” murmured Ireheart. “Oh yes, and may Lakepride crash down on her while we’re at it.”
Aiphatòn went into detail about his planned attack. It sounded worryingly simple. “We storm them. From three sides at once.”
“He’s got two famuli left for his defense. We killed one of his other two and another is on our side. They’ll bombard you with spells.” Tungdil took a seat opposite the älf. “You’ve got fifty thousand with you?”
Aiphatòn nodded. “And if we get only ten thousand of them into the tunnel system, that’s all right with me, as you know. I shall be leading the attack,” he said, his left hand against his armor. “And the spells they cast on me I shall catch and send
back, as I did before when fighting Lot-Ionan.”
“They are more likely to send their magic against your warriors.” Tungdil looked at him. “Won’t they take flight when they see the attack is bound to fail?”
“I have told them we must act swiftly if we want to escape death. And älfar can be extremely fast,” said Aiphatòn calmly.
“No wonder, with those long legs.” Ireheart played with his beard. “Anyone could run fast with legs like that. But you’ll bang your heads in those low-ceilinged tunnels!”
The emperor grinned at Ireheart. “Still the old Boïndil!”
Tungdil had come up with a new concern. “Your soldiers are sufficiently fired up to get into the tunnels. But then you’ll have no control over them. What if they find Lot-Ionan and kill him? You know we need the magus alive.”
“I’ve told them we need him alive to open the gate for us. That’s incentive enough.”
Ireheart cleared his throat. “What if the incentive is so great that they actually do it? How are we going to get the magus out of the clutches of ten thousand älfar?” He stroked his crow’s beak. “Now, don’t think I’m a coward, emperor of the black-eyes. I like a challenge and I like to have a good few opponents. But does it have to be that many? And ones with those… skills?”
“I’ve just been thinking about that,” Tungdil admitted, tapping his left forefinger against his eye patch with an audible clink.
“I’ve made arrangements to ensure that the majority of them will not survive the fighting. There are substances toxic enough to poison a whole lake with one drop.” The älf looked at Tungdil. “The water supplies for my warriors have been treated with this poison. They will all die after two orbits, either in the desert or in the Blue Mountains. That will be the ideal moment for you to get the magus from me.”
“That’s good news!” Ireheart was relieved. Clearly, Aiphatòn had had the same idea as Mallenia. “And then you’ll be off to Dsôn Bhará on your own to eradicate the northern älfar before disappearing forever?”
Aiphatòn was amused by the way the dwarves reacted to his plan. He was not offended by the question. “Yes, Boïndil Doubleblade. That is what I shall do. I shall leave, taking an evil away from Girdlegard.”
“That’s going to be quite an orbit.” Ireheart rubbed his hands, looking forward to it. “Then, after all that, off to the north!”
The älf stood up and nodded to them. “I shall go back and tell my soldiers that I have encountered and killed some traveling merchants. That way you won’t be pursued by my forces.” He raised his hand in leave-taking before going out of the cave.
“Mallenia scored a bull’s eye with her idea about poison.” Ireheart was glad that the älf had gone. “We’ll get Lot-Ionan sooner or later, Scholar.”
Tungdil nodded. “Indeed.” He put his hand on his friend’s back, his brown eye warm. “Get some rest, my friend. You need your sleep just as much as Rodario and his two women.”
There’s absolutely no trace of eye-swirl or sparks. Ireheart suppressed a yawn. “Yes. But don’t forget to wake me. Putting the Zhadár on watch together is not a good idea. We’ve just seen how they let the most dangerous long-ears in the whole of Girdlegard walk in,” he said, exaggerating wildly. “The legendary Zhadár! Ha! We’ve got two of them left. And what did for the others? Magic creatures.”
“The only things able to defeat the Invisibles,” guessed Tungdil. He considered his options. “I think we should keep them both safely out of the action.”
“What? I can’t be hearing right, Scholar!”
“Troublemaker and Growler, as you call them, know all the secrets of the Dsôn Aklán,” he said with emphasis. “If Aiphatòn were to fail, their knowledge would be vitally important in helping us to defeat the black-eyes. Only then will Girdlegard find peace.”
Ireheart looked dismayed. “Does that mean it’s my job to look after Troublemaker and Growler, and not the other way around?”
Tungdil made as if to applaud and then slipped back down onto his blanket.
“If we go on like this, I’ll be drinking from an älf flask of my own free will.” Ireheart stuck his finger in his ear crossly and stomped off to tell Balyndar and Slîn the outcome of their strategy discussion.
XXVII
Girdlegard,
Blue Mountains,
Realm of the Secondlings,
Late Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle
Ireheart was overwhelmed by his impressions.
He was back in the homeland he had left so long ago; because of Lot-Ionan it had been impossible since for him even to make visits. He took a deep breath and recognized the unique smell of the Blue Mountains, remembering these same tunnels from the old days. He was dismayed by the dilapidation.
Vaults, passageways, caverns, halls and chambers—everywhere was in need of attention. A mountain is not dead, as humans tend to assume. Things there are always on the move. Rocks shift as the mountain grows, shudders and sways. Places die away, and the inhabitants of the mountain have to adjust accordingly. Supports have to be put in, rubble cleared, new chambers hewn. Since Lot-Ionan’s takeover, none of the maintenance had been carried out.
“Cracks, roof falls, leaks,” he noted with distress. “What a disgrace! For that alone the hocus-pocus wizard deserves a good beating!”
“Quite apart from the wanton destruction,” added Slîn.
“That’ll have been the experiments he and the famuli carried out,” said Franek, who was at the head of the company alongside Tungdil.
“Then you deserve the same beating,” growled Ireheart, giving him a shove. “A mountain will be resentful. I hope it doesn’t take it out on us, when my folk move in again.”
“I’m sure it will be glad to have you back,” said Slîn. “It must be totally sick of magic by now.”
The humans followed the dwarves, with the Zhadár bringing up the rear. In the temperate cool of the mountain they had regained their strength; they had located an underground stream and drunk fresh courage with every gulp of water. Now they were on their way to a second, vital, source. Franek did not seem to have trouble recalling which tunnel to take.
Ireheart was being more cautious than usual. As soon as the little wizard shows the slightest indication of trying to trick us, I’ll split his skull with my crow’s beak spike and give his brain some fresh air.
“The älfar attack should already be underway,” Rodario told Mallenia. They had taken Coïra between them and were helping her along. To be on the safe side. “Nobody will be in our way.”
“Apart from Lot-Ionan,” interjected Mallenia.
Rodario dismissed the idea. “What are the chances of encountering the magus in this enormous underground realm?”
“He could be at the magic source, guarding it. Then things would be difficult for us.” She spoke quietly, not wanting the dwarves or Zhadár to overhear.
“There it is,” said Franek, indicating an oval door inside a palandium arch that had runes chiseled into the lintel. “The source is behind that door.”
“What do the symbols mean?” asked Tungdil as he headed for the entrance.
“It’s a formula. It has to be pronounced to make the door open. That way Lot-Ionan knows somebody’s going in. He’s got a bracelet that starts to glow when the incantation is spoken,” the famulus explained.
Tungdil considered the entrance. “How did you get in? You knew about the security arrangements.”
“I tried a counter-incantation I thought was foolproof.” Franek looked down, humiliated. “It cost me my position.”
“We could just break the door down, Scholar.” Ireheart looked at Balyndar. “Keenfire can make a nice little hole in it and overcome any magic device.”
“But Lot-Ionan would still know,” warned Franek. “He can turn up very quickly, before the queen and I have had a chance to refresh our own stores of magic. He won’t be weakened yet.”
“So we’re practically at our destination but we can’t go in,” s
aid Balyndar impatiently. “If the magus finds us now we’ve got no chance.”
“You and Tungdil will survive,” Ireheart ventured. “You’re both immune to magic.”
Tungdil pursed his lips and lifted Bloodthirster. “Balyndar is right. We’ll go in and let Queen Coïra bathe in the pool; Balyndar and I will stand guard and make sure Lot-Ionan can’t surprise us.” He turned to the maga. “How long would you need?”
“It depends on the strength of the source,” she said, uncertainly.
“It’s enormously powerful,” Franek said. “It never took me longer than a few moments.”
“We can hold him off that long,” said the fifthling determinedly, nodding at Tungdil. The one-eyed dwarf barged the door.
A loud hissing sound ensued as the runes above the entrance flared, showering Tungdil with sparks, but his tionium armor absorbed the spell as if it had been harmless rays of light. The wood splintered and the door burst open.
Tungdil stood on the threshold with his weapon raised above his head, checking in all directions to see if it was safe. “There’s no one here,” he called back.
The others hurried over and Balyndar remained at the doorway, facing out, Keenfire in his hands.
It was a small chamber, really more like a sauna. Steps led to a vertical shaft protected with a grille; the walls were decorated with a mosaic portrait of Lot-Ionan’s face.
The magus has changed a lot, thought Ireheart. Compared with how he used to look he had gone bald, and he had three reddish-silver tufts of hair on his chin. The eyebrows were bushier, too. His features had become crueler and more demonic, as if the bones had been rearranged. But it was unmistakably the face of the Scholar’s one-time foster-father.
“Coïra needs to stand over the shaft,” said Franek. “Her weight will cause the grating to sink five paces down, bringing her directly to the magic force field. She’ll need to use a spell to bring herself up again.”
Slîn and Balyndar were at the door. “Why don’t the steps go right down into the source?”
“Lot-Ionan wanted it like this. I don’t know what his motives were.” He saw Ireheart’s suspicious expression. “Well, let me go first if you think it’s a trap.”