by Markus Heitz
The metal globes flew through the air.
The chain wrapped itself around the gnome’s neck as a lethal throttling collar. Two of the heavy iron balls slammed into the ugly face, smashing nose and temple, while the third ball shattered the back of the creature’s head. The impetus of the spiked metal missile threw the gnome off its feet, and it gasped its last in the mud.
Something in a muddled heap of broken beams from the tower caught Sisaroth’s eye: it was a tattered piece of Marandëi’s robe. Please be alive!
Despite his own painful injuries, he set to work hauling heavy stones and timber aside until there was room to retrieve the unconscious älf-woman.
He was relieved she did not seem to have any broken bones. He carried her out of the debris to the edge of the water.
Just cuts and grazes, I think. She’s been lucky. He collected a little water in his hands and knelt down, sprinkling some drops on her face to bring her round.
Marandëi opened her eyes, completely bewildered at her surroundings. ‘So . . . I’m no longer in the tower?’ she stammered through dust-caked lips. She sat up slowly, gingerly touching her head, and turned to take in the scene. ‘We’ve . . . done it!’ She gave a cry of delight, embracing Sisaroth gratefully. ‘But for you, I’d have been a prisoner forever.’
‘True,’ he said, grinning. ‘But if I’m honest, it wouldn’t have happened without you. The escape needed both of us.’ He helped her to her feet and she brushed the dirt from her dress. ‘Look, I’ve saved something else, too.’ He pointed to the glittering necklace in the grimy hand of the gnome who had stolen it from her.
‘That was good of you.’ Marandëi checked herself for injuries. ‘I’ve been extremely lucky. I think the gods of infamy must have been watching over us.’
‘I shall be sure to ask them as soon as I get a chance.’
He went over to the dead gnome and extricated the golden chain for her.
‘You’re going to ask them? What do you mean?’
‘I am a priest for them.’ Sisaroth could see she wasn’t taking him seriously. ‘I admit that I was still very much at the start of my training when I was sent into exile, but I can do a proper ritual.’
Marandëi was impressed. ‘Not bad. I hope you’ll let me come along to see you do one. A close friend was training to be a priest but he nearly killed himself doing his first incantation. The gods of infamy are terribly choosy about who serves them.’
Sisaroth wondered whether he had said too much, but blundered on. ‘The gods have high standards.’ He left it at that and turned away to survey the immediate environment to change the subject. ‘What shall we do now? Where shall we go?’
Marandëi fastened the chain round her neck. ‘By the way, I intend to keep my promise to you,’ she said soberly.
‘Your promise? Oh, I remember!’ He had indeed nearly forgotten the oath she had sworn. ‘You don’t have to do that. You can go wherever you please. I’ll be off to try and find my brother and sister. You are released from any obligation towards me. I’m sure you have plans of your own.’ It was hard for him to show this generosity to another, but he felt it was right. I hope I don’t live to regret this. ‘What would be the point of exchanging physical captivity for an oath that enslaves you?’
But she was resolute. ‘I gave you my word. I think the gods of infamy sent you to me to demonstrate that their power extends to the dark realm of Phondrasôn and that they care for those who do not give up. This means that I shall serve you for five divisions of unendingness.’
‘Your decision.’ He was pleased, though he would not admit it. Generosity is its own reward, it seems. He had not yet seen any example of her cîanai magic abilities. But there’ll be plenty of opportunities. I’m sure Phondrasôn holds monsters enough for her to destroy.
Marandëi pointed to the cave entrance. ‘We should go that way. As long as the cave walls haven’t moved much I should know my way out. Let’s go to my palace. We’ll be safe there.’
‘Just to make sure we understand each other here: I don’t want to dwell there, even if it’s a perfectly lovely palace.’
‘I know. Don’t worry. We won’t stay long.’ She brushed down her tattered dress. ‘I’ve had to wear this same threadbare garment for ages and however fond I used to be of it, I would like to see the end of it now. I really need to pack a bag of clothes.’ She spied something in the rubble. ‘Ah! My trusty staff!’ Marandëi bent down and pulled the tall metal-trimmed stick out from under a pile of stones. She was delighted to find that it was all in one piece. She strode off. ‘Come with me.’
Sisaroth followed her. As they walked, he helped himself to a selection of weaponry dropped by the óarcos, choosing a small shield, a better sword than the one he had been using, and three daggers which he stuck in his belt. If I have to, I can defend myself. ‘Who built your palace for you?’
‘Nobody. I just took it. The owner did not know how to appreciate it.’ Marandëi stepped lightly over the ruins, using her staff to help her along. ‘He hadn’t realised the foundations were in a magic source. Quite handy for me as a cîanai.’
‘Why did you leave it? How did you end up in the tower?’
‘I was bored. I was exploring and I came across the cave; that was all it took.’ She looked back over her shoulder and spat.
‘And you’ve no idea how long you were there?’
‘No. I can only guess.’ Marandëi sighed.
While they were marching through the desolate scene, Sisaroth wondered about the original reason for her banishment.
He was there despite being innocent, he had told her. He had not been able to read her expression and he did not know whether she believed him. She evaded giving explicit details about her own history. ‘By the way, you don’t have to be afraid of repercussions when we get to Dsôn Sòmran. It was only Dsôn Faïmon you were expelled from, after all.’
He and Marandëi were entering the tunnel behind the cave and found walls and floor decorated with the älfar runes that had led Sisaroth to the tower initially. Now the symbols looked lifeless and charred, fractured and harmless.
Marandëi kicked the remains of the runes to one side. ‘The spell will have been broken when the tower collapsed. No älf will ever again be tricked like we were.’ She struck the floor with her staff and the inlaid pattern in the wood glowed softly. This gave them enough light to see by. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
Sisaroth and she walked side by side and he held his sword and shield at the ready. It’s so quiet. All the monsters must have died in the hail of stones.
They walked along in silence, exercising every precaution.
‘You still owe me an answer,’ Sisaroth reminded her.
‘I wasn’t exiled,’ she countered, sticking her chin out. ‘I . . . ran away.’
What threat can have been terrifying enough to force her to seek refuge here? ‘I suppose you came here because you had committed murder and needed to get away from the victim’s family?’ he suggested.
Marandëi banged the ground with her stick. It could have meant Yes. Or it could have meant No. ‘I was trying to escape from my own guildsmen,’ she confessed. ‘I knew the scholars were after me. I could never have found anywhere in Dsôn Faïmon to hide. And they would not have accepted banishment as a suitable judicial sentence for me.’
This piqued Sisaroth’s curiosity. ‘Had you stolen from one of the other cîanai? Did you take a magic artefact?’ His eyes were fixed on her staff. Perhaps that’s what she stole? ‘Or did you plagiarise a colleague’s spell?’
She shook her head. ‘I killed my own master. Quite deliberately.’ She bit down on her lower lip, causing a bead of blood to form. ‘Because I wanted to prove to him that I was better than he was.’
Chapter VIII
Night-dark is the oak –
lit by the moon –
leafless now, its branches dead,
the strangest fruit are the crown on its head.
The smell of decay
brings carrion crows and swarms of flies.
A hungry fox waits under the moon,
slavering for its prize.
The tree-fruit sways in the wind,
the tree-fruit rots in the air,
the tree-fruit is spurned
by wanderers
anxious to hurry by.
And the wind plays with the dead man,
making him dance on his rope.
Insects roam the rotting flesh, drinking their fill.
The fox leaps up
and bites off a chunk of soft thigh,
devouring it in the shade of the oak.
The tree-fruit sways in the wind,
the tree-fruit rots in the air,
the tree-fruit is spurned
by wanderers
anxious to hurry by.
Hanged without cause
by those who relish cruelty
and who rejoiced about their deed.
But now plague runs wild,
brought unwittingly into their ranks
by their victim.
This gave Death twofold cause for merriment.
‘Strange Fruit’ from the epic poem Young Gods
composed by Carmondai, master of word and image
Phondrasôn, some time after the 5427th division of unendingness.
Firûsha’s terror grew as more of the berry-like cocoons burst open, releasing their insects. The buzzing sound got louder and louder until it sounded like a rushing mountain torrent. Clouds of the flies swarmed around them.
We’ll never get through. ‘Come on, you’re too slow. Let me out!’ she shouted, rattling the bars of her cage. ‘If you let me out at least I can run away from them.’
He did not answer; instead he concentrated on hauling the heavy sled. He was putting on a good turn of speed, all things considered. But things weren’t going fast enough for Firûsha.
The hatched insects spread their wings and sailed through the cave, swirling dangerously close to the two älfar.
It would only take them five or six little skips to catch up with us. ‘Crotàgon, you must let me out!’ she pleaded, desperate now. ‘Please! Just leave all the supplies. It’s life or death.’
The broad-shouldered älf halted, but it wasn’t because he was doing as she asked. It was because their way was blocked. A landslide had rendered the cave exit impassable.
‘We can’t go that way,’ he said – and at long last he opened the cage door. ‘We’ll go to the right here. I think there’s a second way out.’
‘You think?’ She clambered out of her prison. ‘I don’t see that we have time to look for it.’
‘Do you have a better idea? I warned you that it’s dangerous out here away from my home. Don’t you dare complain.’ He ran, Firûsha following at his heels.
Despite his armour Crotàgon moved swiftly; she struggled to keep up with him.
They headed in a straight line through extremely dense undergrowth, but at least there weren’t any insects here. An unpleasant smell of lilies overrode everything else, and clouds of yellow pollen were released when they brushed against branches, making it difficult for them to breathe.
Crotàgon cut a swathe through the thick foliage, chopping at the heavy branches and twigs that were getting stuck in Firûsha’s hair and the billowing skirts of her dress.
Have they reached us yet? When she looked back over her shoulder she caught sight of a huge swarm of the insects hovering under the roof. Long black lines of the creatures jutted out like fingers from the main swarm; the lines reached almost to the cave floor. One of these exploratory strings was pointing directly at the two älfar and was horribly close.
I don’t want to bleed to death! ‘Crotàgon, hurry!’ Firûsha yelled, wanting to push him bodily onwards. ‘They’re getting closer!’
‘I can’t go any faster,’ he replied. ‘The undergrowth is too thick. It’s slowing me down.’
Firûsha was about to frame a retort when she managed to tread on his heel by mistake. Crotàgon stumbled but kept his balance, while she toppled over and fell.
The insects’ wild buzzing hummed in her ear.
You shan’t get me! Firûsha struggled to her feet but nearly immediately tripped over a root. Her foot was stuck fast. No! Not now!
Suddenly a barbarian came leaping out of the undergrowth and thrust himself into the insects’ path with outstretched arms. He wore nothing but a loin cloth.
The flies crashed into him – and within the space of four heartbeats they turned into dried-up husks that rustled as they slid to the ground. Their legs, chitin plating and wings fell off. Whatever touched the barbarian’s skin seemed to lose its life-strength immediately on contact; everything shrivelled and died.
Firûsha freed her trapped foot, got slowly to her feet and without taking her eyes off the spectacle, started backing away. How does he do that?
The barbarian was tall and strong and his upper body was covered in tattoos that seemed to come alive as his muscles rippled. The flies were aware that destruction was near at hand and they surged away from him. The dark swarm retreated.
The barbarian laughed and turned to face the älf-woman.
By all the unholy ones! She staggered back; the stranger had the head of an ancient old man, his furrowed face radiating cruelty. His brows, drawn together in a grimace, gave him a mad grin. Remains of the insects fell from his open, toothless mouth. The beast seemed to have been put together randomly. The head and the body didn’t fit, age-wise.
‘Run!’ Crotàgon urged, tugging at her sleeve.
She did not question his order. The barbarian had saved her from the insects, but she was not safe yet. ‘Who is that?’ she panted, not daring to look round. She could not risk tripping again.
‘It’s an ukormorier. I’ll explain later if we get out of here in one piece.’ Crotàgon changed direction, following a well-trodden path.
Judging from the sounds, the barbarian was following them.
Firûsha could make out further figures to the right and to the left; they were emerging through the bushes, flanking the fleeing pair. All the shrubs, the scarce grass and the flowers shrivelled and rotted immediately on contact with the ukormoriers, creating a brown swathe through the cave’s luxuriant vegetation.
I don’t want to know what happens if they touch me. Firûsha tried to pick up her speed; their pursuers were catching up. Crotàgon pulled her away from the cave wall. What’s he doing? ‘Where are we going?’
The path gave on to a clearing about ten paces wide. Crotàgon stopped in the middle. ‘Stay behind me,’ Crotàgon whispered, holding fast to the spear with the long, wide blade.
Firûsha realised he was about to challenge the barbarian to combat. ‘Give me a weapon,’ she said quietly.
He stared at her intently and passed over a dagger that felt to her as heavy as a sword. This was not a weapon she felt at home with. ‘If you are in a fight, aim for the breastbone. The heart lies directly beneath it.’ Crotàgon turned his attention to the nearest foe and swore.
Can it get any worse? Firûsha looked past him.
Eight ukormoriers reared up in front of them out of the thicket of dead wood; all of them were naked and sported tattoos; their heads were those of very old men. They had no need for weapons of any kind. It was clear that the slightest contact would spell an enemy’s death.
She was shocked by their appearance. Is it the tattoos that make them look so frightening? Firûsha glanced quickly at Crotàgon’s spear and then down at the dagger in her own hand. She did not want them close enough to use it. What happens if we actually hit one of them? Will our weapons rust and crumble away? She grimaced. What appalling-looking creatures! What is the best way to fight them? She bent down to pick up some large stones.
The ukormoriers stood in a line, biding their time, looking at the älfar with derision.
‘What have we ever done to them?’ Firûsha whispered to Crotàgon.
‘I have no idea. You’ve seen wh
at they are capable of. I’m not going to try to take any of them on,’ he answered, his voice brittle with tension. ‘But they’re not going to let me off lightly.’ He twirled the spear in his hands and watched his opponents closely.
‘Maybe they want to negotiate?’
‘No, they don’t,’ came a reply out of nowhere. The language was a barbarian dialect that slaves in Dsôn used.
Firûsha looked round but could not see anyone. Crotàgon seemed equally at a loss. The body of one of the ukormoriers began to shimmer and change shape: they were now facing a squat creature with six arms. The skin was pale yellow and the eyes a striking green. ‘They’re waiting for my order to attack.’ The mouth had no lips and hardly moved. It was as if the words were issuing directly from his throat. ‘I am Hopiash, overlord of this part of Qchior.’
I suppose he means what we call Phondrasôn. Firûsha swallowed hard, but her mouth was dry with fear.
‘We would like to thank you for saving us from the wyde-flies,’ Crotàgon began, his manner courteous but not effusive. ‘We have no quarrel with you. Let us pass.’
Hopiash crossed three pairs of arms. It was clearly the gesture of a ruler not acceding to the wishes of a subject. ‘We may have no quarrel with each other but I have been waiting for you for a very long time. You hid in that stone house of yours. It was fate that our paths have crossed at last.’ He pointed at Firûsha. ‘And I can see you have brought me something interesting.’ The sound of his voice was grating and when he smiled he showed a row of sharp-pointed teeth. He tossed his head to fling back his long greasy mane.
‘What do you want?’ Firûsha saw Crotàgon change the grip on his spear almost imperceptibly, readying himself to throw the weapon.
‘I want the two of you.’ Hopiash leaned forward. ‘I need you! You’re what’s missing from my collection. The others will be so envious.’
‘The others?’ Firûsha breathed, horrified, making Hopiash laugh. ‘There are more like you?’
‘Oh yes. We karderiers are a close-knit little family,’ Hopiash replied, transforming himself into a beautiful älf-woman. ‘We do like your kind. Very rewarding.’