Raging Storm, page 32
Many moments of unendingness had passed in this way.
And you can command the wind? It was Tanôtai’s job to stay close by in case Nodûcor managed to wake up and try to escape. The death-dancer would be able to grab him more easily than the cîani since most of them had less muscle than the thin prisoner. I’m intrigued by what your voice sounds like.
The door opened.
Shôtoràs entered; they had all heard his stick clicking beforehand. “How do things stand?” he asked, full of energy and confidence. “Have we got to the bottom of the puzzle that Lethòras left for us?” He nodded to Tanôtai in greeting and limped over to the bed. “He’s still wearing this mask?”
The cîani in their robes bowed to the sovereign, their unease visible on their faces.
“The situation is this: Lethòras used a spell made up of different parts that are each encrypted in turn,” one of them explained. “He fit, if you like, a series of spells one inside the other, to stop anyone opening the lock without a lot of effort.”
“I see.” Shôtoràs touched the black metal and felt the warning tingle. “And he took this knowledge with him into the endingness.”
“Unfortunately, sovereign.”
“How long will it take you to solve this puzzle?”
The cîanoi made no secret of his own ignorance and that of his fellow guildmates. “We deciphered the first four spells but then we reached a point where we have to be particularly careful. This particular rune symbolises death.” He reached behind him and snatched up an open book where he had marked the relevant part with a ribbon. “If we make a mistake, this next symbol will unleash a flash of lightning that will destroy the half-mask. Along with Nodûcor’s head.”
“Good thinking by the cunning Lethòras, but bad for us.” Shôtoràs lifted the stick and tapped it against the metal, the sleeping älf’s head wobbling slightly. “We are so close to being able to call the most powerful weapon our own. After that there will be nothing left for us to fear.” He looked at the cîani. “Will it be difficult to bend his mind to our will?”
“No. We’ve already woven a spell to, firstly, make him sleep and, secondly, ensure that he takes orders—just like a dog takes orders from his master. As soon as we wake him,” one cîanai explained, “he will obey your every word. Your image is fixed firmly in his mind.”
Shôtoràs nodded absent-mindedly and turned to leave. “Work faster,” he commanded.
“It’s possible,” Tanôtai interjected cautiously, “that we’ve got the wrong one, sovereign.”
The cîani stared at the death-dancer as if profoundly offensive insults had passed her sensual lips.
“Don’t look so surprised. We have no guarantee that he truly is the wind-voice.” Tanôtai pointed to Nodûcor and a diamond on her wrist flashed. “Apparently Cushròk captured him, as Aiphatòn told us. But we will only know whether he unleashes storms once he starts to speak.”
Shôtoràs smiled. “I’m very sure. That’s enough.” The silver end of the stick was pointed towards the door. “See me out. You seem bored, and boredom leads to dangerous thoughts. I’ve got a better use for you than keeping watch over someone who looks dead.”
Reassured, the cîani turned back to their papers and the runes.
The sovereign and Tanôtai left the room and walked through the vaulted corridor and down the steps to the first inner courtyard. Vailóras and four of his warriors were waiting there, sitting on night-mares; one other black horse had been saddled.
“I’d like you,” Shôtoràs told her, “to ride with them. You will be looking for Aiphatòn on my behalf. I’m sure he’s somewhere in the vicinity so that he can get his spear back.”
Tanôtai screwed up her mouth. It pained her that she had not managed to kill the emperor. Anyone who could survive her dagger and that fall had proved they were extraordinary but that hardly made her failure any better. “I’m glad you’ve chosen me to accompany them.”
“No doubt he has received support and care from unsuspecting locals. Spread the word that Aiphatòn died trying to kill me and seize power for himself,” he instructed Vailóras and his warriors. He stroked a night-mare fearlessly, and it approved the affection with a snort. “If you do that, the locals ought to give you the updates you need to find him.”
“We’ll do that, sovereign.” Vailóras turned his black night-mare around.
Inàste, lead him to me. Then I will burn my name into his plates of armour. Tanôtai mounted and they rode out through the narrow gate, across the wide main road and immediately left Dsôn Dâkiòn via one of the bridges.
The benàmoi guided his night-mare towards the southeast. “That’s where the closest village is,” he told the death-dancer. “It’s possible he dragged himself into one of the barns. The locals may not necessarily be aware that he is hiding in their village. So we’ll be friendly,” he ordered his warriors.
I won’t be. Tanôtai saw the huts, and to the side the enormous hay and grain silos looming up in front of the riders.
The crops were stored in the silos temporarily before being transported to the town’s storage towers. The farmers were left with enough grain and straw to make it through the winter and they got the seeds from the sovereign in the spring. In this way the älfar stopped the residents fleeing.
“A good place to hide,” she said as they approached. “It will take a long time to crawl over every last nook of it.”
“The farmers will do that for us,” said Vailóras. “Nobody wants to think there’s a traitor under their roof who wanted to kill Shôtoràs.”
Tanôtai grinned. “You know how to make others take on the work and still feel like a hero during the slog.”
“I’ve travelled this land for a long time. I know every individual within a radius of forty miles and I have made sure that they appreciate the mercy of the sovereign. From generation to generation.” Vailóras reined in his night-mare outside the first hut and its door opened immediately. The residents had noticed the troops and were coming to ask what they wanted. “Who would have thought that our people would be loved instead of feared?”
“I am feared, benàmoi.” The death-dancer leaped down from her saddle and walked up to the astonished villagers. “If the barbarians are too slow, I’ll show you why.”
After four splinters of unendingness, which they spent waiting and doing their own searches in the village, they were forced to move on empty-handed. Aiphatòn had not been hiding there.
They continued unrewarded for quite a few more moments and neither Tanôtai’s unfriendliness nor Vailóras’ knowledge helped. They spent a long time travelling and making inquiries, which the death-dancer did not enjoy. She found it at least as awful and boring as guarding a sleeping prisoner.
They rode through the villages in a strict sequence, beginning with the most likely ones, but they didn’t find any leads on the missing emperor.
The residents of Dâkiòn’s territory were horrified that someone had tried to kill the sovereign. Their anguish, as the red-haired death-dancer could clearly tell in every conversation with village elders or mayors, came from a profound sincerity: nobody wished Shôtoràs dead.
As they sat in the parlour of an isolated farmstead on the western outskirts of Dâkiòn country one evening, Vailóras toyed with the thought that Aiphatòn had started his journey home. “In his position, it’s the best solution. He knows we’ll kill him as soon as we track him down. And he has already lost his spear.”
Tanôtai couldn’t stand the idea of not finishing the duel she had started with the shintoìt. She touched the dagger on her right forearm guard. “If I lost one of these, I would be desperate to get it back,” she replied. “They’re one-of-a-kind, like the spear.”
“Actually, what’s the news on that?” interjected one of the warriors.
“As far as I know, a cîanoi is examining it. They want to uncover the tricks to the magic stored in it. It’s extremely different from ours,” Tanôtai was repeating what she’d heard while guarding the sleeping älf’s bed. “Lethòras was reputed to be the best of our magically gifted, but he didn’t know how to resist this kind of inverse charm.”
“Yes, the magic,” grumbled Vailóras as more wine was poured for him by the farmer’s wife, which he acknowledged with a polite nod. “I deliberately stay away from that.” He rubbed his black lamellar armour to remove a stain he’d got during his meal. His helmet dangled from the back of his chair and his dark blonde hair was plastered to his head.
“Surely you don’t mean you don’t use it?”
“I’ve never had reason to yet,” he admitted. He looked at his batons resting in their holders on his thighs. “I’ve made the handful of defaulters pay the levy in my own way. From gold to bones, we’ve collected everything for the sovereign.”
His men laughed cruelly.
A squandered gift. He ought to pass it on to me if it’s possible. Tanôtai stayed away from the fermented grape juice. As a death-dancer, she preferred her head to be clear at all times so that she could deploy her talents without any unsteadiness.
What’s more, her magic worked differently under the influence of alcohol. She tried to perform a dance drunk once, and the consequences were embarrassing. It had given her a broken arm and she’d needed five moments of absolute bedrest to recover.
I want to catch him. Aiphatòn must die at my hands. Tanôtai traced the lines on the side of her thigh, feeling the ink just underneath the skin—it was ink and so much more.
It was made from plant sap extracts, distilled and magically treated before being inserted with the needle. When combined with the correct movements, they released the magic—which could happen while both fighting and dancing.
Tanôtai was aware of cases of self-inflicted injuries or even explosions, poisonings and suffocations because the steps weren’t right or the necessary precision was lacking, resulting in alterations to the magic spells.
Magic is unforgiving.
The red-haired älf-woman tore off some brown bread and dipped it into the pot of cream still on the table from the meal, enjoying the mild sweetness and freshness.
While Vailóras, the country folk and the warriors chatted about the harvest, her thoughts returned to the evening when she had struck Aiphatòn directly in the chest.
What did I do wrong? He ought to have died. She contemplated her right hand, whose fingertips had turned black after the explosion and had been prickling ever since. Should I be glad I survived—unlike Lethòras?
Hurried footsteps approached the main building and the door was thrown open at the same time as a knock resounded.
Everyone turned to the door and saw a panting barbarian boy, sweat running from his temples and forehead.
“We’ve seen him,” he uttered breathlessly. “The conspirator. He was running west beside our fields and my father sent me to fetch you immediately.”
Vailóras stood up; his warriors followed suit and grabbed their helmets from where they had hung them on the backs of their chairs. “Are you sure?”
The boy nodded. “Father said he’s absolutely certain. He said he’d never seen an älf like him before.” The farmer’s wife handed him her glass of water, and he drank greedily. “West,” he repeated. “Following the constellation of the Ishtainor.”
“Let’s look into it.” Vailóras walked past and stroked his head, and another warrior pressed a coin into his hand.
Tanôtai brought up the rear. The inks in her skin were warming up; her heart was beating faster and waking the magic from its slumber. Thank you, Inàste!
The night-mares were swiftly saddled, then off they went.
“Form a line,” Vailóras commanded as he rode, “so he cannot evade us.”
The group fanned out, the black horses galloping through the night at intervals of fifty paces. Their red eyes gleamed, their hooves flashed as they hit the ground.
Tanôtai looked up at the stars guiding them. Her excitement was growing all the time; the wind caught in her red mane and made her look like a blazing fire. “He belongs to me,” she screamed to her right and left. “It’s my right to take his life.”
Vailóras laughed. “I will not refuse a death-dancer her wish, otherwise you’ll invite me to lead off a dance with you.”
“Over here,” cried the warrior on the left flank of their formation. “Tracks in the sand. They lead into the woods.”
The älfar turned slightly and made for the woodland, which looked like one big black mass looming up in front of them.
The route between tree trunks would mean the night-mares would have to slow down, but Tanôtai saw to her relief that the trees were still relatively far apart and there was practically no undergrowth.
You will not shake us off, she thought grimly and raced into the wood before anyone else. She briefly wondered why Aiphatòn was supposedly fleeing westwards when the passage to Tark Draan lay to the southeast of Dsôn Dâkiòn. Because he wants to get his spear.
Thin branches cracked on either side of her under the horseshoes, the little explosions around the beasts’ ankles flashed brightly, casting such bright light on the tree bark that it looked like a storm was raging in the middle of the copse.
Tanôtai saw the tracks up ahead of her left by their prey. The armour is making him sink into the moss. She urged her night-mare into a trot, gazing alternately upwards and downwards.
Then she saw a reflection up ahead. A figure was scurrying forwards under the cover of the trees.
“Up there,” she called to the troops and dug her spurs into the stallion’s flanks so that he started to gallop with a roar, catching up with the fleeing figure. The silhouette disappeared for several heartbeats every now and then, before reappearing again.
Tanôtai drew the needle-dagger from her left forearm guard. I will slaughter you from my saddle like a bull running wild. My magic will make the nape of your neck explode and make your skull fly through the air. She would only embark on a dance if he dodged her initial attacks. But that will not happen.
The red-haired älf-woman lost sight of him again for an instant. Damn! She swung the galloping night-mare around to take him past a dead tree stump—when the figure suddenly stepped out from behind the stump and planted itself directly in front of the black horse.
The collision happened almost simultaneously.
But instead of knocking the emperor to the ground and trampling him with its hooves, the animal seemed to crash into an unshakeable pillar.
Bellowing, the night-mare fell forwards, was spun around and pressed its head deep into the soft ground; with a loud crack, its neck broke. The bones poked through its black coat and the red glow in its eyes went out. Its hindquarters jutted up into the air.
Thinking quickly, Tanôtai wrenched her feet out of her stirrups. In a high arc she flew over the motionless, blood-spattered figure, who was still standing there as if the heavy stallion had been a light, harmless fly.
Tanôtai thought she saw a copper-coloured helmet on her opponent’s head as well as brown leather armour and a broken flagpole on his back.
Realising this was not the emperor they were looking for, she wasted no time getting into the low-hanging branches without injuring herself.
The red-haired älf-woman held on tight to one branch, slid down the foliage and hurtled towards the ground, although with a graceful spin, she turned this into a safe, catlike landing. The magical lines on her skin pulsed and heated up.
What was that? How is he able to survive that without any trouble? She hurried back to the place where the collision had taken place, the needle-daggers in her hands.
But her opponent was no longer there.
It smelled of the blood flowing out of the animal, of resin and earth. The dead night-mare had visibly churned up the soft ground and the footprints of the enemy looked deeper than usual.
Magic. Agitated, Tanôtai listened to the sounds of the wood and picked up the noise of thundering hooves, saw the flashes and heard the alarmed cries of Vailóras and his warriors who had not realised what had happened to her.
The death-dancer ran off after the troops. “Watch out! That is not the emperor!” she cried over and over. “It…”
Suddenly she realised one explanation for the crash as well as the strange behaviour of the figure they were following. The scorching heat inside her intensified.
“Careful! Oh gods! Careful!” she shouted and made the blades light up so that she could be seen by her team. “It’s a ghaist! A ghaist!”
Then there was a loud crashing and smashing and an enraged night-mare whinnied—and fell silent.
Those damned botoicans. I thought the sovereign had made it clear to them they had no business being in our territory. Too late, Tanôtai remembered the scouts the mind-controllers dispatched to look for villages and towns they could conquer with their mass magic.
A ghaist, as the cîani explained it, consisted of magic and many souls bound together in a fake human form. The copper helmet with runes on it was a distinctive feature of this unarmed creature, who could not be stopped by anything but immense heat. The warmth made the symbols melt and deformed the copper so that the souls could not be kept in their prison any longer.
Not that long ago, the cîani had used magic spells to crush the mob-like army of one of the botoican families as they ran about in confusion outside Dsôn Dâkiòn.
They are getting cocky. Tanôtai looked at the nearest dead night-mare and the motionless warrior underneath it who hadn’t got his feet out of the stirrups quickly enough. It seemed the surviving mind-controllers had learnt nothing from the defeat. I’ll cure the Nhatais of that, even if I have to go into their dilapidated town and annihilate their families. The sovereign just needs to let me do it.
The death-dancer checked the heartbeat at the jugular but the älf had passed into endingness.
“Vailóras!” she shouted and stood up. “Call off the chase. The cîani will have to take care of it.” She listened out for the pounding of hooves to figure out where the riders were.
