Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

“It sounds a little like a dwarf realm,” Slin 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 Utsintas and rode off toward the alfar. They met up halfway and entered into a discussion; then the messenger gave a hand signal.

Utsintas 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 alfar thundered off back to Dson Bhara.

Tungdil scanned the facade. “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 Zhadar nor by the Desirers. Here, we are the guests of the Emperor Aiphaton and shall behave accordingly.” He spurred his pony on and the company followed him.

Ireheart tried to look for distinguishing characteristics in the Phoseon alfar 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 alfar.

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,” Slin 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 alfar 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,” Slin 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 Slin, Ireheart, Balyndar and two Zhadar. “Whatever happens, you are not to kill a single alf,” he warned Hargorin and Barskalin.

A different alf 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 alfar.

Aiphaton 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 Aiphaton gripped a spear with a slender blade sporting greenish glowing runes.

“Tungdil Goldhand is high king of the dwarf-tribes,” Aiphaton 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 Phoseon.”

“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 Dson Aklan 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 alf like your parents.” He raised his hands, indicating the walls. “Now I find you here within these walls, emperor of the alfar 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.” Aiphaton 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 alfar 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 Aiphaton back to the alfar!

“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 Aiphaton 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?”