by Markus Heitz
‘Excuse me,’ said one of the sytràps. ‘If I were a karderier, I’d already be one of the älfar and in that cage with them, listening to the plans they hatch.’
Firûsha blinked. ‘That . . . is a good point.’ Curses! What are we going to do? How can we test them before we take them back to the fortress?
She knew the karderiers might well be using that very strategy. They only saw three, but there could be others hiding in the midst of the captives. Naïgonor’s escape was sure to have been noticed, and the shapeshifters would likely be expecting an attack.
But I cannot abandon our rescue attempt. She stared at the chart in her hands. Now, how could I . . .
She had an idea. It would help even though it was not entirely satisfactory. ‘We’ll bring all the älfar back with us and place them in the ditch between the first and second ramparts. They’ll be safe there until we have time to sort out how to tell the real ones from the false. I’m sure Marandëi will have some magic spell to help with that.’ Her troops nodded eagerly. ‘To your posts.’
The älfar spread out.
The archers took up their positions, while the other warriors encircled the cages.
Firûsha drew her sword and crept forward with her own unit. They had been allotted the largest of the four cages to liberate.
There was a terrible smell of urine and faeces. The starving älfar behind the iron bars had not been treated with respect.
The odour of rotting flesh was overpowering. Dead bodies piled up next to a hut were decomposing in the warm, damp air of the cave. The corpses were blackened and bloated. The karderiers did not grant burial to the bodies of those whose magic they stole, and they did not bother to burn the corpses.
Vermin crawled among the bodies; rats and dog-like animals were gnawing at the carrion flesh or fighting with each other over torn-off limbs.
You six-armed monsters! Firûsha could not help the lines of fury taking over her countenance. She almost wished her archers would miss their targets so that she could be the one to kill the karderiers with her own hands.
One of the karderiers looked over at the cave entrance and barked an order. A giant barbarian in a fur-covered armoured coat with a horned helmet on his head stomped over to the cage.
Perhaps they need a new victim. Firûsha glanced at her warriors. Each bore the black lines of anger on his face. ‘Bring them their death,’ she mouthed. ‘Let them suffer as they die.’ She took a deep breath and started to sing. This was the signal. It gave hope to some and meant death to others.
Long black arrows sped through the air, piercing the chests of the imposing fighters and felling them, apart from the one who had already entered the cage. He was hit but the wounds appeared to be superficial. Arrows ricocheted off the bars.
Two of the karderiers died under the feathered onslaught, but the third took cover behind a heap of bodies.
Good. I’ll take that one. But let’s deal with the barbarian giant first. Firûsha raced ahead of her unit to storm the warrior, who had grabbed an älf-woman by the scruff of the neck and was holding her as a shield in front of himself.
All of the captives were shackled; none could move to protect the unfortunate victim.
‘Let her go!’ Firûsha approached slowly, her sword held out in front. ‘Or you will meet the same fate as . . .’
The barbarian tightened his hold fatally, snapping his hostage’s neck. He laughed and tossed the body at Firûsha.
Firûsha dodged and leaped up onto her opponent’s shoulders and from there diagonally up to the bars of the cage compound. She catapulted herself above the foe to land on his back, where she stabbed him with her sword.
He roared and whirled to spin her off, his scythe-like weapon just missing her legs.
The barbarian was not able to halt his momentum and he spun towards the crowd of tethered älfar with a hideous grin on his face.
His curved blade beheaded several älfar and sliced off limbs. There was a terrible shrieking and fountains of blood spurted up. Firûsha sprang through this chaotic scene; at least seven or eight älfar had been killed.
The monster! When the barbarian twisted round, her own flight ended close to him. Hardly had her feet touched the ground than she delivered swift blows to his middle, all of which he was able to fend off. He was extremely tall but not corpulent.
With great agility Firûsha executed a somersault between his legs, coming up on one knee to give him a mighty swipe across the back of his thighs.
Leather and chainmail offered little protection; her blade sliced through muscles and tendons.
With a loud scream of pain he keeled over, lashing out backwards with his sword.
Firûsha leaped to her feet, fending off the scything blow using both hands and jerking her own sword sharply upwards. The surprise impact gave her the momentum to do a back flip over the pile of wounded älfar. She sprang up to stand by the fallen man’s head and rammed the blade down through his helmet.
The giant gave a cry, slumped and lay still.
‘Your death bears the name of Firûsha.’ She stood up and looked over at the surviving älfar, who were aghast and obviously terrified. ‘Stay calm,’ she told them. ‘We shall come back and free you. But first we have to kill the last karderier and the enemy force.’ Panting, she ran out of the cage and threw herself into combat with the other guards. Barbarian reinforcements had arrived.
Their superiority of numbers did not worry her. One trained warrior älf could take on and defeat ten barbarians at a time. She hurried over to where the karderier had hidden behind the tower of rotting älfar bodies.
With her sword gripped in both hands, she tiptoed over to the grisly, stinking pile.
The shapeshifter had gone.
Exactly what I was afraid of. She heard a whimpering from the pile of corpses.
A child’s hand pushed its way out, the fingers covered with corpse secretions and crusted blood. ‘Help me, please,’ the little voice cried. ‘Before the monster comes back.’
Can I trust it? Or is this a trick? Firûsha hesitated then grasped the small hand and pulled.
A young boy tumbled out of the gruesome heap. He was covered in scraps of decomposing flesh and the smell that he gave off was appalling. It was hard to imagine what he was wearing in the way of clothing. ‘Thank you,’ he gasped, sobbing with relief. ‘I . . .’ He stared at her in horror when she put her sword to his throat. ‘Why are you doing that?’
Is this the shapeshifter? Is he taking me for a fool? Firûsha’s heart was pounding and she could not think straight. The smell of decay and the sight of her mistreated kinsfolk made her keener than ever to locate and kill the karderier to punish him for these misdeeds. But she could not be sure that the young boy was, in fact, the quarry she sought. ‘How did you get out of the cage?’ she asked him.
‘Through the bars. They’re quite wide.’ He pointed to one of the other compounds. ‘They told me to steal the warder’s keys. I was waiting in the dead bodies until I had a chance.’
‘Sintholor! My child!’ an älf-woman’s voice called out from far behind Firûsha. ‘The gods of infamy are on our side. They have saved us!’
He did not dare raise his hands to wave at the approaching älf. His eyes were glued to the sword. ‘I am not the bad one! The karderier crawled into a pipe.’
Firûsha saw the hole in the rock, wide enough to admit the six-armed creature. He might be telling the truth. Or it might be a lie. The child’s bright blue eyes were clear and he did not seem afraid. In fact, he showed no emotion at all. She was reluctant to trust him. Is he in shock? Or is he waiting for me to turn away so he can attack? ‘Where in Dsôn did you live?’
Sintholor stared in surprise and said nothing.
Firûsha increased the pressure and cut into the boy’s neck. ‘I’m going to count to three and if you don’t tell me exactly which ring of Dsôn your house was in, I’ll cut your head off. One . . .’
‘Sintholor!’ A thin blonde älf-wo
man wearing rags that had once been a dark green dress rushed up, disregarding the sword and sinking to her knees to embrace the boy.
‘Two . . .’ Firûsha’s heart rate increased.
‘I’m too confused,’ he stammered.
‘What do you want from him?’ the mother demanded.
‘She wants to know where we live, Mother. If I don’t tell her, she’s going to kill me. She thinks I am the karderier,’ he said, starting to cry.
His mother opened her mouth.
‘No. Don’t help him,’ Firûsha snapped. ‘It’s your son’s answer I need. That is, if that’s who he really is.’ Of course, she might be one of them, too. How did she get out of the cage? She swallowed. ‘And the last number is . . .’
The boy gave his mother a shove, making her stumble against the sword, resulting in a deep gash across her face. Sintholor vaulted past Firûsha with a yell.
I was right! ‘You won’t escape your punishment!’ She had been watching him closely and anticipated his move. She whirled and kicked him in the side, then struck him on the back with her weapon.
The sword blade sliced deep into the spine. Sintholor collapsed without a further sound. The distraught mother shrieked and threw herself over him to shield him from any further attack.
‘Get away from him! Don’t you see? It’s a karderier. Not your son at all.’ Firûsha waited to see if the creature would change shape on death.
It did not happen.
Firûsha felt sick. Ye gods! She stared at the dead child and the mother cowering over the body, drenching his face with her tears and blood. So why did he . . .?
A warning shout made her whirl round.
An älf came crawling out of the tube and ran off down the slope towards the pool where they had found Tungdil.
So that’s where he is. ‘No!’ Firûsha shouted to the archers, who had seen what was happening and had drawn their bows to fire at the fleeing figure. ‘He’s mine!’
She raced after the figure who had caused the young boy’s death. She was convinced that the karderier had deliberately waited to see what she was going to do. He turned me into a murderer. He let me kill an innocent child!
The false älf had reached the top of the hill and disappeared down the other side.
Firûsha stormed after him and saw him spring into the pond the groundling had been found in. Is he trying to escape me through the water?
She hastened to the side and struck out with her sword which cut through the waters with a great splash. ‘And now? Are you going to turn yourself into a fish?’ she shouted, plunging into the pond after him. At least the immersion would remove the blood of the injured and the ghastly smell of decomposed älf bodies clinging to her.
Firûsha waded further in, discovering that the ground fell away sharply under her feet. There would be a basin hollowed out where the waterfall cascaded in. He’ll be hiding down there, where it’s deep!
She dived, still wearing her armour; the weight pulled her to the bottom.
The pond was clear and only bubbles obscured her vision. The water cooled her hot-headedness but not her hatred of the karderier.
She spotted an opening behind the waterfall.
A second cave! She felt her way up along the pond wall and surfaced cautiously.
A six-armed silhouette leaped out, smashing down at her head with a raised cudgel.
Too slow! She dodged the crushing blow and plunged her sword into the karderier’s belly; pushing off from the edge, she leaped out of the pond and pushed her adversary backwards. He stared in horror at her sword and his own gaping wound.
‘Did you think I was going to let you go?’ Firûsha bawled, wrenching the blade out of his flesh to slice sideways, cutting off the first of his arms. ‘No, I’m going to make sure you suffer before I let you die! I’ll trim you to size!’
With sharp blows she removed the other five upper limbs as if they had been branches of a tree. The karderier stumbled backwards screaming. He fell with the loss of his sixth arm and spat blood and saliva at Firûsha. He rolled about, uttering incomprehensible sounds.
‘Are you begging me to put you out of your misery?’ Firûsha laughed at him. ‘I pray Samusin will keep you alive so that I can enjoy your pain. It is revenge for what you have done to my people and to me.’ I’m a murderess. Now my banishment is justified.
The dying shapeshifter’s movements slowed. He lay still, fighting for breath, his ugly head thrown back. The lips drew back in a grimace, revealing his sharp teeth. ‘Never reach,’ he muttered. ‘So easy . . . so easy . . . the dwarf . . .’ He died.
She contemplated the hideous body and the odious face with its cold, dead eyes; she raised her sword high over its head and slammed the sword down with a yell of fury.
The blade pierced the karderier’s skull and met the ground underneath, causing the tip to snap off, but the violent blow split the upper body. The sword remained firmly lodged upright.
A shame. I should have enjoyed torturing him some more. She let go of the hilt and jumped back into the pond to cross the waterfall and return to her people. She had to take them to the safety of the fortress.
The sword stayed where it was. Firûsha never wanted to see it again. It was contaminated with innocent älfar blood.
Chapter IX
The loss of the Young Gods
seemed irredeemable.
Esmonäe – dead.
Marandëi – gone.
These would not be the last friends
to be lost.
But fate
had compensation in store
for the Young Gods.
The price they paid for it was incalculable.
Excerpt from the epic poem Young Gods
composed by Carmondai, master of word and image
Phondrasôn.
Tirîgon played nervously with the quill in his hands. The page in front of him was empty. It should be covered in notes and ideas by now.
He hoped the meeting with his siblings, Tossàlor, Crotàgon, Horogòn the Healer, and Gàlaidon (who they had appointed Sytràp of the guards) would produce something useful. They needed to come to a decision and take courage, although it was difficult to stay positive.
They were all sitting around the library with doleful faces, each pursuing his or her own train of thought.
Everything’s gone wrong. This is not what was supposed to happen. Not here in Phondrasôn or back there in Dsôn Sòmran. Esmonäe’s image flashed into his mind. He saw her sparkling hair and her reproachful expression. It should never have ended like that. He was torn apart by conflicting thoughts of her, alternating feelings of longing and hate. In order not to detest his own brother to the same extent, he tried hard to condemn her utterly. But it didn’t always work.
‘How is the patient’s state of health?’ Sisaroth asked the healer, to get the conversation going again.
‘We have managed to keep the groundling alive, but that’s about it,’ Horogòn replied. His white garb had a red design of stylised splashes of blood: the badge of his guild. ‘The superficial wounds are healing well and we have given him strengthening tonics. But the blow he received to the head has severely affected his mind, I fear. He lies in bed, his one eye open and staring at the ceiling.’ Horogòn drank from the water-filled goblet in front of him. ‘I don’t see that he will ever be able to tell us how to get out of Phondrasôn.’ Horogòn addressed Tossàlor. ‘As far as I’m concerned, you might as well take him now. I can’t see the maggot being any use to us at all in this state.’
The sculptor grinned in anticipation.
Just what he was waiting for, Tirîgon thought. There was little point in recording what was being said. It was too depressing. Another hope bites the dust.
‘Let’s wait and see. As long as he doesn’t require too much looking after, let’s not turn him into a work of art yet,’ Sisaroth protested. ‘What about the Dsôn survivors?’
Horogòn accepted the reprimand and bowed in apology. ‘We ar
e doing everything possible to aid their recovery. Some of them are extremely weak and on the point of entering endingness. The karderiers had removed much of their magic. My staff and I have been trying to understand what happens to the älfar bodily processes when our inherent magic is lost.’ He shrugged. ‘I regret it is taking so long, but we have never come across anything like this before.’
‘How many are affected?’
‘At the present time thirty-two, but it may turn out to be less. Five of them have died already, despite our efforts. I think the others will recover eventually.’
‘Our problem is provisions,’ Gàlaidon commented. ‘I’ve calculated how long our supplies will last with so many mouths to feed, and it’s vital we start cutting back. Tirîgon sent units to squeeze more tribute from the vassal caves, but until that food arrives, rationing is essential.’ Aïsolon’s one-time second in command had found his feet quickly, becoming an invaluable support to the triplet rulers. He took his office very seriously and had evaluated the current practices in place in the running of the fortress. He might have been with them for whole divisions of unendingness, he was so well informed.
‘How are the interrogations going?’ Sisaroth asked.
Tirîgon made an effort and started to take some notes. It all seems like such a waste of time. Nothing is going to prevent the coming conflict. The last surviving älfar from Dsôn will end their days in misery in Phondrasôn.
Gàlaidon reported back: ‘So far we’ve been able to firmly eliminate three hundred and eighty from our enquiries. There are fifty-one where we are in some doubt and eight positives – definite karderiers in disguise.’ He looked grim. ‘If the Siblings will permit the use of force, I can get the truth out of the prisoners much quicker.’