“The Dson Aklan and northern alfar won’t follow you,” Tungdil pointed out.
“That is why I shall return alone from the Blue Mountains and destroy Dson Bhara with my own hands. There are only a few hundred alfar who gained entry to Girdlegard through the secret passageway under the Moon Pond. I shall deal with them on my own.” As if to prove his intentions the runes on his armor started to glow. “Your arrival and plan, Tungdil, have strengthened my resolve. Once the Dragon is dead, nothing stands in the way of Girdlegard’s liberation.” He closed his eyes and a red tear emerged from under the lid and made its way down his cheek. “I never wanted to be like the Unslayables. My words shall at last be matched by my deeds.”
Ireheart tried to catch Tungdil’s attention. The Scholar returned his gaze. “It could not have worked out better,” was the silent message.
“Would you be prepared to support us against the enemies from the Black Abyss?” Tungdil asked. “A warrior such as yourself…”
Aiphaton shook his bald head. “When I have wiped out my own race, my debt of guilt to Girdlegard will have been settled. I led the alfar into Girdlegard and I shall free the humans from that yoke again. Without the oppression they have suffered the humans will be prepared to follow you in battle to the Outer Lands to defend their new-won freedom.” He opened his eyes again. “I suggest that I announce to the alfar that we have signed a peace treaty with all the dwarf-tribes, and not only with the thirdlings. You must swear to me that nothing of what I have said will get out.”
“Of course, for our own sakes,” promised Ireheart, speaking for them all. “If the black-eyes got wind of your plan and opted to stay here instead of going to fight the magus, we’d have a much tougher task to get rid of them.” He grinned and gave thanks to Vraccas. This was all turning out so much better than he could have assumed when the journey started.
Balyndar stared at Aiphaton. “What about you? When all the alfar are dead, what will you do?”
He drew a deep breath. “I shall go away. To the east, to see what I shall find. I swear that I shall never return to Girdlegard-unless, of course, I am invited.” He smiled at Tungdil. “For whatever reasons. And with the help of your gods and mine,” he raised his goblet in a toast, “the last remaining northern alfar and I shall die together.”
Tungdil bowed to him. “My respect for your courage, Aiphaton. I see that I was not mistaken in you.” He stood up. “With your permission we shall now withdraw. On the morrow we shall head for the Red Mountains to test the waters with the Dragon. For him and his orcs we shall lay a trail he can’t ignore.”
“By the time he arrives I should be in the Blue Mountains with the army. Lot-Ionan and his famuli won’t find my troops easy to contend with, but they will be victorious. Then the Dragon and the orcs will arrive just in time to take on the magi.” Aiphaton also got to his feet. “But have a care that Lohasbrand does not turn Lot-Ionan into a glowing torch. The Scaly One is very powerful. He managed to subjugate Queen Wey the Eleventh, a mighty ruler with the reputation of being a great maga. If Lot-Ionan is killed you will be faced with the problem of cleansing the Black Abyss on your own.”
Tungdil’s eye narrowed. “Is she still alive?”
“Queen Wey? Yes. As far as I know. And she has a daughter said to be good at magic.” The alf had understood the reason behind the question. “They would make excellent allies once the Dragon has been vanquished. If Lot-Ionan were to die she would be my first choice to aid us against the monsters in the Outer Lands.” He shook hands with the dwarves once more. “May Vraccas be with you. If fate wills it we shall meet again.” Aiphaton left the throne room.
Onwards and upwards! Vraccas, we shall do heroic deeds! Ireheart helped himself to water, drank and belched, patting himself on the belly. “Bed now, Scholar? We’ll have an early start in the morning, off to relieve the Dragon of his treasure. And to pay our respects to a lady sorceress, I understand?”
Tungdil laughed. “Off to bed.”
Girdlegard,
Former Queendom of Weyurn,
Lakepride,
Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles
By the large round window in her mother’s study Coira sat staring out at the lake. The white mourning veil on her hair and the black of her high-necked dress made her look older, Rodario thought.
He was sitting next to her, fidgeting with a quill pen. Mallenia was pacing up and down with her hands clasped behind her back. The carpet muffled the sound of her steps but the regular click-clack of her boot heels could still be heard.
The actor laid the feather quill aside and attempted to look the young maga in the eyes, but noted her fresh tears. He had a thin bandage round his neck, chiefly for decoration and as a souvenir of the wound Sisaroth had inflicted on him. The blade had slipped on the antique pendant he wore and this had taken the force of the blow. “Princess, it was not your fault. The alfar set a trap for you,” said Rodario gently. “If you had been a swordswoman something similar could have happened with your weapon. The alfar know how to deceive and trick. You could not have prevented it.”
“That,” she said, with a sob in her voice, “is your fifth attempt to convince me that my mother did not die as a result of my incompetence. But again you fail to get me to change my opinion of events.” She stared at her hands. “These are what I killed her with. These hands and the wretched magic she taught me herself.”
“You were trying to kill the alf…” he began, but she whirled round.
“But who is it lying in the crypt next to my father? The alf?” she cried in despair. “I must never use magic again.”
“But you saved Mallenia’s life with your magic spell,” he protested, trying a different tack. “And who will protect your subjects against the Dragon if he turns up here? Don’t abandon your skills, Princess!”
“Yes, I must,” she whispered, her anger fading now. She looked out at the lake again. “To be doubly sure, I should destroy the source. Before Lot-Ionan or the alfar can use it.”
“You want to demolish the shaft?” Mallenia had stopped pacing and her eyes were flashing. “I know you are grieving. I, too, have lost many relatives but I’m not using that as an excuse to crawl away and hide and bewail my fate.”
Coira did not even look at her. “Go back to Idoslane, Mallenia,” she advised her in a flat voice. “It was when you arrived here that everything started to go wrong in Lakepride. If only I had not listened to this third-rate actor, the alfar would have caught and killed you. Then everything would have been different.”
“It’s a waste of time going over it again and again,” Rodario said, throwing Mallenia a warning glance to discourage her from making a sharp retort. “You are Weyurn’s new queen…”
“It’s Lohasbrand who is the ruler, in case you had forgotten,” she interrupted coldly. “All I am is an incompetent maga sitting on a rock in the middle of a shrinking lake, having extinguished the life of my own mother.”
Rodario sighed. “It was the alf who decapitated her.”
“But it was me who injured her so badly that she could not defend herself. Can’t you understand?”
“Where did the alfar go? Is there any trace?” Mallenia asked. “I’ve missed a lot. It’s taken me a long time to recover.”
“Sisaroth has left the island. At least he won’t be coming back to try to kill us. And where his sister is, only the waters know.” Rodario sounded impatient. He was keen to be raising Coira’s spirits, not making reports for Mallenia. Coira was Girdlegard’s last maga and must not be permitted to cast her powers aside in this way. But she was so grief-ridden that no one could expect her to listen to reason. Since the death of her mother she had not bathed in the magic source and her inner reservoir must be practically exhausted by now after the combat with the alfar and the effort of saving Mallenia.