by Markus Heitz
Tungdil surveyed the harvested fields, roads and streets running between the cities. There did not appear to be any villages to speak of, but a few extensive farmsteads here and there. Small forest areas ensured a green panorama.
“Where is the acronta army?” asked one of the guides.
“I don’t know. Perhaps they’re taking the mountain route and looking out for more monsters.”
In the far distance Tungdil could make out a silvery shimmer. That must be the sea. Sirka had told him about it: an endless expanse of water with storm winds and waves high enough to make ships and whole islands disappear without trace.
“Our first destination is Letèfora,” said the ubari. “From there the road leads straight through monster territory toward the Black Abyss.”
“Why not use the paths you showed me back there? If we march up with all these troops the monsters might be alerted to the fact the artifact is not working.”
The ubari shook his head and patted the neck of his mount. “The paths are dangerous. You can easily get lost—worse than the roads we took—and then you won’t ever find the way out. The ubariu once lost a complete army. So did we. The ones who survived somehow were lucky enough to find their way back with tales of rocks that came alive, evil vapors and the most ghastly creatures that lay in wait for them. That’s why we took the other route. Nobody but the acronta dare go that way.” He grinned. “The monsters whose land we’ll go through are much too cowardly to stand up to us. Nobody challenges an army of one hundred thousand.” He dismounted. “We’ll wait here.” He sent two of his men back to inform Flagur and to guide them through the labyrinth.
“Where is the hidden road to Girdlegard?” Tungdil asked, sitting down on the ground, while the scout started laying a fire. He could not take his eyes off the city. He had noticed high masts with ropes spanned between them carrying cages above the streets. The wind, he fancied, was bringing him new sounds and smells.
“You’d have to go back half a star course toward the west, just short of the monsters’ land. The entrance is easy to miss in spite of the bastion we and the ubariu have erected. We don’t want it looking too obvious, otherwise there’d be even more of the beasts turning up.”
Tungdil was as excited as a small child, looking forward to the orbits he would be spending here with Sirka. Not for a moment did he regret having turned his back on Girdlegard. Forever, it seemed.
“What are those cages?” he asked.
The scout blew into the fire again to bring the flames to life. Blue and green flickered up. “Must be the wood,” he surmised, seeing the dwarf’s surprise. “I’ve seen yellow and red fire too.” Then he nodded over at the masts. “That’s how we get around. We’ve got these platforms in Letèfora and the transport’s really easy going in straight lines. Saves a lot of time you’d waste going on foot, specially when the roads are crowded. You can get about fifty humans in one of those cages—less if it’s us, of course. And acronta prefer to walk.”
Tungdil had spotted a bridge of titanic proportions running directly to Letèfora from the mountains in the southwest. “That connects with the mines, does it?”
The scout grinned. “Only a dwarf would ask about mines. No, it’s a water channel supplying the city. There are distribution points in the city itself taking the water in pipes to the various districts.”
“And how…?”
The ubari lifted a hand. “Tungdil, let me see to my mount. Then we can talk some more. But I’m sure Flagur and Sirka will want to explain the delights of Letèfora to you.” He stood up to see to the wants of his befún.
Tungdil went over to his pony, lifted off its saddle and led it to where it could graze. Then he took out paper, inkwell and a quill pen and began to make a drawing of the strange town.
The Outer Lands,
City of Letèfora,
Early Autumn, 6241st Solar Cycle
Tungdil was only to have this one short fascinating insight into life in Letèfora for now.
Flagur took him and his friends into town to introduce him to the ruler, who watched over the fate of his subjects from his residence in the most impressive of the buildings.
As the group rode along the broad street the gates were opened for them promptly when the sentries recognized Flagur’s standard.
The inhabitants bowed, clapped spontaneously or called out. Not understanding the words, Tungdil nevertheless assumed they were being congratulated and welcomed.
The exterior walls of the local houses were covered with a clay layer bearing ornate decorations executed by skillful artisans. Some of the houses were colorfully painted while others were duller in hue but striking because of the use of tiles and ceramic ware; there seemed to be a liking for rounded archways and window frames.
Buildings here were on a par with the standard set by his own kin, but differed from the type of houses favored by humans. Oval and round shapes were popular: many took the form of globes set half in the earth, a style not seen in Girdlegard.
Details were picked out in colored glass; mosaics showed ornamental shapes or hunting and battle scenes. On some facades there were candid depictions of the physical act of union, such as would have made Girdlegarders blush.
“Very nice indeed,” Rodario commented, trying to get a better view.
“So you still have something to learn, Fabuloso?” Ireheart laughed. He pretended not to mind this civic lack of prudishness, but he avoided looking too closely. It was not fitting.
“Of course. There are always new ideas.” Rodario smiled in greeting at some of the women passing by and when they inclined their heads in response he had a generous view into their décolleté. “It’s even better to learn from a mistress of the art, of course.” He smiled at the warrior. “You know what I mean, don’t you? You favor a swift stroke, I believe.”
“Keep your smutty ideas well away from my relationship,” Ireheart warned him without a trace of humor. “I won’t have you dragging things down to your level.” His fists were clenched.
“We’ll discuss it another time, then,” Rodario conceded defeat, but winked at a passing maiden, who immediately averted her eyes.
They approached a square building that tapered off toward the top with wide staircases on each side. Above, the construction had a flattened oval shape which supported four towers.
“I’m used to great buildings, Scholar,” said Ireheart, “but this is more impressive than anything I’ve ever seen.” His eyes wandered over the stone walls. “I can’t decide whether this used to be a mountain or whether they’ve formed it out of enormous blocks of stone. There are no joins to be seen.”
They rode into a hall which was a good hundred paces square. Servants hurried over, humans and ubariu, to take care of the animals, while an undergroundling in a light blue silken dress appeared and bowed before them. Her dark brown hair was long and wavy and her skin nearly black; around her waist she wore a decorative bejeweled chain, fashioned from some unfamiliar metal.
Tungdil and Goda were astonished but tactful, while Ireheart voiced his surprise without inhibition. “By Vraccas, has she burned herself?” he asked, with much sympathy and no volume control.
Flagur laughed outright and Sirka grinned. “No, Boïndil. She will have had black skin from birth. Our people come in all kinds of different colors. Not like you.”
He made a face. “What on earth for? So their enemies can’t see them in the tunnels, perhaps?”
“I can’t tell you what Ubar intended. It’s just the way it is.” Sirka answered.
“You are being rude,” Goda mouthed to her mentor. “Don’t stare.”
“Jolly good thing they don’t understand our language,” said Rodario. “Otherwise you’d have to be apologizing all the time.”
“Why? Just because I’m curious?” Ireheart shouldered his crow’s beak. “It’s difficult to imagine a dwarf wearing that pale blue. Or a deep red.”
“That’s not what I meant when I said different colors.”
Sirka looked to Tungdil for help.
“So what colors did you mean?”
“Wait and see.” Flagur put an end to the conversation. “They’re expecting us.” He exchanged a few words with the undergroundling, then they followed her.
The party strode through rectangular galleries five paces high, climbed steps to a floor where the corridors were semicircular, then moved on to the next level where the walls and ceilings of the walkways had a lozenge shape. Tungdil had to ask Sirka about this.
“The building depicts our belief system, which encompasses underworlds and overworlds. Each of these worlds has a different symbol. We climb up through each of the worlds up to where the ruler of the city is; he was chosen by Ubar and is his representative.”
“So is he a god as well?”
“He is the voice and the hand of Ubar. To ignore or challenge what he says would invite punishment from the hand of the god.”
The undergroundling in the blue silk approached a gate that was five paces by three, fashioned out of polished silver and guarded by two heavily armed acronta. Tungdil, Rodario and Ireheart immediately thought of Djern.
Round the gate was a garland of chiseled runes, and paintings of warriors and fabulous beasts. Tungdil assumed they must be the gods of the upper and lower worlds.
Above them all, larger than life, was the picture of a being that he knew well: broad jaws with rows of protruding needle-sharp incisors and an oversize bony head a bit like a human skull, and covered with a thin layer of unhealthy-looking skin with veins painted in yellow. Instead of a nose there were three large holes.
“Djern! By… the gods,” stammered Tungdil quietly.
Lot-Ionan took the diamond out of the pouch on his belt but even he could not take his eyes off the portrait. “What sort of creature did Andôkai have at her side?”
“We’re there now,” said Flagur, taking a deep breath. “Are you ready to meet the ruler of Letèfora?” He pointed to the picture. “To your eyes he may look like a monster but don’t forget he is the image of our god Ubar. Show respect.” He nodded to the undergroundling and she gave a signal to the acronta guards.
The sentries sprang to life, took hold of the gate’s iron handles placed two paces above floor level, and flung wide the double doors.
Light streamed through the tall room; countless windows, each as high and wide as one of the tall armed guards, permitted the ruler a view over the eastern part of Letèfora in the early morning sunshine.
The chamber walls bore enchanting painted friezes, with inlays of gold, silver and other precious metals adding opulence.
On the regal stool on the throne dais there sat the mightiest acront they had ever seen. Now they knew why the corridors all needed such high ceilings; the monarch must have been a good four paces tall.
He wore neither armor nor helmet but instead a flowing garment of white fabric embroidered in gold and black. The similarity to the details of his portrait in the entrance hall was striking: according to Girdlegard standards a long way from a beauty.
His large violet-colored eyes appraised the visitors. With a deafening crack the wings on his back unfolded, blocking out some of the light. It had been with that very noise that Djern had so terrified the orcs and all other creatures of Tion.
The undergroundling in blue went to stand at the acront’s side. She addressed Flagur.
“He says you are welcome here in Letèfora and he is delighted our mission has had a positive outcome.” Sirka translated for Tungdil and his friends.
“So she can understand him?” Ireheart stroked his black beard, puzzled. “I thought it was supposed to be impossible.”
“She is his consort. She needs to be able to understand him,” Sirka answered simply. “In each generation there is one of us born able to understand an acront and she has been chosen to be his wife and to rule at his side.”
Rodario bent over to the warrior. “How does it feel when you’ve just insulted the mightiest woman in the land, Master Foot in Mouth?”
“I did not insult her, Big Mouth,” Ireheart insisted, quietly, but he was furious. Goda placed her hand restrainingly on his arm. This was not the moment for an argument.
The acront was speaking again and, as his spouse transmitted his words, Sirka translated for the others. “It seems the news of the army’s destruction was false?”
“Who brought that news, Celestial Acront?” asked Flagur.
“It was a stranger, a woman who knew magic. She came to Letèfora some time ago and told us how badly things were going in Girdlegard. She said she had managed to get here with the last of her strength. With the diamond.”
“She showed it to you, Celestial Acront?”
“She did. I gave her an escort to go to the Black Abyss.”
“But that cannot be,” exclaimed Lot-Ionan in agitation, opening his palm and displaying the true diamond. “You have been tricked by a forgery. We have the real stone!”
Rodario took a deep breath. “I have absolutely no idea what is happening but it’s not going to be good.”
Tungdil stepped forward. “Did she give her name, Celestial Acront?”
The acront’s uncanny eyes focused on the dwarf and the creature spoke once more, its voice transfixing Tungdil; the import was transmitted to the consort and then translated by Sirka.
“Yes. She called herself Narmora. Narmora the Forgotten.”
XX
The Outer Lands,
East of the City of Letèfora,
One Mile from the Black Abyss,
Early Autumn, 6241st Solar Cycle
The noise created by twenty thousand swift-moving befúns and the jangling of weapons and armor was enough to send the monsters crawling deeper into their hiding places in the ruins of the old houses. Not one dared emerge.
The acront of Letèfora was not relying purely on the combined strength of ubariu and undergroundlings. With the army he sent war machines as complex as any Furgas had devised. Four armored vehicles, each forty paces long, ten wide and ten high, rolled at the head of the march and four at its rear. Iron plating across wooden frames made them look like hulls of overturned ships.
Catapults in the bellies of the machines were ready to launch flurries of spears and arrows through the slits; placed high up, these afforded a superior range of around three hundred paces and could fire in three hundred and sixty degrees and so cover any part of the battlefield.
These colossi were driven by a simple but efficient system of wind sails. On the upper side there were large rotating towers and sails to catch the wind’s power, which was transmitted by shafts to the driving axle, much as wind power drives a miller’s wheel. The machines labored along on a series of small rollers and could match the speed of a furious dwarf. Not to be sneezed at.
“Impressive, aren’t they?” Rodario said to Tungdil. He, too, had changed mounts and was now riding a befún; they were so much quicker than other animals. “Did you see how quickly the vehicles change direction? The rollers work individually, so they can turn on the spot and even go sideways.”
At the roadside Tungdil noted the corpses of creatures shot in encounters with the first wave of troops. The beasts had learned not to attempt the same thing again. “With just one of those vehicles the orcs could have been cleared out of Girdlegard ages ago.”
Rodario seemed to be studying the wagon but he was preoccupied with what the acront had told them. “It can’t be Narmora. We saw what was left of her. The Star of Judgment burned away all that was älfish in her. She can’t possibly have survived.”
“Magic and love are powerful forces—and not always benign,” Lot-Ionan chimed in, riding at Tungdil’s side. “Don’t forget it was Furgas who located the magic wellspring. In his madness he might have constructed a machine out of her remains, similar to those he made out of the unslayable’s beasts.”
Rodario gave himself a shake. “Narmora turning up again—a dead thing with a mechanical heart made of iron springs and cogs, and only m
oving because of magic in her veins? Furgas could never have done that to her. He loved her too much for that.”
“He loved her so much that he could do it. He did not want to be without her,” contradicted Tungdil. “Let’s hope we can stop her before she destroys the artifact.”
“What terrible vengeance to wreak on Girdlegard. What would be the motive?” asked the magus.
“But it’s exactly what he swore in Porista that he would do,” Tungdil recalled, thinking back to when he had broken the news to Furgas of the deaths of his daughter and his life-partner. The hatred in the magister’s eyes had been greater than any smoldering in a thirdling.
“The Judgment Star cost her all she held dear: her children, her whole life.” Rodario looked at where the ground fell away and no grass grew: only sand and dead earth, as if life itself were afraid to approach what lay below.
The armored vehicles at the head of the column broke formation now, slowing down and fanning out so that the ones from the rear could join them.
Sirka had been listening in silence. Now she heard the fanfare. “We’ll soon be at the Black Abyss. We need to take the diamond up to the front.”
The befúns altered their pace to powerful leaps. Strangely enough, the unpleasant swaying motion was reduced at these high speeds.
A wide bare indentation appeared in the landscape with the chasm at its center. The Black Abyss was a good half-mile in length and a hundred paces wide and looked like a slash cut in the body of the earth, its edges dark and smooth. Steep paths led up on either side.
“Like a gangrenous wound,” commented Ireheart, spitting in disgust. “The beasts are the pus.”
Flagur gestured south to a strange device at the entrance. “That’s the artifact.” He gave a sigh of relief. “It seems to be intact. I had feared the worst.”
