by Markus Heitz
“What kind of idiots would be attacking the Black Squadron? Especially if it’s accompanied by a troop of älfar?” hissed Balyndar disbelievingly. “Not even I would have believed you.”
Ireheart had been listening in on the argument these dwarves had been engaged in ever since leaving Dsôn. The fourthling would find reasons for not going to visit Aiphatòn, and the fifthling would find one objection after another to his arguments. Unbearable! “Why don’t the two of you shut up? You’re lucky you’re in the middle of our party so that the row you’re making is drowned out by the sound of hooves. If the älfar catch wind of what you’re saying…” He hoped this hint would be enough.
It would be a lie to claim he felt no unease about going from one älfar realm to another. And he knew nothing about these southern älfar at all. He had no idea what Aiphatòn wanted from them.
On the one hand Ireheart loved being on the march again, with that old sense of adventure he had delighted in as a young dwarf. But, on the other hand, part of him was pining for the Outer Lands, where Goda and the children were. He was worried for their safety and concerned about the fortress. The enemy magus was hugely powerful, it seemed from the hints Tirîgon had given.
They rode through Phôseon Dwhamant, known as landur until usurped by the älf regime. And who could possibly have opposed them?
The älfar from the south shared the northerners’ love of the obscure and transient. The elf groves had been burned down, as Ireheart could see as they passed through the plain. Trouble had been taken to ensure no trees would ever grow again. Whichever way he looked he saw only bald hillsides where the snow was now melting. Not even a bush to be seen.
“If your eyesight’s good you can see all the way from one end of the älf realms to the other,” said Slîn. “Good territory for me and my crossbow.”
“There’s something over there!” called Balyndar. “It looks like a brown block that’s just fallen from the sky.”
They all looked. The first thought that occurred to Ireheart was that it resembled a beehive, only it was square rather than a semi-oval basket shape. He reckoned the dimensions to be around nine hundred paces wide and three hundred high. He could not see how far back it went. It had small towers like chimneys and on top of the structure there were flags on tall poles. Ireheart could count thirty levels overall, of varying heights. Some of the walls were solid, others were in the form of arcaded galleries with high rooms and painted ceilings; the next floor up consisted of a row of smaller windows reflecting the sun.
“What is that?” asked Slîn.
“A city,” replied Balyndar. “An artificial mountain with an artificial town.”
“That’s Phôseon,” said Ùtsintas, who was riding up at the front with Tungdil. “There are about ten thousand living here. The southern älfar like this kind of community.”
Tungdil looked at the block. “What’s it like inside?”
“Difficult to describe. I only know it from people’s reports because I’ve never been allowed in.” There was no regret in the älf’s voice. “There will be vertical ravines, long shafts and hanging gardens reached by bridges. Apparently they sway in the wind that blows through the artificial canyons.”
“It sounds a little like a dwarf realm,” Slîn remarked quietly to Ireheart.
“Is your brain tangled round your own bowstrings?” he retorted. “There’s absolutely nothing dwarflike about all that!”
“Hanging gardens?” asked the warrior in surprise. “Our vegetables grow in the earth and that’s just the way it should be.”
They were still a mile away from the city when the gates opened and mounted troops poured out.
The messenger exchanged a few swift words with Ùtsintas and rode off toward the älfar. They met up halfway and entered into a discussion; then the messenger gave a hand signal.
Ùtsintas turned to Tungdil. “You should ride on alone now. My mission ends here.” He gave his escort a command and turned the firebull around. The älfar thundered off back to Dsôn Bhará.
Tungdil scanned the façade. “Looks like it’s going to be an interesting visit that we’ll be paying the emperor,” he told Ireheart, then ordered: “We’ll ride in as a group. No use of weapons—neither by the Zhadár nor by the Desirers. Here, we are the guests of the Emperor Aiphatòn and shall behave accordingly.” He spurred his pony on and the company followed him.
Ireheart tried to look for distinguishing characteristics in the Phôseon älfar on their night-mares. I should have known. They look like all the others.
They had the familiar black tionium armor, although the runes were a little different this time. But he was no scholar, so he might have been mistaken.
The messenger was talking to Tungdil. “We may enter. The emperor is expecting us, I’m told,” the Scholar said, interpreting for the dwarves. “Remember my orders.” Then he cantered off after the älfar.
Ireheart could not deny that this building, city, fortress, or whatever the block was supposed to be, was absolutely fascinating. Not that he would have wanted to live in it, of course, but he was curious. His native dwarf blood made him eager to see more. Secondlings were expert masons and thus his spirit of enquiry was understandable. As the walls had been plastered he could not see what the building material had been, and he wondered how they had been able to make the foundations stable enough to carry the weight of the edifice.
The archway was seven paces high and only five wide. Ireheart noted the sharp ends of the metal grille suspended above their heads as they went through; this portcullis could be lowered at will for defense.
“They seem to set less store on pomp and decoration,” Slîn whispered. “It is… sober and unadorned. Apart from the chiseled reliefs in the walls.”
“They’ve been marked into the plasterwork,” he said. “But have a look at the great variety of patterns. You’d need a steady hand for that work.”
Arriving in a generous interior courtyard they surveyed the high galleries, windows and stonework. Inquisitive älfar were looking down at them or were talking to each other, or eating; the various levels were connected either by external stairways or lifts on cables. Way above their heads the clouds raced past.
“Well, when all’s said and done, I must admit the black-eyes have put up something really impressive.” Ireheart patted his pony’s neck. When he looked around he saw the metal grilles lowering one after the other as the main gate was shut. “I’ve never seen the like.”
“They’re not so keen on nature—unless they can control it, like in their gardens,” Slîn suggested. “Have you noticed? They’ve turned the entire elf realm into a desert. Nothing but flat, bare earth.”
“You can see your enemies all the sooner, you’re not leaving them any material to attack you with in a siege and you’re not giving them anywhere to hide from your spears and arrows,” said Balyndar. “It all makes sense… it looks as if they live well here.”
“The emperor awaits Tungdil Goldhand in the audience chamber,” said the messenger. “Only five guards may accompany you. The rest must remain in the courtyard.”
Tungdil chose Slîn, Ireheart, Balyndar and two Zhadár. “Whatever happens, you are not to kill a single älf,” he warned Hargorin and Barskalín.
A different älf led them this time and the messenger stayed to supervise the dwarves. They were transported to an upper storey in a lift that was operated by means of a lever.
Kordrion dung! But it’s a bit like our own constructions, thought Ireheart.
At the end of the ascent they stepped out into a hallway of columns that were maybe ten paces high. The walls were painted in matt white and decorated with black shapes reminiscent of silhouette figures, depicting battles, cityscapes or erotic scenes.
However much Ireheart looked around him as they approached the throne he noted none of the morbid aesthetic that held sway among the northern älfar.
Aiphatòn was seated on the throne.
He hasn’t grown any
older! Ireheart recognized the child of the Unslayables at once. His appearance was unique: Chest, abdomen, lower body, shoulders and upper arms were all covered in armor directly fused to his shimmering white flesh. The head was shaved, emphasizing the shape of the long, sharp ears; his hands lay in heavy gauntlets. He had draped his lower body in a kind of wraparound skirt revealing his naked toes beneath the hem. In his right hand Aiphatòn gripped a spear with a slender blade sporting greenish glowing runes.
“Tungdil Goldhand is high king of the dwarf-tribes,” Aiphatòn called across the hall, staring at them. At least, Ireheart suspected he was staring at them; you could not see what he was looking at because the black eye sockets were unfathomable. “So both of us have risen to supreme power over our two peoples.” He waited until the dwarves were standing before him, then bowed his head. “Welcome to Phôseon.”
“My thanks, emperor.” Tungdil sketched a bow.
“I often think of our talk onboard ship. I told you why I had chosen my name.”
“The life-star of the elves, you said,” Tungdil responded. “It has disappeared now from the night sky.”
“Yes. On their return the Dsôn Aklán were extremely thorough.”
“That does not surprise me.” The one-eyed dwarf met the emperor’s gaze steadily. “But when I heard what path you took, I was surprised indeed. You had intended to join the elves. Then, on the ship, you told me that you had no wish to be an älf like your parents.” He raised his hands, indicating the walls. “Now I find you here within these walls, emperor of the älfar and ruler over a mighty realm!”
“And you advised me to hide away from humans, dwarves and elves. Because none would be able to look on me without fear or hatred.” Aiphatòn smiled. “And then you said I should avoid Girdlegard. Your exact words were: Look for your own kind.” He ran his left hand over the metal plates. “I thought about it for a long time but did not know where I would find anything like myself. But I followed your words of advice and left Girdlegard for the south. I hoped that I would meet other älfar whose nature was more similar to that of the elves. I was a creature with no home and who had only enemies in this world.” His voice grew lower and lower.
Ireheart was astonished. So it was the Scholar’s advice that sent Aiphatòn back to the älfar!
“When you said goodbye you told me you would find a place for yourself.” Tungdil tilted his head. “Was this what you planned? Conquering Girdlegard by force?”
To Ireheart’s eyes Aiphatòn appeared tired. Tired and depressed, as if a great burden rested on his soul. It was impossible to gauge his state of mind from his dark eye sockets, but the lines on his countenance betrayed him. It was the way the Scholar had looked on his return from the Black Abyss.
“What brings you to me, Tungdil Goldhand?” he asked, a jolt running through his body. He sat upright and proud upon his throne. There was no trace now of low spirits. “What could the high king of the children of the Smith have to propose to me? Do you come with threats, or requests, or to suggest an alliance?”
Tungdil frowned, puzzled. “We came to Phôseon at your invitation.”
Aiphatòn shook his head. “No. I’ve only just heard that you had returned to Girdlegard. They told me you wanted to negotiate with me.” “Your messenger brought us here,” insisted Tungdil.
Aiphatòn’s face again showed surprise. “As I did not send a messenger, let us ask him to whom I owe the pleasure of your visit.” He called the guard over and gave instructions. “Where did you meet the älf?”
“He came to Dsôn Bhará, when we were being received by the Dsôn Aklán. I’d thought we would find you there.” Tungdil answered with a half-truth.
“Charming,” murmured Slîn. “Absolutely charming! We’ve been tricked.”
“Blast that Tirîgon!” Ireheart exploded.
A loud melodious ringing was heard. It was repeated quickly.
“Alarm?” Boïndil looked to the right and left at the älfar guards. “Get ready,” he gave the cue. “If the black-eye moves, mow it down!”
Aiphatòn rose from his throne and looked at the window. “We are being attacked,” he stated, incredulous. He looked at Tungdil enquiringly. “Someone has been foolish enough to attack us now, after one hundred and eighty cycles!”
“It’s nothing to do with me,” Tungdil said calmly. “Probably…”
Then they heard a bloodcurdling scream and a great shadow filled the window.
Ireheart swallowed hard and instinctively wiped his hands over his armor as if to remove the traces of the smell of the kordrion’s young. The kordrion has followed me instead of the cocoon!
XVI
Girdlegard,
Phôseon Dwhamant (Formerly Elf Realm of landur)
Phôseon,
Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles
The kordrion’s earth-shattering cry resounded for a second time, but by now Ireheart and the others had inserted their wax earplugs, muffling the monster’s terrible roar so that it could no longer root them to the spot.
Tungdil drew Bloodthirster. “We are all victims of Tirîgon’s treachery, Aiphatòn. He’s the only one who can have put the kordrion on our trail. When we’re finished here we can both ask him what the blazes he meant by it,” he barked. “My men and I will fight to defend you, to show that the guilt is not ours.”
That’s another clever move from the Scholar, thought Ireheart.
The emperor had grabbed hold of his spear and was aiming it at Tungdil. “I can see from your armor that you must have been very close to the älfar in recent cycles. Perhaps closer than you wanted to be,” he replied. “What proof do I have that you are not working with Tirîgon in this? You could be wanting to take advantage of the confusion in order to kill me.” Aiphatòn was keeping his eyes firmly trained on all the dwarves—or at least, that is how it seemed. You can’t really tell, of course. Ireheart certainly felt he was being watched.
“Remember how we talked onboard ship. Isn’t that evidence enough that my intentions are honorable?”
The doors flew open and armored älfar stormed in. They held their traditional long narrow-bladed spears pointed at the dwarves.
Aiphatòn stood motionless as a statue. “We have both changed since then, Tungdil Goldhand.”
“Not as much as it may seem.” Tungdil gestured to the window with his weapon. “Permit me to stand at your side in the battle. You will see the truth of what I say.”
The älf lowered his spear, and under his helmet Ireheart heaved a sigh of relief. “You may.” Aiphatòn turned and left the hall with Tungdil at his heels, leaving Ireheart, Slîn, Balyndar and the Zhadár alone in the throne room.
Slîn lifted his visor. “What, by Vraccas, do we do now?” He took his crossbow in his hands and loaded it in readiness.
“We shan’t have to help those two,” said Balyndar, going over to the window to check on the kordrion’s whereabouts. Its shadow passed over Phôseon and a vertical sheet of white flame shot down in front of the embrasure. Screams rang out and stinking black smoke drifted up. “It got the black-eyes two floors down from us,” he reported.
“I don’t suppose they will have anything to counter an attack like this.” Slîn touched his weapon. “The crossbow makes me feel a little more confident.”
Ireheart was trying to work out a plan. “Right, everyone off to the lift. I want to get up onto the roof of this weird place. I can’t see enough here.”
“Charming! I’ll be able to get a better aim at the kordrion up there.” The fourthling ran along at Boïndil’s side, with Balyndar and the Zhadár following less enthusiastically.
The lift whizzed them up to the top and soon they were standing on the city’s gently sloping roof. From up there the city looked like a smooth plateau surrounded by unnaturally straight ravines. Dotted about were small square towers with vertical slits. Air blew through the spaces, causing a soft noise. Chimneys? Black sails made of linen had been strung up for food to dry. In other area
s the älfar had stored huge leather sacks, also in black.
Ireheart presumed they were to let water be warmed by the sun. His jaw dropped when he took in just how big Phôseon was. “It must be a good… two miles long!”
Slîn pointed out the firing towers on wheeled ramps ready to be maneuvered to the corners of the roof.
But those responsible for constructing this city had not reckoned with an enemy with the advantages of flight. Three of the domes were already manned and were hurling missiles at the monster. Too slow! If there had been a besieging army at the foot of the walls this hail of arrows and spears would have been an unbeatable defense system, with the projectiles traveling many hundreds of paces before hitting their targets. But with an attacker like the kordrion, although a few hits were landed, they were ineffective.
Slîn regarded his crossbow. “My bolt is a bit on the small side,” he sighed.
“I expect your women say that all the time,” one of the Zhadár said, his comrades laughing in response.
The fourthling turned in fury, his crossbow raised. “It’ll be big enough for you and your filthy mouth!”
“What do you think he means?” joked the Zhadár. “Keep it. I don’t want it.”
“Shut up, you idiot gnome-brains! What on earth do you think you’re doing, winding each other up at a time like this?” Ireheart reprimanded them angrily, adjusting his helmet and fastening the chin strap until it was uncomfortably tight, but secure. “So, the kordrion is after me? Then it will be risking its life. I’m going to entice it over to the firing towers.” He instructed the Zhadár to inform the älfar manning the towers of his strategy.
“Brave,” said the fourthling. “But dangerous.”
“Oh, that’s nothing! I like a challenge.” Ireheart dismissed the objection and took firm hold of his crow’s beak. He bared his teeth. “Come on if you’re hard enough, you filthy creature! You want the murderer of your young?”
The Zhadár hastened between the firing towers. When they had passed the dwarf’s message to seven of them, it was time.
