The Fate of the Dwarves

VII

The Outer Lands,

Seventy-six Miles Southwest of the Black Abyss,

Winter, 6491st Solar Cycle

The oddly assorted dwarf-pair continued to ride toward the apparently deserted hut.

It was a mystery to Ireheart how Tungdil had sensed someone was lying in wait. He squinted over to his friend, looked ahead and shifted in the saddle.

They were thirty paces from the hut now and there was no sign of anyone.

“Are you sure, Scholar?” Ireheart enquired, laughing out loud as if they were telling each other jokes; that should fool anyone watching them. He saw that a couple of the runes on his friend’s dark armor were glowing.

There was a smile on Tungdil’s lips. “You’ll see. Get ready.”

“What if it’s just some innocent travelers?”

“Sitting in the cold? Travelers who haven’t stepped outside for orbits?” a disdainful Tungdil retorted.

“They…” Ireheart did not know what to say. Whatever he came up with made no sense at all.

Their animals halted some way off from the cabin and the dwarves dismounted.

“And now?” Boïndil wanted to know, slipping his pony’s reins over a post. He didn’t tie them in case they needed to leave in a hurry. “Do we storm in?”

“No,” said Tungdil firmly, drawing Bloodthirster. “Go and knock.” He grinned and tapped on the head of Ireheart’s crow’s beak. “With that.”

“Good idea! Off we go!” Ireheart laid his pipe on the ground near the door so that it wouldn’t get damaged in the fighting. He took his faithful weapon and smashed it against the door. The lock splintered away from the wood and the door flew open so violently that the hinges broke off. It crashed to the floor.

Ireheart stormed in with a roar—and stared at the empty tables and benches; it was icy cold in the hut and there was no sign that anyone was or had recently been there.

“Well, then,” he muttered, disappointedly. “Hey, Scholar! Did your senses fool you? Come and see!”

Behind him all was quiet.

Boïndil turned round, but Tungdil had disappeared. “What, by Vraccas, is happening now?” he thundered, catching a noise at his back. He whirled round, crow’s beak raised high. “Scholar?”

He moved carefully into the room, one step at a time.

He checked the fireplace for ashes, the wooden floor for footprints. Not a single trace.

“It’s the spirits of the mountain haunting us,” he told himself silently. His gaze fell on a lonely dried sausage hanging above the stove. “Scholar? Tell me where you are? I don’t want to clobber you by mistake.”

Ireheart moved cautiously around the corner to the cooking stove. There was a thick layer of grease on it. No meals had been cooked there recently.

The string the sausage hung on, suspended from a rafter, made a rustling noise. The dwarf, surprised, noted there was no obvious draft in the cabin, but the string swung forward and backwards.

If he looked closely he could see the ceiling boards move slightly, and he grinned. That’s where the rat is hiding! Whoever was waiting for them had crept up to the hayloft, to give the dwarves a false sense of security.

“Scholar?” he called again, before leaping onto the stove and hacking through the ceiling boards with his crow’s beak. He jumped up and pulled at the handle with all his strength until the planks gave way.

Dried grass fell into the room, showering Boïndil; dust blurred his vision. But he thought he spied a movement in the hay. Certain that Tungdil would have made himself known if it were him, he struck out without mercy.

His blow was parried, metal hitting metal. Suddenly the crow’s beak was wrenched aside and Ireheart needed all his strength to hang on to his weapon.

Surrounded by showers of drizzling hay and dust he tried another attack on his opponent, who still was only visible as a silhouette. Judging from the size it must be—a dwarf!

“Scholar, is it you?” he asked, to be on the safe side, holding back for a second.

A mistake.

A very narrow blade, more like a finger-slim iron rod, appeared in front of him and Boïndil was only just able to swivel his torso to the right to avoid being stabbed through the chest with the sharpened point. But it found its way through the material of his padded tunic, hitting his collarbone. Intense pain flashed through him.

Ireheart growled in rage, and the weapon was withdrawn. He felt his blood trickling warm from the wound, but realized the injury was relatively harmless. His shoulder and arm still worked and he could breathe without difficulty.

Angrily he grabbed the handle of his crow’s beak again and jumped through the hay to attack. He circled round, waving the weapon; some time soon he was bound to hit something. “Don’t hide, you coward!” he shouted, stepping out of the cloud of straw and dust. He coughed, his eyes streaming, then saw a figure by the door.

“Halt! Stay where you are!” He raced after it, following the unknown figure into the open air.

But once outside in the snow he saw that the attacker had completely vanished.

“How, by Tion’s ghastly—” and then something struck him on the back of the head. His helmet took most of the force of the blow, but it was enough to make him giddy. “Yes, sneak up on me from behind; you can do that, can’t you?” he raged, and a red veil laid itself over his already restricted sight. “Ho, stand and fight!” Battle-fury was about to overwhelm him.

The enemy was back at the door. He wore a close-fitting leather helmet with decorations of rivets and silver wire. His body was protected by dark leather armor with ornate tionium plates and his legs were concealed behind a skirt of iron discs. It looked like the kind of armor a thirdling would make.

“What do you know: A dwarf-hater! So what brings you here?” Boïndil wiped his eyes, then saw his pipe under the enemy’s feet. Trampled and broken. “Look at that! You moron! How am I going to smoke now?” He clenched his teeth and snorted with fury. “It doesn’t matter. I know who’s going to smash you.”

Tungdil appeared above them on the roof, Bloodthirster in his right hand. An impressive figure, Ireheart had to admit. “Something much more important,” Tungdil called down. “How did he get through the Brown Mountains and past the fourthlings? We’ll have to find out and stop the gap before others find it.”

“Wait, Scholar. I’ll put a few sharp questions to him!” Boïndil raised the crow’s beak. “That’s what this is for!” He dashed up to the dwarf, who bore a round shield in one hand and a weapon like a sword in the other. The base of the sword was thick to withstand heavy blows, then the blade thinned out to form a slender point, ideal for striking through gaps in an opponent’s armor. “I’ll break your rods in half!” he promised with a roar, turning inwards on the attack to make his strike impossible to parry.

The thirdling, however, was not going to place himself in the path of a crow’s beak strike. He leaped to one side and lifted the arm that held the shield. Boïndil noticed far too late that something was being thrown at him.

A cloud of black powder exploded over him and he tumbled straight into it. His eyes smarted and streamed. It hurt to breathe now and he was coughing badly, unable to take in any air.

His battle-fury was inflamed now and he lashed about blindly, but his strength was dwindling and he soon collapsed, panting, into the snow.

The madness left him, and the snowy whiteness melted under the warmth of his body, washing the sting out of his eyes. When he lifted his head he could see again. He spat. The saliva was black, like the snow he was lying on.

Tungdil and the unknown fighter were locked in combat, blades clashing repeatedly. The mountains sent the sound back as an echo as the two of them circled around in a lethal dance. Their whirling movements and maneuvers were nothing like those seen in conventional fighting. Ireheart had never seen anything of the kind before.

For Boïndil it was as if two brothers were fighting. In their black suits of armor they were so similar that it was only their weapons that distinguished them.

Tungdil’s adversary had taken quite a beating. His shield was cut to shreds and the tip of the strange sword was missing. His armor hung open in places. Blood trickled out, red drops falling onto the snow.

Ireheart pushed himself up onto his feet. Gasping for breath and groaning, he raised the crow’s beak. “Wait, Scholar! I’m coming!” he called, stumbling forward. “That skirt-wearer has got something coming to him from me!”

Tungdil took a strike on his armor, letting the blow slip past Bloodthirster. When the iron met the tionium there was a yellow flash of lightning and the enemy cried out. He had been forced to let go of his weapon; the sword fell and vanished, hissing, into the snow, sending up steam.

The unknown warrior withdrew three paces and lifted his left hand, uttering an unintelligible word—it sounded like the language of the älfar—from inside the helmet, and all the runes on Tungdil’s armor lit up, bright as the sun! Boïndil’s friend disappeared for a moment in a sea of dazzling rays.

Ireheart shielded his eyes with his hand and ran towards the enemy. “Let’s be having you, you fiend!” But when he reached the place where his adversary had stood there was only a footprint leading away. Has he jumped over the top? The tracks went over the edge of a steep slope, almost a sheer drop.

Far below he could make out a figure tumbling and somersaulting toward the valley before pulling out the damaged shield and sitting on it to sail down the mountainside at high speed on the icy snow. Round about him the drifts were starting to slide. An avalanche was going to accompany the thirdling to the valley floor.

“Ho! Skirt-wearer! Tion’s not going to be on your side for much longer!” he shouted happily after the fleeing dwarf. “The White Death can have you, as far as I’m concerned!” Boïndil waited until he saw the snow swallow the figure up.

He turned back to Tungdil with a grin on his face. His friend was a few paces away. “Just a pity we didn’t get to ask him a few sharp questions first. With this.” He fingered his weapon. “Would you have let him live, Scholar?”

His friend said nothing and remained motionless.

Full of apprehension Ireheart hurried over to Tungdil and yanked his visor up using the end of his crow’s beak. Tungdil’s features were devoid of expression and his eyes looked through Ireheart into the distance. “Oh, by Vraccas! What’s he done to you?” He tapped the armor. “Or was it this armor that did the damage? This black tin seems to have its drawbacks, too.”

Ireheart picked up a handful of snow and threw it at his friend’s face. At once the lids fluttered and the gaze returned to focus on him. “Aha, you can move again!” Ireheart sighed with relief.

“Not quite.” Tungdil’s face was red with exertion. “I’ve been trying, but the armor has me stuck fast!”

“What?” Ireheart put down his weapon, grabbed Tungdil’s right arm and tried to push it up by force. The hinges stayed where they were, immobile, as if riveted in position. All he achieved was to set Tungdil rocking, such that he toppled backwards into the snow.

“Well done, Ireheart,” he said sarcastically. “I’ll freeze to death in here now.”

“Might be better than being smothered in your own excrement?”

“I don’t think that’s funny, Ireheart!”

“Don’t you worry. I’ll look after you. We’ll get your tin can open.” Boïndil checked on the befún. “But not out here. The befún can pull you to the hut and the pony can tug you in through the door. I’ll get you warmed up and then I’ll have a think about what to do.”

He was true to his word. After a bit of pulling and shoving Tungdil lay in his unwished-for, but secure, prison by the fire that Ireheart had lit. The door he had broken down earlier was now resting upright against the opening, jammed in place by a table to keep out the freshening wind. Boïndil prepared a simple but delicious meal from the provisions they had with them.

“Shall I feed you?” he offered, grinning. There was gloating pleasure in his tone, despite the worry that perhaps the armor would never release his friend: Maybe it would stay rigid forever. It had lost its somber and threatening nature, its aura of fear and awe. “Just a heap of expensive junk that doesn’t work anymore,” he muttered.

“No, I don’t want you to feed me. Who knows where you’d drop the food,” growled his bad-tempered companion, staring up at the dusty sausage still hanging from the rafters. Ireheart ate with a healthy appetite. “Has this ever happened before, Scholar?” he asked, his mouth full.

“No. But I’ve never fought a thirdling before that speaks like an älf,” he replied crossly.

Ireheart chewed and put his mind to the problem at hand. If the armor was forced to go solid like that because the black-eye word was used, I wonder who created it in the first place. Who wore it before Tungdil?

Before he had left them all and gone to the abyss, his friend would never in a million cycles have thought of using armor that was obviously of evil origin.

His brown eyes focused on the blade. Had he misjudged the hero? After all, Tungdil had once made himself a new weapon out of one belonging to an älf—Bloodthirster! Boïndil was pleased with the idea: Perhaps this very blade held the key to the change in Tungdil. He had become a dark and dangerous dwarf. Although, of course, present circumstances rendered him less than effective.

“Hope you don’t want to make dwarf-water?”

“Not yet,” said Tungdil impatiently.

“I could tip you over so that it runs out of your helmet?”

“You would, too.”

“Of course.” Ireheart laughed.

“By all that’s infamous! If only I knew the counter-incantation.”

Now Boïndil’s jaw dropped open, showing the mouthful he had been chewing. “That thirdling put a spell on you? A dwarf-hater that can do magic?” He picked up his cup of tea. “Vraccas help us! It’s getting more and more complicated.”

“No, it wasn’t magic. It was… a command,” Tungdil said, attempting to explain the effect of the thirdling’s words.

“Right. Like with a pony; I say whoa and it stands still.” Ireheart pointed at the armor with his spoon. “Why would it do that?”

“So the wearer can be sure nobody else uses the armor,” sighed the one-eyed dwarf. “It would take too long to go into it.”

“Oh, I’ve got masses of time.” He licked the spoon clean. “So’ve you, Scholar.”

“I don’t feel like explaining, dammit!”

“So, if I’ve understood correctly, it could happen again. For example, when you’re having to deal with an orc. And that,” Ireheart waved the spoon, “is something that’s more than likely. Certainly in Girdlegard.” He contemplated the runes. “You really should take it off as soon as it’s working again. One of these orbits. Soon.” He winked at Tungdil. “If I have to I’ll drag you back all the way to Evildam. Back in my forge I’ve got all the tools I need to crack you open. I’ve got hammers this size!” He spread his arms wide.

“It wouldn’t help.” Tungdil watched the sausage swinging in the breeze. “It’s enough to drive you mad!” he shouted, exasperated and trying with all his might to sit up. But the armor could not be moved. The joints did not even squeak.

“Do you think I could use you as a sledge?”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Taking the rise out of me?” said Tungdil accusingly. “Pity would be more appropriate than this teasing.”

“I’m not being malicious. I’m just saying there are drawbacks to walking around in someone else’s armor if it’s as moody as a woman. I hope you see it that way, too.” He took another mouthful and stood up. “I’ve got an idea,” he mumbled, taking the crow’s beak in one hand. Legs wide apart, he stood over Tungdil, about at the level of his friend’s knees. “Perhaps it’s the same as with a stubborn woman. If you want something from them you have to win them round.” He shoved the last piece of bread in his mouth.

Tungdil stared at him in bewilderment. “What are you up to?”

“Winning it round. Properly.” He took the measure of the blow he would land on the breastplate, using the flattened side of his war hammer. “It might hurt, Scholar. But it’s in a good cause.”

Tungdil’s head bobbed up and down in the helmet; he was trying to break the armor’s strength. “No, Ireheart! Wait! I… I’ll remember, how…”

Ireheart raised his weapon. “Close your eyes. There’s bound to be a flash,” he warned cheerfully, and smashed the crow’s beak down.

Girdlegard,

Former Queendom of Weyurn,

Lakepride,

Winter, 6491st Solar Cycle

Rodario cursed under his breath and tried to melt into the darkness of the shaft.

He was afraid the guards up on the walkway would shoot at him. How should they know that he was just a harmless, curious actor, not an adventurer or a bounty hunter after the money offered for Coïra’s head?

He made himself as small as possible and waited to see what they would do. Calling out excuses would not be any use; any proclamations of innocence on his part would sound like unintelligible nonsense at this distance.

The shouts became louder, and a trumpet sounded a warning fanfare.

Rodario started to perspire. In other circumstances he would have felt honored should people make such a fuss on his account, but at present he could not enjoy the attention.

The bluish glow at the bottom of the lake was diminishing and Coïra drifted back down, twisting round to land on the planks where her clothes were.

Rodario was granted another full view, and was able to admire the princess in all her beauty, even though she was now covering herself. Utterly besotted, he gave a contented sigh.

Coïra fastened her belt, hurried to the gondola and moved the lever. The trip up to the surface began.

The actor ascended at the same time. Clinging to the cable, he was spared the exhausting business of having to pull himself up hand over hand, but the situation was not without danger: The wire rope attached to the winch at the top was coiling as the cage rose.

Rodario saw the square of light drawing closer and closer. The ropes were disappearing into it. Jets of water drenched his back as he was carried up. It was icy cold and he had to clench his teeth so as not to cry out. When he was pulled through the opening, he jumped aside and let go.

He landed safely on the floor and two stumbling extra steps absorbed the momentum. To his relief, there was no one waiting for him. The alarms and commotion had not been on his account.

Hardly had he regained his footing than the cage arrived, clanking and clattering. Coïra pushed aside the door and saw him. “What are you doing here?” she asked, fastening the top button of her blouse.

“I was waiting for you,” he replied easily. If you only knew what I have been watching all this time… Rodario looked at her gloves. They were identical and did not have any runes or other decoration. Had she merely not had time to take off the second glove?

She noticed that a puddle was forming at his feet. “Don’t tell me you’re sweating in this weather.”

“What do you mean…?” He laughed in embarrassment. “Oh, that… I was soaked through by the ferry, coming over. All that spray…” Rodario turned toward her to show her where his shirt was wet.

“The spray? Well I never. Pretty specifically aimed, the spray, it seems. Never saw the like. I know the lake quite well.” Coïra looked at him sternly. Her gaze wandered over him and she noted the dirt on his hands. “So you were waiting here the whole time, you say?”

Before he had to tell a lie the door opened and an excited Loytan stood facing them. “You must look at this, Your Highness!” he said, pointing outside. “There’s a very strange race taking place.”

Coïra looked Rodario keenly in the eyes once more, then ran out with Loytan. With a sigh of relief Rodario followed them out.

An icy storm wind had risen up and gray clouds hung over the lake. The waves splashing against the metal walls were noticeably higher than earlier; a fine mist covered cloaks, helmets and faces with tiny drops.

Loytan took them round to the west side, from where you could see past the island to the land. He handed her his telescope. “Have a look at the shore. Just now they were about half a mile from the ferryman’s house.”

The young woman lifted the glass to her eye. The shore was too distant for Rodario; he could just make out two black marks on two black spots chasing a white mark on a black spot.

“And? What is it?” he urged. One of the guards lent him a telescope. “Are those… nightmares?” he asked in a mixture of fright and surprise. The muscular black animals were galloping along the crest of the dunes. Under their hooves the sand seemed to be exploding, shooting up high, and there were flashes round the horses’ feet. The black-clad riders on their backs were älfar.

Rodario turned to focus on the pitiable creature they were chasing and cried out in astonishment. “By Elria and Palandiell! What a sight! A human riding a nightmare!”

“I don’t suppose you’ve even seen a nightmare before,” countered Loytan.

“She must be a very brave woman, riding a mount like that one.” Coïra saw the quarry’s long blond hair flying in the wind.

“She must have killed an älf if she’s riding a nightmare,” Rodario interjected. He managed to get a clear view of the girl’s face through the telescope. She was pretty and he saw no trace of fear in her features, just sheer determination. Her pursuers were not gaining on her. “It’s amazing the animal is obeying her.”

Loytan scratched his chin. “Lohasbrand won’t like it if he hears the älfar have encroached on his territory.”

“Am I correct in noting a certain satisfaction in your voice?” replied Coïra, looking at her faithful friend. “You think this might inflame the old enmity between the Dragon and the älfar if we go about things the right way?”

The young blond woman whom Rodario was observing was seeming increasingly familiar—and then it occurred to him where he had seen her face before. “By all the gods. It must be Mallenia!”

Coïra glanced over at him. “Mallenia? The freedom-fighter?”

Rodario nodded. He did not realize the princess was watching him. He continued to follow the progress onshore. “Yes! I know her face from the posters I saw on tour with the theater in Gauragar and Idoslane. The älfar and their vassal-rulers have put a huge price on her head.”

“They seem to be taking the matter in hand personally now,” Loytan remarked. “They’re speeding up. It won’t be long before they catch her.”

Rodario lowered the telescope and moved toward Coïra. “Princess, even if it’s nothing to do with us, I beg you: Help Mallenia of Idoslane,” he implored. “I know how the people love her. If she dies the struggle against the oppressors in the east of Girdlegard will die, too.”

Coïra raised her eyebrows.

Rodario took this as an invitation to say more to convince her.

“I beseech you, act to help her. You have the power to save her from the älfar and to keep Idoslane’s hopes alive.” He swallowed. “I would do it myself if I had your powers or a fast boat with enough men to confront the evil.”

“And it wouldn’t be good to have everyone know that Mallenia had been killed in Weyurn before your very eyes. Within sight of your mother’s palace,” Loytan observed, coming to his aid unexpectedly. “Conclusions might be drawn. It might be thought we were helping the älfar. Or that Mallenia was coming to us to organize a joint uprising, uniting resistance in Weyurn and Idoslane. One way or the other, when the Dragon hears about it, he’ll be heading this way to investigate the rumors.” The count fell silent for a moment. “The last time the Dragon came there were many deaths, if the reports are true.”

Rodario did not warm to the man’s reasoning, because it was based, it seemed, on personal fear rather than on any intent that good should prevail, but support was still support. “Your Highness, please!” He knelt at her feet. “I will be forever in your debt if you save Mallenia!”

Coïra smiled at him—smiled with a totally new expression in her eyes—and touched him on the shoulder. “Get up, Rodario the Seventh. You must not kneel before me. Someone with your noble attitude of mind certainly should not be kneeling.” She climbed up the wall of the shaft—and jumped!

With a shocked cry Rodario rushed forward to stare into the raging water to look for Coïra.

Next moment he saw her racing at incredible speed, suspended above the storm-tossed waves, heading for the shore. A bluish light surrounded her and turquoise-colored lightning flashes carried her along.

“What a woman,” he exclaimed in admiration, and he heard Loytan’s spiteful laughter.

“Don’t give yourself airs, actor!” he said. “Coïra may pay you some attention now but she’ll never respect you. You are beneath her dignity.” His tone grew sharp.

“Listening to you one could presume you had intentions of your own that are not appropriate, sir. You are husband to another,” Rodario said cuttingly as he pulled himself up to his full height. “Let’s be frank: I don’t much like you at the best of times, and that warning you’ve just given me is the last straw.”

The count’s expression lost all its superciliousness. “I see you have a sharp tongue when you need it.”

“Sharp enough to have you in slices if you’re looking to challenge me to a duel.”

“I shan’t need to do that. Coïra will always trust my word over yours. I’ll make sure you leave us soon.” Loytan bared his teeth. “When you’ve dried off, actor. Maybe. In those waters you can easily catch your death.”

Rodario nonchalantly wiped a few drops off his arm. “A bit of spray doesn’t bother me.”

“Who’s talking about a bit of spray?” Without warning Loytan gave Rodario a shove that sent him flying over the wall.

The actor’s damp fingers could get no purchase on the metal. He tumbled down into the lake, crying out as he fell. The waters of the lake had been whipped up by the approaching storm.

He fell head first and the water felt like liquid ice. Every fiber of his being registered the bitter cold; he thought he could hear the blood freezing in his veins.

Underwater currents thrust him mercilessly against the metal wall of the shaft, scraping his face roughly. Then the life force in Rodario awoke. Whirling his arms about wildly, he fought his way up to the light where the surface must be.

Mallenia looked round again and saw only the älf woman, less than one hundred paces behind her, forcing her nightmare onwards with pitiless strokes of her riding crop.

“Faster!” the young woman screamed into the ear of her nightmare mount, drawing her knife and placing it at the animal’s neck. “I swear you will die before me if they catch up.”

Without warning, a black shadow appeared on her right; it had glowing red eyes and was charging down the sand dunes toward her. It collided with the nightmare she rode, hurling horse and rider to the ground. The second älf had overtaken her and thrown her off!

Mallenia and her stallion rolled in a confused heap down the slope of the dune to the shore. The nightmare made a shrill and furious shriek. She managed to keep out of the way of its thrashing legs, but the creature’s vicious incisors grabbed her upper arm. A piece of flesh the size of a fist was gouged out of her, the animal’s teeth grinding against bone as it clamped its jaws on the limb and hurled her toward the water.

Mallenia screamed and thought at first she had lost her arm completely. Blood poured out of the wound, splashing on the pebbles. Even if everything about her hurt she could not lie here. She sat up and was about to get to her feet to run, but her legs gave way beneath her.

Trampling hooves came ever nearer; the älf siblings rode up, closing the gap at their ease. Suddenly there was no longer any need for haste. The race was decided.

“There she is, the murderess and thief,” said the female älf, full of hatred, leaping down from the saddle. She ran up to Mallenia and beat her with her riding stock.

The woman raised her uninjured arm to protect her head. Every blow cut into her skin. There were thorns plaited into the birch twigs that worked like the teeth of a saw. When she reached for her sword she was kicked in the head, landing backwards in the lake.

“Watch out, Firûsha, or she’ll drown,” said her brother in reproach. “We have so much planned for her. Tie up the wound in her arm or she’ll bleed to death. The nightmare was obviously hungry.”

Mallenia saw the älf leaning over her, then the gloved hands grabbed her by the collar, dragging her back to land. “She must not have a death as gentle as that.” She punched the young woman on the chin to knock her out. When the girl’s body went limp, the älf took Mallenia’s belt and applied it tightly above the bite wound. The bleeding stopped at once. “What now, Sisaroth?”

The älf brother looked at the captive. “Get her back to Idoslane alive. The rebels’ saint, their hope and inspiration, must be broken,” he said. “We shall execute her in front of all of them. Then the uprising will be destroyed. The rebels will lose their cause. There is no one to take her place.”

Firûsha looked up at her brother, still mounted on his nightmare. “Isn’t there a big danger that a public execution will increase the risk of rebellion?”

Sisaroth smiled cruelly. “I certainly hope so. We’ll put down the rebellion, killing all those involved in the resistance. They’ll come, to try and free Mallenia, and they’ll be met by death.”

“A good plan.” But Firûsha was still looking unconvinced.

“I see you have second thoughts,” he enquired. “You think not?”

“No. I’m thinking what Aiphatòn will say.”

The älf laughed out loud, throwing his head back. “Our ruler, the Unextinguishable Emperor, is much too busy keeping up the morale of his followers in the south.” He dismounted and came up to her. “A weak fool, despite the power he has. He is afraid of a coup. What has become of him? In the past I would have died for him; now I would stand back and let him die first.” The pebbles made no sound when he trod. “I had such great hopes of him, the descendant of the Unslayables, after he had defeated Lot-Ionan! He spoke as if he wanted to bring back the glorious reign of the first generation of älfar. Instead, he dragged a collection of second-rate älfar here to Girdlegard and he behaves like their servant! We never needed them in the first place. But this will all change. And soon.”

Firûsha frowned. “You’re keeping something from me, brother! Tell me what you know.”

Sisaroth grinned. “I learned that they’ve made the Unextinguishable Emperor promise to march against the magus this very cycle.”

Firûsha’s eyes grew big. “That will be a hard war and will cost thousands of lives! Why would they do that?”

“To ensure access to the south is opened up again. Several of the inferior packs in the Outer Lands are waiting to be admitted. Aiphatòn doesn’t realize that he’s about to lose his power to foreign hands.” Sisaroth stood by Mallenia and studied her face. “That’s why it’s important to calm the situation in Urgon, Idoslane and Gauragar. Before the war starts. Let them march south.” He lowered his voice. “We agree, you and I, that we shan’t let them into Dsôn Balsur, sister?”

“Agreed, as ever,” came the instant answer. “Not into any of the three former elf realms. They belong to us, the Dsôn Aklán, not the foreigners.” She emitted a high tone to summon the nightmare Mallenia had ridden. It trotted up, its head lowered, and came to a halt, snorting, in front of the älf woman. The girl’s blood could be seen round its nostrils and mouth.

Firûsha drew her sword at lightning speed and cut off the creature’s head with one mighty swipe. The nightmare and its severed head fell to the ground, blood drenching the captive girl from head to foot.

“Eat the traitor,” Firûsha commanded the other nightmares. Greedily they began to gorge themselves on the creature’s warm flesh. The long chase had made them hungry.

“What are two älfar doing here in Weyurn?” asked a woman’s voice diagonally above them; their hands flew to the hilts of their swords as they whirled round simultaneously. “The Dragon won’t like that.”

Sisaroth and Firûsha saw a black-haired woman in fine raiment standing on the crest of the dunes; she carried no weapons. Her eyes shone brighter than those of a normal human—and much to the alarm of the älfar siblings.

“A maga,” Sisaroth warned his sister in a whisper. He was aware of the invisible power the unknown figure wielded. She was full to overflowing with it. “And who are you?” he raised his voice to ask.

“That’s no concern of yours,” she replied harshly, with obvious authority, gesturing toward the captive girl. “You will not harm her; you will get back on your nightmares and you will leave Weyurn. Get back to Idoslane or Gauragar or Urgon and do your evil deeds there.”

Firûsha placed her right foot on Mallenia’s breast. “No, she’s going back to Idoslane, too.”

“Just try to take her,” the woman threatened, her expression amused. “The Dragon will be glad to hear of your attempt. He’d finally have an excuse to attack. The last war against the älfar was a long time ago. And I seem to remember your folk did not too well out of it.”

“She is a wanted criminal—” Firûsha retorted, but the woman interrupted her fearlessly.

“Then you would have done better to catch her in Idoslane, not in Weyurn. Get out of here!” She raised her arms slightly. “This is your final warning.”

Behind where the siblings stood the noise of the waves altered, and a man splashed up out of the water. His face was badly grazed and in his hand he held a dagger; he appeared resolute. As resolute as the figure of the woman on the dunes.

“Get away from her!” he commanded them. “Leave Mallenia be, or the maga will burn you to cinders!” He knelt down by the unconscious figure of Mallenia and pulled her away from the dangerous hooves of the grotesque nightmares. One of the animals kicked out at him with a hind leg; he avoided injury by a surprisingly adroit move.

“You are not of the Dragon’s retinue,” Sisaroth said confrontationally. “You wear no dragon-scale pendant at your neck. How is it that you threaten us with Lohasbrand as if you knew him well?”

The woman did not reply—at least not with her voice. Instead, she stretched out her right arm, palm upwards. A brilliant ball shone on her gloved hand and floated slowly toward the älfar, the light growing in intensity the nearer it came.

The nightmares snorted and hissed in fear, recoiling; the bearded young man threw himself over Mallenia to protect her from their hooves. Sisaroth and Firûsha grimaced as the rays hurt their eyes.

“At a word from me the sphere will burst open and blind you forever,” the woman on the dunes told them. “If you can find the way home blind, then do as you wish. If not, I suggest strongly that you leave Weyurn. I shall tell the Dragon that the älfar have violated the agreement. I wonder how he will react.”

Firûsha wanted to pull out her sword, but Sisaroth restrained her. Turning to his agitated nightmare he climbed into the saddle. Then he and his sister rode off east.

The sphere pursued them for a time, as if it were a full moon come down from the heavens. After ten miles or so the ball of light gradually dissolved into glittering dust that fell onto the snow, unnoticeable on the bright crystalline surface.

Immediately, Sisaroth halted the nightmare and Firûsha turned her own mount. The real moon illuminated their furious faces, on which spreading thin black lines were visible. Their tumultuous feelings could not be concealed. They would gladly have transformed their rage into murder, but they stood no chance against a maga. Not in open attack.

Looking over to the island, where numerous lights were burning now, they could make out the shape of the shaft’s iron bulkhead in the middle of the lake.

“That’s where we’ll find what is due to us,” said Sisaroth darkly, glancing at his sister. “Let us bring death to them over the water.”

“I don’t intend to leave without Mallenia,” she agreed. “She is the key to our achieving power in the three kingdoms. I want revenge for Tirîgon!”

Sisaroth noticed a fishing village nearby and turned down the path towards it. “Let us enquire who lives on the Island of the Brave. And then we’ll see if there are humans suitable for a work of art. I feel the need to create something important.”

Firûsha said nothing. But she thought that the tall island would soon be called the Island of the Dead.