by Markus Heitz
‘That’s exactly what we need,’ agreed Firûsha. ‘We have to make sure that the Zhadar doesn’t get wind of our intentions. I don’t like the notion of relying on the vagaries of a capricious waterfall to protect us from his wrath.’
‘I can’t see a quirky cascade stopping him.’ Tirîgon looked at Sisaroth. ‘Any ideas?’
‘Not yet. I’ll consult the Infamous One and offer . . .’
‘Are you not keeping count?’ His brother put a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘We don’t have any more älfar to sacrifice. We’ve run out of possible karderier suspects.’
All of them? ‘But surely there are enough criminals?’ Sisaroth was not going to accept his brother’s objection. I must ask Shëidogîs what he thinks.
‘They used to be criminals, perhaps. Now they are the last few survivors of our race.’ Tirîgon was firm. ‘I can’t allow you to jeopardise our chances by reducing the numbers in our ranks. And it would ruin the soldiers’ morale. We’ll need every sword at our disposal once we’re in Tark Draan. The initial advantage of surprise won’t last long. The Infamous One gets no new älfar sacrifice right now. Tell him he’ll have to make do with the elf blood we’ll give him. He can swim in that to his heart’s content.’
Sisaroth did not bother to contradict him. He knew his brother was right.
‘Why can’t we do both tasks?’ Firûsha was rubbing her temples. ‘We can help Shucto first, then get him to lead our people to the waterfall while two of us stay behind in Sojól and carry out the Zhadar’s mission.’ She smiled. ‘If we’re going to be pedantic – as I understand it, he gave the task to you both. I was off with the barbarian at the time, wasn’t I?’
Tirîgon grinned in response. ‘Good point. But that won’t convince the Zhadar not to make a fuss when his officers are wiped out. Shucto said the rebels were planning to storm the four fortress towers and they had a surprise for the Zhadar, but how are our allied forces going to cope if they’ve no officers?’
Sisaroth was annoyed. ‘We need more time.’
The siblings were silent, thinking hard.
The unicorn calmed, snorted a little and uttered an enquiring whinny, desperate to return to the herd.
Balodil was waiting a little apart and studying the stallion; from time to time he grinned over at the triplets. Tirîgon watched him. ‘Firûsha, didn’t you say the groundling refused the river trip?’
‘Yes. He was adamant. He’s not going into water for anyone. He doesn’t trust the water goddess, Elria, he said.’ She waved at Balodil and he raised his hand in greeting.
‘And he hates the Zhadar, doesn’t he? The Zhadar nearly finished him off.’ Tirîgon tapped himself on the chin. ‘Why not leave him here and get him to attack his old master’s officers?’
‘No,’ Sisaroth said. ‘Are you forgetting he is the greatest hero Tark Draan has ever seen?’
‘I know. But do we need him?’
‘Yes. You’ve got your plan to use the Thirdlings.’ Sisaroth looked over at the groundling. It’s really only going to work if we have him with us.
Carmondai was still rooted to the spot, sketching away obsessively. The siblings would get no sense out of him.
‘As it may be. But I am absolutely convinced we have to leave him behind.’ Tirîgon addressed his brother and sister. ‘Listen. We kill the commanding officers on both sides and put Balodil in charge of two leaderless armies. He might be able to defeat the Zhadar while we’re making our escape. If he fails, the Zhadar will put all the blame on him. If he wins, he can take over Phondrasôn and impose the worship of the infamous gods everywhere. What do you say?’ He noticed a shadow fall across them. ‘Crotàgon. How long have you been standing there?’
Crotàgon had come up to them unobserved. ‘Sounds like a plan to me.’
Sisaroth felt uneasy when the tall warrior was near him. Crotàgon was too big to be able to get into the secret passages behind the main palace. He tried to keep as close as possible to the Sibling Rulers. I think he’s spying on me. He wants to get at the skull. I know he does.
Firûsha was in favour of Tirîgon’s proposal. ‘One of you go and explain the plan to Balodil. You get on with him better than I do.’
‘Are you implying we’ve got a little too close to our half-älf, half-dwarf creation?’ Sisaroth gave an apologetic smile. ‘I trust my potions and elixirs. They have made our groundling a reliable servant. And he doesn’t suspect a thing.’
‘Will their effect be sustained if we leave him here on his own?’ Crotàgon had doubts.
‘I’ll leave him a store of medicine to take. Parts of his brain have undergone permanent changes. We’ve been inculcating him with the arts of the infamous and he’s combined that with his knowledge of the Zhadar and his existing skills at the forge.’ Sisaroth indicated the dwarf’s squat form. ‘What you see there is no true groundling any more but a crossbreed permeated with our älfar influence.’ All my own work.
‘Right. That’s decided, then.’ Tirîgon got ready to move off. ‘I’ll talk it through with him while Firûsha and Shucto finalise the details of their campaign. Don’t tell Shucto what our mission for the Zhadar is.’
‘That way everyone’s deceived to a similar degree. Excellent!’ laughed Firûsha. ‘I’m so looking forward to getting back to Moon Pond, I can hardly wait. I already have two elves on my hit list: the lute-player and his little friend.’ She pointed at Crotàgon and then at Sisaroth. ‘They’re mine, remember!’
‘But if we don’t know what they look like . . .?’ the statuesque warrior objected.
‘I’ll draw you a picture. Don’t you dare touch them.’ Firûsha went over to the barbarian and led him down to the gate. She was going to take him to her rooms to discuss tactics.
Tirîgon and Balodil went off into the palace. The groundling’s furrowed features glowed with grim eagerness.
‘And us two?’ Crotàgon asked.
‘We get on with our own affairs,’ Sisaroth answered. ‘In my case it’s the elixirs I’m working on. I need to get some supplies ready for Balodil. You assemble the troops and tell them that in our name, the Young Gods are preparing a return to the surface and they will overrun and conquer the elf realms.’ He turned to go. I want to get away from him before . . .
‘Are we leaving the skull with Balodil?’ the warrior asked.
. . . before he asks me questions I don’t want to answer. ‘Why would we do that? We’ll be needing the god’s power once we get to Tark Draan.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better left in Phondrasôn?’
‘Shëidogîs wants elf-blood. Unfortunately there aren’t any elves left in Phondrasôn. I rather think we killed the last ones when we took over the palace.’ Sisaroth strode off and left the warrior standing there. I’m not having you making decisions about what I should or should not do. ‘The skull definitely comes with us!’ he called back over his shoulder.
He found himself thinking Crotàgon would look good on the sacrificial stone table. He was fed up with being followed around all the time. He’s stalking me and he’s not going to stop till he’s found and destroyed the skull. He and Firûsha are as bad as each other.
Sisaroth went back to his laboratory and completed the distillation of the boiled älfar essence, but he did not give the process his full attention.
The idea of having the majestically built warrior follow in the path of Tossàlor, his secret love, was too tempting. On the other hand it would be very difficult to come up with a cover story for his disappearance; Crotàgon was incredibly popular with the troops. And Firûsha would know straight away.
He tried to suppress the thought by concentrating on how to turn the unicorn into a night-mare.
Shëidogîs must help me. I’ll win him round with the prospect of what our future holds in store. Sisaroth hurried through the gap in the wall and into the narrow passageways. He listened carefully before daring to take the artefact out of safe-keeping.
Placing the relic on a cushion on the
small altar in front of him, he related the recent events, speaking intimately as if to a close friend.
He described the forthcoming attack on Tark Draan in glowing terms and spoke of the veritable mountains of slaughtered elves he intended to offer up in honour of the god of infamy. ‘I need your help. Firûsha has brought us a unicorn and I want to turn it into a night-mare. I’ll give it to my sister as a reward for her courage. How do I go about it?’
Shëidogîs gave Sisaroth all the necessary details.
Phondrasôn.
Tirîgon poured Balodil some wine and drank a toast to him. He has a good head for wine. I’d have thought beer would be more to his liking. ‘So you agree?’
The groundling took the goblet, turning the stem in his calloused fingers and staring into the drink.
‘I’m more or less sure,’ he said slowly. The alcohol had affected his speech and his mind. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding. ‘There is a desire in me to go back with you to Tark Draan but I could never go through the water as you are planning to do.’ He looked miserable. ‘I got to Phondrasôn through the Black Abyss and it seems I’ll have to return the way I came sometime in the future. Impossible to determine in advance.’ Balodil placed the rim of the cup to his lips and drank. ‘Is it very bad of me to be unhappy about it?’ He turned his brown eye on Tirîgon and smiled. The lines on his face seemed deeper. ‘When you go I shall lose my main support, my friend. You saved my life, all of you, and I have fought many a battle for you.’ He was lost in thought as he drained the cup. ‘Now you are leaving me.’
‘Don’t forget what you stand to gain. The death of the Zhadar. Your special set of armour – the one he stole off you. You will command territory and caves. And you can encourage the worship of the god of infamy, who will support and stand by you. And when the time is right, you can rejoin us through the Black Abyss.’ Tirîgon refilled the groundling’s cup. ‘Make absolutely sure you keep taking the elixirs Sisaroth is brewing for you. The effect of his remedies will restore your mind and help you recover from that blow to the head.’
Balodil answered with a vague mumble, then raised the cup and studied his own reflection in the polished metal. He traced the scar on his forehead. ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘I can’t leave here until I’ve exacted justice from the Zhadar. I can’t let anyone get away with trying to kill me.’ He turned his head from side to side to examine the line of the injury and the swollen scar.
‘That’s the way I see it, too,’ said Tirîgon, sipping his own drink. I’ve set you on the right track. Get going, you stubborn dwarf. ‘You are assured of the grace of the ungodly. You have always worshipped faithfully and have assisted the cîanoi in the religious rites. The god will remember your loyalty. You will see: your successes will outdo those of the Zhadar a hundredfold.’
‘If this is what I must do to get back through the Black Abyss, then I shall do it,’ Balodil mumbled, replacing the cup on the table. He placed one hand on his breast. ‘I can feel it inside me, Tirîgon.’
‘The burning desire for revenge?’
‘The god.’
He’s talking rubbish. Tirîgon nodded. ‘Of course. He is in us all.’
‘No, I don’t mean that. I mean I can actually feel him in me. He speaks to me. It’s like there’s a part of him sitting inside me.’ The groundling groaned and held his hand tight against the eye patch. ‘That is his gift to me, my friend. There can’t be better protection than that.’
‘I shouldn’t contradict you but there’s a possibility that what you are feeling is the effects of the drink.’
‘That’s what I thought at first. But something occurred to me. It happened at the ceremony before last. You weren’t there, so I had more duties than usual. We were sacrificing an älfar child whose parents had gone missing. When the Infamous One was about to show himself, the dish his skull was in started to wobble. Sisaroth was in a trance – I could see his black eyes and the black lines on his face. So it was down to me to do something.’ Absently, he stroked the hand with the golden mark.
Tirîgon was listening intently. What has the mountain maggot been up to?
‘Some of the älf-child’s blood spilled onto my hand as I steadied the bowl and it seeped in through the pores of my skin. It was as if my skin were made of paper. Before I could wipe it off, it had entered my body.’ Balodil showed him his hand. ‘You can’t see anything, I know. But since that day a part of the Infamous One has been in me. He is in my blood.’
‘And my brother did not notice?’ It’s probably his imagination.
‘No. Everything proceeded normally. Shëidogîs appeared in his blood silhouette form and blew the black breath of power over Sisaroth. But ever since, my work in the forge has been of a much higher quality and the special älfar runes are so much easier to apply. I have been creating armour with built-in magic spells, I think.’ He sighed. ‘I never dared tell Sisaroth. I wonder if I should?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Tirîgon was wondering about the occasional convulsions the groundling had been experiencing. He had recognised a greater preponderance of älfar nature in Balodil recently. He did not want Sisaroth’s attention drawn to this as he feared his brother would insist Balodil accompany them to Tark Draan because of the infamous presence inside him.
He took another drink of wine. It’s nonsense, of course. Shëidogîs would never choose to enter a dwarf, rather than myself or my brother. Tirîgon put the whole thing down to Balodil’s imagination.
‘Right. Let’s keep that between the two of us.’ Balodil seemed relieved to have got the confession off his chest. ‘When do we start moving? The sooner I lead the army against the Zhadar’s towers, the sooner I can smash his face in. I want to kick him to death like a dog. I want his armour. I made it for myself.’
‘Did he not commission it in the first place?’
‘I created it for myself and after he saw how it good it was, he insisted he ordered it.’ The skin surrounding the eye patch turned dark and sent fury lines across the groundling’s face. ‘I saw the Zhadar when he came to speak to you. I was by the guardhouse.’ His hand gripped the goblet so hard that the metal started to bend as his knuckles whitened. ‘He took over my masterpiece and made adaptations. He even carved his own runes into the metal. I’m not letting him ruin my work!’
From outside came a shout, and the sound of the unicorn’s protests.
‘That was Sisaroth! It’s coming from the hall!’ Tirîgon leaped up and ran out. The groundling’s faltering drunken steps followed at a considerable distance.
Tirîgon heard the clatter of hooves, loud shouts and the animal bellowing and kicking against the palace walls. Crockery and other items crashed to the ground and wood was shattered.
Is it inside the palace? Reaching the gallery, Tirîgon looked two storeys down.
The unicorn was wildly thrashing out, its tail raised up as it cantered through the hall, slamming the hooves of its hind legs repeatedly against the doors, but not succeeding in breaking them down. It evaded all Sisaroth’s attempts to drive it into a corner with the tionium and silver axe he used for his sacrificial rites. In his left hand he held the Infamous One’s skull.
Sisaroth barely dodged a full frontal attack by the creature as it tried to drive its horn through his body.
‘Are you out of your mind? It will skewer you through!’ Tirîgon yelled before rushing down the staircase. He’s not even got his armour on!
‘Just let it try! That’s what I’ve been waiting for,’ Sisaroth wheezed, gasping with the exertion. He had a cut on his arm and there was blood soaking his priestly robes from another injury on his flank.
Tirîgon was downstairs by now at his brother’s side. ‘What are you trying to do?’
‘I’m going to turn it into a night-mare,’ he panted. ‘The god has explained how.’
‘Did he say you had to get yourself impaled on its horn first?’ Tirîgon was impressed by the powerful elegance of the magnificent creature’s movements.
Its large eyes were fixed on both älfar, and it stood ready to lunge.
It was not put out by the sudden appearance of a second adversary. It neighed aggressively and gave a loud threatening snort, tossing its white mane. Its bright tail whisked from side to side.
It turned and faced the brothers and lowered its head in preparation for a new attack with its horn.
Tirîgon noted that all the doors were heavily barred. Only a battering ram would enable anyone to come in. The hall had been transformed into an arena for a final confrontation between unicorn and älf.
Holding the animal continually in his sights, Sisaroth said, ‘I must cut off the horn and introduce my own blood onto the stump. Our own magic will drive out all the good in the creature.’
‘Oh, is that all? Didn’t Father say Caphalor . . .’
Sisaroth raised the decorated skull. ‘Shëidogîs will tell me the right spell to recite. Go back upstairs. You can’t help me. Go and stand on the stairs, at least, so that it can’t . . . Watch out! Here it comes!’
Tirîgon had not dared move his eyes away from the unicorn and could see it bearing down on the pair of them.
Its hooves beat on the mosaic flooring and crushed the little stones. Furiously it charged, aiming the tip of its horn first at him and then at his brother. It seemed to be revelling in the älf-baiting exercise.
Tirîgon was so mesmerised by the creature’s beauty that he failed to spring completely clear.
He avoided being struck by the horn but the creature’s body collided with him and sent him flying through the air.
That was close! Too close! Tirîgon used the momentum to make a backward roll and regained his balance before the next onslaught from the plunging horn.
Curses! It’s so quick! The tip of the horn grazed his armour, gouging a deep channel in its metal surface. He was forced backwards again, struggling for breath. Any other set of armour would have failed.
He landed up against a door, spluttering; turning to the right he avoided the unicorn’s charge, which left its horn lodged in the wooden planks of the door.