by Markus Heitz
“What happened?”
Her eyes still gummy from sleep, she saw Tungdil pressing the blade of Beligata’s axe to Hargorin’s leg stump. Smoke rose and there was a smell of burning flesh. The dwarf-girl with the ever-more-noticeable greenish facial scar was holding Hargorin down. There was a loud hiss.
They couldn’t wait any longer. Gosalyn got to her feet. “Maybe I could have helped,” she said, grasping the strong warrior’s other arm to assist Beligata.
Hargorin groaned. It started with a low rolling moan and then his breath came in tortured pants. A tourniquet had been applied below the knee and the amputation wound was cauterised by the hot steel.
Tungdil’s tunic had been cleansed overnight by the rain. He wiped the sweat from his brow. “We had to act quickly; the infection had spread. We were about to wake you to be our back-up in case of an attack.” He nodded at Hargorin. “We’ve taken off the septic part and we’ve cleaned the wound. But we’ll need to get you to a healer who can put a herbal bandage on to speed up the process.”
Hargorin shut his eyes and took deep breaths, in and out. “Thank you,” he said, clearly enough though his red beard was wobbling. “I could use some good brandy right now. Put the leg in the fire to burn. It was trying to kill me.” He slumped back and fell quiet.
“Vraccas has taken pity on him. He has lost consciousness.” Beligata came over to put more wood on the fire, which had been near to going out. “We’ll turn the limb to ashes.”
“He should do that himself when he wakes up. It’s his leg, after all; he should be the one to cremate it.” Tungdil stood up. “I’ll start making a stretcher.” He gestured to the northeast. “The Fifthling kingdom must lie in that direction. With Vraccas’ help we’ll find a healer soon.” He wiped his bloodstained hands on the grass. “Beligata, stay with him. Gosalyn, you come with me. You’ve had more sleep.”
She nodded and followed him, finding branches that would be long enough while Tungdil cut sturdy ones to use for the frame. They gathered moss for a cushioning layer and tied the construction with saplings and reeds that were growing by a small pond.
They worked fast; now was not the time for chatting.
Gosalyn still had burning questions but held back. This dwarf might still prove an imposter, another version of Girdlegard’s hero.
Cautious suspicion struggled with natural curiosity. She thought she had noticed a tear falling when the name Sirka had cropped up. That spoke in his favour. She made a private decision not to volunteer too much information herself. Best avoid giving details, at least.
They returned to their camp with the rough timber frame for a stretcher.
“What did you mean by having to let your soul recover?” it occurred to her to ask. It had been the last thing he’d said to her the previous night by the fire.
“I didn’t suppose you’d forget I said that. I expect you saw all the scars I’ve collected?”
Indeed she had. “There were … a lot of them.” And they were unusual.
“While I was in Phondrasôn it was a case of constant warfare. There was no relief. I was either defending myself or attacking others to forestall an assault. Down there, there’s nothing good or beautiful.”
It didn’t seem to Gosalyn as though an experience like that would be sorted by a few orbits’ sleep and relaxation. “How do you envisage this recovery happening?”
Tungdil gave a friendly laugh. “By not having all of my senses in a constant state of alert. My soul needs space and quiet, so that I’m not always on edge, watching out for danger, wherever I am. I don’t want to have to mistrust those around me simply to stay alive. That’s what I want.”
“Couple of beers might help,” Gosalyn grinned.
He unleashed a peal of laughter. Gosalyn was convinced it was sincere.
They had reached the tree where Hargorin and Beligata were waiting.
There was a smell of burned flesh. Bones were charring among the branches that fed the fire. They were Deathbringer’s foot and lower leg. The red-haired dwarf was watching them smoulder. His gaze was blank but tears were running down his cheeks. He made not a sound. Gosalyn and Tungdil sat down at his side without speaking. They waited until the flames had finished their work and the blackened remains were no longer recognisable for what they were.
They laid Hargorin gently on the stretcher and set off at a smart pace, with Tungdil and Beligata carrying the invalid out through the grove.
Gosalyn led the way, looking out for obstacles. From time to time she thought of Belogar and what he might have said. You won’t be forgotten. Your tribe is as proud of you as I am. She forced herself not to give way to tears and concentrated on observing their surroundings carefully.
The important thing was to get Hargorin and Tungdil safely to the court of the High King.
Girdlegard
United Kingdom of Gauragar-Idoslane
Gauragar, Oakenburgh
6492nd solar cycle, early autumn
Carmondai was in his tower room at the fortress-like town hall. He always retreated up here when his services were not required elsewhere by the queen, who often wanted certain pages of his writings clarified or expanded. He felt relatively safe this high, overlooking Oakenburgh; here he was unlikely to be confronted by men and women desperate for revenge and ready to tear any älf limb from limb. Being a prisoner had saved him from that fate.
Mallenia found him useful enough to keep him alive. Following the surprisingly peaceful and amicable closing ceremony of the Council session, she and Sha’taï had gone down into the town and would soon be making their way south back to Idoslane.
After the northern älfar empire had fallen, Carmondai’s library in Dsôn Bhará, the prison the Triplets had consigned him to, proved to contain valuable revelations for the peoples of Girdlegard. As the author of the numerous historical records, almanacs, tales and many other kinds of writing, it fell to him to fill in the gaps in people’s knowledge and to continue with his record-keeping. But this time he was compelled to write from the standpoint of the victors: Girdlegard’s present residents.
Mallenia had had him branded. The runes on his skin and the shaved head added to his humiliation. But she had saved him from entering endingness. These obviously punitive measures assuaged the populace’s revengeful desire for his death. This was why the älf preferred to stay in his tower, even if the royal seal protected him from outright attack. It wouldn’t save me from a stone thrown from the back of the crowd.
The encounter with Phenîlas could have turned out quite differently. The shove intended to send him flying headfirst down the stone steps? Carmondai had avoided that successfully, but he would have to be watchful.
The elf hoped I’d break my neck, or would have made sure I did. Carmondai was well aware that the elves wanted him dead.
Because he knew their secrets.
Because he knew the elves. The mere fact that he knew what a naishïon was made them uneasy. When he had announced in public that the elves were working towards a great empire and were determined to join forces with each other, it had worried both dwarves and humans. And Carmondai wanted to fan those flames.
Not from any fundamental malevolence, in the way his race was normally characterised: he wanted to warn Girdlegard.
I still have much to write. I intend to warn the humans about the pointy-ears. Carmondai took some tea and went over to the window. Just because they dress in light-coloured robes doesn’t mean their hearts are pure.
The forest stretched out below, surrounding the town.
Timber was the foundation of its prosperity. Oak, first and foremost, but also mighty pine trees and other evergreens. From the far side of the Hulmen river, logs were floated downstream to be processed in the sawmills of Oakenburgh, or to be sold wholesale to dealers.
Wraiths of mist swirled round the tops of the tallest trees; everything was still in full foliage but the leaves were turning to their autumn colours. Soon they would die and fall; this was
Nature’s way. Cycle for cycle.
What a glorious spectacle of decay. The älf put on a dark grey mantle, opened the window and breathed in the cool autumnal air with its faint fragrance of woodland floor, moss and resin. In the skies he could see the raptors circling. Their cries indicated they were buzzards. Heavy clouds piled up at the horizon, threatening rain.
The tower did not merely offer safety but also commanded a wonderful view. It caught his imagination and inspired him to paint. Carmondai drank in these sensations. I must draw this.
He fancied using rich red tones. To his eyes, Nature was at her most beautiful when near death like this.
Selecting a large piece of paper and a board to rest it on, he went over to the broad window seat and made sketches of what he saw. He used compressed charcoal and made careful note of the various reds he would later apply. Most of them he would have to mix himself from the necessary basic pigments. Humans had no sophisticated appreciation for the subtleties of colour.
In earlier times he had enjoyed painting with the blood of other creatures, treated with various substances to keep it free-flowing until it was applied. But as a prisoner he could not take the risk of asking for pig’s blood, let alone blood from a human. Oakenburgh’s woodcutters were not known for their artistic bent. They would not have understood such a request.
They would make me use my own blood for my painting and happily slit my gizzard to get it. Carmondai’s gaze travelled from the forest in the distance to the lines on the paper.
“What do you want?” he said, not looking round. He heard the sharp intake of breath. “If you think you can creep up on an älf unnoticed, you’ve another think coming. Practise more.” Turning, his branded features confronted the secret visitor.
Sha’taï’s presence had been swiftly detected. She froze motionless, less than two arm-lengths’ away.
“I wanted to see how you were,” she said, pulling at the sleeves of her bright green dress with its black embroidery. She wore her hair in two fair plaits.
He stopped trying to draw and gave a faint smile. “To see how I am?” he repeated. “Don’t worry. Your benefactor’s guard looks after my needs, thank you.”
“I thought the elves might send an assassin to kill you,” she replied. “Phenîlas calmed down in the end but they know you have access to their secrets.”
Carmondai showed her his sketch. “It’s the forest,” he explained. “And the notations are the abbreviations for the red tones I want to use.”
She approached, her curiosity aroused. “I’ve heard you like to paint with blood. Is that true?”
The älf’s smile widened. “Yes. In the old days. Nowadays it would have to be human blood and if I tried that, I’d lose my own life, whatever the runes on my forehead say. Even Samusin wouldn’t be able to hold back the throng baying for my blood.”
The girl, who he judged to be about twelve, studied the picture then stood on tiptoe at the window to compare it with the view. “It looks very realistic, even if I can’t imagine what it’ll look like in red when it’s finished.”
“I can show you when I’ve completed it.” Carmondai was surprised no guard had yet put his head round the door to check on her. She must have slipped away without asking permission.
Sha’taï was delighted and took hold of his hand. “That’s so nice of you. And could you teach me to draw?” Her eyes were big and innocent in her small face, a little like a puppy or a kitten.
“You should speak to your aunt,” he said. “She won’t like the idea, and simple folk may suspect we are cooking up a plot together.”
“A plot?” Sha’taï looked bemused.
“Well, you speak fluent älfar and you are from the Outer Lands and, well, I am an älf. There could be all sorts of rumours.” Carmondai looked down at his hand, which was starting to tingle; pain shot up his arm as if he had been drawing too long. “You can let go now.”
Her sweet expression disappeared when she released his hand. “Just as I thought.”
“The humans see what they want to see and what suits their world picture.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Sha’taï leaped forward, arms outstretched, and gave him a shove. Taken completely by surprise, he lost his balance and slipped. His hand clutched at empty air and he fell out through the open window, saving himself at the last moment by grabbing the frame with one hand. He was not prepared to drop his drawing board. The sketch had been too good to waste.
Before he could heave himself back into the room Sha’taï was standing over him, her eyes cold.
“I have no use for anyone who does not obey me,” she pronounced indifferently. Lifting her foot she stamped on his fingers. “I don’t want you spoiling things for me.”
Carmondai tried to understand her motives. It couldn’t have anything to do with the drawing, which must have been an excuse to get near him without arousing suspicion. He looked down and saw there was no foothold that would help him. I’ve got to get back inside, no matter how.
He slung his sketchpad and drawing board at Sha’taï with all his strength. She ducked.
The paper landed safely in the room and Carmondai grabbed hold of the frame with his newly-freed hand. He yanked himself back in through the window, slamming into the child. She kicked him in the head and they both tumbled from the window seat to the carpet.
She touched me! he realised with a shock. Of course! Samusin! I have been so blind. Those shooting pains—that was magic. That explained the remarkably peaceable atmosphere at the close of proceedings in the Council session. She has the power to influence people.
Carmondai got to his feet.
“You’re one of them,” he exclaimed. “You’re a botoican! And you’ve got them all under your spell.” He approached her. “That’s something they should all hear about.”
Sha’taï moved back away from him. One of her braids had come unplaited. “Nobody will believe what an älf says. And anyway, it’s not true.”
“Oh yes, it is.”
“You’re making it all up.” Sha’taï saw the knife lying next to the fruit bowl on the table and snatched it up. “Your whole race is a hateful nuisance. They killed my family.”
“How do you mean?”
“One of your warriors—he had armour plates sewn into his skin—came and waged war on the town where my ancestors had always lived. He didn’t have many soldiers but they were unstoppable under the älf’s command.” Tears rolled down the young girl’s cheeks. “I had to run away with my uncle. There was snow everywhere, blinding me. And then he died. He died although he thought he had got us to safety.” She raised the knife and her voice lost any childish tinge. “I hate the älfar. Every single one of them. None of them must be allowed to live. And that means you.”
It must have been Aiphatòn. Carmondai made a placatory gesture. “That was nothing to do with me.”
“The others may not have noticed but I saw how you tried to turn the Council against the elves. You stood by that crazy dwarf who can only see malice and deceitfulness in those glorious creatures.”
“They seem to have interfered in the internal affairs of Tabaîn. That could be seen as deceitfulness,” Carmondai countered, hardly questioning why Sha’taï suddenly sounded so grown up. She has been playing a double hand ever since she was found in the abandoned settlement and taken to Mallenia. She was far from any childlike innocence. Carmondai was intent on knowing more about her background.
But it was more important still to work out her intentions. If she managed to get the rulers to obey her—what would she do with them? Where would the girl lead them?
“You have to disappear, älf.” Sha’taï took a step nearer.
This made Carmondai laugh. “You know I was a trained warrior. I may be many times your age but I am agile enough not to let you stab me in the belly with that silly little knife.”
“Of course I know that. And I know Mallenia thinks a great deal of you. So much so that neither elves nor humans can
demand your death.” She lifted the sketch board with the picture of the forest. “You won’t want to believe it, but Samusin is on my side.”
“No, he’s not. If he were, I should be lying smashed to pieces at the foot of the tower.”
“Can still happen.” Sha’taï took the picture in her hand. “You noted the tones of red you wanted and you’ve written them, as you are used to, in the old älfar way.” A malicious, calculating smile played round her lips and her eyes narrowed. “That’s very convenient.”
She uttered a long, shrill scream that must have been audible at a considerable distance through the open window.
No! Carmondai leaped forward and tried to grab the knife.
She expected this and avoided his grasp. She made a slit in the artery on her wrist and made a small cut at her throat. It was not deep but bled profusely. She threw herself at him.
The door flew open. The history-teller’s armed guards stormed in, weapons drawn.
Carmondai knew exactly the picture that was presenting itself to their eyes: an älf, an injured child, and a sketch done in his own hand bearing the names of various reds—one of them called “Blood of Young Barbarian.”
“Get away from her,” the captain roared.
“He wanted my blood,” Sha’taï whimpered, pretending to pull herself away from him, subtly dropping the knife as she did so to make it look as if he had been the one wielding it. “He wanted my blood for his picture!” She stumbled and fell, sliding away from him, fear in her wide, childish eyes. “I fought back and …” Her words were lost in loud sobbing.
“How dare you?” yelled one of the guards, rushing forwards, brandishing his sword. “Paint with your own wretched blood, you black-eyed bastard.”
It was clear. Sha’taï had achieved exactly what she had wanted.
There was no point in Carmondai’s trying to deny anything. Nobody’s going to believe me.
Carmondai was confronted by the four strong guards that were usually posted outside his room for protection in case the Oakenburghers or the elves decided to do away with him. Now they were ready to be his executioners.