by Markus Heitz
“I shall go on provoking them,” she interrupted without a moment’s hesitation. “They will go on hounding me even if I crawl into some dark hole and hide for cycle after cycle.” Mallenia surveyed the assembly.
Her fellow insurgents looked tired, fear and distress showing on many of the faces. They were frightened for their families. The death of friends, killed in the attack on the Black Squadron, had brought home to them that even the best-laid plans could go wrong.
Mallenia knew why Frederik was making this suggestion and she could not take it amiss. She smiled. “I thank you for what you have done in past cycles, but I am going to release you now,” she said kindly, trying hard to show she harbored no resentment. “From now on I ride alone.”
“My lady!” exclaimed Frederik in shock. “No! We don’t want to give up…”
She put her hand on his arm. “It’s all right, Frederik. I can’t have you all taking these risks for the sake of my struggle.”
“Gauragar is our homeland, my lady. We have the same duty as you to fight off the oppressors.” He was not prepared to drop the subject. “We are glad to have you at our side. If the Urgon group were here, they would say the same.”
Zedrik stood up. One of the sentries at Topholiton’s gates, he was a rough man of rough appearance. He was only ever to be seen in armor, as if there were no life for him outside military service. “May the gods and yourself, my lady, forgive me, but I have been wondering about our cause for a long time—whether there’s any point. We steal the tribute, kill a few thirdlings maybe, but does this make anything better for the people here in Gauragar?” Zedrik sounded disconsolate. “The people support us but they are the ones to suffer when the reprisals come.”
“What do you suggest?” Frederik studied him. “Do you want to kowtow to the black-eyes forever and a day? Is that what you want for your children and their children? This oppression?”
“It’s how it used to be, and we managed all right; it’s not a bad life,” replied Zedrik with a sigh. “We pay up and they leave us in peace.”
Mallenia followed the dispute attentively, her decision now reinforced by what she’d heard. They must break up their organization. The butcher did not want to give up, as she had first thought, but some of the others did. Too many. Fear could lead to betrayal, just as a high reward might.
Frederik was disgusted. “Just how stupid are you, Zedrik? What happens when we’ve nothing left to pay them with? When they raze our villages to the ground because they want the land for their preposterous art projects; want to change everything to fit in with their mad ideas of aesthetics?” he cried, exasperated. “Does nobody remember what happened in Tareniaborn?”
Tareniaborn. Mallenia swallowed hard and the thought of the town with its forty thousand men, women and children, filled her with horror. Nothing like that had ever happened before.
It had been eleven cycles ago. One of the älfar princes had decided to turn the town into a work of art: Tareniaborn and all the land surrounding it.
To this day no one knew whether the älf had gone mad or whether each and every town in Idoslane could expect a similar fate.
“You were there, my lady. Think of how cruel our over-lords were,” Frederik demanded grimly. “And bear in mind, they’re not going to shrink from violence on that scale if the fancy takes them again.” All eyes in the cellar were on Mallenia.
“I can’t say how it happened. I arrived when it was all over,” she said. “I came on the town by accident when out riding with some volunteers. We were up on a hill and had a good view of the town and plain.” She felt a fluttering in her stomach and started to feel sick. “We saw patterns in the snow round the walls, and the whole town glistened red. Everything, absolutely everything, was covered in a layer of frozen blood. Red ice, everywhere!” She saw in her mind’s eye the ghastly lanes and alleys of Tareniaborn. “In the marketplace they’d strung up the hearts of the inhabitants, pierced with silver wire and silver rods, twisting them together to make a giant tree, the hearts of the adults on the trunk, those of the children on the twigs. And they’d hung the heads of newborn babes like fruit from the branches.”
She could not go on. The tree and all its gory detail had swamped her imagination. The tiny bunches of different-colored hair, attached to look like leaves, making the whole work so horrendous…
Mallenia saw the disgust in the eyes of those around her. “Be glad you didn’t see it.” She continued softly, “In the fields round about they’d stripped and eviscerated the bodies, using the bones to form huge symbols on the ground, with the town at the center. Maybe it was all dedicated to one of their gods, who knows. But it was so incredibly awful that you actually had to look at it. A terrifying fascination. Bone laid next to bone as if there had never been another function for them apart from making those symbols on the ground.” The young woman looked at Zedrik. “They’d placed the intestines in between the bones to give color. When we first saw it from the distance we didn’t know what it was made of. Then we used our telescopes…”
The watchman ran outside, two others following him, not wanting to vomit over the feet of their friends.
Frederik had grown very pale, but kept his head. “And yet you think of giving up?” he confronted the others. “If the älfar decide to turn Topholiton into a work of art—you’ll die with the knowledge that you were too cowardly to stand up and resist!” Anger had brought out the veins on his forehead.
“So what do we do?” called Zedrik from the doorway, wiping his mouth. The tips of his boots were shiny and wet, bits of food still clinging to them. “Go to war? Against the thirdlings and the älfar? We’d have to kill our own families first so they’re not executed by the enemy.” He gave a choked laugh. “No one can save us from them, Frederik. Only the gods, perhaps, but they must have made up their minds to make us suffer for many cycles yet.”
“The gods would come to our help if we dared to rebel against the vassal-rulers,” replied the butcher fervently, but he was calmed by Mallenia’s hand on his shoulder.
“I know how worried you all are but I do see that I should withdraw from the campaign for a time, as my good friend Frederik suggests,” she announced, and a sigh of relief went round the room. “I shall let you know when we next ride out together but, until then, stay with your families and behave as if nothing were wrong. I need you alive.” She stood up. “There will come a time when we will rise up against the älfar, but it will not be tomorrow and will not be in thirty orbits. We will know when an opportunity presents itself, and all three of the realms will be ready and waiting.” She drew her sword and held it high. “For Gauragar, Urgon and Idoslane! For freedom for all!”
They all echoed her cry, cheering and applauding Mallenia, descendant of the famous prince.
Suddenly the lamps went out!
Somebody laughed nervously in the dark, others cried out in dismay, calling for light; Mallenia could hear that at least two of the conspirators had drawn their swords, fearing an attack—or was this an attack?
She ducked down and placed her left hand on her second sword, thinking through various possibilities of who could be attacking her here in the cellar: The thirdlings with Hargorin, some bounty hunters or the Dsôn Aklán älfar?
She realized there had not been a draft strong enough to extinguish all four lamps. Magic? A particular sort of magic. The hairs stood up on the back of her neck. Have they found me?
The cellar door banged open, dim light coming from the windows opposite.
A figure stood on the threshold, bending slightly forward, a long sword in his hand. The conspirators immediately recognized the sharply pointed ears and were terrified by the sight, because they knew what it meant for all those in the cellar: Death.
Behind the älf stood the sheriff, his face like wax in the light of a single ray of light.
“Well, well, what have we here? The rebels,” said the älf in a velvety voice. “Well spotted, Sheriff. They have indeed broken into your
cellar to steal supplies.” The tone betrayed that he was protecting the sheriff and did not intend to connect him with the deeds of the rebels. The älf took a bag of gold from his belt and threw it over his shoulder, so that it fell in the snow in front of the sheriff. “Here—here’s your reward.”
“Have mercy, sire!” Zedrik was the first to whine. “Have mercy on our families! They knew nothing about what we’ve done.” Sinking to his knees at the bottom of the steps, which were the only way out of the cellar, he stretched up his arms in supplication. “Spare their lives!”
The älf took two steps down in order to accommodate his full height. They could still only see his silhouette because the light was behind him. No one had dared try to relight the candles.
“So what exactly have you done? Let’s have some confessions and then your families shall be allowed to continue to enjoy the light of day.” He raised his sword arm and rested the weapon in the crook of his right arm as if he were holding a baby. “What do I hear?”
Zedrik sobbed. “We are guilty…”
“… guilty of wanting freedom for Gauragar,” interrupted Mallenia, standing up. “Of wanting to throw out our oppressors, the älfar, the thirdlings and the vassal-rulers, and bring them to justice!”
“No,” shouted Zedrik. “Be quiet! You don’t know…”
“Yes I do. I know full well. They are hunting down not only me but all who belong to the line of my forefather, Prince Mallen.” She stared at the älf. “Look at him,” she urged the conspirators. “He is playing a game and has no intention of sparing any of you. The only way to save your loved ones is to kill him before he learns your names and can pass them on.” The young woman clenched her two swords tight in her fists and took up an attack stance.
The älf raised his head and looked at her. “Mallenia! I would be lying if I said I had not expected to find you here.” He still kept his sword up against the crook of his arm, but let go of the hilt and drew something out from beneath his mantle. He tossed it to her. “I found this. Is it yours?”
An envelope fell at her feet. She recognized it at once. It contained a warning to Hindrek, a second cousin thrice removed. The fact the letter was here at her feet made it plain what had happened to him and his family. “Monsters, you are monsters. You deserve death a thousand times over,” she hissed.
“Isn’t it strange, then, that we bring thousandfold death rather than receiving it?” He made a gesture and the lamps were relit. Then he put his hand back on the hilt of his weapon. “We bring death ourselves if we must. Or if we are in the mood. I was outside the cellar for some time, listening to what you said about Tareniaborn.” His tone was conversational, as if he were chatting to friends or at some reception. The metal plates of his lamellar armor showed under his cloak. “I was moved by your words, proud of having had the pleasure of being the creator of the work of art you described. I, Tirîgon, designed the work you had admired in awe.” He bowed in her direction. “It was both a pleasure and an honor to elevate the town in such a way and to release the inhabitants from their mortal concerns. All älfar remember Tareniaborn fondly. Humans, one finds, are at least good for one thing.”
The horror experienced by the people in the cellar was palpable.
The älf was pleased to note it. “The vast gap between our race and yours is one that cannot be bridged,” he said, breaking the silence. “On occasions such as this I notice it particularly: You are not prepared to take up your swords and kill for any other cause than to fight for freedom, or to gain riches or power. My race, however, can. Death and art form a unit. The transitory nature of life moves with grandeur and perfection.” Tirîgon paused and looked at them all with regret. His eyes were steely blue, reflecting the lights. “I can see some very acceptable bone formations here in rather ugly bodies. They could be put to satisfactory aesthetic use.”
Mallenia had heard enough of his self-glorification. She charged up to the älf, her swords in her hands.
Her opponent laughed with delight. “What bravery! What passion! Your bones will form an exquisite decoration. I do appreciate boldness and courage.” He took his sword in both hands and held it out horizontally in front of him. The blade measured at least two arm-lengths and on a conventional battleground would bring its bearer enormous advantage of range—but between the barrels, tubs and shelves in the cellar the long sword imposed its own restrictions. This is what Mallenia was counting on.
Frederik followed her lead and swung his butcher’s cleaver.
“Mind out!” she shouted to the men and women. “They are triplets. There will be two more somewhere.” Then she had reached the älf and thrust his sword aside, ducking down and stabbing with her second weapon.
But the enemy had a devilish turn of speed and possessed skills she could not have dreamed of.
Tirîgon took off from the ground, leaping off the side wall and using the momentum to run several steps up toward the ceiling. After this acrobatic achievement, which he managed easily despite the weight of his armor, he landed behind Frederik and stabbed him in the back of the neck so that the sword emerged from his open mouth. From the front it looked as if the man were sticking out his tongue—a tongue made of pointed steel.
“Not a bad try, Mallenia,” the älf mocked. “If the bold butcher hadn’t been standing behind you, you’d be dead now.” With a sudden jerk he twisted the blade and pulled it up vertically. The metal had been sharpened to such a degree that the head was cut in two halves. Blood, brains and liquid gushed out, splashing onto the floor of the cellar, then Frederik dropped forward where he stood, the butcher’s cleaver crashing to the ground. The two halves of his head shifted, giving him a grotesque appearance.
Mallenia whirled round, one sword aimed at Tirîgon’s head, the other at his belly. But now he was no longer standing behind her—or rather, yes, there he was, again.
The young woman felt the draft go through her blond hair, while her sword thrust met empty air. Then she was hit on the back, a blow that sent her flying against one of the stone sauerkraut vessels.
She landed against it, banging her hip, fell over it and came to rest lying by a tub of salted meat. She twisted on the floor and held her two blades up, crossed in front of her body for protection.
Not a moment too soon: Blades clashed and her arms took the force of the recoil. The älf had delivered a mighty blow. His weapon was a finger’s breadth away from her nose.
With an angry roar she shoved his blade aside and kicked him in the middle. Even though the armor took much of the impact Tirîgon was forced backwards.
He laughed and circled his blade in the air, then gripped it again with both hands while Mallenia stood up and moved away from the stone tub.
She wanted a wall at her back. The enemy was too quick for her, and was superior in skill and strength. She did not think she stood a chance of leaving the cellar alive, being well aware that the älf was playing a game with her. Arrogance often came before a fall, however.
Her friends had moved back out of her way, following this uneven duel with fascination.
“Is this cellar full of cowards?” Tirîgon mocked. “There are twenty of you… nineteen to one, if you so wish! Mallenia was right: If you don’t kill me, your families will die—and yet still you are standing around like lemons, doing nothing?” He winked at Mallenia. “I owe your courage this mark of respect: You’ll be the last one to die. Watch me and learn. You will need the knowledge to use against me.” He took two swift steps, leaped on to the tub and launched himself into the air.
He landed feet first on the wall and ran up it diagonally to the ceiling and down the other side. As he ran he wielded his sword so nimbly against the conspirators gathered below him that the eye could not follow its movements. With every slash blood spurted high out of deep wounds. Screams echoed around.
He landed gracefully on a wine barrel and held his sword diagonally away from himself, surveying the scene with satisfaction at the speed of his attack. More than h
alf of the rebels lay dead on the floor of the cellar. He left no wounded. “The art lies in avoiding the bones to save them for future use,” he explained to the survivors, lifting the bloody blade. “As you know your fate now, are you ready to defend yourselves yet?”
Three women turned tail and made for the door.
But two more älfar were standing there, unmistakably the missing siblings Mallenia had warned them of. The Dsôn Aklán were all accounted for. They blocked the doorway with their mere presence and without drawing a weapon. Dark smiles were threat enough.
Tirîgon sprang down from the wine barrel to face the survivors, who now were determinedly drawing their swords and knives and surrounding him. “That was a long time coming,” he observed maliciously. “My promise is this: If you can injure me—give me the slightest of scratches—your families shall live. Because you won’t be able to kill me,” said the älf complacently. He placed his sword in the scabbard he wore on his back. Presenting himself, unarmed, to the crowd, he stretched out his arms and turned on the spot. “What are we waiting for?”
Mallenia looked at the two älfar by the door. They had not moved. They were leaving their sibling to take his pleasure as he wished—then the älf woman turned to face Mallenia.
The haughty expression on the älf sister’s countenance turned to curiosity. She was about to move forward, but her brother held her back. Her blue eyes stayed fixed on the Ido princess, as if she were studying the face of an old friend.
Mallenia had no idea why she was attracting such interest. Shaking off her sense of unease, she stepped over the dead bodies to reach the handful of her loyal followers about to enter the fray.
If she died, she wanted to die among her own people, fighting for Gauragar. Her movements were governed by an obsession to inflict a wound on the älf Tirîgon, thereby saving their families.
Tirîgon adjusted his tionium arm protectors and waited with a smile.