by Markus Heitz
Some dwarves came marching up behind Bolîngor, holding shields and weapons. They formed a living defence wall and moved forward to protect him. Then came what Bolîngor had feared: the archers spanned their bowstrings to protect themselves and Semhîlas. At such close quarters, an arrow would go straight through a shield and possibly through a mail shirt as well.
A dwarf shout was heard, coming from above. The openings for the spear catapults showed the barrels pointing down at the elves gathered there. There were more shouted commands on the battlements, indicating that soldiers were ready to bombard the tented settlement.
The portcullis had completely opened by this time, clearing the way for a thousand angry elves. “Stop!” thundered Bolîngor, struggling up with his one working arm and going to the middle of the gate archway. He stood between the two battle lines. Where is Rognor? “Nobody is to fire a shot,” he shouted, clearly and with authority. “We will go and find the last of the elf intruders. We will catch him and we will hand him over to you.”
“He killed Jorinîl!” Semhîlas shouted. “And he was unarmed, just like me!”
“That’s a lie,” bellowed the phalanx of dwarves in unison. Axes, clubs and morningstars were brandished. “He killed four of us before Bolîngor struck him down.”
Chynêa, for her part, spread out her arms in an attempt to calm her people down and to stop her vengeance-crazed elves storming through, heaping disaster on them all. “Semhîlas, I must ask you again: what right did you have?”
“It is the will of our goddess,” came the swift response. He pointed accusingly at Bolîngor. “He is a murderer!”
“Your goddess holds no sway in a dwarf stronghold. And anyway, you weren’t there to see it,” the dwarf thundered, clutching his broken shoulder. “Tell us—did you harm any of my people?”
“I was defending myself.” Semhîlas spoke defiantly.
Chynêa flashed her eyes at the elf in anger. “You have not acted as an ally or a future friend,” she admonished him sharply. “Neither you nor the others that went with you.”
“We have to get into Girdlegard. Nothing must be allowed to hold us back. Not this fortress, not these mountains”—he raised his hand—“not even the loss of a few of our people. And if we have to fight our way in,” he said, glancing at Bolîngor, “then so be it. We are needed.” A few voices echoed his view, but Semhîlas did not seem to have much support.
The danger is not over. Bolîngor ordered the dwarves to lower their weapons and shields, even though the archers’ arrows were still firmly aimed in their direction. “We shall demand compensation from your Naishïon for those we have lost,” he made clear. “We shall hand over our captives and the body of the elf we have …”
“A lie remains a lie,” Semhîlas howled, going to stand in front of Chynêa. “Follow me!” he demanded, stretching up. “Follow me through. They will be forced to let us pass.”
“We have been defending Girdlegard for thousands of cycles. You are not the first to fail in an attempt to break through.” Bolîngor had to stop soon; the pain was overwhelming. “Don’t force us to use our catapults …”
The spear-throwing machines clanked into action and a cloud of destruction pounded the ranks of the elves. The first spear pierced Semhîlas from the back, penetrating right through to stab Chynêa. The two of them staggered, bound together, and fell.
The first arrows flew in response and the dense lines of the defenders showed gaps. Bolîngor was hit in the left side and he stumbled away to the edge, avoiding further shots. The elves stormed in, covered by their archers’ fire. The spear catapults in the passage were silent, as if there had been no time to reload.
No. Bolîngor slipped down the wall. Elf-warriors raced past him, swinging spears and long swords. Loud crashing and clattering ensued as the battle lines met.
Bolîngor was too weak to issue commands. Oblivion called, flattered, and enticed him. It is so pointless, he thought. Both sides will be wiped out and no one will win.
“Prepare the throwing machines,” boomed an angry, stentorian dwarf voice. “Send burning pitch out onto the pointy-ears in front of the stronghold and burn them alive! Burn them all!”
“No,” whispered Bolîngor, stretching his arm out in appeal to the elves pushing past him to hurl themselves into battle against the defenders of the Black Mountains. “No. Don’t shoot. This must not happen. Take me up to the battlements. Let me stop it.” One of the elves noticed him and halted in his tracks while others raced past. Amid much shouting, death stalked through the ranks of elf and dwarf alike.
“You shan’t be spared,” the elf said, speaking with clarity and fury. He jabbed with his spear—but at that moment an intricately engraved blade intervened.
Bolîngor saw the long spear point miss his throat by mere inches and heard it clang against the wall.
The elf whirled round, furious. “Who—”
Bolîngor followed the elf’s gaze even though by now his vision was blurring. He was nearing his end.
Next to him stood an elf in white armour of an elaborate and robust style bearing unfamiliar runes: identical symbols were visible on the blood-groove in the middle of the blade which had just saved Bolîngor’s life. “I am Phenîlas and my rank is that of a sorânïon. In the name of Ataimînas, Naishïon of the Grand Empire of Ti Lesîndur, I order you to lay down your weapon and go back to the far side of the metal gate.” His tone was cold and threatening. “Otherwise you forfeit your infinitude.”
The elf-warrior laughed and reclaimed his spear. “How can you …”
Bolîngor was not able to follow what happened next, so swiftly did the blow fall, but at the next troubled beat of his heart, the elf-warrior’s head was severed from the shoulders to fall together with sheared-off hair and a bloodied neck chain. The torso and jerking limbs landed next to Bolîngor.
The white-armoured elf nodded at him. “I can see you are dying, brave dwarf. But Vraccas will give you a worthy welcome and Sitalia’s grace will accompany you. My people will cite your name in prayer as the one who tried to prevent this slaughter.”
Bolîngor realised the battle alarms had ceased. He saw the invaders withdrawing at great speed through the arched passage. Five armoured elves then followed, also wearing white emblazoned with the Naishïon’s runic device. Bolîngor was too weak to question any of it. Only a slight breath left his lips. His eyelids were heavy.
His rescuer explained himself courteously. “Our leader has sent us to support you. It is vital no black-eyes gain access to Girdlegard. We are here to ensure this.” He proffered his hand. “This I promise you.”
Bolîngor nodded feebly. Just as the corners of his mouth twitched into a smile, his life-spark went out.
Rognor and Phenîlas stood side by side in the interior courtyard. The portcullis had been lowered and secured once more.
The bodies of eight warriors lay on a pile of petroleum-soaked wood. With them were heaped their weapons, their chainmail and their decorations. A layer of flammable cracklestone coals was ready under the pyre. Thirdling warriors of both sexes lined the high walls and walkways and gathered on the square and on the towers, ready to pay their last respects to the fallen. It would be Rognor’s office to apply the torch and thus send the souls up to the Eternal Smithy with the flying sparks.
The five elves in their palladium armour who had arrived with Phenîlas stayed in the background and kept watch at the portcullis. Their presence served as a warning to the tent city inhabitants never again to attempt to storm the ramparts or to use guile to force an entrance.
A torch was passed to Rognor. “Tonight we bid farewell to the brave souls who defended our fortress,” he said, his voice carrying. “Älfar infiltrated the elf settlement and tricked them into the assault. Their deviousness bore bloody fruit. May they never succeed.” He held the blazing torch to the soaked logs and flames shot up. “May Vraccas bid our brave ones welcome. And may their forebears receive them with open arms.”
&nbs
p; Fire crackled and hissed its way under the bodies and through the woodpile, destroying everything it touched. A bass trumpet played the Hymn to the Heroes. The bystanders joined in with the words of the song and the sound of the dwarf chorus was heard far and wide, echoing back from the mountains in a carpet of sound.
Rognor felt shivers up and down his spine. He threw the torch onto the pyre. “No one will hear of this,” he mouthed, without taking his eyes off the pyre.
“I thank you,” Phenîlas replied. “I had the bodies thrown into the ravine without funeral rites. Älfar deserve no better.”
Rognor responded with a barely perceptible nod. The two of them had come to a secret agreement that all six of the assailants who had attempted to open the way for their compatriots should be designated älfar in disguise. Phenîlas would take an oath to that effect, with the aim of turning the anger in the camp to deep shame that they had fallen for the lies of their sworn enemies, thus bringing about the deaths of innocents.
The elves that had met their deaths in the battle of the passageway, on the other hand, were given every official recognition, and were seen as victims of the älfar.
No one should ever learn that the four elves who had forced their way into the stronghold had lied. Or that one of them had fired the catapult aimed at Chynêa and Semhîlas, sparking off the battle. Or that murder had been their motive.
Rognor kept his eyes fixed on the flames. Apart from himself and Phenîlas, nobody knew the awful truth. It has to stay that way for peace.
“I’ll start tomorrow with the interrogation and vetting process. Don’t worry about any screams coming from the tent city.”
Rognor was pretty sure many of the dwarves, on the contrary, would enjoy what they heard.
I am of the opinion that there could be no other crowned head better than my own.
Why is that?
I have already acted every conceivable role on stage, so it should be easy for me to portray a ruler.
As you see: all my time in the theatre was spent rehearsing for my true role in life and for my own regency. What other monarch could claim that?
From: Rodario—King, Emperor and Showman
XVI
Girdlegard
United Kingdom of Gauragar-Idoslane
Idoslane
6492nd solar cycle, winter
Hargorin saw the clouds of icy moisture sent up by Gosalyn’s pony as it traversed the long grass, a dangerous terrain. Anything could be lurking there. Where there was a body lying face down in the middle of nowhere, an ambush was probably not far off. Foolish girl.
“And then she’ll wonder why she got hit by an arrow,” Beligata muttered. She looked at Hargorin. “What do we do?”
Gosalyn had dismounted by now and jumped over the bank. “We make sure she doesn’t get killed.” He urged his pony on and followed the tracks left by Gosalyn’s mount. The two of them saw her running when they had reached the place where she had left her small horse. She was less than thirty paces from where the woman was lying.
“She hasn’t even drawn her weapon.” Beligata was audibly critical. She dismounted and took hold of her double axe.
“Go, run,” Hargorin commanded as he got down from the saddle. “I’ll follow.” What with his metal leg, fast progress was beyond him. Beligata raced down the slope.
Hargorin gathered the reins from both ponies and fastened leather loops round their front feet to stop them straying. He set off, constantly vigilant, and held his long-handled axe diagonally across his body.
The rain refused to stop, making it difficult to hear noises that might indicate danger. The ditch offered no protection from any marksman who might be standing on the top with a bow or a crossbow.
Hargorin limped forwards to where the two dwarf women were attending to the figure on the ground.
“She’s dead,” Beligata called out. She, too, was keeping her eyes skimming the surrounding area. She displayed a broken arrow. “This was lying next to her. The rest is in her heart.”
An älfar war arrow. Instinctively he got down onto one knee, not an easy performance with his artificial leg. He used his axe to steady himself.
Hargorin stared at the dead woman. Gosalyn had turned her on her back. It was not Coïra but dressed to resemble her. She looked about sixteen cycles old. “It’ll be one of Coïra’s famula, I expect.”
“A diversionary tactic.” Beligata showed them the pale face that had no marks of decomposition because of the cold.
“The maga did not have enough magic in her for a spell, so they had to make do with disguising her,” Gosalyn surmised, looking over to the ruins of the orc fortress that housed the entrance to the caves. “We must find out whether they went in.” She got up. “Let us cover the body with stones. And then we’ll go and investigate.”
Hargorin was glad to see Gosalyn so eager for action, but this unrestrained wildness might make it hard to get all of them back home safe. “In future you wait for my orders.”
She was about to answer back, but then nodded, realising she had been at fault. “I was sure there was no danger.”
“I expect that’s what she thought, too,” Hargorin replied as he closed the dead woman’s eyes. “And now she’s dead.”
“If there’s an älf on their trail, we’ll have to hurry up,” said Beligata. “Leave her where she is. It’ll take too much time and effort to get stones to cover her.”
Hargorin agreed; he wanted to get out of the ditch. They presented a very easy target there. He got to his feet and climbed up the other side of the trench. The two dwarf women followed his lead.
There was nothing left of the original fortress save for a few ineptly-hewn stones. Here and there sparse tufts of grass grew on the poor soil, and seemed half-drowned in the rain and sleet. The presence of the beasts had ruined the earth hereabouts, even though there were no longer any orcs to be seen. It suits the area. Hargorin saw the recently walled-up entrances. The blocks were as big as a man and impossible to shift. Elsewhere there were piles of debris that he thought had probably been intended for filling in the tunnels. The captain they had spoken to had not lied: Mallenia had ensured no one could get into the caves.
“We’ll split up, but stay vigilant. Look for anywhere there’s a crack in the ground,” he instructed them. “It may prove easier to dig through a crack than to try to move those blocks of stone or shift the rubble.”
The others nodded and raced off. Hargorin limped on, stamping his mechanical leg down hard to gauge from the sound what the subsoil was like.
The rain was getting colder and there were now ice crystals mixed with it. His breath appeared as a white cloud in front of his face. His clothes were sodden and heavy. He would take up the captain’s offer of the fireside if they didn’t come up with something soon.
I wonder where the history-teller is? He was worried by the nagging thought that Carmondai might be working hand in glove with the älf that was roaming loose.
He kept stomping through the winter rain. He could not see through it and it drenched right through to his skin. No shelter far and wide. Looks like Elria wants to drown us from above. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground, where the water made puddles or flowed downhill. He hoped the water would show him where there might be a crack in the stone they could use to force an entrance.
Suddenly the puddles were red.
Blood! Hargorin looked around to find the source of the colour change. It seemed to be flowing out from behind two weather-eroded rock columns.
He made his way over cautiously, axe in hand. He did not want to call for help unless he actually saw an enemy. There were two more blue-robed women lying on the rock, with long black arrow shafts sticking out of them. They had been shot from behind; they had clearly taken cover in the wrong direction. Crows hopped around near the bodies, squawking furiously at the dwarf as he approached. He could see there was no point in trying to help.
His caution turned to astonishment when he saw that the blood did
not stem from the dead famulae. It came from an älf lying on his back ten paces away, half-hanging over one edge of the rock. The blood was pouring out of a cut in his neck and dripping down over the anger lines on his face and drenching his blond hair.
Still alive? Hargorin raised his axe. He felt he was being watched. The sound of the rain had altered, as if now it were falling on canvas.
“I went ahead. Hope that’s all right,” said a friendly voice. And there was Carmondai, holding a kind of tarpaulin on a stick to keep the rain off. “Otherwise you’d have been the next victims. Though I know you would have liked to deal with the assassin yourself.”
He may be old—Hargorin looked at the älf with the cut throat, the fury lines now fading—but he’s good. Unbelievably good.
Carmondai smiled and held his hand out in the rain. “Horrid weather for our trip. You should go back to the guardhouse and rest. We can follow the trail in the morning.”
“What trail?”
The älf pointed north. “I found dwarf boot prints. One pair. A male dwarf. Carrying a fairly heavy burden, I’d say. And the blood I found among the trees is human. Probably a woman.”
“How do you know?”
“I can read tracks.”
“No, I mean the blood type.”
Carmondai’s smile grew demonic. “I am a master of word and image. Guess what I used to paint with?”
Hargorin could have kicked himself. “Ugh. I’ll call the others and you can show us the tracks.” He took his horn and sounded a few notes.
Carmondai nodded and relaxed his stance as they waited for the two dwarf women to join them.
“What’s this canopy on a stick thing you’ve got there?”
“I made it on the way. Quite useful.”
“Only if you don’t have to fight,” replied Hargorin.
“If you know enough about the art of killing,” said Carmondai, “you only need one hand.”
The two dwarf women arrived from different directions, amazed at the tableau before them. The älf and Hargorin quickly caught them up. The story-weaver led them away from the ruin towards an overgrown copse where they did indeed see blood and trampled grass.