by Markus Heitz
‘I’d say roughly two thousand,’ Balodil answered flatly. ‘That would be the first wave, sent to test the defences. They wouldn’t be trained troops, just the normal poor swine – prisoners guilty of some minor misdemeanour.’ His laugh sounded malicious. ‘Fine kind of pardon, if you ask me, freeing them to use as bait.’
The siblings agreed.
‘My own father and the most important of the rebel leaders are in the fort. They had gathered there for a secret meeting. Someone must have betrayed them for this army to show up.’ Shucto’s words cut through the jollity. ‘The Zhadar will use every method at his disposal to capture them all. The fact he’s marched up with eighty thousand warriors speaks volumes on that score.’
‘I’m surprised he hasn’t come along in person with a bit of magic to toss those walls aside. Something doesn’t add up.’ Tirîgon could not understand why the Zhadar was relying on his troops and risking so many lives. It must be something to do with the way that fort has been constructed. What could be making the Zhadar hold back? He would have loved to be able to send out a scout. Esmonäe suddenly imposed herself on his thoughts. May Tion take her! Am I never going to be free of her?
‘Perhaps he just wasn’t in the mood,’ Sisaroth suggested. ‘You never know where you are with him.’
Tirîgon turned his head and looked sharply at Shucto. ‘Can you give us any clue?’
‘It makes no difference,’ the barbarian said, avoiding a direct answer.
‘But maybe it does,’ Firûsha chipped in.
‘No. You don’t have to get into the fort at all. You just have to eliminate the army commanders.’ Shucto snorted. ‘When are you setting off?’
He’s keeping something back. Secrets. Tirîgon could sense the barbarian was determined not to enter into a debate on this.
Before the älf was able to feed fear into Shucto’s mind, Balodil seized the barbarian by the nape of the neck and shook him violently. ‘Tell us what it is. Or the Young Gods’ll find their own way to the waterfall and I’ll teach you how to fly!’
‘It’s nothing! Nothing important at all,’ Shucto insisted, dangling in the groundling’s grasp like a rabbit in a trap. ‘I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you!’ Balodil released him. ‘There’s a magic field inside the fort. It won’t go away . . . we think it’s jealous. If anything magic approaches it erupts and goes wild.’
‘So if the Zhadar were to use a magic spell against the fort . . .’ Sisaroth began.
‘. . . it would come back at him threefold.’ Shucto indicated the army. ‘That’s why he’s using numbers rather than sorcery.’
And that’s why he’s sent us here to intervene. He wants our help to obviate the need for a long siege. Tirîgon pushed a strand of black hair out of his eyes. ‘Makes sense. Good thing we don’t have to break into the fort.’
Balodil smacked Shucto on the back of the head. ‘You know what, my friend? You and I are in for a whole load of fun together. Just make sure, from now on, you tell me everything you know. I really don’t like surprises. Nor do the Young Gods.’
Shucto stammered out an apology, although his attitude showed he thought he had been within his rights.
Firûsha was examining the huge cave from their vantage point. ‘There’s no shadow anywhere,’ she commented. ‘Every tiny section of the place is fully lit.’ Her steely blue gaze was focused on the balloons. ‘Those aerial lamps are a clever idea.’
Things in the camp started to move.
Fanfares were the signal for soldiers to emerge from their quarters armoured up. Several units started preparations, with hand carts being trundled out. There was no sign of battering rams or catapults.
Tirîgon counted at least a hundred and ten of the wagons with ladders. They might be able to get up onto the walls with those.
Shucto was tense. ‘The Zhadar has got fed up with waiting! You’ve got to hurry!’ he urged, and would have stormed to his feet had Balodil not restrained him and forced him back down on the rock. ‘Get down there and kill their officers! Go now or all is lost!’ He unwound a sash from his hips; it was a banner. ‘Look. These are my family colours. When you kill their commanding officers, put this banner by the bodies to show the rebels are more powerful than the Zhadar.’
‘I know where you’ll find their leaders.’ The groundling nodded to the siblings.
Let’s get started. Tirîgon was excited and apprehensive. The slightest miscalculation would spell disaster, with repercussions for the survival of the whole älfar race.
Shucto waited behind on the spur of rock while the siblings and Balodil went down to retrieve their night-mares. They hid the groundling in a large sack together with the barbarian’s banner and stowed it on Firûsha’s mount behind her saddle. A small hole enabled him to see out.
This was a concealment Tirîgon had insisted on. There was no need for any of the Triplets to hide from the Zhadar’s troops. They were expected. But because it was not clear whether word of Balodil’s disappearance would have reached the army, it seemed sensible to hide their companion. In the beginning.
They rode up to the sentries, who stood back to admit them. The night-mares’ blood-red eyes and lethal incisors made the soldiers quake with fear.
‘Welcome,’ one of the soldiers said in greeting, keeping a healthy distance. ‘We had thought you would arrive before this. We’ve been expecting you.’
‘We couldn’t come sooner,’ Sisaroth said arrogantly. ‘Your commanders? Where will we find them? The Zhadar told us to ask for Korhnoj.’
‘The instructions have changed,’ came the response. ‘You’re to go straight through the camp to the first tent. The Zhadar’s envoy is waiting to speak to you. It’ll be him rather than Korhnoj, as I understand it, giving you your specific orders. Our captain is busy at the moment giving a briefing.’
Tirîgon cursed inwardly. The plan was definitely that we get straight to the commanding officers.
The siblings’ gazes met as they hastened past the sentries.
‘We need to get to Korhnoj, whatever we’ve just been told,’ Tirîgon said. We can always say the guards at the gate gave us the wrong information. ‘Balodil, you’ll have to tell us which way to go.’
Following Balodil’s instructions they made a sharp turn and eventually reached a large tent with dark yellow hangings. It was modest in its markings and the älfar would never have suspected that this was where they would find the officers.
Here, too, the guards backed away from their night-mares, holding up their shields in fear.
‘Greetings,’ said Tirîgon, swinging down from the saddle. He was well aware of the impression he made in his fine armour. ‘We have been sent by the Zhadar.’ Going over to Firûsha’s mount he took down the sack with the groundling inside and heaved it up onto his shoulder. They won’t be able to refuse us entry. ‘We’ve his gift to deliver and then we’ll be off to deal with the rebel fortress.’
The soldiers were unsure what to do. ‘Masters, Mistress. The commanders are discussing the attack, so you ought . . .’
‘. . . so we ought to go straight in and raise their spirits for their imminent victory.’ Sisaroth strode forward followed by his brother. Firûsha brought up the rear.
One sentry felt it his duty to protest. He had his orders, after all. He laid a hand on Firûsha’s arm. ‘Stop! You are not to . . .’
Firûsha half-turned, lifted her arm and smashed her elbow into the barbarian’s face, shattering his nose and cheekbone. His face was streaming blood and he fell to the floor.
‘Don’t any of the rest of you try anything,’ she warned the other guards. ‘Or I’ll make use of my sword. The Zhadar has sent us and only he is authorised to hold us back. We are here on his mission. You are nothing,’ she said, raising her voice. ‘You should be grateful he did not task us with decapitating the lot of you.’
Tirîgon nodded to his sister. Sometimes I forget our little songbird has grown up.
They strode into the roomy tent unann
ounced. The place smelled of straw, sweat and cheap candlewax. It seemed the commanders placed little importance on cleanliness.
Upwards of forty heads turned in unison towards them; mostly men, perhaps ten women in total. And none of them were pretty.
Crude-featured, the men had wild beards and unkempt hair; their appearance presented an insult to älfar sensibilities. Reason enough for doing away with them.
The officers were gathered round a table-mounted model of the fort. Some were drinking wine, others were partaking of fruit or other food that was piled on large dishes next to the model.
To Tirîgon the meeting had more the air of a social occasion or nostalgic celebration of past glories rather than a military briefing.
A bald-headed barbarian in heavy armour was holding a pointer and appeared to be going through tactics with the other men. It was he who first spoke, having challenged the visitors with his eyes. ‘Who have we got here? Would these be the Master’s shadow watchdogs, I wonder?’
‘And who have we got here? A tent full of fools, I think,’ Sisaroth retorted scornfully. A rising mutter of protest went through the gathering. ‘That’s the only interpretation I can put on the fact you have failed to greet us appropriately.’
‘I have taught better folk than you how to behave,’ Firûsha said, indicating they should kneel. Fresh bloodstains were obvious on her armour. ‘Down! In the name of the Zhadar!’
One of the women spat directly at Tirîgon’s boots. ‘The Zhadar may pay for our obedience but we don’t have to take that kind of talk from his henchmen.’
Tirîgon saw that bits of food were stuck to her leather armour. ‘Wipe yourself off or I’ll grant you a cleaner, quicker death,’ he said, putting the sack down that contained the groundling.
‘Nobody’s killing anyone in my tent,’ said the barbarian in shining armour. ‘I am Korhnoj. I am the leader here. And as far as I know, you three are supposed to be with Ehiow, not here. Go and tell him I’m calling off the attack. Tell him our threefold salvation has finally arrived.’ Korhnoj’s tone was sarcastic. ‘You’ll find his tent . . .’
There was a loud metallic clang.
Korhnoj stopped speaking and looked down, staring at the throwing disc that had cut through his breastplate. ‘What . . .?’ He staggered and fell back onto the table, crushing the model of the fort.
Firûsha lowered her arm, but it was still pointing in his direction. She had hit her target. ‘If you want the pack to obey take out the one with the loudest voice,’ she said sweetly, but with an undertone of steel. She pulled the next disc out of its fixture and hurled it at the woman who had spoken out of turn and spat at her brother’s boots.
The sharp edge of the disc sliced through the woman’s unprotected throat; the vocal cords were severed, so that no protest sounded.
I wouldn’t have wanted to wait here any longer. The smell is intolerable. Tirîgon and Sisaroth had already drawn their super-length swords and were advancing on the officers.
No hesitating. No holding back. Tirîgon selected his victims from those on his right. It was vital not a single one escaped alive. If the alarm were sounded the whole enterprise would founder; they had to be quick and they had to be thorough.
He decapitated two barbarians before they had even had a chance to put down their wine goblets. The drink ran out of their sliced open gullets instead of down into their stomachs.
Tirîgon took a run and jumped over his victims and grabbed hold of a tent pole with his left hand. The momentum let him swing round with his sword arm outstretched. A single blade thus felled a good dozen of the barbarians.
Four others launched themselves at him but his weapon brought death to all four; the blade of his sword cut through chainmail, knives and armour like a knife through warm butter. All praise to our groundling for his work at the anvil. On his third revolution of the tent pole Tirîgon landed in a crouch in front of one of the women trying to get out of the tent. Hacking at her ankles to bring her down, he cut off her head before she could scream.
Balodil had freed himself from the confines of the sack and was thrashing around with his sword Bloodthirster in his hands. It was a bravura performance. The men were taken by surprise; they had only been concentrating on fending off the triplet siblings. Even the guards on watch at the door, storming in to see what was happening, had been swiftly dealt with.
So far no alarm had been sounded. The men were being killed at lightning speed and without a sound, apart from the dull thuds when bodies, limbs or heads fell to the floor. The odd chair got broken, but not a single voice had been raised.
Tirîgon saw that his siblings were having the same success as he was. Oh, but there’s another one over there.
A woman who had been playing dead was crawling round behind Firûsha and making her way to the wall of the tent. She had a deep wound in her chest and was therefore unable to cry out.
Isn’t that the bitch with the loud mouth? Tirîgon rushed over.
He saw he had been wrong. They really all looked the same to him. ‘Do just wait a second,’ he said. ‘I want to give you something to take with you.’
She rolled over and tried to injure him with her short-handled axe.
Let’s see what happens. Tirîgon put his trust in the armour Balodil had made.
The impact was painful but not dangerous. The sharp edge bounced off the leg protector, leaving only a small dent.
‘Do you get it now? You mocked and disrespected us.’ He raised his sword, ready to strike, all the while fixing his gaze on her terror-filled eyes. I don’t want to miss seeing how her eyes change as she dies. ‘It’s just as my brother said: nothing but a tentful of complete fools.’
The weapon cut through the rusty chainmail, splitting some of the metal rings, and then it sank into the barbarian’s belly. She died instantly and her head slumped to one side.
That was too quick. ‘Shame. I didn’t see her soul depart!’ Tirîgon was cross with himself. He looked round. ‘Are there any left for me?’
Balodil was standing over the unconscious figure of one of the guards. ‘Forget it, friend. This is the only one whose heart is still beating. We have to keep it that way. He didn’t see me killing anyone so he’s my expert witness for the role I’ll be playing when you’ve all gone.’
‘Are you sure they’ll believe you?’ Tirîgon asked. He looked at his brother and sister in their regal black armour towering over their victims like death-bringing deities. What a picture this would make. Where’s Carmondai when you need him?
‘I took lessons from the best actor of his time. His name is . . . was . . . was it Rodario?’ Balodil was having trouble remembering. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll have no difficulty convincing the army. As we heard: they’re being paid for what they’re doing.’ He cut the leader’s head off his shoulders. ‘Right. Get moving. You’ve got to take off all the heads and deliver them to Shucto. He’ll be waiting for his proof. Then it’s off to the waterfall and away you go back up to the surface.’
‘Forty heads.’ Firûsha was thinking. ‘That’s an awful lot. Any idea how we’re going to get them all past the guards?’
Tirîgon noticed the sack in which they had concealed the groundling.
‘I think I know,’ he said cheerfully.
Chapter V
Name three things
that can trounce death.
Art
Song
and Fame
but forget about Love.
Relish it.
Enjoy it.
But be sure of this much:
it will pass and must die
like an opening flower captured in ice.
from the epic poem Young Gods
composed by Carmondai, master of word and image
Phondrasôn.
‘Nearly done.’ Firûsha was spying through the gap she had cut in the canvas tent wall and she was following the flight of the last packet as it swept upwards.
She admired her brother�
�s ingenuity. Tirîgon had simply marched out of the marquee and used Korhnoj’s name to commandeer a number of the floating airborne lamps and a supply of the thin skins to use in an experiment. He told the quartermaster the idea was to use them to set fire to the fort if necessary.
The items he ordered were brought promptly and were quickly dispatched again in secret: each thin leather skin wrapped around the severed head of an officer and carried off by balloons.
Firûsha had watched them climb on the breeze and head towards the spit of rock where Shucto was waiting. Tirîgon had worked out in advance that this was where the prevailing air current would drive them. As they caught on the sharp stones of the cliff, the balloons shredded and burned up, dropping their grisly cargo of trophies.
All Shucto has to do is pick them up. The last of the bags reached its destination. ‘You can set off now,’ Firûsha told them. ‘Lead our people to Tark Draan.’ She embraced her brothers. ‘And don’t you dare take the lives of my lute-player and his little turtledove. They are mine.’
Tirîgon laughed. ‘We won’t. We promise.’
‘We’ll mark the path you have to take to reach the waterfall, but don’t forget to clean up after you. We don’t want anyone following you,’ said Sisaroth, trying to conceal the anxiety he felt. ‘You really want to do this on your own?’
Firûsha nodded. I have to prove to myself that there’s more to me than just a singing voice. She looked down at Balodil. ‘The two of us are going to re-write the history of Phondrasôn.’
He grinned up at her. ‘I am ready.’ He bade the brothers farewell with a firm handshake. ‘We shall meet again. In Tark Draan. Woe betide you if you are not in charge of the whole region by then, my conquering heroes! I’ll bring my own army to test you out.’
The two älfar laughed, pretending their friendship was genuine. Firûsha was quite taken with their performance. I would never be able to hide my feelings of distaste as convincingly as Sisaroth and Tirîgon are doing.
