by Markus Heitz
“Fire!” Arganaï shouted to the fortress garrison on the island, as if his voice had the slightest chance of being heard over the water. He rolled to the right, jumped up and raced across the flat open ground with the very last of his strength. There was no cover. It felt as if he had never run so slowly in his life. “Loose the catapults, for pity’s sake!” he cried.
One half of the bridge to Ishím Voróo was let down and a cavalry unit rode out toward him. Hefty thuds told Arganaï that the catapults had fired a first salvo to deter the enemies’ attack. His eyesight was now restricted to tunnel vision. He ran toward the warriors riding toward him.
They’ll save me! A cloud of arrows whirred over his head, targeted at the edge of the forest.
Not until Arganaï was safely up behind the rider on one of the stallions did he really believe he had escaped with his life. “I must . . . get to . . . the . . .” His voice failed completely.
“We’ll see you are all right. You’ll feel better soon,” said the älf who had pulled him to safety. “Who were the Ishím Voróo scum who dared lay hands on you?”
“I saw them!” he groaned. “They have come back!”
“Who has?” asked the solider.
“Dorón . . . ashont . . .” Arganaï whispered, afraid he would not live long enough to deliver the vital message. His people must be warned. The horror redoubled in his mind as he breathed the name. “It’s them—the dorón ashont!”
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), to the southwest of the Gray Mountains,
4371st division of unendingness (5199th solar cycle),
late summer.
As dawn broke, Morana made her way to the top of the tower, spying out the land to the east and observing how, as the daystar rose, the plain changed color from dark yellow to gold.
She put her hand slowly into the pocket of her robe and took out a small round flute the size of a child’s fist. She had fashioned it out of the skull of a young óarco; it was one of the first things she had ever made and it served as a charm, bringing her the luck of the north wind.
She placed her lips on the double opening and blew softly into it. Just so you know that we are here . . .
The wind of the dead was brought to life. It was like the shrill noise of a storm raging over sharp cliffs. There followed a deep resonance just beyond the range of the audible. The reverberations of the double flute were guaranteed to drive away any semblance of clear thought and to put you into a trance—it was a sound to chill the soul.
Morana varied the tones by covering one or other of the skull’s holes with her fingers and feeling how the vibrations affected her. Her vision became blurred. Certain warriors found the music heightened their mood to one of tense and furious aggression.
She ended her concert.
Listen to my message, townspeople and elves alike: I send you the wind of the dead. Nothing will save you. As she put down her flute her eyesight gradually cleared.
She could see the river with the elf settlement on its bank; behind the river, gigantic trees stretched up toward the sky.
They have not bothered with fortifications, only a couple of isolated watchtowers. Morana could hardly believe her good fortune. We’ll be able to take the whole plain in a matter of a few moments of unendingness. The nostàroi would be delighted to lead the initial attack on their sworn enemies.
Morana would leave Quarrystone that night and head into the Golden Plain. Perhaps she would even be able to deceive the elves, but she did not really intend to meet any of them. She wanted to take a look around; set foot on enemy territory and sink her fingers into the soil—a symbolic claim for her own folk.
She let her eyes drift over the landscape once more—wait, what is that?
On the horizon she saw the edges of an immense opening in the earth. She could not be sure of the dimensions, because there was a small forest blocking her view, but she felt sure that it was no ordinary mine. She would have to inspect this from closer up.
She swung herself away from the roof and down the side of the tower to reach the window of her room. She would not leave her room again until the evening, otherwise the color of her eyes might attract suspicion. And she had plenty to do: she had to finish writing up her night’s findings.
Quarrystone held no further secrets for her; she had noted every weakness in the town’s defenses. In her opinion, a unit of twenty älfar warriors could take the place with ease. The barbarians would wake up the following morning astonished to see älfar banners flying from their castle battlements. A nice little extra when we conquer the Golden Plain. We can extend the castle and make a proper fortress out of it. It can serve as a bastion against the human armies.
Morana jumped back into her room.
She landed next to the table—and found herself confronting an elderly elf leafing through her notes.
He wore a brown leather upper garment and green breeches tucked into high boots. His gray hair was gathered into a knot at the back of his head. Looking up, he addressed a few words to her, which she could not understand. He seemed friendly at first, but became unsure when he noticed the black in her eyes.
Morana saw that he carried a knife at his side and that a longbow and quiver had been placed against the wall. He must be out hunting. “Greetings,” she said, speaking the language of the barbarians and attempting to remain calm so as not to unsettle him—in case he had not already started to suspect.
“May Sitalia be with you,” he responded hesitantly. “Forgive me for entering the room like this. The landlord was proud to relate that an elf was a guest at the Red Goblet, but I was wondering why you had not come a little farther to stay with your own kind.” He gestured to the east. “It would not have taken long and the accommodation would have been so much better.” He put his head on one side, his hand still on her pages of notes. “He thought you were from the south.”
Morana could tell that he was on his guard now. She had no idea what the elves knew about the älfar, but she assumed there must at least be legends about them. He is old, so he will know the stories. Is he playing with me?
“Yes. I’m here as a messenger from our Queen Emifinia, to visit you here in the north,” she lied. “My name is Morana.”
The elf bowed. “My name is Fatunasíl. That’s our town down there by the river. I would be happy to escort you. I expect you would like to meet our princess.”
“It would be an honor. My queen wants to put an end to the estrangement between our peoples. We are in some trouble.” Morana appealed to his sympathy, which would, with any luck, serve to allay possible doubts.
“What has happened?” Fatunasíl had not moved and his hands were still resting on her notes, as if trying to read her words through the fingertips.
“Our harvest failed and we can’t feed ourselves on barbarian corn.” She tried a smile. “We had hoped you might have something easier to digest.”
“Of course.” Fatunasíl tapped the sheets of paper. “This script is new to me. It’s unlike any handwriting used by local elves. And your eyes are dark. Why?”
“It’s a special characteristic. It’s to do with the water.” Morana was sure the elf did not believe her and was trying to trap her with his questions.
“That tune I heard just now . . . Was that you playing?”
“Yes. It was to welcome the daystar; it’s a traditional tune.”
“I see.” Fatunasíl grew more earnest. “You gave the innkeeper’s daughter a strange blessing. He had asked for Sitalia’s help, but the symbol on the girl’s brow is not that of our goddess.” He frowned. “How do you explain that?”
Morana crossed the room silently and pushed the door shut. “Time is up for the town,” she said. “The residents will give their bones for our works of art and their blood will be used for noble paintings; their tendons will serve as strings for our instruments and their skin as canvasses or parchment. The little girl will survive because I have granted her life.” She gave a grim smile. “Sitalia’s blessing
would not have helped her.”
Fatunasíl said something in his own language, drawing his knife and hurling it in her direction.
Prepared for this attack, Morana was able to step aside and grab a fistful of arrows from the quiver by the wall; she threw them at the elf.
He raised his arm to protect his face. The force behind the thrown arrows could not at this distance pierce his flesh with deadly effect, but was sufficient to graze his face, neck and forearm.
Morana used the confusion to draw her short sword for close combat.
Fatunasíl ducked under her attacking thrust, collecting a kick in the belly and a cut across his back. The light leather shirt offered little protection and the wound gaped wide, revealing the white vertebrae before his red blood gushed over it. He screamed.
Having silenced his voice with a blow to the nape of the neck, Morana then turned over his body as he slumped to the floor at her feet. She placed the tip of her sword at his throat and was pleased to see the blood pour out right and left. She must have found an artery. “How many are there of you?”
Fatunasíl gulped and cursed her in the elf language. “I know what you are,” he stuttered through his pain. “Sitalia sent you to us to bring us back to the path of righteousness. We had not been walking the right path for our people.”
“No. It was the Inextinguishables that sent us to eradicate you,” she replied. “Tell me what that hole is I saw from the tower, over to the east of your land.”
He averted his gaze and turned his face away.
She knew Fatunasíl would not tell her anything about the elves of the Golden Plain. “Congratulations,” she said darkly. “You are probably the first elf in Tark Draan to die by our hands. I shall ensure your name goes down in history. Your death is named Morana.” She shoved the blade deep into his throat and then abruptly upward inside his head. Fatunasíl gave not a single death shudder.
How does one of your kind die? She stared at him in curiosity, noting how his pupils contracted smaller than frogspawn before turning opaque and glassy. Then they widened, replacing the blue as if to make space to allow the soul to escape.
I want to witness that many more times! She stood up and studied the corpse carefully. What shall I take as a souvenir?
She could have cut off the head and preserved it in honey, but she did not know what adventures awaited her in Tark Draan. It might be risky to have an elf head found in her saddlebags. But hair would be all right.
She cut off his hair with her sword and soaked it in the pool of blood.
“That’s a fine reminder,” she said quietly, lifting the red-stained strands to dry in the sunshine.
As if nothing untoward had occurred, Morana sat down at the table to bring her notes up to date, paying no further attention to the corpse.
She spent the rest of the day in her chamber, writing and drawing. She sent the innkeeper away several times when he came up to ask if there was anything she wanted, perhaps concerned about the sudden disappearance of his second elf guest.
Morana could not resist making a sketch of the dead Fatunasíl’s face. She recorded his death mask on a separate piece of paper and drew his profile and several close studies of his eyes, concentrating on producing an exact representation.
When the sun had gone down and her own eyes were no longer black, she got her things ready and then poured lamp oil out onto the floor and the dead body, ignited it with a spark and watched the flames begin to dance.
I have killed the first of the elves! Morana felt elated as she left the room for the tower stairs. She headed out of Quarrystone at a gallop, having paid neither the innkeeper nor the stable boy. She did not want the townspeople to remember their elf visitor fondly.
She looked back over her shoulder.
The top half of the tower was burning, sending flames and smoke out through the dusk. The first fragments of the building were starting to fall away, starting fires on the roofs of nearby buildings. She knew that the barbarians would not be able to fight the blaze in the tower because it would be impossible to reach. They would have to wait until it burned itself out or until it had reached the lower floors where they could try to douse it with buckets of water thrown from neighboring roofs. She turned again and headed east toward the border with the Golden Plain. It struck her with immense pleasure that the town was the first to be set on fire by an älf. Her deeds here had set a development in motion that no one in Tark Draan could stop.
Ishím Voróo (Outer Lands), Dsôn Faïmon, Dsôn,
4371st division of unendingness (5199th solar cycle),
late summer.
Dsôn is as glorious as ever! Even in the pouring rain! After his endless ride and the protracted sojourn in the groundling caves, the dark heart of his homeland appeared more stately and impressive than ever. This was where he truly belonged; there was no denying it.
In spite of his promise to Caphalor, it went against the grain not to announce himself as the nostàroi and receive the appropriate praise and acclaim—especially as he would not have to share the triumph with Caphalor. But it can wait for now. Sinthoras had to smile when he pictured the faces of the guards who had let him pass. They had been nearly prostrate with respect and admiration. He had found this very gratifying. They swore they would keep his presence in Dsôn Faïmon secret. He didn’t doubt they would; they had been proud to be taken into his confidence. It was enough, for now. I’ll send them over a few bottles of good wine.
Sinthoras rode along the main street that led from the north to the Inextinguishables’ tower. Shouldn’t I at least go and pay them a visit?
After a moment’s thought he decided to go straight to Timanris to surprise her. He was so keen to see her and take her in his arms once more. By all the gods of infamy! How distraught I was at the news of her death!
The power of love had revealed itself to Sinthoras after the many divisions of unendingness he had mocked and denied it. Before falling for Timanris, he had only entered into socially advantageous relationships. He had been astounded to find his soul could blaze with fire for an älf-woman with no social status, but she had won his heart without any discernible effort on her part.
He passed huge buildings with pillars of black and gray basalt, and approached the marketplace, where only a few stalls had been set up: the bad weather was keeping most of the inhabitants indoors, so it was difficult for the traders and merchants to do much business.
I need a present for her. He had some gems in his pocket taken from the groundling treasure chests, but he was not sure this kind of jewelry would appeal to her artistic nature. The gold the mountain maggots produced had a certain value, but that stemmed from the substance itself, not the handiwork. Sinthoras was eager not to offend his beloved.
As he looked around, his attention was caught by a new statue. Sinthoras wondered why there were two armed guards by the plinth. Their shields bore the insignia of the Polòtain family.
Has somebody died? Sinthoras rode over to the statue and realized who it portrayed. Robonor?
The face carved in onyx marble bore unmistakable signs of pain and accusation. The outstretched arm pointed to Sinthoras’s house, and the wound on the leg, glowing red, was visible from far off.
But that’s . . .
“Hey, you two!” The hood Sinthoras wore concealed his face and the guards looked up at him with bad-tempered expressions. “Who put this statue up?”
“Take a look at my shield, if you want to know that,” came the gruff answer. The bad weather must have gotten to the soldier.
“So it was Polòtain himself?”
The watchman nodded.
“And no one stopped him?” Sinthoras could feel his fury growing: a burning wave sweeping through his body and jagged lines forming on his face. How dare he place a damnable lie like that in the middle of the marketplace? He rounded the artistically perfect statue. Its significance was appalling. “How long has that been here?”
“Since the end of early summer.
” The guard looked at him more closely. “Don’t try to touch it. Do you hear? We’re here to make sure you don’t.”
He assumes I’m going to do something about this hideous defamation! Sinthoras felt the urge to overturn the statue and have his night-mare crush it with its hooves. What other lies has he spread while I was away on campaign? A block of ice formed in his stomach, caused by anger and fear.
“I certainly won’t be touching it.” Sinthoras turned his night-mare and ordered it to shit on the statue. The shouts of the guards had no effect and Sinthoras rode off.
The wind brushed his hood from his head, the cold rain cooling his face. Think hard! What can you do about it?
Sinthoras felt destiny had brought him back to Dsôn. It was fitting that no one knew he was there. He had an advantage over Polòtain’s family in that respect.
Why did he . . . ah! He is Robonor’s great-uncle. Directly after the guardsman’s death there had been rumors that Sinthoras had arranged the accident in order to get Timanris’s betrothed out of the picture. Caphalor had warned him of them at the time: everyone knew what he and Timanris had been up to before Robonor had been killed. High society in Dsôn had been enjoying the gossip, but had fallen silent after his promotion to nostàroi.
I got back here in the nick of time to force their lies back down their throats! He pulled his hood back up, determined now not be recognized.
As he made his way to Timanris, the humiliation and shame got to him and he racked his brain as to what he should do next. If anyone knows the scandal surrounding my name, it’ll be Timanris. He trusted her not to tell anyone else that he was here in the capital.
He reached her house. The door was opened by a slave.
Sinthoras pretended he had been sent to deliver a personal message to Timanris. He was told to wait in the corridor near the pantry until she appeared.
Although his face was in shadow, his intended life-partner recognized him at once. “You?” She stopped short two paces away. This was not the cry of joy he had expected.
What effect have these poisonous rumors had on her? Sinthoras felt sick as a storm raged in his insides, leaving him cold as ice. “I . . . had to see you. I was given false news of your death . . .” The words tumbled out and he stepped up to her, sweeping his wet mantle from his shoulders to fall to the ground, revealing his light armor and weapons belt. “I have not been home yet. Nobody must know that I am here: I should not have left the troops—but I needed to see you and to take you in my arms.” He reached out for her.