by Markus Heitz
All fakes! Firûsha looked at the one stuck under the wall. A copy, too? She whispered his name and supported his head gently. How will I ever know which to trust? ‘Look me in the eyes, brother. Is it really you?’
Sisaroth was still for a moment, staring at her, with the light of recognition in his eyes. He opened his mouth and showed an incomplete row of teeth. And no tongue.
No. That’s not you. It can’t be. Firûsha took her hands away and picked up her knife to ram it through the heart of the false brother. The figure died with a horrified hiss. ‘We have to find my brothers,’ she told Crotàgon, as she put her hand in the blood of the corpse she had stabbed. With her forefinger she painted a rune first on Crotàgon’s forehead and then on her own. ‘Kill any Firûsha you come across that doesn’t have this mark. And I’ll do the same with any multiple Crotàgons I meet.’
‘Good idea.’ He looked her carefully up and down, then looked at the slaughtered Sisaroth-copy. ‘How will I know your brothers? Which ones are real?’
That’s the question that’s bothering me. She took a deep breath. ‘We’ll have to get them all in the same place and figure out how to determine which is the original.’ She wanted to go back in and start searching immediately but then she saw a black cloud billowing out of the devastated palace. There was the thunder of hooves and the sound of neighing.
She could not believe her eyes. Night-mares?
A whole herd of the black-coated magical equines streamed out of the building with Sisaroth and Tirîgon in their midst, followed by Balodil.
But are these the genuine versions? Firûsha hurried off to meet them, lifting a long spear high in case she should need to defend herself against any overly insistent night-mares. The animals would never normally attack an älf, recognising a certain affinity, but clearly these multitudes had come about by magic. And they’ll be hungry, at that.
Her brothers approached.
The bloodstains and torn holes in Sisaroth’s tunic were evidence of severe injury but he was walking without any apparent discomfort. She assumed he had been able to use his spells to heal his wounds. The brothers looked utterly astounded at the devastation outside the palace but it was obvious they were relieved at the sight of their sister.
‘May Samusin, god of the wind and of justice, be praised that you have survived, my brothers!’ She quickly reported on events and told them what she had observed.
Following her example, the brothers and the groundling made marks on their brows to ensure there was no confusion with their imitations.
They held a short discussion and decided to destroy any copies of themselves they came across, but to spare any newly created älfar as long as they were physically complete. Their army was in sore need of reinforcements and these double, treble and fourfold copies would help with making up the numbers. The arrival of the night-mares meant they would now have a cavalry unit. It only remained for the älfar to get used to riding the new steeds.
All the surviving älfar gradually assembled where the siblings were, but out of respect remained at a distance. They had recognised their leaders and looked to them for advice and instructions as to what they should do. The company talked quietly together, wondering what the future held.
‘Those that are crippled but still alive, leave to me. And any imitation of ourselves,’ Sisaroth told them. It was a command rather than a request. ‘I shall sacrifice them to Shëidogîs and increase the god’s divine power. We need every miracle he can give us.’ He looked around. ‘How fortunate that he was able to turn this catastrophe round in our favour.’ Sisaroth laughed quietly. ‘It will be strange to sacrifice a copy of one of you. Or of myself.’
Tirîgon and Firûsha exchanged glances and Balodil laughed in disbelief.
‘You’re saying we’re supposed to be grateful to Shëidogîs for the destruction of our home here?’ It was Firûsha who spoke first, unable to credit what she was hearing from her brother. He’s ascribing everything to the demon. He’s completely taken in and obsessed by this being. ‘Listen. If he’s so powerful, why didn’t he prevent all this?’
Crotàgon pushed his way to the front of the crowd to join the siblings and heard Firûsha’s protest. He did not say anything but his face was dark. It was clear what his opinion was.
Sisaroth was unconcerned. Holding the skull relic in one hand he said, ‘Of course we must thank him! We would have been done for without his intervention. He transformed the effects of the magic storm and donated a whole herd of night-mares and new troops to our cause, so we can march off against Tark Draan and the elves . . .’
‘Utter nonsense!’ Crotàgon shouted. ‘That skull has absolutely nothing to do with what happened here. And whatever is in there, it’s certainly not the soul of one of the gods of infamy.’
Silence fell. The älfar gathered around them were eager to hear what the response would be.
‘How dare you . . .?’ Sisaroth began.
‘I’m ready to dare anything. That thing,’ Crotàgon said, pointing at the skull, ‘stole what was dearest to me. There is a demon, an evil spirit, in there. It’s taken you prisoner just like it captivated and enslaved Marandëi. It doesn’t care who gets sacrificed to it – the souls of älfar, elves, groundlings or barbarians – to that demon they’re all the same. It only cares it gets living energy.’
Crotàgon’s words could have come from Firûsha’s heart. But it’s unwise to be saying this now.
‘Silence!’ Sisaroth took a step forward and was about to strike Crotàgon.
Crotàgon raised his spear and held the tip aimed at Sisaroth. ‘Keep your distance, cîanoi. I’ve been silent for long enough and I’ve let you carry out those sacrificial rituals. You’ve killed our own people . . .’
‘Crotàgon, what are you talking about?’ Tirîgon interrupted him roughly, using all the acting talent at his disposal. ‘You must be confused.’ The spectators muttered to each other in alarm.
‘I reckon this is not the genuine version of Crotàgon,’ Sisaroth growled. ‘It’s a fake. We should get rid of it.’
You wouldn’t! ‘No! He is the real one!’ Firûsha went to stand at the warrior’s side.
‘I am the real Crotàgon,’ he declared, not lowering his weapon. ‘I owe nothing to any of you. On the contrary. I have saved Firûsha’s life, served the Triplet Siblings and commanded the troops in the fortress for them. But enough is enough. I can’t stand idly by while this skull is worshipped and deified. It has brought nothing but death and destruction and it must be destroyed.’
Sisaroth lifted the relic high above his head so that all might see. The gold shone out brilliantly and the pearls gave off a bright sheen. ‘This is an artefact that contains the soul of Shëidogîs, one of the gods of infamy, the divinities worshipped by our ancestors,’ he announced. ‘Marandëi instructed me in the ancient rites and I have studied the old language. The meaning of the runes inscribed is clear: they stand for us, the älfar. Only for us. It is utterly impossible that a spirit of another kind might inhabit this skull. Crotàgon, can you tell me what kind of a demon you think it might contain?’
Surprisingly, Crotàgon retained his composure. Firûsha had been dreading he would charge at Sisaroth with the spear and kill her brother. ‘I’m under no obligation to tell you anything at all,’ he replied. ‘It is how it is: we are serving an idol here instead of worshipping the Inextinguishables or venerating the values our race holds dear.’
‘I have brought new life to the old traditions!’ Sisaroth insisted.
‘Even if what you say is correct and the runes are an old älfar inscription and you can read the old writing, who can guarantee that what our forefathers used to do wasn’t wrong in the first place? There will have been a good reason for outlawing blood sacrifices to the gods of infamy. We should leave things as they were. No more sacrifices to the skull demon.’ Crotàgon looked round at his audience and lowered the spear. ‘Not a single älfar life more to be lost. If Sisaroth is so keen on feeding th
e skull, let him sacrifice himself. Or one of his siblings. If that god of his had wanted to protect us our island would not be in this terrible state. A true god would have prevented the disaster. Our gods are named Inàste and Samusin. They are our älfar divinities.’
He’s doing what he’s best at. Inciting rebellion. That’s what got him sent to Phondrasôn in the first place. Firûsha looked round. The other älfar were silent but their expressions showed that they agreed with the demagogue’s speech. It was a terrible shock to hear that their own kind had been secretly killed as blood-offerings. Sisaroth had not denied anything. We are fortunate that no violence has broken out yet.
Tirîgon laid a hand on Crotàgon’s broad shoulder. ‘Enough. We have all got the message. Let’s direct our efforts to looking after the survivors and gathering our strength before starting out for Tark Draan as we have planned,’ he said, speaking reasonably. He addressed the other älfar: ‘I give you all my word that there will be no more sacrifices made. Unless it’s by a volunteer.’
That’s a clever move. Firûsha gave thanks for Tirîgon’s more sensible nature. That should calm everyone’s fears.
Nobody spoke.
Crotàgon nodded agreement. ‘I accept that and will hold you personally accountable, Tirîgon. If one of us dies to feed this demon without having announced loud and clear that it’s of his own free will, it’ll be your life as well that’s at stake.’ He planted his spear in the earth. ‘Let’s get this place sorted out. We must round up those night-mares. We haven’t got long to learn how to ride them.’
The älfar dispersed and started removing the rubble.
There’s no disputing it. The troops love and respect him. Firûsha watched the ease with which the tall warrior organised the älfar into work details. Carmondai had found a seat on a block of masonry and was writing in his journal. He represented the group memory.
‘They listen to him and obey,’ said Tirîgon thoughtfully. ‘He as good as belongs to the Young Gods, doesn’t he?’
‘There are only the three Young Gods,’ Sisaroth growled, holding the intricately decorated skull lovingly in the crook of his arm.
I know what you’re going to do. ‘My brother,’ said Firûsha, stepping in quickly because she guessed what was being planned. ‘Please don’t be hasty. We need Crotàgon. The island has to be restored to some sort of order. He has already taken that in hand. And if we get to Tark Draan we’ll certainly need him when we ride against the elves. His military skill and his reputation with the soldiers will be decisive in battle. We cannot think of going ahead without him.’
Sisaroth gave her a scornful look. ‘If I didn’t know better I’d think you were his mistress.’
‘Don’t be childish,’ she snapped.
‘It’s not being childish at all. I know what I know,’ he replied. ‘I know you are as keen as he is to have the skull put out of action permanently. You are allies. And you’ve been trying to argue Tirîgon and me out of getting rid of a real threat to our power.’ Sisaroth got to his feet and leaned towards her threateningly. ‘Be careful when you take sides, sister.’ He turned on his heel and headed back to the ruins of the palace.
He had hurt Firûsha. She was upset. ‘Tirîgon, was he really threatening me?’ Is my own brother wanting to get rid of me?
‘It certainly sounded that way. Forget it, though. You know what he’s like. He feels as though he’s been humiliated in front of everyone. He’ll settle down. He knows we all have to stay calm and reasonable. That magic storm has caused a massive disruption to our plans. We haven’t got much time left if we’re to make it through the passage to the Moon Pond.’ Tirîgon bent and gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead. ‘Forgive him his outburst. He is under a lot of stress. I’ll talk him round when he’s ready, you’ll see.’ He placed an arm comfortingly round her shoulders and hugged her. ‘Come on, let’s find Crotàgon. We need to show ourselves to the troops and make it clear that we are the masters, the Young Gods, and that Crotàgon is in our service.’
Firûsha made herself nod in acquiescence, but she did not take her eyes off Sisaroth’s retreating figure. Crotàgon was speaking the truth. That skull has got to go. It’s up to me to make sure the bad spirit does not come to Tark Draan with us. ‘Yes, it must be done,’ she said ambiguously, and went with her brother to start tidying up the island.
Phondrasôn.
The three siblings trotted through the caves of Phondrasôn: their first outing on night-mares. As the hooves struck the ground, flashes and sparks hissed out from under the animals’ fetlocks.
For once I am travelling as befits my station in life. Tirîgon was enjoying the new sensation; he was pleased with his stallion. As an interim measure they got their saddles and tack from Shucto’s tribe of barbarians, adapted for their own use.
He was learning fast. Tirîgon responded easily to the movements of his black steed, revelling in the creature’s stamina and strength. The night-mares gave their riders confidence. I can hardly wait till we get out onto open country for a proper gallop.
Their route took them to the location of the Zhadar’s army encampment, where the rebels had dug themselves in.
Shucto and Balodil were riding with them, but on clumsy, crude animals that were closer to a cross between a giant frog and a horse than anything else. The Shuctanides used these mounts to speed up their own journeys but they were quite unable to keep pace with the night-mares. This was another reason the älfar were not letting their mounts canter.
Tirîgon wondered what else was happening while they were underway. The four hundred head of älfar troops commanded by Carmondai and Crotàgon had already set off for the cascade through which they all hoped to make it through to the Moon Pond and the rest of Tark Draan.
The underwater bit should work. They would be using inflated pigs’ bladders and soft leather flasks to help them with the breathing. Special breathing equipment had been devised for the night-mares. We have completed our preparations.
Shucto would only tell them about the vital final few miles to the waterfall when he had received assurances that the Zhadar’s commanders had been eliminated. Such was the agreement they had reached between them. And why not? But he’ll have quite a surprise coming to him after that.
They had discussed with Balodil at length the detail of what was going to happen after the commanders’ heads were handed over to the barbarians. Shucto had been kept in the dark about this aspect of the arrangements.
He’d hardly be likely to guide us to the waterfall if he knew what was in store. Tirîgon suppressed a grin.
Shucto rode into a low-roofed tunnel. Night-mares and älfar alike had to duck their heads. As the ceiling got increasingly low the riders had to dismount and walk beside their animals.
‘We’ve got to get up that rock chimney,’ their guide explained, taking the lead and lighting a small lantern. ‘We’ll have a good view from there.’
Balodil looked enquiringly at Tirîgon. ‘Why don’t you just go straight in? The Zhadar gave you the commission and he’ll be expecting you, won’t he?’
‘All in good time.’ He gave the groundling a smile. ‘It’s not always the best tactic to do the obvious thing, precisely because it’s expected.’
‘And anyway Shucto wanted to watch from up here, to see what we do,’ Firûsha added.
‘I can’t wait,’ said the barbarian, climbing up the tapered shaft. In spite of his armour he was agile and made swift progress.
After a strenuous ascent they crawled out onto a rock spur and wriggled into place at the edge.
The cave they were in was a mile or so in height and illuminated by the light of numerous campfires. In addition there were lights attached to huge hot air balloons tethered at the end of long ropes. Mirrors directed the beams of light down onto the camp and on the beleaguered fortress.
It’s as light as a sunny day in Dsôn. No shadows anywhere, though. Tirîgon noticed that the balloons were moving slightly in the steady draught. If t
hey had not been tied down the breeze would have driven the floating lights to their observation post. He scrutinised the slopes and found traces of the burned-out remains of others than hadn’t been secured. Distinctive and original Phondrasôn flotsam and jetsam.
The rebel camp had erected star-shaped fortifications. No lights were showing down there, as if the encampment were stubbornly opposing the overwhelming dominance of overhead lighting. Occasionally an armoured solider or two could be seen crossing the yard. There were a few catapults at the ready, loaded and aimed. But so far there was no indication of imminent troop movements or any sign they were expecting trouble.
These floating lamps are a clever idea. No one will be able to get out of the fortress unobserved. Tirîgon guessed the balloons had been made from animal skins or intestines. He tried to assess troop numbers by counting the tents.
‘My one-time master seems mightily angry about the rebellion! He has sent the entire squad from the Draiben Tower,’ Balodil announced to the siblings. ‘I can see their banner down there. If that’s the case, we’d be looking at about eighty thousand, including their entourage.’ He whistled through his teeth. ‘Few enemies could amass that amount of hatred against themselves.’
‘And he still won’t force his way in. He’s going to need us,’ Sisaroth said. He did not have the skull of Shëidogîs with him and had not told anyone where it was concealed. He had hidden it in the consignment of luggage heading for the waterfall. He could not trust Crotàgon or his own sister. ‘Those star-shaped fortification walls make it possible to hit an attacking force from two sides.’
‘What cowards,’ Balodil muttered, spitting disgustedly down at the Zhadar’s army. ‘I know how to break down ramparts. If I had a few dwarves I could have had those walls tumbling, no problem.’
I expect the Zhadar is of exactly the same opinion. ‘Of course they aren’t cowards. These are intelligent and experienced commanders,’ Tirîgon countered, pointing to a badly burned part of the stronghold. ‘It looks like they’ve had a go over there.’ On more careful scrutiny they could see that the tiny black dots in front of the walls were dead bodies. ‘How many, do you think?’
