Dark Paths

by Markus Heitz

  She had risen to her feet and was brushing down her dress. ‘Why do you look so worried all of a sudden? I hope I haven’t displeased you in some way?’ She fastened the last of the buttons and tightened the lacing around her waist. ‘What’s troubling you?’

  ‘Your name.’

  ‘You don’t know what it is.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  She laughed and held out her hand. ‘Stand up and kiss me and I’ll tell you my name.’

  ‘Simple as that?’

  ‘Simple as that.’

  Tirîgon took hold of her hand and jumped to his feet; he kissed her wildly, revelling in the softness of her warm mouth. His hands drifted to her hips.

  She drew back. ‘Slow down! That’s more kisses than I have names, Tirîgon.’ Slipping out of his embrace, she went over to the cave exit and picked up the fish. ‘Let’s eat first, my young warrior.’

  He grinned. ‘Fine with me. Something seems to have made me extremely hungry.’ He dressed quickly, clamped his armour under his arm and followed her. ‘So was my kiss so bad that it did not earn your name?’

  She turned to face him but kept walking. ‘Esmonäe. That’s what they call me.’

  The warning voice stoked his suspicions. ‘Is that the truth?’ he said, forcing a light-hearted tone.

  ‘Are you really called Tirîgon?’ she countered, not seeming flustered by his question.

  ‘I am truly Tirîgon, as sure as I am a warrior,’ he assured her.

  ‘I do not doubt either assertion.’ She stopped, placed her arm round his shoulder and kissed him passionately, then laughed and ran off. ‘Last one has to gut the fish!’ she called out.

  That’s not going to be me. He ran after her, following the torch glare.

  He was astonished at himself. He had allied with other females in his past – some fairly seriously, others casually – but he had never felt the way he had in Esmonäe’s arms. He only had to catch sight of her, and even Phondrasôn became bearable. She has bewitched my soul. He was sure of it.

  By the time he arrived at the fire, Esmonäe had already slit open the fish and gutted it. She was threading it onto a spike to grill it and laying the special yellow stones on the embers to make the fire burn higher. ‘Oh, there you are. I knew you would take ages so I went ahead and got started. I’m famished.’ She winked at him. ‘You’ll do it next time. Whatever we catch.’

  ‘Right you are. As long as it’s not an óarco.’ Tirîgon sat opposite her, after putting his armour down in the sand for her to lean against. ‘I hope we find my siblings soon.’

  ‘If we have Tossàlor to help us and the map you told me about, we’re sure to.’ Esmonäe browned the fish on both sides. ‘I’ve been thinking: even if you don’t like him, I expect he knows these tunnels better than anyone. He can tell us how to read the map and suggest places to start looking for your brother and sister. As long . . .’ She cut her words short and cleared her throat. ‘As long, I mean, as long as they are still alive.’

  Tirîgon’s concern for them and his guilt about the fact he was sitting by a warm fire while his siblings might be in acute danger made him uncomfortable. ‘I know they’re not dead,’ he said, staring into the flames. ‘I would have felt it in my bones. Until I know where they are and whether they are safe, there is no way I can go back to Dsôn. How could I face our parents?’

  Esmonäe nodded. ‘Of course, Tirîgon. I never doubted that. But I have spent untold divisions of unendingness here in this maze of caves and I know how dangerous it is. You’re a warrior and can defend yourself. But what about your siblings?’

  ‘They are still alive,’ he insisted. The smell of the roasting fish and the prospect of the meal no longer appealed to him. Firûsha is bright enough. She’ll know what to do. And Sisaroth can fight. But he was frightened for their safety.

  The two of them fell silent as they watched their dinner cooking.

  ‘Have you thought about how long you would give yourself to search for them?’ she asked gently.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I really want to go back home, Tirîgon. With you,’ she said quietly, taking a deep breath. ‘Don’t get me wrong: I shall be at your side. But I cannot stay here for all eternity, amongst beasts and shadows and the rest of the horrors Phondrasôn may use against us. This is a mere fight for daily survival; it is not a life. There’s a limit to what I can cope with.’ Esmonäe was on the verge of tears and stopped turning the stick she was using as a spit for their meal.

  She is demanding you abandon your siblings for her sake. That is too much to ask, murmured his inner voice of doubt. You have only slept together once. It’s not as if she were your official partner. How can she ask it of you?

  Tirîgon’s face closed up. ‘Careful. You’re letting the fish burn.’

  Esmonäe lifted the spit and examined the fish’s scorch marks. ‘It’s done.’ She cut herself off a portion and placed it on a stone to cool, then handed the spit to Tirîgon. ‘Please don’t hate me for what I’ve said,’ she said, her voice fearful.

  Hate her? ‘No, Esmonäe!’ He looked shocked at the thought. ‘No. I understand why you said it.’ He picked bits of fish off the bones and put them in his mouth. It tasted of nothing at all. ‘I promise we shan’t look for them forever,’ he heard himself say.

  When Esmonäe smiled at him, it made his heart leap for joy. The warning voice was stilled and then smothered.

  *

  Tirîgon and Esmonäe picked their way through the corridors, tunnels and caves.

  She led them to one of the places Tossàlor sometimes stayed. She explained to Tirîgon on the way that Tossàlor kept several homes; he got different inspiration from each location.

  While they walked they made plans for their future together back in Dsôn. It seemed as though the two of them shared similar dreams, Tirîgon was delighted to learn. When they rested they always slept close in each other’s arms.

  At long last they came to a cave that opened over a hilly landscape with a jagged roof vaulting high above.

  ‘Here we are.’ Esmonäe clapped her hands. ‘Let’s have a bit of appreciation for getting us here safely.’

  Tirîgon kissed her. ‘I’ll appreciate you whenever you want.’

  Glowing stalactites produced the effect of petrified lightning. There were cracks in the walls and huge holes a dragon could have got through.

  Pale green conifers grew in the dim glow of the calcium formations, with orange grass in the forest clearings. Deer-like creatures grazed and birds flew in the treetops. Simple shacks were visible, with smoke coming from the chimneys; farms had been cultivated and there were wheat fields and vineyards. Several miles away, at the other end of the valley, there was a tall fortified building hewn into the rock. It had a large orange banner adorned with an indecipherable symbol flying from the top.

  It all looks peaceful enough, Tirîgon was surprised to discover. No monsters and no barbarians attacking us. It looks as if it were possible to lead a normal life here. He turned to Esmonäe. ‘Is this the Island of the Blessed Ones?’

  She laughed. ‘No. It is the Cave of the Warfaring Ones.’ She indicated the fortress. ‘The inhabitants are from a barbarian tribe originally and they keep a monster in there. They let it free as soon as they feel they are threatened by danger. It is huge and it can fly, but it always returns to its eyrie when things calm down again. It seems quite happy there.’

  ‘And they let Tossàlor stay here?’

  ‘More than that: they like having him. It means we’ll be safe from the monster, too. The creature recognises älfar and has been trained not to attack us. Well, that’s what Tossàlor told me anyway.’ Esmonäe looked around. ‘If I remember correctly, that’s his house down there on the right. Look, between those tall trees.’

  Tirîgon could see the large hut on stilts and the bones piled up outside according to size. Probably remnants from his works of art. The white roof reflected the light and made the home visible from afar.


  They hurried down the winding path past the vineyards where bright red grapes hung full and luscious on the vines. Tirîgon resisted the urge to pick some. He didn’t know whether they were safe to eat. ‘Is there anything else I need to know about Tossàlor?’

  ‘You sound a bit scared,’ Esmonäe joked. ‘Don’t worry, he’s not going to launch himself at you with his de-boning scalpel.’

  He bit his tongue and did not ask why Tossàlor was no threat to Esmonäe. Perhaps because he has a shred of decency while he’s stranded here in Phondrasôn and wants to respect his own kind? ‘I’m not scared. I’m looking for some reason he might agree to help us. Some kind of enticement, I suppose.’

  ‘I know you’ll come up with something. You are clever.’ Esmonäe led the way through the wood to where the black house stood on its sturdy wooden supports.

  Closer up, the house appeared to be a place most rational creatures would avoid like the plague. The roof tiles were actually thin slices of bone, protected from the weather with varnish. The gutters and downpipes were hollowed bones, and the fixtures were fashioned from jawbones.

  Like in some savage nursery tale. Wherever Tirîgon looked he could see that Tossàlor had decorated his home with the mortal remains of others: paintings on stretched skins, little sculptures and carvings on the roof. You could not buy it with money.

  As they walked round the house they passed a heap of discarded, broken bones that must be the artist’s rubbish tip.

  They climbed the bone steps up to the veranda. Esmonäe knocked at the door, which was made from black wood and decorated with white ornaments. ‘Tossàlor, it’s me – Esmonäe.’

  Tirîgon made a mental note to ask Esmonäe about her relationship with him. ‘Let me go first,’ he said, moving in front of her.

  After a series of clicks the door opened.

  An älf appeared wearing a purple robe with vertical stripes on the sleeves. His hands and forearms were dripping with blood and his face and clothes were also spattered. His hair was covered with an embroidered black hood, but one pale green curl had escaped. The artist clearly liked to dye his hair. The dark eyes inspected Esmonäe first.

  ‘What a pleasure to see you,’ he said with a smile. Then he turned to Tirîgon and the smile vanished. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Greetings.’ He felt like an animal being assessed for slaughter. ‘Esmonäe was good enough to bring me to you.’

  Tossàlor grinned. ‘How kind. She would not have had much use for you in the long run, and I am running out of material.’ The artist looked at Esmonäe. ‘It’s unusual to have my subjects come knocking at the door in their eagerness. He obviously appreciates the importance of art.’

  Tirîgon stepped smartly backwards and placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘That is not why I am here.’

  Esmonäe laughed. ‘No, Tossàlor, he’s not a gift. This is Tirîgon and he belongs to me. He is looking for the way out of Phondrasôn; he has not been exiled here.’

  ‘Because he is innocent, I’m sure.’ Tossàlor smirked, his face relaxing. ‘How original. That’s a very good reason for wanting to go home. Good luck.’ He started to close the door.

  Tirîgon placed his foot in the doorway. ‘I’ve got a map but there’s a vital bit missing, I’m afraid,’ he said, fishing out the elven chart. ‘If you could tell me how to get out of here, I’ll give you anything you want as soon as we are back in Dsôn. My family is powerful.’

  ‘Anything I want?’ Tossàlor scrutinised him carefully. ‘Nice. I’ll have your fourth rib on the right, a thighbone, your right hand and your eyelids. That should do it. I’ll be quite gentle. Do we have a deal?’ He grinned demonically.

  He’s serious! Tirîgon swallowed hard. ‘I’m afraid not.’ He did not know how to respond.

  ‘Is the price too high? Well, what would you give me of your own free will?’ Tossàlor laughed. ‘Or in your last will. Oh, that’s funny. I must remember that one.’

  Tirîgon took a deep breath and glanced at Esmonäe, who shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’ve got money . . .’

  ‘What would I do with money?’ the artist snarled. ‘I want something unique so I can make a work of art out of it. Then I’ll show you the way out of here.’

  ‘The beast,’ said Tirîgon promptly, before he had time to think. But he saw a gleam of interest in Tossàlor’s eyes and proceeded. ‘The beast that protects the valley. Would that be unique enough?’

  The artist älf pursed his lips and considered the offer, nodding his head slowly. ‘But they can’t suspect me. You have to get into the fortress, kill it and take the cadaver to the cave of Frempâion. Esmonäe can show you where that is. But take your time and do it properly, I don’t want a bloody mess to work with. Then tell me when it’s done.’ Tossàlor looked pointedly at Tirîgon’s boot. ‘And now, if you’d let me close my door?’

  ‘Could you give us something to drink? We’ve come a long way and could do with refreshment,’ Esmonäe said quickly. ‘Then we’ll be underway, High Master.’

  ‘If you want.’ He moved aside. ‘This way.’

  Is this a good idea? Tirîgon crossed the threshold gingerly. But when will I ever get another chance to see his works? Curiosity won out over caution. ‘Keep your eyes open,’ he mouthed to Esmonäe. ‘I don’t trust him.’

  ‘I’m glad you trust me,’ she whispered, stroking the back of his neck. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after you, darling.’

  He did not have time to resent that she was making fun of him again. The sights that greeted him made all thought impossible.

  The first room was clad in grey bone panelling. Chandeliers fashioned from skeletons hung from the ceiling. Holes had been drilled through the limbs to allow the candlelight to shine out. The effect was remarkable. I could learn so much from him.

  They walked through the room and crossed two more similarly decorated.

  When Tirîgon inspected the translucent slices of bones, Tossàlor came up close behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘I see you are a connoisseur, young friend.’

  ‘And he’s quite good at carving,’ Esmonäe chipped in from the background.

  ‘Nothing special. It’s just a hobby. I like to do it when I’ve finished sentry duty on the wall,’ he stammered. The artist’s thin and bloody fingers were hurting him. I’ve got to change the subject. I don’t want to talk about myself. ‘Are the bones painted? It doesn’t look as if they are.’

  ‘Well spotted, young älf.’ Tossàlor seemed to be considering a course of action. Then he took Tirîgon by the sleeve and led his visitor off. ‘Come and see my studio. I can show you how I work.’

  He was amazed when they reached his workshop. Cupboards were labelled with the type of bone stored in each. A cabinet held paints and tools. On the floor there was a wide trail of blood leading to a trapdoor. The artist must have disposed of a cadaver shortly before his visitors had turned up.

  Against the far wall there were four small cells containing apathetic-looking elves. They had lost the will to live, it seemed. One of them had violet-coloured hair and another’s was tinted a shocking yellow. Apart from the scars on their forearms, they did not look maltreated or even under-nourished. He looks after them properly. Tirîgon turned to face the artist and looked at the strand of green hair.

  ‘You’re trying to puzzle it all out, aren’t you?’ Tossàlor was enjoying this.

  ‘I assume you keep them here as a resource. And you’ve clearly been experimenting with dyes. You’ve tried them out on your own hair, too. Do you create them with blood platelets?’

  ‘Certain races here in Phondrasôn have bones with a distinctive coloration due to their nutrition. It can vary based on the algae, plants, moss or insects they eat. I’ve been collecting these ingredients and grinding them to a powder that I then put in their food,’ he explained proudly, pointing over to the elves in the cages. ‘These contain my next works of art! Elf bones infused with different colours! I’m so excited!’ Toss
àlor pushed his green curls back under the rim of his hood. ‘That was my first attempt. I was a little too impatient.’ He looked at his visitors, expecting admiration.

  He is completely mad. Tirîgon was well aware the artist would employ exactly the same practices on an älf, given half a chance. It would be best if I killed him before he tries to work on either of us.

  ‘Extraordinary,’ Esmonäe praised the artist’s endeavours and applauded. ‘You know, you could make a fortune back in Dsôn with these ideas.’

  ‘I shall indeed.’ Tossàlor grinned. ‘But not yet. I’ve got more testing to do first. Who knows how long our young älf here will take getting me my beast? And I’m still trying to perfect a formula for the soft bones.’ Before Tirîgon could stop her, Esmonäe went on to ask what he meant.

  Tossàlor went over to a store cupboard and took out a ribcage; the bones had lost their original white colour and had taken on a milky tinge. Tirîgon was astonished to see how the ribs could be twisted like the pliable young branches of a tree. ‘I use vinegar,’ Tossàlor said, ‘and two or three other additives to remove most of the calcium. Then I can make any shape I want. Afterwards I apply a coat or two of clear varnish to hold the shape.’ Tossàlor handed the bones to Esmonäe for her to examine. She tested the substance with her fingers.

  ‘You are indeed a master of your craft,’ she said, admiringly.

  And you are totally out of your mind, thought Tirîgon, catching Tossàlor’s assessing glance. What a nuisance that we actually need him.

  Tossàlor clapped Tirîgon on the back. ‘Right, that’s enough. Get yourself off now and come back when you’ve got my new toy.’

  Tirîgon would be relieved to get out of Tossàlor’s place in one piece. ‘I’ll start straight away.’

  ‘I’ll help him,’ Esmonäe added. ‘We’ll be back before you know it.’

  ‘Sure.’ Tossàlor did not sound convinced. ‘You can both find your own way out. I’ve got to check the colour of the yellow-head’s bones.’ He took out a long, thin knife with a flat blade. ‘I may have to adapt the composition of the powder I’ve been adding to his food.’