With his free hand Polòtain raised the heavy forge hammer, letting it fall on the man’s head, cracking it open. “He was useless. Let’s concentrate on you.” The älf laid the cooling fire iron back into the furnace. “Who did the third man work for?”
“Our master, too,” Errec screamed in terror. “I swear I’m not lying, noble lordship! We weren’t told to fight!”
Polòtain recognized the desperate light of truth in the barbarian’s eyes and felt bitter disappointment fill his heart. His neat theory about the brawl having been orchestrated as a distraction was proving baseless. “I think I should make sure you are not lying,” he said, pulling the glowing iron out of the coals.
“I’m not! I’m not! I’m not lying!” he shrieked.
Polòtain turned his face away in disgust. “Silence! You offend my ears!” And with that he rammed the fire-iron into the man’s open throat.
White steam hissed from the man’s throat and a stifled gurgling sound was heard. The fire iron still deep inside his convulsing body, Errec fell half onto the floor, half onto his friend’s shattered head.
“Get rid of them both!” Polòtain ordered, turning on his heel. “Feed them to night-mares or do whatever you want with them! I don’t want the bodies found.” He left the forge with Godànor following.
As they crossed the courtyard they saw a guard being escorted in through the gate.
The armed älf marched up to them. “Greetings, Polòtain,” he said respectfully, handing over a leather parchment roll. “I have been instructed to bring you this message and to wait for your reply.”
Godànor frowned and was about to say something, but Polòtain smiled and held out his hand for the parchment. He had an inkling what it might contain. “Thank you. Go with Godànor and wait. You will be given refreshments. It’s been a hot day.”
As the others went into the house, Polòtain opened the thin leather roll and extracted a sheet of paper bearing words in Eranior’s handwriting.
My esteemed Polòtain,
The guard bringing you my letter is the one who inflicted the leg wound on your beloved nephew Robonor that night.
Do with him as you will to get the truth from him.
Find out whether it was an accident or whether he was paid by some third party.
You have a free hand because officially I sent him to the Tark Draan campaign with the troops to take a message to my niece. If he never arrives they will assume something untoward happened on the journey.
Don’t let the fact that he is a relation of mine hold you back. It is a branch of the family I do not care for. Do whatever is necessary to bring Sinthoras down. You have my support.
My sincerest good wishes for the continued strength of the Comets,
Eranior
Polòtain’s mood improved.
The barbarians had not delivered the information he craved. It would go better this time.
He was sure he would be able to get what he needed for his revenge scheme. It had to succeed! It occurred to Polòtain he could attach bits of the guard to the statue of Robonor. That would show whoever was behind the attack.
He hurried into the house and went to the reception room where visitors would normally leave their cloaks and their slaves.
Godànor was sitting next to the guard on a narrow bench and they were chatting together. A carafe of water stood on a small table at their side, along with two silver beakers inlaid with bone decorations.
“You have brought me a very pleasing message,” said Polòtain warmly, with no need to dissimulate. “I’ll prepare my response right away.” He made as if to pass by the two of them but stopped short. “Tell me, don’t you want to go to Tark Draan to do battle with the elves and their allies? You look as if you were born to greater things than just being a personal guard. What is your name?”
The younger älf looked up in surprise. “My name is Falòran. Yes, that’s what I was intending to do. Why do you ask?”
Polòtain indicated the sword at the guard’s side. “Because of your weapon. I’d say it was a superior piece of work, not the sort of thing an ordinary guard would use.”
“I haven’t had it very long. I had it made in the forge Xermacûr runs. It is indeed not something I would normally have been able to afford.”
“So you’ve come into some money?” Polòtain’s question seemed harmless. “A guard won’t earn much.”
“Yes . . .” Falòran was regretting what he had said and he shifted uneasily on the bench. “An . . . inheritance.”
“Ah, so death has its uses? That’s encouraging to know.” Polòtain gave the guard a reassuring smile. “I agree: that blade should only taste very special blood.”
With lightning speed he drew the sword and rammed it deep into Falòran’s shoulder through the body armor.
“Like your own,” he hissed. “A traitor’s blood!”
The guard let out a yell of pain and raised his fist to strike at Polòtain but Godànor sprang to his side and restrained him.
Polòtain’s laugh was icier than the blades of the western wind. “I have some questions for you. And you shall give me the answers I want. All of them. This I swear by all the infamous gods.” He twisted Falòran’s arm, making the älf collapse. “Let’s take him to the forge.” Polòtain left the sword in the body of the unconscious guard. “This is the traitor that prevented Robonor from stepping out of danger when the stone block came down.”
“I thought he must have something to do with it from the way you were speaking to him.” Godànor grabbed Falòran roughly and hauled him out of the room, across the courtyard and into the small smithy they had so recently left. The two dead slaves had been removed, but the bloodstains remained and the stench of burned flesh hung in the air.
Polòtain followed on his great-grandson’s heels, annoyed with himself for losing his temper. He had Godànor tie the prisoner up so that the tip of the sword—still embedded in Falòran’s body—came to rest inside the furnace.
They chucked a bucket of water over Falòran to bring him around. He opened his eyes and understood the situation immediately. “I . . . should . . . have known,” he hissed through lips taut with pain. “It seemed like . . . a rum mission . . . from the very start.”
“If you had relied on your instincts you wouldn’t be sitting here in chains, but you were not bright enough to do so,” Polòtain responded, applying the bellows. Flames shot up and sparks flew as the heat increased. “Now the furnace will heat your precious sword; your flesh will start to cook and you will die in intolerable pain. Or, you can tell me who paid you to injure Robonor and you can go free.”
“Did someone tell you it was me that caused his leg injury?”
“Was that not the case?”
Falòran nodded and screwed his face up in pain. “Yes, it was me. But it was an accident! I swear by the Inextinguishables.”
“Tell me what happened in the alley. Perhaps I will believe you.” Polòtain stopped the bellows. The sword had a rosy glow to its tip and the heat would be creeping nicely along the blade toward the älf’s body.
“We were on patrol through the alleyways. Robonor was uneasy and kept glancing up at the roofs, as if he was looking for someone up there. He must have shaken whatever was bothering him off because he gave the order to return to base. Then we heard a shout from the alley we had just left.”
“Robonor was already concerned about safety?” Polòtain urged.
The guard nodded, his jaw clamped tightly shut against the pain; sweat shone on his top lip. “We ran back into the alley, two on each side of him, me behind, our shields half-raised. Then we saw the slaves brawling at the other end and Robonor thought we should take a look. We intended to let them finish their scuffle, then given them a whipping and taken them back to their masters.” A cry of pain forced its way out of Falòran’s mouth. The blade was too hot now to be borne.
“Speak quicker, so that your discomfort doesn’t last too long,” said Polòtain.
/> “We stopped a few paces short of the ruffians who were fighting.” Falòran groaned. “We noticed at once that they were unmarked, so we couldn’t see whose slaves they were. One fell to the ground and it looked as if the fun were over. Robonor was about to issue an order when there was a scraping sound from up above us. He jumped back, into me . . .” He uttered a prolonged cry, then fought for breath.
Godànor inspected the place where the blade emerged. “His shoulder is well done now,” he informed Polòtain. “He’ll soon be cooked through and we can feed him to our slaves.” He grabbed hold of the älf’s hair. “Do you want to end your days in a barbarian’s stomach? Is this the entry into endingness you have always longed for?”
“It was an accident!” Falòran yelled, the veins in his neck standing out with the effort. “Robonor crashed into the edge of my shield, cutting his leg. He stumbled and was hit by the falling masonry. I was thrown backward by the impact and escaped the same fate. Robonor saved my life!” Tears were streaming down his face. “Please, Polòtain! I swear I am telling the truth.”
Polòtain’s emotions were in uproar. He did not want to believe—no—he could not allow himself to believe that Sinthoras had nothing to do with his beloved great-nephew’s death. It could not have been a chain of unlucky coincidences. There must have been some intrigue behind it. Someone must take the blame.
In spite of what the guard had told him, Polòtain remained convinced that Sinthoras was behind it: the masonry block had been pushed off the roof by an unknown hand. He would prove it in court—until then he must gather the necessary testimony. The nostàroi was not going to escape punishment—Polòtain would see to that.
Shaking, he dropped the chain that activated the bellows and put his hand on the hilt of the sword. “You owe your life to him?”
“Yes,” gasped Falòran, exhausted. Sweat ran down his face in rivulets.
“Then you would do anything, I’m sure, to prove that he is a hero—and a victim of someone else’s machinations.”
“I—”
Godànor took over the operation of the bellows.
“Yes, yes!” Falòran shouted in fear. “I’ll do anything for Robonor!”
Polòtain grasped the sword hard and pulled it out of the guard’s shoulder; there was a hissing sound as the red-hot tip came through his flesh. “Don’t worry about the wound. The heat will have cauterized the blood vessels.” He put the sword back into its sheath. “You shall be my guest and be given everything you need. Soon, Godànor will bring you a witness statement to sign. My family and I will provide you with all the protection necessary for your safety.”
Falòran was not listening. He had passed out.
Godànor watched as Falòran’s face relaxed into unconsciousness. “He can’t have sustained many injuries in his life if he couldn’t take more than that,” he said.
“We were lucky he gave in so soon, otherwise we’d have ended up killing him and would have gotten nothing out of him.” Polòtain was slowly calming down after the exertion and excitement. The relief was enormous. He still did not have any genuine evidence, but a falsified statement would work just as well when it came to damaging the reputations of both Sinthoras and the treacherous Timanris. He would set down the words of the statement as soon as he could, then Falòran would put his signature to it, thus transforming it into truth.
He looked at his great-grandson. “I have a task for you, Godànor.”
“Whatever you like.”
“I want you to get up onto the roof of the building the masonry fell from. Examine everything minutely. Look for any scrap of material, any mark, the smallest of scratches—make a drawing of anything you find. Then you’re to interview all the residents of the building. Ask them what they heard that night. Tell everyone you meet that you are looking for further evidence of Sinthoras’s involvement in Robonor’s death. Remember: further evidence! And mention in passing that you already have a witness.”
“I understand: they will pass the rumor on and it’ll do the rounds all over Dsôn. It’ll be talked about in every single radial arm of the state!” Godànor untied Falòran so that the guard’s body tipped forward and came to rest on the floor. “I am fortunate that you have taught me so much, Great-grandfather.” He indicated the unconscious älf. “Where shall I take him?”
“To the guest quarters. Treat him well and see that he is watched. As soon as he has signed the statement he’s to be allowed to leave.”
“But . . . when Sinthoras finds out that he is our witness—”
“He will have him killed.” Polòtain smiled. “That’s exactly what I hope will happen. We will still be able to bring his statement as evidence, but if a guardsman who tried to speak out against the nostàroi ended up dead . . . ?” He strode off toward the door of the forge. “Of course, we let Falòran believe that people will be protecting him at all times.”
Godànor nodded.
Polòtain left the workshop, humming a tune.
It might have looked like a lost war first thing that morning, but it had turned out to be merely a lost battle, followed by a victorious one. Somebody would be losing the war soon, but it was not going to be Polòtain.
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), Gray Mountains, Stone Gateway,
4371st division of unendingness (5199th solar cycle),
summer.
Carmondai was actually too early when he arrived for the troop commanders’ conference, although he had been afraid he was running late. This was why he had not changed. He hastily tried to remove the greenish black marks from his cloak and surcoat. The substance did not only smell unpleasant, but stuck like glue. Can’t be helped now . . .
The nostàroi were already in the hall, both in ceremonial attire. Sinthoras was seated, listening intently to a standing Caphalor. Suddenly his features lightened and he jumped up and took his dark-haired friend by the shoulders, embracing him joyfully.
Carmondai realized he was witnessing a very personal moment and felt awkward. Clearing his throat, he addressed the nostàroi. “Forgive me for barging in,” he said, stepping back out of the room. “I had no intention of disturbing the noble lords.”
They turned toward him.
“Not at all!” Sinthoras gestured to him to approach. “Come in! I would like you to write something special for the generations to come, and for the whole of Dsôn, my dear Carmondai! Though my words to you are meant as a request, not an order, of course!” The exuberant way in which Sinthoras was speaking marked a significant change from his usual sarcastic demeanor.
Whatever it is Caphalor said, he is mighty pleased about it. Carmondai came over and unpacked his writing folder in readiness. The ugly greenish black blotches on the cover were all too obvious.
“Óarco blood,” said Caphalor. “Let me guess: you were running out of ink and just in the nick of time an óarco was foolish enough to cross your path, so you bled it.”
Sinthoras laughed. “What’s your story, Carmondai?”
“It’s a little embarrassing: I got lost and when I asked a group of óarcos for directions, the conversation was not as courteous as I imagined, so I was forced to defend myself. I really could not help it”—he tapped his writing folder—“this folder and its immeasurably valuable contents had to be protected at all costs.”
“Of course,” agreed Sinthoras, but he did not seem interested in the details. “Your documents will be even more irreplaceable when you have recorded that my beloved Timanris is still among the living.” His smile grew even wider.
Being part of the cultural elite of Dsôn, Carmondai was aware that Timanris was the daughter of Timansor, one of the most celebrated artists of the realm, but it had escaped his notice that the nostàroi and she had developed a close relationship. “Has she been unwell?” he inquired carefully.
“We could put it that way,” Caphalor said. “We had been tricked by the false report of her demise and the news had affected my friend here greatly. I am all the more delighted to be able to
put his mind at rest.”
Carmondai made a note of this happy turn of events and recalled how Caphalor had lost his own life-partner—rumor had it she had been slain by a lovesick obboona. He had been sorely grieved by her loss; misery was still apparent in his eyes. “This is a happy day, indeed,” said Carmondai.
“Do you have a partner at home, waiting for you? Or perhaps she has accompanied you?” Sinthoras looked at him expectantly.
“Or he, of course?” added Caphalor. “If that is the case, perhaps you would both want to join the Goldsteel Unit of Friends?” He smiled. “No—not your kind of thing, I think. I understand your fighting days are over.” He looked pointedly at the óarco bloodstains as if to say, I don’t believe a word of your story.
“Neither a male nor a female partner,” Carmondai answered. “I broke off all my commitments before leaving for Tark Draan. I would not have expected anyone to wait for my return. In my experience, even two moments of unendingness can be an extremely long time.” He paused a moment. “Forgive me, Nostàroi, but the Unit of Friends is with our army?”
Caphalor nodded. “The Inextinguishables sent them to join us. We have placed them under Virssagòn’s command because he is in charge of the barbarian troops. The Goldsteel Unit will be a whip he can employ if there is any insurrection.”
Carmondai was impressed to hear this; he wrote it all down.
As far as he knew, the Goldsteel Unit of Friends was composed of 150 pairs of same-sex lovers—mostly males, but also some female älfar couples, who made up the core of the Inextinguishables’ personal guard. The advantage of lovers was that they would look out for each other’s safety in battle, supporting and protecting even more than conventional warriors would normally do. They had the reputation of being the hardest, most merciless fighters at the front where resistance was greatest.
I must be sure to take a look at them. They are said to be a veritable adornment for the army—from their stature right down to the body armor. Every day that passed showed Carmondai that he had been right to join the Tark Draan campaign. Some of his friends had pronounced his plan to be madness because of the dangers involved, but they had had no idea of how much artistic material there was. None of the naysayers had ever, for example, seen the Goldsteels in action. Some thought they were only a myth. He could take home evidence of their existence.