Alysante knew what she was facing.
Black-haired twin alfar sat on the backs of the nightmares, each in elaborate dark armor, and one of them held a mighty sword in his right hand. He brought the weapon down so fast that she missed its movement. The long sword’s tip was planted on her back. Moisture ran off the blade onto her wet bodice; now she was cold with fear.
“Say who you are, elf-woman,” he demanded roughly. Trembling, she said her name. “Is your village far from here?” Now she stayed silent and promptly the blade dug into her ribs. Warm blood trickled out of the narrow wound, coloring her dress red. “Answer!”
Alysante turned away from the sword and ran off toward the trees. She must warn her friends!
Sobbing with desperation and fear she raced through the thicket. Her thoughts were in turmoil. In her mind’s eye she saw her dead lover and felt his lifeblood still sticky on her fingers. She couldn’t understand where the alfar had come from. Had they been asleep at the bottom of the Moon Pond? Had Tion hurled them in past the mountains of the dwarves?
She was panting hard, her mind in a whirl-then she realized she was leading them directly to the very last of her people!
Alysante climbed up the nearest tree to continue her flight overhead from branch to branch, leaving no prints to follow.
At long last, fighting for breath and with aching arms, she reached the edge of the settlement. She saw the glow of lanterns illuminating the delicate houses and ancient Palandiell beech trees. They promised safety.
She climbed down the tree in relief and was about to go over to the buildings when a strong hand grabbed her from behind, hurling her to the ground. A boot was placed on the nape of her neck, pressing her into the forest floor without mercy.
“You were asked by Tirigon whether your village was far from the pond,” whispered a female voice in her ear. “I shall take him your answer, elf-woman.” A knife scraped coming out of its scabbard. “Now I shall send you to your lover. Be sure the rest of your relatives will be joining you this very night.”
Alysante tried to utter a final warning cry, but the double blade rushed down and took her to the land where Fanaril sat waiting, tear-drenched in his despair.
There was total stillness in the kitchen.
Ireheart was amazed how good a storyteller Lombrecht had been, given his lack of teeth.
“And that,” Lombrecht summed up,” is how the alfar came back into Girdlegard.
“Didn’t Emperor Aiphaton bring them in from the south?” Slin asked, indicating to the other two dwarves that he was sounding these simple humans out as to the extent of their knowledge. Ireheart was letting the implications of the story sink in. Barskalin had hinted that the alfar had entered from the north. Lombrecht had told the story of their return. A kernel of truth, then.
Lombrecht replied, “It’s said they came out of the south. But I know this story and I like it. Aiphaton will have made up the other story to make himself more glorious. We all know the magus cannot be beaten.”
“Does your tale have an explanation for how the black-eyes got out of the water so easily, as if they could breathe underwater like the fishes?” The mere thought of a black pond made him extremely uneasy.
“My grandfather used to tell me there was an underground river that rose in a grotto in the Outer Lands and emerged into the Moon Pond. It brought evil with it and made people frightened if they found the water and wanted to bathe. That must be why it’s got the bad aura and why there are so many legends about it.” Lombrecht used his spoon to scratch a sketch map on the table. “The alfar will have followed the course of the underground river, underneath the Gray Mountains and the fifthlings, and then they got out of the water. Later on they rebuilt Dson Bhara and called themselves Dson Aklan.”
Ireheart pushed away his empty plate. “But Girdlegard must be overflowing with alfar if that’s the case. That route must still be open.”
“No, the tunnel collapsed. That’s what we think, because the Moon Pond dried up completely. It’s just a rocky hollow now where nothing grows. It’s where the alfar put their town. But there’s no tunnel, it’s said,” said Rilde, relief in her voice.
“We still have too many of them anyway,” said Lombrecht, getting Xara to bring him a jug of beer, which he emptied at one draft. A loud belch ensued.
Slin applauded. “Well done, old man. Nice quality. Now I know how he lost his teeth,” he chuckled to Ireheart. “We could make him an honorary dwarf, don’t you think?”
Balyndar shook his head. “We should get to bed. We don’t know what we’ll have to do tomorrow.” He got up.
Rilde stood up. “Of course. You can sleep in the barn. Or in the cowshed loft. It’ll be warmer there.”
“The loft for me,” said the fifthling at once. “I’d rather smell of cows and be warm.”
They went to their quarters and Grolf and Lirf brought them a stack of old horse blankets to keep out the cold.
The warmth and smell of cattle came up through the floorboards and Ireheart soon started to doze off, exhausted.
His last thought was that they had forgotten to inform Hargorin where they were staying. That meant they would have to rise early and knock at the door of the fortress. He did not want Rilde or her family to know. They should not connect the honest dwarves of Girdlegard with either the Black Squadron or the Zhadar.
Ireheart, Slin and Balyndar managed to pack their things and leave the farm without being observed.
They walked along at the edge of the settlement and approached the second gate of the fortress, where they knocked. Even though the guard recognized them at once and, in Hargorin Deathbringer’s name, invited them in, they refused to enter the courtyard. The sentry sent someone to tell the thirdling leader.
It was not long before he reappeared. Behind him came three servants carrying a bench and a table laid with a meal for them.
“You can eat outside if you prefer,” they were told. “But be quick. The troop is about to head for Dson Bhara.”
The three dwarves looked at one another and started to eat in silence outside the gates of the fortress. This conflicted with Ireheart’s plan to keep their presence secret. The sun was not yet fully risen, but word would soon get around.
“We should have used false names,” said Balyndar, sipping his hot tea. “Now they’ll think we’re with the dishonorable ones.”
“That won’t go down well in songs about us,” sighed Slin, nodding toward the courtyard where the servants were bringing out stands bearing black armor. “Those’ll be for us.”
“Well, I’m not going to put that stuff on in full view.” Ireheart desperately looked around for somewhere to withdraw to. There was no way though that he would step inside Vraccas-Spite.
They used their cloaks as curtains to help each other robe up and put on armor and weapons.
Ireheart thought Balyndar looked more and more like his father now. It was obvious whose son he really was.
Slin, on the other hand, did not look right in his borrowed get-up. Several of the pieces were too loose for the cross-bowman. He fiddled with his armor unhappily and the metal squeaked. “You two at least have the air of warriors,” he said to Ireheart and Balyndar.
“You look a bit like a gnome in disguise,” teased Boindil.
The Black Squadron were assembling in the courtyard, with Tungdil, Hargorin and Barskalin in cavalry armor riding in front. It was an impressive and worrying picture. Stable hands hurried over with ponies for the three dwarves waiting outside.
“Good morning,” Tungdil greeted them. “We missed you.”
“Was there a reason you didn’t let us know where you spent the night?” Hargorin’s query sounded harmless but Ireheart thought he was suspicious.