by Markus Heitz
He really is her husband!
As if the impressive creature could feel he was being observed, it suddenly turned and looked straight at Téndalor with great big violet-blue eyes.
Téndalor felt his throat constricting and his hands began to shake. The shaking soon took over his whole body. That intense shade of blue . . . He had to look away or the fear would engulf him. He could not look at those eyes a second longer.
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), six hundred miles south of the Gray Mountains,
4371st division of unendingness (5199th solar cycle),
late summer.
“Ha! There, you see! I’m winning!” Ossandra was sitting by the village fountain with the other children. With twigs and pebbles, through which water flowed, they had made little courses in the sand. Colored flakes of wood served as little boats for their races. The prizes were pieces of honey caramel. Ossandra wiped her wet hands on her light brown dress.
“No! No! I’m much quicker!” squeaked Mollo, hopping up and down in excitement. Gatiela and Sarmatt laughed and clapped their hands.
“In your dreams!” Ossandra had already won two races and the early evening was promising another triumph. She turned her head and noticed Mollo dropping sand on to her little raft. “Stop cheating!” she said, and pushed him.
The sound of splashing coming from behind her made her look around. A tall slim lady wearing a simple white linen dress was standing at the fountain, sprinkling water over her face. Ossandra had been concentrating on the game so hard that she had not noticed the stranger approaching.
“Ooh, isn’t she pretty!” she murmured. Ossandra was a bright little girl of eleven cycles and she always studied newcomers when they turned up in Milltown, trying to deduce where they were from and work out what made them different from the villagers. She was the burgomaster’s daughter and as such she considered this her duty.
Getting to her feet, she went over to the woman and stood with her hands behind her back, observing closely, but not really able to believe that anyone could be quite so beautiful. The lady’s white hair had a special shimmer to it and Ossandra felt ugly and clumsy in comparison, even if her parents always said she had a nice little face.
It was quiet around the fountain. Her friends had gone back to their game and the market stalls had all been packed away by midday. With most of the inhabitants working in the mills down by the river, or in the fields, bringing in the last of the harvest, the black and white half-timbered houses were all pretty much empty at this hour. Nobody was paying any attention to her.
“Are you a goddess?” she blurted out.
The woman ran damp fingers through her hair, which had ornaments of gems and fine bone carvings in it. Her ears, occasionally visible between the strands of hair, were pointed. She was carrying a shoulder bag with her belongings. “No, I’m no goddess, little one. My name is Horgàta and I am—”
“Oh, look! It’s an elf!” Mollo shouted. The others abandoned their game and came over. “There’s an elf sitting on our fountain!”
“Shut up, idiot!” Gatiela snapped. “You’ll frighten her off.”
Ossandra saw there was no dust on the stranger’s dress, or on her travel bag. “You can’t have come very far. You’re all clean, not like the other visitors who come to Milltown.” Her friends gathered around like a flock of nosy lambs.
“Well observed, little barbarian.”
The others pointed at Ossandra, laughing.
“I am not a barbarian,” she retorted. She no longer found Horgàta pretty at all. There was a hard, cruel line around her mouth and her eyes were cold. “I am Ossandra and I am the daughter of the burgomaster. If you wish to speak to my father perhaps you should be politer to me. He does not make time to see just anyone, you know.”
“Oh, forgive me,” the elf replied, bowing. “There was no way I could have guessed that I was in the presence of a noblewoman.” She surveyed the group. “How many children live here in Milltown?”
“Loads of us,” said Mollo. “Why?”
“You got presents?” probed Sarmatt. “There’d be enough for just us, wouldn’t there?”
Ossandra studied Horgàta carefully and deduced that the boots poking out from under the white dress were not those of someone who did a lot of walking. She had seen that shape of shoe on the king’s mounted brigade when they rode into town now and then to get food for the fortress. “Did your horse die?”
“Why would you—?” Horgàta looked down at the tips of her boots. “You really are a clever little thing.” Her laugh was clear and friendly. She stretched out her arm and touched Ossandra’s cheek. “Yes, I lost my horse on the journey. I wonder if I’ll be able to get a new one here?”
Her voice sounded cold and Ossandra did not like it. Horgàta was not like the elves she had imagined. In all the old stories elves were magnificent and radiated kindness, warming human hearts with their presence. Despite this, Ossandra found her completely fascinating.
Mollo piped up: “My father has horses for sale, but the burgomaster hasn’t!”
“Don’t you ride unicorns?” Gatiela put her head on one side, her brown braids slipping over her shoulder. “I thought elves and unicorns were friends?”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t find a unicorn,” said Horgàta, putting on a sad face. She opened her bag and took out a little black and white flute with wires connecting to small flaps. The mouthpiece was silver. “I’ll let you in on a secret: this is what we use to attract unicorns.”
Ossandra had never seen an instrument like that before, but she could see it had been fashioned from a piece of bone. “What animal has bones like that?”
“Perhaps it’s a unicorn bone.” Horgàta put the flute to her lips and played a tune.
The very first tones mesmerized the fair-haired young girl. Her thoughts stood still and the world around her disappeared. All she could do was stare at the elf and listen, listen, listen.
The song had no words, but it told a story of a man and a woman who loved each other. Then a terrible warrior turned up with a dragon, demanding the woman follow him. He took the woman, but her lover collected as many men as would support him and they set off to storm the evil warrior’s castle . . .
The song finished with a vibrato sound that had Ossandra weeping.
“No!” The girl was disappointed. “Tell me how the fight ended! They’ve got to live happily ever after and have lots of children and—” She heard voices and looked around.
The market square was full to bursting with townspeople. The elf’s playing had enticed them all away from the fields and the mills. Their faces showed trance-like expressions as they stared at Horgàta, but Ossandra could see them coming slowly back to reality. And they all seemed just as upset as she was.
Horgàta put the instrument down. “I am glad you liked it.” She scooped up some fresh water and sipped it out of the palm of her hand while the audience, young and old, applauded her performance. Leaping gracefully up onto he wall of the fountain so that everyone could see her, she addressed them. “Kind barbarians of Milltown,” she called, sounding like one of the royal heralds. “My name is Horgàta and I have come a long, long way to ask for your help with a special task.” She pointed at the quarry with her flute. “My people have an army that needs to hide in your cavern up there. It has to be kept a secret. They can’t be seen by anyone—man, woman or child—who is not from your town.”
Ossandra thought it was time to go and get her father. She pushed her way through the crowd and hurried through the alleyways.
“Father!” she shouted as soon as she got to the door. “Father, come quick! There’s an elf!” She located her father in the council chamber with a stack of papers and pile of coins in front of him. He had been working out the tithes due to the king. “Her name is Horgàta and she’s been playing her flute—”
He raised his finger and she stopped speaking. Ossandra knew this gesture well. It meant “Just a minute, I’ll be with you soon.”
It was hard for her to keep quiet, so she danced around on the spot. This earned her a warning look.
“What have you thought up this time, Daughter?” her father asked in his soft, calm voice.
“I haven’t made up the elf. She is there at the fountain! And she plays the flute. It’s really lovely, and all the people—” Ossandra went over to the window and opened it. You could hear the elf addressing the crowd and the sound of footsteps hurrying past the house to get to the marketplace.
Ossandra’s father stood up and came over to where she was, looked out and saw how many people were there. “Why didn’t they come and get me?” he grumbled, giving his daughter a kiss on the forehead. “What a good thing I’ve got you!” He unhooked his burgomaster chain from its place beside the door and put on his feathered cap and ceremonial black robe.
He walked to the fountain with Ossandra, where Horgàta was still making her speech. People made way for the burgomaster and his daughter.
“Here’s my father!” Ossandra called out, pushing him forward.
The elf turned her gaze on him. “Ah, so you are responsible for what happens to Milltown and its people?”
“I am Welkar Ilmanson. I am honored and at the same time surprised to see an elf in our town. The Beings of Light have never visited us before.”
She stretched out her hand and pulled him up to stand next to her on the edge of the fountain. “I was just telling everyone that the elves need your help.” She swiftly repeated that the cavern had to be completely emptied so that the army could move in and make camp there. “It is a great task.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t quite understood why this needs to be done,” Welkar admitted. He did not look very pleased to hear the stranger’s message. “Why would your army need to conceal itself?”
Horgàta lowered her voice, but it was still audible to every ear in the square, “There is a storm coming. A terrible force will explode over your land and no one will be able to stop it. But we, the elves, want to protect you. We are taking up secret positions everywhere in the land so that we can fight back when the invasion comes.”
The square fell silent as the people absorbed what the elf had told them.
Ossandra looked at the elf and then at her father. She could see he was struggling to make a decision.
“How will this work, Horgàta of the Elves?” he asked. “Am I to keep this secret even from my own king?”
She nodded. “It must be kept secret from everyone outside of Milltown. Evil will have sent out spies and they will move secretly among you, crushing any resistance.” Horgàta placed a hand on his shoulder. “You should count yourselves lucky that we have chosen to come here. We will keep you safe from the clutches of darkness.”
Welkar turned to the townspeople. “You have all heard what the elf has to say, but I’ll make no bones about it: it is treason to deceive our king in this way. The king ought to be told about this threat. The council will meet and if I am alone in my opinion I shall give in to the majority view. Otherwise,” he said, addressing Horgàta apologetically, “I shall have to decline your request, or at least seek royal permission to accede to it.”
Ossandra observed the elf’s face. She was smiling, it was true, but her eyes were cold as ice. The burgomaster’s words had angered her.
Here and there in the crowd, people began to call out in support of Horgàta.
Horgàta raised her hands. “Humans! Listen to me. The situation has become urgent: evil is on its way and there is no time to waste in holding council meetings or sending messages to the king. If I can’t find a secret campsite for my army, we’ll lose the advantage of surprise. Even we elves,” she said, running her eyes over the heads of the townspeople, “are not capable of confronting and defeating this danger in open battle.”
Ossandra shuddered. Elves were known to be pure beings, the best warriors in the whole of Girdlegard—nothing could hold a candle to them. But here was Horgàta, admitting that their army would find victory difficult to achieve. “What is this threat you speak of?” someone called out. “Who is it that wants to invade our land?”
“Yes!” shouted another voice. “The orcs and other monsters out there in the wilderness cause trouble occasionally, but there aren’t enough of them here to do us real harm. How is this Evil going to get here with the dwarves protecting us?”
Horgàta placed her hands on her narrow hips. “A gap has opened,” she said darkly. “You have to be told, so that you’ll understand.”
“Where?” Ossandra wasn’t happy with the answers they were getting. “How did the gap open up? Didn’t the dwarves notice? Why haven’t they sealed it?”
The elf pointed north. “It happened in the Gray Mountains. The Stone Gateway fell to the enemy and Tion’s monsters took over. The dwarves have been defeated and eradicated. Nothing will hold back the dark wave of terror that is about to pour into our native land.”
The crowd were speechless with horror.
Ossandra was reluctant to believe what the elf was saying, but Horgàta seemed utterly convinced of the truth of her news. The girl wished fervently that she could hold her father’s hand.
Welkar Ilmanson kept his cool, as might be expected of a burgomaster. “This is terrible news. But . . . why are the elves remaining silent? Why not spread the word throughout Girdlegard and assemble a fighting force big enough to repel the invaders?”
“As I said before, there are spies everywhere, even at the royal courts.” Horgàta cast another glance over the crowd. “If you help us, people of Milltown, you will be celebrated as those who helped us defeat evil. Your names will be in the history books!”
The market square fell quiet again.
“Are you telling us that our king—?” Welkar started to say.
The elf nodded. “It is not safe to speak of this to anyone except you. Help us!” She pointed west with her flute. “A group of óarcos is about seven moments of unendingness from here. We will protect you if they come, but it would be better if we took the children and any vulnerable old people with us to the cavern. They’ll be safer there.”
The crowd became restive. Ossandra recognized fear in the murmuring voices of her friends and family.
“Don’t delay, Welkar!” called a young woman urgently. “Think of us and of our children!” Similar calls were heard on all sides.
The burgomaster lifted his hand for quiet. “I hear what you are all saying.” He lowered his hand and offered it to Horgàta. “I swear in the name of Milltown that we won’t tell anyone about your army.”
The elf shook hands with Ilmanson and the people cheered.
Ossandra looked at Horgàta. There was malice behind her smile.
“Take the children and old people up into the cavern immediately. I’ll have my elf-warriors move in overnight to protect them,” she said. “Don’t forget to organize food for them.” Horgàta jumped down from the fountain, landing at Ossandra’s feet. “Well, my little one? Are you glad we came?”
She knew it would be better to nod and pretend she was relieved. So that is what she did. But she would not join the elves, because that cavern was starting to sound like a prison.
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), south east of Gray Mountains,
4371st division of unendingness (5199th solar cycle),
early autumn.
Morana stood before King Odeborn of Ido, biting her lip so as not to say anything negative about the appearance of the court. It was a miserable dump, the air tasted of stale smoke and rancid candle fat and the frescoes might have been painted by a blind barbarian with absolutely no understanding of form or color. I wouldn’t even expect my night-mare to put up with this.
There were four men and women to the right and left of the king and everyone was staring at her with intense curiosity. These were, she had been told, the richest and most important nobles in the land: the king’s closest advisers.
I think their main concern is to see that they do well out of things person
ally. Morana’s black leather armor felt slightly out of place. As long as she was abroad on the roads of Tark Draan she chose not to wear it, but it was more or less essential for the kind of negotiations she was conducting: she needed to show she was no ordinary elf.
And the barbarians had obviously fallen for it. People trusted her, even to the extent of allowing her into the throne room carrying the weapon Virssagòn had created for her: Sun and Moon.
Morana appreciated his gift hugely and had practiced with it on her way to the king. The moon part of the weapon was two curved sickle shapes fastened on to a central stick. The blades of the other part were as straight as the rays of the daystar. The inner and outer edges were honed as blades, and her fingers were protected by metal basketwork. The weapon was intended for close combat; used with speed and precision it would be lethal and unique in its efficacy.
I could kill them one by one. She swept the room with her eyes, taking in the guards. They look pretty slow. They wouldn’t stop me.
She played with the idea of wiping out the entire leadership of the kingdom. They would be directionless and confused. Then the älfar would take this realm easily.
She noted some of the crude rings and chains the nobles wore over badly made garments. If they fight the way they make their metalware we’d be better off without them. But the nostàroi had ordered her to forge an alliance with this man and she could not disobey. She placed her hand on her midriff and sketched a bow. “Nobles of Tark Draan, King of Ido, you have my greetings and my thanks for agreeing to receive me.”
King Odeborn, a broad figure with a thick nose and drooping eyelids, sniffed audibly. “I just wanted to see what an elf was like,” he said baldly. The nobles gave titters of false laughter, and some of them rolled their eyes at his comment.
Morana knew that the king had inherited the throne—he had certainly not been awarded it due to intelligence or wisdom. That should make things easier for me. It’d be better if I included these nobles when I address the king. “Do I look like an elf?” she asked.