by Markus Heitz
The streets of Duckingham remained silent. The inhabitants must have realized it was better not to leave their houses that night.
“I assume you want all of the enchanted lands? Or did you pick mine because you think I look like a clown?” Jujulo took a closer look at his adversary. The runes on the armor meant nothing to him. This elf was unlike any he had ever come across in Girdlegard. “Which elf realm are you from?”
“landur.”
“That’s over 400 miles away. You think you can just march straight through Thapiaïn and take over? What about the other kingdoms? What will their rulers say about their new neighbors who don’t look so keen on peaceful relations?” The dwarves were right; the elves are not to be trusted. Jujulo wondered how he could overpower this envoy. He had to get warnings to the other magi, and all the monarchs, as well. Those brave dwarves have been protecting us from those on the other side of the mountains, only for us to find insidious treachery within Girdlegard!
“Staking a claim is a simple procedure when all possible objectors have been removed,” the elf said, smiling coldly. “But what good is an enchanted land without its magus and his famuli?”
“Are you threatening me?” Jujulo called up a gust of wind to hurl the elf backward against the wall, smashing every bone in his body. You think I’m a clown, do you?
The squall threw up a cloud of dust, but the enemy was nowhere to be seen.
“I’m not threatening you,” the elf murmured into Jujulo’s ear. “I’m killing you!”
The magus tried to turn around and fling an energy spell, but pain shot through his back and something pierced his lungs. Sinking to his knees, he felt liquid warmth run down his body: his own blood. He collapsed and fell forward onto his face.
“A little bit of a breeze, was that all you could manage?” The elf turned his body over with the tip of his boot, so that Jujulo was forced to look him in the eyes. “So, those little stab wounds have done for you? I expected you would heal yourself and I’d have more of a fight. I thought you’d be more dangerous.” He stood up, both swords in his hands, their blades dripping with red blood. “Perhaps your famuli will offer more resistance than their master. Unless, of course, they are even greater fools than you.”
A . . . gesture . . . Jujulo made the cautious movements of a healing spell with the fingers of his right hand.
The elf noticed what he was doing. “No, not now, fool!” One sword blade drove down, slicing beneath Jujulo’s elbow and splitting the flesh of his forearm and hand. Muscle, tendons and bones were severed.
Jujulo screamed and spluttered, rolling to one side.
“Pathetic,” said the elf, his voice full of contempt. “I can see we have been concerned unnecessarily about the trouble you magi might make for our army. Tark Draan will fall more quickly than we had thought.”
Jujulo groaned as loud as his damaged lungs permitted. The agony was unbearable and his mind was completely overwhelmed by the pain.
He never saw the final sword blow coming.
His sufferings were quickly at an end.
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), Gray Mountains, Stone Gateway,
4371st division of unendingness (5199th solar cycle),
late summer.
Carmondai headed for the southern gate, taking the risk of traveling through the dwarves’ kingdom on horseback. It could not be much farther now.
Caphalor, worried about possible attacks from groundlings, óarcos or other of their allies, had wanted to send four of the Goldsteel Unit with him, but Carmondai had turned down the offer. He liked his own company and did not need a companion.
It’s not that difficult to find your way now the älfar scouts have left signs on the walls. Despite this, the number of missing soldiers had recently risen. It seemed that many who had gone off on their own had got lost for good—or been ambushed.
Carmondai took the path to the right as indicated by the arrow on the wall.
He came to an atrium with a gate four paces high, its huge bolts controlled by an intricate system of pulleys and chains. It stood open. Behind it was a second gateway, stronger and more impressive still. Its double doors were shut. An älfar unit of warriors had made camp this side of the second gate. They were there to secure the entrance to Tark Draan.
Made it! Carmondai rode up to them and saluted. In one corner there was a heap of conventional barbarian armor and weaponry.
“Greetings, Carmondai. I have heard and read much about you,” said one älf who appeared at his stirrup, wearing a long padded doublet. “I am Armatòn, the benàmoi guarding the gate. Are we going to get a mention in your epic about the victorious invasion of Tark Draan?”
Carmondai noted the same hopeful tone that he heard from nearly all those he came into contact with. It was tiring after a while, fielding these inquiries. “Who knows?” he said with a faint smile. “I’m here out of curiosity. I want to take a look outside and do some sketches.” He dismounted. “Will that be in order?”
“Of course. Seeing as it’s you.” Armatòn pointed ahead where a stairway was hewn into the rock. The steps led up in a spiral through an opening. “This way.”
They headed off together.
Carmondai asked about the barbarian armor. “What’s that for, if you don’t mind my asking? Don’t the groundlings think the elves are just as weird-looking as us?”
“If we are up on the battlements by ourselves, I agree. But we do our guard duty with the dwarves, so it looks like our two races have become the best of friends.” Armatòn laughed when he saw Carmondai’s skeptical expression. “You’ll see! I’ll wager Dsôn will adore your picture.”
They started to climb up past the locked gate.
Carmondai halted and sketched a few details of the locking mechanism on the heavy doors and he grudgingly conceded the previous occupants of the stronghold had done sterling work: cogwheels, thick bolts, chains, pulleys all interconnected in such a way that no one could break in. Normally, that is.
That’s what the fellows at the Stone Gateway thought, as well. Carmondai finished off his swift drawing then set off with Armatòn again.
They were on a spiral staircase now; tunnels led off to left and right, but the benàmoi kept climbing until they reached an iron-studded door.
Armatòn levered it open and an icy draft swept in. “We’re on the battlement walkway above the gate. Useful for chucking rocks down on uninvited guests. Containers of stone missiles are brought up on hoists from the rooms below. Quite clever.”
“I’ll have a look at it.” Carmondai went outside, meeting cold air free of the taint of stone dust, óarco shit and other unpleasant smells. Glorious fresh air! He took several deep breaths.
“It’s the same for me every time I come up,” Armatòn commented. “Tark Draan doesn’t smell bad out here.” He laughed and pointed to a dwarf leaning on the stone lintel, one hand shading his eyes from the sun. Occasionally the small figure took his hand down, turned his head, then lifted his arm again. A few paces away there were some more groundlings. “There you are: our new allies.”
Carmondai noted the amused tone. “Can I take a closer look?”
“Please do. You can write about how Durùston and I—”
“Sure.” Carmondai had had enough of all these requests for mentions in his work. But Durùston’s name did prompt him to recall his meeting with the artist on the day he entered the mountain. As he drew closer to the first of the small figures he found his suspicions confirmed: preserved groundling corpses!
Durùston had really gone to town—even if these specimens were more practical than aesthetic.
The dwarf’s neck had been cut around its girth. Thickened lines running under the skin emerged at the nape of the neck and disappeared under the figure’s clothing: strings coated with dried blood and some kind of lubricant. A dull clicking noise could be heard before the right-hand string moved, making the groundling turn its head to one side.
However did he think that one up? Carm
ondai moved the dwarf’s leather shirt aside.
The groundling had been completely disemboweled, leaving only the backbone and ribs for support, strengthened with metal wire; in place of the organs was a mechanism with counterweights and a taut spring, together with the network of colored strings that enabled the figure to move.
There was a very slight, sweet smell of decay but there was no sign of decomposition on the flesh itself.
Carmondai rubbed the skin. Dry and cold. This weather must have helped.
“The crows give us a lot of trouble.” There was Durùston himself, coming along the walkway in his leather apron. “They’re more difficult to deceive than the barbarians are. We have to shoo them off every now and then or they’d hack the flesh away. They must like the taste of the embalming fluid I use.”
Carmondai shook hands with him. “This is fantastic work.”
“No need to exaggerate; it is necessary work, that’s all.” But the smile on Durùston’s face showed how proud he was. “I thought it was boring to just stick heads on spikes and put them on the parapet. Any idiot could do that—even an óarco. We need to show we are capable of higher things.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if you’d made them able to talk. Do you have time to sit for me? I’d like to sketch this scene and include you in a picture. It’s quite something, you know, to be in my epic. I hope you realize what an honor it is to be asked.” With that, Carmondai sat down and started a drawing.
Durùston inclined his head in acknowledgment and knelt down next to the realistic mechanical dwarves, posing as if adjusting a spring.
“There are new ones coming in two moments of unendingness,” he said. “We only have eleven for now; the crows get in quicker than we can sometimes. To make the little guys move I had to construct a support and then put in the counterweights and . . .”
Carmondai stopped listening, concentrating on his picture. The compressed charcoal implement he had invented was ideal for the drawing. He would send the picture by the very next messenger to the replica workshop in Dsôn, where art students made themselves a little extra money by copying major works for those citizens who couldn’t afford the original. He might even be able to do a whole Tark Draan series. With any luck, this campaign will make me rich without my having to capture any land.
His sketch was finished.
“. . . even bigger . . .” Durùston’s voice droned on. “I hope we can get a dead troll . . .”
A whistle sounded, followed by an alarm signal of a type the älfar did not use. The guards on the battlements ducked down. Durùston did the same.
“What’s that?” Carmondai looked around.
Armatòn indicated it was not safe to get up.
I see. Visitors. Travelers from Tark Draan wanting to enter the groundlings’ realm. Durùston slid forward to take a quick look down through one of the apertures more usually used for pouring hot oil on attackers.
Carmondai crept over to the adjacent aperture, sketchpad and pencil in hand.
He heard a loud clatter, then some mooing as a heavily laden ox cart rumbled to a halt. Two barbarians in minimal armor were up on the front of the vehicle and a third, dressed in a moth-eaten sheepskin cloak, was riding a plow-horse alongside. A light long-handled ax dangled from the saddle.
The rider waved up at them, “May Vraccas be with you, my good dwarves!” he called, his breath visible in the frosty air. “It’s me, your friend Pantako!” He opened his arms wide in greeting.
Armatòn and Carmondai exchanged glances.
Pantako frowned. “What’s the matter, my dear dwarves? I’ve got a cartload of lovely fabrics and silks and have a mind to trade them for barrels of your wonderful beer, as usual.”
“No!” shouted Armatòn through the aperture, which made his voice reverberate. He sounded a bit like a groundling. “Not today!” he said, using the barbarians’ language.
Any trader worth his salt wouldn’t be put off by that. Carmondai was keen to find out how things would develop.
“What do you mean, not today?” howled Pantako. “I’ve got customers waiting for the beer. They’ve paid in advance and I’m not going to return their gold to them. You’d be making me look a swindler.”
“No!” Armatòn repeated stubbornly.
Pantako spread his arms wider still. “What’s your game, friend dwarf? Are you upping the beer price? And what’s wrong with your voice? Are you sober?”
“He’s a merchant and he’s got to have wares to go home with,” Carmondai commented. “He won’t go away. You’ll have to give him a really good reason.”
“Like an arrow between the eyes?” suggested Armatòn irritably.
Durùston laughed out loud and Carmondai grinned. “That would be one way, it’s true, but—”
“Well, you take over,” Armatòn interrupted. “If you’re such a master of the word.”
“Hey there, friend dwarf,” Pantako yelled. “I’m going to wait here until I’ve got my beer, got it? And if that means you’ve got to start brewing now, so be it. We’ve got a deal—”
“Oh no, we haven’t,” called Carmondai, enjoying the chance to spar with the trader. “You gave us linens of terrible quality last time. The shirts all fell to pieces!”
Pantako looked up, irritated. “Who’s that? And why do you all sound foreign?”
Carmondai waited until the dwarf puppet next to him raised its arm. “Here! It’s me speaking!”
“What’s your name?”
“What’s that to you?”
“Go and get me Bendogar Coinstone at once!” Pantako demanded. “I’ve always done good business with him.”
“Coinstone’s dead!”
Durùston gave a muffled laugh.
Carmondai continued: “Our deal is over!”
Pantako rode up and down at the gate as if he were trying to wear it down. “So, is that the word of the fifthlings? Is that how you keep—?”
“We can discuss it again when you bring some decent goods,” Carmondai broke in. “The latest batch of our black beer is amazing. You’d better hurry up or we’ll have drunk it all ourselves!”
“Oh, so that’s your drift! Give me thirty circuits and I’ll be back again. I’ll bring the best linen and thread Gourarga has to offer!” Pantako gave a sign to the cart-drivers to turn the heavy wagon around. “But it’ll be pricier—”
“Same price. Don’t try that, barbarian!” Carmondai had not been able to stop himself saying that last word. I hope he didn’t hear it!
Armatòn reached for his bow and notched an arrow.
Pantako was on the point of riding away, but pulled his horse up short. “Did you just call me a barbarian, friend dwarf?”
“Beardy, I said,” Carmondai called down. Durùston clapped his hand over his mouth so as not to explode with laughter. “I called you Beardy One. There must have been an echo.” What a mess he looks in that filthy coat. And what arrogance!
“I look forward to our negotiations!” Pantako was angry. “You’ll regret what you said. Insults put the price up.”
Durùston laughed.
Suddenly a young barbarian girl shot out of the doorway behind the sculptor, leaped on to the parapet and jumped down, shrieking as she fell, but landing safely on the bales of material in the cart. The traders were as surprised as the älfar.
“Where did she come from?” hissed Carmondai. Armatòn had not recovered from the shock.
“Drive as fast as you can if you value your lives!” she shouted, burrowing under the rolls of silk and linen cloth to protect herself from älf archers. “You’ll have to whip the oxen! Get going, I beg you! The dwarf kingdom has fallen! There’s an army come to wipe us out! Hurry!”
Pantako stared at her in amazement, then he looked up at the battlements. “What the blazes is going on up there? Who is that? And why did she—?”
“Finish them off!” Armatòn commanded.
The guards stood up and took aim, loosing a hail of long arrows straight at
the barbarians.
Struck several times over, Pantako and the tradesmen sank down, but the oxen kept going. Carmondai could see that the girl had been spared a feathered death. From the midst of the mountain of cloth rolls, a long rod extended and began to beat the oxen; the animals roared in protest and quickened their pace.
Armatòn muttered a curse. He ordered the guards on the inside of the gate to stand guard.
In the meantime the älfar archers kept up a barrage of arrows. One of the beasts was hit and the cart slowed down. The barbarian girl slipped from the cart, taking a small bale with her as a shield as she ran.
Carmondai bounded down the steps and reached the hall where the warriors were mounting their night-mares.
“Bring the girl back at all costs, even if it means going without your disguises!” Armatòn said. The gate opened.
Carmondai jumped onto his own horse and followed the troop through the gate, trying desperately to keep up with them as they galloped out on much faster steeds, the thunder of their hooves echoing back from the stone walls.
Then they were out, heading into Tark Draan—and way ahead of him.
Carmondai rode past the cart and saw the second ox falter and collapse, stuck with arrows. On the ground he noticed a silver amulet, its chain broken.
Reining in his horse, he jumped down and picked it up. It certainly looked like silver; he could not make head nor tail of the runes inscribed on it, but as he held it in his hand he felt his fingers tingle. Is it . . . magic? His kind had certain powers, such as the ability to extinguish light and disseminate waves of fear, but none had the makings of a real magician. Even so, most älfar would be aware of the presence of magic. This talisman was definitely a case in point.
So, barbarian, who are you exactly? He raised his eyes to where, in the distance, the road wound over the hills. He saw the älfar riders split into several groups, suggesting they had lost track of the girl.