Dark Paths

by Markus Heitz

  Firûsha had wanted to await her brothers’ return for this meeting but the recent startling turn of events made immediate clarification essential. She was glad they were all covered, under pain of death, by their mutual oath of non-aggression. This was their best hope of protection against the cîanai.

  Crotàgon and Tossàlor were to back her up and show Marandëi that she was on her own.

  ‘You have not understood anything!’ Marandëi murmured, staring at the splinters of bone.

  ‘Did you build the tower in order to capture älfar?’ Firûsha asked her. ‘Why did you keep the skull concealed behind the palace walls?’ She swept the pieces of bone, the pearls, the gold leaf and the silver beads to the floor with an angry gesture; they collected in a strange pattern on the tiles. ‘Start talking!’

  Marandëi flinched and raised her head. Her white eyes pierced Firûsha with disdain and a deadly chill. ‘You have destroyed the skull of Shëidogîs, the greatest of the gods of infamy. It protected the palace; it was the heart that beat behind the walls, our shield against all danger. I found it and cared for it. I worshipped it and made sacrifices.’

  ‘Älfar lives,’ Firûsha spat. ‘Caught by your tower.’ It really was her, all along.

  Marandëi ignored the accusation. ‘The palace was already here when I came. I overcame the previous residents and their subjects with my magic and they served me and built the tower. Then I gave them to the glass sea and Shëidogîs.’ She surveyed the remaining pieces of the skull. ‘But I made a mistake in my calculations and walled myself up in my own prison. I owe your brother too much, Firûsha, to want to put him in danger.’

  She heard the subtle distinction. It’s only Sisaroth she’ll make the exception for.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us about the skull?’ Tossàlor wanted to know. ‘We worship the same gods.’

  ‘Shëidogîs said he didn’t want me to tell you. He said the time was not ripe.’

  Crotàgon snorted. ‘I never believed in the gods of infamy. I valued the power of the Inextinguishables more highly, even if I didn’t approve of everything they did. But I consider it extremely unlikely that the gods of infamy would have an actual bodily form whose remains can be crushed so easily.’ He pointed at the fragments. ‘What makes you so sure it was him? Couldn’t it have been a demon that was influencing you?’

  Her contempt turned to high indignation. ‘Never! Shëidogîs was one of the infamous gods.’

  ‘Then how did he come to be in Phondrasôn? And who placed his head behind those walls?’ Tossàlor chimed in. He seemed to be enjoying the intellectual sparring; it was obvious he did not believe the cîanai, either.

  Marandëi was angry. ‘You doubt too much. If the skull were still intact I could prove it all.’ She glanced at Firûsha. ‘Without his influence on the sea, the lava underneath and the invisible magic fields that rule the caves, we shall have to give up the palace. Shëidogîs was keeping all those forces in check.’

  ‘It won’t be up to you to make that decision,’ Firûsha objected.

  ‘The bolts on the gates won’t close now. They have lost their magic. A child could push the gates open,’ Marandëi snapped. ‘You destroyed more than an artefact and the soul of a god of infamy. You have brought about the end of the älfar empire in Phondrasôn. Your brothers will never forgive you. I shall make sure of that.’

  She can’t. ‘This skull, or demon, or whatever it was, tried to drive me mad!’ Firûsha protested, defending her actions.

  ‘Nonsense. It wanted to drive you out so that you would not stumble into things that were not good for you. It was trying to protect you. But you were too small-minded. You have ruined everything. All my efforts and all my hopes. I wanted to tell Sisaroth everything on his return and to complete his training as priest for the gods of infamy. Now that will never be possible. Thanks to you and your cowardice, you stupid little älf-girl.’

  Firûsha noted that Marandëi was trying to take the heat off her own part in the disaster. She had not broached the subject of why the tower had been built. What shall I do with her? How do I restrain a cîanai against her will? Will the oath of obedience she swore to Sisaroth be sufficient? ‘You are absolutely right. Let’s leave it to my brothers to decide what we should do next. Until they come back, I’d like to ask you to remain in this room.’

  Marandëi looked at her with indifference. ‘I will do that. Until I decide otherwise, that is. But I shan’t be disappearing. I am in Sisaroth’s service and only he can release me. I don’t have to accept any orders from you.’ She glanced at Crotàgon and Tossàlor. ‘None of us do. Bear that in mind.’

  I knew she would cause trouble. Firûsha was at a loss over what to do. She could not have the cîanai roaming freely through the secret places of the building spying on them all.

  ‘That may be so. But I’m not having you telling me what to do, either.’ Crotàgon stood, drew back his fist and punched Marandëi on the temple so that she fell unconscious to the ground, landing in the pile of skull remnants. ‘I suggest we keep her quiet with a potion,’ he said, circling the table and dragging the cîanai upright to throw her over his shoulder. ‘It’s for our own safety. Who knows what spell she’d use on us if the fancy took her?’

  ‘Have you got a potion in mind?’ Firûsha was grateful to her mentor for taking the initiative in this way.

  ‘I don’t. But she will have.’ He grinned. ‘There was something she was working on, meant to put you into a healing coma and spare you pain if you were injured. It’ll be just what we need to send her into dreamland.’ Crotàgon strode to the door. ‘Let’s hope your brothers get back soon. She only made a small sample.’ He carried her off.

  Tossàlor bent down to collect the pieces of bone, placing them on a cloth he pulled out of his pocket.

  ‘What are you planning to do with that?’

  ‘Stick it all back together,’ was his laconic reply.

  Firûsha was not ready to confront those empty eye sockets again. ‘No.’

  Tossàlor continued regardless. ‘I want to find out how much of what she was saying is actually true.’ He felt around on the floor with his fingers to see if any tiny pieces had escaped. He did the same with the table top. ‘There were symbols on the artefact. I want to recreate them and try and decode their meaning.’

  ‘I did not see you as a research scholar,’ she said.

  ‘I’m a sculptor, a bone-smith, and an älf who specialises in art of all kinds. What good would I be if I did not study the ancient runes and scripts of our people?’ He smiled and picked a tiny fragment out of a crack in the table. ‘I’ll try to put it back together. Then we’ll see where we are. Marandëi might have been telling the truth. It could turn out to be Shëidogîs’ skull.’

  ‘Where does that get us? If I have really shattered the soul of one of the gods of infamy?’ Firûsha stared at the pieces and heard the sound they made as they were moved. I really don’t want him to do this. She was frightened the reconstructed being would exact its revenge.

  ‘It’s not the mystical significance I’m interested in, but the symbols on the bone,’ Tossàlor said. ‘I’m sure your brothers will be keen to see what I can come up with.’ He raised his arm in a wave. ‘Excuse me. Someone’s waiting for his head to be restored. Don’t worry, all it will be is an empty skull with some pretty drawings on it.’ He left the room.

  Firûsha tried to assess the situation. Should we leave the palace? She tried not to feel guilty. If Marandëi had told us about Shëidogîs, none of this would have happened. She’s still not revealing the entire truth. Sisaroth can make her tell the truth. We can’t.

  Getting up, she ran her fingers through her hair and plaited it. She gazed out of the window at the guards and the supervising engineer attempting to repair the damaged causeway. They had already fastened extra supports in the newly hardened surface of the sea.

  The lengths they’re going to. In the end it made no difference whether there was a bridge or not: enemies
could reach the island by marching over the sea itself. They could attack from any side they chose.

  Firûsha was downcast and dreadfully homesick. I want to be back in Dsôn. I miss my mother. I do hope she is well.

  Chapter V

  If you ask

  the purpose of our immortal existence

  you will hear many answers.

  Some say it’s to let us extend our power,

  some feel the gift is to let our knowledge grow,

  some, to let us reach perfection in our skills,

  some, that it will allow us to attain the love we crave.

  Why should I seek power, knowledge, skills and love,

  without ever having lived?

  ‘Aphorisms’ from the epic poem Young Gods

  composed by Carmondai, master of word and image

  Phondrasôn.

  Tirîgon vaulted over the banisters to land on the shoulders of an astonished barbarian, whom he forced to the ground with a thump while simultaneously slicing a second adversary ear to ear with a horizontal sword swipe. Then he thrust his blade through the spine of the man at his feet.

  ‘Come on!’ he called up to the others. ‘The coast is clear! Only the children left. Let’s get out of here!’

  They did not come, so he ran up a few steps to see what was happening. Perhaps the trophy was too heavy for just the two of them.

  He peered over the top stair and saw Esmonäe and Sisaroth locked in a passionate embrace.

  No! How could they? With great difficulty he suppressed a shout of outrage, but the tightening skin told him the anger lines were on his face. The proof of their faithlessness was before his eyes.

  The certainty he hadn’t wanted shook him to the core. His mind was paralysed and there was a gaping hole in the centre of his being where his stomach seemed to have fallen away like the sudden collapse of a volcano.

  They are mad! They’ll ruin everything! Tirîgon could not think clearly. He took two steps back and stumbled, slowly returning to the ground floor.

  Sisaroth and Esmonäe did not know he had observed them. They ran down the stairs carrying the chain and the sword that was attached to it. It was strange to hear the unusual sound of älfar feet making the floorboards creak. The chain was heavy. They had to stop and adjust their hold several times.

  His muddle-headedness disappeared and his strategic thinking came to the fore, pushing away the shock he had received. We shall have to make rest stops on the way if we are to take this weight back with us.

  He did not want to contemplate the difficulties they would encounter crossing the plain. They only had one of the pig bladders between the three of them.

  Tirîgon opened the door and peered out. The open square in front of the house was empty.

  ‘Out with you,’ he whispered, going ahead, wrapped in dark shadow and pressing himself close to the wall. Every time a board creaked behind him he broke into a sweat, and the clink of the chain being moved was horribly loud to his ears. He feared the whole village would be down on their necks in an instant.

  They made their way painfully slowly through the settlement. The two brothers took the full weight of the chain when Esmonäe could not carry it any longer.

  ‘I still think we should kill them all,’ she said quietly. ‘We are taking too long about this. But if we kill them all first, we’ll be safe.’

  Esmonäe is complaining because she did not get her way about killing the barbarians. The brothers said nothing and put their burden down for a brief respite.

  After another twenty paces they would reach the steep path that led down to the plain.

  ‘I hate the Zhadar,’ said Sisaroth, his hands massaging his lower back.

  ‘Talk to the groundling if that’s the way you feel,’ called Esmonäe. ‘You could start a rebellion. It would be a good idea.’

  ‘Not at the moment.’ Tirîgon gave a signal for them to lift the chain once more. ‘Onwards. We’ll let it slide down the slope under its own weight. They won’t hear it back at the settlement and it’ll allow us to save our strength for the plain. We’ll certainly need every bit of our energy for the crossing.’

  The two brothers dragged the chain. When they reached the last house in the village, a door flew open.

  Five armoured barbarians stepped out, spears in hand, presumably on their way to the gate to relieve the watch.

  This is the worst possible moment for them to be diligent and punctual about guard duty. Tirîgon glanced at Esmonäe, who crouched down and pulled out her daggers to go on the attack. Not yet! Wait till we can be sure there are only these five to contend with . . .

  Esmonäe’s black shadow cloud leaped between the men and her knife blades found their targets as swift as lightning, so that the barbarians sank to the ground as one, with not a sound from their fleshy lips.

  She turned round with a triumphant grin – and was struck in the side with a sword. Pieces of armour flew off and her blood came pouring out. She stumbled and fell.

  ‘No!’ cried Sisaroth, dropping the chain. He drew his sword and ran towards her.

  Tirîgon observed his brother’s reaction. It would be more proper for him to fly to her aid. But she betrayed you and deceived you, his inner voice whispered. It didn’t get her very far, did it? This is the penalty for not being faithful.

  A six-armed being stepped out of the house, his stature squat like that of the Zhadar. He wore substantial metal armour over his pale yellow skin and his piercing green eyes were focused on Sisaroth and Esmonäe.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ the creature yelped delightedly, pointing its bloodied blade at the injured girl-älf. ‘We’re in this forsaken hole looking for numbers to make up an army to strike your colony, and here are the leaders, right in front of me. Right here! What do you want?’ The lipless mouth hardly moved while he spoke. ‘Have you come to surrender?’

  A karderier! Tirîgon knew what the creature was. Firûsha had told them she met one in her battle with Crotàgon. Tossàlor’s name for them was rîconiers; he occasionally did business with them and knew their natures were far from noble. This creature wants to destroy us to obtain our innate magic gifts.

  ‘You’re never going to find out,’ taunted Sisaroth, as he flourished his sword at the karderier, only to be repelled by a wall of whirling steel blades.

  Tirîgon hesitated a moment before joining his brother in the fray. He completely ignored Esmonäe’s moans as she lay bleeding at their feet.

  ‘Another one! Excellent!’ The karderier bellowed loud enough to rouse the entire village. ‘You will leave me a decent portion of your magic. It shall be a foretaste of what we will have when we take over your empire!’

  The two young älfar fought in circles around the tenacious veteran fighter until he was exhausted and struggling to breathe. Saliva dripped from his sharp incisors.

  He squirmed out of reach, dropped one of his daggers and caught Sisaroth by the wrist. ‘How does that feel!’

  Sisaroth screamed with pain and lines of fury sped across his countenance. His eyes turned black with anger.

  ‘Let him go!’ Tirîgon hacked through the karderier’s arm and stabbed him in the armpit through a gap in the wall of blades. When he withdrew his sword, pale yellow life-juice sprayed out of the wound like putrid milk.

  The karderier collapsed, his eyelids closing, and to be safe, Tirîgon cut his head from his trunk.

  Shouts rang out. The settlement had heard the sounds of the skirmish.

  ‘Get going!’ Tirîgon said to his brother, who was rubbing a painful wrist where the enemy hand had inflicted damage. ‘The chain!’ Esmonäe will have to look after herself.

  But Sisaroth stopped to help her to her feet, one arm round her in support. He appealed to his brother for assistance, ‘She can hardly walk.’

  ‘But she’s going to have to. You and I will have to carry the chain.’ Tirîgon attempted to lift it by himself but could not manage more than a couple of steps with the load.

 
; ‘Leave the chain here. Let’s get Esmonäe to safety first.’ Esmonäe placed a grateful hand on his chest.

  Everything changes. Now it’s him that has to wait and help her out – until she decides to drop him and go for someone else. ‘They know what we came for. Do you think they’ll leave it lying about, ready for us next time we come?’ Tirîgon dragged the chain and the sword along to the slope and let it slide over the drop. She deceived me. Now it’s his turn.

  ‘Don’t you care about Esmonäe?’ Sisaroth was shocked by his attitude.

  ‘What’s she to you?’ barked Tirîgon. ‘You’ve been sleeping with her, so it’s up to you to save her. I prefer to put my trust in the Zhadar.’ He leaped down the incline.

  He slipped and slid his way down to the bottom, inflated the pig bladder and stuck the wooden pipe between his teeth. If Sisaroth is clever he’ll get himself one of these from a dead barbarian’s belt.

  Tugging the sword and chain behind him, he stepped onto the basalt stones, which immediately sank under the weight of the golden trophy. Silent puffs of odourless lethal gas were emitted from the ground.

  Tirîgon felt it move past his face. He remembered only to breathe air from the bladder as he began the strenuous crossing. He was soon drenched with sweat.

  He had to make sure the air supply would last. When he got halfway over he realised he would not have enough and quickly altered his plan. I’ve got to leave the chain here, sprint to the other side and refill the bladder before coming back.

  This is what he did.

  When he returned to the sword and the chain there was still nothing to be seen of Sisaroth or Esmonäe. He was all by himself in the middle of the low-lying plain.

  The gas turned to a layer of fog that enveloped the village. The fog smelled of bad eggs and made his eyes sting and water. Without the air in the pig bladder, he would surely have been dead by now.

  Sisaroth and Esmonäe will be in combat. So she’s getting her own way after all. If she can even stand. He dragged the chain to the edge of the plain where the barrier was, and sank down, his legs folding under him. He took a draught from his flask to moisten his dry throat.