by Markus Heitz
“Yes, but the thirdlings don’t count. Not in this.” Tungdil contemplated Balyndar. “He’d be a much better high king. Or his mother could be high queen. The other three tribes would be happy with that.”
Ireheart took the proffered palm brandy and swallowed some, choking and spluttering. “I’m used to a lot of things,” he croaked, “but this is rough enough to eat your eyeballs up! And you’ve only got the one!” Tungdil laughed. “It sounds as if you want to give the title up! And to think I had to use it as bait to get you to join us, Scholar!”
“I only wanted it to force the dwarves to follow my orders,” he admitted. “The word of a high king has more weight than the word of Tungdil Goldhand, especially if lots of people are saying he’s not even the real one. Do you get me?” He gave a faint smile. “Most of them will be surprised when I hand the title back when our mission is over.”
“Hand it back?” Ireheart slapped his thigh. “Ho! Only our very own genuine Scholar could come up with something like that! A doppelganger would have been enjoying his power and would abuse it.” He laughed. “Yes, it will take them by surprise.” He nodded over at Balyndar. “Why don’t you tell him now?”
“Why would I?”
“So he changes his attitude toward you.”
Tungdil took another slug of the palm brandy. “I don’t want him to. It’s better if things stay as they are. If he makes it to king of the fifthlings the blemish on his pedigree should not be public knowledge. It’s better if he’s seen to have a different father. He can keep his secret.”
“Well, he could, but for the resemblance…”
“Coincidence, no more than that. I shall never refer to him as my son.” He gave Ireheart a steady stare. “And neither will you.”
“Of course not, Scholar. That’s a matter between yourself, Balyndis and Balyndar.” His throat still felt dry in spite of what he had drunk. He was aware what this signified and did not care for it at all. Shall I ever manage to resist this thirst? He was stubborn enough to be able to, surely. “Do you know who you would suggest as the next high king?”
“No. I shall keep out of things. I want to retire to somewhere in Girdlegard where I won’t have to deal with any of our tribes. That’s what I’m working toward.” Tungdil’s hard face lost its hostility. “If anyone wants to come visiting, that’s fine. But I won’t live with dwarves anymore.”
“Have you grown to hate your own folk while you were in exile?”
“No, it’s the other way around.” He played with his fingers. “Some of them cheer when they see me, but the others no longer understand me. The changes wrought by two hundred and fifty cycles of war, evil and violence cannot be undone. I’d rather live at peace and be lonely than live in the midst of crowds and have people hate me. That way I can make sure that only the ones who trust me will come to visit.” His single brown eye glinted warmly. “I’d be glad, Ireheart, if you would be one of that number.”
The warrior was touched. “Have I ever deserted you, Scholar?” His speech was beginning to slur. The thirst he had on him was burning through his whole body; he would not have been surprised to see little black clouds coming out of his mouth. He stood up. “I want to stretch my legs and go for a dwarf-water break. I’ll go and see what Troublemaker and Growler have to say for themselves.” He moved away quickly, leaving the campfire, off past the humans and into the half-light.
Panting, he ran to the small wood. “Troublemaker?”
Ireheart listened out, choking, as his gullet stung and bubbled. His throat was burning ever hotter and there was a whistling sound when he breathed in. He felt as dizzy as if he had just drunk the last of ten tankards of black beer.
“Troublemaker!” he coughed, sinking down on his knees, gasping, and wondering if he would feel better if he swallowed a knife to make his throat wider.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a black hand proffering a drinking flask.
Greedily Ireheart snatched the flask and took one or two sips before it was wrenched back out of his fingers; the burning sensation ceased abruptly and his breathing normalized.
He turned his head and saw the Zhadár circling round and squatting in front of him. “Thank you.”
Balodil threw the drinking pouch back over. “Take it. It belonged to the Zhadár we lost in the desert. There’s hardly any left, but it should be enough for you. If I die you’ll have my flask, too.”
“But… it’s no good,” said Ireheart in despair, with the taste of blood still in his mouth. “I’m turning into a half-Zhadár!”
Balodil sat down and leaned against a tree trunk. “There’s a way for you to escape that fate and save your soul. I told you before.” He gave a stupid little chuckle, sang the beginning strain of a dwarf-song and sneezed. “Barskalín was utterly convinced that one of the elves we spared would be able to free us from the curse. Because our intentions had been good.”
“And how would the pointy-ears manage that?”
“I don’t know. It’s up to you. But the elf will be able to break the spell that’s on you, because you never wanted to become one of us,” the Zhadár breathed, rocking his upper body in time to some melody that only he could hear. “First find your elf and ask him what to do,” he hummed in a singsong tone. “You won’t have much more time before you change permanently.”
“I haven’t changed!” Ireheart said sullenly.
“Oh, yes, you have. I can smell that you have.” Balodil laughed. “I don’t know how the elf will do it but he will have heard your name and will know you are considered one of the good ones who took the side of the elves in the old days, so I don’t expect the pointy-ears will let you die.”
“Did I just hear the word die?”
Balodil made a face as if he were thinking hard to recall what word he had just said, then he whistled like a bird. “Yes, die. If you run out of this stuff for slaking your thirst, you will die.” Clucking quietly like a hen he got up and marched off back to the camp.
“That’ll be better than going mad like you,” muttered Ireheart, forcing himself upright. He stowed the nearly empty flask under his chain-mail shirt. “So I have to place my hopes on some pointy-ears taking pity on me. And first of all I’ve got to find him. But how?” he grumbled, as he followed Balodil.
In his mind’s eye he saw an elf-trap composed of a cage with a plate of salad as bait. Ireheart couldn’t stop himself grinning.
Girdlegard,
Former Kingdom of Gauragar,
Near Dsôn Balsur,
Late Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle
Wherever the group galloped past on their horses the freedom-fighters had been there before them.
In some places they saw castles burning or estates in ruins, elsewhere they saw bodies dangling at crossroads or bordering their route. The corpses had been stripped and presumably tortured before being hanged; some bore signs listing their crimes.
“The courts of the simple folk work quickly here in Gauragar,” was Rodario’s comment.
“I can’t blame them,” said Mallenia.
“It won’t just be here this is happening,” Coïra assumed. “This prairie fire of public anger will be burning in Idoslane and in my own realm.”
Tungdil did not waste a single glance at the cadavers. He probably did not even find it particularly shocking. “A prairie fire purifies, but it must not be allowed to get out of control or there’ll be utter chaos. The rule of law must be quickly re-established.”
“We’re almost there,” shouted Ireheart, laughing. “Catch Lot-Ionan, fill in the Black Abyss and we’re finished. You’ll see. In sixty orbits it’ll all be done and dusted. If not sooner.” Slîn and Balyndar grinned and the humans all laughed. The Zhadár were as quiet as ever.
With frequent changes of mount when the horses tired they raced onward, even if the dwarves did not look especially elegant bouncing up and down. The horses were certainly faster than the ponies they normally used. But all of them, except Tungdil, vowed never to si
t on a horse ever again once their mission was over.
They could tell from the environment that they were now in Dsôn Balsur, the oldest part of the älfar territory. It was from here that the älfar had spread their influence to the south.
They passed hideous sculptures made of bone, dead plants and other objects that were oddly fascinating but morbid in the extreme, repelling dwarves and humans alike. It was, however, impossible to deny that the älfar were perfectionists.
Of course it was Tungdil who saw the cloud of smoke first. “Dsôn is on fire,” he announced, pointing to the north.
Now the others could see it, too.
“I thought it was a thunder cloud,” said Rodario.
“Lot-Ionan is already at work destroying the city.” Ireheart looked at the distant crater in which the city lay. “How many black-eyes has he bumped off so far, I wonder?”
“Let’s hope he’s wiped them all out.” Rodario felt the fear rising in him. Nobody knew exactly how they were going to confront the magus. There was no set plan, just a vague idea: Tungdil and Balyndar would distract his attention and Coïra was then going to overwhelm him somehow. The rest of the group would hold itself in readiness to move in where needed. The rest: That was him and Mallenia. The Zhadár were under Tungdil’s command and presumably they would be willing to attack the magus directly. They were not afraid of death.
“What do you think we will be allowed to do?” Rodario asked the Ido girl, who rode at his side as deep in thought as he was himself.
“That depends whether Vraccas and Samusin are with us,” she replied. The wind was whipping her hair around her face, although she had gathered it in with a ribbon. “Our leader has condemned us to inaction, though I’m finding it hard to agree with him on this: You and me, Rodario, are as useless in a struggle against a magus of Lot-Ionan’s stature as a two-handed sword to fight a fly.”
The actor made a face. “It doesn’t look as if Aiphatòn has defeated the magus.”
Mallenia looked at the edge of the crater about a mile and a half away. Nobody was stopping them and there were no älfar in sight. “No, seemingly not. Maybe he’s been killed in battle.”
Tungdil pointed. “We ride to the edge and see what’s up in Dsôn,” he called out to the rest of the group.
They cantered over, halting their horses at the edge of the canyon.
Ireheart thought he had seen this all before. In Dsôn Bhará.
But the construction of Dsôn was different from the more northern älfar city. The ivory tower that had once risen on that hill had been replaced by a tower of somber basalt. The building glittered from inlaid strips of gold, silver and other precious metals, like veins of ore in a rock face soaking evil up out of the shady ground to supply the building.
And it was the only building still standing.
“By Vraccas! Someone’s been busy!” Ireheart looked down on the burning houses, blazing away with bright yellow fire. The flames encompassed the whole of the crater.
He drew a telescope out of his luggage to inspect the inferno. “It will be impossible to enter,” he said, bringing home to the others what a terrible state the city was in. “The flames are leaping up several paces high and the ground is covered in molten bubbling metal. It will be many orbits before we can go there without ending up like roast chicken.”
The wind turned and drove the clouds of smoke toward them—but before they lost sight of everything Ireheart made out a figure on the plateau by the tower: A figure in a black and white robe, holding an onyx-headed staff in his left hand. “Lot-Ionan!” he exclaimed, pointing excitedly.
He saw the magus send out a black lightning ray from his jewel, felling an älf who had come storming out of the tower at him. The magic beam caught him in the throat, which exploded, sending the head shooting off two paces into the air before it tumbled to the ground to roll down the dark steps. The torso fell, convulsing.
“Did you see that, Scholar?” asked Ireheart. He was feeling distinctly uneasy.
“What’s that?” asked Rodario in alarm.
“Lot-Ionan just blasted an älf’s head off with magic,” Tungdil said simply.
Ireheart looked back at the sea of flames. “He might be able to fly to escape the fire, but how are we going to catch him?”
Tungdil looked at Coïra, who nodded back at him. “Balyndar comes with us. You all wait here,” he ordered. “Magic created the fire. Magic can put it out.” He steered his horse down the steep path and the fifthling and the maga followed at once. Everybody knew there was no other choice.
Through driving clouds of smoke they watched the three make their way down the hairpin bends to reach the valley floor to the tower.
“I don’t like this,” murmured Slîn.
“Nor do I,” said Rodario, worried about the girl. “Has anyone got a suggestion what we do to while away the time?”
Mallenia grinned, opened her mouth to make a proposal, but started coughing. Blood seeped over her lips and she tipped forward out of the saddle, crashing to the ground. The black shaft of an älf arrow stuck out of her back!
“Get down!” yelled Ireheart, dropping to the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rodario’s horse struck on the haunches with an arrow. The animal whinnied with the shock and made a leap into the air and over the edge of the canyon. With the actor on its back!
Strangely enough, it occurred to Ireheart at that moment that the archer must have a twisted sense of humor. Almost like a dwarf.
Balyndar tied his neckerchief around his mouth and nose as protection against the smoke. It had already served him well in the desert when there was sand to contend with. His horse was rearing up, so he reined it in and stopped before it could throw him off. “Wait! The horse is spooked by the fire,” he called.
“Let’s leave the horses here.” Coïra dismounted and Tungdil followed suit.
“We have to get over to the tower. The last inhabitants of Dsôn will have taken refuge there to escape the magus.” The one-eyed dwarf put his hands on his hips and stared into the wind at the dancing flames. “What do you reckon, maga?”
Coïra shut her eyes and murmured a simple spell to investigate the quality of the flames that were raging in front of them as high as a house. “I don’t want to waste energy now—I’ll need it for Lot-Ionan,” she explained. “So we can’t fly.” She felt the fire was being fed by magic and thus could not be extinguished by an elementary spell.
Balyndar regarded his ax carefully. “Wouldn’t Keenfire protect me from magic?”
“But not from molten metal; it will burn your feet,” replied Tungdil darkly.
Coïra had noted the large loose round pebbles that lay scattered around. She smiled. “I’ve got an idea,” she said, and wove a simple hovering spell.
The stones lifted themselves up and formed a raised causeway that led safely over the inferno.
Balyndar did not hesitate. He walked along the gangway she had created, the head of his ax shimmering and forming a protective sphere around him that was large enough to encompass Coïra and Tungdil. The maga had to tilt her head and walk along hunched over in an uncomfortable posture, but at least the flames could not harm her.
Coïra secured their progress by repeatedly magicking the stones behind them to whizz round to form a roadway in front. The heat made things difficult for her, but Tungdil displayed no discomfort. Balyndar occasionally had to wipe sweat off his brow but, as a dwarf, he was used to the temperatures in a forge.
They made their way along the broad causeway toward the mountain. They had no time to consider the dying beauty of the place. Not that there was much left of Dsôn’s charms; all the wooden buildings had gone.
Tungdil, Coïra and Balyndar reached the steps leading up to the basalt tower. They knew it would be an extremely strenuous ascent but the only way was to take it one step at a time.
They climbed, with the dwarves having to make an extra effort because the steps had been designed for the legs of älfa
r, not those of the children of the Smith. As they climbed they looked around them to check no one was following.
The crater edge where Ireheart and the others were waiting was veiled in smoke and even the top of the tower was enveloped in acrid clouds. They would not be visible to their friends.
Gasping for air and with protesting leg muscles they finally reached the platform where they had seen Lot-Ionan. The headless älf corpse lay where it had fallen, surrounded by a pool of black blood.
“I wonder if they use their own blood in their paintings,” Balyndar said scornfully.
“There won’t be any of them left to try,” Tungdil replied, hurrying off to the gate that led to the interior of the tower. They stepped through one after another, with the one-eyed dwarf and the fifthling in front, followed by the maga.
It was cool and quiet inside. Coïra closed and bolted the door behind them. The rattle of the bolts sliding home echoed throughout the building. The sound of the fire, the flash of sparks, and the crash of falling timbers and walls—all this was outside. Given the silence, it felt as if the tower had been built on some distant lonely mountain peak. Peaceful and welcoming.
Coïra could smell the stone and an overlay of incense and strong spice.
“To the staircase,” Tungdil held Bloodthirster steady in his firm hands and stomped up the spiral stairway.
It was Balyndar and not Coïra who asked to take a break after they had gone up countless twisting steps. “I can’t feel my feet anymore,” he explained quietly. “I don’t know how you manage with your heavy armor, Goldhand, but I can’t go any further.”
“You can’t?” Tungdil came down toward him, grabbing him by the collar. “This is not some petty quarrel between the älfar and a wizard. This is about the fate of Girdlegard. And the future of the dwarves!” He dragged him upright and gave him a shove with the hilt of Bloodthirster. “Get in front! If you slow down, I’ll stab you.”
Coïra did not know how to take this threat. But it was enough to stop Balyndar complaining any further. Her own physical exhaustion distressed her but her brain was on high alert. She was expecting an älf to appear at any second. Or Lot-Ionan himself.