Dark Paths

by Markus Heitz

  She’ll ruin it! He rolled off the ledge and landed behind her, his sword drawn. ‘Leave it,’ he ordered in barbarian. ‘I don’t want you to touch my artwork with your stinking hands.’

  She froze, then slowly rose to her feet. She seemed to grow in stature. ‘Do I hear right? Is that perhaps the commanding voice of an älf?’ she responded with perfect älfar diction. She raised her hand. ‘So this is something you made?’

  Tirîgon came round to stand in front of her, blade still poised threateningly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s very good. Under these conditions. You’d need better tools, of course, but I can see you would make an excellent master sculptor.’ The female watched him closely from behind the wrinkled old skin she had covered her face with. ‘Oh, how young you are! Very young indeed!’

  ‘I may be young but I know how to kill.’ The expression in her reddish-brown eyes was cold and cruel in a way Tirîgon was not familiar with, even among his own personal enemies. She is clever. That’s obvious. ‘Put it down!’

  ‘And then you will kill me, I suppose,’ she said, keeping hold of the carving. ‘So I’d be ill-advised to do what you say.’ Her tone was mocking. ‘Is the little älf scared his tiny dolly might get hurt? Perhaps you need it so’s you can get to sleep. It’s such a horrid place, Phondrasôn, isn’t it?’

  This is not how an obboona would behave. ‘No, I need it to plunge into your heart.’ He brought the sharp sword-blade right up to her throat. The filthy covering of wrinkled skin fell apart with a dry rustle, revealing cleaner, lighter flesh underneath.

  ‘Well said!’ She waved the little bodkin. ‘But do you think I’ll let you do that? Or might I open your carotid artery first?’ To his surprise, her eyes turned black.

  The campfire extinguished with a rush of sound and a cloud of sparks flew at Tirîgon.

  She’s an älf! He sprang backwards to avoid the glowing shower of embers and struck out, his sword making a powerful horizontal arc. She must have lost her mind if she’s dressing as an obboona!

  A hand grabbed his long black hair and hurled him around into the cliff face, briefly stunning him. He thrust his weapon out behind him.

  A cool laugh sounded in his left ear. ‘That’s not going to get you anywhere, young älf!’ Her slim blade caressed the skin on his throat. ‘Here’s a little souvenir for you.’

  He threw himself backward, breathing hard, trying to knock her over with his weight, but there was nothing behind him. Before he could recover his balance, the stranger pulled his feet from under him and he landed on his back in the dying embers. The heat went straight through his armour.

  Is she some kind of warrior woman? Tirîgon rolled over and sprang to his feet, plunging his sword into the darkness without meeting its target.

  This time her laughter seemed maliciously joyful. The flames jumped up again. Light returned to the little niche and illuminated the two älfar standing face to face.

  Tirîgon put his fingers to the wound on his neck. A scratch. Carefully delivered. He stared at her. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Names are nothing here in Phondrasôn,’ she replied. ‘It is deeds that count. Deeds we do or deeds we leave undone.’ She was still holding the little carving but had stowed the stiletto knife. ‘I have decided not to take your life, young älf. You have noticed I would have no difficulties on that score.’

  ‘You must have been exiled for being completely mad,’ said Tirîgon. He lowered his sword, aware the weapon was of no use. She had showed her superiority clearly enough. What will result from this meeting?

  ‘For pretending I am an obboona? No. I only started to do that when I got to Phondrasôn. Nobody likes them so I get left alone. It saves a lot of trouble, this get-up.’

  She is very beautiful, even though she’s covered in dirt. Tirîgon sheathed his sword. If I’d met her back in Dsôn and she’d been nicely dressed – and clean – I could imagine wanting her for my partner! ‘If you won’t tell me your name, how about telling me why you got banished?’

  ‘I am the older of us two and I’ve clearly been in this ghastly place a whole lot longer than you have. I insist on hearing your story first. It will be quicker in the telling than my own.’ The älf-woman looked round. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got another of those fish anywhere?’

  ‘No, but I can show you where I caught it. There’s a pond near here and the water’s shallow. It was quite easy.’ Tirîgon sat down and she did the same. ‘I came here of my own free will.’

  ‘Aha. So you are a brave little soldier wanting to gain his combat colours,’ she laughed. ‘Why don’t you people ever do anything sensible as a rite of passage? If I were a monster or some mad woman I’d have finished you off with no trouble at all. Your family would be waiting a very long time for you to come back.’ She touched her own throat to remind him of the wound she had inflicted.

  ‘No. It’s not some coming-of-age ritual. I’m here to look after my brother and my sister, who’ve been exiled. They’re innocent of the crime they’ve been accused of.’

  ‘And your siblings must be powerful sorcerers.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because I don’t see them here.’ The älf-woman smiled. For the first time her expression looked genuine.

  Tirîgon sighed.

  ‘We were separated. I am looking for them.’ And all I’ve got to guide me are my own good intentions and two-thirds of a map that probably only shows a fraction of these maze-like paths. ‘I don’t feel like joking about it.’

  ‘You have my sympathies.’ She tossed the little figurine over to him and he caught it. ‘I really meant it when I said you would make a good carver. Not many have the ability to work in such detail using only a common dagger. If you created this from wood, I can only imagine your skill with bone. Do you know Tossàlor?’

  ‘The murderer?’ The words slipped out.

  She grinned. ‘He prefers to be known as Master and he insists that he is a misunderstood artist. He lives down here and I’m positive he wants an apprentice to train. And if you’re not suitable as a pupil he can make you famous by using your bones in a sculpture.’ The älf-woman peeled off the rest of the false skin veil, revealing long brown hair encrusted with brilliants.

  It’s as if she has all the stars of the firmament in her hair. Tirîgon stared in fascination. ‘I . . . what . . .?’

  ‘That’s why I keep my head covered,’ she stammered, embarrassed.

  ‘Were you born like that?’

  ‘No. It was a silly mistake. Soon after I arrived in Phondrasôn I got stuck in one of the magic fields. There are lots of them here. You never know in advance what their effect will be. Sometimes they’ll cause a creature to explode in mid-air, sometimes they’ll make a beast grow three times its natural size, and sometimes they’ll cripple you by stealing your limbs. They give you the strangest characteristics. There are infinite possibilities. You must be careful. Watch out for magic and keep well away.’ She pushed her shining hair back; it reflected the firelight. ‘And this is what the magic fields did to me. Amongst other things, of course.’ She threw a couple of bones into the flames. ‘If you like, I can take you to Tossàlor.’

  ‘I would like to see him, but I have no intention of living near someone who has murdered people of our own race. And I certainly don’t want to learn his craft. But thank you. So now you know my story . . .’

  ‘You’d like to hear mine?’

  Tirîgon nodded.

  ‘It was a trivial matter. I defended myself against an importunate suitor, that’s all. But he died in the fight. And since the weapon he had used against me couldn’t be located –’ She looked at him. ‘They accused me of having committed murder rather than acting in self-defence. All the evidence went against me and there hadn’t been any witnesses, so I ended up here, in exile.’

  Tirîgon tried to read her expression, but her features were coated in dirt. He wanted to know if she were telling the truth.

  ‘What was your tr
ade, back in Dsôn?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Because you move like a highly trained warrior. My father . . .’ He stopped himself from mentioning Aïsolon was the governor. ‘My father was one of the wall sentries for a long time. He taught me everything I know.’

  ‘He gave up too soon, if you ask me,’ she objected. ‘No, I served a high-born älf-woman. I was her personal bodyguard.’

  ‘Aha? And who was she?’

  ‘It is not important. She did not stand up for me when I needed her support. I was bitterly disappointed.’

  Tirîgon was not convinced by the story she was telling him. She’s refusing to name names. I think she’s lying. Nobody in Dsôn kept a personal bodyguard as protection against other älfar. Any feuds were fought in secret, and it was words that were used, not violent deeds: rumours, of course, and lawsuits. Nobody would order an assassin to get rid of a rival.

  Properly trained hit men were very rare nowadays. They had all gone to Tark Draan, Aïsolon had told him. Virssagòn had been the best of them. He had specialised in inventing new weaponry and developing techniques for their use.

  A thought made him sit upright.

  By all the gods of infamy! Tirîgon tried to control his reaction but he couldn’t help staring at her intently. This time he was not concentrating on her brilliant shimmering hair. I wonder if she was one of Virssagòn’s former pupils?

  She could tell that he was trying to work out who she was. ‘Well, there we have it. We’re both stuck here in Phondrasôn,’ she said quietly, laying a hand on her stomach. ‘I’d like to get back to the offer you made me.’

  ‘What offer?’

  ‘For the fish. You were going to show me the pond where you can catch them easily. We’ve already got a nice fire going.’ She got to her feet. ‘After that I’ll let you sleep. I’ll keep watch.’

  All right by me. He did not think she was trying to trick him. If she’d wanted to kill me she could have done it several times over by now. Tirîgon agreed and led her to the spot where he had caught the fish for his dinner.

  The girl walked a little apart from him, and wondered aloud how he found his way so surely. ‘You seem to know exactly where to go. Which tunnel goes where and how the paths interconnect.’

  He tapped the map in his pocket. ‘I’ve got –’ no, best not tell her that ‘– an excellent sense of direction.’

  ‘I see.’ She seemed happy with that answer. ‘Then maybe I should stick close to you.’

  ‘All the way to Dsôn Sòmran? Are you going to be allowed back? It’s different for me since I came down to the caves voluntarily.’

  ‘Of course,’ she nodded. ‘I’ve finished serving my time. It’s just I’ve never been able to find the way back.’

  Tirîgon was not thrilled with the idea of having an älf-woman disguised as an obboona as a travelling companion. He still had nagging doubts about her state of mind. But I must admit she has powerful combat skills. That could be useful.

  When they reached the pond he showed her the fish swimming under the shelter of a narrow overhang. ‘I look forward to seeing how long it’ll take you to catch one,’ he challenged her.

  She bounded past him, diving into the water and reappearing at the surface a few seconds later with a fish wriggling in her hand. The water had removed most of the filth from her appearance and allowed her natural gracefulness to shine through. ‘I think I’ve just won,’ she crowed, tossing the fish onto the bank. ‘Lightly grilled fish! Delicious! My mouth’s watering already.’

  Tirîgon watched while she stripped off her wet clothes and the false skin. She sank back into the water to bathe properly, her brown hair sparkling like the stars. The swim turned her into a completely different, fascinating being.

  She’s irresistible!

  When she invited him to join her with a playful gesture, he did not hesitate. He was consumed with desire.

  In recent days caution had been his constant watchword, but now he ripped off his armour and his garments and stepped into the pond.

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

  Sisaroth ran up the stairs and locked all the doors behind him. There were no items of furniture left which could be used as barricades. The tower must have known this was the right time to strike with the beasts.

  He dashed through to the top room where Marandëi was struggling to get the chest into position by herself. ‘It’s a horde of monsters! Nearly fifty, I’d say!’

  ‘I’d burn them to ashes if we weren’t in this tower. It always knows when I try to use magic.’

  There was another rumbling sound and the floor shook.

  Yet more of them. But the vibrations they cause should work for us. He went over to the cîanai’s side and put his shoulder to the heavy trunk. ‘We’ve no choice but to succeed in toppling the tower.’

  Their battering ram crashed into the wall.

  This latest impact brought more dramatic results. The whole building juddered and tilted to one side like a falling tree.

  The glass of water slid across the floor and shattered against the wall. Sisaroth and Marandëi were forced to lean to keep their balance, as if climbing a steep incline. It was almost impossible to drag the heavy chest away from the side.

  But in spite of the pronounced slope, the tower refused to fall.

  ‘The support beams must still be holding it,’ said Sisaroth. ‘A last bit of resistance before it collapses.’

  ‘But what are we going to do? We have to finish it. We’re stuck here.’ Marandëi glanced over at the door. ‘How long till those beasts break through?’ She looked at the älf. ‘And where are your weapons, my warrior?’

  He racked his brains. She’s got to risk it. ‘What kind of spells can you cast that won’t make the tower react?’

  Marandëi hurried to the door, clambering nimbly over the piled-up obstacles, and looked into the stairwell. Because of the sloping floor it was difficult to get a true picture. ‘I’ll try to frighten them first,’ she said. ‘Let their hearts be filled with fear.’ She pointed to the heap of furniture. ‘Pray that the tower doesn’t punish me for it and do your best with that battering ram. I’ll cover your back for as long as possible.’ She left the room.

  Right, then! Sisaroth was at a loss for what else to try, so he seized two large gold jugs, lugged them to the far corner of the room, then turned and ran with them in his arms, flinging his weight against the outer wall. He repeated this again and again until he realised he was having no effect whatsoever. I’ve got to think of something!

  The tower went on humming and shaking. It was drawing in as many beast attackers to fill its belly as it could.

  But it was this magic shuddering that eventually brought the first signs of success. Cracks appeared in the floor.

  The tower is so eager to get rid of us that it is bringing itself down. ‘Marandëi! It’s starting!’ he yelled through the doorway. ‘Get ready! Mind falling beams and . . .’

  The cracks got bigger and bigger and bricks started to crumble away. Stones that had been dovetail-joined began to pull apart. The building was clearly breaking in two.

  The upper part, where Sisaroth was, began collapsing in on itself. As the walls shifted, a cloud of dust hurtled at Sisaroth, making it difficult to breathe. Over the rumbles of the crumbling building, he could hear the shrill cries of terrified beasts.

  The roof gave way and beams and huge stones thundered down.

  I’ve got to get out of this alive! So near to freedom and yet so far! Sisaroth could avoid the falling masonry as long as he could see it coming, but the clouds of dust soon made this well-nigh impossible.

  A lump of stone hit him on the shoulder and forced him to his knees. Another struck him on the back and felled him completely.

  The attic room separated from the bottom half of the tower, crashing down into the encompassing moat. The älf fell with the rubble, landing in a whirl of bubbles in the foaming waters with
no protection from the crashing beams and falling debris.

  Sisaroth struggled to the surface and grabbed the side of the basin. He looked around wildly just in time to dodge an axe-blow.

  ‘Missed, dammit!’ cursed a tough-looking gnome in rusty chainmail as he lifted his weapon for a second attempt at Sisaroth’s neck. ‘I’ll get you this time, my little Black-Eyes! Where do you keep your treasure? Huh?’

  Sisaroth slid back down under the water and launched himself upwards when his feet touched bottom. He shot up as swift as an arrow in flight, landing next to the knee-high gnome. He punched him on the jaw then seized the axe. ‘I haven’t escaped the clutches of the tower just to be killed by you, you misbegotten freak!’ He hefted the axe straight through the pitiful creature’s neck.

  ‘Marandëi!’ Where has she gone? Sisaroth wiped the water off his face, tossed back his dripping dark locks and took in the devastation.

  All around was nothing but ruins. The tower as it fell had destroyed most of the stone colonnade and the edges of the artificial lake. Even great boulders from the cave wall itself had become dislodged by the tremendous impact.

  He could see crushed limbs sticking out from amongst the rubble. Dying beasts’ cries of agony filled the air. There was no immediate sign any of the aggressors had survived.

  First the tower enticed them, pulled them in; then it swallowed them up and crushed them to death. ‘Marandëi!’ he shouted, pulling a sword out from under a horizontal beam. ‘Marandëi, can you hear me? Where are you?’

  Two small gnomes appeared, scavenging among the wreckage.

  Sisaroth took careful aim and hurled his axe at one of them. Disgusting little rats!

  The blade hit its target and the gnome collapsed screeching.

  The companion dived for cover, launching a torrent of gnome curses. Sisaroth recognised the golden necklet in its hand as Marandëi’s. The two gnomes had been ripping valuables from crushed bodies.

  Is she lying there dead or injured? Picking up a discarded morning-star, Sisaroth headed in his direction. He chucked the multi-headed flail at the scarpering gnome.