by Markus Heitz
“So they see themselves as unstoppable.” Mallen pointed to the doorway. “I’ll ask Ortger if he saw anything. Perhaps we can solve the puzzle, even if it’s not intended for us.” He shook hands with the dwarves, wishing them goodnight, then left the tent.
“It’s time for me as well,” said Gandogar. “Tungdil, I want you to guard the fifthlings’ stone on its way to the Gray Mountains and Paland. I don’t want to take any more risks. Keenfire will be up to contending with any threats. There’s none better than yourself to be entrusted with the task.”
Goda and the two male dwarves walked away from the square and were shown to their quarters by one of Bruron’s servants. Ireheart told Goda briefly about what had happened, and instructed her to take the first watch.
“Master, I am tired…”
“Yes, I know. You walked, in the sun, carrying baggage.” He dismissed her complaints. “But a warrior girl such as yourself must be ready to ward off an attack after a long march. Your enemies won’t care whether you’ve had a rest or not. They’ll be waiting, come what may.” With a sigh he slipped off his boots and his chain mail shirt, opened the fastenings on his leather jerkin and collapsed on his bed. “That’s your next lesson.”
“Thank you, master.” She sat down on a chair by the entrance to be able to watch the door and the window at the same time.
Tungdil lay down under his blanket and thought about the evening’s long discussions. A thousand things went through his head as he searched for explanations more convincing than Isika’s.
The undergroundlings and the orcs held one key to the events in Girdlegard and the new beasts held the second one. Those keys would shed light on the secrets. Probably they would reveal even greater challenges in store for the homeland.
“Why did Tiwalún not say anything?” Boïndil asked.
“About the stone?” Tungdil turned to his friend, who was sitting on his own bed and also seemed to be thinking hard; he was watching Goda. “Would it have been better if he had?”
“Why am I having to keep watch if neither of you is even asleep?” asked Goda in a resentful huff.
“Don’t worry, Goda. We’ll be quiet soon,” grinned Tungdil. “And as for you, Ireheart, I expect the new elf lord will summon you soon enough.” He turned to face the wall and closed his eyes.
And then, just before he nodded off, he realized what the connection was between the two ravaged settlements. But by the next morning the recollection had gone.
Girdlegard,
Queendom of Weyurn,
Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Rodario was woken by a strange noise and was astonished to realize that it was him making the clicking sound himself—faster than a rabbit mating, his teeth were clattering against each other. They could have shredded his tongue to ribbons.
He opened his eyes. Shaking all over, he threw himself onto his back and struggled up. There was thick fog all around, but bright, as if the sun were about to come up over the horizon.
He found himself lying on a shingle beach, with waves lapping around his legs and hips, pulling and sucking at him on the gravel, coaxing him back into their waters.
“Elria, I give you thanks for sparing my life. So you decided you didn’t want an actor in your realm,” Rodario stammered. He got to his feet to walk along the beach and look for help. He assumed he must be on one of the islands he had sailed past the previous night.
Soon he came across a fisherman’s hut with nets hung out to dry.
“Anyone awake?” he called out, knocking at the door. “Please let me in. I’m catching my death.”
The door opened a little way. Two sets of curious young eyes peered out at him from the dark interior. Then the smaller girl disappeared. The older sister, maybe eleven cycles, studied him. She was wearing a worn old dress and two aprons. She had greasy short brown hair sticking to her head. “Who are you?”
“My name is Rodario. My boat capsized.” He could not stop shivering. He was shaking like aspen leaves. “Please, let me come in and dry my clothes by the fire.”
“Father is out fishing and Mother said we mustn’t let anyone in when she’s off looking for herbs.” The girl considered him. “You’re not a pirate. You’re much too thin.” She opened the door and let him in. “Over there,” she said, pointing to the open fire they cooked on. “I’ll put some more blocks on, but you’ll have to pay—they’re expensive.”
“Thank you… What’s your name, little one?” he walked past her, striding to the fire in the middle of the hut, relishing its warmth. There was a smell of fish, of smoke and of fat from a cauldron bubbling gently further along. Either they were rendering blubber or making soap. It was a miracle, he thought, wrinkling his sensitive nose, that they could put up with the smell.
“Flira.” She introduced five siblings and then clambered up a ladder to get blocks of compressed seaweed for the fire. She threw them down to him. “One coin each.”
Rodario felt on his belt for his day’s takings. He unfastened the purse and threw it over to the girl. “Keep it. You need it more than me.” He piled the seaweed blocks on and enjoyed the heat they gave.
With a suspicious look she opened the purse and counted. “That’s seven! Thank you. May Elria bless you.”
“She already has,” he grinned, stretching out his hands to the flames. “I survived that huge damn wave. But my boat didn’t.”
Flira’s eyes widened. “Another one? When?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Some time ago.” Then he understood why she was asking: she would be scared for her father. “Do these waves happen often?” He pulled off his shirt and flapped the legs of his breeches about to dry better. He did not want to take them off in front of the children.
“Father says they never used to. Not till the earthquake and the flood, that’s when he says the lake got so treacherous—as dangerous as any monster in Tion’s dreams, he calls it.” Flira sat down and passed him a cup of hot tea. “They keep coming, and out of nowhere. Seven fishing boats have been lost just from here. He says other islands have fared even worse.”
Her brother, called Ormardin, came over. The light in his eyes told the impresario that the young boy was fascinated by the occurrences on the lake. “Tell him about the älfar Nightmare Island.”
Flira cuffed the back of his head. “Who said you could come and talk with the grown-ups? Tell him yourself.”
“A nightmare island? Sounds intriguing!” laughed Rodario. “I’m all ears, Ormardin.” He sipped his tea and waited to hear what fairy story the boy would serve up.
Ormardin grinned and began.
“Five cycles ago, just before the Judgment Star rose in the sky, a band of älfar was abroad in Girdlegard, sent out by the unslayable siblings to look for a new and safer base.
They came to Weyurn and traveled through our homeland on a ship they’d made out of the skeletons and skins of humans and elves.
They looked at island after island—solid ones and floating ones. Nobody saw what they were up to and any unfortunate fishermen they met on the high seas got killed. And eaten.
One night the älfar landed on a wonderful island that awoke their curiosity. They saw it had mountains and caves where they could hide.
They slaughtered all the inhabitants and took the island over, dragging the corpses to the caves, where they skinned them and removed the bones.
They were about to set up a spit to roast their kill, when one of them stuck his lance in the ground. It penetrated the island’s crust. Water shot up and flooded the caves.
The island sank down into the depths, together with the älfar. That’s how it escaped the effect of the Star of Judgment, whose power could not reach the bottom of Weyurn’s lakes.
But Elria did not let them die. They were to do penance for the evil they had wreaked on the people of Weyurn. She granted the älfar everlasting life and condemned them to eternal exile on the island.
Sometimes, when the stars are favorable, the
älfar are allowed up to the surface with their island, so that they may see the night. It’s said they will not die until they have covered the walls of every cave and grotto with paintings.
Anyone surviving the huge wave they bring and unwise enough to set foot on their island, gets eaten by the starving älfar, their skin is torn off and their blood used for cave-paintings.”
Ormardin fell silent and looked at Rodario, his cheeks scarlet. “Did you like my story?”
The showman applauded. “Young friend, I bow to your talent. If your parents don’t have another trade in mind, you’ll be the best storyteller in Weyurn one day. I would bet my daily theater takings on that.”
“You’re an actor?” The boy couldn’t believe his luck.
“Oh yes, I’m the Incredible Rodario, the Emperor of Actors and Showmen in all of Girdlegard,” he boasted in his normal patter. “I have the good fortune to lead my own company, the Curiosum, the best in the world. If it were nearer, I would invite you to see it, young man.” He ruffled the boy’s short brown hair.
Ormardin stood tall. Praise from the mouth of such a master meant a great deal to him.
The door opened and, silhouetted against the light, Rodario saw the figure of a long-haired woman carrying a basket. “Who are you?” she asked, in obvious agitation. “Get away from the children!”
Rodario took her point. “Don’t be afraid, good woman.”
“It’s the Incredible Rodario. He’s an actor. And he’s washed up,” said Ormardin at once, jumping up and embracing his mother, full of delight. “I told him the Nightmare Island story and he said I’ve got talent!”
“Has he been giving you big ideas?” She came in, shutting the door behind her.
Rodario saw a woman slightly older than himself, in simple linen clothing. Fishermen, it seemed, weren’t doing too well in Weyurn. “My greetings,” he said, then remembered he was not wearing a shirt. “Forgive my appearance, but my clothes were wet.”
She soon calmed down, realizing he presented no danger to the children, herself, or what they owned. A nearly naked body couldn’t conceal anything, neither a weapon, nor stolen goods.
“I am Talena.” She placed her basket on the table. “I’m sorry I was unfriendly.”
He waved away her apology. “But of course. I quite understand.”
“He gave me money!” said Flira, handing the purse to her mother.
“That was for the fuel for the fire.” Rodario smiled at her. “Can you tell me how I get off this island? I have to go to Mifurdania.”
“If you go over the dunes and follow the path to the right you’ll get to Stillwater, a little fishing village. You’ll find someone there to take you.” Talena took the herbs out of her basket and rinsed them in a bowl of water. “Did you really enjoy my son’s story?”
“Very much,” Rodario confirmed, giving Ormardin a wink. “And I was quite serious about his talent. I know a few storytellers who might be glad to have a gifted pupil like him.”
“Oh please, mother. Flira will do the fishing when she grows up,” begged the boy.
“No, I shan’t,” came the answer, quick as a flash.
Talena turned round. “Quiet, you two. See what your father says.” She looked at Rodario. “You’d better get on your way now. Mendar will be taking his sloop over to Mifurdania around midday. He takes seliti-oysters over to the market. Tell Mendar I sent you and he won’t charge.”
“Talena, thank you.” He pulled his shirt down from the rack and put it on. “Perhaps we will meet again,” he said to Ormardin, crouching down in front of the young boy. “Have you got something to write with? I’ll give you the names of some famous storytellers.”
The boy nodded and went off to find a piece of slate and some chalk. Rodario wrote the names of two celebrated narrators and the kingdoms they lived in. “But you’ll have to ask around because they’re usually touring. You’ll find them all right.”
He ruffled the boy’s hair again. “Palandiell will help you, Ormardin.”
Talena gave him some bread and dried fish. “For the journey,” she said. In her eyes he could read that her son would never have the opportunity to leave the island. It was his lot in life to become a fisherman like his father, and his father and grandfather before him. “Elria be with you.”
She went with him to the door and pointed to the fog-bound dunes. He had only gone three paces before he heard the door close again.
The white veils of mist that enveloped him tasted sweetly of salt and sand. Rodario strode up the sand dunes and found the path Talena had described. On the way he ate some of the food she had given him; the fish had a fine aroma of smoke and salty herbs.
As the mist lifted, Rodario saw a flat, bare island with scarcely any trees, but plenty of small shrubs and grassland where sheep were grazing. The summer sun began to dry even his shoes.
He was taken with that saga of the island. What if it were true? Had that been how his barge had capsized? Or had the vessel run aground and then been dragged down, her back broken from the rocks?
At least, thanks to Ormardin, he had a possible explanation for the loss of the barge, even if the idea was worrying. A lost colony of älfar that could not be pursued. It could become a breeding ground for terrible dangers for Girdlegard.
Rodario found the village easily and the fisherman was soon located. He was told to squat in the bow with the extra sails, where a sailor sat mending holes in the canvas.
The craft set sail, cutting swiftly through the water toward the port.
Rodario dozed a little, then sat watching the sailors at work. His thoughts were wandering, and instead of the men on deck he saw Ormardin in his mind’s eye. How sad that this talented child would not enjoy a better life.
“What are you staring at me for?”
The unfriendly question dragged Rodario out of his reverie. “Forgive me. I was lost in thought.” He smiled. Maybe this man could tell him more about the mysterious island. “I was wondering if you had any ideas as to what caused the giant wave? Last night I…”
The sailor put down his needle and stared at him. “Are you mad?” He spat over the side of the boat and called Elria’s name quickly, three times. “You’ll call up Nightmare Island and kill us all.”
Rodario was astonished to find a grown man so in thrall to a myth. “So it’s true?”
“As true as the sun overhead,” the sailor spoke quietly in reply, his eyes on the waters that shone mirror-like in the light. “Keep quiet about it, right?”
Rodario did not think for a moment of keeping quiet. An idea occurred. “I’ve got to know whether anyone has ever stepped onto the island and survived.”
The sailor grabbed him by the collar and shook him hard. “If you don’t stop at once…”
The lake began to seethe around them. Bubbles rose to the surface and a bestial stink reached their noses, making Rodario cough and retch.
A bell clanged on deck, the crew scuttled to and fro to hoist full rig. They had to get out of the danger zone as fast as possible.
“You damned idiot,” screamed the sailor, hitting Rodario on the chin. “It’s your fault!” He clambered up, dragging the actor to his feet. “He did it!” he yelled, drawing back his arm to hit out again. “He talked it up!”
“What do you mean?” demanded Rodario, ducking the next blow and tripping over a folded sail; he stumbled against the railing and lost his balance.
Instead of helping him the sailor gave him a shove backwards, overboard. “Take him, Elria! Take him, you älfar!” he shouted after him. “Spare us. Only spare us!”
Rodario was submerged anew in Weyurn’s predominating element. The water was as cold as ever; he swallowed mouthfuls that this time tasted unpalatably bitter and smelt strongly of sulphur. Bubbles of varying shapes and sized floated up past him. Some were filled with greenish gas, some were bluish or yellow. Refracted sunlight piercing the water gave them a strange beauty and diverted attention from the peril they implied.
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He bobbed round the gas bubbles and struggled back up to the surface. Spluttering, he gasped for air, but the fumes made him choke. Bursting bubbles made the lake look as if it were boiling, though luckily for him this was not the case.
The boat slipped past him; he had no chance of catching up. “You can’t do that!” he called out in horror. “I’m really not a good swimmer! Help me back on board!”
At that moment a rocky formation broke through the frothing surface and continued to rise inexorably, sharp rock following rock, as the waters heaved and sloshed.
The higher the rocks grew the broader they became until they had formed a massive unscaleable cliff. Water poured back off in great torrents.
The lapping of small waves had turned into the heaving mass of great rollers that rose and fell in a terrifying fashion.
The sloop provided a welcome victim. She spun round and round as her planks creaked and loosened, some falling on deck and some in the lake. She lost her mast, then listed badly to one side.
The mountain continued to rise from the depths, exuding hissing clouds of air and gas through cracks and crannies in the rock.
Rodario grabbed one of the wooden beams that had crashed down into the water from the stricken vessel; then, holding fast with all his might, he gave his attention once more to the horrifying spectacle before him. The sloop collided with the cliff face, shattering as the sharp rocks sliced through her wooden hull, splintering the planks. Her sails and rigging caught fast and were heaved upwards as the island rose. The boat broke up and her crew fell or jumped overboard.
The mountain was still surging up out of the water. Rodario reckoned its peak was about two hundred paces high, and still it was rising.
With a final horrific gurgle the process finished. Lake water cascaded off the rock, streaming and splattering down, with the sunlight setting magnificent rainbows in the spray. The sight was unforgettable.
“Ormardin was not making it up,” he whispered in awe, staring at the impossible cliffs towering in front of him. “Nightmare Island really does exist.” The island by now must have been about one hundred paces wide and four hundred high. It consisted of dark blue, nearly black stone glittering with minerals. It seemed to resemble a piece of the night sky that had broken off and fallen to earth.