“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.”