by Markus Heitz
“Our original plan was different,” Tungdil began, after taking a swig of wine. He explained to the älf leader what they had first intended to do with the kordrion’s young. He described what was waiting in the Black Abyss and told him they needed Lot-Ionan and what they planned to do with the Dragon and his treasure: To get the Dragon to the magus and provoke a war between them.
Aiphatòn listened with no sign of emotion.
“Things have happened differently,” Tungdil summed up. “And a good thing too, because I think the southern älfar will be better as our allies than as our foes when we march against Lot-Ionan. That was what you were planning, yourselves.”
“To march against a magus is pure suicide,” answered Aiphatòn soberly. “That is why I gave in to what my subjects from the south have been urging.” He poured himself more wine and smiled. “I see you are surprised?”
Ireheart looked around. Nobody spoke, so he said, “I thought you meant to go to your own death?”
Aiphatòn leaned slightly forward, chin on his hand. “I never wished to be like my father. I always said that. And yet I have become like him. It would be too easy to find excuses for what I have done to Girdlegard, but I admit it all. That is why I shall lead them to the south to ensure their eradication in battle with Lot-Ionan.”
“Hurrah! That’s the right attitude!” Ireheart applauded in spite of himself, and then coughed to cover his embarrassment.
“I have been dazzled for too many cycles, inebriated by my own power. I have made conquests, taken lives and broken the will of the people. Not because I had to but because I could. Because I was stronger,” the emperor explained. “That terrible intoxication has passed now, but the memory of my guilt remains. With every new day I see the suffering I inflicted on Idoslane, Urgon and Gauragar. It has to end. And I shall end it.”
“The Dsôn Aklán and northern älfar won’t follow you,” Tungdil pointed out.
“That is why I shall return alone from the Blue Mountains and destroy Dsôn Bhará with my own hands. There are only a few hundred älfar who gained entry to Girdlegard through the secret passageway under the Moon Pond. I shall deal with them on my own.” As if to prove his intentions the runes on his armor started to glow. “Your arrival and plan, Tungdil, have strengthened my resolve. Once the Dragon is dead, nothing stands in the way of Girdlegard’s liberation.” He closed his eyes and a red tear emerged from under the lid and made its way down his cheek. “I never wanted to be like the Unslayables. My words shall at last be matched by my deeds.”
Ireheart tried to catch Tungdil’s attention. The Scholar returned his gaze. “It could not have worked out better,” was the silent message.
“Would you be prepared to support us against the enemies from the Black Abyss?” Tungdil asked. “A warrior such as yourself…”
Aiphatòn shook his bald head. “When I have wiped out my own race, my debt of guilt to Girdlegard will have been settled. I led the älfar into Girdlegard and I shall free the humans from that yoke again. Without the oppression they have suffered the humans will be prepared to follow you in battle to the Outer Lands to defend their new-won freedom.” He opened his eyes again. “I suggest that I announce to the älfar that we have signed a peace treaty with all the dwarf-tribes, and not only with the thirdlings. You must swear to me that nothing of what I have said will get out.”
“Of course, for our own sakes,” promised Ireheart, speaking for them all. “If the black-eyes got wind of your plan and opted to stay here instead of going to fight the magus, we’d have a much tougher task to get rid of them.” He grinned and gave thanks to Vraccas. This was all turning out so much better than he could have assumed when the journey started.
Balyndar stared at Aiphatòn. “What about you? When all the älfar are dead, what will you do?”
He drew a deep breath. “I shall go away. To the east, to see what I shall find. I swear that I shall never return to Girdlegard—unless, of course, I am invited.” He smiled at Tungdil. “For whatever reasons. And with the help of your gods and mine,” he raised his goblet in a toast, “the last remaining northern älfar and I shall die together.”
Tungdil bowed to him. “My respect for your courage, Aiphatòn. I see that I was not mistaken in you.” He stood up. “With your permission we shall now withdraw. On the morrow we shall head for the Red Mountains to test the waters with the Dragon. For him and his orcs we shall lay a trail he can’t ignore.”
“By the time he arrives I should be in the Blue Mountains with the army. Lot-Ionan and his famuli won’t find my troops easy to contend with, but they will be victorious. Then the Dragon and the orcs will arrive just in time to take on the magi.” Aiphatòn also got to his feet. “But have a care that Lohasbrand does not turn Lot-Ionan into a glowing torch. The Scaly One is very powerful. He managed to subjugate Queen Wey the Eleventh, a mighty ruler with the reputation of being a great maga. If Lot-Ionan is killed you will be faced with the problem of cleansing the Black Abyss on your own.”
Tungdil’s eye narrowed. “Is she still alive?”
“Queen Wey? Yes. As far as I know. And she has a daughter said to be good at magic.” The älf had understood the reason behind the question. “They would make excellent allies once the Dragon has been vanquished. If Lot-Ionan were to die she would be my first choice to aid us against the monsters in the Outer Lands.” He shook hands with the dwarves once more. “May Vraccas be with you. If fate wills it we shall meet again.” Aiphatòn left the throne room.
Onwards and upwards! Vraccas, we shall do heroic deeds! Ireheart helped himself to water, drank and belched, patting himself on the belly. “Bed now, Scholar? We’ll have an early start in the morning, off to relieve the Dragon of his treasure. And to pay our respects to a lady sorceress, I understand?”
Tungdil laughed. “Off to bed.”
Girdlegard,
Former Queendom of Weyurn,
Lakepride,
Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles
By the large round window in her mother’s study Coïra sat staring out at the lake. The white mourning veil on her hair and the black of her high-necked dress made her look older, Rodario thought.
He was sitting next to her, fidgeting with a quill pen. Mallenia was pacing up and down with her hands clasped behind her back. The carpet muffled the sound of her steps but the regular click-clack of her boot heels could still be heard.
The actor laid the feather quill aside and attempted to look the young maga in the eyes, but noted her fresh tears. He had a thin bandage round his neck, chiefly for decoration and as a souvenir of the wound Sisaroth had inflicted on him. The blade had slipped on the antique pendant he wore and this had taken the force of the blow. “Princess, it was not your fault. The älfar set a trap for you,” said Rodario gently. “If you had been a swordswoman something similar could have happened with your weapon. The älfar know how to deceive and trick. You could not have prevented it.”
“That,” she said, with a sob in her voice, “is your fifth attempt to convince me that my mother did not die as a result of my incompetence. But again you fail to get me to change my opinion of events.” She stared at her hands. “These are what I killed her with. These hands and the wretched magic she taught me herself.”
“You were trying to kill the älf…” he began, but she whirled round.
“But who is it lying in the crypt next to my father? The älf?” she cried in despair. “I must never use magic again.”
“But you saved Mallenia’s life with your magic spell,” he protested, trying a different tack. “And who will protect your subjects against the Dragon if he turns up here? Don’t abandon your skills, Princess!”
“Yes, I must,” she whispered, her anger fading now. She looked out at the lake again. “To be doubly sure, I should destroy the source. Before Lot-Ionan or the älfar can use it.”
“You want to demolish the shaft?” Mallenia had stopped pacing and her eyes were flashing. “I know you are grieving. I
, too, have lost many relatives but I’m not using that as an excuse to crawl away and hide and bewail my fate.”
Coïra did not even look at her. “Go back to Idoslane, Mallenia,” she advised her in a flat voice. “It was when you arrived here that everything started to go wrong in Lakepride. If only I had not listened to this third-rate actor, the älfar would have caught and killed you. Then everything would have been different.”
“It’s a waste of time going over it again and again,” Rodario said, throwing Mallenia a warning glance to discourage her from making a sharp retort. “You are Weyurn’s new queen…”
“It’s Lohasbrand who is the ruler, in case you had forgotten,” she interrupted coldly. “All I am is an incompetent maga sitting on a rock in the middle of a shrinking lake, having extinguished the life of my own mother.”
Rodario sighed. “It was the älf who decapitated her.”
“But it was me who injured her so badly that she could not defend herself. Can’t you understand?”
“Where did the älfar go? Is there any trace?” Mallenia asked. “I’ve missed a lot. It’s taken me a long time to recover.”
“Sisaroth has left the island. At least he won’t be coming back to try to kill us. And where his sister is, only the waters know.” Rodario sounded impatient. He was keen to be raising Coïra’s spirits, not making reports for Mallenia. Coïra was Girdlegard’s last maga and must not be permitted to cast her powers aside in this way. But she was so grief-ridden that no one could expect her to listen to reason. Since the death of her mother she had not bathed in the magic source and her inner reservoir must be practically exhausted by now after the combat with the älfar and the effort of saving Mallenia.
He dared to come closer to her. “Princess, how do you think I feel?”
“Did you bring about your mother’s death through your own stupidity?”
“No…”
“Then you have no idea what I’m going through,” she said, her voice wavering. “I can hear her screams when it’s quiet. And when I look in the mirror I can see her face on fire. If someone lays a fire and I smell the smoke it makes me vomit.” She closed her eyes and held her hands in front of her face. “The älf should have killed me in her place,” Coïra sobbed.
Rodario cared not a fig for the difference in status between them. He took her in his arms and pulled her to him, pressing her head against his chest. She threw her arms around him and sobbed her heart out.
Mallenia sat near the door and said nothing. She knew the value of such comfort—but to her surprise she suddenly felt jealous.
For some reason she had become besotted by this weakling of an actor. Probably because he was so gloriously un-macho and so different from every man she had ever known. The kiss he had stolen from her had only confirmed what her soul had long known.
She watched Rodario rocking the princess in his arms. I can’t ever tell him. Everyone would laugh at us, she thought unhappily. Look, here comes the warrior maiden with her lapdog rhymester. Anyone her swords cannot conquer he bores to death with the power of his tongue. Despite her unhappiness the very thought made her grin.
She tried to distract herself by thinking about the älfar twins. Mallenia had the corpse of the älfar woman in her mind’s eye. They had found it floating in the lake, but before they could reach it, it had sunk. She had clearly seen that Firûsha’s breast and belly had been split open. She had initially survived the extremely serious injuries the maga had inflicted on her, and had died from the impact when she fell.
Probably Sisaroth had gone off to search for his sister, or for her body. Perhaps there was a special älfar ritual he was following; this delay could give them a much-needed respite from attack. And no one knew how the Dragon was going to react. He had not yet sent an answer.
There came a knock at the door: Loytan entered without waiting, and was already in the room before freezing at the sight of Rodario and the princess locked in an embrace. “How dare you, you jumped-up little actor?” he exclaimed, his voice husky with indignation. “Get your hands off the queen this instant! Come outside if you are man enough and I’ll show you how to behave.”
Mallenia coughed to announce her presence. “You’ve chosen the wrong moment for insisting on social niceties, Count Loytan,” she told him. “Calm down.” She saw the letter in his hand. “Is that Lohasbrand’s reply?”
“And what is that to you?”
She frowned impatiently. “When you have collected yourself and can think, you may remember that I am from the high-born race of the Ido, count,” she retorted boldly. “I am entitled to be addressed as the Regent of Idoslane. If you are as keen on etiquette and the proprieties as you would have us believe, then you will greet me with a sweeping bow every time you come into my presence, and you will call me Your Highness.” She saw him grow red. “Is that the way you want it, count?”
He was stony-faced with anger. “I have not opened the letter,” he responded. “And yes, it is from Lohasbrand.” He went over to put the missive on the desk.
Coïra freed herself from Rodario’s arms and wiped the tears from her face. “Thank you,” she said and opened the envelope. Her eyes quickly scanned the lines and a fragment of dragon scale fell out onto the wooden desk. This was proof that the letter contained authentic instructions from Lohasbrand.
“And?” Rodario tried to glimpse the contents over her shoulder in a manner inappropriate for a man of his class. Loytan shot him a murderous glance and clenched his fists.
“He commands me to search for the älf and to take him prisoner. To this end he is sending one hundred orcs for my use,” she summarized. “And he insists on my taking an oath of allegiance.”
“That would mean being constrained with a collar like your mother,” said Rodario, horrified. “Surrounded by four guards? Abjuring magic completely?”
“I don’t care. That way I shall never be tempted to get back down to the lakebed to reinforce my powers,” she answered dully.
“Majesty, you mustn’t!” Mallenia was beside herself. “You are the last of all the maga…”
Coïra’s countenance darkened. “So what?”
Rodario cursed under his breath. Mallenia had done the one thing he had been trying to avert—and he saw that the queen now would not be persuaded to change her mind. “It has been a difficult day and we are all over-excited. Let’s get some sleep. We can discuss this tomorrow.”
“Who are you to talk to Her Majesty like that?” raged Loytan. “You’ll not be discussing anything with anyone.” Then he glanced at Mallenia, fearing a reproof.
“Rodario is right.” Coïra dried her tears. “I am exhausted and need to rest. Let us meet in the morning to talk about what the future holds. All of us,” she repeated emphatically, passing close by the actor as she left the room.
He heard her whispered “thank you” and then she was gone, followed by Loytan.
Rodario stared out of the window for some time before setting off for his own chamber, taking a detour via the open arcaded walk. He loved the freshness that came from the lake waters.
He would never have believed himself capable of driving the älf away with his fire-seeds trick. He thought it more likely that the black-eye had retreated in private sorrow over the sister’s death. Sisaroth had killed eighteen grown men before making off. May Firûsha rot at the bottom of the lake, he wished.
Lost in thought, he had not noticed someone stepping out of the shadows. Only when the new arrival coughed did Rodario pay any attention. “Loytan. I didn’t expect to find you here,” he lied, brightly. “Is it time for that beating now?”
Count Loytan came nearer. “When I chucked you into the lake I should have shackled you first, stage scum!” He pointed down at the water. “This time that won’t be necessary. A fall of eighty paces should be sufficient to break your neck. Then there’s an end to your play-acting! You will not be missed.”
“You took me by surprise last time, count. Do you think you could do t
he same thing now?”
Loytan laughed in his face. “Without your theater tricks you’re nothing. Nothing at all,” he taunted, fitting knuckle-dusters over his hands.
Rodario grinned. “But you don’t seem to be relying on hitting me unaided. Do you think my chin is that hard?”
“I don’t want to have to touch vermin like you more than once, that’s all,” the count retorted.
“And how have I made you so jealous? I was only comforting Coïra. Does your lady countess know about your private passion for Weyurn’s new queen?” Rodario was enjoying pouring oil onto the fire. It was always easier to fight an adversary who was beside himself with anger. “I’d be happy to inform her.”
“There’ll be nothing left of you able to utter a single word.” Loytan moved swiftly, but the actor stepped backwards.
“Stay where you are!” ordered the count.
“If you insist.” Rodario sighed. “But I warn you: If you attack me now no one will ever see you again. Not even your lady wife.”
“Dream on, idiot! And anyway, she already hates me.” Loytan launched a blow—and his fist met thin air!
“On stage you have to be agile and move quickly.” Rodario had simply done a forward roll between his attacker’s legs and had sprung upright. He kicked the count on the behind, making him stagger. “What’s the matter? Was that all you had in mind?”
Loytan struck out again.
“Saw that coming a mile off.” Rodario blocked the charging fist and his arm did not even quiver as he pushed his elbow into his attacker’s face. Grabbing the man’s hair, he dragged him down; at the same time he propelled his knee at Loytan’s nose; there was a crunch as the bone broke. Then he released his hold on Loytan and kicked him in the belly.
The count fell groaning to his knees. “I’ll kill you for that,” he croaked.
“Weren’t you going to do that anyway?” Rodario put on a look of surprise. “And anyway, it’s my turn to have a crack at murder now, not yours. For what you did out there at the shaft.” He watched Loytan toss away the knuckledusters and draw a knife.
