“Possibly,” said Sardâr, but he sounded unconvinced. “Thengel, have there been any other sightings?”
“A fair few,” replied Thorin, “though nothing like this. Trolls have been seen, though they’re nothing unusual around these parts. Plenty of greenskins, of course. Filthy, slimy, reptilian—”
“Thengel,” Sardâr interrupted.
“I know. I know,” the king snapped back, “but it’s in our nature to hate them. Our people have been enemies for as long as anyone can remember.”
“As have yours and mine, and yet we manage. Or would you like to take a few of us down to the mines and chain us to the axes?”
The king flushed. “That’s not all.” He motioned for the captain to continue.
“These goblins and giants were led by elves. Well, I thought they were elves; they were taller than us. All of them in black cloaks. They were sorcerers. They killed my entire regiment and … left me alive to carry back the message.” He looked down, as if the memory pained him more than his injuries. “The leader … he told me to say that Archbishop Iago sends his regards and will be in contact shortly.”
Jack saw Sardâr and Adâ exchange looks, mouthing the name to each other, evidently not recognizing it.
“He said,” the captain continued, looking as if he was forcing out the last words, “that you may remember him by the name Zâlem Khâyen.” Sardâr’s normally amiable expression darkened instantly. Hakim and Adâ exchanged shocked looks, laden with understanding.
“Who’s Zâlem?” Lucy asked when no one endeavored to explain.
“Zâlem Khâyen is no more than a traitor, a thief, and a murderer.”
“A murderer?” said Lucy, intrigued, but Sardâr seemed unwilling to say any more.
After a pause, Hakim took up the story. “Our home country, Khălese, is ruled by a president who is elected every five years. Twenty years ago, a member of the house of Khâyen was elected. His son was Zâlem. He was a brilliant sorcerer and the perfect student: intelligent, ambitious, and engaging. I can tell you that from being his teacher. However, there were people in the academic community who … distrusted him.”
“There were rumors,” carried on Adâ, “nasty ones. A few of his rivals at university picked on him or else achieved better and gloated about their success. They were never right again.”
Sardâr seemed to not be able to resist having his say. “I filled in for one of the history teachers whilst he was on sabbatical and I taught Zâlem. I won’t deny he was brilliant. He had ideas about politics and history no other student or teacher could imagine. But as Hakim said, he was ambitious. He was a radical politician who believed that Tâbesh and the entire kingdom should be for elves only. Now that kind of talk in a seminar will earn you a bit of attention and debate, but to actually carry out the kind of ideas that he was suggesting would take an enormous amount of resolve.”
Hakim continued. “Sardâr uncovered a plot headed by Zâlem to take control of the kingdom … a plot which entailed killing the president.”
“His own father?”
“Yes. Zâlem had become tired of his father’s liberal approach, and he decided to take matters into his own hands. You see, we elves don’t have it very easy, particularly around dwarves.” Hakim glanced at Thorin, but the king wore a stony expression and was staring straight ahead. “Dwarves in both this world and ours have tended to have a history of colonization. There have been some very expansive dwarf empires in the past, and often these have been at the expense of the native elves. In past years, it has even been known for dwarves to enslave elves … and there’s often still prejudice about it. Zâlem believed that his people deserved the right to take back their honor at the expense of other races that coexist with us in our kingdom. He gathered the usual crowd for a radical orator—a mixture of enthralled fanatics, ambitious young political cronies, and thugs looking for a break into major business. It was a serious threat to our democracy and security.
“Sardâr rushed off to tell me and the president. Of course, the president wasn’t having any of it. And you can’t blame him; it was his own son. So we took to guarding him secretly … which wasn’t easy, given his complete denial of any danger. Then one night, whilst Zâlem’s fellows subdued our guards, Zâlem managed to get into the president’s bedchamber whilst he was sleeping, but Sardâr arrived just in time to prevent the murder. They fought, and when Zâlem was rendered defenseless, the president woke up. He saw both in his room, Sardâr holding a dagger, and, well …”
“It was a choice between an academic and the president’s son,” said Adâ. “Naturally, the president exiled Sardâr and let his son go free.”
“So what happened to Zâlem?” Jack asked, intrigued.
“He disappeared a few years later after completing his education. The president might not have liked it, but Sardâr has quite a following in our community. They believed his side of the story and didn’t take kindly to him being exiled by the person he was trying to protect. Zâlem didn’t have much choice; once his father was shunted out of office he was on his own.”
“So he’s back,” Sardâr remarked, staring in the distance.
There was silence. Noises from outside seemed numbed. Everyone in the room was focussed on Sardâr, who was in turn apparently focussed on the king’s throne.
Finally, after several full minutes, Sardâr spoke again. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised that he’s ended up with the Dionysians. Ambitious, fanatical, a firebrand orator and commander—everything they could want in a recruit. And he’s risen up the ranks to control an entire operation.” He directed his next remarks at the king. “We suspected the Cult was involved with the stirring up of war here, but this is far worse than I thought. We need to discuss matters … alone. Hakim, Adâ, if you would please take Jack and Lucy and leave.”
Both nodded, their expressions grave.
Jack’s last look at the room was to see Sardâr get up and begin pacing in a mirror of the king’s movements. He could only pity the surviving captain caught in the middle of this.
Chapter IX
security and defense
The four of them spent the rest of the morning distributing food and drink to the refugees. Very little was said. The tension within the main chamber had risen considerably and not just amongst them. Already, rumors of what had befallen the erring scouting regiment were dispersing through the fortress quicker than the bread and milk. The miners still worked, the refugees still trickled in through the main gate, and the guards still patrolled and handed out rations, but everything seemed more hurried. Jack noticed the increased amount of disconcerted looks being thrown at the wide open main entrance. He could tell that the guards on the gate in particular were eager for the flow of refugees to cease, so they could barricade themselves behind the thick stone and wood.
After several hours, Sardâr emerged from the throne room corridor, looking raw but resolute.
Jack, Lucy, Adâ, and Hakim virtually dropped their baskets of bread and hurried over to see him.
He assuaged their inquisitive looks with a brush of his hand. “We have been discussing additional security arrangements. The night guard is to be bolstered, and the fortress secured from the bottom up. The gates are not to be opened after nightfall, and no one is to enter or leave the fortress. Additional regiments are to be dispatched daily to escort arriving villagers into the valley. We’ve reasoned that the only feasible course of action is to lock down our defenses and wait. We don’t know what Zâlem and his cohort are planning, and we can’t take any serious course of action until we do.”
“This would be so much easier with technology that wasn’t just wood and stone,” Adâ muttered. Jack and Lucy both nodded.
But Sardâr shook his head. “You know the consequences of that. We’ll just have to make do.”
“Yes,” said Hakim, “a weapons crisis, on top of everything else, is the last thing we need. Did you get a chance to ask the king about the tutoring?”
&nbs
p; “Yes, I did. He agrees that, given the circumstances, Jack and Lucy need to be as prepared as everyone else here.” He turned to the two of them. “Learning how to defend yourselves is no longer a matter of leisure. We will begin classes tomorrow. I will have to share my time between teaching you and dealing with matters here, so if I take the mornings, then Adâ and Hakim can take the afternoons.”
The two other elves nodded, as did Jack. Lucy seemed less enthusiastic. Despite her multiple certifications that she would rather be back at home, the prospect of something akin to school did not spark her imagination.
Jack and Lucy spent their first proper evening in Thorin Salr with Hakim and Adâ, as Sardâr was attending to the implementation of the new security measures. They ate some kind of charred meat and smoked cheese that tasted delicious in the East Guest Hall and sat for a while as the sky began to darken around them.
After a few minutes of silence, toastily comfortable in the warm cavern, Lucy spoke. “So what do people do around here for fun? I mean, are there any bars? Rec room? Anything?”
Hakim pondered this for a moment. “We could go downstairs. If I’ve got my days right, you should be in for a treat.”
They followed the two elves out and down a few passages and a flight of stairs. They crossed the entrance hall and went through another larger door Jack hadn’t noticed before. This chamber was about the same size as the East Guest Hall, with lines of benches filled with dwarves and a crackling fire in a grate in the center. At the opposite end, a stone plinth rose up with a single stool on it. The walls were hung with animal furs and the same fine cloth as the soldiers’ tunics, woven into meshed, swirling patterns.
The four of them took seats at the back of the hall. Jack recognized several of the soldiers from their expedition, now in ordinary clothes, and the king’s nephew. They were all talking loudly, and frothing flagons were passed around, splashing over the stone floor.
“What are we waiting for?” Lucy called over the racket.
“You’ll see,” Hakim replied, smiling, turning to talk to a dwarf in the row in front.
Several minutes passed uneventfully, during which a few more people arrived. Then from somewhere in the mass before them, a dwarf took the stage, emanating a wave of expectant silence. He was the oldest person Jack had ever seen. His beard was almost pure white, reaching down to his boots and tucked into his belt along the way. His eyes were grey and ridden with cataracts, but he fixed his audience with an encompassing gaze as he took his seat on the stool and began.
Jack had been obliged to take English literature at school, and he had been reasonably good at poetry. He could tell a ballad from a sonnet, a haiku and blank verse, and could give you a B-grade answer on Tennyson or Wordsworth. But this was poetry as he had never heard it. Perhaps it was the language ring, but he could hear the rhythm and shape of the language in the original and understand its meaning.
It was the story of a dwarf who saved his kingdom from a marauding swamp monster and descended into the Wastes to tackle the monster’s kin. He became king, enjoying a long and rich reign, only interrupted by the attack of a fire-breathing dragon. He slew the dragon, casting its body into a chasm, but sustained a mortal wound and died soon after. Jack could not tell how long it lasted, maybe five minutes, maybe five hours, but he didn’t care. The dwarf’s voice cracked when he finished, and there was silence. He nodded and returned to his seat.
Slowly, the noise began stirring up again.
Jack turned to Hakim, lost for words.
The elf smiled. “You enjoyed that, then?”
“Yeah … ,” he managed, blinking. He looked around to Hakim’s other side. Adâ appeared impressed. Lucy was flopped against the wall, eyes closed and mouth open, sound asleep.
East of the fortress on the edge of the Stórr Mountains in the valley of Sitzung, a solitary figure stood on the edge of a cliff. The peaks spiked up behind him and curved around to the left; to the right they dissolved into plains and misty marshland. The blade of the wind followed the curvature of the scene, slicing above through the peaks and down across the open plateau. Here, nothing grew well, only sparse, inedible roots and a few disparate shrubs. This marked the border between Thorin Salr and the Wastes.
Camps spread out under the cover of the mountains. The fiercest gales came from the south, yet they still blasted through the valley like thunder. The edges of taut, tattered tents flapped noisily in the breeze, and the wild boars, tied by the necks to deeply driven posts, grunted and shuffled their feet. More posts all around were lit at the top, the flickering flames barely penetrating the pitch darkness.
Despite the camps, no goblin was taking shelter. All were outside, the valley full of shadowy, bow-legged reptilian figures hunched together in almost complete silence. All pairs of bulbous, snakelike eyes were fixed upon the crest of rock high above, where a cluster of thirteen black tents, subtly styled with silver symbols, was pitched. The corn-yellow moon swam above it, casting its ghostly glow into the oily reflection of those thousands of eyes.
The figure stood on the crest of the rock, gazing down on his assembled forces. Twelve more of his fellows stood behind him, their black cloaks fluttering in the wind. The leader judged the time to be right. He spoke, his voice magnified a hundred times over the gale. “Brothers! Greenskins!”
Every creature in the valley broke into growls and cries of anger. Greenskin was a derogatory term that could be used to refer to any creature, though particularly goblins, which was an enemy of the “civilized” species.
“You have come from every corner of the Wastes, rival tribes and clans all gathered here, and for what purpose? You have come to avenge yourselves on those who drove you out of the mountains! Those who would call themselves your enemies yet treat you like animals! Who are they?”
Roars of rage erupted from several groups. The different tribes could be clearly seen—groups of goblins huddled together under tents displaying different totems and banners. But as the screams grew, the tribes took to their feet. The noise rose out of the valley and upwards into the starry night like a billowing sky beast, and the tribal differences were washed away by the cascade of rage and purpose. Thousands of voices blasted out in a barely discernable howl: “The dwarves!”
“Yes, the dwarves,” replied the leader, his boom still overcoming the shouts, “and now we know how to enter their kingdom. Go, brothers! March to Thorin Salr!”
The screams rose to a crescendo, the sky beast purring in pleasure as its form was augmented by the waking cries of hulking giants, chained in one edge of the valley.
The leader smiled to himself. This was too easy. He was a populist by nature—he could metamorphose even the most indolent crowd of divided moderates into a revolutionary mob with a few sentences—but this was barely a challenge. He turned to face his twelve fellows. “I think we’ve incensed them enough.”
Several of the figures laughed cruelly.
“We will all lead the march.”
The surrounding figures nodded and turned to packing up the tents, quenching the fire, readying their own mounts—not pigs, but lizard-like reptiles they had acquired in this world—and dispatching orders to the goblin chieftains.
Before long, the leader was left alone on the crest of rock. Far below, campfires were being dissolved and replaced by flickering torches hoisted in the arms of marching soldiers. There was a general surge away from him, as the mob looked to quit the valley through the narrow gorge opposite the cliff face. He snapped his fingers.
A shadow materialized out of the darkness next to him—this one in hulking armor, hunched over a black horse. Most notably, where its head should have been, there was just a stump of severed cloth.
“Go and kill a few. That should give them the energy to last the night.”
The shadow gave no noticeable sign of recognition but whipped its horse into action, spurring it forward and off the cliff.
The next few weeks were very busy for Jack and Lucy.
Before their first lesson, Sardâr took them aside with a grave look on his face. “You must understand the significance of this. You may have already seen, but Thengel is something of a revolutionary amongst his fellows. As a member of the Apollonians, he understands fully the importance of interworld cooperation against the Cult. Traditionalist dwarves have disagreed with him, calling him weak. Even his own nephew, Bál, is distasteful of his stance. Many dwarves take pride in their racial stereotype—being extremely proud, quick to anger, and particularly hateful of alchemy. It is the highest betrayal of these principles for alchemy to be used in their own fortress. It is extremely inconvenient for Thengel for us to be doing this, so you must show him the utmost respect. Is this understood?”
They both nodded.
“Alchemy,” Sardâr began, “is a science and not so mysterious as it may seem. As I said before, the Cult manipulates the yin in existence—the primal Darkness—which is inherent in all things. We—by which I mean those of us who align ourselves with the Light—choose to tap into the yang, which equally permeates our world. Whilst Darkness is destructive and negative, Light is creative and positive.”
At this point, he pushed aside a large ceremonial rug in the center of the room, revealing a circle surrounded by symbols etched in charcoal on the flagons. He motioned to each one of the four symbols, each at a compass point, in turn. “Light is made up of four elements: fire, water, air, and earth. These are not the elements of which objects are physically constructed—that is the territory of chemistry and physics—but rather the essence that sleeps within them that can be manipulated by sorcerers.”
Jack nodded, but Lucy seemed less sure. He wondered what Dr. Orpheus would make of this.
They only briefly touched on Dark alchemy.
“The basis of Dark alchemy,” Sardâr said gravely, “is the exploitation of the negative—moral or natural evil—to the ends of the sorcerer involved. Whilst it may initially seem more powerful than Light alchemy, the consequences for the soul are dire. It draws its power from the Darkness, tempered by anger, greed, lust, envy, or hatred from within the person who uses it. There is no such thing as defensive Dark alchemy; it can only cause pain and suffering.” That was all that was said on the subject.
The White Fox Page 17