Dark Paths

by Markus Heitz

  The gålran zhadar sprang to his feet and slammed his hands down on the table. The circlet on his forehead flashed and lightning bolts shot out of his fingertips, snaked across the table and struck the girl.

  Esmonäe cried out and lifted her arms to defend herself. She seemed not to have suffered.

  ‘I can easily expel magic with many times that force; nothing but ashes would remain,’ he growled. ‘I will not tolerate resistance that has neither thought nor content. I am the ruler here and you are the subjects. My leigemen. Dependent on my good will. Dependent on the grace of your master,’ the gålran zhadar bellowed. ‘If you serve me loyally and well, I will show you how to get out of the labyrinth. But you have to work for it.’ He sat down and waited.

  Tirîgon put his arm round his companion and looked to see if she was harmed.

  ‘I’m all right,’ she breathed, trying to look normal. Her chestnut brown eyes were full of shock.

  Sisaroth cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me . . . you actually know the way out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you are still here?’

  ‘Because this is where I wish to be. I have everything I need. You and your siblings have not yet learned of Phondrasôn’s advantages. If you carry out all the assignments I set, I’ll take you back to Dsôn Sòmran. Or to Tark Draan. Whichever you prefer.’

  ‘Would we each be able to choose our own destination?’ Sisaroth was enthusiastic at the prospect.

  ‘Of course.’

  Tirîgon looked at his brother. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I just wanted to know. Hypothetical question.’ Sisaroth wouldn’t make eye contact.

  ‘Each of you can choose a place outside Phondrasôn and you can take as many companions with you as you like.’ The gålran zhadar placed his hand on his chest where his heart would be as a symbol of the oath he was swearing.

  ‘Accepted, then,’ said Sisaroth.

  Esmonäe nodded. ‘It’s a deal.’

  Tirîgon felt the two of them had rushed into an agreement and was about to protest.

  ‘It’s not a business deal. It’s a bonus I will grant you when you have done what I demand and served me for the duration I see fit.’ He leaped to his feet. ‘I’m off to have my meal while you start on the first task. Tungdil will show you where you can sleep and he’ll explain what needs to be done. We’ll meet again on your return. You are all to address me as Master when you speak to me; I’ll pardon you for getting it wrong today.’ The gålran zhadar hastened out of the room, ignoring Tirîgon’s call.

  ‘So the black-eyes are to learn how to serve.’ Tungdil came over, smiling. ‘How does it feel when you have to swallow your pride? Have you choked?’

  ‘I’d ask you the same question,’ Tirîgon threw back at him.

  ‘It was easy,’ he answered, lowering his voice, ‘because I made a vow that I’d kill him at the very first opportunity. Try it. It’s a lovely thought.’

  He’s not acting. That urge to kill is real enough. Now Tirîgon was absolutely convinced Tungdil could be won over as an ally. I shall kill the gålran zhadar. And I’ll take over his empire. That will be my bonus.

  Phondrasôn.

  Firûsha had taken the tall candlestand out of the chamber with her and dragged its heavy base along the floor as she struggled, famished and exhausted, through the corridors. She was not even aware of the metal scraping noisily on the tiles. She stumbled along in a daze. She had hardly any voice left from shouting for help. No one’s ever going to find me. That skull put a curse on me before I smashed it to pieces.

  From time to time she allowed herself a short rest, and once she stopped to drink water she found running down a wall. She did not care where it came from. It tasted of decomposing grass and slate but it slaked her thirst.

  She did not know exactly when Marandëi’s infuriated and despairing scream had rung out, but it must have been when she discovered the shattered artefact she worshipped.

  It does not matter. At least she can’t do us any more damage with the skull. Firûsha pounded the wall. The candlestand broke in two. She can’t harm my brothers, that is. It looks as if I shall be the new palace ghost.

  ‘Is someone there?’ It was an älfar voice coming from the far side of the wall.

  ‘Yes,’ she croaked. She swallowed to moisten her throat and repeated the word louder this time. ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘It’s Tossàlor. And who is that behind the wall?’

  ‘Firûsha! Firûsha! Break it down, do you hear?’ She leaned against the stonework and wept with relief. Her tears coursed down the wall in dark lines. ‘Hurry! I’ve got to get out of here. Please help me! Can you find my brothers . . .?’

  ‘They’re not here. Wait. I’ll get Crotàgon. He’ll be strong enough,’ he said.

  She waited in the silence.

  Found! At last! Firûsha sank down to the floor and fell into a half-sleep. The broken candlestand rolled on the ground.

  She did not wake up until a hole was hammered through the wall. Two strong arms reached through, picked her up and pulled her out of her prison. She was carried to a couch where she looked around in dazed bewilderment.

  She seemed to be in Tossàlor’s studio, a place strictly off limits to visitors. Well, at least I’m getting to see his workshop.

  Tossàlor in a purple robe, and Crotàgon in a black tunic, stood side by side with worried expressions on their faces. Her fencing master passed her a goblet of water and then brought her a platter with bread, cheese, fruit and some cooked meat spread with a savoury paste.

  Thank the gods of infamy! I’ll eat it all. Every last morsel! Firûsha drank her fill and started shovelling food in as fast as she could. She could not tell them what had happened until her hunger was satisfied.

  Neither Tossàlor nor Crotàgon tried to make her talk. They waited patiently. Crotàgon put a blanket round her shoulders. It was obvious that she had suffered.

  The room they were in had open shelves for storing the bones the artist had been collecting on his expeditions with Sisaroth. These were carefully graded and grouped according to size, shape and hue. There was a cupboard with a label stating it contained teeth; another held samples of hair.

  Firûsha recalled hearing that Tossàlor never painted or dyed the bones he used; he had discovered other races here in Phondrasôn whose skeletons were different colours due to the type of food they ate. Sisaroth had permitted him to use the dungeon cells in the palace to keep captives he fed specially prepared diets: algae, plants or insect chitin was ground to powder and mixed with their food. When Tossàlor judged the bones had attained the desired shade, he killed the prisoner and extracted their skeleton. For art, of course.

  Firûsha was no longer bolting her meal, but chewing slowly. She scrutinised the meat with its paste layer. I wonder if this will make my bones change colour?

  Tossàlor’s true speciality, though, was carving. Occasionally he would show Tirîgon how he went about his craft: cutting the finest of details without damaging the integrity of the bone. Various tools were hanging on the walls, but she could only hazard guesses as to what their particular uses might be.

  ‘You were half-starved,’ said Tossàlor, stroking her matted, filthy hair. He went over to the gaping hole in the studio wall and poked his head through. ‘I’d really like to hear how you got in there,’ he said, returning to her side. ‘That corridor doesn’t look as if it just happened by chance. It’s been specially constructed, surely?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I know you don’t like me because of what I did that made them banish me to Phondrasôn. Were you in there spying on me, maybe? To make sure I’m not up to my old habits?’

  ‘What?’ Firûsha washed the final mouthful of food down with a swig of water. She had definitely been eating far too fast. Her stomach was protesting, but she felt the energy flooding back into her. At last she could collect her thoughts. ‘I . . . got in there by mistake, pure chance. When the palace was built, they constructed a second one within the
first. But there’s no way out once you’re in.’ She was reluctant to let on about the altar room until she had spoken to her brothers. These two don’t have to know the whole story. ‘Thank you. If you had not heard me, I would have starved. It was driving me mad to be able to smell the food cooking in the kitchen.’ She gave them both a grateful smile.

  The thought occurred to her that the decorations on the skull might possibly have been Tossàlor’s handiwork. He’s certainly capable of exquisite ornamentation like that. She stopped feeling quite so grateful. Did he and Marandëi have some kind of a pact? Or maybe he carried out her commission without knowing what it would be used for?

  Crotàgon brushed the cobwebs and dust off his robe. ‘You need to get cleaned up. I’ll take a look at this second world behind the wall.’

  ‘No, don’t do that. You’d never get through the passages. In places it’s really narrow. Your shoulders are too broad.’ Firûsha had a mental picture of the muscular älf getting wedged in or falling prey to one of the many traps she had avoided. ‘I need to tell my brothers. Where are they?’

  ‘A messenger turned up and they went off with him.’ Tossàlor sat down in a wobbly armchair and Crotàgon leaned against a table that bore a row of skulls with the tops drilled off. They would be used as wind chimes; Firûsha was familiar with the kind of souvenirs soldiers liked. Thin sheets of painted bones and pieces of silver were fastened together with plaited hair.

  ‘What messenger was that?’ Her eyes darted from one to the other. Crotàgon told her what had occurred while she had been the unwilling prisoner of the palace’s walls. ‘So someone is claiming the right to rule Phondrasôn?’

  ‘The bit we are in, at least. Let’s hope your brothers are level-headed enough not to declare war against the gålran zhadar. We’d never win.’ Tossàlor picked up a small bone and fiddled with it nervously. ‘Marandëi has some old writings about the gålran zhadars that I’ve read. Nasty pieces of work, the lot of them.’

  ‘The explosion that blew the gates off their hinges will mean some difficult repair work.’ Crotàgon looked out of the window. ‘Parts of the bridge have been damaged and we’ll have to post extra troops at the entrance until the gate’s been replaced . . .’ He broke off and stood up slowly, his brown eyes filled with horror and disbelief. He was staring out of the window. ‘I don’t believe it! The sea has solidified!’

  Tossàlor turned his head.

  Can it be true? Firûsha got up from the couch to look.

  The raging waves of liquid glass they were used to seemed to have turned to ice. Under the bridges, the surface was flat and the red glow had faded.

  All the heat is draining out of it. ‘Another gålran zhadar trick?’ Firûsha saw one of the palace guards running to the castle, probably to find them and report the phenomenon. On the battlements, soldiers stood around in groups, staring incredulously.

  ‘Perhaps the underground fire that kept the glass molten has been extinguished,’ suggested Tossàlor. ‘Curses! If I’d known that was going to happen I’d have made sure I had a good store of glass bones. They’re popular with everyone. It’s not only our people that collect them.’ He gestured to the strange seascape. ‘I can’t make anything now with that the way it is.’

  ‘I’m much more concerned about our security. Enemies can reach the island from anywhere now, without having to use the bridges. The stupidest of monsters might take it into their heads to try their luck.’ Crotàgon was already considering the strategic implications. ‘If the surface of the glass cools down to the point where it’s safe to walk on, we’ll have lost our decisive defence factor.’

  ‘But we still have the fortress.’ Firûsha looked at her mentor. Perhaps it was nothing but a passing whim of Nature.

  ‘The fortress can withstand a preliminary attack. But remember what kind of monsters abound here.’ Crotàgon folded his arms and turned to her. ‘What shall we do, Firûsha?’

  A shiver went down her spine when she realised that with her brothers both absent, she would be expected to take command. She had made good progress with her military training but she had no idea how to organise the island’s defences. I have no choice. Where are my brothers when they’re so badly needed? She seemed fated to have to cope on her own.

  ‘An attack by a horde of monsters would be just the trick! I want a lot of long thighbones for my next project. I’m almost out.’ Tossàlor went to check one of the shelves. He was in his creative mode again and blind to wider issues.

  I’m pretty sure I can do it. I’ll take responsibility. ‘We should start by closing all the gates and trebling the guard on the northern side,’ she said after a moment’s consideration. She noticed Crotàgon’s expression of approval. ‘That should do for the present.’

  ‘Good call. I agree.’ Crotàgon nodded. ‘I’ll get the command passed round. Oh, and don’t worry about singing for your training today, Firûsha. I’ll let you off this once . . .’

  The workshop door crashed open.

  Marandëi crossed the threshold with her staff in her right hand. On her left palm she held out fragments that she hurled at Firûsha’s feet. ‘It was you. I know it was!’ she shrieked. Her grey dress was streaked with dirt from the secret passageways. ‘You stole him!’ Her pale eyes filled with tears as she stared at Firûsha with contempt and hatred. ‘If we weren’t all bound by the oath, I swear by the infamous gods and by Samusin that I would kill you for this!’

  ‘Nobody is killing anybody round here!’ Crotàgon thrust himself in front of Firûsha to protect her. As he did so, fragments of bone crunched under his right foot. ‘Explain yourself! What do you mean by this unacceptable conduct?’

  Marandëi had spotted the hole in the wall. ‘So that’s how you escaped!’ She pointed the silver tip of her staff at Firûsha. ‘You have absolutely no idea the consequences of what you have done. The sea will harden and all the heat will be lost. The palace will be destroyed. The entire cavern will cease to exist!’ She wagged her forefinger accusingly at the girl. ‘It can only be rectified by your sacrifice!’ The cîanai turned and stumbled out of the room, distraught.

  Crotàgon could hardly believe it. ‘Marandëi knew about the other corridors?’

  ‘Yes,’ she muttered, cowed. What can I tell them? She was reluctant to give more specific information.

  But her trainer insisted. ‘She was storing something that you found and have now destroyed?’

  Tossàlor bent down to examine the splintered fragments, turning them in his hand, examining the patterns and shapes that were still visible. He picked out a couple of pearls from the handful of fine debris. ‘I’ve only ever heard tell of this in tales!’ He was enthusiastic. ‘Was the skull a strange shape? Quite long? And flat at the front?’

  ‘Yes. And yes,’ she conceded. He knows about it!

  Excited and yet horrified at the same time, Tossàlor groaned. ‘Oh ye gods of infamy! It was long and flat. But now . . .’ He dropped the fragments he was holding. ‘It’s lost forever.’

  ‘So what was it?’ Crotàgon asked impatiently. ‘How could some old bones manage to control the glass sea?’

  Firûsha was afraid of what Tossàlor was going to say. But she told herself that she was free of guilt. It was destroy or be destroyed. Or be driven crazy, like Marandëi.

  The artist’s tone was heavy with significance as he dropped to his knees and brushed all the pieces into his hand. ‘That,’ he said, ‘used to be the skull of a god. One of the gods of infamy.’

  Chapter IV

  A fire

  I can extinguish

  A heart

  I can stop

  But a feeling

  can unsettle me

  Who has the greater power here?

  ‘Aphorisms’ from the epic poem Young Gods

  composed by Carmondai, master of word and image

  Phondrasôn.

  Tirîgon woke with a start, for the same reason as before: Esmonäe was not there. Again.

  He sat
up and looked around the room the groundling had assigned them. The Zhadar, as they called him, rather than using the hateful title of Master – was permitting them to refresh themselves before embarking on the first of the duties they were to carry out. The way Tungdil had explained it, it was going to be relatively easy. Too easy, perhaps. Suspiciously easy.

  But that was not what was worrying Tirîgon.

  Where has she gone? At the back of his mind the answer was clear, but he did not want to jump to conclusions. There was more than one reason why she might have left the room. Perhaps she’s exploring the fortress?

  In spite of his determination not to act hastily, his jealous heart forced him out of the comfortable bed. Sensibility lost to emotion yet again.

  Throwing on a robe, he left the room to look for her.

  There was no guard on duty. The Zhadar had put no restrictions on their free movement within the fortress, making clear that he had other means to guarantee security and that he was not afraid of these älfar visitors.

  Tirîgon stole along the corridor, past windows that showed how high above ground level they were; he could see slaves working the brightly lit fields, irrigating the crops, tending the fruit trees, or driving a herd of cattle across the meadows to the shade of a small wood.

  Even if he did not want to find out that his fears might be true, he found himself standing in front of the accommodation that Sisaroth had been given.

  He hesitated, and then placed his hand on the latch, his muscles tensing.

  If I open the door and find her with him, my life will never be the same again. And the change won’t be for the better. I would have nothing but contempt for them both. I’d have to leave the palace, or send them away, and our new empire would fall apart. He stared at his hand. What’s more important?

  He slowly drew his hand away. He did not enter to have his suspicions confirmed.

  Mentally he went one step further still: he would ignore any hint of an illicit affair unless they made it obvious. Esmonäe had not officially thrown away their relationship and he would not give her up. His desire for her was too strong for that.