by Markus Heitz
The ship slid past while the waves pounded against the cliff fifty paces away. Veils of spray rose up and blew over to their vessel covering everything with a thin damp film. Tungdil was wide awake now.
“I’ll tell Lot-Ionan,” he said to Sirka and hurried off. It felt like running away almost. But deep inside he was burning to know more about her and her culture, before committing himself. Too many open questions had to be answered.
He knocked at the cabin door. “We have arrived, Lot-Ionan.”
The magus could read the unspoken question about how Dergard was shaping up. “Come in,” he invited, closing the door behind him.
Dergard was sitting on a bench, not looking very happy.
“My young friend here knows a few good formulae to make magic with, but he understandably lacks experience,” Lot-Ionan began. “I, on the other hand, have plenty of experience but the time I spent turned to stone has left gaps in my memory.” He touched himself on the temple. “Sometimes there’s a syllable missing, or my hands make the wrong movement. That can ruin any spell.”
“What does that mean for our project, magus?”
“That Dergard and I need each other’s help to confront the unslayables. One of us without the other won’t be much use.”
“You are more than one hundred cycles ahead of me, honored Lot-Ionan,” said Dergard.
“It would be strange if that were not the case, but it does not alter the fact that my tongue or my hands may let me down. We don’t have the time I would need to rectify the gaps in my memory.” Lot-Ionan looked at Tungdil and the ax. “It will lie as ever in your hands to do all the fighting. Dergard and I will offer support, but probably no more than that.” He was about to touch Tungdil’s head but halted suddenly, caught by a flash of pain in his back. “Damned old age,” he muttered. “Why have I got no spells for that?”
Tungdil considered the matter. “Let’s not tell anyone about your state of health,” he suggested. “The unslayables have to believe that you two are the ones to fear. Otherwise I shan’t be able to get near enough to use Keenfire. Do you agree?”
Lot-Ionan smiled. “You are a good general, I see. We’ll let friends and foe alike think that Dergard and I are the only ones up to taking on the älfar leaders.”
The ship’s progress slowed; shouts and trampling feet up on deck showed they were docking.
“Now let us see about the elf,” said Lot-Ionan, stepping out of the cabin in the lead. The group left the ship, passed the little town and climbed up to the shrine, where its custodian was waiting: a man of about sixty cycles, slightly bald and with a red nose from too much wine. His clothing was in disarray as if flung on hastily.
“Welcome back.” He bowed and led them past walls lined with bookshelves. Here were kept the ancient records of Weyurn’s subjects: births, marriages and deaths. Queen Wey wanted to be able to trace the history of her land. “Your elf has not yet come round, but he still lives.” The man put on an important air. “That is due to my care, of course, as well as to his own stamina.” They stopped three paces short of tall double doors. “I am no medicus but I would say that a human would have died long since.” His dull, drunkard’s eyes swiveled to Lot-Ionan. “Is he your medicus?”
“Indeed,” said the magus, to avoid further discussion. He opened the right-hand door and went in, accompanied by Dergard, Tungdil, Ireheart, Sirka, Goda and Rodario. The rest stayed in the halls of the shrine waiting to hear what the two magi might achieve.
The room was flooded with evening light and smelt of the lake and summer. Open windows let in the sound of the waves, fresh air and fine droplets of spray from the spume as the waters hit the cliffs below the building.
The elf lay, eyes closed, hands on blanket and torso wrapped in bandages.
“Thanks,” said Lot-Ionan, closing the door firmly to leave the keeper outside. “What have you tried, Dergard?” asked the magus.
“I don’t have much in the way of healing spells,” he admitted ruefully.
The older magus undid the bandage and inspected the puncture wounds in the elf’s body. At the blackened edges the flesh was rotting. “You tried the formulae you found in Nudin’s works?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me which ones.” Dergard reeled them off and the magus nodded. “These are good charms. Don’t reproach yourself for anything. But the elf needs different magic.”
He held his hands over the wounds, his eyes hazy. He intoned a spell until a bluish glow emerged from his fingertips. The light dripped slowly like thick honey onto the damaged flesh, pooling on the elf’s chest.
Lot-Ionan completed the charm, stepped back and gave a sign to Dergard, who carried on the procedure. The blue turned pale yellow now.
The magic caused the rotten flesh to be rejected. It shriveled up and fell off as dried skin onto the sheet. The holes left by the arrows closed up and healed over. Only lighter skin betrayed where the injuries had been.
“It is finished,” breathed Dergard with relief, nodding at Lot-Ionan.
“Neither of us could have done this on our own,” said the older of the two, smiling. “This is a good omen for our continued cooperation.” He stepped over to the bed. “Let us wake him up.”
Ireheart took a bowl of water and threw it on the elf’s face. “Ho, wake up, there! You’ve been asleep long enough!”
The elf jerked his eyes open. Catching sight of the grinning dwarf he instinctively slid back, hitting his head on the bedstead. His hand flew to the side where he would normally have carried his weapon.
“Don’t worry, friend,” said Tungdil in elf language. “We found you in the groves of landur with three arrows in you. Your own people had attacked you. We brought you with us here to Weyurn to look after you.” He indicated his foster-father. “This is Lot-Ionan the Forbearing and next to him is Dergard the Lonely. These magi have saved your life. I am Tungdil Goldhand. Can you tell us what happened to you?”
“Tungdil Goldhand?” exclaimed the elf with relief. “Then I am in good company! I am Esdalân, Keeper of the Groves of Revenge.”
“What’s he saying?” grumbled Ireheart. “Scholar, tell him to speak so we can all understand.”
“Are they all to be trusted?” asked Esdalân in his own language. He had understood the dwarf.
“Speak in elvish for now. I’ll decide later who needs to know what.”
The elf began his story. “I am Esdalân, baron of Jilsborn, and a good friend of Liútasil.” He took a deep breath. “My prince is dead.”
“We know. He died trying to defend the diamond, in battle with one of the monsters.”
Esdalân’s visage darkened in fury. “So that’s the lie they’re tricking you with? They’re saying he fell fighting one of the unslayables’ creatures?” He lowered his voice. “Liútasil was murdered. Four cycles ago.”
XIII
Girdlegard,
Queendom of Weyurn,
Windsport Island,
Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Esdalân took a deep breath. Relating the murder of his prince had obviously affected him. “They kept it secret and gave us excuse after excuse to cover his disappearance, and by the time we learned the truth they had moved their own people into all the positions of power. Then they took over and wiped out the last of the right-thinking elves.”
Tungdil was left speechless. “They?” he croaked. “Who are they?”
“The eoîl atár, followers of the eoîl. It’s an obsessive cult. They accord the eoîl a godlike status just short of Sitalia’s. They had demanded Liútasil join forces with the eoîl and set off to war in Girdlegard with her and her army against the creatures of Tion and Samusin. Liútasil refused and ordered them to do nothing.”
“It sounds as if they did it anyway?”
“Yes. They sent messengers to the eoîl in secret, asking to speak with her and to find out how they could help. Nobody outside the atár cult knows what she told them. Ever since then they’ve been trying to t
ake over power in landur, to restore the elves to the pure race they once were, tolerating no evil, just like the eoîl.”
In Tungdil this news broke through the last bastions of his mind like a battering ram. Sounding like an alarm in his head it made clear the significance the new elf buildings, the shrines that he and Ireheart had seen on their recent visit. It all stemmed from the eoîl’s commands!
Esdalân lowered his gaze. “We underestimated them. Their views took hold and they soon had more followers than Liútasil thought good—as he told me. When he attempted to thwart them it was too late. Like most, I did not see through their machinations until recently. After that I listened in to several exchanges. I heard them talk about the future of the diamond. They had examined it, they said, and found it was not the genuine one.”
“Examined it? How does that work?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps the eoîl let them into the secret of the magic. Our people are able to use simple charms, but your magi would not call that proper magic. Maybe the eoîl changed all that?”
“Hmm. So it wasn’t a bad thing that the stone fell into the hands of the unslayables.”
Esdalân shook his head. “It never did fall into the monsters’ hands. They made that up to explain the death of Liútasil. And they were planning to steal the rest of the diamonds from the fortress as soon as they had all been brought to Paland. Then they noticed me listening and turned to get me. I escaped in spite of their arrows.” He pressed Tungdil’s hand. “That I am still alive is thanks to you.” He gave a wry smile. “A dwarf.”
“No, not thanks to me alone. The magi have played the most important part in your recovery.”
“But they couldn’t have saved me if you hadn’t taken me with you.” Esdalân’s face grew serious. “landur is under the sway of the atár. If I have understood correctly their intention is to carry out the eoîl’s plans.”
“They want to expel evil from Girdlegard. But… those few orcs and the unslayables—”
“You’re making a mistake, Tungdil Goldhand,” the elf interrupted. “The eoîl gave them the order to destroy all evil, in no matter what form.”
“The envoys!” Tungdil remembered. “The elves sent envoys out to the various realms, apparently to exchange knowledge. But they won’t have done anything except spy on the rulers and their subjects.”
“The selection process has begun. In the end only a few races will survive in Girdlegard unless the atár are stopped. The dwarf folk have already suffered losses. The attacks on the villages and towns in Toboribor or near Borwôl are down to the atár as well. I am sure of it.”
“But how can they do it? They are committing evil themselves. Don’t they see that?” Tungdil thought of the children of the Smith whose wells had been poisoned.
“No, in their eyes it is not bad—on the contrary. When others can’t understand they take it as proof that they’re doing the right thing. As long as evil is working undercover it must be combated by those who are able to perceive it.” Esdalân took a deep breath. “They all want the diamond, Tungdil Goldhand. The diamond is the divine power of the eoîl made manifest. Even if it hurts me to say this and I must beg Sitalia’s forgiveness, it is true: No one must trust my people any longer. Their offer of friendship is a pretense. In reality they are planning dark deeds.”
Tungdil scratched his chin while his brain worked feverishly. Girdlegard was faced with its most taxing situation. The elves, undergroundlings and unslayables all claimed ownership of the diamond. For now it seemed best for the undergroundlings to have it and take it away, far from Girdlegard’s borders.
“Are there no elves left who aren’t dazzled by the propaganda?” he asked Esdalân. “Is there no resistance movement?”
“No,” he said. “I am afraid there are no clear-thinking elves anymore.”
“And,” Tungdil hesitated, “how many elves are there in landur?”
“I don’t know. I can see why you ask. If there is a war I assume all the warriors sent out from the groves of landur will obey instructions and carry out the wishes of the atár.”
Tungdil knew how skilled the elvish warriors and archers were. They were far superior in battle to the humans and even the dwarves faced an enormous challenge getting through their deadly hail of arrows in order to engage in close combat. Perhaps the undergroundling army would be fighting not Tion’s creatures but Sitalia’s, however strange the concept. Even stranger for the others.
“How much truth can Girdlegard tolerate?” he said, more to himself than to Esdalân.
“You should be asking how much of it they will believe,” said the elf. “The elves have not done anything wrong in most eyes, and have always had the reputation of being noble, the noblest race in Girdlegard. They stand for beauty, art and goodness.” His blue eyes measured Tungdil. “You believe my words because you have traveled and are wise. But put yourself in the place of the kings and queens whose support we shall be needing. They have only experienced what they see as generosity from my people. They will never believe us. The atár will think up a story that would brand me a traitor.” He gave a sigh of desperation. “None of them will challenge the atár. Not at first. And afterwards it will be too late.”
“You are right, Esdalân. None of the humans will believe it.” Tungdil looked at Sirka. “But the dwarves will, as soon as we’ve got the diamond back from the älfar, and have placed it safely away from the elves. Unless they have it they will not dare reveal their true intentions. In the calm before the storm we shall use your help to rouse the people of Girdlegard and warn them about the atár plans.”
The elf nodded. “I pray that Sitalia and all the ancestors may give their blessing to our endeavor. May the worst be avoided.” Esdalân seemed relieved to have been able to impart this terrible knowledge to another. He let his gaze sweep the room. “Whom will you tell?”
Girdlegard,
Northeastern Part of the Brown Mountains,
Fourthling Kingdom,
Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Tandibur Pitpride of the clan of the Pit Prides raced along the long basalt planks over the series of defense ditches in front of the narrow pass into Girdlegard on the Silverfast side. Each trench was seven paces long and twenty deep and the sides had knife-sharp edges to slice any hapless body that fell in: sharp enough to sever chain mail links.
Tandibur turned his head. Behind the trenches stood the mighty Goldfast fortress ready to resist any invader with its unassailable gold-colored walls. The masons had built them with a finish like upended spears; here and there jewels sparkled, giving the construction an extravagant patina. Curtain walls soared thirty paces high and behind them the watchtower was in the form of a fifty-pace-tall dwarf, its forbidding head fully rotatable, turned by chains and pony-power. On top of the tower’s stone helmet, and in the eye, ear and mouth cavities, guards stood watch, war machines to hand. Until now no monster had appeared at the gates and the catapults had never been needed.
It looked as if today might be different.
“Come on, get a move on!” he encouraged the five-score soldiers at his back. He was bringing reinforcements for the fortifications at Silverfast.
Tandibur had good reason for urgency. Silverfast was in trouble. It had been named after the silver shimmer of the stone it was built from. Gnomes’ silver, the dwarves called it: attractive to look at but worthless apart from its durability. There was a similar rationale for Goldfast’s designation.
The early fourthling builders had given Silverfast five towers pointing to the skies like the fingers of a hand, the tallest fifty paces high. From the gutter-spouts molten lead spewed onto the attackers at the gates and their screams rose up to the battlements.
A strong curtain wall connected the five towers, on which defenders ran about, firing crossbows and throwing missiles over the parapet.
The orcs had been bombarding the iron gates, battering the fourthling front line, desperate to get through. They were applying all thei
r strength, and were repulsed neither by molten lead, arrows or great lumps of rock.
If Tandibur had not known better he would have assumed something was hounding the green-skins that scared them more than fourthling axes. He glanced up at the towers where black smoke wafted. The burners under the smelting cauldrons were being fed constantly, but the troops would soon run out of lead. “We’ll have to use gold to pour down instead,” he said quietly.
The repeated thud of a battering ram echoed back from the surrounding mountains. The metal gates screamed in protest, bending under the onslaught.
“By Vraccas,” shouted one of Tandibor’s warriors. “Just listen to that! What kind of enemy makes all that din? What foe has Tion sent?”
“You’ll see them soon enough,” was Tandibur’s terse reply. “Whatever it is in the ravine at Silverfast, you’ll need courage, a stout heart and a sharp ax. They are the only things that can protect us from the monsters.”
They saw rocks as big as a man hurled at and over the walls. In places the heavy missiles had damaged the battlements, crushing anyone sheltering behind. In other places smoking sacks filled with petroleum and pitch had burst against the walls, stinking terribly and making eyes and airways smart. Waves of blazing fire swallowed the dwarves on the walkways, incinerating them in seconds. And still the castle’s defenders did not yield, but continued hurling stones down and setting off a hail of crossbow bolts.
What the newcomers saw spurred them on to fight. Reaching the broad stairs up to the encircling walkways, Tandibur split them into two groups, right and left. Dark red dwarf blood dripped down the steps as if to warn them not to go on.
A terrible sight awaited.
The walkways behind the thick fortress walls were covered in a grimly woven carpet of fast-cooling corpses: men and women they knew well. The bodies were piled so densely that they had no option but to plant their boots on flesh rather than stone. Most had been killed by arrows, others were victims of the missile showers from the catapults. The metallic reek of warm blood in puddles and streaming down the walls mixed with the stench of burned flesh and with the steaming vapors of the beasts besieging them.