by Markus Heitz
Tirîgon could see the look in the reddened eye of the unicorn: hatred and iron will and the determination to kill his tormentors. You beast! We’ll tame you yet!
The thick muscles in the creature’s neck swelled. Instead of pulling its horn free, it whipped its head in a horizontal movement, slicing the heavy door through until it met the masonry frame. When the unicorn raised its head, stones and a cloud of dust came out of the wall.
What strength it has! It’s inexhaustible! Tirîgon stepped behind a pillar, his vision hampered by the dust.
‘Move!’ his brother shouted beside him.
Tirîgon ducked, attentive to the warning. Above his head a unicorn hoof crashed into the marble of the column he had been sheltering behind. It had the force of a catapult hurling a boulder. The animal followed through to ram him.
Tirîgon had to execute a second roll to escape and could feel the draught as the kicking hind hooves narrowly missed his head. He took cover behind a different pillar. Why does it hate me so? He made an effort to control his breathing so as not to betray his location. I wonder if the armour has something to do with it?
The hooves clattered past.
He got up and saw the unicorn’s tail and hind quarters go by, while Sisaroth jumped around on the steps trying to provoke the animal. How does he hope to calm it? Surely if Sisaroth cuts off the horn, the beast will be maddened with pain and its strength will increase tenfold? He looked around at the devastation wreaked on the hall. Not even solid stone and heavy wood were able to withstand its attacks.
The unicorn focused on Sisaroth now, snorting wildly through its nostrils.
It’s looking for a way to escape. Tirîgon crept closer, but kept a respectable distance away from the powerful hind legs. ‘Watch out! It will knock you down. It wants to get up to the next floor!’
The unicorn charged, its head lowered slightly.
‘Let’s be having you!’ mocked Sisaroth, offering his broad chest as a target. ‘Kill me if you can!’ He danced to the side but slipped in a puddle of his own blood. The cîanoi did not lose his footing completely but the ensuing loss of concentration threatened catastrophe.
No! You shall not rob me of my own brother! Not when we’re on the point of leaving for Tark Draan! Triumph is so near! Tirîgon slipped off his weapons belt with its heavy sword and hurled it overarm with all his strength between the animal’s feet. The unicorn shrieked with fury, intent on killing its foe.
The belt caught in the unicorn’s hooves and the long sword impeded its progress.
The stallion crashed down and slid towards Sisaroth; älf and unicorn ended up in a confused heap.
‘Sisaroth!’ Tirîgon ran over to where his brother lay, drawing his double daggers from their harness as he ran. I will stab it while it’s down. I don’t care that it means we don’t get our night-mare. My brother’s life is a thousand times more important.
The horn had penetrated Sisaroth’s belly and emerged out the back. Blood poured down the grooves and collected on the floor. Sisaroth was struggling for breath. The unicorn was struggling to get to its feet.
No. Tirîgon lifted his daggers, aiming at the creature’s white-maned neck. ‘You accursed . . .’
‘The axe,’ croaked Sisaroth. His grasp loosened and the silver weapon clattered to the floor. ‘Hack off the horn with the axe. Then put your own blood on the stump and listen for the words Shëidogîs will give you.’
Tirîgon’s eyes welled up with tears. ‘If you think either Firûsha or I would ride a night-mare that ended our brother’s life, forget it!’ He replaced one knife in the sheath anchored on his thigh armour and picked up the axe. With a nimble foot sweep, he prevented the unicorn getting to its feet. ‘It shall follow you to endingness.’
Tirîgon took careful aim and struck out – but at that moment and in spite of the terrible horn piercing his body, his brother forced himself to his feet. The movement resulted in Tirîgon’s weapon striking through the horn rather than the vertebrae.
Freed from the ballast of the älf’s body, the stallion’s head reared up, smashing into Tirîgon’s chest.
The älf’s dagger was forced into his own neck and he felt the blood pour out: the wound was a deep one.
This is going to end badly. Staggering, Tirîgon dropped his weapon, grabbed hold of the bannister to steady himself and tried in vain to stem the bleeding. I need a healer. And fast . . .
The unicorn, teetering, had managed to get upright but was screeching with pain. The horn stump gushed blood and the white muzzle and blaze now streamed red.
‘It shall not defeat us.’ Sisaroth was still on his feet and stretching out an arm to his brother. Tirîgon assumed it was for support but realised Sisaroth was extracting a throwing disc from his armour. He drew it through blood from both siblings. ‘We shall create it together.’ Then he tossed the disc onto the unicorn’s stump.
Älfar blood combined with the beast’s own. There was a hissing and a bubbling as black foam formed on the open surface.
The stallion went wild, bucking and prancing through the great hall, shattering anything its hooves came into contact with.
How could such a wound be overcome? Only the power of the infamous god can have kept life burning. Tirîgon could hear Sisaroth muttering certain words. His brother’s body remained skewered on the unicorn’s severed horn.
At that moment the main door burst open.
In strode Balodil with his weapon Bloodthirster in both hands. The groundling must have left via an external staircase. His one eye scanned the scene. He saw the state the brothers were in. ‘By the god of Infamy! Tirîgon! Sisaroth!’ He stepped back to avoid the shrieking unicorn. ‘We’ve got to get out of here! Get out of the palace!’ he yelled, running up to the two älfar. ‘Now!’
Sisaroth sank to his knees, continuing the incantation that would complete the unicorn’s transformation. His eyes were fixed on the stallion; it was as if a strong bond existed between the two of them.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Tirîgon, his voice slurring. I think the bleeding’s letting up. The pains in jaw and neck remained hellish.
‘How can he be alive?’ Balodil tried to help Sisaroth to his feet but the älf pushed him off.
‘It is the power of the Infamous One,’ Tirîgon replied, coughing blood. He was confused and did not know what he was supposed to be doing. ‘What do you want?’
The groundling pointed at the open door with his sword. ‘A magic force field! It’s heading for the fortress. There’ve been two detonations. The bridges . . .’
As he spoke a whizzing sound was heard over their heads accompanied by the crack of an invisible whip.
The whole roof lifted off in an incredible explosion that stopped Tirîgon’s ears. The shockwave threw him against the steps.
We are done for. His senses were affected. Falling masonry, Balodil shouting, the unicorn’s screams, collapsing columns and plunging balustrades all produced but a shrill whistle in his head. The ground under his feet was shaking but he heard no rumbling sound. Merely a high piping. Nothing more.
Tirîgon’s skin tingled as if ants were crawling over him, biting at him. We are completely cloaked in magic power!
There were further flashes in the hall; now the roof had gone it was an open yard, with clouds of dust from the damage rising to the sky, chased away by a hot, scented wind. Even great lumps of marble were whisked away by the violent currents of magic air. Rubble was swept upwards as if it were dry leaves.
Above him was the cave roof, where sparkling spheres danced and dazzling stars shot past, streaming bright tails behind them, raining down on what remained of the palace.
His face was burning hot. My dream is lost. We were nearly home. My triumphant return! All the bad had been turning good! So nearly there!
Balodil stood over him and was obviously shouting something. He could smell the wine-laden breath on his face but all he could hear was the whistling sound in his ears. Looking past the groundlin
g he could see the unicorn lying on the ground, its coat turning dark and then black. There’s one thing we managed to do right. So we’ll be dying with a night-mare at our side.
Two stars collided, causing an explosion loud enough for even Tirîgon to hear. A red magic curtain was formed, reaching right down to where they were. A new bolt of lightning danced and flashed over the mosaic flooring, bringing fresh destruction and leaving a scorched black line until the bolt of fire got near Balodil.
Tirîgon saw how the zigzag of light struck the groundling’s armour and made all the inlaid work glow. His golden eye patch shone out, illuminated from within, as if the sun were hidden behind the covering. Balodil’s face was a network of black lines.
Then something happened that made Tirîgon doubt his own mind. The single figure of the groundling was suddenly two!
The lightning strike had brought a second Balodil to life, an imitation created from the original in a shower of sparks. Posture, body shape, hair, weapons, every tiny detail was identical.
Tirîgon’s jaw dropped as he stared at the doppelgänger. Then the red curtain reached them and its enormous force dazzled and blinded him completely.
Everything was excruciatingly painful.
Tirîgon cried out and uttered curse after curse until the torture suddenly ended. After a few heartbeats he started to regain his sight and then his hearing.
What . . . what has the magic done to me? His wound had stopped hurting. Feeling for the injury with his fingers he found the skin smooth and whole. It’s gone! Healed over! He looked around.
He saw Sisaroth standing next to him holding the unicorn horn in his hand. He was touching his belly carefully. ‘I . . .’ Then his gaze fell on the magic skull at his feet, totally unscathed.
‘Was that the magic?’ Tirîgon got to his feet and looked at Balodil. He saw only one Balodil. I must have imagined it. A trick of the light – a reflection, perhaps, caused by the detonations. ‘Balodil?’ He rubbed his temples to deal with the dull ache collecting there. He could still see little stars in front of his eyes.
The groundling shook himself as a dog might do emerging from water. ‘Did that have to happen right now?’ he grumbled. ‘We were in the middle of our preparations for our ventures.’ Balodil rubbed the back of his neck. ‘It feels like a band of óarcos have been thrashing me with a cudgel.’ He scrutinised the brothers. ‘Your wounds!’
‘The Infamous One sent a miracle,’ Sisaroth decided, not wanting to concede that magic could have had anything to do with his recovery. ‘The god transformed the force into a healing spell.’
They heard a dark, low neighing.
They turned their heads.
A night-mare came trotting out of a far corner. It had glowing red eyes and a coat as black as coals. When the stallion gave a snort its vicious incisors showed. The beast appeared weary but in good condition.
What a magnificent creature. And from now on it belongs to us. Tirîgon was speechless with emotion.
‘Didn’t I tell you we would do it?’ Sisaroth whispered in awe. ‘It is wonderful. Firûsha will be thrilled . . .’
Balodil turned his head. ‘Not only Firûsha,’ was his comment. He drew slowly back. ‘I just hope we have enough meat for them.’
What’s he talking about? Tirîgon rubbed his eyes to make the light flashes go away. He thought it must be his hearing coming back that made the beast’s snorting louder and louder. Then he saw what the groundling meant.
They came out of the dark ruins, heading for the brothers as if suddenly released from the enveloping shadows: night-mares! The magic force had duplicated their first specimen, many times over.
Sisaroth stroked the skull of the infamous god. ‘Aren’t they incredible?’
‘I shan’t trust the beasts till they’ve been fed. And I don’t want to be their fodder.’
More and more of them, identical in every single respect. Tirîgon stopped counting once he reached forty. ‘It looks like we’ll be riding to Tark Draan.’ He approached the herd cautiously. ‘Come on, Sisaroth, we need to get Firûsha and find out what else those explosions have destroyed.’ We can only hope for the best.
He chose to ignore the possibility that his seeing a double groundling might not have been a fleeting illusion. Locating his sister had priority.
And thus he chose to go nowhere near the question of whether the Balodil in front of him was the original, or the copy.
Chapter IV
Do you think
Death has a smell?
A form?
A weapon to take a life?
Death has none of these.
Death is everywhere,
and inhabits all things:
from a knife slicing open your gullet
to the smallest of breadcrumbs
in the very same throat
choking you to death.
‘Aphorisms’ from the epic poem Young Gods
composed by Carmondai, master of word and image
Phondrasôn.
Firûsha struggled out from under the rubble of the guardhouse. Was that the Zhadar? Was it intended as a warning? Or was it the long-feared magic storm? She slipped and slithered her way, snake-like, to freedom.
Her armour had been largely responsible for her survival; she suffered no serious injury. But she wasn’t completely unscathed by her immersion in the torrent of falling debris: the beams, roof tiles, and blocks of stone left painful grazes on her arms and legs. The all-pervasive smell of fresh blood told her that other älfar had not been so fortunate.
I would never have thought those massive walls would succumb to magic. I am lucky to be alive.
She made her way forward towards a bright gap in the rubble and pushed her arms through to get a hold.
‘Firûsha!’ Crotàgon appeared and helped her out of the constricted aperture. Like her, he was covered in dust and dirt. ‘Are you all right?’
She nodded. ‘Where are my brothers?’ Firûsha stood upright and stared round at the devastation that was all that remained of the palace and the fortress. That was never the work of the Zhadar.
Apart from the destruction, there were odd occurrences resulting from the uncontrolled magic strike: some parts of the fortress had duplicated themselves and were placed randomly all over the island, together with their teams of älfar.
Now there were seven new main entrance gates: some even in the middle of the forest. One was spotted poking up through the surface of the molten lake and there was another on top of the palace ruins.
The defence ramparts were projecting vertically out of the ground but starting to crumble under their own weight.
This is ghastly! Firûsha surveyed the scene. Our own residence has suffered the same magical onslaught as the fortress.
The magic had provided four copies of the main and side wings of the building. They were interconnected in the most illogical manner and were causing untold further damage to the structure as they balanced on top of each other.
The attack had caused the molten sea to burst its banks, flooding a third of the island with lethal liquid glass that was starting to harden. Anything touched by it would have been charred into nothingness or trapped in a transparent coffin for all eternity.
Nothing is as it should be. Firûsha gave silent thanks to the goddess Inàste that she and her brothers had already made their plans to leave Phondrasôn. Neither the Zhadar nor the karderiers are the main danger here. It’s the place itself we have to fear most.
They were lucky that the molten sea had not completely swamped their island. There was one bridge leading out of the cave that was still intact, but it was coated in a strange fluid that was slowly solidifying.
The weight of the extra glass will test its stability to the limit . . . Firûsha caught sight of the älf struggling up from the ground behind Crotàgon with a strangled cry. The whole of his right side was missing. So was part of his head. Like those of the randomly duplicated main gates, all the edges were clean cut a
nd the inner organs and the brain were visible.
She suddenly realised that it was not only the inanimate masonry sections that had multiplied.
Crotàgon turned and stepped away from the gruesome magic-generated being. ‘By all the gods!’ he breathed in horror.
The body confines of the weird figure gave way with a disgusting squelching sound and the vital organs slid to the ground. The mutilated älf fell down and remained motionless.
This is worse than any night terror Phondrasôn has inflicted on me.
More misshapen älfar duplicates were sliding, limbless, over the rocks, crawling through the ruins, groaning or screaming or shouting for help.
Limbs were also present in ridiculous extra configurations; there were even älfar with two heads shrieking in a unison of agony and despair.
The horrors did not end there. Some of the victims were missing their skin, or had an extra layer covering the entire face like a gruesome flesh mask. Intestines burst forth and dragged along the ground.
Crotàgon had drawn his sword. It was all far too creepy for him. ‘What has happened here?’ he murmured.
Everywhere she looked, Firûsha saw extra copies of members of her own race. Twins, triplets, full-grown quadruplets or even quintuplets stood around in dazed confusion. Those who had recovered from their astonishment were starting to quarrel as to who was the original and who was the imitation. Scuffles and armed combat broke out in a hopeless attempt to establish unique and true identity.
‘I don’t know,’ she answered hesitantly. Her stomach churned. Not because of what she saw here but because of a thought that shook her very being. Am I really Firûsha? Or am I a copy? She looked over at her mentor. How will I know whether he is the real Crotàgon and not a magic imitation?
She heard a familiar voice.
My brother. Firûsha turned her head. ‘Sisaroth?’ She clambered over the ruins as quickly as she could, following the direction the sound was coming from.
She found him half-buried under a collapsed wall, calling out in pain. She could not understand what he was trying to say.
Nearby another Sisaroth was missing both arms. And there was a lower torso, by itself. Undoubtedly also belonging to her brother . . .
