Dark Paths

by Markus Heitz

  So he’s harmless enough. She returned the smile. ‘You wanted to impress your partner?’

  ‘She’s not my partner yet,’ he replied, still bent forward. ‘And with my boots in this condition I stand no chance at all with her.’

  The älf at the controls joined in their laughter. The guard cursed under his helmet and looked out at the rain. ‘I thought it was supposed to be springtime,’ he muttered crossly. ‘The sun should be out and it should have started to warm up by now. When I’m on wall patrol I’ll be soaked to the skin in no time.’

  The ice was broken.

  A dull thud, an impact against the pod and a shadow flitting past the window.

  ‘What was that?’ The hairs on the back of Ranôria’s neck stood on end.

  ‘That was a stone falling,’ said the operative, moving two levers to speed up their progress.

  ‘Start of a landslide, then?’ The guard exchanged startled looks with the other passengers.

  ‘Could be. Let’s get ourselves up to the next level. We’ll get out and I’ll check the situation.’ He stared out nervously. ‘This stretch was thoroughly examined only a very short time ago. They said it was fine. That’s why that loose stone makes me uneasy. They’ve recently renewed all the netting so it shouldn’t be possible.’

  ‘There were problems the other day on the north side. There’s been far too much rain,’ said the älf with the muddy boots. ‘Slate can’t take all that water.’

  As if in confirmation of what he was saying there was a loud noise and a small boulder crashed down onto their roof; another burst through the windscreen in a shower of glass fragments and rolled over to where they were standing.

  Ranôria shrieked and tried to get to safety; the operative at the controls was lying on the floor, his neck badly cut and his face covered in blood from the broken glass.

  The platform had halted; the stone must have damaged one of the levers. The mist seeped into the cabin, clouding their view and letting in the damp and the cold.

  The soldier moved over and examined the älf’s injuries. ‘We’ve got to get this going again. He may bleed to death.’

  I don’t think that was a normal landslide. Ranôria studied the stone that had come through the window. Just the right size for throwing. She did not look up. Maybe someone was keen the cabin should stop just here? She looked at the älf with the dirty boots; he was trying to work out how to master the controls. I wonder if he has something to do with it after all?

  ‘Any idea how to drive this thing?’ he asked Ranôria. ‘This is ridiculous. I’ve been living here for eleven divisions of unendingness and I use the lifts all the time but I haven’t got the foggiest idea how they work.’

  The soldier let go of the wounded man, sprang to his feet and drew his sword. In one swift movement, he drove it through the other älf’s body, clamping his hand over his mouth to stop him calling out. The mortally injured victim fell to the floor next to the wounded operative. The soldier finished off the lift-controller with a sword thrust through the neck.

  This must be Acòrhia’s doing! Ranôria looked out of the window to see where she would land if she jumped out to escape the murderous soldier. The fog gave no clear answers. It could have been half a pace down or thirty paces.

  The älf towered over her in his armour, his sword pointed at her belly. His face was still hidden behind his visor. ‘I’ve a message for you. You should never have doubted the guilt of your offspring.’ His voice was threatening.

  She could not think of a way out of this trap apart from an attack – and any attempt would surely cost her her life.

  I should have smelled a rat when he said he had to get to the wall. The guards on duty there always stay in special quarters underneath the fortifications.

  ‘And having passed on the message,’ he said, loosening the muscles in his shoulders, ‘I come to the second part of my assignment.’ And he thrust at her with his sword.

  Ranôria leaped aside and the sword narrowly missed her, burying itself in the wood of the cabin wall. With all the strength she could muster she kicked the assassin in the side to knock him off balance. She sprang past him, out through the door opening.

  She fell several paces down through rain and fog before meeting a solid surface. From the sound her feet made she guessed she had landed on the slates of a roof; she could get no purchase on the slippery tiles.

  She slid down the incline on her seat, her fingers grabbing in vain at the damp roof. Her fall was broken when she crashed against a chimney pot. There was a crack and a searing pain went up her leg.

  My ankle! Clutching at the chimney for all she was worth, she shifted her weight. ‘Hallo? Can anyone hear me?’ She was desperate. The fog prevented her seeing where she was – she had no idea where the house was in relation to others, nor which level she was in.

  Her voice did not seem to carry at all in the mist.

  Ranôria took a look down the chimney. Surely whoever lives here ought to be able to hear me? She shouted down through the warm smoke that made her cough. ‘Hey, you down there! I need your help! I fell out from the lift pod and I landed on your roof and I’ve . . .’

  There was a clink and a dark shadow landed on the tiles next to her.

  The murderer! He’s not given up. She fell silent and clung to the brickwork, trying to hide.

  Everything was quiet. Each of them was listening for the sound of the other’s movements.

  The wind made little noise, but whirled the mist around, taking pleasure in forming lifelike figures with it.

  The rain continued to sheet down on the city and Ranôria’s clothes and hair were soaked. Her ankle was causing her a great deal of distress and she gritted her teeth to avoid groaning with pain and betraying her position.

  ‘I shall find you,’ whispered the killer. ‘The fog can’t protect you from me.’

  Bolts were shot back and a trapdoor opened. Warm yellow light from a lantern spilled across the tiles. It signified relief, and safety.

  ‘Is anyone there?’ called a female älfar voice. The lamp moved from side to side.

  Only four paces and I’d be inside, Ranôria guessed. At the same time she was horribly aware that the murderer would immediately know her whereabouts as soon as she moved. The broken ankle would make it impossible to move nimbly.

  The lantern moved. A hand and an arm were just visible through the misty air. ‘Is this some kind of a joke? Who’s there?’

  Ranôria decided to risk it.

  Without answering, she left the comparative safety behind the chimney pot and slid towards the opening, moaning with pain when she put her injured foot down to help keep her balance.

  The light swung round. ‘Who is it?’ demanded the voice.

  The assassin rushed down the steep roof, clattering over the slate. He dived towards her like a bird of prey.

  There he is! Ranôria could see his shadow; she rolled to the side.

  The blade missed her heart but pierced her right arm. She screamed. The impact made her spin round and she slid down headfirst into the greyness, rapidly approaching the edge of the roof – until someone grabbed her foot. Her fall was halted.

  ‘I’ve got you,’ said the female älfar voice.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ranôria sobbed, feeling the hot blood stream out from the wound in her arm. But where is the killer? Terrified, she raised her head and stared into the fog, her heart beating fit to burst.

  ‘Can you move?’

  ‘No, I can’t. Please don’t let go.’

  Other voices joined in. ‘We’re going to pull you in. Don’t be afraid.’

  ‘Whatever, in the name of all infamy, are you doing up there on my roof?’ This time it was a male voice. ‘I hope this is not some trick to break into my house.’

  ‘Father, just help us,’ said the girl firmly, ‘before you start accusing anybody . . .’ Her sentence ended in a scream, quickly followed by a groan from her father.

  ‘What?’ Ranôria was being pu
lled up. ‘Has something happened?’

  The lantern rolled down the roof past her and went over the edge.

  ‘It certainly has.’ The killer was speaking now. ‘But it’s nothing to worry your little head about.’

  ‘Let me go!’ Ranôria shouted, as she slowly approached the skylight.

  Her struggle was all in vain. The slate she had been grasping came away in her hand.

  Her legs were being pulled through the skylight and a hand grabbed her cloak, pulling at her upper body. It was the soldier. He was in the attic. ‘Let me finish what I started . . .’

  ‘Not as long as I have breath in my body to fight back.’ Ranôria jabbed at him with the broken slate in her grip. It shattered against his helmet, but some splinters found their way through the visor.

  He jerked his head to one side with a grunt and fell back through the roof window. He did not release his grasp of her leg, and Ranôria was pulled into the attic with him.

  You haven’t won yet. She landed on him as she fell. A second lamp hanging on one of the beams illuminated the scene.

  I’ve got to kill him first, before he can – She managed to get her uninjured hand on his dagger and pull it out. She moved to plunge the blade into his neck.

  The älfar reached up and held her hand fast, so that the blade merely scratched the skin of his throat. ‘Not bad.’ He punched her in the face and pushed her off.

  She landed on the dead body of the owner of the house. His throat had been cut. His daughter lay crumpled at his side. She was too giddy with pain to think clearly and she moved clumsily. She had lost too much blood.

  I have to save my children. Ranôria made a futile attempt to drag herself to the stairs but she was kicked in the head and nearly passed out. It was as if she were wearing a red veil; she realised it was her own blood flowing into her eyes.

  ‘In recognition of your near escape from me, I’m inclined to let you live,’ her attacker said. ‘But the woman who commissioned my services was adamant, so I regret I must carry out the task in full.’

  Ranôria was thrown onto her back, but she could only see her killer vaguely. ‘Please,’ she whispered, ‘I beg you. Let me live so I can save my innocent children.’

  ‘You are a good mother. What a pity.’

  ‘Then at least let me die knowing the truth. Were you the one who killed Sémaina’s family?’

  There was a short pause. ‘No. I had nothing to do with that.’

  ‘Who ordered my death?’ Ranôria was cold. She could no longer feel her back at all. She was so tired that all the pain ebbed away. Neither her ankle nor her arm hurt her now. Death has come and he will take me to endingness.

  ‘Can’t you work out who it was?’

  ‘Acòrhia?’

  His response was a movement of his head but with her sight failing she was unable to read the sign. Was that a yes or a no? ‘Speak the name . . .’

  Before she could repeat the request, he had driven his sword into her floundering heart. He destroyed the organ with a twist of the blade. The muscle of life ceased to beat.

  Rain from the open skylight dampened her face. The murderer smashed the lantern on the floor and set the attic alight. Fire would consume her body and eliminate any traces of his crime.

  Her eyes lost their warmth. The unique singing voice, which had captivated thousands of älfar in her time, making them laugh and cry, had faded forever.

  Chapter VII

  Isolated and remote,

  uncanny and bleak-hearted.

  This place alone can sunder

  what can never else be parted.

  Vale of shadows

  . . . come to me, dark sister

  Vale of shadows

  . . . come to me, dark brother

  Vale of shadows

  . . . come, join hands for the dance

  in the vale of shadows

  Released, unchained, unfettered:

  shadows are beyond recapture.

  They dance with any that they find

  and seek new ties of rapture.

  Vale of shadows

  . . . come to me, dark sister

  Vale of shadows

  . . . come to me, dark brother

  Vale of shadows

  . . . come, join hands for the dance

  in the vale of shadows.

  Watch out, hold fast!

  You tether him in vain –

  he will break free.

  Until the last

  you must remain.

  in the vale of shadows,

  vale of pain . . .

  ‘Vale of Shadows’ from the epic poem Young Gods

  composed by Carmondai, master of word and image

  Phondrasôn, some time after the 5427th division of unendingness.

  I hope it tastes better this time. Everything else has been mouldy. Tirîgon gutted the fish and roasted his catch over the fire, skewered on a piece of bone. It would be his first proper food for ages; even if it had more bones than flesh, it was decidedly better than nothing.

  He turned the fish patiently on the makeshift spit while studying the map he held carefully in his other hand. It had served him well up to now.

  The elves of the floating island had gone to great lengths to make an exact cartographic record of their immediate environment, but Tirîgon was starting to suspect that Phondrasôn was not a single place but a multiplicity. Like a box within a box within a box. One cave opened up into another, or into a tunnel. Steps branched off corridors, giving access to different levels.

  He had passed chasms spanned by mile-long bridges suspended from chains originating up in the impenetrable blackness. Tirîgon could not imagine what the chains were fastened to and had no idea whether the bridges would bear his weight. Take the risk seemed to be the motto for travel in Phondrasôn.

  Because he was keeping strictly to the map, avoiding any deviations or confrontations of any kind, he had made reasonable progress. Hunger and thirst were his chief adversaries.

  The fish gave off an appetising smell. It was done.

  At last! Something to eat! Tirîgon settled back into the niche at the side of the path and tucked in, being careful to remove the bones. He tried to work out how much longer his journey to Tossàlor would take.

  He reckoned he had already covered about seventy-one miles. So there are still nine to go.

  He did not know how much time had passed. A glow from shimmering moss was the only light source in the tunnels, and even that was occasional. Once he came across a discarded torch he could light. He created sparks by rubbing together fragments of dried bone. With no discernible night and day, he became accustomed to sleeping when he was tired and moving when he woke.

  I must stink by now. Cleanliness was of vital importance to the älfar race; he was uncomfortable with his filth. Phondrasôn was extremely unhelpful in this regard.

  Tirîgon chucked the remains of the fish into the fire and then picked up a fragment of wood, one of the last salvageable pieces he still had from his raft. He began to carve it out. He liked to fashion little figurines with his knife to distract himself from his worries. This had always been his favourite leisure pursuit back in Dsôn.

  What do I do once I’ve found Tossàlor? Say hallo politely and hope he doesn’t want my skeleton for artwork? He had whittled the rough likeness of an älf with a little sword and spear to complete it. He could not provide more intricate detail with the tools at hand. Maybe I should overpower him and tie him up before I try to talk to him.

  He placed the little figure on the ground next to him and tossed a couple of old animal bones into the flames, together with two of the yellow stones he had come across. They gave off an intense heat and must, he thought, be somehow related to the coal used in Dsôn as fuel. It had been a lucky find; a lucky charm. So far nothing had tried to attack him as he slept.

  He laid his head on his arm and watched the flames, listening to the crackle of the fire. He wondered about his siblings and how they might be
faring.

  He hoped that Tion and the gods of infamy were supporting them in the way he himself had been helped. He had landed safely on the lake with his landing stage remnant and had eventually floated to land, where he had traveled through tunnels, shafts and galleries without encountering resistance or danger. He had lost a lot of weight – his clothes and armour now hung on him – but he was alive.

  They have to survive. They have to! We will find each other. He clenched his fist. Even if Phondrasôn were a thousand times bigger we would find each other. We are bonded.

  A pebble clattered down the rock and rolled to a stop near his head.

  It could be nothing – or it might announce the arrival of someone attracted by the fire.

  Tirîgon scrambled to his feet and climbed up the rock wall onto a narrow ledge. From here he could watch the niche he had been sitting in.

  A dark-clad figure the size of a human was silently approaching, drawn dagger in hand.

  From his vantage point Tirîgon could not tell if it was a barbarian, man or woman. But it was clear the intentions were not friendly.

  The figure came close to the fire and, obviously hungry, grabbed the fish skin that Tirîgon had rejected. It knelt down cautiously and stopped chewing every so often to listen, head swivelling.

  When all the tough skin had finally been eaten, the figure’s gaze fell on the little carving Tirîgon had made. It lifted it up and held it to the flames for closer examination; the light fell on the dirty features of a female.

  Is she wearing a mask? Tirîgon tried to get a closer look. What he had thought to be gloves turned out to be a gauntlet of skin. Is this another obboona? If so, she needs killing at once!

  She blew the dust gently off the little figurine, put away her dagger and pulled out a needle-thin stiletto blade from the folds of her garment. She continued the work Tirîgon had started.