First he would go to the Valley of Grace to do away with the traitor maga. She was a danger, because her powers were great and she might turn entirely to the side of evil. He would need to gather his remaining friends and colleagues and take them to Hiannorum. Hianna must be killed as soon as possible, before news got around that another magi had been in the Gray Mountains.
If the gods are on my side and all goes well, I’ll still have Grok-Tmai the Worrier and Fensa the Inventive on my side. And then there’s Famenia, of course, but she doesn’t have a magic name yet. Simin glanced over at the orc, which was hurtling around like a crazy thing, fighting against its iron collar, and foaming at the mouth. He knew the demon was trying to get free. I’ll have to be quick! The spell I wove was not a strong one. He might break out of his prison tomorrow. Sitalia, come to my aid! Help me to be in time.
He raced off through the tunnels that led south and to the outside.
He had run out of magic energy and that made things particularly challenging, but it was not for nothing had he been given the name Simin the Underrated.
Ishím Voróo (Outer Lands), Dsôn Faïmon, between the radial arms Wèlèron and Avaris,
4372nd division of unendingness (5200th solar cycle),
winter.
Jiggon swung the sword forcefully against his target: a wooden stave jammed in the ground and covered with leaves. “Like this?” There were a dozen other structures surrounding them for the serfs to practice their weapons skills on. The noise as they worked was like a mixture of the sounds of threshing and wood chopping.
“No. You wouldn’t even cut your enemy’s skin like that.” Ataronz—an óarco who had come to them from one of the vassal settlements—had taken it upon himself to help with training the new recruits. “Try it like this.” He showed Jiggon how to put his whole shoulder behind the blow. “Don’t just use a wrist action. And let the weight of the weapon work for you.”
“Thanks. I’ll give it a try.” Jiggon raised the blade once more.
He had soon been promoted within the human Army of the Ownerless because of his eagerness and commitment to the work. He was in charge of a small unit of thirty, and one of the Towers that Walk accompanied them on every sortie. They destroyed serf settlements in Wèlèron and Avaris, liberating other slaves, and set fields alight, but as yet they had not dared attack any älfar cities. And it had not really been necessary: they were able to keep the älfar occupied with these irritating needle-prick assaults so that the acronta—the name the humans gave the Towers that Walk—could prepare their invasion on Dsôn.
Jiggon dealt a fierce blow to the dummy and his blade cut through the straw surround to sink into the wood. Ataronz gave a grunt of approval. “That’s the way!” he said before stomping off to supervise the next recruit.
Strike, jump, strike, duck, strike . . . Jiggon’s day was filled with the monotonous rhythm of training movements.
By the time evening fell and he finished his practice, his shoulders were protesting loudly. He arrived back at the tent he shared with twenty others—mostly the same age as himself—exhausted but pleased with his progress. He stretched out on his hard mattress. The tent was nearly empty. The men were all off with their women, or were still training.
The inside of the canvas tent did not smell too good, but that did not matter. There would be time enough later to see about clean clothes and washing every day and shaving whenever you wanted to. This was war. A bit of stink was all part and parcel of it.
I shall kill a few älfar, he thought, as his stomach rumbled. There would be food soon—even if they were surrounded by bad smells, dirt and garbage, the food still tasted twenty times better than what he had been used to. They were getting proper nourishment, taken from the älfar overseer’s house. And he was eating it as a free man!
Next to him Khalomein sat on a low stool, sharpening his sword. “What do you hope for?” he asked dreamily.
“What do you mean?”
“What are you hoping to get out of what we are doing?”
“I want freedom for all slaves and vassal nations. And the end of the älfar,” replied Jiggon, surprised at the question. “Isn’t it obvious? What else are we fighting for?” He sat up to look his comrade in the face. He knew that Khalomein had two children. His wife lived in the camp next door.
“I’m not sure we have been too clever in our choice of allies. I think the acronta are just using us.” He kept passing the whetstone in regular strokes along the edge of the blade.
“But they gave us freedom!”
“Because they needed us to fight with them against the black-eyes. So they’re using us.” Khalomein tested the blade with his thumb and inspected it closely. “They don’t care what happens to us after the uprising. Perhaps they’ll kill us if they think we’re in the way.”
“No, they won’t.” Jiggon took a seat opposite him. What makes him think that, I wonder? “They’ll leave us the älfar empire. Well, that’s what I’ve been told.”
Khalomein laughed dismissively. “Of course: you understand them.”
“I don’t understand their language. They drew us a picture. The acronta that liberated our village drew the defense canal and the radial arms and then he scrubbed out Dsôn itself. Then he pointed to the rest and pointed to me and the others who were standing near me.” Jiggon could hardly believe that Khalomein’s opinion of the acronta was so low. He doesn’t get to see his family often enough. It’ll be that. “They are practically gods! Look at them! No other race could have done what they have done. They are the only ones to challenge the älfar and we’re helping them. But we’re doing it for ourselves, not for them.”
“So you can promise me, on your honor, promise me that we won’t be serving the acronta as slaves when this is over?” Khalomein pointed the tip of his sword at Jiggon. An obvious threat. “I don’t want to risk my own life and the lives of my family, only to be thrown into another set of chains.”
“They’re not like that.” Jiggon firmly believed what he was saying. “And wouldn’t we regret it forever if we didn’t make the effort now?”
“I’ll take you at your word.” Khalomein lowered the weapon and resumed his sharpening. “It’s difficult to trust someone if you don’t understand their language. We haven’t got any promises, any contracts, treaties, nothing to build on.” Khalomein glanced at him. “I trust you, Jiggon. Don’t disappoint me, will you?”
Jiggon found it strange that he had been given such an elevated status. He sank back on his camp bed and stared at the flapping tent wall.
The winter wind blew cold through their meager canvas shelter. Jiggon found himself thinking of the cramped corner he used to sleep in. It was drier and warmer, but I was a slave: the property of an älf.
He had not been able to be servile any longer and he knew he might one day have been done away with at the whim of Yintaï or Heïfaton. There was no reward for loyalty or for hard work in the fields.
Jiggon had previously met slaves who spoke well of their owners, but it became apparent that their masters’ acts of cruelty and the frequent disappearances had been made light of; these serfs were not admitting, even to themselves, the dire truth of their situations. The gods have not given bravery to all of us.
The gong sounded for the evening meal.
Taking his simple wooden bowl and spoon, Jiggon left the tent. Khalomein did not follow; he continued to work on his sword. I don’t understand him. I won’t be surprised if he goes off back to his master.
A few steps brought him to the waiting line of hungry recruits. Sometimes there was the odd scuffle when the food was distributed, but people were trying their best to stay disciplined.
Jiggon was given his ration of cereal broth, some pieces of sausage and a ladleful of cooked vegetables. It smelled delicious.
Making his way to his favorite place, the lookout tower, he climbed a little way up the ladder and sat in the narrow gap between the rungs. He liked being able to look down on the
whole camp while he was eating.
It’s grown since yesterday! Jiggon shoveled his food in quickly. He reckoned, judging by the number of new tents, that the army must have around 7,000 men by now. In the camp next door, where the women, children and old people were housed, there would be, at a rough guess, a further 15,000. They were kept separate from the soldiers as a precaution in case of attack. So far the acronta catapults at the fortress had kept the älfar at bay.
The acronta had completely demolished the island fortress and moved the stones to a new site farther forward on Dsôn Faïmon territory. Using these materials, together with the timber they had felled in Ishím Voróo, they had managed to erect a circular barricade capable, Jiggon assumed, of withstanding conventional catapult fire. This protected reserve was where the Towers that Walk were encamped; they had installed their own catapults next to those they had confiscated from the enemy. If you fell foul of one of those missiles you would end up a messy, bloody mass.
They are nearly gods, these creatures. Jiggon chewed on a piece of sausage; he relished its juicy flavor.
He did trust them, of course, but he would have loved to know what the acronta were up to in their camp. He wondered what they looked like when they had taken their armor off, what kind of thing they liked to eat. But nobody was allowed to see in.
Occasionally you could hear the odd rumble behind those ramparts. It was a bit like an earthquake. Then there would be a screeching sort of sound. None of the humans could make head or tail of it.
Jiggon was convinced they were building new assault equipment in readiness for the onslaught on the Black Heart of Dsôn.
I want to see Dsôn with my own eyes. And then I want to raze it to the ground so absolutely that nothing is left of it. After that I shall really be free. We shall be free—every single one of us!
That very instant the warning bugle sounded from the lookout tower, calling the Army of the Ownerless to arms. The älfar were attacking: a new attempt to destroy the acronta and their allies.
Jiggon jumped down from the ladder and ran back to his tent. Khalomein was just leaving, newly sharpened sword in hand. I’ll kill the next älf I see! Jiggon grabbed his own weapon, put on his armor, which was far too big for him, planted his helmet on his head and ran out into the open. He was looking for his own platoon, to get them to the assembly point.
CHAPTER XIX
The power no one withstands.
It was obvious to all beholders.
The past had practically eradicated it,
the present called it back to life,
and thus the future was lost for all time.
The power no one withstands.
The Epocrypha of the Creating Spirit
Book of the Coming Death
95–101
Tark Draan (Girdlegard) southeast of the Gray Mountains, formerly the Golden Plain,
4372nd division of unendingness (5200th solar cycle),
winter.
Caphalor continued to watch Imàndaris as she brooded over the news. Her bright red hair played around her face and her black mantle was unfastened, revealing a flowing stone-colored robe with black metallic wire decorations.
His heart raced when he looked at her. Every morning he begged his conscience for forgiveness. Each morning he begged Enoïla’s forgiveness, too. But she is . . .
“What shall we call this älfar realm here?” Imàndaris laid aside the paper she had just been handed by the messenger. “Dsôn . . . and then what?”
“Surely we should leave the decision to the Inextinguishables.” He grinned. “You’re impatient because no news is reaching us.”
“Do you call this no news?” She indicated the papers strewn around about. “I have no idea how to deal with all this on my own. Being a nostàroi is more administration than fighting. I hadn’t realized.”
“That’s because Sinthoras and I had already fought the great battles before you arrived.” Caphalor enjoyed winding her up. He adjusted his clothing: a slim-fitting black robe with a white fur surcoat.
“They should have brought in a supervisor from Shiimal’s corn stores,” she complained, tossing back her wonderful hair. “I came here to win battles. Now I have to deal with provisions, rations for the soldiers and fodder for the night-mares.”
“That’s how it is on campaign.” Caphalor walked over, placed a hand on her shoulder and planted a kiss on the top of her head. “Let me see what I can do.” He saw at first glance that there were problems with equipment in the landur and Lesinteïl elf regions. “They need support over there. As soon as the elves realize how few of us—”
Imàndaris interrupted him with a muttered imprecation and shuffled her pile of papers, from which she retrieved a further bundle of communications. “Here! These are all from Dsôn. They are replies to my requests for more troops. I suggested they at least send us their óarcos or some vassal soldiers for the time being, but I’m getting nothing but refusals and objections! Those Comets and Constellations never used to agree on anything, but they are together in this. Sitalia and Elria take their cowardly souls!”
She’s irresistible when she’s angry! Caphalor remembered full well why he had never wanted anything to do with politics: every single project made you a plaything in the hands of other people’s interests, right down to how one conducted a war. He untied the string on the bundle of messages and scanned the responses, each more arrogant than the previous one. The main thrust was that the Tark Draan commanders already had sufficient forces at their disposal. After all, one älf warrior was worth 1,000 barbarians. “Idiots! They’ve ignored the fact we’re up against elves.”
“They’ve also forgotten that our once impressive army is steadily falling apart at the seams. Two-thirds of my forces have been ordered home—” Imàndaris broke off and gave him an apologetic look. “Forgive me. It was your soldiers they recalled . . .”
“I’m glad to be free of the responsibility. I’m just sorry that you were given the command at such an unfortunate juncture. It’s almost as if someone wanted to dent your reputation.”
“That’s how I see it, too.” Imàndaris studied the numbers again. “I must summon Horgàta. Even if we could use the 5,000 cavalry remaining secret, it’s too much of a risk not to have them here. It’s vital we keep the elves under control.” She pointed to the map. “I’ve been thinking we might attack Gwandalur in winter.” She swiveled the map around on the table to give Caphalor a better view.
“Because?”
“Because my scouts report that not only do the elves worship a dragon, but that there’s a hollow mountain in Gwandalur that is full of the creatures. Dragons are cold-blooded and will be slow in the winter. We ought to be able to penetrate the mountain and kill them all while they are asleep.”
“The elves or the dragons?”
“You’re trying to irritate me, aren’t you?” Imàndaris glowered. “The dragons, of course.”
“How many are there?”
“The report says there are three adults and eleven smaller ones. The elves like to ride the small dragons so they can attack their enemies from the air.”
Caphalor grimaced. His mood was thoroughly spoiled.
He had expected any number of difficulties, but had not reckoned on elves having scaly, winged transport. They would be at a hopeless disadvantage faced with such opposition.
“Yes, you’re right. We’re in urgent need of reinforcements.” He looked at the map and worked out the distances involved. Horgàta could easily reach us. “What a good thing these dragons can’t take frosty conditions.”
“We’ll be hard pushed to withstand attacks from a dragon unit unless we get them while they’re hibernating. Winter is on our side, not Tark Draan’s. If you had started the offensive in summer we’d all have been lost.” Her expression changed. “And that would have been terrible, because you and I would never have met.”
She is amazing! But his guilty conscience assailed him even as the thought passed thr
ough his mind. He turned his attention deliberately to the charts. “As far as the elf realms are concerned, I suggest—”
“Caphalor?”
He raised his head and saw her knowing smile. “What?”
“Don’t worry. It’s all right. I’m not trying to make things difficult for you.”
She has seen through me. “It’s complicated,” he said, despairingly. “I was with Enoïla for such a long time that it seems like a betrayal to even stand at your side.”
“You are a very special individual, Caphalor. Any other älf, male or female, is in the habit of swapping partners every few divisions of unendingness, but you and Enoïla spent so much time together.” Imàndaris came over to him, hands outstretched. “I can’t replace her in your affections and I don’t want to. I am Imàndaris. No more. No less.”
He nodded. “I know. I tried once before to find a replacement. It was a mistake. Her name was Morana and she was—”
She placed her forefinger on his lips. “I don’t need to know. I can see you are upset every time you look at me, but you must get over these feelings. If you are not ready to say goodbye to Enoïla, tell me. I can wait. But I can’t see you suffering like this. Do you understand?” She seized his hand and pressed it gently.
“Yes.” He took a deep breath. “It’s as if I can hear Enoïla speaking when I hear your words. She would have said exactly the same thing.” Caphalor kissed her on the forehead and smelled her hair. “You are my life-partner, but I shall carry her in my thoughts. Not all the time. It will get less. But she has a constant place in my heart and in my soul. When she died part of me died with her. Do you understand?”
Imàndaris nodded and pressed his hand once more. “Yes. What remains of you is good enough for me, Caphalor.” She kissed him tenderly.
A warm feeling stole through him. He pressed his lips to hers.