by Markus Heitz
“Yes. All right.” Durùston had gathered that it was not going to be possible to recreate the special qualities of this substance. He took the hardened metal from the floor and placed it in a clean mold, which he put on the glowing coals of the nearest forge. Before long the substance had vaporized. It cannot be used again. Excellent. “How much of it is there?”
“A large bucketful, master.” Khlotònior had been watching Durùston’s experiment. “I hung it up over the fire so that it would not solidify.” He pointed over to the right.
Durùston nodded. “Well done. From now on you will have the vital task of checking out all the smithies and forges in the Gray Mountains and bringing me any more of this that you find. Find the molds they used, and, if need be, find yourself some groundlings to help you work out what has formed this compound.”
Khlotònior was bold enough to attempt to voice an objection. “But . . . Master Durùston, I wanted to be apprenticed to you so that I could learn how to metallize bone.”
Durùston laughed cruelly. “We do not die. There is plenty of time. Find me more of this marvelous stuff first and then I can still get around to making a sculptor out of you.”
“That won’t make my uncle very happy.”
“It is up to an apprentice to carry out all the unpleasant tasks.” And if you annoy me, I could send your blessed uncle a special sculpture entirely composed of your body parts. Durùston dismissed him with a gesture.
Khlotònior bowed and withdrew.
I hope I never see him again. The groundlings might capture him. Or kill him and there’d be one less idiot cluttering the place up. Sculptor, indeed! Durùston went over to where the bucket hung and looked at the fluid silver compound. It needs a name. I’ll call it durùsilver.
And he knew exactly what he was going to use it for.
Hurrying out, he ordered two of his trusted workers to mind the bucket, and set off again to the part of the mountain where he stored his creations.
He crossed one hall after another that were full of finished ornaments made from bone, coats of arms, candlesticks, ceiling pendants and wall panels, all waiting to be transported back to the homeland. Some of them had inlays in gold or some other less precious metal; some were set with gems. The groundlings had certainly hoarded enough of these things and Durùston was putting them to better use—they no longer sat in boxes and chests where no one could see them.
He was proud of what he and his apprentices had already produced, but he was eager to take on the challenge of using a newly discovered material. It will serve my creative urges well. It shall be a splendid gift for the Inextinguishables.
Durùston reached a door where four heavily armed älfar stood guard. “Bring her to me!” he ordered impatiently.
As the door opened, a thick wall of stale air escaped from the room behind. The commander of the watch disappeared through the door and came back with a female elf. Her curly blond hair framed her face like an aura and her wrists were bound with chains. She looked exhausted. Her only garment was a thin linen vest.
“Shall I come with you?” the guard asked as he handed the Durùston the end of the chain.
“No. I’ll manage.” Durùston set off. He could hardly wait to try out his idea. He made the elf walk slightly ahead of him so that he could keep an eye on her. She could not escape, but he wanted to ensure there were no surprises.
They had hardly crossed the first hall containing the objets d’art when her pace slackened. She moaned when she saw the skulls and bones. She seemed to be saying a prayer.
The elves’ language is obnoxious. “I think your friends have done quite well, all things considered. Being made into art is better than dying on the battlefield and then turning into food for the vultures.” He laughed. “They will have pride of place on an älfar cupboard, or the wall of a nice warm kitchen. It’s another form of immortality, really, my pretty one.”
The elf turned her head and spat at him. The gobbet landed on his leather apron.
“Aprons are always useful.” Durùston gave her a shove and she stumbled back against a pillar made of bone. He pointed at it. “I needed the bones of one hundred of your kind for that. Do you want the details of how I made it?” He laughed again when he saw the disgusted expression on her face. “You simply don’t know how to appreciate art, obviously.”
He pushed her into his chamber and had her washed and scrubbed. Inspecting her flawless body he tried to choose. Clothed or naked? He decided on a nude version and led her back to the workshop, where he handed the chain to one of his apprentices.
“Take her to the center of the room,” he instructed, kicking over a low wooden platform for her to stand on.
The two älfar put her in position. Durùston took down the bucket from where it had been hanging over the fire and collected a metal ladle and a paintbrush, which he hooked through the strings on his apron. The special compound was lukewarm. This will be my first piece of art working on living material. First and last.
He turned around and walked up to the elf. He noted no trace of fear on her face. Her expression was one of revulsion. “I am Durùston, one of the most celebrated artists Dsôn has to offer. With your help, I am now going to be the best,” he told her. He poured some of the compound over her feet and the raised stand; it tinkled as it solidified. Now the elf-girl was securely anchored to the floor. “You can let go of her now, and remove her chains.”
His workers did as they were bid and then stepped aside.
She seemed not to feel any pain and the process continued without incident, but her face changed as she realized what he was intending to do.
“My first idea was to get you to drink it and after that I was going to remove your flesh, but that would be a waste.” With the ladle in hand he walked behind her and poured a generous portion down her back.
He watched, fascinated, as the liquid flowed over her shoulder blades and down her spine, adapting to every slight contour. The fluid even entered her pores.
She tried to squirm free, but the hardening metal prevented any movement. Pinioned, she groaned, and redoubled her efforts, but the armor casing was too strong. She screamed.
Perfect! Durùston applied a second ladleful, a third, a fourth, over shoulders, thighs, and rump.
With each application the elf became less of a living being and more of a statue fighting to resist immobility. The viscous substance flowed over her body before quickly hardening. Her struggles gradually ceased.
Durùston brought out his brush and guided the paint to any areas not yet covered, transforming the elf into a silver mannequin. He left her head untreated.
It makes every muscle stand out so clearly. And the tendons! Beside himself with artistic fervor, he stroked the fine bristles meticulously over the last few blank places on her upper and lower body. This way I can preserve every intricate detail.
He would not be distracted as he worked on the metamorphosis.
The silver paint in the bucket was running dangerously low.
Durùston stood up and looked her in the eyes. “Are you ready to die?” This has to work! He took a deep breath. “You will be my masterpiece,” he whispered. Before she could answer, he poured a ladleful of silver into her mouth, stopping up her throat instantaneously. She gradually suffocated.
I must not miss the opportunity! Durùston held the brush poised; he watched her eyes intently, waiting for the arrival of death.
There was an alteration in the pupils.
Now! Durùston brushed the paint over her face at that very instant. “Yes!” he cried excitedly, covering the rest of her countenance with the metal. “I have captured death!” He was about to cover her hair, but the container was practically empty. There was just enough left to anoint the hairline, while her locks stayed blond.
Durùston was pleased with this effect. He was suddenly aware that all his apprentices had entered the studio. He hurled his ladle, brush and the bucket into the furnace, where the remaining durùsilver
smoked and vaporized.
“Look at what I’ve done!” he enthused. “Look at this masterpiece! I shall be sending it to the Inextinguishables as a gift: Veïnsa, the princess of the Golden Plain, at the exact time of her death!” He gave a contented sigh. No one can ever emulate this effort. “Watch her carefully for me,” he instructed his most trusted pupils. “Don’t let anyone come near.”
He left the workshop utterly exhausted and made his way to his rooms. After a short rest, a bath and some food he would compose an explanatory letter to accompany the gift. That way, when it was sent to the Sibling Rulers, they would be able fully to appreciate the work that had gone into the creation of this statue, which was not, of course, a statue at all.
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), to the southeast of the Gray Mountains, Gwandalur,
4372nd division of unendingness (5200th solar cycle),
winter.
Virssagòn did not sleep that night. He went back to the room with the sleeping elves and haunted their chamber like a living ghost, torturing them with cruel dreams and ruining their sleep. He smiled as he watched them writhe to and fro in their beds, giving out frightened moans.
After a swift search of the rest of the level, he had discovered that this was the only occupied room. The other rooms were empty, but the dragon cells all had scaly occupants.
The two elves are probably on guard duty. If Virssagòn had read the situation correctly, they would be the first to fly out against the barbarian army when it appeared and he did not want to miss seeing that.
As the first rays of sunlight came through the small windows, there came the sound of a gong, followed by an alarm call.
Aha. My barbarians are on their way. Virssagòn quickly left the room and concealed himself near the dragon enclosure to observe the riders saddling their mount.
It was not long before the two elves came running in wrapped in furs with their armor fastened over the top. They wore thick leather headgear topped with helmets secured by chinstraps.
They handled levers and pulleys swiftly in an automatic routine: the saddle was lowered and it clicked into place on the iron framework on the dragon’s back, the clamps holding the wings were removed and an elf entering the creature’s cage fed leather straps through bolts fastened through the dragon’s scales. These were on the head and throat, and around the muzzle; all of them showed scarring and crusts of dried blood. They had been screwed directly into the animal’s flesh.
I see! That’s how the dragons are steered. It’s pain that does it. Virssagòn had to admire the elves’ ingenuity.
The second elf swung up into the saddle and checked the arrow quivers and spear holders to see if they had their full complement. While one of the riders piloted the dragon, the other one would operate the weaponry.
The elf who had attached the leather straps spoke to the animal, stroking its head. Then he took his seat. Fishing a lance from the wall he poked it between the bars of the cave and activated a lever on one of the pulleys.
This set the chains in motion and the entrance was revealed. Wind swept in through the opening and Virssagòn caught sight of one of the landing platforms.
The elves each put on belts that would ensure they did not fall out during any violent maneuvers, then hooked something else on to their armor.
What could that be? Virssagòn saw a wire leading from the armor to the dragon’s neck, where it was fastened to a bolt, but it didn’t look like it had anything to do with the steering. Virssagòn thought for a moment. If the dragon were to lose his rider, the wire would rip out the bolt and probably slit the creature’s throat. It looked like an insurance feature. The elves and the dragons don’t trust each other completely.
The creature’s powerful back legs were still chained up. It strained impatiently at its fetters.
The pilot called something out and tugged hard at the reins, causing blood to drip from where the bolts protruded. The dragon immediately became docile—on the surface, at least.
But Virssagòn had read the expression in the creature’s eyes: an urgent desire to kill its tormentors. A wild nature, solely constrained by fear of pain. That’s good!
The lance tip swept around and touched a second lever that would free the chains anchoring the dragon. As soon as the creature was freed, the flight would begin.
Virssagòn came out of the niche, pulled two pointed weapons from the holsters behind his shoulders, and hurled them both at the elves. The custom harness the holsters were attached to was especially helpful: one only had to reach behind one’s head, grab and throw; no time was wasted.
The hardened points of the weapons pierced the elves’ helmets and penetrated their necks, killing them before they’d had a chance to notice him. They both hung dead in the saddle.
Those safety belts did not help you much. The dragon eyed him suspiciously, apparently able to recognize that Virssagòn was no elf.
“Take a good look, my friend.” Virssagòn unfastened the wires from the elves’ reinforced jackets and yanked the two corpses out of the saddle. They thumped down on the ground. “Remember, you owe me your liberty,” he told the dragon. He did not allow his own nervousness to show while he was close to the dragon’s mouth. He pulled the leather reins out, throwing them away. He then lifted the safety wire and removed the loop from its catch.
The slitted eyes of the white-gray dragon followed every move he made.
“Are you interested in avenging yourself on your tormentors, perhaps?” Virssagòn reached through the bars and moved the lever back. Finally, the dragon’s back legs were freed. Virssagòn moved to the side to give the dragon room to maneuver. “Shall I go and release your friends?”
The dragon rushed past him and onto the platform. It unfolded its wings and they flapped and cracked as they caught the wind. With a screech the creature launched into the air and out of Virssagòn’s field of vision. He heard another loud cry and a whooshing sound, then silence returned.
He was disappointed. It would have been too good to be true. It would have saved me a lot of work.
The gong sounded again.
The elves will send out replacements. I should get going. He ran back through the corridor and up the ramp toward the other dragon cells.
It was lucky for Virssagòn that the other guardrooms were not occupied. He freed half a dozen of the scaled creatures at his leisure. Like the gray-white one they all took to the skies and never looked back at their mountain prison.
They had obviously been mistreated, so Virssagòn had secretly hoped at least one of the dragons would respond to his kind words and become an ally, but this did not happen. He slit the throat of two of the dragons while they were still chained—it would not do to give them too many troops to fight with, for who knew which army they would turn on?
He left the dragon quarters and looked out into the corridor, inching his way forward. Ah, here they come, he thought, looking down.
The elves had realized what was happening and were swarming, armed, into the corridors. It would be almost impossible for him to avoid them. Ten were heading straight for where he stood.
The sun was climbing in the sky and sent its rays, reflected off upright mirrors, deep into the interior of the mountain. He would not be able to hug the shadows any longer.
I shall wait until the barbarians attack before deciding on my next course of action. I should be able to avoid capture until then. Virssagòn concealed himself in one of the empty dragon cells. He stepped out onto the platform to watch events on the battlefield unfold.
The barbarians advanced on three fronts in double rows: a strategy designed to conserve energy. The humans at the front beat the snow down to help those bringing up the rear. They had brought ladders with them, but it had not been possible to construct heavy siege equipment in the short time available. Of course, the barbarians were working on the assumption that Virssagòn was going to open up the entrance for them. Try praying to your gods; you’ll need their support.
Belo
w him and above, riders piloted the rest of their dragons into the skies; loose chains hung down from their claws. Elves in the dragon-rider uniform sat firmly on their saddles, prepared for conflict.
Virssagòn saw no chance for his allies. But watching the battle should be exciting.
Even at the first assault the dragon-riders made huge inroads as they flew in low over the barbarians’ heads. The long chains the dragons held dragged through the snow and crashed into their victims, flinging men aside and knocking gaps in the lines. The lucky ones were able to struggle back onto their feet with only slight injuries.
The barbarians sped up. The attack had only renewed their resolve to get to the mountain.
Virssagòn saw the six dragons he had released dive in formation out of the heavens and plunge down to attack the humans. They plowed through the lines, snapping wildly and flew off with their prey, devouring their flesh while still in flight. Bloody gobbets and bits of metal fell onto the soldiers.
Cursed brood! Is that all the thanks I get? Should have slit your throats like I did with that last pair.
A called question came from behind.
Virssagòn turned around slowly and found himself threatened by five elves wielding spears. Behind them came three others with bows at the ready. “I presume you are asking who I am?” he whispered in response. “Then hear this: I am your death.”
One of the archers said something in the elf language. The one in front pointed to Virssagòn’s eyes in horror. “Älf!” he hissed.
Virssagòn spread his arms out from his body to the sides and then back, as if about to dive into a lake. “Who wants to embrace death?” he said quietly, a cold smile playing on his lips.
With this unnatural arm movement he had activated a mechanism in his armor, releasing tiny concealed steel springs that propelled rivets toward the enemy.
The sharpened points hit home, knocking the elves bleeding to the ground. The silvery poison the tips contained killed within two heartbeats. Virssagòn was passionate about his sophisticated armor and enormously proud of the secret refinements.