by Markus Heitz
She had half expected her improvised formula to end in disaster, but the armor looked fine. Vraccas and Samusin be praised!
Bowing to acknowledge her skill, Djern picked up his weapons, returned them to their sheaths, and marched to the door, his armor gleaming darkly in the flickering light from the many hearths.
Satisfied with her efforts, but relieved that the job was done, Balyndis wiped the perspiration from her face and noticed that her arms felt like lead. The constant hammering had sapped her strength.
I’ll drink a tankard to a job well done, she decided. She left the forge without getting changed and headed to the tavern to celebrate with a tankard of good, strong beer before bed.
Congregated around the bar were some smiths and a few masons, whose hair, beards, and garments were covered in powdered stone. They clinked tankards with Balyndis and congratulated her on Djern’s new armor.
“Have you heard?” asked one of them excitedly. “We’ve repaired the Stone Gateway. The doors are locked and bolted again.”
“That’s fabulous news!” she said, joining in the general jubilation. “You must have been busy while I was in the forge.” She shook the mason’s hand enthusiastically, raising clouds of dust. “No more orcs, bögnilim, or other invaders. To think that the northern border is secure.” Her heart swelled with pride at the thought that northern Girdlegard was safe because of the dwarves. “To the children of the Smith,” she cried, raising her tankard. “To the children of the Smith!” replied the others. They raised their tankards, and a few moments later, one of the dwarves burst into song.
“The bad times are over,” murmured Balyndis happily, taking another long sip and wiping the foam from her lip. “The Northern Pass is sealed, the dwarves stand united, and we’ve found some new friends.” She raised her tankard again, this time nodding at a pale dwarf who was celebrating with the group. “How do you like it here?”
“For the most part, very well. I wonder what Tungdil will make of our realm. I think it’s harder for a freeling to adapt to the rules than the other way round.”
“Oh,” said Balyndis, instantly deflated. She wondered whether Tungdil’s decision to leave the kingdom had anything to do with her. I should really speak to him. “So Tungdil was serious about visiting the freelings? When does he go?”
“He left four orbits ago,” said one of the masons. “He and the twins set off for Trovegold as soon as the Stone Gateway was secure.”
Balyndis was shocked that he had left without saying goodbye. Is he punishing me for accepting Glaïmbar? She had an unpleasant thought. “Was the freeling doctor with him?”
The mason nodded.
Of course she was.
The others stared in surprise as she emptied her tankard and left without a word.
Wind Chime Island,
Kingdom of Weyurn,
Girdlegard,
Late Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
It didn’t take long for the carriage to convey its unusual passengers to Gastinga.
They broke their journey only once, and that was to make way for a battalion heading west. Under Andôkai’s interrogation, the commander told them proudly that he and his men were on a royal mission to investigate a possible threat to the kingdom from the Outer Lands. The maga wished them luck and waved them on their way.
“None of them will make it back,” she predicted as the battalion marched past. A few of the men turned their heads and peered into the carriage. “They won’t know the territory, and they’re trained to fight on water,” she said, drawing the curtains. “They’ll never survive a battle on land.” She knocked on the roof of the carriage to tell the coachman to drive on.
As the road bore to the left, Gastinga emerged through a gray haze of rain.
A collection of tiny houses with clapboard roofs cowered against the ground, sheltering from the swirling winds. Lush green grass surrounded the buildings, and a few boys were watching over a little herd of white cows. Neither the children nor the animals seemed to mind the rain.
So much for it being warmer here. Narmora checked to make sure that her daughter was properly swaddled in her bassinet. Dorsa seemed to like the movement of the carriage—at any rate, she was fast asleep.
Following the guide’s instructions, the coachman drew up outside a house and the guide jumped out to fetch the village mayor. The poor fellow was dragged away from his midday meal and marched through the rain to the carriage, where he waited by the window, his flat shoes sinking into the waterlogged grass.
Andôkai seldom bothered with salutations and social niceties when dealing with the lower ranks. “We’re looking for relatives of settlers who arrived here seventy cycles ago,” she said without preamble. “Where can we find them?”
“At least have the decency to introduce yourself,” said the poor man, trying belatedly to exert some authority. “What do you want with them?”
The maga stared at him scornfully. “My name and my business needn’t concern you; suffice to say, I’m more important than a mayor. I assume from your reaction that the family is known to you. Kindly tell me where they are.” She locked gazes with the man until he looked away. “Is there a reason why we can’t see them?”
“No,” he replied, raising his arm and pointing down the road. “It’s the last house on the left.” He hunched his shoulders and hurried back inside.
Narmora noticed his wife and children peering at them through the window, noses pressed to the crown glass pane. They had probably never seen a carriage of any description in their lives.
With a crack of the whip, the coachman drove away. The wheels of the carriage were still turning when Andôkai jumped out, followed closely by Narmora. The maga hammered on the door until a man of some fifty cycles opened up. His surprise and displeasure changed to undisguised hostility as he studied the women in silence, waiting for them to speak.
“Are you going to let us in?” demanded the maga. It was an order, not a request.
“What for?” he growled. “Your carriage is twice as big as my house.” He looked them up and down, trying to guess the reason for their call. “What do you want?” he asked in a heavy dialect.
“We’d like to talk to you, if we may,” said Narmora politely. “It’s raining out here, and our cloaks are getting wet.”
“In that case you’d better talk quickly,” snapped the man.
“Listen to me, peasant,” said Andôkai, her temper fraying. “We’re here to protect Girdlegard from a threat from the Outer Lands.” She glowered at him murderously. “If you know what’s good for your wife and children, you’ll let us in without delay.”
A woman’s voice sounded from inside the house, and the man, swearing sullenly, stepped aside to let them pass.
They found themselves in a cottage barely bigger than a hut. The walls were black with soot, and seven children were cramped into the tiny room, the youngest barely half a cycle old; the eldest had seen eight cycles at most.
Sitting at the table was their mother, dressed in a coarse linen tunic and a woolen jacket. She looked nervously at the strangers whose cloaks alone were worth more than her house.
Tallow candles permeated the room with a smell of burning fat. The children slept in bunks stacked in a corner of the room, and a ladder led up to an alcove, separated from the main room by a curtain, which was all the privacy that the parents could afford.
To Narmora’s surprise, the heap of blankets on one of the lower bunks rolled over and coughed. On closer inspection, it turned out to be a wrinkly old woman whose shriveled body was barely visible among the sheets.
“Thank you for letting us in,” said Narmora, nodding kindly at the wife, a woman of forty cycles or so. “Are you descended from the travelers who arrived here from the Outer Lands?”
The woman looked questioningly at her husband, who was standing, arms folded in front of his chest, by the door. He shrugged and turned away.
“I don’t understand, madam,” said the woman to Narmo
ra. “We’re honored by your visit, to be sure, but…” A worried look crossed her face. “It’s not bad news, is it? You’re not going to make us leave Weyurn…” She got up, cradling the baby in her arms. “I know we haven’t made much of the land here, but the soil isn’t right for farming. My husband is a good man, but the fields are like bogs—”
“It’s all right, woman,” Andôkai said sharply. “We’re here to find out about your homeland, not to drive you off your land.” She pulled up a stool and sat down, using her cloak as a cushion. “What are people in the Outer Lands afraid of? Evil spirits? Ferocious beasts? The dark power of an evil magus?”
“My homeland?” The woman gave the baby to her husband and sat down, visibly relieved.
Narmora produced four gold coins from her purse and laid them in the woman’s chapped hands. “Here, take these,” she said gently. “Don’t feel obliged to earn the money by embroidering your tale. We’re interested in the truth.”
The woman stared at the shiny gold coins. “So much?” she said uncertainly. “We could live on these for a cycle. Nothing I can tell you is worth that much.”
Her husband strode over and pocketed the coins. “Who are we to refuse their generosity? The money was weighing on her purse.”
“Is your husband from the Outer Lands as well?” enquired Narmora.
The woman shook her head. “He’s from Weyurn. Aspila is my name. My mother was just a girl when she crossed the Red Range. Her mother left the Outer Lands because of the war.”
The maga cleared her throat. “Let’s not get distracted,” she said tersely. “Did your mother tell you legends about terrifying creatures? Maybe she told you a story about a creature so terrible that no one believes it exists…”
Alarmed by the maga’s harsh manner, Aspila turned to Narmora. “The war was started by the amsha,” she said, resuming her story. “No one knows where they came from. Before anyone knew it, they were massed at the border, and the kingdom was at war. The king and his army could do nothing to stop them, so my grandmother took her daughter and fled. The amsha killed my grandfather and his three brothers, and my grandmother was all alone. She and my mother settled in Weyurn.” She paused and frowned. “Can you think of another word for amsha?” she asked her husband. “Amsha is what they call them over there.”
“What does it matter?” said Andôkai impatiently. “Since you’re intent on telling me about a war that doesn’t interest me in the slightest, I may as well ask her.” She turned to the woman on the bunk. “Are you her mother?”
Aspila looked confused. “But the amsha are a threat. They’re gods—powerful gods. Before the invasion, people thought they were a myth, a scary story to make their children behave. Then they found out they were real.”
At last she had the maga’s attention.
“Why didn’t you say so?” snapped Andôkai. “Start from the beginning. What exactly are the amsha?”
Aspila wrung her hands awkwardly, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t know what they’re called.” She looked to the ceiling as if the answer were hanging from the rafters beside the mangy leg of ham.
Narmora smiled and endeavored to compensate for the maga’s harshness. Samusin must be proud of me today. “Why don’t you tell us the rest of the story?” she suggested. “We might be able to work it out.”
The woman nodded and began her tale.
In the beginning, the deities created themselves, each more magnificent, splendid, and courageous than the next. Before long, two of their number, Tion and Vraccas, or Kofos and Essgar in the language of my mother, got into an argument about which of the deities was the best.
Kofos insulted Essgar and provoked his wrath. The god of the smithy left his forge and struck the arrogant Kofos with a red-hot hammer. Ten times he hit him, and ten times a piece of the deity fell to the ground and came to life in the form of a god. The amsha—ten living fragments of the dark lord Kofos—were born.
After the tenth blow, Kofos lay stricken on the ground, and Essgar heeded his pleas for mercy.
When Kofos picked himself up, he was surprised to see ten miniature versions of himself flocking around his feet. The bold little fellows demanded to be eaten, insisting that they belonged together as one.
Kofos had no intention of obliging. Laughing scornfully, he raised his boot to crush them. The amsha took flight and swore to avenge themselves on Kofos and his creation.
The ten gods stuck together and devoted themselves to their goal, namely the destruction of Kofos’s work.
That was the start of the amsha’s campaign.
Intent on punishing Kofos, they hunted the creatures known as orcs, wiped out trolls and ogres, and slaughtered the beasts that Kofos had created to torment our people. Their strength increased by the orbit as they harnessed the power of the beasts they destroyed.
In time, they gathered a following of warriors who saw them as gods of peace. Only the amsha’s disciples were spared the fire of their wrath.
Aspila broke off her story to fetch some water.
Narmora breathed out in relief. “Orc-killing, Tion-hating gods aren’t much of a threat to our kingdoms. Prince Mallen would welcome them with open arms.”
“There’s more to the story, madam,” said Aspila. “The amsha are still on a quest to wipe out evil. They were chipped from the body of a god by a red-hot hammer, and fire is their element. The heat they exude is so ferocious that the ground burns beneath their feet. Sometimes they stop for a while, and everything around them turns to ash. I’ve heard of lakes and rivers drying up as they pass. Everyone is afraid of them. When they invaded, the king summoned the best magicians, the purest creatures, the most honorable men and blameless women. He thought that if he gathered a band of beings who were free from evil he could keep the amsha at bay.”
“Did it work?”
Aspila shook her head. “I don’t know, madam. My grandmother left before the amsha reached her village.”
Narmora remembered the comet that had passed over Girdlegard and enquired whether Aspila knew of a similar incident.
“Oh yes,” said a quavery voice.
To the visitors’ astonishment, the old woman sat up in bed and looked at them with lively eyes.
“Kofos was struck eleven times, not ten. The last blow was so powerful that the eleventh amsha was catapulted into the firmament and shot through the skies like a ball of fire. My mother used to say that the missing amsha would come back to find his brothers, and the eleven deities would light up the skies with their wrath.”
Andôkai placed her fingertips together. The old woman’s story fitted with the firstlings’ reports of a blazing fire in the west. She glanced at Narmora, who was thinking the same. “Thank you,” she said, feigning disappointment. “You tell a good story—not exactly what we were looking for, but you’ve earned the coins.” She got up and left.
“May the gods be with you,” said Narmora, taking another coin from her purse and pressing it into Aspila’s hand. “Don’t neglect your farm—the money won’t last forever.”
She ran the few paces to the carriage and slammed the door behind her to keep out the rain. The coachmen drove off before she had time to sit down.
Andôkai was staring through the rain-streaked glass. Narmora could tell that she was worried. In spite of what she had said to Aspila, the story of the amsha was exactly what they were looking for: It proved that Nôd’onn’s warnings were real.
Perhaps we were wrong to kill him, thought Narmora uneasily. She stroked her sleeping daughter’s cheeks. The rulers of Girdlegard would never have agreed to a truce, she reasoned. The magus betrayed them and caused the deaths of thousands of dwarves, elves, and men. A terrible thought occurred to her. Our purest creatures have all been killed. Bands of marauding orcs had slaughtered the last remaining unicorns in the woods of Mifurdania. No other creature in Girdlegard was as good or pure.
“Avatars.” Andôkai’s plait unfurled from her hood and draped itself over her
shoulder as she pressed her head against the window. “If there’s any truth in the legend, the amsha are avatars—manifestations of the divine in earthly form, which is to say, god-like beings that can’t be destroyed by ordinary weapons.” She looked at Narmora. “You know what that means, don’t you?”
“From now on, I’ll have to study twice as hard,” she said gravely. Her thoughts turned to little Dorsa. I want you to have a proper homeland, not a barren desert of soot and ash. “Should we tell the rulers of the other kingdoms?” she asked, keeping her eyes on her daughter’s face.
Andôkai was struck by her famula’s reluctance to meet her gaze, but she decided not to pry. “It’s for the best. I’ll call a meeting of all the leaders of Girdlegard when Djern returns from the Outer Lands. The news is too important to be communicated by letter. The kings and queens of Girdlegard will discuss the matter in Porista. Perhaps by then Queen Wey will have tidings of her warriors.” She turned to Rosild and looked at her menacingly. “Not a word of this to anyone, or you’ll never suckle another child. The people of Girdlegard will learn of the threat from their leaders, not from an idle-tongued girl. No one will hear about the avatars until I’ve found a means of combating the threat.”
Rosild paled and nodded hastily, swearing in the name of Palandiell not to breathe a word of what she knew.
“Good,” declared Andôkai. “Let’s make haste to Porista. Narmora, you and I have work to do.”
“Of course,” said the half älf vaguely, still gazing at her child. She was thinking about how the maga had unwittingly earned herself a reprieve: The avatars had to be defeated before Furgas’s suffering could be avenged. She turned to the maga and smiled.
Rodario’s former leading lady was still a consummate actress.
PART TWO
I
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Late Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
Do you think you’ll regret your decision?” asked Myr, looking determinedly ahead. As she walked, she slathered her fair skin with bluish ointment from a little pot to keep off the sun.
