by Markus Heitz
Inàste’s fossilized tear! There was no longer the slightest doubt in his mind. He quivered with joy. By chance he caught Imàndaris’s eye.
Their glances melded, as did their thoughts and their emotions, it seemed to Caphalor. His heart was racing and his head refused to turn away from her. What . . .
Everything around them disappeared—only her face existed in his mind. The place near the heart, the solar plexus, woke explosively and flooded his body with heat from head to toe.
Caphalor gasped as the feeling tore through him. It grew more intense yet and made his whole body quiver and shake. His teeth chattered wildly. Suddenly he understood that this was not happening within him, but was coming from the ground under their feet.
His thoughts and his senses returned abruptly to the present moment.
Imàndaris was kneeling at his feet and he could tell she was as shocked as he. The hill beneath them bucked and rocked like a rearing night-mare, eager to throw them off. Snow and sand slid down, slowly revealing the black stone.
“Inàste’s tear has felt our presence!” she cried joyfully. “It has been waiting for us to find it and touch it.”
Caphalor was having trouble keeping his balance. Now he could see that they were standing on a sharp ridge, no broader than two sword blades. The pleasant vibrations emanating from the stone grew stronger as more of the rock was revealed, but jumping down would have been unwise as more and more sharp rocks appeared. One false move might see their death—or serious injury.
“Wait until the rock has settled down.” He said to Imàndaris. He held her by the arms and she placed her hands on his shoulders. In this way, each could help the other to remain stable on their precarious ledge.
Caphalor saw slaves staring up at them and other älfar running up to the crater from all directions. But there was nothing anyone could do but wait until the hill had stopped moving.
He glanced at Imàndaris and she returned his gaze. Something had changed. He remembered this from the time he had spent with Enoïla. Has the power of the stone locked us together?
The quaking did not lessen. In fact, the vibrations were growing stronger and the summit of the hill started to move upward with a deep rumbling sound.
More multi-colored stone came to the fore and the hill became a mountain, higher and higher, and broader at the base. Great clumps of earth crashed down to the floor of the crater, making the waiting älfar scatter in fear.
Caphalor and Imàndaris were carried up and up, almost level to the crater edge, then farther still.
By all that’s infamous, what is happening here? Caphalor scrutinized the plain. Gusts of wind threatened to topple him, but Imàndaris held him fast.
At long last the vibrations ebbed away and the astonishing growth of the rock halted.
Imàndaris looked around excitedly. “What just happened?” she asked, joyously, as a flight of birds went past them. Gray wisps formed beneath them and they were surrounded by light fog—they had reached the clouds. “What a splendid gift the Creating Spirit has given us. We are so high above the crater!” With a laugh she released Caphalor’s hands.
Caphalor nodded. The recent splinters of unendingness had brought so much that was new and unusual he could hardly keep track. Strangely, he was thinking about how difficult the descent was going to be. One false move and we die. He leaned over and looked down.
The mountain reared up, sharp as a needle within its coat of cloud and mist. Pieces of earth slipped down its sheer sides, breaking up as they plunged to the crater floor. The rock was wet in places and jets of water could be seen emerging.
“The Creator Spirit’s tear is pretty sharp and pointed, isn’t it?” he commented.
“But it has to be one of her tears. How else can we explain what has just happened to us?” Imàndaris also risked a look over the side. “Is it a sign? Does she want us to find our future here? Does she want us to leave Ishím Voróo?”
Caphalor was doubtful. “I reckon the mountain may explode or slip back down again,” he said. “But if it does remain, it would be a good site for a palace,” he added cautiously. “We will need many slaves to hew steps into the rock.” He imagined a new Bone Tower up here on the mountain as a symbol of his people’s superiority over the elves. Truly! Can there be any greater fate in store for me than this?
Imàndaris stretched out her arms and laughed, her bright red hair and the edges of her robe lifting in the breeze. “We are blessed, Caphalor!” she exclaimed. “The Creating Spirit has chosen us!” She turned abruptly toward him, eyes bright with enthusiasm and he could not resist: many paces above the floor of the crater, their faces touched by the wind and clouds, he took her chin gently in his hands and gave her a long kiss on the mouth. She responded passionately.
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), in the Gray Mountains,
4371st division of unendingness (5199th solar cycle),
late autumn.
By now Simin was having no trouble at all finding his way about in the labyrinth of tunnels—as long as he stuck to the main paths, which would let him traverse the Gray Mountains quickly in his search for the demon.
Three times now he had narrowly avoided bumping into orcs. One of the monsters had got wind of him and had followed his tracks, but a masterly shove had sent the screaming greenskin plunging into an abyss. It would not be coming out again.
But then he had seen Hianna the Flawless escorted by a troop of älfar and she certainly did not look like their captive—more like their ally.
Famenia was too slow. She did not explain the true nature of the älfar to Hianna in time.
Unfortunately Simin had found no opportunity to speak to the maga alone. There had always been several älfar around her and he could not risk discovery if he wanted to carry out his original mission.
Who knows what kind of promises the älfar have made her? If they’ve got Hianna on their side, it will make everything harder for us. His disappointment ran deep.
At least his mission was proceeding. He was now fairly sure he had reached the northern part of the mountain and the place where the dead had risen again, according to what Famenia had said. But as yet he had seen no indication that the demon was near.
Where has it gone? Simin did not want to think about the demon being in Girdlegard, using its unholy powers. It’s essential that Famenia has succeeded in warning and winning over the other magi. Otherwise . . .
A shadow unfolded from the wall and lunged at him and Simin sprang backward as an ax just missed his head and shattered upon meeting rock.
In front of him was an orc nearly the same size as himself, staring dumbly at its broken weapon in dismay.
That’s all right by me. Simin kicked his enemy in the groin, making him double up with pain. The magus then aimed his boot at the creature’s face. Snorting, the orc lurched to the side and fell against the tunnel wall.
The fact that the orc was in that area of the mountain was strange. This region is under human control.
He sprang forward, pulled out the orc’s sword and placed the tip of it against the creature’s neck. “What are you doing in our region of the mountains?” He hoped the orc would fall for the trick and assume that he was a human ally.
The beast looked at the edge of the sword and then at Simin. He groaned. That kick was effective. “I got lost,” he grunted, his tiny eyes glittering with fear.
“Why were you trying to kill me?”
“Thought you were a dwarf.”
“Look how tall I am!” Simin kicked him in the belly. It did not have much effect because of the armor, but the blow was intended to give the message that he was willing to inflict more damage. “I want the truth!”
“I will whisper it in your ear!” The orc tried to get around the sword and attack the magus.
Alarmed by the sudden movement, Simin stuck the blade deep into the creature’s throat and let go of the sword. The orc fell and foolishly pulled the sword out of the wound, causing a sudden hemorrhage
; he ended his life in a pool of his own blood.
The magus strode over the cadaver and crept forward. Perhaps he was guarding something?
He soon found himself in a small cave where the dwarves had transformed stalagmites into cleverly carved columns. Lighting was provided, as in the rest of the tunnels, by luminous moss.
In the center was a naked orc. Chains leading from four of the pillars were attached to a ring around his neck; he crouched on the floor, head on chest, his body covered in cuts and dried blood.
That is . . . quite revolting! A large clump of flesh had been cut out of the orc’s right shoulder and the wound had not been dressed or covered. Thick crusts of scab had gone putrid. What had he done to deserve that punishment, I wonder? And why is he alone?
Punishment had to be seen in order to be an effective deterrent, but there was no one else in the room and it was quite far from anywhere else. Perhaps this one had led some kind of rebellion. He might have been tortured and was perhaps awaiting execution.
I don’t have to put myself in their place. He was about to withdraw when he saw a long dagger sticking out of the creature’s side. By Elria! How is he not dead?
The orc took a shuddering breath, raised its head and looked directly at him. A long wound that ran under his chin from one ear to the other was clearly visible. The monster snorted aggressively, displaying long teeth as powerful as the fangs of a wolf.
It should surely be long dead! Then the appalling truth struck. Is this one of the dead come back to life? Cautiously he approached the captive. Perhaps the demon is close at hand? He looked around again.
The beast stood up and the chains clattered. A roar came from its muzzle, accompanied by the smell of drains.
“Are you an Undead?” Simin asked, stopping just out of the range of the filthy claws. Then he moved swiftly, pulling the dagger out of the creature’s side and plunging the blade into its heart.
At least that was what he tried to do. He had little experience in combat and had made the mistake of inserting the knife at the wrong angle, so that it did not slip between the ribs as he had hoped.
The orc roared and aimed a blow at him.
Simin managed to avoid the long talons, but tripped on the rough ground. Before he could help himself, he fell and was grabbed by the orc’s right forearm and dragged into range of the horrific fangs.
I am an idiot! Simin wanted to preserve his store of the magic energy so he drew the dagger out again and rammed it into his enemy’s throat from below.
The orc did not seem impressed. He continued in his efforts to get at the magus’s face, ready to strip it of flesh.
I’ll have to use magic . . . Simin could see the dagger point sticking up through the monster’s lower jaw and piercing the tongue. He conjured up a dazzling ball of light, blinding the beast for several heartbeats; then, using the confusion that resulted, he thrust both feet against the orc and pushed with all his might, ignoring the pain in his belly to pull himself free.
Simin landed in a pile of shit, and slid away from the monster, who flailed wildly at the end of his chains, making the stalagmite pillars shake.
“Ye gods!” Simin watched the orc roar and thrash about in spite of the new injuries. Thank you, Sitalia!
“What?” he looked right and left. “Who . . . ?”
“The demon!” Simin exclaimed.
Simin tilted his head back and saw a cloud of fog floating just under the cave roof.
CHAPTER XVII
The smell
of endingness
recalls the taste
of foul words
which lie on the tongue
and then pour, stinking, over the lips.
So, when you speak,
speak pure,
and clear
and only what is true.
So your mouth may remain
untouched by decay.
Be aware: evil words
bring evil in their wake.
Excerpt from the epic poem The Heroes of Tark Draan
composed by Carmondai, master of word and image
Ishím Voróo (Outer Lands), Dsôn Faïmon, Dsôn,
4371st/4372nd divisions of unendingness (5199th/ 5200th solar cycles),
winter.
Sinthoras ran across the white bone gravel of the main thoroughfares, his breath coming unevenly. He knew full well his guards were finding it difficult to keep up, but the urgency that drove him to find Timanris would not let him slow down.
Polòtain can take everything else, but he mustn’t take her away from me. Not her! He felt an icy rage that spurred him on to revenge and bloodlust. He wished he could confront Polòtain, who had caused him all this upheaval and distress, so that he could repay it all in kind. I would murder him and be glad to answer for it in a court of law. That way I’ll be condemned for an offense I’d actually committed.
No one had ever been as important to him as Timanris; she fascinated and encouraged and, in so many ways, completed him. He wanted to be near her and to lay Dsôn Faïmon and Tark Draan at her feet.
I would have named cities after her and erected temples in her name. Despair burned in his soul. And now she disowns me without telling me the cause!
A few paces ahead a solitary älf stumbled along, then collapsed, grabbing his belly and his chest. He rolled from side to side. Moaning, he tried to drink from the puddles, before tearing at his robe.
Sinthoras slowed down as he reached the figure.
“Stop!” called one of his guards in a panic. “Don’t touch him, whatever you do! He has—”
With a sound like the breaking of a fresh loaf the älf’s belly burst open. Intestines and inner organs flowed onto the street and a warm rain drenched Sinthoras. The älf died with a loud groan.
“Get back!” came the warning again and Sinthoras was dragged back by the shoulders. A horrified exclamation followed.
Sinthoras could not take his eyes off the corpse. He could see the älf’s shriveled organs on the road. They look as if they were boiled. Then he saw something moving in the entrails. “What is that?” He moved a little closer.
Purple threads the length of his little finger pulsated in the dead älf’s guts, breaking through the stomach wall in hundreds and swarming off to disappear among the pellets of the road. It’s not a sickness that has struck our nation! It’s parasites!
Sinthoras took out his coin purse, emptied it and turned it inside out, then used the bag to pick up some of the worms, flipping it back the correct way when he had a handful. He fastened the top tightly so that none of the little worms could escape.
Getting to his feet he turned to one of his guards. “Take this to Wèlèron,” he instructed him. “It needs to go to the älf Bolcatòn—he needs to study this. Tell him exactly what you saw.”
But the guards drew back and one of them laid his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Are you—” Sinthoras noticed that something was dripping down his face. Wiping his brow with his index finger, he saw that he had blood on his hand. Someone else’s blood. They think I’ve become infected. “It’s not in the blood! It’s the worms that bring death—” Then he realized that with the force of the exploding guts, it was very likely that some of the parasites had reached him. Well, then, I’ll go myself. “You go to Timanris and tell her I want to see her.” He pointed to the other älf and continued, “And you, come with me. I’ll need a night-mare.”
At first no one moved, but then one ran in the direction of Timansor’s house, while the other followed the one-time nostàroi, keeping a safe distance away.
They went back to Si
nthoras’s house and collected a night-mare. Together with an escort that was nervously trying not to get too close, he galloped out of Dsôn toward Wèlèron, where the communities of academic älfar resided and where the schools of higher learning had been established. All known älfar wisdom was gathered in that place.
Is that the solution? He had not put down the purse, which smelled badly of blood and excrement. The dorón ashont must have introduced these parasites to their captive and then let him escape, knowing he would bring them to us. He shuddered to think of the number of worms that had eaten their way out of the dead body. There must be many thousands of them in Dsôn already. The mere idea made his throat tighten with fear. The worms are multiplying all the time under our feet. There could be no escape, if his understanding of the situation were correct: the worms could be anywhere; searching for all of them would take hundreds of moments of unendingness.
After a strenuous ride they reached the town of Arrilgûr in Wèlèron’s outskirts.
This was an alien world for Sinthoras, one in which academic life was at the heart of things. He could not remember when he had last been there. Scholars held no sway in politics and thus had never been of any use to him. The only person he could approach was Bolcatòn—a high-ranking scholar specializing in medical matters. He chaired the civil research committee.
Sinthoras stopped the nearest älf and was soon directed to the main building: an imposing semicircle built of bone marble. The façade was shimmering white and the polished stones showed the lines that recalled their origins.
Let’s hope he’s good at his job. I don’t know where else to go. Time is of the essence. Sinthoras stormed noisily through the hallowed halls with his escort, brushing slaves and älfar servants aside until he had reached Bolcatòn’s rooms. This was not the proper way to approach an älf of Bolcatòn’s standing, but now was not the time to stand on ceremony.
He found the expert at his modest evening meal of bread and fruit; an opaque liquid filled a clear goblet next to an empty carafe. Bolcatòn seemed distinctly old, which was unusual for one of their kind. I wonder how many dawns he has seen?