by Markus Heitz
“I call these älfar as witnesses.” Polòtain called out several names in quick succession.
As the doors opened up, a group of soldiers marched in. They looked uneasy and avoided Sinthoras’s eyes.
To Tion with him! That is the crew from the island fortress. The ones I sent the wine to. All at once he felt sick.
Polòtain pulled a box out from under the table, opened the lid and took out a decorated cudgel with hair and dried blood on the points. “Please tell the chamber,” he said, addressing the soldiers quietly, “who it was you saw crossing the bridge into Dsôn and then on a second occasion going out again. Don’t forget to mention the gifts he sent and the promise he extracted from you in order to hide his misdeeds.”
Sinthoras sat as if thunderstruck. I . . . thought . . . He was suddenly furious with the island unit. Traitors! Lines of anger shot across his face although he attempted to smile. It was clear he was presenting a ridiculous picture.
While the soldiers were giving their evidence, the black lines on his face were obvious to all in the room. There was more whispered discussion and this time the drift of the comments went against Sinthoras.
The fortress soldiers finally trooped out of the hall.
Polòtain got to his feet and took up a stance in front of the committee, holding the cudgel in such a way that everyone could see. “This is the weapon used to destroy Itáni’s sculpture and which was then used to murder the artist herself. There can be no doubt about this: the implement was thrown into the courtyard of my home and an openly threatening message had been scratched into the wood of the gate.” He slammed the club into the wooden uprights and there it remained, bathed in a stream of light. “At first I thought Sinthoras had sent some of his retinue to carry out the deed, but it appears that he was arrogant enough to commit the murder with his own hands! What greater hubris could there be? Who does he think he is, to kill an artist for having created a sculpture that was not to his liking?”
Sinthoras stared at the weapon. What a fool I am. “Lots of people have clubs like that. War booty from Tark Draan,” he said slowly. “You can be sure I would never use something as clumsy as that.”
“That’s what makes it the perfect weapon.” Polòtain placed his fingers around the handle. “No one would ever assume a high-ranking älf would dirty his hands with it.” His smile could not have been bettered for the malice it showed. “When I learned that the nostàroi had indeed been in Dsôn on the night in question, I thought it probable that he had visited his mistress—and I was proven correct!”
The committee members followed his account eagerly. Nobody spoke. The faces of the Comets grew dark as they listened to the evidence and the witness statements.
“I went to see Timansor and interrogated him. At first he denied that the nostàroi had been there, probably for the sake of his daughter’s reputation. But he finally admitted it. This cudgel,” he said, standing aside so that all eyes were on the implement, “was taken from Timansor’s own collection of weaponry.”
Cries of “Shame!” started to be heard. They came from his own faction, the Comets, in whose eyes he had once been the great hope. Their dazzling star was losing all its splendor.
Say something, he kept telling himself, aware of the jagged lines of anger on his face. He felt as if an enemy army outnumbered him and he was cornered in a narrow gorge with no way of escape. He has got me now!
He saw the steely expressions on the älfar faces. No one was kindly disposed toward him now. They might perhaps have doubted the testimony of simple warriors from the island fortress, but they would not call into question the evidence of a respected artist such as Timansor. And then, of course, Timanris had deserted his cause. There could be no more telling indictment.
More shouts of “Shame!” were heard.
Sinthoras made a mental note of those älfar who were shouting the loudest. Again it was his faction, the Comets. We appear in the heavens in the blink of an eye and fall just as swiftly. He exhaled slowly, his head down on his breast. He had given up. It is impossible to catch a falling star without burning your hands, but don’t you dare convict me! He sought out Demenion, Khlotòn and Rashànras, in whose homes he had been made welcome and who had acclaimed him as a protector of their race. The celebrations you laid on in my honor, the speeches you made, your fine words of support—don’t forget them now! Don’t forget your vows of loyalty, or—
“There is only one conclusion to be drawn: Sinthoras was in Dsôn that night. We have evidence that he visited Timanris. He then removed the cudgel from her father’s weapon collection, destroyed the statue of Robonor and committed the heinous, unthinkable crime of killing Itáni before leaving a warning on my gates and tossing the murder weapon into the courtyard!” Polòtain perched on the table. “Let the committee now determine their verdict. Unless, of course,” he said, addressing Sinthoras, “you have something to say in your defense? But you seem to have gone quiet. Does the truth make you too angry to speak?”
“My anger is directed against you, Polòtain, for attacking my honor in this way. You have been lying,” said Sinthoras, but his words sounded hollow and unconvincing.
“So are you accusing Timansor, Timanris and the entire crew of the island fortress of lying under oath?” Polòtain shook with laughter. “You can see no way out. Who else do you want to blame for fabricating evidence? I assume you will be alleging the whole of Dsôn has been telling lies to bring you down!”
Hold your tongue! Sinthoras wanted to launch himself at Polòtain and strangle him as he stood. He saw Timanris’s face and longed for her support but she had abandoned him. They have forced her. Polòtain and her father made her denounce me. Otherwise she would have stood by me, I know. He opened his mouth, but closed it again. There is nothing I can say now. I underestimated the old fool, and I was so careless; I’ve given him all the ammunition he needed to destroy me.
“The rest is silence.” Polòtain bowed briefly to the court. “I await your decision and I rely on you to come to a proper decision. Justice will win out.”
Demenion, the Comets’ spokesman, and Ratáris, the spokeswoman for the Constellations, rose from their seats. It came as no surprise to Sinthoras that the word guilty was pronounced twice. What else was said or what reasons were given was all of no interest to him.
He could not bring himself to look at Polòtain. Enjoy your victory. I shall find a way to get my revenge. I shall hurt you as badly as you have hurt me! He directed his gaze and his unbounded hatred at Demenion, Khlotòn and Rashànras, who all lowered their eyes to avoid his. They knew they had betrayed him. And I shall not forget your treachery today.
“. . . it will be left to the Inextinguishables to formulate the sentence,” said Ratáris.
Sinthoras started to pay attention. Nagsor and Nagsar Inàste! They won’t forget the service I have done them!
Polòtain leaned forward over the table. “What?” he barked, acute disappointment and incredulity in his voice.
“‘Sinthoras is a former nostàroi, a commander in the campaign against Tark Draan,’” Ratáris went on. She was reading from a letter. They say: “‘He has achieved much for us, for Dsôn Faïmon and for his own people. His name is revered by young and old alike.’”
“That is indeed so,” Sinthoras echoed the words to himself. Hope began to blossom. He might well be pardoned after all, not sent into exile to Phondrasôn, the appalling underground realm of cruelty and horrors beyond anything known in Ishím Voróo.
“‘Due to this, the deeds of which he has been found guilty are multiplied a hundredfold.’” The spokeswoman’s voice faltered; she was having difficulty reading. “‘For this reason, we hereby exile Sinthoras from Dsôn Faïmon. Though he is not to be sent to Phondrasôn, he is under our orders to march west and to keep going until it is not possible to go any farther. He should not return before forty divisions of unendingness have passed, or before he has slain 10,000 of our enemies in our name.’”
Sinthoras gave an empty laugh of utter hopelessness. Forty divisions! The war will be forty times over by then!
Ratáris made a sign and the doors opened up to admit the Inextinguishables’ guards, who surrounded Sinthoras.
“‘He is to leave immediately, with no opportunity to make any arrangements’,” announced Ratáris. “‘He may take armor, weapons and a night-mare. That is all. This is our will.’” She lowered the paper and nodded.
Two guards pulled him to his feet and the unit marched out, leading him off.
Thrown out of my own homeland. Banned. Exiled to Ishím Voróo. The words echoed around and around his head. He was seeing stars. He started to shiver with shock. Forty divisions of unendingness. Forty . . .
“That is your deserved reward!” Polòtain yelled after him. “Worse than endingness: solitude!”
Sinthoras did not look at anyone. He did not want to see his enemies’ triumphant grins, or the guilt on the faces of his one-time colleagues and supporters.
“Loneliness and more loneliness!” Polòtain thundered, beside himself with hatred and delight. “None to admire you! You will be totally forgotten! Go and die in Ishím Voróo. Do you hear? Go off and die!”
You will all regret what you have done. Unprotesting, Sinthoras let them take him to where his night-mare was waiting. This was not the time or place to rebel against the decision.
He rode to the radial arm Wèlèron. From there his route would take him past the dorón ashont, over the bridge and off to Ishím Voróo.
But for Sinthoras one thing was clear: he would return.
At some time in the future, some splinter of unendingness, he would face those that had betrayed him.
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), in the Gray Mountains,
4371st division of unendingness (5199th solar cycle),
late autumn.
The amorphous cloud of mist with its glittering sparks neared the cave floor, encircling Simin.
The magus was hearing the demon’s voice inside his own head. Just so long as the demon can’t read my thoughts . . . “You are the . . . the creature people are talking about!”
I’ll try a bit of flattery. “A good friend. She told me you have the ability to overcome death itself. That’s why I’ve come here to meet you.” Simin was being very cautious. He was watchful, not only because of the demon, but also on account of any orcs that might be in the vicinity. They could turn up at any moment to see how their prisoner was faring. Then they would find the dead keeper in the corridor . . . Or the demon would bring the dead keeper to life . . .
“From the place you call Tark Draan. Girdlegard is my homeland.”
The mist glowed in greedy anticipation.
“They are conquering Tark Draan to give to you?” Simin indicated the orc. “I thought evil was randomly attacking my land, devoid of any plan.”
“Suchandsuch,” the magus answered, his instincts warning him to be wary of giving his true name.
“And Hianna the Flawless? What agreement have you come to with her?”
Who?
“The maga—the one who does magic stuff. She was with the älfar in the Gray Mountains. I thought she had met up with you.”
Simin paid careful attention. Apparently the älfar were not letting the demon in on everything. Perhaps it would be possible to drive a wedge between the different elements? “They will doubtless get around to it. But say, can’t the two of us do some kind of a deal?” He kept an ear open for any approaching orcs, but heard nothing.
“The älfar have won Hianna over as a friend. How about the two of us becoming friends as well?”
The mist giggled.
“Maybe the land itself is yours, but not the humans who live there: they may obey you out of fear, but they won’t belong to you.”
Simin watched the shimmering cloud and felt the uncanny atmosphere that oozed from it. “What do you mean by that?”
“So the orc is immortal now?”
Simin needed certainty so that he could warn the humans of the danger they would be facing. “But presumably he’ll decay eventually? Isn’t that so?”
What he and Ortina had feared might actually happen. In his mind’s eye Simin saw hordes of the undead overrunning Girdlegard. I must stop the demon invading my homeland. It was bad enough to know that the dead lands were spreading throughout the Gray Mountains already. That is the right expression: dead land. “If you stay, you’ll soon have double the number of troops in your army.”
“I’m sure that would motivate them to greater things!” Curses! I hadn’t wanted to suggest that. Simin was intent on finding out exactly what sort of being they were up against. Unnoticed, he formulated and released a spell to discover the demon’s true nature, while keeping up a steady patter to distract the mist’s attention.
For an instant his identifying spell turned the cloud an intense black with a scant admixture of red and yellow. This told Simin that the demon was pure evil, but that he had once been neutral enough. He remembered that the demon had said Sinthoras was the one to effect this change. This must mean that the mist-demon could be influenced from outside. By magic perhaps?
Simin made sure that his thoughts and his words were completely separate; he kept up a stream of superficial platitudes while his mind worked feverishly.
With his newfound knowledge he could design a banning and barrier spell, but this would take more time than he had at his disposal.
I must keep him occupied so that he stays here for a bit. Simin looked around for inspiration.
Simin thought fast. “I should be honored if you would allow me to demonstrate my artistry, for I, as well as Hianna, am a magus, and might be of use to you.”
Simin knew his energy was at a low ebb and that he would not be able to produce many spells, but he could use it wisely and it might be sufficient. “Will you spare my land if I work for you?”
“That seems fair enough. Let’s seal our contract with a friendship ritual.” Simin raised his arms and started to pronounce the magic wording. With intense concentration he invested the spell with the last of his strength and hurled it toward the demon.
A bright blue ribbon of light surrounded the mist-demon and orc, tying itself tightly and binding the demon to the orc. The cloud was absorbed into the creature.
Orc and demon shrieked at the same time and Simin blocked his ears. The brute pulled wildly at its chains; one of the stalagmites cracked and broke, but the remaining three were still sound.
That’s not quite what I had planned. I wanted to tie him to the orc, not force him inside it. Simin could only think that since its transformation, the undead beast had probably carried some of the demon’s power and that was why the absorption had occurred. Now I seem to have created a demonically possessed orc. Simin really could not care less. The result was what counted.
But he did not try to deceive himself. This new prison probably won’t hold him for long. He’ll find a way to free himself, or he’ll manage to take control of the orc and will break out somehow.
Before that happened, Simin wanted to plan his next major piece of magic to halt the demon’s progress into Girdlegard. If we all pull together . . . Simin remembered that there were not many magicians left who would be able to work with him. Ortina and Jujulo were both dead and Hianna had changed sides.