The Fate of the Dwarves

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 areas 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.

“It’s heading back,” warned Balyndar. “Heading straight for us!”

“That’s the way!” Boïndil set off for a section of the extensive roof area that could be covered by fire from all seven towers. The kordrion’s wings swished and whistled in the air, giving Ireheart an impression of the speed of its approach—but it was not coming in his direction!

He stopped, gasping for breath and turned around. “Hey! You ugly bug-eyed monster!” He brandished his weapon to draw attention to himself. “Ho there! I’m the one who destroyed your nestlings! Are you blind?”

He watched in amazement as the huge, gray-skinned kordrion landed on the roof and slipped head first into one of the artificial ravines. Four feet like canine paws carried the weight of the hefty body. The ones in front were more like arms, with strong flexible claws. The barrage from the catapults did not seem to trouble it at all and the few spears and arrows that struck it were not inflicting serious injuries. The monster’s claws scrabbled for a hold on the stonework, leaving deep marks.

“No, no, no!” yelled Ireheart. “Come back here!” Stupid animal!

Slîn and Balyndar came over to him.

“What’s it doing?” groaned the fourthling, watching the tip of the monster’s tail disappear.

Balyndar was holding his side in pain and gasped. “It’s crawling in like a bear into a beehive.”

They both looked accusingly at Ireheart. “Wasn’t it supposed to be attacking you?”

“Well, yes.” Boïndil wiped the sweat from his forehead using the end of one his braids. “There must be something in Phôseon that’s more interesting than me.” Then he laughed. “Let’s go! We’ll do for it. If Vraccas is on our side the beast will get stuck down there and we’ll be able to cut it into tiny slices.”

He ran over to the edge of the ravine and saw that the kordrion was pushing its way past the hanging gardens, looking for a horizontal passage wide enough for its massive bulk.

“Follow me!” Ireheart leaped.

His flight was a short one. He landed in a blossom hedge that covered him from head to foot in white pollen dust. Now I look like a fairy, he thought, and grinned. A pretty little bearded fairy. He fought his way free of the hedge, sneezing, and made for the bridge that led to the level the kordrion was attempting to gain forcible entry to. What, by Tion…

Balyndar and Slîn landed next to him, their fall broken by the dense black-leaved foliage of some small trees. They both crawled out of the tangle of branches, cursing, bits of leaf and twigs stuck in the gaps on their armor. No time to get rid of all that. They pursued the kordrion with utmost haste.

Ireheart had nearly caught up with the monster and could see it clearly.

The wings were folded close to its muscular body, with no room to extend them in these narrow corridors. One was a little shorter than the other, as if it had regrown after an injury, perhaps. It was using its sharp claws to move its long, gray, wrinkled body, measuring twenty paces high and sixty in length. It dragged itself along through Phôseon, pushing forward with its legs.

It had crouched down as flat as it could, like a cat stalking a bird. Its back scraped against the ceiling of the arcaded corridor, damaging the stonework and causing large cracks. The floor was also suffering under a weight load it had never been designed to bear.

Ireheart had reached the tip of the tail and was unsure how to proceed. Shall I overtake it and attack from below? Shall I hack at the tail tip and attack when it turns round?

Before he could come to a decision, the kordrion suddenly slipped into the next vertical shaft and disappeared.

“What are you looking for, Bug-Eyes?” Ireheart was now at the edge and could see the monster several levels beneath him, creeping back into the building. “You’re looking for something, that’s for sure.” He turned and found a long flag hanging from the wall. Pulling it away, he wrapped one end round a column and used it to climb down to the floor that the kordrion had selected. When he landed he took out his crow’s beak again. “You’re not getting away from me that easily.”

Slîn and Balyndar slid down the flag to arrive behind Ireheart. They were breathless from the effort as the three of them pursued the monster.

The kordrion encountered no resistance. The älfar had never reckoned with a creature like this breaking into their city. The dwarves passed bitten-off limbs and pools of blood or smashed and mutilated bodies; these were the simple inhabitants of the town, as could be seen by the clothing they had worn. They had neither weapons nor armor at their disposal.

“It’s gone off to the right!” called Balyndar. “Over there in the wide passage.”

“I can see for myself,” growled Ireheart, who had grown tired of all this chasing about. He wanted a proper fight and was not interested in completing an endurance test.

They rounded the corner and were confronted with a broad gap in the walls, forming a path through to the gate they had entered by.

And that was where the kordrion was heading, still crouching low against the ground. Its back scraped some of the hanging gardens, making them sway and come away from their anchorages so that soil and plants rained down. Its claws hurled any älfar aside who had not sought cover; some of them the creature gobbled up or chewed to get at their blood, spitting out the remnants.

“Ho!” shouted Ireheart, hurrying onwards as fast as his legs could carry him. “Ho! You with the ugly face! Stand still for a change!”

“What’s it want at the gate?” Balyndar did not seem so bothered by all the running. “So it’s not you it’s trying to follow, Doubleblade.”

Slîn dropped behind. “Don’t wait for me,” he panted. “I’ll catch up. This armor is so heavy…”

Ireheart grabbed him by his forearm protectors. “You are a child of the Smith! Make a bit of an effort; you need to win your share in the glory of killing the kordrion. When will a fourthling ever get a chance like this again?” Secretly he was wondering where on earth Tungdil and Aiphatòn had got to.

He stepped over the debris and piles of sand from the hanging gardens; they kept having to make detours round broken lumps of masonry that had fallen from the façade. The vibrations caused by the kordrion’s progress, together with the violent swinging of its powerful tail, were destroying Phôseon.

“It’s… got… to the… gate.” Slîn could hardly speak, he was so out of breath. They were a hundred paces behind their quarry. “I’m… done for.” He stopped and rested his crossbow on a tree trunk. “I’ll cover you… from here.”

Ireheart and Balyndar hurried on. “Have you got a plan?” asked the fifthling. “Yes. To kill it,” replied Ireheart. “The simplest plans are always the best ones.”

They reached the open square in front of the gate.

The kordrion turned and twisted as if possessed, crouching down and arching its back and seizing the Black Squadron’s ponies. The animals neighed loudly in terror and bolted, running chaotically about, but they could not escape the predator’s claws. A slaughter ensued and there was an overwhelming stink of fresh blood, with red smears and spatters on the walls. The sandy floor was soaked.

The dwarves had withdrawn to hide in the arcades and were bombarding the monster from under cover. A few of the älfar soldiers were helping out, loosing their arrows or casting their lances or spears from the upper galleries.

“So it doesn’t like ponies?” Ireheart was surprised. “Is that why it’s not bothering with the murderer of its own young?”

Balyndar had been looking around and had found a packhorse that was attracting the kordrion’s attention. “Look over there. It’s not attacking that one.”

“Maybe it likes horses?” Ireheart attempted a joke, but grew serious. “I know what you mean. That’s the one Tirîgon sent with us. Did the älf get our provisions confused with kordrion feed? Let’s have a look and see what’s really in there.” Balyndar followed him.

In the meantime three of the firing towers on the roof had rolled forward to the edge. The barrage was now becoming dangerous for the mighty beast; more and more älfar were in the courtyard and soon the kordrion was losing blood from countless wounds. It gave a maddened scream, thrashing with its tail and causing untold damage.

But it’s not trying to escape, although it must know that every minute spent here brings it closer to death. Ireheart was quite near to it now.

One of the talons touched the packhorse, but very cautiously.

Ireheart had caught up. With a vicious swipe of the crow’s beak he attacked the long investigating finger. “That stays here!!” he yelled furiously, yanking the handle of his weapon. With a loud tearing sound the blade ripped through the pale gray skin. “That’s our horse!”

Balyndar leaped in, smashing his morning star down onto the claw so that blood gushed out.

With a screech the kordrion pushed forward and tried to spread its wings, but the surrounding walls made this impossible. However, the very attempt caused further destruction.

“Look out!” Ireheart pulled Balyndar aside as a large lump of heavy plasterwork threatened to fall straight on top of him. “Even the best of helmets won’t save you from that kind of thing.”

The kordrion snapped at them and the dwarves ducked to avoid its ugly mouth.

Ireheart used the opportunity to strike one of its lower eyes. The eye immediately burst open and the creature bellowed with pain.

The spike had buried itself in a bone. Ireheart did not release his hold on the weapon and was dragged upwards as the creature raised its head. The swift movement made him giddy and drove the air out of his lungs, leaving him gasping like a landed carp—but he didn’t let go. “I won’t be shaken off!” he called. “Is that all you can do? A bit further, you hideous freak! You won’t scare me! I can take the altitude!”

Then an arrow got him in the left foot.

“Cursed black-eyes!” he yelled. “Can’t you aim straight like your northern relatives?” His arms grew heavy and his own weight, together with that of the armor, dragged at him. But to let go would be instant death.

Then he saw Aiphatòn leap out of a window seven floors up above the kordrion’s back, his spear tip targeting the creature’s neck.

With that thing? Ireheart could not believe it. “Oh, Vraccas! He’s got a little needle! He’s going to prick it with a little needle!”

The monster ducked and shook its head. The crow’s beak spike came loose and the dwarf flew off to the right through the air like a missile four paces above the ground, landing in a heap of butchered ponies, whose steaming intestines cushioned his fall.

He struggled up in a rage, broke off the arrow under the sole of his foot and stood. “Now you’ve really made me mad!” The red mask of battle-fury was setting in. Only the kordrion was unmoved. “I’ll give you such a battering—I’ll have you in pieces!”

Aiphatòn had leaped onto the creature’s back and was stabbing away through the spinal column, finding the spaces between the huge vertebrae.

The kordrion arched up with a screech—and Tungdil jumped down onto it from one of the lower galleries, ramming Bloodthirster into a different place on the backbone, paralyzing the creature’s right leg. It fell to its knees and lurched against the east façade, breaking the wall down. The building above it collapsed, covering the kordrion with a hail of heavy masonry.

Aiphatòn and Tungdil had taken refuge just in time and were waiting on a balcony on the western side.

But the beast was nowhere near the end of its strength.

Thrashing its tail it destroyed the gate and stonework above, killing dozens of älfar, who fell with the collapsing wall, to be crushed by falling chunks of masonry, while others were hit by the tail and hurled through the air to fall, broken, to the ground.

The beast rose from the debris with a cry; it staggered and crashed head first into a wall.

Ireheart had reached the kordrion again. “You’ll be quiet soon enough!” He swung his arm back and whacked his crow’s beak into the area of the soft underbelly where he supposed the genitals to be. The skin ripped open and the monster uttered a shrill cry. “Ha! That’s what I like to hear,” Ireheart bellowed merrily. “Let’s have another!” He repeated his winning strike. “Sing it for me again!”

Aiphatòn and Tungdil moved in to help the sturdy warrior finish the beast off. They had to keep dodging the wildly flailing taloned limbs; its vast wings opened and closed convulsively, causing yet more damage to the fabric of Phôseon.

“Stop! Now!” Ireheart clambered boldly up the creature’s long neck and brought the spike of his weapon forcefully down through the kordrion’s skull. “Let’s have you dead, you wretched fiend!”

And now, indeed, the vast body of the kordrion slumped. With a last groan it thrashed its tail for a final time, then fell over, destroying more of the buildings. Clouds of dust rose up.

Ireheart used his plait to wipe away the sweat and other unpleasant liquids from his forehead and beard, but there was too much of it. He was merely smearing it over his face as if he had been using a paint brush. There would have to be a bath. A shallow one, though.

“By Vraccas, the dwarves done good!” he crowed, lifting his weapon so that the kordrion blood dripped off it. Close by he saw his one-eyed friend nodding approvingly. Aiphatòn was back down on the ground staring up at the bulk of the huge beast.

There were still occasional bumps, bangs and crashes as more of the plaster and brickwork came down; the distress of any surviving ponies could be also heard, mixed with the moans of the wounded.

Then there was a single cry of relief, taken up by more and more of the älfar as they realized the creature had been slain. The call echoed in chorus through the alleys and ravines of the city.

Ireheart clambered over the neck and onto the belly to join Tungdil. “I don’t get what they’re saying but it sounds as if they like us,” he said brightly, lowering the crow’s beak and putting both hands on the shaft. He looked extremely pleased with himself. “At last—my kind of adversary. There won’t be many dwarves who can outdo my deeds today.” He looked around and through the settling dust saw the faces of the älfar rejoicing.

Tungdil slapped him on the shoulder. “Well done, Ireheart. They are saying…”

“Don’t tell me, Scholar,” he interrupted. “That way I can imagine the black-eyes are adoring me instead of wanting to kill me.” He looked down at his injured foot, where the feathered arrow shaft still stuck up through the boot. “Perhaps that was one of them trying it on just now.”

Tungdil laughed and started to climb down. “Come on. I want to find out what Aiphatòn has to say about our help.”

At sunset Tungdil, Ireheart, Slîn, Balyndar, Hargorin and Barskalín assembled in the emperor’s throne room; five of the Zhadár came along as well.

They were invited to sit at a table where goblets and jugs of wine stood ready. Nothing was poured out yet. Beforehand, Aiphatòn had arranged for them to be shown to chambers where they could rest from their exertions.

They met up in the room they had first seen on arrival. The paintings on the walls had changed. The black and white silhouette designs were now full-color floor-to-ceiling landscapes of absurd beauty and if you looked carefully, the shrubs and trees were not depictions of real plants but were made up of tiny painted corpses, with wounds and cut throats.

“Just as barmy as their relations,” said Ireheart in disgust. “But that ointment they gave us really works. I can hardly feel the hole in my foot.”

“Who knows what it’s made of,” muttered Slîn. “But I’m not complaining. They treated me like a king.”

“Apart from the bath,” murmured Ireheart. “I had to get rid of most of the water before I got in. It was nearly up to my knees!”

“You mean because of Elria and her water curse?” Slîn’s face bore a broad grin. “I’ve never heard of a dwarf drowning in a bath.”

“And I didn’t want to be the first!” He lifted his hand to show the amount of water for a proper bath. “From my fingertips to my wrist, that’s all it needs.”

Slîn burst out laughing. “That’s only about enough to wet your manliness.”

“I understand the fourthlings are smaller in all areas than the other tribes,” Balyndar threw in.

“My bolt always reaches the target. I can always hear it hit home,” said Slîn, pointing to the morning star. “But you will be built like your weapons: Too much force in the balls and only a little spike.”

Ireheart roared with laughter.

Aiphatòn’s entrance put a swift end to the dwarves’ banter. He shook everyone’s hands—except for those of the Zhadár—then took his seat at the head of the table. Two älfar came up to pour out a variety of wines.

The emperor studied his visitors closely, his eye sockets black as night.

So he does not wish to put aside the blemish—or perhaps he can’t? Ireheart wondered.

“You and your friends have amply demonstrated that you are not among Phôseon’s enemies.” Aiphatòn’s voice was calm and steady as he raised his cup in salute. “For this and your support in our hour of need I thank you.” He drank a toast to them.

“The kordrion young we found on the packhorse had been smuggled into our train,” replied Tungdil. “In my view Tirîgon is the only one who could have done this. And that means that at least one of the Dsôn Aklán is against you.” He looked at the emperor expectantly.

Aiphatòn slowly replaced his goblet. “Your tone suggests to me that you know more, Tungdil.” He gestured to his älfar to leave the chamber, then ran his eyes over the dwarf-faces. “Before we go on, I should like to ask that only those permitted to hear all the truth remain in the room with us.”

Tungdil nodded, but continued, “As some of them still do not trust me because I returned after two hundred and fifty cycles of forced exile and they doubt my integrity, I shall not ask anyone to leave the room. I want all of them to hear what the emperor of the älfar and the high king of the dwarf-tribes have to say to each other.”

Ireheart breathed a sigh of relief. He had feared that only he would be allowed to stay. That would have meant yet more bad blood.

“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 the same thing now?”

Loytan laughed in his face. “Without your theater tricks you’re nothing. Nothing at all,” he taunted, fitting knuckledusters 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.

Rodario dodged two attacks, ducked under a third before showering a concerted hail of blows on his opponent, so that blood started pouring out of the cuts on his face. Loytan collapsed, fighting for breath. “You know,” Rodario explained to his injured rival, “when you’re an actor you need many talents. In order to portray a valiant warrior, for example, it’s not enough simply to put on some armor; I have to actually be like a warrior. To fight like him, do you understand? I won’t deny that it sometimes comes in very useful.”

Loytan dragged himself up on the wall, coughing and spluttering. “That took more than a few hours to learn,” he mumbled. Three teeth lay on the floor.

Rodario made a bow. “Thank you for your kind words. You should see me fence. I’m a real master with the rapier.” He laughed. “Another time, perhaps. When you feel like a duel again and have recovered from your injuries.” He thought for a moment. “Now what was it that you were wanting to ask me?”

Loytan reached under his coat and threw a lump of cotton wool to the floor. “I found this in your room.”

“Ah yes, my stage props. What a discovery.”

“You have your face padded out all the time, don’t you? And that beard and mustache are only stuck on,” Loytan went on, wiping the blood off his mouth. “Who are you really? Why do you keep up this masquerade from dawn to dusk?”

The expression in Rodario’s eyes altered and became deadly serious. “Curiosity has killed more than just a cat, my friend.” He took a sudden step forward, grabbing the count by belt and collar. “So you’ll be in good company.” He lifted the thin man and pushed him over the wall.

There was no scream.

Maybe I didn’t push him far enough out? Rodario leaned over the balustrade and saw Loytan four paces down hanging by one hand from a drain pipe. “Your excellent reflexes won’t get you very far, except downwards.” He ran to a nearby brazier, the coals in it cold now, and started to drag it over to the wall.

The count was still attempting to climb up the pipe.

“Wait! I’ll throw you something to hold on to.” Grinning, he rolled the wrought iron container over the side. “Here! Catch! It’ll take you quickly and safely to the bottom.”

Rodario saw how the brazier smashed the pipe, plunging Loytan down toward the water. The iron basket followed at speed. No splash was audible from up here. “Give my regards to the älf woman,” he called down.

Then he made sure that his actions had not been observed. The windows on that side were dark and the chambers un occupied. Rodario allowed himself a broader grin as he picked up the cotton wool and stowed it under his coat. He preferred people to go on underestimating him.

He was about to turn on his heel and continue on his way when he saw a vague outline against the evening sky. It looked at first sight like a bird.

The nearer the shape came, the larger it grew and the closer it came to the magic source, the surer Rodario became that this was no bird, but…

“Lohasbrand,” he yelled and ran off. “To arms! To arms! The Dragon is coming!”