Dark Paths

by Markus Heitz

nothing is proved

  by the killing of another being

  other than it is possible.

  How much easier

  will that killing be

  when necessity dictates it.

  Hesitation

  brings nothing

  but hastens one’s own death.

  ‘Aphorisms’ from the epic poem Young Gods

  composed by Carmondai, master of word and image

  Phondrasôn.

  Firûsha crossed the courtyard behind the first defence wall in the company of Balodil and Crotàgon. This was the place where the guards had stopped the barbarian and taken him to an interview room outside the complex. Nobody got any further than this point and any messenger or visiting envoy had to wait until one of the Triplets found time to speak to them.

  Crotàgon stayed behind with the watch and the groundling entered the chamber with Firûsha. She saw an armoured barbarian whose face was unfamiliar. She glanced at Balodil. I wonder if these two know each other?

  Balodil greeted the man and introduced him as Shucto. ‘We’ve come across each other a few times and we’ve fought in the odd skirmish together. He’s one of the Shuctanides, a race that’s aiming to rise up against the Zhadar. He, his father and his three sisters reign over five of the caves.’ Balodil sat down opposite the man and then pushed his chair back a little so as not to be on the same level as the älf ruler. He knew his place; Firûsha was thus not put in the uncomfortable position of having to assert herself. She met the barbarian’s gaze and assessed his body language. She could see that he admired her appearance and was surprised and fascinated in equal measure. He is staring at me as if I had stepped down from the stars. ‘What do you seek here?’

  Shucto watched her in silence, his jaw slightly agape. It did not make him look any more intelligent.

  ‘What do you seek?’ she repeated, her hands on her hips. There was a metallic scraping sound when her gauntlets touched her armour.

  The barbarian could only stare. His lips moved and some mumbled syllables emerged.

  Balodil kicked the man’s chair. ‘Hey! Wake up, you!’

  Shucto jerked upright and leaped to his feet, tugging off his fur cap, stared at Firûsha again and then went down on one knee. Then both knees. Then he lowered his gaze to her feet. ‘I offer you my most humble of humble greetings,’ he stammered. ‘My thanks for granting this audience to an unworthy subject; you are most gracious. How was I to know that Firûsha herself, one of the favoured Siblings, one of the Young Gods, would address me in person?’ His emotions were getting the better of him.

  Balodil smirked, but said nothing.

  The four guards in the corners of the room started to smile.

  Firûsha had noticed how respectfully they treated her, as well. I obviously impress them, too, not just this barbarian fellow. She approached him. ‘You may look up at me. Now tell me why you have come.’

  Shucto gulped, twisting his cap in embarrassment. ‘I wanted to ask Balodil to put in a good word for me so that I might speak to the Young Gods,’ he stammered. ‘I have a request.’

  ‘We are not the right ones to grant requests. It’s the Zhadar you must address on that score.’

  ‘No, Young Goddess! You . . . your brothers. You are indeed the ones who can come to our aid,’ he said fervently, spreading out his arms in entreaty. ‘We are suffering under the Zhadar and his forces. The mercenaries will arrive soon. I know they are encamped in Sojól, and from there –’

  ‘That’s nothing to do with me,’ Firûsha cut in. She turned to go.

  ‘But the Young Gods showed us that it is possible to defy him. You are our role models in this. We worship you. We pray to you at night!’

  ‘We never asked you to,’ she said firmly but not unkindly. ‘You chose this situation for yourselves.’ She motioned to Balodil to accompany her out of the room. ‘There is nothing we can do.’

  ‘I implore you!’

  Firûsha did not answer. They are the best possible distraction to divert attention from our plans. Let them rub up against the Zhadar. That’ll keep him occupied.

  ‘Please let me finish. Please hear me out. We are offering a special incentive, seeing as you . . .’

  ‘Did you say incentive? You’re offering an incentive to a god?’ Firûsha laughed. ‘That’s absurd!’

  ‘We had heard the Young Gods were looking for a way to get back to the surface,’ said Shucto shyly.

  Yet another one who thinks he knows a secret way out. ‘Isn’t everyone in Phondrasôn looking for the same thing?’ Firûsha halted in her tracks but did not turn round.

  ‘We aren’t. My family and I . . . would be happy here, if it weren’t for the Zhadar.’ Shucto’s voice bore a trace of hope. ‘We have always lived in these caves. My forefathers, our earliest ancestors, the Oldest Ones, were the first to settle here. But your race, Young Goddess, does not belong in this place. It is not your world.’

  ‘Are you telling me you really know a way out of here?’ Firûsha had lost count of the number of times she’d been told a similar story. She had even heard it from her brothers, of course. She turned.

  ‘Yes,’ Shucto answered promptly. ‘But it won’t stay open for much longer. You’ll have to act quickly.’

  ‘And where does the exit lead to?’

  ‘It comes out in a body of water the elves call Suamotil. It means something like Pond of the Moon.’

  Firûsha felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. ‘What did you say? Why do you understand elvish?’

  ‘My family once saved the life of an elf who had got lost in Phondrasôn. He wasn’t one of the ones that travel with the flying ships. He didn’t want anything to do with them. He taught us some basic things in his language. That’s why I’m able to read some elvish writing, Young Goddess,’ Shucto explained. ‘I know they are your mortal enemies and that you want to exterminate them just as passionately as they want to wipe you out.’

  ‘The elf you are talking about – is he dead?’

  ‘Oh yes, he died fighting with us in an óarco attack, Goddess.’

  That’s a shame. I would have liked to interrogate him. Firûsha fixed her blue gaze on the barbarian. ‘The passageway emerges into a pond?’ He nodded. ‘Why did you say it would soon be closing up?’

  ‘It only came about through magic. You know about the magic power surges that plague us. One of them affected the course of a river,’ he told her, nervously wringing his cap between his hands. ‘It was completely reversed. Instead of drawing water out of the pond it pumped water in. The cycle reverses at intervals, but the sequence has started to slow down. I think that means the magic is losing power.’

  Firûsha walked back to where the barbarian was standing and looked down at him. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I was on a boat when the river changed direction. I swear by the perfection of your countenance, Young Goddess, that I was veritably sucked up the length of a waterfall. There were crabs and fish swirling round my ears and I was in the middle of the rushing water. I emerged in the Moon Pond and swam to the bank. There was an elf settlement nearby.’

  ‘So how did you get back here, if the river had reversed its course?’ Firûsha asked sharply.

  ‘And how did you manage to breathe underwater?’ Balodil wanted to know. ‘Why didn’t you drown?’

  ‘I waited. I just waited until the direction of the river’s flow switched again. And I can breathe because of this . . .’ Shucto swept his hair back and showed them the gills at the side of his neck. ‘The magic affected us as well. We can exist on land or in water. That is, in water for a considerable time.’

  ‘Really?’ grunted Balodil. ‘I don’t like that idea. I know if I fall in a river I’ll drown, just like any sensible creature that wasn’t created for life in the water. There’s a terrifying goddess of the waves called Elria.’

  Firûsha was disappointed. ‘We are not like the Shuctanides,’ she said. ‘We are not half-fish. I wonder if there’s a solution?’r />
  Shucto had to admit he knew of none.

  ‘How long were you under water before surfacing?’

  ‘I’d say about seven hundred heartbeats.’

  I’d never be able to hold my breath for that length of time. Four hundred I could manage, but not seven.

  She suddenly recalled something her brother had told her.

  Tirîgon had explained the trick with the pig bladders. She reckoned the air in an inflated bladder would be sufficient to get them through to the Moon Pond. Provided, of course, that the whole thing wasn’t a trap, something cooked up to get rid of the Triplets and the rest of the älfar.

  She briefly considered the possibility but decided it was an unlikely scenario. Shucto had admitted he and his family had had dealings with elves. If the whole thing were a plot he would never have mentioned elves at all. And if he were out to trick us he’d hardly have started negotiations by asking for a reward. Could he be a karderier, though? She motioned to him to stand up. ‘Did I understand you correctly before? You were proposing some kind of a deal? A trade of sorts?’

  Shucto stepped back. ‘My family decided to suggest it. We are desperate. We thought we’d ask you for help.’

  ‘You thought you would force us to do what you want, you mean.’

  He bowed his head humbly. He did not seem to be enjoying his role as negotiator in chief. ‘We are . . .’

  ‘. . . desperate. Yes, I know.’ Firûsha decided to listen to the request. ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s . . . the Zhadar is going to launch an offensive against the rebels. His forces have them pinned down on the Sojól heights and the fortress is under siege. Korhnoj is the name of the Zhadar’s commander there and we think he’s about to storm the stronghold.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You . . . could prevent it happening. You could do something. Kill their officers?’

  Firûsha looked at Balodil, who was considering the options. ‘What do you think?’ she asked.

  ‘Not a bad idea,’ he said. ‘I know this Korhnoj. He’s cunning. His unit is efficient and reliable. If the officers are put out of action the soldiers will be clueless.’ But his eyes told Firûsha that he was not speaking his mind. He did not want to talk openly with the man in the room.

  ‘That’s exactly what we’re hoping,’ said Shucto urgently. ‘As soon as we get your signal that the officers have been eliminated, the rebels can pounce on the army. Then we’ll march on the Zhadar himself and force him to surrender.’ Balodil burst out laughing, which disconcerted the barbarian. ‘We will. We’ll force him to give up,’ he insisted.

  ‘What makes you so sure?’ Firûsha asked. ‘I know the Zhadar. I know his four towers. I know his defence wall and the sort of magic he’s capable of. An attack by a force such as yours is not even going to spoil his breakfast.’

  ‘We . . . we will succeed,’ Shucto repeated. It seemed that he was not being completely truthful. Being so close to the august älfar personage was disturbing for him. He was unsure of himself and overwhelmed in her presence. ‘Really. We will.’

  Balodil’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you not telling us?’

  ‘Nothing! Nothing at all!’

  ‘Oh, yes, there’s definitely something. I know a lie when I hear one,’ Balodil growled.

  ‘There is one thing . . .’ Shucto implored them to trust him. ‘Please don’t ask me to say it . . . We just need the leaders defeated, then we can finish the rest. We don’t want you to take this war on yourselves. You need to take your people out to Girdlegard. Whether we win or lose against the Zhadar in the long run must not concern you.’

  Even if he’s keeping something back, there’s something to be said for this. It won’t be difficult to take out a few barbarians. Even if they are in an army camp. Don’t I command the shadows, after all? ‘All right,’ said Firûsha, ‘it’s agreed. But first I need to see that the access passage via the Moon Pond actually exists.’ She stood in front of Shucto, who was quaking in his shoes. ‘Take me there. Prove you are not lying. If what you claim is true, then I promise my brothers and I shall fulfil your request.’

  Shucto looked nervously between Firûsha and Balodil, weighing up his chances. He agreed. ‘I’ll take you to the river. Straight away if you like.’

  ‘A good idea,’ said the groundling.

  ‘Yes.’ Is it? She told one of the guards to bring her a leather drinking pouch that she could use as an air supply. It’s probably not going to work, but it’s best to find out. I have to know. ‘I will go with Shucto on my own. If it is a trap and I don’t come back,’ she told Balodil, ‘you must inform my brothers. And then,’ she said, looking directly at the barbarian, ‘they will ride to the five caves of the Shuctanides and will destroy every living creature they come across. If I die my death will bring down havoc and thousandfold devastation. Be sure of that.’

  He stammered in protest.

  This was not the sole reason Firûsha had for travelling alone. She knew Tirîgon and Sisaroth would simply forbid her to try out the underwater passage through a raging torrent. It was a dangerous undertaking. Extremely dangerous.

  If it were up to my brothers they’d send one of the soldiers through first. But this would not satisfy her. He might come back without finding the exit. Or he may not return at all. She wanted to go to Tark Draan herself. They’ll believe me if I can get back in one piece. And if I don’t make it, they’ll avenge my death.

  There was a commotion outside.

  One of the guards opened the door and looked out. ‘It’s the Zhadar,’ he announced. ‘He’s heading up to the palace with our warriors escorting him.’

  Shucto went pale. ‘He knows what we’re doing,’ he whimpered. ‘Oh, I knew this would happen! He knows what we’ve been plotting!’

  Firûsha looked at him and smiled. The barbarian was comforted by this and fell silent. ‘Don’t worry. If the Zhadar knew you were here he’d be in this room and you’d be dead. You’ll be all right here.’

  She was, however, afraid that the Zhadar had yet another task for herself and her brothers to carry out. She would not be able to refuse. The fact that he had appeared in person, she thought, showed he was losing patience.

  She was not concerned for the sake of her brothers, but she was worried it would scupper her planned expedition to Tark Draan. As soon as the Zhadar left, Tirîgon and Sisaroth would send for her. I must set off before that happens. ‘Shucto, show me the way. Now.’

  They left the room together, but she paused to talk to Balodil. ‘I’ll wait here till my master goes,’ he said, taking a drink of water to which he had added a few drops of liquid from a phial at his belt. This was the medication Sisaroth had prescribed. The drops were to treat the headaches he was suffering from, he understood. ‘He would be angry if he found me here with you. He would be so angry he would forget himself and kill you in spite of the prophecy. It’s better all round if he goes on believing I’m dead.’

  Firûsha thought he was right. ‘You know what is to be done if I don’t return.’

  ‘My dear friend, I do indeed,’ he replied. ‘Look after yourself. And bring me back something nice.’ He grinned. ‘I wouldn’t mind a barrel of black beer.’

  ‘I’ll check out the elves’ food stores.’ She raised her hand in farewell and pulled the door closed behind her and Shucto. She was in a state of high excitement as she accompanied the barbarian across the bridge. Tark Draan.

  The land she had heard so much about in stories. The land they would conquer.

  The land which held the secret hopes of her people.

  Her expectations were high. She would not be satisfied with anything less than total success. There has to be a Moon Pond. There just has to. Her blue gaze was fixed on the nape of Shucto’s neck as she followed him, planning how she would take the bones out of his body while he was still alive if she found he had betrayed her.

  Firûsha listened to the voice of her heart; apart from the exhilaration and the anticipation there was a
new feeling: fear.

  Phondrasôn.

  Sisaroth held his scythe-like knife in his right hand and heated the blade on the furnace fire until it glowed red and the inlays shone green.

  He was concentrating on the phrasing. The ritual was all-important and the smallest detail had to be observed minutely: the rhythm of the words had to be exactly as Marandëi had coached him in their short partnership.

  He was now unaware of anything but the immediate task in hand. He was not alone in the room but had the impression that the whole world revolved around him. Even if an unthinkable catastrophe broke loose he would not interrupt the incantation. I am offering him another sacrifice. It shall not be the last.

  The knowledge about the ancient älfar language and the prayers to the gods of infamy which Shëidogîs had breathed into his mind came from the old books, but he was able to apply them as if he had been performing these rites for decades. Once he held the skull in his hands everything just flowed.

  He pulled the blade out of the glowing coals and held it over the naked torso of the älf lying on the stone table before him. Sisaroth plunged the knife in and the red-hot blade slipped through the skin up to the hilt. Perfect.

  With one powerful movement the priest opened the flesh from the navel to the chin. The älf’s animal scream ended in a gurgling sound. Blood surged out along the length of the wound into a chiselled gully on the stone to collect in a wide and ornately decorated bowl.

  In the base of the bowl sat the skull of Shëidogîs.

  The blood ran, like thickened juice, splashing onto the centre of the relic, filling the carved engravings and following the convoluted patterns traced into the bone to cover the gold leaf, the pearls and the tiny spheres of silver.

  But the mutilated älf still breathed.

  ‘Accept all the strength his immortal life has stored. Take it!’ Sisaroth replaced his blade on the forge and plunged both hands into the gaping cut. He rooted through a jumble of sliced intestines and vital organs until his hands located the heart in the chest cavity.

  He wrenched it out and tossed it onto the coals.

  On its bed of stone the body contorted and foamed at the mouth but the light in the eyes was not breaking.