by Markus Heitz
Tungdil laughed darkly. “You know that dwarves hate water as much you hate elves. I would never have been able to swim through the Moon Pond. The curse of Elria would have seen me drowned.”
“You had to wait so long to return.” The älf looked at the escort and Ireheart found the blue-eyed gaze very unpleasant when it rested on him. “But I see you have taken over our Desirers.”
“They follow me because I am the high king.” He smiled. “You have no need to fear me, Tirîgon. I have come to make you and the Dsôn Aklán an offer.”
“I am delighted to hear it. I am only sorry that my brother and sister are not with me. They are in Gauragar, hunting down the woman who caused this.” He pointed at the injury to his face.
“You leave your revenge up to them?”
“I was at death’s door, Balo… Tungdil. It was Mallenia of Ido. The cowardly bitch shot at me with a crossbow and sent a bolt through my neck long after our duel was over.”
Ireheart noted that the älf was omitting to mention which of them had won the duel. So it won’t have been you, Scarface.
Tirîgon signaled for chairs and refreshments to be brought. They sat down at a table in front of the throne. “And anyway, one of us had to look after Dsôn Bhará. What do you think of the city?”
“It is very different from the true Dsôn.” Tungdil frowned. “They tell us my name is spoken here with hatred.”
“Only by those who do not know you from the other side. Do not be concerned.” Tirîgon gestured to one of the human slaves to pour their drink. The slave woman served the älf first and Ireheart last.
Ireheart guessed her beauty was perfection to human eyes, but for himself he preferred something with a little more substance, like his own Goda. This one looked more like an älf than a human: Slender, slim-faced and with graceful movements.
“Seeing you here I must assume you are still kindly disposed to us.” Tirîgon sounded curious. “We once worked hand in hand and with great success.”
“That’s the way it should still be.” Tungdil drank his wine. “The dwarves have elected me their high king and the tribe of the thirdlings will serve me as their supreme ruler. My reputation with the thirdlings is now very different, Hargorin tells me.”
“You have considerable authority with them as a warrior.” The älf had understood the implication. “Thus it will be with you we negotiate when we need thirdling support to police the three kingdoms. I am pleased to hear it.” Tirîgon raised his goblet. “To the old times!”
“The very old times!” Tungdil returned the toast. “Of course I am on your side. I hear there have been disputes with your relations from the south.”
Ireheart had interpreted Tungdil’s words as a message: The very old times. The good times.
Tirîgon’s serenity faded. He drained his cup and called for more. “There is no evidence that they are actually related to us,” he snapped. “But it is true: We don’t like them and they don’t like us.”
Tungdil licked a droplet of wine from the rim of his goblet. “But they have superiority of numbers.”
Again, another hidden message.
“We shall be glad of your help. My siblings will be pleased.” Tirîgon lifted his cup in salute. “Since I am aware that you never act without due thought and intent, tell me what you want in return.”
“All the dwarf kingdoms.” The response came swift as a bolt from a crossbow.
Tirîgon lowered his head. “Tungdil, I would happily promise you that, but it is not within my gift.”
“But when our campaign is over, you will have that power.”
Ireheart saw the älf registering growing surprise but no doubt. He must trust Tungdil to the hilt.
“I have a plan…” Tirîgon laughed out loud. “That cunning dwarf-mind! You always had a clever plan over on the other side. Your plans always worked, so I’ve no reason to doubt you now.” He sat back in his chair. “Tell me about it.”
Tungdil outlined the scheme to play the Dragon off against Lot-Ionan; the kordrion and the tribe of fifthlings would be destroyed together, by the thirdling army. “The route is already secure. You and your älfar will be ready to attack the southern älfar…”
Tirîgon raised his hand. “No. They will be fighting Lot-Ionan under that fool, the Emperor Aiphatòn. They’re off to the Blue Mountains with everything they’ve got.”
“All the better.” Tungdil pretended he had not known about the attack. “So the Dragon can launch himself on the victor. You bring your forces up secretly, and we join you as soon as we’ve got rid of the kordrion and the fifthlings. After that, Girdlegard will be yours.” He leaned forward. “That’s if you leave the dwarf realms to me.”
“Here am I, making a pact with a dwarf against my own emperor, the last of the descendants of the Unslayables,” Tirîgon said thoughtfully. “That is mad enough to work. I trust you and your bright ideas, Balodil.” He frowned in annoyance. “I mean Tungdil.”
By Vraccas! When he was with the monsters he called himself by the name of his own son! Ireheart’s wavering conviction that this was indeed the true Tungdil and not an impostor started to gain firmer footing. How else could he have known that name? And, he thought, Tungdil’s approach was excellent, although fate was playing a hand in it, too.
“Your siblings will follow your lead, or do I have to fight the three of you when I’ve polished off the enemies in the north and south?” Tungdil’s question had a trace of mirth but its core was serious.
Tirîgon helped himself to some of the food, putting small slices slowly into his mouth. “They will approve of our pact.” He closed his eyes in pleasure. “That was the first time I’ve been able to enjoy my food since being wounded.” He invited his guest to eat. “We shall inform you when Aiphatòn and his false followers leave to attack Lot-Ionan. Where do we send the message?”
“To Hargorin’s estate in the north. That’s probably the best place to find me while we’re preparing for the campaign. And if I’m not there someone will know how to contact me.” Tungdil tried some of the meat.
Let it have been an animal, Vraccas, and not anything else. Not anything they didn’t have a use for in their art, prayed Ireheart. The sight of pink roast flesh made him hungry. It smelled good, even if he had never wanted to sink his teeth into black-eye food.
“I’ll get over to Aiphatòn as quickly as possible and pay him a call,” stated Tungdil, helping himself to more of the wine. “The emperor must not think I’m against him. My last meeting went peacefully, and I want to tell him, for form’s sake, that we can continue the alliance.”
“So you’ll be offering him the same pact?”
“Yes. But for the campaign against Lot-Ionan, my atrocious foster-father.” Tungdil grinned. “Then I shall withdraw and promise to return with a huge army of troops.”
“He will have the surprise of his life.” Tirîgon laid his cutlery aside. “But can’t I tempt you to stay?”
Sacred forge! Don’t let us spend a single night in Dsôn! Ireheart hoped fervently that Tungdil would turn down the offer of hospitality.
“I’m afraid not, old friend. We’ll have to move swiftly if we want to meet up with the emperor, I should think?”
“Yes. You should find him in the former landur. He has given the realm to his friends from the south.” The älf spoke with open dislike.
“And what about Dsôn Balsur? Has it been rebuilt?”
Tirîgon shrugged. “It’s all one to me, while they’re living there. It will take us some time to remove their unwholesome influence in the place. They have no appreciation of art at all, or beauty, poetry, painting or other aesthetic concepts.” He shuddered. “It is impossible that Tion created them.”
“Unless he was drunk?” suggested Ireheart, over-hastily.
Tirîgon and Tungdil turned their heads slowly in his direction. “So you have people in your escort who enjoy a pleas-antry,” the älf noted with amusement.
“He never usually has a
good joke to tell.” Tungdil tutted and shook his head. “Perhaps a rare spark of inspiration.”
“Don’t let him tell that one to the emperor. It could be his best and final joke.” The älf rose. One of the robed älfar approached with a whispered message. “I won’t detain you any longer, Tungdil Goldhand.” They embraced. “Our pact is settled. You shall have the dwarf realms and we shall have Girdlegard.” His laughter was cold. “The land is in desperate need of our art. It will be a pleasure for me to reform it to our taste.”
“Even two hundred cycles ago your reputation as an artist was brilliant. I am keen to see what you are capable of now.” Tungdil clasped the älf’s right hand and beamed at him. “In three cycles at the outside it will be us in charge and no one else! Give my greetings to your siblings.” He turned and went to the door. His escort of Invisibles surrounded him and Ireheart was at his side.
“Tungdil,” called Tirîgon, as they reached the door. They stopped and the one-eyed dwarf turned to face the älf. “What about the barrier? Is it holding again?”
“Yes,” lied Tungdil, cold as ice.
“That’s good. It would be bad if your master were to turn up here to demand the return of his armor.” Tirîgon paused. “Or did you kill him in the end, perhaps?”
“I tried to. It didn’t work. That’s why I want the dwarf realms: No one shall be allowed through the gate.” Tungdil turned and marched off. “Tion is with us, Tirîgon. Be sure of that.”
They left the hall and the seven silent älfar led them out through the palace to the open air.
“At last!” Ireheart took a deep breath and pushed his visor up. “I couldn’t have stood it in there much longer. I don’t know what it was I was eating but it doesn’t smell nice when it comes up again.”
Slîn laughed and opened his own visor as well. “Onions and preserved gugul mince? I saw you had a jar of that in your pack. Goda send you off with that, then?”
“You never gave us any.” Tungdil gave him a disapproving look. “How mean of you.” Then he grinned. It was obvious that he was relieved to have got in and out of the palace safely. And with such success. “Ireheart, you must curb your tongue in future. We were in luck. It was a good thing Tirîgon found your remark funny.” After a short pause he added. “So did I, by the way.”
Darkness had fallen. But when Ireheart looked up at the sky he saw no stars! “By Vraccas!” he exclaimed, horrified. “What have the älfar done?”
All the dwarves looked up and stared.
“The constellations have all disappeared!” Balyndar whispered, fearfully.
“The stars must be refusing to shine on an älfar city,” suggested Slîn.
Ireheart conquered his incredulity and turned to the tower with its cables spreading out in all directions. “It’s to do with that tower.”
Tungdil followed his gaze and thought. “Let’s get on or we’ll be arousing suspicion. And pull your visors down in case we meet anyone.”
They went down the steps to where their ponies were waiting. Overhead they caught a slight rustling sound.
“I don’t believe it,” said Slîn in amazement as he looked up at the sky.
A starry firmament had appeared above their heads but it was different from the one the dwarves were familiar with. The heavenly bodies they saw now were not as they knew them. And there were shimmering moons, three or four times the size of Girdlegard’s own.
“I don’t know how they’ve done it, but the city must have moved to another place entirely.” Boïndil could not get his fill of the splendid sight.
Balyndar snorted. “What do you mean?”
“Perhaps you never stick your head out of the caves but I’ve traveled a lot in Girdlegard. Wherever I went, the stars were always the same.”
“There’s a deep insight for you,” mocked Slîn. “Only here they’re not. But we’re still in Girdlegard.” “Exactly. That’s why I said they’ve moved the city out of Girdlegard. I admit it doesn’t sound very likely.”
“So how do we get back?” Slîn mounted and turned to look at the winding cliffside path. “Who knows where we’ll end up?”
“Over to you, Scholar.”
Tungdil looked up. “Canvasses.”
“Canvasses.” At first Ireheart did not understand. “Oh, I see, like curtains, but… sideways?” He looked up again. “They pull them across the crater on those ropes to give the älfar down here an artificial night sky to admire—is that what you mean?”
“Exactly, Ireheart. That’s what I mean. I expect they cover the city on especially bright days, or when it’s very hot. A protective screen.”
“That’s an amazing amount of trouble to go to.” Balyndar seemed relieved at the explanation.
“But it’s also beautiful. You’ll have to give them that.” Tungdil rode ahead, followed by the Zhadár and the rest of the company.
Ireheart was pleased to note they were not escorted. Tirîgon must trust his dwarf-friend completely if he was letting them wander the streets unaccompanied. Trust and black-eyes: That’s a weird combination. That Tirîgon must have something up his sleeve. At the bottom of the winding climb he thought he could make out Útsintas and the älfar on their firebulls. I’m not going to let anyone entice me into a trap.
“This is the ideal chance to get rid of the kordrion young,” he mouthed to Tungdil.
“Already done,” answered one of the Zhadár. “We left the cocoon on the stairway up to the palace behind one of the pillars. They won’t find it—unless they’ve got a nose like a kordrion.”
Ireheart was impressed. “And now?”
“Let’s ride off to the Dragon as fast as we can. Then we plunder his treasure hoard,” said Tungdil, putting his plan to them. “Isn’t that a messenger over there with Ùtsintas?”
“If you say so. I can only see some scrawny black-eyes and overweight fighting cows.” Ireheart had given up being surprised about the Scholar’s unnaturally good vision.
Tungdil had been correct. When they reached the älf and their escort, an imperial messenger was waiting with an invitation to visit landur, now known as Phôseon Dwhamant. This came from the Emperor Aiphatòn himself. They could not decline it.
And so the lie Tungdil had told came true after all.
Tirîgon was on his throne watching the slave woman clear the table. Such lowly occupations were beneath the dignity of any älf. She fulfilled her function well enough and was not so ugly as to offend the eye. It had taken some time to find a halfway acceptable slave for the palace.
“Tell me, why are most of your kind just so revolting to look at?” he mused, as he sipped from his glass of wine.
The slave looked round at him in fright. He had used his own language and she was not sure she had understood an instruction aright. Anyone in the service of an älf knew what the punishment would be.
“Don’t worry,” he said, this time in the tongue spoken in Gauragar. “Get on with your work.”
One of the robe-wearers came over to him. “Dsôn Aklán, it is as you suspected.” He knelt before the throne. “They had the kordrion’s young with them.”
“Those confounded Zhadár! Did they really think I would not recognize them in the armor of the Desirers? Nobody deceives me! They are our creatures and we are their masters! We created them,” he raged, hurling his wineglass across the room. “Deserters like Hargorin Deathbringer. They shall die!” He took a deep breath. “Do you have the cocoon now?”
The älf nodded. “We had to search for ages, but we found it in the end.”
“Then pack it up well, disguise it as provisions and send a messenger with it to accompany Goldhand to Phôseon Dwhamant. A splendid gift for an emperor,” he commanded. “Has the kordrion been sighted again?”
“Yes, Dsôn Aklán. Not four miles from here. It is following the scent of its young.”
Tirîgon nodded in satisfaction. “Good. Does Goldhand suspect anything? Did he accept the messenger as genuine?”
“He th
inks he’s genuine. They are making their way southwest.”
“Then make sure they get my provisions.” Tirîgon waved the slave girl over to give him more wine. “And instruct the patrols that any Zhadár found on Dsôn Bhará territory are to be put to death immediately. That’s if any of them survive the kordrion’s attack.” He sat down again. Everything reverted to the normal state of affairs.
“Yes, Dsôn Aklán.” The älf hurried out.
Tirîgon gave a sigh of satisfaction. Aiphatòn, most of his retinue and Tungdil with the treacherous Zhadár had thus all been catered for. He had known them at first glance by how they held themselves, whatever kind of armor they might have been sporting. And to his knowledge no Desirer ever carried a crow’s beak at his side.
“The good thing is that everyone will think it was a trap set by Tungdil Goldhand to get rid of the emperor of the älfar,” he told the slave girl, who, once more, understood not a word he was saying.
She indicated the wine jug and a fresh goblet enquiringly; he motioned her to come over.
“And if Aiphatòn survives and wants revenge, he can direct his anger to the thirdlings. If he dies, I’ll be happy to take his place.” He looked along the woman’s bare arm, focusing particularly on the elbow. “You have attractive bones, my dear. Did you know that?” He touched her forearm lightly. “Incredibly beautiful bones for a human.” He smiled at her. “I suppose I’ll have to look for a new slave woman now. You are destined for higher things. Art will elevate you.”
The girl shivered and smiled shyly in response.
Girdlegard,
Phôseon Dwhamant (Formerly the Elf Realm of landur),
Phôseon,
Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles
“We could have killed the messenger and ridden off to the Red Mountains,” murmured Slîn. “We could have pretended we’d been attacked on the way. By the resistance movement.”
