Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

“This is the ideal chance to get rid of the kordrion young,” he mouthed to Tungdil.

“Already done,” answered one of the Zhadar. “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 Utsintas?”

“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 alf and their escort, an imperial messenger was waiting with an invitation to visit Alandur, now known as Phoseon Dwhamant. This came from the Emperor Aiphaton himself. They could not decline it.

And so the lie Tungdil had told came true after all.

Tirigon was on his throne watching the slave woman clear the table. Such lowly occupations were beneath the dignity of any alf. 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 alf 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. “Dson Aklan, it is as you suspected.” He knelt before the throne. “They had the kordrion’s young with them.”

“Those confounded Zhadar! 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 alf 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 Phoseon Dwhamant. A splendid gift for an emperor,” he commanded. “Has the kordrion been sighted again?”

“Yes, Dson Aklan. Not four miles from here. It is following the scent of its young.”

Tirigon nodded in satisfaction. “Good. Does Goldhand suspect anything? Did he accept the messenger as genuine?”

“He thinks he’s genuine. They are making their way southwest.”

“Then make sure they get my provisions .” Tirigon waved the slave girl over to give him more wine. “And instruct the patrols that any Zhadar found on Dson Bhara 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, Dson Aklan.” The alf hurried out.

Tirigon gave a sigh of satisfaction. Aiphaton, most of his retinue and Tungdil with the treacherous Zhadar 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 alfar,” 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 Aiphaton 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,

Phoseon Dwhamant (Formerly the Elf Realm of Alandur),

Phoseon,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

“We could have killed the messenger and ridden off to the Red Mountains,” murmured Slin. “We could have pretended we’d been attacked on the way. By the resistance movement.”

“What kind of idiots would be attacking the Black Squadron? Especially if it’s accompanied by a troop of alfar?” 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 Dson. The fourthling would find reasons for not going to visit Aiphaton, 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 alfar 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 alfar realm to another. And he knew nothing about these southern alfar at all. He had no idea what Aiphaton 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 Tirigon had given.

They rode through Phoseon Dwhamant, known as Alandur until usurped by the alf regime. And who could possibly have opposed them?

The alfar 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 alf realms to the other,” said Slin. “ 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 Slin.

“A city,” replied Balyndar. “An artificial mountain with an artificial town.”

“That’s Phoseon,” said Utsintas, who was riding up at the front with Tungdil. “There are about ten thousand living here. The southern alfar 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 alf’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.”