Fallowblade

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  To ease the tension and feign confidence she decided to attempt conversation. Turning to Zaldivar she said, ‘You wear much leather. Does it come from the hide of trolls?’

  ‘To your eyes, Lady Sioctíne,’ the knight replied, ‘it may seem that we cover ourselves with fur, feathers, the scales of reptiles and what have you, yet they are not actual hides and plumage. Those ornaments are invented by kobolds, from coal tar synthetics, or else they are dried plants and fungi and fossils that resemble the wrappings of animals. What you imagine to be leather is in fact svartlap, a fungus common in these regions. Only creatures of your own race wrap themselves in the slowly rotting remains of deceased creatures, and the siofra also, who bedeck themselves in the sloughed carapaces of beetles and the deserted cocoons of moths. We scorn the practice.’

  ‘In that respect I am entirely in accord with you!’ cried Asrăthiel.

  The culture of goblinkind was baffling. On one hand they revelled in killing and torment, on the other they eschewed, apparently on ethical grounds, the use of materials derived from the suffering and extermination of animals.

  ‘Alas, the coat I wore on the battlefield is as riddled with holes as a sea sponge,’ said Zaldivar. ‘The kobolds made me a new one this very night, for your rain of gold leaf made a ruin of the old.’

  He did not seem resentful. Asrăthiel took courage from that.

  ‘Strange that a toadstool-flap should be dissolved by the touch of that metal,’ she observed.

  ‘Only when we wear it,’ he answered. ‘Gold burns right through the stuff, to our flesh.’

  ‘Then you are injured,’ the damsel said warily. Surely this knight must carry a grudge against her for her part in his wounding.

  ‘I was burned, but not injured.’ At her enquiring glance Zaldivar explained, ‘You are perhaps thinking we heal quickly, Lady Sioctíne. Not so, for we are never scathed in the first instance. The touch of gold fragments affords us matchless agony and burns our garments, but does not actually mar our flesh. It is only if we come into contact with great quantity of the metal, or for a prolonged period, that it is lethal to us.’ After a moment’s pondering he subjoined, ‘As is the ensorcelled gold of your blade, Lady Sioctíne.’

  A troupe of grey-robed wights rushed past bearing flagons, and Asrăthiel seized on the distraction as an excuse to change the subject.

  ‘These trows and kobolds about the place,’ said the damsel, ‘they are servants and slaves to you of their own will, are they not?’

  Zande said, ‘Even so. It is not necessary for us to exert so much as a finger.’

  ‘If humankind were waited upon so zealously,’ commented Asrăthiel, who had marked the sedulous solicitude of the attendants, ‘they would scarcely need to move, except to chew their food and breathe.’

  ‘But human things,’ said Zaldivar, ‘would wither, their sinews turning to paper, if they ceased activity; whereas my kind remain in perfect fettle whether we move about or spend our days and nights in uttermost sloth.’

  ‘The Grey Neighbours are permitted to wait upon you, yet you separate yourselves from the kobolds,’ the weathermage observed.

  ‘We do not permit the garlic-stinking beer-swillers to be near us when we dine,’ Zande replied. ‘It is as much for their benefit as for ours. They are allergic to salt as well as gold. We enjoy our food salted.’

  ‘But I have seen them wear gold war paint into battle!’ said the damsel.

  ‘Their traditional daubings are not gold, Lady Sioctíne. They use arsenic trisulphide, which artists call “orpiment”, or “golden paint”. Greater kobolds, the bigger, more fearsome kind who fight beside us as common foot soldiers, originally began brushing it on their bodies in an attempt to bluff their foes into thinking they could tolerate the touch of gold. We do not brook orpiment, ourselves, for it is a disagreeable colour, and blackens any other paint laid over it.’

  ‘Greater kobolds, you call them?’ Asrăthiel said. ‘What of the others, those who are smaller in stature and paint themselves orange?’

  ‘Of the two species, the greater and the lesser, there is more arsenic in the constituents of the greater. They are the warrior caste, who wear erythrite armour and decorate themselves with orpiment. Lesser kobolds, diligent metalworkers and skilled craftsmen, are not so ferocious. They are inquisitive about all things. Indeed, I am told they snipped some hairs from the man called Aonarán, so that they might perform experiments on human tissue. On occasion they splash themselves with the pigment called realgar, arsenic monosulphide, which occurs in crystals, crusts and earths of that vivid orange shade. Both orpiment and realgar are highly poisonous to mortalkind. I would earlier have recommended that you keep your distance from them if you valued your existence, except that it appears you are not as perishable as your kindred.’

  How much do they know about me? Asrăthiel wondered. Are they aware of the ways in which I am unlike other human beings? Or does this Zande merely refer to my skill as a swordswoman? King Thorgild was certain that the trollhästen never permitted mortal persons to ride them, yet a daemon steed bore me to Sølvetårn on its back. Is it possible that the daemon horses sense my immunity to death? If so, have they passed this knowledge to the goblins?

  ‘Your assistants are numerous,’ she said aloud.

  ‘Even so! For every goblin there exist at least three hundred kobold thralls. They are our principal labourers and foot soldiers. Our retainers and entertainers include mining wights and spinners, whose skills are highly specialised, and water-girls, whose talents lie in other directions entirely, but whose chief accomplishments are luring human beings to death by drowning. Would you like some peearen ayns lavander, or crystallised ooyl villish?’ Zande indicated a dish piled with glittering pinkish-orange crescents.

  As she declined the offer, Asrăthiel could hardly believe that these knights should be making small talk with her without a trace of rancour, as if they were all attending a most genteel garden party at some stately mansion, when not so long ago they had been trying to batter each other’s brains out. The unpredictability of eldritch beings was unnerving to anyone accustomed to the ways of humankind.

  ‘You are most instructive, sir.’ Surveying the range of pre-dinner delicacies on the table, Asrăthiel added, ‘Where does all this food come from? Do you steal it?’

  ‘Fie, noble guest!’ said Zaldivar with such an appearance of affront that the damsel had to stifle a smile, struck by the contrasts in the lawlessness of goblinkind. ‘It is impossible to steal from someone who owns nothing,’ the knight expounded. ‘Human beings delude themselves, claiming that land belongs to them and that things that grow thereon are theirs, but like all creatures they have no right to possess anything, save for their own bodies. We do not steal. Sometimes, however, we take. And at other times we obtain fruits and salads for our gustatory pleasure from our gardens here in the mountains, revived since we arose from the golden tombs.’

  ‘How can crops grow in the mountains?’

  Asrăthiel’s dinner companion speared a piece of glazed fruit with the point of a quaint-handled knife. ‘There is no lack of nourishing soil here, Lady Sioctíne; after all, this is a volcanic region, rich with nutrients from beneath the world’s crust. Nor is there any shortage of sunlight or water. There is only a dearth of heat and protection from the wind, both of which our gardens require. When first Sølvetårn was built, our kobold workers constructed huge edifices of fine, strong crystal in certain locations. They are sturdy enough to withstand wind and snow and hail, reinforced with gramarye, and heated by thermal springs that well from plutonic sources many miles below. Much of our fare grows in those hothouses.’

  The damsel sipped wine from a silver goblet delicately engraved with stems of ivy, but she scarcely tasted the liquor. Expecting every moment that Zaravaz might walk into the hall, she found it hard to sit still. Her ploy to needle him had fallen in ruins; it was he who was late for the banquet. He was the one for whom they all waited; the feast would not beg
in without him.

  At long last he appeared, clothed in the splendour of night, and of course he was beautiful beyond all measure. The goblin knights, the trows, the kobolds, all rose to their feet and bowed. Their king entered, striding with a slight swagger, while the trollhästen tossed their gaseous manes and dipped their narrow heads.

  When Zaravaz sat down beside her, Asrăthiel lost any vestige of appetite.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. The look he gave her was measuring, interested, predatory. It was a glance of pure desire.

  She stammered a reply, her composure in ruins, every premeditated thought flying apart like splinters from a smashed pane.

  Then the banquet began in earnest, as hobbling processions of trows, bent double, began to carry in on their shoulders huge platters covered with high domes of silver.

  ‘What do you suppose goblins eat?’ Zaravaz asked, leaning back in his chair. ‘Worms? Beetles? Bark?’

  All around them, knights were turning their attention to their viands, falling to their repast. At whiles they talked or laughed amongst themselves for, as Asrăthiel had observed, they were a blithesome lot, as ready to laugh as to kill.

  ‘I had not considered,’ Asrăthiel said feebly.

  ‘Allow me to introduce you to some goblin dishes. This one,’ said Zaravaz, indicating a fusion of spices and dainties freshly uncovered before them, ‘is called “The Druid Fainted”. It is named because of what happened when the dish was first served to a sage of the Sanctorum, who swooned with delight at the deliciousness of it.’

  ‘O, fortunate druid,’ said Asrăthiel politely, ‘to taste the food of the goblins.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Zaravaz. ‘Later, Skagi cut off his hands and feet.’

  ‘Permit me to pass over that dish.’

  ‘Do not be too hasty! You should try it, it will please you.’

  ‘Gramercie, but I shall forbear. What is this next one called?’

  ‘‘‘As if to Celebrate, I Discovered a Mountain Blooming with Red Flowers”.’

  ‘Inventive titles, to be sure.’

  ‘Our cooks are as ingenious with their recipes as they are with the appellations.’ The goblin king scooped up a silver spoonful. ‘May I tempt you?’

  He showed no sign of handing over the spoon so, hesitantly, Asrăthiel opened her mouth a little. With utmost gentleness he placed the morsel on her tongue. The food was indeed agreeable to the senses in every way, but Asrăthiel would have enjoyed it more had the network of her nerves not lately disintegrated. After swallowing the mouthful she said, ‘Luscious, to be sure. I have never tasted anything so palatable.’ A sudden concern struck her, and she added, ‘Was it made from the flesh of some creature?’

  ‘We eat no flesh.’

  This statement further surprised the damsel. The goblins were warlike, and all the mortal soldiers she had ever known relished flesh, gorging themselves on roasted haunches; she had assumed that all warriors were fond of meat.

  ‘We eat no corpse material, nor do we clothe ourselves in it,’ Zaravaz continued.

  Trow servitors placed more salvers before the goblin king, bowed, and backed away.

  ‘This rich medley,’ he said courteously, waving a hand at the provender, ‘is known as “Here is a Lush Situation”. Over there, a tray of rapturous confections called “So You Think I’m Crazy”. For sweetness, I recommend this blancmange, “Milking Roses for Honey”, while if you crave heat, I would advocate “The Passion for Pepper Burns Like a Flame of Love”.’ As he described the latter dish, he bestowed a contemplative glance upon his dining partner. Soft, cascading tendrils of darkness framed the taut lines of his face and swung across his shoulders.

  Asrăthiel tried to eat, but the action seemed extraordinarily difficult and she soon faltered.

  The meal proceeded, twenty-seven courses being offered. The guest of honour, as she was deemed, could not eat more than a few bites, and as for the flavours, she could scarcely recall them, though she estimated they had probably been superb. Zaravaz, too, ate sparingly. After most of the dishes had been cleared away the knights remained in their seats drinking, laughing and jesting in the greatest conviviality.

  Invariably jittery in the presence of the goblin king, the weathermage improvised, with awkward formality, ‘Two of your captains introduced themselves to me just now. I would fain meet the rest.’

  That was true, because the lieutenants with whom she had spoken had proved informative, and she wished to learn as much as possible about Sølvetårn and the Silver Goblins. Not to mention their leader . . .

  ‘I seek only to please, of course,’ Zaravaz said with exaggerated politeness. (What colour was madness? Perhaps violet, like his eyes.) Beckoning his ten most eminent lieutenants one by one, the goblin king bade them identify themselves to Asrăthiel.

  Aachionard Zauberin was already known to her; he was the knight with the debauched air, who often mixed goblin language into his speech.

  ‘No doubt, Lady Sword, you heard us sing out our battle cry when we stooped to slay,’ said Zauberin, bowing ostentatiously.

  ‘A jeering cry it seemed to me,’ Asrăthiel replied steadily, refusing to be intimidated by references to battlefield carnage, so fresh and harrowing in her mind.

  ‘Paag dty uillin!’ the knight repeated. ‘Indeed it is a jeering cry as you guess, Sioctíne, and we say it to your brethren as they die. It means “kiss your elbow”, which a human being can only do if dismembered or decapitated. Notably, uillin also signifies “angle”, so the phrase carries a cruder meaning of “kiss your—”’

  ‘Enough,’ said Zaravaz, holding up his hand in a warning gesture. He added something in the goblin language, after which Zauberin bowed to his liege, murmured, ‘Your pardon,’ in Asrăthiel’s direction, and moved away. The damsel knew him for a truly hostile enemy.

  She recognised the next knight, Zwist, from the battlefield. He was wearing an ornamental cuirass and vambraces of black and silver armour, over resilient gear of swarthy eukaryotic material, sheared and stitched by kobold slaves. His velvet cap was decorated with flamboyant plumes.

  ‘Second Lieutenant Zwist, at your service, Lady,’ said the tall warrior, bowing over her hand.

  ‘I recall you tried to kill me recently,’ she said sweetly.

  ‘Ah, I was but bandying blows,’ he replied with disarming amiability.

  ‘I thought Zerstör was Second Lieutenant.’

  ‘Conall Gearnach slew him yestereve.’

  Yestereve! It seemed years ago. Or was ‘yestereve’ just a broad term goblins used to indicate the past? She wondered whether the knights grieved for their fallen comrade. Evidently not. Yet again, she felt perplexed by their moral attitudes.

  The black bell-sleeves of one named Third Lieutenant Zaillian were slashed to show the silver lining, yet he looked not at all the dandy. His belt was a chain of heavy silver links, and about his neck he wore a string of curved thorns, or fake claws. Like his comrades, he had on boots that flared from the top of the knee, reaching almost to mid-thigh. Other officers presented themselves in order of rank: Zuleide and Zamakh, Zinke, Zähe and Tenth Lieutenant Zangezur.

  All the while Asrăthiel sensed Zaravaz observing her, and indeed she was watching him, though feigning indifference. When his deputies had dispersed she turned ostentatiously to the goblin king, as if suddenly reminded of his presence.

  ‘Zerstör was slain by Fallowblade,’ she said. ‘The golden sword is powerful indeed, despite having been wrought by mere humankind.’ Her statement was something of a challenge, of this she was aware. His proximity made her so restless that she felt inclined to goad him a little, as a form of retribution.

  Her dinner companion said, continuing to look at her while toying with a half-empty chalice that stood on the table, ‘You are hard to beat when you are wielding him, I admit.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said, daring to push the challenge a step further, ‘I might defeat even you, with Fallowblade. Do you think it would be possibl
e for me to slay you in battle?’

  Zaravaz studied her amusedly. ‘I doubt it.’ Then, glancing down at the chalice he added with an intriguing smile, ‘Although I have no doubt at all that you would gift me with the little death, were we to tangle.’

  ‘What is “the little death”?’ she enquired, but he merely called for more wine. His hair and garments moved as if lifted by a breeze, even when the air was still, such was the play of eldritch forces about him.

  Deep notes of music commenced to resonate from the walls. Upon a balcony, seventeen kobolds were plucking the strings of a giant earth-harp whose vertical cords, thirty-five yards long, passed through scissions in floor and ceiling, their bases rooted in the level below, their tips fastened in the storey above.

  ‘I have a boon to ask of you,’ said Asrăthiel as the melody, low and harmonious, pervaded the hall.

  ‘Ask,’ said Zaravaz, resting an elbow on the table and idly flicking cherries into a bowl. ‘I cannot guarantee it will be granted.’

  ‘I would fain send a message to my kindred, assuring them that I am safe and well.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘You have my consent. Hulda shall arrange it.’

  ‘I am grateful. And a second petition.’

  ‘Entreat me.’

  ‘The trows of this citadel have a human servant named Fedlamid macDall. Will you give him freedom?’

  ‘I care not whether he stays or goes. There is one who cares greatly—that is Queen Saibh, who dwells in Cathair Rua. He was once her servant. Perhaps more.’

  ‘Since you care not, prithee tell the trows to release him.’