by Markus Heitz
Rodario gave a sigh and pulled her to him. Mallenia laid her head on his chest.
It was a rare moment for warrior queen and former actor. Standing close, they held each other in silence. Nightfall would bring time for caresses.
The sound of voices intruded on their tranquillity and from the main room they could hear the commotion of preparations for the coming meeting. Then they heard a dwarf’s voice. With the arrival of the High King, council deliberations could commence.
Rodario laughed on hearing Ireheart shout. “Never separate a dwarf from his tankard.” He slipped out of his companion’s embrace. “Read me the Stone Gateway report again before we head down.”
“But you just—”
“Yes, but it’s better if I hear it read out loud. Easier to imagine.” He stretched his arms out and swivelled round, causing papers to flutter and dislodge. “Like in the theatre.” Rodario paced up and down. “Oh, if only I could get back to the boards from time to time. The stage for me is now the whole world. Though there I can be whatever I want!” He struck a dramatic pose. “Dark älf, hero, villain, elf! Ah, I swear by the gods I’d be better than ever! I could do any part. My audience would adore me!”
“Stop play-acting. Leave it to those who are … free to perform,” Mallenia nudged him jokingly. “Otherwise the people of Urgon would say their king should forget the throne and stick to the stage.”
She picked up the report and, more seriously now, started to read: “‘While the elves made for the gate, their pursuer loomed out of the unusually heavy and persistent fog. Before learning what happened next, listen to the description of the cruel murderer: a muscular bare-armed giant in human form, in boots, leather hose, brown leather armoured doublet and with a white flag marked in green. The runes were indecipherable. His head was completely covered in a copper helmet which had a light visor with white symbols …’”
A child’s piercing scream tore into her words. It came from the threshold. Crockery crashed to the ground.
Mallenia and Rodario whirled round.
Sha’taï was at the open door, shrieking hysterically, gulping air and screaming again.
The Ido queen hurriedly replaced the paper on the table and went over to comfort the child; the screams subsided and turned to sobs.
“Ghaist!” the girl kept stammering, clutching Mallenia for protection. “Ghaist!”
But Sha’taï was unable to say more.
Bodyguards with drawn swords came stomping up the stairs in heavy boots, but Mallenia dismissed them with a gesture. Her little charge would be even more frightened if they came in.
Rodario picked up the report and silently re-read the section that made the child scream so.
“It’s the description,” he murmured. “It must be that.” He looked at the girl, whose obvious distress was lessening. Both Sha’taï and the giant monstrosity of a warrior came from the Outer Lands. Has she met him before?
“I’ll put her to bed,” Mallenia said quietly, taking her to the next room. “You go down and explain to the others. I’ll be with you soon. And don’t forget to lock Carmondai’s papers away.”
Rodario nodded and chucked the älfar report into the chest, turning the key in the lock. He left the room lost in thought. He went downstairs and sent the maid to sweep up the crockery shards.
He did not think Sha’taï would regain her courage any time soon to be able to give more details of what had caused her panic. Good thing we have someone who might know more.
The elf-slayer in the copper helmet now had a name: Ghaist.
If you could name your enemy you could defeat it; this was the commonly held view.
“But defeat it how?” he wondered.
The mighty catapults, able to deter any monster attack, with arrows that could penetrate any known armour, and whose spears could pierce the hugest of bodies, would not work in this case.
This was going to cause him some sleepless nights.
Girdlegard
Elf realm of Ti Lesinteïl
6492nd solar cycle, summer
The creature launched itself at Beligata, its white fangs gleaming, each tooth sharper than the next. Just to be touched by one of them would slit her flesh open.
She suppressed her fear and the pain from the thorns. Neither fear nor pain will help me here. Lifting her double axe determinedly, she prepared to cut into the beasts’ throat from below.
She forgot the voice from the thicket—until a sturdy figure appeared at her side, heading into her aim.
Beligata wanted to warn him, but felt him clutch her right arm firmly to divert the deadly blow. He let himself drop back, pulling her with him.
The beast realised too late that it was snapping empty air; its maw closed and the blades went through tongue and jaws. The axe crunched through the upper bone and split the creature’s snout. Blood spurted out onto the two dwarves.
Beligata landed on something hard: it sounded like metal. Her unexpected rescuer was wearing armour. The howling beast was forced to follow them, hanging from the weapon like a fish on a hook. Beligata let go of the weapon to roll aside; she had to trust to the gods that the animal was already dying from the inflicted wounds. It hit the ground behind them with a terrible cry, its limbs jerking wildly.
She was kicked in the side by a flailing leg, sending her into the bushes where she hung upside down for a moment. Her arms and legs were caught in the unforgiving brambles; the vicious thorns stabbed through gaps in her armour, through her undergarments and into her flesh.
She groaned and looked round to see if the beast would try to attack her again, even in its death throes. But the animal lay quiet, the double axe still lodged in its snout. Beligata’s unknown rescuer stood behind the creature and there was the clatter of metal on metal. His armour must have taken some punishment.
“Sheer luck we survived that,” he called over. His words sounded muted, as if he were talking through a helmet. He placed his foot on the lower part of the mouth and began to work the axe out. “You should have listened to me.”
Beligata noted a particular accent to his dwarf language, as if he’d just learned it. There was blood dripping down her arms and legs and she was held fast by the thorns—while that dwarf was taking possession of her weapon. He could simply kill me now. “Who are you?”
“Why did those fools go down the shaft?” he asked. “They’ll never survive.” He broke the axe free of the jawbone. The creature’s mouth snapped shut. When the dwarf raised his left arm she saw a bloodied ring glint gold between his thumb and forefinger. “They’ve already lost one of their number and I don’t hold out much hope for the others.” He put the ring away and looked up at the night sky. “The stars are still the same. But I don’t know where we are.” He turned to her. “Except it’s Girdlegard.”
Beligata forced herself not to cry out. “Get me out of these brambles.”
He nodded and came over, limping slightly on his right leg. His armour squeaked and rattled. It had obviously been neglected and was in urgent need of a smith’s attention to stop it from making more noise than an army of orcs. No chance of the elves not hearing us.
Now she could see him more clearly.
It must originally have been a splendid set of tionium armour. What remained—patched up and held together with leather thongs and chain links—showed deep cuts and scratches, and it was badly stained with unidentifiable substances that must have dried on.
The dwarf brought a hefty smell of dirt and blood. The doublet was filthy, and one boot sole was flapping free like a mouth. The helmet on his greasy brown shoulder-length hair was in a similar state—dented, battered and missing bits.
It made Beligata think he had forgotten to wash after the last battle he’d fought. Or is he one of the undead who used to haunt Girdlegard? She looked down at the narrow shaft. He’s come up out of the darkness, bringing new terror.
He had reached her now and leaned forward to peer at her.
She shuddered at t
he sight of his misshapen features. He must have been terribly burned: there were horrible scars over one third of his face. Where his left eye should be there was an empty socket and an old cut ran down his face and neck, disappearing under his jerkin.
“You’re a Thirdling,” he said, speaking through his half helmet. “I can see by your weapon and your build. And you’ve got some unfinished tattoos on your chest.”
“I’m a Freeling,” she corrected him. “My name is Beligata. Cut me free so I can follow my friends. They need my help.”
The unknown dwarf gave a short, hollow laugh. “You’ll only be able to bring back their corpses. But they can be buried.”
He lifted the double axe with ease and cut away the brambles, liberating her from the thorny fetters. She slipped to the ground, and moaned softly as she straightened up.
“So you’ve come out of that hole?” The suspicion that had flickered on first seeing him—and had then died—rekindled now. Missing left eye, brown hair, and the features … by Lorimbur … that means …
He helped her pull off the rest of the tangled briars. “I come from the underworld, pursued by that terrible beast. I had been lying in wait for it. You don’t want them coming at you from behind. They never give up once they’ve picked up your smell.”
“Which tribe are you from? How did you end up down there? Did you find a way through to Phondrasôn? What happened to you?” Beligata took the double axe he was handing her with a smile.
“I did indeed get through to the realm of demons through a shaft,” he told her, amused by her questions. “But what do you and your friends want down there? Looking for treasure?”
She swallowed, her mouth dry. She had to gulp down some water from her flask before she could speak. “The High King sent us to look for someone.”
“Aha.” The sturdy dwarf had no other weapons, it seemed. “So who rules the Children of the Smith?”
“Boïndil Doubleblade of the Secondlings,” she answered. “We were to go down and …” She muttered an oath. I have to know. “Are you Tungdil Goldhand?”
The remaining eye flashed under the crusted flesh and bushy brows. “It took you some time to gain the courage to ask.” He showed her the gold inlay on his hand. Even though the skin was dark with filth the sun-gold metal glinted in the moonlight. “Yes, I am. You’ve no idea how glad I am to hear that Ireheart is alive and on the throne!” He stretched out his hand for her flask. “Now, tell me about this place. It’s not the mountains, that’s for sure.”
“It’s Lesinteïl. The new Lesinteïl.” She gasped. “But … if you …” She glanced back at the hole.
“Exactly. There was no point in their going down. To their deaths.” Tungdil placed the flask to his lips and gulped down the water. “How is it only now you’ve started to search?”
Beligata was not in the mood to fill the dwarf in on the history of the last two hundred and fifty cycles. “Only just got your message.”
“What message?”
“Tied round the beasts’ necks.”
“By Vraccas! Good for them. My loyal night-biters.” Tungdil wiped the excess water off his beard with his arm. “I sent them out forty cycles ago.” He laughed. “They took as long as I did to find the way out. Samusin still enjoys a joke.” He tossed the empty flask back to her. “Shall we go to the elves and let them know they’ve got a tunnel to Phondrasôn on their territory?”
“Not a good idea. We don’t have permission from the pointy-ears to carry out our search.” Beligata went over to the edge of the gaping hole to be greeted by strange-smelling warm air. Impossible to miss the fact that blood had recently been spilt there. I must get them back. But it was probably more important to get this returned hero, unfriendly and ungrateful though he might be, safely to the High King and to report the success of the mission.
But she was not yet convinced that she was dealing with the genuine hero. As far as she knew, the other, the first Tungdil, had also shown the gold mark on his hand. Perhaps only the High King would be in a position to decide for sure. And even he had been mistaken in the past. Hadn’t he?
Time was running away as she stared down into the dark. Beligata cursed her dilemma. Lorimbur, send me another sign!
Tungdil was running his calloused fingers along the bark of a tree trunk in wonder. “There’s nothing like this down below.” He was clearly emotional. “So much you forget. So many little things that cannot thrive in the dark. But there are other things that you never stop missing: like how the air smells. Trees that grow in the open.”
Beligata turned around. She had come to a decision. “If you are Tungdil Goldhand and not another copy, like the one from a cycle ago—”
“A copy?” he cut in, his disfigured face whirling round. His greasy brown hair stuck to his neck. “A dwarf reached you claiming to be me? And Ireheart fell for it?” He came over to where she was. “Tell me what happened.”
She pointed to the shaft. “I must find the others and bring them back. It was for your sake that they endangered their lives. How are they supposed to know that you’re already out? Their sacrifice would be pointless.”
“True.” Tungdil watched her and then turned his good eye to the entrance. “A copy,” he repeated pensively. “Then I was right.”
“You were right about what?”
Tungdil gave a faint smile. “I’ll tell you later, young dwarf-woman. I presume you were going to say: ‘If you’re really Tungdil Goldhand, help me find the others—the ones that came to rescue you.’”
Beligata nodded.
“Let’s go and see what’s left of them. Do exactly what I tell you, keep quiet unless I ask you something and don’t attempt any more silly heroics. Samusin seldom helps out more than once.” Tungdil stepped forward and disappeared in the depths.
Without a weapon. Beligata sprang up to follow him. Absolute madness.
We never took the easy path
and we looked for others to blame
for everything that went wrong after the liberation.
We looked first in our own ranks
then we looked among our enemies.
We even looked to blame the gods.
Each of us was secretly convinced
that we alone were innocent
and had made no mistakes.
This will have been our greatest failing.
First draft for the foreword to
The Writings of Truth
written under duress by Carmondai
VII
Girdlegard
Underneath the elf realm of Ti Lesinteïl
6492nd solar cycle, summer
By the dim light of fluorescent moss in the narrow tunnel she was crawling through, Gosalyn saw the marks on the wall. “Vraccas, no!”
It was the rune she herself had scratched. She had come this way before and had taken the wrong turning.
The innate orientation skills that she could usually rely on underground did not work in this part of Girdlegard, it seemed. Maybe elves and maga had put some kind of spell on the place, or perhaps it was a leftover from the time of the älfar.
She had lost all sense of time. It could have been ten orbits since she entered the tunnel shaft. Or even one hundred. Her food was running low and Phondrasôn had swallowed up her companions.
She took a left at the next junction, to get back to the small cavern she had explored previously.
She slipped in and kept her back to the wall so as not to be jumped from behind. She allowed herself a short rest to gather her strength. But sleep was difficult: her thoughts were circling wildly.
She thought most of the tunnels through which she was ceaselessly crawling must have been created by worm-like creatures. The walls told her that no tools had been employed; there was no evidence of force. The lupine beasts must have located the tunnels and used them to get out to the surface. But the dwarf-woman did not have the sophisticated sense of smell that would have allowed her to sniff her way through the maze as they d
id. The air smelt to her only of metal, slack and damp earth where the beasts had widened the tunnels to get through.
There was another worrying aspect: the elves had filled in the crater but the material they had used—rubble and sand—were not always as stable a layer as intended. If Gosalyn heard a slight movement of soil or pebbles in a particular tunnel or shaft, she picked a different path to be on the safe side.
She had no idea what the other dwarves were doing.
On first entering the sloping tunnel, they had come to a junction. Out of one of the tunnels came the roar of the beast. Belogar had hurled himself at the creature and pushed her down the other way.
Since then Gosalyn had been wandering aimlessly. At first she kept shouting their names, but when she never heard a tap on the wall in response, she gave up calling out. But she did not stop exploring.
Gosalyn’s priority was to stay alive; the next most important thing was to find Tungdil Goldhand. Whether she ever came across her companions again was up to Vraccas. She put her life in the hands of the divine Smith.
“Follow my voice,” came the echoey tones of the zhadár. “I know you can hear me, Gosalyn.”
Of course. It had to be him that would survive. She lifted her head. “Call out again, Carâhnios.”
She then heard his exaggerated laugh right next to her.
“Just a little joke,” he giggled. “I thought I’d drop by and collect you.”
Gosalyn’s heart was beating fast. She had neither heard nor seen him coming.
“Thank you,” she replied. “Where are the others?”
“The other one,” the zhadár corrected her, taking her hand, uninvited, and pulling her along after him. “Deathbringer is waiting for us. The little scar-faced beauty stayed up on the surface and she’s probably fallen victim to the beast. Pity, really.” He gave a hefty sigh but one heartbeat later he was laughing once more. “We would have made a splendid couple. So attractive, both of us. We shared a secret, we did.” He chuckled.
