by Markus Heitz
The stench of sulphur was intolerable, even here above the mist. A breeze was carrying the lethal cloud of gas over to the houses.
Well, well. Tirîgon’s laughter was hollow. If we’d only known, we could have saved ourselves a great deal of trouble. And I need never have learned the truth about my partner.
It would have been simple: all they would have had to do was to roll heavy boulders across the basalt to release the gas, thus ensuring the barbarians all died in their sleep. Eventually the air would have cleared again and they could have walked right in.
He heard the sound of his brother’s voice calling for help. It came from the gas cloud in the middle of the basalt stretch.
They’ll make it. Tirîgon was not sure whether this made him glad or not. He was still smarting from their treachery and he never wanted to see Esmonäe again. He put most of the blame on her. Sisaroth is the victim, just like I was. But he was still furious with his brother. He forced himself to shout, ‘I’m over here! This way. This is the way out.’
He could hear swords clashing and the dark, death cry of a barbarian.
‘Tirîgon, where are you?’
He took another mouthful of water. ‘Over here! You’ve nearly done it!’ He tapped the chain with his sword as a signal. ‘Follow the sound.’
There came the noise of renewed fighting from within the mist. Another barbarian hit the ground, with the sound of a death-rattle.
‘We’ll die if you don’t come and help us!’ Sisaroth coughed. ‘Please! Brother!’
Tirîgon recalled the oath they had made. They had vowed to return to Dsôn together. How could he ever face Firûsha or his mother or his father if he left Sisaroth to die in a field of poison gas?
I curse the day I met Esmonäe. Tirîgon stood up, filled the pig bladder and tied the end of his rope to the gold chain, keeping the knot in his hand so that he could let himself down gently. Rope and chalk: part of the basic equipment for every journey in Phondrasôn.
Tirîgon was soon swallowed up in the yellow fog and could hear a body being dragged along in the vicinity.
Then his brother’s back became visible. Sisaroth was swaying; the bladder hanging from his mouth was almost empty. He was pulling Esmonäe’s body by the arm with one hand, while his other hand held a bloody sword.
How long had the älf-girl been breathing in the lethal gas?
She can’t have survived! Tirîgon touched Sisaroth gently on the shoulder and pressed the rope into his hand. He threw Esmonäe over his shoulder, carrying her because he feared his brother would otherwise refuse to follow him.
Together they made their way up the slope to safety.
Sisaroth hurled the bladder away and drew deep racking breaths. He lay on the ground and struggled in vain to speak.
Tirîgon placed Esmonäe on the ground. Her eyes were wide open but her gaze was empty. He put his fingers on her neck, trying to locate a pulse. ‘She is dead,’ he confirmed. He felt a certain satisfaction but, confusingly, also a rush of pain. Now both of us have lost her.
‘She is dead . . .’ Sisaroth groaned through his tears, ‘because . . . because you wouldn’t help us!’
‘She is dead because she was unfaithful. I did everything for her sake,’ he replied. ‘I would have given my life for her back there in the settlement if I could have been sure of her love.’ His steel-blue eyes fixed on Sisaroth. It’s clear as crystal. I was a fool, blinded by love. And so were you. ‘She was deceiving both of us. The only person she ever loved was herself, brother.’
His grief still overpowered him, eradicating any smugness he might have felt. Tirîgon could not hold back his sobs as he knelt at her side. He kissed her brow and smoothed her eyes shut with tender fingers. Why did we have to come to this wretched place? Why did you cause me this pain? I am losing you for a second time.
He made a solemn vow to bring death to the Zhadar, no matter what he might promise them, or what treasure and favours he might bestow. He would kill the Zhadar and all those who followed him. Had it not been for this hopeless mission, Esmonäe would still be alive. And Tirîgon would never have had to know that she was being unfaithful to him.
Phondrasôn.
‘Aha, so you’re back! You were quick.’ The gålran zhadar and Tungdil entered the room where they had their original audience. He examined the golden sword and the chain it was attached to; they had thrown it down on the table, ruining the surface of the wood. ‘I’m a bit disappointed. I thought it would be more impressive. The Wolrak humans worship it but as far as I can see, it’s just a gold chain with a sword on it.’ He turned to the groundling. ‘Melt it down and make something decorative out of it if you like.’
‘You are too kind, Master,’ Tungdil answered with no trace of gratitude in his voice.
‘What?’ Sisaroth pulled himself up to his full height. ‘You mean to say we risked our lives . . .’
‘I know,’ the Zhadar interrupted, grinning broadly. He stroked his black side whiskers. ‘It was a test to see if you were worthy of being my allies. You’ve shown you know how to handle yourselves. I never thought you’d both come back.’ He indicated the gold. ‘It wasn’t the gold I was interested in. It was your ingenuity. I don’t need any more riches. You lost the girl, then?’ The brothers nodded. ‘What a shame. Tell me what happened.’
The Zhadar took his seat and Tirîgon made his report, having to bite his tongue so as not to show how bitter he felt about the whole incident. The sooner you die, the better.
He could feel Tungdil’s gaze on him. The groundling knew exactly what was going through his mind. His grief over the loss of Esmonäe – despite what she had put him through with her game-playing – caused strong waves of emotion to wash over him, making it difficult to exercise self-control. He had to clench his jaw tightly.
‘Excellent, excellent. So that village will have ceased to exist.’ The Zhadar got to his feet and walked to the door. ‘The sulphur gas will have finished them off; anybody still alive won’t last long. Phondrasôn is too cruel to allow that. If I were you, I’d watch out for the karderiers. They don’t just need magic energy for their shape-shifting tricks; it’s essential for their very survival. They are extremely keen on forming an alliance against you. Don’t underestimate them.’ He left the room.
Tungdil looked at the silent brothers. ‘You see how deep his emotions go. He must have a stone instead of a heart. But you will understand that I shan’t be wasting sympathy on you. Älfar and dwarves have never got on.’ He indicated they should follow him. ‘I’ve had a preliminary shipment of armour and weapons put together for you. It should be sufficient to improve your army’s capability.’
‘What about cavalry animals?’ Tirîgon enquired.
‘You mean night-mares, I assume?’ Tungdil grinned broadly. ‘Bad luck. Not even my master keeps those. We once had a few but they’re long gone and we never managed to tame them anyway.’ He walked them to the lift and they travelled down to the plain where the groundling’s forge was located.
‘The Master has a gift for you . . . well, there were actually three, but you’ll only be needing the two, I suppose.’
‘We’ll take all three,’ Sisaroth said quickly. ‘Including our sister’s.’
‘I thought she died in the basalt gas?’ Tungdil gave Tirîgon a shrewd look, narrowing his one eye. ‘Which one of you is speaking the truth, I wonder?’ After a second of study, he gave a belly laugh, having seen through their subterfuge. ‘That’s a good start! You’ve resorted to deception the very first time you met my master. We can see the death of your fake sister pains you, but it’s nice to know your real sister is still alive.’
‘If we’d had her with us, we wouldn’t have been in this awkward situation in the first place.’ Tirîgon was thinking of Firûsha’s incredible gift of song. She would have wound the Zhadar round her little finger and melted that heart of stone. He’d have accepted us as his allies rather than treating us like lowly slaves.
They reached
Tungdil’s warm workshop, where they found three forges burning brightly, each at a different heat. The air was oppressive and smelt of smouldering coals. The visitors’ mouths filled with a metallic taste; hammers clanged repeatedly on the anvils. Sparks flew and there was constant noise: warnings shouted, instructions barked. Steam hissed in clouds when the hot metal was plunged into the water tubs to cool.
The groundling explained that his workforce of apprentices and journeymen was toiling away at the capacious cauldron to extract iron and other metals from the basic ore, mixing them with other substances to form alloys.
‘That’s the way I like it. If you add a smidgeon of magic to the mix, the result is quite extraordinary. You have an amazing advantage when you’re locked in a fight for survival.’
What a ghastly place. Tirîgon was repelled by the filth everywhere. The crude barbarians working here were covered from head to foot in soot and sweat. Their skin showed multiple superficial burns and none of them could stand properly erect. Their bodies were ugly enough to begin with and were definitely not improved by this unpleasant labour.
He was familiar with smithies in Dsôn, but there was absolutely no comparison. The älfar used the same equipment as the groundlings, but it was never this dirty because the work processes were organised differently. This forge just further emphasised the differences in their races.
Tungdil led the brothers over to a quieter corner, where smaller tools were used: special mallets, small chisels and tongs for fine detail. Pieces of steel and tionium were spread out ready on a long table. Together these components would represent a complete set of body armour and arm and leg protection.
‘I’ve left space for älfar runes to be engraved,’ he explained, taking each piece in calloused hands that looked too crude to have executed such exquisite craftsmanship. ‘I can write your language but I thought you’d want to choose your own motto and engrave it yourselves. That way the armour becomes truly yours and is bound to you.’ He picked up the pieces of armour from the third set and placed them in a small metal chest. ‘The first is for Sisaroth. The second is Tirîgon’s and the third one is for your sister. It was built to fit the other älf-girl, so I hope they’re similar in size.’
The brothers scrutinised the workmanship.
Tirîgon held up the arm greaves and tried them on. ‘A perfect fit!’ he said, astonished. ‘When did you take the measurements?’ This squat fellow is good.
The groundling touched his right eye. ‘I see you and I know how älfar are built. I’ve killed plenty of them, after all. Put the two together. Though I expect there’ll be a few adjustments still to make.’
Tirîgon had not intended to accept the Zhadar’s gift, but the quality of the product changed his mind. ‘Are there secret weaknesses built in?’ he asked.
‘Stupid question. If I had done, I’d hardly admit it, would I? And you’d never know until you were locked in combat. But I am prepared to swear by our gods – both yours and mine – that I have worked with the same care I would have employed if the armour had been intended to protect one of my own.’ He disappeared through a side door and returned with three basic sword forms. ‘I’ve only done the first pass; I wanted to ask you how you’d like me to finish them off.’
‘Long. As long as I am tall. Well balanced, naturally. Sharper than your own Bloodthirster, and as light as a one-hander,’ was Sisaroth’s request.
‘I’d like a double dagger with parallel cutting edges,’ Tirîgon chipped in.
The groundling nodded and pulled over a piece of paper and started sketching with a piece of charcoal. Each brother added further specifications for his own weapon, and they suggested Tungdil include throwing discs for Firûsha.
Tungdil studied his final drawings, considering the project. ‘Would you like for the parrying guards to be extra-long, too? They could be used to provide added power to a violent thrust.’ The älfar agreed to his suggestion. ‘Right. I’ll get to work. By the time the master gives you your first real mission, I’ll have everything ready for you.’ He bowed. ‘I wish you luck with your endeavours,’ he said quietly. ‘You are capable of victory. But keep your emotions under control.’
He’s known all along what our plans are. ‘That sounds as if you are going to be leaving soon?’ Tirîgon was alarmed. We could have used his help. ‘Will he be sending you to one of the other caves?’
Sisaroth weighed the breastplate in his hands and tapped the metal sharply so that it gave a clang. ‘Or will you be marching with his army, perhaps?’
Tungdil gave a sly grin. ‘No, it won’t be that. Let’s just say I might have found an escape route and may want to absent myself from his service. Can you imagine his face when I’m gone?’ He laughed. ‘It would probably look much like your own. Now, let’s get the fit checked on this armour.’
However hard the brothers pressed him for more details as they tweaked the armour, Tungdil refused to divulge any more information. But they did extract a promise that he would not disappear until the weapons were finished. He handed them a drawn map showing how to get home from the Zhadar’s stronghold. ‘Not all the tunnels in Phondrasôn are subject to change,’ he explained.
Equipped with their new armour, Sisaroth and Tirîgon began their return trip to the palace. The chainmail wore like a second skin, giving them unhampered freedom of movement. They were also equipped with a wealth of knowledge they would have preferred to have done without.
‘I owe you an apology,’ Sisaroth said on the way home. ‘I knew that Esmonäe and you . . . But I did not turn down her advances. It was wrong of me. She was so hard to resist. I’ve been thinking about what you said back there and you were right: she would have thrown me over for her next victim if it had served her purposes. I know that she went about flattering and flirting with many of the älfar, getting their hopes up.’ He sighed. ‘But it still makes me sad. More than sad. My heart mourns for her, even if my head tells me I’m well rid of her influence.’
Tirîgon was relieved to hear it. ‘Thank you. Let’s leave it at that, brother. I don’t want to waste another word on Esmonäe and her machinations. It’s still too raw and . . .’ And I don’t know how honest your remorse is. Time will tell.
‘. . . painful.’ Sisaroth filled in the missing word. ‘How I wish I had never taken her along with us. It had seemed such a good idea at the time. I . . . really wanted her near.’ He wiped away a tear.
‘Enough.’ To distract himself and his brother, Tirîgon took out the scroll taken from the council chamber in Wolrak; he started deciphering the script as they walked. ‘Look what I found in the village.’
An untutored hand had scratched a treaty in barbarian writing. Forty settlements including Wolrak had undertaken to support the karderiers’ cause in the planned assault on the älfar palace in the cave of liquid glass. In return, they were to be granted the caverns of the Okmains and the caves of the Smahu, currently under älfar control.
‘I’m afraid it doesn’t say how many other alliances the six-armed creature had already entered into,’ he said. ‘We can only hope the delegates from the other settlements were there to sign the treaty when the vapours wiped out the entire village. We’ve got the right number of signatures here.’
‘But the karderier might have been the last one to sign. We could be faced with thirty-nine settlements ready to fight us,’ Sisaroth pointed out. ‘Not to mention however many other karderiers.’ Both of them found this distraction a welcome relief from their thoughts about Esmonäe. ‘We were lucky you found that treaty.’
‘So there was one good thing that emerged from the Zhadar’s ridiculous test, even if he knew nothing about it.’ Though it’s been dearly bought. Tirîgon tried to calculate how strong a force they might expect from an alliance of barbarian settlements. I wonder if the other villages are about the same size as Wolrak? Perhaps one third of their inhabitants might be capable of bearing arms.
‘We must try to find out who has already joined an alliance against
us. And what exactly they are planning to do, and when.’ Sisaroth shouldered his pack.
He’s looking older and more tired. Esmonäe’s loss has left its mark. On me, too, I’m sure. ‘Perhaps the others will have something to suggest.’ Tirîgon pulled himself together. Concentrate on the task at hand, saving the empire. Not on the pain in your heart. He was consoled by the fact that the planned attack on their palace could not yet have taken place. We’re safe as long as the karderiers are still trying to assemble their army.
‘So do you think we’ll see the groundling again? What do you reckon? Will we get our weapons or will he run before he delivers?’ Sisaroth seemed to be considering the consequences of a possible flight. ‘I wonder what he’ll do? And how is it he suddenly knows the way out? Do you think he’ll confront the Zhadar before he goes?’
He wants to get away, that’s clear. Tirîgon shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. The armour is really good. It would be a pity not to get the swords to go with it, but he won’t change his plans for our sakes.’ They could always betray the groundling to his master, but Tirîgon was not going to entertain that idea. On the contrary, he wished him well. Without Tungdil, the Zhadar will be weaker. It’ll be harder for us to capture the fortresses without his aid, but I’ll think of something.
But Tirîgon had something more urgent to contend with before he could entertain a plan for storming the Zhadar’s defences and occupying the four towers: the imminent assault on the älfar palace.
‘If we can find out where the karderiers intend to assemble their troops and their idiotic allies, we could send Marandëi out to deal with them,’ Sisaroth said, thinking out loud. ‘It would be a real blow to their morale.’
Nobody would ever join the karderiers after that. And we could take over their territory. Tirîgon thought his brother was right. ‘We will muster our troops and send them out to reconnoitre all the caves.’ He recalled that one of the provinces had defaulted on its tribute obligations. ‘Do you think it might be worth investigating Efrigûr?’
