by Markus Heitz
“Hear, hear!” Ireheart looked happy. “That will speed things up. And let’s hear it for the man who brought the letter. He seems better able than his king to cope with bad weather.”
The assembled rulers laughed.
After a short welcome ceremony, everyone moved to their allotted places. Water, wine and beer were served and the courtiers retired to the back of the room. The Council of Kings could commence its business.
Mallenia was in charge of proceedings because the meeting was taking place in her land. “I would like to bid all the rulers of Girdlegard welcome and I call on the gods in all our names to support our undertakings. May they protect us and give us the wisdom needed to make decisions in the interest of the welfare of our subjects and all who reside in Girdlegard.”
Ireheart mumbled his approval. Vraccas can’t object to any of that.
“Ilahín, you’ve got a message from Coïra for us.” Mallenia indicated he should break the seal and read out what she had sent.
The elf opened the letter, explaining to the others before he read out her words that the maga was still exploring in the hope of locating new magic sources.
Most esteemed Council of Kings,
I send warm greetings from the unknown place in Girdlegard where I shall be when Ilahín reads out my words.
The source I use has lost its power and if I don’t want to be exclusively beholden to my good friend Boïndil Doubleblade for access to his source in the Blue Mountains, I must explore and research. I am sure that Samusin will send me a better substitute for the source that has failed. Perhaps he has already done so.
Hear this: Weyurn matters of state are to be in Rodario’s hands. He may vote for me in the assembly.
I shall not be away long from my duties.
I desire to emphasise that Ilahín, his wife and all the elves have treated me like a good friend.
May Palandiell and Sitalia sit at the table with you!
Coïra
Maga and ruler of Weyurn
Natenian closed his eyes and everyone could see that Astirma was displeased. This meant that the power to block any Council decision lay in the hands of just two humans. King Isikor’s stated intention of having his vote go with the majority rendered it impossible to outvote Mallenia and Rodario.
This’ll be interesting. Ireheart raised his nearly empty tankard and toasted the Incomparable. “It seems we only have High Kings round this table now,” he called out in good humour and the elf laughed. “We’ll have to invent some new titles.” He drained his drink and was brought a replacement.
Nobody realised there was more behind his drinking than a general jovial conviviality. His straightforward manner seemed to make it acceptable.
“Reason prevails,” replied Rodario, with a pacifying glance towards the monarchs of Tabaîn and Sangpûr. “Have no fear. The times are past when we expected each to strive only for his or her own advantage.”
Well, that sounded fairly majestic. Ireheart thumped the tankard down on the table to indicate his approval. “Again: hear, hear!”
“I assume our objections will always get a hearing,” Natenian said, almost too weakly to be heard. “And let me say this while I’m speaking, knowing I may be too frail to talk later: my orbits as king are numbered. I shall be abdicating in favour of my brother, who will be able to serve Tabaîn longer than I can.” He opened his grey-brown eyes and turned them on Ilahín, his chest heaving as if he had been running. “As soon as he is back from Ti Lesinteïl, we will be effecting the change. Please regard me as his representative and my country’s delegate.”
Mallenia was the first to applaud and then the others joined in. Ireheart banged the handle of his crow’s beak against the edge of the table.
“Then let us discuss the state of our beloved Girdlegard,” Mallenia began. “Everyone will know by now that Boïndil Doubleblade has been appointed as High King of the dwarves.”
Ireheart surveyed the assembled monarchs with a grim but amicable smile, hoping to forestall any questions.
“Why the change of mind?” Astirma threw in, to his consternation. “Didn’t you suggest yourself that the position should be left open for twenty cycles?”
He sighed to himself. “Events,” he replied as lightly as he could. “The tribes wanted a king and I couldn’t refuse any longer. The will of Vraccas, if you like.”
He didn’t tell them that it had been the condescending manner of the elf-woman Fiëa that had driven him to it. He had been keen that orbit to watch the demolition works in the älfar realm and had heard that there had been a crater collapse opening up a passage to Phondrasôn, where the worst of the monsters lived.
Like many in the dwarf tribes, Ireheart believed that Tungdil Goldhand, the true High King of the dwarves, was still alive and had disappeared in Phondrasôn. That was why he had immediately called up a search party, wanting to investigate. But Fiëa had refused him access. It had made him more convinced than ever that his friend was still alive—and that many elves were to be trusted at one’s peril.
Ireheart had also wanted to unite the dwarves in case danger was looming. With over ten thousand elves migrating here, it wasn’t such a bad decision on my part. He kept his thoughts to himself. It would only ruin the mood.
There was another thing that bothered him in lonely moments. The elixir he had tried …
He pushed those thoughts aside. I can’t be dwelling on that now.
Astirma seemed happy enough with his explanation, but when she glanced down at his beer it was clear she disapproved. “I can see that the Children of the Smith would want to have a leader to unite them in a time of need. A wise leader.” Ireheart chose not to rise to that. He merely flashed his eyes at her.
“Let’s talk about Aiphatòn,” said Mallenia, getting back to the task in hand. “He is still far outside Girdlegard, as you know. He has been following an älfar trail that took him through the Grey Mountains. That was at least one cycle ago. Has anyone had any more news?”
Everyone shook their heads, and Ireheart had some more to drink.
“I think it’s good he’s taking his task seriously.” Ilahín rose to his feet. “We are also working on eradicating any evidence of the älfar. You would not recognise Dsôn Bhará now. The transformation is splendid.”
“It’s not surprising; there’s enough of you,” Ireheart said in a friendly tone. “Did I mention it? More than ten thousand elves have entered Girdlegard in the past cycle, coming from the south, west and east. Our gate wardens have let them pass unhindered after checking that they were not älfar in disguise.”
A ripple of talk went through the council. Nobody had been expecting this news.
Ireheart noticed Mallenia looking suddenly thoughtful. The warrior queen was thinking of the possible threat this migration implied, and Rodario steepled his fingers and attempted to force an explanation from the elf by dint of staring at him pointedly.
“We are most grateful to the dwarves for this.” Ilahín did not hesitate. “My people have had many different roles in the history of Girdlegard in recent cycles …” he began—and yet it was something else entirely that drew the dwarf’s attention.
The elf’s harmonious sing-song tones settled in Ireheart’s ears as background noise while he focused on the entrance of a guard bearing the arms of Urgon.
Unlike his comrades, he walked with a perfectly upright posture. It was strange. And his armour did not appear to fit quite right: in some places it was too tight and in others too wide.
What’s he carrying a spear for? Ireheart drained the wonderfully carved ivory beaker and turned so that the servants could see him. He noted how the guard was carefully tightening his grip; the leather gauntlet creaked slightly.
As if he were preparing to throw it.
Ireheart leaped up, jumped onto the chair and thence to the table, raising his crow’s beak. “Watch out!”
At that very moment the newcomer bent forward and launched his weapon in a single gracefu
l movement. He took a step to one side in order to draw his short sword, and quick as lightning whirled round to attack the two guards closest to him.
Ireheart knocked the spear mid-flight with the crook of his weapon, sending it crashing into a wooden pillar.
The spear quivered, having missed the shocked elf by a narrow margin.
The assembled monarchs got to their feet, quickly grasping the fact that this was no beer-fuelled dwarf joke.
The bodyguards enclosed the would-be assassin, who had drawn his second short sword and was swinging it about.
“Ho, come on then! You wouldn’t dare …” It suddenly grew dark round Ireheart. It was as if night had burst into the room, violating the daylight. The darkness revealed what kind of evil opponent they faced. “Black-eyes!” Ireheart roared, and ducked, holding the long handle of the crow’s beak in front of his body. The magic blackness was impenetrable. “Fight in the daylight, you cowardly monster!”
There were metallic sounds nearby. Death screams echoed in the room and all around bodies in armour and dropped weapons were clattering to the floor of the inn. People were yelling, nailed boots scuttered on the stone and blades were slicing through the air, hopelessly off-target.
This headless chicken behaviour helped the älfar attacker no end.
Calm. Stay calm. I mustn’t let the fury take over. Ireheart took cover and listened carefully for a sound that would betray the whereabouts of the assassin.
He could feel the heat of his internal furnace burning high as the zhadár elixir revived the terrible anger in him; he fought the great fury that would make him run amok. In such a state there was neither friend nor foe for Ireheart and this would have devastating consequences for Girdlegard’s rulers.
He was often able to keep the anger in check by drinking alcohol, but in a case such as this there would be no restraint possible. He had almost been able to control it, before the fateful day he had slaked his thirst from the wrong flask.
There was a metallic smell of blood and of freshly-slit guts.
Ireheart pictured the älf slaughtering his way through their ranks with a supercilious grin, making his way towards the monarchs at the high table. This was likely the best opportunity in the whole cycle to launch an attack on the crowned houses of Girdlegard. Mallenia should have had better security arrangements in place.
A sudden draught brushed his wrinkled face and made his well-groomed beard sway.
Ireheart immediately jerked his right foot out—catching something, and he heard a quiet älfar curse; he stood up and circled his crow’s beak above his head to catch his swift attacker in the back.
The spike, as long as a forearm, found resistance and there was the sound of steel protesting. The spike tip got stuck and Ireheart had to yank at the handle to pull it away. “Ha!” Hot sparks invaded his bloodstream, but he managed to control himself.
The light started to return to the darkened room. The blow seemed to have weakened the älf’s powers of concentration. The light let the High King, now snorting with effort, see the enemy’s back: a deep cut showed in armour and flesh.
But the älf stumbled on towards the frail figure of Natenian, bloodied swords in hand.
Ireheart had no hope of catching him so he hurled his crow’s beak. “Greetings from the smithy!”
Ilahín, too, made his way over with his weapon drawn to bring down the attacker. Two daggers came flying over from the right and whizzed past the assassin, barely missing the elf.
Ireheart clenched his teeth when he realised the crow’s beak was going to hit the wrong pointy-ears target.
Ilahín vaulted over, ducked under the älf’s sword swipe and stuck his long blade in the armpit from below. The end of the spike emerged at the shoulder, making the armour bulge and changing the direction of the assassin’s attack. Then the crow’s beak hurtled in and glanced off Ilahín’s side. The elf was jerked round, pulling the opponent with him.
Together they flew off the table, pulling two of Natenian’s companions over with them, and thumped to the ground next to Tabaîn’s king.
Mallenia loomed. Her long blade flashed down, accompanied by a tremendous scream that told of all her hatred, cutting at the neck vertebrae before the älf came back on his feet; the sword swept down and plunged into the floorboards, sticking fast.
“Where there’s one black-eyes there might be another one.” Ireheart drew both his short axes and turned round in an aggressive pose, his arms spread wide, as he watched out for other enemies. It was a huge effort not to erupt in fury. Hot blood roared in his ears and the red mist in front of his eyes did not bode well.
The room was transformed into a slaughterhouse.
The dwarf surveyed the scene: the guards were slit open or had deep stab wounds. Their armour would not have helped them against such a foe. The assassin had located and made use of the weak points in the armour.
Astirma’s bodyguard lay around her, all of them dead, and the fair-haired queen herself had suffered a wound to the neck. Her breathing was laboured and her eyes wide. She was struggling to grasp what had happened. Two blood-smeared maids were attending to her. Ireheart noted that Rodario had a cut on his arm.
The fact that the älf had left it at that suggested that poison had been employed.
“Call the best healers,” Ireheart shouted, fighting down the urge to swing around and attack Mallenia. “The blade was most likely treated with some noxious toxin.”
Mallenia, struggling to extract her sword from where it had stuck in the wooden floor, echoed his call.
Suddenly Rodario turned pale. “By all the gods! The attacker was wearing the armour of the Urgon bodyguard! I must see to her!” He rushed out of the room.
“Who is this her he’s talking about?” Ireheart looked puzzled. “Have I missed something?” At last the red mist was starting to lift from his vision. I need a beer, quickly.
“We would have got to that eventually,” Mallenia did not give a direct answer. “Let’s move to another room. There is too much death here.”
They left the large saloon with the protection of new guards and a whole wall of shields, and went in to a smaller side room with its own fireplace.
The dwarf picked up his crow’s beak and followed them. As he passed a table he grabbed a pitcher and emptied the contents down his throat. It seemed to him he heard a dull hissing sound as the fires of his rage were quenched.
Healers arrived to treat the injured, dosing them with a draught thought to counteract the effects of known älfar poisons. Wounds were bandaged and others were given wine against the shock.
Ilahín stretched out his hand to Ireheart. “I owe you my life, Child of the Smith. We now live in times of true friendship between our peoples if a dwarf will save the life of an elf.”
“But I nearly finished you off myself,” he said with a grin. “It wasn’t you I was aiming at, though.”
“That does not detract from your heroism. Were it not for you, High King, the älf’s spear would have pierced me through.” Ilahín bowed. “I shall never forget this.”
“Let’s get back to our debate,” Astirma said, though she was still staring blankly straight ahead and struggling to contain her terror. A maid handed her some wine, which she downed as swiftly as Ireheart had his black beer. “The attack must not keep us from our purpose or it will mean that the älf has won.”
This made the young queen rise in Ireheart’s estimation. “Then I repeat my question. Where did the Incomparable Rodario rush off to?”
“To find my ward, a young girl.” Mallenia sat down and surveyed the others. “We had been discussing the arrival of the elves in Girdlegard, possibly a cause of some consternation.”
“I would say—given the danger we face from älfar attack—we should be glad to have the elves here,” said Astirma calmly. “You must hunt them down,” she said to Ilahín. “Our own armies are not ready and you know the black-eyes better than we do.”
The elf gave a weak smile. �
�I can promise you, Majesty, that we will be even more vigilant. But how does one hunt ghosts?”
“As far as I know, the last of the zhadár is after them,” Ireheart cut in. “He set off to track them down and we mustn’t forget that he’s had some success.” He recalled the attempt on Mallenia’s life that winter, on her visit to Oakenburgh. “He’s our best hope against the älfar.”
Mallenia agreed. “There are only a handful of älfar still around. But we have seen what damage they can still do. Our security arrangements were comprehensive and yet they still managed to smuggle an assassin in.”
“If that is the price we have to pay for our liberation, I am happy to pay it if it means my people are no longer under the yoke of evil.” Natenian’s voice came in a strained whisper, but he had the room’s full attention. “Tell us the älfar empires are a thing of the past, Ilahín.”
“Indeed they are. We have used Coïra’s magic powers to turn Dsôn Bhará into a pleasant hollow in a landscape filled with trees. Their roots hold back the evil, preventing it from resurfacing. Both Ti landur and Ti Singàlai—which is known to you as the Golden Plain—are being renewed. Sitalia called her children here in order to protect Girdlegard on the inside, just as the Children of the Smith protect it from outside threats.” He addressed Ireheart. “A new era, my friend. We can live together peacefully without suspicion of each other.”
“I’ll drink a toast to that.” Astirma raised her goblet of wine and the others followed suit.
“If we’re talking about the new era, tell us where all these Outer Lands elves are coming from,” Ireheart wanted to know. “Why were they living there in the first place?”
“You’ll be able to ask them yourself soon. My king will attend the next Council of Kings and will outline his plans to you all. Not this time, but on another orbit not too far distant.”
Mallenia nodded carefully. “We shall await that with interest.” She kept looking over to the door, anxiously, eager for Rodario to return.
