Raging Storm

by Markus Heitz

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Dragons & Mythical Creatures; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

International best-selling fantasy author Markus Heitz returns with this thrilling sequel to The Triumph of the Dwarves.

The Hidden Land lies broken. In the terrible battle to save the home of the dwarfs, elves and humans, many sacrifices were made by great heroes, and at the last the älfar were defeated. Aiphatòn, the son of the indelible and erstwhile Emperor of the Älfar, has sworn that his race will never again pose such a dire threat to the world; he is determined to seek out and destroy the last of his own people.

But there may be a greater enemy to face: an enigmatic mage with powerful magic at her fingertips is threatening the entire country.

Suddenly the Hidden Land's greatest enemy has become its only hope....

The action never lets up in this next exciting story in the saga of the dwarves and the älfar!

Release date: August 6, 2019

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 544

Sample

It’s not long since I wrote these words down.

Some events are touched on in the Forgotten Writings; some facts now appear in a new light. It’s odd how everything is connected after all, even if many divisions of unendingness separate things.

It seems the era of false gods is over. They declared themselves superior beings and failed. That was the end of the Inextinguishables.

But the creature they left behind for us behaved very differently. Dutifulness, humility, self-sacrifice—it’s barely expected of mortals and not at all from the son of gods, something he was entitled to consider himself.

Aiphatòn was on the march to keep danger at bay, moving from one stormy battle to the next. The storms became more and more powerful until he encountered the most powerful one of all.

And me?

I’m still in the eye of the hurricane, enjoying a rest after so many moments of roaring and noise, of screaming and death.

I can’t say how long this calm will last or whether the wind will then tear me to pieces.

If my notes should end, at least I’ll have left a legacy that will outlast me.

What irony: to live on, an immortal älf needs thin paper!

Read and understand.

Excerpt from the epic Aiphatòn

chronicled by Carmondai, master of word and image

Tark Draan, Älfar realm of Dsôn Bhará, formerly the elf realm Lesinteïl, 5452nd division of unendingness (6491st solar cycle), early summer

Just as I thought: they waited because they don’t dare attack us at night.

With the pale rays of the rising sun, Daitolór could clearly see the pathetic band of foes marching towards them across the plain. We’ll kill them one way or another.

Dust rose up from underneath their boots—the dry spell had made the earth around the crater sandy. Because there was no wind blowing, the telltale brownish clouds curled up into the air, easy to spot even from far away.

“They’re coming across the plain from the northwest yet again. About a thousand of them. Half of the barbarians are dressed like warriors, the others farmers,” Daitolór cried down from his lookout point, not sounding worried or nervous. “What they all have in common is that none of them has any sense.”

Soft laughter rang out at the benàmoi’s words.

The älf, who had stuffed his dark hair underneath his helmet, jumped down from a piece of abstract art made of clear varnished bones and rusty iron. He landed neatly in front of the twenty warrior-women and warriors who were wearing toughened, black leather armour.

Daitolór pointed at the approaching enemy. “Load the smooth arrowheads and pull the strings back as far as they go. Every arrow must run through at least three of the enemy and kill them. It will save ammunition.”

Having taken their longbows from their shoulders, his soldiers nodded silently.

“As soon as this senseless lot have come within two hundred paces, we’ll release two full volleys, then each of you is to look for targets directly in front of you. Off you go.”

The small unit darted behind the many artworks that had once served to make an impression on visitors, with their composition, their strangeness and their uniqueness.

Daitolór’s lookout point three paces in the air was resting on a solid pedestal. With its carved bones bound by silver wire, it was modelled on the Inàste’s Arrow constellation with all its heavenly bodies, both large and small. All told, the artwork was four by four by four paces; crystals of various sizes on it symbolised the stars and sparkled beautifully in the light of the sun and moon. You could climb some steps up to the top of the pedestal and find yourself in the middle of the replica constellation.

Daitolór’s favourite piece, which he stole glances at from time to time, was around ten paces to his left, surrounded by a crowd of statues made from gold, tionium and polished steel. Its simplicity was what marked it out as different and made it eye-catching. A torso seven paces tall had been formed out of bones to look like it was hauling itself out of the earth. The bones were intricately painted and inlaid with precious stones that glimmered and twinkled.

In its right hand, the figure brandished a weapon fitted with eight blades and mounted like a wind-turbine so that the mildest gust of wind could set it moving. When the rune-inscribed blades cut through the air, they whirred and hummed; and the faster they spun, the more hypnotic the overall pattern of sparkling gems became. Daitolór had often caught himself staring and listening to it for too long…

Just like right now. He tore his eyes away from the spectacle. It’s a disgrace that the artworks are being used as cover to take the brunt of this.

The benàmoi watched the warriors in his unit taking up their positions as he loosened the feathered arrow shafts in the quiver slung around his hips. Although each and every member of the unit carried fifty rounds, enough to obliterate the enemy, nobody knew how long it would be until more lunatics launched their next wave of attack. For every bolt that hits an artwork, I will have my revenge and make the archer pay.

Daitolór had stopped counting how many dead carried his name.

And yet, things weren’t looking good for the northern älfar’s realm, no matter how much scum they were killing off.

The power structures were starting to shake but he had no doubt they would triumph. For the benàmoi, it was just a question of arrow supply.

The älfar had ruled large parts of Tark Draan for twenty divisions of unendingness. At first there were just the Dsôn Aklán—the triplets Sisaroth, Tirîgon and Firûsha—as well as the survivors from the Phondrasôn caves. Together they had built Dsôn Bhará and expanded their rule with every sunrise.

Aiphatòn, the son of the Inextinguishables, had come along later with a band of wild älfar who had no sense of decency or appreciation of art, and he had seized full control over the älfar tribe because of his parentage. The magic he commanded bolstered his claim and literally pulverised any resistance. In the north, they hid their hatred of him and his second-rate entourage behind a mask of haughty politeness.

At long last, the triplets had been able to win over the groundling folk from the Thirdling tribe as allies, and this represented a huge step. It meant that they could tackle the complete conquest of Tark Draan and especially the protection of areas they had captured.

Daitolór remembered the good times that had ended when Tungdil Goldhand turned up. The hero of old, he had led the courageous tribes against the älfar and all the other conquerors the triplets were already fighting a running battle with: from the magus Lot-Ionan to the dragon Lohasbrand and the monster kordrion.

They’ll be close enough very soon. Sadly Daitolór couldn’t turn a blind eye to the fact that there were hardly any more warrior-women and warriors from his tribe left to hold out against the waves of scum surging towards them. The barbarians attacked the capital relentlessly, spurred on by successes in Dsôn Bhará’s hinterlands as well as the rousing words of the elves, groundlings and self-declared heroes with ridiculous names like Mallenia or Rodario.

The commanders obviously kept quiet about how many casualties the attackers had sustained so as not to discourage the barbarians.

There usually wasn’t enough time to disembowel the corpses and scour them for the right bones for new artworks. Most of the bodies were dragged away at night by carrion-feeders so the barbarians couldn’t work out the true scale of their losses. Sometimes there was just the slightly sweet, acrid stench of rotting flesh hanging in the air from the surrounding foxholes.

The small crowd of barbarians was approaching across the plain at the double. Whatever was making them come here and look for conflict, Daitolór doubted that their impetus was courage. Barbarians usually carried out the greater deeds from greed. There was no doubt that the älfar’s wealth was known about in Tark Draan. The glittering of the artworks will attract them.

Apparently the so-called southern älfar, who had been commanded by Aiphatòn, had all fallen in battle against Lot-Ionan, along with their emperor. The only son of the Inextinguishables belonged to the past, and Daitolór did not shed any tears over him. The benàmoi was sceptical that Aiphatòn could have killed the all-powerful magus and dragged him into death with him.

Even the Dsôn Aklán, who to him were the true rulers of the älfar, suffered a painful loss: it was said that Firûsha died a long time ago in a battle with a maga and nothing had been heard from her sibling commanders Tirîgon and Sisaroth for a long time. No doubt they were fighting the scum in Tark Draan somewhere. As long as both brothers stood by them, nothing bad could happen.

They led us out of Phondrasôn to one of our biggest victories. They will definitely lead us through the hard times too.

Their enemies exploited the northern älfar’s vulnerability and the chaos: just as the troops were going to assemble quickly to defend the capital, rebellions suddenly broke out all over Dsôn Bhará. So the älfar were forced to rally against sparks of resistance in many places at once, extinguishing them with blood.

As Daitolór had learned in the meantime, the groundlings from the Thirdling tribe terminated the alliance pact and charged into battle alongside the rebels. We will crush them too. And punish them like we have never punished any tribe in Tark Draan before.

The tramping of boots and the rattle of poorly made armour rang out. They even had cavalry in their small, shabby army. Around a hundred of their soldiers were on horseback, holding long lances upright with colourful pennants fluttering from them.

No groundlings? The älf scrutinised the whole line as they approached. I hope, Samusin, that we kill some traitors again.

“Get ready!” he cried and resumed his elevated position. There was a gap between the artwork’s intersecting and interlinked bones, and it was through this that he would fire the shots accurately at the enemies.

Daitolór took one of his extra-large black arrows that even thin metal couldn’t block and placed it on his bowstring.

The troops started running—but to the astonishment of the benàmoi, none of the attackers drew their weapons. The cavalry trotted casually behind the infantry, the archers having hung their crossbows on their backs.

They don’t know that we’re lying in wait here! This thought flashed through the älf’s mind and a contemptuous smile formed around the corners of his mouth.

The barbarians were probably in a hurry because they could already see the crater and wanted to get into the Black Heart of Dsôn Bhará quickly to tear it out of the kingdom’s breast and destroy it.

Because they didn’t send a scout on ahead, they’re running blindly into our shower of arrows. Oh, they have truly lost their minds. And soon they’ll lose their lives too. “Ready?” he called, pulling his bowstring back a long way and aiming at the cavalryman with the shiniest armour, the rising sun reflecting off it. He was asking to be shot. “Fire!”

His fingers released the thin cord, and he immediately followed up the arrow aimed at the horseman with another one.

The twenty-one projectiles were still whirring through the air when the next ones followed.

The first hail of impacts and screams was immediately followed by a second. More than a hundred foes fell to the dusty ground mid-movement and some were trampled by the ones who came after them. It seemed as though the army initially didn’t grasp what was going on.

Your death is named Daitolór. He saw his barbarian target in the shimmering armour slump abruptly in his saddle and slip off his horse; the rider behind him yelled out and clutched his chest, while a third let go of his lance and fell off. Meanwhile the barbarian to his left lurched backwards out of his saddle and the rider behind grasped his visor, writhing.

Only five? Daitolór wasn’t happy with his spoils. It ought to have been six or more. Since when have they been using thicker iron? Surely they didn’t learn?

Enraged, he fired one arrow after another at the pitiful army which had come to a standstill, making it an even easier target for five or six heartbeats before the cleverest among the simple-minded lot raised their shields.

But the älfar’s war arrows ran effortlessly through the shields, piercing one or two more bodies beyond them. Anyone who didn’t fall down dead immediately sustained terrible injuries.

Once Daitolór had used up half of his ammunition and scarcely more than forty heartbeats had gone by, not one single member of the barbarian troop was left standing; even their steeds were lying on the ground.

The älfar stopped their bombardment.

Their wounded foes crawled over lifeless bodies, looking for a place safe from the arrows. The benàmoi saw a flurry of movement behind some of the horses’ corpses.

The cowards think they’re safe there.

“Advance,” he commanded. “Keep your bows to hand until we’re close enough, then take your lances and kill every barbarian who still looks like they have anything resembling life in them.”

Daitolór left his elevated position and strode towards the bloody chaos of barbarian and horse corpses with his twenty warrior-women and warriors.

The älfar didn’t encounter any resistance. Not one bolt flew at them.

Deathly afraid and unable to form a coherent thought, the injured fled for their lives much too slowly rather than putting up a fight.

What a pathetic lot. Daitolór’s nose was filled with the smell of spilled blood, and the whimpering, agonised screams disgusted him.

He ordered three of his warriors to guard the unit with their bows; he had the rest continue the slaughter to make sure that none of their enemies survived and made off during the night. The long-shafted lances belonging to the slain cavalrymen were perfect for cutting the enemy’s throats open without sullying themselves with their blood.

In ten cases, they found barbarians hidden among the fallen soldiers, hoping to escape the älfar’s keen eyes. Swift stabs put an end to those cowards; the same went for the ones crouching behind the dead horses who literally begged for mercy. They died under the warriors’ disdainful gaze.

The sun wasn’t quite at its peak when Daitolór and his defending forces from Dsôn took the lives of the last barbarians.

“Gather the intact arrows wherever you can,” he ordered his troops and removed his helmet from his dark hair to cool himself down. “Then we’ll return to camp and await the next targets. We’ll hardly be out of practice!”

Soft, evil laughter rang out again.

“What about the dead, benàmoi?” asked one of the warriors. “I still need a few nice teeth—I want to resole my boots with them.”

“The entire sole?”

“Yes. They make a wonderful, musical sound when you walk on stone.”

Daitolór raised his hand as a signal of permission to disembowel the bodies. “I’ve got to see these boots with tooth soles,” he remarked.

“I’ll show you them as soon as I’m done.”

“Benàmoi, a retinue from Dsôn,” came the cry from one of the archers still on guard.

Astonished, Daitolór turned around and made out a band of ten älfar riding towards them on night-mares. His surprise grew when he saw the blood-red runes on the pennant fluttering in the wind on one warrior’s lance.

The symbol of the Dsôn Aklán! The benàmoi’s heart beat faster. Is that… Firûsha?

Indeed there was an älf-woman in the middle of the band wearing eye-catching black tionium armour with exquisite inlay. Because the group was tracing an arc as it approached, the extra protective iron ridge along her spine was coming into view. A very long, narrow sword hung at an angle by her night-mare’s flank, the massive crossguards jutting out and gleaming.

That’s her! She’s alive! Oh, Inàste, that is… Daitolór’s thoughts raced, his joy threatening to overwhelm him. He took a few steps away from the field of corpses and glanced at his boots to check if the leather was sullied with barbarian blood. What can she want with us? To congratulate us on our victory?

The riders stopped in front of him, their snorting night-mares churning up the ground with their lightning-surrounded hooves.

Daitolór bowed slightly. His gaze fell on the double-edged daggers affixed to the armour on her thighs, as well as the iron discuses the size of palms on the metal splint armour on her upper arms. “Dsôn Aklán,” he greeted her. “We have held the north of the town once again.” He caught a glimpse of her face through the visor and saw she was incredibly attractive.

His troops looked at the älf-woman as if she were a ghost.

Firûsha’s piercing black eyes, in which he thought he could detect a hint of blue, were fixed on him. “You have served us well, benàmoi. As long as my brothers are at war with Lot-Ionan and the rebellious barbarians, they will not be able to devote time to Dsôn’s security.” She nodded first to him and then to his small unit, before finally pushing up the visor of her helmet. “Thank you. Stand your ground.”

She is beautiful. Just like people say. “We need more arrows, Aklán,” Daitolór ventured to suggest. “We are so outnumbered by barbarians that we…”

Firûsha smiled and swept a strand of her black hair to the side. “Send one of your people to my quartermaster in town. He’s to supply you with the best ammunition.” The älf-woman pointed southeast. “Meanwhile we will ride towards the enemy and slaughter anything that stands in our way, to allow you a break. Your arms must be tired from the relentless shooting.”

Daitolór couldn’t stop staring at her. She…

Firûsha took a breath. “Like so many others, you thought I had passed into endingness, didn’t you?”

He nodded almost imperceptibly, although that wasn’t exactly what he was thinking. “Forgive me. People said that you had fallen into the hands of a maga and were lying at the bottom of a lake in Weyurn,” he answered truthfully. “Seeing you in front of me now is the most wonderful present that the Creating Spirit has given me in the last few moments of unendingness.”

A wind sprang up, blowing southwards. It played with the black hair that jutted out from underneath the älf-woman’s helmet and fell to her shoulders. It gave off the refreshing smell of fresh confidence; it was unsullied by decay or barbarian blood.

With one hand, Firûsha grasped the hilt of her two-handed sword. “And I will ride into battle again. A barbarian-woman cannot rob me of immortality, regardless of whether she’s a maga,” she said. “All of you,” she addressed the troops, “hear this and carry it in your hearts: I, Firûsha, one of the Dsôn Aklán, walk among you and march out to bring death to enemy ranks. Together we will transform the impending doom into victory!”

Daitolór lifted his blood-spattered spear. “We will not let the enemy advance any further than this point,” he solemnly swore. “No barbarian, no groundling and no creature other than an älf will set foot in our town.”

The wind picked up a little more and set the artworks moving.

The crystal stars of Inàste’s Arrow bobbed and sparkled, the bones gently rubbing against one another and the thin wire creating a high-pitched murmur that sounded like whispering; the eight blades belonging to the figure breaking out of the ground started rotating faster too, and a whistling hum resounded.

A cool shudder ran down Daitolór’s spine, despite the heat from the sun. Without meaning to, the benàmoi turned around and let his gaze wander. Something seemed off, and an ominous feeling spread through him.

The night-mares also seemed to sense a change was taking place. Snorting, their red eyes rolled; they thrashed around restlessly and their nostrils flared.

Would monsters secretly try and approach Dsôn? But where would they be coming from? Try as he might, Daitolór couldn’t explain his misgivings.

Firûsha reined in her frisky stallion. “Look at them! They want to sink their teeth into barbarians,” she cried out, laughing and getting guffaws of approval in return. “We’re better off riding out before they get so wild that they…”

A powerful gust of wind made a low-pitched whirring sound as it swept through the group of älfar, churning up dust and earth. In the blink of an eye, the steeds disappeared along with the troops behind the grey-brown clouds of dirt.

The rapidly fluctuating sounds from the artwork’s eight spinning blades drifted over to the benàmoi, but now they didn’t seem fascinating or soothing. On the contrary, they seemed to intensify and fan the flames of his anxiety.

The god of wind seems to want to have some fun with us. Daitolór tightened his grip on his spear, tiny granules grinding between his teeth—then he felt the prickling all over his skin.

This time it wasn’t a vague premonition, it was the consequence of powerful magic suddenly appearing all around him.

What could… Before he could let out a warning cry, a shrill crackle cut through the whirring of the wind. In the middle of the dust, dark green finger-sized runes lit up.

Then death cries rang out.

The night-mares were neighing wildly. Daitolór heard the clicks of their teeth snapping shut, followed by loud, dry cracks. Someone or something was breaking the mighty animals’ spines.

Then warm fluid from the haze of dirt sprayed at the benàmoi. The smell told him it was blood.

Älfar blood.

“Aklán!” he shouted, brandishing his spear at the invisible foe attacking under cover of dust. “Watch out!”

“Get out of here,” Firûsha shouted frantically from somewhere in the sandy haze, profound fear in her voice. “He is here!”

He? Daitolór made out the galloping sound of approaching night-mare hooves, mingling with the renewed hissing as magic was unleashed. Lot-Ionan!

A beam of emerald light as thick as an arm made a crackling sound as it shot past him and hit the nearest älf, ripping him apart with its force. Blown-off body parts rained down on the benàmoi, and he was sprayed with blood again.

He panted as he knelt down and peered around, his heart racing, his fingers around the now sticky shaft of his weapon.

The loud, discordant sounds of the eight blades wouldn’t stop. For the first time, Daitolór wished they would be silent.

The wind toyed with the clouds of dust, gradually dispersing them as if Samusin wanted to reveal the horror confronting the älfar.

The Aklán and four of her companions were riding in the distance. They could not stand up to the superior magic of a Lot-Ionan.

Bloody scraps lay beside and in front of the crouching benàmoi—it was only the pieces of armour that identified them as älfar limbs. Two riderless night-mares were stomping around and snorting, getting their bearings in the dropping wind.

The artwork went silent.

Where is the magus? Daitolór felt he knew what his mission was: he had to make sure the Aklán had time to reach safety so that she could command her surviving people. A spear was not enough to kill the magus, the älf knew that, but it would definitely be enough to distract it. With Inàste’s aid, a miracle might happen.

Out of the mist emerged the silhouette of another älf-warrior whom Daitolór didn’t know. He must have been one of the Aklán’s guards who had fallen off a night-mare.

Without looking around or taking any other precaution, the unknown soldier went over to one of the black horses and swung himself into the saddle to follow the queen.

“Where are you going?” came the sound of a sonorous voice from the last of the grey-brown clouds. Then, less than five paces from Daitolór, there appeared a thin, bald figure holding a long staff in his left hand.

The benàmoi ducked even lower, ready to throw his spear. I might manage it if the magus is distracted.

The älf on the night-mare spurred his stallion so that the huge beast lunged at the magus and—

Steed and warrior were enveloped in green light mid-leap. They were flung to the ground as though they had been struck by a giant fist. The night-mare’s legs broke with a crack and the älf warrior was pinned down by the black horse’s heavy body. Because the suffering, raging animal was snapping its jaws shut in all directions, the warrior was forced to kill it with a swift blow to the neck before the lethal teeth could get him.

“That’s how quickly an attack can turn to defeat,” the sound of the magus’ voice rang out, speaking excellent, almost archaic älfish.

Daitolór stayed still, not letting the enemy out of his sight as he calmly approached the pinned rider.

The last of the dust clouds dispersed—and he saw his error.

Aiphatòn! Although the benàmoi had never set eyes on him before, he knew immediately that the emperor had come to Dsôn.

No other älf looked like him. Most of his chest, stomach and lower abdomen, as well as his shoulders and upper arms, were covered in plates of armour sewn into his flesh. The metal, people said, consisted of a special alloy that absorbed and stored magic energy. That explained his powers, which rivalled those of a magus. He was bald, wore heavy armoured gloves and a black, wraparound skirt-like garment around his hips.

The pinned warrior pointed the sword covered in night-mare blood at Aiphatòn. “You’re a traitor to your own people,” he said, groaning. “First you bring that scum out of the south, now you want to kill the Aklán. And all the while you are the son of the Inextinguishables!” He clenched his teeth together to suppress a cry of pain. “Think, Aiphatòn!” he continued. “Ally yourself with…”

The bald älf threw his head back and roared with laughter. “You’re just about to pass into endingness and you’re trying to talk me into an alliance with the Aklán? I am your emperor, älf!” he thundered, pointing the narrow tip of his spear at the prone man. “You ought to obey me without asking a single question, just like the Aklán should! Instead they carried on with their intrigues, sought to depose me and saw themselves on my throne. Do you think I’ll be so kind as to forgive that crime? A crime against me, the son of the Inextinguishables?”

Daitolór didn’t dare move.

By now he seriously doubted he would be able to do anything to stop Aiphatòn. Anyone who could simply fling a night-mare to the ground as it galloped would laugh when faced with a conventional spear. He saw his warrior-women and warriors lying around, dashed to pieces, torn apart by magic as if they were battle debris, deemed worthless. But what will I do?

“The Inextinguishables abandoned us back then,” snapped the pinned man. “We were stuck in that hole, in the middle of the Grey Mountains, waiting for news from Tark Draan. But it didn’t come. It never came! Without the Dsôn Aklán, we would have been wiped out in Phondrasôn.”

Aiphatòn scrutinised him with eyes like dark black holes that gave his narrow, symmetrical face an extremely sinister look.

It was said his eyes never revealed their true colour, not even at night when älfar eyes usually did. As the child of Nagsar and Nagsor Inàste, he was a shintoìt, the highest and purest being. He was invariably recognisable as one, even without the armour woven into his flesh.

“It would have been better for you all,” Aiphatòn declared in a whisper and stabbed the prone warrior in the neck. “And for Girdlegard. But know this: I will make up for my mistake.”

The injured man’s breath rattled as he grasped the rune-embellished spear-shaft with one hand and tried to pull it out, his sword bouncing off it ineffectually.

“The Aklán will be the next ones I dispatch into endingness. Then I will return and set your beloved Dsôn alight. I am their emperor and the älfar will meet their downfall at my hands, just like I promised an old friend of mine they would. The realisation came late, but it did come. Your death is named Aiphatòn,” he said solemnly. “I will take your immortality from you and leave your remains to the carrion-feeders. Isn’t it funny that you have that in common with the common barbarians? Thus the differences end.”

Gurgling, the älf died beneath the night-mare, blood running from the open wound at the corner of his mouth and dripping onto the ground. His body went limp.

Daitolór didn’t move. He must not see me. Having heard what he had, the benàmoi had reached a decision.

Motionless, he watched as Aiphatòn pulled the narrow spear-tip out of the warrior’s flesh and cleaned it on the man’s clothing. Then the emperor ran off, apparently hard on Firûsha’s heels.

Daitolór, whose whole unit had been taken from him in the blink of an eye by this älf, saw that the shintoìt was not wearing boots, but had taken up the pursuit barefoot.

Only once the enemy had moved further away did he stand up and throw his spear carelessly to the ground. With an adversary like Aiphatòn, wood and steel were no use.

He thought his people were fully capable of getting rid of a magus, but when the son of the Inextinguishables was against them, they were in great danger. And they would remain so until the last älf was wiped out as he had promised.

I’ve got to warn the Aklán. She and her brothers will find a way to stop him.

Daitolór went over to the remaining night-mare and grabbed hold of the harness, soothing the animal with a few mur