by Markus Heitz
“Why should you get the credit? It was the dragons,” Carmondai teased him. Well, well. He’s very keen to have me honor his deeds in my masterpiece.
“But I was the one that motivated them,” Virssagòn protested.
“What about the white dragon and his . . . entourage? I saw them fly off south; do you think they’ll come back?” Carmondai was distinctly uneasy at the thought the dragons could reappear. He had seen with his own eyes what they were capable of.
“I could not have done anything about them: dragons can wipe out whole armies with their breath. Let’s pray to the gods of infamy that they fly right over the mountains and never come back. I’m pretty sure they’ll want to avoid the whole region after what the elves did to them.”
“Let’s hope so.” Carmondai did not know how assess the battle, or what conclusions he could draw: was it a victory or had it merely given his people an advantage for the war in Tark Draan?
They reached the place where Virssagòn had tethered his night-mare. The steed had disappeared. So they rode back together on Carmondai’s mount through the snowy landscape that had once been Gwandalur, back toward the new älfar realm.
Now there’s only Lesinteïl and landur to sort out. “Tell me what it was like inside the mountain, Virssagòn,” said Carmondai, taking out his notebook. “What was it like inside, before the fire?”
And Virssagòn described the mountain fortress before its destruction in the dragon-breath inferno.
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), to the southeast of the Gray Mountains, formerly known as the Golden Plain,
4372nd division of unendingness (5200th solar cycle),
late winter.
I need an alternative word for “killing.” A word that sounds grander, more epic. Carmondai sat at his desk in the generously proportioned stone building allocated to him by Imàndaris. Recently, all his time had been spent writing up his notes or consulting his sketches. He almost never left his quarters, or bothered to find out about events elsewhere in Tark Draan. Slaughter. That’s a good one. He scribbled away, amending the passage.
This was his way of coming to terms with the shock of Dsôn’s annihilation.
Carmondai uttered a sigh. Isn’t this all a complete waste of time? When he finished his poem, how would he get it duplicated? There were no chancelleries back home anymore, of course, where he could get scribes to do the copying. And who would read it, anyway? Any survivors have more than enough to contend with.
Carmondai leaned back and surveyed the scene outside.
There was a buzz of activity in the crater. Slaves toiled ceaselessly to put up buildings and straighten the crater edges. A second Dsôn was being born.
Carmondai felt torn in two. He longed to return to the radial arms to support what was left of his own people, but he was frightened that he would catch the parasite-borne disease that had somehow survived Dsôn’s annihilation. That was not how he wanted to end his days.
He drank some water flavored with preserved berry juice. As there were no supplies to be had from Dsôn Faïmon, there was no option but to make use of Tark Draan’s local resources. In the spring they would start working the fields of the Golden Plain; they had managed to procure a few seed samples from the homeland.
I wonder when the blockade will be lifted? He got up and went over to the window. Imàndaris was striding toward his house through the melting snow wearing her full nostàroi armor. He opened the door to her before she knocked. “Greetings.” He held out his hand and she grasped it.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you?”
“Not at all. I’m giving my mind a little rest.” He admitted her.
Her gaze took in the piles of paper that lay on the table, chairs, window ledges and stairs. Random thoughts, finished pages from the epic poem, sketches and finished illustrations had been written or drawn upon them, and there were easels in the corner of the room at which he had been working at two pictures simultaneously. Pots of paint stood nearby and there was a smell of solvent that Carmondai only became aware of after he had taken a breath of fresh air at the door. And now he noticed the splashes of color on his robe: green, brown and red. The nostàroi’s visit pulled him out of his creative haze.
“You had all that in your folder?” she asked him, impressed.
“Wait—let me make room for you to sit down.” He smiled and removed a heap of papers from one of the chairs. “Some of it, but most of it is recent.” I wonder what she wants?
Imàndaris settled on the chair and studied him. “We hadn’t seen you for some time and had been getting worried.”
“Who is we?”
“The älfar of Dsôn Balsur, that’s who.”
He raised his eyebrows. “So that’s what we’re calling the new realm?” The new child has arrived and has been given a name. This is the end for Dsôn Faïmon.
“That is the name the Inextinguishables have chosen.”
Carmondai thought he must have misheard. “The Siblings are here in the crater?”
Imàndaris’s joy at this development wasn’t as enthusiastic as he expected. “They happened to be on their way here to inspect the new mountain when the dorón ashont wiped Dsôn out. Caphalor thinks the Towers that Walk used the stores of acid the alchemancers had accumulated. Survivors claim to have seen glass barrels with fflecx symbols on them.”
The Inextinguishables. Carmondai could not believe his ears. It meant that Dsôn Faïmon had been totally abandoned, once and for all. “Is the blockade over?”
“No. Caphalor still has troops stationed at the Stone Gateway. He writes that there are still new cases of the parasite-sickness causing death in the camps outside the gate. A single victim can infect a further hundred with the purple phaiu su.” Imàndaris gave a deep sigh. “There’s a reason for my visit: I’ve been asked to oversee the construction of Dsôn Balsur according to the wishes of the Inextinguishables. I need your help, Carmondai.”
“Me? Surely we have experts—”
“The experts are dead or in Ishím Voróo,” she interrupted, seizing hold of his hand. “Please! You have a fertile mind and wide-ranging gifts.”
This was flattering, but a very challenging task to take on: he would have to finish his epic, do all the illustrations and build a city at the same time. “What has happened to Dsôn Faïmon? Have the Sibling Rulers said anything?”
“They told me that the new empire is to be based here. Anyone who wants to remain in Dsôn Faïmon may do so when the effects of the acid have lessened, but the elves’ former Golden Plain is to be the new älfar home. They said the crater and the Creating Spirit’s tear are signs that the old is to be cast aside and the new embraced. Dsôn Balsur is to emerge with its center here. We will subjugate the other elf lands from this base. The elves of Lesinteïl and landur will be eliminated. The whole of Tark Draan will belong to us. They will be making an official announcement very soon.”
He could tell how dejected she was from her tone of voice. The news depressed him, too. It was hard to give up Dsôn Faïmon after all those divisions of unendingness, after all the wars that had been fought in its defense, after all the hardships the älfar had endured for its sake. Does the homeland mean nothing to our rulers? “Right. It’s to be Dsôn Balsur. I see.” He repeated the name quietly a few times. “How many inhabitants are there in the new realm?”
She gave a forced laugh. “A few thousand.”
The wildest thoughts raced around his head: the älfar rate of reproduction was slow; this would make the conquest of Tark Draan in the coming divisions of unendingness difficult, to say the least. Toboribar’s óarcos will outnumber us ten to one. And the barbarians breed like rabbits. “We shall have to pray to the gods of infamy that the plague will be over soon so that the survivors can join us here.”
He had an intimation of the tragic fate awaiting those left in Dsôn. The outcome of the battle at its walls would soon be known. Without the island fortresses and the älfar to defend them, it would not be long bef
ore the scum of the earth would plunder what was left of it. The survivors were in dire peril.
His people were certainly resilient, but they were weakened now to a greater degree than ever before. Carmondai knew of no ancient saga, no epic poetry, no heroic ballads that told of any similar fate. And I am here in Tark Draan.
“We won’t be praying to the gods of infamy.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Inextinguishables have decided that our people will no longer worship the gods of infamy. They let us down and do not deserve our respect. There are to be no further prayers, offerings or hymns.” The nostàroi was upset about this. She pushed back her bright red hair. “It won’t be long, Carmondai, before we shall have two new deities for whom we’ll have to make a new throne of bones.”
Now Carmondai had to sit down. He plunked himself down on a pile of drawings. Dsôn Faïmon was in its death throes and the Infamous Ones were no longer to be called upon. The new Dsôn Balsur had feet of clay. Carmondai stared at Imàndaris without seeing her. Here was material enough for a further five epics.
“Will you help me?” he heard her ask.
He was confused. Having actively helped to bring about the conquest of Tark Draan, he had refrained from giving himself any of the credit in the heroic record of events that he was composing, because no one was allowed to know that he had impersonated Sinthoras. And what if I were granted fame as the founder of the new Dsôn? Why should I decline an opportunity to go down in history and legend? Is this perhaps my overdue reward for my brave deeds? But the responsibility is huge. He wasn’t happy about the extra work, but the possibilities of it intrigued him.
“As soon as the plague is over and the blockade is lifted, the remaining älfar will make their way here, full of hope,” he said pensively, getting to his feet. “Nostàroi, I swear that you and I shall build a Dsôn that outshines the old city in glory and splendor. It will be a symbol of our new beginning as a people—a sign of the new era and of our resurrection after the hardest of fate’s blows!”
Imàndaris stood up and embraced him. “I thank you with all my heart! We shall construct a town with majestic squares and imposing streets, winding lanes and magnificent buildings. I shall appoint you to the highest rank at my disposal so that you shall have every authority to issue commands—”
“—to everyone apart from yourself and Caphalor. Oh, and to the Inextinguishables, of course,” he broke in. “I shall leave my epic for now. There will be time enough for that in the future, when we have our completed city at our feet. I shall get Durùston to advise me. I’ll commission the finest works of art from him to elevate the status of Dsôn Balsur even more.” He held out his hand, palm upward. “Show me the plans, Imàndaris. I’ll get straight to work.”
“I don’t have them with me. I wasn’t sure you would accept.” She went to the door. “Oh, have you heard?”
“About what?” He saw from her expression that it was good news that she was about to give.
“Arviû is back. He arrived with the last supply wagons sent from Dsôn Faïmon.”
“He must have had protection from the gods of—” He broke off, not knowing what deities he was supposed to thank for Arviû’s safe passage. He scratched his head. Damn. Another rewrite.
“He had the protection of fate,” she supplied. “Our one-time master archer is training to be a warrior.”
“He is blind!”
“He’s been learning skills from the guards in the Tower of Bones. He told me that he won’t appear in public until he has managed to overcome ten opponents in combat. That’s ten älfar opponents.” Imàndaris let herself out. “If you see how he moves now, you won’t believe that he can’t see. Another division of unendingness and he’ll meet his own challenge. He is determined to do whatever he can to bring about the end of the elves.”
From sharp-sighted bowman to instrument of lethal revenge. Imàndaris grinned as she saw Carmondai make a couple of notes. “Arviû. He’ll have a tale to tell, I warrant. No, I’ll tell it for him. He’s an älf bold enough to stand up to fate.” He waved her off. “Go and get the plans, Nostàroi. We’ve got a city to build!”
Imàndaris looked as if she had something else she wanted to say. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Anyone who can write a story can keep a secret,” he answered with a wink.
Her face glowed, revealing her relief and her delight. “The Inextinguishables have decided to reinstate Caphalor to high office. He has been appointed my deputy!” On that note, she left.
But is it what he wants? Carmondai tidied his room and sorted the papers roughly before putting them aside to make space for studying the Sibling Rulers’ plans. It was no routine task he had been given. He was looking forward to it.
Taking what he had produced so far for his poem, together with all the notes and sketches he had made, he wrapped the written pages carefully in waxed paper to protect them from damp. At least things have more or less come right for Caphalor. The Inextinguishables appreciate his talents and they know that the troops respect him. Dsôn Balsur will need an experienced general like him. His notes totaled eight parcels, and he placed them in a wooden chest for safety. I wish Sinthoras well. May he make a new future.
Imàndaris brought him the plans and they spent the whole of the evening examining them. They were both sure they could turn this vague list of specifications into an overall design for an impressive, robust and deadly älfar realm in Tark Draan.
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), Stone Gate Path in the Gray Mountains,
4372nd division of unendingness (5200th solar cycle),
late winter.
“You down there!” Caphalor shouted down from his tower to a group of älfar trying to approach the gate. They carried their possessions on their backs, their mantels were torn and shabby and their breeches torn. It’s hard, but it’s important not to take pity on them. “Stay away from here! In the name of Nagsor and Nagsar Inàste, I command you to retreat and wait in the camp for new arrivals with all the others. If you come a step nearer I shall be forced to have you shot.”
They looked up and then deliberated among themselves.
“Take aim,” Caphalor ordered his archers to either side on the battlements. They raised their long-distance weapons and made ready.
Seeing this, the älfar turned tail and ran.
Caphalor hated driving off the refugees, but it he had to protect the others at Dsôn Balsur: those that were healthy had to stay that way. He thought aloud. “The sentries on the Ishím Voróo road must have been asleep. They should have stopped them.”
“Perhaps the sentries are already dead?” suggested one of the archers, lowering his bow. “The parasites do not respect rank or position.”
“That would be a problem. We need people to keep discipline down there.” Caphalor looked over at the barricades his soldiers had put up. There were catapults loaded with arrows and spears lined up along the whole path; he was standing to the right of the tower.
You could not do anything without the necessary discipline.
He had arranged for the refugees to be sorted into a hierarchy of camps. The new arrivals had to wait at the far end. Only after fifty moments of unendingness, when it was clear that they were not infected with parasites, would they be allowed into the next compound. The second interim camp was carefully observed; if the älfar here showed no signs of sickness after a further ten moments of unendingness, they could move on to the third encampment. That was where the healthy älfar would wait for Caphalor to let them pass through.
Soldiers in the camps—the same troops who had been sent back to fight the dorón ashont—controlled the system and enforced discipline. Caphalor knew a few of them from the Tark Draan campaign. They would ride up to the barricade every morning to report to him and to hear his orders. They carried out his commands at arm’s length.
Aïsolon, my good friend. Protect those who, like yourself, have chosen to remain loyal to Dsôn Faïmon. He oft
en thought of his comrade who was carrying out that essential task.
His mind would travel constantly to his own family, not knowing what had become of his children: they could still be alive, or they might have succumbed to the acid . . . The cruel uncertainty was anguish to his soul.
And he thought about Sinthoras, traveling through Ishím Voróo. He could give people courage, hope and a vision of a new life. That’s if he’s still among the living.
Caphalor looked at the tents pitched close to the gateway path. Walls had been hastily erected to separate the three camps; ditches one pace wide filled with acid from Dsôn acted as a barrier against crawling parasites.
The plague was not easy to control. They were still losing many victims and there were frequent new infections. All in all there were around 4,000 älfar refugees housed in shameful conditions just outside the Stone Gateway.
What utter misery. Caphalor clenched his fist in anger—but there was no one he could call to account for the fate that had struck his people. The dorón ashont had died in the acid just as thousands of älfar had done. Samusin had intervened. But he still had these dark thoughts . . .
He did not know how he would react if a friend of his or one of his children came pleading at the gate to be admitted. He could only hope the situation would never occur.
An älf marked by a long, hard ride appeared at his side and handed him a leather wallet bearing the seal of the Inextinguishables. “A message for you, Caphalor. For your eyes only.”
Despite the presence of the archers, he opened the seal and took out the missive.
Scanning its content, he did, however, move several paces to the side for privacy. These were lines that should never be seen by a third party.
Highly valued and imperially blessed Caphalor,
You have proved yourself an honest and upright älf over the course of many divisions of unendingness. You have carried out your appointed tasks without complaint and you have not argued with us over your removal from the office of nostàroi. Regard this period as a time of trial and testing.