The famula had become a maga, with a heavier burden on her shoulders than she could ever have imagined. I should call myself Famenia the Tested.
CHAPTER XI
Do you know the Walking Towers?
With their deadly floods and toxic showers!
Come on! Come on!
Fight however you can
so THEY don’t win
Don’t let THEM in!
They have wild and crazy plans
to put us in their pots and pans
They want us for meat!
They want us to eat!
Nursery rhyme The Towers that Walk
2nd verse
Ishím Voróo (Outer Lands), Dsôn Faïmon, radial arm Wèlèron,
4371st division of unendingness (5199th solar cycle),
late autumn.
“What are you saying?” Arviû had to pull himself together. Rage sent fine black lines zigzagging across his face; he could feel the pull of them on his skin. He sat there unable to see anything at all. Except the dark.
“You are lucky to be alive,” a female healer said. He had forgotten her name, just as he had forgotten most small facts since being hit on the head. His memory had functioned excellently up until the Golden Plain battle—but after that point . . . “We opened up your skull and were able to take out lots of shrapnel. We were able to save your eyes—”
“So why can’t I see anything?” he yelled, digging his fingers into the sheet. “What use are my eyes if they won’t show me anything?”
“We don’t know the answer to that,” she said. “It could be that a fragment entered your brain and is still lodged in the part that is the seat of vision. We are afraid that if we undertake a further investigation you could suffer more serious damage.”
“Or maybe it’s the after effects of the blow to the head.” This voice was a male. “To be honest, you can see that we—I mean, we are at a loss.”
Arviû had noticed the älf backtracking in the middle of the sentence. He uttered a loud, long cry, as if to drive away the darkness that enveloped him. There was no pain or weakness—the only thing was this blindness. He wanted to get back to Tark Draan and punish the elves for what they had done to him—but a blind archer? What use am I now?
He tried to relax. He lifted a hand to touch his face, located his eyes and discovered that they were open.
But when his fingertips touched them he could not feel anything. The eyelids did not even close instinctively.
Arviû gave another shout of anger and helplessness.
“We’ll give you a potion to calm you,” said the female. He felt her put her hand on his chest. “Give yourself some time. You have time enough to spare. Maybe your sight will return.”
A drinking vessel was placed at his lips. He swallowed the sweet liquid and after five breaths he felt in less turmoil.
In place of fury came implacable hatred: hatred of the elves. Hatred such as he had never known before: destructive, deep-seated, demanding. “Where am I to be taken?”
“You are still in Wèlèron, in Ertrimar’s infirmary.”
Arviû turned his face away. “I keep forgetting,” he whispered. Ye infamous ones, those splinters have bored into my memory and made it like a sieve! “Leave me.”
“As you wish,” said the male älf. “There’s a bell on the table next to your bed. If you need anything, ring.”
He heard their steps retreating and a door opening and closing, then it was silent. If I need anything . . . Of course I need something! Can’t they give me some new eyes?
Arviû knew the healers were good at what they did, but apparently his case was beyond them.
In his mind’s eye he saw the armored elf swinging the broken lance and striking him. He heard the sounds of battle, the horses and night-mares neighing . . . He could remember all those details—but now he was staring into a dark abyss.
I must have my revenge, or I shall have no peace until I enter endingness! Arviû clenched his fists. I shall make the elves pay. I’ll slaughter them!
And it suddenly occurred to him how he might achieve this end.
The Inextinguishables had sightless confidants who had volunteered to be blinded so they would not go insane upon beholding the Sibling Rulers. These älfar were held to be the best warriors; they used their hearing to find their way about. The slightest rustle or clink told them where their adversary was standing—they could defeat sighted soldiers.
I wonder if I can achieve that same perfection with my archery skills? Arviû was doubtful about applying that same standard to himself. He would have to train his sense of hearing to the utmost degree if he was going to detect a potential target at a distance of 500 paces, let alone the 2,000 he had been able to cover before. There would be distracting sounds from the environment, wind, voices . . . No, I’ll never be able to do it!
That’s over with. That’s the past. His hatred of the elves boiled up again, negating the beneficial effects of the potion he had been given. They have taken what was most precious to me: what made me unique. No one in Dsôn Faïmon could rival my archery skills. Nobody in Dsôn and no creature in Ishím Voróo or in Tark Draan!
A strangled cry issued from Arviû’s throat, but it gave him no relief. The urgent wish to bring cruel death to the elves grew and grew.
I will blind them! I want them to suffer what I suffer. I’ll blind them and turn them out into the wilderness as target practice. I’ll enjoy hunting down that quarry. All the fairer if huntsman and prey alike have no sight!
The idea settled firmly in his mind. The Inextinguishables’ coterie must teach me how to fight without sight. He felt for the bell and rang it. He would achieve what the blind bodyguard had—mastery over the darkness.
Something else struck him as he was ringing the bell.
The door opened. “You rang, master?”
A slave! So I could try. Quick as a flash he hurled the bell in the direction of the voice.
The slave grunted; the bell tinkled as it fell to the floor. “What did I do to deserve that, master?”
“Where did I hit you?”
“On my nose, master.”
“Curses! I was aiming at your mouth.” But Arviû was pleased with himself. He had not lost much of his accuracy. I shall have a set of knives made. Virssagòn can do that. They’ll have blades sharp enough to give my victims slashing wounds if I even catch them with a glancing throw. “Help me get dressed. I don’t know where they’ve put my clothes. We are going to Dsôn. To the Bone Tower.”
“Yes, master.”
He swung his legs off the bed and felt a sudden surge of confidence. “And bring the bell.”
“Of course, master.”
The slave helped Arviû into a silken robe. It was apparently one of his own that his two daughters had brought in.
He felt the ornamental border on the sleeves. The fabric bore a perfume he recognized as his elder daughter’s, Parnôri’s. It touched him to think she had been looking after him although she lived so far away. Both daughters had chosen the life of rural estate owner in Shiimal and had nothing to do with the military life. At first this had been a source of regret to him, but now . . . I could go and live with Parnôri until I—
“Forgive me, master. But have you not heard about the mysterious sickness? The whole of Dsôn is in upheaval. Many of the citizens from the capital have fled to the countryside. It may not be a good time to travel.”
Arviû’s train of thought was interrupted by the slave’s words. “Since when have the älfar ever feared illness and disease?” he asked patronizingly.
“I know your race is particularly resistant to disease, master, and I am full of admiration,” the human replied as he helped Arviû into his boots. “There seems, however, to be a new illness that leaves the healers puzzled.”
Arviû would not normally pay any attention to barbarian rumors, but the man sounded genuine in his concern. “It’s only älfar getting sick?”
“Yes, master.
”
Arviû stood up and walked toward the door with his hand on the slave’s shoulder. It was humiliating to be led in this fashion, but it was unavoidable. When the warriors in the Bone Tower had trained him, he would be independent, of course. “Tell me what has been happening.”
“It began forty moments of unendingness ago. An älf by the name of Arganaï was the very first victim. He had been taken captive by the dorón ashont but managed to get away to warn Dsôn. He was found one morning in his quarters. It’s said his whole body had burst open. His intestines were completely destroyed, as if they had been sprayed with acid. Some other älfar died soon after that, in exactly the same way.”
“These others, where were they from?”
“They were guards like he was and they had shared rooms. Then the illness spread. There seems to be no stopping it.”
They had arrived at the stables, as Arviû realized from the smell and the noises.
“Wait here, master. I’ll put the horse in the shafts.”
“But carry on with what you’re telling me.” Arviû removed his hand from the slave’s shoulder. He abhorred this feeling of utter helplessness. I was the best archer in the land and now I’m no better than an infant.
“I’m afraid that’s all I know,” the slave said as he put the horse in harness. “I only know that Wèlèron’s healing experts remain confused. As slaves, of course, we don’t get told the details.”
“So it began with that älf . . . ?” This confounded memory problem.
“Yes, Arganaï. He lost an arm during his escape, but still managed to fight his way across Ishím Voróo and past enemy lines. And then to pass into endingness like that . . . Nobody deserves to die that way. He must have suffered terribly.” There came the sound of wheels turning.
“He can’t really have suffered much, or wouldn’t his comrades have come running?” objected Arviû. This slave could be pulling all kinds of faces and making fun of me and I wouldn’t notice. “Or perhaps it attacked his lungs first, so he couldn’t cry out.” Hearing the name dorón ashont reminded Arviû of what the two healers had been talking about at his bedside: monsters that had attacked the border between the radial arms of Wèlèron and Avaris, but he had forgotten how the rest of the story went. “And what’s happening in the north?”
“You mean where the dorón ashont attacked, master?”
“What else could I mean?”
Steps approached him again.
“The empire is safe, but in Wèlèron three of the defense islands had their fortresses badly damaged by enemy catapult fire. They were taken by surprise. No one had thought the dorón ashont capable of building such powerful machines.” It hadn’t escaped Arviû that the slave sounded quite glad about these events. Either he was not able to conceal his feelings or he did not want to.
Arviû was concerned. Could this be the seed from which rebellion might grow? “I am blind, but not deaf,” he said coldly. “Don’t think that you will profit in any way if we lose. And, of course, we won’t lose.”
“But I would never think like that, master,” the slave said indignantly.
“What is happening at the northern part of the defense canal?”
“The Inextinguishables have had the damaged fortresses repaired as far as possible, but they are still being bombarded. The enemy hasn’t made it as far as the canal yet. They are kept in check at the edge of the cleared area by the älfar catapults.”
Arviû was pleased to hear that. “They will never get over to Wèlèron,” he said. “Are you nearly ready? I’m keen to leave today.”
“I’m nearly done, master. May I take your hand to help you up?”
Arviû stretched out his arm and his hand was grasped. He was soon seated in the wagon: a small one with a seat for two passengers and one for the driver.
Their journey began.
Arviû pulled the curtains at the side window shut to prevent anyone seeing him. I won’t show myself until I’m a champion warrior again.
He thought about the dorón ashont. He cursed his loss of sight—when did one ever get the opportunity to witness the second downfall of a race? He only knew about the first defeat from the old legends. Poisoned. He smiled. They were so easy to defeat. This time it will be more difficult. The älfar only knew about danger because of . . .
“What was his name?”
“Whose name, master?”
“The älf who escaped!”
“Arganaï, master.”
“A true hero.” In his thoughts he was already in the Bone Tower and talking to the blind bodyguards about some training.
After that, Tark Draan was waiting for him!
I shall practice and practice until I drop with exhaustion, and as soon as I wake up I’ll practice some more. There is no time at all to lose if there are to be any enemies left for me to slay!
“Master, I’ll let you know when we are near Dsôn. Because of the sickness, you know.”
Burst open and putrefying. “You would think, perhaps, he caught something in the dorón ashonts’ prison. Perhaps it was that,” mumbled Arviû. He tried to discover as much as he could about his immediate environment, listening carefully to any sounds that arose. His hearing was to become his most vital sense.
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), far to the southwest of the Gray Mountains,
4371st division of unendingness (5199th solar cycle),
late autumn.
Doghosh of Ligard stood on the battlements of the highest tower of the third and outermost defense wall of the town of Sonnenhag.
The commander surveyed the incredible army encamped at his walls with some concern. The troops were composed of monsters in numbers he had never seen before. The humans would never be able to sneak out alive, and there was no way to bring relief troops or further supplies in. They were under siege. But we’ve got enough to keep us going through the winter.
“I’ve never seen an orc army that large.” Endrawolt, his deputy, stood behind him, looking down at the enemy who remained just out of range of their catapults. “Up to now we’ve only ever had to deal with the odd band of greenskins.” He beat his gloved fist against the stone balustrade. “How can they dare to take arms against us like this?” Endrawolt shook his head. “Look how many they are!”
“They know we are in charge of defense for the entire region. If the town falls, they can do whatever they want.” Doghosh saw the ugly banners fluttering over the orc camps. “These monsters must be from several different tribes, but I don’t recognize any of the devices on those flags out there.” He stepped back so he was next to Endrawolt. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say they were from the Outer Lands. But that would mean one of the passes had fallen.”
“Unthinkable! Utterly impossible! I’d say they must have been breeding here in secret—letting us think there were really only a few of them so that one day they could spring something like this on us!”
Doghosh’s silence indicated that he disagreed.
Sonnenhag had had the good fortune to receive warning of the invading force: an orc scouting party had been spotted early, so they had barred the gates. It had just been a precautionary measure, but less than a quarter of an hour later the army had turned up to storm the town walls, failing at the outer ring. Now nearly 30,000 inhabitants were quaking in their beds with a mere 2,000 soldiers responsible for their safety.
“They’ll have to defeat us if they want the land for fifty miles around us.” Doghosh drew the cool air into his lungs. “They’re taller and broader than normal orcs, their tusks are painted and their armor and weaponry are different.” He pointed to the siege ladders the town defenders had destroyed. “Even the way they’ve fixed the rungs to the uprights is new.”
“You’re quite sure they’re from the Outer Lands?”
“Tell me how they could possibly have kept their growing numbers secret if they were breeding so quickly,” said Doghosh. “There must be about 20,000 of them. And then there are the others, the sma
ller ones. We’d have been bound to notice what they were up to if they’d been local! They can’t make themselves invisible.” He looked past Endrawolt to the rings of town walls behind them. “Do our men know we’re giving up the outer ring at the next surge?”
“Yes.”
“They are making preparations?”
Endrawolt nodded. “We’ll need another seven days. Even nine.” His hand caressed the stone of the battlements. “It’s an outrage to have to surrender the walls our ancestors built.”
“But it’ll kill many more than the catapults can.” Doghosh had given the command that all the male residents between fourteen and sixty cycles were to report for digging duty. The idea was to undermine the foundations of the ring wall so that at the crucial moment—and given encouragement—it would collapse outward. The wall was tall enough that it would crush the orcs along its whole circumference. With enough impetus, the blocks of stone would roll down the hill and take out plenty more.
There will be a few thousand fewer to fight if the gods are with us. Doghosh had never had to think in numbers like this. The most dangerous bands of outlaws might have been fifty strong, and a horde of orcs perhaps up to a hundred. Even if there were skirmishes along the border with troops from rival kingdoms, you would not usually get more than 500 warriors on each side.
How should he proceed in order to save his town? Sonnenhag had, in the times of peace, lost its importance as a bastion and was now nothing more than a large fortified town that owed its prosperity to trade with nearby Ido.
The commander still had 2,000 men under him, but he had no idea if they were really up to repelling further attacks like the one they had repulsed eleven days ago. Chasing a robber band through the woods or running down a gang of pickpockets in town was absolutely not the same thing. He had seen naked fear in his men’s eyes following the attempted storming. Some of the younger guards had had the trembles ever since.
“Right,” he said, starting down the tower steps. “Let’s get the second ring sorted. We’ll need stones up there to throw at the enemy.”