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Synopsis
They are the enemies of the dwarves and control the darkest magics, but even then power of the Älfar has its limits. To save their own people, they must enter into an unwinnable war. Sinthoras and Caphalor, two very different Älfar, watch as their plans come to fruition: the hidden land-the home of the dwarves-has fallen to their army of trolls, barbarians and Älfar, and now the lands of the hated elves are within their grasp. But the alliance is beginning to crumble as greed triumphs over obedience. And Sinthoras and Caphalor face another threat: an enemy from the empire of the Älfar, thought to be defeated, has resurfaced, and while their best warriors fight in the hidden land, the Älfar homeland lies almost defenseless.
Release date: June 7, 2016
Publisher: Jo Fletcher Books
Print pages: 608
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Devastating Hate
Markus Heitz
Dramatis Personae
The Älfar
Nagsar und Nagsor Inàste, the Inextinguishables
Sinthoras, älf-warrior (Comet faction) and a nostàroi (supreme commander)
Demenion, politician (Comet)
Khlotòn, politician (Comet)
Khlotònior, his nephew
Rashànras, politician (Comet)
Yantarai, artist
Imàndaris, Yantarai’s daughter, and a nostàroi
Timānris, artist
Robonor, Timanris’ former companion, a warrior (deceased)
Timānsor, Timānris’ father, an artist
Durùston, sculptor and artist
Arviû, warrior
Horgàta, warrior
Virssagòn, warrior
Morana, bodyguard
Carmondai, artist in language, script and image
Polòtain, politician (Comet)
Godànor, Polòtain’s grandson
Eranior, politician (Comet)
Samrai und Chislar, Eranior’s personal entourage
Halofór, politician (Constellations faction)
Landaròn, Halofór’s brother
Falòran, guard in Dsôn
Ratáris, politician (Constellation)
Armatòn, benàmoi (military leader) in the Grey Mountains
Arganaï, warrior cadet
Tiláris, warrior cadet
Zirlarnor, warrior cadet
Phinoïn, benàmoi of warrior cadets
Itáni, Dsôn artist
Caphalor, älf-warrior (Constellation) and a nostàroi (supreme commander)
Enoïla, Caphalor’s life-partner (deceased)
Aïsolon, a friend of Caphalor’s (Constellations)
Kilanor, trader, from Dsôn
Verànor, messenger sent by the Inextinguishables
Téndalor, benàmoi of island fort number one-eight-seven
Daraïs, Téndalor’s deputy
Ilinia, coachwoman
Yintaï, älf in Avaris
Heïfaton, älf in Avaris
Umaïnor, Sinthoras’ administrator in Dsôn
Bolcatòn, academic and chair of the Wèlèron Research Council
Païcalor, blind bodyguard to the Inextinguishables
Ergàta, warrior
Sajùtor, warrior
Ofardanór, benàmoi at the Stone Gateway
The Humans
Raleeha, slave girl to the älfar (deceased)
Wirian, slave to Sinthoras
Farron Lotor, barbarian prince of the Ishmanti
Törden and Famenia, famuli (apprentices) to the magus Jujulo
Olfson and Drumann, Famenia’s uncles
Parilis, Famenia’s aunt
Khalomein, rebel
Pirtrosal, rebel
Iula, famula (female apprentice) to the maga Hianna
Quartan, cooper, from Duckingham
Geralda, serving woman from Halmengard
Doghosh, commander of soldiers from Sonnenhag
Endrawolt, Doghosh’s deputy
Pantako, trader from the barony of Gourarga
Ossandra Ilmanson, daughter of the burgomaster of Milltown
Mollo, Gatiela, Sarmatt, Ossandra’s playmates
Welkar Ilmanson, Ossandra’s father and burgomaster of Milltown
Jiggon, young slave in Avaris
Hirrtan, Jiggon’s father
Elina, Jiggon’s sister
Rodolf, Jiggon’s grandfather
Irhart, villager
Salisala, villager
Güldtraut, villager
Errec, human slave
Amso, human slave
Omenia, landlord’s daughter in Quarrystone
Odeborn, king of Ido
Starowig, ruler of Ido by proxy
The Magi
Jujulo the Jolly
Simīn the Underrated
Grok-Tmai the Worrier
Hianna the Flawless
Fensa the Inventive
Ortina the Omnipresent
Miscellaneous
Narósil, leader of the elf-riders
Fatunasíl, elf from the Golden Plain
Veïnsa, princess of the Golden Plain
Ataronz, óarco from the vassal nation
Toboribar, óarco prince and leader of the Kraggash óarcos
Shoggrok, a Kraggash óarco
Sardaî, thoroughbred night-mare
Rîm, an Ubari female
Worbîn, a fire-bull
Älfar Divisions of Time
A division of unendingness, ten years
One year would be a tenth of a division of unendingness
A moment of unendingness, one day
A splinter of unendingness, one hour
Älfar Measurement
One pace, one metre
Prologue
What a magnificent assembly that evening! What a magnificent hall!
Never again will such a gathering of heroes be seen in a single place – heroes of such stature, of such power, of such unique nature!
The aura that surrounded each one was clearly visible and almost tangible. And on hearing the heroes speak, ordinary älfar were filled with dread and awe.
I, too, was fascinated.
By each one of them.
By Virssagòn: virtuoso in the arts of war and the skills of the forge, deviser of sophisticated and deadly weaponry and instructor of others in their use;
by Arviû: bringer of death and destruction to the elf realms and whose misfortunes made him the greatest of enemies to the elf peoples. Such was his fame that even today many a fortress bearing his name still stands in the conquered regions once held by the elves;
by Morana: supple and elegant warrior and worker of magic who, while steadfastly resolute towards her deadly foes, harboured an unforgiveable and incomprehensible weakness;
by Horgàta: restless and incomparable beauty, graceful huntress, who never once spared an adversary;
and, of course, I was fascinated equally by the nostàroi, Sinthoras and Caphalor, leaders and initiators of the campaign against Tark Draan, at last granting our people their sweet and cruel revenge. To describe these two leaders would be blasphemy.
For, in truth, no words of mine could match their deeds!
At least, not at that point in time.
No one could have guessed what changes lay in store for them.
Excerpt from the epic poem The Heroes of Tark Draan
composed by Carmondai, master of word and image
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), Grey Mountains, Stone Gateway,
4371st division of unendingness (5199th solar cycle),
summer.
The air was filled with the sound of hundreds of banners flapping in the breeze; occasionally the cry of a raptor was heard as it flew across the darkening sky.
Awe and reverence determined the mood of the silent multitude of älfar warriors assembled on the high plain.
Surrounding the throng, shattered enemy weapons that had been melted down and twisted creatively into bizarre interlocking structures towered into the air – victory columns to symbolise the downfall of the dwarves. But no regard was currently being paid to these abstract works of art: all eyes were trained on the garlanded platform before them.
A low roll of thunder gave the first indication of an approaching storm. Over in the south, black clouds covered the sky as if ready to halt the advance of an enemy; a warm breeze played around the tips of the älfar army’s lances and spears and the rivets on their armour.
Carmondai tied back his long brown hair so that the strengthening wind would not whip it into his face and over his paper, and observed the patiently waiting crowd. It is as if they had turned into statues. The silver-clad stick of compressed charcoal in his right hand raced across the open page as he drew without looking down at the notebook. He never needed to correct these preparatory studies; he was accustomed to making accurate lightning sketches for the large paintings he would complete later.
The blood red sun sank behind the Grey Mountains, illuminating the finest of the óarco, barbarian, troll, demi-giant and älfar fighting force. They had gathered to acclaim the Heroes who had made their victory at the Stone Gateway possible.
The groundlings – the defenders of Tark Draan – had been eliminated, their bones serving as raw material for sculptures, musical instruments and decorative souvenirs, wagonloads of which would be finding their way back to the homeland as evidence of the win.
This is only the beginning of an endless river. Our swords will take Tark Draan’s last drops of lifeblood. In the margin, Carmondai made a note of the colour combinations and appropriate blood types he had in mind for his mural. Groundling life-juice was darker and more mystical than others, he had found, and not easy to work with, but it did give the work a level of integrity not usually achieved through the use of other creatures’ blood: minute traces of minerals in the dwarves’ blood emphasised the picture’s essence through scent, and would intensify the effect of the battle for the discerning spectator.
Carmondai sketched without stopping. He knew the swift lines he was drawing impressed the barbarians who could see his sketches, but this did not satisfy him – any älfar child could do this sort of thing.
He caught sight of the cloud formations as they moved threateningly towards the conquerors. You shall not stop us. He took in the grey, white and black as the clouds raced across the sky and then his gaze dropped back to the decorated ceremonial stage and he began to make his way slowly through the ranks of the warriors to study it more closely.
Skilful craftsmen had created the brilliant white base of the podium from split and dried groundling bones; strands from the hair and beards of the defeated soldiers had been used to fasten the bones together. At the rear of the stage, bronze-coated skulls hung from long poles by ropes of plaited silver, jangling like bells. Carmondai could hear the sound now he was closer; the combination of bone and metal produced a strange tone. Their enemies’ grimacing features had been transformed into shimmering masks: images of death that would last for ever.
In the distance, Carmondai could see standard-bearers beginning to march toward the stage, and suddenly the noble runes of the nostàroi could be seen; blood-red fabric wafting lazily in the breeze. There followed the nostàroi bodyguard in sinister leather armour glittering with engraved tionium plates. The motifs on their helmets signified that each warrior had killed more than one thousand of the enemy.
Carmondai moved away from the stage to get a better view. Ye gods of infamy, how proud our people are! His fingers flew, making notes on the figures around him. His skin prickled and the sense of awe sent waves of excitement up his spine.
Suddenly an impatient night-mare’s imperious snort broke the quiet and Sinthoras and Caphalor were sighted on their magnificent armoured mounts. Caphalor’s black stallion Sardaî was taller in stature and more impressive in nature than any other night-mare.
Carmondai registered that he was writing more slowly now. He was deeply affected by the imposing appearance of the nostàroi; their presence swept over the plateau like a spell. The two nostàroi were producing powerful emotions from the assembled troops: respect, worship and fascination.
Carmondai had to shake himself free from their hypnotic effect. He looked quickly around at the crowd, noticing that all were staring at their leaders’ noble features, eager for some slight word that might impart to them a shred of this triumphant brilliance.
The effect could hardly be stronger if it were the Inextinguishables themselves who had arrived. Carmondai was convinced that every warrior and any creature present would have followed Sinthoras and Caphalor to the ends of the known world. What power they have!
The leaders, their way lined by standard-bearers and bodyguards, halted at the platform.
Sinthoras and Caphalor dismounted and climbed up to the dais. They wore gold-wrought black ceremonial armour studded with jewels. They removed their helmets, displaying fine facial features and allowing their long hair to move in the wind: blond in the one case, black in the other.
Carmondai had heard tell how different these two nostàroi were, in personality as well as colouring; he had heard that Caphalor tended towards the views of the Constellations and that Sinthoras supported the Comets. But now, seeing them together, it looked as if they could be brothers.
Sinthoras raised his right hand and addressed the silent throng. ‘We are standing on the land of Tark Draan! Do you know what this means?’
A single cry thundered from thousands of älfar throats.
‘No army could have achieved more!’ he proclaimed. ‘It is we who have defeated and annihilated the groundlings, and it is we who will bring down and destroy the elves. We will not only eradicate them, but eliminate all they stand for and all they have created. Nothing of theirs shall be allowed to continue. We shall be their death.’ He lifted his head slightly, the fire of hatred glowing in his eyes. ‘For the Inextinguishables!’
Again the response came back thousandfold.
Carmondai’s heart beat quickly in his chest, while his pen scurried across the paper. Every fragment of this event must be recorded for posterity – every fragment! I am witness to our people’s greatest victory. I must miss nothing.
‘We shall bring death into every last corner of Tark Draan. Kingdoms will fall under our yoke, fortresses will burn to the ground and we shall create such art as has never been seen before. We are the new rulers here!’
Not even the loudest clap of thunder could compete with the älfar warriors’ voices and the roars from the other creatures. To Carmondai’s mind, the sound had penetrated deep into Tark Draan. He imagined the inhabitants quaking with fear and turning their ugly heads towards the Grey Mountains, aware that their end was nigh. I must start my new poem this very day.
The nostàroi, like two gods come down in grace to their worshippers, received the adoration and acclaim of the crowds.
Finally Sinthoras raised his arm and the assembled throng fell silent. ‘The first victory is with us. In the coming moments of unendingness we shall flush out the groundling tunnels to ensure nothing and nobody can attack us from behind. Find their treasure hoards, take what you can from their storehouses and send it all as tribute to Dsôn Faïmon. Caphalor and I will now decide our strategy for delivering the final blow – the exterminating blow – to Tark Draan.’
Caphalor now spoke. ‘But this evening you shall celebrate what we have achieved so far. Take your ease, drink with your comrades and companions, and then’ – he drew his sword and pointed towards the south where the dark clouds glowered – ‘let us stamp out this elf brood!’
The nostàroi withdrew, mounted up and disappeared over the edge of the plateau, while the älfar and their allies tirelessly called out their leaders’ names to ear-splitting applause.
Carmondai had never in all his long life experienced such deep admiration for anyone. It struck him that with commanders such as these the army would be victorious in any campaign, however taxing the fight.
In response to whistles, fanfares and shouted orders, the assembled troops dispersed: älfar in a disciplined fashion, barbarians in a less orderly manner, orcs and miscellaneous creatures in shambling disarray.
Carmondai stayed where he was, taking in the scene. Tark Draan has nothing to compete with our army. In less than a third of a division of unendingness we shall have achieved our goal.
He sauntered off, watching the river of soldiery streaming into the groundlings’ former stronghold. Having left his luggage with one of the gate guards so that he could arrive in good time, he was dressed in light travelling attire and as a result, felt vulnerable and out of place: he looked far too peaceable.
Carmondai reached the top of the plateau and looked out over the camp. Tents were set up across the mountainside, strictly segregating the various warring races from one another. Many unresolved enmities left the allied factions prone to disagreements and the nostàroi were keen to keep this to a minimum. Each individual commander was responsible for internal discipline within his camp. Much of this enmity was down to the intensely motivating effect of greed, which Carmondai was fascinated by. That’s where the differences lie: the lower orders will die for the sake of gems and riches, while the higher beings kill for their ideals.
He stood watching the óarco horde as they shoved and pushed and punched each other. No surprise that these green-and-black-skinned beasts with their decorated tusks and their stinking fat-coated armour tended to try to bump each other off at the slightest annoyance.
‘Ye gods of infamy, would you look at that scum,’ he murmured. ‘They are a disgrace.’
‘But we’ll be leaving them here, of course,’ said an älf-woman at his side. She had come up close on her night-mare, unheard over the whistling wind. ‘That way we will be permanently free of them in Ishím Voróo.’ She smiled at him. ‘You must be Carmondai?’
He took half a step back to see her better. Her armour told him she belonged to the nostàrois’ personal guard. The symbols on the tionium-reinforced leather cuirass showed her to have killed over one thousand enemies, and proclaimed her as the unpartnered daughter of two great warriors.
She looks so young. Carmondai was usually quite good at guessing the age of other älfar, but her face was hidden by a half visor. Fifty? Sixty? But how could she have killed so many in that short time? ‘Yes, that’s me.’ He looked at her inquisitively and received a slight nod in return.
‘Then I have an invitation for you. The nostàroi have heard that you are with the troops here and they want you to be present at supper. You are to record the event in word and picture so that the Inextinguishables may receive a report drawn up by an inestimable talent.’
Carmondai felt hot and cold shivers run up his spine. At first he was flattered, but then his old resentment reared up: he hated taking orders. It was not only that he considered himself an artist of high repute. If it had been his own idea to take notes and to sketch the occasion he would have considered it an honour to be allowed to do so. But like this . . .
‘What’s wrong?’ The älf-woman was astonished at his hesitation. ‘Tell me what you have planned that’s more important and I’ll kill whoever it is you are meeting, then you’ll have no difficulty deciding.’
Her remarks amused him. ‘Why don’t they find an ordinary scribe?’
She leaned forward, crossing her wrists on the pommel of her saddle. ‘Let me put it this way, O Master of Word and Image: an invitation from the nostàroi is not something you can decline.’ Her words were spoken carefully, but were as cold as the breath of night. ‘If you fail to accompany me willingly I shall find other ways to take you to the nostàroi, and believe me’ – she said, sitting upright again but keeping her voice low – ‘I am perfectly capable of that.’
‘Oh, you are?’ replied Carmondai with a dangerous smile that did not quite match his harmless appearance. There was an icy silence, but after a short while his curiosity got the better of him and he sighed, relenting. After all, the woman was attractive. Warrior-women were not normally his type but this one had a certain something. ‘Do I get to know your name?’
‘Morana, my mother called me.’ She held out her hand. ‘Will you ride with me or do you want to walk? My night-mare is good natured. He doesn’t usually bite.’
His arm stretched out towards her as if of its own accord, then his hand clasped hers and he swung himself up behind her. She wore an unfamiliar perfume that came through over the metallic leather smell of her battledress and he could see strands of black hair escaping from under her helmet. ‘Take me to the nostàroi. I shall thank them in my own words for their invitation.’
With a laugh, Morana urged her mount in a ruthless line through the horde of óarcos, who protested vociferously, dodging the night-mare’s snapping teeth. Lightning flashes played around the stallion’s fetlocks, sparks scorching the ground and an occasional óarco leg.
Morana headed for a smaller gateway guarded by two impressively armed warriors that was free of queuing crowds. It must only be available for älfar use.
These gatekeepers saluted briefly and let them pass.
Morana slowed her night-mare as they moved through the passage; the walls threw the sound of its hooves back to them.
Carmondai looked around and smiled at the groundlings’ crude art. Their wall sculptures demonstrated an intention to create something beautiful, but their clumsy dwarf hands were never suited to delicate work.
‘When did you arrive?’ Morana asked.
‘Today: I couldn’t get away from Riphâlgis any earlier. I admit that I’m furious to have missed the storming of the stronghold, but I did get to hear the speeches. And now I’m to be the guest of the nostàroi.’
‘You would have loved it. It was the best battle even I have ever seen!’ Morana guided her night-mare through the right-hand opening. Their heads nearly touched the vaulted ceiling.
Carmondai noted the chiselled runes but could not read them. As primitive as all the rest of it. ‘I know,’ he sighed. ‘I had no end of trouble with my night-mare and then of course it decided to depart into endingness just as I was on my way here.’
Her stallion snorted and they came to a cross-tunnel where they had to wait; a group of älfar in leather aprons were carting dwarf cadavers away. When they saw the riders they moved back to let them pass.
I want to see what they’re doing. ‘Wait for me.’ He slid down and moved over to the workers.
With a mixture of disgust and fascination, he looked at the gross, pale bodies of their enemies closely. He saw that each had been stabbed neatly through the heart. They had not fallen in battle. They’ve not got the slightest bit of refinement about them. It’s as if their god was just experimenting: getting his hand in before creating something to be proud of. A second cart carried barrels of sloshing liquid; a smell of stone and metal indicated it was dwarf blood.
He greeted the älfar and took out his notebook. ‘What are you doing with this?’
‘We are preparing them according to instructions.’ One of the älfar answered, looking puzzled. ‘Have you been sent by the nostàroi to supervise?’
‘This is Carmondai, master of word and image,’ Morana said. ‘He is sending a report to Dsôn Faïmon about what’s happening here in the Grey Mountains.’
‘Carmondai?’ A grey-haired älf bowed his head. ‘I am an admirer of your art. I never thought I would have the honour of meeting you. My name is Durùston.’
Durùston! Carmondai knew the name. He was a sculptor from Dsôn and well known for his stela carved from metal-clad bone and preserved intestines. Anyone who was anyone would have one of these commemorative slabs displayed in his home. ‘Greetings. You are indeed known to me.’ He indicated the piles of corpses. ‘Will you be using these in your next works?’
Durùston smiled. ‘Parts of them. I asked the nostàroi for permission to use any groundling remains that weren’t needed for another purpose.’ He pointed down the corridor. ‘I’ve set up a workshop in an old forge. My slaves and my apprentices are processing the cadavers: bones and tendons for sculptures, blood and skin for inks and pigments, hair and beards for paintbrushes. But really their beard hair is too coarse for delicate work – we have to boil it in vinegar to soften it – and then there’s the transport through Ishím Voróo. I’m not sure it’s really worth it . . . it might even be better to sell it for scrubbing-brushes.’
‘A tradesman now?’ Carmondai asked, with a laugh.
Durùston looked embarrassed. ‘I sometimes do think of the times to come when my name might no longer be so well known.’ He turned to go. ‘You are most welcome to come to my workshop if you’d like to do some sketches? The dwarf anatomy is quite instructive; it might be useful knowledge for future battles.’
‘Future battles?’ Carmondai exchanged glances with Morana. ‘I thought we’d defeated them all?’
‘No. Not yet,’ Durùston answered. ‘A few stubborn bastions remain, deep in the Grey Mountains. The main victory is ours, of course, but groundlings are tough. We’ll have dwarves to deal with for quite some time, mark my words.’ He gave the signal to move on. ‘You are welcome any time,’ he said again, as he followed behind the cart.
‘Thank you,’ Carmondai called after him, then he stowed his notebook once more and went back to the night-mare, allowing Morana to help him up. ‘What did he mean, do you think?’ he asked.
They moved off. ‘Just what he said: there are still some isolated pockets of groundling families – they are quite stubborn, but they won’t hold out for long.’ Her words sounded confident, arrogant, almost – as if the matter were of no consequence. Of course, it wasn’t for their armies.
They rode in silence through the underground realm that had so recently fallen into älfar hands. Spattered bloodstains lined the walls: dark-red reminders of the original occupants of these mountain tunnels. Durùston must have removed all the bodies.
After some time they arrived in an area where the dwarf runes carved on the walls had been smashed with hammers, and älfar banners and flags, prominently displaying the insignia of the nostàroi, hung from the high vaulted ceilings: to be forgotten was the fate of those defeated in war.
Carmondai looked at the ceiling. Even if he was not necessarily anxious at the thought of a mountain’s worth of solid stone above his head, he was not exactly at ease. Back in Riphâlgis, his own house gave unrestricted views over a wide valley and he loved the open vistas. Here he felt constrained, as if buried alive. The sooner I get out of here, the better.
‘That’s where we are heading,’ said Morana, pointing to a massive gate made of gold – its carved decorations had also been destroyed: hammered flat or levered off, and now four älfar guards flanked the gateway. ‘It used to be one of their throne rooms, I think, but the nostàroi live there now.’ A young älf hurried up and led their stallion off. The guards at the entrance stood aside to let them through.
Carmondai’s heart started to race. He was not properly dressed to meet the nostàroi and there was no time to go and change. But on the other hand, he did not want to give them the impression that he cared about his apparel – an artist did not have to feel in any way inferior to a warrior. And I want them to know I have come because I wish to be here, and not because they have summoned me.
When he walked into the vast hall, he could see tall five-sided columns rising up into the darkness and five älfar in the middle of the room, sitting at a stone table laid for a banquet.
It was clear that Sinthoras and Caphalor, side by side at the head of the table, held equal status as joint commanders. Carmondai did not recognise the other three, but that was no surprise: he had long given up a warrior’s life for the sake of art, so he had no idea who was currently in favour. They look impressive, nearly as fine as the nostàroi themselves.
As an artist he had learned to focus on tiny distinctive details when observing people or objects closely. He grasped immediately that this was an unusual gathering.
The armour worn by the brown-haired älf on his right, for example, was of incomparable quality. It was thicker than was usual, but did not look like it would restrict the wearer’s movements, though the decorative sharpened rivets on the breastplate and over the shoulder and back area would probably mean he wouldn’t be able to lean back very comfortably. Two long swords rested on his thighs.
Opposite him sat a pale-faced warrior who had eschewed armour altogether. His wide silk robes were multi-layered and flattering in shades of red, green and black and he wore delicate gloves that had false silver nails at the fingertips. His dark hair was held in check by a broad black band embroidered with white symbols. Another älf stood behind him bearing a thin, steel bow three paces in length, and carrying a quiver of arrows at his belt.
‘Noble lords Nostàroi!’ Morana bowed towards them and Carmondai felt he should follow suit. He dropped his gaze, although this meant losing sight of the assembled company. ‘I bring you Carmondai, the master of word and image,’ Morana announced.
‘My dear Carmondai, we have been so looking forward to having you here,’ said Sinthoras, his welcome delivered in a slightly patronising tone. ‘You are just in time.’
Carmondai raised his head and regarded the blond nostàroi who, like Caphalor, was dressed in ceremonial armour. ‘Forgive me if my delight is not entirely boundless. I was given the impression that I was to serve as some sort of scribbling secretary, not as a master of the written word,’ he countered. ‘You could have got any schoolboy to do the task.’ He pulled himself up to his full height, heart thumping wildly at his own audacity.
Caphalor looked mildly amused. He folded his arms. ‘There you are. I warned you he would take umbrage.’ The other älfar at the table laughed, but not in a condescending manner. ‘I should have put money on his reaction.’
Sinthoras did not seem to take offence at Caphalor’s critical words. He gestured towards one of the free set places. ‘Please take a seat and forgive me if our request for your presence has upset you in any way. We are, of course, well acquainted with your artistic reputation. We felt you were the only älf up to the task.’
Carmondai moved over to a high-backed dining chair. As soon as he was seated, he was served dark red wine in a crystal cup. He was still not able to quell his nervous apprehension. What task will they ask me to perform?
‘May I introduce the others?’ Sinthoras asked.
Carmondai inclined his head slightly as platters and cutlery were brought in and set before the guests. To his surprise, Caphalor gestured to Morana to join them at table. She had already removed her helmet and cloak and handed them to a slave. If he was interpreting her expression correctly, she had not been expecting this either.
‘I will tell you now: you are in the very best company.’ Indicating the älf in the flowing robes, Sinthoras continued, ‘Ma
The Älfar
Nagsar und Nagsor Inàste, the Inextinguishables
Sinthoras, älf-warrior (Comet faction) and a nostàroi (supreme commander)
Demenion, politician (Comet)
Khlotòn, politician (Comet)
Khlotònior, his nephew
Rashànras, politician (Comet)
Yantarai, artist
Imàndaris, Yantarai’s daughter, and a nostàroi
Timānris, artist
Robonor, Timanris’ former companion, a warrior (deceased)
Timānsor, Timānris’ father, an artist
Durùston, sculptor and artist
Arviû, warrior
Horgàta, warrior
Virssagòn, warrior
Morana, bodyguard
Carmondai, artist in language, script and image
Polòtain, politician (Comet)
Godànor, Polòtain’s grandson
Eranior, politician (Comet)
Samrai und Chislar, Eranior’s personal entourage
Halofór, politician (Constellations faction)
Landaròn, Halofór’s brother
Falòran, guard in Dsôn
Ratáris, politician (Constellation)
Armatòn, benàmoi (military leader) in the Grey Mountains
Arganaï, warrior cadet
Tiláris, warrior cadet
Zirlarnor, warrior cadet
Phinoïn, benàmoi of warrior cadets
Itáni, Dsôn artist
Caphalor, älf-warrior (Constellation) and a nostàroi (supreme commander)
Enoïla, Caphalor’s life-partner (deceased)
Aïsolon, a friend of Caphalor’s (Constellations)
Kilanor, trader, from Dsôn
Verànor, messenger sent by the Inextinguishables
Téndalor, benàmoi of island fort number one-eight-seven
Daraïs, Téndalor’s deputy
Ilinia, coachwoman
Yintaï, älf in Avaris
Heïfaton, älf in Avaris
Umaïnor, Sinthoras’ administrator in Dsôn
Bolcatòn, academic and chair of the Wèlèron Research Council
Païcalor, blind bodyguard to the Inextinguishables
Ergàta, warrior
Sajùtor, warrior
Ofardanór, benàmoi at the Stone Gateway
The Humans
Raleeha, slave girl to the älfar (deceased)
Wirian, slave to Sinthoras
Farron Lotor, barbarian prince of the Ishmanti
Törden and Famenia, famuli (apprentices) to the magus Jujulo
Olfson and Drumann, Famenia’s uncles
Parilis, Famenia’s aunt
Khalomein, rebel
Pirtrosal, rebel
Iula, famula (female apprentice) to the maga Hianna
Quartan, cooper, from Duckingham
Geralda, serving woman from Halmengard
Doghosh, commander of soldiers from Sonnenhag
Endrawolt, Doghosh’s deputy
Pantako, trader from the barony of Gourarga
Ossandra Ilmanson, daughter of the burgomaster of Milltown
Mollo, Gatiela, Sarmatt, Ossandra’s playmates
Welkar Ilmanson, Ossandra’s father and burgomaster of Milltown
Jiggon, young slave in Avaris
Hirrtan, Jiggon’s father
Elina, Jiggon’s sister
Rodolf, Jiggon’s grandfather
Irhart, villager
Salisala, villager
Güldtraut, villager
Errec, human slave
Amso, human slave
Omenia, landlord’s daughter in Quarrystone
Odeborn, king of Ido
Starowig, ruler of Ido by proxy
The Magi
Jujulo the Jolly
Simīn the Underrated
Grok-Tmai the Worrier
Hianna the Flawless
Fensa the Inventive
Ortina the Omnipresent
Miscellaneous
Narósil, leader of the elf-riders
Fatunasíl, elf from the Golden Plain
Veïnsa, princess of the Golden Plain
Ataronz, óarco from the vassal nation
Toboribar, óarco prince and leader of the Kraggash óarcos
Shoggrok, a Kraggash óarco
Sardaî, thoroughbred night-mare
Rîm, an Ubari female
Worbîn, a fire-bull
Älfar Divisions of Time
A division of unendingness, ten years
One year would be a tenth of a division of unendingness
A moment of unendingness, one day
A splinter of unendingness, one hour
Älfar Measurement
One pace, one metre
Prologue
What a magnificent assembly that evening! What a magnificent hall!
Never again will such a gathering of heroes be seen in a single place – heroes of such stature, of such power, of such unique nature!
The aura that surrounded each one was clearly visible and almost tangible. And on hearing the heroes speak, ordinary älfar were filled with dread and awe.
I, too, was fascinated.
By each one of them.
By Virssagòn: virtuoso in the arts of war and the skills of the forge, deviser of sophisticated and deadly weaponry and instructor of others in their use;
by Arviû: bringer of death and destruction to the elf realms and whose misfortunes made him the greatest of enemies to the elf peoples. Such was his fame that even today many a fortress bearing his name still stands in the conquered regions once held by the elves;
by Morana: supple and elegant warrior and worker of magic who, while steadfastly resolute towards her deadly foes, harboured an unforgiveable and incomprehensible weakness;
by Horgàta: restless and incomparable beauty, graceful huntress, who never once spared an adversary;
and, of course, I was fascinated equally by the nostàroi, Sinthoras and Caphalor, leaders and initiators of the campaign against Tark Draan, at last granting our people their sweet and cruel revenge. To describe these two leaders would be blasphemy.
For, in truth, no words of mine could match their deeds!
At least, not at that point in time.
No one could have guessed what changes lay in store for them.
Excerpt from the epic poem The Heroes of Tark Draan
composed by Carmondai, master of word and image
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), Grey Mountains, Stone Gateway,
4371st division of unendingness (5199th solar cycle),
summer.
The air was filled with the sound of hundreds of banners flapping in the breeze; occasionally the cry of a raptor was heard as it flew across the darkening sky.
Awe and reverence determined the mood of the silent multitude of älfar warriors assembled on the high plain.
Surrounding the throng, shattered enemy weapons that had been melted down and twisted creatively into bizarre interlocking structures towered into the air – victory columns to symbolise the downfall of the dwarves. But no regard was currently being paid to these abstract works of art: all eyes were trained on the garlanded platform before them.
A low roll of thunder gave the first indication of an approaching storm. Over in the south, black clouds covered the sky as if ready to halt the advance of an enemy; a warm breeze played around the tips of the älfar army’s lances and spears and the rivets on their armour.
Carmondai tied back his long brown hair so that the strengthening wind would not whip it into his face and over his paper, and observed the patiently waiting crowd. It is as if they had turned into statues. The silver-clad stick of compressed charcoal in his right hand raced across the open page as he drew without looking down at the notebook. He never needed to correct these preparatory studies; he was accustomed to making accurate lightning sketches for the large paintings he would complete later.
The blood red sun sank behind the Grey Mountains, illuminating the finest of the óarco, barbarian, troll, demi-giant and älfar fighting force. They had gathered to acclaim the Heroes who had made their victory at the Stone Gateway possible.
The groundlings – the defenders of Tark Draan – had been eliminated, their bones serving as raw material for sculptures, musical instruments and decorative souvenirs, wagonloads of which would be finding their way back to the homeland as evidence of the win.
This is only the beginning of an endless river. Our swords will take Tark Draan’s last drops of lifeblood. In the margin, Carmondai made a note of the colour combinations and appropriate blood types he had in mind for his mural. Groundling life-juice was darker and more mystical than others, he had found, and not easy to work with, but it did give the work a level of integrity not usually achieved through the use of other creatures’ blood: minute traces of minerals in the dwarves’ blood emphasised the picture’s essence through scent, and would intensify the effect of the battle for the discerning spectator.
Carmondai sketched without stopping. He knew the swift lines he was drawing impressed the barbarians who could see his sketches, but this did not satisfy him – any älfar child could do this sort of thing.
He caught sight of the cloud formations as they moved threateningly towards the conquerors. You shall not stop us. He took in the grey, white and black as the clouds raced across the sky and then his gaze dropped back to the decorated ceremonial stage and he began to make his way slowly through the ranks of the warriors to study it more closely.
Skilful craftsmen had created the brilliant white base of the podium from split and dried groundling bones; strands from the hair and beards of the defeated soldiers had been used to fasten the bones together. At the rear of the stage, bronze-coated skulls hung from long poles by ropes of plaited silver, jangling like bells. Carmondai could hear the sound now he was closer; the combination of bone and metal produced a strange tone. Their enemies’ grimacing features had been transformed into shimmering masks: images of death that would last for ever.
In the distance, Carmondai could see standard-bearers beginning to march toward the stage, and suddenly the noble runes of the nostàroi could be seen; blood-red fabric wafting lazily in the breeze. There followed the nostàroi bodyguard in sinister leather armour glittering with engraved tionium plates. The motifs on their helmets signified that each warrior had killed more than one thousand of the enemy.
Carmondai moved away from the stage to get a better view. Ye gods of infamy, how proud our people are! His fingers flew, making notes on the figures around him. His skin prickled and the sense of awe sent waves of excitement up his spine.
Suddenly an impatient night-mare’s imperious snort broke the quiet and Sinthoras and Caphalor were sighted on their magnificent armoured mounts. Caphalor’s black stallion Sardaî was taller in stature and more impressive in nature than any other night-mare.
Carmondai registered that he was writing more slowly now. He was deeply affected by the imposing appearance of the nostàroi; their presence swept over the plateau like a spell. The two nostàroi were producing powerful emotions from the assembled troops: respect, worship and fascination.
Carmondai had to shake himself free from their hypnotic effect. He looked quickly around at the crowd, noticing that all were staring at their leaders’ noble features, eager for some slight word that might impart to them a shred of this triumphant brilliance.
The effect could hardly be stronger if it were the Inextinguishables themselves who had arrived. Carmondai was convinced that every warrior and any creature present would have followed Sinthoras and Caphalor to the ends of the known world. What power they have!
The leaders, their way lined by standard-bearers and bodyguards, halted at the platform.
Sinthoras and Caphalor dismounted and climbed up to the dais. They wore gold-wrought black ceremonial armour studded with jewels. They removed their helmets, displaying fine facial features and allowing their long hair to move in the wind: blond in the one case, black in the other.
Carmondai had heard tell how different these two nostàroi were, in personality as well as colouring; he had heard that Caphalor tended towards the views of the Constellations and that Sinthoras supported the Comets. But now, seeing them together, it looked as if they could be brothers.
Sinthoras raised his right hand and addressed the silent throng. ‘We are standing on the land of Tark Draan! Do you know what this means?’
A single cry thundered from thousands of älfar throats.
‘No army could have achieved more!’ he proclaimed. ‘It is we who have defeated and annihilated the groundlings, and it is we who will bring down and destroy the elves. We will not only eradicate them, but eliminate all they stand for and all they have created. Nothing of theirs shall be allowed to continue. We shall be their death.’ He lifted his head slightly, the fire of hatred glowing in his eyes. ‘For the Inextinguishables!’
Again the response came back thousandfold.
Carmondai’s heart beat quickly in his chest, while his pen scurried across the paper. Every fragment of this event must be recorded for posterity – every fragment! I am witness to our people’s greatest victory. I must miss nothing.
‘We shall bring death into every last corner of Tark Draan. Kingdoms will fall under our yoke, fortresses will burn to the ground and we shall create such art as has never been seen before. We are the new rulers here!’
Not even the loudest clap of thunder could compete with the älfar warriors’ voices and the roars from the other creatures. To Carmondai’s mind, the sound had penetrated deep into Tark Draan. He imagined the inhabitants quaking with fear and turning their ugly heads towards the Grey Mountains, aware that their end was nigh. I must start my new poem this very day.
The nostàroi, like two gods come down in grace to their worshippers, received the adoration and acclaim of the crowds.
Finally Sinthoras raised his arm and the assembled throng fell silent. ‘The first victory is with us. In the coming moments of unendingness we shall flush out the groundling tunnels to ensure nothing and nobody can attack us from behind. Find their treasure hoards, take what you can from their storehouses and send it all as tribute to Dsôn Faïmon. Caphalor and I will now decide our strategy for delivering the final blow – the exterminating blow – to Tark Draan.’
Caphalor now spoke. ‘But this evening you shall celebrate what we have achieved so far. Take your ease, drink with your comrades and companions, and then’ – he drew his sword and pointed towards the south where the dark clouds glowered – ‘let us stamp out this elf brood!’
The nostàroi withdrew, mounted up and disappeared over the edge of the plateau, while the älfar and their allies tirelessly called out their leaders’ names to ear-splitting applause.
Carmondai had never in all his long life experienced such deep admiration for anyone. It struck him that with commanders such as these the army would be victorious in any campaign, however taxing the fight.
In response to whistles, fanfares and shouted orders, the assembled troops dispersed: älfar in a disciplined fashion, barbarians in a less orderly manner, orcs and miscellaneous creatures in shambling disarray.
Carmondai stayed where he was, taking in the scene. Tark Draan has nothing to compete with our army. In less than a third of a division of unendingness we shall have achieved our goal.
He sauntered off, watching the river of soldiery streaming into the groundlings’ former stronghold. Having left his luggage with one of the gate guards so that he could arrive in good time, he was dressed in light travelling attire and as a result, felt vulnerable and out of place: he looked far too peaceable.
Carmondai reached the top of the plateau and looked out over the camp. Tents were set up across the mountainside, strictly segregating the various warring races from one another. Many unresolved enmities left the allied factions prone to disagreements and the nostàroi were keen to keep this to a minimum. Each individual commander was responsible for internal discipline within his camp. Much of this enmity was down to the intensely motivating effect of greed, which Carmondai was fascinated by. That’s where the differences lie: the lower orders will die for the sake of gems and riches, while the higher beings kill for their ideals.
He stood watching the óarco horde as they shoved and pushed and punched each other. No surprise that these green-and-black-skinned beasts with their decorated tusks and their stinking fat-coated armour tended to try to bump each other off at the slightest annoyance.
‘Ye gods of infamy, would you look at that scum,’ he murmured. ‘They are a disgrace.’
‘But we’ll be leaving them here, of course,’ said an älf-woman at his side. She had come up close on her night-mare, unheard over the whistling wind. ‘That way we will be permanently free of them in Ishím Voróo.’ She smiled at him. ‘You must be Carmondai?’
He took half a step back to see her better. Her armour told him she belonged to the nostàrois’ personal guard. The symbols on the tionium-reinforced leather cuirass showed her to have killed over one thousand enemies, and proclaimed her as the unpartnered daughter of two great warriors.
She looks so young. Carmondai was usually quite good at guessing the age of other älfar, but her face was hidden by a half visor. Fifty? Sixty? But how could she have killed so many in that short time? ‘Yes, that’s me.’ He looked at her inquisitively and received a slight nod in return.
‘Then I have an invitation for you. The nostàroi have heard that you are with the troops here and they want you to be present at supper. You are to record the event in word and picture so that the Inextinguishables may receive a report drawn up by an inestimable talent.’
Carmondai felt hot and cold shivers run up his spine. At first he was flattered, but then his old resentment reared up: he hated taking orders. It was not only that he considered himself an artist of high repute. If it had been his own idea to take notes and to sketch the occasion he would have considered it an honour to be allowed to do so. But like this . . .
‘What’s wrong?’ The älf-woman was astonished at his hesitation. ‘Tell me what you have planned that’s more important and I’ll kill whoever it is you are meeting, then you’ll have no difficulty deciding.’
Her remarks amused him. ‘Why don’t they find an ordinary scribe?’
She leaned forward, crossing her wrists on the pommel of her saddle. ‘Let me put it this way, O Master of Word and Image: an invitation from the nostàroi is not something you can decline.’ Her words were spoken carefully, but were as cold as the breath of night. ‘If you fail to accompany me willingly I shall find other ways to take you to the nostàroi, and believe me’ – she said, sitting upright again but keeping her voice low – ‘I am perfectly capable of that.’
‘Oh, you are?’ replied Carmondai with a dangerous smile that did not quite match his harmless appearance. There was an icy silence, but after a short while his curiosity got the better of him and he sighed, relenting. After all, the woman was attractive. Warrior-women were not normally his type but this one had a certain something. ‘Do I get to know your name?’
‘Morana, my mother called me.’ She held out her hand. ‘Will you ride with me or do you want to walk? My night-mare is good natured. He doesn’t usually bite.’
His arm stretched out towards her as if of its own accord, then his hand clasped hers and he swung himself up behind her. She wore an unfamiliar perfume that came through over the metallic leather smell of her battledress and he could see strands of black hair escaping from under her helmet. ‘Take me to the nostàroi. I shall thank them in my own words for their invitation.’
With a laugh, Morana urged her mount in a ruthless line through the horde of óarcos, who protested vociferously, dodging the night-mare’s snapping teeth. Lightning flashes played around the stallion’s fetlocks, sparks scorching the ground and an occasional óarco leg.
Morana headed for a smaller gateway guarded by two impressively armed warriors that was free of queuing crowds. It must only be available for älfar use.
These gatekeepers saluted briefly and let them pass.
Morana slowed her night-mare as they moved through the passage; the walls threw the sound of its hooves back to them.
Carmondai looked around and smiled at the groundlings’ crude art. Their wall sculptures demonstrated an intention to create something beautiful, but their clumsy dwarf hands were never suited to delicate work.
‘When did you arrive?’ Morana asked.
‘Today: I couldn’t get away from Riphâlgis any earlier. I admit that I’m furious to have missed the storming of the stronghold, but I did get to hear the speeches. And now I’m to be the guest of the nostàroi.’
‘You would have loved it. It was the best battle even I have ever seen!’ Morana guided her night-mare through the right-hand opening. Their heads nearly touched the vaulted ceiling.
Carmondai noted the chiselled runes but could not read them. As primitive as all the rest of it. ‘I know,’ he sighed. ‘I had no end of trouble with my night-mare and then of course it decided to depart into endingness just as I was on my way here.’
Her stallion snorted and they came to a cross-tunnel where they had to wait; a group of älfar in leather aprons were carting dwarf cadavers away. When they saw the riders they moved back to let them pass.
I want to see what they’re doing. ‘Wait for me.’ He slid down and moved over to the workers.
With a mixture of disgust and fascination, he looked at the gross, pale bodies of their enemies closely. He saw that each had been stabbed neatly through the heart. They had not fallen in battle. They’ve not got the slightest bit of refinement about them. It’s as if their god was just experimenting: getting his hand in before creating something to be proud of. A second cart carried barrels of sloshing liquid; a smell of stone and metal indicated it was dwarf blood.
He greeted the älfar and took out his notebook. ‘What are you doing with this?’
‘We are preparing them according to instructions.’ One of the älfar answered, looking puzzled. ‘Have you been sent by the nostàroi to supervise?’
‘This is Carmondai, master of word and image,’ Morana said. ‘He is sending a report to Dsôn Faïmon about what’s happening here in the Grey Mountains.’
‘Carmondai?’ A grey-haired älf bowed his head. ‘I am an admirer of your art. I never thought I would have the honour of meeting you. My name is Durùston.’
Durùston! Carmondai knew the name. He was a sculptor from Dsôn and well known for his stela carved from metal-clad bone and preserved intestines. Anyone who was anyone would have one of these commemorative slabs displayed in his home. ‘Greetings. You are indeed known to me.’ He indicated the piles of corpses. ‘Will you be using these in your next works?’
Durùston smiled. ‘Parts of them. I asked the nostàroi for permission to use any groundling remains that weren’t needed for another purpose.’ He pointed down the corridor. ‘I’ve set up a workshop in an old forge. My slaves and my apprentices are processing the cadavers: bones and tendons for sculptures, blood and skin for inks and pigments, hair and beards for paintbrushes. But really their beard hair is too coarse for delicate work – we have to boil it in vinegar to soften it – and then there’s the transport through Ishím Voróo. I’m not sure it’s really worth it . . . it might even be better to sell it for scrubbing-brushes.’
‘A tradesman now?’ Carmondai asked, with a laugh.
Durùston looked embarrassed. ‘I sometimes do think of the times to come when my name might no longer be so well known.’ He turned to go. ‘You are most welcome to come to my workshop if you’d like to do some sketches? The dwarf anatomy is quite instructive; it might be useful knowledge for future battles.’
‘Future battles?’ Carmondai exchanged glances with Morana. ‘I thought we’d defeated them all?’
‘No. Not yet,’ Durùston answered. ‘A few stubborn bastions remain, deep in the Grey Mountains. The main victory is ours, of course, but groundlings are tough. We’ll have dwarves to deal with for quite some time, mark my words.’ He gave the signal to move on. ‘You are welcome any time,’ he said again, as he followed behind the cart.
‘Thank you,’ Carmondai called after him, then he stowed his notebook once more and went back to the night-mare, allowing Morana to help him up. ‘What did he mean, do you think?’ he asked.
They moved off. ‘Just what he said: there are still some isolated pockets of groundling families – they are quite stubborn, but they won’t hold out for long.’ Her words sounded confident, arrogant, almost – as if the matter were of no consequence. Of course, it wasn’t for their armies.
They rode in silence through the underground realm that had so recently fallen into älfar hands. Spattered bloodstains lined the walls: dark-red reminders of the original occupants of these mountain tunnels. Durùston must have removed all the bodies.
After some time they arrived in an area where the dwarf runes carved on the walls had been smashed with hammers, and älfar banners and flags, prominently displaying the insignia of the nostàroi, hung from the high vaulted ceilings: to be forgotten was the fate of those defeated in war.
Carmondai looked at the ceiling. Even if he was not necessarily anxious at the thought of a mountain’s worth of solid stone above his head, he was not exactly at ease. Back in Riphâlgis, his own house gave unrestricted views over a wide valley and he loved the open vistas. Here he felt constrained, as if buried alive. The sooner I get out of here, the better.
‘That’s where we are heading,’ said Morana, pointing to a massive gate made of gold – its carved decorations had also been destroyed: hammered flat or levered off, and now four älfar guards flanked the gateway. ‘It used to be one of their throne rooms, I think, but the nostàroi live there now.’ A young älf hurried up and led their stallion off. The guards at the entrance stood aside to let them through.
Carmondai’s heart started to race. He was not properly dressed to meet the nostàroi and there was no time to go and change. But on the other hand, he did not want to give them the impression that he cared about his apparel – an artist did not have to feel in any way inferior to a warrior. And I want them to know I have come because I wish to be here, and not because they have summoned me.
When he walked into the vast hall, he could see tall five-sided columns rising up into the darkness and five älfar in the middle of the room, sitting at a stone table laid for a banquet.
It was clear that Sinthoras and Caphalor, side by side at the head of the table, held equal status as joint commanders. Carmondai did not recognise the other three, but that was no surprise: he had long given up a warrior’s life for the sake of art, so he had no idea who was currently in favour. They look impressive, nearly as fine as the nostàroi themselves.
As an artist he had learned to focus on tiny distinctive details when observing people or objects closely. He grasped immediately that this was an unusual gathering.
The armour worn by the brown-haired älf on his right, for example, was of incomparable quality. It was thicker than was usual, but did not look like it would restrict the wearer’s movements, though the decorative sharpened rivets on the breastplate and over the shoulder and back area would probably mean he wouldn’t be able to lean back very comfortably. Two long swords rested on his thighs.
Opposite him sat a pale-faced warrior who had eschewed armour altogether. His wide silk robes were multi-layered and flattering in shades of red, green and black and he wore delicate gloves that had false silver nails at the fingertips. His dark hair was held in check by a broad black band embroidered with white symbols. Another älf stood behind him bearing a thin, steel bow three paces in length, and carrying a quiver of arrows at his belt.
‘Noble lords Nostàroi!’ Morana bowed towards them and Carmondai felt he should follow suit. He dropped his gaze, although this meant losing sight of the assembled company. ‘I bring you Carmondai, the master of word and image,’ Morana announced.
‘My dear Carmondai, we have been so looking forward to having you here,’ said Sinthoras, his welcome delivered in a slightly patronising tone. ‘You are just in time.’
Carmondai raised his head and regarded the blond nostàroi who, like Caphalor, was dressed in ceremonial armour. ‘Forgive me if my delight is not entirely boundless. I was given the impression that I was to serve as some sort of scribbling secretary, not as a master of the written word,’ he countered. ‘You could have got any schoolboy to do the task.’ He pulled himself up to his full height, heart thumping wildly at his own audacity.
Caphalor looked mildly amused. He folded his arms. ‘There you are. I warned you he would take umbrage.’ The other älfar at the table laughed, but not in a condescending manner. ‘I should have put money on his reaction.’
Sinthoras did not seem to take offence at Caphalor’s critical words. He gestured towards one of the free set places. ‘Please take a seat and forgive me if our request for your presence has upset you in any way. We are, of course, well acquainted with your artistic reputation. We felt you were the only älf up to the task.’
Carmondai moved over to a high-backed dining chair. As soon as he was seated, he was served dark red wine in a crystal cup. He was still not able to quell his nervous apprehension. What task will they ask me to perform?
‘May I introduce the others?’ Sinthoras asked.
Carmondai inclined his head slightly as platters and cutlery were brought in and set before the guests. To his surprise, Caphalor gestured to Morana to join them at table. She had already removed her helmet and cloak and handed them to a slave. If he was interpreting her expression correctly, she had not been expecting this either.
‘I will tell you now: you are in the very best company.’ Indicating the älf in the flowing robes, Sinthoras continued, ‘Ma
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