“Yes, Dson Aklan.” The alf hurried out.
Tirigon gave a sigh of satisfaction. Aiphaton, most of his retinue and Tungdil with the treacherous Zhadar 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 alfar,” 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 Aiphaton 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,
Phoseon Dwhamant (Formerly the Elf Realm of Alandur),
Phoseon,
Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles
“We could have killed the messenger and ridden off to the Red Mountains,” murmured Slin. “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 alfar?” 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 Dson. The fourthling would find reasons for not going to visit Aiphaton, 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 alfar 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 alfar realm to another. And he knew nothing about these southern alfar at all. He had no idea what Aiphaton 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 Tirigon had given.
They rode through Phoseon Dwhamant, known as Alandur until usurped by the alf regime. And who could possibly have opposed them?
The alfar 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 alf realms to the other,” said Slin. “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 Slin.
“A city,” replied Balyndar. “An artificial mountain with an artificial town.”
“That’s Phoseon,” said Utsintas, who was riding up at the front with Tungdil. “There are about ten thousand living here. The southern alfar like this kind of community.”
Tungdil looked at the block. “What’s it like inside?”
“Difficult to describe. I only know it from people’s reports because I’ve never been allowed in.” There was no regret in the alf’s voice. “There will be vertical ravines, long shafts and hanging gardens reached by bridges. Apparently they sway in the wind that blows through the artificial canyons.”
“It sounds a little like a dwarf realm,” Slin remarked quietly to Ireheart.
“Is your brain tangled round your own bowstrings?” he retorted. “There’s absolutely nothing dwarflike about all that!”
“Hanging gardens?” asked the warrior in surprise. “Our vegetables grow in the earth and that’s just the way it should be.”
They were still a mile away from the city when the gates opened and mounted troops poured out.
The messenger exchanged a few swift words with Utsintas and rode off toward the alfar. They met up halfway and entered into a discussion; then the messenger gave a hand signal.
Utsintas turned to Tungdil. “You should ride on alone now. My mission ends here.” He gave his escort a command and turned the firebull around. The alfar thundered off back to Dson Bhara.
Tungdil scanned the facade. “Looks like it’s going to be an interesting visit that we’ll be paying the emperor,” he told Ireheart, then ordered: “We’ll ride in as a group. No use of weapons-neither by the Zhadar nor by the Desirers. Here, we are the guests of the Emperor Aiphaton and shall behave accordingly.” He spurred his pony on and the company followed him.
Ireheart tried to look for distinguishing characteristics in the Phoseon alfar on their night-mares. I should have known. They look like all the others.
They had the familiar black tionium armor, although the runes were a little different this time. But he was no scholar, so he might have been mistaken.
The messenger was talking to Tungdil. “We may enter. The emperor is expecting us, I’m told,” the Scholar said, interpreting for the dwarves. “Remember my orders.” Then he cantered off after the alfar.
Ireheart could not deny that this building, city, fortress, or whatever the block was supposed to be, was absolutely fascinating. Not that he would have wanted to live in it, of course, but he was curious. His native dwarf blood made him eager to see more. Secondlings were expert masons and thus his spirit of enquiry was understandable. As the walls had been plastered he could not see what the building material had been, and he wondered how they had been able to make the foundations stable enough to carry the weight of the edifice.
The archway was seven paces high and only five wide. Ireheart noted the sharp ends of the metal grille suspended above their heads as they went through; this portcullis could be lowered at will for defense.
“They seem to set less store on pomp and decoration,” Slin whispered. “It is… sober and unadorned. Apart from the chiseled reliefs in the walls.”
“They’ve been marked into the plasterwork,” he said. “But have a look at the great variety of patterns. You’d need a steady hand for that work.”
Arriving in a generous interior courtyard they surveyed the high galleries, windows and stonework. Inquisitive alfar were looking down at them or were talking to each other, or eating; the various levels were connected either by external stairways or lifts on cables. Way above their heads the clouds raced past.
“Well, when all’s said and done, I must admit the black-eyes have put up something really impressive.” Ireheart patted his pony’s neck. When he looked around he saw the metal grilles lowering one after the other as the main gate was shut. “I’ve never seen the like.”