by Markus Heitz
If she managed to reach a town or even a garrison, the news of the fall of the dwarf kingdom would quickly spread and the älfar would have lost the advantage of surprise. Help me, gods of infamy, let me be the one to find her! It would be a triumph!
He stowed the amulet in his pocket, mounted his horse and stormed off.
CHAPTER VI
The älfar saw Death coming and did not grasp how serious he was.
They had nearly defeated him once, but he had learned from his mistake. He would not be cheated again.
Warned by a courageous älf, the älfar armed themselves for the battle with Death to protect their nation, to protect the Inextinguishables and to protect Dsôn Faïmon, their beloved homeland.
Death came rushing in!
More forceful than the mightiest storm, more violent than an earthquake, as incandescent as a thousand fires, Death made his way to the älfar lines of defense.
Epocrypha of the Creating Spirit
Book of the Coming Death
30–50
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), to the southeast of the Gray Mountains, Golden Plain,
4371st division of unendingness (5199th solar cycle),
late summer.
Morana had been ill at ease ever since first setting foot on elf territory. Now her agitation grew with every mile she covered across the Golden Plain.
The idyll that surrounded her contrasted with the apprehension she felt: swallows soared against the sky, one cornfield gave on to the next, with the occasional deep green meadow for light relief, and scattered about the landscape were towering trees with huge canopies, shedding shadows as big as a whole village. Far away there were towns and isolated farmsteads connected by excellent roads, so traveling was easy. She could not read the signs at the crossroads; the elf runes were quite different from älfar script.
Morana kept away from the settlements, not wanting to be confronted with questions about where she was from. She had been more or less forced to travel by day in order to make reasonable time, and as a result her eyes—as black as midnight lakes—would have immediately aroused suspicion. She assumed the elves would remember their enemies’ black eyes—even if the älfar had faded to rumor in their lands.
These roads will enable our army to advance very quickly. She decided to take the eastern fork at the next crossroads, heading deeper into the elf lands. She was becoming impatient: when was she going to reach that crater? Have I miscalculated?
A town reared up close by. Too close for her liking.
Elves in white attire worked in the fields, gathering the harvest and tossing corn on to long carts. The sound of threshing came from the sheds by the mills on the riverbank. Elves who saw Morana passing raised an arm in greeting.
The älf returned their friendly gestures with hatred in her heart, but common sense prevented her from drawing her sword and bounding past the corn to slay as many elves as possible. The Plain of Gold? We’ll be calling it the Plain of Blood before long, she vowed.
As the town had no protective wall, she studied its construction as she rode past. It was a strange way of building—senseless, really.
The elves had put all the buildings on stilts. All the houses, streets, and squares were a good four paces above ground level, but the earth was not swampy or particularly soft. Is it a sign of their arrogance? Morana looked at the river. It must be prone to breaking its banks.
She reined in for a moment, pulled out her record book and made a note to that effect, then continued on her journey. In planning their campaign they might have to contend with floodwater. This natural phenomenon was probably the cause of the fields being so fertile—but an army would come to grief.
She would have to find out what time of year these floods happened so that the nostàroi could take it into account, though she supposed it was most likely to be spring.
The elf houses were round, like tree stumps or mushrooms, and the walls were painted in soft pastels, with decorations and runes in green. Sun symbols were everywhere because the elves worshipped light. Another frequent emblem was a sign for the river: light blue wavy lines.
Morana gave herself a shake. I look forward to burning down this insult to my eyes; then the river they love so much can carry the ashes away.
She spurred her horse onward. It was a great relief to know that their enemies did not share their own aesthetic when it came to architecture.
But she should not have been surprised.
She knew many a legend that claimed to explain why the elves were so hated and it was always a question of the deception, treachery, greed and injustice that the älfar had suffered at the hands of the elves.
However, elves and älfar remained physically extremely similar. That was why the elves had to be eradicated, to avoid any further confusion.
You present yourselves to the barbarians as creatures of light, but we know your true nature, thought Morana. The groundlings were no more deceived by you than we are, but humans are dazzled by you—they’ll believe any nonsense you like to tell them. They’ll soon see your true colors and how corrupt and devious you are.
The road she was traveling led due east, passing fields and small groves.
Morana even saw some unicorns grazing at the edge of a wood. She smiled cruelly. Our night-mares will get the benefit of new thoroughbred blood. It will improve the breed.
Ever since she had seen the pit, she had had a growing suspicion that the elves in Tark Draan were pursuing their own secret plans. Perhaps it did not entail the conquest of the entire land and the subjugation of all the races living there, but they were following a higher purpose: something to do with their goddess Sitalia, for sure. What sacrifice would their goddess demand? The death of every creature in Tark Draan, perhaps? It would explain why the elves have permitted the barbarians to breed like animals ready for the sacrifice. They are capable of anything.
She came up to a crossroad that surprisingly offered only north and south options. She could make out the crater not too far off, but no path to it through the sparse grassland.
The pointy-ears don’t want anyone to get there. She urged her horse on and they galloped across open country toward the hole.
The landscape changed and turned into steppe, but nothing was growing in the vicinity of the crater. Morana immediately felt more comfortable.
It’s a sign! This region is not permeated by the obnoxious spirit of Sitalia and the elves.
She kept coming across weather-beaten signs, probably warning travelers to keep away. Morana found the aura of the crater was exercising a pleasant attraction.
Approaching the crater, she calculated the huge semi-circular hollow to be about 15,000 paces in diameter and 3,000 paces deep. The edges were black, as if burned. Something vast had crashed into the Golden Plain with tremendous force.
And Morana knew what it must have been . . .
One of our Creating Spirit’s tears! She halted her night-mare and surveyed the scene, trying to find clues to affirm her idea.
She discovered a path leading down to the center of the crater and took it, noting the light-colored sand heaped in the center. It looked completely out of place, as if added in later.
The elves have attempted to fill the crater up. Morana dismounted, took out her notebook and pen, sat down at the edge and started to draw the scene, fascinated by what she had found.
This could be the kernel of a new älfar empire—a new Dsôn that our people will use as a base to rule over Tark Draan! When the nostàroi get my report and see my drawings they will want to conquer the Golden Plain first of all and get the Inextinguishables to erect a second palace here. Morana imagined the älfar city growing. And they will look down on Tark Draan from their Tower of Bones and they will know that it was I that discovered the crater and told them about it. They will give me their blessing!
She could neither stop sketching, nor stop letting her enthusiasm run away with her.
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), south of the Gray Mou
ntains,
4371st division of unendingness (5199th solar cycle),
late summer.
Carmondai felt no fear when he rode through Tark Draan on the evening of the third moment of unendingness. To start with he had followed the faint tracks of the barbarian girl, but now he was following his nose in a southwesterly direction, toward the place where the sun sank each evening.
He did not know why he let his horse go that way. He called it an instinct.
He had split from the älfar riders a while ago and now he looked like a genuine elf on his horse. On a nice little outing to enjoy the fine weather. Although Caphalor won’t appreciate me doing my own thing like this.
Carmondai took the amulet out to look at. Where will I find your owner? Immediately he felt a tingling in his fingers and up along the wrist. “And what are you capable of, I wonder?”
He was not really surprised that the barbarian girl had managed to evade discovery for so long. Hidden in the Gray Mountains, she had miles of tunnels, mine shafts and caves to disappear into. Though it had emerged that the kingdom of the groundlings had not been as secure as the nostàroi had thought. And that represented danger for an encamped army.
Night was falling and the uneven path wound away toward a massive wall. Carmondai presumed it had been built to defend the town behind it; the residents must once have been accustomed to fighting off invasions.
All the better that I found it—I can take a closer look without arousing suspicion. And anyway, he was getting tired. He had been out in the open too long and really liked the idea of a proper bed. Even if it had to be a barbarian bed.
Carmondai reached the town gate. Light fell from two fire baskets and four torches fixed in place on the walls. Two men looked down from the top of the wall, obviously not expecting trouble. “Greetings,” Carmondai called, raising his hand. “May I spend the night here? Though I’m afraid I don’t know what your town is called.”
“You are at the gates of Halmengard, elf,” one of them replied. “Welcome, and keep the peace of our town, or we’ll trim your ears faster than you can get back on your horse.” His comrade laughed.
Carmondai was interested to note that elves were not treated with respect in this region of Tark Draan, but were issued with threats. “I swear to keep the peace. But why are you so uncivil?”
“Do you come from Gwandalur?”
“No, I am from the south.”
“Then you are indeed welcome in our walls. May Sitalia be with you,” the watchman responded with no resentment in his voice this time. One of the gates was flung wide and Carmondai rode in.
He did not inquire further, not wanting to show his ignorance and appear suspicious. But he made a mental note of the name Gwandalur. The barbarians don’t like the place. Excellent!
Once inside the town he was struck by the robust and simple construction methods. The flat-roofed houses had no timber frame, and were built from large blocks of stone, as if each dwelling might have to be defended.
Another guard wearing simple, plated armor was waiting on the far side of the gate. His black beard was well kept, making him appear as though he was a relation of the groundlings. “You will be needing somewhere to stay,” he said to Carmondai. “Your kind often stay at the Sun Inn. It’s on the southern side. Take the first right then keep straight on. You’ll recognize the sign.”
Your kind. Carmondai suppressed a laugh. If you only knew! “My thanks.” After a few paces he reined in his horse and turned around in the saddle. “Oh, and another thing, if I need a famula, where would I look?”
“A famula?” The barbarian considered before replying. “I’ve not seen one in town for ages. We don’t have any links with Simin; his realm doesn’t overlap much with Thapiaïn, so he doesn’t come here and nor do his pupils.”
“Thank you anyway.” Carmondai took the recommended road, but then turned down an alleyway. The last thing he wanted was accommodation favored by his enemies.
He wandered about aimlessly until he came to a tavern that looked expensive. Two liveried servants waited at the door to greet guests.
Carmondai stopped here. “Greetings. Is the food good here? And the beds, are they comfortable?”
They grinned, taken aback. “We could hardly say anything else, sir,” replied the smaller of the two. “It would be an honor for us—”
“I’m not from Gwandalur, of course, if you were worried about that,” he continued boldly. He wanted to see how the barbarians would react.
“That is a pleasing circumstance, sir,” the man replied. “The dragon worshippers are not welcome anywhere. But if you had been from there the guards would never have let you in.”
“And why is that?”
“Our king is a third cousin of the Duke of Wallham.”
“And?” prompted Carmondai.
“Sir, Wallham is on the border with Gwandalur,” said the servant. “The dragon takes their cattle.”
“Of course.” Carmondai dismounted, lifting down his saddlebags, then handed the reins to the taller servant. “Show me in.”
“Gladly, sir.” The small one led the way and took him into a high-ceilinged room where a slim woman wearing a deep yellow dress was waiting at the entrance.
She bowed to the älf. “Welcome, sir. My name is Geralda and I will be delighted to show you our available rooms so you may make your choice. Perhaps you would like to take a bath to refresh yourself after your journey?”
Carmondai was pleased at the courteous reception. He was struck by the symmetry of her facial features and by the way she held herself. She would do well in Dsôn, he thought, though veiled, and as a slave. Her voice was pleasant, not too shrill like most barbarian women. “My choice is made,” he said. “I will take your largest room and that bath.”
“Yes, sir. Would you like company when you bathe, or would you prefer just the hot water and fragrant essences?”
The idea of a barbarian woman spoiling the good effect of the water by sitting in the tub with him was repugnant. He had to control his expression. “Just the bath,” he responded, aware that his tone was unfriendly and disdainful. He did not care.
Geralda inclined her head. She had understood. She accompanied him up the stairs to the second floor, opening the door of a large chamber with a slim partition wall. “Here you are, sir. You have a lovely view of the marketplace.” Her gaze fell on the pocket of his mantle.
Carmondai instinctively covered it with his hand. The amulet had slipped out on its chain. “You know this?”
“Of course, I recognize the seal of Jujulo the Jolly. His famuli carry it with them.” She gave him a curious look. “But I did not think an elf would be studying with Jujulo.”
“I’m not. The magus gave it to me as a souvenir,” he lied, with an ingratiating smile. He put his saddlebags on the floor as if nothing had happened. “See to my bath, will you? I’d like to clean up.”
Geralda bowed and left the room.
Carmondai sat down in a reasonably comfortable yellow and white upholstered armchair. He watched as serving girls came in with towels and a copper bathtub, into which they poured blossom essences and several buckets of hot and cold water. He thanked them. When they had all left he undressed and stepped into the sweet-smelling warm water.
Not bad at all. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent. Too flowery, but preferable to the smell of the road.
He slipped down under the water for a short time before surfacing slowly. One thing was for sure: it was better than in the Gray Mountains.
He got out before the water could go cold and dried himself on the towels left out for him. They were not as soft as those in Dsôn because the barbarians did not use silk in their linen goods, but they would serve their purpose.
With one of the bath sheets around his middle he lay down on the bed to deliberate his next course of action. Traveling in Tark Draan was an adventure. He enjoyed meeting the people and knowing his own folk would soon be marching through to take over.
This is how the gods must feel when they visit their subjects in disguise. But if I stay away too long Caphalor will send out a search party. He won’t want to lose me. Or my drawings. He turned his head and looked at the saddlebags. The amulet caught his eye. He had hung it from a hook on one of the beams—and it had begun to glow.
Carmondai got up, walked over to the beam and examined the item of jewelry more closely. The sparkle was not a reflection of any light source within the room—the metal was glowing all by itself. Why are you doing that? He took it down, moving it around and watching what happened.
The amulet shimmered more intensely when he swung it toward the south.
So you are showing me a certain direction. Is that maybe where the famula girl you belong to might be? Is that what you are telling me? Carmondai dressed quickly, locked his chamber door and climbed out through the window. A nocturnal excursion over the flat roofs of Halmengard began.
He made his way forward in leaps and bounds. It was delightful to move so freely after that tediously slow ride and he enjoyed putting his stamina and agility to the test.
The amulet led him to a quarter of the town where the inhabitants were less well off. Here filthy water ran through the gutters, and the odor of urine and garbage forced Carmondai to breathe through his mouth. Disgusting!
As he leaped across the rooftops, he observed the town. It consisted of several small fortresses surrounded by solidly built houses, reinforcing his idea that they might regularly face invasion. If we are to conquer this town we will have to be careful and clever. Poisoning the well seemed a sensible option, as the stone houses would not be seriously damaged by fire.
The amulet was shining so brightly now that it served as a torch, but it was making him visible, too. He cupped it in his hand, checking it every so often to ascertain he was going the right way.
It took him a further splinter of unendingness to find the point where the effect was most intense. He looked up from the amulet to find he was standing on the stone roof of an old building. A trap door led to steps down into the house.
