by Markus Heitz
He was not surprised in the slightest to note that his stream ran black as ink before it trickled away between the grains of sand.
XXV
Girdlegard,
Former Queendom of Sangpur,
Southwest,
Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle
They left the belt of sand behind them, marched through fields of boulders, traversed valleys and skirted ravines in which, numberless cycles earlier, vast rivers had run. Now they were met only with dust, stones and the occasional bleached skeleton.
This stretch of the Sangpur desert appealed to Ireheart because it resembled his old habitat with its soaring rock walls, its chasms, its echoes, its subterranean passages, here cut by racing water and not by dwarf-hand. The landscape had something primeval to it. I could almost start to like it here if it weren’t hotter than the inside of a maniac’s forge.
Today they were making their way through a labyrinth of sunken walkways in which Franek, at the head of the company with Tungdil and Barskalín, kept getting lost. It was only thanks to the dwarves that they ever found their way out again. One of the Zhad��r climbed up high to get a better view and pointed them in the right direction for the east.
“Our water supplies are running out. We should have got to the village you told us about three orbits ago,” said Tungdil. “If we don’t reach it tomorrow, you’re for the chop, famulus, for having tricked us. I think you’re taking us round in circles hoping we die of thirst.”
The man gasped. “Oh sure, and I’m taking myself round in those same circles to die with you? Not a good move.”
“Who says you don’t have a secret reservoir near here?” Ireheart moved up to the head of the column. “What kind of a village did you say it was?”
“A desert market; a trading station. We’ll get everything we need. They used to sell dwarf-made goods there, weapons particularly. Even today you can get some quite rare items.” Franek looked down at the clothes he was wearing, marked over and over with salt rings. “They know me there.”
“Is that a good or a bad thing?” Ireheart laughed. “I like to be prepared. I’d like to know whether they’ll greet us at spear-point because we have you with us.”
“We’ll be safe enough. The town belongs to me.” He drew in a hot lungful of air. “Well, it was mine until Lot-Ionan chucked me out.”
“What was your research area? I don’t remember—or maybe you never said?” Ireheart looked at Balyndar, who carried the slit water pouch at his belt. He had assumed the damage must have been an accident. Perhaps he had dreamed that the pouch was the head of an orc rising up out of the sand to attack him. Then he must have slashed at it with his knife. After hearing this, none of the others cared to sleep in his immediate vicinity.
Behind Balyndar came the Zhadár who called himself Balodil. Ireheart had stopped believing that he might really be the Scholar’s own son. The age did not seem right. Barskalín told them that only old dwarves were taken into the ranks of the Zhadár. The real Balodil would not have been old. At least, not old for a dwarf.
“I was studying how to maximize size in animals. And in things,” answered Franek.
“Aha,” grinned Ireheart. “That will have made you popular with the ladies, I’ll be bound?”
“It’s not what you think, beard-face,” the famulus retorted. “You, of course, could do with a bit of growth. If you were a few hands taller you’d be able to breathe the same air as I do.”
“I could easily bring you down to size, long-un! I’ve got an iron-clad winner of a spell. I’d only have to let it circle.” Ireheart lifted the crow’s beak, but lowered it when he caught Tungdil’s disapproving eye. “Just wait,” he grumbled.
“Did you have any luck?” the one-eyed dwarf enquired.
“The experiments with plants worked all right. Same thing with simple animal life. Insects were good, as well.”
“Hey! How about a giant gugul!” bellowed Ireheart. “First a wonderful fight with the beast and then a magnificent feast.” He gave Franek a playful shove. “See? Tell us, how much did you get things to grow?”
“The body of the giant scorpion that I magicked must have measured seven paces from tail to tip,” Franek said, putting on a self-important face. “My experiments consisted of getting grasshoppers to grow large enough for us to ride on. They would be splendid mounts for the desert. But there was a high turnover rate. They kept dying on us.”
“Are we far enough away from the place you practiced your spells? I don’t like scorpions, and I certainly don’t like them when they’re that big.” Ireheart was remembering a particular example they had met the night before. The pincers of a giant scorpion would surely grab a warrior and slice him in two, complete with his armor, and the huge sting would stab right through instead of poisoning him. No, he really did not want to meet one of those.
“This is exactly where I conducted my experiments.” Franek laughed. “But there’s nothing left of them now. I didn’t want them to take over and destroy the town. Of course, I may have overlooked some of their young.”
“Charming,” said Slîn, taking his crossbow in his hands.
The Zhadár, watching their progress from on high as he leaped like a rock-ape from one stone to the next, reported that he could see a settlement at the end of the ravine they were marching through. He came back down to join them. The company followed his instructions and took one more turn in this confusing maze of intersecting clefts.
There was no question: In front of them lay a town.
But part of it was under a huge sand dune and stood empty and abandoned. The low, flat-roofed buildings, painted white against the sun, all looked intact but there was no sign of life in the streets.
Franek turned to Tungdil, flabbergasted. “Less than forty cycles ago there were forty thousand people living here! I swear!”
“Lot-Ionan is not just out to get you but plans death for everyone connected to you, I expect,” said Ireheart. “Vicious old man—he’s working out his grievance.”
“What a fool!” Franek’s display of anger did not seem simulated. “They weren’t to blame!”
“Does the town have a well?” Tungdil asked, indifferent to Franek’s fury.
“Yes…”
“Then let’s get there.” Tungdil set off, the group in his wake. “Be prepared for absolutely anything. Lot-Ionan, or whoever has done this, will be expecting Franek to turn up sooner or later.” As he walked he drew his weapon, Bloodthirster, and his lips moved in silent prayer.
Ireheart felt the familiar, enjoyable tension creeping up his spine. With his crow’s beak in his left hand he kept constant watch on their surroundings. Please, no giant scorpions. Together with the humans he kept to the edge of the road, while the watchful Zhadár whooshed past, using the house roofs and side streets, on the lookout for any ambush or trap.
Franek led them through the alleyways to a small square measuring ten paces by ten; the houses roundabouts were tiny. The remnants of old market stalls lay tumbled on the flagstones, many of which were cracked or broken. Others showed deep ruts. Ireheart observed the scene. Something massive crashed down here.
Slîn bent down and picked up a golden bracelet. “Will you look at that?” he said, showing it to the others. “It was just lying there!” He examined the piece with expert eyes. “This is a splendid example of a goldsmith’s craft. I would say it’s worth about four hundred gold coins.”
“This used to be the jewelers’ market,” said Franek, going over to the fountain in the middle of the square. He tasted the water that came splashing out of a stone pillar to collect in a basin. “It’s safe. The source of this water can’t be got at to poison it. At least, it would be terribly difficult. It comes from a very long way down underground.”
“Could probably be done by magic, though?” Ireheart continued to scan the windows of the houses.
Franek filled his drinking pouch. “No, I would have noticed.”
“And how would yo
u have done that, clever clogs?” Ireheart was not going to be fobbed off so easily.
“I’m a magus, so I have an instinct.” He indicated Coïra. “Get her to check it out if you don’t believe me.”
The maga, who like Rodario and Mallenia was suffering from bad sunburn, came closer and pretended to pronounce a spell. She had to rely on the judgment of the famulus, because she did not want to waste the last of her magic on apparently trivial matters. Her already limited powers were waning further, at any rate, evaporating like water in the heat of the sun. She was desperate to reach the magic source in the Blue Mountains and steep herself in it before her deformed arm rotted away. Looking at her, Rodario was aware she was keeping up a pretence, deceiving the dwarves as to her state of health. “There is no magic contamination,” she announced.
Franek looked triumphant and superior, Ireheart gave in and everyone started to fill their flasks.
Tungdil told Slîn to put the bracelet back. “It’s not yours. Perhaps the townspeople will come back and they’d call you a thief.”
One of the Zhadár up on the roof called out a warning. Barskalín turned to the one-eyed dwarf and interpreted. “They’ve spotted some bodies. He says they look as if a butcher has been at them. The flesh has been scraped off and the bones smashed. Judging from the state of the cadavers they think it must have happened about ten orbits ago.”
Franek went and sat down in the shade, joining the other humans. “Lot-Ionan has no army. It could perhaps have been bandits that did this, but my feeling is that Lot-Ionan, or maybe Bumina, sent a magic creature to kill them or drive them all out of the town.” He turned to Coïra. “You’ll have to be more on your guard. Do us a discovery spell, so that we’ll know if we’re safe.”
“Yes. Do that,” Tungdil urged her. “I don’t want to walk into an ambush so close now to our goal. You’ll be able to see more than the Zhadár can.”
Coïra was about to object, but her curiosity got the better of her. Tungdil knew very well that she had practically no magic left at her disposal—why was he making such a demand? Did he have no idea at all how much effort casting such a spell would involve? “I’ll do it from up there,” she said, nodding to Rodario to accompany her into the nearest large house.
They climbed the steps, going up two floors to stand on the whitewashed roof of a building that gave them a good view of the whole settlement.
“Are you really going to do it?” the actor asked her.
“Yes,” she lied. “It’s to protect all of us.” She waved her arms about, closed her eyes once, then opened them and turned round three times on the spot. “I don’t feel anything. We’re safe, but nevertheless we should hurry. I’m uneasy. I’ll tell Tungdil so, before he decides we should camp here.”
Rodario took her hand. “I’m glad to see your hand is still in its rightful place.”
“For a while, at least. But I shan’t be able to do much more.” She smiled at him and they returned to the others so that the maga could make her report to the high king. She made no secret of her feelings of disquiet about the place. “Have you noticed the vultures are missing? It’s unnatural. They only come down to feast if they know they won’t be disturbed.” That alone, she argued, was reason enough for departing swiftly from the town.
“That may be so. But it’s you, maga, in particular I’m thinking of when I order a rest stop.” Tungdil, over by the fountain, commanded the Zhadár to investigate the neighboring houses, and to move in if they found no danger. “The day is too hot for us to march on and, anyway, we are close now to the Blue Mountains. I’ve agreed with Barskalín that we should travel at night and rest by day. That way we should avoid being seen.” He collected water in his open hand and washed his face; a droplet hanging from the eye patch shimmered gold in the light. “As there are no magic traps there’s no reason we shouldn’t remain here for a time. Right?”
Coïra hesitated, then nodded. “No reason not to.” She went back into the house with Rodario, her conscience pricking her. Her right arm was burning and throbbing: Not a good sign.
Curiosity got the better of Ireheart, Slîn and Balyndar, overcoming their professed intentions and their common sense.
They wandered round the streets, ready for combat, searching abandoned houses for signs of recent occupation. The Zhadár were protecting the group at the jewelers’ market and the three dwarves felt strong enough to see off any attacks by robbers or wild animals.
Slîn held his crossbow against his shoulder. “We should make less noise,” he said.
Balyndar laughed at him. “That’s because you’re the one with a weapon that always has to be reloaded.”
Ireheart grinned. “Come on, let’s find where they traded dwarf-goods,” he suggested, turning down one of the side streets, where he saw two crossed hammers on a sign over a shop doorway. That was a good enough clue for him. It might be a blacksmith’s; he would feel at home there. He wiped the sweat off his forehead. “I hope they’ll have some oil for my chain mail. I’m nearly out of it.”
“What shall we do if we find things our own folk have made?” Slîn wanted to know. “Can we take them with us?”
“That’s what I was thinking. I don’t envy the long-uns their wealth, but if the town is going to disappear under yet more sand, I’d like to salvage things made by our own tribes.” Ireheart stepped into the shop, where he found tools of every sort, ranging from nail clippers to quarry drills.
Two of them sifted through the items on show while the third kept watch outside. They worked their way from shop to shop until they reached the edge of the immense dune. A number of booths had already been half swamped by the encroaching sands, and it proved to be these that were advertising dwarf-wares.
The trio hesitated at the buildings, whose facades were cracked. They knew that the sand represented an enormous weight, even if the individual grains were so light.
“Looks dangerous to me,” said Slîn.
“But it might be worth the risk.” Balyndar gestured with the morning star toward a sign reading Weapons made by the Children of Vraccas. The door had already been broken open, and swords, spears and axes lay scattered around. “Someone’s already done their shopping, it seems, without asking the owner.”
Ireheart rubbed his cheeks, tossed his black plait out of the way and strode in. It was obvious that he had made his decision. “Slîn, you stand guard,” he ordered. “If the roof falls in, at least one of us will survive.”
“That’s a nice thought,” the fourthling beamed. He stayed outside under the porch while Ireheart and Balyndar stepped carefully over a heap of daggers, knives and axes.
It was clear at once that they had stumbled on a small treasure trove—but it had already been pillaged. The display cases were empty, the glass fronts shattered. Only the normal run of weapons—still, however, of excellent quality—remained hanging on the walls or from the ceiling.
“What a shame,” said Balyndar as he stepped over the mess.
“This stuff on the floor isn’t dwarf-manufacture,” muttered Ireheart, crouching down. “They’re forgeries,” he snorted. “The robbers could obviously tell the difference between quality stuff and fake.”
“By Vraccas,” Balyndar called out excitedly. Ireheart hurried over. “Do you see what I see?”
The warrior saw a cabinet with a broken pane of glass. Inside was a velvet cushion and below that was a piece of parchment with wording in human language: “The legendary Keenfire—the original weapon.” Next to it lay a little booklet and a certificate verifying authenticity, issued by the shopkeeper, one Esuo Wopkat, and vouchsafing the return of the purchase price should the weapon prove to be a forgery.
Ireheart laughed outright. “Yet another of them!”
“I know, they were a real hit with the souvenir shops,” said Balyndar, reaching into the vitrine to retrieve the booklet. “This says how it was found.”
“Let me guess,” called Ireheart, enthusiastic as a young child with a ridd
le. “Hmm, let’s see… it was found this time on the top of the Dragon’s Tongue? Or in the caves of Toboribor? No, wait… In the lost vaults of Lot-Ionan?”
“No, none of those.” Balyndar cleared his throat and began to read:
Esteemed customers, collectors and experts,
The ax you hold in your hands is made from the purest, most durable of steel; the claws at the end are of stone, the handle is made of sigurdacia wood, the inlays and runes are from all the rare metals to be found in the mountains; the blade, however, is edged in diamonds.
The weapon was forged in the hottest furnace possible. The name of the item is Keenfire.
Forget everything you have heard from the charlatans.
This one is the only true Keenfire. It was found on the dried-up floor of Weyurn’s lakes and was smuggled out of the land under the greatest of perils for the finder.
The location was near the hole from which Lohasbrand emerged. I am not able to say how this occurred.
A fisherman’s son brought the ax to me, saying his cousin had found it. He had shown it to a dwarf, who recognized its true value and killed the man. However, while fleeing, the dwarf needed to cross a river and drowned, when justice and the curse of Elria triumphed.
The fisherman wanted nothing to do with the ax because he feared the dwarves would attack him for it, so he sent his son to me with it. I made him a very good offer and so was able to take possession of Keenfire.
I know it is the legendary ax with which Tungdil Goldhand performed so many valiant deeds for Girdlegard. I was intending to keep it safely against his return, but without him it has no power, so I’ve decided to part with it. For gold.
Should the hero ever return, give him this ax. I am certain he will amply reward you.
