by Markus Heitz
Someone knocked.
The couple moved apart as the door began to open. Carmondai hurried into the room, his notebook and pen at the ready. “Pardon me for barging in, but we have news of our friend Toboribar.”
“To Sitalia and Elria with the wretched óarco,” muttered Imàndaris, making Caphalor laugh out loud. “You would think he would have learned his lesson by now, wouldn’t you?”
Carmondai handed her the message. “The letter wasn’t sealed, so I took the liberty of reading it. He has revoked our treaty and has left for the south!”
“Very clever; he knows we can’t pursue him. We don’t have enough troops.” Caphalor looked at the map. “Who else has gone? Just his Kraggash, or all the óarcos?”
“All those from Ishím Voróo; he has killed the few Tark Draan óarcos that had joined him to ensure we don’t profit from their local knowledge.” Carmondai sounded extremely bitter. “It began so gloriously and now it looks like it’ll end in catastrophe.”
Caphalor said nothing, casting his mind over their remaining options. The óarcos have gone and so have half the barbarians. We’re left with few of our own warriors and fewer trolls and ogres. It’ll be a miracle if we can hold onto the Golden Plain when spring comes. He glanced at Imàndaris; her face showed that she was thinking along the same lines. “When the snow starts to melt and the dragons wake up, we’ll be faced with a third front. Your proposal, Nostàroi, is absolutely the right one: we attack Gwandalur now. That should relieve some of the pressure.”
“And after that we will undertake a few decoy forays into landur and Lesinteïl to make the elves think we have enough troops to go on the march even in winter.” Her eyes were shining. She had finally been given the opportunity to operate as a warrior. “The dorón ashont will be defeated by spring and then we’ll have the reinforcements we need to finish off the elves.”
“We must demand more forces from the monarchs and nobles of Tark Draan. We can use them to defend the territories we have already won, but we will defend the crater ourselves.” Caphalor was pleased with the strategy. “I suggest we send Virssagòn to Gwandalur with a few älfar. He can’t carry out his other mission because the mages know what’s happening. A master killer like Virssagòn will find some way to kill the dragons.”
Imàndaris indicated her agreement. Carmondai was making a faithful record of the details of their discussion. “I’ll go with him,” he announced. “I could do with a bit more in the way of adventure for my epic. If I’m not going to be allowed to write about—” He broke off, reacting to Caphalor’s warning look. “The defeat of Gwandalur will be excellent material.”
“Why don’t you command the cavalry?” suggested Imàndaris. “Caphalor tells me you are excellent. Take the mounted troops and Virssagòn.”
Carmondai shook his head determinedly. “I have opted for the life of an artist.”
“But you used to be a warrior?” Caphalor was keen to learn more about this älf, who kept his head in the heat of battle and knew how to lead and command, but refused his right to lead. Without him we would never have won. “How is it that you know so much about cavalry combat? I can’t remember the älfar ever really deploying heavy cavalry. Our race has always depended on the use of bow and arrow.”
“We are a race dedicated to death and to art,” Carmondai corrected him courteously. He sat down and laid his notebook and his pen on the table. He seemed to be happy to talk. “How we use both is entirely up to each of us.”
Imàndaris took a seat and pulled Caphalor to the chair next to hers.
“In a time when the älfar fought in Ishím Voróo, on terrain as flat as the Golden Plain, we came up against enemies who moved too fast for our archers: the cûithones. They were annoying creatures, a bit like humans to look at, but they aged twice as fast. They moved twice as fast, too. They would make it to our forces and cause incredible damage before our first arrows had fallen.”
Caphalor had never heard of the cûithones. And he could not think where this territory was that Carmondai had been describing. “Where is this land?”
“A long way to the south. We traveled many miles over land and then took a ship—”
“You went by ship?” Caphalor exclaimed. “In the name of infamy! There’s no sea anywhere near Dsôn Faïmon.”
Carmondai smiled. “You just have to keep going south, Benàmoi. In those days the Comets exercised a strong influence on the Inextinguishables, and the älfar empire eliminated all potential enemies within a range of 1,000 miles.”
“But that must have been ages ago!” Caphalor was impressed. I feel quite ignorant. He glanced at Imàndaris, who gave an almost imperceptible shrug.
“Not everyone knew about it. The unit I belonged to was thought to have been lost.” Carmondai looked out at the horizon, his thoughts reaching out to the far past. “The cûithones had fortresses they attacked us from. We racked our brains for the right tactics. Pikes were good for an initial line of defense, but the cûithones squirmed past us like rats through the undergrowth and we lost a lot of good soldiers. I saw that we needed to run them down en masse, as the cûithones had no archers; they always relied on their speed. It seemed to me that heavy cavalry would be the best method. We came up with more resistant armor and made longer lances for our mounted troops. I planned maneuvers and invented signals to steer the cavalry quickly and reliably, to make full use of their combat skills. After that we beat the cûithones every time we met in battle. We razed their fortresses to the ground.”
Imàndaris was hanging on his every word and Caphalor was equally fascinated.
“When we eventually returned to Dsôn after five divisions of unendingness, we’d been as good as forgotten. The Constellations accused us of ignoring all the messages we’d been sent, but I swear we never received a single one.” Carmondai looked out of the window at the mountain in the middle of the crater: it rose, black and massive, throwing its shadow across them. “They deployed us in a defense role against the cûithones, farther to the north, near Pataiòn.”
“That’s all forest up there. Cavalry would be useless,” commented Caphalor.
Carmondai nodded, a sad look in his eyes. “They wanted to punish us for our apparent refusal to follow orders—and because the Comets favored us. We lost half our fighting force in the first attack on our position. In the second we only managed to escape total annihilation by the skin of our teeth. I quit the service and abandoned military life. That was the beginning of the period when Dsôn lost so much territory to the óarcos, the barbarians, the fflecx and other scum from Ishím Voróo. Our heavy cavalry belonged to history.” He turned to Imàndaris. “Can I have some wine? The past is in need of it.”
“Don’t you think it would make a good epic?” Imàndaris said, moved by what she had heard.
“No. I . . . I don’t want to bring it up again. Nobody needs to know about it.”
Now I understand what made him such an excellent warrior. Caphalor looked at Carmondai differently. Much had been rumored about this älf, but no one had guessed that in reality he had been a consummate cavalry warrior all those divisions of unendingness ago. He was also surprised to learn how great the extent of Dsôn Faïmon territory had been. I have never bothered to find out about our own history. I really should have. This story explained Carmondai’s somewhat arrogant and disrespectful attitude when they had first met: he was understandably unimpressed by anything to do with politics and the status games—games Sinthoras was master at. It must be so distasteful for him to hear history twisted and turned into lies . . . “Politics serves only to satisfy the vanity of certain individuals,” Caphalor remarked soberly. “To think what the cavalry could have achieved if they had been allowed to!”
“I’ll tell you this for free: the Constellations in Dsôn won’t be pleased to hear the unit has been resurrected, particularly as it was me . . . I mean, particularly as it was Sinthoras who suggested it.” Carmondai hurried to correct himself and swallowed the wine Imàndari
s offered him. “I hope the Inextinguishables will bring both factions to reason.” He pointed to the new mountain. “What’s going to happen with this?” he asked, deflecting any further attention.
“We have decided to keep the real story secret. We’ll pretend the nostàroi caused the mountain to be built to demonstrate how superior our race is to the elves. Only the Inextinguishables will be told the truth.”
Carmondai moved to face Caphalor again. “Then I’ll have to cut a whole section of my poem!” he exclaimed in horror. “It took me a whole splinter of unendingness to write all that.”
“I am sorry.” Imàndaris refilled his beaker with wine, but did not offer to change her mind on this subject.
“And what about the älfar who were present?” asked Carmondai. “You were seen raising Inàste’s tear from the ground. They’ll have spread the news of the miracle.”
“I know. We’ll have to manage that somehow. Your verses will, we hope, reinforce our version of events, said Caphalor.”
“But . . . why?” Carmondai drank more of the wine. “It would only increase your reputation—” He looked intensely at Caphalor. “So you don’t want the glory.” He turned to Imàndaris. “And you feel the same?”
“You are correct. That kind of miracle should be reserved for the Inextinguishables,” Caphalor admitted. “And I am afraid that, back in Dsôn, some would gladly make use of myself and the nostàroi’s ‘miracle’ for purposes of their own. Imàndaris and myself are warriors first and foremost; we do not wish to be put on a pedestal and admired. My friend Sinthoras would not share this view. I’m sure he’d appreciate a few statues in his honor, but that’s where we differ.” He hoped he had been able to make his position clear.
“I understand. At least, I think I do.” Carmondai took up his notebook and pen. “I could describe the incident less dramatically. Would that be in order?”
“It was not anything special we did. It would have happened anyway, whichever älf laid his hand on the stone,” said Imàndaris. “It may have looked startling when Inàste’s tear rose up out of nowhere, but we did not make it happen, we were just in the right place at the right time.”
“Write that the Creating Spirit showed her grace by allowing the mountain to be formed,” Caphalor suggested. “Then you won’t have to change many verses of your ode, but keep Imàndaris and myself out of the song please.”
Carmondai’s frown cleared. “That’s fine by me.” He put down his beaker and got to his feet. “Then I’ll get a move on so that Dsôn can read about the miracle.” He nodded to them both and left the room.
Imàndaris watched him through the window as he strode off. Then her eyes wandered to the mountain. “I would never have thought anything like this would happen to us on the Tark Draan campaign,” she said quietly. “What luck!”
There was an undertone to her words that concerned Caphalor. “What is worrying you?”
“I’m not worrying. On the contrary: fate has released me from a difficult task, a task my mother imposed on me.” Imàndaris lowered her eyes. “I was to do everything in my power to destroy Sinthoras. His reputation, his status, his honor, his services to our land.”
Caphalor knew exactly why the powerful älf-woman had instructed her daughter to hound Sinthoras. “Yantarai has never forgiven Sinthoras for abandoning her and going with Timanris.”
Imàndaris gave a slight nod. “She was deeply hurt. I am the only one of her children—the one she practically disowned for following a military career—who was able to fulfill her wish. But I had no idea how to go about it: Sinthoras was a hero, a nostàroi! But then he was demoted and had to face a tribunal in Dsôn. I am enormously relieved that I did not have to carry out her wish myself.” She walked over to Caphalor and placed her hand on his cheek. “And instead, I found you. My best friend, my beloved, my mentor.”
I am so delighted that she is mine. He kissed her gently and enfolded her in his arms. They remained in this embrace for some time.
“It was not very wise to tell me what your mother demanded of you,” he said carefully. “Sinthoras is . . . a friend of mine. Admittedly, I sometimes find it difficult to like him when he overdoes the arrogance, but even if he infuriates me, I still respect him. What will you do when he comes back?”
Imàndaris looked deep into his eyes. “I . . . don’t know.”
Nor do I. Caphalor pulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her head. Suddenly he thought of the demon. Where can he have gone? He must find out without further delay.
The door was thrust open again; once more it was Carmondai standing on the threshold, breathing quickly as if he had been running. “Pardon me for disturbing you both, but . . . Sinthoras has been exiled!” He held a new message aloft.
“What?” Imàndaris frowned. “But I thought—”
“You’ll have to stop reading letters that are intended for other people, Carmondai.” What intrigues have they used, I wonder, to bring Sinthoras down? It won’t have been the truth. Imàndaris stood at his side to read the text.
“It’s not a private letter to you or the nostàroi; it’s a public announcement,” said Carmondai, defending himself. “Polòtain had him convicted of the murder of an artist: a sculptress that Polòtain had given a commission to. It’s unbelievable. A carved stone figure of Robonor has deprived Sinthoras of everything he ever achieved!”
What an idiot! Caphalor could hardly credit how misguided his friend must have been. His arrogance always made him his own worst enemy. He turned to Imàndaris. “It does not look as if you will be able to resign any time soon.”
Carmondai sank down onto a chair. “What a blow! From our greatest hero to a convicted murderer!” He slapped his thigh. “Samusin is playing one evil trick after another on us.”
Caphalor lowered the announcement. It would have to be read out in the conquered territories of Tark Draan, according to instructions from the Inextinguishables. Perhaps that’s really what happened, but it’s also possible that Polòtain has arranged the whole thing. Who can say with certainty? He felt sympathy for Sinthoras, even if he turned out to be guilty of the murder. They had gone through so much together, the two of them.
Caphalor would never have thought that Sinthoras, as a committed member of the Comets, could be brought down by political intrigues in Dsôn. It showed him that there could be no true friendship when politics and power were at stake.
He is alone, ordered to travel west, through Ishím Voróo. I wonder if I shall ever see him again?
Imàndaris touched him lightly on the arm. Carmondai was scribbling like one possessed, trying to incorporate the new turn of events in his epic.
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), many miles south of the Gray Mountains,
4371st division of unendingness (5199th solar cycle),
early winter.
Famenia was safely tucked away in her hiding place. There was a smell of damp earth and frost. Ye gods—Sitalia—let me see out this day!
Famenia had decided on the soubriquet of the Tried and Tested. No other name could explain what she had been through quite so well. And she was shortly to be tested again. This test, she had decided, would represent the final examination of her apprenticeship. Or maybe it would mean her death, if she failed. For Jujulo’s sake and the sake of my murdered friends! She clasped her amulet tightly.
She had a new store of energy following her visit to Hiannorum where, having spoken to Hianna, they had arranged for the maga to join the älfar. This would enable her to learn more about the enemy. Famenia prayed that Sitalia might be at the enchantress’s side. She had taken on the most dangerous role readily and deserved protection from the gods.
The fresh power Famenia now carried gave her great confidence, but could not displace her fear entirely.
She lay in wait in a hollow in the ground with only brown jute sacking for cover (the elves had heaped leaves and earth on top to camouflage her better) and the darkness. Famenia found the dark hard to cope with, so she car
efully rehearsed the spells, formulae and hand gestures she would need. No sound reached her from outside; she could only hear her own breath and that seemed horribly loud. I wonder how far Narósil has gotten?
The elf-riders had taken on a great responsibility in capturing Milltown and invading the caves at the same time. If one of these missions were to fail, that would put an end to their entire plan. And the townspeople would suffer an unthinkable loss: that of all their children.
It was very stuffy under the jute sacking; she stretched out one arm to lift the bag in the hope of getting more air.
Bits of soil dribbled down and some snow slipped into the hollow where she lay. The snow would work in her favor: the älfar would never notice her hiding place under its white covering.
Looking out over the layer of fine snow crystals she could see the path leading uphill to the cavern. All quiet there. She wriggled her way forward in the hollow to take in a view of the walls around Milltown. No one to be seen.
Famenia began to get cold in spite of her thick clothing. She started to shiver; this was not an ideal condition to be in if she were going to issue spells. She kept switching her focus from cavern to town walls.
It had clouded over and snow was falling again. She heard owls screech in the nearby wood, and a fox barking.
Famenia’s eyelids grew heavy despite her excitement. Ye gods of Girdlegard, you—
Lights flared at the entrance to the cave.
Behind this brightness she could see thick smoke issuing from the cavern mouth. People emerged from the interior bearing torches and flanked by a squadron of mounted älfar who were driving them toward the town.
More älfar on night-mares rode up to the path, directionless and unsure of what to do. Their numbers were growing steadily, from a few hundred to a few thousand. Until they had reached perhaps 8,000.
The elves in the cave won’t have been able to deal with many of the black-eyes at all. She tried to quiet her racing heart. I’m going to be even more vital to the operation! O ye gods! She had been hoping only a small number of älfar would survive, but Samusin obviously had other ideas.