The Fate of the Dwarves

XV

Girdlegard,

Dson Bhara (Formerly the Elf Realm of Lesinteil),

Dson,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

“Who would have thought we would meet here in Dson Bhara, of all places?” Tirigon gazed at Tungdil in delighted surprise.

Ireheart saw that the two had enjoyed more than mere acquaintance; it did nothing to reassure him. His Scholar together with one of the worst alfar of the past two hundred cycles, the one who had eliminated the last of the elves of Girdlegard. This feels like trouble. He was itching to join in their conversation but knew he must not try. Now less than ever.

Tungdil laughed darkly. “You know that dwarves hate water as much you hate elves. I would never have been able to swim through the Moon Pond. The curse of Elria would have seen me drowned.”

“You had to wait so long to return.” The alf looked at the escort and Ireheart found the blue-eyed gaze very unpleasant when it rested on him. “But I see you have taken over our Desirers.”

“They follow me because I am the high king.” He smiled. “You have no need to fear me, Tirigon. I have come to make you and the Dson Aklan an offer.”

“I am delighted to hear it. I am only sorry that my brother and sister are not with me. They are in Gauragar, hunting down the woman who caused this.” He pointed at the injury to his face.

“You leave your revenge up to them?”

“I was at death’s door, Balo… Tungdil. It was Mallenia of Ido. The cowardly bitch shot at me with a crossbow and sent a bolt through my neck long after our duel was over.”

Ireheart noted that the alf was omitting to mention which of them had won the duel. So it won’t have been you, Scarface.

Tirigon signaled for chairs and refreshments to be brought. They sat down at a table in front of the throne. “And anyway, one of us had to look after Dson Bhara. What do you think of the city?”

“It is very different from the true Dson.” Tungdil frowned. “They tell us my name is spoken here with hatred.”

“Only by those who do not know you from the other side. Do not be concerned.” Tirigon gestured to one of the human slaves to pour their drink. The slave woman served the alf first and Ireheart last.

Ireheart guessed her beauty was perfection to human eyes, but for himself he preferred something with a little more substance, like his own Goda. This one looked more like an alf than a human: Slender, slim-faced and with graceful movements.

“Seeing you here I must assume you are still kindly disposed to us.” Tirigon sounded curious. “We once worked hand in hand and with great success.”

“That’s the way it should still be.” Tungdil drank his wine. “The dwarves have elected me their high king and the tribe of the thirdlings will serve me as their supreme ruler. My reputation with the thirdlings is now very different, Hargorin tells me.”

“You have considerable authority with them as a warrior.” The alf had understood the implication. “Thus it will be with you we negotiate when we need thirdling support to police the three kingdoms. I am pleased to hear it.” Tirigon raised his goblet. “To the old times!”

“The very old times!” Tungdil returned the toast. “Of course I am on your side. I hear there have been disputes with your relations from the south.”

Ireheart had interpreted Tungdil’s words as a message: The very old times. The good times.

Tirigon’s serenity faded. He drained his cup and called for more. “There is no evidence that they are actually related to us,” he snapped. “But it is true: We don’t like them and they don’t like us.”

Tungdil licked a droplet of wine from the rim of his goblet. “But they have superiority of numbers.”

Again, another hidden message.

“We shall be glad of your help. My siblings will be pleased.” Tirigon lifted his cup in salute. “Since I am aware that you never act without due thought and intent, tell me what you want in return.”

“All the dwarf kingdoms.” The response came swift as a bolt from a crossbow.

Tirigon lowered his head. “Tungdil, I would happily promise you that, but it is not within my gift.”

“But when our campaign is over, you will have that power.”

Ireheart saw the alf registering growing surprise but no doubt. He must trust Tungdil to the hilt.

“I have a plan…” Tirigon laughed out loud. “That cunning dwarf-mind! You always had a clever plan over on the other side. Your plans always worked, so I’ve no reason to doubt you now.” He sat back in his chair. “Tell me about it.”

Tungdil outlined the scheme to play the Dragon off against Lot-Ionan; the kordrion and the tribe of fifthlings would be destroyed together, by the thirdling army. “The route is already secure. You and your alfar will be ready to attack the southern alfar…”

Tirigon raised his hand. “No. They will be fighting Lot-Ionan under that fool, the Emperor Aiphaton. They’re off to the Blue Mountains with everything they’ve got.”

“All the better.” Tungdil pretended he had not known about the attack. “So the Dragon can launch himself on the victor. You bring your forces up secretly, and we join you as soon as we’ve got rid of the kordrion and the fifthlings. After that, Girdlegard will be yours.” He leaned forward. “That’s if you leave the dwarf realms to me.”

“Here am I, making a pact with a dwarf against my own emperor, the last of the descendants of the Unslayables,” Tirigon said thoughtfully. “That is mad enough to work. I trust you and your bright ideas, Balodil.” He frowned in annoyance. “I mean Tungdil.”

By Vraccas! When he was with the monsters he called himself by the name of his own son! Ireheart’s wavering conviction that this was indeed the true Tungdil and not an impostor started to gain firmer footing. How else could he have known that name? And, he thought, Tungdil’s approach was excellent, although fate was playing a hand in it, too.

“Your siblings will follow your lead, or do I have to fight the three of you when I’ve polished off the enemies in the north and south?” Tungdil’s question had a trace of mirth but its core was serious.

Tirigon helped himself to some of the food, putting small slices slowly into his mouth. “They will approve of our pact.” He closed his eyes in pleasure. “That was the first time I’ve been able to enjoy my food since being wounded.” He invited his guest to eat. “We shall inform you when Aiphaton and his false followers leave to attack Lot-Ionan. Where do we send the message?”

“To Hargorin’s estate in the north. That’s probably the best place to find me while we’re preparing for the campaign. And if I’m not there someone will know how to contact me.” Tungdil tried some of the meat.

Let it have been an animal, Vraccas, and not anything else. Not anything they didn’t have a use for in their art, prayed Ireheart. The sight of pink roast flesh made him hungry. It smelled good, even if he had never wanted to sink his teeth into black-eye food.

“I’ll get over to Aiphaton as quickly as possible and pay him a call,” stated Tungdil, helping himself to more of the wine. “The emperor must not think I’m against him. My last meeting went peacefully, and I want to tell him, for form’s sake, that we can continue the alliance.”

“So you’ll be offering him the same pact?”

“Yes. But for the campaign against Lot-Ionan, my atrocious foster-father.” Tungdil grinned. “Then I shall withdraw and promise to return with a huge army of troops.”

“He will have the surprise of his life.” Tirigon laid his cutlery aside. “But can’t I tempt you to stay?”

Sacred forge! Don’t let us spend a single night in Dson!Ireheart hoped fervently that Tungdil would turn down the offer of hospitality.

“I’m afraid not, old friend. We’ll have to move swiftly if we want to meet up with the emperor, I should think?”

“Yes. You should find him in the former Alandur. He has given the realm to his friends from the south.” The alf spoke with open dislike.

“And what about Dson Balsur? Has it been rebuilt?”

Tirigon shrugged. “It’s all one to me, while they’re living there. It will take us some time to remove their unwholesome influence in the place. They have no appreciation of art at all, or beauty, poetry, painting or other aesthetic concepts.” He shuddered. “It is impossible that Tion created them.”

“Unless he was drunk?” suggested Ireheart, over-hastily.

Tirigon and Tungdil turned their heads slowly in his direction. “So you have people in your escort who enjoy a pleas-antry,” the alf noted with amusement.

“He never usually has a good joke to tell.” Tungdil tutted and shook his head. “Perhaps a rare spark of inspiration.”

“Don’t let him tell that one to the emperor. It could be his best and final joke.” The alf rose. One of the robed alfar approached with a whispered message. “I won’t detain you any longer, Tungdil Goldhand.” They embraced. “Our pact is settled. You shall have the dwarf realms and we shall have Girdlegard.” His laughter was cold. “The land is in desperate need of our art. It will be a pleasure for me to reform it to our taste.”

“Even two hundred cycles ago your reputation as an artist was brilliant. I am keen to see what you are capable of now.” Tungdil clasped the alf’s right hand and beamed at him. “In three cycles at the outside it will be us in charge and no one else! Give my greetings to your siblings.” He turned and went to the door. His escort of Invisibles surrounded him and Ireheart was at his side.

“Tungdil,” called Tirigon, as they reached the door. They stopped and the one-eyed dwarf turned to face the alf. “What about the barrier? Is it holding again?”

“Yes,” lied Tungdil, cold as ice.

“That’s good. It would be bad if your master were to turn up here to demand the return of his armor.” Tirigon paused. “Or did you kill him in the end, perhaps?”

“I tried to. It didn’t work. That’s why I want the dwarf realms: No one shall be allowed through the gate.” Tungdil turned and marched off. “Tion is with us, Tirigon. Be sure of that.”

They left the hall and the seven silent alfar led them out through the palace to the open air.

“At last!” Ireheart took a deep breath and pushed his visor up. “I couldn’t have stood it in there much longer. I don’t know what it was I was eating but it doesn’t smell nice when it comes up again.”

Slin laughed and opened his own visor as well. “Onions and preserved gugul mince? I saw you had a jar of that in your pack. Goda send you off with that, then?”

“You never gave us any.” Tungdil gave him a disapproving look. “How mean of you.” Then he grinned. It was obvious that he was relieved to have got in and out of the palace safely. And with such success. “Ireheart, you must curb your tongue in future. We were in luck. It was a good thing Tirigon found your remark funny.” After a short pause he added. “So did I, by the way.”

Darkness had fallen. But when Ireheart looked up at the sky he saw no stars! “By Vraccas!” he exclaimed, horrified. “What have the alfar done?”

All the dwarves looked up and stared.

“The constellations have all disappeared!” Balyndar whispered, fearfully.

“The stars must be refusing to shine on an alfar city,” suggested Slin.

Ireheart conquered his incredulity and turned to the tower with its cables spreading out in all directions. “It’s to do with that tower.”

Tungdil followed his gaze and thought. “Let’s get on or we’ll be arousing suspicion. And pull your visors down in case we meet anyone.”

They went down the steps to where their ponies were waiting. Overhead they caught a slight rustling sound.

“I don’t believe it,” said Slin in amazement as he looked up at the sky.

A starry firmament had appeared above their heads but it was different from the one the dwarves were familiar with. The heavenly bodies they saw now were not as they knew them. And there were shimmering moons, three or four times the size of Girdlegard’s own.

“I don’t know how they’ve done it, but the city must have moved to another place entirely.” Boindil could not get his fill of the splendid sight.

Balyndar snorted. “What do you mean?”

“Perhaps you never stick your head out of the caves but I’ve traveled a lot in Girdlegard. Wherever I went, the stars were always the same.”

“There’s a deep insight for you,” mocked Slin. “Only here they’re not. But we’re still in Girdlegard.” “Exactly. That’s why I said they’ve moved the city out of Girdlegard. I admit it doesn’t sound very likely.”

“So how do we get back?” Slin mounted and turned to look at the winding cliffside path. “Who knows where we’ll end up?”

“Over to you, Scholar.”

Tungdil looked up. “Canvasses.”

“Canvasses.” At first Ireheart did not understand. “Oh, I see, like curtains, but… sideways?” He looked up again. “They pull them across the crater on those ropes to give the alfar down here an artificial night sky to admire-is that what you mean?”

“Exactly, Ireheart. That’s what I mean. I expect they cover the city on especially bright days, or when it’s very hot. A protective screen.”

“That’s an amazing amount of trouble to go to.” Balyndar seemed relieved at the explanation.

“But it’s also beautiful. You’ll have to give them that.” Tungdil rode ahead, followed by the Zhadar and the rest of the company.

Ireheart was pleased to note they were not escorted. Tirigon must trust his dwarf-friend completely if he was letting them wander the streets unaccompanied. Trust and black-eyes: That’s a weird combination. That Tirigon must have something up his sleeve. At the bottom of the winding climb he thought he could make out Utsintas and the alfar on their firebulls. I’m not going to let anyone entice me into a trap.

“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.”

“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?”

Tungdil frowned, puzzled. “We came to Phoseon at your invitation.”

Aiphaton shook his head. “No. I’ve only just heard that you had returned to Girdlegard. They told me you wanted to negotiate with me.” “Your messenger brought us here,” insisted Tungdil.

Aiphaton’s face again showed surprise. “As I did not send a messenger, let us ask him to whom I owe the pleasure of your visit.” He called the guard over and gave instructions. “Where did you meet the alf?”

“He came to Dson Bhara, when we were being received by the Dson Aklan. I’d thought we would find you there.” Tungdil answered with a half-truth.

“Charming,” murmured Slin. “Absolutely charming! We’ve been tricked.”

“Blast that Tirigon!” Ireheart exploded.

A loud melodious ringing was heard. It was repeated quickly.

“Alarm?” Boindil looked to the right and left at the alfar guards. “Get ready,” he gave the cue. “If the black-eye moves, mow it down!”

Aiphaton rose from his throne and looked at the window. “We are being attacked,” he stated, incredulous. He looked at Tungdil enquiringly. “Someone has been foolish enough to attack us now, after one hundred and eighty cycles!”

“It’s nothing to do with me,” Tungdil said calmly. “Probably…”

Then they heard a bloodcurdling scream and a great shadow filled the window.

Ireheart swallowed hard and instinctively wiped his hands over his armor as if to remove the traces of the smell of the kordrion’s young. The kordrion has followed me instead of the cocoon!