by Markus Heitz
A petrified sheet of cooled lava had formed a flat beach on the side of the island nearest to him. Tall, thin figures emerged from caves, to launch boats. The älfar were about to bring in their harvest.
Rodario concealed himself under a floating scrap of canvas. The current was bringing him closer inland than he wanted to be. It was not his intention to explore the island, but Samusin seemed to like the idea of feeding him to the älfar.
Peering out from under the canvas he observed how the älfar went about picking up the dead and any survivors clinging to the pieces of the wrecked vessel. The injured they left. They only wanted the dead or the whole.
It reminded Rodario of a seal hunt he had once watched. As soon as one of the sailors surfaced to grab some air and they sensed he was injured, the iron point of a spear or whirr of an arrow brought instant death.
The älfar took their time and went about their task assiduously. The rowed past Rodario’s hiding place, piercing it several times with their spears without touching him. The random piece of canvas was then ignored as it drifted nearer the shore.
A gong sounded and the boats returned to the shore. The älfar pulled them up to the caves and the island emitted more clouds of stinking gas. Then the shoreline dipped under the surface and the island started to dive.
“Ye gods, protect me,” prayed Rodario fervently, before emerging from his hiding place, struggling out of the water and running for the dark entrance into which the älfar had just disappeared.
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Idoslane,
One-time Orc Realm of Toboribor,
Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
The spear-leader Hakulana observed the sparsely vegetated hillside in the midst of Idoslane’s green landscape. It marked one of the many entrances to Toboribor’s underground caves. She recognized the ruins of the old orc fortifications standing like ancient gravestones uneven against the sky.
“It looks quiet,” she said to her companion Torant, an aspiring young equerry who rode at her side. She liked his calm nature and the care he took over any task assigned to him. “Did you find any tracks?”
“No, spear-leader. Nothing.”
Hakulana watched the sky, where a summer storm was brewing. Dark clouds were gathering in front of the blue; her lance-pennant fluttered in the growing breeze.
Together with the twenty mounted scouts she led, they were now half a mile from the area to be traversed to reach the realm of the orc prince once known as Ushnotz.
Hakulana was too young to be able to remember the monster, but some of the veterans in Prince Mallen’s army told tales of the creature and its voracious cruelty. It had attempted to move north to found a new kingdom after the lost battle of the Blacksaddle. It was thanks to the dwarves that this terrible plan had been thwarted.
Torant glanced up at the movement of the clouds. “Should we put up the tents, spear-leader?”
Hakulana shook her head. “No.” She pointed to the hill with the tip of her lance. “We’ll camp over there at the cave entrance; that will save us the trouble.”
“As you command, spear-leader.” Torant called out the order and the troop of riders made off at a smart pace.
Hakulana followed them at a slight distance, never taking her eyes off the hill whose defenses had been demolished by Prince Mallen’s soldiers shortly after the battle of the Blacksaddle. There was no sign now of the orcs’ reign or the ugly constructions of rough-hewn stone blocks that they’d forced their human serfs to build for them.
She was here with her scouts to make sure that it stayed that way. The slightest hint of any orc activity in the area they would report immediately and the army would march in. She had a feeling that there was something hiding in that hill.
As the first raindrops started to fall they rode through the broken walls, past the ruined gates, and into the darkness of the cave.
Her people, including the women, lit torches and set up camp. Each had a specific task to carry out, be it caring for the horses, preparing a meal or keeping guard.
“Spear-leader,” Torant’s voice echoed through the cave. “I found orc bones at the back there.” He handed her an orc thigh bone. “It’s not been there more than one cycle.”
“You’re sure about that?” Hakulana got out of the saddle and looked over at the cave mouth. The clouds were racing past low over the landscape, bellies against the hillsides; vast amounts of water cascaded down in front of the entrance in great streams, splattering onto the ground and carrying off the loose earth.
“Absolutely sure. There are lots of them.”
A first lightning bolt hit the hill opposite; almost immediately the rolling peal of thunder sounded. The horses whinnied in fear. Hakulana heard their panicky steps as they pawed the ground.
“So we’ve got proof. I’d rather we hadn’t.” She turned to her troop. “It’s a good thing we didn’t put the tents up,” she said to Torant. “Go and help the others calm the horses down, or they’ll break away and trample everything. I’ll go and inspect the place straightaway.”
But then, in the dazzle of a second lightning bolt she saw the monster approaching the camp. Fleeting though the glimpse was, Hakulana was able to take in every terrible detail of its appearance.
It was huge, at least three and a half paces high and extremely broad. On its head a solid tionium helmet in the shape of a skull bore polished silver insignia arranged to increase the intimidating impression. The helmet had an opening for the mouth. The creature’s lips had been removed so its fangs and incisors were visible in a permanent grin. The helmet itself had long spikes bolting metal and skull together.
Hakulana drew back and in her fear did not even realize she had left her shelter and was being soaked to the skin by the downpour. She could neither speak nor tear her eyes away.
The creature’s body was covered with scale-like plates of tionium, nailed or wired through its flesh. The forearms had been removed between elbow and wrist and replaced by a metal pole that enclosed a core of shimmering glass. The hands were in the right place and wielded two axes decorated with runes.
Another thunderclap sounded and the creature disappeared back into the dark, except for its huge eyes which had been lit up dark green. But for those, Hakaluna might have thought she had imagined it all.
“Palandiell, be with us,” she mouthed, slowly regaining the power of movement. “Retreat!” she screamed, drawing her sword, “Everyone out of the cave, now!”
At once all the torches went out.
The unexpected pitch blackness, together with their leader’s surprise command, resulted in total confusion. The horses were terrified by now and pulled themselves free, racing out past Hakulana to her right and left.
Immediately there came the sound of dull impacts and tearing metal, and the ugly noise of twisting limbs and breaking bones. A shrill cry, hardly to be recognized as issuing from a grown man, indicated the first death amongst the soldier-scouts.
But for Hakulana this was only the beginning.
The lightning bolts came thick and fast as the thunderstorm reached its peak, allowing her a clear view of the ghastly events in the cave. It was a vision of horrific brutality. The monster was hacking men to pieces with its axes; then it bit through the neck of one of her young lieutenants and crushed another man’s skull with a blow from its foot. The resulting noise made Hakulana gag.
Her legs refused to let her re-enter the cave, however her brain might command it, to stand by her troops. She remained in the rain, shaking all over, and watched her people die.
A shadow raced up to her out of the blackness. With a scream she stepped aside and dealt a wild blow. Too late she saw her mistake. She had slain Torant.
A deep slash in his throat, he fell at her feet in the mud. He turned his unbelieving gaze to his leader as he breathed his last.
“No,” she whispered, taking two strides backwards, away from the accursed caves which housed evil. The dying breaths of the young man w
ould haunt her for the rest of her days.
Two more soldiers stumbled out into the air; one was missing an arm and his comrade was bleeding profusely from a wound on the chest, though it looked possible he could survive it.
Now at last Hakulana shook off the paralyzing fear. She supported the less severely wounded man and left the amputee to his fate. The loss of blood would do for him and nothing could alter that.
“We must get away from here!” she shouted above the noise of the storm. “We have to report to the prince. There’s nothing we can do against the monster.”
“What was that thing?” whimpered the man, his legs collapsing under him.
She grabbed him under the arm and dragged him back down the hillside to where some of their horses still stood, having found shelter under a tree. “A new misbegotten monster of Tion’s.” She gasped. The man was heavy and she was bearing most of his weight and that of his armor.
Something hit him on the chest. Hakulana felt the force of the blow. At once he went limp. She stared at the long black shaft of an älfar arrow sticking out of his body.
When she looked up she saw the monster at the entrance to the cave. Right next to it there was a tall slim figure wearing fantastical black tionium armor in the style favored by the älfar. The head was concealed behind an elaborate helmet; two swords hung from its belt. It seemed almost like a monument, erected to remind people of the danger presented by the cruel race from Dsôn Balsur.
The figure notched a second arrow to its curved bow and aimed straight at Hakulana.
Dropping the corpse in her arms, the girl vaulted swiftly to one side, but felt a burning sensation in her left shoulder. She had been hit.
With a curse she broke the arrow’s shaft, leaving the tip embedded in her arm for now. Keeping in the shelter of the ruins and rubble, she slid down to the nervous horses and tried to mount one.
Just as she managed to grab the mane to swing herself up onto its saddleless back, it collapsed in a heap, struck in the right eye by an arrow.
Showing great presence of mind, she quickly transferred herself to the next animal, clambering on it just before it raced off in terror. The next missile missed her by the breadth of a hand, but buried itself in the horse’s neck, spurring it to double its speed.
Lightning struck all around. The troop leader had never experienced a worse storm. But in spite of the thunder she could hear something else. Rhythmical pounding. She looked back over her shoulder.
The monster was pursuing her! Pursuing her with huge strides and in all its terrifying ugliness, its lipless mouth gaping wide, and issuing loud snorts. Its boots left dents in the soft earth, from which water spurted up as it bounded along.
“Faster, faster,” she urged her horse, forcing the arrow deeper into its flesh to spur it on.
The monster took aim with one of its axes and was about to hurl it at the fleeing girl when Hakulana received truly divine help.
The next lightning bolt shot down from the black clouds to meet the tip of the raised ax blade. All the rune signs on the armor and weapons flashed bright green. The eyes, too, behind the helmet mask, sent out a light brighter than that of any lantern.
The power of the lightning was too much even for a creature of Tion’s. It crashed down at speed, dropping its weapons, to lie motionless on the ground, steam rising from it.
Hakulana did not fall into the error of stopping. She rode on through the storm to find the nearest garrison. If she did not reach the safety of its walls alive there would be no one to carry the news to Girdlegard of the unslayable she had seen.
IX
Girdlegard,
Queendom of Weyurn,
Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Rodario ran for all he was worth. The cave was long and narrow, and at the far end a path led steeply upwards to an iron gateway. The water was already lapping round his ankles, so he raced to reach the opening.
Realizing it was unlikely to open for him he rushed past and tried to find somewhere further up where he might get inside the mountain without being seen.
As the water mounted so did the fear that he might not survive this unexpected adventure. Finally, well hidden between the rocks he found an iron grating emitting foul gases. Before common sense could prevent him, he had opened the grating and forced himself inside, climbing up the chimney-like shaft.
Up and up, as if the flue would open at the very top of the mountain. The all-pervasive smell of rotten eggs made Rodario gag, cough and splutter, but, using hands and feet, he continued to work his way upwards, until finally he slipped through an opening into a large chamber.
Water was bubbling into a huge pool below him, filling more and more of the hollow space. If the iron door ten paces in front of him stayed shut he would be done for.
Rodario hurried to the door and prayed that no sentry would be standing guard. Pushing on the bolt, which miraculously moved in his hands, he found and turned a small wheel above it. It clicked several times in succession as he continued to turn it; then the door opened and he was able to escape to safety.
No one was expecting him, spear at the ready.
He found himself at the end of a twisting passage with rounded walls polished like marble. Moss glimmered and spread a faint brownish light.
Carefully he moved forwards, listening out for suspicious noises that might warn of a possible encounter with an älf. He remembered how silently Narmora, the partner of his friend Furgas, had moved. She was part älf. Presumably, then, he wouldn’t notice an älf coming until after it had cut his throat.
Soon he found himself in front of a door similar to the last; this one was secured with several bolts and a wheel-lock. Rodario opened it a little way, halting when he felt heat from the other side, and heard noises—dull thuds at regular intervals: the stamp and hiss of machinery, the clunk of forge hammers, the sounds of workmen calling to each other. The air smelled of hot metal, of slack, of coal fire and of oil. Going by his ears and nostrils alone he would have said he was in a forge in the fifthling realm.
To avoid immediate discovery, he crouched down on all fours, pulled the door open and crawled inside. Underneath him was an iron platform attached to a metal ladder.
Rodario’s heart stood still. On the ladder were two älfar! They wore black armor, held spears in their hands and were looking down.
“That was worth the wait,” said the blond one. “A nice fat sailing boat with lots of crew and passengers to set to work for the master.”
“Then we can stop work at last,” laughed his friend, scratching his ear; the tip had come away in his hand. “Oh, damn, the resin’s gone soft again. Wretched heat!”
Rodario had already started to wonder why the älfar were talking in human language. Now he understood. They were acting. These “älfar” were just men, dressed up as älfar; they gained their height from special shoes they were wearing. The disguise might have deceived a simple peasant or a fisherman, but not him.
“It’s a shame we had to kill so many of the injured,” said the blond one, helping the other to mend his ear.
“Looking after them just takes too much time.” He laughed. “And the prisoners enjoyed the goulash.”
Rodario peered over the edge of the platform. Below was a workshop two hundred paces in size, with machine floors on several levels. Forges had been set up in niches in the rock face, and platforms like the one he was on had been fastened together and fixed into the stone with strengthening beams. These too served as smithies.
Humans, chained hand and foot, were working to produce various metal shapes, including wheels and iron rods. Each worker had a set number of repeated movements to carry out, and finished items were thrown into the wire cages that traveled up and down at speed on a chain. At the bottom of the workstation these were unloaded and carried out by yet more prisoners.
Several machines were as big as a house, moving by means of cog wheels, pulleys and pistons, with belts and chains traveling over the cogs towa
rd other devices that they powered. In places, some of the belts passed through the walls to other chambers.
The machines emitted hissing clouds of steam. People ran around, shoveling coal or pouring water into huge containers for the boilers. The noise close to them must have been unbearable.
Rodario had no idea what was going on. But this island had nothing to do with älfar, that much was clear. It was what the inhabitants of Weyurn were expected to believe, however, meaning that they would stay away at all costs and never talk about it. The best form of concealment.
Feet came stomping up the stairway. “Hey, you two! You’re supposed to be standing guard, not playing with your ears!” Next to the men there appeared a dark-haired dwarf in leather breeches, boots and a leather apron. His naked torso, decorated with tattoos, shone with sweat. In his hand he swung a smith’s hammer as if it were made of tin and balsa wood.
From his voice Rodario recognized him as the man who had attacked him outside his caravan. He was sure now that the barge he’d been following had not broken up on the island, but it had disappeared inside it. The island must have sunk down again causing Rodario’s nutshell-boat to capsize.
“It’s the heat, Master Bandilor,” protested the one who’d been told off. “It makes the resin go soft.”
“Then sew it on properly,” growled the dwarf. “I don’t want to see this sort of thing again, you fingering each other’s ears, right? If one of the prisoners sees it, the masquerade is over.” He turned his head and Rodario saw the thick beard, dyed blood red. “Did either of you leave that bulkhead open?”
“No,” said the blond one. “I’ve no desire to burn up.”
Bandilor’s eyebrows crinkled. “Did Mistress Veltaga come past you on her way to check the second chamber?” He walked past them, his hammer held at the ready.