by Markus Heitz
‘Not just Sisaroth. His siblings as well.’
‘But Tirîgon didn’t have anything to do with the killing.’
‘But he still went to Phondrasôn to protect them and enable them to stay in contact with Dsôn. That could have been predicted.’ Ranôria continued her musings, hoping to see Acòrhia’s features betray her if she stumbled on a true version of events. Give me a hint. Just a flinch and I’ll know more. ‘Or how about this: maybe Sémaina had enemies who encouraged Sisaroth to kill her because they knew how hot-tempered he can be?’
‘So you think Sémaina might have died for a completely different reason? Nothing at all to do with defending your reputation?’ The story-weaver nodded slowly. ‘Possible. We’d need to know what rumours are going around concerning Tênnegor and his family. Perhaps there are old scores that wanted settling?’ She sipped her tea. ‘I can see a whole lot of work for poor Aïsolon here. And for you, of course.’ Acòrhia raised her beaker in a toast to her guest. ‘I wish from the depths of my very heart that Sisaroth and Firûsha prove to have been innocent pawns. Without Sisaroth’s testimony, though, it will be difficult to work out who was pulling the strings. Only your son would know who the älf was that drove him to murder on that fateful evening he burst in on Sémaina’s gathering. May he be caught for Sisaroth’s sake.’
Ranôria gave her a grateful smile. ‘The gods of infamy will stand by me.’ She placed her empty beaker on the little table and got to her feet, wrapping her shawl around her. The damp fabric had dried nicely in the heat of the fire. ‘It is late and I must get on with my enquiries.’
‘The governor will be sure to give you a listening ear.’ Acòrhia stood up to accompany her guest to the door. ‘My best thoughts go with you.’
Ranôria gestured to her hostess to remain. She would find her own way out. ‘We will meet again soon. I shan’t want to miss your next performance.’ She said goodbye and made her way through the hall to the front door. Many things had become clear to her in the course of this visit.
Acòrhia has been lying to me. It was she who worked out the story about the murder and she told the others what to say.
Ranôria based this assumption on an observation: the story-teller had not seemed surprised about any of the new theories being voiced, nor had she offered to help solve the puzzle. Surely in her professional life it must be more or less essential to keep herself informed; if she were truly an objective witness, she would have been willing to spin a tale about these peculiar events. Instead she had remained extremely calm and had offered no assistance. She also encouraged the theory of a third party being behind the incident – notably a male.
She stayed calm because she saw I was following a line of enquiry which did not involve her. Ranôria hurried through the streets of the fifth ring and made her way quickly to the lift to get home. Acòrhia knows more than she is letting on.
She had learnt a good deal, she felt, and there was a lot of new material to process if she was to find the real killer and send him to exile in Phondrasôn in place of her children.
Ranôria planned to visit all her friends and ask for their help. There was a lot to do: people to shadow, investigations and enquiries to be made, rumours to gather and evaluate. She would be close on Acòrhia’s heels at all times, as soon as she had finished interviewing the remaining witnesses.
I will watch every step she takes! Sooner or later the young story-spinner would make contact with the cunning and malicious man who was behind the conspiracy. If I can work out who is to blame we will have cleared up the mystery surrounding Sémaina’s death.
Ranôria reached the lift and moved the lever to summon the platform.
The rain had eased off. Fog rose up from the lower rings of the city and mingled with the smoke from the chimneys. The upper rings, the wall and the mountain peaks lay hidden in the mist.
Ranôria went on hatching her plans.
The next witness she would visit was Nomirôs, one of her neighbours, albeit not a close one. She was in possession of a piece of information that might make him more ready to talk. I’ll do it right now. She stepped into the gondola that stopped in front of her. I will have done a great deal today, if I make this next visit.
Someone barged into her and shoved her against the wall of the cabin.
A male älf in a long woollen mantle covering his attire pushed inside. ‘Excuse me,’ he murmured, turning his face away as if wishing to conceal his identity from her. He was followed at close quarters by a guard whose face behind his helmet visor seemed strangely stiff. He was gripping his sword so tightly that his knuckles were white.
That’s strange. Ranôria shuffled back into the corner in such a way that she would not have her back to either of the passengers. She did not like the look of them. Perhaps it’s wiser if I get out . . . But it was too late for that. The platform had already moved off.
Into the heart of the fog.
Chapter V
And so it was
the Young Gods sought their own paths
through the darkness.
They had been wrenched apart
but hearts and souls
clung close.
Fate willed
they should find other älfar
in this place.
Can you guess what came of it?
Friendship or betrayal?
Desire or love?
Future or death?
Excerpt from the epic poem Young Gods
composed by Carmondai, master of word and image
Phondrasôn, 5427th division of unendingness (6241st solar cycle), spring.
Tirîgon ducked to avoid the axe-blow aimed at his head and stabbed the elf with an upward thrust to the chin, through the mouth cavity and directly into the brain; at the same time he pulled the elf’s dagger out of its sheath and cut the next opponent viciously across his bare thighs, slicing through a main artery.
‘You are far too slow!’ he mocked. As he straightened, he grabbed his sword from his first victim’s head and struck another elf through the collarbone. ‘Your deaths bear the name of Tirîgon!’
He was covered from head to toe in his enemies’ blood. The sickly metallic smell encouraged his killing spree and gave him the strength and swiftness to gain the upper hand, even though he was heavily outnumbered.
Tirîgon moved through the advancing ranks of his adversaries like a dancer following a secret tune. His sword found the gaps in his foes’ defences, while his armour protected him from their hail of arrows. He could not avoid injury completely but he sustained only surface wounds.
He had lost sight of the obboona but he could hear the clash of weapons and her triumphant laughter, so he assumed she was still dealing out death.
She’s utterly mad! She took us right into the heart of their settlement. Tirîgon swerved to dodge an attack, kicked his opponent in the face and slit the elf’s throat with his dagger.
The spurt of blood blinded the next elf and Tirîgon was able to open his belly with an easy stroke. The foe fell screaming to the ground, slipping on his own spilled guts; two further warriors came stumbling over their dying comrade and fell straight into the sweep of Tirîgon’s mighty sword, which knocked their own weapons out of their hands and cut open their chests.
The final four elves withdrew hurriedly.
Distance won’t save you. Tirîgon jammed his blade into a handy corpse, snatched up an owner-less bow and notched an arrow which went whistling through the air to pierce a fleeing elf through the back of the neck.
‘Cowards!’ he shouted at them as they ran. ‘Cowards get struck from behind!’ He felled another, his arrow finding the mark in spite of a raised shield. The elf screamed and did not get back to his feet.
He was surprised that the elves did not present a worthier challenge. Phondrasôn’s terrors have weakened them or else they were overconfident of the security factor of the floating island. Tirîgon pulled his sword out of the corpse and used the dripping blade to brush
the arrows from his armour. You must always be vigilant. Attack can come from any quarter. As we had to learn to our cost. Then he bounded after the last two elves, who were heading for the buildings.
The obboona did the same. He saw there were many slashes in the skin garment she wore; he could not tell whether the blood on her was her own. ‘What a splendid harvest,’ she chortled. ‘My god will be pleased with us. Let’s get these two alive. I know that he likes living specimens.’
‘We’ll see how we go.’ He saw one of the elves disappear inside the largest house, which was fortified. The door slammed shut. Where are their women and children hiding? Is that where they all are?
He did not bother to try to force the door. He vaulted up from one of the window frames, grabbed the edge of the wooden guttering and pulled himself up onto the roof.
He could see straight away that breaking his way through would be difficult. The roof was solidly constructed, with stone tiles offering the elves protection from aerial attack.
He soon gave a satisfied smile. People never think, do they?
He went over to the smoking chimney. This was the vulnerable point. He could see that it was narrow inside and there was a wire grating with a hinged cover to prevent debris falling in. But they need the ventilation so they can breathe.
‘Hand me up a bow, a quiver full of arrows, and a shield,’ he hissed to the obboona, who was noisily belabouring the front door. ‘And give me your skin.’
‘What for?’
‘You’ll see. If you want to see your god happy, do what you are told.’
She slipped out of the bloodied garment, now in tatters. Her own pale skin was revealed, crisscrossed with slashes and obviously deep stab wounds. She did not have long to live, Tirîgon thought. If she doesn’t bleed to death she’ll die when the infections set in.
Thus far, however, the obboona seemed oblivious of her injuries. She handed up the various items and then continued her vain onslaught at the door.
That was fine by Tirîgon. All that commotion would occupy the elves’ attention.
He tore the garment into tiny pieces to scatter through the chimney aperture. Then he placed the shield over the opening. You won’t stick around for long in there.
He sat waiting, an arrow ready on his bowstring.
He soon noticed the stink of burning skin. Acrid smoke began seeping out from round the window shutters. Inside, elf women and children were starting to cough and sob uncontrollably.
The obboona greeted the sound with laughter and she swung the two elf swords she had garnered in combat. ‘Hey, you there! I can smell bacon-elves! Come on out! I’ll . . .’
A whirring sound and a thwack. An arrow quivered in her breast. She hit at it vaguely with the weapon in her right hand, but then toppled backwards and lay convulsing on the ground.
Shame, really. She could still have been useful for a bit.
The front door flew open with a crash and the elves surged out, desperate for air. Tirîgon had a good view. The two armed elves were protecting the group of women and children who were hastening down towards the ship. They were not making any attempt to defend their island stronghold. Their only thought was to get away.
That’s another surprise. He felled the two warrior elves with quick shots before they had a chance to look up and see him on the roof.
He still had eleven arrows but there were at least seventy elves to deal with.
The first of the group had already reached the vessel and the mast runes were glowing.
They’re just leaving me here! I’ll never get away if they take the ship! ‘Wait!’ he shouted. ‘I swear I’ll kill all of you if you . . .’ He was about to leap down from the rooftop when there was a rumble and a crash from inside the building and the chimney collapsed in on itself, belching up acrid smoke that made it impossible to see.
His eyes were stinging badly but he could hear a noise like a landslide on a mountain. Any resident of Dsôn Sòmran was horribly well acquainted with that sound.
The stone-decked roof tilted under his feet before he could save himself.
The älf landed in the hall, leaping to avoid falling debris. As the smoke cleared he was able to see – to his utter horror – that a huge gap had opened up where the fireplace had been. Underneath, there was – absolutely nothing!
The island is crumbling away! Tirîgon suddenly understood why the elves had been so keen to abandon it. Was it sabotage?
The hole was increasing in size, with the earth breaking away under the building. He saw soil, tiles, stone slabs plunging down into the void. Any moment now and the whole island would completely disappear.
Top priority: get myself a boat, now! He ran, noticing as he did so a map with elven markings attached to one of the last remaining walls. He pulled it off and shoved it into his pocket. Part of it tore but he didn’t care.
Tirîgon stormed out of the ruined building. The obboona was writhing in pain and implored him to help her, but he ignored her cries. All the big ships and the medium-sized boats had moved away from the jetty. They sailed off majestically as if carried by invisible waters.
‘Don’t leave me here like this,’ the obboona called weakly. ‘I beg of you, take me to my own god. And don’t forget the elf cadavers. I’m sure he will repay you for your trouble.’
I wonder if she might still be useful to me in some way? He turned back and knelt at her side, thrusting the map in front of her face. ‘Show me where I can find him.’
‘If I show you on the map you will go away and abandon me, I know.’
‘Tell me! What if you pass out on the way? How would I reach him?’ Come on, hurry up. You know it makes sense. Tirîgon suppressed a smile of triumph when she poked at the map with a blood-smeared finger. ‘Wait here. I’ll go and find us a boat.’ He jumped up and raced off. Not for a single splinter of unendingness had he really considered taking the obboona with him.
He saw two elves casting off.
He had never run so fast in all his life. Behind him the last of the village houses were crashing down. The landslide rumblings grew ever louder.
‘Stay where you are!’ he gasped. His scrapes and cuts were causing him intense discomfort. He felt ridiculous. Here was the butcher calling out to the lambs to hold steady while he fetched his chopper. Why would they stop and let him on board? Oh well, it was worth a try: lambs are pretty stupid animals, after all.
The elves, however, were not stupid. They threw the ropes off and moved away from the quayside. The navigation runes glowed efficiently.
Tirîgon had his boot on the jetty. It seemed too great a distance for him to attempt to leap it. It could just work . . . But if it doesn’t, it’s a heck of a long way down. On the other hand, that’s exactly the risk I face if I don’t try.
He looked back.
Most of the island had disintegrated. A whole house collapsed while its chimney was still puffing out smoke; it was as if the elves inside were cooking away as normal, supremely indifferent to the catastrophe striking their settlement. A thin layer of soil and grass transformed itself into a flying carpet. Now the jetty was affected – it was too late. There was no landing stage left to launch himself from.
Overweening ambition comes before a fall. Tirîgon’s heart seemed to stop but the jetty was marooned in mid-air.
What . . .? He looked down and saw the planking shimmer slightly. He bent down and wiped away the dirt. The wood here also had inset runes – presumably to ensure the pier did not share the fate of the rest of the island. He raised his head and studied the quay. Eight paces long and three paces wide. It will be my new home. Whatever else, I must admit this is a fantastic view.
The ships full of female elves and children were heading for a distant island.
They won’t want to land on the island without their husbands. I expect they’ll find someone who can avenge them by killing me. Tirîgon’s situation had not improved a jot. He would be swapping one island for another. The fighting had taken its t
oll. He had no rations. He had no water.
He spread out the map he had taken from the house.
It did not matter about the script being in elvish; he could work out most of what he needed from the illustrations.
He quickly found his own location. The elves had marked it with a red spot, as he was able to verify by looking at the lie of neighbouring islands. The huge cave they were all enclosed in had been indicated by a large oval shape and wavy line symbols depicted the lake.
He was relieved to discover that routes or channels had been drawn in and that one of them was not far from where he was. If he were interpreting the map correctly, it meant the path branched off just before a secondary cave with six outlets. The scale at the edge of map showed that he had about eighty miles to cover on foot once he got off this raft and onto land.
A bloodied fingerprint on that little cave marked where the obboona had said Tossàlor was.
That’s an excellent turn of events. But eighty miles is a long way and I shan’t even get started if I can’t get this platform underway. Tirîgon placed his hand on a wooden symbol and called out an order. ‘Forwards!’
Nothing budged.
He tried all ten fingers. He tried every command he could come up with. He tried a harsh voice, a wheedling tone, a friendly request.
Nothing.
Tirîgon scratched his head. I wonder if the number of runes says something about the load-bearing capacity? If so, I have an idea . . . He grabbed his sword and started hacking at the planks which constituted the jetty, and discarding them over the edge. Are we going down at all?
His actions had no effect, so he jettisoned more pieces of wood. Gradually the deck started to sink.
I was right! He looked down.
The cascades had ceased flowing and the lake was calm with a gently ruffled surface.
According to the map it was about three miles to the other bank. But it was still out of sight. The cave seemed to be of endless dimensions.
