by Markus Heitz
“I want to ride home to see Timanris.” Sinthoras drew a deep breath. He was consumed with desire and it was torturing him. “I need her!” He sent Caphalor an imploring glance. “I have to see her! Do you think you can hold the fort here till I get back? Nobody has to hear about my leaving the troops for a few moments of unendingness. I’ll travel in secret. Please! It’ll be some time, anyway, before the scouts return with their reports about Tark Draan. We’d have to wait . . .”
“Off you go!” Caphalor interrupted. “Go now and see Timanris. Embrace her and see that she is well protected so you never go through what I did.” He placed his hand on his friend’s arm. “You have been given a taste of what it means to lose a loved one. May it never become a reality for you.”
Carmondai observed the nostàroi closely. They care about each other—true friends, although they are so different.
“I thank you. I am in your debt. I’ll stay until after the briefing session, then I’ll head off. I’ll go in disguise and keep it quiet.” Sinthoras hurried out.
Caphalor read Carmondai’s thoughts. “Please do not record that Sinthoras is leaving; not now at any rate. Perhaps in the future, when we have conquered Tark Draan, it will be appropriate to tell of this venture. It would not go down well with the army to know that their general is leaving the field for personal reasons.”
“Wasn’t he correct about the scouts still having to—?”
Caphalor broke in and this time it was not a request, but an order. “Why don’t you go and watch the Goldsteel Unit in training? Write what you like about that, but don’t mention Sinthoras’s visit to Dsôn. I want you to regard this as a secret we three share.”
You are telling me what to do. Again. As if I were just a secretary. Carmondai inclined his head. What would you do if I gave your secret away, I wonder? “As you command, Nostàroi.” He slapped his folder shut and put away his writing implement. One day you will come to see that your authority is merely lent to you and can be removed on a whim. You are an instrument of your rulers’ power, just as I was once. “As there is still time before the meeting I’ll go and change.” He turned, on the point of leaving the hall.
“If you have some free time in the next few evenings, I’d like to talk to you about Enoïla,” came the milder voice of Caphalor from behind him. “It is right that her memory be preserved for posterity. I would never have been made Nostàroi if it had not been for her. The whole nation should know this. She deserves it.”
“Gladly.” Carmondai left the hall swiftly and went to his quarters to change his stinking clothing.
One thing was certain: this campaign was providing everything a successful epic needed.
CHAPTER III
The Goldsteel Unit of Friends—I had thought they were the stuff of legend.
But I saw them myself. These warriors were proud and beautiful and splendid. I shall never forget how they looked in their armor, with the light of never-ending love in their eyes.
One hundred and fifty couples; male and male, female and female. Wonderful and deadly.
Blessed by the Inextinguishables and bound to each other by the greatest affection and the noblest of feelings, they defied endingness in the belief they would spend eternity in each other’s company.
And their fighting prowess is without compare.
Where a sword is wielded by mere strength and pure reason, love is a thousand times more powerful.
For love will kill to protect love.
There can be no more formidable incentive.
Excerpt from the epic poem The Heroes of Tark Draan
composed by Carmondai, master of word and image
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), to the southeast of the Gray Mountains,
4371st division of unendingness (5199th solar cycle),
late summer.
Morana looked toward the northeast where a vast plain stretched out to the horizon, warm yellow in the evening sunlight, as if gold were the crop to be harvested. There was a large barbarian settlement on the edge of the plain. My quarters for the night. My hunting ground, too.
She felt uneasy; she was not in her normal protective armor, she hated the elf costume she was forced to wear and she had had to leave her night-mare behind in order to pass as a friend to the barbarians. She looked up at the sky. The daystar would soon set, then she could risk entering and exploring the nearest barbarian town. By night her disguise was more convincing because her eyes did not go black after dark, and that was the only physical distinction between the älfar and the elves.
Language was no problem, because the dialect was similar to that of the Herumite tribe in Ishím Voróo. If her pronunciation was not quite correct she could get away with it by saying she was an elf and not accustomed to talking to barbarians.
She had noted how highly the elves were held in local esteem. Everybody trusts the elves—this should make things easy for us.
She galloped in the direction of the town, but it still took three times as long to cover the distance on a horse than on the slowest night-mare. When she got there, she found the gate was unguarded, but a couple of bored soldiers were chatting idly nearby. One of them was munching an apple. They did not notice her.
Morana was able to ride into the town unchallenged. I’ll wager you would not even notice an army marching in.
Her disguise was working brilliantly; the barbarians were staring at her as if she were some divine being. I should be more friendly, she thought. She waved at people and they responded with cries of delight. To her relief she noted they were not attempting to follow her. That would have been too much.
She halted at an inn with a red goblet on its sign. It was a single-story building, but it had a tall tower built onto its side. Excellent! She dismounted and led the horse to the stables next door where a youth in simple clothing was shoveling manure on to a cart. “Room for one more?” she asked.
He looked up at her and then bowed so low that the tip of his nose nearly touched the toe of her boot. “For such as you, lady, we would always have room,” he said. He dropped his fork and took hold of her reins. “Father! Father!” he called across the yard. “Come quick! There’s an elf! A real elf!”
Morana did not want to attract further attention. “Don’t bother, boy . . .”
Five heartbeats later and a barbarian with a beer-stained apron stormed out. “Are you out of your mind? What are you . . . ?” then he saw Morana and stopped blustering to run over and bow. “O Being of Light, Goodness and Joy, Knowledge and Delight,” he addressed her, his words stumbling out so fast that she found it hard to follow what he was saying next. She picked up the phrases “best room,” “every wish” and “no better inn in all Quarrystone.”
When he finally stopped talking she assumed that it was her turn to say something. “You have my thanks. I wish to have the room at the top of your tower,” she requested civilly but clearly. How could he possibly turn me down?
“Of course, of course. I’ll get it prepared at once.” The barbarian moved aside. “Please take a seat in the taproom in the meantime, Being of Light—”
“I would prefer simply to be addressed as elf,” she said, cutting short the flow of praise. Her unease was growing. “And please do not go to any trouble with the meal; bread and butter will be all I require.” She lifted down the saddlebags and walked over to the inn, the landlord buzzing around her like a bumblebee around a flower, bowing and scraping and opening the door for her.
The taproom was full of barbarian men and women. All of them stopped talking and stared at her. A few continued to drink or to put food in their mouths. She heard a couple of belches. Morana had to control her features so as not to show her disgust. Her inclination would have been to draw her sword and forcibly prevent them from eating and drinking in her presence. But, on the other hand, these simple creatures did hold a certain fascination for her. How ever can they live like this?
The innkeeper scurried to her side. “Would you speak to them, noble e
lf?”
“My . . . may my gods be with you,” she managed to say. “Long life to you all.” I wish you a long life so that I may be the one to bring about your deaths.
Applause broke out and the people shouted their gratitude: thanks she did not want. The smell of their bodies, their clothes and their breath was almost unendurable. “Show me the room and bring me the refreshments I asked for,” she muttered to the innkeeper. “I . . . am very tired.”
“Of course!” He called to someone behind the bar and hurried off ahead of her, leading the way.
The way to the room was up an old spiral staircase. As they climbed, the noise of the taproom faded and Morana felt the tension ebbing from her. Muffled conversations and even snoring could be heard behind some of the doors they passed.
“You are not one of the elves from the Golden Plain, are you?” asked the landlord, stopping for breath on the stairs.
“No,” she admitted at once. “I am from the south. From far away in the south.”
“Oh? There are elves in the south? I didn’t know that.”
“We are a young nation. We avoided contact for a long time but we are changing our policy now. Before I meet my relations I wish to rest and then I’ll travel on first thing in the morning.” She found the lie came out pat. She had given versions of this story several times recently. “Why does your inn have a tower?”
“It used to be a border lookout post,” he explained. “It’s from the times when humans did not trust the elves and all sorts of creatures used to wander the flat lands.” He paused, leaning back against the wall, out of breath. “One moment,” he panted.
“You don’t come up here very often,” she commented.
“Never, noble elf. I would normally leave that to my wife and my daughter.” He wiped his brow. “But you will love the view. The tower is higher than the new fortress. Seventy-eight paces high; you’ll be able to look down and watch your relations getting their supper ready.”
Light footsteps approached up the stairwell and soon a young girl of perhaps one and a half divisions of unendingness had overtaken them, bringing a basket of bread, some butter and a jug of water. The goblet on the tray showed smear marks at the rim.
“Omenia, my youngest.” The landlord took the tray from her.
I won’t be letting my lips touch that cup, for sure. “Thank you, my child.” Morana said. “My, you are very tall.” She’s the first one I’ve seen whose bones would be any use at all. The others would only serve to be ground down as chippings for our roads.
“Would you be so gracious as to give her your blessing, elf?” the landlord asked hopefully. The little girl lowered her eyes.
I am sure you would not wish an älfar blessing for your daughter. Morana was about to improvise a gesture, but then had second thoughts. “It would be something no mortal has ever received from me before,” she told the father, placing her forefinger under the girl’s chin and tilting her face upward. She smiled into the child’s unwavering eyes. It was as if the young girl were challenging her. Had she seen through the disguise? “This could hurt a bit.”
“She is very brave,” the innkeeper said, delighted at the honor.
“In that case . . .” Morana put down the saddlebags she was carrying, took out her dagger and made some marks with the blade tip on the girl’s brow, while she used her free hand to hold her fast by the chin.
Omenia whimpered but Morana did not loosen her grip until she had completed the rune. Then she planted a kiss on the child’s skin, tasting blood.
“That will keep you safe from the death which is shortly to sweep this land,” she whispered into the small ear. “You shall be the only one in Quarrystone to survive.” The girl began to tremble. “And if anyone should ask you what happened, tell them: the elves brought death to the town. If you speak to anyone about this now the power in the rune on your forehead will disappear.” She planted a second kiss, turned her around and urged the child down the stairs. “Get them to put an herbal bandage on that,” she called after her.
The landlord looked concerned. “What . . . what have you—?”
“An ancient ritual to keep away evil. A little pain and some bleeding are an essential part.” Morana wiped the child’s life-juice from her lips and then bent to pick up her bags again. “Shall we go up?”
The rest of the way neither of them spoke. All Morana could hear was the innkeeper’s labored breathing. He pushed open the door at the top of the stairs, put down the tray and turned around, giving Morana a searching look. Then his head dipped. “Thank you for blessing her,” he mumbled, a little late in the day.
Morana merely lifted her hand in acknowledgment.
She waited for the door to close behind him and the sound of his footsteps to die away before she opened the windows that went all the way around the chamber. A summer breeze wafted in.
She could smell grass drying, could hear the buzz of insects and the hum of people chatting and laughing in the streets below.
Morana laid her saddlebags on the old table and moved over to the window that faced east. The home of the elves of the Golden Plain.
The land rolled away toward the darkening sky, broken only by a few gently rising hillocks. A small number of trees, mighty specimens, grew straight and true and rose taller than her spy tower—as if determined to touch the heavens. Morana had never seen the like, either in Ishím Voróo or in Dsôn. A few miles away a river meandered through the landscape, lights appearing on its banks as the night deepened.
Elves. There are still some of you around. For now.
Morana was gripped by excitement now that she was so close to the enemy—she was probably closer than any of the other scouts.
When Caphalor had chosen her for the mission, she had been surprised, but honored to think how great his confidence in her must be. The nostàroi would be planning their attack strategy based on the reports she made.
This would be easy territory for the archery divisions. And for the cavalry, of course. She took out parchment, a quill and ink, and began to note down her observations. Do I dare explore the Golden Plain, I wonder?
She was eager to find out whether the elves had strongholds and how many elves would be garrisoned there. She leaned out of the window and looked up. Outside, there was a perilous staircase that led to the very top of the tower. I’ll tackle it at daybreak tomorrow; I’ll be able to see more then.
She reached for the food on the tray and tried the bread, which tasted better than it looked. She did not touch the goblet, but drank the warm water from her own leather bottle. Then she skimmed through her notes as she ate the rest.
The closest target for the nostàroi was in the north, not far from the Gray Mountains. The barbarians called it Lesinteïl and it was apparently hilly, unlike the Golden Plain. Morana had also heard of a place called landur, said to be a heavily forested and difficult terrain, but she did not yet know its location.
That was why Morana had decided to go east to explore the Golden Plain. She thought that, if it were indeed a plain, it would be particularly easy to conquer. A traveler had also told her about a place called Gwandalur. It was said that there the elves worshipped a dragon that periodically laid waste to the surrounding land, devouring the barbarians’ crops.
Morana underlined the relevant passage twice. That’s all good. If the elves are not in favor with the locals in Gwandalur, we can march in as liberators. That should make things even easier.
She smiled, not quite believing that Caphalor valued her opinion on all of this. She remembered how he had looked at her. I must not take this too seriously. I am merely one of his personal guards and one that he values highly enough to send on an important mission. But . . . I certainly find him attractive.
Morana watched the evening unfold in Quarrystone. Those still abroad in the streets and alleyways carried torches or lanterns to light their way. Candlelight shone softly through the thick, opaque panes of their cottage windows.
Look at
them trying so hard to drive away the dark. And yet they fail. She took off her elf disguise and drew on the black clothing she had brought in her saddlebag. They don’t realize that darkness is aggravated by light and will increase in intensity to stifle it. Morana climbed up onto the window seat and crouched there for a few heartbeats. If you accept the dark it will work for you.
With a powerful leap she catapulted herself through the air to land far below on a sloping roof, sliding down the wooden tiles nearly to the gutter. She caught hold of a chimneystack to steady herself. This marked both the beginning of her exploration of Quarrystone and the imminent demise of the town.
I have something to celebrate, she remembered. This is the thirtieth settlement I will have explored. She moved in a crouching run along the rooftops, heading for the castle in the middle of the town. If the guards there took their duties as lightly by night as they had done by day, it would be simple for an älf to penetrate the fortress. She smiled. This land is just begging to be invaded. We should go ahead and do it before someone else gets the idea.
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), far to the south of the Gray Mountains,
4371st division of unendingness (5199th solar cycle),
late summer.
Patience was not Horgàta’s strong point, although one might have expected otherwise, given her immortal status.
But it was patience that was demanded of her now as she made her way through the wilderness of Tark Draan. She rode without using roads and paths, aware that her night-mare would attract attention, particularly in the dark when sparks played around its fetlocks. If she were spotted, she would have to kill those that had seen her—a trail of dead bodies would be difficult to explain and her mission had to remain a secret.