by Markus Heitz
Coïra swallowed. “How far does it go?”
“He always told me it’s restricted to this chamber,” he said. “We’re in the remains of a side tunnel where the apprentices used to receive their training. I know a way out, hidden among a group of rocks. That’s the way I got you in.”
Coïra looked around in horror. “It’s such a … hole! An abandoned mine. It’s got … nothing.”
She gave a desperate laugh.
“Should I have left you to die with your famuli? You are the last maga of Girdlegard.” Tungdil was aware of the utter despair overwhelming the young woman. Her joy at the change in her damaged hand would never make up for this. “I’m sure we can make it nice for you.”
She gave another joyless burst of laughter. “I was supposed to reign over Weyurn, I wanted to find magic fields, and what have I got? A hole! A dungeon to share with worms and maggots!”
“What you got was an älf’s poisoned arrow, gangrene and high fever,” he corrected her sharply. “And then you got your life returned to you. And your arm like it used to be.”
Coïra uttered a furious scream and conjured up a spell.
Dark blue rays shot out from her fingers, shooting into the roof above her head, then streaming out. Bits of the ceiling fell away, missing Tungdil by a beard-hair’s breadth. The rock chamber filled up with more and more rubble. Rain washed down over him, rinsing the dirt off his face.
“I can’t stay here!” Coïra launched herself vertically upwards within the field. “I can’t!”
Tungdil watched her go until she was a black spot against the sky, eventually disappearing into the grey clouds. He scrambled onto the surrounding stones and worked his way up the hill of collapsed rocks, without taking his eyes off the firmament. Has she done it? Or has she fallen?
Suddenly Coïra plunged down through the low-hanging wisps of cloud. Waving her arms about, she formed a symbol in the air with her hands. The air around her took flame and the maga became a dark blue comet, the tail a good fifty paces long behind her. Accompanied by growling thunder, she whirled down.
No, she has not managed to get away. Tungdil made his way onto the wet grass, ready to take defensive action.
Coïra sent a blazing ray vertically down into the middle of the magic source and a detonation followed like a volcano erupting. The ground surged under Tungdil’s feet. He was hurled through the air with magic energy playing around him, tearing at him painfully, as if the field which was under attack wanted to avenge itself on him.
The world was spinning around him. He stretched out his arms to slow the whirling movement. The earth came up to meet him and he aimed for a hedge, which broke his fall. The flexible twigs worked like springs, saving him from any fractures. But his face was on fire and his remaining eye was flickering; he had to close the lid quickly to not feel giddy. She has attacked the source. He rolled himself out of his springy bed in the bushes, sat up carefully and tried to breathe away the pain in his head.
Coïra’s long, tortured scream out of the depths told him her risky plan had failed and that the source had refused to release her.
Opening his eye, Tungdil saw his surroundings doubled and hazy. Not until he had blinked several times was his vision clear. Something’s not right. My sight has changed. He put his hand to his sound eye to check, then made to adjust the patch over the other socket. It had gone.
Vraccas! Can it be true? He ran a shaking hand over smooth, rain-wet features. The burn scars have gone! And … he swallowed and nearly choked. He could not believe it. I have both my eyes!
He leaped to his feet with a whoop and ran over to the vast hole in the ground caused by the explosion. He called Coïra’s name as he leaned over the edge. “Look what your magic has done for me! It’s amazing!”
The black-haired maga was seated on a stone. She raised her head and her expression brightened somewhat. “That’s great that it’s helped you to health, too,” she said, generously glad for him. “But I fear I can’t get free. Lot-Ionan knew what he was doing when he fenced off the access to the field.”
“I’ll get some clothes for you in the next village,” he promised, worrying, however, that the healing he had undergone would reverse itself as soon as he moved away from the source. The incessant rain made the fabric of his mantle heavier than ever.
Coïra waved her arm implying this was not necessary and formed a magic symbol in the air. Suddenly she was attired in a dark grey dress with light blue embroidery. “The energy surrounding me lets me do more than any other magic source. It’s as if it reads my mind and then grants my wishes. Except for my desire for freedom.”
Her next trick was to get the boulders to float up and form a cliff. Together with the bricks from the collapsed tunnel wall, she erected a roof over the hollow in the ground, to protect herself from the rain.
“I shall spend my time making it … nice for myself,” she said in dismal tones. “Go, and tell the Council of Kings what has happened to me. The way things look, I’ll have to train Girdlegard’s next generation of magae and magi from in here.”
“I will go now.” Tungdil raised his hand in farewell. “Is there anything else I can do? I’ll have food sent to you.”
Coïra did another spell and in an instant a table with all sorts of fine dishes appeared. Roasts and stews, bread, fruit and sweetmeats, a banquet fit for a king.
“Nice,” she repeated. “I shall find out what this magic will let me have.”
“And I’ll go and inform the Council.” Tungdil left the edge of the crater and set off, noticing three dots approaching on the horizon.
He could soon clearly see that the dots were dwarves and ponies. My eyes are doing excellent service. He halted and waited. Tungdil had no objection to a bit of company.
Girdlegard
Elf realm of Ti Lesîndur
6492nd solar cycle, winter
Fast as possible, keep going, no matter what the ground is like. Ireheart was riding next to Ataimînas’ white stallion, not letting the ghaist out of their sight. Pernicious being.
Mallenia was there with her escort and Rodario had joined the column of over a hundred warriors, moving along about twenty paces behind the leading party. The ghaist was maintaining a steady jog through the landscape, be it forest, meadow, snowfields, or streams. Nothing slowed it down.
“The horses won’t make it,” Ireheart called to the Naishïon.
“I’m more worried about the fate of the child,” said the elf in a tense voice. “The ghaist won’t stop to let her rest or drink.”
“It has no reason to want to.” It’s about the corpse, not the living child. Ireheart knew that the other leaders were already aware of the deadly message in the second capsule. “It wants to get Sha’taï over to the other side of the wall. Dead or alive is immaterial.”
“I shan’t allow that to happen,” Ataimînas shouted. “None of us will. She has to be saved, even if my own life is forfeit in the attempt.”
None of us will allow it except for me, Ireheart thought. Apart from the dwarves he led, he was alone in this. At the same time he did not assume the unknown message-writer would keep to his side of the bargain. If he’s already assembled his army, he will fall on Girdlegard. Again and again.
He and Ataimînas saw the ghaist jumping over fallen tree trunks and launching itself over obstacles, the child in its arms bouncing up and down like a rag doll, her clothing in tatters, scratches on her thigh, one shoe missing. Ireheart could not exclude the possibility that her neck had already snapped during one of the leaps followed by a hard landing. That might not be the worst idea.
The ghaist changed course and raced down a snowy slope. The cavalcade followed.
Too steep! Ireheart managed to hang on in the saddle. I really hate riding! Some of the horses lost their footing and fell and several warriors were unseated and were trampled. By this time their quarry had already reached the plain and was making its way north once more. The company in pursuit was reduced to a tangled avalanche ma
de up of snow, rubble, dwarves, elves, humans and animals.
But still Ataimînas would not stop. He raced on in pursuit accompanied by the handful of warriors still mounted. Mallenia came up to ride at Ireheart’s side. “We have to make it stop!” she called out to him and the Naishïon. “Else Sha’taï will die.”
“I agree,” said Ataimînas, “but I can’t work out how. We must come up with a plan where she won’t be harmed.”
Ireheart had been racking his brain for miles now but had had no inspiration, either. It wasn’t that he wanted to save the child; he just did not want her falling into dubious hands. Arrows and spears were out of the question, and ropes across its path or hurled projectiles from catapults would endanger the girl as much as the ghaist. And he did not know which route the ghaist would choose, so it would be impossible to prepare a trap in advance of its progress.
Maybe we should turn the tables. “Is there a passage or a narrow way we can drive the creature down?” he asked. The elf at his side called a scout over who knew the country well.
“Eight miles ahead, to the east of our road,” the warrior volunteered. “There’s a dry riverbed, a ravine which reduces to four paces wide. It’s that narrow for about a mile before it widens out again.”
“How deep is it?”
“I’d say about ninety paces from the ground up to the top of the cliff wall.”
“What have you got in mind, Ireheart?” Mallenia looked at him quizzically.
“The chasm is perfect for our needs. We have to drive the ghaist in there. One group should forge ahead and set a trap,” he said, thinking fast.
Ataimînas was enthusiastic. “A net, spread out on the ground, well-concealed. And we pull it up when the ghaist steps on it.”
“We’ll need several traps,” the dwarf advised. “We must assume the ghaist will escape or evade at least one of them.”
“Good point,” conceded Ataimînas. “I’ll send a contingent off straightaway. They can drum up more support on the way and get supplies. It should work.”
“We’ve got to put the ghaist under pressure from one side. Let’s see if it reacts when we get too close,” suggested Mallenia, drawing her sword. “Give us two of your people so we can drive it where we want it to go, Naishïon. You can steer its direction from the other side.”
“Let’s try that. But we don’t want to force the pace or the traps won’t be ready in time. And it might guess our plan, if we make it too obvious.” Ataimînas issued more orders and a group of elf-warriors fell back in order to change direction. Mallenia set off to the right with ten riders, while the Naishïon continued to follow the ghaist.
Typical! Why do I have to be the one to come up with a plan to save the wretched child’s life? Ireheart observed the execution of his plan with mixed feelings. Vraccas, I hope this means I can avoid a worse outcome for Girdlegard.
The pursuit went on through the whole of the sharp cold orbit. The girl clutched under the muscular arm of the magic creature opened her eyes from time to time and tried to make a weak movement to show she was alive. Her strength was obviously dwindling.
Ireheart’s plan worked; the ghaist was diverted in its path into the ravine.
Mallenia played her part in the undertaking cleverly so the ghaist did not notice what was happening. The magic being did not seem keen on a fight of any kind and it kept its head start on its pursuers. It was not clear at first what the dried riverbed was until it had eaten its way deeper and deeper through the forest floor.
Ireheart stayed close to the Naishïon. I think it’s going to work.
Soon the walls of the ravine were getting higher and higher. The ghaist appeared to slow down. He was uneasy about the narrow path and was looking for a way out. But he had troops to the right and to the left of him. He lowered his copper-helmeted head and ploughed on at speed again.
“Let us hope they’ve got the traps prepared,” Ireheart called, urging his pony on to catch up with the others.
“I pray Sitalia will ensure this,” replied Ataimînas.
The ravine walls were almost vertical at this point. Mallenia was making her way along higher up and was soon out of sight of the pursuers, with only the occasional fall of pebbles indicating her presence. As the ghaist increased its pace, Sha’taï’s limbs bounced all over the place and the child was whimpering and crying. The rock walls grew closer and forced the pursuers to go fewer abreast, the noise of their hoof beats, clanking weapons and armour echoing loud in the ravine.
Ireheart moved up to where Ataimînas was riding. “Tell me about that prophecy,” he demanded, without others overhearing.
“I will tell you and the others what the creator goddess wrote,” replied the Naishïon. “Her predictions affect all of us. With the appearance of the ghaist, the prophecy has reached the next level and shows me that Sitalia knows exactly what has to be done to prevent Girdlegard from being destroyed.” He pointed forwards. “But let’s save Sha’taï first.”
They were coming to the narrowest point in the gorge.
The ghaist unexpectedly made a leap—but the ground came up to meet him. The net missed the creature and its hostage by the length of an arm and flew up empty into the air in front of the pursuers. The elves appearing in niches at the sides of the ravine pulled the net up high enough not to ensnare their own riders. As I thought. Ireheart muttered to himself. “We’ve only got half a mile. Or we’ll have to come up with something else.”
“It has to work. The ghaist won’t let itself be diverted so easily again.” Ataimînas’ disappointment was audible. “It’s been warned now.”
There was a second and a third attempt with the nets, but the ghaist always seemed to sense where this would occur. The fourth time it jumped to avoid a net—only just skirting it—lassoes were thrown from the top of the cliffs. Three looped around the head and were pulled tight, pulling the ghaist off its feet.
Sha’taï moaned with fright when she saw the ground so far beneath her.
“Catch her!” Ataimînas ordered, coming up under where the ghaist hung suspended, snatching at the ropes with its free hand. It grabbed one and yanked it hard, causing four elves to plunge down the cliffside out of their niche in the rock. They had failed to tie the end securely.
The ghaist reached for the second rope.
“Make it fast!” Ireheart roared his command. The party had reached the narrowest spot now. Ponies and horses were snorting, shouldering each other out of the way, forming a moving carpet under her even though it would not cushion Sha’taï’s fall if she were dropped.
Ireheart kept watching the ghaist. If it fell on them there would be any number of casualties. But the ropes held. As the ghaist could only use one hand to attempt to free itself, it grabbed Sha’taï by the nape of the neck and pressed hard; the girl screamed in anguish. Then it hurled its hostage against the cliff.
The crowd shouted out as the girl bounced lifelessly off the cliff wall to fall to the ground. With great presence of mind, two elves dropped their weapons and jumped up onto their saddles to link their arms and break her fall. This bold move succeeded but the way the girl’s head was hanging was not a hopeful sign.
Ireheart concealed his relief. But what do we do with the ghaist? It’s not going to give up.
The creature took the two ropes around his neck, one in each hand, and pulled. The fibres spanned and tensed—until one of the ropes suddenly snapped with a whip crack. This made the ghaist lurch down to the right, colliding with the rock wall. It quickly climbed up the rope and got to the ledge where three elves stood. In an instant they were overwhelmed and ripped to pieces by their opponent. They fell into the ravine, blood spreading out on to the warriors beneath them.
Ireheart looked up at the enemy, who stood motionless, staring out of the slit in its copper helmet. But there seemed to be neither eyes nor head in the helmet. Blood from its victims dripped off its fingers, splashing armour and legs. Is it thinking?
Spears and arrows bounced
off it without it taking any notice. But then filled pig-bladders landed on the creature from above, covering it with a viscous substance. Ireheart’s nose recognised the smell of pitch, oil, sulphur, burnt calcium and saltpetre. Archers with firebrand arrows stood waiting at the top of the cliff.
This was what the dwarves called Vraccas fire, used to defend their strongholds against aggressors; the elves, too, were versed in its use. I hope they don’t call it Sitalia’s fire.
Ataimînas gave a command in his own tongue and the elf-warrior holding Sha’taï in his arms raced off out of the gorge. “Now the rest of you,” he ordered in their common language. “Get back. Get out of range. The ghaist is going to go up in flames!”
Human-, dwarf- and elf-soldiers urged their mounts to a trot, the ravine being too narrow to allow a gallop.
Ireheart stayed behind to watch the ghaist, which stood as if rooted to the spot, its helmet slits directed at where the elf with the girl had raced ahead to get out of the riverbed. It wants to get the child back!
The first of the burning brands was loosed from an archer’s bow, releasing a comet shower of sparks hailing down on the ghaist. Hissing brands shattered on its hard skin and on the armour. The enemy was soon covered in a burst of sparks until the flammable gel on its body caught and wrapped him in blazing fire.
The ghaist launched itself into the air, springing seven or eight paces over the top of the High King’s head along the gorge—to land, aflame, in the middle of the horses, which pushed away to one side, rearing up away from the searing heat.
The fire-clad foe forced a path through the panicking animals, thrusting them aside if they impeded its progress. It reached the front of the group of riders—and suddenly turned round. With deliberate head-butting, it felled the first row of horses. In such a narrow spot, the fallen beasts became a dangerous obstacle for the others in their wake. It was preventing them following.
The flame-wrapped ghaist then threw itself around once more and sprinted through the ravine, following the elf carrying Sha’taï’s body.