by Markus Heitz
The platform is wooden, so it will float. He would be able to move it in the water. He continued to cast planks from the back of the platform with his sword, increasing the speed of their descent. His only hope was to use the quay-fragment as a raft.
He had no intention of dying here in Phondrasôn. What he wanted was to find his brother and sister. And then he would seek his fortune: fame, wealth and glory.
Phondrasôn, 5427th division of unendingness (6241st solar cycle), spring.
Firûsha had to admit that Crotàgon had not exaggerated: she lay in a smoothly polished stone basin full of warm water made fragrant with summer blossoms. If I didn’t already have a perfectly good home – oh, and if my brothers were here too – I’d be quite happy to stay here.
This room, where the Goldsteel warrior Crotàgon had brought her first thing, must have been designed for a king; it bore absolutely no resemblance to the shabby hovel she had spent the night in. The floors were of polished marble and there were shiny water inlets directly over the tub. A fire, strewn with herbs and resinous wood, gave constant sweet-scented warmth. She wallowed in the bath, letting her recent ordeals and hardships float away.
Firûsha got out of the basin and dried herself with the soft towels Crotàgon had provided. There was a deep-gold dress to put on, and a pair of soft shoes.
She then went to join her captor – not in the kitchen this time, but through a side door he had previously pointed out to her. She had no idea what to expect.
She knocked and opened the door.
He greeted her, approval at her appearance in his voice. He was dressed in a flowing black robe with grey and yellow embroidery. ‘I can see you are feeling better now.’
‘Indeed.’ Firûsha felt immediately at home in this room, decorated as it was with familiar älfar runes. The lighting came from bone candelabra. She was surprised to find he even had three fine abstract paintings hanging on the walls. Apart from a long table and four chairs there were two elegant couches. I would not have expected him to be so aesthetically minded! ‘I am starting to understand what you meant when you spoke of what you would be leaving behind if you returned to Dsôn.’
Suddenly she was homesick. She wondered about her siblings and what might have befallen them both.
When Crotàgon nodded in response, his long, dark-grey hair fell forward and he brushed it away from his face. ‘I have come to a decision. But sing for me first, little älf-girl.’
I might make you regret that. That nice bath and the lovely dress aren’t going to make up for the way you order me about. I am not your slave. She comforted herself with the thought that her singing would bind Crotàgon more completely to her. Of course I shall sing for you. You will come to wish you had never even heard my voice.
Firûsha stood with her eyes closed and her arms relaxed at her sides; she concentrated on her song.
First she gave him The Bloodflower again. And then a children’s song, a lullaby her own mother used to sing to her. She looked at him boldly when she was finished. ‘I shall sing some more once we have eaten and you have let me know your decision.’
He stared at her absently. His soul was still captive in the world of sound she had created. He cleared his throat. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll go and get our food.’
Crotàgon served her dishes that were delicious and filling, though they were not as good as what her own cook would produce back home. The meat was tender, the vegetables garnished with herbs and there was a cereal with fresh mint. ‘Do you like it?’ he enquired.
She did not want to upset him so she smiled. I really don’t want to ask what sort of meat I’m eating.
He laughed. ‘A diplomatic response. But I can see through you.’ He threw down his fork. ‘Try as I may to make the place like home, the food available here in Phondrasôn is awful, isn’t it? We simply don’t have the spices. And there’s no wine in these parts. Not to mention the quality of the meat.’
‘Yes, I was trying not to dwell on that. Oh well. It seems to be dead and it’s cooked all the way through, so I’m sure it won’t kill me.’
‘Would I want to poison my little songbird?’ He raised his goblet of flavoured water to drink her health. ‘Here’s to you, and your wonderfully pure voice. I cannot think of any better entertainment.’
Firûsha raised her own beaker and took a tiny sip. She was eager to know his decision. ‘Now for my dessert – what have you concluded?’
He was serious now. ‘I have thought deeply about it. If what you tell me is true, then Dsôn Sòmran would be better for me than staying here, however opulent my surroundings. I can be useful to my own people if I go back. I will take you with me.’
‘That’s marvellous news!’ Every fibre of her being quivered with joy. I shall be able to see Mother again. And my brothers. ‘When do we leave?’
‘As soon as possible. I will make arrangements. We need provisions and a sledge to carry everything. The journey will be a hard one.’ He spread his hands. ‘What you see here was not all my own work, of course.’
‘So you found it?’
‘A friend did it all for me. He wanted me to have a lovely home. He designed everything and I followed the plans. He made all the furniture and the lamps and created the artwork. He did all that in return for the promise I made him.’
‘And that promise . . .?’
‘To take him with me if I ever left Phondrasôn.’
‘So he is your partner?’
At this Crotàgon burst out laughing. ‘No! Certainly not! If he had been my partner I would have killed him long ago. He is too much like hard work. Very moody, always changing his mind. He knows he’s difficult to live with and he enjoys his own company. And I’m the same, really. I visit him often and I take him fresh meat.’
So far Firûsha could not see any problem. ‘But that’s fine; all three of us will travel together. There’ll be two swords instead of one. It’ll be safer.’
He laughed. ‘He’s no warrior. He’s an artist. If you gave him a weapon he’d turn it into some kind of statue on a pedestal, I suppose. He would want you.’ He leaned forward and touched her on the arm, on the shoulder and on the neck. ‘Not interested in you in the way you might think, but for a sculpture, perhaps. That sort of desire is more dangerous.’
My BONES! Firûsha’s eyes were wide with horror. ‘But I’m the same race! How could he?’
‘Because he thinks that älfar bones are the height of perfection. That’s why they banished him in the first place.’
She vaguely remembered her father telling a story.
‘Tossàlor.’
‘That’s him.’
Her optimism disappeared. ‘Do we have to take him?’
‘He is my . . . friend.’
‘He’s a serial killer!’
‘I like him, though.’
He likes him? What sort of a stupid argument is that? ‘But . . . he never told you what had become of Dsôn Faïmon. Why in the name of everything infamous do you think that was? He must have had his own agenda to pursue.’ Firûsha was not mastering her dislike of the murderous artist she had not, as yet, met. ‘I don’t want Tossàlor to come. And anyway, he won’t be let into Dsôn. What he did was absolutely unforgivable. My father will never pardon him.’
Crotàgon grinned. ‘That’s a thought. Luckily we’ll have the governor’s daughter with us when we get there. Your father will be so delighted to have you back that I’m sure he’d stretch his generous feelings to a pardon for Tossàlor.’
Firûsha sighed. ‘I very much doubt it.’ I never should have made those boasts. I must ensure he doesn’t think I can do it all. ‘When all’s said and done you must appreciate that it was him who banished me in the first place. He always takes his position extremely seriously. He would never put personal matters above the law he represents.’
It was clear from Crotàgon’s expression that he would be standing by his decision. ‘We shall see,’ he replied, unimpressed by what she had said. ‘Regard
less, I promised Tossàlor I would take him with me if I went home. Let’s go and find him and see what he wants to do. If the gods are on your side, who knows, maybe he’ll opt to stay behind.’ He indicated her plate. ‘Have you finished?’ His mood had changed for the worse. He was displeased by her vehement stance against the artist.
‘Yes.’ Firûsha put on her most winning smile. ‘Thank you. And thank you for the dress, too.’ She smoothed the material down. ‘Where is it from?’ She could have bitten her tongue. I think I can guess.
‘Tossàlor gave me a chest full of clothes to store. He said he didn’t want it any more. I was going to use some of the textiles for towels and linens.’
Firûsha had little difficulty imaging how Tossàlor had obtained the clothes. I’m wearing the apparel of a murder victim. She scanned the room, taking in the sight of the bones used in the fashioning of the lamps and chandeliers. The remains of dead älfar? She gave herself a shake; Crotàgon was clearing the table. She asked him where she was to spend the evening.
‘Where you slept last night,’ he answered coldly.
‘In the cage?’ She stared at him incredulously. ‘You can’t be serious! It’s not as if I were planning to run off!’
‘Think of it as a measure to protect you from the clutches of Tossàlor. This way he can’t get at your lovely bones while you are asleep,’ he teased her, pointing firmly at the door. ‘Off you go.’
He’s treating me like his slave. ‘But I shan’t sleep a wink! I’ll be huddled on that hard floor . . .’ She was desperate to get back to Dsôn. I’ll have him humiliated just like he humiliated me! The fact that he had saved her life was beside the point. She was not feeling grateful and she was not prepared to overlook or excuse his attitude.
‘You are young. You’ll be fine.’ He moved towards her and made plain that he would brook no arguing on the subject. ‘I can’t be getting things ready for the trip and looking after your safety at the same time. I prefer to know you are protected.’
Firûsha cursed and left the room, going back through the corridor to the wretched kitchen. She clambered back into the cage and sat down on the floor, her arms crossed defiantly. ‘You are some kind of a monster,’ she hissed at Crotàgon. He grinned and laid more wood on to burn before slamming and bolting the cage door. He had fixed a new locking mechanism to the iron bars, she saw. Then he turned around, humming. ‘Why don’t you give me a song? The one about . . .’
‘You can sing to yourself till you’re blue in the face,’ she snapped. She watched him assemble equipment on the table.
‘My dear young älf-girl. I am leaving this house for the sake of my people. I want to stand by them and support them, since I was not there in their hour of need when Dsôn Faïmon was destroyed.’ He did not stop what he was doing. ‘You should have grasped by now that I do not need you at all. I am only taking you with me because I want to and because your status as governor’s daughter might be of use. When you sing, it reminds me not to forget to take you along when I leave. Do you understand?’
She snorted with anger but she took up her song once more. She was actually delighted that they would be leaving so soon. Her sweet revenge would come.
She was aware of the sharp piece of bone she had previously set aside to use as a dagger and the thought calmed her. If Tossàlor comes within a pace of me, I’ll plunge this into his neck.
*
Two more nights’ sleep and another nice bath brought her nearer their departure.
Crotàgon of the Goldsteel Unit wore a heavy suit of armour he had constructed himself: a combination of armour plating and steel rings fixed onto a leather base. He did not put on the mask or the stinking fur garment. He was now to travel as a self-acknowledged älf, not longer disguising his identity. His broad-tipped spear would serve as a walking staff. ‘Are you ready?’
The transport sledge was loaded with tightly closed sacks. A space had been left for her cage.
‘Get going,’ she said crossly. ‘I’ll enjoy watching you struggle like a packhorse.’ He had allowed another blanket for her against the cold. She gathered it around her shoulders.
Taking the straps over his shoulders he strode off, pulling the sledge behind him.
They left the steppe with its red and green grasses, leaving an all-too-obvious track, and headed into the forest. As they travelled over the undergrowth, aromatic smells of mint and warm amber rose up.
Firûsha turned round and saw the house behind them. He has really made the break and given all that up.
She sang a jolly marching song to spur him on and to pass the time. She wanted him addicted to her voice so she could exercise power over him. I shall train him like you train a dog.
She knew it could be done. Her mother had talked about it and instructed her, but it was difficult. Very difficult.
Simple souls such as barbarians or óarcos would quickly fall under the spell of an älfar voice. It only took a few notes and you could make them do nearly anything you wanted, her mother had told her. Female singers with perfect pitch could plunge these simple minds into total confusion and make them permanently mad.
But to charm an älf in this way, so that he would fulfil your every wish and happily sacrifice his own life for you – that was significantly harder.
I’ll have plenty of time to practise while we’re travelling. Firûsha was aware that Crotàgon was the only protection she had. He alone would keep her from being devoured by Phondrasôn’s monsters and would ensure her safety with Tossàlor.
There was no sun and no stars here in the cave they were crossing, so it was impossible to gauge how the time might be passing. ‘What makes the temperature change? And where does the light come from?’ she asked.
‘I have no idea,’ Crotàgon replied without turning round. He found it difficult to talk; pulling the loaded sledge required enormous effort. ‘Magic, I expect. But don’t worry your pretty little head about the kind of things we’ll come across. A lot cannot be explained away. All the gods – the ones we know and the ones we’ve never heard of – have gone to absolute excess down here. Perhaps they were showing off. Perhaps it was some kind of contest, to see who could come up with the most extraordinary phenomenon.’
‘Oh yes? For example?’
He stopped, dropped the reins and drank from his leather flask. The grey hair adhered to the sweat on his brow. ‘I’ve found caverns where the water flowed upside down. I’ve been places you could walk up walls without falling off and do a somersault on the roof. Once I stumbled upon a hall of mirrors it was almost impossible to find my way out of.’
‘That sounds . . . fascinating.’
‘It’s not fascinating at all if you’re desperate to get out and there are skeletons round each corner. People who failed to find the exits. Death comes in many different guises. As a monster, in the form of poison gas, a sudden abyss, a tiny insect with a lethal sting, a spirit. The list is endless. That’s why I chose to defend my own small region. I restricted my outings to the immediate vicinity of my house and the tunnels near it. Tossàlor’s attitude to risk is quite different.’ He took up the leather straps once more. They set off.
‘Isn’t he safer staying in the confines of his house if he’s no fighter?’
‘Yes. He’s so obsessed with his art that he doesn’t see the dangers a warrior does,’ he answered. ‘But that doesn’t stop him from exploring. He’s drawn up a map of all his journeys. If there’s anyone who knows how to get out of here, it’ll be him. That’s another good reason for taking him along.’
‘I’d have thought it would be enough to get the map. Why would we need him?’ Firûsha mused, looking at the landscape.
The grass was getting sparser and little, skeletal bushes with branches like claws snagged at their sledge. They hung heavy with fat blue berries.
Firûsha was just wondering if they tasted good when one burst open, releasing a long flying insect with spikes on its body. It buzzed around, scattering dark yellow droplets in its
wake.
Crotàgon smashed it with a gloved hand and quickened his pace. ‘I’d forgotten these horrors hatch around now,’ he said, puffing with effort. ‘Take care! If you see any more of them, let me know at once.’
‘Of course. What’s with these flies?’
‘They kill you. The poison they carry thins your blood and it seeps out through the pores in your skin. You bleed to death.’ He started a steady jog. ‘I’ll try to get away from here as fast as possible. Once we get to where Tossàlor lives, we’ll be safe from these insects.’
So we go and seek protection with an älf that likes to kill älfar and harvest their bones? Firûsha gulped, huddling down deeper into her blankets.
More of the blue buds started to pop open on the strange shrubs.
The concert of buzzing grew louder on all sides.
Chapter VI
Red wetness on grey stone I spill
spurting from arteries I sever.
Hatred glows in the eyes I kill.
My blades are sharp, as sharp as ever.
My name is End
and Death beside.
I murder at will.
With Fate I ride.
At night, by day,
unlooked-for guest.
A silent gust
blows my victims away.
It cannot last. I shall be killed.
I have broken every law.
My punishment comes, my blood will be spilled.
Eternal darkness opens its door.
But until that befall
my name shall be Death.
My Name shall be the End of All.
Excerpt from the epic poem Young Gods
composed by Carmondai, master of word and image
Phondrasôn, 5427th Division of unendingness (6241st solar cycle), spring.
Marandëi unwound the bandage from Sisaroth’s leg. ‘That’s looking better. The wound is healing, and with this salve there should not even be a scar.’ She smiled encouragingly at him. ‘You won’t need to put on another dressing.’
‘Good.’ He nodded, thin-lipped. But where does this get me?
