Again, Elyon had no response.
“Not very talkative are you? Aye, that’s like Jonik too. Dour lad, he was, hardly ever smiled.” He looked suddenly up at Mallister Monsort. “How’s the princess?”
The Emerald Guard stuttered to answer. “She’s…well.”
“Well into her latest drink, aye. You send her my regards, will you?”
“I…yes, of course.”
Elyon stepped forward. “How did you know we were coming?”
“You knocked,” Fhanrir said.
Elyon was stumped. “We never…”
“You knocked,” Fhanrir repeated. “Call it a magical knocking, and not something you’d ever understand. You don’t think Ilith would build a door like this without a knocker, do you? Every door needs a knocker and locks to fasten it. We got both, and I heard you coming. So here I am to greet you.”
Elyon made himself bow. “And we are grateful for that, my lord.”
Fhanrir only hissed and turned, bones clacking as he shambled away. Elyon and Mallister shared a look. Mallister shrugged, and then Fhanrir rasped, “Follow,” and they did.
They were led through the refuge, and it was everything Elyon had heard: huge, cavernous, empty, cold. The statues were magnificent, and there was an unmistakable grandeur here, to be sure, but Elyon understood why Amilia misliked it. Shafts of light filtered down from high windows cut into the roof of the mountain, but there were many shadowed corners here that could do with a spot of torchlight. This place needs a woman’s touch, Elyon thought. And the sound of laughing children.
“You should have brought the blade,” Fhanrir said, into the silence.
Elyon let a moment pass as he puzzled out how to answer. The creature was so extraordinarily snide, that he thought he might as well fight fire with fire. “I forgot,” he said.
That got a chuckle from the creature. “How’s your shoulder, boy? Healing, I hope?”
“I’m on the mend,” Elyon declared, unsure how he knew about his injured shoulder. Perhaps Mallister had mentioned it before he came through? Or maybe he saw the way I was holding my arm? They continued into another high chamber, much the same as the last, with a soaring ceiling and wide high walls and space enough to fit a thousand men, women, and children if required. “How many chambers are there here?” Elyon asked.
“Hundreds,” Fhanarir said.
“Are they all as empty as this?” asked Mallister.
“Empty as your head, aye.” Fhanrir shuffled on.
He took them deeper into the refuge, mocking and scorning them as they went. After a while, Elyon began to hear the ringing of a hammer, echoing out through the corridors and halls. A smile twitched on his lips, and there was a swell of nerves in his chest. He looked at Mallister and mouthed, ‘the Hammer of Tukor,’ and the Emerald Guard nodded back at him, breathing excitedly.
The glow of orange light heralded their arrival at the forge. The thumping of the hammer had grown loud by then, loud enough to rattle his bones and stir dust from the ceiling of the corridor. It was a godly sound, like Eldur’s voice had been. Fhanrir raised a hand to halt them before they entered, fleshless white fingers poking from his sleeve.
“He’s been working night and day. Never stops. Never. I don’t want you lingering here long, do you hear? In and out. And make it quick.” He glared up at them through a pair of small black eyes, glowing in the shadows of his hood, then snorted and moved inside to announce them. “Found these two at the door,” he said.
Ilith was at his anvil, hammering out a brand new godsteel blade, a greatsword by the size of it, much the same size as Vallath’s Ruin. The demigod wore a leather vest, brown breeches tied up at the knee, the simple garb of a blacksmith. Elyon had to stop and take pause. That yellow hair, all sweat-stained and curly. The lean face and sharp green eyes. Sweat ran down his sinewy arms, glistening in the grooves of the muscles. He looks just like the statues, the prince thought. And the frescoes on the walls of the Steelforge. He had to remind himself that this was in fact Tyrith, not Ilith, at least in body, but by the gods he looked just like him. He stepped forward, opening his mouth to speak…
…but Mallister Monsort surged right past him, collapsing down to his knees. “My lord! My lord I am here to serve you!” he sang out, in a voice of sudden fervour. Elyon was taken aback. “Anything. I will do anything in your name, great Ilith. I will defend you, fight for you, protect you with my life. I…”
Fhanrir snorted and shuffled in to kick the Emerald Guard in the ribs. “Get up, you fool. We don’t need that sort of genuflecting around here. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
Ilith only smiled down at the man. “You may rise, Sir Mallister. And ignore my good friend Fhanrir. He has something of a curt tongue, you may have noticed.”
Mallister’s blue eyes were bright with wonder. “You…you know my name, my lord?” He stayed on his knees.
“I do. Who else could you be but Mallister of House Monsort?” Ilith smiled again, and bid him rise, then looked over at the Prince of Vandar. “And you must be Elyon Daecar. A famous name of this age, I know. It is said that your family share a strong resemblance to Varin. Now that I see you, I can say that it is true.”
His smile was like an old friend, familiar and comforting, and a shine of radiance seemed to fill the air around him. And that voice…The histories all said that Ilith had a silvery tongue, and so the case seemed to be. But then, it was Tyrith’s voice, in truth, just as this body was Tyrith’s as well. Elyon blinked, trying to puzzle that out. “Forgive me, my lord, but you…you look just like the art I have seen. The paintings and sculptures and tapestries. I wonder…”
“You wonder if the physical form of Tyrith is changing to reflect Ilith,” the demigod said. “Or perhaps you wonder if this is some glamour? Some cloak of illusion I wear?”
Elyon was indeed wondering all of those things.
“Well, in actual fact neither is true. This is Tyrith’s body, Tyrith’s voice. The likeness is very good, that is the simple truth.” He placed the Hammer of Tukor aside with a resounding clunk. It was smaller than Elyon would have supposed. More plain. Ilith saw him staring at it. “The painters and sculptors were more inclined to exaggerate the Hammer’s size,” he said. “But Tukor was never showy. He wrought his Hammer to be a simple thing, from which wonders were born. But never a wonder itself.”
Fhanrir gave a snort. “Speaking of wonder, stop with your gaping, Monsort. You’re like to make him uncomfortable, staring like that.”
“No, it really is quite all right,” Ilith told the mage. “Sir Mallister is just finding his bearings, isn’t that so?”
“I…my bearings. Y-yes, my lord.”
Ilith smiled at him. True enough, Mallister seemed rather overwhelmed by the whole experience, and more so than Elyon. Well, small wonder there. Elyon had faced Eldur atop the back of Drulgar the Dread and bore in his grasp a Blade of Vandar. He had grown quite used to these godly interactions.
“So, why is it that you’re here?” Ilith asked. “Do you have something particular you wish to discuss with me?”
Why are we here? Curiosity, Elyon thought. That was a part of it, at the least. When you hear that there’s a magic portal door and a demigod beyond it, it does rather tickle your interest. “We wanted to see the refuge, my lord,” he thought better to say. “There are many frightened people in your city, and your kingdom, and across the north as well. We came to check whether you’re ready to receive them. And how many you might host.”
“Ah, now there is the crux of it. How many? Well, as you can see we do not lack for space. Did Fhanrir give you the tour?” He laughed and waved that away. “Of course he didn’t. Fhanrir brought you straight here, I know. He is something of a curmudgeon and is not one to suffer…”
“Fools,” Fhanrir came in. “I’m not one to suffer fools, Ilith.”
