by Markus Heitz
What can it lead to? she asked herself for the one hundred and twenty-seventh time. She lay down and closed her eyes.
But sleep was a long time coming. She kept seeing the man in her mind’s eye. Eventually, she got up with a sigh and surveyed the camp. All was quiet. Nobody was paying her any attention, so she slipped through the undergrowth, following the sound of water.
The splashing turned into a rushing sound and a fine spray covered the leaves with drops of moisture.
Coïra peered through the greenery and spotted a small waterfall, not more than seven paces high, and a pool of water perhaps eight paces in diameter at the base of a gray rock wall. Creepers overhung the stone and flowers on the bank quivered incessantly as they were sprinkled with the water droplets.
The actor’s clothing lay in a heap on the bank, far enough away from the spray to stay dry. With his back to her, Rodario stood naked in the pool in a theatrical pose before the cascade, waving his arms. He walked up and down, showing his profile. His mouth was opening and closing as though rehearsing for some grand role.
Coïra had to grin. She allowed her gaze to slip down from his hips, but did not look directly at his manhood. Not that she was uninterested to see what he had to offer in that area, but decency forbade her to be inquisitive. Perhaps the orbit would come when she might see it in different circumstances.
“And? What do you think of him?”
Coïra was startled, hearing a woman’s voice behind her. Looking over her shoulder she saw Mallenia. “I was worried…” she sought an excuse.
“Of course you were, my queen. Same as me. The Zhadár that are guarding our camp are certainly not able to protect us properly,” she smiled. “If anyone had told me that I would find myself standing next to the ruler of Weyurn watching a naked man bathe in a forest stream I think I would have slapped their face for the effrontery.” She bent one of the branches aside to get a better look. “Take a look at that! He has a very fine physique. Those padded clothes he was wearing hid his real shape.” She noticed that Coïra was not really watching. “Don’t you find him attractive? I thought you liked proper heroes and well-built men.”
“I… don’t want to see everything,” she said, avoiding a direct answer.
The Ido girl laughed quietly and looked at the black-haired queen. “What shall we do? Shall we share him or do we have to compete for his affections? Or shall we fight over him and be enemies forever? Idoslane and Weyurn can wage war about it.”
“We could just kill him, of course. That would be the simplest solution.” Coïra sighed.
Mallenia’s eyes flashed in amusement. “True enough. But I wouldn’t want so drastic a course of action. It’s hardly his fault that both of us have fallen for him.”
“He could have paid court to just the one of us, instead of both,” the maga objected. “And, if I think about it, you’re already at an advantage. You’ve had two kisses.”
“The first one didn’t count.” Mallenia put her hand on the queen’s shoulder. “We should not risk our friendship for his sake. You saved my life and I shall never forget that.” She became serious. “Do you want me to stand back and leave him to you? If you tell me to I shall respect your wishes.”
Coïra shook her head. “That would not be fair.”
Mallenia smiled at her. “I respect you all the more for that.” She gestured toward the little pool. “Off you go. Go and help him bathe.”
No!” she exclaimed. “I can’t do that!”
“That’s the only way to find out what he wants and how he feels about you. Don’t hesitate. I did, for too long.” Mallenia gave the maga a little shove which sent her tumbling out of the bushes.
She stumbled through the undergrowth toward the stream before regaining her balance. Before she could hide again Rodario had seen her.
Coïra could not hear what he called out. From the bushes Mallenia urged her to go on to the waterfall, and then withdrew. Well then, the maga said to herself, and stepped toward the cascade, which sprayed her with a fine mist and wetted her face, her hair and her clothing.
“I thought I would take you up on your offer,” she called out, standing in such a way as not to see all of him. Or his little Rodario.
“Very nice of you,” he said quietly, walking past her and bending over, so that she saw his taut buttocks. She turned swiftly away. “I’m finished here now. But I’ll keep watch for you. He pulled on his long shirt and hid his nakedness. “May I help you undress? You must be used to having assistance, you being a princess and all.”
“Only from my maid. Never from someone I don’t know.” She indicated he should turn round while she took off her clothes, layer by layer. Until she got to the gloves. The air was cool and she was shivering. She stepped quickly into the water, which was surprisingly warm. “You can turn round again now.”
Rodario sat down on the bank and watched the maga with an impenetrable smile. “Strange bathing practices,” he said, pointing at the gloves. “Why is that?”
“They… there’s a spell on them. I never take them off.”
“A spell?” he dangled his feet in the water and observed her. “What sort of spell? Are your fingers so ugly that you have to hide them? Or do you have dirt under your fingernails from all the alchemy experiments you do?”
She splashed him, taking care to keep her upper body under water and out of sight. Coïra had surprised herself. What did she think he would do? That he might be bold enough to come into the pool to join her? That he would not behave as a man of honor should? How did heroes behave when they weren’t campaigning against injustice and oppression? “You are making fun of me.”
“Never!” Suddenly his gaze traveled past her, to the pool itself. “Do you know the story of the Moon Pond? Old Boïndil told me the tale… he’s not much of a connoisseur about elf romances but he certainly enjoyed the killing sequences in the story. I prefer to concentrate on other parts.” He retold the story and Coïra listened, spellbound, as she swam in the pool. “What do you think? Do you think there may be more passageways like the one in the story?” Again, he was staring at the water.
“Now I understand!” She laughed. “You’re trying to frighten me.”
“No, I’m not. But we are in Rân Ribastur—the enchanted land, if you like. It doesn’t have to be an älf that comes riding out of the waves, but there could be something lying in wait for you,” he said simply, paddling his feet in the water. “Perhaps I should wake it up. It won’t have been seen very often by a woman of your beauty.”
She was going to call out a response—but then she felt a movement by her right foot. She could not hold back the scream. Rodario stopped splashing. “There’s something there!”
“Now you’re trying to trick me,” he said with a mischiev ous smile.
“No, I…” Something thin and long wrapped itself around her right leg, tightening its grip. Coïra stared under the water in horror but could not make anything out. There were too many bubbles. Then she was pulled downwards. She held out her arms to Rodario. “Pull me out! Quick!” She was frightened now.
Rodario could see from her expression that she was not joking. He grabbed her fingers and pulled. He was getting nowhere. He tugged again.
“Wait!” He got a foothold against the rock. Now he had a strong enough hold to heave the maga out of the water. At that moment he had no eyes for her breasts and her slender body. He saw something clinging to her leg that looked like a white tentacle. It let go of its victim and Coïra shot out of the water as Rodario pulled her hard.
Rodario fell over backwards and the maga landed full length on top of him. She had dark-red lines along her leg but no injuries. She was furious and resentful. “That was all your fault! You made that thing grab me!”
“It was your own idea,” he said defensively. “How was I to know the pool would have the power to make your thoughts come true?” In one hand he held something made of leather.
“You said the land was enchanted! Yo
u could have worked it out for yourself!” Coïra had talked herself into a fury, even if some of it was put on for his benefit. Because she was naked she felt she ought to stay where she was, so as not to show him even more of herself. Even more than he had already seen. “What if it comes out?”
“But you can detect magic, can’t you?”
Coïra opened her mouth to give some sharp retort. Then their eyes met. And melted. Their bodies exchanged warmth and fanned the inner fires that poets and bards have so often sung about. Neither was able to resist a surge of passion as their lips touched, and they kissed tenderly.
And again.
And once more.
“Your glove, my queen,” said Rodario croakily, his feelings getting the better of him. He held the leather item out to her. “It came off your arm when I pulled you out of the water.”
Without thinking she snatched for it—and Rodario caught sight of her right forearm. The daze of happiness on his face was wiped away as if he’d been given a smack in the face. From the elbow down the arm was transparent and glassy in places, while other parts were raw flesh, showing muscles and tendons and veins, under a see-through layer of skin. “Oh, ye gods!” he stammered. “What a ghastly…”
Coïra sprang up with a sob, grabbed her clothes and ran off.
Ireheart sat next to Tungdil at the campfire, where they were cooking meat, bread and vegetables on little spits. “What a shame we’ve got no more cheese,” he said.
“I can still remember the stink of it!” retorted Tungdil, who had taken off his helmet, gauntlets and greaves. “Very well indeed. Trying to forget.” He tasted the meat, which had been hopping through the fields half an hour earlier in the form of a rabbit. “I prefer this.”
Ireheart was giving his ration a more critical inspection.
Tungdil finished chewing. “What’s the matter? Doesn’t it smell bad enough?”
He turned and twiddled the spit as if looking for something wrong with it.
“Do you think it might have absorbed some of the magic?”
“What magic?”
“How should I know?” Ireheart snapped. “If it ate a… flower that one of the famuli had modified?”
“Are you starting to believe your own fairy tales? Or is this some myth put about by our young Rodario?” Tungdil went on eating, unconcerned.
“It’s just what they’re all saying.” He looked around. “Where’s he got to, anyway?”
“He’ll be wherever Coïra’s disappeared to.” Tungdil pointed over to the bushes.
“Aha!” was Ireheart’s grinned, rather than spoken, comment.
“Gone for a swim. Not to have it off. The Zhadár are keeping an eye on them, Barskalín tells me. They’ll be safe enough from attack.”
Ireheart put the piece of roast rabbit down. “So it’s true.”
Tungdil sighed. “What do you mean—so it’s true?”
“Magic!”
“No, not magic, by all that’s unholy!” Tungdil said. “I said attacks! Wild animals or unfriendly forest-dwellers.” He slammed his hand down on the ground. “There isn’t any magic here. And there aren’t any famuli here either. Never have been. The land is safe and the rabbits are especially safe.”
“The rabbits weren’t safe from us, though, were they?” Ireheart glanced at the runes on Tungdil’s armor and grew deadly serious. “Those runes: They’d light up, wouldn’t they, if the food was going to harm you?”
Slowly, very slowly, Tungdil put his food down. “Yes, they would,” he grunted in reply. His patience was coming to an end. “Give me your rabbit. I’ll eat it.”
“Right you are, Scholar.” Ireheart handed his meat over. “But just take a bite.”
“What?”
“Take a bite. I just want to see if my rabbit is as safe as yours was.” He pointed to the decorative inlay. “If it starts to glow I’ll know not to eat the rest.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Come on, hurry up. I’m hungry.”
Tungdil stared at him in exasperation, then burst out laughing. “That’s the kind of thing I really missed on the other side, Ireheart,” he gasped, when he had calmed down. “There was nobody there like you.” He bit into the meat and, when his runes stayed dark, he handed the food back to his friend. “I’ll be glad to live in peace and quiet somewhere after these next battles,” he went on, retrieving some vegetables from the edge of the fire. “I only hope I’ll be able to adapt.”
Ireheart was chomping his way through his meal with renewed appetite. “I managed to. Well, there was always some skirmish or other, out at Evildam, and we’d talk a lot about what battles might occur, but we weren’t immersed in war all the time like you were. To live with the possibility is a sight different from actually having to fight day in, day out.” He pointed his meat spit at Slîn and Balyndar. “In case you decide you’d rather be fighting, you could go back with the fifthlings. I’ve heard there’s always trouble at the Stone Gate. Now the kordrion’s gone, the first of the smaller monsters will be along soon.”
“With my son? No thanks.”
Ireheart coughed and looked at Tungdil, who was gnawing at some half-cooked vegetable and putting some spice on it made from dried rato herbs and salt. “So you know?”
“Of course.”
“How?”
“You talk in your sleep, Ireheart.” Tungdil shot him a smile over the top of the parsnip he was eating.
And once more the warrior-twin realized he was being taken for a ride. “You’re taking the piss.”
“Yup. I just felt like it.” Tungdil chucked the empty stick into the fire. “I managed to hang on to one eye so I’m not completely blind. If everyone else can see it, why not me? He’s exactly like me. It must be Tion’s own work if Balyndar is not my flesh and blood. He hasn’t said anything to me so I’ll not broach the subject with him. I can understand it. It makes sense for him to reject me.” He leaned back against a tree trunk and took out his flask. “It’ll be easier for him if he continues to regard the king as his father. However this particular adventure turns out it’ll be better for him if our two names are not mentioned in the same breath.” He opened the flask and drank.
“I wish you sounded a bit more confident, my learned leader and high king,” Ireheart muttered. He contemplated the bare bones left in his hands sadly. “There was hardly any meat on one of them. All fiddly little gristly bits. Not like a gugul. I’d give anything for one of them as my main course now.” He looked at his friend. “Well? How does it make you feel, knowing you and Balyndis have a son?”
Tungdil stared into the fire. “I don’t feel anything. For me he’s just one of the dwarves like all the rest,” he said dully, his eye unfocused.
Ireheart pulled a baked root out of the fire, shaved off the skin and added seasoning. “That’s really sad, Scholar. I love my children, and there’s no better feeling, you know. They make you furious at times but you get to be awfully proud of them as well.” He nodded in Balyndar’s direction. “He’d be one to be proud of. Looks fantastic, very good soldier and he’ll make a splendid king for the fifthlings one day. Balyndis has brought him up well.”
“Yes indeed, I would be proud of him,” Tungdil repeated, lost in thought. “I will ensure he gets back unharmed to his mother,” he vowed to the flames, closing his eye. “You take the first watch, Ireheart. Wake me when you get too tired.”
Boïndil bit into the vegetable, which cracked open in his teeth like a juicy apple. “Before you seek the refuge of sleep,” he said, “tell me one thing: Who are the unholy ones?”
“Gods in the land of the Black Abyss.” Tungdil did not take the trouble to lift his eyelid.
“Ho, that’s not a lot to go on. What kind of gods?”
“Cruel gods, Ireheart. Let me rest.”
“And go on waiting?” He chucked the empty spit at Tungdil—it did not occur to him until afterwards what a risk he was taking. He screwed his eyes shut to be on the safe side and lifted his hand to shield his face.
>
The wooden spit hit the armor and fell to the ground. There were no flashes or any other magic effects. Tungdil did not seem to have noticed.
Ireheart was about to say something but thought better of it. The soft voice of the last of his doubters demanded it. Who knows what this knowledge might be good for, it whispered in his ear, warning him not to betray himself. “Scholar! Tell me about these unholy ones? You know I like a good story,” he urged his friend.
“The unholy ones,” Tungdil began in a deep voice, “are ghostly beings. They show themselves in the blood of those who are sacrificed to them. This lifeblood can give them shape and form. A terrifying form that only the priests may behold without losing their minds.”
“And were you one of them?”
“No. But I was able to look on them and keep my wits.”
“Maybe that’s why your mind has holes in it now.”
“Firstly, my mind does not have holes in it. My memory does. And secondly, I’ve had enough of telling horror stories now.”
Ireheart hugged his knees and wiggled his toes. “How many unholy ones are there? What do they do to be worshipped like that? Do they help in warfare?” He looked at Tungdil, who was already asleep. “Oy, Scholar! Give me a chance to learn something!” Should he dare to throw another piece of wood? “How do you know Tirîgon so well? I mean, what did the two of you get up to over there? And why on earth did you take the name of your dead…?”
“That’s enough!” The eye shot open and Ireheart was greeted with a stare that delivered physical pain. The brown iris was penetrating as an arrow, then it disappeared to be replaced by a greenish pulsating light, which transmuted into a pale blue. One last flicker and the brown returned. “I want to sleep, Ireheart. There are many orbits ahead of us on our ride to the Blue Mountains and I will tell you more each time we make camp for the night. But not now!” He spoke with emphasis, regal and sharp, annihilating any objection. Then he shut his eye and arranged himself in a more comfortable position.
“Hmm,” said Ireheart, kicking up the dust. That was the false Tungdil again. Without thinking, he picked up a branch and started whittling away at the end. His movements gradually became slower; his gaze rested on the sleeping dwarf.
