Dark Paths

by Markus Heitz

The barbarians erupted into coarse laughter.

  ‘We’d have noticed,’ responded the woman crossly. ‘The pointy-ears is long gone.’

  ‘That’s enough talk,’ roared a dark voice, his words echoing round the hall. ‘There’s not enough here to share. Get rid of the cage and drag that stinking óarco out of here. Two of you get bridge eleven sorted. Remember, the planks have to give way the instant they’re stepped on, even if it’s only a fly. You three, go and loosen the ropes on bridge two. It seems a whole band of kobolds managed to get across unharmed. We can’t have that happening again – the little squirts usually have gold! I want kobold corpses stuck on my stalagmites next time!’

  ‘Understood!’ The barbarians split up and soon hammering and sawing noises indicated they were preparing the next trap.

  As soon as I can, I’ll follow them. They must have provisions with them. Sisaroth’s mouth was dry and he was suffering from acute hunger pangs.

  While the workforce prepared to move on, he crept out of his niche, now concealed in his cloak of darkness. He hobbled over to the lift column and sat on one of the rungs under the platform. On the other side of the thin planking the barbarians were talking and laughing.

  The lift came to a halt several paces above his head and the scavengers stepped out, leaving Sisaroth free to climb onto the vacated platform, biting his lip to suppress a groan of pain. Following behind, he concentrated on not losing the light of their torches.

  They’re not taking any special precautions – they feel perfectly at ease here. But really, there’s only a few of them. An óarco horde would soon dispense with them.

  He shadowed them through several caves, crossing the same bridges and taking the turns they chose at crossroads.

  A few minutes into the journey, he began to notice markings on the walls – these must enable the barbarians to find their way around in the maze. He took it upon himself to destroy any signs he passed. That’s for the älfar you’ve slaughtered. May you hopelessly wander these tunnels and fall into your own traps.

  His protracted and painful trailing ended when the barbarians reached an iron-reinforced gate and closed it behind themselves. Arrow slits in the walls made it plain that the humans were well placed to defend their settlement against attack.

  Only a little light escaped through the edge of the gate, but Sisaroth knew that his only chance for food, shelter and revenge was on the other side. Uninjured, he would have marched straight to the barbarians and slit their throats. As it was, he would need a plan.

  He was still considering his strategy when he heard footsteps echoing from the tunnel behind him. More of them? Perhaps I can use this to my advantage. Sisaroth pressed himself deep into the shadow of the wall. I know exactly what to do. He would jump this latecomer, take his clothing and fool the sentries on the gate. That will compensate for my injuries.

  But instead of another barbarian, he saw that the figure approaching was a short-bearded dwarf carrying a lantern.

  A mountain maggot! That ruined his plan. I refuse to crawl around on my knees impersonating a dwarf. He played with the notion of a quick killing but then let him pass unhindered. He can show me the best way to get through.

  It was obvious that the brown-haired groundling had been involved in some heavy hand-to-hand combat recently. Over his left eye he wore a filthy, bloodied patch that must once have been white and there were gaping holes in his chainmail shirt, hacked out by a battleaxe. Red bloodstains soaked through – stark signs of the dwarf’s many injuries. His gait was puzzling. It was different from the clumsy lolloping stride of most dwarves; he moved more like a human.

  Sisaroth noted the sword-like weapon the groundling carried. What’s that at your side, I wonder? I’ve never seen anything like it.

  The heavy black blade reminded him of älfar weaponry. It was as long as Sisaroth’s arm and, whilst one edge was straight and conventional, sharp spines like fish bones protruded from the other.

  The point of balance would be just past the hilt, meaning it would need to be used with two hands. Wielded like that, the blade would cut through almost any metal.

  The dwarf passed close by Sisaroth and his lantern’s angle illuminated the weapon’s details clearly.

  Sisaroth recognised the fine grooving on the metal and there was no doubt in his mind: it was the same metal the älfar used to forge their swords. What an interesting little fellow you are. That weapon would be far better suited to me. I wonder who you stole it from?

  The dwarf stopped abruptly, turning to shine the lamp directly in Sisaroth’s face and raising his sword to point at the älf’s neck. ‘I’ve sent too many of your kind to greet Tion to be fooled by a shadow cloak,’ he growled, surging forward and attacking.

  Sisaroth dodged the blade and it struck the rock close to his neck. The groundling followed with thrust after thrust, and Sisaroth felt his injuries taking a toll on his speed and precision. On the dwarf’s third thrust, Sisaroth’s dagger shattered. His opponent did not let up.

  How is this happening? I’m going to lose! How is he doing this . . .? Sisaroth attempted a kick, but was again forced to dodge a deadly thrust from the sword, and his follow-up blow met only air. He back-tracked desperately into a narrow downward-sloping opening, trying to get some breathing room, but he stumbled, yelling with pain when his damaged shoulder hit the ground.

  Checking his surroundings, he realised he had ended up in a dimly lit side shaft. Piles of old bones from all kinds of creatures littered the floor and what little light there was came from amber, glowing seed capsules along the walls. It’s a rubbish tip.

  ‘Where are you going, black-eyes?’ the dwarf sneered. ‘Let Bloodthirster split you in half!’ He raced towards Sisaroth, sword raised. ‘Did I go through the Black Abyss only to find an älf here?’ he complained. ‘I made sure there were none of your kind left in Girdlegard. I’ll have to wipe you out down here as well.’ He drew closer, a malicious smile on his face. ‘Where are you from, black-eyes? How did you get down here? Were you hiding from the Testing Star and got lost?’

  Sisaroth didn’t understand anything the dwarf was saying. What is he talking about? Wait, Girdlegard . . . He must be from Tark Draan!

  Despite the pain and danger he was in, Sisaroth felt excitement take over: so there was a path between Phondrasôn and Tark Draan!

  We won’t have to follow the old route. If I can take him captive, this groundling could show me the way. His kind know more about tunnels, mine shafts and caves, after all. Sisaroth’s brain whirred, feverishly trying to work out a way to disarm his opponent and gain the advantage. He glanced round.

  ‘So, are you looking for the exit or trying to trick me?’ The dwarf halted, five paces away, sword pointed at Sisaroth. ‘You will die, älf. Here and now, slain with the weapon that once belonged to your rulers. The Inextinguishables had no further use for it once I was done with them.’ He continued forward with a rasping laugh.

  ‘You must be mad!’ cried the älf, limping as he crunched his way backwards through the pile of bones. ‘The Inextinguishables could not perish!’

  The one-eyed dwarf grinned. ‘Where have you been, black-eyes? The Testing Star eradicated most of the monsters and the majority of the älfar. Your Sibling Rulers hid under the earth like the cowards they were. We found them and killed them.’ He whirled his sword. ‘Look what I’ve made from your sovereign’s weapon: I took Nagsor Inàste’s sword and forged it anew. See the älfar metal – black and evil, but it has served me well. It cuts through anything: armour, flesh, bone. Wait and you’ll see for yourself!’

  Sisaroth refused to believe what he was hearing. It can’t be true! He must have been banished for being a complete lunatic!

  The dwarf’s next attack put a stop to such thoughts. He stumbled through the bones at his feet, picking up jagged fragments to fling at the groundling, and scavenging for something to serve as a weapon.

  ‘Are you ready for your end, black-eyes?’ The one-eyed figure towered
over him, both hands gripping the hilt of the sword, arm muscles rippling.

  As the blade descended, Sisaroth noticed a strange phenomenon in the air. His whole body tingled. Magic? Is it the swo—?

  Opalescent light suddenly flooded the shaft and the groundling froze mid-strike.

  As the light touched them, the älf’s eyes turned black and lines of fury criss-crossed his face as Sisaroth realised he was unable to move. It felt as if a thousand tiny needles were pricking his skin, seeming to gouge at it in a pattern. He cried out in pain and tried in vain to flee but there was no escape. Dwarf and älf alike were paralysed and tortured by the magic field that surrounded them.

  A trap? Sisaroth’s eyes were streaming and he panted, struggling to catch his breath. Is this the work of those barbarians I saw?

  Before he could find out, the floor under his feet gave way, swallowing him whole and leaving the groundling behind, showered with bone fragments. The älf slid over skulls, bits of rib and other remains, falling down, down, down. What if the tunnel has no solid floor at all?

  He groped the walls as he fell, trying to slow his descent, and his fingers grasped a cleft in the rock face. Scrabbling at the surface, his feet found a small ledge and he spotted a small gap in the wall at knee level. The opening gave way to a narrow horizontal shaft. Carefully lowering himself, he crawled through it.

  The appearance of the magic force field, or whatever it had been, may have saved him from almost certain death at the hand of the groundling, but it had also made his entire body feel like it was going to burst. I need to get out of here.

  He wriggled through the dark for some time, until the corridor widened enough for him to stand upright. For a moment he stayed on the floor, slumped against the wall, his eyes closed. He tried to regulate his breathing. Gods of infamy! What were you thinking when you created Phondrasôn? Gradually the fury lines softened and faded away, and he felt the black leave his eyeballs. His whole body throbbed with pain.

  He opened his eyes and examined his injuries in the dim light emitted by shimmering plant life on the walls.

  He was covered in cuts and grazes from the broken bones he slid through, his injured leg was bleeding again and his shoulder was hot and swollen. He was feeling worse than ever; in pain, plagued by hunger, and severely dehydrated.

  This is truly a place fit for vicious, hardened criminals, not the innocent wrongfully sent into exile! Sisaroth pulled himself up and began to make his way along the corridor. It didn’t matter where he was headed or who he might meet on the way – he just desperately needed some water.

  To distract himself from his thirst, Sisaroth concentrated on thoughts of sweet revenge. I shall slay the evil-tongued älfar who bore false witness against my sister and me. They’ll be granted no time to beg for mercy.

  Shaking with every step, he limped courageously on.

  I will not die here! he told himself again and again, clenching his teeth when his injuries sent waves of agony through him.

  Gradually, he became aware of a sweet sound wafting through the tunnels: a female singing voice. No barbarian could sing like that. The vocal artistry must be that of an älf.

  Firûsha! Still limping, Sisaroth sped up. It’s coming from dead ahead! ‘Sister!’ he called, ecstatically. Joy gave him wings and numbed the pain that had been torturing him.

  The tunnel opened into a hall with seven galleries leading from it.

  Firûsha’s voice echoed all around him and, no matter how hard he concentrated, it was impossible to tell which tunnel the singing was coming from.

  He circled the hall, calling his sister’s name into each opening as he reached it. ‘Firûsha! Where are you?’

  The melody stopped.

  ‘Brother, is that you? Here I am! I’m here! Here!’ Her voice continued to echo.

  It all sounds the same. Which one should I take? Sisaroth hesitated, chose one of the tunnels at random and set off. ‘Hang on! I’ll be with you very soon!’

  Ishím Voróo (Outer Lands), Dsôn Sòmran, in the northern foothills of the Grey Mountains, 5427th division of unendingness (6241st solar cycle), spring.

  Ranôria was standing at the bottom of the deep valley in which Dsôn Sòmran had been constructed. Being down here always makes me feel so small. The steep cliff walls rose up all around her, älfar houses clinging precariously to their sides.

  Some audacious citizen had put up bridges to connect various parts of the town, but, even supported by columns, the slightest earth tremor or minor landslide wreaked havoc. If you were unlucky enough to be on one of the bridges when that occurred you could end up under a heap of rubble, hundreds of paces below the foot of the defence wall.

  Ironically enough, the reservoir of broken stone that collected here served as a quarry source for new builds. All thanks to the constant losses.

  It’s a cycle we can’t break, not until the Inextinguishables summon us to join them and we leave this place. Ranôria had used a series of transport container lifts and platforms to travel down to this level. There were steps at the quarry’s edge, where thick stone walls had been put up to protect against falling rocks, but if she took that path there was a possibility she could run into Aïsolon, and she had no wish to confront him again, especially when looking less than her best. She needed to impress him, not arouse his pity or cause him to turn away in distaste.

  After her rushed and frantic audience with him on the fateful night when he’d had their children arrested and banished, she’d realised that her conduct had perhaps been unwise. He had walked away and suggested she come back when she was feeling calmer.

  One moment of unendingness later, Ranôria felt decidedly more tranquil, and more determined than ever to not be fobbed off with unsatisfactory answers. She would demand precise information from the city governor. He had been her life partner for a long time and together they had produced three children. What could have possessed him to issue an order like that?

  Ranôria stepped away from the roadway and through a gate into the small courtyard situated at the base of the high defence wall. Drizzle was still falling and the paving stones were wet.

  Guards saluted as she approached the entrance to the main building and one opened the door for her. She was greeted by a sytràp who relieved her of her damp cloak and handed it to a waiting slave.

  ‘Follow me. Aïsolon is expecting you.’ The sytràp strode ahead, leading her through the corridors and past doors decorated with metal plates. The teams responsible for state security had their quarters here, while soldiers doing border patrol duty had a dormitory inside the wall surrounding Dsôn Sòmran. The corridor led to a set of double doors that smelled like the oil used by the warriors to grease their weapons. It was softly illuminated by ceiling lamps.

  Her escort knocked at the door and opened it after a quiet command from inside. Ranôria walked into the hall, sedate and confident.

  Aïsolon was seated at a desk patterned with tiny bone platelets and inlaid with shapes worked in gold and set with semi-precious gems. The walls of the large chamber were hung with captured enemy weaponry. Ranôria knew that each item was unique.

  Aïsolon indicated she should sit. ‘Please approach. May I offer you some refreshment?’ He was holding a writing implement made from flexible metal and was in the act of signing a document. ‘I’ll be with you very shortly.’ He looked resplendent in his midnight-blue robes and the grey sleeveless garment he wore over it.

  ‘No, thank you. Please don’t trouble yourself.’ Looking over at the trophy wall, she commented on the lack of recent acquisitions.

  ‘That’s fine by me. It means the óarcos have decided they don’t want to lose any more of their troops for now.’ Aïsolon placed his pen in a holder and sighed. ‘Word has spread that our defences are impregnable, and so things are peaceful. So peaceful,’ he went on, ‘that some of our empire’s citizens are apparently so bored they have taken to killing each other.’

  ‘Oh, so you still refer to the city
as part of the empire?’ Ranôria gave a sympathetic smile. ‘In my eyes the place has become nothing more than a prison. A second Phondrasôn, just with fewer beasts in it. We’re no longer waiting for rescue. In reality, we’re exiles here.’

  Aïsolon raised his eyebrows. ‘Aren’t you overreacting slightly?’

  ‘It’s no more of an overreaction than your decision to banish our children and have them hurled into the abyss!’ she said cuttingly, emphasising each word.

  ‘Did I not suggest we should postpone our talk until you had calmed down?’

  ‘Tell me, do I seem out of control?’ she countered coolly. ‘Now, what do you have to say about this absolutely ludicrous murder accusation?’

  ‘Firûsha and Sisaroth were accused of not just one, but multiple murders,’ he corrected her, reaching into a drawer to extract a leather folder. He untied the string carefully, opened it and placed a hand on the pages it contained. ‘I shouldn’t really let you read this, but I need you to understand that I had no other choice in the matter—’

  ‘But you are their father!’ she stressed, without raising her voice – but only just. I feel like shouting at him.

  ‘And that is precisely why I cannot be seen to be lenient. Or weak,’ he responded. A muscle twitched at the side of his mouth and Ranôria realised he was fighting his emotions. ‘It tore my soul to give Gàlaidon the order to arrest my own flesh and blood and send them to Phondrasôn. And when I heard that Tirîgon had offered to go with them . . .’ He faltered and turned his face away. He passed the folder over to her without a further word, got to his feet and began to pace, looking at his weapons collection.

  Ranôria had known he wouldn’t have spoken the verdict easily, but she hadn’t been prepared to feel sorry for him. She looked down at the folder and her eyes raced over the testimony notes.

  The evidence against Firûsha and Sisaroth was overwhelming.

  Aïsolon had recorded every word of the sworn statements meticulously and the witnesses themselves, seven of them, were all of high status and impeccable reputation.