by Markus Heitz
Ishím Voróo (Outer Lands), Dsôn Faïmon, between the radial arms Wèlèron and Avaris,
4372nd division of unendingness (5200th solar cycle),
winter.
Téndalor surveyed the scene from his night-mare; it was unusual for him to have such a steed for two reasons: firstly, as a former commander of an island fortress, he had never had the opportunity of riding to battle and secondly, he had assumed that after falling severely injured into the moat, he would be dead by now.
Fadhasi, however, had another mission for him and this was why he had not entered endingness. Instead, he had been washed up on the Dsôn Faïmon side of the bank and had been found and looked after by healers. Fully recovered now, he was eager to fight. Fadhasi had saved the life of his one and only worshipper.
Téndalor stared grimly at the miserable encampment set up by the so-called Army of the Ownerless, and the wall behind it where the dorón ashont had dug themselves in. I’m going to get my fortress back, he vowed.
Lamps were burning in the slaves’ army camp and a bugle now sounded to alert any sleepers that the älfar had come.
Two camps, one with 6,000 men, and behind that . . . well, it could be 15,000 for all I know. Téndalor assumed the fugitive slaves and crazed óarcos had placed warriors in the first encampment and womenfolk and families behind. That won’t help them one bit. The Inextinguishables had said no prisoners were to be taken. None of the Ownerless was to survive the night.
Téndalor was in top form. Dsôn Faïmon’s army had been sent reinforcements from Tark Draan: a thousand warriors keen to destroy the enemy threatening their homeland and then to continue the battle on the far side of the mountains.
The älfar army was led by Aïsolon: an experienced campaigner and good friend of Caphalor, the Hero of Tark Draan. All the signs were favorable.
Téndalor had not been given details of the strategy they would use to defeat the Ownerless, but word had got around that a small unit had already infiltrated their camp, ready to climb the wall and put the dorón ashont catapults out of action.
As soon as we can get close enough they’ll be ours! He was not worried about the numbers of barbarians and óarcos they would be facing. You could give a barbarian a sword, but that did not mean he would know what to do with it.
The ditches that had been excavated around the camp did not present a problem. The älfar army was well prepared and their equipment included portable pontoons. Other vehicles bore mobile catapults that could fire arrows and spears. The attack against the dorón ashont had been planned for some time.
Very soon! Téndalor stroked his night-mare’s powerful neck. He was on the army’s right flank; Aïsolon had ordered them to push directly into the second of the two enemy camps. If the Ownerless think their womenfolk are in danger, that will unsettle them and they will split their pathetic forces. They’ll do it to protect their young, but they have so many offspring. They breed like rabbits.
The assault began at a silent signal.
The central unit stormed off, feigning a direct attack on the heart of the camp. The wagons with the mobile catapults rolled forward, their operators sending off the first volleys of missiles.
Téndalor saw the barbarian lanterns moving forward to meet them. They ended up directly under the next arrow bombardment. Just as planned!
Then his squadron received the order to attack.
Fadhasi, I slay in your name to bring you honor! Téndalor was riding in the vanguard, keen to be one of the first to draw blood.
His night-mare’s sparking hooves trampled the loffran fields flat and the smell of the crushed plants rose in his nostrils. An icy wind struck him in the face as he rode. He glanced at the darkening skies where the first stars were now visible. The dorón ashont catapults, which would normally have deterred the älfar with a hail of stones and arrows and burning pitch, were motionless.
We have tricked them! Téndalor was on the point of letting out a cheer, but restrained himself. He would not celebrate until he had split open his first barbarian head.
Suddenly, fiery missiles shot screaming into the air from behind the dorón ashont barricades.
Those accursed beasts! Téndalor was surprised that only about fifty of these tiny comets headed for the skies and then fell back to earth. Five or six of the howling fiery objects came down on the älfar troops and bounced away. When he realized what the projectiles were, his hatred for the Towers that Walk grew out of all proportion. Those are our soldiers! The dorón ashont must have discovered them trying to sabotage their catapults.
The burning warriors screamed as the flames engulfed them: they were being roasted alive. More of these projectiles crashed down onto the mounted troops, knocking several älfar out of their saddles and setting some of the night-mares on fire.
Cheers resounded from the camp of the Ownerless.
Téndalor drove his spurs into the night-mare’s sides to speed the animal on. The dorón ashont would be loading the slings and trebuchets again and they had to use the break.
The barbarians were acting as predicted: when they saw that the flank was swerving around the main field of action and heading for the family camp, their sea of lamps spread, thinning out: the enemy was thus weakening its own lines.
Téndalor had no time to watch the rest of the fighting. He kept his eyes to the front. Thanks be to Fadhasi! We have arrived in too dense a formation for their catapults to contend with.
Arrows whizzed past him and the ditch surrounding the camp was suddenly visible.
With his archers and spear-throwers giving covering fire, he ordered the mobile bridges brought to the edge of the ditch. Pulleys and counterweights were set in action, moving the segments apart. The first bridge section, with its blade-like edge and iron cladding, crashed through the enemy palisade.
“Tear them down!” Téndalor urged his night-mare across the boards of the bridge, his warriors following suit. He was eager to wreak havoc and revenge and was intoxicated with battle lust. I don’t care if I have to fight hand-to-hand all the way through the barbarian camp.
The night-mare leaped and landed between the first of the tents. An armed barbarian confronted him with a spear, but Téndalor struck him down with a sword-blow to the throat. He turned his mount and rammed an attacker who had crept up on him from behind. A hoof-kick in the face saw to him, splattering the contents of his head in a shower of sparks.
Téndalor defended the narrow passageway against all comers as more and more älfar crossed the improvised causeway. Now they were so many that it would be impossible to repel the surging throng. The barbarians turned and fled.
“See how they run!” Téndalor laughed and whirled his sword. Women and children in the other camp tried to find shelter and hide. It was a delight to him to hear their cries and moans. Instead of picking up weapons and fighting, they show us their backs and make themselves as vulnerable as possible.
The benàmoi of his unit appeared at his side and nodded approval—but an arrow was instantly put through his throat. With a death rattle he slid off his steed, grabbing at the arrow’s shaft.
Téndalor had seen the archer: a young man with a bow and a sword at his side. He had hooked his booted feet into the rungs of a ladder leaning against the watchtower, but his hands were shaking too much to notch the arrow for a second shot.
“I’ll get you—” Téndalor began, but did not get any further as part of the wall collapsed and dorón ashont streamed through the breach.
Ten, twenty, thirty of them and more leaped through, armed to the teeth, carrying long shields and protected by strong armor. Behind their visors their eyes shone purple, sending bright violet rays of light onto the ranks of the älfar. Above their heads, firebrands soared into the black sky to fall smoking and sparking onto the advancing älfar troops.
The barbarians rejoiced.
It’s them! Téndalor remembered how he had felt the first time he had seen one. He had to force himself not to run away.
/> All the älfar knew full well that the real battle was about to commence.
CHAPTER XXI
So let them go
if they do not want to stay.
Do not mutter.
Do not complain.
Two cities,
one people,
But which city
will outlast its twin?
Which Dsôn
is genuinely blessed?
Unendingness
will show the truth.
Whoever stays
and survives the plague
will be twice as strong.
Excerpt from the epic poem The Heroes of Tark Draan
composed by Carmondai, master of word and image
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), to the southeast of the Gray Mountains, formerly the Golden Plain,
4372nd division of unendingness (5200th solar cycle),
winter.
I feel like a bird up here. Carmondai was sitting on the mountain that Inàste’s power had raised. He was busy sketching his view of the crater despite the frost-laden gusts of wind that assailed him. The evening light was glorious and he could not think of abandoning his task. He did one drawing after another.
Below, the älfar masons had adapted their reclaimed blocks of stone so that no gaps showed at the joins of the buildings. Painters had added runes and symbols as decoration, either drawn free hand, or applied with stencils. With every moment of unendingness the crater camp was being transformed into a collection of beautiful älfar buildings that grew ever taller. The original crude aspect was being replaced with grace, sophistication and artistry. And Carmondai had the perfect view.
There are many scenes to turn into murals when I get home. Carmondai reckoned he must have completed a good hundred detailed sketches so far. When he turned them into finished pieces he would select a range of formats, from huge spreads to miniatures the size of a man’s palm. How he loved an artistic challenge.
When his fingers got too cold he packed away his things and began to climb down.
On nearing ground level, Carmondai saw a cloaked figure perched on a rock. He stepped closer and realized it was Morana. She was picking up pebbles and flinging them out; a flute in the form of a death’s head lay on her lap.
“It’s more fun to send the pebbles spinning across a pond,” Carmondai said.
Her pretty face was turned toward the crater edge. She appeared not to hear him.
“Has something happened?” He stretched out a hand to touch her. “Morana?”
She turned her black eyes toward him and her expression held such sadness and soul-wracked depression that Carmondai wished he could capture her image on paper. “You obviously have not heard the news,” she answered forlornly.
Carmondai presumed her troubles stemmed from knowing that Caphalor and Imàndaris had become a couple. Broken hearted. Unrequited love. The old, old story. “We live for an eternity and we collect a wealth of experiences on our journey. Our feelings—” He stopped.
“No. It’s not that.” She looked irritated. “We have been forbidden from returning to Dsôn Faïmon,” she told him with bitterness. “One of the wagon trains brought the message just now. The Inextinguishables have issued orders to hold the Stone Gateway and to stop any älf from our homeland joining us. And we are not to be allowed to leave Tark Draan.”
“What?” Imàndaris will have to tell me that in person before I’ll believe it. No, I wouldn’t believe it even then! What on earth is behind it?
He left the site and ran over to the accommodation in which the nostàroi was quartered; Caphalor had the house next door. Morana followed behind him.
Carmondai knocked at the door and opened it to find Imàndaris brooding at the map table. Caphalor was at the window, armed and dressed for a journey that would take place in the heart of winter. He must have seen the poet approach.
Carmondai and Morana entered the room; the latter slammed the door behind her.
They know exactly why I’m here. “Well?”
“What has she told you?” Caphalor’s speech was slow as he turned reluctantly to face him. He refused to look at Morana. It was as if they were mortal enemies rather than failed partners.
“Only the rumors.” Carmondai did not want to incriminate Morana. “We’re none of us allowed to return to Dsôn Faïmon? Is that right?” He stepped over to Caphalor. “How can the Sibling—”
“There is a deadly plague of sickness in the homeland. It has taken over in Dsôn,” Imàndaris interrupted. “They thought at first they could contain it, but they were mistaken. I received an order that no älf may leave Tark Draan and none may leave Dsôn Faïmon until the plague is over.”
“So the Stone Gateway is to shut once more?” Carmondai rubbed his face with disbelief. “How bad is the situation back home?”
Neither Imàndaris nor Caphalor knew the answer to that one.
Imprisoned and banished. Carmondai had to sit down. He lowered himself on to a chair by the table and laid his folder and pens down. This new occurrence was going to change the way the narrative of his epic developed. Until now it had seemed that Tark Draan signified nothing more than a massive victory for his race, but now it appeared the place was to be the cradle of a new älfar civilization. I wonder where Sinthoras is now and whether he is carrying the sickness. What if he comes back here after many divisions of unendingness and brings the plague here to us? “Can anyone tell me about the dorón ashont?”
His question remained unanswered, but it was obvious the two of them knew more than they were letting on. “What do we do now?”
Caphalor ran his hands over his thick winter mantle. “The nostàroi has just instructed me to secure the Stone Gateway while she controls the conquered lands in Tark Draan.” He walked over to Imàndaris and kissed her on the forehead.
Carmondai watched Imàndaris close her eyes to accept the caress. She held out her hand as if wanting to make him stay. But as nostàroi she must let her lover go.
“I must get going.” Caphalor said. “My people are waiting for me. It won’t be easy to get to the Gray Mountains quickly in weather like this.” Caphalor shook hands with Carmondai. “Until we meet again.” Then he swept past Morana, paused and turned to hold a hand out to her.
Morana stared at the proffered hand then looked him in the eyes. She opened the door for him without a word. She had apparently not forgiven him for that unfortunate evening encounter.
Finally she opened her mouth to murmur: “Take care of yourself. The älfar need you.”
Caphalor nodded, left the room and closed the door behind him.
Nobody spoke.
Carmondai did not dare to note down his thoughts about the scene he had witnessed. None of what he had seen and heard would ever find a place in his epic. Maybe I could start a second tale. I could call it The Legends of the Älfar.
“Morana, go and check the guards at the crater’s edge,” Imàndaris commanded quietly, with no harshness in her tone. “After that you should prepare for an expedition through the conquered lands to ensure everything is under control. From today you will take over Caphalor’s duties. I hereby appoint you to the office of benàmoi. The insignia for your robes and armor should be in your quarters.”
Morana needed a breath or two to recover from the shock. Then she gave a bow and left the building.
That did not look like genuine gratitude. Carmondai felt ill at ease alone with the supreme commanding älf. This is all terrible. Who will ever read my epic? Can I send it—
“Weren’t you going to accompany Virssagòn?” asked Imàndaris, interrupting his train of thought.
“Yes, but he has left without the cavalry and me, and has taken a unit of Ishím Voróo barbarians with him instead. He let me know he would send for me when he has finished his preparations.” Carmondai looked at her. “We are completely cut off from home. Cut off from everything.” Leaning forward, he tried to look at the maps. And we are surrounded. “What is the likelihood of
our being able to withstand an attack from the elves?”
“We have a better chance here than the älfar who’ve remained behind in the capital, faced with the plague and the dorón ashont.” Imàndaris had not moved since Caphalor’s departure. “I can understand why the Inextinguishables have issued these orders.”
Carmondai tried to catch her eye. “You haven’t answered my question about the dorón ashont. I swear I’ll keep it out of the epic.”
She nodded. “Caphalor trusts you and so I will trust you, too. Our race is battling the dorón ashont and a whole army of runaway slaves. We badly underestimated the threat.” Imàndaris looked thoughtful as she took a seat opposite him. “I sent a messenger south to Horgàta, but neither she nor her squadron have survived an attack by the elves.”
“No!” Carmondai had heard more than enough bad news.
“5,000 warriors, wiped out; attacked by the heavy cavalry that escaped Sinthoras and Caphalor in the battle of the Golden Plain. A sorceress assisted them, I understand. We have lost an important advantage.”
“I . . . am still optimistic. I’m sure Virssagòn will prevail against the dragon-riders.”
Imàndaris gave a tired laugh. “We’ll be lucky if we can even manage to keep this Dsôn. Our plan to kill Girdlegard’s sorcerers has failed. Virssagòn was only able to slay two of them and a third was removed by a troop of guards in the Gray Mountains. The rest of them have been alerted and warned. I expect they will join forces with each other. And what,” she leaned forward for emphasis, “what shall we do then?”
Carmondai was about to suggest that she refer the problem to the academy staff as they had their own, albeit limited, power. But of course, they would not be allowed in to Tark Draan. And anyway, they would not be able to withstand the concerted efforts of the local wizards. “And our demon?”
“Exactly! What about our confounded demon?” she exclaimed, slamming the table with her fist. “There has been no sign of it. Perhaps it has followed Sinthoras into exile. I don’t know. I’m becoming convinced our gods have abandoned us.” She turned to the maps and pointed. “Make sure you remember where these lines fall. They show our greatest victories against Tark Draan. Soon they might all be gone.”