“No,” she said. “It is my daughter! It really is!” Goda dried Sanda’s shoulders and covered them with the sheet. “It is her. I’m not going to succumb to a trick. The enemy is trying to make me doubt her, wanting to sow distrust.” She took a deep breath and stood up to go to the guards to hear what had been happening in the plain by the Black Ravine. She had to force herself to place a farewell kiss on her daughter’s brow.
Girdlegard,
Former Queendom of Sangpur,
Southwest,
Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle
Ireheart woke up and opened his eyes.
Above him the stars glinted; around him he could hear quiet snores, and then the crunch of sand. This came from Slin’s boots; the fourthling was on watch, striding up and down. The two Zhadar who shared the guard duty made no sound when they walked.
Apart from that the camp was silent.
What woke me? Ireheart was surprised. While he was pondering, the stars appeared to be growing brighter. Now they were as bright as the sun by day, but they gave off no warmth. What’s…? He sat up.
Day seemed to have dawned.
Their surroundings showed up clear and distinct; he could even see Slin relieving himself over at the rock; he was writing his name in the sand with dwarf-water. That was easy enough if you had a short name, of course, but it didn’t ever work with Ireheart’s. And if you wanted to put the family name as well, you’d have to drink an awful lot.
He rubbed his eyes but it was still bright, even though the sun had not yet risen. When he looked at his hands he saw a black liquid on his fingertips! It had come from rubbing his eyes.
He was suddenly frightened. What is happening? Is this place cursed?
He got up and Slin looked over at him at once. Ireheart acknowledged him with a gesture and went over to ask if he had noticed anything strange.
He could see the fourthling clearly. He could discern every single ripple in the sand at his feet and could hear the slightest of noises, even the very grains of sand as they were shifted by the breeze. But Ireheart knew perfectly well that his hearing was not good. All that noisy clanging and battering in battles had taken their toll and in recent cycles he had been having trouble with the higher-pitched tones.
But tonight it was different.
After two paces he was overcome with thirst; the need was so strong that it could not wait until after he had talked to Slin. So he turned on his heel and went back to where he had been lying, to collect his flask.
Ireheart drank and drank and drank, but the thirst could not be slaked. Water seemed to increase his need rather than quench it!
Out of breath from drinking so fast, he tossed the flask aside and took hold of Balyndar’s. There was not enough coming out for his liking, so he took his knife to the pouch, forcing the last drop down his burning gullet.
In a fury he chucked the empty leather to the ground. Vraccas, what is wrong with me? He was already stretching his hand out for the next soldier’s drinking vessel. As he lifted his hand he felt a sharp pain in his wrist.
A scorpion had been hiding under the flask and had defended itself with its sting. Ireheart stamped on the insect and drew out his knife to open the wound and suck out the poison.
But when he looked at his arm he saw the wound was glowing yellow! There was a shimmer surrounding the sting; he could feel the heat coursing up his arm, and then the glow died away.
Ireheart sat down on the sand. Have I just healed myself from the poison? Or was that a miracle sent by Vraccas?
Thirst flamed up once more, torturing him. He clutched at his throat with both hands to try to soothe his discomfort. Then he stuffed a handful of sand in his mouth to stop the burning sensation. It did not work.
He swayed and tipped sideways as the stars above his head swirled and circled.
Then the agony began.
Ireheart was well acquainted with the pain of burns; he had suffered sword injuries or arrow wounds; he knew how it felt to have a dislocated shoulder or a sprained ankle; he had known toothache and fever. If he put all those tortures together and multiplied them tenfold he was getting close to what he was now suddenly subjected to.
His breathing stopped and he could not move a muscle. His mind was drawn upwards to the stars and he felt he was floating like a layer of gold leaf in the warm air of the forge.
Then he tasted blood in his mouth and all around abruptly went dark.
Blinking, he saw the stars once more as tiny specks of light against the black firmament; next to him he saw a Zhadar stowing away his flask and smiling at him.
It’s that confounded crazy troublemaker! “It would have to be you,” muttered Ireheart, before he spat out a mouthful. He knew this taste well. It was that stuff that was apparently distilled elf water. “Did you just give me that Tion water?”
The crazy Zhadar bared his teeth and nodded. “It’s the only thing that helps when you’ve got the bad thirst,” he piped, in a high voice like a castrato. “It’s the only thing! One drop and the fire dies down.” He chuckled and laid his finger to his black lips. “Shhhh! We must not tell anyone that I gave you some of that. Barskalin would be furious. We haven’t got much of it and it’s the most precious thing we have.”
Ireheart waited. His thirst had actually gone. Sand scrunched between his teeth, but there was no more water left to rinse his mouth out with.
“It’ll keep you going for a few orbits. Then the thirst will return,” the Zhadar mouthed, giggling. “Do you notice how wonderful it makes life? The most obscure secrets of the universe make sense and it makes you as strong as a giant!” He stood up and made an exaggerated bow. “Ireheart, Ireheart. Soon you’ll be one of us. A little bit like us. Your soul has changed color and is starting to become as black as ours,” he fluted in his high-pitched tones, then adding in a bass note: “Soon!” He stepped back silently and rejoined his comrades, lying down on his blanket.
Ireheart found it impossible to get back to sleep.
He had been shown clearly that the liquid was not merely a herbal distillation, as he had at first hoped. Until now he had completely forgotten that he had helped himself from another’s flask. What did it all mean? And why, by Vraccas, had it taken so long to show the effects?
Tossing and turning on his blanket helped not a jot. He got up and went over to the Zhadar. “Oy, wake up,” he said, shaking him by the shoulder. “Tell me what’s happening to me.”
The Invisible’s eyes opened and a grin appeared on his face. “Come with me.” He bounded up, grabbed the dwarf by the sleeve and tugged him over to a gap in the rocks. “Nobody must see us,” he whispered. “It is forbidden to reveal our secrets.” He crouched down, pulling Ireheart down, too. “Elf blood, distilled and…”
“You told me that already… but is it the truth?” Ireheart interrupted angrily. “What is it doing to me and how does it change the color of my soul? Will I ever get to the eternal forge now? Will Vraccas admit me?”
“Perhaps not all of your soul,” the Zhadar conceded regretfully. “Vraccas may have to burn out the affected part and let the rest of you enter. If he is kindly disposed to you.”
“Listen… have you got a name?”
“Balodil,” said the Zhadar, the answer shooting out like an arrow.
“That’s nonsense. That’s the name the Scholar took when he went into the beasts’ realm of eternal terrors.”
“But it was mine first,” came the sulky response.
Ireheart’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so? Then tell me who gave you that name.”
Balodil said nothing but pointed silently at Tungdil as he slept.
“Of course,” groaned Ireheart. “Vraccas, what else do you have in store for me? A crazy Zhadar who pretends to be the Scholar’s son.”