by Markus Heitz
‘Are you not going to help me?’ she said, discouraged by his behaviour.
‘Did I say I would?’
‘No, but I thought . . .’ She sighed. The faint hope that she might be released and return home went up in smoke. Firûsha watched the sparks fly up the chimney. She raised her voice and sang a song her mother had taught her.
The flower needs blood,
battlefields, butchery,
suffering and slaughter:
death will nourish it better than water.
Bloodflower black
bloodflower red
the strongest of plants
thrives near the dead
It flourishes on disasters
entwines a rotting corpse
grows up straight and tall
the fairest flower of all
Bloodflower black
bloodflower red
the strongest of plants
thrives near the dead
Bursts into blossom, heavily scented,
it swamps every battlefield with poison and beauty
a deadly sight to all within range
if you smell this perfume
know, your time will come soon.
Firûsha sustained the final note for as long as she could, then hummed a refrain before allowing the melody to die away.
It took her a few heartbeats to return to reality. Whenever she sang, she immersed herself in the world of the song, visualising everything described in the lyrics. In her mind she experienced the emotions of the music – suffering, delight, ecstasy – and she would follow the story in her heart. Her mother had always stressed that the best singer would be able to take her audience with her on the journey.
The burning wood in the fireplace crackled its enthusiastic applause.
The silent älf had not moved.
It looks like I have not been able to charm him with my song. Firûsha quickly poured herself something to drink before apologising. ‘Forgive me. My throat is sore.’
‘Wonderful,’ he breathed, still facing away from her. ‘Just wonderful. I know the song. It was often performed in Dsôn. In my Dsôn, I mean. I never heard it sung like that, as a ballad. It was always a battle-song we used to sing on campaign.’ When he turned round she saw there were tears in his eyes. His heart had been touched. ‘My name is Crotàgon,’ he told her softly. ‘I used to belong to the ranks of the Goldsteel warriors. You know about our unit?’
At last he has told me his name. Firûsha nodded. The Inextinguishables had created that elite fighting company. The Goldsteel warriors had a reputation for being the finest in the whole älfar army; same-sex couples who had proved themselves against the fiercest marauding monsters. Male and male, female with female, these warrior pairings were inseperable in combat, standing up for each other, keen to speed to a decisive victory and eager to end the fighting with honour.
‘The regiment no longer exists,’ Firûsha told him. ‘The few who survived the plague and came to us now serve with the wall sentries along with all the other soldiers.’ She was mightily relieved to learn that Crotàgon had belonged to that exclusive group. I won’t have to worry about his having physical designs on me.
‘I was banished from Dsôn because I fell out of favour with the Inextinguishables. I once commanded a company of forty same-sex fighting couples. We were the best. It was at the start of the Tark Draan campaign. I was given an audience because of my military success and I confronted our rulers, making no bones about my conviction that the proposed attack deep into Tark Draan was a dangerous mistake. I told them the army had not had sufficient training. We would have been in unknown territory and commanded by Sinthoras, who always put his own good over that of his soldiers. I considered him incapable of proper military strategic thought. Instead of the planned attack I recommended a gradual expansion of Dsôn Faïmon territory on the other side of the defence moat.’
‘That would have been a good idea,’ was Firûsha’s comment. If they had taken that advice then the Dorón Ashont would never have invaded the heart of our empire. ‘And that was why they sent you to Phondrasôn? Because you spoke out? Did they exile you? Or did you come here to escape their anger?’
Crotàgon hesitated. ‘It wasn’t that,’ he said. ‘I had been trying to persuade the rest of the Goldsteel warriors to use their influence with the Inextinguishables. I wanted us to all go together to the Bone Tower to petition our point. At the very least I wanted to demand that a different nostàroi be appointed. There was no objection to Caphalor, but Sinthoras had to go.’
Firûsha weighed up what he had told her. But he was practically criticising the Inextinguishables publicly. Criticising the rulers’ decisions. That’s treason.
He looked down. ‘But I . . .’ He faltered and a shudder ran through his powerful body. ‘My plans were betrayed. Betrayed by a person very dear to me and whose life I had often saved in combat.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I was dragged out of camp by night and hurled off into exile.’ Crotàgon’s hazel eyes showed his pain.
Being betrayed by his partner hit him harder than being sent to Phondrasôn. Firûsha felt a surge of sympathy. He is still mourning that loss.
‘I can never go back to Dsôn as long as the Inextinguishables are alive. They will remember exactly what happened.’ He turned his face to one side, revealing a handsome profile. ‘But you are right: you should go back. Get up to the surface again and go back to your Dsôn.’
‘Oh, that would be amazing, Crotàgon!’ she exclaimed, but her face fell when he strode past without releasing her from the cage. ‘Wait – where are you going?’
‘I’ve got to think. I’ll sleep on it. I can’t decide right now. I can’t let you travel through Phondrasôn on your own. You’d be killed quicker than a newborn barbarian in a pit full of óarcos. You’re no warrior. And your singing is too good for you to be able to kill anything with your voice.’ He laughed at his own joke.
Firûsha was not inclined to join in the merriment. She glared at him balefully. ‘You’re going to make me spend the night in this thing?’
‘If I accompanied you I’d be giving up a lot. I have to consider it carefully. As long as you are in the cage you won’t be running off, trying to find your way home or your brothers on your own. I’m honestly only protecting you, saving your life a second time. Really, you should be thanking me.’
‘What is there to consider?’ she retorted, unable to believe her ears. ‘Look around you! You live in a shed my father would be ashamed to house the worst of his slaves in.’
‘How do you know what the rest of my house looks like?’
‘You’re unlikely to have bathrooms and princely bedchambers hidden behind that door!’
He grinned and stroked his naked torso. ‘You will have noticed that I bathed after the fighting? Behind that wall I have rooms more magnificent than you can imagine. I’m sure you would be glad to have a nice warm bath with herbs and perfumed oils. You shall be accorded that pleasure after one more night in the cage. And I’ll give you a guided tour of the house. Then you will understand why I am taking my time about the decision.’ He pushed a pot into the cage. ‘For when you need it.’ The stately älf left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Firûsha was so angry that she hurled her cup at the closing door. It shattered satisfyingly. She bit her lip instead of hurling imprecations and insults after him.
She slumped down against the bars and sat staring into the flames. You shall take me back home, you steelygold monster of an älf! I will sing you into submission, just see if I don’t. You’ll be under my thumb before this is over.
She did not know what she would say to her brothers if she met up with them now. Should I have them kill Crotàgon or should I spare him in case he proves useful? If he knows the way out . . .
She tried to get comfortable and rolled herself into a sleeping position. You’ll pay for this, one way or another. You’ve treated me like some filthy slave. She closed her eyes.
Dsôn Sòmran,
merely a city.
Not the pride of an empire
not the black heart of an empire
vibrant with affluence and powerful in battle,
but a grey refuge.
In grey mountains, under grey clouds and wet with grey rain
the place gives rise to grey thoughts.
Immanent despair, the wearing-down of souls.
They told me that unspeakable things happened in Dsôn Sòmran.
The greatest blasphemy was committed by many:
Acting selfishly, they squandered the gift of immortality
and themselves. Eighty-eight of them.
They jumped off the wall,
impaled themselves on swords or hung themselves.
Their names were expunged from the records
and were not even carved on the Roll of Shame.
Excerpt from the epic poem Young Gods
composed by Carmondai, master of word and image
Phondrasôn, 5427th division of unendingness (6241st solar cycle), spring.
But I heard her! Sisaroth limped along the constricted tunnel, its hot air difficult to breathe. A faltering dim light came from the walls themselves. Was there a lava stream on the other side of the rock? It would explain the heat.
I’m stumbling around in the half-dark trying to find my way out of some damn oven! ‘Firûsha!’ he called, running his hand over his face and then licking the sweat. There had been nothing to drink and he must not waste a drop of moisture.
But the voice of his beloved sister was no longer to be heard.
It seemed to make no difference whether he continued down this passage or went back to the main hall. The other tunnels could not be much better. He continued in the same direction, hoping it would lead somewhere eventually.
He was still in a great deal of pain from his leg and shoulder injuries. He needed to find a place where he could be treated, or at least get water to clean the wound on his leg. If the cut remained dirty it could develop into the dreaded gangrene that eats its way through flesh and bone. He quickened his pace.
Sisaroth was afraid that it was fever and not just the heat in the tunnel making him sweat. I must find water.
At his next step he looked down and noticed painted, carved runes on the stone floor, partially obscured with dirt.
Bending down, he felt the deep grooves. At the edges the colour had been rubbed away by the passing of many feet. He wiped the dirt aside.
Älfar signs. Sisaroth recognised the characteristic script used by his own folk but these runes were unusual, probably from the distant past. He was only able to decipher a few words of warning about danger of a spirit.
With each step he uncovered more of the writing: magic, infamy, eternal life, resistance, fire from the sky, he read, tense with apprehension. Is this a place of sanctuary?
He decided to follow this tunnel to its end. Whoever had created the runes had been one of the älfar. So whatever awaited him would be positive.
In the meantime he was sweating as much as he would have done under the hottest midday summer sun. His mouth was gritty, his tongue swollen, his throat dry and painful. His progress was slow and laboured as he fought for breath.
The tunnel in front of him seemed to sway and fade and his legs trembled.
At that moment his right foot touched a symbol that flared up, bathing the whole tunnel in a violet glow.
Then all the runes lit up, one after the other, showing him the way. A wind rose and blew the dirt from the half-hidden symbols, sending sand into his eyes. He shielded his face with his arm.
‘Come to me, Child of Inàste,’ a female voice welcomed him. ‘I am expecting you.’
‘Who are you?’ he called back.
‘Come, come to me, Child of Inàste. I am waiting for you.’
With the last of his remaining strength, Sisaroth stepped over the signs, surrendering to his fate, whether it be protection or a trap.
The guide-lights led him to a cave in the middle of which was a circular arrangement of columns with an elegant tower at its centre. Support beams were anchored in the cave wall to ensure the edifice was secure.
The row of lights led directly to the tower and around it. The tower itself glowed and illuminated the entire cave, revealing a colossal mural depicting a hunting scene with an älfar city in the background.
Sisaroth was too weary to be impressed by the skill of the painting, the vivid colours, the accuracy in the detail. He no longer cared if there was anyone here or who it might be. He was in urgent need of water – and then he heard the gurgling sound coming from between the columns and saw the rippling brightness.
At last! Sisaroth limped over as quickly as he could, going past the columns to find himself in front of a wide basin, the tower at its centre.
He knelt down, moaning with pain, and sniffed the flowing water. Fresh, and clearly not stagnant. Nothing to indicate that it was not safe.
He scooped up a handful and tasted the liquid. Incredible, fresh water! My thanks to the gods of infamy! He held on to the side of the pool and dipped his face into the water to drink in long draughts. The water seemed to turn to steam in his mouth, he was so hot.
Sisaroth raised his head, gasping. That’s better. He soaked his hair and tossed it back over his shoulder. Feeling refreshed, he leaned back against one of the columns and studied the incandescent tower. And now for this next Phondrasôn miracle. I wonder if there is anything to eat in there. How do I get inside?
The building must have been at least sixty paces high and fifteen in diameter; it was made from crude layers of rough-hewn stone blocks with intricately chiselled runes on the side. Sisaroth deduced that constructor and engraver had not been the same.
On close study it was obvious that the tower inclined slightly to one side. This would be the reason for the support struts. The immense weight of the edifice must be causing the foundation to sag. The cave vault, forty paces above the top of the tower, showed signs of having been altered to give extra height.
Were they trying to break through the cave ceiling or was the aim to increase the height of the tower? Sisaroth got to his feet and circled it. There was no access except over the water. No door that he could see. He speculated ruefully whether this might be the memorial tomb of some bewildered oligarch with delusions of grandeur. The dead would not be able to help him with food or medical attention.
Did some spirit lure me here to make a fool of me? ‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘Hallo! I am a child of Inàste and I followed your invitation. The runes led me hither. Here I am!’
Nothing.
He had not seriously expected to hear a response. But it had been worth a try.
He was uneasy now: very keen to solve the riddle and get into the building. There might be useful stores inside: provisions, weaponry or clothing. In Phondrasôn the principle of survival favoured the fittest – the strongest, the swiftest, the best. His chances would surely improve if he could pick up some decent armour.
His stomach rumbled.
For infamy’s sake! What’s the trick here? Sisaroth stood still and studied the columns with their glowing symbols. He could tell from the tingling on his face that the runes were imbued with magic. Two of the signs were badly damaged. Deliberately attacked with a hammer or an axe?
I’ll give it one more try before giving up. He turned back to the windowless tower and shouted in a mixture of disappointment and fury. ‘Hallo! Anyone in there? I am injured! I need help!’ He bent down to pick up a pebble and hurled it against the side of the building. ‘Do you hear me? By Inàste and all the gods of infamy, I need . . .’
As soon as the pebble struck home, the tower’s magic runes flashed a dangerous red. White lightning played along the length of the supporting girders. There was a loud humming seeming to originate from inside the tower, just as the energy was released.
A broad shaft of ruby-coloured light shot out from one of
the stone blocks at the base of the turret, targeting the älf. His surroundings seemed to fizzle and disappear.
What’s happening? Dazzled, he tried to shield himself from the light. Then it all went dark.
When he was able to open his eyes, he found himself hovering in a barred cell for two or three heartbeats before he was plonked down on a heap of old bones which crumbled under his weight. The injuries on his leg and on his shoulder sent waves of unbearable pain coursing through his body. He screamed and was forced to inhale polluted air which induced paroxysms of coughing.
‘What a turbulent approach,’ said a disapproving female voice, employing an ancient älfar idiom. ‘You could hardly wait to get here, could you? What is your name?’
Where am I? Sisaroth tried to grab the bars in order to pull himself upright. Water, he realised, would quench thirst but it would not restore energy and he was eager not to appear weak. ‘My name is Sisaroth,’ he said, peering through the dust to see who he was talking to.
The älf-woman was standing at the foot of a staircase, draped in a light brown mantle over an embroidered robe; her long blonde hair gleamed in the light of her lantern. ‘Where have you come from?’
‘From Dsôn Sòmran. I am looking for my siblings.’
‘You are the first, for . . .’ She thought hard. ‘It’s impossible to keep track of time in this confounded place. At any rate it is absolutely ages since I had a visitor. A visitor who wouldn’t try to eat me, I mean.’ She gestured towards the heap of bones. ‘Please excuse the initial greeting. I shall release you at once. The cage was for my own protection. The tower has tested me more than once with ghastly beasts living in the cellar slavering for my blood.’ She came closer, a charming smile on her face. ‘My name is Marandëi. Welcome to my unchosen realm.’
As if by a ghostly hand the lock on the door of his cell opened. She must be a . . . cîanai! He stumbled out, limping badly, and bowed. ‘Thank you for bringing me here.’ The wrinkles on her face, throat and hands showed she must be considerably older than his mother.
