An uncomfortable prickling sensation grew across the back of his head, a feeling he had grown so unaccustomed to he did not recognise it at first.
Being watched.
He turned, and his eye caught that of an aelf guard. The warrior was clad in bright sunmetal and silver, a surplice of dazzling white flapping in the mountain breeze, and a tall helm with a shining plume. The aelf’s slender form conveyed elegance and grace, but at the same time a tremendous sense of power that even the Maker, perhaps especially the Maker, could not overlook.
A moment passed as the two figures regarded one another across the busy berm. The smile returned to the Maker’s face and grew. The aelf dipped his silver helm. The Maker limped through the crowds to join him at the gate. ‘I almost didn’t recognise you under that getup. We’ve not spoken since that business with your brother and your distant cousins took you from Highheim.’ He looked up at the tall aelf. ‘You’ve changed.’
‘We all have,’ said the aelf, his voice light, but rich. Like a precious metal. ‘I hear that even you have forsaken Mount Celestian.’
‘Forsaken is a stronger word than I’d use. But aye, the white halls were feeling somewhat empty these days.’
The aelf looked over the crowds, his vantage taking in the entire sea of heads and the jagged peaks of the mountainous vista beyond the precipice. His helm swayed lightly, side to side, like a blind man trying to fix something in his mind.
‘Your people will be missed.’
‘Is that praise for my folk I hear?’
The aelf glanced at him sharply. The Maker laughed. ‘Go on, say it. Say it and whatever boon you have come here to ask of me will be yours.’
The aelf looked away. ‘What makes you believe that I wish a boon?’
The laughter faded. The Maker’s expression became stern. ‘Why else does anyone ever seek out the duardin? There were duardin in the mountains of Syarr long before there were aelves, you know. But there was room enough for all, and so the kings of Brynt-a-Bryn welcomed the coming of the Lumineth as partners and friends.’
‘This is our realm,’ said the aelf, but softly. ‘It was not in your power to have denied us.’
The Maker shrugged off the argument. ‘And then along you come and wreck it all.’
‘If this was a disaster that could be averted with a blade alone then I would gladly offer you mine. For aelf and for duardin. The legions of the Prince of Lust cover nine of the Ten Paradises, all except the innerlands of Xintil where the fortress-cities of the God-King still hold. These I can fight, and will, but the realm…’ The silver helm turned back to the Maker. Sightless eyes regarded the duardin levelly. ‘The realm I cannot mend. But you could.’
‘Maybe I could. What became of the supposed skill of the aelves?’
‘My brother might have been capable,’ said the aelf. ‘But he has withdrawn. He blames himself and meditates on the true moon and will do nothing to save his children.’
The Maker shook his head. ‘How many children will that one create and then cast aside?’
‘My brother sees too keenly,’ said the aelf. ‘He perceives every flaw in everything and is incapable of overlooking it once found. He was made to see the wisdom of mercy before and will again, but not before considering every alternative first. I hoped that you would see it sooner. Stay. Present yourself to your people and convince them to remain. If you will mend this realm then I will hold this Paradise.’
The Maker frowned, giving the offer its serious due.
He watched as the old engineer he had aided earlier clambered finally into the front bench of his own cart, a pair of younger apprentices still loading guns and equipment and gold-bound ledgers of lore into the rear. Other duardin, driven and on foot, waved and shouted their thanks. No profession was more respected amongst the duardin, even in its more warlike Aqshian offshoots, than that of the maker. Standing on the front board, the whitebeard turned to the gate and raised a fist in greeting and farewell.
The Maker nodded in return. ‘Best of fortune on your journey,’ he said.
‘Perhaps I will see you again in Azyrheim,’ the duardin called. ‘I’m thinking of founding an engineering school, and I’m sure I’ll have need of a duardin who knows his fut from his odro.’
The Maker waved him off. ‘Away. It’s a long way from here to the Azyr gates of Xintil.’
The Maker watched the steam wagon puff across the bridge, part of a long train of steam and iron snaking its way down the dying scarp.
‘So much will be destroyed,’ said the aelf, watching too. ‘So much that will never see the light of Hysh again.’
‘Aye,’ said the Maker, but beneath his great beard and the depths of his hood he was smiling again. ‘You’re not wrong.’
