by Markus Heitz
So he’s not going to do me that favour. Sisaroth mounted his own steed and followed, furious. I should love to kill him. He was itching to use the sword stowed on his back. Trying to maintain as cool a head as his brother usually did, Sisaroth placated himself by imagining exactly how the giant warrior would meet his end.
No. I shan’t kill you now. I think you’ll make a good sacrificial victim for Shëidogîs. You could be the first one we offer to the god when we get to Tark Draan.
Phondrasôn.
‘Can’t you see I’m waving your colours!’ The gate stayed firmly shut even though Firûsha was less than forty paces away from it. She would be crashing straight into the iron-reinforced wood at her night-mare’s stupendous speed if the rebels did not react. What are they waiting for?
Arrows rained down around her; her pursuers’ aim was improving.
At long last a small opening appeared in the gate.
A semi-circular shield formation stepped out of the fort, spears poking out of the gaps.
They don’t want to let me in! They want to stop me out here! Firûsha guessed the obstacle they presented was five paces long and two in height. Behind it was the opening she needed.
‘Out of the way!’ she shouted, holding the banner up to flutter in the breeze. ‘I’ve been sent by Shucto. I’ve got an important message from him!’
The shield unit did not budge. They were preparing to spike her.
She had very little time left.
Up! She pressed hard against her night-mare’s flanks and hoped against hope she would survive the leap. If she flew out of the saddle now she would be skewered.
Snorting loudly, the stallion rose through the air over the wall of shields, its hooves clanging against the men’s helmets. It landed safely behind their line.
She was nearly hurled out of her seat with the impact of the landing, but she was holding so tightly to the black mane that she stayed upright in the saddle. Once we’re in Tark Draan I’m going to have to take some riding lessons.
They shot through the open gate and galloped through a troop of warriors on their way out to swell the defenders’ numbers.
The night-mare snapped viciously at the nearest soldiers, tearing hunks of flesh from the unprotected shoulders and necks of three men, who fell shrieking to the ground. It all happened too quickly for her to prevent.
That’s going to make it difficult to persuade them I’m here in peace. She reined the animal in when they arrived at one of the larger buildings. Holding the banner aloft, Firûsha felt a tingling permeate her body. She was in a state of high excitement.
‘I am a messenger! I have something to report! Something wonderful has happened. Take me to your leaders!’ She sprang out of the saddle and went up to the door.
The soldiers she had ridden down caught up with her and barred her way with their drawn weapons. ‘Who are you?’ the tallest of them asked furiously. He was covered in red splashes. He must have been standing next to one of the victims of the night-mare’s feeding frenzy. ‘What kind of a demon horse is that?’
‘That was a mistake. The creature is terribly hungry.’ Firûsha folded the banner over her arm like a towel. ‘Why didn’t you open the gate and let me in? You could see my flag with the Shucto family colours. I’m here at his bidding and speak for all the rebel peoples.’ She glared at him. ‘My name is Firûsha and I am one of the Young Gods. Had you been told nothing about the treaty we signed?’ This is the tone to take with these barbarians. They are confused.
Their captain was unsure what to do. His men surrounded Firûsha; behind them came the screams of pain from the soldiers lying wounded by her night-mare. Healers were hurrying over to the injured. ‘Yes . . . Yes, they told us . . . but we thought . . . Forgive . . . We were to be your escort and protect you from your pursuers.’
Firûsha laughed. ‘Well, that went well, didn’t it? If my night-mare had not been clever enough to jump over your men’s heads I would have been stuck through like a wild boar caught by hunters.’
‘Let her pass!’ It was a woman’s voice from overhead. ‘We want to know what has been happening and whether she has been successful.’
Looking up, all Firûsha could see was an armoured arm pulling the window shut.
The captain issued his orders and the forest of spears disappeared, leaving a path for Firûsha. ‘But you need to offer compensation for what your demon horse has done,’ he told Firûsha as she drew near.
‘I see that differently. Your men provided only inferior quality fodder. It is you who owe me.’ Barbarian scum. She left him and his unit open-mouthed with indignation.
She was expected. A page greeted her with a bow and led her through several passageways and up some stairs to an opulently decorated hall.
Around thirty men and women, mostly in armour, were talking at a long table. There seemed to be differences of opinion. It was clear the rebels were composed of several factions and that they did not all agree on strategy.
Well, well. The brave ringleaders of the revolution. Firûsha recognised the symbols some of them wore on their tunics. Two different caves were represented that had previously paid dues to the Young Gods. The rebellion was not only directed against the Zhadar. The spark of revolt. Once it has been lit, it will ignite everything around it. The fire will only be quenched with blood-letting.
‘. . . have to be sure we don’t get something worse in his place,’ one of them was warning the company. It was a corpulent barbarian woman in a dark purple dress overlaid by black armour. She wore silver bracers to protect her forearms and her long grey hair was held in a circlet of steel round her brow. Ugly but impressive, Firûsha had to admit. ‘We may think the Zhadar rules the underworld but this realm is so extensive that we can never know what may be lying in wait. There might be some as yet unknown beast waiting for the Zhadar to fall before it makes its move on us.’
‘That’s a risk I’m willing to take!’ shouted one of the others. He was wearing a cloak far too large for him. When he bent forward to speak, he looked thin enough to break in two. ‘The main thing is to put an end to the Zhadar’s incredible cruelties. What do we need to fear, once we’ve got rid of him?’
‘We must consolidate and establish a joint empire,’ said the woman who had called out of the window earlier. Firûsha recognised her voice and her arm protectors. She was dressed from head to foot in metal armour; two axes and two daggers hung from the weapons belt at her hips. ‘And a combined army. Only if we are united do we stand a chance. The caves that refused to join the insurgency will be brought in but they will be made to pay.’ Her blue-green eyes focused on the älf-woman. ‘You are the Young Goddess we sent Shucto to appeal to.’
All heads in the hall turned towards Firûsha.
She threw the folded banner onto the table so that it covered their goblets and jugs. The tingling she had experienced on entering the fortress had intensified. ‘My name is Firûsha. My brothers and I have complied with the Shucto tribe’s request. Shucto is at this very moment underway with the severed heads of the commanders of the besieging army. He will be showing them first to your allies outside Sojól. Korhnoj is dead, and we beheaded forty of the Zhadar’s main commanders. The army at your gates has no leadership. A good opportunity to attack them.’
The armoured barbarian grinned. She said, ‘If we had an army here in the fortress that is just what we would do. But with only two hundred warriors, our bodyguards’ – she indicated the assembled men and women – ‘we might just as well fall on our own swords. But Shucto will turn up with some troops. Our pleas have been heard.’
‘How soon will he come?’ Firûsha’s heart was beating faster now. Shucto didn’t mention troops.
‘As soon as he’s escorted your people to the waterfall. It’s all planned. We had established a hidden army before we were caught in Sojól.’ She pointed at an empty chair. ‘Take a seat and tell us exactly what happened. We want to relish the victory in every detail.’
The company murmured assent. The banner was shifted and goblets and cups were recharged.
I ought to be quick. ‘I’ve got a better idea.’ Firûsha climbed onto the chair, with one foot on the table; then she raised her voice in song. Her improvised ballad told of all the events of the battle in the marquee. As she sang, the prickling on her skin became almost painful.
Even though Firûsha found it distasteful in the extreme to have to sing in the barbarians’ crude language, the effect of her song was mesmerising. Her audience was entranced.
Her voice took her listeners directly into the heat of battle; she summoned up the atmosphere and the action, firing their imaginations.
I have them all in the palm of my hand. Just as I planned. She stepped onto the table without interrupting her song. She drew her sword as she sang and acted out the strokes she had made in the tent, underlining the action in her ballad, all the time moving her booted feet carefully amongst the crockery.
Firûsha danced her dangerous dance, captivating the minds of the audience – until the second when she brought the sword blade down and decapitated two of the men. Fountains of blood shot up and splashed down on their companions. The severed heads bumped along the floor and the headless bodies jerked and collapsed.
Nobody moved!
The audience were securely rooted in the ballad’s magic and they confused what was happening here with the events of the narration. They were not surprised to hear the sound of the sword or to see and smell blood and feel it splash upon them.
Yes, hear my song! Hear my song and die! Firûsha sang herself into a trance. Her long sword swished through the air, cutting life-thread after life-thread. Piercing chests and hearts and severing heads in rhythm with her song, she reduced by two the number of her listeners with every alternate line of melody.
She sat herself down on the table in front of the final survivor, the armoured barbarian woman who was hanging on to every word from the singer’s lips in fascination. Firûsha let the sword rest on the woman’s right shoulder before sounding the final note of her song and falling silent. What do you say now?
The woman blinked. Focusing more and more intently on the älfar singer, she at last registered the sight of the blood running down her armour. She woke from her daze in horror and took in the scene of slaughter. She became aware of the sword at her throat. ‘What have you . . .?’
Firûsha placed a finger on her lips. The exaltation she felt even suppressed the tingling. Doesn’t she look horrified? ‘Shh, shh, quiet now. What is your name?’
‘Kiumê.’
‘You were asking what I’ve done? I’ll tell you. You won’t scream. You’ll listen, Kiumê,’ she whispered. ‘My brothers and I have worked out that there is a certain logical justice to be had by killing the commanders on both sides. The Zhadar’s officers and the rebel leaders alike. We älfar worship Samusin, the god of justice and fairness. The mercenaries outside are running around like headless chickens. Your army will be turning up here soon and will have no one to give them their orders. Rebels without a leader.’ I am really enjoying seeing how distressed she is. Firûsha furrowed her brow in feigned sympathy. ‘Oh, you poor things! What will happen to your little revolution? Do you think the Zhadar will take as long as you will to replace his officers? Or won’t he just send more of his forces out to crush you? He has four towers, after all.’ Firûsha smiled. ‘Yes, me too. I think the Zhadar will be quicker than you to recover from this blow. Your houses will all burn. Your families, too.’
‘But you encouraged us . . .’ stammered Kiumê. ‘You said . . .’
Firûsha kicked the woman on the breastplate, shoving her against the chair back. ‘Did I tell you to speak?’ she hissed. ‘We do whatever we want to do. We trick, we deceive, we make you believe whatever we want you to believe. Anything to achieve our goal. That’s what we’ve done with the Zhadar and that’s what we’ve done with you.’ She inched the blade nearer the woman’s jugular. ‘But we would not be the Young Gods if we didn’t leave a gift for you. As a token of our fairness. A gift that brings freedom. The perfect weapon against the Zhadar.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The gift is called Balodil. His true name is Tungdil, the greatest hero ever to emerge in Tark Draan. He hates the Zhadar and he will be taking command of the combined armies. He will perform the miracle of uniting the mercenaries besieging you here with your approaching forces when they arrive. We have thought everything through. The armies will both obey him and join to march on the Zhadar’s own stronghold.’
Kiumê’s eyes jerked away from Firûsha and surveyed the slaughter.
‘I know what you’re thinking. You are wondering why they had to die? The answer is: to increase the hatred you all feel against the Zhadar, so no one will hesitate to join the new commander, although he can offer nothing but promises.’
‘We can’t hate the Zhadar more than we do already,’ Kiumê protested.
‘Oh yes, you can. And yes, you will. I shall be strolling out of this hall to make a speech announcing that the Zhadar will not rest until the last child has been dragged from its rebellious mother’s breast. The guards will hear my words and they will not be able to forget. And that is exactly what will happen.’ She smiled. ‘We have been very thorough.’ It will happen just as we have planned. The unpleasant tingling set in again; it was giving her a strange headache.
‘And what is your reward?’ Kiumê was trying to understand.
‘We are modest in our demands. While the Zhadar is occupied, we shall vanish and be off to conquer Tark Draan.’ Firûsha leaned forward. ‘Between ourselves, I don’t think the groundling will manage to overthrow his one-time master. But his attempts to do so will serve us well. The Zhadar will be kept busy and his hatred will be directed at Balodil rather than ourselves. That’s enough.’ She jerked her thumb to indicate the scene behind her. ‘So, do you think this bloodbath will be sufficient to anger your people enough?’ she asked, pressing her sword into Kiumê’s neck. ‘Or should we crown events with a display of your own cold corpse?’
‘Please, I . . .’ Kiumê desperately tried to find a reason for Firûsha to spare her. ‘I can help with your plan. I’ll join Balodil and win our people over to him. Things will be easier for him if he has my support. Then we can storm the oppressor’s towers together. Please, I swear.’
‘You want to stay alive, don’t you?’ Firûsha jumped up onto the table and pointed to the door. Let’s see what a barbarian is capable of. ‘Let’s make a wager. If you reach the entrance before I do and can touch the wood first, I’ll let you live. If I win, you die.’ She kicked one of the corpses and it fell off its chair. ‘This one wasn’t given that chance. Make use of the opportunity.’
‘I accept. Let me drink to my victory.’ Kiumê took her cup and put it to her lips, then chucked the contents at the älf-warrior woman before sprinting off.
Firûsha wiped the wine from her eyes. Good try, barbarian. Taking one of her throwing discs she fired it at Kiumê.
The weapon hissed through the air and caught the woman behind the right knee where there was a slim gap in the armour.
Kiumê screamed and hobbled along, hampered by the injury and the weight of her armour. She picked up a fallen shield and held it behind her as protection should Firûsha throw more discs.
Aha, she knows how to help herself. Firûsha picked up a jug of oil from the table and threw it. It broke open on the floor very close to the barbarian’s feet. The oily contents quickly spread on the tiles, making them slippery.
Kiumê’s feet started to slide and she struggled to keep her balance. She fell with a crash and dragged herself along on the floor. Her right arm was broken.
But the door was almost within reach.
She is strong-willed even though she must know she doesn’t stand a chance. We should learn from this for our battles against the peoples of Tark Draan. Firûsha ran along the table, jumping off to land in front of Kiumê. I wonder how long she can hold
out? ‘I admire your courage, but I’m sure you can remember the wording of our agreement. You have to touch the wood before I do.’
‘I know,’ Kiumê replied, clenching her jaw. She stretched out her left arm, but Firûsha’s sword slammed down and severed her hand. Blood spurted out of the stump. She screamed and stared at her mutilated arm.
‘You have to touch the door with your hands. Go on. Try,’ Firûsha taunted her. She crouched down next to the barbarian. My brothers must take care not to underestimate these barbarians. They can be as stubborn as the groundlings, it seems. ‘Oh, what a shame. One arm is broken and the other hand is lying on the floor somewhere. Your death bears the name of Firûsha, in that case.’ She smiled and raised her right arm to touch the door with her fingertips.
Chapter VI
If I have one
I’ll want two
If I possess two
I’ll want three
And if I own three,
I’ll want four.
Where will it end?
Be content
with one
If you lose it
take another
It matters not
from whence.
‘Aphorisms’ from the epic poem Young Gods
composed by Carmondai, master of word and image
Phondrasôn.
Sisaroth stood looking at the cataract of water that surged upwards from below, contradicting every known law of nature. Incredible.
The wide stream of water roared and splashed wildly, sending clouds of spray into the air before the top of the waterfall disappeared through a hole high above their heads. The hole led to the passage that ended in the Moon Pond.