Hianna adjusted her clothing and returned to her seat. “If you think all I can do is a few charming incantations, please think again. I can read your looks, my friend.” She gave a mischievous smile. “Did you know I consort with demons?” she whispered. “Yes, that’s right! With demons! I thought they might lead me to perfection: a big mistake, but I learned the strangest things from them.”
“Which are?” Morana was hoping Hianna would not see how excited she was. We could only dream of an ally like this!
“A sample? How would you like to speak to a demon?” Hianna closed her eyes and murmured a formula. Her whole body began to tremble until the air around her sparked. When her eyes opened again they were bright green orbs emitting tiny flames that did not harm her. She raised her left arm.
Everything in the room that had not been fixed in position—apart from the chairs the two women sat on—started to float upward. Objects circled them, turning ever faster. Virssagòn was sucked into the spiraling eddy. He had to hold fast to the wall to avoid being seen.
When she spoke, it was with many voices simultaneously, “I can extend this particular trick to cover a circle with a radius of half a mile . . . there’s no way to combat it. Buildings and armies would all be affected.” She lowered her arm and everything was restored to its proper place. By dint of landing softly, Virssagòn managed not to reveal his presence. Hianna shut her eyes and after speaking a short spell, they returned to normal. “Are those arts enough to serve your alliance against the elves?”
“Extraordinary!” Morana was proud of herself. And this barbarian might have been murdered by Virssagòn! What a loss to our cause. “Now it is my turn to bid you heartily welcome!”
The maga laughed happily. “Not so fast. Tell me, is it possible to get the secret of perfection for me? Your people must have spells for that?”
Morana did not know.
She had never been inside any of the academies run by the very few älfar magicians that there were. And she assumed that none of the älfar wizards could match a Tark Draan maga for skill. She was, herself, mightily impressed by what Hianna was able to do.
“Of course,” she lied. “We have recipes for everlasting beauty, just like the elves. But we would be happy to share our knowledge with you. You and your famuli will be worshipped for your beauty.” Morana noted how well her speech was going down with Hianna.
“I am so happy,” she exclaimed jubilantly, throwing her hands in the air, her sleeves following gracefully in an arc that imitated the tails of comets. “I’ve even worked out a plan to help you and your army.”
“With magic, I hope?”
“Yes. But the thing about magic here in Girdlegard is that it is restricted to certain regions where the ground is saturated with it. Here my power is immeasurable, but outside my magic would soon be used up and I would not be able to do very much.” Hianna ran her fingers through her hair. “But I know a way around it. Listen carefully . . .”
The more Morana heard, the surer she became that Hianna was completely insane. And so Morana was not surprised to learn that Hianna’s plans were already well advanced.
All she had been waiting for was someone’s army.
CHAPTER XV
Winter of destiny.
It brings death on the wind,
sowing seeds of vanished trust
and harvesting betrayal.
Malicious slanderous tongues
sang the song of false assertions,
found their audience
and found favor.
The favor needs its tribute
from all sides.
Once seen, once heard,
all faith is lost.
The hardest time:
enforced isolation
when company is craved.
Loneliness brings insight.
Insight becomes action.
Action makes heroes.
Winter of destiny.
Excerpt from the epic poem The Heroes of Tark Draan
composed by Carmondai, master of word and image
Ishím Voróo (Outer Lands), Dsôn Faïmon, west of the radial arm Avaris,
4371st division of unendingness (5199th solar cycle),
early winter.
“I’ve heard the derren eshant are gaining ground.” Jiggon stole a glance at the others, but nobody else commented. They were concentrating on dipping wooden spoons into the communal pot of broth. Plates were not used and there were a lot of stains on the rough table: souvenirs of previous meals. “They’re winning against the black-eyes! Just think of it! We—”
“Hold your tongue!” his father Hirrtan snapped. “What happens if you’re overheard?”
Jiggon rolled his eyes and tried to get a spoonful of soup. “The black-eyes won’t be hiding under the table.”
His elder sister Elina shoved his hand aside and collared the biggest piece of meat: revenge for his bold talk. “Slaves have been put to death for less,” she said. “How about thinking of us for a change?” She swept crumbs to the floor with her sleeve. The food would get trodden into the bare earth and every week or so someone would take a broom to the mess.
“Cowards!” Jiggon glared at his family.
“Will you keep your mouth shut?” growled his father. “And anyway, these Dirron Asharnt will want to see us off as soon as they’ve finished killing the älfar.”
“You are being unfair,” Grandfather Rodolf said. “He’s only seventeen and he’s got the fire of youth in his belly.” He turned to his grandson. “I know how you feel, though it is pronounced dorón ashont.”
Jiggon smiled gratefully at him.
Soon the broth was finished and the family left the table. It was his turn to clean out the pot, but he’d leave it until the next day. He was tired.
There were nineteen of them living and sleeping in the tiny hut—it was always overcrowded. Some days Jiggon felt he couldn’t move at all, especially if drying laundry was hanging from the beams.
He headed for the little alcove where he would sleep for the night; there were not enough beds for everyone. Their master, Yintaï, was not known for caring about his serfs’ welfare. He gave them work. They had to do it. He had no further interest in them.
These cowards. Jiggon had been born into slavery, but had heard that in some places in Ishím Voróo you could live in freedom.
He was not put off by the idea of having to deal with monsters in the wilderness or having to fight other humans if only he could do it on his own account. Anything would be better than getting up every morning and going to work to make someone else prosperous—someone who did not even appreciate it. To Yintaï a human was chattel, as good as a chair or an animal.
What I would give to be able to fight in the war! Jiggon had long dreamed of serving as a soldier in one of the human divisions, but Yintaï had laughed at his request saying: “You? You don’t even know how to use a knife! How could you hope to manage with a sword in close combat? Carry on swinging your pitchfork and make yourself useful in my fields! That’s your calling.”
It should be me who decides what my calling is. Jiggon sat up to look out of the window just above him, pulling aside the coarse jute curtain that was supposed to stop the wind howling through their hovel.
The trees had lost their leaves and an early frost lay on the meadows and harvested fields. His breath formed in clouds in front of his face. Winter was coming. The nights will be cold again.
He pulled his threadbare old jacket tighter, having no blanket or animal pelt to keep him warm. He thought about their village, Evenlight. It had a population of around 800 souls, guarded by a score of älfar. In his mind’s eye, he could see the hut where Irhart the smith lived; Irhart with his serviceable metal tools that were never good enough for his master. Next to his hut was Salisala’s place, the wise woman who looked after any injured slaves, although she was forbidden to use her healing arts and had often been whipped for doing so; then came Güldtraut’s shed, where four lovely youn
g girls had lived—until Yintaï had taken them off. They had never come back. It was said that the jewelry Yintaï’s wife wore around her neck—carved bone set with gems and inlaid with silver—had something to do with that. Yintaï’s young son had also been given a miniature sword and some new carved bone toys.
So many human lives would have been better without the black-eyes. Jiggon felt impotent fury rise in his guts. He was so isolated. It seemed he was the only one in the village who wanted to rebel.
Steps approached. It was his father. Hirrtan crouched down at his side.
“You are being unfair to us,” he said, spreading a thin blanket over his son’s shoulders. “It’s just that it is impossible to defy the master. He would simply have us killed. Or would find a worse fate for us.”
“Would it not be better to risk death trying to gain your freedom?” Jiggon said, still staring out at the night.
“It would be a fatal attempt,” replied his father, running a hand over Jiggon’s head. “The älfar are cruel in revenge. I am no coward. I don’t want you or your brothers and sisters to suffer.” Before Jiggon could respond, Hirrtan had got back on his feet. He always avoided arguments.
The young man kept his gaze fixed on the world outside. He shrugged the blanket off. He did not want it. This way, nobody will ever get free. The älfar have no right at all to keep us as slaves. There were some älfar masters who were kinder, but that doesn’t change the fact that we are not at liberty to come and go as we please and are not free to make our own decisions. They even control the number of children we are allowed to have. Yintaï had often taken newborn babies away. They were never heard of again, either.
If the dorón ashont—the Towers that Walk—were enemies of the älfar and strong enough to challenge them, it must be a good omen that they had turned up again. The gods were trying to show the humans that there was a way to throw off the yoke of slavery.
But not as long as there are people like my father who won’t take any risks. Whether from cowardice or fear for others; it’s all one. Jiggon let the coarse curtain drop, closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep. The day spent heaving corn sacks and threshing had been exhausting.
But in the middle of the night he woke with a start without knowing why.
Father and grandfather alike were snoring away, someone else moaned in their sleep, and in another corner there was a noise of grinding teeth. The wooden floor creaked and the wind whistled. He knew these sounds. They would not have woken him.
Jiggon listened, then slowly sat up and pulled the jute curtain back.
An icy breeze hit him as wind seeped into the room through the cracks around the windows; black smoke blew into the room from the still-smoldering chimney. Stars shone in a clear sky. Cows in the stables mooed from time to time, sheep bleated—nothing unusual. I’m just uneasy.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jiggon saw light reflected on metal and turned to look: an älf with a drawn sword was prowling past Irhart’s hut, cloaking himself in shadow. He held a long dagger in the other hand.
What is he doing there? Jiggon did not dare move. Is he looking for someone? Has one of us tried to escape?
The älf sprang up onto the wall of the well; from there, despite his leather armor, he launched himself with ease onto Salisala’s thatched roof. He knelt down, obviously waiting and watching.
A second älf appeared with a longbow ready in his hands. He remained on the ground below his companion, keeping a lookout.
Perhaps a slave has escaped from one of the neighboring villages? Jiggon was excited by the thought that one of their people had got away. He can’t be far away or they wouldn’t be searching here.
Jiggon kept watching the älfar closely.
The one on the roof sprang down to floor level without making a sound; his armor did not even clatter or creak. They made dangerous opponents, these älfar; they had made a pact with the dark. The two älfar exchanged a few quiet words and then they went their separate ways: the swordsman headed in Jiggon’s direction while the archer moved out of view.
Jiggon could not move. He watched the älf come closer.
The älf suddenly stopped, looked to the right and opened his mouth to shout. Violet light fell on his face.
A gigantic cudgel slammed down, smashing the älf’s helmet in as easily as if it had been paper. Fatally wounded, the älf collapsed.
Jiggon jerked back but could not tear his eyes away from the scene. What is happening?
The archer appeared again by the well, loosing an arrow against a target the young man could not see.
The arrow whizzed by and hit home. A metallic groan was followed by a deep roar of fury: a sound that Jiggon had never heard before and which made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Just as the älf was about to attempt a second shot, a round object flew at him, smashing the bow and striking him in the middle of his chest. The impact sent him hurtling backward to fall a few paces behind the well. A third of the flying object was buried deep in the älf’s chest cavity. Sudden moonlight revealed that it was a shield, the edges honed to a razor-sharp edge.
That shield looks so big and heavy, that I doubt even Irhart the Smith could lift it. Jiggon risked leaning forward to see where the unknown assailant was.
A colossal, heavily armed figure approached the well. Animal skins slung over the armor made its appearance even more unsettling and a purple glow came from behind a helmet, which had been shaped into a skull. He held a massive cudgel at his side. With his free hand the creature gripped the arrow lodged in its side and yanked it out. Blood spurted, brilliant yellow under the moonlight. The creature let out a roar of pain and fury.
It’s one of the Towers that Walk! But . . . the canal is miles and miles away! I thought they were being held at bay there! His heart thumped in his chest—not from panic and fear, but hope and exhilaration. Perhaps the älfar have all been defeated?
Then he recalled his father’s warning words. “These Dirron Asharnt will want to see us off as soon as they’ve finished killing the älfar.”
I wonder if they will? Why has this one not attacked us already? He could simply have set our huts on fire and killed all of us.
He watched as the dorón ashont pulled the shield back out of the älf’s body. Using the edge of it, he sliced through the cadaver, severing it in two, presumably to ensure his enemy was really dead. A heap of steaming entrails flopped out and blood flooded the dirt-covered ground. Then the giant creature stomped over to the älf whose head he had shattered. The dorón ashont dragged his first victim up to the other one and cut him in half in the same way, slicing through at navel height. When he had finished he stood up, snorting like an angry bull.
If they wanted to kill us they could have stormed through our huts by now. They’ve got something else in mind. Jiggon was keen to find out more. He mustered all his courage, pushed the window open and climbed out of it.
“Wait! Tower that Walks!” He avoided using the name the älfar gave these creatures and ran toward it. He stretched out his arms shakily. “I’m not an älf, we’re not like them!” He pressed his wrists together to signify chains. “We are their slaves, prisoners! Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The vast creature turned its purple gaze on him and snorted again, more quietly. It went down on one knee, but was still as tall as Jiggon. With one hand it reached into the pile of steaming älfar innards, wrenched them out of the body cavity and held them out to Jiggon as an offering.
Jiggon was unsure what to make of the gesture.
The dorón ashont uttered a roar that went through the young man like a knife. It was answered by similar shouts from all around the village.
Ye gods, it’s not here on its own!
The sheep in the barn began to bleat in fear, the village dogs started barking, children began crying and grown-ups called out to each other in alarm. Light appeared in the huts as people lit the lamps.
The armored creature stayed on on
e knee and threw the guts down at Jiggon’s feet. He tore off an arm from the älf body and showed Jiggon the broken bone.
Jiggon thought he understood. “You want to prove that they are only flesh and blood; that they are not unbeatable?”
The first of the villagers came out, but did not dare approach. Fragments of talk such as “beast,” “killed the masters,” “all of them slaughtered” and “an end to us” were heard.
“Come back to me, Jiggon!” Hirrtan shouted, his voice full of fear. “By all the gods, he will kill you!”
The vast creature pulled the älf’s sword out of its sheath and growled.
“No, he won’t.” Jiggon was still quaking, but slightly less violently now.
The weapon was tossed at his feet.
What . . . ? Jiggon bent down to pick up the sword. It was surprisingly light in his hand and the grip and blade were well balanced so that the weapon could be spun.
The dorón ashont raised its bloody gauntlet to the skies.
Is that a signal?
There was a chorus of roars from the periphery and another dorón ashont lumbered into view: the humans scattered to let it by. This one was carrying a wounded älf that it held by the nape of the neck as one might carry a rabbit. He chucked the captive down in front of Jiggon, who soon grasped what was expected of him.
Slowly he lifted the sword.
The injured älf writhed, turned over and struggled to his feet. There was a broad gash in his hip that had gone through armor and clothing to expose the bone. His chest had been crushed. Torchlight fell on his face: it was Heïfaton, one of the overseers. He was related to Yintaï.
“Slave, do not dare to touch me!” he threatened darkly even as he fought for air. “If you harm me, the whole village will be brought down. Fight the thing!” Heïfaton nodded toward the dorón ashont. “They are enemies to you and us!” Blood trickled out of his nose and mouth as he spoke.