by Markus Heitz
“Vicious starving ogres that wanted to dismember them alive?” Goïmbar wondered.
Balyndar saw the leading figure turn to look up at the battlements and gesticulate imploringly.
“He’s asking us to let them in.” The catapult teams called over to the sentry that they were ready and after a final mechanical click, stillness descended on the fortress.
The torches spluttered quietly, sending the occasional spark to fizzle out in the damp mist.
“And so would I if I were injured and there was help at hand.” Balyndar laid one hand on Keenfire, a weapon whose magical properties had protected him from spells and sorcery in many a battle. He had a heavy burden of responsibility to bear. I am not permitted to open the gates to elves. But I could go out there myself and see what’s what.
The pulley lift could be used to send food and tents and a healer down to help the elves until such time as the High King rescinded his decree. “You don’t want to go out, yourself, do you?” Goïmbar asked intuitively.
Balyndar said nothing.
“Hey, you down there,” he called out. “Who are you and how did this happen?”
One of the elves at the back of the column stumbled and fell. His companions tried in vain to get him back onto his feet. The others staggered onward towards the gate. The small band of newcomers was now a straggling group thirty paces long.
“Let us in, please, dwarves,” begged the elf in front, waving wildly as if afraid they would not see him. “It’s after us. It’s on our heels. By all that’s sacred to Sitalia and Vraccas, I beseech you to let us in. It will tear us to pieces!”
“It?” Balyndar glanced questioningly at Goïmbar.
“We’re under orders from the High King,” he growled. “I shan’t let them in.”
Then we’ll do this my way. The king’s son gave the signal for one of the pulley-driven platforms to be winched up and made ready.
His dwarves responded quickly but the operation would take some time. And it was time, perhaps, that the newcomers were in most need of.
The elf that had waved for attention was by now at the impregnable double gate itself. Not even the smallest insect could have crawled through.
“Can you hear me, Children of the Smith?” he shouted in desperation. “You must let us in. We’re in mortal danger out here. There were a hundred of us and this is all that’s left after …”
“Look!” Balyndar pointed to the wall of fog from which another figure was emerging.
It was quite different from the elves and seemed to be a brawny human warrior, well-protected against attack in an armoured leather tunic. His head was covered by a rune-engraved enclosed copper helmet; on the man’s back there was a short pole bearing a white banner with green symbols.
He lifted and planted his leather-booted feet in a steady rhythm as he strode up to the far end of the column.
“By Vraccas,” Balyndar exclaimed. He saw blood dripping down the warrior’s leather hose and from his arms. The drops splashing on to the flagstones were the colour of dark ink at this distance. “He must be strong if he’s able to pull arms and legs out of their sockets.”
Goïmbar was obsessed with staring at the human warrior. Surely this isn’t the thing that attacked the elves? Using his bare hands? White steam clouds were forming at eye and mouth slits in the helmet. It must be his breath becoming visible in the cold air.
“Watch out!” Balyndar shouted to warn the elves. The group turned round; some were screaming in fear of death as they rushed to the gate.
“I beg you!” The elf sank onto one knee and stretched out both arms. “Open the gates and save us from this creature. It can’t be of this world.”
Balyndar drew Keenfire and waited impatiently for the platform. “Stay calm,” he called out, not knowing what else to tell them.
By this time the martial figure had reached the two elves at the back of the group. The one who had fallen threw a dagger at him but the blade bounced off his leather armour. The silent warrior grabbed the prone elf by the foot with one hand and hurled him up and away to crash headfirst into the precipitous rock face. Balyndar could see by the unnatural position of the elf’s body that the neck was broken.
The other elf attacked the man with his sword, stabbing down at his head, while at the same time he attempted to pierce the man’s throat from underneath with his long knife. Balyndar stared in horror when he saw how the long, steel blade shattered like glass on meeting the copper helmet, which should, by all accounts, have been the softer metal. The knife point slipped past the man’s throat without purchase.
The man reacted by slamming both fists, right and left, against the elf’s head. The elf’s helmet was battered and bent as if it had been made of painted wax. Neither metal nor bone could withstand the force of the assault. Blood and grey matter shot out of mouth, eyes and nose and the originally fine features were transformed into a grotesque caricature.
The carcass fell on to the stone path and the attacker continued on his way, unconcerned and unaffected. It was as if he had killed a couple of bothersome flies.
“Ye gods,” exclaimed Goïmbar.
“Get an official artist. Tell him to copy all the runes he finds.” Balyndar sprang onto the platform that was now waiting to be let down on chains from the nearest of the battlements. “Aim at the warrior with your catapults!” he shouted, giving the signal to let the platform down. Several dwarves joined him on the timber-framed lift and the chains rattled and clanked as they slowly descended.
Spears and bolts were being fired across over their heads. Because of the sheer numbers of projectiles, many broke up on the crag round the Stone Gateway, but just as many rained down on the attacker, who stood there, arms outstretched to take the impact.
The firing tower targeted the warrior and for a few blinks of the eye he disappeared in a cloud of flying metal, splintered wood and broken spear shafts. When the air cleared, Balyndar saw the unknown fighter rouse himself from the salvo of shots and start to march away. Nothing but superficial scratches. No bleeding wounds. And the grazed skin on the man’s upper arms was already healing over.
“This foe has magic powers,” he said to himself while a second wave of arrows and spears was launched overhead. But Balyndar knew what would happen. He won’t be stopped by conventional weapons. He grasped Keenfire. But this should do the trick. “Stay here,” he told the others.
This time the human evaded the hail of projectiles and made off at a run to pursue the elves that had taken to their heels.
Up on the battlements and towers the dwarves watched helpless with horror as elf after elf was brutally butchered, skulls crushed or limbs ripped off or fists punched through their very torsos so that the guts hung out. A red trail formed at the warrior’s heels.
“Open the gate for us!” the elf cried, raising both arms in desperate pleading. But hope had left him. Balyndar could see the tears on his face. “All we want is for you to protect us.”
“Hurry,” the dwarf bellowed at the team operating the lift. He was still too high up to risk jumping. He would have broken his legs.
Then with a jerk the platform came to a halt twenty paces above the ground where the last elf was.
“The chain has slipped off the drum,” Goïmbar called from the other side of the battlement wall.
“Then get us some ropes! But quickly!” Balyndar wrestled with the urge to leap down.
The human warrior had nearly reached the elf; hearing the pounding steps the elf slowly lowered his arms. There was no point now. There was no escaping this opponent.
The elf lifted his head and stared at Balyndar, eyes full of recrimination—and then the bloodied fist smashed his face to pulp. He died with a ghastly sound somewhere between a scream and a death rattle; the body fell to one side, leaving blood from the remains of the head forming a puddle on the threshold to the gate.
The uncanny being turned his visored head towards the lift platform. Fine white steam floated out from
the eye slits. He seemed to be working out how best to reach the dwarves up on the platform.
“Stay where you are,” Balyndar raged, brandishing Keenfire. “I am going to hack you into slices.” The diamonds on the cutting edge sparkled ominously as a ray of sunshine piercing the mist caught them.
The warrior lowered his head as if his curiosity were aroused by the strange weapon; his snorting breath could be heard from under the enclosed helmet.
Balyndar had never seen runes like his before. The Outer Lands were extensive and peopled by many different races, all with writing systems of their own. These symbols seemed to have the power to give the human warrior incredible strength. Demonic strength. It has got to be destroyed.
“Where are those ropes?” The platform shook. The chains they were suspended by juddered and all of a sudden they were jerked down. The dwarves were nearly thrown off balance.
For a few heartbeats the human warrior disappeared from Balyndar’s field of vision, then the lift touched down.
The impact sent the queen’s son tumbling to one side; he dived through under the railing and stepped out onto the bloodstained rock. “Now it is your turn, cursed spawn of Tion!”
When he raised Keenfire and looked around for his target he saw the man disappearing into the wall of fog.
“You coward!” Balyndar yelled, and would have rushed after the man, but for his horrified companions calling him back.
There could be hundreds of bloodthirsty adversaries concealed in the mist, just waiting for a dwarf to approach.
Mother must be told. Perhaps she will be able to interpret the runes. Balyndar stopped and gave his brave troops instructions about retrieving the bodies and loading them on to the lift. The corpse of the elf leader was to be preserved in ice and packed with snow, and then sent to Lesinteïl. Ireheart had expressly forbidden further elves from entering the land but he could not object, surely, to letting in dead bodies.
He stood now at the foot of the mighty gates, hands on the head of his axe Keenfire. He thought he could still hear the echoing footsteps of the dread adversary and could still see the fluttering banner the man had been carrying. Balyndar’s feeling of deep unease would only settle once the new equipment and the newly devised weapons were properly installed on the walls.
It would be sensible to get Coïra to examine this fog. Perhaps the very mist is magic. Balyndar looked at the patches of spattered elf blood and then watched as the elf corpses were loaded, one by one, on to the platform.
The elves, so desperate to enter Girdlegard, would finally get their wish. They would be allowed through. But as corpses to be buried.
Girdlegard
Elf realm of Ti Lesinteïl, formerly älfar Dsôn Bhará
6492nd solar cycle, summer
The band of dwarves made every effort to move swiftly and silently through the woods, but apart from the strange Carâhnios, it was as if they had some inner urge to be heard and confronted. Their steps cracked twigs and branches underfoot, crunched dry leaves, and dislodged pebbles.
“Are you sure you know the way to Bhará?” Beligata was amazed the elves had not yet noticed their presence.
Carâhnios gave an insane-sounding cackle. “I know every hidey-hole the älfar used. How could I miss their crater?” He pointed up to the sun peeking through the foliage. “Keep heading west. By sundown we’ll get to the edge of the älfar Triplets’ city. The elves have smoothed over the crater and planted trees as high as these ones here. A little miracle they put together with the maga’s help.” He turned down a path on the right used by woodland creatures—and was lost to sight.
“Not again.” Belogar groaned. “Does he have to keep doing that?”
“He’s obsessed with playing games.” Gosalyn was walking directly behind him and gave him a push. “Now be quiet, you, or the pointy-ears will hear us.”
“They’ll certainly hear you. Your voice could cut diamonds,” he hissed, grinning.
Beligata glanced at Hargorin, who was making steady and silent progress along the narrow path. They all looked to him as their leader, while Carâhnios was merely a necessary evil. They could not deny the zhadár’s presence might prove useful.
But could his story be trusted? Beligata caught up with Hargorin. “Tell me, do you believe what Carâhnios is telling us?”
“The fairy tale about the älf and the dwarves he says were shot and killed?” Red-haired Hargorin shook his helmeted head. “I don’t believe anything he says. He was bonkers even before his transformation. But the stuff he’s taking now to boost his älfar abilities is making him much worse.” His expression was one of deep concern. “Not even the älfar Triplets had that dark aura he has. And they were the most evil thing I could imagine.”
“But älfar are born with the ability to put out fire, to cast darkness and to paralyse any creature’s heart with fear.”
“True.” Hargorin nodded. “But they don’t have the permanent shroud of dark he has. Carâhnios must have distilled some potion from their blood that gives him even greater power.” He looked worried. “We need to get the maga to check him out.” He cleared his throat and went on in a lower tone. “It would be best for Girdlegard if he were never to return from Phondrasôn. If he completely loses it and the last shred of reason goes, he’ll be a danger that only magic could control.”
“But if Coïra’s not around?”
Hargorin did not answer.
“I’m with you,” said Beligata. “It’s up to you to say when we action your plan.”
Hargorin nodded.
She returned to her usual place in the column. It was some time before she noticed that Carâhnios was walking right next to her, imitating her gait. He’s like a shadow! “Do you know what, pretty scar-face dwarf?” he whispered. “You’d be just my kind of girl. Our children, and we’d have lots of them, would rule the whole of Girdlegard.”
“Yeah, right,” she said, playing down her disquiet. I wonder if he heard what Hargorin and I were saying?
But he did not accept the brush-off and inched even closer. “I know all about scars like yours,” he whispered. “What do you tell people when they ask? An accident with paint and a knife? A tattoo that went wrong?” He sneered. “Hasn’t anyone guessed yet?”
“No one is interested,” Beligata responded, uneasiness turning to anxiety. “And keep your weird ideas to yourself.”
Carâhnios lost his frivolous artificial gaiety.
“Is that a threat?” he asked. “Or are you making me an offer?” He let his eyes sweep over her figure. “I imagine our offspring would be splendid. They’d have tremendous powers,” he enthused, clapping his hands. “The two of us, my pretty scar-dwarf, will be getting to know each other very well, I think.” He jogged off to return to the front of the column.
For Beligata, it was now obvious that Carâhnios could not be allowed to survive the mission. His crazy theories aside, he might try to force himself on her and though she would fight him, she feared his strength was far superior to her own. How does one kill a zhadár who’s gone mad?
“Riders ahead,” warned Hargorin, before diving into the undergrowth. “Let them pass and then pray to Vraccas they don’t see our tracks.”
The dwarves hid as best they could in the brambles. Beligata held her breath as the sound grew louder. A white stallion went past so swiftly that it had the air of a ghost. The hooves threw up clumps of mud that spattered the roof of her leafy hiding place. Then the sound of hoofbeats died away.
The dwarves emerged from the thicket, relieved not to have been discovered.
“There was only one of them.” Carâhnios was pensive as he studied the marks. “He was in quite a hurry. A courier, perhaps. Good we escaped notice.”
“You did not escape notice,” came a refined and melodious male voice from overhead. “And I am not a courier.”
Beligata and the others looked up and saw an elf in white armour standing on a sturdy branch. His expression was livid with anger and surp
rise.
“What are dwarves doing here in Lesinteïl trying to evade our eyes? And from a variety of tribes, I see. If this is a diplomatic mission, it’s an odd way to behave, you’ll agree.” He addressed Carâhnios. “There are no älfar here to hunt. What are you after, zhadár?”
Beligata noticed that the elf was sweat-drenched and that he had bits of leaves clinging to his armour. He must have careered through the woods with no thought to his own safety. Since he had been surprised to find them it was unlikely his mission had concerned their arrival. What message is he carrying, then?
“It’s Phenîlas,” whispered Gosalyn. “We came across him in the abandoned settlement. In the Grey Mountains. He doesn’t seem to recognise us.”
“What an arrogant pointy-ears. We all look alike to him. Shall I knock him off his perch?” muttered Belogar, whereupon the elf gave a scornful, ringing laugh.
“I want to do it now more than ever,” the dwarf grunted.
Hargorin approached the elf’s tree. “We were pursuing a wild animal,” he claimed boldly. Beligata was amused to hear him describe in detail the creature Ireheart had killed. “We managed to prevent it attacking a lone farmstead but we were keen to finish the job.”
“We were hiding,” Beligata chipped in, “because we were afraid your people would send us away.”
“I want to get my hunting trophy,” Belogar added, to round off the lie. “I apologise for wanting to throw you off your branch. I would only have chucked a piece of wood at you. Quite a small one. Just enough to knock you out. We wouldn’t have wanted your fragile skull to crack, lest your brains run out like yolk from an egg …”
Gosalyn elbowed him into silence.
The light-haired elf jumped nimbly down from his tree. He gave a whistle and his horse whinnied in answer and trotted up.
“Then forgive me for assuming you were plotting something bad.” He sketched a bow. “My name is Phenîlas. My warriors and I have been hunting the very same beast.” He looked over at Gosalyn. “And of course I recognised you both,” he said with a friendly smile. “Our last encounter did not end amicably, did it?” He pointed at Belogar. “Look at him. He wanted to topple me from that branch.” He laughed.
