by Markus Heitz
Goda came over to her husband. “You heard it.”
“What?”
“Vraccas will be with us.” She watched Tungdil’s retreating back. “But who is with him?”
“Oh, come now, Goda.” Ireheart sighed and shook his head. He left her standing there and went to see his children.
One orbit later, when Ireheart had stretched out for a nap, there was a knock at the door and a messenger asked him to go to the conference chamber. The high king had summoned him.
Ireheart made his way there as quickly as he could. He was thinking through the next orbit’s battle. Evildam echoed to the sound of blades being sharpened on whetstones, and the clink of hammer on metal where armor was being repaired. Final preparations were underway. They were agreed on tactics. Nothing would be changed now.
He worried less about himself and his own survival; he was concerned for Sanda in particular. I would give anything for her to recover from what has happened. While his injured son was obviously getting better, he had seen in his daughter’s eyes that Sanda had not got over her treatment in captivity.
He had noticed a similar effect in Coïra, who had still not recovered from her near-death experience at Sisaroth’s hands. For this reason he had put the two of them together, hoping they would share confidences and help each other.
Balyndar was another problem. Ireheart feared the fifthling might do something reckless with Keenfire, endangering the outcome for the dwarves. The looks that Balyndar and Goda had exchanged were almost conspiratorial. It would be no use trying to talk sense to his spouse. She had made up her mind and was not going to change it. All Tungdil’s achievements meant nothing to her.
“Vraccas, why did you make us so stubborn?” he complained under his breath before going down the corridor that led to the conference chamber. Coïra was also on her way there.
He lifted his arm in greeting and she slowed her pace. She was wearing a dark-blue robe with long sleeves, and a black cap on her head. Ireheart recognized Weyurn’s coat of arms in the embroidery on the sleeves. “How are you, Majesty?”
“Well, thank you.” She smiled. “You’ll be wanting to know if I’ve spoken to your daughter?”
Ireheart tilted his head and his braid fell forward. “I’m so worried about her… she’s so low and seems very confused. So different.”
Coïra frowned. “Have your wife’s suspicions taken hold of you, too?”
“What suspicions?”
“That it is not really your daughter.”
Ireheart threw up his hands. “Is she saying that? First it was the Scholar she had doubts about and now she thinks her own daughter has been replaced! It’s persecution mania!”
“Yes, yes,” said Coïra mildly, to calm the dwarf down. “It obviously is your daughter. She has told me many personal details.” She stopped at the door. “She has endured the most terrible thing that a woman can ever go through. The dwarf that abducted her announced his intentions and put the blame squarely on Goda for not accepting his conditions. Her spirit has been damaged by the thought of this betrayal.” She placed her hand on his shoulder. “I can do nothing for her, Boïndil Doubleblade. My fate was harmless in comparison.”
Ireheart could find no reply, so great was the hatred raging in his soul. Hatred for the enemy in the vraccasium armor, against whom all his fighting prowess would be useless in battle. I shall desecrate his corpse.
In a fury he stepped into the hall with Coïra—but stopped dead in his tracks: As well as Tungdil, Slîn, Balyndar and Balodil there were two white-clad elves in the room, wearing light palandium armor under their robes.
They carried swords and shields on their backs and long daggers hung from their belts. The male was dark, while the female’s hair was almost white; both looked too tall for Ireheart’s taste, too thin and too pretty. As with the älfar; they don’t come in the fat and ugly format at all. If only one of them would just fart like a pony so they weren’t always so damn perfect.
Tungdil asked the maga and Ireheart to come in, and introduced the elves. “These are the last two heroes to whom you owe the annihilation of the Girdlegard älfar. They were as much a part of it as I was myself.” He said their names, then indicated the elves. “This is Ilahín and his wife Fiëa. When the rebellion started in the älfar regions they left their hiding place and led the humans to where the black-eyes were.”
“But we would never have been able to do that without your preparatory work,” Fiëa said sweetly in typical singsong elf tones. Dwarves had never liked the way the elves spoke. Nor the way they admired the humans.
“So you’ve heard?” said Ireheart, baring his teeth and looking at the tips of their ears.
Ilahín laughed. “I’ve missed all those dwarf-jokes.”
Ireheart stopped. “You like being made fun of?”
“He’s an exception,” Fiëa said, not sounding quite so friendly now. “I’m not fond of it at all.”
“Stop right now, old friend,” said Tungdil, motioning to him and Coïra to sit down. “They have come to thank us and to bring news from Girdlegard.”
Ilahín waited until everyone was seated. “Aiphatòn’s action and your own involvement have meant that it is safe for us to appear once more and for us elves to take some part in the liberation of our homeland. As we are not able or willing to give our thanks to the Unslayables’ offspring, because of who he is descended from, this makes it all the more important for us to thank you.” He lifted a chest from the floor and opened it. It contained daggers made of a white metal. “They are made of pure palandium and can cut through anything. They have the power of the elf goddess in them and will equip you for the coming battle.”
Fiëa handed a knife to each of them.
Ireheart had to admit that the workmanship was excellent, even if they could not compare with dwarf-weapons. He could see the elves employed different procedures when tempering and forging metal. Children’s toys. But he did not want to be disagreeable so he thanked them politely for their gift and tucked his new dagger in his belt. It was quite something to have an elf weapon hanging on a dwarf’s combat belt.
“We have also destroyed wide swathes of Dsôn Bhará, as well as Phôseon Dwhamant. The area has been given back its old name of landur. The humans will make sure that nothing remains to remind them of älfar occupation.” Ilahín pointed to his wife. “Fiëa and I will return to the Golden Plain to found a settlement. We are convinced the elves will return to Girdlegard when the news of the victory gets out into the Outer Lands. We want them to find a home waiting when they arrive.” The elf smiled.
“How charming. But there are only two of you,” commented Slîn.
“We live long enough to get a lot done,” was Ilahín’s reply.
“And we shall not die before the other elves have arrived,” added Fiëa determinedly.
“The daggers are not their only gift. They have offered to fight with us against the monsters,” Tungdil explained.
“Isn’t that rather dangerous if you are keen to start a new homeland for your people?” Slîn asked, not noticing until after he spoke that his words could be construed as an insult of sorts. “I’m not doubting your skill in a fight, Fiëa and Ilahín, but… it will be a fierce battle and many will be injured, many will be killed. Of course it is nothing compared to the campaign you fought against the älfar in Girdlegard.”
Fiëa looked at him. “Your concern is touching, but we know how to fight, Slîn.” She bowed. “Permit us to retire. We must rest to be ready for the morrow.” She and Ilahín left the room.
“Well, what do you know?” Balyndar had the dagger on the table in front of him. “The elves have emerged from their forest haunts.” Slîn and Balodil laughed quietly.
“They know when a battle is hopeless and can assess when victory is possible.” Tungdil stared at them sharply, tying his new dagger to his belt. “Ask the fifthlings and firstlings. They have used similar strategies in past cycles, as far as I can make out. There i
s a difference between strategic withdrawal and the cowardice you seem to be accusing them of.” He walked to the door. “We meet tomorrow. I am not to be disturbed until sun-up, when we attack the beasts.”
Ireheart also took his leave and disappeared.
Slîn studied the model of the ravine and fortress. “Right, so tomorrow it is.” He glanced at Coïra. “You will cope, maga?”
“With Lot-Ionan and Goda’s support there should be no problem getting the mountain to collapse in on the abyss,” she answered. “On my own I would never manage it, but with the three of us I’m sure it’s possible.”
“But what if you have to use up your energy in the battle?” Balyndar tipped over some of the little figures in the evil camp.
“I don’t think we’ll have to. Lot-Ionan is the one who’ll have to cast most of the spells. His magic reserve is incredible. I don’t know how he does it. Even though Balyndar damaged his onyx staff.” She suppressed a yawn. “We’ll attack and defeat the army of darkness. If we run out of missiles for the new catapults, then it’s your turn. Together with the ubariu, the undergroundlings and the humans it should be easier than…” she flicked another of the little figures off the board “… doing that.” With these words she took her leave and left the chamber; the Zhadár disappeared without a farewell.
Slîn looked first at Balyndar, then back to Keenfire. “Don’t do anything silly,” he warned, as he got to his feet. He held his crossbow in such a way that it could be construed as a threat. “I shan’t let you out of my sight on the battlefield and should I see you up to any treachery directed against the properly elected high king…” He left the sentence unfinished and strode out, his weapon shouldered.
Balyndar sat alone in the chamber, his eyes on the model of the abyss and his right hand on the hilt of Keenfire. “I’ll do whatever I think is right,” he said, leaning forward. He had discovered a figure that looked very like Tungdil.
He reached out for it, tossed it into the air and chopped it in half with Keenfire’s blade.
Ireheart made sure that he could not be seen, then knocked at the door.
Ilahín opened up, looking surprised. “Well, what brings you here, Boïndil Doubleblade? What can I…?”
“Let me in,” Ireheart said, pushing past the elf. “Forgive my coming unannounced, but there’s a very… unpleasant matter I need your help with.” He sat down, his shoulders drooping. “Help me, Ilahín.”
The elf shut the door and pulled out a chair for himself facing the dwarf. “You know, friend dwarf, that I will gladly help you. What’s on your mind?”
Ireheart took out the drinking pouch that Balodil had given him. “Smell that and maybe you can understand. This used to belong to a Zhadár and I drank out of it by mistake.”
Ilahín took the vessel, opened it and fanned the air to get the scent. All his amiable helpfulness disappeared. “This is… elf blood!”
“And it’s the reason the älfar hunted you all down. They needed it to brew a concoction that turned selected thirdling warriors into Zhadár,” he explained, looking at the elf. “My drinking it was a mistake,” he insisted. “One of the Zhadár told me only an elf would be able to liberate me from the curse of having drunk it.” He rubbed his nose awkwardly.
Ilahín gave no answer. Instead he called Fiëa, held the pouch out to her and pointed to Ireheart. There followed a long and involved exchange that grew more and more heated. The dwarf got the impression the two elves did not agree. But about what?
“Forgive me if I interrupt you,” he called out after a long tense wait. “Is there any remedy against the thirst or not?”
The elves stared at him.
Ilahín took a deep breath. “The thing is, Boïndil Doubleblade, we don’t really know,” he admitted. “Your guilt is very serious.”
“Ho, damn it! But I had no idea.”
“That is neither here nor there,” said Fiëa sharply. “If you kill a human and then say you didn’t know it was wrong, the other humans will still hunt you down and bring you to trial, won’t they?”
Ireheart had to nod in agreement.
“What you’ve done is to commit blasphemy and the fact you did it unwittingly does not help. That’s unfortunately the fact of the matter,” said Ilahín in friendlier tones. “However, you are one of our folk’s benefactors, so we believe the goddess will perhaps be merciful in your case and reduce the punishment.”
“I don’t understand. What’s going to happen? What have I got to do?”
Fiëa took the leather pouch and cut it open. The dark viscous liquid spilt onto the floor and formed a stain. “You will have to pray to Sitalia, Boïndil Doubleblade, and beg her to release you from the curse.”
“But…” He saw the stain growing in size until the elf-woman covered it with a cloth to wipe it up. Then the cloth flew into the fire and there was a hissing sound. Black flames shot out and then the nightmare was over. “But I need…”
“No, Boïndil Doubleblade.” Ilahín interrupted him. “Each new sip of that liquid would take you one step nearer damnation.”
Ireheart tugged at the silver and black hairs on his scalp in frustration. “It’s the only way to combat the thirst! You have no idea how it burns!”
They looked at each other again. Fiëa took a small bag from her belt. “In here are some herbs, Boïndil Doubleblade, which will help you with the symptoms. But the thirst will only disappear if Sitalia pardons you. Pray to her, that is what we counsel. Pray with fervor and humility.”
“But I did nothing wrong!” Ireheart felt a fool constantly reiterating his innocence, but he did not know what else to do.
“Tell Sitalia,” advised Fiëa. “We believe you. Your deeds speak for you.”
Ilahín touched the despairing dwarf on the brow. “You must convince the goddess. She will show herself to you if you do things properly.”
“Or else?” he asked uncertainly.
“The herbs will not help you forever, and you…” Fiëa grimaced. “You know what will happen, friend dwarf.” They looked at him, challenge in their eyes. He understood.
He got up, dragged himself to the door and went out. “Thank you,” he said as he turned on the threshold. “Praying to Sitalia,” he muttered under his breath. “Begging the pointy-ears’ goddess for favors! It’s come to that! I’m innocent!” Depression and prevarication had given way to the familiar stubborn resistance. “Then I’d rather die a hero’s death in battle! So there! That’s all the elves will get out of me!”
He stomped off down the corridor to his own chambers with grim determination. Vraccas will help me.
XXXI
The Outer Lands,
The Black Abyss,
Early Summer, 6492nd Solar Cycle
It was pouring down.
A violent storm had broken out overnight, deluging fortress and ravine alike as if to wash the defending forces from the very battlements and to flood the chasm of the evil beasts.
By daybreak the thunder and lightning had passed but the rain remained. The attack was still scheduled to take place. Tungdil had insisted on this.
The units stood ready behind each of the four gates. This time they were strictly divided: Humans at the eastern gate, the ubariu to the west, undergroundlings north and the dwarves in the south. The intention was to confuse the beasts by disguising the direction of the major attack.
And this main focus was to be from the south, with Tungdil, Balyndar, Ireheart, Goda, Coïra, Lot-Ionan and the dwarf contingents. The humans would divert and feign an attack together with the undergroundlings at the northern entry point, while the ubariu were to come to the dwarf-army flank in support.
Ireheart stood up in his stirrups to survey the massed army of male and female warriors. Their banners and standards high in the gray air displayed their pride in the newfound harmony among the children of the Smith. A victory would unite them still more firmly. “I thank you, Vraccas,” he murmured and turned to the gate. Even if I find my own death t
oday.
Around him were gathered the heroes of the first mission, as well as Goda and Lot-Ionan. The dwarf-woman would not look at the magus and always kept her distance. She would have refused to speak a single word to her former master even if he had wished it.
Ireheart saw from his wife’s expression that she would rather have been confronting the magus in combat than the beasts from the ravine. Again he noted Goda and Balyndar exchanging rapid glances. The fifthling looked at Slîn, who was observing him intently and tapping the shaft of his crossbow, as if by chance.
Ireheart scratched his silvery black beard. What are they up to? There was something he was not privy to and it worried him. He would not be able to stop in the heat of battle to play nursemaid to them in order to head off some harebrained scheme.
He was about to wheel his pony toward Tungdil, but the one-eyed dwarf was already giving the signal to attack.
The double doors of the mighty gate swung wide open and Ireheart knew the same would be happening at the other three entrances, sending these disparate armies on their way. If he had got it right there would be one thousand humans fighting under the leadership of the elves, four thousand undergroundlings, a solid ten thousand ubariu and then another force of ten thousand dwarves, of which the six thousand thirdlings made up the largest section.
But before any of them could set foot on the plain the first stroke had to be successful.
Lot-Ionan stepped forward to study the dark-red barrier edge. He placed his left hand on it and spoke a short sentence, suddenly crying out loud and tensing his whole body.
White lightning flashed through the shield, causing it to dissolve. The barrier disappeared with a high-pitched whine!
“For Girdlegard!” came Tungdil’s rallying cry. He sounded his bugle. All four armies started their advance, while the fortress catapults went into action, raining down havoc on the bewildered monsters.
Rocks, arrows and spears hurtled through the air, crashing and thumping down; burning petroleum bombs and red-hot iron balls shot over into the monsters’ unprotected camp, striking the tents to kill and maim those inside. They struck the siege towers, the battering rams, the storm ladders, all the military equipment the beasts had placed ready on the plain.
