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Synopsis
The first in the fast-and-furious fantasy adventure The Legends of the Älfar: the worlds of the dark elves and the dwarves collide in what Malazan Empire calls 'Tolkien with a dash of Gemmell and a sprinkling of George R.R. Martin'. The elves, dwarves and humans all know the älfar to be dark, relentless warriors. This is their time. In Dson Faïmon, the realm of the älfar, the warriors are planning a military campaign. Caphalor and Sinthoras are looking to enlist a powerful demon to strengthen their army - but the two älfar have very different goals. While Caphalor is determined to defend the borders of their empire and no more, the ambitious Sinthoras is intent on invasion: and he has the kingdoms of dwarves, elves and men firmly in his sights. Righteous Fury is the first book in bestselling author Markus Heitz's The Legends of the Älfar series.
Release date: April 30, 2014
Publisher: Jo Fletcher Books
Print pages: 419
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Righteous Fury
Markus Heitz
The Älfar
Nagsar and Nagsor Inàste, the Inextinguishables
Sinthoras, älf warrior, of the Comets faction
Demenion, politician (Comets)
Khlotòn, politician (Comets)
Rashànras, politician (Comets)
Yantarai, artist (f)
Timānris, artist (f)
Robonor, warrior and companion of Timānris
Timānsor, artist father of Timānris
Hirai, his wife
Jiphulor, politician (neutral)
Helòhfor, soul-toucher
Caphalor, älf warrior (Constellations faction)
Enoïla, Caphalor’s companion
Tarlesa, their daughter
Olíron, their son
Aïsolon, friend to Caphalor (Constellations)
Mórcass, merchant
The Humans
Raleeha, female slave to the Älfar
Kaila, female overseer of Sinthoras’ slaves
Wirian, female slave to Sinthoras
Quanlot, slave
Grumson, slave to Caphalor
Longin, slave to Mórcass
Kuschnar, slave to Mórcass
Hasban Strength-of-Seven, prince of the Sons of the Winds (barbarian tribe)
Farron Lotor, prince of the Ishmanti barbarians
Armon, prince of the Herumite barbarians
Vittran, superintendant of the barbarian vassals
Creatures
Munumon, king of the fflecx
Jufula, one of his favourites
Sardaî, thoroughbred night-mare
Linschibog, a fflecx
Gålran Zhadar, dwarf-like being with a talent for magic
Dafirmas, elf henchman to Gålran Zhadar
Rambarz, demi-troll henchman to Gålran Zhadar
Karjuna, an obboona female
Uoilik, prince of the jeembinas
Tarrlagg, overseer of the vassal óarcos
Gattalind, female strategist of the giants
Miscellaneous
óarco: orc
fflecx: also known as alchemancers and poison-mixers. A black-skinned gnomoid people.
gålran zhadar: dwarf-like beings with a talent for magic
obboonas: a humanoid people also known as flesh-stealers
Tandruus: a tribe of barbarians
botoicans: a race with latent magic qualities, living in the west of Ishím Voróo
baro: an extremely rare wild predator
kimarbock: a male deer wuzack: an artificial being created by the fflecx
jeembinas: a hybrid people, half-crab, half-human
Gramal Dunai: an eradicated tribe of barbarians
phaiu su: blood-sucking webs
cnutar: tripartite symbiotic creatures, able to merge or separate at will
Nostàroi: high-ranking älfar general Herumites, Jomonicans, Ishmantis, Fatarcans: barbarian peoples
gardant: commander of a troop of guards
Phondrasôn: a subterranean place of banishment
Tark Draan: Refuge of the Scum (=Girdlegard)
schronz: (an insult) idiot, cretin
They are said as a people to show more cruelty than any other.
They are said to hate elves, humans, dwarves and every other creature so much that the blood runs black in their veins and darkens their eyes in the light of the sun.
They are said to dedicate their lives exclusively to death and to art.
They are said to use black magic.
They are said to be immortal …
Much has been said about the Älfar.
Read now these tales and decide what is said true and what is not.
These are stories of unspeakable horror, unimaginable battles, gross treachery, glorious triumphs and crushing defeats.
But they are also tales of courage, integrity and valour.
Of friendship.
And of love.
These are the Legends of the Älfar
Unknown author,preface to the forbidden books which transfigure the truth,The Legends of the Älfar,undated.
Nagsar and Nagsor Inàste, the Inextinguishable Siblings, were looking for a home for themselves and their chosen companions.
They wandered hither and yon, surrounded by savage things, ugliness and hideous creatures thrown in their path by the gods Shmoolbin, Fadhasi and Woltonn, in an attempt to destroy them. They named the place Ishím Voróo – Ubiquitous Horrendousness.
Epocrypha of the Creating Spirit,1st Book,Chapter 1, 1–7
Ishím Voróo (The Outer Lands), älfar realm Dsôn Faïmon, Radial Arm Avaris,4370th division of unendingness (5198th solar cycle), summer.
Sinthoras was throbbing with anticipation, intoxicated by the thought of a new creative work. Everything told him to grasp hold of the brush, dip it into the paint and let his hand follow his imagination.
But it was too soon.
He stepped away from the easel to study the effect of the sombre background wash. It covered the fine canvas perfectly and was now ready for a unique work of art.
He poured himself a glass of red and took a sip before placing it aside. Much as he usually enjoyed wine when painting, today it did not feel right. He was too animated.
‘Excellent,’ he breathed, his eyes shining, his hands clasped tight to prevent himself picking up the brush.
The repetitive sound of the vents filtering the air echoed through the high-ceilinged sunlit room. The substantial blue-tinted windows had hinged vents to provide fresh air. Shelves covered the walls to a height of five paces, with glass jars in varying sizes holding the liquid and solid ingredients, pigments, colours and other mixtures he needed for his work. All were costly, and some were so rare they were nearly priceless. The topmost jars could be accessed only from a long ladder on rollers.
Head held high, Sinthoras circled the easel, impatient to start. His dark-red robe with black and white embroidery flowed behind him like the surface of a lake. Here and there were paint stains, some old, some new – evidence of his creativity.
To keep his long blond hair clear of the palette and canvas he wore it tied back in a braid. This emphasised his slim features; the pointed ears showed that his beauty was not of a human kind.
Sinthoras walked over to the window and opened it wide. As the evening sunlight fell on the easel and on himself, his eyes immediately turned black and became two dark orbs. He took deep breaths.
Samusin is favouring me, he thought, as he felt the invigorating east wind against his skin. The strong breeze carried the smell of fresh blossom; a few white petals fluttered into the room, settling on the dark stone floor.
There was a knock at the door and it opened. ‘The god of the winds is with you,’ he heard an älfar voice say. ‘He has sent his lively east wind to inspire you.’
Sinthoras turned and bowed to the red-haired älf standing at the threshold in a brownish-black cloak. ‘Thank you for coming to support my artistry with your own, Helòhfor. With your help it will be an extraordinary work.’
Helòhfor stepped into the room, followed by two slaves in simple grey clothing. Their build suggested they were humans; the älf had made them cover their ugly features – you could hardly call them faces. Nobody with any sense of decency let one of their slaves appear in public unveiled.
One of them took Helòhfor’s mantle, revealing a black silk robe with dark-red decorations at the hem. The other, at a gesture from Sinthoras, placed a large case down next to a chair. Then, after sending the slaves outside, Helòhfor sat facing his host, forearms resting on the arms of the chair. ‘You are quite sure, Sinthoras?’
‘Of course,’ came the answer without hesitation. ‘I am keen to see what happens when I combine my creative urges with the sounds of a soul-toucher’s music.’
‘The effect will depend on the particular älf, but even I am not sure what will happen.’ Helòhfor directed his dark gaze towards Sinthoras, studying his face. ‘You might fall in a trance, you might be taken by the desire to fling yourself from the window, or you might crave the sight of blood.’ The soul-toucher looked at the canvas. ‘That you might complete a work of art is just one of many possibilities.’
‘To the task, Helòhfor!’ Sinthoras’ voice contained a mixture of request, command and longing. He had spoken out of turn, but had not been able to stop himself: he had been seized with the compulsion to create art that was superior to the work of any other painter – everyone should see that he was not only a warrior of great distinction but also an incomparable artist. ‘To the task,’ he repeated softly, and hastened to the easel.
He would let only a single colour touch the canvas, but that one colour would make the work perfect. Carefully he removed the lid of one of the pots and revealed the glowing yellow substance inside. With a shudder of excitement, Sinthoras took up a large brush and glanced over expectantly at the soul-toucher.
Helòhfor had opened the case and taken out his instrument. The body was made from a spinal column, with silver elements connecting the vertebrae. Valves were attached with silver wire and holes had been drilled into the pieces of bone. Murmuring softly, the älf inserted other items, fashioned from metal, glass or bone, into the openings. Finally he decanted a brown liquid into a wide-bellied flask, which he screwed to the instrument.
Sinthoras had been following every movement and it did not escape his notice how exact the adjustments were. Without long training given by a master of the craft no älf other than Helòhfor would ever be able to play this instrument – and certainly no other creature would stand a chance. The fluid used was said to be brain liquor extracted from cadavers; it was held to contain the dreams of the dead. Tonal vibrations activated the thoughts contained within and allowed the player to affect the audience.
‘Prepare to receive the driving force of the dead and of death itself, Sinthoras. May Samusin protect your soul,’ he murmured, putting his lips to the mouthpiece and placing his fingertips on the tabs.
Helòhfor blew softly and a shrill tone slowly swelled. A gentle bubbling started in the liquid, increasing gradually to a rolling boil. Sinthoras saw steam swirling through the glass elements. As Helòhfor played, it seemed that several streams of air were circulating at the same time, creating brash, strident tones.
Sinthoras felt the hairs on his arms and on the back of his neck rise up and a sharp pain stabbed behind his eyes, blinding him. He gasped for breath. Suddenly the sounds changed and a strange melody emerged.
Energy coursed through his body; his fingers were surrounded by a blue light. As the east wind played on his features, his longed-for inspiration appeared.
Sinthoras watched himself dip the brush in the paint pot, watched the soft bristles absorb the colour and watched his own hand carry pigment to canvas. He painted to the tones of the unearthly music – his hand, his soul and the east wind all in the power of the Divine.
The fine point of the full brush travelled slowly over the canvas, tracing a deep-yellow line on the dark background. As the thin line grew fainter, Sinthoras was aware of the slight sound the paint made as it was transferred onto the wash.
The pigment was a mixture of molten, oily gold, a breath of black tionium and the liquid from a baro’s spleen; it had a metallic shimmer, but there was life in this extraordinary deep yellow: the spirit of life made liquid and imbued with an unsettling radiance.
The fine bristles bent to the right in a sweeping movement and then they suddenly resisted. The line had faltered and had broken off – incomplete!
But Sinthoras knew what the work still needed. In his mind’s eye he could see the finished article, and hear his name being called out, in both acclaim and in envy.
The tip of the brush hovered over the pot and dipped in and out. Only a tiny amount of yellow paint had adhered to it.
There is not enough! The mood of harmony shattered, forming an open wound out of which his inspiration poured. Not enough! His work was threatened. ‘Raleeha!’ he shouted through the half-opened door.
To his own surprise, Sinthoras felt his soul follow where his voice was heading, as if he were hurling it away from himself while his body remained at the easel.
His summoning call flew down the corridor where paintings of stark beauty hung on the panelled walls, and forced its way through a wooden battle-scene carving on a set of double doors.
He could see no further.
The right-hand side of the door was pushed open and a tall young human in a slim-fitting dark-green dress hastened to his studio.
His soul swirled around her, following her steps.
For a human she was exceptionally beautiful; even elves would purse their lips and admit that she could almost match one of their own in beauty. That was why she was not made to cover her face. Around her neck was a leather slave collar with three silver filigree buckles, constricting her throat so that she could breathe only with difficulty. There were tears in her blue eyes and her black hair spread out behind her like a mourning veil.
Raleeha reached the half-open door through which light fell into the corridor, and behind which her lord and master stood. She knocked and waited for permission to enter – should she enter without waiting her life would be forfeit; he had stressed that. Raleeha’s predecessor had paid for such a moment’s thoughtlessness with her life, even though she had already served him for a division of unendingness. He was an älf and he would never forgive a human.
Sinthoras was fascinated to realise that his soul could read her expression: the tone of his voice had warned her of his anger and she was distraught.
The music in the chamber ceased as Helòhfor stopped playing, aware the master of the house was displeased.
Something pulled the artist’s soul back and forced it once more into his body. The soul-journey was over and he had not been able to complete his picture – and it was her fault.
‘Come,’ he ordered, his voice soft, intending to hide his displeasure from her. He would not show his anger; not yet.
Quivering, she opened the door and entered the room, dropping her gaze. She was not allowed to look at him, not unless he said so.
‘Master, how may I be of service?’
‘Raleeha, you were told to inform me if the pirogand yellow ran low,’ he said mildly, enjoying her increasing fear. She must be icy-cold now. She had made a mistake and he was being civil to her – she must be assuming her fate was sealed.
She closed her eyes, shaking. ‘Kill me quickly, master,’ she begged, biting her lip to suppress a sob. ‘May the ancestors of the Lotor tribe receive me with mercy.’
‘The pirogand yellow, Raleeha.’ Sinthoras still felt intoxicated: even if his soul was no longer outside of his body, his mind was. He could smell Raleeha’s fear and it was a sweet, enchanting fragrance.
‘My mistake, master.’ She prostrated herself at his feet. ‘I thought the pot was still one third full. My eyes must have misled me, master.’
Sinthoras approached her. An älf’s steps could never be heard unless he or she wished it. It was one of their wonderful gifts. His slender hand took her by the chin and raised her head. ‘Look at me.’ He pushed her head back so that her eyes swept over his form and she was forced to meet his gaze; the leather collar creaked.
Raleeha was robbed of the power of speech. He knew that his beauty caused her joy, suppressing her fear. This was why she had volunteered to serve him.
He took in every detail of her appearance, reproof in his cold black eyes. No other älf possessed such an attractive slave-human, it would be such a waste to kill her. But she had to receive a fitting punishment: She had to suffer, physically and mentally, for what she had done.
‘You well know that this yellow is acquired only with the greatest difficulty, and in the most dangerous of circumstances. I had wanted to finish the piece today, that’s why the soul-toucher came to heighten my genius for a unique work of art.’ His fingers still held her chin, the manicured nails pressing into her flesh. ‘But now I shall not be able to continue and the fault is yours.’
‘My failure is unforgivable, master,’ she said.
Her response was not feigned. He knew she was deeply dismayed at having failed her master. He stood aside to permit her a glance at the painting.
She trembled. ‘What sublime artistry – and now I have sabotaged this creation with my negligence!’ She swallowed hard and a further tear escaped her eye. These were tears of shame, not of fear.
‘Raleeha, until now I have been pleased with you,’ he told her, disappointment in his voice. ‘You are the first slave to know how to satisfy my needs. This is why’ – the slim fingers released their hold – ‘you shall live.’
‘Master,’ she exclaimed in joyous bewilderment, bending to kiss the hem of his robe. ‘I shall never neglect my duties again!’
He touched her shoulder and she looked up him, gratitude in her eyes. Then with shock she saw a thin dagger in his right hand. He relished her terror.
‘You said your eyes had tricked you?’
‘Yes, master—’
‘Then it shall only be your eyes that I punish, because the rest of your body, Raleeha, is innocent of fault and will continue to serve my purposes.’ Grasping her hair in his left hand, he stabbed twice with his right, piercing her eyeballs swift as lightning before she could blink.
The girl shrieked, but she did not flinch, accepting the punishment. Her eyes now destroyed, blood and clear fluid streamed down her cheeks in the tracks of her tears.
Sinthoras inhaled a deep breath of satisfaction. Releasing his grip, he wiped his dagger on her black hair before replacing it in the scabbard. ‘I shall expect you to adapt quickly, to find your way around my house as if you could still see,’ he said, loosening the middle buckle on her collar. ‘Go to Kaila for treatment. For today you are excused further duties. I hope you are aware of my leniency?’
‘I am, master,’ she said, crying, her hands pressed to her eye sockets.
‘Show me you deserve it. Out!’
The young woman rose to her feet, trying not to moan, her hands stretched out to get her bearings. It took her some time to find the door.
‘If she’d been mine,’ came Helòhfor’s voice behind him, ‘I’d have fed her to my night-mare.’
Sinthoras turned round. The soul-toucher had taken his instrument apart and had packed it away. The case stood ready by the side of the chair.
‘A normal slave would have forfeited her life and would not even have been worthy of being eaten by my night-mare,’ Sinthoras responded. ‘But she is of the Lotor family and in voluntary bondage. Her suffering pleases me more than her death would.’
‘You think she will forgive your action?’
‘She thinks she brought it on herself,’ Sinthoras corrected with a smile. ‘I have forgiven her.’ Then he gave an angry laugh. ‘It is not my duty to understand her, Helòhfor. It is her duty to serve me.’
The soul-toucher did not reply but called his own slaves. ‘And it is not my duty to understand you, Sinthoras. Your duty, however, is to pay me. Send the money to my house.’
‘Of course, my thanks for your performance – and let me say it was outstanding, an exceptional experience that I should like to repeat for the next painting.’ He turned away and crossed the room, heading for a different door. ‘Now you must excuse me. I must get more pirogand yellow.’
*
Raleeha stumbled along the corridor to the slaves’ quarters where her injuries would be attended. The pain was going straight through her brain. Her legs were unsteady.
‘Kaila?’ she called out in a strangled voice as she entered. ‘Kaila?’
‘Yes, Raleeha?’ She heard the overseer’s sharply indrawn breath. Kaila was a human, like herself, but older. ‘No! By all that’s unholy!’
‘The master has been merciful to me, I deserved death,’ she replied swiftly, defending him. ‘He sent me to you to get treatment.’ She felt Kaila take her arms and lead over to a bench, where her legs gave way beneath her.
‘The älfar know no mercy, Raleeha, least of all Sinthoras. Whatever they do is done from malice.’ There came a rustling sound, the sound of glass clinking, then liquid being poured. ‘The culin juice on these pads should prevent infection. Mind, though, it’ll sting.’
Raleeha cried out in agony when the sharp fluid touched her wounds, emotions raging within her. In spite of the pain, she was glad still to be alive. She would be allowed to continue serving her master. She had followed him of her own free will after seeing him painting near her home village. The piece he had been working on had produced a lasting effect on her and the gracefulness of his figure had attracted her in the same way.
Raleeha felt Kaila tie a bandage across her eyes to keep the healing pads in place. ‘What was it you did?’ asked Kaila.
‘I ruined his picture. He didn’t have enough paint.’ She thought of the easel, of the wonderful creation she had been allowed to see. Her master had a unique talent, a very lively technique. Sometimes his temperament would get the better of him and he would laugh out loud or curse while painting; sometimes, if displeased with his own efforts, he might fling his palette into the corner. More than once he had destroyed a picture he had spent ages on.
Raleeha was entranced by all of his work, whether on wood, parchment or canvas. She always picked up his rejects and kept them with her own things in her chamber.
‘So, because of some missing paint he cuts out your eyes?’ Kaila spat the words out. ‘And you don’t hate him for it?’
‘No. How could I? It was my own fault.’ Suddenly she realised how cruel his punishment had been: she would never see his wonderful countenance again, would never again experience that joy.
Raleeha sobbed out loud in her despair.
Ishím Voróo (The Outer Lands), twenty-seven miles east of theälfar realm Dsôn Faïmon,level with the tip of the Radial Arm Shiimāl,4370th division of unendingness (5198th solar cycle),summer.
‘Caphalor!’
The dark-haired älf turned his head to the left and looked up at the top of the black beech tree. The dark-grey foliage swayed gently in the evening breeze. His friend, Aïsolon, sat hidden somewhere up there. Caphalor held a bow in his left hand; the other rested lightly on the quiver of long hunting arrows he wore at his belt.
‘Shhh! I can see them.’
He meant the deep prints left in the forest floor by the young baro. They had been tracking the creature since daystar-rise, and it wasn’t making things easy for the two älfar. The baro kept going to ground in the grove and its coat made it difficult to see. But even the stupidest of humans couldn’t have failed to notice these obvious tracks. Was the animal losing concentration after all this time, or was it trying to trick the huntsmen, luring them into a trap?
Leaves rustled and Aïsolon jumped down next to Caphalor. He also had a bow in his hands. ‘It’s my first baro,’ he said excitedly. ‘I wonder how long it’ll take to capture it?’
‘It’s a young one. Should get it with one shot.’ Caphalor drew out an arrow that had a coin-sized metal disc on the end. If he hit the right spot on the skull with that, the baro would be out like a light.
Aïsolon selected a similar arrow. ‘They’re as big as óarcos and just as heavy. Baro teeth are said to be sharp enough to go through tionium armour.’
‘Scared, Aïsolon?’ scoffed Caphalor jokingly as he placed the arrow against the bowstring.
‘No. I’d call it being acutely aware of the danger,’ said his friend. ‘I’ve no wish to lose my immortality on a baro’s fangs.’
‘Ah, you’re still young, of course. An older älf would want to catch the baro with his bare hands.’ Caphalor gave a quiet laugh and moved forward.
Side by side, they made their way through the trees. Bow and arrow should work well, as long as their quarry deigned to show itself.
Caphalor and Aïsolon had been following the tracks of a kimarbock at first, but the baro had turned up and devoured their prey. The last time Caphalor had seen a baro had been at least thirty-seven divisions of unendingness previously, when he’d been hunting with a large group. Today it was just the two of them, so there was a good chance his would be the winning shot.
‘Remember: we need to take it alive,’ Caphalor wanted to present his daughter with this rare beast. She had a way with the lower animals and could get them to do anything she wanted. She’d be pleased with the gift – even if her mother would not. But it was no use thinking about how cross Enoïla was going to be, they had to catch the damned thing first.
‘Over on the left,’ he said, gesturing with the tip of his arrow towards a thicket. ‘Lob something in there to send it out.’
Aïsolon found a suitably large branch and tossed it into the island of undergrowth.
There was an angry roar and the baro came raging out of its hiding place to within fifty paces of the two älfar. It really did look like an óarco, standing nearly three paces tall on its hind legs with scaly greyish-brown skin, but it had a much more powerful lower jaw set with small, crooked and very sharp teeth. Its tiny deep-set eyes flashed as it glared at the huntsmen. This was not fear. The seven-taloned claws opened up, ready to take them on. A blow from that paw would feel like being slashed with seven knives at once.
‘Whoa!’ muttered Aïsolon, readying his weapon. ‘That’s impressive.’
Caphalor lifted his bow, drew back the string and shot before his friend could aim. The blunt projectile whizzed straight to the target, but the baro punched it out of the way; the same thing happened to Aïsolon’s arrow, and then the creature rushed them. It looked like it was fed up with being hunted: time to turn the tables.
‘And you want to take that home for your daughter?’ Aïsolon asked in bewilderment. He swiftly nocked a new arrow, but once again Caphalor was quicker and this time the metal disc hit the creature exactly above the bridge of the nose.
Staggering, the baro shook its head and regained its balance, and then charged once more, kicking up leaves and mud as its powerful claws thudded against the soft ground. Aïsolon’s arrow hit the scaled arm the beast was holding up to protect its skull and a furious roar filled with bloodlust echoed through the grove.
Caphalor discarded his bow and grabbed a cudgel. The scent of the baro was borne on the wind: a powerful, acrid smell of strength and youth. It obviously wanted to prove itself to these two attackers.
‘Are you crazy?’ Aïsolon drew back and shot arrow after arrow. The animal grew angrier with each hit. ‘We’re going to have to kill it—’
‘No!’ Caphalor positioned himself in front of a tree, put down his belt quiver, threw off his mantle and waited for the creature to attack. He was relying on his speed and agility to get him out of trouble. Usually he would employ long, thin daggers, but an animal like this needed sheer unadulterated strength if he were going to have any chance of bringing it back alive for his daughter.
Eleven paces.
Aïsolon drew out a sharpened arrow. ‘Just in case,’ he said.
Caphalor did not bother to reply. The baro was hurling itself at him, arms outstretched, muzzle wide open in a roar and ready to snap. The stinking breath was hot, with more than a trace of the kimarbock it had devoured earlier.
The älf sprang vertically into the air, tucking his legs up under him and reaching with his free hand for a branch to pull himself up. He felt the shuddering impact as the creature slammed into the tree. Leaves cascaded past him. He looked down.
Blue blood was streaming from the creature’s broken nose and there was a glazed look in its eyes. It appeared to have lost its sense of direction. Its smell had changed, too. Powerful anger had given way to fear.
And in a situation where you needed to keep a level head, fear was only of use to an älf.
Caphalor let go and jumped down onto the animal, which although reeling and stunned from the massive impact, was still upright. As his feet touched the creature’s shoulders he delivered a two-handed blow with the wooden club.
The club broke in two and the baro screamed and sank down on its knees, arms hanging useless by its sides.
Caphalor sprang past the creature and gave it a kick with his heels. It uttered a sobbing noise and keeled over, landing on the soft leaf-covered ground, then swivelled round and tried to kick him.
At that moment a huge black shape arrived, hitting Caphalor in the chest and hurling him several paces backwards. He somersaulted to absorb the impetus and jumped back onto his feet, drawing his daggers, ready to fight.
It was a third älf sitting atop a night-mare – which explained how he had been able to throw Caphalor aside – and he was stabbing at the baro with a long spear. The slim blade entered the animal’s neck. The älf stood in the stirrups and pushed down on the spear shaft with all his strength, pinning the baro to the ground. The new arrival dismounted, landing gracefully at the dying creature’s side.
‘Oi!’ shouted Caphalor angrily. ‘That was my prize!’ He ran over to the blond älf who took out a knife patterned with delicate filigree and slit the creature’s side. Taking a slender glass phial out of his robes, the blond älf held it up to the creature’s wound, capturing the golden-yellow liquid seeping out.
‘Your prize? It looked to me as if you were fighting for your life,’ the other responded over his shoulder.
‘I needed it alive.’ Caphalor was furious. ‘I was about to catch it.’ He came to a stop, confronting his rival. ‘Then you turned up.’ He understood: the spleen of a baro was known to contain an ingredient of the rare and precious substance pirogand yellow. That had been the reason for his previous baro hunt, thirty-seven divisions of unendingness earlier.
‘I just saved your life,’ the älf retorted, continuing to fill the glass p
Nagsar and Nagsor Inàste, the Inextinguishables
Sinthoras, älf warrior, of the Comets faction
Demenion, politician (Comets)
Khlotòn, politician (Comets)
Rashànras, politician (Comets)
Yantarai, artist (f)
Timānris, artist (f)
Robonor, warrior and companion of Timānris
Timānsor, artist father of Timānris
Hirai, his wife
Jiphulor, politician (neutral)
Helòhfor, soul-toucher
Caphalor, älf warrior (Constellations faction)
Enoïla, Caphalor’s companion
Tarlesa, their daughter
Olíron, their son
Aïsolon, friend to Caphalor (Constellations)
Mórcass, merchant
The Humans
Raleeha, female slave to the Älfar
Kaila, female overseer of Sinthoras’ slaves
Wirian, female slave to Sinthoras
Quanlot, slave
Grumson, slave to Caphalor
Longin, slave to Mórcass
Kuschnar, slave to Mórcass
Hasban Strength-of-Seven, prince of the Sons of the Winds (barbarian tribe)
Farron Lotor, prince of the Ishmanti barbarians
Armon, prince of the Herumite barbarians
Vittran, superintendant of the barbarian vassals
Creatures
Munumon, king of the fflecx
Jufula, one of his favourites
Sardaî, thoroughbred night-mare
Linschibog, a fflecx
Gålran Zhadar, dwarf-like being with a talent for magic
Dafirmas, elf henchman to Gålran Zhadar
Rambarz, demi-troll henchman to Gålran Zhadar
Karjuna, an obboona female
Uoilik, prince of the jeembinas
Tarrlagg, overseer of the vassal óarcos
Gattalind, female strategist of the giants
Miscellaneous
óarco: orc
fflecx: also known as alchemancers and poison-mixers. A black-skinned gnomoid people.
gålran zhadar: dwarf-like beings with a talent for magic
obboonas: a humanoid people also known as flesh-stealers
Tandruus: a tribe of barbarians
botoicans: a race with latent magic qualities, living in the west of Ishím Voróo
baro: an extremely rare wild predator
kimarbock: a male deer wuzack: an artificial being created by the fflecx
jeembinas: a hybrid people, half-crab, half-human
Gramal Dunai: an eradicated tribe of barbarians
phaiu su: blood-sucking webs
cnutar: tripartite symbiotic creatures, able to merge or separate at will
Nostàroi: high-ranking älfar general Herumites, Jomonicans, Ishmantis, Fatarcans: barbarian peoples
gardant: commander of a troop of guards
Phondrasôn: a subterranean place of banishment
Tark Draan: Refuge of the Scum (=Girdlegard)
schronz: (an insult) idiot, cretin
They are said as a people to show more cruelty than any other.
They are said to hate elves, humans, dwarves and every other creature so much that the blood runs black in their veins and darkens their eyes in the light of the sun.
They are said to dedicate their lives exclusively to death and to art.
They are said to use black magic.
They are said to be immortal …
Much has been said about the Älfar.
Read now these tales and decide what is said true and what is not.
These are stories of unspeakable horror, unimaginable battles, gross treachery, glorious triumphs and crushing defeats.
But they are also tales of courage, integrity and valour.
Of friendship.
And of love.
These are the Legends of the Älfar
Unknown author,preface to the forbidden books which transfigure the truth,The Legends of the Älfar,undated.
Nagsar and Nagsor Inàste, the Inextinguishable Siblings, were looking for a home for themselves and their chosen companions.
They wandered hither and yon, surrounded by savage things, ugliness and hideous creatures thrown in their path by the gods Shmoolbin, Fadhasi and Woltonn, in an attempt to destroy them. They named the place Ishím Voróo – Ubiquitous Horrendousness.
Epocrypha of the Creating Spirit,1st Book,Chapter 1, 1–7
Ishím Voróo (The Outer Lands), älfar realm Dsôn Faïmon, Radial Arm Avaris,4370th division of unendingness (5198th solar cycle), summer.
Sinthoras was throbbing with anticipation, intoxicated by the thought of a new creative work. Everything told him to grasp hold of the brush, dip it into the paint and let his hand follow his imagination.
But it was too soon.
He stepped away from the easel to study the effect of the sombre background wash. It covered the fine canvas perfectly and was now ready for a unique work of art.
He poured himself a glass of red and took a sip before placing it aside. Much as he usually enjoyed wine when painting, today it did not feel right. He was too animated.
‘Excellent,’ he breathed, his eyes shining, his hands clasped tight to prevent himself picking up the brush.
The repetitive sound of the vents filtering the air echoed through the high-ceilinged sunlit room. The substantial blue-tinted windows had hinged vents to provide fresh air. Shelves covered the walls to a height of five paces, with glass jars in varying sizes holding the liquid and solid ingredients, pigments, colours and other mixtures he needed for his work. All were costly, and some were so rare they were nearly priceless. The topmost jars could be accessed only from a long ladder on rollers.
Head held high, Sinthoras circled the easel, impatient to start. His dark-red robe with black and white embroidery flowed behind him like the surface of a lake. Here and there were paint stains, some old, some new – evidence of his creativity.
To keep his long blond hair clear of the palette and canvas he wore it tied back in a braid. This emphasised his slim features; the pointed ears showed that his beauty was not of a human kind.
Sinthoras walked over to the window and opened it wide. As the evening sunlight fell on the easel and on himself, his eyes immediately turned black and became two dark orbs. He took deep breaths.
Samusin is favouring me, he thought, as he felt the invigorating east wind against his skin. The strong breeze carried the smell of fresh blossom; a few white petals fluttered into the room, settling on the dark stone floor.
There was a knock at the door and it opened. ‘The god of the winds is with you,’ he heard an älfar voice say. ‘He has sent his lively east wind to inspire you.’
Sinthoras turned and bowed to the red-haired älf standing at the threshold in a brownish-black cloak. ‘Thank you for coming to support my artistry with your own, Helòhfor. With your help it will be an extraordinary work.’
Helòhfor stepped into the room, followed by two slaves in simple grey clothing. Their build suggested they were humans; the älf had made them cover their ugly features – you could hardly call them faces. Nobody with any sense of decency let one of their slaves appear in public unveiled.
One of them took Helòhfor’s mantle, revealing a black silk robe with dark-red decorations at the hem. The other, at a gesture from Sinthoras, placed a large case down next to a chair. Then, after sending the slaves outside, Helòhfor sat facing his host, forearms resting on the arms of the chair. ‘You are quite sure, Sinthoras?’
‘Of course,’ came the answer without hesitation. ‘I am keen to see what happens when I combine my creative urges with the sounds of a soul-toucher’s music.’
‘The effect will depend on the particular älf, but even I am not sure what will happen.’ Helòhfor directed his dark gaze towards Sinthoras, studying his face. ‘You might fall in a trance, you might be taken by the desire to fling yourself from the window, or you might crave the sight of blood.’ The soul-toucher looked at the canvas. ‘That you might complete a work of art is just one of many possibilities.’
‘To the task, Helòhfor!’ Sinthoras’ voice contained a mixture of request, command and longing. He had spoken out of turn, but had not been able to stop himself: he had been seized with the compulsion to create art that was superior to the work of any other painter – everyone should see that he was not only a warrior of great distinction but also an incomparable artist. ‘To the task,’ he repeated softly, and hastened to the easel.
He would let only a single colour touch the canvas, but that one colour would make the work perfect. Carefully he removed the lid of one of the pots and revealed the glowing yellow substance inside. With a shudder of excitement, Sinthoras took up a large brush and glanced over expectantly at the soul-toucher.
Helòhfor had opened the case and taken out his instrument. The body was made from a spinal column, with silver elements connecting the vertebrae. Valves were attached with silver wire and holes had been drilled into the pieces of bone. Murmuring softly, the älf inserted other items, fashioned from metal, glass or bone, into the openings. Finally he decanted a brown liquid into a wide-bellied flask, which he screwed to the instrument.
Sinthoras had been following every movement and it did not escape his notice how exact the adjustments were. Without long training given by a master of the craft no älf other than Helòhfor would ever be able to play this instrument – and certainly no other creature would stand a chance. The fluid used was said to be brain liquor extracted from cadavers; it was held to contain the dreams of the dead. Tonal vibrations activated the thoughts contained within and allowed the player to affect the audience.
‘Prepare to receive the driving force of the dead and of death itself, Sinthoras. May Samusin protect your soul,’ he murmured, putting his lips to the mouthpiece and placing his fingertips on the tabs.
Helòhfor blew softly and a shrill tone slowly swelled. A gentle bubbling started in the liquid, increasing gradually to a rolling boil. Sinthoras saw steam swirling through the glass elements. As Helòhfor played, it seemed that several streams of air were circulating at the same time, creating brash, strident tones.
Sinthoras felt the hairs on his arms and on the back of his neck rise up and a sharp pain stabbed behind his eyes, blinding him. He gasped for breath. Suddenly the sounds changed and a strange melody emerged.
Energy coursed through his body; his fingers were surrounded by a blue light. As the east wind played on his features, his longed-for inspiration appeared.
Sinthoras watched himself dip the brush in the paint pot, watched the soft bristles absorb the colour and watched his own hand carry pigment to canvas. He painted to the tones of the unearthly music – his hand, his soul and the east wind all in the power of the Divine.
The fine point of the full brush travelled slowly over the canvas, tracing a deep-yellow line on the dark background. As the thin line grew fainter, Sinthoras was aware of the slight sound the paint made as it was transferred onto the wash.
The pigment was a mixture of molten, oily gold, a breath of black tionium and the liquid from a baro’s spleen; it had a metallic shimmer, but there was life in this extraordinary deep yellow: the spirit of life made liquid and imbued with an unsettling radiance.
The fine bristles bent to the right in a sweeping movement and then they suddenly resisted. The line had faltered and had broken off – incomplete!
But Sinthoras knew what the work still needed. In his mind’s eye he could see the finished article, and hear his name being called out, in both acclaim and in envy.
The tip of the brush hovered over the pot and dipped in and out. Only a tiny amount of yellow paint had adhered to it.
There is not enough! The mood of harmony shattered, forming an open wound out of which his inspiration poured. Not enough! His work was threatened. ‘Raleeha!’ he shouted through the half-opened door.
To his own surprise, Sinthoras felt his soul follow where his voice was heading, as if he were hurling it away from himself while his body remained at the easel.
His summoning call flew down the corridor where paintings of stark beauty hung on the panelled walls, and forced its way through a wooden battle-scene carving on a set of double doors.
He could see no further.
The right-hand side of the door was pushed open and a tall young human in a slim-fitting dark-green dress hastened to his studio.
His soul swirled around her, following her steps.
For a human she was exceptionally beautiful; even elves would purse their lips and admit that she could almost match one of their own in beauty. That was why she was not made to cover her face. Around her neck was a leather slave collar with three silver filigree buckles, constricting her throat so that she could breathe only with difficulty. There were tears in her blue eyes and her black hair spread out behind her like a mourning veil.
Raleeha reached the half-open door through which light fell into the corridor, and behind which her lord and master stood. She knocked and waited for permission to enter – should she enter without waiting her life would be forfeit; he had stressed that. Raleeha’s predecessor had paid for such a moment’s thoughtlessness with her life, even though she had already served him for a division of unendingness. He was an älf and he would never forgive a human.
Sinthoras was fascinated to realise that his soul could read her expression: the tone of his voice had warned her of his anger and she was distraught.
The music in the chamber ceased as Helòhfor stopped playing, aware the master of the house was displeased.
Something pulled the artist’s soul back and forced it once more into his body. The soul-journey was over and he had not been able to complete his picture – and it was her fault.
‘Come,’ he ordered, his voice soft, intending to hide his displeasure from her. He would not show his anger; not yet.
Quivering, she opened the door and entered the room, dropping her gaze. She was not allowed to look at him, not unless he said so.
‘Master, how may I be of service?’
‘Raleeha, you were told to inform me if the pirogand yellow ran low,’ he said mildly, enjoying her increasing fear. She must be icy-cold now. She had made a mistake and he was being civil to her – she must be assuming her fate was sealed.
She closed her eyes, shaking. ‘Kill me quickly, master,’ she begged, biting her lip to suppress a sob. ‘May the ancestors of the Lotor tribe receive me with mercy.’
‘The pirogand yellow, Raleeha.’ Sinthoras still felt intoxicated: even if his soul was no longer outside of his body, his mind was. He could smell Raleeha’s fear and it was a sweet, enchanting fragrance.
‘My mistake, master.’ She prostrated herself at his feet. ‘I thought the pot was still one third full. My eyes must have misled me, master.’
Sinthoras approached her. An älf’s steps could never be heard unless he or she wished it. It was one of their wonderful gifts. His slender hand took her by the chin and raised her head. ‘Look at me.’ He pushed her head back so that her eyes swept over his form and she was forced to meet his gaze; the leather collar creaked.
Raleeha was robbed of the power of speech. He knew that his beauty caused her joy, suppressing her fear. This was why she had volunteered to serve him.
He took in every detail of her appearance, reproof in his cold black eyes. No other älf possessed such an attractive slave-human, it would be such a waste to kill her. But she had to receive a fitting punishment: She had to suffer, physically and mentally, for what she had done.
‘You well know that this yellow is acquired only with the greatest difficulty, and in the most dangerous of circumstances. I had wanted to finish the piece today, that’s why the soul-toucher came to heighten my genius for a unique work of art.’ His fingers still held her chin, the manicured nails pressing into her flesh. ‘But now I shall not be able to continue and the fault is yours.’
‘My failure is unforgivable, master,’ she said.
Her response was not feigned. He knew she was deeply dismayed at having failed her master. He stood aside to permit her a glance at the painting.
She trembled. ‘What sublime artistry – and now I have sabotaged this creation with my negligence!’ She swallowed hard and a further tear escaped her eye. These were tears of shame, not of fear.
‘Raleeha, until now I have been pleased with you,’ he told her, disappointment in his voice. ‘You are the first slave to know how to satisfy my needs. This is why’ – the slim fingers released their hold – ‘you shall live.’
‘Master,’ she exclaimed in joyous bewilderment, bending to kiss the hem of his robe. ‘I shall never neglect my duties again!’
He touched her shoulder and she looked up him, gratitude in her eyes. Then with shock she saw a thin dagger in his right hand. He relished her terror.
‘You said your eyes had tricked you?’
‘Yes, master—’
‘Then it shall only be your eyes that I punish, because the rest of your body, Raleeha, is innocent of fault and will continue to serve my purposes.’ Grasping her hair in his left hand, he stabbed twice with his right, piercing her eyeballs swift as lightning before she could blink.
The girl shrieked, but she did not flinch, accepting the punishment. Her eyes now destroyed, blood and clear fluid streamed down her cheeks in the tracks of her tears.
Sinthoras inhaled a deep breath of satisfaction. Releasing his grip, he wiped his dagger on her black hair before replacing it in the scabbard. ‘I shall expect you to adapt quickly, to find your way around my house as if you could still see,’ he said, loosening the middle buckle on her collar. ‘Go to Kaila for treatment. For today you are excused further duties. I hope you are aware of my leniency?’
‘I am, master,’ she said, crying, her hands pressed to her eye sockets.
‘Show me you deserve it. Out!’
The young woman rose to her feet, trying not to moan, her hands stretched out to get her bearings. It took her some time to find the door.
‘If she’d been mine,’ came Helòhfor’s voice behind him, ‘I’d have fed her to my night-mare.’
Sinthoras turned round. The soul-toucher had taken his instrument apart and had packed it away. The case stood ready by the side of the chair.
‘A normal slave would have forfeited her life and would not even have been worthy of being eaten by my night-mare,’ Sinthoras responded. ‘But she is of the Lotor family and in voluntary bondage. Her suffering pleases me more than her death would.’
‘You think she will forgive your action?’
‘She thinks she brought it on herself,’ Sinthoras corrected with a smile. ‘I have forgiven her.’ Then he gave an angry laugh. ‘It is not my duty to understand her, Helòhfor. It is her duty to serve me.’
The soul-toucher did not reply but called his own slaves. ‘And it is not my duty to understand you, Sinthoras. Your duty, however, is to pay me. Send the money to my house.’
‘Of course, my thanks for your performance – and let me say it was outstanding, an exceptional experience that I should like to repeat for the next painting.’ He turned away and crossed the room, heading for a different door. ‘Now you must excuse me. I must get more pirogand yellow.’
*
Raleeha stumbled along the corridor to the slaves’ quarters where her injuries would be attended. The pain was going straight through her brain. Her legs were unsteady.
‘Kaila?’ she called out in a strangled voice as she entered. ‘Kaila?’
‘Yes, Raleeha?’ She heard the overseer’s sharply indrawn breath. Kaila was a human, like herself, but older. ‘No! By all that’s unholy!’
‘The master has been merciful to me, I deserved death,’ she replied swiftly, defending him. ‘He sent me to you to get treatment.’ She felt Kaila take her arms and lead over to a bench, where her legs gave way beneath her.
‘The älfar know no mercy, Raleeha, least of all Sinthoras. Whatever they do is done from malice.’ There came a rustling sound, the sound of glass clinking, then liquid being poured. ‘The culin juice on these pads should prevent infection. Mind, though, it’ll sting.’
Raleeha cried out in agony when the sharp fluid touched her wounds, emotions raging within her. In spite of the pain, she was glad still to be alive. She would be allowed to continue serving her master. She had followed him of her own free will after seeing him painting near her home village. The piece he had been working on had produced a lasting effect on her and the gracefulness of his figure had attracted her in the same way.
Raleeha felt Kaila tie a bandage across her eyes to keep the healing pads in place. ‘What was it you did?’ asked Kaila.
‘I ruined his picture. He didn’t have enough paint.’ She thought of the easel, of the wonderful creation she had been allowed to see. Her master had a unique talent, a very lively technique. Sometimes his temperament would get the better of him and he would laugh out loud or curse while painting; sometimes, if displeased with his own efforts, he might fling his palette into the corner. More than once he had destroyed a picture he had spent ages on.
Raleeha was entranced by all of his work, whether on wood, parchment or canvas. She always picked up his rejects and kept them with her own things in her chamber.
‘So, because of some missing paint he cuts out your eyes?’ Kaila spat the words out. ‘And you don’t hate him for it?’
‘No. How could I? It was my own fault.’ Suddenly she realised how cruel his punishment had been: she would never see his wonderful countenance again, would never again experience that joy.
Raleeha sobbed out loud in her despair.
Ishím Voróo (The Outer Lands), twenty-seven miles east of theälfar realm Dsôn Faïmon,level with the tip of the Radial Arm Shiimāl,4370th division of unendingness (5198th solar cycle),summer.
‘Caphalor!’
The dark-haired älf turned his head to the left and looked up at the top of the black beech tree. The dark-grey foliage swayed gently in the evening breeze. His friend, Aïsolon, sat hidden somewhere up there. Caphalor held a bow in his left hand; the other rested lightly on the quiver of long hunting arrows he wore at his belt.
‘Shhh! I can see them.’
He meant the deep prints left in the forest floor by the young baro. They had been tracking the creature since daystar-rise, and it wasn’t making things easy for the two älfar. The baro kept going to ground in the grove and its coat made it difficult to see. But even the stupidest of humans couldn’t have failed to notice these obvious tracks. Was the animal losing concentration after all this time, or was it trying to trick the huntsmen, luring them into a trap?
Leaves rustled and Aïsolon jumped down next to Caphalor. He also had a bow in his hands. ‘It’s my first baro,’ he said excitedly. ‘I wonder how long it’ll take to capture it?’
‘It’s a young one. Should get it with one shot.’ Caphalor drew out an arrow that had a coin-sized metal disc on the end. If he hit the right spot on the skull with that, the baro would be out like a light.
Aïsolon selected a similar arrow. ‘They’re as big as óarcos and just as heavy. Baro teeth are said to be sharp enough to go through tionium armour.’
‘Scared, Aïsolon?’ scoffed Caphalor jokingly as he placed the arrow against the bowstring.
‘No. I’d call it being acutely aware of the danger,’ said his friend. ‘I’ve no wish to lose my immortality on a baro’s fangs.’
‘Ah, you’re still young, of course. An older älf would want to catch the baro with his bare hands.’ Caphalor gave a quiet laugh and moved forward.
Side by side, they made their way through the trees. Bow and arrow should work well, as long as their quarry deigned to show itself.
Caphalor and Aïsolon had been following the tracks of a kimarbock at first, but the baro had turned up and devoured their prey. The last time Caphalor had seen a baro had been at least thirty-seven divisions of unendingness previously, when he’d been hunting with a large group. Today it was just the two of them, so there was a good chance his would be the winning shot.
‘Remember: we need to take it alive,’ Caphalor wanted to present his daughter with this rare beast. She had a way with the lower animals and could get them to do anything she wanted. She’d be pleased with the gift – even if her mother would not. But it was no use thinking about how cross Enoïla was going to be, they had to catch the damned thing first.
‘Over on the left,’ he said, gesturing with the tip of his arrow towards a thicket. ‘Lob something in there to send it out.’
Aïsolon found a suitably large branch and tossed it into the island of undergrowth.
There was an angry roar and the baro came raging out of its hiding place to within fifty paces of the two älfar. It really did look like an óarco, standing nearly three paces tall on its hind legs with scaly greyish-brown skin, but it had a much more powerful lower jaw set with small, crooked and very sharp teeth. Its tiny deep-set eyes flashed as it glared at the huntsmen. This was not fear. The seven-taloned claws opened up, ready to take them on. A blow from that paw would feel like being slashed with seven knives at once.
‘Whoa!’ muttered Aïsolon, readying his weapon. ‘That’s impressive.’
Caphalor lifted his bow, drew back the string and shot before his friend could aim. The blunt projectile whizzed straight to the target, but the baro punched it out of the way; the same thing happened to Aïsolon’s arrow, and then the creature rushed them. It looked like it was fed up with being hunted: time to turn the tables.
‘And you want to take that home for your daughter?’ Aïsolon asked in bewilderment. He swiftly nocked a new arrow, but once again Caphalor was quicker and this time the metal disc hit the creature exactly above the bridge of the nose.
Staggering, the baro shook its head and regained its balance, and then charged once more, kicking up leaves and mud as its powerful claws thudded against the soft ground. Aïsolon’s arrow hit the scaled arm the beast was holding up to protect its skull and a furious roar filled with bloodlust echoed through the grove.
Caphalor discarded his bow and grabbed a cudgel. The scent of the baro was borne on the wind: a powerful, acrid smell of strength and youth. It obviously wanted to prove itself to these two attackers.
‘Are you crazy?’ Aïsolon drew back and shot arrow after arrow. The animal grew angrier with each hit. ‘We’re going to have to kill it—’
‘No!’ Caphalor positioned himself in front of a tree, put down his belt quiver, threw off his mantle and waited for the creature to attack. He was relying on his speed and agility to get him out of trouble. Usually he would employ long, thin daggers, but an animal like this needed sheer unadulterated strength if he were going to have any chance of bringing it back alive for his daughter.
Eleven paces.
Aïsolon drew out a sharpened arrow. ‘Just in case,’ he said.
Caphalor did not bother to reply. The baro was hurling itself at him, arms outstretched, muzzle wide open in a roar and ready to snap. The stinking breath was hot, with more than a trace of the kimarbock it had devoured earlier.
The älf sprang vertically into the air, tucking his legs up under him and reaching with his free hand for a branch to pull himself up. He felt the shuddering impact as the creature slammed into the tree. Leaves cascaded past him. He looked down.
Blue blood was streaming from the creature’s broken nose and there was a glazed look in its eyes. It appeared to have lost its sense of direction. Its smell had changed, too. Powerful anger had given way to fear.
And in a situation where you needed to keep a level head, fear was only of use to an älf.
Caphalor let go and jumped down onto the animal, which although reeling and stunned from the massive impact, was still upright. As his feet touched the creature’s shoulders he delivered a two-handed blow with the wooden club.
The club broke in two and the baro screamed and sank down on its knees, arms hanging useless by its sides.
Caphalor sprang past the creature and gave it a kick with his heels. It uttered a sobbing noise and keeled over, landing on the soft leaf-covered ground, then swivelled round and tried to kick him.
At that moment a huge black shape arrived, hitting Caphalor in the chest and hurling him several paces backwards. He somersaulted to absorb the impetus and jumped back onto his feet, drawing his daggers, ready to fight.
It was a third älf sitting atop a night-mare – which explained how he had been able to throw Caphalor aside – and he was stabbing at the baro with a long spear. The slim blade entered the animal’s neck. The älf stood in the stirrups and pushed down on the spear shaft with all his strength, pinning the baro to the ground. The new arrival dismounted, landing gracefully at the dying creature’s side.
‘Oi!’ shouted Caphalor angrily. ‘That was my prize!’ He ran over to the blond älf who took out a knife patterned with delicate filigree and slit the creature’s side. Taking a slender glass phial out of his robes, the blond älf held it up to the creature’s wound, capturing the golden-yellow liquid seeping out.
‘Your prize? It looked to me as if you were fighting for your life,’ the other responded over his shoulder.
‘I needed it alive.’ Caphalor was furious. ‘I was about to catch it.’ He came to a stop, confronting his rival. ‘Then you turned up.’ He understood: the spleen of a baro was known to contain an ingredient of the rare and precious substance pirogand yellow. That had been the reason for his previous baro hunt, thirty-seven divisions of unendingness earlier.
‘I just saved your life,’ the älf retorted, continuing to fill the glass p
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