Fire-heart (Tales of Alterra, the World that Is)

by C S Marks

  She drew a deep breath, knowing that her next words might offend them, but they had to be said. “In my experience, when men try too hard to decide upon a course of action, they choose no course at all. I look around at this peaceful, well-ordered realm that has stood so long unchallenged, and I wonder whether you are even capable of mounting an effective defense. We are here to assist you, but make no mistake—you do not command me. I answer only to Ri-Aruin of the Greatwood Realm, but I will aid you if I can.”

  There was some murmuring from the onlookers as Gaelen spoke these words, and Salastor did not smile, though there was humor behind his eyes. “We appreciate your candor,” he said, “and your point concerning time spent in debate is well taken. Yet we would learn more of this enemy. Have you anything to add to what is now known?”

  Gaelen then told of what she had seen, and she spared no detail. Several in attendance turned pale as she described the Scourge in fearful words, and the haunted look in her eyes was unsettling to all who took notice of it. When she had nearly finished, she turned to the Minister of Omens. “You have seen this, haven’t you? I can read it in your eyes. There is one more thought that I would share. There is something hidden in that encampment that I did not see…some great weapon of which we are unaware. I don’t know what leads me to that conclusion, but I know it’s true. Even the Company does not know the full extent of this threat.”

  She turned back to Salastor. “You have now been given the gift of forewarning, along with the services of those well-versed in the arts of war. I would suggest you take these gifts to heart.” Then she bowed before him, for she had read his thoughts in his eyes, and they had reassured her.

  Salastor would not allow her to be held against her will; his trust in the Company was growing rapidly. With luck, he would make certain that his people would begin preparations at once. She suspected that he would have no trouble convincing at least four of the others, and that was enough to sway the decision.

  Salastor looked back to Rogond. “You have given your message, and it has been heard. Return now to your quarters and rest, for tonight we shall feast long and well in demonstration of our gratitude. You have endured incredible hardship on this journey, and we shall do all in our power to ensure that you have few regrets. We hope that you will choose to stay with us, at least for a while. My people are very excited to meet you and to learn from you.”

  His gaze moved back to Gaelen. “The task of the Council is to decide upon a course of action. When we begin to make definite plans we will need your advice; for example, I would like to hear your estimation of when you expect the Scourge to arrive here.” His eyes swept over the Company. “You will all be needed in this effort, for you are right—this is an enemy outside our experience. We are a peaceful people, and I fear it will take some convincing to arouse the populace to the idea of warfare. We have always preferred reason to taking up arms.” He shook his head. “I am loath to even consider what must be done, what actions we will be forced to take, if you are correct.”

  “My lord,” said Hallagond, “from what Estle and Gaelen have told me, I fear there will be no reasoning with the Scourge. Your people may not like the idea of war, but war is coming.You have a lovely jewel here. Your City has everything anyone could want. The Scourge takes whatever it wants, and it is bent on taking your City from you. Surely the people will not wish to lose their home and their lives.”

  “Indeed,” replied Salastor, “but comfort often gives way to complacency, and we have been comfortable for a long time. Those committed to peace may be incredibly stubborn.” He looked back at Gaelen, who was standing with her arms folded once more. “We may have need of your plain-spoken form of persuasion.”

  “Then we will simply have to convince them,” said Gaelen. She had decided that she liked Salastor, and her mouth tugged in a half-smile as she bowed before him, turning then to follow her friends from the Hall of the High Council.

  This place is not at all to your liking, is it? Well, you can’t say I didn’t tell you so!

  Gorgon had not heard Gelmyr’s silky, sarcastic voice in several weeks. The heat and the light are no friends of yours. The She-elf is leading you here, and we both know it. She thinks the desert will finish you, and with any luck she will be right.

  Gorgon rumbled deep in his throat. “For once I agree with you, Èolo. Yet I will track her, and I will find her. These lands have no power over me that I cannot endure. I am overjoyed that she has chosen to call me to her; it will make things all the easier. I follow her by choice. She holds no sway over my actions.”

  Gelmyr’s laughter stung his ears then—it seemed that the Elf found the entire situation to be utterly hilarious. You are so deluded! She is leading you into a land where Elves do not venture, and where there are none whom you may prey upon. She knows that this is what sustains you. Have you not realized it, or is the sun beginning to affect your brain already? She is far, far away from here, across terrible wastes. Your father’s folk could never attempt this...they would run shrieking from the very idea of it!

  “She does not know what sustains me,” growled Gorgon unconvincingly. Gelmyr was correct; he did not wish to remain long in a land where Elves did not walk unwittingly into his grasp. For one thing, it was the killing of Elves that supported his faith in himself and in his purpose. Gelmyr would not plague him unless he wavered.

  “Besides…how do you know that there are no Elves in the south? Perhaps there are many of them. How would you know?” Gorgon smiled wickedly, barely exposing his strong, sharp yellow teeth.

  I know it only because you know it…you have sensed this long ago. You know that I can express no thought that is not also in your own mind, but let’s not stray from the discussion! How ironic, O Dark Dread, that it is your mother’s people, those you have sworn to destroy, that have given you the gifts that will allow you to survive in this place. Without the strength and stamina of Elves, you would have shriveled already. Just one more reason for your poor mother to regret giving birth to you. Ha!

  Gorgon could not argue with Gelmyr, for he knew that he would not even be able to venture forth under such bright sun were it not for the blood of Brinneal. Elves tolerated harsh sunlight even better than men did, though they did not care for it. The starlit darkness was more to their liking, and to his. He had already experienced the brilliant desert stars; they had mesmerized him in much the same way as they had the Elves. The ability to appreciate the stars was a gift he had received from Gaelen.

  “My armor will shield me, and I shall travel by night. I need little water to sustain me, and my resolve is strong. Try to dissuade me, and you will fail.”

  Why would I try to dissuade you? It is my belief that you will die out here, you pathetic, misbegotten lump of scarred flesh! You think you’re so formidable? Just think on this: while you are off chasing down that She-elf, there are many others in the north who would now exact vengeance upon you, including the Lord of Black Flame Himself. You can never return there without peril, and your quest to eliminate the Elàni is ended. She has beaten you!

  “No!” roared Gorgon, swinging uselessly at the apparition that appeared to be sitting beside him. “It has not ended. It can never end!” His outraged cry echoed across the sands for miles in every direction, though no one was there to hear it.

  The Company arrived back at their chambers to find a man and a woman awaiting them.

  “Please,” said the man. “Your friend Fima is in very grave condition. If you do not come at once, you may not see him again while he is alive. We will conduct you.” Naturally, all were dismayed, especially Rogond and Gaelen. They followed the healers to another level of the Citadel, where the Halls of Healing gleamed clean and white in the bright sunlight.

  “Why is this place set apart?” asked Gaelen. “Do not your people need the comfort of belonging when they are ill?” She had noticed that the Hall was separate from any other structure; there was even a wall around it.

  The woman look
ed puzzled by such a question, and Rogond answered. “Places of Healing are separated to prevent the spread of sickness. I wonder…did the Plague find its way here?” He asked the man who walked beside him, and was relieved to learn that no serious pestilence had ever assailed the Citadel. Its isolation had protected it. If Rogond had thought long about it he would have guessed, for had the Plague withered the populace, that same isolation would have prevented recovery. There would have been few citizens to welcome them, if any at all.

  He had heard the stories. People became so fearful of disease that they even killed those of their own who fell ill rather than risk themselves. Often the sick were forced into confinement under terrible conditions, where they died miserable and neglected. It was wise to hide any infirmity from even your friends and family for a long time after the Plague had passed. Rogond hoped to never be faced with such a choice, for he knew what it would be. He would surely perish—he could not turn from those he loved while they were in need. And then there was the aftermath, when people were blamed and persecuted. I heard they were burned alive… He shuddered, and put such thoughts from his mind.

  They were conducted through a labyrinth of corridors until they reached their destination—a plain, white chamber. In the center stood a stone platform with a soft mattress laid upon it, and Fima rested there. Nelwyn sat beside him, and her eyes filled with tears as soon as she saw Gaelen in the doorway.

  The Senior Healer, a very capable and learned woman with a kind voice, called Rogond back into the corridor to explain Fima’s condition.

  “Your friend has a deadly lung ailment brought on by the dust and salt…perhaps some poison in the air? We have little knowledge of his kind, but it is apparent that he is of advanced age. Because he suffered such deprivation of rest and water during the crossing, he has been weakened to the point that he cannot recover. His lungs are filling up as we speak; soon he will not be able to draw breath at all. We have done everything within our power already…this is a death watch. I know he is your friend, and I wish that we could do more. I’m sorry.”

  Rogond bowed his head. “I’m sure you have done what you can,” he replied. “He was poisoned some months ago, and has not been the same since...may the soul of Sajid the Spider walk forever headless and in shame.” The healer nodded solemnly before turning to see to her other duties.

  When Rogond went to Fima’s side, one look at him said all that was needed. He had wasted even further; his skin was slack and sallow, and he was very pale. His eyes sank into dark sockets, turning his formerly ruddy, lively face into a skull-like mask. Were it not for the struggle to draw breath, he would not have moved at all. There was the smell of approaching death about him.

  Rogond did not wish to relate the healer’s sad tale within Fima’s hearing, but it would not be needed—the dark path upon which their friend now walked was plain. He was too weak to swallow food or water, and Nelwyn told that he had roused himself, and had spoken to her, though his voice had been only a whisper for he could make no sound.

  “What did he say to you?” asked Rogond, hoping that perhaps the dwarf had been complaining about something. At least then they would know that he still held on to his spirit.

  Nelwyn shook her head, tears filling her beautiful eyes again. “It’s all right, my love,” said Galador, laying gentle hands upon her shoulders. “Tell us. Rogond needs to hear it.”

  Nelwyn drew a deep breath, composing herself. “He said that he would soon go to his fathers, and that he would walk once more with Khima, who was a greater lore-master even than himself. He said that he hoped he would learn of great mysteries in the Halls of Fior. He said to say goodbye to each of you, for he feared he would not be able to do so.” She turned to Gaelen. “He said…he said he was sorry he would not stand with you to defeat Gorgon. He referred to you as the ‘little Wood-elf’ again.”

  Nelwyn expected this last to bring forth tears in her cousin, but Gaelen was not looking at her—she was focusing on something else entirely. She looked down at Fima, placing her hand upon his chest.

  “He has given up,” she said softly. “He could find the strength to stay with us, if only he would. He has convinced himself that this is his time.”

  Suddenly, all became clear to Gaelen; there was still a course of action they had not taken. She turned to Nelwyn with a determined expression. “Did you say that he mentioned learning of great mysteries?” Nelwyn nodded, her eyes brightening with renewed hope. She had already guessed Gaelen’s thoughts.

  “What are you on about?” asked Estle, who could not imagine anyone being hopeful at this point.

  Gaelen turned to Rogond. “He’s stubborn enough to battle this affliction if we can convince him that he must. Now that we are safe in the city walls, he believes his journey has ended. We must persuade him otherwise by reminding him of what he truly loves the most. Lift him up, Aridan, and follow me.”

  “Take us to the library,” she said to the confused attendants who had been keeping watch at the doorway. “Quickly, and no arguments! We have very little time!” Gaelen was obviously in no mood for debate. Knowing that Fima’s ailment was not the kind that would spread, the attendants shrugged, bowed, and led the Company to the vast storehouse of the lore of Salasin, which was his greatest legacy.

  They took Fima into the heart of the library, ignoring the puzzled looks from the scholars assembled there. “Lay him on the table,” said Gaelen, sweeping several parchments from it with no respect whatsoever. She was preoccupied, and had not the time to care. Rogond placed Fima gently upon the heavy oaken table as several scholars gathered around them, staring curiously at the dying dwarf. They had never seen such a sight before.

  Gaelen rounded on them: “Bring us something of great rarity, the like of which a person living in the world outside will never have seen. You may save his life!” The scholars were confused, and did not move.

  “This dwarf is Lore-master to Lady Ordath of Mountain-home. Please do as Gaelen asks,” said Rogond. That set them into action at once, for the name of Lady Ordath was well known in the Citadel. A person such as Fima would be a great treasure in the eyes of the scholars.

  Gaelen whispered into Fima’s ear, pleading with him to only open his eyes and see the wonders around him ‘ere he left them forever. She tried to describe the library, tried to tempt him, but he did not respond. For the next several minutes Rogond, Nelwyn, and Gaelen all tried to rouse him, but it seemed they had come too late.

  “It was a fine idea, Gaelen. Perhaps he truly is beyond healing,” said Estle, trying to comfort her.

  “He is not beyond healing,” replied Gaelen, nearly shaking with frustration. “He could remain if he wished to badly enough, I just know it!” She turned to Fima, and, to the surprise of everyone, took him by the shoulder and shook him quite hard.

  “Rouse yourself, you weakling! I have had quite enough of your indolence. Show some resolve, you sorry excuse for a lore-master! Here are wonders beyond your imagination, and yet you lie there and will not even open your eyes and look upon them? My people are right about dwarves after all. You are not nearly possessed of the fiber you claim if you would leave these wonders now. I’m most certainly glad that I do not have to face Khima, and explain to him that I let all this slip away without even making an effort! I would…I would disown you. Open your eyes, you lazy iron-mongering…ummm…you lazy iron-mongering git! What shall I say to Lady Ordath when next I meet her?”

  Gaelen was literally shouting at him by this time, tears flowing from her bright eyes. She did not enjoy saying such things to her beloved friend, but she was determined to say them. If she could restore his spirit, she didn’t care if he ever spoke a civil word to her again.

  To the wonder of his other friends, Fima drew a deep, shuddering breath. It sounded as if it had been taken through a vessel of water, but it was definitely a breath. He opened his sunken blue eyes. Though they were surrounded by wells of dark purple flesh, there was a spark in them that was encouragin
g to see.

  “Gaelen…look! He has opened his eyes,” whispered Nelwyn, who could hardly believe it.

  Gaelen now assailed the scholars again. “Tell him what you have brought. Show him,” she commanded, in a voice that could not be denied. “Convince him that you have the answers to mysteries that he does not know. Tell him!”

  As the scholars described the wonders of the library as only true scholars can, Fima’s passion for learning and knowing took hold of him. While he was still very ill, he seemed to come to life before their eyes, reaching down within himself and finding his resolve. He coughed weakly, stirring his arms and legs, trying to turn onto his side so that he could see better. Rogond moved to aid him, but Gaelen stayed him.

  “Do not aid him yet…he can do this himself.” She held a weathered volume of leather before his eyes that was hundreds of years old. “See, my friend, this says it is the recorded annals of the Citadel from its founding.” She opened the volume and began to read, occasionally interjecting such remarks as: “Surely you did not know that,” and, “You did not know of this, either!”

  Fima’s eyes brightened especially when the scholars told him of the vault wherein all the original manuscripts of Salasin were stored. It was sealed to prevent damage by the sea-air, and one needed to wear special gloves to handle any of the items in it. At last, however, he grew weary and closed his eyes. Though every breath still sounded as though it could be his last, he had found his resolve.

  “He is sleeping,” said Gaelen, who was worn out from the effort she had made. “I’m satisfied that all has been done here that can be. We should return him to his place, and rely on the skills of the healers from here.”

  Estle looked with wonder at Fima; it seemed now that there might be hope for him after all. “Do you really think he will live?” she asked Gaelen.

  “I’m not a healer, but it is my belief that stubborn will can overcome affliction, and he is among the most stubborn of beings. We’ll see.” She turned to Rogond. “I do hope that he will still consider me to be his friend after those terribly discourteous things I said to him.”