by Markus Heitz
CHAPTER XXIII
Snow
falls silently.
Covering the bodies
of those who died
in battle.
Blood
flows silently
Seeping from the bodies
of those
who took no care.
Death
comes silently.
It slips past the fires
of those who are afraid
of the night.
Excerpt from the epic poem The Heroes of Tark Draan
composed by Carmondai, master of word and image
Ishím Voróo (Outer Lands), Dsôn Faïmon, between the radial arms Wèlèron and Avaris,
4371st/ 4372nd divisions of unendingness (5199th/ 5200th solar cycles),
winter.
Téndalor took up his bow and notched a long, dark arrow, pulling back the string until his recently healed wounds smarted. Die!
His fingers released their hold and the missile shot off, striking the dorón ashont directly through the slits of his helmet. The target, the last of the dorón ashont still standing in the breach of the walls, already had several arrows sticking out of his torso, but it was Téndalor’s steel-tipped arrow that finished him off. He swayed and eventually landed on top of his dead comrades.
Téndalor gave a whoop of joy at his success and clambered, together with several of his colleagues, over the enormous corpse. I’ll soon have control of the island fortress once more. I’ve won it back from you.
Still balancing on the remains of the collapsed wall, he stopped in surprise: a whole section of land was missing. The water that had been in the defense moat was pouring down into a yawning abyss and clouds of steam rose up, soaking his face and shimmering in the moonlight. He had assumed the sound of the river was the noise of catapults firing. They have excavated a huge hole and are emptying the defense moat! Do they still have an army in Ishím Voróo?
Aïsolon appeared at his side. Noting the cavity, he immediately commanded his troops to withdraw. There were no dents on his armor, but plenty of yellow and red splashes of blood. “There are no enemies left to defeat. Off to Dsôn! Fast!”
“Why have the dorón ashont done that to the defense moat? What did they hope to gain by it?” Téndalor asked. “Where’s the water going?”
Aïsolon’s expression showed deep concern. “It is flowing into the bed of an ancient waterway. The river was there at the time our ancestors founded the city, but they diverted it and used the water to feed the defense canal.” He turned and ran off. “We must get to Dsôn and warn the inhabitants!”
The underground river leads to the Black Heart? Téndalor had a metallic taste in his mouth. He tried to swallow, but could not.
The defense moat had lost a good half of its water, but three rivers fed it, so it had not gone dry.
Téndalor considered the geography of the star-shaped realm. Dsôn will fill up first, like a bathtub, and then the radial arms will flood! “Aïsolon! We have to block the hole they have dug!”
The commander of the army looked back at him. “Can you explain exactly how you would do that? Soil would be washed away at once. The water pressure is too strong. Dsôn needs to be warned and then we’ll have to leave it up to the experts to find a solution. We can’t stop the flood.” He raced off.
Téndalor’s entire body felt numb and he could hardly walk. He grabbed the next riderless night-mare and rode as quickly as he could in the direction of the capital, hard on Aïsolon’s heels.
The animal he had taken moved quickly. Before he knew it Téndalor found himself at the head of the column racing to Dsôn.
He caught up with Aïsolon. “How did the dorón ashont know about the old river bed?” he called. “How come we didn’t know about it? Why did we wait so long before attacking?” Even as the commander of an island fortress he had not known about the diverted river.
“Perhaps their forefathers made charts of the region? I expect they have already taken the rest of their army along the dry river bed.” Aïsolon looked extremely worried. “This will not end well, Téndalor! Water is more powerful than any catapult when it comes to inflicting damage!”
He knows my name! The elation, however, was short-lived. In his imagination he could see the dorón ashont lined up in a circle around the crater, smiting any of the älfar who managed to escape the rising waters.
Side by side they galloped over the plain. Their night-mares sensed the urgency and did not falter in their headlong race, though the sweat foamed at their sides.
The sun rose and showed the älfar a sulfurous yellow cloud hovering over the site of the city.
Téndalor and Aïsolon approached from the northwest. The entirety of the dorón ashont’s army waited on the crater’s edge. The front ranks were looking down into the crater, while at their feet a broad waterfall poured into the basin.
Téndalor reined in his night-mare and looked down on his homeland. The sight that greeted him left him horrified: Dsôn no longer existed.
Yellowish vapor drifted over a bubbling cauldron of dark liquid. Even if the level of the water was not especially high, it had been enough to swallow up every tower and spire. Not a single building or roof was to be seen. Not even the Inextinguishables’ famous Tower of Bones. There was nothing to suggest the Black Heart of Dsôn Faïmon had ever stood in this place. There was only a seething expanse of hissing, foaming liquid.
“It’s acid,” said Aïsolon, completely at a loss. “Oh ye gods of infamy! They transformed the river into acid.” He stared at the dorón ashont. There were hundreds of them now: the enemy’s banners fluttered in the breeze high above the center of the älfar realm. “Ye gods! They have done away with the entire city and its people. It’s all dissolved!”
Téndalor shuddered at the thought of the intense fear the fleeing älfar must have experienced. If I had been able to hold my island fortress, none of this would have happened. They would all still be alive. I bear the death of thousands of älfar on my soul. The faces of friends he had lost paraded past his inner eye, staring accusingly at him. He did not know how to react to this immeasurable disaster. “Aïsolon . . . kill me,” he whispered.
“What?”
“I . . . They were only able to put their plan into action because I failed to hold the island fortress.”
Aïsolon shook his head. “No. I shall need you. You will ride against the dorón ashont at the head of our army. If you survive the battle, the gods will have forgiven you.” He pointed to the yellow waters. “The acid will have reached the radial arms. The life of every remaining älf is vitally important now. Who knows how many of us there are left?” He pulled his mount’s head around. “Get back to the army. We must defeat the dorón ashont—they shall all die!”
Fadhasi, you are an unforgiving deity. Téndalor drew his dagger and scratched out the tiny symbol on his armor. You saved me from the waters once, only to heap shame and guilt on my shoulders. He followed his leader.
They had covered a quarter of a mile when cracks started appearing in the snow and clouds of yellow gas began venting from them. Riding through these fumes gave him a coughing fit and he felt as if he were about to suffocate. Even his mount was suffering badly from the toxic steam and slowed its pace. The acid air stung his eyes.
“The ground is breaking up under our feet!” croaked Aïsolon. “Ride quickly!”
They urged their night-mares on as parts of the ground fell away under their hooves. The animals stumbled frequently, but somehow managed to keep upright; miraculously, neither of the älfar was thrown.
At last they reached terrain where the cracks were less defined and they were able to regain solid ground.
The night-mares had reached the limits of their endurance and their legs were shaking. Téndalor’s mount collapsed first, followed by Aïsolon’s, but the riders were lucky enough to jump clear, landing on soft earth as their animals fell.
Téndalor looked south toward the dorón as
hont.
Their army was running for its life. The huge creatures were leaping over the cracks opening in the ground, disappearing by the dozen in the gaping chasms, swallowed up in the steam.
Samusin punish them! Slay them all!
“Let us give death a helping hand,” said Aïsolon grimly.
The älfar took their bows and sent their arrows winging toward the Towers that Walk. The injuries they were able to inflict on their targets were sufficient to slow them down, and those that slowed fell victim to the chasms in the rock.
Of all of the dorón ashont, only the nimblest were able to escape the horrors of the turbulent earth—but then the whole region sank with a tremendous rumbling noise, taking the last enemies of the älfar with it.
“Samusin be praised!” Aïsolon lowered his bow.
I give no praise to Samusin. The deaths of the dorón ashont could never make up for the loss of all the älfar who had died.
Aïsolon inspected his exhausted animal. “We can’t wait until our mounts recover.” He pointed north. “We must make our way on foot to rejoin the army and report what has happened.” He strode away, followed by Téndalor.
“And what happens now?”
“You have survived the battle,” replied Aïsolon. “The gods of infamy have decided you are not to lose your life.”
Perhaps I do owe my survival to the gods of infamy, but what value do I put on this life of mine? “No. I meant: what of our people? Our whole race?”
“That will be our next task, Téndalor. We must locate the Inextinguishables and ask them.”
“But . . . if they were in the Tower—”
“They are called the Inextinguishables. Do you understand? They bear that name with good reason.” Aïsolon’s words were confident and convincing. “Our army will keep their eyes open for any survivors and set up a camp for them. After that we’ll have to think about ways to stop that river so that we may rebuild the city of Dsôn.”
Téndalor hoped that the Inextinguishables still existed, so that the surviving älfar might be shown a way out of this disastrous situation. Without their rulers, he felt, their race was doomed.
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), southeast of the Gray Mountains, to the east of the former Golden Plain,
4372nd division of unendingness (5200th solar cycle),
winter.
The dragon flew in overhead and snatched the dead elf. Carmondai looked up from his prone position. The creature rose back up to the skies with powerful strokes of its wings, making snow swirl through the air.
That was a close shave. Why did the dragon not go for me? Carmondai stood up and brushed the snow from his clothing. Will it be coming back? He scanned the horizon.
The dragon, flying east and as small as a bird now, soon disappeared entirely.
It looks like I’m safe. Carmondai surveyed his surroundings. I ought to explore the village. There won’t be many barbarians left if Virssagòn passed this way.
He returned to the plantation and crossed it to reach his night-mare. Two barbarian corpses lay on the ground at the feet of the creature. They had bite marks in their throats and their torsos were half-consumed. Steaming guts hung out of the night-mare’s muzzle.
Lack of caution is death to a stupid man. Carmondai led the night-mare over to a group of huts, sword in hand, ready to fight, but there was no one there to attack him. Not even a dog barking, which was just as well: he did not like dogs; they stank and dribbled and hardly ever obeyed—and they would betray their master for a piece of meat.
A strange tower stood in the middle of the huts. The snow just at its base had melted and Carmondai could feel warmth issuing from the walls. He moved around it and discovered a wheel-operated iron trap that a handcart could pass through. There was a ramp constructed of bricks leading up to the trap.
What is this? Curious, Carmondai began to work the mechanism.
The trap opened and a room appeared. Sparks as big as his hand flew out of the door—the heat was intense. Carmondai took a few steps up the ramp to look inside.
A thin layer of coals had been spread on the ground and dragon manure was burning, polluting the atmosphere with an acrid smell.
It’s a warming tower. Perhaps this is how the dragons are able to function even in winter: these towers prevent their blood from thickening.
If there were more buildings like this, the elves would be able to use their dragons all winter long. This meant they could attack the älfar army whenever they felt like it.
He sketched the tower with its upper extension; did a drawing of the dragon from memory and another of the kind of armor the elves wore. He drew every small detail that could prove useful.
He was surprised that Virssagòn had left the little tower standing. What is his game? Has he found out more than I have?
Even though the thought made him uneasy, Carmondai decided to spend the night in the hamlet—he could explore further and report back to the nostàroi.
He looked in the houses and discovered footprints indicating that any barbarians who might have been there, had left. Were they afraid of Virssagòn? But he would have left a trail of blood and there is none to be seen. Or have they run away for fear of the dragon?
He chose the largest of the huts, one with two rooms, and having put his night-mare in the shelter out front, made himself a bed in the loft. He felt safer from attack up there should anyone approach the village, and his night-mare would warn him if there were any nocturnal visitors—and with any luck eat them on sight.
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), Gray Mountains,
4372nd division of unendingness (5200th solar cycle),
winter.
“Keep an eye on furnaces number six and seven; the pressure’s quite high and we don’t want the substance overcooking.” Too many duties are the enemy of perfection. Durùston strode like a commander between rows of groundling smelting ovens. Since the älfar victory these furnaces had been serving a very different function.
The boilers were ranged in rows to the right and to the left, and each one had coals glowing white-hot under them, fanned by the huge bellows. Durùston’s apprentices and serfs busied themselves throughout the hall by checking the contents simmering in the containers.
“Crew to boiler number four: the elf bones should be ready now. Prepare to drain the vessel.” He looked up at the air vent; the stinking steam was collecting in front of it. “Send a couple of mechanics up to check what’s happening with the vent. We’re practically being broiled alive, let alone the remains of our enemies.”
Everyone in the vicinity broke into laughter.
Durùston wiped his face; drops of sweat splashed onto his thick brown leather apron. I could do with double the number of boilers and twice as many assistants.
He knew that, back in Dsôn, the population were keen on owning souvenirs collected from the victory over the elves, whether they be bone ornaments, strings of beads or rings. In fact, with the extra raw material the nostàroi kept sending him—barbarians and elves rounded up from the furthest corners of the Golden Plain—he could barely keep up with demand.
Some of the delays were his own fault: he had extremely high standards and was fully aware that each finished piece would impact on his reputation, so he would not sign off a work until satisfied that it could not be improved.
Time to check on the smithy. Pulling off the leather cap that protected his hair from the sparks, he left the fume-filled hall and went into the smithy next door, where an agitated blond älf awaited him. This newcomer had arrived only a few moments of unendingness before. Durùston knew he was one of Khlotòn’s nephews, but could not remember the young älf’s name. It was his uncle’s influence that made me accept him, rather than any natural talent.
“I have made a discovery!” the blond älf called excitedly, running off.
Durùston stood still and watched him go. “Can I see it from where I am, or do you expect me to come after you?” He was not in the best of moods. He was inte
nsely dissatisfied with something he was working on. He had everything he needed to create a work of art no one in Dsôn could match—in particular the beautiful captives from the Golden Plain, but today he had no inspiration. Someone brought him a beaker of water and he downed it in one. What’s the fellow’s name, for pity’s sake?
“Forgive me,” called the blond älf, still beside himself with excitement. He had returned with a small pot in his right hand and a carved bone in the other. The small container held a viscous fluid that looked rather like quicksilver. “Here!”
“I can’t see anything worth getting excited about,” Durùston grumbled.
The älf placed the pot down, knelt on the flagstones and spread a layer of the paint on the bone. He blew on it gently and passed it to Durùston, eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. “It’s dry! And it is—”
“Silvery.” Durùston accepted the piece. “So what? I’ve seen quick-drying paint before . . .” He fell silent. His fingers skimmed the section that had been treated. Metal? He flicked it with his fingernail, producing a slight ringing tone. He stared at the elf disbelievingly. “Give me the pot.” When it was handed over he noticed immediately that it was lukewarm to the touch. It’s not molten metal.
“It hardens at blood heat,” the other explained.
“Tell me your name.”
“Khlotònior. I’ve done a few experiments with it.”
“You developed this yourself?” Durùston applied some of the substance to another part of the bone he was holding. He watched as it instantly hardened, then he dropped the bone and stamped on it with the heel of his boot. The bone crumbled and turned to powder, but the new layer, thin as a leaf, only changed its shape slightly, flexing and becoming longer and thinner. That’s it! It’s just what I’ve been looking for.
“It was pure chance, I must admit, master.” Khlotònior stepped back respectfully. “I was cleaning out the last of the molds the dwarves had in their stores, to see if we could use them. I heated the contents and poured it all into a collecting vessel. And that’s what happened.” He indicated the little pot. “I didn’t do anything special. I just noticed the luster and the texture. That’s why I tried—”