by Markus Heitz
Cobert threw his ax down onto the snow, heading straight for the trees. “I want to see what she looks like if she sings like that,” he called, running off.
“Stay where you are!” his father ordered, leaping down from the sledge. “There’s work to do.” But he understood his son all too well. “Wait!” he called, pursuing his elder son as he disappeared among the trees. It was good that he had an excuse now to follow the song without having to face his wife’s disapproval. “Ortram, you stay here. I’m going to get your brother.”
He could see Cobert’s patchwork coat flitting between the tree trunks in the distance. As if possessed, the boy forged onwards, drawing his father ever deeper into the forest after him. Soon the woodsman was perspiring under his heavy coat.
The shadows were darker here and it seemed the sun was becoming fainter the further he got from home. Hindrek grew uneasy.
“Cobert!” he called. “Don’t go any further!” The father stopped, leaning on a Palandiell pine to get his breath back. “Something’s not right. It must be the spirits of the forest playing tricks on us. Can’t you hear me?” He listened hard.
There were those tones again.
All his cautiousness melted at the sound of that glass-clear singing voice. He knew only the desire to see the face of the singer. To admire her and hear her song. She must sing for him alone. No one else must have this pleasure!
Raging jealousy flamed up in his heart and, without realizing it, he pulled out his hunting knife. The heavy blade threw off a faint gleam.
Hindrek followed the melody; it was coming from close by now.
His swift steps turned into a run, a driven stumbling race forward, not stopping at any obstacle. The forester wanted to see the woman whose voice gave him such ecstasy of delights.
He fought his way through thickets, through snow, past banks of tearing thorns, over fallen trees, feeling no pain, his mouth set in a beatific smile, his eyes glinting feverishly. On, ever onward!
Then he stopped in his tracks, finding himself unexpectedly two paces away from his elder son. Bareheaded, Cobert was kneeling at the feet of a woman dressed in a black mantle decorated with silver thread. A song was issuing from her lips and the boy was listening spellbound. She had placed her right hand on his blond curls, stroking his head as if he were a lover.
Her countenance was full of grace; even the most beautiful woman Hindrek had ever met would have appeared ugly in comparison. In his mind nothing else existed except for this perfect figure. Her long black hair was moving gently in the breeze and framing her lovely face. On her brow a dark diadem made of tionium, silver and gold bore two large sparkling diamonds.
Hindrek felt a red-hot surge of jealousy that even the gentle song could not soften. It should be him there at her feet, not his son! Her delicate fingers should be stroking his head. What did the boy know of love and emotions?
His ill-will grew. When Cobert laid his cheek on the woman’s hand and planted a kiss, Hindrek launched himself at his son’s back with a roar and drove his hunting knife in through the ribs to the heart.
The singing stopped.
“Get away from her!” he screamed, hurling the corpse aside as if it were a sack of grain. “She is mine,” he continued, his voice turning to a whisper. “I heard her first,” and he sank onto his knees in the blood-soaked snow. He dropped his arms and gazed longingly at the silent, smiling woman. He waited for her to touch him as she had touched Cobert. He raised his head and closed his eyes in anticipation. “Please, goddess, sing for me,” he begged.
“What will you do for me, Hindrek?” she asked, reaching out to touch his cheek. “If I am to sing for you there is a price to pay.”
“Anything,” he answered at once through quivering lips. His body was racked with the pain of intense longing to hear those tones again, to hear them constantly until the end of his days. The voice must never stop. She must sing for him alone.
“Go back to your cabin and bring me the heads of your wife and child,” said the beauty seductively. “Then I shall sing for you again.” He opened his eyes and saw her bending over him. Her lips so nearly touched his own. “I shall sing you the song of lust.”
Hindrek jumped up and ran off. He ran back the way he had come, hearing her voice, the sounds of her song, urging him ever faster, giving him untold energy; he raced home like the wind.
It had grown dark. Lamps were burning inside the cabin and smoke rose from the chimney. The horses had been unharnessed and there was a small pile of firewood by the chopping block.
The woodsman marched up to the house gasping for breath; with both hands he pulled the chopper out of the block. It would serve well to sever heads from shoulders. He did not want to make the singer, whose voice he heard in his head, wait any longer. The song of lust—he shivered in anticipation.
The door was pulled open and Ortram, on the threshold, called out in relief, “Mother, he’s back. But where is Cobert?” The boy’s eyes grew wide as he noted the blood on his father’s coat. “What’s happened?”
Qelda appeared in the doorway, looking at her husband in concern. “Hindrek? What’s wrong? Where is the boy?”
The familiar sound of her voice ruined the memory of the woman’s song and the man stood there, his ax half raised. He blinked and saw the faces of his wife and son before him.
“I…” Try as he might he could not explain what had happened. “I was on the sledge…” Hindrek turned to the barn. “There was a voice, a song…” He attempted to hum the melody but in his mouth it sounded awful. “I followed her…”
Horror on her face, Qelda came up to him and gripped the handle of the ax. “Hindrek, where is Cobert? And whose is the blood on your coat?”
Her voice sounded discordant and shrill to his ears, so ugly in comparison with the enchanting singer’s tones. It hurt. His face brightened. “The woman! In the forest… she sang for me.”
“Mama,” wept Ortram, running up and clasping his mother’s waist. “What’s wrong with father?”
Then they heard the strange melody again.
Silkily, it drifted out from the edges of the forest to their ears, taking their minds in thrall.
“Mama, there it is again!” the boy whispered.
“Be quiet!” shouted Hindrek, glaring at the boy in fury. “You sound like a rat squealing!”
His wife retreated in horror, pulling the boy with her. “Get back in the house,” she said quickly, giving her husband a wide berth. There was only one explanation: “Your father is possessed by the forest spirits.”
Hindrek’s features darkened in distaste. “Silence! Stop that terrible screeching!” He lifted the ax, remembering the beauty’s words to him. The promise of the song of lust. The price he had to pay.
Before Qelda could speak, he struck out.
The blade went through her neck; Hindrek was strong enough to sever it completely. The decapitated body fell at his side, the head landing in a snowdrift.
Ortram screamed out and stared at his mother’s corpse, clutching himself, fists clenched, in shock and anger.
Without hesitation Hindrek stormed up to stop the terrible noise that was destroying the beautiful song. Four steps and he was in front of his son, wielding his ax, ready to strike. Soon, any moment now, he would be receiving his reward.
Something hit his right leg and he faltered. The ax blade whizzed harmlessly over the head of his son and the force of the follow-through made Hindrek overbalance. A crossbow bolt stuck out from his knee. He heard the sound of hooves. On the path that led to the village came four riders in brown leather armor and long light-colored surcoats. One of them held a crossbow that had just been fired.
“Get away from the child!” shouted the archer, reloading.
“The song of lust!” croaked Hindrek, using the ax as a crutch. He knew these men, Wislaf, Gerobert, Vlatin and Diederich, henchmen of Duke Pawald. They must have heard that divine singing as well and have come to deprive him of it!
; As soon as he had struggled to his feet he hobbled over to the house where his son had taken refuge. “I want to hear the song of lust!” he raged, one hand on the wall for support while he smashed the ax blade into the door. From inside came the terrified screams of his son.
The riders came thundering up, yelling at the berserk woodsman as he attacked the door. He broke off and turned to them. “You want her for yourselves!” he shouted, his voice harsh. Then he hurled the ax in their direction. “You shall die!”
The ax hit Diederich’s horse. It shied and reared up, throwing its rider into the snow.
“I’ll start with you!” Hindrek drew his long dagger and hopped toward the man lying in the snow—and received another bolt in the chest. With a groan he pulled at the shaft, roughly a third of which still showed. He tipped forward and lay motionless.
Diederich, a man of about forty cycles, got up cursing; he dusted the snow off. “What, by all the hideous powers of Tion, has been happening here?”
Vlatin, the crossbow man, somewhat younger than Diederich, hooked his weapon onto his saddle and slipped down to the ground. Like his companions he sported a short beard. A cap made of sable protected him from the cold. “Loneliness gets to people. It can drive you mad, being isolated like this.” He looked at the woman’s body. “Can’t think of any other explanation for what he’s done.”
Gerobert rode to the back of the cabin. “I’ll have a look round here. Who knows what else we’ll find.”
Diederich, Vlatin and Wislaf—who, at twenty cycles of age, was the youngest of them—went gingerly to the door and kicked it in.
The interior of the cabin was clean and tidy. A pot simmered on the stove, it smelled like rabbit stew, and the table was laid. If it had not been for the dead bodies it was a peaceful enough scene.
Ortram was cowering next to the stove, a red-hot poker in his hand. His face was covered with tears and he was trembling all over.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” said Diederich gently, showing the boy that his hands were empty. “Your father can’t harm you now.”
But Ortram did not budge, wanting to keep his distance.
“There we were, off to buy furs, and we ran into a tragedy like this,” said Wislaf quietly. “The things people do to each other…”
“How hypocritical, even if you do put it so well,” chimed a harmonious voice at the door, its tone mocking. The men whirled round. Vlatin and Diederich drew their swords more out of surprise than fear.
An älf in a black cloak stepped over the threshold. He was so tall he had to duck his head to clear the doorway, and the weapon on his back made him appear taller still.
“We all know what you do to people when you feel like it.” The second voice came from the fireplace behind them, and Wislaf spun round. A second älf, probably twin to the first judging from his face, showed in silhouette against the fire’s glow. It was a mystery how the creature could emerge from flames like that without being scorched.
Diederich and Vlatin kept their swords at the ready. It seemed the new arrivals were trying to block their path.
Wislaf cleared his throat. “What are you doing here? Have you got anything to do with all this?”
“Us? Never. We wanted to pay a visit, that’s all. The poor forester,” said the älf at the door with a friendly smile. His white, even teeth shimmered like an animal’s. “Call me Sisaroth and my brother Tirîgon,” he said by way of an overdue introduction.
Wislaf responded. “We’re Duke Pawald’s men and vassals of the älf Môrslaron, to whom this Gauragar land belongs. You’ll know that name, I’m sure,” he added, in an attempt to ensure their safety. The älfar only respected their own kind, and if these strange siblings understood that he and his colleagues served another älf they would surely be left in peace.
To the men’s relief Sisaroth nodded, without moving away from the door. “I know Môrslaron,” he said, but it did not sound as if he were afraid of him. That, thought Wislaf, was not a good sign.
An älf woman appeared behind Sisaroth, pushing past him into the room. She, too, wore a black mantle; a diadem crowned her black hair, emphasizing her captivating beauty.
“Triplets,” exclaimed Diederich.
“Well spotted,” laughed the female älf. “Wouldn’t it be appropriate to put your weapons away now? We’re all on the same side, after all.”
“Can we assist you?” asked Vlatin purposefully. He only had eyes for her.
The female exchanged glances with her brothers “If you would be so good: We are searching for a letter. Hindrek received it by mistake. When he read it he must have lost his mind. Älfar runes can have a lethal effect on humans sometimes. So I recommend utmost caution; see if you can find it but don’t look at the content.” With a curt gesture she set the men to search the cabin.
The älfar noticed the distraught child squatting by the stove, and approached him on silent feet, the wooden floorboards not even giving a hint of a creak as she walked. It was as though she were a spirit rather than a living creature.
“You poor thing,” she said, ignoring the poker he held, which was cooling rapidly but still giving off heat. She crouched down and touched his forehead. Ortram jerked away and stared at the hand in horror, but did not defend himself; her brothers stood motionless, watching Wislaf and the others as they searched the place.
“Here!” called Diederich, holding up an envelope. “This could be it, do you think?” He took great care not to cast his eyes over the writing.
Sisaroth beckoned him over and waited to be handed the letter. He skimmed the wording and gave Tirîgon a satisfied nod. “Perhaps the boy knows more,” he said, turning to Ortram. “Sister, ask him what else the messenger gave his father.”
The älf woman had not taken her eyes off the boy. “You heard?” she said gently. “What did your father talk about with the man who brought the letter?” Her black eyes poured terror into the boy; it seeped through his soul while she continued to smile graciously.
“About a town,” he stammered, wanting to hit her, to poke out her terrible eyes with his fire-iron, to destroy her charming face and then run away. But he could not move; he was anchored by fear and forced to answer her.
“Tell me more, Ortram,” she enticed, stroking his cheek.
“Topholiton,” he whimpered. He thought he could see the blackness leaving her eye sockets and crawling over to him; dark threads hovered around his face. His breath came faster; he groaned.
“And who is in the town? Did the messenger say?”
The first traces of the black breath had nearly reached his right eye. Iciness radiated from it. “A woman called Mallenia,” he shouted. “She’s waiting there. I don’t know anymore!” Ortram gulped. “Please, I don’t know anything else!”
She ran her fingers through his hair. “I believe you.”
“Mallenia?” said Vlatin in surprise. “The rebel? Didn’t she recently attack the Black Squadron at Hangtower and steal the tribute money?”
Wislaf looked round. “Where has Gerobert got to? Didn’t he say he’d join us when he’d taken a look around?”
“A big sturdy fellow with a beard and a dirty gray cloak?” inquired Tirîgon. “I saw him on a chestnut stallion.”
“That’s him,” said Wislaf. “He rode off, you say?”
“No, that’s not what I said.” The älf pointed outside. “We met. Behind the cabin.” He placed his right hand meaningfully on the handle of his double-edged dagger. “As I am standing before you, you may work out for yourself how our encounter went.”
Diederich drew his sword. “Curse you! You devious creatures!” he spat. “Fine allies you are!”
Sisaroth laughed out loud. He said arrogantly to his brother, “How does he come to think that humans could be seen as our allies? They are vassals of Môrslaron, no more than that.”
Tirîgon was amused. “And as Môrslaron is so far beneath us we can use anything that belongs to him as the fancy takes us.” His voice
turned deadly serious. “Use it or destroy it, as we please.”
Wislaf and Vlatin both raised their swords. “I’m warning you,” cried Wislaf.
“Sister, I think the men are getting rather hot-headed,” called Sisaroth, making no attempt to defend himself with his daggers. “Would you like to perform something to calm them down?”
“You know how much that takes it out of me,” she responded. “My voice suffers.”
“No,” groaned Ortram. “Please don’t sing! Have pity…”
“But I can give it a try.” The älf woman gave the boy a kiss on the cheek, took a deep breath and raised her voice in song.
V
The Outer Lands,
The Black Abyss,
Fortress Evildam,
Winter, 6491st Solar Cycle
Ireheart stood on the south tower watching the approach of the hideous and variegated monsters emerging from the chasm: A hotchpotch collection of horror about to swarm over the entire land.
Goda was at his side, a mantle draped around her shoulders. She was listening inside herself to her own remaining magic powers. The store of energy should be sufficient. For now.
Her hand slid to the little bag at her belt where she kept the fragments of the diamond she had retrieved from the site of the damaged artifact. These tiny shards still held residual energy and every minute particle would be needed.
Before the destruction of the artifact she had been able to draw down limitless force by placing her hands on the barrier. No longer.
The nearest magic source was only a few orbits’ journey away, but lay in the region ruled by the älfar. Goda doubted she would reach it alive.
The other source was in Weyurn, much further away, and she could not think of traveling there when at any moment the Black Abyss could be spewing out rampaging hordes against Evildam. Rumor had it that the Dragon Lohasbrand was sitting on a further magic source in the Red Mountains—right in the middle of a dwarf realm, at that.
Goda sighed. All she had was a bag of diamond splinters with a fraction of the strength of the original artifact. The more of them she used up the worse the position of Evildam’s defenders would be. She reckoned that, in the long run, the fortress catapults would not be able to repel Tion’s evil creatures. They would have to find a new way to protect themselves.
