Death conquers all. Except art.
Wise saying of the Älfar
Collected by Carmondai, master of word and image
Ishím Voróo, Älfar town of Dsôn Elhàtor, 5452nd division of unendingness (6491st solar cycle), summer
Irïanora sat in her white leather armchair as though rooted to the spot, her arms on the armrests. The blades are going to carve me up like a sponge cake.
She stared anxiously at the piece of paper in Ôdaiòn’s well-groomed hand. On it was her uncle’s message to the monarchess and it needed to match what she said. Otherwise the whips would fly at her.
“Go ahead, my dear.” Modôia towered above the chaise longue, the black whip looking out of place in the hand of the elegant älf-woman in the white dress, surrounded by yet more whiteness in the high-ceilinged room. The little birds flew tirelessly from lily to lily on the walls, making the scene even more surreal with the sound of their swift, droning wingbeats. “You know the message. Don’t keep me in suspense. It’s dampening my good mood.” She smiled coldly. “You would sense that straight away, at my first blow.”
Irïanora’s lips were moving but she couldn’t think. “Before you stands my niece,” she said falteringly.
Modôia’s left eyebrow shot up. The blow followed so quickly that even an experienced warrior would not have been able to dodge it.
Irïanora saw the blades glinting right in front of her, the tips heading straight for her middle—before they switched direction with a crack. The three straps jerked to the side, then her shoulders and neck started to burn.
The älf-woman screamed first in fear and then, shortly after that, in pain. The whips were pulled back again, the wet, red blades leaving thin lines on the white stone floor. The top half of her dark blue dress slipped down and warm blood trickled over her skin. The monarchess had cut through the fabric and made just a few minor incisions in her skin.
“I’ve always thought clothing doesn’t show off the effect of the whip properly,” she remarked. “Besides: you are very attractive and have nothing to hide, if you ignore the bruises.”
“She could be the model for a statue of Inàste. Perfection from head to waist, madam, and perhaps we’ll see the rest too,” Ôdaiòn agreed with his mother and looked down at the piece of paper. “You’ll have realised that those were not the correct words.” He got up and his whip uncoiled as he did so. “Someone should paint this, the way you’re sitting there, surrounded by cleanliness and blood, the immaculateness fading more and more because of your inability to hit upon the correct message.” He moved his whipping hand and the straps jerked. “Ah yes: hit.”
Another barely perceptible movement and the blades were whirring towards her.
Irïanora screamed when they made contact on her right and left sides and again on her neck. Her dress fell open to her navel after this attack, but she didn’t move to cover up her nakedness.
She stared Ôdaiòn in the face—and detected desire in his eyes.
When she saw this she realised, quick as a flash, that the älf would never severely injure her because he was still planning to have some fun with her.
Irïanora held his gaze and stayed seated bolt upright, as if she was trying to offer the whip an easy target.
Ôdaiòn lifted the piece of paper again. “Now, the second attempt,” he commanded her. A ray of light fell so that it hit the thin paper in his fingers and shone through it.
Irïanora saw that there was nothing written on it. My uncle didn’t send a message. They’re playing a game with me. They want to frighten me, humiliate me. Is that my punishment? She slowly got up from her armchair, blood pearling across her skin, tracing red tracks down to her navel and seeping into the fabric.
“The piece of paper you’re holding in front of you is blank, sir,” she said in a firm voice. “My uncle couldn’t have sent you a message because he thought it was a better idea to send me to speak with you instead.”
Modôia’s gaze became furtive. “Why did you try to guess the words at first, if you knew the truth?”
“You were making such an effort to frighten me, I didn’t want to ruin your fun, monarchess,” replied Irïanora, putting on just as convincing an act of being fearless as she had of being terrified at the sight of her dead maid. She gave a small bow. “Now, if you’ll excuse me? I’d like to put on a different dress.”
Ôdaiòn burst into peals of laughter and Modôia joined in.
“Just go. My maid…”
“I’ll go with you,” her son said quickly, carelessly tossing the whip onto the armchair. “You’ll love the rooms I’ve picked for you.”
“You’re too kind, sir.” Irïanora bowed again. Small, red drops were pouring off her skin and falling onto the marble with a soft splashing sound.
Modôia seemed to have enjoyed herself. “Freshen up then, pick out a new outfit and I’ll be expecting you at dinner.”
Ôdaiòn took Irïanora by the hand and led her out.
The älf-woman didn’t even consider adjusting her ruined dress. The son of the monarchess ought to enjoy the sight of her. She wanted to arouse his desire and make an ally of him as soon as possible. Who knows what plans his mother has for me.
Irïanora was led through corridors and galleries decorated in pale blue and white.
The bone art on Elhàtor was confined to working with enormous bones and fish skeletons. There was no sign of the skeletons of barbarians or other beasts. Two jellyfish-like creatures four paces wide had been recreated with the help of fabric and looked like they were floating across one hall—lanterns inside them made it look like they were glowing.
Sea air made the curtains billow constantly and occasionally Irïanora caught a glimpse of the waves off the coast of the island.
After quite a few sets of stairs they entered the tower room where all of her trunks of clothes already stood, apart from the one containing the corpse of the murdered maid. A bath had also been prepared and there was a scent of lavender and citrus fruits from the warm water.
Without asking, Ôdaiòn undressed Irïanora.
In Dâkiòn she would have had the pushy älf thrown out, but luring him in like a big fat fish was part of her plan. So she bit her tongue as her cuts and scratches stung in protest.
Smiling, he helped her into the bathtub and picked up a sponge to wash the blood off her gently. “Don’t worry. Our healers will make the wounds disappear later, along with these bruises which no doubt came from Shôtoràs,” he said, his voice like velvet. He wrung out the sponge at the nape of her neck. Warm water ran down her back and she shuddered with pleasure. “Forgive my mother for the little game, but she felt you needed to be punished for what you’d done.”
“You didn’t?”
“I saw you, madam, and knew I couldn’t harm you in any way,” he whispered in her ear and gently kissed her bare shoulder.
Irïanora laughed coldly. “The words trip off your tongue so easily.”
“I say them to every beautiful woman,” he replied with a smile. “Because they’re true.”
“But your whip struck me anyway.”
“It scratched you,” he corrected her. “Not one of my blows would have done anything more than scratch you, unlike my mother’s lashes.” Ôdaiòn kissed the wounded area on her neck. “She tends to be cruel. You can tell she lived in Tark Draan for a long time.”
“So I’ve had my punishment and I can go back?” Irïanora placed a hand on his cheek and it felt soft and well-groomed. Come, my little fish. Get into my net. “Or can I keep you company a while longer?”
“I would be delighted, even though you’ll try and spy for your uncle.” He winked at her and ran his wet fingers through his mid-length hair.
“I hate him,” she blurted out too quickly.
Ôdaiòn laughed. “Then you’re doubly welcome to Elhàtor. We gladly accept älfar who renounce the sovereign, which has been something of a rare occurrence lately. They could potentially unleash a wave of emigration.” He kissed the palm of her hand as he wrung out the sponge on her throat so that the water ran down over her breasts. Then Ôdaiòn leaned forwards, his lips gently coming to rest against Irïanora’s.
She returned the caress without much desire. I certainly won’t fall in love with him, Irïanora thought. Play with him, yes. But not the other way round. He is my fish.
When the älf got up and left her apartment without turning around, she ducked underneath the surface of the water, hoping it would wash away and drown any potential feelings.
Towards the evening, Ôdaiòn came to fetch her and bring her to the meal. His fondness for dark blue and silver was in evidence again and despite its opulence, his robe was light-weight.
Earlier, two guards at her door had put paid to any attempt to explore the palace when they made it clear that Irïanora was to wait in her chamber.
Most of the windows had been covered with fabric from the outside so that the älf-woman could only see a narrow strip of the coast and the sea. So the splendid Dsôn Elhàtor, the Magnificent, with its streets, houses, the harbour and the fortifications, remained hidden to her for now. There could just as easily have been crooked huts and ugly stone hovels underneath her bedroom, she wouldn’t know.
Irïanora had spent her time watching the waves and writing down her impressions. Two healers appeared at intervals and made all of the wounds and marks on her body disappear using magic.
“You look wonderful, madam.” Ôdaiòn kissed her hand. “How could anyone not fall in love with you?”
“Is that what you’re doing right now?” she teased him and bowed slightly. The red dress accentuated her figure particularly well and she had braided her long, blonde hair into a wide plait. Attempting anything else would have been pointless in the damp, salty air.
He placed his free hand on his heart. “Oh, you don’t feel it then? From the splinter of unendingness when I helped you out of the carriage, you entered my heart.” Ôdaiòn flung open the door to the dining room she’d seen earlier. “Let’s enjoy the jolly part of your visit. I really hope”—he stepped to one side to allow her to enter—“you’re pleased to see the familiar face you didn’t ask after once. Just like you didn’t ask after either of your other two friends.”
Irïanora looked at the dining table where the monarchess was sitting with a brunette älf-woman Irïanora didn’t know who was wearing a short, white leather dress, and Saitôra. Her friend from Dâkiòn was wearing a simple robe in various shades of blue, interwoven with silver and white, as if she had married Ôdaiòn in the meantime. She got up when they entered and nodded to Irïanora.
“Saitôra!” cried Irïanora gladly and hurried over to her, not forgetting to bow to the monarchess, who was now wearing a black dress embellished with pale blue. “I was so worried.”
Ôdaiòn went to his mother’s side. “We’re all here now,” he said, giving her a light kiss on the crown of her blonde head. “Let the meal begin.”
Saitôra leaned over to her friend. “Gathalor and Iophâlor are dead,” she blurted out quietly. “They killed them. Back at the strait!”
Irïanora’s mouth was drying out more and more with every heartbeat—but not out of anxiety. It’s a pity about Iophâlor, but good thing Gathalor died… That is… wonderful! She didn’t let on to Saitôra about her sudden good mood, but quickly gripped her hand and pressed it to feign dismay and seeking support. The murder of Gathalor will upset my uncle so much, he’ll fly into a rage. And a peaceful Constellation will turn into a burning Comet hurtling towards Elhàtor. The whole of Dâkiòn must have heard about the murders. Oh, I…
Her plans ground to a halt: the task she had been given was to bring all three of the missing älfar back. Alive.
Her failure meant she was in danger from the old man too.
The servants entered and Modôia gestured to them to begin serving. “We’re starting with a seafood soup,” she explained. “The broth contains the best marinated crabmeat, unlike anything you’d find anywhere else.” She picked up her spoon and looked around. “So I hope our guests enjoy it.”
Irïanora tasted it cautiously and found the flavours of fish, herbs and salt very pleasant. And the taste of the crabmeat was very good too. “The cuisine is more sophisticated than ours,” she remarked loudly and looked at Saitôra who was eating a little more slowly. “I think it’s exquisite.”
Modôia smiled. “I’ll let my chef know.”
Ôdaiòn leaned back suddenly. “What bad manners,” he cried in surprise and tapped two fingers on the table. “I completely forgot to introduce the great Leïóva. What a faux pas.”
Irïanora nodded to her.
“She is Mother’s closest confidante. She even shares some worries with her that she keeps secret from me.” Ôdaiòn sat up straight again and went on spooning up his soup with a wink. “Even though I find it hurtful to be belittled like that.”
Irïanora surreptitiously scrutinised the älf-woman and took an instant dislike to her. Something is off about her. It wasn’t because of her pretty face or her physique or posture. Her perfume?
“Leïóva’s daughter commands one of our largest merchant ships,” Modôia elaborated. “She is the best commander we have.” She pointed at her son with her cutlery. “She and my son…”
“… are friends, Mother. Nothing more,” he interrupted her with an air of amused light-heartedness. “But that’s an area of my life our guests will find boring.” He looked back and forth between Irïanora and Saitôra. “How I’d like to tour you around and show you both the beauty of Elhàtor. But so long as we haven’t settled on how to proceed from here, I’ve got to hold fire,” he explained with that friendly arrogance in his voice.
Saitôra looked at her friend. “What does that mean? I’m allowed to go back to Dâkiòn, right?” The young älf-woman looked at the monarchess. “I told you everything that I…”
“Hush,” Modôia said kindly, putting her spoon aside. “Don’t worry, my dear. That decision will be made by just one person at this table.”
The servants cleared the soup away and brought out plates with prised-open crab shells, various kinds of mussels and a piece of crayfish whose insides had been fried until they were crispy. The monarchess refrained from explanations this time.
Irïanora couldn’t take her eyes off Leïóva. What is it about her? “Excuse me,” she addressed her, “don’t I know you from Dâkiòn? Do you have family there? Can I pass on any…”
Ôdaiòn snorted, Leïóva and Modôia looked amused.
“Did I say something stupid?” Irïanora didn’t know what to make of their reactions.
“No,” answered Leïóva simply and kept eating.
“So you’re not a former resident of Dâkiòn?”
“No.”
Irïanora felt uneasy and embarrassed by her ignorance. “So are you a descendant of the älfar who stood their ground in the wasteland after the fall of Dsôn Faïmon and came to the island some time later?”
“I came here after my people were as good as wiped out, yes,” Leïóva agreed coldly. “Our enemies pursued us relentlessly, murdered women and children and didn’t even baulk at hunting down pregnant women who wanted nothing but to live in peace.”
“Oh, so you escaped from Dorón Ashont?” Saitôra was spellbound.
“For me, there are more appalling enemies. The Acronta don’t frighten me.” The älf-woman in the white leather dress carved up a crab shell. “After a very eventful escape, I met Modôia. And although we hated each other from the bottom of our hearts at first, we overcame our dislike.”
“And survived.” The monarchess pointed to her son. “Without Leïóva he wouldn’t be sitting here today.”
“Without Modôia, my daughter would have been doomed.” The black-haired älf-woman’s gaze was fixed penetratingly on Irïanora. “Do you know any friendship like ours, profound enough to be capable of overcoming hatred?” She pointed at Saitôra with her knife and did not shift her gaze, but the muscles in her shoulders started to stand out. “Are you two linked by a similar bond, given she was ready to die for you?”
These words were followed by a deathly silence.
No, I can’t stand her. Irïanora took a drink of water. “Yes,” she replied and touched Saitôra’s foot under the table to show her how serious she was. She turned her attention to the monarchess. “I beg you: when you make your decision about Saitôra’s fate and mine, please consider…”
Modôia raised her hand and the älf-woman fell silent. “There’s been a misunderstanding, my dear. When I said earlier that there was just one person at this table who would make the decision, I meant you, Irïanora.”
Saitôra laughed with relief. “Oh, then send us home,” she muttered loudly enough for everyone to hear.
Modôia, Leïóva and Ôdaiòn laughed pleasantly.
“It’s not that simple,” the monarchess admitted. “As that first trip down the Tronjor took such an unfortunate turn—not that you, Irïanora, could have predicted how tragically it would end—I thought to myself that it would be a good thing to leave the decision up to you this time.”
“You killed them,” Saitôra hissed in the monarchess’ direction.
“We agreed it was—” Modôia looked to her son for help.
“An accident,” he stepped in immediately.
“What decision?” asked Irïanora uncomprehendingly. “I thought I was allowed to make up my mind?”
“Just as the river and your decision caused an accident that claimed victims’ lives, there can’t fail to be victims this time either.” Modôia had some wine poured out for her and Leïóva took out a vial and tipped three greenish drops into it. “One of you is allowed to return to Dâkiòn.” She raised her glass to Irïanora. “You, as the niece of the sovereign and the higher ranking of you two, will decide who that will be.” She emptied her glass in one go.
“And the other person?” whispered Saitôra.
“Will stay. As a hostage. If even one boat from Dâkiòn approaches the strait, my whip will do the talking for as long as it takes. Until there is nothing but little scraps of the hostage left which I will send to Shôtoràs.” Modôia looked at her plate. “I don’t want to let myself be embarrassed or provoked any longer. Not by your uncle, by you or by any other älf who rules Dâkiòn in the future. That’s the end of it.” She cleared her throat and clasped her hands together expectantly. “So, my dear: who will go?”
Thoughts raced through Irïanora’s head, from her uncle’s threat and her hatred of him, to her hatred of the monarchess and the barely concealed desire of her son, the little fish in her net that she wanted to exploit.
New possibilities were opening up, old ones bowed to the inevitable and were dismissed, all within the space of a few heartbeats.
It all led to a strategy that fit excellently with her plan.
“Who”—Modôia could make her voice crack like her whip—“will go?”
And Irïanora answered.
Tark Draan, Human kingdom of Idoslane, 5452nd division of unendingness (6491st solar cycle), summer
Carmondai placed a hand on the pillar lying diagonally across another pillar and pushed to see if it would hold. When there was no creaking or wobbling, he continued on according to the zhadár’s instructions, ending up in the centre of the ruins.
Carâhnios got a kick out of sending Carmondai on ahead. “So the black-eye will think he’s being given some help,” he’d said with a grin when they parted.
So Carmondai was running along in the clothes that were now too small and threadbare. He was upright and easy to see in the moonlight as he moved through the ruins of the temple while the groundling took care of the security, moving furtively and as silently as an älf.
This is not how I pictured the mission. Carmondai’s wrists were still shackled, which Carâhnios had thought made his pretence of being an escaped prisoner look more plausible. He also stumbled now and again as he’d been ordered to do, so that he could be heard. He could not work out the purpose of the large glass bottle the zhadár had pressed into his hand. There was a thin layer of silvery fluid along the glass bottom of the bottle.
Eventually, Carmondai was standing in the middle of the temple and behind him were the remains of a wall four paces high, with colourful glass windows decorated with unfamiliar symbols still preserved in it. The panes of glass turned the moonlight different colours and gave his tanned skin an unfamiliar tint. Five pillars as wide as a man and criss-crossed with cracks towered up in front of this, forming a semi-circle.
What now? He had made an effort to be loud and conspicuous.
Carmondai still didn’t know what to do if it came to a fight. Carâhnios had made it very clear what awaited him if he were to go against the groundling’s instructions. But if the fortunes in a battle were to tilt and there was a chance of shifting the advantage more in favour of an älf… And then what? I’m more or less in enemy land.
He forced himself, despite the humiliation, to stick to the agreed plan for the time being and stay close to the zhadár.
There was a quiet click behind him.
Carmondai turned around and stepped backwards to be on the safe side because he thought one of the pillars was collapsing or a piece of rubble had broken off and was falling down on him.
To his astonishment, a door had opened in the column to his right and a black-haired älf in tionium armour was standing inside it holding a long sword. Instead of paying any attention to the interloper, he strained his ears and carefully scanned the ruins. “Stay where you are,” the warrior murmured to him.
Carmondai waited, taking time to relish his surprise. Carâhnios was right. The entrance to the hideaway—which was indeed inside the hill—was through the pillars that looked dangerously dilapidated.
The älfar stranger emerged slowly from the doorway. “You’re alone,” he said in a normal voice and put the sword away. “Forgive me for the unfriendly welcome, but times have changed for us. The barbarians might have been using a trick to lure me out of the hideaway.”
Carmondai held out a shackled hand to him. “I get it.”
“Who are you and how did you know about the ruins?”
The truth would be the most convincing. “I’m Carmondai. The Dsôn Aklán told me about all of the hideaways they built so that they could go to ground.”
“You are the master of word and image?” The stunned älf gave a small bow. “I adore your works! I praise Inàste for sending you to me and that endingness passed you by. My name is Ostòras.”
“I thank you too, for showing yourself. It saves a lot of trouble. It would have taken me a long time to find the opening mechanism,” he replied, feigning friendly solidarity.
“Then come inside with me so that we can take your shackles off.” Ostòras looked genuinely pleased they had met, although the circumstances left a lot to be desired, of course. His dark red eyes were fixed on the glass bottle. “Is that valuable? Why are you carrying it around with you?”
Suddenly Carâhnios leaped out of the darkness of the shadows, holding the sword in his right hand and pointing it accusingly at Carmondai. “Don’t believe him! He’s an elf in disguise—they sent him as bait,” he shouted menacingly and looked around hurriedly as if he were being followed or was expecting an attack. “You’ve walked right into the trap!”
Ostòras almost attacked the groundling but he immediately realised he was a zhadár. He turned this way and that, on his guard. “I knew it,” he shouted. “You were much too loud to be an älf.”
Carâhnios burst into gales of laughter. “This is too good! I use one black-eye to trick the other and I pull a fast one on you twice!”
It took Ostòras several heartbeats to realise he had fallen victim to a trick with a deadly ending. “This is how you both die!” He went to draw a dagger out of the holder on his back.
As soon as the armoured älf’s arm moved backwards, the zhadár pounced.
Carmondai couldn’t help but admire the agility of his movements. They were beyond the skills of an ordinary dwarf.
Ostòras dodged the blade, whipped his knee upwards to hit Carâhnios in the face then drew his own sword.
But the groundling dodged the attack. He parried his opponent’s sword with his own weapon above his head and used his helmet to ram the älf in the solar plexus with all his might.
Suffocating, Ostòras sank to his knees despite his armour. The tip of the zhadár’s weapon thrust vertically downwards through his armour into his collarbone. He dropped his sword and dagger with a clatter.
Carâhnios was still clasping the handle undaunted.
The duel lasted less than three heartbeats. He took the warrior completely by surprise. For Carmondai, not even the slightest opportunity to take sides had arisen, although he wouldn’t necessarily have considered it.
Groaning, the kneeling Ostòras hung from the weapon like a fish on a harpoon.
“Now you’re utterly confused,” Carâhnios guessed and sniggered. “Yes, I am a zhadár, and that is Carmondai. We’ve set out to track down the last of you in the most secretive hideaways. Because I know every last one of them.”
Ostòras cursed him. “One day you’re going to come across one of us who doesn’t fall for your trick,” he predicted. “And then you’ll die. Miserably and agonisingly.”
“Not like you anyway. That’s for sure.” The zhadár drew his dagger and stabbed the älf in the neck, hitting the artery. “Carmondai, the bottle.”
The älf handed it to him.
Carâhnios held the mouth of the bottle to the wound to collect the blood that spurted against the transparent walls in time with the heart’s rhythm. His other hand rested around the hilt of his sword, fixing Ostòras firmly to the spot on his knees—he was moaning but didn’t move so as not to injure himself more severely.
He’s taking the blood to distil the essence from it. Carmondai wished he’d brought along something to draw with. The former allies, joined in a deadly struggle. The älfars’ creature triumphs over its masters.
“Let’s play a game, my black-eyed friend,” Carâhnios announced. “Your wounds are not yet fatal, and I could let you go.”
“A traitor is not going to turn me into a traitor,” Ostòras replied with hatred and contempt. Anger lines flashed across his face and it looked like his face was glowing in multiple colours because the coloured moonlight was falling on it through the panes of glass. “I’d rather pass into endingness. But know this”—he looked at Carmondai with eyes that were now black—“we are everywhere and yet nowhere. We will go into hiding, we will strike from the shadows and kill the kings of the barbarians, the pointy-ears and the groundlings. Girdlegard will descend into fear and chaos.” He laughed and coughed. “And every time a hero rises up to bring unity, we will be there. We are the darkness!”
Ostòras leaped to his feet and drew a rasping, painful breath as Carâhnios’ sword plunged down as far as his lungs, carving up his entrails and severing his arteries. Then the älf fell slowly forwards. Surprisingly little blood came from his two wounds, as if it was pooling internally.
The zhadár only just managed to keep hold of the glass bottle of blood in time. “He almost cost me my yield,” he grumbled and gave the corpse a kick. “Dumb black-eye.”
Ostòras’ threat had made an impact on Carmondai because he knew it would come true if the groundling didn’t manage to check all of the älfar’s hideaways in time. And he won’t. The great and the good of Tark Draan were all in danger. This is the stuff of great dramas.
Carmondai could see it now: wise kings rising out of the human and dwarf tribes and getting cut down by a black älfar arrow at the peak of their powers, making the country descend into discord. His mind was already beginning to devise an epic.
Carâhnios held the container up to the moonlight to check it. “Very good. That’s at least three units. The best way to collect the blood is when the heart is pumping it out. Once they’ve been run through with a sword it’s no good anymore. There could be impurities and that ruins the elixir.”
Words failed Carmondai; he could barely tear himself away from his thoughts about the epic but at the same time he was fascinated by the groundling’s mercilessness, his coldness. What did the Aklán create when they formed that unit?
The zhadár calmly put a cork in the bottle and looked around. “Everything is still quiet. Looks like there was only one of them. Such a pity.” He took a step through the doorway in the pillar. “Come on. Let’s take a look at this.” Then he smacked his forehead. “I almost forgot: go to the horse quickly, get yourself something to write and draw with, then come back here. Write down your thoughts and record what we find. Hurry up!”
Carmondai nodded and hurried through the ruins to their steeds. He’s letting me go by myself.
After the lightning-quick defeat of Ostòras, he knew exactly why Carâhnios was not worried about sending his prisoner off: Carmondai wouldn’t get far on his horse. His presence as history’s memory didn’t protect him from the zhadár’s anger and sword. Besides, he needs my blood. He will never let me go.
Sighing, Carmondai reached the horse, found what he needed in the saddlebag and hurried back through the remains of the temple to where the skirmish had happened.
I’m really, really intrigued about what we’re going to see.
He still could not imagine the ritual in which Carâhnios was going to transform the blood into the distillate that truly kept him strong.
He wanted to be a witness to this miracle too.
Ishím Voróo, 5452nd division of unendingness (6491st solar cycle), summer
Aiphatòn saw the white runes gleam on the armour of the ten enemy combatants in the starlight: four orcs, three humans, two gnomes and an unfamiliar beast with an ugly mug like a wolf.
The six familiar specimens of monster were racing purposefully towards him, drawing their weapons as they ran. The wolf-beast and the humans went round him to get to Nodûcor.
Aiphatòn didn’t ask himself what they wanted and beat them to the attack: he threw his spear at the two gnomes who were running in a staggered line, one behind the other, and penetrated their upper bodies; they fell to one side screaming and perished.
Aiphatòn launched himself at the closest orcs, smashing his armoured fists into their ugly mugs with such force that their facial bones caved in with a cracking sound. Blood gushed out of their noses, muzzles and eyes.
Squealing and gurgling, the enemies fell backwards onto the next two beasts and knocked them off their feet.
Aiphatòn landed behind the fallen orcs, dodged their whirring blades and summoned the spear which extricated itself from the dead gnomes and flew into his hand. He used all his might to ram the blade horizontally through the neck of one of the orcs who had been knocked down and carved up its blood-spurting throat.
The last orc got to its feet and swung its sword at Aiphatòn’s chest with a slanting blow.
The älf blocked the attack and suddenly pulled the blade of the spear downwards and straight through its hideous head, then immediately thrust the tip into the shrieking enemy’s belly and shoved him backwards. After his third staggering step he fell over the corpse of one of his own kind and lay still.
You’re all so easy to take down. Aiphatòn looked at Nodûcor who was shrinking away from the humans and the wolf-beast. He was brandishing the serrated dagger at them with the courage that comes of desperation. But given his thin arms and his weakened state, he did not present much of a challenge to his opponents.
Now for all of you. Aiphatòn started running and hurled the spear at the armoured wolf-creature’s back—he was the enemy he deemed the most dangerous. Its furry ears twitched; they detected the sound of the thrown spear. The monster dodged the missile with a rapid pivot—and made a grab with its right hand: its claws wrapped around the metal shaft of the spear. Enraged, it turned round to face the älf, holding the weapon it had seized at the ready.
By this point, the men were attacking Nodûcor and he was lashing out in every direction, trying to keep his opponents at bay.
Aiphatòn smiled at the slobbering wolf-beast as it bore down on him, holding the spear in both its hands now, planning to run his enemy through with it. It won’t be any use to you. He moved towards the beast.
A brief jolt of magical energy made the runes on his weapon glow. There was a hissing sound when the symbols heated up so quickly they burned into the creature’s skin; howling, it dropped the stolen weapon.
Aiphatòn came over and with his right hand he dealt the creature a direct punch to the centre of its chest, crushing the armour. The runes on his glove lit up and released a flash from the knuckles that blasted the armour open and carved a hole in the flesh underneath. A cloud of blood and bone fragments flew out of the wolf-beast’s back as it shot backwards eight paces and took one of the men’s feet out from under him. It landed in a smoking heap on the ground and didn’t move; the man under it twitched once before going still.
Nodûcor exploited his attackers’ confusion and stabbed upwards at one of the men’s chins with the dagger.
But his opponent moved his head back and the tip of the dagger slid uselessly over his coat of chainmail. One kick to the stomach sent the pale-skinned älf flying to the ground.
“It’s my turn first.” Aiphatòn sprinted towards them, hunched like a beast of prey, as the spear flew into his left hand and the runes went dark.
The first man attacked him with two short swords and the other one drew his double-bladed axe, which must once have belonged to a lumberjack, and waited.
This is taking too long. Aiphatòn swept the swords aside with his armoured right forearm, the symbols gleamed and the massive blades shattered like fragile glass. His left hand jolted forwards, driving the spear at his opponent’s heart and killing the man.
By now, the last enemy had put one foot against Nodûcor’s throat and the broad, right axe blade was resting at the älf’s neck. “Surrender, älf,” he said, his gaze vacant. “You and your friend will accompany this warrior to my army.”
It must be the botoican speaking to me. Aiphatòn wished he had Carmondai’s knowledge or that the tale-weaver himself would appear—he was so much more than a gifted storyteller. “So that you can enlist me like those wretches?” He gestured at the corpses. “Find someone else to hound to death for your collection.”
“That’s what I’m doing. I’ve heard there are towns to conquer, large towns with älfar living in them. I’ll see if I feel like it as soon as my preparations are complete,” the warrior replied. “But you are something unique, I feel. That makes you all the more valuable in the battle against my foes.” He heaved the blade at Nodûcor’s mask and a metallic clang rang out. “If you refuse, he dies first. I can’t allow you to fall into someone else’s hands.”
Aiphatòn looked around quickly, but couldn’t make out any other enemy fighters.
The mob that had reached the sleeping village half a mile behind them thronged the spaces between the houses and huts, storming into every building they found. Screams cut quietly through the night air.
Aiphatòn felt no sympathy. This was Ishím Voróo, not Girdlegard. Aiphatòn did not feel responsible for the lives of these locals. He had no doubt the people would soon be incorporated into the botoican’s army against their will. They’ll be hauled in front of him and then… He realised he knew nothing about these magicians’ methods. They wove spells so vastly different from that of a Lot-Ionan. What then?
Nodûcor groaned, the axe blade cutting into his skin. Blood ran from the superficial wound.
“It’s time, älf,” the man said in a hollow voice and drew a throwing knife. “Turn around and go to the army in the village so that they can tie you up and guard you. Once you’re down there, the warrior will follow with your friend.”
A trick will be more useful than speed right now. Aiphatòn nodded, dropped the spear and walked off slowly; his arms dangled loosely at his sides. Now and again, he turned around.
The warrior grabbed Nodûcor and got him to his feet, pushing him on ahead. He had placed the heavy axe head on the älf’s shoulder so that one jerk would be enough to sever the prisoner’s skull from his torso.
Oh, that makes it easier for me. I was having misgivings. Aiphatòn was ready.
The warrior passed the spot where the spear was lying in the long grass but didn’t check for the weapon. He felt safe at a distance of fifty paces.
“Watch out,” Aiphatòn cried in älfar, still facing ahead. He simply opened the fingers of his right hand.
The spear whirred into the air and travelled in a straight line towards its master.
His opponent was struck in the spine and the weapon lodged there. It seemed like the power of the magic and hence the momentum of the spear was waning.
Nodûcor lifted his hands up quickly and held on tight to the blade of the axe; he tilted his shoulder so that the cutting edge didn’t slip and accidentally hurt him after all.
Aiphatòn laughed nastily and ran back. “Are you all right?” he called to the älf.
Nodûcor nodded and took two paces away from the warrior who was standing there leaning sharply backwards. The end of the spear’s shaft had bored into the ground and now functioned as an inadvertent prop so that the man didn’t fall over.
The dagger and axe handle slipped out of the enemy’s hands and his eyes flicked back and forth between the two of them. “You won’t get away from me,” he promised, his voice breaking. “And you, you strange älf, will reveal your magical secrets to me as soon as I’ve broken your will.” The man’s arms sank limply to his sides, his head tipped back. “The Nhatais will take what they are entitled to. And I am entitled to you, just like I am to all of your tribe, wherever I find them!” the dying man whispered. “No matter whe—” The threat faded away with one last breath. Death came more quickly than the botoican’s message.
Aiphatòn kicked the body onto the ground and pulled the spear out of the vertebra. He looked at the village where some dots were already breaking away from the black mass and racing towards them. “Let’s get going. The botoican will lose interest in us as soon as he has created enough other toys.”
He let Nodûcor link his arm and hurried away, carrying the light älf more than he was supporting him. Aiphatòn marched on relentlessly, leaving the vanguard behind them to fall back.
They walked throughout the night.
He crushed apples for Nodûcor with his glove and had him suck up the pulp so that he stayed relatively strong. From time to time they quenched their thirst with clear, cold water from streams.
They didn’t rest until the break of dawn at the foot of a gentle hill covered in trees.
Nodûcor could not take one more step and his eyes closed immediately. Aiphatòn scanned the grassy landscape that lay behind them. They’ve given up or were called back by the botoican.
He too sank into the soft green carpet and closed his eyes. The scent of the grass, the pure soil and the fragrance of apples coming from his glove pervaded his nostrils.
Yet he could barely relax.
He couldn’t imagine how powerful a spell needed to be in order to control a hundred thousand warriors at once and make them fight and commit murders in the most gruesome way. He thought about what he’d heard.
Are the botoicans at war with each other and gathering as many soldiers around them as they can?
The fatigue settled into his limbs like lead and finally drove even these thoughts away.
His breathing slowed and Aiphatòn slipped into sleep as the sun came up over the hill.