Dark Paths

by Markus Heitz

  Firûsha thought it wise to withdraw at this stage. I must tell my brothers! We must find out what Marandëi is up to.

  But no matter which passages she went along, which steps she went up or down, no matter how she concentrated and used her senses, she could not find the way out.

  It appeared that all the secret openings had simply ceased to exist.

  Chapter II

  As long as you think

  you are the spider in the middle –

  make sure you know

  how your web is secured.

  And remember:

  if you sit in the middle,

  everyone is watching you.

  If you ask me,

  I’d tell you to choose

  not to be the spider,

  but the bird

  that will eat it.

  ‘Aphorisms’ from the epic poem Young Gods

  composed by Carmondai, master of word and image

  Phondrasôn.

  Where can she have gone? She’s not in her room and there’s no one in the kitchen. Tirîgon ran through the courtyard where the groundling stood waiting impatiently. ‘We’ll be with you really soon,’ he muttered to the dwarf as he hurried past. ‘My sister seems to have got lost in her own palace.’

  ‘Oy! Black-Eyes!’ Tungdil uttered a piercing whistle that brought the älf to a halt. ‘This is taking far too long. Do you think I don’t notice when I’m being strung along? Either we all four leave now to my master or I’ll go back and tell him you tried to trick me.’

  The pint-sized bastard! I’d like to . . . Tirîgon swung round with a false smile planted across his features. ‘I’m not stringing you along.’

  ‘That’s what you get for hiding in shadows and creeping about like cats in the dark,’ Tungdil mocked. ‘You can’t even find your own sister.’ His one-eyed gaze assessed Tirîgon’s armour. ‘Your breastplate’s not bad but it’s old and you haven’t looked after it. I can see three weak points where I’d be able to slide Bloodthirster straight through your skinny body.’

  ‘Nice of you to warn me. I’ll have a word with our smith.’ Tirîgon saw Sisaroth and Esmonäe coming out of the main entrance. Both were in light armour and had weapons at their belts. He thought this odd. Surely they won’t be trying to pretend . . .

  ‘Found her!’ Sisaroth called, his hand on Esmonäe’s shoulder. ‘Firûsha was just gathering things together. We looked everywhere except the cellar.’

  ‘Imagine that,’ she carried on. ‘I never even heard you both calling.’

  Are they really going through with this charade? Tirîgon drew his brows together in a frown. This play-acting was dangerous. What would happen if the groundling worked out what they had done? Or his master, the prince? He needed to speak to the two of them.

  ‘Great. So we can get going. Does this mean provisions are sorted?’ Tungdil asked.

  ‘Yes. Our escort is waiting down at the fortress. They’ll have everything we’ve packed –’ Tirîgon attempted to downplay his displeasure.

  ‘No, you’re not having any escort. Just you three and me. That’s all,’ the groundling interrupted him. ‘You need to bring enough food for the four of us. If I get hungry on the march you’ll find me really nasty company. You’ve been warned.’ He turned round and stomped off.

  Esmonäe caught up with the groundling and started chatting, apologising for her flippant underling remark earlier. The two brothers followed behind.

  ‘Have you lost your reason? Have the gods deserted you?’ Tirîgon hissed. ‘How can you pass her off as our sister? We needed Firûsha’s captivating voice.’ He indicated Esmonäe. ‘She’s not going to be any good!’

  ‘Hey, she’s your partner. Don’t insult her. She’s extremely attractive and that’ll help,’ Sisaroth protested. ‘Anyway, you ought to be grateful to me for bringing her along. She’ll stop you feeling lonely.’

  ‘Of course she’s pretty. But I have no idea what a gålran zhadar is. How do we know whether or not he’ll find her attractive? What if he likes them fat and ugly?’ Tirîgon was finding it hard to keep his voice down. What were they thinking? ‘But singing appeals to every race. Firûsha can even make an óarco’s heart melt.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I get it. But the mine maggot was champing at the bit. I didn’t want him leaving without us,’ Sisaroth snapped. ‘We searched the entire palace and couldn’t find her. I had to do something.’ Sisaroth avoided meeting Tirîgon’s eyes. ‘Marandëi will tell Firûsha what’s happened.’

  Tirîgon doubted that this deception would prove useful; it would not help their case to start off negotiations with a failed con-trick. ‘I hope it works, for all our sakes,’ he emphasised, showing Sisaroth he would accept no responsibility if things went wrong.

  ‘You should have taught Esmonäe how to sing instead of diving under the sheets all the time.’ His brother tried to lighten the atmosphere, but it sounded more like bitterness and envy.

  I get it. You are hurt because she’s mine, not yours. ‘I can’t help it if the älf-woman you freed is so much older than mine,’ Tirîgon retorted. ‘And we usually don’t bother going under the sheets when we make love.’

  Sisaroth did not deign to reply.

  They went through the west gate of the fortress, collected their provisions and set off, rucksacks on their backs. No horses. No escort. The groundling took the lead. He put on a surprising turn of speed, given how short his legs were.

  The quartet took the bridge over the glass sea and passed through the mighty iron portal which opened for Tungdil as easily as it had done for Marandëi. They entered Phondrasôn’s warren of tunnels.

  Each of them carried a petroleum lamp with the wick shielded so as not to attract beasts. With their excellent eyesight, älfar and dwarf coped well in the half-light.

  They initially walked in silence. The groundling showed no interest in conversation. Tirîgon was lost in thought, pondering what he gleaned about the gålran zhadar race in the few moments he had with Marandëi’s books; occasionally he stopped to check their progress on the folding chart acquired by the elves.

  Esmonäe had a permanent grin on her face; she was enjoying her actressing role. Sisaroth, unobserved, left marks on the walls.

  Tirîgon quietly motioned the other two to his side. ‘Do you know anything about this mountain maggot’s master?’ The groundling glanced over his shoulder but did not bother to find out what they were up to. He doesn’t seem to care about much.

  ‘Nothing at all.’ Sisaroth was surprised by the question. ‘If we’d heard of him before, we’d have gone and sought him out.’

  Esmonäe shook her head.

  ‘I don’t mean that. I mean his race.’ Tirîgon could tell neither of them had done any preparation – no surprise there – whereas he had consulted the archives, albeit fleetingly. ‘One of Marandëi’s folios said something about them being easily confused with groundlings. But they’re not related at all. They are comfortable with magic and very good with weapons.’ He kept his voice low so Tungdil would not overhear. I expect the sound of his chainmail clinking is louder than my words. ‘It said there used to be just a handful of them in Ishím Voróo.’

  ‘And they steal stuff.’ The groundling turned to go down a vertical shaft. The steps jutting out unsupported from the wall did not inspire confidence. Tungdil had to jump the gaps between them. ‘I heard you. Ask me anything you like. He is my master. That doesn’t mean he’s my friend.’

  The älfar followed him into the unknown depths of the rock-chimney. The air that streamed up was warm and there was a distinct odour of hot metal ore and molten rock.

  Tirîgon checked the chart. This shaft isn’t marked. But I’m pretty sure I’ve been here before. There should be a wall through here. Maybe Sisaroth was right about things changing. He put the alteration down to the magic power fields or some trick of the gålran zhadar’s, and resolved to revisit the matter later.

  ‘Watch out,’ the groundling called up in warning. ‘Mi
ss your step and you’re lost. You’d die of thirst before you ever hit the bottom.’

  Tirîgon took a look down into the abyss. ‘I thought it was all solid rock here.’

  ‘You’ve got me to look after you. I’m a dwarf. The rocks obey me,’ was Tungdil’s answer, given in all seriousness.

  ‘What name does your master go by?’ Sisaroth took him up on the suggestion that they could ask questions.

  ‘Different ones all the time. That’s why I just call him Master. Simpler. The heralds he negotiates with use all manner of names. He seems to have got around in his time.’

  ‘Does he have weaknesses?’ While he climbed down, Tirîgon maintained contact with the rough stones of the wall.

  ‘No. Neither in combat nor in magic skills. His sore point is when his things get pinched. He’s quite funny about that. Ironic really, seeing as he’s constantly helping himself to other people’s property.’ Tungdil spoke each word with utter contempt.

  Can we get the mine maggot on our side against the gålran zhadar, I wonder? ‘Why do you serve him?’

  ‘Because I have to. Same as you will,’ Tungdil snapped. ‘You’ll see what I mean soon enough. There’s no alternative. Sinthoras and Caphalor found out to their cost. Do you know of them?’

  ‘Of course,’ laughed Esmonäe. ‘Did they fight the zhadar?’

  Tirîgon vaguely recalled his father once telling him about the exploits of these two commanders. Long before the Tark Draan campaign the famous nostàroi had attacked the fortress of a gålran zhadar. Surely it can’t be the same one, living down here in Phondrasôn? ‘They killed him, didn’t they?’

  The groundling nodded. ‘Exactly. At least, that’s what they thought. He let them escape because he wanted to see where they would take their plunder. By the time he had realised what a danger the demon represented for the whole of Ishím Voróo, it was too late. So he got permission from the Inextinguishables to go to Phondrasôn. That’s the story as I know it.’

  ‘Danger?’ Sisaroth’s insatiable curiosity was wide awake. ‘Do you mean the demon who was our ally for a time? And the zhadar knew about the threat?’

  ‘I think our groundling is telling us nice little stories to make himself feel important,’ Esmonäe said.

  It is the same zhadar his father’s companions fought! Tirîgon needed to know more.

  ‘I can only tell you what I heard. I wasn’t actually there.’ Tungdil had come across a corridor leading off from one of the wide steps. He motioned the others to go past him into it. He leaned back into the vertical shaft to let out a piercing shriek.

  There was an answering roar from down below. Golden light started to glow lower down the shaft and grew brighter as it neared.

  ‘We have to get out of here. I’ve alerted the Grey Amdiu.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Tirîgon asked.

  ‘A worm-lizard. They come in different colours and sizes. The grey one likes fighting. He hates high notes. I’ve made sure he’ll come and see who’s annoying him. He’s too fat to fit in this corridor but he’s got a very long reach with his tongue.’ The groundling jostled past them. ‘Get moving, Black-Eyes! We’re running for our lives.’

  ‘What did you do that for?’ Esmonäe started running with the others.

  ‘To make sure we don’t have anyone following us,’ was the good-humoured response. ‘You lot can creep and you can hide, but you won’t escape an amdiu’s exquisite sense of smell. Should one of you have instructed the fortress to send an escort, your soldiers are done for.’

  He knows his way blindfolded in these mazes and he has the ability to manipulate the rock walls. We need this guy on our side. Tirîgon was losing confidence in his own map. What he wanted was an opportunity to put the groundling in his debt. Something to make him grateful. Like saving his life.

  They climbed up a copper ladder that led to a vaulted hall.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Tungdil took the left-hand door and started singing so loudly that the älfar’s ears hurt.

  ‘Can’t you stop that?’ Esmonäe asked.

  ‘Because you don’t care for it?’ The groundling gave a belly laugh. ‘It was a song a good friend of mine liked to sing. He was called Bavragor, the singing drinker. He only had one eye, just like me.’

  ‘And are you . . .?’ Sisaroth ventured to ask.

  ‘A drinker? Used to be. Phondrasôn could have driven me back to it, but I’ve been steadfast. Never touch a drop. Important to keep a clear head down here. Danger everywhere, you know.’ Tungdil fell silent and his furrowed face was dark.

  ‘I assume the friend is dead?’ Tirîgon wanted to keep the conversation going while trying to locate their surroundings on the map. I’ve got an inkling I know where we are. But how did we get here? All the paths I know about would have taken much longer.

  ‘Yes. He died when I made the Fireblade that we used to destroy the mist demon. That was in . . . It doesn’t matter.’ The groundling looked at Sisaroth over his shoulder. ‘Did you tell the others the Inextinguishables are dead and that I made my own weapon out of your Super Black-Eyes’ sword?’ He tapped the hilt and gave an evil grin.

  Tirîgon and Esmonäe laughed and after a short pause, Sisaroth joined in.

  ‘Ah, I see. You don’t believe me,’ the dwarf said.

  He’s funnier than I thought he would be. ‘How did you come to be roaming round Phondrasôn, then?’ Tirîgon wiped the tears of laughter away. ‘Do the groundlings send their banished criminals here, too?’

  ‘A mischance. After we had vanquished the Inextinguishables’ – Esmonäe burst into gales of laughter again but Tungdil continued unperturbed – ‘we had to leave Girdlegard to put a stop to a catastrophe threatening from the Black Abyss. We fought a battle against countless beasts who came storming out, and we beat them back. But a protective shield was set up to cover the entrance. I could not get out in time.’ He touched the wall with his strong hand. ‘So I’m here, cut off from all my friends. But it won’t be forever.’

  I’ve never heard of this Black Abyss; it can’t be in Ishím Voróo. Not unless it’s a very long way away from Dsôn. But it’s another way out of Phondrasôn, if this story is true. Ye gods, how big is this netherworld we’re stuck in? In his mind Tirîgon saw the Phondrasôn chart expanding to cover not only the walls and ceiling of the library but the entire palace. ‘When was it you met my brother?’

  ‘Ages ago.’ He gave a quick résumé and Sisaroth nodded agreement. ‘After that I wandered round and got ambushed by a load of orcs. I would have died if my master hadn’t saved my life. I was badly injured by their crossbow bolts.’ He brought his tale to a conclusion.

  ‘You serve him because he saved your life.’ Esmonäe took some food out of her bag and ate a few mouthfuls.

  ‘And also because he can tell me how to get back to my friends.’ Tungdil took a side turn and led them to a cave with an artificial fountain. ‘We’ll stop here for a rest. You can drink the water and monsters don’t come in here. We’ll leave one of us on watch.’ He took up a position at the right-hand wall where there were small niches to sleep in. There was a fireplace equipped with cooking pots and pans. ‘I put down a barrel of black beer if one of you fancies a good hangover?’ He grinned and settled himself into the embrasure, without bothering to take off his chainmail or his boots. ‘I’m going to have a nap. Make a fire and cook yourself something. Use the red coals. They make the best flames.’

  He closed his eyes and folded his hands across his belly, keeping Bloodthirster within easy reach. ‘If one of the monsters should come in, though it’s very unlikely, will one of you please press that stone over there with the green markings.’

  He was soon snoring away.

  We don’t seem to have any choice but to wait till he wakes up. Tirîgon exchanged looks with Sisaroth and Esmonäe. ‘Right. I’ll get a fire going.’ He went over to the hearth, swept out the ashes and piled the kindling up before lighting it with the wick from his lamp. ‘What shall we
make?’ Then he caught sight of their reflection in the mirror of his lantern.

  Sisaroth’s hand was on Esmonäe’s hip. She smiled at him in a certain way before turning aside and moving over to where Tirîgon was working. He knew that smile well. It was suggestive.

  He pretended not to have seen the exchange but he suddenly knew why his brother had insisted Esmonäe accompany them. It was nothing to do with having to hurry because of the groundling’s impatience. Tirîgon was not prepared to simply overlook the matter. I’m going to tell him to keep his hands off her as soon as she’s asleep.

  Esmonäe was crouching at his side putting coals on the burning twigs. ‘Well done. We can start making the meal now.’ The firelight emphasised her enticing looks and the shimmering hair.

  Tirîgon bent over and kissed her soft mouth, placing his hand on her thigh and stroking her. ‘It was hard having to wait until the groundling went to sleep,’ he whispered. ‘I hate not being able to touch you whenever I want.’

  Esmonäe ran her fingers over his cheek, pulled his face towards her and pressed her lips to his own. ‘Let’s get over to one of the bunks,’ she murmured seductively.

  ‘But what about supper? And Sisaroth?’ he objected weakly. The thin curtains would not provide much privacy and any moaning would immediately be heard.

  ‘So what? Your brother can do the cooking. We’ll be needing sustenance.’ She undid her belt and got to her feet, laying armour and padded tunic aside. ‘I want you, now!’ She washed her face and hands at the fountain, slipped into one of the bunks and gestured to him.

  Tirîgon, after a slight hesitation, followed suit.

  Any resistance and inhibition melted away in her arms.

  Phondrasôn.

  Firûsha drummed her fists against the wall as hard as she could. ‘Can anyone hear me? Help! I can’t get out!’

  At first she had hoped she might be able to loosen some of the stones but she soon had to give up that idea. Kicking had no effect, nor did hurling herself against the wall. She had searched in vain for a hammer or some other kind of tool.