by Markus Heitz
It’s him? Gosalyn didn’t know what to say. She saw the gold inlay on the back of his hand. She had never met the hero of Girdlegard, being a full hundred cycles too young to have done so. But she knew the stories about him, the songs and the pictures and friezes depicting his exploits. There had been no mention of facial disfigurement, however. Except for the missing left eye, which was as described.
Is that proof enough? She was unsure of herself and looked at Beligata in the hope of confirmation.
“I don’t know,” said the other girl, reading the unspoken question in her eyes. She went over to Deathbringer and pulled off her belt to bind round two long daggers as a makeshift splint for the shattered leg.
Carâhnios came over, his black eyes viewing the newcomer suspiciously. “So you say you’re the Scholar?”
“What are you doing with my weapon?” Tungdil frowned, seeing Bloodthirster in the zhadár’s hand. “How did that get here?”
“The other Tungdil was using it to free Girdlegard from evil when he lost his life,” Carâhnios answered, leaning on the weapon. “Nobody else wanted it.”
Tungdil studied him closely. “What are you? You’re no Child of the Smith.”
“I used to be,” Carâhnios replied. “I was a Thirdling. The black-eyes transformed me, taught me their skills. I’m the last of my kind.” He giggled. “How many Tungdils are there altogether? Every so often we get sent another version, happy to be back. You could all get together and make a new tribe.”
No one joined in his thundering laughter. There was too much possible truth in what he had said.
“I am the only genuine Scholar,” Tungdil said, calmly and very quietly.
Carâhnios bent down, took a phial from his rucksack and held it to the neck stump of the dead älf. He pressed the chest area of the torso to pump out more blood. “At least I’ve earned that,” he murmured. His night-dark eyes glittered happily as he watched the blood seep into the glass tube. Gosalyn observed his actions with a mixture of fascination and horror. “New supply for my elixir. The elixir of the—”
The thrust was so swift that no one saw it coming. No one could have prevented it. Tungdil pierced the zhadár’s nape from behind as he knelt and pushed it down with all his strength, straight through into the älf’s torso. Carâhnios’ face was pinned to the corpse.
Then Tungdil took Bloodthirster and stared at it pensively. “You should never have been here. And never in the hands of one such as him.”
Long black strands wafted from the zhadár’s body to swirl around Tungdil like snakes, as if intent on crushing him.
Darkness flared round Carâhnios’ helmet and drowned out the light. Limbs jerking, he attempted to drag the blade out from his neck. The elixir gave him the power to resist death despite the horrendous injury. Gosalyn and the dwarves stared—until blackness obscured the scene once more. But it didn’t last long: the artificial gloom flickered, faded and then retreated entirely.
“I know what you became, for I knew those who took you over and made you what you are,” said Tungdil, unaffected by the wreaths of black strands. “Evil through and through.” Then he plunged Bloodthirster through Carâhnios’ body with all his might. The zhadár gave a scream and arched his back but the teethed blade held him pinned fast to the body of the älf, which he dragged with him as he flailed about.
“Nothing evil shall torment my homeland. Even if it claims to be doing good. This is the vow I made Vraccas.” Tungdil picked up a large lump of rock.
Showing no emotion, he took off the zhadár’s helmet, revealing black curls. He smashed the stone into the skull three, four times. The black halo lessened and dissolved into thin air.
Black blood flowed from the shattered head and down onto the älf’s corpse. There was no more movement. The zhadár was dead.
“Let’s go back.” Tungdil turned to the others with a relieved smile on his face as they overcame their shock and approached gingerly. He let the rock fall to the ground. “Beligata and I have marked the path. As soon as we’ve found a way through the cave that collapsed, there shouldn’t be a problem.”
“You’ll have to explain everything to the High King.” Hargorin said, his wrinkled features distorted with pain, though he bore it with courage.
“I’ll tell him everything. About the potions and elixirs the Triplets used, too, to turn dwarves into creatures like the one I just released. On the outside a dwarf, but on the inside an älf.” Tungdil was calm and relaxed.
“I want to take the heads of the pointy-ears and the black-eyes with us,” Hargorin announced. “Proof that something is afoot in the elf realm.”
But Tungdil turned down this request. “Our words are evidence enough for the dwarf tribes. The other races would never believe it whatever proof we gave them. Let’s go. The tunnels are unstable and can collapse at any moment. I didn’t climb back down here just to get buried.”
“Wait.” Beligata swiftly searched the bodies of elf and älf. In the älf’s clothing she found two small glass bottles inscribed with älfar runes.
“What does that say?” She held one up.
“Elf eyes,” Hargorin translated. “What on earth?”
Tungdil put himself in the lead and started walking slowly. “I expect they use it to change the colour of their eyes so sunlight can’t betray them.” With each step he took, he discarded a piece of his filthy, battered tionium armour. They clanged to the ground as he walked. “Eyes like elves.”
That’s how the älf managed to deceive the pointy-ears, Gosalyn realised. She could see the others were coming to the same conclusion.
This led to other questions that could not be answered down here underground.
Were the elves already being infiltrated by älfar? Was their enemy from the tunnel a survivor of the Girdlegard älfar? Or had he ambushed an elf in Phondrasôn and stolen his armour?
Why did the elf ruler try to have us killed? Gosalyn walked along, supporting Deathbringer together with Beligata. They stepped carefully over the discarded tionium, each piece worth a small fortune.
She had the impression Tungdil wanted nothing to do with his past. In front of their very eyes he was forswearing the dark shell of tionium like a cocoon he would emerge from cleanly to climb towards the light.
Without a weapon. Without protection. There was little in common with the martial aspect of the other Tungdil, about whose intentions opinions had differed so strongly.
He’s even left the mighty Bloodthirster behind. Gosalyn started to hope this was really the true Tungdil they had found—or rather, they had been found by.
“If his soul can adapt that easily to the darkness of the last two hundred and fifty cycles, Girdlegard is home and dry,” murmured Beligata, her scar more obvious than usual. “But only then.”
Girdlegard
United Kingdom of Gauragar-Idoslane
Freestone
6492nd solar cycle, summer
The atmosphere in the Council of Kings had undergone a subtle change, Ireheart noticed, without needing any special insight or having access to more beer than usual. He surveyed the scene over the rim of the tankard of spiced stout he had requested.
Everyone was silent.
Some were consulting their notes, some simply staring at nothing in particular, or studying the behaviour of the flies on the ceiling.
What’s happened? What’s different?
The Council normally assembled to discuss necessary improvements but it had become a place where suspicion ruled the day.
King Isikor had sent his excuses again, citing heavy rainfall and floods. His vote was to be disposed of as before, he wrote.
I’m starting to have my doubts about Isikor. Could he have sent the first assassin, I wonder? Is he working with the älfar? Ireheart fingered the end of his silver beard braid. Rubbish. I’m drinking too much. Or not enough.
He was reluctant to let the humans’ mutual mistrust infect him, and was glad he had convened the Council. Events in T
abaîn and the role of the elves had to be discussed as a matter of urgency.
There may be a simple explanation. He drank thirstily from his mug of aromatic black beer. I certainly hope so. Indeed I pray this may be the case.
The High King was afraid that the news of the mysterious, demon-like warrior at the Stone Gateway would take over the agenda. A justified amendment, but the elves’ conduct also needed clarification. And we still don’t know where Coïra is. Supposed to be out exploring for a new source of magic, but without update?
Dirisa and Natenian were sitting together at the table, but they did not seem to be on good terms; it had not yet been decided which of them would represent the kingdom. Ilahín remained in the Golden Plains; Phenîlas would take his place as delegate.
An armour-clad Mallenia came in, the last to enter the council chamber. She led Sha’taï by the hand, her foundling ward from the abandoned settlement. The young girl, wearing an embroidered dress, took a seat on a stool at Mallenia’s feet. Fair-haired Mallenia stood up and opened the session briskly by asking the High King to address the Council.
That was quick. I like her style. Ireheart nodded and got to his feet. “Thank you for responding to my call. We know that in Tabaîn …” he began.
“Excuse me, High King, but I think we ought to start with the events at the Stone Gateway,” Mallenia said in a friendly tone. “We can discuss the internal arrangements of individual kingdoms later. This touches Girdlegard as a whole.”
His sympathy for the Idoslane monarch shrivelled. “What I need to tell everyone also touches Girdlegard as a whole,” he protested. He was annoyed by how the assembled kings and queens were beaming sweetly at the little girl. Dirisa seemed to be the only one not affected by the child. She’s not a cuddly pet. “It could be …”
“High King, I don’t wish to seem rude but I must insist. We are concerned about the report from the Fifthlings. Do you have anything to add on that subject?”
All eyes turned to the High King of the dwarves.
“No,” he admitted slowly, and was about to raise his tankard to his lips before he remembered that it was to have been his reward for his little speech. “There have been no further sightings or findings.”
“About the granite gates at the fortress of the Stone Gateway,” Phenîlas chipped in from the side, wearing an ostentatious robe but also sporting a conspicuously fresh wound on his cheek. “They won’t have been closed quickly when this strange figure appeared.”
Ireheart had no idea what he meant by this. “I was not there at the time.” He indicated the elf’s face. “What happened to you? You didn’t have that when you rode up.”
“Not important.” The elf made clear he did not want to discuss it.
“When I was reading out the report from Queen Balyndis,” Mallenia said, getting in before Ireheart could carry on, “something strange happened.” She laid her right hand on the child’s fair hair. “Sha’taï started to scream in terror when she heard the description of the mysterious warrior with the copper helmet.”
“We heard her,” said Astirma, sounding alarmed. “We thought the worst had happened.”
Everyone looked at Mallenia’s protegée with concern—everyone except Dirisa and Ireheart, that is. Ireheart made a to-do of sitting down, and pulled his tankard noisily over the table surface. You’ll have to address your issue later. He drained the beer and signalled for a refill.
Sha’taï got to her feet and stood straight-backed, but shy. “I know these beings,” she stammered. “They are called ghaists and they are nothing to do with what you call phantoms or ghosts. They are the forerunners of mighty armies and serve the generals as scouts. They are invincible, my father said.” She sat down again and Rodario handed her a glass of water from which she hastily drank.
The rulers clapped and made encouraging comments on her contribution.
“Didn’t tell us much,” muttered Ireheart, scratching his head. He really didn’t like having his hair long at the sides. Didn’t feel right.
Mallenia smiled. “Of course my little one couldn’t sleep at all after that,” she added, patting the girl on the shoulder. “But her reaction gave me a hint where to look for more information.” She nodded at one of the guards by the door. He went out and returned with Carmondai.
Ireheart stole a sideways look at Phenîlas, who was looking anything but pleased. The elf would have loved to kill the historian-poet but as long as Carmondai was Mallenia’s captive and on her own territory, there was nothing to be done. I like to see you angry. He took another mouthful of beer.
People soon stopped murmuring amongst themselves.
“Tell us what you recall of the ghaists,” Mallenia ordered Carmondai, a figure now lacking the älfar arrogance of yore. The branding had robbed him of any dignity; the fire had extinguished his rebelliousness.
Ireheart knew the scribe was extremely old and that the Triplets had banished him to a dungeon. Was his work so badly written? He emptied his mug with a grin and waved for a new one. They must be using really small tankards today.
Carmondai inclined his head to the assembled Council members, but kept his black eyes on the middle of the table. This älf did not present any danger to anyone, because he knew his life would end the moment Mallenia was no more.
Ireheart had faced älfar too often in the field to experience any sympathy for the historian. He is a symbol of the downfall of our greatest enemies. They keep him like a pet dog that can be put down as soon as he fails to do what’s needed.
“It will have been about the time Sinthoras and Caphalor were relieved of their duties as commanders,” he began. His voice was pleasing but a little croaky. His voice is suffering from old age, like he is, thought Ireheart as he settled in to listen to the älf’s account.
“It occurred a little while after the groundlings” Stone Gateway had fallen and the homeland empire of my race had been destroyed.
“The älfar had closed the fortress because by that time we knew the secret password, and we occupied the gates.
“Then it happened that a group of humans approached, pursuing a ghaist: a giant warrior with a polished copper helmet inscribed with runes, very little in the way of armour, and carrying a flagstaff on his back bearing a banner with writing on it.
“The humans failed in their attempt to destroy him or even to slow his progress.
“Instead it was they who died.
“Caphalor was the commanding officer at the time in charge of the watch crews and he opened fire on what they thought was a human soldier.
“No matter what they fired at him, they could not harm or hurt him in any way. It is just as the groundlings have reported. Not until they dropped live coals on him, followed by a vast quantity of burning pitch and petroleum, was there any effect. He expired in an enormous explosion that the fortress and the surrounding mountains only just withstood.”
Carmondai asked for something to drink before continuing.
“When they heard the description and deciphered what had been seen on the helmet, our experts then recalled what had been previously known about ghaists: that they are beings that consist of a powerful spell and many imprisoned souls. They can only be destroyed if the copper loses its shape in intense heat and the runes dissolve.
“Apart from that, they are absolutely invincible. None of the conventional weapons we deployed had the slightest effect.
“And so my advice would be this: you must have to hand sufficient quantities of blazing combustible material. Only then could you see off a ghaist attack successfully.”
While Carmondai was speaking, Ireheart had been taking surreptitious sips at his beer. The thirst he was plagued with was nigh on unquenchable. He was as quiet as possible, not wanting to interrupt the narration. So this being has visited Girdlegard in the past.
When the älf fell silent, Ireheart rose to his feet. “All the time the Fifthlings have been in charge of the Gate I have never heard of such a foe. We have never found
any reports or drawings mentioning anything similar,” he told Carmondai. “Were the älfar fighting them while the Perished Land held sway?” The historian shook his shaved head.
“This is the only encounter I know about.”
“Can you recall what runes were displayed on the ghaist’s banner?”
The älf went up to the table, poured some wine onto the top as if it were the most natural thing in the world and, without a second’s hesitation, started to reproduce the runes by painting with his finger. “This is how Caphalor described the writing to me.”
“Stand aside and let the girl see.” Ireheart pointed at Sha’taï. “You. Can you read that?” He made no effort to be especially nice to her. Why bother?
The child started to shake violently as soon as she had sight of the runes.
“Nhatai,” she said, terrified, dropping her glass of water. She hugged her knees as if trying to escape from the writing.
People in the room chattered with amazement.
“The ghaist the elves killed had the same runes on his banner. It looks as if we are being revisited by an old adversary.” Ireheart glared at the älf.
“Come on, what are you going to tell us about nhatai?”
Carmondai straightened his shoulders. “I would be guessing.”
“Not a good idea.” Ireheart grinned.
“There are various legends about the adventures Sinthoras and Caphalor had together. One of their missions had them going to the Outer Lands, as you call it. And there, apparently, they met with sorcerers able to create just such a creature in a complicated ritual.” He seemed secretly amused by the High King’s attitude. “These sorcerers created enormous armies. Their soldiers would obey any order, no matter how crass, ridiculous or downright dangerous. One of these families was known as”—he pointed to the writing he had done in wine—“Nhatai.”
Astirma summed up for the council: “And so one of their spies has found a way into Girdlegard again.”
“We can’t discount the possibility that there’s more in store for us than just a visit from the odd scout.” Mallenia shot Ireheart a concerned glance. “High King, you know what advice to send to Balyndis about how to handle this threat.”
