No time. Rognor realised it was up to him to stop the deed. He slammed the morningstar into Phenîlas’ right knee.
The elf tumbled to one side and his sword missed his intended victim by a hair’s breadth. He turned on the chancellor, hobbling, his lower leg at an unnatural angle. “You first, then her. Then all of them!” he roared. “Caution! Certainty!”
The only thing Rognor could think of was to slam his morningstar at Phenîlas again, aiming anywhere but the head. “If Sitalia loves you, you will survive.”
The flying metal sphere struck Phenîlas in the chest. The palladium armour could not withstand the force of the blow and the blades cut through the damaged metal. The elf fell back, groaning, blood spurting out. Rognor had released the weapon so as not to be dragged with it.
The elf dropped his sword. It clattered onto the black stone. Then Phenîlas collapsed. His mouth was still forming words but the only sounds to emerge were moans. The light in his eyes was starting to flicker; they glazed over. The dwarf’s weapon had had a devastating effect and was still stuck in the blood-spattered white armour.
Sitalia made her choice. Unarmed now except for a dagger, the chancellor was now hopelessly outnumbered. He waited for the elves to turn on him.
The elf-woman whose child lay in the tent came to him—and she knelt before him, grasped his hand and kissed his fingers.
“My name is Inisëa and only you have had the grace and the courage to save my child from the clutches of that madman,” she said, sobbing with relief. “I shall never forget what you have done and will always be grateful. All the elves shall hear about your great deed, Rognor Mortalblow. If you should ever be in need, ask for me.”
Ocâstia carried the young child out of the interrogation tent and placed her in her mother’s arms. Applause broke out and the crowd started calling Rognor’s name.
Some of the elves took hold of Phenîlas’ corpse and began to drag it away. Ocâstia extricated the morningstar and returned it to Rognor. The dwarf gulped. He had been expecting anything but this reception.
“You have done more for the relationship between our two races than any other dwarf in history,” Ocâstia whispered to him. She raised her arms and the crowd quietened down. In her right hand she held a letter bearing the Naishïon’s own seal. “Is it not tragic that the order recalling Phenîlas has only arrived now? Our ruler has realised the commander lost competence. I pledge I shall make sure the tests are quicker, more moderate and still very thorough.” She indicated the wagon train. “Our Naishïon has sent us this gift: elf corn. The first harvest from our new homeland. Go back to your tents, collect a bowl each and come back here so we can begin distributing the grain.”
The crowd dispersed, their relief almost palpable.
Rognor stared at the bloodstained iron morningstar that had sent the sorânïon to his endingness. He carefully replaced the protective covers.
“It was self-defence. He did not know what he was doing. He had gone insane.” Ocâstia bowed to Rognor. “Chancellor, you are a true hero. Where my own warriors and I did not dare to act, you stepped in. Accept my gratitude.”
“That is my people’s mission,” Rognor replied, though he was flattered by her words. “It’s what we are here for. We’re here now and will be here in the future, too.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll leave my dwarves guarding the wagons, though I doubt that’s necessary now.”
“You have removed our greatest scourge. Before autumn comes, the camp will be gone and the Black Mountains will belong to the Thirdlings once more.” Ocâstia nodded to him. “I shall go and see to the distribution, Chancellor.”
Rognor raised a hand in acknowledgement and headed back towards the fortress.
Usually he was treated with mild indifference when he went through the camp, but now all the elves, male and female alike, bowed their heads to him as he passed.
I shall always remember this orbit. He went through the gate and climbed the steps to the walkway to watch how Ocâstia and the sorânïons shared out the grain, giving some to each resident of the tented city. Soon music was heard; songs that now had no sadness to them. The mood had changed remarkably; it was as if a shadow had been removed from the minds of those patiently awaiting admittance to Girdlegard. They were singing praise to Sitalia and to their Naishïon. He even heard his own name mentioned in their songs.
Rognor gradually came to realise the significance of what had occurred. It had all happened too quickly for him to take it in at first. But it really did happen.
When his gaze swept the scene he noticed a group of elves standing at the edge of the ravine, led by the elf-woman whose daughter he had saved. They were throwing Phenîlas’ armoured body over the edge without ceremony, followed by his sword. He was sent down to join the others he had killed. Neither Ocâstia nor the other officers intervened to prevent this.
Rognor knew the horrors of war well and how the cruel brutalities of the battlefield could affect one’s mind. Dwarves might be less susceptible than other creatures because Vraccas had made them steadfast and resilient, but he was aware that many warriors in the elf and human armies found themselves paralysed after battle.
The pain he inflicted on others ate him up from the inside. Rognor shuddered, remembering the look on the sorânïon commander’s face and how he had repeated the words “caution” and “certainty.” He was a good elf when he first arrived.
Ocâstia looked up towards the battlements. She spotted Rognor and waved her hand at the dwarf and bowed several times. Several of her entourage followed suit and his name was called again. There was no end to their gratitude. Returning their greeting, Rognor felt very proud. He knew he would have nothing to fear from the Naishïon. He had hundreds of elves to vouch for him, and Ocâstia, too, would verify that all he had done was in self-defence and to prevent an insane elf from committing murder.
But a mystery remained. Phenîlas had taken a secret to the abyss with him. What arrangement had he made with the älf? Rognor looked up at the Black Mountains whose peaks were shrouded in mist.
He was no friend of unanswered questions. But he could not come up with a solution. Not any longer.
In this way whole cycles passed. Or so I believe.
Occasionally one of the dwarves would be summoned out of his cage and sent into combat against an ashont. Often they were defeated, in spite of the heroic fight they put up. There were some minor victories but in the long run, they were not able to overcome. But we continued to observe and to hope we might find a weakness in the Towers That Walk that we could take advantage of.
I spent much time in my cage as negotiated for me by Tungdil with the emperor-mother. I was given parchment, paper, ink and nibs, so I could draw and write and sketch.
We could only guess how many cycles actually passed. It seemed to me they put the dwarves into the arena more than once every solar session, which would have been to our advantage if we had had a chance to defeat one of them.
But we made use of the time. Tungdil and I talked a great deal. He left his prison as often as he could, opening the door to his cage with the spear tip he had concealed. He would make his way clandestinely to the library and read until his eyes were sore. He would copy anything he found of value to share with us. In this way, he taught us the language and the customs of the ashont. He gave us any details about their physical makeup that he was able to glean from their healers’ books.
Secretly, then, we acquired the knowledge the ashont had. Our aim was, one orbit, to be able to employ it against them. What would the Inextinguishables have given for this opportunity!
What had been happening in Girdlegard? No idea. I can only assume there was still Sha’taï in charge, manipulating the power structure. Manipulating it to her own advantage.
If I ever return alive, I’m curious about how things have turned out. Very curious indeed.
But I hardly think I will ever return there. My strength is ebbing away.
Secret notes for
br /> The Writings of Truth
written under duress by Carmondai
XXIV
Somewhere in the Outer Lands
Tungdil hurried through the ventilation shafts bent double with copies of two documents under his arm. He got back to the arena without being spotted by the acronta guards. The writings dealt with the älfar cities and the subject of the botoicans, who were seen by the emperor-mother—as the acronta ruler was known—as an insignificant danger.
This, in the dwarf’s opinion, was a considerable misjudgement.
They won’t know what’s hit them if they succumb to the power of the botoican magicians.
Tungdil turned a corner and jumped down, landing on the roof of his own cage and sliding down the bars. “I’ve found something,” he told Carmondai, handing over the papers.
“You always do.” The älf looked at the notes and passed them to Gosalyn. The fact that they had been there for several cycles now was obvious from the state of Carmondai’s hair: it was growing long and dark brown with silver strands. It covered the scar of the branded warnings on his forehead and cheeks.
In the neighbouring cages, Hargorin and Beligata were occupied with improving their knowledge of acronta script and language and their study of medical writings about their captors’ physiques. Both of them had long recovered from their injuries and had been selected several times to take the arena against one of the emperor-mother’s combatants. So far they had not scored a single victory, but this only motivated them further to concentrate on their studies. Beligata knew more than any of the others about how the acronta were put together. Tungdil had decoded the acronta language and taught the others; he had no problems supplying them with more information from the library.
Beligata has the makings of a scholar herself. Tungdil opened his cage and slipped back inside, pulling the lid closed over his head. I wonder when she will tell us the truth about that scar of hers. The edges are looking inflamed again.
He was tired. He lay down, kissed the vraccasium ring and closed his eyes to get some rest, but his head was buzzing. He had to process what he had been reading. He had never been so rich in knowledge and facts. The acronta had written records about every single race Tungdil had ever encountered. They evaluated each nation, noting how dangerous they might prove, what style of combat they preferred, what they looked like, how they spoke and how they chose to behave. There were maps of cities and settlements and details of projects and developments.
The acronta scouts had done their work thoroughly—except when it came to Girdlegard.
They had always failed to get through as long as the Children of the Smith had held the gates. This delighted Beligata and Hargorin. In the few instances when the Stone Gateway had proved permeable, spies had recorded the normal type of beast attack but noted that no intervention on their part had been necessary.
Tungdil rolled onto his back. His mind was preoccupied with all this new information. He tried to memorise everything he read; the acronta had been a totally unknown quantity until now. And here he was, held in their secret location, a place he had been unable to pinpoint despite having found several maps on the archive shelves.
They used the term Acïjn Rhârk to refer to themselves. He had learned why Andôkai’s bodyguard had called himself Djeru˚n: it was a word derived from the concept Daajerhu˚n, a designation accorded to the prime specimens of acronta warriors. The bodyguard’s name was a corrupted form of this honorary title.
From cycle to cycle the Srai G’dàma, or sacred emperor-mother, would decide which beasts would constitute the priority target. They would then poll the scouts for any relevant information.
The motivation did not stem purely from the wish to eradicate their enemies; it was deeply rooted in acronta mythology. Only when so-called Kân Thalay—balance—was attained in the world would the times become quiet and inner calm be established. That achieved, there would be no more need for the acronta to go into battle at all. This was their highest aim. Until that point, however, their whole existence was geared towards combat. Humans stood very low on their list of creatures.
Tungdil was fascinated by what he had managed to learn about the acronta way of life. They were hatched from eggs like snakes, and the young were nurtured for five cycles in the home hive. At that point they were considered fully developed; after one more cycle, they attained full size.
Tungdil had always thought they were nomadic but this proved to be wrong. The location of their home hive was kept strictly secret and was not visible as such from the outside. The ones that roamed the lands were fighting units and they could appear as if out of nowhere.
I shan’t be able to sleep. He got up and stared at the combat arena below. Very recently a troll had been torn to pieces by one of the acronta.
Their warriors were trained for three full cycles to reach the basic standard. After ten cycles they could qualify for special forces work, and fifty cycles’ experience made them veterans: the elite of the fighting force.
On the march or in battle they would work in teams of five, as denoted on their armour. The decorations showed how many enemies they had despatched and what merits they had earned.
The Srai G’dàma, the sacred emperor-mother, laid particularly large eggs, which gave rise to the most dangerous specimens. They would grow to be twice as strong and twice the size of the normal acronta. These ones often grew wings. Many of them were called to higher purposes; they often ventured out at the emperor-mother’s behest to found a new hive or settlement—often in the vicinity of a prolific beast population—where they would recruit further acronta to join them. However, each and every acront was under the control of the sacred emperor-mother. Tungdil knew now that she was the one who had spared him before, though the conditions she had set were proving impossible to meet.
I must not be ungrateful. We are, after all, still alive. Tungdil touched the bars of his cage. But it’s time we completed our mission. Ideally with the acronta as our allies. Somehow or other he had to find a way to convince them of the danger the botoicans presented.
Tungdil regularly scoured the latest reports that arrived in the archives from the acronta scouts and he came across indications that a botoican had, in the course of the last two cycles, been mustering a huge army, mostly composed of large monsters. A quick study of the map told him that this was happening more than eight hundred miles away from the Stone Gateway.
His homeland was not in immediate danger.
But that can change.
Tungdil saw the access gate for the combat arena open. An armoured acront stepped in. The illuminating mirrors swung round, lighting up the floor.
A new contest.
The dwarf looked up and saw the hook dropping—heading straight for his own cage.
So it’s to be me this time. “Beligata,” he said, alarmed, getting to his feet. “Quick, tell me about their weak points.”
“I’ve been investigating one thing,” she replied quickly, checking through her notes. “What was it …”
But Tungdil’s cage was already being lifted up and heaved down from its ledge. “Keep looking,” he called to her. “I’ll try to keep him at arm’s length until you find it.”
Carmondai pointed past them to the other end of the hall. “Not just the one.”
Tungdil turned.
Three dozen cages were being lowered alongside his own, their inmates shaking and rattling the bars like creatures possessed. Orcs came to light, and composite beasts made up of animal and monster, as well as a troll or two and a creature that one would expect to find in the ocean. From every side of the arena came the sound of miscellaneous weaponry, shields, and bits of armour clattering down from above for the beasts to arm themselves.
Holding a super-length sword and an axe, the acront assayed a few moves, roaring from behind his visor.
One of the veterans wanting to win a new award for his armour. Tungdil kept his hidden spear-tip to hand under his garments. He’s obvious
ly looking for a challenge. Tungdil could see the judges assembling in the viewing box.
Tungdil’s cage landed with a thump and the acront went round opening up all the lids. None of the monsters attacked. Instead they raced over to the piles of armour.
Strange. Tungdil was not attacked, either. They have not selected the most stupid ones, then, for the contest with the warrior.
In contrast to the others, he did not hurry to don armour. He strolled over to the heap that had already been plundered.
He watched two orcs trying to get the beasts to organise themselves and make a concerted effort, but the others did not understand their roars. This meant they all formed small groups of fighters who already knew each other, or were of the same race. Not the sort of company I would normally seek. I’m better off on my own.
Tungdil looked at the left-over material. On the whole they were weapons captured in battle, and unsuitable for acronta use because of their size and type. Instead of melting them down in the workshops, they supplied the prisoners with them.
Squatting down, he selected a shield that was not too much the worse for wear, a rope, a reasonably sharp hand axe and six well-balanced daggers. That should work for me. He kicked around at his leisure in the pile of armour, trying to find pieces that would fit together. The first death cries were already occurring behind him and the captive audience in their niches were grunting and roaring. The scum of the arena were being egged on by their caged compatriots.
In the hope the judges would not notice, Tungdil threw the daggers up to his friends. He discovered some armour-plate that would at least protect his back and chest. He put it on, then chose some forearm protectors and a helmet. He slung the rope over his shoulder. “Beligata?”
“Still looking,” she shouted. “He’s occupied at the moment.” Tungdil straightened and fastened the leather thongs of the armour, glancing at the raging battle. Four down already.
Because he had previously studied numerous single-combat bouts and had read the archive instructions about sword play, Tungdil found himself able to predict what strokes the veteran would use. That would make it slightly easier to survive in combat with the Tower That Walks and to wait until a suitable opportunity occurred. But there was a big difference between successfully dodging an attack and actually landing a blow of his own skilfully enough to put the veteran out of action.