“They’re not so keen on nature-unless they can control it, like in their gardens,” Slin suggested. “Have you noticed? They’ve turned the entire elf realm into a desert. Nothing but flat, bare earth.”
“You can see your enemies all the sooner, you’re not leaving them any material to attack you with in a siege and you’re not giving them anywhere to hide from your spears and arrows,” said Balyndar. “It all makes sense… it looks as if they live well here.”
“The emperor awaits Tungdil Goldhand in the audience chamber,” said the messenger. “Only five guards may accompany you. The rest must remain in the courtyard.”
Tungdil chose Slin, Ireheart, Balyndar and two Zhadar. “Whatever happens, you are not to kill a single alf,” he warned Hargorin and Barskalin.
A different alf led them this time and the messenger stayed to supervise the dwarves. They were transported to an upper storey in a lift that was operated by means of a lever.
Kordrion dung! But it’s a bit like our own constructions, thought Ireheart.
At the end of the ascent they stepped out into a hallway of columns that were maybe ten paces high. The walls were painted in matt white and decorated with black shapes reminiscent of silhouette figures, depicting battles, cityscapes or erotic scenes.
However much Ireheart looked around him as they approached the throne he noted none of the morbid aesthetic that held sway among the northern alfar.
Aiphaton was seated on the throne.
He hasn’t grown any older! Ireheart recognized the child of the Unslayables at once. His appearance was unique: Chest, abdomen, lower body, shoulders and upper arms were all covered in armor directly fused to his shimmering white flesh. The head was shaved, emphasizing the shape of the long, sharp ears; his hands lay in heavy gauntlets. He had draped his lower body in a kind of wraparound skirt revealing his naked toes beneath the hem. In his right hand Aiphaton gripped a spear with a slender blade sporting greenish glowing runes.
“Tungdil Goldhand is high king of the dwarf-tribes,” Aiphaton called across the hall, staring at them. At least, Ireheart suspected he was staring at them; you could not see what he was looking at because the black eye sockets were unfathomable. “So both of us have risen to supreme power over our two peoples.” He waited until the dwarves were standing before him, then bowed his head. “Welcome to Phoseon.”
“My thanks, emperor.” Tungdil sketched a bow.
“I often think of our talk onboard ship. I told you why I had chosen my name.”
“The life-star of the elves, you said,” Tungdil responded. “It has disappeared now from the night sky.”
“Yes. On their return the Dson Aklan were extremely thorough.”
“That does not surprise me.” The one-eyed dwarf met the emperor’s gaze steadily. “But when I heard what path you took, I was surprised indeed. You had intended to join the elves. Then, on the ship, you told me that you had no wish to be an alf like your parents.” He raised his hands, indicating the walls. “Now I find you here within these walls, emperor of the alfar and ruler over a mighty realm!”
“And you advised me to hide away from humans, dwarves and elves. Because none would be able to look on me without fear or hatred.” Aiphaton smiled. “And then you said I should avoid Girdlegard. Your exact words were: Look for your own kind.” He ran his left hand over the metal plates. “I thought about it for a long time but did not know where I would find anything like myself. But I followed your words of advice and left Girdlegard for the south. I hoped that I would meet other alfar whose nature was more similar to that of the elves. I was a creature with no home and who had only enemies in this world.” His voice grew lower and lower.
Ireheart was astonished. So it was the Scholar’s advice that sent Aiphaton back to the alfar!
“When you said goodbye you told me you would find a place for yourself.” Tungdil tilted his head. “Was this what you planned? Conquering Girdlegard by force?”
To Ireheart’s eyes Aiphaton appeared tired. Tired and depressed, as if a great burden rested on his soul. It was impossible to gauge his state of mind from his dark eye sockets, but the lines on his countenance betrayed him. It was the way the Scholar had looked on his return from the Black Abyss.
“What brings you to me, Tungdil Goldhand?” he asked, a jolt running through his body. He sat upright and proud upon his throne. There was no trace now of low spirits. “What could the high king of the children of the Smith have to propose to me? Do you come with threats, or requests, or to suggest an alliance?”
Tungdil frowned, puzzled. “We came to Phoseon at your invitation.”
Aiphaton shook his head. “No. I’ve only just heard that you had returned to Girdlegard. They told me you wanted to negotiate with me.” “Your messenger brought us here,” insisted Tungdil.
Aiphaton’s face again showed surprise. “As I did not send a messenger, let us ask him to whom I owe the pleasure of your visit.” He called the guard over and gave instructions. “Where did you meet the alf?”
“He came to Dson Bhara, when we were being received by the Dson Aklan. I’d thought we would find you there.” Tungdil answered with a half-truth.
“Charming,” murmured Slin. “Absolutely charming! We’ve been tricked.”
“Blast that Tirigon!” Ireheart exploded.
A loud melodious ringing was heard. It was repeated quickly.
“Alarm?” Boindil looked to the right and left at the alfar guards. “Get ready,” he gave the cue. “If the black-eye moves, mow it down!”
Aiphaton rose from his throne and looked at the window. “We are being attacked,” he stated, incredulous. He looked at Tungdil enquiringly. “Someone has been foolish enough to attack us now, after one hundred and eighty cycles!”
“It’s nothing to do with me,” Tungdil said calmly. “Probably…”
Then they heard a bloodcurdling scream and a great shadow filled the window.
Ireheart swallowed hard and instinctively wiped his hands over his armor as if to remove the traces of the smell of the kordrion’s young. The kordrion has followed me instead of the cocoon!
XVI
Girdlegard,
Phoseon Dwhamant (Formerly Elf Realm of Alandur)
Phoseon,
Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles
The kordrion’s earth-shattering cry resounded for a second time, but by now Ireheart and the others had inserted their wax earplugs, muffling the monster’s terrible roar so that it could no longer root them to the spot.
Tungdil drew Bloodthirster. “We are all victims of Tirigon’s treachery, Aiphaton. He’s the only one who can have put the kordrion on our trail. When we’re finished here we can both ask him what the blazes he meant by it,” he barked. “My men and I will fight to defend you, to show that the guilt is not ours.”
That’s another clever move from the Scholar, thought Ireheart.
The emperor had grabbed hold of his spear and was aiming it at Tungdil. “I can see from your armor that you must have been very close to the alfar in recent cycles. Perhaps closer than you wanted to be,” he replied. “What proof do I have that you are not working with Tirigon in this? You could be wanting to take advantage of the confusion in order to kill me.” Aiphaton was keeping his eyes firmly trained on all the dwarves-or at least, that is how it seemed. You can’t really tell, of course. Ireheart certainly felt he was being watched.
“Remember how we talked onboard ship. Isn’t that evidence enough that my intentions are honorable?”