The Blue Range was no longer merely a dark line on the horizon with an almost invisible promise of lofty peaks, but a discernible chain of mountains rising from the desert, like a life-saving island in the middle of an ocean.
“What do you say, Scholar? Eighty miles to the fortress?” Ireheart felt his chain-mail shirt was a little looser now. They had all lost weight; their food had been scant and the journey strenuous.
“About that. But we’re not heading for Ogre’s Death.” He called Franek over. “You were saying we should go a different way?”
The famulus nodded. “Bumina always took a certain path when she wanted to leave the tunnels and escape from Lot-Ionan’s surveillance in order to conduct her experiments in the desert.”
Ireheart made a face. “Oh, that would be the same Bumina that set all those traps for us in the desert trading station because she knew you’d be coming back?”
“She didn’t realize I knew her secret,” Franek replied. “It’s not dangerous.”
“In this land there’s absolutely nothing that’s not dangerous,” said Ireheart crossly, kicking at the sand. “Even the grains of sand are waiting to kill you.”
“But times are coming soon when everything will be peaceful again.” Tungdil set off, letting the famulus lead the way.
Their little group was sadly reduced in strength, meaning their confidence had also dwindled, or so it seemed to Ireheart. The only one who clung steadfastly to his belief in the success of their mission was the one who at first had refused to join them, and who could not be fully trusted: Tungdil Goldhand.
Of the three Zhadar who had survived, now only two remained: Ireheart had named them Troublemaker, Gasper and Growler. Gasper, however, had been found dead at the fireside one morning, an empty Zhadar drinking flask clutched in his hands.
Tungdil had assumed the Invisible had died of thirst, but Ireheart knew better. Unfortunately. He expected the same fate awaited him, but so far the deadly thirst had been staved off. For now.
“What a bunch of heroes,” he muttered. The totally exhausted maga had, by now, to be half carried; they would have to drag her to the magic source. Let’s hope we don’t run into that Bumina. Or friend Vot.
They continued marching, sweeping southwards at nightfall, and hugging the foothills on all subsequent orbits. At last they saw the Ogre’s Death fortress not ten miles away.
And saw it was already under siege!
Aiphaton had led his troops south in a forced march. Ireheart and Tungdil observed the army camp carefully. It had been pitched at a considerable distance from the fortress and they could see that some of the alfar had set up tents on the slopes to the left and right of the fortress walls.
“They’ve got no siege towers with them,” noted Ireheart in surprise. “Do they reckon Lot-Ionan is just going to open the front door?”
“Aiphaton has defeated the magus once before. So Lot-Ionan won’t want open combat. He’ll send the alfar into the tunnels to attack the emperor,” Tungdil guessed. “Lot-Ionan’s famuli will have to play gatekeeper while he waits to see what happens.”
“How many black-eyes do you think there are?” Balyndar was fastening the string on a sack where he was keeping Keenfire. The ax kept glowing all day long and seemed very disconcerted by the presence of the Zhadar. He had concealed it in the sack so that, to the ax in the darkness, they would not be so conspicuous.
“Difficult to say. But I’d reckon at least fifty thousand.” Ireheart handed him the telescope. “They won’t wait long before they attack for, in the desert, they’d soon run out of water and provisions with an army that size.”
“One up to Lot-Ionan, then,” said Mallenia. “He can sit back and wait for them. And for Aiphaton it’s even better. If he really wants to get rid of all the southern alfar all he has to do is poison their food.”
“You’re a dangerous ally, Princess.”
“I fought for the resistance. We weren’t choosy about how we killed our enemies,” she replied.
Franek showed Tungdil roughly where the path was. “We should get there today. After a few hundred paces it opens up into a cavern. We can rest there and won’t be seen.”
They moved on in single file, so as not to leave incriminating tracks. The alfar would be bound to have their spies and scouts roaming around.
Slin was humming his favorite dwarf-tune. He had learned it from Ireheart a long while ago. “It’ll be the luck of Tion if we don’t succeed,” he said suddenly to Balyndar with utter conviction. “We’ve got heroes, we’ve got weapons and we’ve got Vraccas on our side. We can’t fail.”
Ireheart suspected the fourthling was only saying this to drum up the necessary courage for himself and the rest. Lesser warriors would have turned tail after the losses their group had sustained. “Of course,” he chimed in, “but let’s keep quiet now. The pointy-ears have good hearing and they’re downwind from us.”
Without further discussion they ventured out into the stony landscape and found the path by moonlight, with Franek guiding them. After a short march he took them through a passage and indicated where they would be spending the night. The cave was practically round, measuring seven paces in diameter, and the roof was just high enough to allow the famulus to stand upright.
“Charming! It’s as if it has been designed especially for us,” said Slin, as he touched the cave walls. “It’s nice and warm in here.”
They settled down for the night and lit themselves two torches.
Tungdil set up a guard duty rota to be shared out between the Zhadar, himself and Ireheart. The exhausted humans were to get some rest to restore themselves for the journey on the morrow. Franek and Tungdil studied the map and discussed their route: A straight line toward the Blue Mountains.
Ireheart came over and looked at the map. “That road is new,” he said. “It must have been laid out after I left for the Outer Lands to help with the construction of Evildam.” He pointed to the tunnel-system entrance. “Our folk would never have allowed such a vulnerable point in the defenses. You can tell straight off that the long-uns have no instinct for this sort of thing.”
“It wasn’t Bumina who built the road,” said Franek. “Lot-Ionan would have noticed if quarrying had been going on.”
“Then it must have been Aiphaton that time he defeated the magus,” said Ireheart, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the possibility of any dwarf-input in constructing this new road. “I say again: The secondlings would never have built a road that leads, if not directly to the heart, to the very body of the realm! Never!” He folded his arms and his eyebrows seemed to be glued to the bridge of his nose.
“I couldn’t care less,” said Tungdil. “The path is there and we’ll use it. Tomorrow.”
He sent the Zhadar out to stand guard. His next glance was toward the humans in their company. They were huddled up by the cave wall, Rodario in the middle, Coira on his left and Mallenia on his right. “We have Keenfire,” he said softly. “If we had known earlier what luck we would have, there would have been no need to endanger the queen like we have. Balyndar has it. You couldn’t ask for a better weapon with which to confront Lot-Ionan.”
“But the wrong dwarf is wielding it,” Ireheart blurted out.
“I’ve told you why.” The one-eyed dwarf rose to his feet. “And I’m sticking to that. Keenfire is in safe hands.” He went over to the opposite wall, sat on his blanket and closed his eyelid. This was his way of showing he wanted to be alone.
It won’t end well. You should be using Keenfire, not that alfar implement you’ve got now. Ireheart ran his hands over his chain-mail shirt and returned to Slin and Balyndar.
“Now the Zhadar have gone I can have a look at it without us all getting dazzled,” said the fifthling, removing the cover from the ax head.
But the inlaid markings were still shining.
The three of them all looked at the sleeping figure of Tungdil.