by Markus Heitz
“Shush,” hissed the man at the window. “Keep your voices down. Someone’s outside.”
“Can you see who it is?” whispered the woman.
“Three people. They’re armed and they’re standing outside the door.”
“They’re…” At the last second, Rodario, who was about to identify the trio as his purse-snatching pursuers, changed his mind. He gave the rope a final jerk; it was loose enough for him to break free at the first opportunity. “They’re my guards,” he lied, deciding to add to the confusion by claiming to be a spy after all. “They’re under orders to put an end to your treachery.”
The woman slapped him. “You almost had me fooled.” She glanced at the men. “Kill him. We’ll escape through the back.”
“They’ve covered both exits,” said Rodario quickly, managing to sound confident and disdainful in spite of his fear. “Give yourselves up and your lives will be spared. I’m sure the maga will be merciful, provided you confess.”
“Confess? We haven’t committed any crime. No, I’d rather die than throw myself on the mercy of the usurper.” She drew a dagger from the leather belt across her shoulder and tried to plunge it into his heart.
Rodario kicked her as hard as he could in the crotch. “Count yourself lucky you’re not a man!” he muttered unsympathetically when she groaned. Jumping to his feet, he grabbed the back of the chair and brought it down on the head of the man who was rushing toward him. A wooden leg snapped off, flew through the air, and shattered the crown glass window.
“They’re coming!” shouted the other man, unsheathing his sword. “Death to the supporters of Andôkai!” He darted outside and charged toward them. Rodario couldn’t see what happened next, but he knew from the sound of clattering steel that the famulus and the thieves had met.
Meanwhile, the woman had recovered sufficiently to launch a new attack. He fended her off with the broken chair while her companion rushed out to help his friend. Lightning crackled and Rodario caught a glimpse of a flickering red glow on the pavement outside. Voices shouted in panic; then a man let out an agonized scream.
“Die, villain!” The woman’s dagger hurtled toward him.
Rodario had enough time to step aside and thrust the back of the chair into her belly. Then, flipping it over, he slammed it seat-first against her head. The chair broke apart, tearing her hood. She slumped to the ground, blood gushing from her head. The dagger embedded itself in the floorboards.
The impresario swooped down and crouched over her, clamping her arms to the ground with his knees. Her breath came in short gasps, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “It seems the gods are on my side,” he laughed, ripping off her mask with a theatrical gesture.
He saw a charming little face. Blood was trickling through her long dark hair and into her eyes, which gave her a slightly rakish look. He guessed her age at twenty cycles.
“Well, pretty one, it’s time for you to talk,” he said, fighting back his natural exuberance, which was urging him to celebrate his unexpected victory with a kiss. “You said you saw the maga. What was she doing?”
She tried to shake him off. “You know perfectly well what she was doing,” she said, gasping for breath. Her resistance subsided, and she resorted to threats. “Let go of me this instant or I’ll send you up in flames.”
Rodario grinned and stroked his beard. “I’d like to see you try. Why would you use a dagger if you could attack me with magic instead? You’re just a novice, aren’t you?” He pulled the blade from the floor and placed the tip above her heart. “Tell me what you saw. What was the maga doing?”
“Talking to two men,” she said angrily. “Why am I bothering? You know all this already.” Her legs shot up and wrapped themselves around his neck, her calves pushing against his throat. Bracing herself, she pulled back with all her might.
Rodario’s neck creaked in protest. Fearful that his spine was about to break, he shifted his weight.
The famula freed her arms and slid away with the slipperiness of a serpent. Scrambling to her feet, she kicked him in the crotch. “Too bad that you’re a man,” she said spitefully.
He doubled up, holding the dagger in front of him while he recovered from the pain.
Just then one of her companions appeared in the doorway. Blood was pouring from a gash in his arm and he could barely hold himself upright. By now the whole neighborhood was awake and people were shouting for the guards. “Quick, Nufa,” he panted. “We need to get out of here.”
The woman ran over and half carried him out of the room toward the back door. Before she disappeared, she shot a final, murderous glance at the impresario.
But Rodario wasn’t finished with her yet. According to the famula, Andôkai had left the palace in the dead of night to meet two men, but Andôkai was mistress of Porista; she could summon anyone to the palace whenever she liked.
Something’s going on here, and I’m going to find out what. He straightened up carefully and shuffled out of the room. Little Rodario and his two plump brothers were throbbing in protest, and the pain was almost more than he could bear.
Nufa and the famulus were at the door. “Get back!” she shouted, grabbing her wounded comrade’s sword and waving it threateningly at Rodario. “Next time I set eyes on you, I swear I’ll kill you.”
“Are you sure you don’t want a part in my play?” he asked, still clutching his groin. “I’m looking for a new actress and when I see you standing there, sword in hand, so daring, so courageous… You’d be a natural on stage.”
A dark figure landed behind her and straightened up, revealing his imposing height. There was a sound of grating metal.
“Watch out!” shouted Rodario, who, for reasons that weren’t entirely clear to him, wanted to save her.
The famula ducked as a blade measuring two full paces whistled through the air. The gleaming metal sliced through the ends of her long dark hair and bit into the man’s torso. The two halves of his body fell to the ground.
Rodario knew that Andôkai’s bodyguard would carry out his mission with ruthless efficiency, but still he hobbled forward, positioning himself in front of Nufa. “Do as I say if you want to survive,” he whispered over his shoulder. “You’d better tell me everything you know about Andôkai.” She nodded, her eyes wide with fear. “Don’t hurt her, Djern,” he told the metal visor. “We need her alive.”
A terrible purple light shone through the eyeholes. Djern waited, frozen in position. His hand was outstretched and his sword was perpendicular to the ground. The famulus’s blood trickled down the blade, collected around the hilt, and splashed onto the cobbles.
“ Djern,” he said slowly, “I need you to spare her. She hasn’t answered my questions, and Andôkai will be angry if you kill her. The woman can’t hurt us; she’s not armed.” He stepped aside to prove that Nufa wasn’t a threat.
There was nothing he could do to prevent what happened next.
The giant’s arm shot up in a flash of metal, and his long sword whizzed over Rodario’s head, past his face, and into Nufa’s collarbone. Screaming in agony, she sank down, blood gushing from the wound.
“No!” cried Rodario, throwing himself onto his knees. “I’m so sorry, Nufa. I didn’t think he would… I mean…” He glanced at the open wound and felt a rush of nausea.
Her bloodied fingers reached for his collar; she pulled his head toward her and whispered in his ear. “The maga… two men… a pouch,” she gasped. “Dagger… magus’s crest…”
He was suddenly struck by an improbable thought. “Do you know their names?”
Nufa nodded. “Gran…” Her eyes filled with fear. “No!” The sword brushed past his shoulder and sliced through her mouth, cleaving her skull from top to bottom.
Rodario looked at Djern in horror and disbelief. He stroked Nufa’s arm and straightened up to face the giant. “You killed her, you monster! Don’t you realize she was about to…” It dawned on him that the famula had been killed for a reason; another ill-consi
dered word, and he would share her fate. “She was about to tell me the names of the other conspirators,” he continued. “Andôkai will be furious.”
The maga’s bodyguard sheathed his sword. It wasn’t possible to tell whether he had heard or understood anything that Rodario had said. There was nothing but darkness behind his visor. Turning, he strode down the alleyway and disappeared.
Rodario, shaken by what had happened, sat down on an empty barrel beside the back door and gazed at the bodies. She would have made a good actress, he thought sadly as he looked at the famula’s once-pretty face.
Djern had brought the sword up and down so cleanly that the famula almost seemed to be asleep. But the giant’s ruthless deed was the spark that ignited Rodario’s smoldering suspicions. His worst fears had been confirmed. I might have guessed that no good would come of spying for Narmora.
VII
Dsôn,
Kingdom of Dsôn Balsur,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
The black velvet glove caressed the diamonds on the blade, stroked the shimmering inlay of precious metals, and slid down the haft of the ax. The fingers closed around the sigurdaisy wood and lifted the weapon gently from its bed of dark brocade. “It’s heavy,” said the melodious voice of a male älf.
The bearer of the gift was kneeling at the bottom of the black marble steps that led up to the pair of thrones. She held the cushion aloft, but her gaze was fixed on the stairs; ordinary älfar were forbidden from looking at their rulers. “Indeed it is, Nagsor Inàste. For many miles I bore its weight.”
“You should have sought our approval beforehand, Ondori,” the female älf said gently. “By rights you should be punished, but the success of your mission absolves you of your guilt.”
“You are most generous, Nagsar Inàste,” said a humble Ondori, watching as the gloved fingers returned the ax to its cushion.
“What happened to the groundling?” enquired the male älf.
“He fell into a pond the color of the night, your Highness. His companion drowned as well. We waited two orbits, but they didn’t surface. The weight of their mail must have dragged them to the bottom.” Ondori’s face was flushed with anger. “I almost had him, but his weapons belt broke and he fell from my grip. I wanted him to die by my hand, not in the muddy waters of a nameless ditch in godforsaken Lesinteïl. My sisters and I lost our parents to the groundling. I swore to kill him slowly and cruelly: His death was too kind.” It was clear from her tone that she took scant comfort in her victory over the dwarf.
“Every älf in this kingdom lost loved ones at the Blacksaddle,” the lady of Dsôn said calmly. “Does it give you the right to forsake your duty and settle a private score? No, Ondori, you were wrong to act as you did. It’s as well that you returned to us with the weapon—we have a use for it already.”
“You wanted to go to the Gray Range, and now you shall,” said Nagsor, his voice no longer friendly. “You and your friends are to leave tomorrow. Take Keenfire with you, and join forces with the orcs. We’ll see what happens to the groundlings’ courage when they hear how you robbed them of their hero and their ax. The orcs will break their defenses; you will break their will.”
“I beg your pardon, your Highness. Which orcs?”
“Thousands of troopers skirted our eastern border,” explained the älvish lord. “They were heading north—we think they mean to seize the groundlings’ hall.”
Ondori was taken aback by the news. “Why didn’t they stop to help us?” she asked angrily. “Surely they must have realized that Dsôn Balsur was under attack? I don’t see why we should repay the stinking cowards for their treachery by lending them the mightiest weapon in the land. What will we get in return?”
“Power,” chorused the voices.
“Your task is to ensure that we are party to the orcish victory,” explained Nagsor. “We can’t allow the orcs to defeat the groundlings without our help. You must stake our claim to the underground kingdom: The Gray Range is to be our refuge if Dsôn Balsur falls.”
“If Dsôn Balsur falls?” echoed Ondori. The prospect of the älfar’s defeat was so shocking that she almost forgot to avert her gaze from the all-powerful rulers. “But the humans have advanced barely half a mile. They’ll never…”
“The humans are paying dearly for laying siege to our borders. Hundreds have died already. Their stubborn generals refuse to heed the advice of the elves, and their soldiers are easy targets for our archers.” The lady of Dsôn leaned forward, as Ondori knew from her rippling hem. “But our troops are outnumbered. Every orbit the enemy grows more powerful as new recruits flock to the front, drawn by the promise of stolen älvish riches. The alliance between the men, elves, and dwarves is stronger than ever. Their purpose is clear: to destroy Dsôn Balsur. Together they can defeat us—it’s only a matter of time.”
Fabric rustled, and a hand settled gently on Ondori’s head. She saw a gleaming blade engraved with runes. Its tip touched her forehead and cut a line from left to right. The blade came toward her again as Nagsar used the blood to trace a symbol on her brow.
“May Inàste be with you, Ondori,” she said. “Bless your friends as I have blessed you, then ride to the fifthling kingdom. Your heart may not quicken at the prospect of aiding the orcs, but the future of our kingdom is in your hands.” The lady’s voice was so gentle, so melodious that Ondori scarcely felt the gash in her brow.
“What if the orcs don’t want our help, Nagsar Inàste?”
“Then you must take this ax and slay their chieftain. Let them see the extent of our power. A handful of groundlings are rumored to live in the stronghold, but you will lead the charge against them. Intimidate the troopers and they will obey.”
Ondori felt Nagsar lift her hand from her head, signaling that it was time for her to go.
Still kneeling and with her head bowed, she shuffled backward away from the steps, holding Keenfire on the cushion in front of her. Little by little she retreated across the black marble floor.
At last she was out of the throne room and the blind doormen stepped forward to close the black tionium doors. She stood up and inspected the legend engraved on the metal.
LOOK NOT UPON
THE EVERLASTING CHILDREN OF INÀSTE
NAGSOR AND NAGSAR
BROTHER AND SISTER
WHOSE BEAUTIFUL COUNTENANCES
TORTURE THE EYES
RAVAGE THE SOUL
AND CONSUME THE HEART WITH
DEADLY FIRE
BOW YOUR HEAD IN REVERENCE
AND FEAR
Ondori shuddered, remembering how close she had come to lifting her gaze. No one knew exactly what happened to those who disregarded the warning, but from time to time an älf would be summoned by the immortal siblings, never to be seen again, a sure sign that the penalty was death.
Ondori dislodged the dried blood from her eyelids, taking care not to smudge the symbol on her brow.
“It’s time for you to leave,” said one of the doormen, fixing her with his unseeing gaze. “Come with me.” He marched toward her and positioned himself at her side, his movements so precise and confident that Ondori almost doubted his blindness. “Put your hand on my shoulder,” he instructed her. She felt the cool metal of his ceremonial armor beneath her right palm.
The beauty of the high-ceilinged corridors was lost on Ondori’s guide. Panels of gleaming silver and matt tionium accentuated the polished darkness of the wooden walls, while colorful murals, painted with the blood of the älfar’s enemies, depicted glorious victories—the conquest of the elves, the defeat of the human armies, the seizure of new land, and the creation of Dsôn Balsur, the beautiful, sinister jewel in the älfar’s crown.
Ondori stopped short, noticing an empty panel on the wall. The best artists among her folk had sketched the outlines of a magnificent painting showing the death of Liútasil, lord of the elves. Will it ever be finished?
The blood of different creatures gave rise t
o an impressive array of colors. Ondori spotted the insipid red of humans, the green hues of orcs and bögnilim, the bright red of the elves, and the dark crimson of the groundlings.
It took a great deal of skill to paint with blood. The artists added special herbs and essences to stop it clotting, but the mixture had to be used at once. Ondori thought of the empty easels in her parents’ home. Her mother had been an accomplished artist, but the groundlings had murdered her in Greenglade, and none of her daughters felt like painting anymore.
“Keep walking,” said her escort, placing his hand over her own and propelling her onward.
Soon they were at the doors leading out of the siblings’ palace. Groaning, the vast panels of stonewood swung open and slammed behind her. The rumbling echo lasted for a while, then everything was still.
The älf strode across the deserted courtyard, pearl-shaped fragments of bone crunching under her boots. The perfectly round balls had been fashioned from the bones of elves, dwarves, men, orcs, and all manner of Tion’s beasts. The blanched gravel covered the courtyard and the alleyways of Dsôn, cushioning the älfar’s feet. The white of their enemies’ bones contrasted nicely with the somber buildings of the city.
Ondori reached the edge of the plateau. An evening breeze ruffled her long brown hair and played with the edges of her mask.
Dsôn lay in the middle of a crater measuring ten miles across and two miles deep.
According to älvish legend, the hollow had been formed by a black teardrop from Inàste’s eye. The elves of the Golden Plains had shoveled soil into the crater, but the älfar had defeated them and seized their kingdom, using the loose earth to create a mountain over three miles high. At its summit was the majestic palace of Nagsor and Nagsar.
Ondori gazed down at the city of her birth. Most of the buildings were made of blackwood, a wood so strong that stone foundations were unnecessary for any structure with fewer than eight stories.
The wood’s special properties had enabled Dsôn’s architects to exercise their talents and break away from the box-like dwellings favored by men. Seen from above, the city was a dark mosaic of sloping angles, perfect curves, elegant ornaments, twisting turrets, and cupolas, connected by luminous white streets. By day, Dsôn glittered with silver, tionium, and precious gems, but some of the alloys and gemstones were visible only in the moonlight. The true splendor of the city was apparent only after dark.