“Why?”
“Our master said there would not be any clearer accusation of the nostàroi. It says a statue can be destroyed, but the truth cannot.”
I should have killed the old man yesterday! Sinthoras urged the night-mare to a wild gallop and they swept through the city. He is too wily a customer to be allowed to stay alive. He wanted to deal with Polòtain once and for all.
But there was an army waiting for him and they had to get the invasion underway before winter. Without the nostàroi, their own troops and the allies might not even march.
But that doesn’t mean Polòtain is safe from me. My arm is long enough to reach Dsôn from the Gray Mountains. Sinthoras was thinking of his personal guards—particularly of Morana, a tried and tested fighter. I will send her and have the troublemaker killed.
He was convinced the young älf would not refuse to carry out his commission. The favor of a nostàroi is worth a great deal—she will know that. Everything she could wish for if she kills the old man for me!
Sinthoras bought two dozen bottles of good wine from a merchant in town and then headed southeast, to get to the Gray Mountains as quickly as possible.
He left the city as he had entered it—incognito. Riding swift as an arrow through the älfar realm, he reached the same defense outpost he had passed on his previous ride.
The watch on the island fortress were delighted with his gift and promised anew they would keep his secret.
Sinthoras exchanged mounts, taking the benàmoi’s fresh night-mare; he was about to cross over to Ishím Voróo when the commander stopped him: “Before you go to the Gray Mountains, can you tell us about these new stories, Nostàroi? They say the dorón ashont have emerged again in the northwest?”
“The dorón ashont?” Sinthoras could tell the question was serious, but he had only heard tell of these creatures in the old legends. They had been defeated for all time, as far as he knew—eradicated. There was only one explanation: Polòtain’s associates must be spreading rumors to make the public frightened! Is this part of his plan to get the älfar to mistrust me? Is there nothing he would not stoop to? I must send Morana off to Dsôn to finish him off. Or Arviû could do it, perhaps?
“No, this is the first I’ve heard,” he answered. “The dorón ashont are just legend. Forget it! Go back to your men—enjoy the wine, all of you; you have earned it with your loyalty.”
Sinthoras galloped over the bridge.
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), to the south east of the Gray Mountains, the Golden Plain,
4371st division of unendingness (5199th solar cycle),
late summer.
Morana placed one page after another down in front of Caphalor. She was showing him the sketches and descriptions of the crater she had discovered. She was so excited; he could hardly read quick enough. “I’m sorry my drawings aren’t very good, but I swear by all that’s infamous that this location is even more splendid and impressive in reality, Nostàroi.”
He took in the content of the pages, focusing on every detail.
They had been conferring in his tent for half a moment of unendingness. He had listened carefully to her report, only interrupting to ask the occasional question.
Morana had not been surprised to see the älfar army marching out into Tark Draan—it was high time they began their campaign, but she did wonder why Sinthoras had not been taking part in the briefing sessions. He had not been at the meeting where the commanders were given their orders and he was not here now. She had been told he had some unspecified malady. What on earth can it be?
Caphalor laid the last drawing to one side. “You have found one of the places where the Creator Spirit’s tears fell,” he said, his voice shaking with emotion. “This is a sign, Morana! A sign that our victory over the elves is nigh! The goddess placed her mark in the earth and the elves have been powerless against her might: they have not been able to fill the crater or reduce the aura. The tear has suffused the ground with Inàste’s divinity!” He leaped to his feet and grabbed her by the shoulders. “I can’t thank you enough for your courage in daring to explore the place! I knew you were the right choice. That you were the one!”
Morana recognized the desire in his eyes. The älf was apparently more than interested in her. In her: a simple warrior, not even from a noble family! I wasn’t mistaken; he liked me from the very start! She was surprised to find this made her feel nervous. “Nostàroi, I thank you for your praise, but I was only following orders. Any one of your scouts could have completed the task—”
“But it was you I sent, because you had caught my eye,” he interrupted her. “You among all the others.” He realized she might be misinterpreting his words. He released his hold and stepped back. “I meant—”
“I know what you meant,” she said with a smile. Is it him making my heart beat so fast? Her uncertainty remained. She knew what had happened to his life-partner and that he must have loved her dearly. They had been together longer than any other älfar couple she knew of. Perhaps his emotions are still confused? But she couldn’t deny the warm wave of pleasure she felt when she looked at him. Don’t get your hopes up. He probably sees Enoïla when he looks at you. He wants a substitute for her, not a new partner. This meeting was about the Tark Draan campaign and the elves and nothing else. That was why they were both wearing armor rather than sumptuous robes, as if for some social or intimate event.
“Good.” He looked more at ease now as he pushed back his long black hair. “Tomorrow I’ll give the army the order to march on the elf realm and advance to the crater. We’ll raze every single settlement we pass to the ground.”
“And when we get to the crater?”
“We offer the elves a target. They will try to drive us out and stop us establishing ourselves there.” Caphalor moved the sketches to one side and brought the plan of Tark Draan to the fore. Half of the territory had been carefully mapped out, but there were large blank areas on the other half. The scouts who were covering that area were still on reconnaissance. “We shall force them to send their army against us. We will choose the battlefield location—one that gives us all the advantages.”
Morana perused the figures he had written down.
The list with the heading Marching Orders mentioned around 100,000 barbarians from various tribes, 20,000 Kraggash óarcos, 40,000 óarcos, 4,000 gnomes, 5,000 ogres, 7,000 half-trolls, and 70,000 miscellaneous creatures. Finally, there were 30,000 älfar warriors.
Then the figures had been amended: the army had lost a tenth of its fighting force. Members of their own race had not been affected: the älfar had ensured that it was the other creatures in the army that saw the brunt of the action at the Stone Gateway, thus protecting their own. The barbarians had not suffered too greatly, either, because they had had the óarcos in front of them. The other creatures had heavier losses, but none so bad as to be alarming.
“That’s a lot of soldiers,” commented Morana.
“It looks that way at first view. I had to split them into smaller units so that we could make quicker progress. 10,000 of our own warriors will be leading these units and keeping them in check where necessary.”
Morana leaned forward, took a measuring rule and indicated a point to the north of the crater. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but it looks like we’ve got 20,000 älfar warriors to attack the Golden Plain?”
“Half of them are archers with a range of a thousand paces, more with a following wind,” he added, going on to ask her eagerly: “What would you suggest?”
She circled a small area with the end of the ruler. “There’s a small valley here. It looks as if it could be defended against an advancing army without incurring great losses, but with a little preparation . . .” She sensed that Caphalor was staring at her in surprise. Was I too bold?
“It sounds as if you know about strategy?”
“I . . . I like to play Tharc with my brothers. It trains my mind.” Morana put the wooden rule back down on the table. “Forgive me. I went t
oo far.”
He smiled kindly. “No, you didn’t! I am glad that you are using your brain. I know the game, but I must admit I was never very good at it.” Caphalor placed a hand on her shoulder. “You are just what I need.” He left his hand there. “The valley. Good. Explain. Tell me how you would handle it.”
“It depends on where the elves gather. We have to pretend we really want them—” She stopped. “Have you not got any trained strategists for this?”
He nodded.
All right. If that’s the way of it. Morana drew a deep breath and explained her plan. When she had finished she looked up at Caphalor.
“I am impressed. You have obviously got the territory clearly in mind. You must know it as well as the elves do.”
“Better, I think,” she said, smiling with relief and satisfaction.
“I have taken on board what you have told me and I’ll discuss it all with the strategic advisers the Inextinguishables have placed at my disposal. I mean at our disposal: Sinthoras and myself.” He bent and kissed her on the forehead. “For now, you have my thanks. You will receive further rewards later.”
“Th-Thank you,” she stuttered. He has feelings for me? She quickly drained her cup of water with its dash of thujona syrup. How can I be sure?
He walked up and down the room, one hand on the pommel of the sword that hung by his side. “As I said: I am very pleased with you.”
“Thank you, Nostàroi.”
“It would be a waste to send you into battle.” He looked at the map. “I want you to head south. Use any trick that occurs to you. Let no one know you are an älf for the duration of the journey. Then, make the barbarians in the south worried—convince them that the elves are their sworn enemies and that we are the ones to save them!” He walked up to her and, with the fingertips of his right hand, touched her cheek. “Find all those who can be talked into joining our army.”
“A pact with the scum of Tark Draan?”
“Only on the face of it, Morana. We’ll invite them to join us so that we can get to know them properly; it will be all the simpler to destroy them later on. We’ll put them in the front line every time we go into battle. They can act as targets for the enemy’s arrows. That’s what allies are for, after all. At some stage we’ll run out of óarcos and gnomes: Tark Draan’s residents will be substitutes for them.” His face displayed a malicious grin. “You can always entice a barbarian to do what you want if you offer them gold and land. Promise them riches and they won’t fight against us, but go into battle on our behalf.” Caphalor touched her dark hair. “I know you’ll be successful and I know I can rely on you.”
“Of course you can, Nostàroi.” She bowed her head. If he’s sending me away, then he can’t be interested in me after all. Is that a good thing or not? “Well, maybe I should get ready to leave.”
“Tomorrow is soon enough.” He stared intently into her blue-gray eyes. “Would you care to eat with me this evening, Morana? It would be in recognition of your achievements. And I have a gift for you from Virssagòn. Before he left he told me you had given him an idea for a new weapon. He said you’d be able to work out how best to use it.”
The invitation to dinner came as somewhat of a shock. “If you will excuse me, Nostàroi, I think it is important I be fully rested for tomorrow’s mission, but I am grateful that you have honored—”
“I shall expect you after the benàmoi briefing,” he continued, ignoring her objection. “I am sure you will enjoy the meal. It will be a welcome change from the barbarian food you’ll be putting up with again soon.” He moved to the tent flap and held it open for her. “Until this evening.”
I really don’t understand. It’s impossible to read him. She walked slowly past him and avoided his gaze. She was not sure whether she should be looking forward to the coming evening or not.
Morana headed for the nostàroi’s quarters. My heart is thudding again!
A servant had come to tell her that the briefing session was over and that Caphalor was waiting for her.
She had secretly been hoping to get out of the dinner invitation. There was no way of knowing what was about to happen within the canvas walls of the tent—and what the consequences might be.
She felt nervous and indecisive.
She had not known how to dress for the occasion. As a member of the nostàroi’s personal guard, she could have worn her armor, but Caphalor had emphasized that he was inviting her to join him for a meal, so she thought the uniform would be out of place. Instead, she had selected a long, dark leather dress topped by a deep red bodice. The corsage was decorated with bones set with tionium, between which hung delicate silver chains. She had tied back her black hair and darkened her eyelids with charcoal—she had wanted to keep things simple so as not to give the wrong impression.
What impression do I actually want to make? There was no question in her mind: Morana found Caphalor attractive. But there was something about him that disturbed her.
If he had not been the nostàroi she would certainly have been happy to indulge in a dalliance, but any subordinate who went in for such an arrangement would end up the loser.
It might work until Caphalor finds someone else and then drops me, but the whole of Dsôn would be laughing at me then. Morana sighed and approached the tent hesitantly. I should have left straightaway. It was stupid of me to agree to come tonight.
Passing the armed guards, warriors from her own unit, she picked up their unmistakable disapproval and envy.
And then she was standing in front of Caphalor, who had been waiting for her, dressed in a fine black robe. “Good evening, Nostàroi,” she said, starting to bow.
But he came up to her and held her arm. “No, don’t bow. I’m not your commander tonight,” he said gently. “I am Caphalor. Caphalor pure and simple.”
It’s as I thought! She nodded. “The food smells good.”
He laughed. “Yes, the cooks have made something special for us tonight: something you can get in the finest inns back home, but not here in Tark Draan.” He stepped aside, letting her see the table.
A veritable banquet of Dsôn delicacies had been prepared. Several different wines stood ready in their jeweled carafes at the head of the table and two goblets had already been filled. There was a casket by the side of her place.
“I told them not to bring the dishes one after another, but to serve everything at once,” she heard him say. He was so close to her that she could smell the scent he used: it was heavy and spiced. “I thought it would be better if we were not disturbed.”
Of course. I should have known. Morana sat down. “It’s nice and quiet; I’m still feeling shaken up after my ride through Tark Draan.” Waiting until Caphalor was seated and had served himself, Morana chose some food and started to eat.
“The box is from Virssagòn,” he said, indicating the box to her right. “Don’t forget to take it with you. He’s very keen to know what you think of his new invention. He calls it Sun and Moon.”
She wondered what the weapon master had thought up. She ate in silence; the food was wonderful. It tasted of home. She started to hope she would be able to go soon, before . . .
“Do you know what I miss?” said Caphalor wistfully, as he cut the meat on his plate and added gravy.
“Your bed, perhaps?” she joked, afraid of hearing something she did not want to be told; something that would lead to complications.
“Somebody to share my problems with,” he said, before he took the next mouthful, chewing carefully and then swallowing before going on. “Take our briefing session just now: I had to listen to the benàmoi telling me that the óarcos and the gnomes are doing whatever they feel like. Some of them are heading off without waiting for orders: the trolls want to go east; there’s some mountain range they’ve heard of they’ve taken a liking to. The ogres are apparently complaining they won’t get the chance to win sufficient land for their needs. And the barbarians from Ishím Voróo are making a fuss about the way we’re treati
ng the barbarians in Tark Draan!” As the list grew longer, his voice got louder and louder until he slammed his fist down on the table, making the plates jump. “This is war and the allies are whining and fussing as if we were on some little outing! The only ones conducting themselves properly are our own warriors.”
“Does Sinthoras not help you?”
“Sinthoras?” Caphalor gave a bitter laugh. “He keeps to his bed and leaves it all up to me—commanding the chaos that calls itself our army.” He hurled his knife and fork onto the table and drained his goblet. He seemed to be looking straight through Morana. “I could talk about absolutely anything with her,” he whispered. “She always had time to listen and knew how to advise me—she would always come up with some idea, some way out.” He shut his eyes.
Morana looked at him, uncertain of what to say or do. Grief is eating him up. She was torn between sympathy for him and caution. Finally she stood up, walked over to him and put her hands on his shoulders.
Caphalor seized her hands as if he were a drowning man. “I am so glad you are there,” he whispered. “I need someone to confide in.” He tilted his head to one side, resting his cheek on her hand. A sigh of relief escaped him. “Someone to be close to . . .”
“I know how much it hurts when you lose someone you love, but I am not her,” said Morana gently.
Caphalor stiffened. “You think you know how much it hurts?”
“Yes. My brother—”
He gave a contemptuous laugh and raised his head. He grasped her hands hard, hurting her wrists. “You have never been near the depths of despair I have known!” He released his hold and leaped to his feet, staring at her as if she had been at fault—as if she were guilty of murdering his life companion.
I should never have come. Morana avoided his eyes. “Caphalor, I was only trying—”
“You have absolutely no idea!” he roared. “No idea what it is like! No idea what has died in me! No idea what I want!” He turned abruptly, grabbed a carafe of wine and put it to his mouth, drinking greedily. Then he blurted out: “Every single moment of unendingness I long for death, but it has refused to find me: not in battle and not when I tried to starve myself. That’s when I rode out to Tark Draan, the land that was responsible for what happened to her. But even here death avoids me. I am not granted any victory that might lessen my pain. The army is advancing mile after mile but the torture never ceases. It never stops burning and burning!” He threw the carafe down and it shattered. “And you have the nerve to say you know how it feels?”