The nearer they got to the deep crater, the more numerous the works of art became until there was hardly any space between the sculptures. They appeared like a nightmarish forest. It all stemmed from the alfar obsession with the transience of nature; they imitated death in all its forms. It did not do much for morale.
Ireheart was finding it hard to hold his tongue. The grim statues made him talkative. He wanted to speak to the Scholar about what he could see, and wanted to ask Balyndar and Slin their impressions. But it had been agreed in advance that strict silence would be observed.
The Zhadar had been given their orders: They were to get the sledge with the kordrion’s young unobtrusively into the center of the city and leave it hidden there; perhaps they could even take it into the palace itself.
I wonder if the alfar rulers have rebuilt the Tower of Bones? The old tower in Dson Balsur had been constructed out of the skeletons of slain enemies, but would two hundred cycles have been long enough to amass sufficient quantities to build anew? Ireheart stretched up in his saddle for a better view but could not see any tall buildings rising up out of the vast hole the city occupied.
Noticing a particular artwork he had to overcome the impulse to attack Utsintas and the other alfar with his crow’s beak; from Slin’s helmet, too, emerged a groan of horror. Walls specially erected for the purpose had been decorated with carved reliefs, showing the alfar defeating their foes. But where the alfar were shown life size and worked in silver and tionium, the artist had used real bodies for their enemies. Ireheart was having to look at the rotting corpses of fellow dwarves.
“There must be a hundred at least,” exclaimed Balyndar, unable to control his disgust. “Such an end is an insult to any child of the Smith!” he went on, in a lower voice this time. “To decay and disintegrate like worthless orcs and all for the enjoyment of the black-eyes-we can’t accept this. They need proper burial…”
“Quiet!” Tungdil ordered. “Be quiet or your lust for revenge will endanger a much more important mission.”
Utsintas turned round. “One hundred?” he repeated in amusement; he seemed not to have heard the rest of the exchange. “The artist needs to replace them every quarter-cycle. The bodies keep better in the winter of course. New humans are relatively easy to supply. Dwarves are difficult to get hold of. We harvest them mostly from the fourthlings. They’re the easiest ones.”
“Harvest?” exclaimed Ireheart.
Utsintas grinned. This time he had heard. “I’m surprised that a Desirer should be such a sensitive soul. You’re the ones that bring us the material.” “Don’t mind him. He got out of bed on the wrong side,” said Tungdil. “I have to put up with his moodiness all the time.”
“If you wish to be rid of him…” The alf gestured toward the wall relief.
“Ho! I could cut you down to size so you fit, yourself, black-eyes!” Ireheart retorted. He would have been delighted to drive the arrogance out of this uppity alf.
“Enough!” snarled Tungdil peremptorily. “Or I shall take up the offer Utsintas just made.”
Ireheart noted with distress that Tungdil’s words had not sounded remotely like acting.
They soon reached the sharply winding path that led down into the heart of the crater.
Boindil uttered a gasp of surprise at the sight. At first glance he had realized that the walls of the crater had been dug vertically; the diameter had to be about twelve miles and the depth of the vast hole nearly three.
The floor of the crater was black; the alfar had covered the ground with some material that made it look deeper still. Around two hundred strangely shaped houses had been positioned in a specific pattern round the central mountain. A contrasting mixture of white and black wood had been used to great effect for the buildings. In some cases the roof was pointed, in others it took the form of a gentle diagonal slope with balconies; other houses had hexagonal towers, and sharp corners were a feature used throughout.
I’d like to take a closer look, thought Ireheart. I wonder how their furniture is constructed. The black-eyes who live there must have to keep their helmets on all the time so as not to bang their heads on the sharp bits.Sculptures had been erected in the open spaces between the houses.
Ireheart reckoned the mountain itself must be a mile high, and two miles wide. A rectangular building of dark gray marble had been built, crowned with a shimmering, sparkling dome of black glass. A massive tower rose at the back of the mountain, easily twenty paces by twenty, and a hundred paces high. Wires ran from the tip of the tower, criss-crossing the city and reaching the edges of the crater.
What is all that for? wondered Ireheart. He would need to get closer to study the detail.
“It’s not like the Dson I used to know. You have made many changes,” Tungdil said to Utsintas. “The houses look lonely and isolated there in the crater.”
“It’s a beginning,” said the alf. “There will be more of when we’ve got rid of all the fifthlings.”
“But then you’d still have the kordrion sitting in the Gray Mountains. It eats everything it finds,” Tungdil pointed out.
“We won’t have a problem there. We’ll let it deal with those troublesome rock-diggers first. That saves us the bother.” Utsintas pointed to the marble building. “That’s the Dson Aklans’ palace.”
“In the old city the mountain was taller, and the crater has changed as well. Why is that?”
“You’ll have to ask the Dson Aklan. He will decide if it is any of your business to be told.” The alf turned the firebull to take the broad path downhill.
Ireheart noted that it grew darker all the time as they made their way down, hairpin bend by hairpin bend. The somber gloom that the city exuded infiltrated his very soul.
The blackness of the crater floor came from a surface layer of tiny stones. He assumed they had removed part of the top of the mountain and ground up the resulting rock. That would have obviated the need to transport the residue up the difficult winding paths of the crater sides.
They continued straight on toward the mountain and its palace.
Ireheart was burning to ask his friend how the Zhadar were going to be able to deposit and hide the kordrion cocoon. They were all being carefully watched. The dark mood was robbing him of courage and any sense of optimism.
As he raised his head, the sky seemed so very far away. Vraccas, you know I don’t mind being under the earth, but this is different. I feel so ill at ease here. I want to be back in the sun, he prayed.
They rode past more artworks dedicated to the honor of Tion and the Unslayables and to the memory of those who had lived in the city before the Star of Judgment fell and destroyed it.
As if obeying a soundless command, Utsintas and his men bowed their heads. “Show respect,” the alf told Tungdil and the dwarves. “Bow your heads.”
“To dead alfar?” Tungdil nearly laughed.
“To their spirits,” replied Utsintas quietly. “They remain here to guard the Moon Pond against the elves. When the Dson Aklan returned, the spirits appeared to them and demanded everything you see here as payment for their protection.”
To Ireheart’s surprise the Scholar did indeed bow his head, so the rest of the band felt duty-bound to follow suit, pretending to offer respect. “I remember I felt I was never alone when I came into the old city of Dson, to burn it down,” Tungdil said to the alf. “I thought what I could hear was the sound of the wind.”