by Markus Heitz
“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.
“Then I’ll sing a song to stave off boredom,” he decided, and began a tune that Bavragor had taught him. He tapped out the rhythm on his leg armor.
But Tungdil did not react. Annoyingly.
At that moment Rodario came tearing through the bushes, his clothes awry, as if he had dressed in a hurry. “The queen has gone!” he called out in agitation.
“Disappeared off the face of the earth or has she run away because you were importunate?” Ireheart grinned. “Thought you were having a bathe. Not likely!”
Rodario came up to him. “She was scared… and ran away.”
“Scared of your one-eyed trouser snake, I suppose.”
“Listen to me!” He grabbed the dwarf by his broad shoulders. “She’s run off into the undergrowth.”
“You still haven’t said what scared her, but never mind.” He called Barskalín to ask which way the queen had gone.
But the Zhadárs’ leader did not know. “My men were following her. We were watching the surrounding area, we weren’t watching her and the actor,” he explained to Ireheart.
“You were spying on us?” fumed Rodario.
“No. Or this would never have happened,” muttered Boïndil bad-temperedly, turning to Tungdil. “Scholar, wake up. We’ve got to find the maga and catch her. The nervous little filly has been shocked by a trouser snake and has run off into the undergrowth somewhere.”
A very sleepy Tungdil opened his eye reluctantly. The glance he shot at Rodario promised him a long, unpleasant death.
They raced through the thickets downstream in a long line.
They could not take the ponies with them so the Zhadár and dwarves had to go on foot to pick up the queen’s tracks.
The Invisibles easily found her trail but the maga had a head start. Their short legs put them at a disadvantage, but they could not let Rodario or Mallenia run off ahead under their own steam, for neither had the skills needed to follow the faint marks left by the maga’s feet.
The part of the forest they were in now was not welcoming. There must have been a forest fire there about a quarter of a cycle ago, one that had left ruined tree trunks behind. Scorched and shriveled and dead, these hulks stood eerily on the black empty ground.
Men and dwarves ran through the ash, their feet disturbing it so that it rose in clouds to clog mouths and noses, and make eyes smart. Half-burned branches crumbled under their feet, and their boots and clothing turned gray.
Then they came to the ruins of an old building. The fire must have taken hold of a little forest hamlet. Ireheart could see skeletons. Why did the people not flee from the flames—perhaps they were not able to run? The thought of magic occurred to him at once…
“Over there!” called Tungdil, pointing to the right. “I can see someone running.”
Ireheart could not see a thing. “I think…”
“Yes,” agreed Barskalín. “It’s a human.”
Mallenia nodded to Rodario to put on a spurt of speed. “We’ll catch up with her,” the latter told the dwarves, as he followed Mallenia.
Strange emotions were swirling within him. On the one hand he was reproaching himself, but on the other he was not sure why: Coïra had taken flight because of his cry of horror, which she had misunderstood. But there was no time now to put things right. First of all they would have to catch up with her.
Mallenia had shot ahead, but he would not be shaken off. The group of dwarves were now some way behind.
The forest was changing again. The trunks now seemed to have been bent and twisted by the force of the fire, taking on the strangest of shapes. It was already growing darker here, so that the trees appeared terrifying, and the deathly hush that surrounded them made Rodario deeply uneasy. He was glad he had his sword at his side. And Mallenia, who was definitely a better warrior than he was.
“Coïra, stop!” he called out after her as she ran through the trees. She was extremely agile. “We are really worried about you!”
But the fugitive was not listening.
“Come on, call yourself a hero? Get a move on,” said Mallenia, increasing her speed. “I don’t like it. Everything here is dead. This forest is scary.”
He silently agreed with her. There was nothing here, however, that could harm them: The fire was long gone, having consumed everything living and turned it all to ash.
The queen had changed course and was heading off to the right.
Between the scorched tree trunks they spied the outline of a fortified house, a defended barn or similar. Judging from the marks left by the flames it seemed the fire must have broken out in this building and then spread to the forest.
The queen ran through the small gate and disappeared inside the ruin.
“What’s she doing?” panted Rodario. “Is she trying to hide from us?”
“That’s just stupid. Childish and stupid.” Mallenia left the forest and headed for the entrance. “Queen Coïra! Come out of there before you fall down some hole or get buried by falling masonry!” She went into the courtyard with Rodario at her heels.
They waited, listening out and watching the broken window panes, which stared back at them like empty eye sockets.
“Coïra?” Rodario called, very worried now. “You misunderstood me back there at the pool. If you come out I can explain.”
“So it is your fault.” Mallenia seized on this possibility. “I bet you said the wrong thing.”
Rodario had decided not to speak about the ghastly discovery he had made. He wanted to speak to Coïra first. “Something like that.” When he saw a face by one of the downstairs windows he raced off. “Coïra! Wait for me!” He grabbed hold of the crumbling wooden supports and peered into the dark room.
He was staring at a pair of light-colored eyes that were watching him fearfully—they were the eyes of a man!
XXII
Girdlegard,
Former Queendom of Rân Ribastur,
Northwest,
Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle
Rodario sprang back and turned to Mallenia. “It’s a man in there!”
“Are you sure?”
He leaned further in over the wooden frame and surveyed the stranger’s face. “Absolutely sure. The
stubble is a strong clue.”
“Indeed, then it won’t be the queen. Unless she has meta-morphosed.” Mallenia came over to the window to see for herself.
She guessed the man to be in his late thirties; once upon a time the garb he clutched about his body must have been a luxurious robe the color of malachite. Now it was a shabby tattered rag: Thorns had torn holes, and the forest floor had stained it. The man was wearing a greasy leather cap on his dark blond hair.
“What is your name?” she demanded.
The man cringed and crawled further back inside the room. As he did so, ash and charcoal crunched under his hands and feet.
Rodario caught sight of four costly rings on his fingers. “He’s no beggar, that’s for sure.”
“Perhaps he managed to escape the fire but lost his mind?” Mallenia kicked the wall sharply. “Where is the queen?” At the gate Tungdil was arriving with the other dwarves; she told him quickly what they had found.
Rodario climbed in through the window and slowly went up to the man. “Don’t be afraid. We won’t hurt you.”
“Says who?” came Ireheart’s voice from the open window. “If he’s a villain, then we will.”
“But you aren’t a villain, are you?” Rodario crouched down by the man. “You’re some rich man who has lost his way? Perhaps you were robbed? Or have magic plants been your downfall? Have you caught sight of a woman with long dark hair? In a dark-blue dress?” Behind him there came a crash and metallic clang, and gray dust rose up, settling on the sweaty face of this unknown figure.
It was Tungdil, who had just jumped in at the window. The man whimpered and cowered, his arms round his head for protection.
Tungdil grasped the man’s right hand and pulled it hard, then brushed the dirt off the man’s sleeve to reveal an embroidered symbol. He frowned and his face grew dark. “You are one of Nudin’s followers,” he challenged the man, grabbing him by the throat. “You have the effrontery to copy his style of dress and even his rings!”
Rodario stood up and placed a hand on his sword hilt. “One of Lot-Ionan’s famuli?”
“Ha!” said Ireheart, triumphantly. “What a good thing I didn’t agree we wouldn’t harm him.”
“He looks like one.” Tungdil dragged the man over to the window and hurled him out into the courtyard. “We’ll find out what he was doing here. And how much magic he still has.” He instructed the Zhadár to increase their vigilance, then climbed back out. “Did he tell you his name?”
“No.” Rodario followed the two of them outside and stood by Mallenia. “I wanted to try the gentle approach first. He seemed very distressed so I thought rough and loud treatment wouldn’t prove helpful.”
Tungdil drew Bloodthirster, placing the weapon’s tip at the man’s throat. “Talk!”
“Franek,” he stammered. “My name is Franek.”
Ireheart grinned. Occasionally there was something to be said for the dwarf-technique of interrogation.
“What brought you here? Why are you dressed like Nudin?” Tungdil gave him a kick that had him over on his back. “I don’t have time to waste. We’re looking for a woman…”
“I saw her!” Franek said quickly, raising his hands. “Please don’t! I saw her! I know which way she went.”
Ireheart had his crow’s beak ready. “He could have been sent by Lot-Ionan to lead us into a trap.”
“But how would he know we were coming?” Rodario studied Franek. “Shouldn’t we hear his story first?”
“For me the queen is more important,” interjected Mallenia. “And the same should go for all of us, surely?” She addressed the putative famulus. “Tell us! Where did she go?”
He slowly lifted his arm and pointed east. “To the Votons. She’ll be dead by now.”
“Who are the Votons?” Tungdil did not remove Bloodthirster from the man’s throat.
“Hideous beings. Chimera, the result of Vot’s experiments. He was one of Lot-Ionan’s famuli,” he explained, breathless with fear. “They used to be humans but he equipped them with the limbs of animals. They broke out of his laboratories and fled here.”
Tungdil gave orders to Barskalín in a language they did not understand and the Zhadár raced off; then he turned to Rodario. “You stay and keep an eye on our friend here. He’ll have a few more questions to answer when we get back with the queen.”
Ireheart shook his head doubtfully. “We’re setting an actor to guard a famulus?”
“If he could still do magic he probably wouldn’t look like a dog that’s been beaten half to death.” The one-eyed dwarf indicated the quiescent runes on his armor as evidence there was no magic activity present. “Slîn can keep you company. The rest of you—come with me.” He charged after the Invisibles, leaving the three of them alone in the courtyard.
Slîn closed the gate and lit a fire. Rodario handed Franek something to drink and brought over a few old timbers to sit on.
The fourthling laid his loaded crossbow on his knee. He scanned their surroundings carefully, on watch.
“Right, then, Franek. How about you help us to while away the time by telling us what made you want to carry on Nudin’s work?” Rodario sliced some bread and ham. He gave some to Slîn, and the rest he passed to the famulus. “So you were apprenticed to Lot-Ionan?”
Franek looked at the actor. “A group of dwarves in black armor, an actor and a blond woman, all looking for a queen—that all seems very odd.”
“Don’t try to turn things around, my friend. You are going to report first,” said Rodario. “Or I take your food away.”
“I’ll shoot it out of his mouth for him,” Slîn offered, lifting the bow. “The food and bolt will fly out together through the back of his neck.”
Franek stretched out his hands to the warmth of the flames. Out of the sun it quickly grew cool; spring had not yet transformed the winter nights. “All right. I’ll tell you.” He took a deep breath.
“I’ll know if you’re spinning a yarn,” the fourthling warned him before he began. “Then my finger will jerk on the crossbow and you know what will happen next.”
Rodario looked at him, tight-lipped. Franek began his story.
“Ingratitude. That’s all I ever got from the magus. A girl friend and I fetched him out of a cellar in Porista when he was imprisoned there as a statue. We escaped from the guards, but the statue was stolen by other famuli. I nearly died. When I had recovered, I tried to enter Lot-Ionan’s service. I wanted to become a magus, and that’s how I was granted my longevity.” He asked for, and was given, more water. “I was always there when he needed me. Together we conquered the Blue Mountains and annihilated the dwarves…”
“Charming. Tell us something different,” growled Slîn, waving the crossbow. “My finger gets itchy when I hear stuff like that.”
“As I was saying. We closed the gate to the south. And I supported him when he was nearly killed by the leader of the black-eyes. And how did he repay me?” He indicated his apparel. “Threw me out, he did.”
“Not without reason, I expect?” Rodario listened carefully, trying to see if Franek was lying. He hadn’t noticed anything yet.
“For a stupid reason.”
“What was it?” Slîn’s fingers caressed the crossbow. “I want to know.”
Franek sighed. “The magic source. No one is allowed near it to refresh their powers without his permission.”
“But you went there anyway?”
“What choice did I have? He was asleep and I had to…” He stopped. “Anyway. One of the other famuli woke Lot-Ionan and told on me. So he drove me out of the caves and allowed all the other famuli to hunt me down and try to kill me. Traitors had to be punished, he said.”
“He’s right there,” muttered Slîn with a grin.
“If it hadn’t been for me he’d still have been lying in a cellar in Porista, the old fool!” Franek did not follow up Slîn’s remark. “I escaped through the deserts of Sangpur. Finally there was only one of them on my tail, and I t
hrew him off the scent near where the Votons hang out.” He looked at Rodario. “I thought you were him, that’s why I ran away.”
“How many pupils does the magus still have?”
“Four. Two of them are not much use, but he hasn’t noticed that yet. Vot and Bumina are his best ones, apart from me, of course.” Franek shrugged. “There’s really nothing else to tell.”
Slîn looked at Rodario. “Didn’t he just say he’d shaken off his pursuer near the Votons?”
The actor had been watching Franek’s features so closely for signs of dissembling that he had missed this detail. “By Palandiell! We must warn the others!”
Slîn looked doubtful. “How would you find them in the dark? My sight is sharper than yours, but I can’t run so fast.” Without warning, he shot Franek in the thigh. The man collapsed with an agonized cry. “Serves you right, you treacherous long-un. For every one of our lot that gets hurt there’ll be another crossbow bolt for you. Three if anyone’s killed. Luckily, you’re long enough to have room for several shots.” He reloaded.
“Stop it, Slîn!” Rodario called out. He could understand his comrade’s anger. Franek had purposely kept them in the dark about the danger.
Rodario helped the victim to extract the bolt from his flesh and bandaged the injury with a strip of material they cut out of his robe.
“I forgot about Droman,” whimpered the famulus, clutching his leg. The bandage was already soaked through with blood. “I swear by Samusin that I didn’t send your friends off to danger on purpose.”
“Well,” said Slîn, “pain’s good for making you remember.” He did not regret having shot the man.
Rodario got up and went to the gate, opening it a crack. He looked at the crippled, charred trees.
There were particularly tall ones by the barn, stretching up into the night sky, and they cast long shadows. He could neither see nor hear anything of the Ido girl or the dwarves.
“How strong is Droman?” he called back into the yard.
