The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,129

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, Dsôn Aklán.” The älf hurried out.

Tirîgon gave a sigh of satisfaction. Aiphatòn, most of his retinue and Tungdil with the treacherous Zhadár 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 älfar,” 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 Aiphatòn 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,

Phôseon Dwhamant (Formerly the Elf Realm of landur),

Phôseon,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

“We could have killed the messenger and ridden off to the Red Mountains,” murmured Slîn. “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 älfar?” 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 Dsôn. The fourthling would find reasons for not going to visit Aiphatòn, 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 älfar 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 älfar realm to another. And he knew nothing about these southern älfar at all. He had no idea what Aiphatòn 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 Tirîgon had given.

They rode through Phôseon Dwhamant, known as landur until usurped by the älf regime. And who could possibly have opposed them?

The älfar 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 älf realms to the other,” said Slîn. “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 Slîn.

“A city,” replied Balyndar. “An artificial mountain with an artificial town.”

“That’s Phôseon,” said Ùtsintas, who