Dark Paths

by Markus Heitz

  ‘Tirîgon and Sisaroth have surveyed much of the cave system, but it . . .’ He looked round and placed a hand on the table top. ‘You have explored these areas but the rest is still unknown. Not even the Zhadar has travelled through it all. Nowhere near all of it.’ He rubbed the scar. ‘Did I tell you about the trade he runs?’

  The älfar shook their heads.

  ‘He is keen to avoid peace in Phondrasôn at all costs. Until he is the overall ruler, that is. He supplies the arms and the troops to both sides in any conflict. For some reason he took a liking to me. He taught me new techniques and showed me how to forge with charmed runes even though I don’t have a cîanoi’s magic skills,’ he went on, staring out at the molten sea. ‘I watched him bargain with beasts from territory on the far side, places your brothers never got close to mapping. The Zhadar trades with them, providing them with armour and weapons. Sometimes the wares are of good quality and sometimes poor. That way no one side ever gets to win. But he never wanted to take on leadership of their armies. After a while he started to trust me and he’d send me out to negotiate for him. That’s why I came to you, if you recall.’ He looked at Firûsha.

  ‘Praise be that you did,’ she said, and this time her warmth was not all pretence. And I shall praise the day we get rid of you again.

  ‘I can’t imagine anything better. I’m afraid I’ve lost my memory of our many adventures with each other, but your brothers have told me about them.’ Balodil’s regret was obvious. ‘I secretly went behind the Zhadar’s back. He did not want to command the armies so sometimes I would take that office. As I do for you. He was unaware that I was creating my own realm with the covert aim, given the right opportunity, of absconding. I know many of his secrets.’ He frowned. ‘Was that really what I wanted to do? Or maybe . . .’ He looked pensive. ‘Forgive me. I am occasionally confused and names of fellow-groundlings swim into my mind, but I can’t place them.’

  Firûsha smiled encouragingly. The spirit of the old Tungdil is still floating around in his head. ‘Do go on.’

  ‘I had thousands at my command, but at the same time I was undermining the Zhadar’s trade arrangements. I had forged my final armour masterpiece and I decided to take off. To escape to . . .’ He halted, as if he did not know what to say next.

  I think I know what happened. ‘But he caught you, seized the armour, and left you for dead,’ Firûsha supplied. She made a mental note to tell Sisaroth to increase the dosage. If the old Tungdil broke out, the groundling would be worse than useless. She touched the armour. It would be a shame. His skills are irreplaceable. ‘The Zhadar is an arms dealer and a behind-the-scenes fixer serving his own ends in pursuit of total power in Phondrasôn,’ she said in summary.

  ‘Yes, and he needs you to achieve those ends.’ Balodil looked over at the fortress. ‘A visitor, I see! A barbarian messenger. It’ll be for me. Someone wants a general for their army.’ He clapped his stumpy-fingered hands together. ‘No more boredom for me!’

  ‘Not so fast!’ Firûsha decided to receive the new arrival dressed in her impressive new suit of armour. I’d like to gauge the effect. ‘I’ll come with you. I want to hear what he has to say.’

  Together they left the room.

  Phondrasôn.

  Tirîgon sat opposite Carmondai, drinking an infusion of the bittersweet oltrû herb and reading through the historian’s notes. It was the summary of the report he had given them, but expressed in such a richly decorated way that it was moving and tragic to read.

  This was how my race was lost for the second, even the third time. No älfar realm has ever survived for long. This knowledge etched its way into his consciousness where it melded with his terrible recriminations concerning the deaths of his parents.

  The guilt he bore for their loss would never fade. He had already avenged their deaths by killing their murderer. The truth about those crucial, incriminating events in Dsôn had died with the assassin. Nobody in the fortress doubted that Gàlaidon had been a cleverly disguised karderier. Tirîgon knew himself to be safe from discovery.

  That knowledge did not mean he was happy. Esmonäe’s infidelity and her subsequent death only added to the heavy burden he would bear until the end of days.

  While Carmondai kept busy filling page after page with his impressions of life in the Phondrasôn älfar realm, Tirîgon was lost in contemplation of the concept of atonement.

  He could not be forgiven by those whose lives had been lost and he could never admit to his siblings what he had done: the intrigues that meant a normal life would never be possible. It was immaterial that he had saved their lives. I ought to have asked them whether they would follow me to Phondrasôn instead of subjecting them to the pain they went through.

  Tirîgon looked up.

  Inside him a second, mollifying voice sang out. His guilt, it told him, was not so severe, after all. What would have happened to my people if we had not been here to offer them an älfar realm to join? What would have become of them without the refuge and protection we have been able to offer? They would have become victims of the karderiers and the other beasts, they would have been sucked into Marandëi’s magic tower, or pulled firmly under the Zhadar’s yoke. My dubious actions still produced a beneficial result.

  Tirîgon was happy to go along with this interpretation. He liked the idea that he had saved the inhabitants of Dsôn and thus preserved his own race.

  He shared the generally held view that they should get out of Phondrasôn as quickly as possible. There were better opportunities awaiting them than a potential empire in the depths of this netherworld, surrounded by scum. Tark Draan must be recaptured and must be punished for the deaths of the Inextinguishables. We shall rule over the humans with a rod of iron and we will make certain the elves get what they deserve.

  Tirîgon was eager to ride into battle with drawn sword, storming through barbarian ranks in a magic cloud of destruction.

  Carmondai gave them various maps of Tark Draan for their campaign. The historian-poet was a vital component in their planning, as he was able to tell them about the geography of the area and where there might be weak spots in the defences.

  The siblings had worked through different scenarios. They had discussed ways of using their troops, which strategic targets should be attacked in which order, which leaders to take out of action. The threads were spun and woven in the skilled hands of the Young Gods.

  There was one imponderable: everything depended on where exactly in Tark Draan they would surface. This was the deciding factor.

  Tirîgon picked up the papers again and skimmed them for the hundredth time. This time something new occurred to him.

  Yes, that is a weakness there! I think I’ve found something. He looked over to Carmondai. ‘Do you mind if I disturb you?’

  ‘You already have. Is it important?’

  ‘You tell me. The groundling tribes are united, aren’t they? Apart from the Thirdlings?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nothing’s changed there? Even though Tungdil Goldhand was a Thirdling and he’s the greatest hero in Tark Draan?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’

  Tirîgon shook his head. ‘No. The potions and the spells have made him think his name is Balodil. I don’t want to risk reminding him of his previous existence.’

  Carmondai laid down his compressed-charcoal writing tool. ‘What are you getting at?’

  Tirîgon lifted up the page that dealt with the notes on the tribes. ‘If I’ve got this right, the groundlings stick together to defend Tark Draan in spite of any internal differences they may have. The Testing Star eliminated most of the monsters and the Inextinguishables have ceased to exist, so the passes will all have fallen quiet.’

  ‘I suppose that’s so.’ Carmondai was listening attentively.

  ‘The groundlings have been able to expand their trade.’ Tirîgon traced the four regions with his forefinger. ‘We must have been mad not to make use of that fact. The Thirdlings are the bes
t warrior tribe of all five. And they can’t stand the other four.’

  ‘That’s true. But not the other inhabitants of the Girdlegard. Their god Vraccas insisted they protect all the humans, magicians, elves and good creatures,’ Carmondai objected.

  ‘Well, I think we can use the Thirdling forces to our own advantage,’ he said, completely convinced. ‘For them the conquest of the four tribes would be the biggest coup imaginable. They’d surely pay any price for that.’

  Carmondai laughed. ‘You don’t know the groundlings very well. They’d never . . .’

  ‘And you, if I may point out,’ Tirîgon said with some arrogance, ‘do not know me and my siblings very well, either. We have the Infamous One on our side and my brother is a cîanoi. We can offer the Thirdlings so much power and riches that they won’t be able to refuse.’

  ‘But that’s not the way their minds work.’

  He may be good at writing stories, and apparently he’s not bad at town-planning, but his intellectual capacity falls short of greatness. Tirîgon gave a sly smile. ‘We won’t give them any choice in the matter. Did you think that Tungdil joined us as a soul mate of his own volition?’

  ‘I know you put him under a spell.’

  ‘With the power of the Infamous One. Sisaroth can do the same with the leader of the Thirdling tribe. If we have them onside, all the clans will follow because they are bound by their oaths of allegiance.’ Tirîgon leaned his elbows on the table by the map. ‘You’ll see, Carmondai. We know how to make use of the groundlings. We’ll be able to found the next älfar empire with their assistance.’ He gave a quiet laugh. ‘I shall enjoy that. Have you seen the magnificent sets of armour Balodil made for us? And his own he fashioned from a tionium alloy that is engraved with älfar runes. He almost thinks he’s one of us. I’m confident my brother can bring off the same miracle with the Thirdlings.’ His visage showed him certain of his own invincible powers. ‘We are the temptation none can resist.’

  The door was thrust unceremoniously open.

  One of the guards stumbled across the threshold, slipped and fell to his knees. ‘I— we couldn’t—’ he gasped, fighting for breath and holding his side.

  Carmondai and Tirîgon sprang to their feet. In the doorway lay three palace guards, dead or unconscious.

  In strode the gålran zhadar over their bodies. He wore costly black tionium armour and bore in his hands two short-handled war hammers whose heads shone silver and gold and were set with radiating diamonds and other gems. They emitted a crackling sound as if superheated.

  This must be the armour Tungdil was describing. He says it belongs to him. Tirîgon hoped the groundling was not going to suddenly turn up. The armour showed imperfections in the inlay and runes, but those parts of the inscriptions which had been completed gave off a threatening glow. The blast of air that accompanied the Zhadar tasted of hot metal and charred meat.

  What can he want? ‘Welcome,’ said Tirîgon, bowing his head in greeting. Good acting skills called for here. He did not believe the Zhadar wanted him dead. If that were the case I would already have been killed. And he was keen to find out how the Zhadar had got into the palace without the alarm being sounded.

  The soldier at their feet tried to stand up but collapsed again, clutching his side.

  ‘Welcome? Hardly,’ came the deep voice. The Zhadar’s long black side-whiskers dangled and quivered. ‘I am rarely welcome. Not even to those who should be serving me.’ The tone of voice grew ever more unpleasant. He took up a stance in the centre of the room, looking first at Tirîgon, then perusing Carmondai from head to foot. ‘Where are your brother and sister?’

  ‘They are busy.’ Tirîgon moved in front of the table to hide the pages of Tark Draan sketch maps from view. ‘You’ll have to make do with me.’

  Carmondai sat down as though to get back to his drawings. As he did so, he shuffled the maps and invasion diagrams out of sight.

  The Zhadar tossed one of the hammers into the air, spinning it and catching it again as if it were made from the lightest of woods. ‘As you see, I had no difficulty entering your fortress and coming straight in here,’ he said in a bored voice. ‘It would be equally easy for me to kill you and your scribe there. Like bothersome insects.’ He weighed the weapon in his hand, stepped forward and struck a mighty blow.

  It landed on the älf at Tirîgon’s feet.

  The gemstones flashed and there was a detonation and a wave of heat when the flat side of the hammerhead hit the soldier’s helmet. Metal and skull were fused. The guard was smashed to the floor and did not move again. Blood from the älf’s shattered face trickled across the mosaic floor.

  ‘I am well aware of that, and I am glad you are not doing it.’ Tirîgon would have loved to fling himself upon the creature but knew he stood no chance. I must remain calm if I want to survive to defeat him on another occasion. ‘So what have we done to provoke your anger?’

  ‘Do I look angry?’

  ‘I don’t know of anyone who kills guards from sheer joie de vivre. I presume it was intended as a warning.’

  ‘You are correct, Young God.’ The Zhadar was ridiculing him. ‘I am the only one in the whole of Phondrasôn to be known as a god. Neither you nor your siblings have any right to the term. Continue using it and I’ll put your divinity to the test. And I showed divine restraint and mercy in letting you get away with the silly trick you played with the female you pretended was Firûsha.’

  ‘That is generous. But let’s get back to our supposed elevation to godheads. I don’t know what you are talking about.’ Tirîgon made every effort to control his temper. ‘We are living here in peace and caring for the survivors of our race. We take no notice of what happens in the surrounding caves.’

  The Zhadar’s eyes narrowed. ‘I see. You take no notice. And you take no notice, I learn, of my instructions. You have been ignoring the missions I have tasked you with.’ He slammed the bloody hammer into the table top. ‘The deal we have is that you carry out the tasks I set.’

  ‘Pardon us. We were occupied in looking after our own folk. A terrible misfortune struck the älfar who lived outside Phondrasôn, in Ishím Voróo in the Grey Mountains. We had to free them from the clutches of the karderiers. It was your advice, I recall, to make war on the six-armed monsters. We are in the middle of planning our strategy.’ Tirîgon bowed and feigned extreme humility, though this drove him to the limits of what his pride would allow. ‘Hundreds of lives depend on us. We are the last of our kind.’

  ‘Did you think that would make me more kindly disposed? I have eliminated so many peace-loving peoples and gentle species that I have lost count. And you thought you’d touch my heart with your story of the sad fate of the cruel shadow-creepers? Don’t make me laugh!’

  Tirîgon was aware their visitor had come with the sole intention of intimidating them. He does need us. He needs us because of the prophecy. ‘I ask your pardon for . . .’

  The Zhadar punched him hard on the chin.

  It felt to Tirîgon as if an iron bar had struck him. The impact sent him sailing through the air to collide three paces back into a set of shelves.

  Stunned, he still managed to land on his feet and to jump aside as the piece of furniture crashed to the ground. The room was spinning.

  He never saw the next blow coming.

  His adversary’s knuckles slammed into his belly and left him gasping and retching. Two further blows to his knees felled him. The Zhadar had shouldered one of his hammers and was showing him an open hand.

  ‘You do see, don’t you, my Young God, how quickly one can lose one’s splendid status when one meets an Old God?’ the Zhadar thundered. ‘I don’t even need to use my weapons to destroy you and your siblings.’

  ‘You . . . took me by surprise,’ Tirîgon gasped, struggling to breathe. There was an excruciating pain in his abdomen. It felt as if a vital organ had burst.

  ‘I shall always take you by surprise. Even when I’ve announced I’m going to attack, you’
ll never be able to stop me. You älfar are good, agile and swift. But I command you.’ He brought his hammer down slowly, close to Tirîgon.

  The heat the hammer radiated struck his face and he could see the detail of the engraving on the flat surface. You shall not brand me like one of your slaves! Beside himself with fury, he moved to fend off the iron brand.

  The Zhadar only laughed. He removed the hammer. ‘Disobey me one more time, Tirîgon, and I shall cover your älfar flesh with my decorations, believe me. No salve or potion will undo the marks.’ He went over to the table and pulled his second weapon out of the ruined wood.

  Tirîgon resisted the urge to vomit and his stomach burned like fire. His throat was full of blood. Those bare-fisted blows had been worse than any cudgel. He is ten times stronger than Crotàgon. His pride forced him to his feet but it took him some time to stand firm. He felt humiliated by having to haul himself up on the furniture.

  The Zhadar had been observing his movements without compassion. ‘You will tell your brother and sister that I expect the following: you will go to my troops. They are stationed in Sojól. You know where that lies. The commander, Korhnoj, is expecting you. He will give you your instructions when you arrive. The main task is to take the fortress, remove the ringleader and ensure the region is calm.’ He stroked his whiskers smugly. ‘I thought it would be a good idea to have the Young Gods that they all so admire put down their rebellion. It will make it clear to the insurgents exactly who is in charge here.’

  The Zhadar turned and left.

  Carmondai drew a deep breath. ‘I thought I’d seen everything,’ he commented. ‘That speed, the magic aura . . . it’s nearly like the Inextinguishables!’

  It’s absolutely nothing like the Inextinguishables. That’s where you’re wrong. Tirîgon opened his mouth to protest and vomited a gush of blood.

  Chapter II

  Where there is no necessity