Dark Paths

by Markus Heitz

  Firûsha was in the guardroom at the fortress. She was wearing the armour that the groundling had made for her. The metal plates fitted round her body perfectly, never making a sound when she moved; the black metal suit, partly decorated, was not heavy at all.

  She was going through the effects that had belonged to Iòsunta and Acòrhia. Her motivation was mostly curiosity, but she was also hopeful she might come across something with good news from home. A note, perhaps, or a letter, or maybe even a map indicating the route they had taken from Dsôn!

  But apart from two small phials in leather protective cases there was nothing out of the ordinary. Any knowledge about the route home would have died with the two älfar women.

  I wonder what’s inside these? Both of the little bottles had been with Acòrhia’s things. One of them had been inside the armour she had been wearing and the other one was in her rucksack.

  Firûsha undid the stopper and sniffed. Cloudy yellow oil. It’s gone a bit rancid. She did not understand what its significance could be.

  What caught her attention were the splashes of a similar liquid staining Iòsunta’s rucksack and also her collar. They were the same colour and consistency as the contents of the phials, but there was no corresponding bottle to be found in Iòsunta’s things.

  She started to suspect that Acòrhia might have purloined Iòsunta’s phial. Did that happen before the fight with the karderier? And what for? Why would the little vessel have been important? These thoughts made the heroic älf-woman appear in a different light. And Firûsha was increasingly sure that she had seen the dead woman once before, back in Dsôn. Wasn’t she some kind of celebrity? And when would I have seen her?

  The door behind her opened quietly.

  ‘Forgive me for interrupting you,’ said Crotàgon. ‘But we have a new arrival.’ He looked concerned.

  A new arrival, who will soon be sacrificed to the skull . . . Firûsha could see from his expression that the älf shared her misgivings on that score. ‘Do you think we should turn him away?’ It might seem cruel to refuse entry to one of her own kind, but it would be saving his life. At least for the immediate future.

  ‘You should speak with him first. He . . . comes from Dsôn, but he hasn’t been banished,’ Crotàgon replied.

  ‘You’re absolutely sure he isn’t a shapeshifter?’

  ‘He has wounds he would never have inflicted on himself purely to trick us.’

  ‘Then our father must have sent an extra volunteer to find us.’ She stood up and went with Crotàgon, who avoided giving a direct answer. ‘No?’ she insisted.

  ‘No. But you should hear for yourself. I’ve called Tossàlor over as well. I hope you don’t mind. I know that he . . .’ Crotàgon looked for the right words. ‘None of you can see any use in him because he refuses to take up arms. But he is intelligent. Sharper than any knife.’

  Firûsha placed a hand on his broad back. ‘I’ll be happy to listen to his views.’ As long as he doesn’t have any immediate plans for my skeleton.

  She stepped into the sickbay to find a blood-smeared älf lying on a red-stained sheet. A pool of blood was collecting on the floor. It was obvious that the ghastly mutilations he had received would transport him into endingness. His bandages were soaked through and the blood was still flowing.

  The two healers Draïlor and Horogòn were comparing notes at his bedside, their aprons stiff with blood from the injured new arrival.

  ‘Thank goodness you have come. I don’t think he’ll be conscious for much longer,’ Horogòn said quietly. ‘These wounds have been made with a poisoned weapon. Even putting a compression bandage on is having no effect on the haemorrhage. We have given him a pain-relieving potion. If you want to ask him anything, you’d better hurry.’

  Firûsha stepped close, passing through the puddle of blood so her boots left red footprints on the stone tiles. This was never a karderier spy.

  The stranger had lost both arms; one had been cut off below the elbow, while the other stump stopped below the shoulder joint. The wound in his left thigh had gone through to the bone and his clothing and skin had been burned off on the right side of his body. His face was swollen and disfigured and great handfuls of his grey hair had been ripped out of his scalp.

  It’s a miracle he’s still breathing. ‘Brave warrior,’ she said in respectful greeting. ‘I bid you welcome. What shall I call you? I am Firûsha and I command this small älfar empire together with my two brothers. Whoever has done this to you . . .’

  ‘Firûsha?’ He stared at her in amazement. ‘Oh, if only Aïsolon could know that I have found his daughter. I am Naïgonor. I was one of the wall defenders, and I knew your father before . . .’ He coughed and looked at them imploringly. ‘You must save the others!’ he gasped. The dose of pain-relief the healers had given him was starting to fail.

  ‘The others?’ Does he mean further envoys?

  ‘The people of Dsôn Sòmran,’ he breathed. ‘We were . . .’ He was overcome with emotion and despair reduced him to a storm of passionate tears.

  Battling her instincts to grab him and shake the truth out, Firûsha gently sat down on the blood-soaked sheets and stroked his matted hair. There’s a remedy that is stronger. She raised her sweet voice and sang him a tune she had learned at her mother’s knee.

  The melody seemed to calm Naïgonor. His breathing became less laboured and the fear of death disappeared from his gaze. Clarity of thought had returned.

  Firûsha sang two more verses to ensure lasting peace of mind for him. I hope that is enough. ‘Now tell me what you know,’ she begged.

  ‘It was . . . some time ago. Quite a while after you three had gone. Much of the city was lost in a landslide, the likes of which we had never known. Over a third of the buildings were dragged into the valley, burying the inhabitants and any out on the streets in that quarter. Then an earth-fall broke a huge gap in our northern defence. The rubble that plunged down onto the city caused even more damage. It was dreadful!’

  Mother! Father! Firûsha was thunderstruck. The hand on the soldier’s head froze in mid-stroke.

  ‘We were still searching the ruins for survivors when a horde of óarcos and trolls overran the city. They had heard or seen the ramparts were down.’ Naïgonor was in great distress. ‘There was no way we could hold the breach against the sheer mass of the beasts’ onslaught. We tried to put up barricades in the streets. No one knew what had happened to Aïsolon. We needed him to organise our resistance; there was total chaos and we were scattered around the city. We decided we should all flee to Phondrasôn and assemble here rather than be slaughtered in the valley.’

  Firûsha began to tremble. This is not the news I wished to hear! I’m sure my father is still alive. He . . . ‘Did the trolls do this to you?’

  ‘No. We gathered about a thousand älfar and swept through the tunnels of Phondrasôn. Where we met opposition, we were able to defeat our attackers. But then some other creatures joined the fray. A mere touch produced fatal wounds. When their victims died, they assumed their bodily shapes.’

  Karderiers. O ye gods of infamy, how could you allow this to happen? Firûsha held back her own tears. Her insides were cold as marble and her fingers had lost their sense of touch. Is there no hope for my race? Where can I go back to with my brothers now? All is lost!

  ‘They took over our leader and led us into a trap.’ Naïgonor’s eyes implored Firûsha for help. ‘Our people are imprisoned like cattle.’

  A slight hope was rekindled in her heart. ‘Is my father amongst them?’ Firûsha knew what had happened to the survivors from her city. The karderiers ambushed them.

  ‘No. I never saw him after the landslide.’

  That need not mean he is dead. She did not permit herself to explore this possibility, for the sake of her own sanity. ‘How many of us are still alive?’

  ‘When I escaped, there must have been roughly six hundred.’ Naïgonor closed his eyes, exhausted now. The pulse at his throat was slowing. ‘Y
ou have to save them or these terrible beings will kill them all.’

  ‘And my mother?’ Firûsha saw that he was past being able to respond. ‘Naïgonor! Tell me! What about my mother?’

  But the älf did not open his eyes. His heart had stopped forever.

  It is up to me to liberate the captive älfar. Firûsha got slowly to her feet with the warrior’s blood sticking to her armour. She had been tasked with an enormous responsibility. She looked at Crotàgon. ‘Was Naïgonor able to explain where our people are to be found?’

  The broad-shouldered warrior nodded. He was obviously dismayed at what he had heard. ‘He gave me a rough idea of where they are imprisoned. I’ll consult Sisaroth’s map.’ He did not look pleased at the prospect of carrying out what she was planning. ‘I know what you have in mind, but there are not enough of us, Firûsha. If the karderiers’ army were to attack . . .’

  ‘. . . we definitely need the assistance of those six hundred souls who are currently held captive,’ she broke in. Her mind was made up. Every second’s hesitation may mean further loss of precious life. ‘Give me fifty of the best soldiers. You stay here and hold the fort.’

  She might have been expecting her mentor to object, but he stroked her face tenderly, staring intently into her eyes. ‘Your brothers will kill me if anything happens to you. So it’s quite selfish of me to ask you to come back in one piece.’ His gaze was that of a teacher assessing an esteemed pupil who was leaving as a journeyman on a quest to become a master. ‘I’ll draw you up a chart of the route to take.’

  Firûsha stood looking at the dead älf and heard the sound of the last of his blood dripping from the soaked sheets to the floor. ‘You did not go into endingness in vain. Your message has reached us and we shall avenge you.’

  She left the sickbed and attempted to control her stormy emotions. Her priority was to release the imprisoned warriors. One of them was sure to have some knowledge of her parents’ fates.

  I may already be an orphan. I may have no home to return to. She was still trembling all over and she went weak at the knees. The significance of what she had learned hit her with the force of a landslide. She sank to the ground, sobbing. What shall I do? What shall we do?

  Firûsha stared into an abyss. Ever since her banishment she had kept alive the hope of eventually being reunited with her parents in Dsôn Sòmran. She had lived and breathed the longing for the embraces she would be greeted with on her return. Now I have nothing. The gods have forsaken me. I have nothing except for my brothers.

  She felt her stomach turn and she vomited several times.

  Firûsha was in a bad state, shaking from head to toe. She took some time before she felt able to get up from where she had cowered. She walked as if in a trance on her way from the guardroom back to the palace.

  Terrified to think about what the future might have in store, she discarded any plan other than the immediate one of procuring the liberation of the captives. And she would need to confer with Sisaroth and Tirîgon. They’ll be as shocked as I am.

  To her surprise she found she was expected.

  In the palace hall ten guards stood encircling two filth-encrusted, starving new arrivals, holding them at bay with their spears.

  Firûsha halted. ‘What is this? Why haven’t they . . .’ Then she recognised one of them. Can that be Father’s deputy? She approached. ‘Gàlaidon? Is it you?’

  Her emotions were in turmoil. This was her father’s First Sytràp; he had been the one to arrest her in the middle of the night and have her thrown from the walls, showing no mercy. It was unjust. Everything that went wrong started when he turned up.

  Yet she also felt a certain relief at seeing him: he was a familiar face and a close friend of her father’s. Perhaps his sudden appearance on the scene was a good omen. Was he sent to find us? Has Father got to the bottom of the conspiracy?

  ‘It is me, indeed, my little songbird,’ the blond älf said. His perilous state of health was obvious despite his joyful reaction at seeing her. His right hand was bandaged but the linen was soaked with pus. ‘Praise be to Inàste that I have found you.’ He tried to step towards her but the ring of spears remained rigidly fixed.

  ‘Watch out, Firûsha!’ one of the guards warned. ‘Remember that the karderiers are shapeshifters. We only brought them here because he swore he’d be able to prove he’s really Gàlaidon if we let him speak to one of the triplets. He said he would know many things to which an imposter would not be privy. You and your brothers know him better than anyone else. You should be able to judge.’

  We’ll soon see about that. Firûsha looked at Gàlaidon. ‘My Father’s Golden Time of Immortality, where was that held?’

  He answered with a grin. ‘In a cage. In the citadel.’

  ‘Tell me why that was.’

  ‘Because he wanted to test it for strength.’

  ‘And what was the purpose of the cage?’

  ‘It had to hold an óarco. We wanted to try our new steel arrowheads and see how deep they could penetrate óarco flesh.’

  Firûsha was nearly convinced. ‘And what did he call me?’

  ‘Apart from Daughter and Songbird?’

  ‘There was a special name.’

  Gàlaidon’s smile widened. ‘My blue-eyed star of the night.’

  It is him! To hear those missed terms of endearment eradicated all her resentment against Gàlaidon. She was reliving happier times in her homeland. She signalled to the guards to let him go and she moved forward to embrace him. ‘It is good to see you. You are forgiven for what you did. There was a plot against us and we were condemned in error. You had no choice but to follow Father’s orders and send us into exile.’ Her words were delivered firmly to dispel the last of the shadows. ‘I have heard such awful tidings about Dsôn.’ She gave a summary of what she had heard from Naïgonor. Gàlaidon confirmed the truth of it. She was reluctant to pose the next question. ‘And my father?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him since Dsôn. Back in the guardroom. Then the landslide happened. Most of the citadel was destroyed. But I feel that he will have survived. We must not assume his passing. I shan’t believe he is dead until I see his corpse.’ He stroked her dark hair consolingly.

  ‘And my mother?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Gàlaidon pointed to the unknown companion who was still held back by the sharp spear blades. His armour was similar to the First Sytràp’s own, and he carried a large rucksack. His long brown hair was dirty and unkempt. ‘This is an älf I met on my journey. He saved me from some fierce barbarians as big and broad as trees. They wore animal skins and used scythes as their weapons.’

  Firûsha looked closely at the other arrival. He was finding it hard to stay upright, he was so weak. Is that ink on his left hand? ‘He doesn’t really look like a better warrior than you.’ She pulled Gàlaidon’s head down so she could whisper in his ear. ‘You know what the karderiers are capable of? They can take on the shape of those they have murdered.’

  ‘Yes, your guards gave me that impression.’

  ‘How can we find out whether or not he is one of their spies? We’ve had a recent problem with that.’ Firûsha could not think how to test the stranger to establish his identity beyond doubt. ‘He is to be kept prisoner until my brothers and I return.’ She cast her eye on Gàlaidon’s injured arm. ‘Is the wound infected?’

  ‘It’s starting to heal, I think. But it’s very painful. And bad news for an älf like me, who is right-handed in combat.’

  ‘Our healers here are good. They will look after you.’ Firûsha turned to her soldiers. ‘Take the älf to . . .’

  ‘My name is Carmondai,’ the other new arrival interrupted her. ‘Perhaps you have heard of me?’

  ‘You?’ Firûsha could not believe her ears. How ever did he get here? Every älf alive knew the name of the celebrated master of word and image who had accompanied Sinthoras and Caphalor on their famous first campaign in Tark Draan. She had always loved his tales of bravery and battle. Now I fig
ure in just such a saga myself. ‘I can hardly believe it.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Which of my poems would you like me to recite? What do I need to tell you about my long wanderings through the cursed and magic-infused land of demons in order to be spared getting dumped in some cold, dank cell?’

  Firûsha looked down, shame-faced. ‘You are claiming to be the master of word and image? The founder and designer of Dsôn Balsur? The älf who went on the first campaign and preserved its history for posterity?’ She understood the significance of his being there. There is a way through to Tark Draan. We could all get to where the Inextinguishables are if what he says is true!

  ‘No, I’m not claiming to be him. I am him,’ Carmondai retorted. ‘And I want a bath.’

  Firûsha did not have time to waste. Lives are at stake. She pursed her lips. ‘I’m sorry but you will have to wait. I have to go and save my people.’ She issued instructions to put Carmondai in a cell and to take Gàlaidon to the guest rooms. ‘We will speak later,’ she said as she took her leave.

  ‘Where are your brothers?’ Gàlaidon called after her. Carmondai was complaining loudly about his treatment. The ten spears remained trained on him.

  ‘They’ll be back soon.’ Firûsha hurried off. Crotàgon had prepared her well for the battle to come. It is time to drive my sword into the flesh of my enemies!

  Firûsha took the map her mentor handed her and set off with fifty of the best male and female warriors the fortress had to offer to liberate her people.

  She would eliminate any karderier or opponent who stood in her way. She would take no prisoners.

  Chapter VIII

  Paint your blade black

  so it won’t flash in the light.

  Paint your face black

  to hide its radiance.

  Turn your soul black

  and the darkness will belong to you alone.

  ‘Aphorisms’ from the epic poem Young Gods

  composed by Carmondai, master of word and image

  Phondrasôn.

  ‘Whifis really is a cave within a cave.’ Tirîgon looked at the cocoon-shaped stone formation that hung from the roof. He could feel the air vibrating and his skin tingled. We are enveloped in magic. ‘How wide do you reckon this cavern is?’