The Fate of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  Ùtsintas opened his mouth. “It’s not as easy…”

  But Tungdil carried on regardless. “Take me to the Dsôn Aklán. I have a bargain to strike. Now.”

  Ùtsintas closed his mouth again. This prompted another hidden grin from Ireheart. That black-eyes has never been spoken to like this before.

  Tungdil leaned forward on his pony. “Did you hear me, Ùtsintas? Or perhaps you do not know my name? Are you so young that you have never been told about the dwarf who razed the original city of Dsôn to the ground?”

  “Of course I know the name…” The älf was unsure of himself and looked at the standard. “What does the flag mean? It’s written neither in älfar nor in dwarf-language. It seems to be a mixture of the two…”

  “It means that I am commander and king at the same time. In the land beyond the Black Abyss.” Tungdil had his pony move to the front, right up close. With the dwarf on its back even the small pony seemed superior to the firebull, showing no fear of the massive bulk and threatening horns.

  “You claim to be Tungdil Goldhand and to have returned from that place? How would that have been possible?” Ùtsintas was gradually regaining his composure.

  “The barrier fell for a few moments. That’s how I managed to get back.” Tungdil’s face darkened. “Now I have to speak to the Dsôn Aklán. Do you wish me to ride past you or will you accompany me and Hargorin Deathbringer?”

  Ireheart felt like laughing out loud. My Scholar is treating the älf like his messenger boy.

  “Other creatures are not permitted to set foot in the holy crater.”

  Tungdil’s laugh was unpleasant. “I was in the real city of Dsôn long before you, Ùtsintas.” The Black Squadron sniggered, joined in the fun, humiliating the älf even more. “Be the one who crowns the pact between the thirdlings and your own folk.” He touched the hilt of Bloodthirster, as if by accident. “I am on my way to Dsôn. With or without you.”

  Ùtsintas stared at Tungdil and then nodded. “I shall take you.” And, indicating Hargorin, “He can wait here with your people.”

  “No. I am entitled to an escort,” Tungdil contradicted. “Thirty men at the very least. Do not attempt to argue.”

  The älf paused. “Thirty. No more than that.”

  Tungdil signaled to the Zhadár, Ireheart, Slîn and Balyndar to join him. “These are Hargorin’s best men. They instantly swore allegiance to me and they shall be rewarded with the sight of Dsôn.”

  Ùtsintas sent them a warning glance. “You are to follow me, not taking any other path. Anyone contravening this order will be killed. This holds for you as well, Tungdil Goldhand.” He turned his firebull’s head and led the way.

  Tungdil’s smile was full of malice. “You would not be able to kill me.”

  The chosen band of dwarves followed him; Hargorin fell back to wait for them. Ireheart had to restrain himself from talking to Slîn. He thought Tungdil’s acting was superb.

  The last few miles through the crater toward the new Dsôn they rode in silence. Gruesome sculptures and monuments were to be seen as they passed; they had a certain aesthetic quality to them but were hideously cruel in concept, formed as they were from bones wired together with gold, tionium and other precious metals; dead trees had been adorned with skulls, and elsewhere there was a structure reminding Ireheart of a large windmill moving in the breeze. He got the distinct impression that those sails were made of skin. He did not wish to learn what sort of skin had been used.

  The nearer they got to the deep crater, the more numerous the works of art became until there was hardly any space between the sculptures. They appeared like a nightmarish forest. It all stemmed from the älfar obsession with the transience of nature; they imitated death in all its forms. It did not do much for morale.

  Ireheart was finding it hard to hold his tongue. The grim statues made him talkative. He wanted to speak to the Scholar about what he could see, and wanted to ask Balyndar and Slîn their impressions. But it had been agreed in advance that strict silence would be observed.

  The Zhadár had been given their orders: They were to get the sledge with the kordrion’s young unobtrusively into the center of the city and leave it hidden there; perhaps they could even take it into the palace itself.

  I wonder if the älfar rulers have rebuilt the Tower of Bones? The old tower in Dsôn Balsur had been constructed out of the skeletons of slain enemies, but would two hundred cycles have been long enough to amass sufficient quantities to build anew? Ireheart stretched up in his saddle for a better view but could not see any tall buildings rising up out of the vast hole the city occupied.

  Noticing a particular artwork he had to overcome the impulse to attack Ùtsintas and the other älfar with his crow’s beak; from Slîn’s helmet, too, emerged a groan of horror. Walls specially erected for the purpose had been decorated with carved reliefs, showing the älfar defeating their foes. But where the älfar were shown life size and worked in silver and tionium, the artist had used real bodies for their enemies. Ireheart was having to look at the rotting corpses of fellow dwarves.

  “There must be a hundred at least,” exclaimed Balyndar, unable to control his disgust. “Such an end is an insult to any child of the Smith!” he went on, in a lower voice this time. “To decay and disintegrate like worthless orcs and all for the enjoyment of the black-eyes—we can’t accept this. They need proper burial…”

  “Quiet!” Tungdil ordered. “Be quiet or your lust for revenge will endanger a much more important mission.”

  Ùtsintas turned round. “One hundred?” he repeated in amusement; he seemed not to have heard the rest of the exchange. “The artist needs to replace them every quarter-cycle. The bodies keep better in the winter of course. New humans are relatively easy to supply. Dwarves are difficult to get hold of. We harvest them mostly from the fourthlings. They’re the easiest ones.”

  “Harvest?” exclaimed Ireheart.

  Ùtsintas grinned. This time he had heard. “I’m surprised that a Desirer should be such a sensitive soul. You’re the ones that bring us the material.” “Don’t mind him. He got out of bed on the wrong side,” said Tungdil. “I have to put up with his moodiness all the time.”

  “If you wish to be rid of him…” The älf gestured toward the wall relief.

  “Ho! I could cut you down to size so you fit, yourself, black-eyes!” Ireheart retorted. He would have been delighted to drive the arrogance out of this uppity älf.

  “Enough!” snarled Tungdil peremptorily. “Or I shall take up the offer Ùtsintas just made.”

  Ireheart noted with distress that Tungdil’s words had not sounded remotely like acting.

  They soon reached the sharply winding path that led down into the heart of the crater.

  Boïndil uttered a gasp of surprise at the sight. At first glance he had realized that the walls of the crater had been dug vertically; the diameter had to be about twelve miles and the depth of the vast hole nearly three.

  The floor of the crater was black; the älfar had covered the ground with some material that made it look deeper still. Around two hundred strangely shaped houses had been positioned in a specific pattern round the central mountain. A contrasting mixture of white and black wood had been used to great effect for the buildings. In some cases the roof was pointed, in others it took the form of a gentle diagonal slope with balconies; other houses had hexagonal towers, and sharp corners were a feature used throughout.

  I’d like to take a closer look, thought Ireheart. I wonder how their furniture is constructed. The black-eyes who live there must have to keep their helmets on all the time so as not to bang their heads on the sharp bits. Sculptures had been erected in the open spaces between the houses.

  Ireheart reckoned the mountain itself must be a mile high, and two miles wide. A rectangular building of dark gray marble had been built, crowned with a shimmering, sparkling dome of black glass. A massive tower rose at the back of the mountain, easily twenty paces by twenty, and a hundred paces h
igh. Wires ran from the tip of the tower, criss-crossing the city and reaching the edges of the crater.

  What is all that for? wondered Ireheart. He would need to get closer to study the detail.

  “It’s not like the Dsôn I used to know. You have made many changes,” Tungdil said to Ùtsintas. “The houses look lonely and isolated there in the crater.”

  “It’s a beginning,” said the älf. “There will be more of when we’ve got rid of all the fifthlings.”

  “But then you’d still have the kordrion sitting in the Gray Mountains. It eats everything it finds,” Tungdil pointed out.

  “We won’t have a problem there. We’ll let it deal with those troublesome rock-diggers first. That saves us the bother.” Ùtsintas pointed to the marble building. “That’s the Dsôn Akláns’ palace.”

  “In the old city the mountain was taller, and the crater has changed as well. Why is that?”

  “You’ll have to ask the Dsôn Aklán. He will decide if it is any of your business to be told.” The älf turned the firebull to take the broad path downhill.

  Ireheart noted that it grew darker all the time as they made their way down, hairpin bend by hairpin bend. The somber gloom that the city exuded infiltrated his very soul.

  The blackness of the crater floor came from a surface layer of tiny stones. He assumed they had removed part of the top of the mountain and ground up the resulting rock. That would have obviated the need to transport the residue up the difficult winding paths of the crater sides.

  They continued straight on toward the mountain and its palace.

  Ireheart was burning to ask his friend how the Zhadár were going to be able to deposit and hide the kordrion cocoon. They were all being carefully watched. The dark mood was robbing him of courage and any sense of optimism.

  As he raised his head, the sky seemed so very far away. Vraccas, you know I don’t mind being under the earth, but this is different. I feel so ill at ease here. I want to be back in the sun, he prayed.

  They rode past more artworks dedicated to the honor of Tion and the Unslayables and to the memory of those who had lived in the city before the Star of Judgment fell and destroyed it.

  As if obeying a soundless command, Útsintas and his men bowed their heads. “Show respect,” the älf told Tungdil and the dwarves. “Bow your heads.”

  “To dead älfar?” Tungdil nearly laughed.

  “To their spirits,” replied Útsintas quietly. “They remain here to guard the Moon Pond against the elves. When the Dsôn Aklán returned, the spirits appeared to them and demanded everything you see here as payment for their protection.”

  To Ireheart’s surprise the Scholar did indeed bow his head, so the rest of the band felt duty-bound to follow suit, pretending to offer respect. “I remember I felt I was never alone when I came into the old city of Dsôn, to burn it down,” Tungdil said to the älf. “I thought what I could hear was the sound of the wind.”

  “It was the spirits,” Ùtsintas repeated, urging his firebull forward. “Let us make haste. He will not receive us after sundown.”

  They rode to the foot of the mountain. A mighty staircase led upwards. This was also constructed of gray marble; to the right and left there flowed streams of crimson, going down in steps, with fountains every thirty paces spurting red water.

  The firebulls and ponies took the steps one at a time until they had covered a third of the way. From there the party dismounted and went on foot.

  Ireheart found the stair-climbing quite strenuous, as the height of each step was designed for an älf’s stride and not for dwarf-legs. He could not help admiring the masonry work. It seemed to have been perfectly executed, as far as he could judge. Perfect, as always, for älfar.

  To add sparkle to the stairs every third step had been highly polished and decorated with jewels. Some of the steps were made of transparent crystal, allowing a view of the red water that flowed beneath.

  “They’ve taken a lot of trouble,” said Tungdil. “Though I miss the ivory tower.”

  “The Dsôn Aklán did not wish to invite comparison with the Unslayables. Only the Emperor Aiphatòn would be en titled to do that. He lives elsewhere.” Ùtsintas took the last stair and reached the plateau in front of the palace.

  Tungdil followed him, then came Ireheart and the rest. They were now forty paces from the mighty marble façade. Boïndil doubted that a crossbow bolt could reach the height of the roof where the dark dome shimmered and shone.

  “And what kind of palace has the emperor built for himself?” Tungdil wanted to know.

  “As far as I know he does not have one. I have never had the chance of visiting him.” Ùtsintas led them to the door at the end of a row of giant columns supporting the entrance canopy.

  Ireheart grinned again. You won’t be allowed to because the black-eyes from the south won’t let you in, he thought. He suddenly realized that the älfar patrols in Dsôn Bhará were not for quelling Gauragar resistance but for keeping their own unwelcome relatives off their backs. I’ll take any bets no southern älf has ever been in this crater.

  The älfar had not lost their love of working with all types of bone. The dwarves saw bones of all shapes and sizes fixed to the walls as adornment, arranged to make fascinating patterns, leading the beholder’s gaze along to the entrance itself. The portal, which was seven paces high and four wide, was decorated with slices of bone arranged with studious accuracy; skulls filled the gaps. The head shapes of all the races in Girdlegard were represented here. Except for the älfar.

  Four sentries guarded the entrance and opened the door for the visitors. Beyond the portal was a high dark corridor, its walls covered in carmine red fabric. No gruesome pictures, no bonework, nothing to upset or horrify you.

  Hmm, not as I thought at all. Ireheart was slightly puzzled as he followed Tungdil and Ùtsintas along winding passageways. The company halted in front of a black door.

  “I will tell the Dsôn Aklán you are here and what you want.” Their leader knocked on the door and an älf wearing a long robe let him in.

  Outside, Ireheart could not contain himself. He pushed up his visor. “I can’t believe it!” he said quietly, wiping the sweat off his face. The climb had made him quite hot. “I’m right in the middle of the black-eyes’ realm!”

  Tungdil quickly snapped his friend’s visor shut. “Don’t say a word. They may be watching us.”

  Ireheart pushed it up again. “But my tongue is on fire. I need…”

  “Will you be quiet?” snarled Balyndar, giving him a shove. The visor clanged shut once more. “He’ll be the death of us if he can’t stop talking.”

  “Push me around again, fifthling, and…”

  Ùtsintas reappeared and led them through a second, dark-red door. Here they were received by seven älfar in long black robes. They did not seem concerned that they would be significantly outnumbered should it come to a fight. They ushered Tungdil and his escort into the presence of the ruler of Dsôn.

  The dwarves entered the black-painted hall. Blue flames flickered in shallow braziers. Dark red lengths of fabric hung from the ceiling and there was a smell of smoldering spices.

  They walked toward an elevated throne covered in a white velvet throw, which contrasted effectively with the dark-haired älf in full armor who sat there. He held a white fan in one hand to shield his face from their inquiring eyes.

  I could try numbering them so I don’t mix them up, thought Ireheart, smiling to himself behind his visor.

  Tungdil halted and sketched a bow. “I am…” “I know who you are,” the älf interrupted. “Even if you do use a different name.”

  Ireheart was taken aback. A feeling of unease made the hairs on his arms stand up. He checked the exit and gripped his crow’s beak.

  The älf rose, elegance itself, and strode down the four steps. “I did not think I should ever see you again.”

  Tungdil’s eyes narrowed. Boïndil saw that he was struggling with his memory.

  �
��How long has it been? Two hundred cycles?” The älf lowered his fan and gave the one-eyed dwarf a friendly smile of welcome. On his neck there was a narrow wound caused by a crossbow bolt and his cheek also bore a scar.

  “Tirîgon!” Tungdil beamed and opened his arms wide.

  Then something happened that was, from Ireheart’s point of view, quite appalling: The älf bent down and hugged the Scholar as if greeting a very close friend. Both of them were laughing. “Can I call you Balodil or shall we leave it at Tungdil?”

  The dwarf behind Ireheart gave a sob of exasperation and turned away in distress. Presumably one of the Zhadár, thought Boïndil, given a theatrical and emotional performance like that. “Keep quiet, can’t you?” he whispered, lifting his visor to be heard. “The Scholar knows what he’s doing.” But while the words were leaving his mouth he was himself beset with uncertainty. The familiarity with which the älf and Tungdil had greeted each other, the way those two dark figures fitted in to the world of evil, all this served to stir the doubts Boïndil had so recently succeeded in putting aside.

  The Zhadár swallowed another sob and fell silent, nodding. Ireheart turned to the front and watched as Tungdil and the älf clasped hands again, now deep in discussion. They must know each other from their time in the Black Abyss.

  He was trying to work out how the black-eyes had been able to cross the barrier before Tungdil. Suddenly he felt sick. He remembered exactly when it was he had last heard the name Tirîgon: They were standing in the presence of the perverted and legendary älf who had wiped out the last of the elves of Girdlegard. What will he do if one of our company drops his disguise?

  XV

  Girdlegard,

  Dsôn Bhará (Formerly the Elf Realm of Lesinteïl),

  Dsôn,

  Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

  “Who would have thought we would meet here in Dsôn Bhará, of all places?” Tirîgon gazed at Tungdil in delighted surprise.

  Ireheart saw that the two had enjoyed more than mere acquaintance; it did nothing to reassure him. His Scholar together with one of the worst älfar of the past two hundred cycles, the one who had eliminated the last of the elves of Girdlegard. This feels like trouble. He was itching to join in their conversation but knew he must not try. Now less than ever.