“So what exactly have you done? Let’s have some confessions and then your families shall be allowed to continue to enjoy the light of day.” He raised his sword arm and rested the weapon in the crook of his right arm as if he were holding a baby. “What do I hear?”
Zedrik sobbed. “We are guilty…”
“… guilty of wanting freedom for Gauragar,” interrupted Mallenia, standing up. “Of wanting to throw out our oppressors, the alfar, the thirdlings and the vassal-rulers, and bring them to justice!”
“No,” shouted Zedrik. “Be quiet! You don’t know…”
“Yes I do. I know full well. They are hunting down not only me but all who belong to the line of my forefather, Prince Mallen.” She stared at the alf. “Look at him,” she urged the conspirators. “He is playing a game and has no intention of sparing any of you. The only way to save your loved ones is to kill him before he learns your names and can pass them on.” The young woman clenched her two swords tight in her fists and took up an attack stance.
The alf raised his head and looked at her. “Mallenia! I would be lying if I said I had not expected to find you here.” He still kept his sword up against the crook of his arm, but let go of the hilt and drew something out from beneath his mantle. He tossed it to her. “I found this. Is it yours?”
An envelope fell at her feet. She recognized it at once. It contained a warning to Hindrek, a second cousin thrice removed. The fact the letter was here at her feet made it plain what had happened to him and his family. “Monsters, you are monsters. You deserve death a thousand times over,” she hissed.
“Isn’t it strange, then, that we bring thousandfold death rather than receiving it?” He made a gesture and the lamps were relit. Then he put his hand back on the hilt of his weapon. “We bring death ourselves if we must. Or if we are in the mood. I was outside the cellar for some time, listening to what you said about Tareniaborn.” His tone was conversational, as if he were chatting to friends or at some reception. The metal plates of his lamellar armor showed under his cloak. “I was moved by your words, proud of having had the pleasure of being the creator of the work of art you described. I, Tir??gon, designed the work you had admired in awe.” He bowed in her direction. “It was both a pleasure and an honor to elevate the town in such a way and to release the inhabitants from their mortal concerns. All alfar remember Tareniaborn fondly. Humans, one finds, are at least good for one thing.”
The horror experienced by the people in the cellar was palpable.
The alf was pleased to note it. “The vast gap between our race and yours is one that cannot be bridged,” he said, breaking the silence. “On occasions such as this I notice it particularly: You are not prepared to take up your swords and kill for any other cause than to fight for freedom, or to gain riches or power. My race, however, can. Death and art form a unit. The transitory nature of life moves with grandeur and perfection.” Tirigon paused and looked at them all with regret. His eyes were steely blue, reflecting the lights. “I can see some very acceptable bone formations here in rather ugly bodies. They could be put to satisfactory aesthetic use.”
Mallenia had heard enough of his self-glorification. She charged up to the alf, her swords in her hands.
Her opponent laughed with delight. “What bravery! What passion! Your bones will form an exquisite decoration. I do appreciate boldness and courage.” He took his sword in both hands and held it out horizontally in front of him. The blade measured at least two arm-lengths and on a conventional battleground would bring its bearer enormous advantage of range-but between the barrels, tubs and shelves in the cellar the long sword imposed its own restrictions. This is what Mallenia was counting on.
Frederik followed her lead and swung his butcher’s cleaver.
“Mind out!” she shouted to the men and women. “They are triplets. There will be two more somewhere.” Then she had reached the alf and thrust his sword aside, ducking down and stabbing with her second weapon.
But the enemy had a devilish turn of speed and possessed skills she could not have dreamed of.
Tirigon took off from the ground, leaping off the side wall and using the momentum to run several steps up toward the ceiling. After this acrobatic achievement, which he managed easily despite the weight of his armor, he landed behind Frederik and stabbed him in the back of the neck so that the sword emerged from his open mouth. From the front it looked as if the man were sticking out his tongue-a tongue made of pointed steel.
“Not a bad try, Mallenia,” the alf mocked. “If the bold butcher hadn’t been standing behind you, you’d be dead now.” With a sudden jerk he twisted the blade and pulled it up vertically. The metal had been sharpened to such a degree that the head was cut in two halves. Blood, brains and liquid gushed out, splashing onto the floor of the cellar, then Frederik dropped forward where he stood, the butcher’s cleaver crashing to the ground. The two halves of his head shifted, giving him a grotesque appearance.
Mallenia whirled round, one sword aimed at Tirigon’s head, the other at his belly. But now he was no longer standing behind her-or rather, yes, there he was, again.
The young woman felt the draft go through her blond hair, while her sword thrust met empty air. Then she was hit on the back, a blow that sent her flying against one of the stone sauerkraut vessels.
She landed against it, banging her hip, fell over it and came to rest lying by a tub of salted meat. She twisted on the floor and held her two blades up, crossed in front of her body for protection.
Not a moment too soon: Blades clashed and her arms took the force of the recoil. The alf had delivered a mighty blow. His weapon was a finger’s breadth away from her nose.
With an angry roar she shoved his blade aside and kicked him in the middle. Even though the armor took much of the impact Tirigon was forced backwards.
He laughed and circled his blade in the air, then gripped it again with both hands while Mallenia stood up and moved away from the stone tub.
She wanted a wall at her back. The enemy was too quick for her, and was superior in skill and strength. She did not think she stood a chance of leaving the cellar alive, being well aware that the alf was playing a game with her. Arrogance often came before a fall, however.
Her friends had moved back out of her way, following this uneven duel with fascination.
“Is this cellar full of cowards?” Tirigon mocked. “There are twenty of you… nineteen to one, if you so wish! Mallenia was right: If you don’t kill me, your families will die-and yet still you are standing around like lemons, doing nothing?” He winked at Mallenia. “I owe your courage this mark of respect: You’ll be the last one to die. Watch me and learn. You will need the knowledge to use against me.” He took two swift steps, leaped on to the tub and launched himself into the air.
He landed feet first on the wall and ran up it diagonally to the ceiling and down the other side. As he ran he wielded his sword so nimbly against the conspirators gathered below him that the eye could not follow its movements. With every slash blood spurted high out of deep wounds. Screams echoed around.
He landed gracefully on a wine barrel and held his sword diagonally away from himself, surveying the scene with satisfaction at the speed of his attack. More than half of the rebels lay dead on the floor of the cellar. He left no wounded. “The art lies in avoiding the bones to save them for future use,” he explained to the survivors, lifting the bloody blade. “As you know your fate now, are you ready to defend yourselves yet?”
Three women turned tail and made for the door.
But two more alfar were standing there, unmistakably the missing siblings Mallenia had warned them of. The Dson Aklan were all accounted for. They blocked the doorway with their mere presence and without drawing a weapon. Dark smiles were threat enough.