Dark Paths

by Markus Heitz

  ‘Are you suggesting they haven’t paid up because they’re already aligned with the karderiers?’ Sisaroth smiled. ‘Good point. I’ll go there myself.’ He placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

  We seem to be back to normal. We trust each other again. Tirîgon was moved by the gesture. He turned his attention to the runes under the list of signatories. ‘I may be mistaken, but I’m seeing a similarity with our own script.’ He held the treaty out to his brother.

  Sisaroth studied the curvilinear symbols. ‘I’m not sure . . . is it possible you might be imagining it?’

  ‘Perhaps. Tossàlor will know.’ Tirîgon raised his arms and was gratified to note that the armour did not creak or restrict his movements in any way. The little guy has done sterling work in his forge. ‘Tell me, are you as pleased with the fit of your armour as I am with mine?’

  ‘Indeed. That groundling knows his stuff, doesn’t he? I wouldn’t say it to his face, of course, but he’s as good as anyone we have at our disposal.’ He thought far more highly of Tungdil’s skill than his words suggested, though his admiration was evident in the tone of his voice. ‘I can’t wait to see what he makes of the swords.’ He was overcome with breathlessness all of a sudden and succumbed to a fit of coughing, spitting out a red-tinged clot of mucus. ‘The after-effects of the poison gas,’ he commented.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I hope so. One lung feels shrunken to the size of a newborn baby’s. When I breathe I can hear it rattling away. And walking takes it out of me.’ He coughed again. ‘I’ll be fine once I’m back in the fresh air of our own palace, I’m sure.’ He laughed. ‘Once I hear Firûsha singing, all my symptoms will disappear.’

  ‘I hope so, for all our sakes. I need you, you know.’ Tirîgon meant what he said. ‘Our opinions may sometimes differ on the subject of Phondrasôn and our immediate future plans, but in the long run, we both want the same thing our sister does: to get back home. To Dsôn. To our parents. And to bring the evildoers to justice that accused you so falsely.’

  ‘Exactly. And I’d like to congratulate you for your initial wise decisions concerning our palace and the creation of our empire.’ Sisaroth had the map in his hand and was leading them through the passages. ‘If we didn’t have our safe refuge established before we attempted the journey to the surface, the karderiers would be able to harass us all over Phondrasôn – and eventually perhaps even corner and defeat us. Your actions have kept us safe.’

  Tirîgon was touched; he saw in his brother’s clear blue gaze that the sentiment had been sincere. ‘And I shall change my attitude, I promise. I’ll put more effort into finding how we can get back up and go home. I’m considering using some of our serfs as scouting parties. That is, as soon as we have dealt with the karderiers.’

  Sisaroth said nothing.

  What’s the matter now? ‘I thought you’d be pleased?’

  ‘It’s just that I remembered Firûsha telling us the karderiers can change their shapes.’ He grimaced and stifled a cough. ‘What if they are already amongst us back at the palace? Maybe as guards, or soldiers on the defences?’

  ‘By all the gods of infamy!’ This possibility had not occurred to Tirîgon and he could have kicked himself for having overlooked it. It would be so easy for them. We have taken on a number of new älfar recruits recently. ‘You’re right! They could have infiltrated our army already.’ They had assembled a force of about eight hundred älfar. How are we going to find out if all of them are truly of our race? ‘We’ll ask Marandëi what she thinks. Perhaps she’ll know of some spell she can use to reveal any spies.’

  ‘It might be enough if we gather the troops and pretend we have the ability to expose the fake älfar. We might catch someone reacting shiftily,’ Sisaroth suggested. ‘That’s what we should do first, as soon as we get back to the palace.’ He increased his pace, although this meant he suffered a renewed bout of coughing.

  Tirîgon hurried along, stowing away the treaty the karderier and the barbarians had signed. Without comment, he took his brother’s rucksack and added the load to his own. He was also carrying Firûsha’s set of armour. His reward was a brotherly smile of gratitude. A sincere and heartfelt one.

  Did it have to happen like this? Did Samusin impose this trial on us to make us stronger? Tirîgon found his thoughts returning to Esmonäe; he could think of her now without succumbing to grief or hatred. At long last he began to see a purpose in what they had gone through. Her death was a sacrifice. She had been sacrificed for the good of him and his brother. A sacrifice to rekindle their brotherly affection and harmony.

  Their sibling bond would be stronger in the future than it had ever been back in Dsôn.

  Chapter VI

  Anyone with the choice of two things,

  if others expect him to make that choice,

  should leave

  without choosing.

  This is the greatest freedom.

  ‘Aphorisms’ from the epic poem Young Gods

  composed by Carmondai, master of word and image

  Phondrasôn.

  Firûsha was overjoyed to hear from the sentries that her two brothers had returned. As if she had sensed their approach, she had that morning chosen her most beautiful robe, a fine black and green lawn worked with silver thread and embroidered in white silk.

  She hurried to meet them, welcoming them out on the causeway with warm embraces and walking back with them through the fortress gates and courtyards to the palace itself. As they walked she told them in full detail everything that had happened since their departure. She was so excited and relieved to see them that she didn’t even notice Esmonäe wasn’t there.

  They related the events on their journey to meet the Zhadar and told her how the älf-girl had died.

  Neither looked particularly upset at the loss, which surprised Firûsha. There seemed to be a new understanding between the brothers; the bond was stronger, more harmonious. Their experience has brought them closer and healed the rifts.

  She was also aware that this first impression might not be complete. She knew that Tirîgon suppressed personal problems to let external goals take precedence. Firûsha had spent many nights in Dsôn singing softly at his bedside when the pain in his soul had not allowed him to sleep. But anyone coming across him in daylight hours would never have seen his distress, so great was his self-control. She thought it better not to enquire further at the present. I shall be able to soothe him if he asks for my help.

  On their arrival in the palace, they entered Marandëi’s chamber, where the cîanai lay sleeping, watched by two guards.

  Tirîgon sent the soldiers out and they woke Marandëi with a few drops of cold water on her face when she did not respond to a gentle shake of the shoulder.

  The cîanai opened her eyes and looked around the room in confusion. She did not smile until she saw Sisaroth standing beside the bed. ‘So considerate to put me in a healing coma after that awful blow,’ she said sarcastically. ‘It’s nice not to wake up with a painful jaw.’

  ‘My sister has told us what happened,’ Sisaroth said, not wanting to deal harshly with her. ‘Now I should like to hear your version of events. I insist that you only speak the full truth.’

  What will we hear? Firûsha was eager to learn whether the cîanai had previously been lying when questioned. She was relieved to hear the same version this time, although she noticed there was still a glaring omission. She prompted her brother to ask Marandëi about the tower’s original purpose.

  ‘I built it,’ she admitted reluctantly, ‘with the aim of capturing älfar. I was under orders from the gods of infamy.’

  The siblings exchanged glances.

  She’s been lying through her teeth this whole time! ‘So you wanted to make us think we were safe and then you were going to kill us as soon as this Shëidogîs asked you to!’ Firûsha cried. ‘The more älfar we assembled in the fortress, the happier you were. We were being kept to sacrifice to your god. Is that not the cas
e?’

  Tirîgon raised his hand. ‘One moment, dear sister. We need to hear why one of the gods of infamy would demand sacrifices from a race that reveres and worships them.’

  ‘It is the first I have ever heard of any Shëidogîs cult,’ said Sisaroth. ‘Neither Father or Mother ever mentioned älfar souls being demanded by the gods of infamy.’

  Firûsha did not like the expression on Sisaroth’s face. Back in Dsôn he had started training to be a priest for the gods of infamy. His devotion to the gods had remained key in his character despite his prowess as a warrior. I hope he is not intending to follow the cîanai’s way of thinking?

  ‘The Inextinguishables suppressed this particular form of worship,’ Marandëi explained. ‘This is why the gods of infamy are failing to support us as they have always done in the past. They are not getting anything valuable in exchange.’

  Tirîgon, resplendent like his brother in his new set of armour, crossed his arms defiantly. ‘So the gods of infamy are becoming fussy? Not satisfied with all the prayers and incense now?’

  Marandëi cast a condescending glance at him. ‘Would you be satisfied with just prayers and incense if you were hungry?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ he answered with a grin.

  ‘Well, why should a god?’ She asked for something to drink and was handed a cup of water. ‘I studied the old writings and read how the gods had originally been appeased. Ninety älfar a year: thirty young men, thirty women and thirty newborn babies.’

  ‘By all the . . .’ Firûsha was horrified. I refuse to believe that.

  ‘The Inextinguishables outlawed the practice, claiming it endangered the survival of their race. It was merely an excuse. The truth was they envied the gods the miracles they could perform and the popularity they enjoyed. It was considered a high honour to die for them. Once we stopped sacrificing, the gods stopped bestowing their favours. They were no longer worshipped with the previous intensity and the Inextinguishables found their own esteem increasing.’

  Firûsha thought about the terrible end that Dsôn Faïmon had suffered. She could not help wondering how much better the empire might have fared with the gods of infamy fully behind them. But it is still out of the question to sacrifice our own kind!

  ‘The end of the university you told me about: it was not an accident, was it? It was deliberate.’ Sisaroth confronted Marandëi with the unpleasant truth.

  ‘Yes. I dressed it up as a tragic accident, but I was making a sacrifice to the gods,’ she confessed. ‘I found the holy skull of Shëidogîs concealed in the crypt that housed historical relics. They had attempted to wipe out any memory of the old religion and I took it upon myself to put the blasphemers to death. Shëidogîs awarded me special powers for the occasion.’ Marandëi took another mouthful of water. ‘The Inextinguishables quickly worked out what had happened and they sent the other cîanai to hunt me down. In my view, it seemed Phondrasôn would be the safest option. For me and for Shëidogîs. Until the headstrong young älf-girl shattered the skull with a candlestick.’ She fixed Firûsha with an icy stare. ‘All that effort. For nothing.’

  ‘Have I got this right? You wanted to entice Phondrasôn’s älfar into your tower in order to sacrifice them to your skull?’ Tirîgon wanted to confirm.

  Marandëi did not answer.

  ‘Answer him,’ Sisaroth commanded. ‘And speak the truth to him just as you would have to me.’

  ‘Yes,’ she snapped back. ‘That was it. My own stupidity thwarted my plan.’

  She is insane. Completely mad! She would have killed us all for the sake of this . . . demon . . . this Shëidogîs . . . if her own creation had not imprisoned her and held her fast. Firûsha looked at Tirîgon to see his reaction to the revelation.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Tossàlor entered the room in a deep purple robe, with a fully armed Crotàgon at his side.

  ‘I understand our leaders are all assembled.’ The artist had a cushion on his right hand, bearing an object with unmistakeable outlines covered by a velvet cloth. ‘Let me present my newest creation in this auspicious gathering.’ He nodded; Crotàgon removed the cloth with a grand gesture.

  The skull had been skilfully rebuilt and glued together. While the cracks were visible, it was clear that every fragment had been recovered. There were no gaps. All the gold leaf, all the pearls and all the silver adornments were back in their rightful places.

  Marandëi beamed. Firûsha froze.

  ‘In truth, my masterwork. When it comes to restoring works of art this is undoubtedly my supreme achievement. I constructed a series of vices and grips that allowed me to put the fragments and splinters together. When I was sure the glue would hold, I put the inlays back and buffed out any rough edges. Thanks to the inscriptions, and with Marandëi’s archive for reference, I’ve been able to rebuild . . .’ Firûsha stopped listening. The cîanai had already told them everything they needed to know about Shëidogîs. She avoided looking directly at the skull, terrified of its empty eye sockets and dreading having to hear the sound of the infamous one or the evil spirit that inhabited the skull.

  ‘I recognise the symbols,’ said Tirîgon in surprise. ‘There, on the side. And on the top. The soldiers in the barbarian village had the same signs on their skinned scalps. If the settlements are in thrall to the gods of infamy, this could be good news for us. We could turn the tables and get the barbarians to take arms against the karderiers with the help of this relic. I’m sure Shëidogîs will appreciate being adored by more than just Marandëi. We could offer a few barbarian souls . . .’

  Firûsha realised Sisaroth was deep in thought. Surely he won’t . . . She leaned towards him. ‘Brother, think, please. The only reason you are still alive is because the cîanai made a mistake with her calculations when she built the tower,’ she whispered urgently in his ear. She shuddered. ‘She would have tossed you to that thing for her own advantage if she wasn’t trapped in there herself. She cares nothing for our community here. For her we are merely souls to sacrifice to her god.’ But Firûsha was aware her words were not getting through to him. I can see it in his eyes. He has made his decision.

  Sisaroth took the skull gently, turned it around and handed it to Tirîgon. ‘My thanks, Tossàlor. Marandëi, can you tell if the spirit of the infamous one has returned to the skull?’

  ‘We won’t know that until a sacrifice has been made,’ she said, not without ambiguity. ‘We can try to entice the spirit back into its former home . . .’

  ‘With what aim?’ Firûsha interrupted her. ‘Merely for us to resume sacrificing to it? The miracles a god of infamy can perform won’t be worth waiting for, surely? There’s an attack imminent. Armies are gathering, intent on stealing our magic. We need every hand that can hold a sword. And you’re contemplating sacrificing some of our own soldiers?’

  ‘To start with, it ought to be enough to sacrifice just one life,’ the cîanai said gently. ‘That won’t be too much to ask if we then are granted a miracle?’

  ‘Most of them are criminals anyway. It’s not so awful if we kill one of them.’ Sisaroth obviously shared her point of view. ‘In fact, it would be quite justified.’ He stretched out his hand for Tirîgon to pass the skull back to him.

  But his brother was firm. ‘It’s not just us bound by the oath of loyalty. All the älfar in the palace have sworn the same pledge; we have vowed to protect one another,’ Tirîgon reminded his brother. ‘If one is killed, his death would be avenged. And remember, Marandëi said even she can’t lift the curse.’ He smiled at her smugly. ‘You seem to have a few problems controlling your own creations. The tower first, then the oath.’

  ‘I still think it’s worth a try,’ said Tossàlor.

  ‘You’re just drooling at the mouth waiting for the victim’s bones,’ Firûsha snapped at him.

  The artist burst out laughing. ‘Well said, young älf-woman. You may have hit on a grain of truth there. But I’ve got an idea how we can get round the curse.’ He looked at
Crotàgon. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but while our good Marandëi was getting her beauty sleep, three new älfar recruits have turned up. They haven’t taken the vow yet, so they are free. For whatever purpose . . .’ He gave Sisaroth a sly sideways glance. ‘It’s up to you . . .’

  ‘Up to all of us, you mean.’ Again, Firûsha interrupted. I’m not letting you get away with that, Tossàlor. ‘We make all our decisions as a group.’ I can only hope Tirîgon takes my side.

  Tirîgon tossed the skull into the air and caught it, ignoring Marandëi’s horrified intake of breath. ‘I don’t think we should start reducing our own forces for the sake of some ritual. We’ve got no guarantee Shëidogîs will return.’ He repeated his juggling trick. ‘But we shouldn’t forget that our best defence, the molten glass sea, has gone hard and that means enemies have free access to the island. The fortress walls will withstand an assault, but if we consider the number of barbarians that may be on the march . . .’ He tossed the empty skull to Marandëi, who caught it with a stifled moan of terror lest she drop it. She began to kiss and caress it. ‘In the circumstances I’m for giving it a go. The loss of one soldier won’t damage our chances.’

  ‘But we must keep this to ourselves. There’ll be trouble among the troops if the truth gets out,’ Tossàlor objected. ‘We can say the älf has had an accident out on manoeuvres. While he was scouting out one of the caves, for example.’

  They all agree and they have no idea what the implications are. ‘You didn’t see what that thing is capable of!’ Firûsha had lost but she was not going to give up. ‘There’ll be no miracles! There’ll be nothing but disaster!’

  ‘There’ll be disaster if we do nothing, sister dear!’ Tirîgon came over and put his arm round her shoulders. ‘I know how you feel. I can understand your view entirely. But in our situation . . .’