Raging Storm, page 18
Aiphatòn couldn’t grasp what was happening before his very eyes. The blood was gushing out of the älf’s wound as he tearfully chewed; the beasts didn’t even glance at him—they kept on eating just as silently as before.
I’ll need to ask questions if I want to understand. He stepped out from his hiding place. “Who are you and whose symbols are you wearing?” he demanded in a firm voice.
The monsters may have been moving sluggishly until now, but suddenly they lost all their ungainliness and got to their feet quick as a flash, whipped out their weapons and launched themselves at their enemy without a sound.
Aiphatòn brandished his spear. The tip plunged through the knee of the attacker on the right and severed the joint from all the muscles and tendons. He fell down mutely.
The other beast came at Aiphatòn with a sickle-shaped sword and a light cudgel with spikes, and he was extremely skilled.
You’re quicker than a human. He dodged and parried the attacks, the blade and metal spikes clinking as they glanced off the shaft of the spear. There was considerable force behind the blows.
The unkempt älf in the cobbled-together armour was still sitting on the rock, chewing and bleeding, his black eyes riveted on the fight.
Could they be zombies? Aiphatòn rammed the bottom of his weapon into his opponent’s face, and his enemy snapped at it as if that might stop it. When the älf yanked the shaft back in one tug, shattering and wrenching the beast’s teeth out of its mouth, it wasn’t bothered. It seemed that way.
The blade of his forcefully wielded spear cut the attacking monster’s right throwing arm in two at the elbow.
The sickle sword fell and was sprayed with blood—but the enemy was undaunted, continuing to attack him with the cudgel until Aiphatòn penetrated his eye socket and kept pushing until he had forced the tip through the brain and out the back of the skull.
The beast collapsed and lay still.
Aiphatòn looked over at the chewing älf, who had the black lines on his face now. He walked over to the first, fallen attacker and, with one swift movement, his blade sliced through the cringing, injured beast’s back into his heart. He too slumped to the ground and died.
He brandished the bloody spear-tip at the älf. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Are you from Elhàtor or Dâkiòn?” he groaned, but didn’t stop chewing the lump of meat.
“What are they?”
“Our towns, the…” He rolled his eyes, writhing. “You must warn them. About the botoicans.” He panted as he spoke and spat out chunks of meat. “They—it… will attack. We’re not protected anymore… Surrender… Complete surr…”
Of course! Aiphatòn remembered why the outline of the building looked familiar. It reminded him of an old story he had read. It was in Carmondai’s writings. “I can bandage your wounds and—”
“No,” screamed the horrified älf. “No, I must die! I want to die! I did it myself when the control…” His upper body shook. “I’m escaping the madness,” he murmured contentedly. “Save the towns! Warn them.”
“Where do I find them?”
“Further northwest. Further towards…” The injured älf let out a terrible scream and fell forwards, twitching, his feet shuffling in the dirt as if they were trying to run away. “End it!” he screeched shrilly. “Put an end to this!”
“I will.” Aiphatòn leaped onto the rock in front of him, forced the unnamed älf into an upright position with his foot and, facing him, stabbed him in the heart with the spear. His body stiffened immediately. “Your death is called Aiphatòn,” he said. “I will find the towns—and destroy them before the botoicans reach them. Is that a consolation to you?”
The dying älf opened his eyes wide, then he passed away and the blackness disappeared. What remained were cloudy, greenish eyes.
Who would have thought: two towns. Elhàtor and Dâkiòn. He jumped back onto the ground and walked around the ruins to look for Nodûcor. At least I’ll have something to do in Ishím Voróo. And I thought the death of the Dsôn Aklán meant that the evil had been wiped out.
The emaciated, wan älf had not moved. He held the dagger pressed against his body, as if he had to protect the weapon instead of using it to defend himself.
Aiphatòn smiled at him. He must come from one of the two towns. I’ll take him along for now and ask him about it. Every piece of knowledge is important for me to be able to destroy the towns more easily. I can kill the bag of bones any time. “On your feet,” he ordered and held out the armoured fingers of his right hand to him. “We’re moving on.”
Nodûcor nodded hesitantly and grasped the outstretched hand, letting himself be pulled to his feet. He tentatively grasped the dagger and bent down to pick up the clamp.
“Round the corner you’ll find clothes better than those rags, at least, and weapons,” Aiphatòn explained to him. “Then we’ll move on and look for a straw you can suck some water through.” He won’t be able to eat anything but gruel.
Nodûcor hobbled away slowly, and Aiphatòn followed.
When they walked round the ruins of the building, they saw to their surprise that a massive army was approaching from the west less than half a mile away, marching silently across the marsh. They were quite clearly making for the towers.
Just as many warriors were approaching from the towers, however, as was evident from the pennants and lances reaching up into the air.
But Aiphatòn could not make out a formation or even an attempt at battle array in either army.
Is this a merger rather than a battle?
“Choose something for yourself. Quickly,” he urged Nodûcor and climbed the ruins to get a better view from three paces up. He was careful not to be seen by the armies as he did so.
The warm, putrid wind carried the soft sounds of the soldiers’ armour and weapons jangling and clinking.
The warriors were marching in silence, trudging through the mud as it splashed up among their bare feet and boots. While the first row was still making good progress, the ground would have turned to thick sludge after the twentieth or thirtieth soldier, which did not seem to slow them down.
Aiphatòn shook his head as he watched.
Monsters from all kinds of races, known and unknown, from orcs to trolls to hybrids, were walking shoulder-to-shoulder with humans. Foot soldiers with long pikes trotted along next to sword-bearers, while bow and crossbow-archers were marching elsewhere in the pack. Among them rode warriors on horses and oxen and there were even ordinary carts trundling along with warriors gathered on them.
The crowd reached as far as the horizon; far away an enormous banner fluttered in the air, probably so the troops could tell where their commander was. Aiphatòn’s vantage point was not high enough to have a clear view of everything. This is an unparalleled mess. This cannot be the build-up to a battle.
Everyone’s heads were facing forward, and not one person in the armies spoke.
Like the beasts during their meal. The älf was astonished. He now vaguely recognised the white runes painted on bare skin, on pelts and on armour. It looked like everyone was wearing them. He could see less armour than might have been expected of an armed force. And the number of weapon-bearers seemed low too—the rest of them would need to fight with their bare hands.
There are thousands upon thousands of them. They could form ramps with their bodies just like crabs and scale walls. If the armies joined forces, Aiphatòn estimated the number of warriors at just under two hundred thousand.
“We should get going,” he called to Nodûcor who had stocked up on clothes without taking his eyes off the crowd trudging along. It seemed this was new to him as well.
When the first rows of the factions came within twenty paces of each other, they suddenly started to rush at each other—without uttering a single scream.
Ishím Voróo, Älfar town of Dsôn Dâkiòn, 5452nd division of unendingness (6491st solar cycle), summer
Shôtoràs walked across the bridge that linked the two parts of Dsôn Dâkiòn and stopped exactly in the middle, then moved to one side so he wouldn’t be in anyone’s way.
The strong wind whistling constantly through the groove in the mountain tore at his black robe which was embroidered with old Dsôn Faïmon patterns. He made no secret of his origins and was proud of his past.
I’ve experienced and achieved so much in the last divisions of unendingness. He looked back and forth between the river two miles away and the ravine below. For so long I’ve managed to avoid anything that would force us into a dispute with the Elhàtor scum. And now this! From time to time he turned around and watched the residents crossing the footbridge.
Shôtoràs silently cursed his niece. She may be cunning, but she is remarkably foolish all the same. He couldn’t comprehend her desire to provoke outright war. What is she thinking? Irïanora didn’t even have a specific strategy. Surprise alone was not enough against the Magnificent.
The battles would last too long. The monarch shook his head and fixed his gaze on the Tronjor once more as it meandered along steadily, a sparkling blue in the sunshine. The only ones who would be pleased are the tribes in the surrounding areas. This means they’d either be rid of us or they’d attack us because they knew we were weakened.
Shôtoràs shut his eyes and listened to the rushing of the air; he could feel his beard and hair fluttering.
The past came rushing at him, conjuring up certain images.
They had gathered near the Black Heart, which had been corroded by acid. They had seen the land caving in and knew that the nomadic towers were prowling through the area and the Inextinguishables had fled rather than coming to their aid.
Fled. Shôtoràs snorted in disdain. Traitors to those who had been loyal to them for so long. He of all people, a glowing Constellation, was among those who led the survivors northwards to find a new home.
But the harmony didn’t last long. The älfar scattered and that’s when the defeats started. The dying. The endingness.
But not in my town. In his mind’s eye he saw Dsôn Dâkiòn being built under his leadership and guidance. Thousands of älfar daring to enter the enormous ruins, searching and securing them, always vigilant about the return of their most recent inhabitants; marvelling at the gigantic towers and buildings and wondering what race of beings had erected this monument; building on the old foundations, constructing new buildings from the ruins and upholding traditions.
Even though there were quite a few older residents like Shôtoràs, time could not be stopped. New generations brought new ideas and thoughts.
This didn’t make things worse, although it often required a lot of effort on the monarch’s part to accept and agree to these changes. There were no slaves anymore, älfar served älfar now. Different classes had arisen out of the different professions and it took a huge amount of energy to make sure none of them looked down on any other class.
Anyone who rejects the pressure to change will crumble. Shôtoràs placed his hands on the sun-warmed stones of the parapet.
Ishím Voróo changed so many things. Even the älfar themselves.
At first, nobody noticed; it was accompanied by mysterious deaths that were put down to fevers and other illnesses of the wasteland—until the cîanai and cîanoi among them suddenly grew stronger.
It might be because of the stones. Shôtoràs thought about how the basalt ashlars apparently came from the island where the Magnificent was. A considerable number of cîani had left Dsôn Dâkiòn with Modôia long ago. May Tion devour the soul of that blonde villain!
He hated the monarchess. From the bottom of his heart, desperately and with a real passion. She had come from Tark Draan down at heel and over the hill, accompanied by dishevelled älfar she had picked up along the way like cattle. Then she claimed to have previously lived in a town called Dsôn Sòmran in the Grey Mountains. And she had supposedly been in service in an älfar realm in Tark Draan.
Ridiculous!
Hundreds followed her flattering words and her promises of a better town. They had once owed their existence to Shôtoràs.
To me! He breathed deeply and opened his eyes.
He didn’t think Irïanora was capable of—to use a coastal town metaphor—calming the troubled waters. It was possible Modôia herself was waiting for the chance to start a war.
The king looked back at the river, the greatest danger facing his town. At the same time, it supplied plenty of fish, the necessary water for the surrounding fields and enabled trade with the areas upstream.
There were reports that the monarchess was secretly having a fleet built with the sole purpose of sailing up the Tronjor. Boats with minimal draught, very well-balanced but with capacity for huge quantities of military equipment and soldiers. Apparently dozens of these boats already lay at anchor inland on the island.
Oh, my foolish niece. It looks as if you’re in agreement with her and you’re trying to provide her with a pretext for having the ships put out to sea. Shôtoràs smoothed down his pale, tousled hair. He had been brooding long enough. He had made a decision now and he wanted to put it to his two closest confidants.
They would not be able to talk him out of it, but they could help by fleshing it out.
Because his word was law in Dsôn Dâkiòn, undiminished despite the innovations and changes. Anyone who opposed his word crumbled.
“This is the starting position.” Shôtoràs had summoned Pasôlor and Horgôra to the hall where Irïanora had recently been given a taste of his stick. They were two of his best friends and were able to say things to the sovereign that other residents would receive severe punishments for.
The älfar were standing around the big desk with the map spread out showing the town and a surrounding area of just under forty miles. That was as far as the area claimed by the Majestic extended. Anyone who wanted to cross this land or settle down on it had to pay a fee. The marsh was exempted from that, but nobody tried to build a settlement there.
Shôtoràs pointed to the Tronjor. “The river has barely changed in our region, the riverbed just got slightly wider. So Elhàtor’s ships would come within two miles of us, as before.”
“Reminds me of my last game of Tharc,” Horgôra replied, bouncing up and down on her tiptoes. “I’ll take the blue army.” The black-haired robe-maker, who was generally good-humoured and fond of jokes but also had a very sharp and agile mind, turned aside and poured grape juice from the carafe into three glasses. Her bright flame-coloured coat with its sophisticated cut showed her expertise in handicraft.
“If we could be a little more serious, please,” Shôtoràs chided her. “So?”
“We’ve heard the rumours about the fleet,” Pasôlor murmured and placed his hands on his back. He had had his hair shaved off and now wore caps that he changed as often as other people changed their underwear. The bald älf had conceived of the bridges that led into the town and was considered a prudent strategist. “There are only two places where we could lie in wait to ambush the ships.”
“Probably,” Horgôra agreed, pensive, “but they’ll send scouts on ahead to secure the bank as much as possible.”
“They would suffer huge casualties because of the quicksand, insects and monsters,” Pasôlor shot back immediately and placed one hand on the woven silver-wire belt fastened around his dark green robe at hip height.
“Better than losing the fleet. I would do it like that and discover the ambush.” She held one hand to her chin and reflected. “Tell me: what makes you so sure Modôia is going to attack us?”
Shôtoràs leaned on his walking stick to relieve his painful leg. “She comes from Tark Draan—the älfar there had to be hell-bent on conquest to survive in that prison and they became scum themselves. You don’t just shake off a trait like that.”
“Might it not be the case that you would like her to attack?” Pasôlor ventured to remark.
If it were any other älf, Shôtoràs would have knocked him to the floor immediately with one blow, but he allowed his closest friends to speak openly at all times. “How could I wish for an attack?” he answered. “Älfar would die. Our tribe has been decimated enough already and we certainly do not need a war with our own kind.”
“But you hate them. Because they cost us some of our residents,” Pasôlor persevered with his suggestions undaunted. “It would suit you very…”
“A war will cost us even more residents. I would immediately set a zhartài on her to dispatch her into endingness if the infamous assassins were still around,” admitted Shôtoràs, grumbling. “And if he were to ask for all of my riches, my artworks…”
“… even if he demanded your high office?” Horgôra added, challenging him.
“Yes,” he exclaimed and clenched his teeth. “But we’re not here because of my darkest desires.” He shifted his weight and used the stick as a pointer; the silver tip was directed at a valley eleven miles west of Dâkiòn. “That is my solution.”
Pasôlor exhaled contemptuously, “A parade?”
The sovereign grinned wickedly which was a clear no.
“This valley is half a mile from the river.” Horgôra tilted her head slightly, her black hair flowing like ink over her shoulders and hanging down as far as the table. “Crazy, the thought that just crossed my mind—but perhaps it’s the same thought that occurs to you?”
It took Pasôlor less than half a heartbeat to catch up with what they were thinking. “That is just too crazy. And besides…”
Shôtoràs held up his free hand in his defence. “The fact that barbarians live there is not important. We’ll have the little men dig the canal. The brats and womenfolk will have enough time to get away. If they don’t do that, then that’s their lookout. I’ll warn them and nothing more.” He nodded to his friends and smiled. “I see you agree with me?”
“You know that we don’t need to give our opinions,” Pasôlor said.
“Or that you don’t need to have them anyway,” Horgôra corrected him in a mocking voice. “And yet he wants to listen to us. I think he is unfailingly noble. The power hasn’t gone to his head.” She took her hand away from her chin. “We divert the river into the valley, fill it up and the old riverbed dries out. So Elhàtor’s ships—provided they have some—don’t reach us because the water needed to travel the remaining miles upstream is missing.” Her eyes narrowed. “I see one significant danger in this: it would mean an army and all manner of monsters could reach us on foot.”
