Dark Paths

by Markus Heitz

  Phondrasôn must have been created by more than one god. Sisaroth clasped his hands behind his back. Endless paths and mazes, but no road seems to lead back to Dsôn! How ever did we reach this place in our cages?

  He was convinced that the tunnels changed from time to time: they would disappear or change direction, taking a sudden upward or downhill turn. Magic must be responsible for these phenomena. Enchantments were making fun of their endeavours by transforming the environment at random.

  Tirîgon laughed at him for thinking like this and demonstrated that it was not the case by placing markings on the walls. Sisaroth would object that those very symbols had also been altered by the magic powers to complete the deception, but Tirîgon would have none of it.

  When he surveyed their empire, however, Sisaroth had to admit that Tirîgon had done well as a conqueror. I have become an excellent warrior but he is a better strategist.

  The map showed their ever-increasing territory. The caves under the triplets’ direct control were designated in blue, the areas that paid them tribute were in yellow and the regions governed by their own deputies were green.

  Red lines denoted the caves that constituted danger for the älfar, be it due to a monster that was difficult to defeat, a strong population, or an environmental hazard.

  Notes pinned to the map bore letter and number combinations summing up the properties of individual areas. The code keys were held in books on the library shelves.

  Sisaroth had marked the position of certain grottoes yet to be thoroughly explored. He and Tossàlor were often attacked and forced to withdraw before they could complete their investigation. Some areas were too large and too inaccessible even to be mapped provisionally. When they went on their exploratory excursions, they took lengths of cord and chalk to mark the walls so they could find their way back.

  There is so much still to do. He looked out of the window. He often doubted that the seventy-seven tenth-divisions would ever prove sufficient for the task. He was hoping against hope for a lucky discovery. I should consult the gods of infamy.

  The kind of ritual used for speaking to the old gods who had lived before Samusin and Inàste was dangerous in the extreme. Dangerous for himself and for any other älfar who attended. His own training as a priest had barely begun back in Dsôn when they were banished. He was in no way confident with the gestures and phrasings.

  But I think I should try. First, however, he wanted to expand the exploration with Tossàlor and the other scouts. Let’s hope he’s not deep in his next creative phase, or I’ll have to wait till he’s finished.

  The artist was making the most of the expeditions by collecting as many different bones as possible. His studio and store-rooms in the palace were piled high with the raw materials for his works of art. He could fashion practically anything out of bone – from huge chandeliers to delicate hair ornaments to a mosaic composed of the finest fragments. He would stay in his studio for moments of unendingness at a time, then he would emerge and show off his new creation. Sisaroth had a few of his works himself. But there was still an uneasiness if he looked too deep into the sculptor’s eyes. Tossàlor radiated an uncanny aura.

  A detachment of forty warriors left via the north gate to march out along the broad causeway with orders from Tirîgon to deal with the state of affairs in the Efrigûr province. Tribute had not been paid and the soldiers would be investigating the cause: it could be local unrest or possible invasion by a foreign power.

  My brother really enjoys his role as commander in chief. Originally he only wanted to build up an army to get us back safely to Dsôn, but his field of influence has expanded beyond that. Sisaroth had warned Tirîgon not to deploy his forces too widely; he didn’t want to lose any of their number. But the gods of infamy seemed to be on the side of the älfar military units. Phondrasôn was simply not prepared for a disciplined army and their losses were always low. He knows what he is doing and his tactics are paying off.

  What made Sisaroth uneasy was Tirîgon’s unquestioning acceptance of any älf that turned up. Occasionally whole bands of exiles would congregate by the gates, hoping to be allowed in. And regardless of their previous history – whether guilty of the most gruesome crimes or suffering from extreme mental derangement – Tirîgon didn’t care.

  He is too dependent on the magic oath of allegiance. Sisaroth took down a volume containing details of their recent conquests. Be that as it may – I have my own tasks to carry out. He opened the book to the sketch maps of the seventh cavern. That was the one causing him headaches.

  It was a wonder the cave had not collapsed. Hole after hole had appeared in the walls. The cylindrical shape of the tunnels made him believe they had originally been formed by underground rivers. If that water flowed down from the surface, then one of the tunnels must surely lead to the outside. He had already explored four of the possibilities with Tossàlor and now he was researching a fifth.

  There was a knock at the door.

  A palace guard entered the room and bowed, wearing elegantly decorated armour made of an alloy of iron and tionium to protect the älf from swords and missiles. ‘Excuse me, Sisaroth, but a messenger has arrived.’ He spoke from under a simple helmet.

  ‘Bring him in.’

  ‘He’s not one of ours.’

  Sisaroth looked up from the papers he was studying and pointed to the maps on the wall. ‘Which cavern or cave is he from?’ He wanted to know roughly what to expect before welcoming barbarians, óarcos, or worse.

  ‘He did not say.’

  A newcomer? Sisaroth turned to the guard in surprise. ‘What race?’

  ‘A groundling, I’d say. I’ve never actually seen one, but judging from the stature and the apparel, he corresponds to the usual descriptions,’ the soldier answered, a little unsure of himself. ‘For the most part, that is.’

  ‘Is he armed?’

  ‘Yes. He’s got . . . it’s kind of a sword. Blackest black. Looks like pure tionium to me. That’s odd, I thought. But then, in Phondrasôn there’s a lot of oddness around.’

  ‘And why are you bringing him to me? Aren’t the orders to keep all the lower creatures and unidentified beings out at the second wall?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not sure that he is a lower being,’ the guard confessed. ‘If he’s important, I did not want to incur your displeasure or risk possible war with another cavern, so I thought it best to let you decide. I’ve left him in the care of four warriors.’

  Sisaroth became curious. ‘What made you hesitate?’

  ‘He says he’s an envoy from the prince of Phondrasôn,’ the guard said reluctantly. ‘He doesn’t look very intimidated by us.’

  So he’s not frightened about the possibility of death or imprisonment? ‘Well, well! So now the groundlings are claiming our caverns, are they? Perhaps because they fancy the tunnels?’ Sisaroth snapped the book shut so sharply that the draught made his hair rise up round his face. ‘Bring him in.’

  The guard bowed and shouted out an order.

  The double doors swung open to admit four armoured soldiers escorting a one-eyed groundling in silver chainmail reinforced with tionium plates. He carried his black and silver helmet under his right arm while the stumpy fingers of his strong left hand gripped the hilt of the weapon that hung from his belt. He had constructed a specialised scabbard that would not catch on the jagged end of the sword.

  Sisaroth was familiar both with the weapon and the furrowed features of the face before him. His brown beard was still kept short. The groundling who tried to kill me! He instinctively placed his right hand on his dagger.

  The remaining right eye of the messenger flashed and the facial expression was one of astonishment. The groundling slowed. He, too, was remembering. He approached Sisaroth and addressed him in a melodious bass voice. ‘I bring you greetings from my master. If I am not mistaken, we have met before?’ He seemed to be racking his brain. ‘How long ago would that be?’

  ‘Yes, we met in combat. For mortals it wo
uld have been a very long time ago. For immortals, of course, it was but yesterday.’ Sisaroth was cautious and gave his soldiers a sign to train their spears on the groundling. Silently, his warriors moved their weapons round to point at the newcomer. ‘So you have found a prince to serve?’

  ‘And you have made yourself prince to get others to serve you. How nice.’ He was unperturbed by the fact that four weapons were trained on him. ‘In fact, it was my prince that found me. I am obliged to serve him. I can think of many other things I would rather do than be subject to a gålran zhadar. But one does not always have a choice in these matters. My name, in another place and in another time, was Tungdil Goldhand.’

  ‘I am Sisaroth, as I am sure you are aware.’ The little fellow was impudent as hell and stubborn as they come, but Sisaroth was rather taken with him. I wonder what a gålran zhadar is. He indicated the sword-like weapon. ‘So, you are still using it?’

  ‘Bloodthirster has served me extremely well. The blade can sever any and everything it strikes. It’s the sort of thing you need if you are abroad in Phondrasôn.’ The groundling gave a smile and rubbed a hand over his trim brown beard with its silver strands. ‘Right, let’s get down to business. I have a message to deliver. You and your black-eyes have founded an empire without asking my master’s permission. So . . .’ He came to an abrupt stop, annoyed that Sisaroth had burst out laughing. ‘I shouldn’t do that, if I were you.’

  ‘What? Laugh at you?’ The odd fellow is funnier than I thought. He wished his brother and sister could see this. He pushed the book to one side and wiped tears of laughter from his cheeks. He plunged his hands in his pockets and leaned forward. ‘I shall laugh just as long and as hard as I choose to. Tungdil. That was the name, wasn’t it?’ He straightened up, grinning. Too funny, really, too funny.

  ‘You’re making a big mistake, Black-Eyes. I’ve seen mightier folk than you die laughing. My prince is a master of turning hilarity into fatality.’ Tungdil stayed calm and passed his hand over his silver eye-patch, which was fashioned with a black inlay design studded with small diamonds and held in place by a black leather band.

  The pattern reminded Sisaroth of something he had seen in one of Marandëi’s books. Is there some magic happening here? ‘Say I were to believe you about there being a prince. What does he want?’

  ‘He wants you to present yourself to discuss what happens next.’ Tungdil leaned slightly forward, mirroring the movements Sisaroth was making. ‘Perhaps your empire will be allowed to continue. But if you fail to come and meet with him, you will all die quicker than a herd of unicorns in Phondrasôn.’ Now it was his turn to laugh, and his laughter was dark and full of threat. Sisaroth’s face had lost any trace of amusement. ‘You see, it’s starting already: you are losing your sense of humour. I’m not surprised, given the circumstances.’

  Sisaroth pointed to the enormous map. ‘Can you see, with your one eye, the extent of our power? In the whole of that territory, I have never come across any creature calling itself a gålran zhadar.’

  ‘I can see, with my one eye, where you and your lot have never been, and that’s far more significant,’ replied Tungdil with a grin. ‘You have not travelled anywhere near my master, yet he still knows everything that you are up to.’ He slowly extended his arm towards the charts on the wall. ‘There are maps I’ve seen that are ten times as big as this one.’ He sustained his grin. ‘By the way, you and your deputies are expected.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘At once. I’ll take you.’

  No manners at all. No respect! This was all too much for Sisaroth. ‘Tell me why I shouldn’t have you killed here on the spot.’

  ‘Because if you were to lay hands on me, there would be nothing left of your palace, your fortress or the entire cavern,’ he countered. ‘The gålran zhadar would interpret my death as refusal on your part to enter into negotiations and that in turn would lead to his refusal to allow your continued presence in his empire.’ Tungdil stamped his foot for emphasis. ‘You don’t seem to understand: you are guests here. You are not rulers.’

  The impertinent grin that had initially amused Sisaroth now invoked his fury. I’ll carve that insolent expression off your face with a knife and Tossàlor can stick it on his gallery wall.

  He did not know whether or not to believe what he had heard. It seemed strange that the name gålran zhadar had never cropped up in any of the conquered territories, and that none of the governors of their barbarian provinces had ever mentioned it. Surely the groundling must be lying.

  Or have we been told nothing about this powerful prince because our subjects are hoping he will suddenly appear? He devoutly wished he had Tirîgon and Firûsha with him to help him decide. ‘I must consult the others.’

  ‘Right you are.’ The groundling crossed his arms across his chest, making the silver-plated chainmail jingle. ‘I’ll wait.’

  ‘It will take some time.’

  ‘It had better not.’ Tungdil grinned.

  ‘No,’ Sisaroth said after a short pause. ‘I need proof that this prince really exists. I can’t lead my siblings into the unknown just because some groundling turns up out of the blue and says he does. What evidence can you offer me?’

  Tungdil sighed. ‘I’m used to that; there’ve been quite a few sceptics. And I do take your point. So my prince and master gave me a present to convince you and your siblings with.’ He slowly reached into his belt and pulled out an ornamental brooch in white gold, with a black onyx at its centre. ‘This is for you. You shall have your proof if you press the stone.’ He tossed it over.

  I’m not touching it. Sisaroth stepped back and the jewelled piece fell to the floor with a clink. He did not trust the gift.

  Nothing happened.

  Tirîgon entered the room in the black armour of a conquering general. He was accompanied by Esmonäe. They were laughing and joking together in the way of young lovers.

  Sisaroth stared at the älf-woman who he was starting to find more and more attractive.

  Esmonäe liked to dress in a way that flattered her figure and drew attention to her obvious charms. Today she was wearing a tight-fitting dark red robe with slits in the fabric at strategic places. Her modesty was not in question; her pure white skin was on display.

  She would look good next to me. Sisaroth cast the thought aside. She belonged to his brother. It would only cause discord. Firûsha has her work cut out keeping the peace between the two of us as it is.

  Tirîgon noticed the guards and the groundling. ‘Oh! A captive? Or do we have a visitor, brother?’

  ‘Or perhaps it’s just half of a normal visitor?’ Esmonäe said scornfully. ‘Oh no, I see: it’s a groundling, not an underling.’

  Tungdil’s smile was vicious. ‘When do an älf’s eye-sockets go black?’ he jeered. ‘When you tear his eyes out!’ He threw back his head and bellowed with laughter. ‘See, I am witty, too.’

  Tirîgon glanced at Sisaroth. ‘Is he your new court jester? If so, he needs to work on his repertoire.’ Esmonäe saw the brooch and bent down to pick it up.

  ‘Don’t touch it!’ Sisaroth quickly told them why the groundling had come. ‘The brooch is supposed to be evidence that what he says is the truth. He claims that if we press the stone in the middle we’ll be given proof that his master exists.’

  Tirîgon was clearly not enthusiastic about the sudden appearance of this messenger and he was not keen on the message, either. He considered himself the overlord of Phondrasôn. ‘Gålran zhadar? That name doesn’t mean anything to me,’ he sneered. ‘And if he were really a prince, he’d have an army with him to impress us. He’d hardly send along a groundling, even an insolent one in a suit of fancy armour. Would we send a gnome to represent us at important talks?’ As he spoke, Esmonäe had her arm around his shoulders and stroked the back of his neck.

  My brother will definitely not be agreeing to a meeting with the gålran zhadar, then. Sisaroth nodded. And nor will I. Even if Firûsha decided differently she was now
outvoted.

  ‘To help you understand: here is our answer.’ He stamped on the brooch and ground it with his foot.

  There followed a huge explosion outside the fortress.

  Sisaroth whirled round in shock. The northern gate had been blown off its hinges and blasted to smithereens, with the iron shrapnel raining down on the stunned guards as they lay sprawled on the ground, thrown off their feet by the strength of the detonation. Some of the soldiers had been hurled into the lethal molten glass of the sea while others were horribly mutilated and died on the bridge. A cloud of dust rose in the air.

  This was not, however, the end of the destruction; a large block of stone from above the entrance slipped and crashed down through the wooden bridge, making a seven-pace-wide gap. The northern causeway was now totally impassable.

  ‘It appears not to matter whether you press the gemstone with your finger or foot,’ Tungdil remarked. ‘I ought to have mentioned that I happened to drop the second brooch by your gate there. Now, let’s imagine the second brooch had been in the fortress. Or here in the palace. In this room. An army is not always necessary when you have other means at your disposal. Magic, for example. Shall we say this was a preview?’ He rubbed his chin and looked thoughtful. ‘I know I’m a bit slow on the uptake, like all groundlings. So take me through this again: is your answer a Yes or a No?’

  ‘I’ll give you my answer!’ raged Sisaroth, his hand on the hilt of his dagger.

  But Tirîgon restrained his brother with a nimble movement. ‘We have been given an impression of your master’s power and we appreciate that it would be sensible not to resist.’ His words were calm and controlled. ‘My siblings and I will be accompanying you.’

  Tungdil stuck his square hands in his belt. ‘Don’t worry. I know a short cut.’ He nodded to them and marched out. ‘I’ll wait down in the yard.’

  Tirîgon whispered to Sisaroth, ‘Go and get Firûsha.’

  ‘You want to drag her into danger?’ A thought occurred to him. He gestured to Esmonäe. ‘Why not say she is Firûsha? Then we can leave our sister here to look after things. We don’t know how long we’ll be away.’ Did I suggest that so that Esmonäe would be near me?