The alf came up to Coira, bloody knife in hand. Watching the countenance of the distraught young woman in order to follow her death throes, he made to thrust the dagger in.
At the same moment he was hit on the head by a helmet and Sisaroth’s strike missed its target. The blade met wood and broke off. The helmet bounced, rattling across the floor.
The alf whirled around, drawing his second double-bladed knife but was engulfed in a wave of fire!
“Cowardly murderer!” someone shouted. “You can’t kill a descendant of the Incredible Rodario that easily!” The next wave of flame shot out with a hiss but Sisaroth dodged this one.
Mallenia recognized Rodario’s voice. “Fetch help!” she called, assuming the man would be unable to hold the alfar off for long.
Firusha struck her on the head with the blade’s broadside; the Ido girl fell, half concussed, to the cushions. The female alf sprang to her brother’s aid…
… but was met by a bright yellow flash that struck her in the breast. A hole the size of a man’s hand was punched through her body and she was thrown across the room and out through the window. The impact shattered the glass and the panes melted in the magic force. Firusha had not uttered more than an agonized gasp.
Mallenia turned quickly and saw Coira’s clear eyes and outstretched arms. “Thanks be to the gods,” she croaked.
“Thanks? For what? For the death of my mother?” the maga replied bitterly, hurrying out in the direction of the noise of fighting.
The Ido girl was too weak to stand. She saw the reflection of flashes; they were followed by crackling noises like those of a great fire, then shrieks and the clash of weapons. The fight against the remaining alfar sibling was in full swing. She felt her spark of life was dwindling. She had lost too much blood.
Her eyelids fluttered; they seemed heavier than an anvil. The pain had faded. She struggled against the overwhelming desire to give up, to sleep and sleep and sleep…
Girdlegard,
Dson Bhara,
Twelve Miles North of Dson,
Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles
The winter had already lost much of its strength and snow was now melting in the hills and on the meadows. From all sides there came the sound of running water, and small streams swelled to raging torrents as, drop by drop, the last of the ice disappeared.
Tungdil’s group with the Zhadar and the Desirers was riding through boggy terrain, clothes soaked through and armor suffering from the frequent showers.
Nevertheless they were making steady progress toward their first destination: Dson, the second city of that name, and home to the northern alfar.
“No sign of the kordrion,” Ireheart said. “I wonder if he’s given up the chase?”
“As long as his young is alive he will keep searching,” Tungdil reassured him.
Ireheart sighed and reflected that it had been a reasonably quick journey under the circumstances. It was down to Hargorin Deathbringer that they had been able to approach the alfar capital without being stopped by any of the patrols; everyone knew the Black Squadron and its leader.
Ireheart noticed a band of riders: Alfar, long lances in their hands, mounted on firebulls. I was counting my chickens before they hatched. He grinned. Maybe there will be work to do.
Tungdil glanced at Hargorin. “Let me speak to them. They’ll be wanting to know the meaning of the standard.”
The alfar brought their bulls to a halt and their leader gave a curt order to his soldiers to lower their pikes, while he urged his own snorting bull a few paces forward. “We understood you rode alone, Hargorin Deathbringer. But we are told you have a dwarf with you who bears an unusual device on his coat of arms.” As he looked at Tungdil the eyes took in every detail and every rune on the armor.
Ireheart watched the alf, whose long blond hair was visible below the tionium helmet, forming a collar round neck and shoulders. His face was like all the others: Handsome, cruel and with black eye sockets. I’d love, just once, to see a fat alf. A fat, clumsy alf, uglier than the mate of the ugliest pig-faced orc. And with crooked teeth. The dwarf grinned to himself behind his closed visor. Like Slin, Balyndar and the twenty-three Zhadar, he managed to merge unobtrusively with the mass of the squadron’s soldiers. Their disguise must not be noticed. It was vital for the success of their mission.
“Greetings, Utsintas,” said Tungdil in a deep voice that commanded respect, a voice Ireheart had never heard his friend use before. Hargorin had told him the name of the alf leader. “I am Tungdil Goldhand, high king of the dwarf-tribes in Girdlegard, and a member of the thirdling folk.”
Utsintas opened his mouth. “It’s not as easy…”
But Tungdil carried on regardless. “Take me to the Dson Aklan. I have a bargain to strike. Now.”
Utsintas closed his mouth again. This prompted another hidden grin from Ireheart. That black-eyes has never been spoken to like this before.
Tungdil leaned forward on his pony. “Did you hear me, Utsintas? Or perhaps you do not know my name? Are you so young that you have never been told about the dwarf who razed the original city of Dson to the ground?”
“Of course I know the name…” The alf was unsure of himself and looked at the standard. “What does the flag mean? It’s written neither in alfar nor in dwarf-language. It seems to be a mixture of the two…”
“It means that I am commander and king at the same time. In the land beyond the Black Abyss.” Tungdil had his pony move to the front, right up close. With the dwarf on its back even the small pony seemed superior to the firebull, showing no fear of the massive bulk and threatening horns.
“You claim to be Tungdil Goldhand and to have returned from that place? How would that have been possible?” Utsintas was gradually regaining his composure.
“The barrier fell for a few moments. That’s how I managed to get back.” Tungdil’s face darkened. “Now I have to speak to the Dson Aklan. Do you wish me to ride past you or will you accompany me and Hargorin Deathbringer?”
Ireheart felt like laughing out loud. My Scholar is treating the alf like his messenger boy.
“Other creatures are not permitted to set foot in the holy crater.”
Tungdil’s laugh was unpleasant. “I was in the real city of Dson long before you, Utsintas.” The Black Squadron sniggered, joined in the fun, humiliating the alf even more. “Be the one who crowns the pact between the thirdlings and your own folk.” He touched the hilt of Bloodthirster, as if by accident. “I am on my way to Dson. With or without you.”
Utsintas stared at Tungdil and then nodded. “I shall take you.” And, indicating Hargorin, “He can wait here with your people.”
“No. I am entitled to an escort,” Tungdil contradicted. “Thirty men at the very least. Do not attempt to argue.”
The alf paused. “Thirty. No more than that.”
Tungdil signaled to the Zhadar, Ireheart, Slin and Balyndar to join him. “These are Hargorin’s best men. They instantly swore allegiance to me and they shall be rewarded with the sight of Dson.”
Utsintas sent them a warning glance. “You are to follow me, not taking any other path. Anyone contravening this order will be killed. This holds for you as well, Tungdil Goldhand.” He turned his firebull’s head and led the way.
Tungdil’s smile was full of malice. “You would not be able to kill me.”
The chosen band of dwarves followed him; Hargorin fell back to wait for them. Ireheart had to restrain himself from talking to Slin. He thought Tungdil’s acting was superb.
The last few miles through the crater toward the new Dson they rode in silence. Gruesome sculptures and monuments were to be seen as they passed; they had a certain aesthetic quality to them but were hideously cruel in concept, formed as they were from bones wired together with gold, tionium and other precious metals; dead trees had been adorned with skulls, and elsewhere there was a structure reminding Ireheart of a large windmill moving in the breeze. He got the distinct impression that those sails were made of skin. He did not wish to learn what sort of skin had been used.