“Jiggon!” yelled his father. “Throw the sword down! You don’t know what you might be doing to us.”
“What I might be doing to us? The dorón ashont have killed the black-eyes. If Yintaï hears about it, he will blame us anyway for not helping the guards.” He laughed. “Slaves saving their guards’ lives! I don’t think so!” Jiggon placed the tip of the sword at the älf’s throat. “We should free ourselves from our oppressors. The gods have sent us allies. And they have sent us hope.”
“We will kill you,” whispered Heïfaton and his eyes went black. Jiggon was suddenly beset by fear and staggered back. “After that we shall wipe out the whole village as punishment for your insurrection. Simply by considering the possibility of helping our enemies you have sealed your fate.”
It seemed to Jiggon that an invisible hand was crushing his heart. If I don’t stab him straightaway I shall find myself running! He yelled to give himself courage and rammed the blade into the unprotected throat.
Heïfaton’s eyeballs went white and then a dark blue color surrounded his pupils. The expression on the älf’s face was somewhere between surprise, pain and disbelief.
The crowd in the square had gone silent. The älf’s death rattle could be clearly heard.
I . . . actually did it! Jiggon felt invincible, free of the alien pressure on his heart and his thoughts. He drew the sword back and struck the overseer on the side of the neck. “That is for all of us you people have killed.”
Talk broke out among the crowd.
Jiggon did not quite manage to sever the älf’s neck. He was unused to handling such a weapon as he held. The head was still attached by flesh and tendons and hung down sideways like an ill-fitting hood. Blood pumped out of the cut and onto the ground. The body of the älf fell forward onto the ground.
Jiggon struck the älf once more, driving the sword in through the back of the armor encasing the älf’s chest. Blood spurted again. “That is for everything you have stolen from us, and for the children! I am not frightened of you any longer!”
This time the villagers’ shouts of approval merged with the dark roars.
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), many miles to the south of the Gray Mountains,
4371st division of unendingness (5199th solar cycle),
early winter.
Famenia had reached the outskirts of Milltown and was observing the valley from the branches of a red-barked pine, taking care not to be seen from below.
She could see the stone quarry and the entrance to the cavern where the älfar army had their secret camp. The mills on the riverside were busy and people were walking about as usual. Everything seemed normal.
They are going along with the pretense because they are frightened for their children imprisoned in the cave. Famenia noticed a small group of figures in light-colored robes. They stood out from the humans because of their height. Those will be the älfar in charge, watching out for any untoward behavior.
Satisfied, but not happy with what she had seen, she climbed down from her vantage point to where Ossandra was hiding at the foot of the tree. “It all looks quiet.”
“That means nothing,” Ossandra said, sounding worried. She had put on the clean clothes that Famenia had acquired for her on the way and looked more rested than she had on that first day. “They told us that if anyone left they would kill one of the children and put the body on display. I . . . It would be awful if they killed one of my friends.”
“I didn’t see anything like that.” Famenia stroked the girl’s hair. And I hope, too, that it hasn’t happened. “I want to go and see what they’ll do if a visitor arrives.”
“And what about me?”
“You stay hidden. I’ve got to get into the cavern somehow to find out what they’ve done with the prisoners. Then we’ll find a way to get them free.” She set off.
For the first few steps Ossandra kept up with her, but when Famenia left the trees the little girl went back into the undergrowth. “May Elria protect you!” she whispered as Famenia left the forest.
The famula strode forward. The state of her clothes would help her story: she looked like she had traveled a long way on foot and could pretend she needed rest.
Milltown was situated in an isolated valley overshadowed by the mountain, with plenty of fields for agriculture and the nearby forest to provide winter fuel. The town’s location had made it ideal for hiding.
What excuse can I think of for needing to get to the cavern? And if I get in how am I going to get out again, alive? The closer the famula got to the town, the less sure she became about her idea. Perhaps I should not be so exposed? Shall I check it out after dark? She slowed her pace.
It was too late to turn around now: a rider was heading in her direction, lance in hand. It was a man in simple leather armor wearing a black sash across his body. This signified that a dangerous infection was raging in the town.
That’s a clever way to keep people out, of course. “Greetings,” she called while he was still some way off. She raised her hand to show that she was unarmed.
The rider reined in his horse. He looked anxious. “May Sitalia be with you. Where are you headed?”
“Is no one allowed in?”
“The people are sick. Give Milltown a wide berth,” he said, emphatically. “I can’t let you pass. It’s for your own protection.”
Famenia tucked her thumbs under the straps of her knapsack. “How dangerous is this illness? Perhaps it’s one I’ve already had, then it would be fine for me to rest here.”
“No,” he insisted. “You can’t. It’s . . . the plague.”
“I see . . . the plague.” Famenia looked him up and down. How can I talk him around? “What sort of plague would that be?”
“Why do you ask?” He was getting more and more uncomfortable and so was his horse. The animal wanted to be off and was pawing the ground with its hoof.
“There are different types of plague and I’m a healer.” Famenia waited, keen to hear what his next excuse would be. “Shall I see if I can help your sick?”
“Thank you for your offer, it is brave of you, but we have already called in the best healers. The king sent them.” He glanced over his shoulder at the älfar in disguise behind him. They had taken their bows from their shoulders and were pretending to be deep in conversation. “Now, go your own way and warn everyone you meet not to come to Milltown. It would be fatal to come.”
Famenia was well aware that she was being closely watched and that she would not be able to enter the town. They will shoot if I stay talking too long. “Thank you for your warning. I pray the gods will help you and liberate you from the evil.”
He nodded at her, relieved she had taken the hint. He rode back into the town and the gate was closed again behind him.
Well, that didn’t work. I’ll have to carry on being a hiker. She went around the outside of the town and headed for the mills. She would try to talk to somebody there.
She approached the first of the mills.
A man wearing the costume of his trade opened a door. Again, he wore a black sash across his traditional whites.
He spotted her and his eyes widened. Famenia raised her arm. “I know, I know. The plague. They told me at the town gates,” she said quietly, thinking fast. I’ll try to get a coded message across. “Is it safe for me to take water from the river? I heard the source of the infection is up in the cavern?”
He looked startled and pretended to scratch his nose, putting a finger to his lips. He pointed to the mill. “The cave is full of filth, that’s true. We hardly know what to do about it. We won’t be able to deal with it on our own. How did you know about it?”
“Oh, I met someone who told me.” Famenia understood that there were älfar watching from the mill. These dark abominations, is there no escape from them? “Well, then, I’ll turn around and try to find a source elsewhere.”
“Yes, do that. Anywhere is better than here.” The man waved and gave her an imploring look before walkin
g back inside.
Famenia made her way along the river, passing the clattering millwheels that scooped up the water and churned it into foam. She could not imagine what was being ground. She could not see any sacks of corn. And there were no carts.
I’ve got no choice but to try again at night. With any luck the älfar won’t be expecting anyone to be so bold as to enter the cavern. The idea was not pleasing, however keen she was to do something to help. She felt a bit like a chicken trying to break into a fox’s lair.
Famenia left the mills and returned to the forest. “Ossandra?”
There was no answer.
“Ossandra! It’s me! Where have you got to?” she called quietly, plunging into the undergrowth to search for the young girl. Has she got lost? Or has she been hurt?
Her mind raced as she fought her way through the brambles. She rejected her original plan of trying to get into the cave. It was simply too dangerous. One of the älfar was sure to see her. And even if she managed to get in and actually find the children and the old people, she would not be able to shepherd them to safety, let alone free Milltown from its occupiers.
And she had a mission to fulfill that could not be delayed.
But she could not just carry on with her journey; she had to help the people. And presumably the älfar had more in mind than just hiding out—they could be planning an attack on Girdlegard from there!
“Ossandra?” Famenia wiped the sweat from her brow and turned to look behind her. There’s no trace of any path. I’m completely lost!
The forest was not dense here and none of the trees was taller than four paces high—not like the trees farther back—but it was enough to keep her from seeing where she was.
She would have to keep going until she hit a road. I only hope Ossandra hasn’t tried to get into Milltown on her own!
As the sun started to go down, Famenia reached a familiar-looking part of the forest planted with red-barked pines.
My thanks to the gods! Now all she had to do was to find Ossandra.
She cursed the dark that spread more quickly in the woods than on open ground. She carried a lantern in her knapsack, but to light it would have meant alerting the älfar.
Famenia suddenly heard a sharp cry. Ossandra!
Horrified, she ran in the direction of the sounds: horses snorting, men’s voices, metal on metal. They have found her! Oh, dear gods!
She was determined at least to rescue this child, even if she could not help the townspeople. Her right hand closed on the amulet and she rehearsed the spell for conjuring up gusts of wind. As she broke through the lower branches of the trees, she jumped down onto a road, her hand raised, ready to hurl the magic formula.
Ossandra was eleven paces from her; behind the girl were four heavily armored riders holding reinforced lances. Rune-inscribed shields hung at their sides.
The leading älf pushed up his visor and frowned, first at Ossandra and then at the famula.
“You won’t have her!” Famenia released the spell with two hand gestures and a short incantation, hurling a gust of wind in the direction of the riders.
The intense stream of air skimmed the top of Ossandra’s head, only ruffling her hair, but it hit the riders with full force. The branches of the fir trees bent backward and the horses shied, whinnying with terror. Two riders were thrown and the third fell with his mount. The leader battled to control his nervous horse.
It worked! “Come with me,” Famenia shouted, stretching her hand out. “Get into the trees!” The child ran to her and grabbed her hand. They ran together.
The famula quickly recognized their danger: in a pine wood there is no undergrowth. One or two of the branches hung very low and would impede a rider’s progress, but the älfar would certainly be able to ride after them. On her own Famenia might have managed to cut across to the other little wood and get into cover, but with the little girl . . .
The riders’ shouts and the dull thud of hooves on a carpet of pine needles came ever closer.
I must turn and fight. Out of breath, Famenia stopped and lifted Ossandra up into the branches of a tree. “Climb up and wait for me to come for you,” she gasped. “If they get me I want you to try to get a message to the king about the älfar.” Then she sped off some distance before turning to face the enemy, her right hand grasping the precious amulet. I won’t manage more than three or four spells.
The four älfar were nearing fast, their lances down so as not to catch them in the low branches.
The leader had seen her; he closed his visor and gave a silent signal to the others.
They fanned out so as not to be all swept away if she tried another wind-gust. They approached Famenia in a wide semicircle.
I need an illusion spell to make their horses shy again. Perhaps one of the älfar will break his neck? Gods! Help me now against this evil! With three swift hand movements and a single word, Famenia created an instant display of brightly colored lights and sent sparkling spheres whizzing through the trees accompanied by entertaining whistles and shrieks.
Even though the animals had been trained for warfare and could tolerate the sounds of clashing blades and battle noise, these fireworks were too much for them. They stopped abruptly and swerved from the path, lashing out with their hooves at the balls of fiery light; two of them crashed headlong into tree trunks and fell, crushing their riders under them.
Famenia was impressed with her own performance. If Jujulo had known how successful his tricks are in battle he would never have shown us how to do them!
When she turned around to see where the remaining two älfar had got to, she found only their riderless steeds.
Suddenly one of the älfar lunged toward her. She ducked under his arms and dodged behind a pine tree to prepare another spell, but found herself confronted with the second älf who had sword and shield in hand. Whirling around, she fell into the clutches of the first one.
“No! Hands off, black-eyes!” She struggled and lashed out, twisting her head to escape their hold, inadvertently smashing her forehead against her opponent’s helmet. Stars danced in front of her eyes and her legs started to give way. The steely grip on her arms intensified. Her flight was over.
As the dazzling shapes cleared from her field of vision, she saw a sword blade pointing at her throat. The weapon belonged to the leader of the älfar unit, half-hidden behind his shield. “Who are you?” he demanded, his voice threateningly persuasive.
“Kill me, black-eyes, and I will turn into a ball of fire big enough to incinerate you and the whole town!” she declared, hoping her words sounded convincing. “I am a maga and only one of the many who will come to liberate Milltown. Hurt one hair on the heads of the townspeople and we will torture you, let you recover, and then torture you again until you lose your minds! You will see that we can be just as cruel as you!”
She was astonished to see the älf lower his sword. “This is obviously a regrettable misunderstanding,” he said courteously.
“No, it’s nothing of the kind! I know that you’ve a whole army concealed up there in the cave. Everybody knows! Girdlegard is ready and waiting. Your secret is out. There’s no point in using the humans as hostages. And spare me your polite lies!”
He gave a nod and released his hold. That seems to have had the right effect. She scanned her surroundings for a gap she could escape through.
The älf looked her up and down. “I think we could find a use for a maga.”
“What are you talking about? I certainly won’t—”
He came up close. “We aren’t black-eyes at all, if that’s what you called us. We are elves from the Golden Plain.”
Famenia was confused and her thoughts were whirling. “Why should I believe a word you say?”
“Because we will help you to destroy the älfar in your cavern.” He put his sword away. “My name is Narósil. If you follow me to where my warriors are, I can explain everything that has happened. By first light at the very latest you will see the difference
between Tion’s scum and our kind. For we are Sitalia’s children.”
CHAPTER XVI
Thus Sinthoras and Caphalor lost their status as nostàroi.
Because of intrigues,
short-sightedness.
lust for revenge.
To satisfy the demands of a handful of bedazzled älfar.
Many have to walk through a deep, dark valley in order to return in glory.
Some remain in the depths and never return.
Hear now what next befell the Heroes.
Excerpt from the epic poem The Heroes of Tark Draan
composed by Carmondai, master of word and image
Ishím Voróo (Outer Lands), Dsôn Faïmon, Dsôn,
4371st division of unendingness (5199th/5200th solar cycle),
winter.
The long trek through Tark Draan and Ishím Voróo was nearing its end.
Throughout the journey to Dsôn, Sinthoras had hardly said a word to his companions, keeping communication to a bare minimum. Verànor would not be able to give him any more information than that already imparted back in Tark Draan and Sinthoras preferred to use these moments of unendingness to work on the arguments for his defense. He had done things in the past that had often made him unpopular, even within his own Comets faction, but he had had no involvement in Robonor’s accident.
Polòtain’s denunciation had played into his enemies’ hands.
It all fits. I can’t really blame them all for suspecting me.
Sinthoras certainly blamed Polòtain for pursuing his revenge. He must have paid out a great deal of money to get witnesses to sign statements against him. For that I shall kill him! He has robbed me of my high rank and of my war, but it will take me half an eternity to get compensation for the loss of my reputation.
Sinthoras tried to pacify himself with the thought that he would be acquitted at the hearing. Nobody could prove a thing. His honor would be restored—of that he was convinced.
He was particularly sorry that his loyal Timanris would be bearing the brunt of malicious gossip. She is strong and I am so proud of her.