by Markus Heitz
It was easy to find her way following the markers that her brothers had left.
But it was a long ride. The night-mare had been badly injured and was losing pace. Finally, it gave a neigh of defeat and collapsed.
Firûsha rolled nimbly off. The creature had lost too much blood and the exertion had finished it off. ‘Curses!’
Firûsha was in a extensive passage and had no idea how long it would take her to get to the waterfall. She did not think she had ever been in these sections of the caves before. Did Shucto show them a different route from the one he took me? Then again, I was blindfolded.
There was nothing for it but to set off on foot. She started to run, watching out for her brothers’ signs.
She saw her way by the glowing mosses, which gave off a dull brown or greenish light. Humans would have been forced to light themselves torches in such darkness but she had enough night vision.
As she kept up a steady jog she breathed evenly.
What worried her was the fact that although she had shaken off the last effects of the terror, she was still experiencing that same tingling. She wiggled her fingers to dispel the sensation, but it would not go away. Am I suffused in a mysterious charge of some kind, or is this some damage I sustained from that last magical event?
She ran and ran and ran without feeling she was making any progress. She would have been three times as quick if she still had her night-mare.
She imagined her brothers emerging from the surface of the Moon Pond in Tark Draan and invading the elf settlement.
She frowned crossly. They’d better not have touched my lute-player.
She heard a dull roar followed by the sound of rushing water.
The floor, the walls and the entire passageway rocked and heaved, requiring her to deploy all her agility and skill to keep her balance.
It’s the whole cavern! It’s collapsing! Firûsha waited for the space of two heartbeats until the quaking had subsided, then she took off at a sprint.
Fear had returned with a vengeance, but this time it had a totally different cause.
Phondrasôn.
Sisaroth watched as the älfar under his command hurriedly inflated their leather breathing bags and rushed into the churning waters to reach the bottom of the cascade whose mighty force was sucking up everything in the vicinity and conveying it through the aperture at the top. Anyone colliding with the edge might be hurled against the rocks and badly injured, but there was no alternative.
‘Well, cîanoi?’ Sisaroth heard Crotàgon’s harsh tones. ‘What are you waiting for? Are you going to get the skull out? Or are you contemplating going to Tark Draan without it?’
A further lump of stone crashed down from the cave roof to fall on a group of älfar who were swimming towards the cataract. Their heads looked like corks bobbing on the waves.
The cavern is collapsing. Sisaroth turned to the warrior.
Carmondai sprang down from the wagon and picked up a small box in which he carefully placed his manuscript. He lit a bar of wax and sealed the edges with flying fingers to make it watertight. ‘May Samusin be with us,’ he said. ‘May we all reach Tark Draan safely.’ He stepped into the turbulent waters. ‘Quickly, Sisaroth. Your people will be needing their Young Gods when they come up on the other side.’ He plunged in.
Tirîgon rode up looking worried. ‘Brother, come on!’
‘I’ll catch you up,’ he called. ‘Someone has to watch out for the stragglers. You go ahead. You’re the better strategist. People will be needing your direction on the other side.’
‘And I’ll be needing a strong hand and a sharp sword.’ Tirîgon turned his red-eyed night-mare’s head to face Crotàgon and tried to propel him towards the waters. ‘Crotàgon, come and help me protect our people.’
The grey-bearded warrior looked at him. ‘I shall. But don’t be angry with me for this.’ He grabbed Tirîgon and threw him into the middle of the lake where the current took hold of him. Tirîgon barely had time to inflate his pig bladder before being forced upwards in the torrent.
Let’s fight it out. Sisaroth drew his sword. ‘I was planning to use you as a sacrifice when we reached Tark Draan, but you are making me dedicate your life to Shëidogîs right here in Phondrasôn.’
‘We shall see about that. I wonder what your demon will say?’ Taking hold of the side of the wagon, Crotàgon tipped it over.
A veritable flood of boxes, crates and bags tumbled onto Sisaroth. He rolled aside to avoid being buried.
One of the sacks burst open. The flour it contained spread like a white fog and made Sisaroth cough. I can’t see him!
When his vision cleared he saw Crotàgon wildly smashing any container he came across using planks of wood.
Where is the little box? Sisaroth looked for it frantically but could not find it. He confronted the warrior, the greatest threat to the relic. ‘You shall follow your sweetheart!’ And I won’t let you take me by surprise ever again.
‘Tossàlor didn’t deserve to die like that!’ Crotàgon said accusingly, chucking the planks of wood at his head before grabbing his sword. Balodil had manufactured a cross between a cudgel and a spear for the heavily built warrior. It was almost two paces in length and bore a long thin blade above a metal sphere the size of an älfar head. ‘If it weren’t for your accursed demon, he’d still be alive.’
‘No, he wouldn’t. The Infamous One gave me the power to protect the gates and transform the solid lake back to its original molten state. Without the god, we would have been overrun and he would’ve died in conflict.’ He circled the warrior, who mirrored his movements, all the time searching in the widely strewn luggage. I have to distract him somehow. ‘Do you know how much pleasure I got from killing your dearest Tossàlor?’
Crotàgon’s face turned black with a network of frenzied anger lines. He lashed out, uttering an unintelligible shout.
Sisaroth did not make the mistake of attempting to parry the blow from the deadly weapon. The force of it would have driven his own sword from his hand. Instead he ducked out of the way, only just avoiding the follow-up with the blunt end of the spear. Oh, yes, I shall continue to torture your soul. ‘He was lying in front of me, whimpering, pleading to be spared.’ Sisaroth backed slowly away, trying to entice his adversary away from the upturned wagon. ‘But I slit him open and let Shëidogîs bathe in his blood.’ He laughed, pulling his head in to avoid a blow.
‘You shall forfeit your life, cîanoi. I swear it.’ Crotàgon made a series of quick thrusts, not pausing for breath. In his powerful hands the weapon seemed weightless.
Sisaroth held his sword in both hands to deflect the attacking blows. He did not risk a step to the side, not wanting to leave any gap in his defences. The hefty opponent was unexpectedly agile.
But he was keen to inflict further damage on Crotàgon’s soul and drive him to utter despair. I shall keep needling him until he is overcome with emotion. Only then will he weaken. ‘Do you know Tossàlor kept a secret from you? He never wanted you,’ he panted with exertion. ‘He despised you.’
‘No!’ shouted Crotàgon.
‘He valued your protection; he enjoyed having you serve him. That’s what he told me. He said you were a useful fool, blinded by love so that you could not see how he was exploiting you.’ Sisaroth had enticed the warrior a good ten paces from the wagon. Wonderful! He is so easy to lead if I call his love into question. He risked a quick look at what was happening around them.
Night-mares and älfar were swimming determinedly; a number of bold ones were on the bank throwing provisions, weapons and other equipment into the water. The cave roof was showing several dangerous cracks, and parts of the rock ceiling were sagging ominously. The cave was nearing its end.
And that will mean the end of the waterfall! Sisaroth became impatient. Enough playing around. I’ve got to get out of here.
Crotàgon had noticed. ‘Fine by me. Let’s die together if we have to. But that skull won’t make it through.’ He grinned. ‘Did you think I wouldn�
�t see how you’re trying to get me away from the wagon? Wrong! It’s me that’s moving you away from the cascade.’ The next arrow-swift thrust came too fast.
The spear blade struck Sisaroth in the stomach, but slid with a metallic clang to rest in his groin. The iron-ringed leather absorbed most of the impact but the tip caused intense pain.
Before Crotàgon could twist the blade or push it further in, Sisaroth jumped backwards, gritting his teeth against the pain.
‘Well, cîanoi? Why don’t you use your powers to blow me to smithereens?’ The warrior looked at the blood on the tip of his spear. ‘Oh, have I exposed your secret? You need the skull before you can do anything special. The old witch was better than you. If you don’t have your demon and its skull to hand you are nothing but empty words. What a shame that it seems to be buried under all that lot.’ He twirled the spear over his head and aimed at Sisaroth’s middle with the heavy end.
I underestimated him! Sisaroth limped to one side but could not escape the blow.
The spherical weight hit him on the right side and sent him flying two paces off, further still from the chests and crates that lay fallen in a jumble.
He landed in soft sand and somersaulted. The wound in his groin seemed to tear and get bigger and he felt warm blood running down his leg under the armour. I took on too much. It was arrogant. I mustn’t hesitate again . . .
He got to his feet – and was greeted by a fist to his lower jaw that had him sagging. His knees hit the sand and a black veil in front of his eyes told him he was about to lose consciousness.
Crotàgon stayed back, his cudgel aimed at Sisaroth. ‘It would be so easy to kill you. There’s no one here to stop me. Our people are on their way to Tark Draan. Without you and without me. That makes for a good new beginning, I would say. Let them worship your brother as the Young God. I don’t care. But there’s one thing I am going to make sure of.’ Another punch knocked Sisaroth sideways. ‘Wait here. I’m going to bring you your precious skull. In tiny little pieces. And when you’re putting them back together you can think about Tossàlor.’ Crotàgon raced over the sand to the wagon.
Shëidogîs! No, he mustn’t . . . Sisaroth dragged himself along on the soft ground, getting grains of sand between his teeth and on his armour where the blood had stuck to it.
His progress was slow but determined as he made his way back to the spilled crates. Crotàgon was moving between them, breaking open boxes with his spear and rummaging through the contents.
I am a servant of the Infamous God. I shall give my life to save him. Älfar will come to Phondrasôn in the future and they will find him and honour him. Sisaroth loosened a throwing disc from its fastening, sat up and hurled it with all his strength. ‘You shan’t touch him!’
Crotàgon shot upright, raising his spear, and used the guard to fend off the missile. The blade edge stuck in the wooden shaft. ‘Almost,’ he said with a grin, holding out his other hand. ‘Go on,’ he taunted. ‘Throw something else. I’ll catch it with this.’
I have failed. Sisaroth gave a cry of frustration. Crotàgon’s large hand held the relic. ‘Put the god down! This is blasphemy!’
‘What I see here is a demon you have fallen prey to.’ Crotàgon inclined his head slightly. ‘How sure are you that this is Shëidogîs?’
‘Absolutely positive.’
‘So you would die for it?’
‘Without question!’ Sisaroth crawled forwards and was just three paces away.
‘Then I suggest you kill yourself,’ snarled Crotàgon. ‘I swear by Samusin that I shall not destroy the skull after you reach endingness. It will be your life in exchange for Tossàlor’s. If you do not agree, I will destroy it now.’
Sisaroth clamped a hand over the wound in his groin. He looked up at the cataract, where more and more of the roof was caving in. ‘I do not believe you.’
‘I swear by Samusin, the god of justice and of the winds.’ Crotàgon slowly closed his hand and there was an audible crunch, but the glue held and the skull was still intact. The first of the beads came loose and a silver ball fell onto the sand.
The dark red glow in the eye sockets was pleading and demanding at one and the same time. The soul of the infamous god, enticed at great cost to re-enter the artefact, was in peril once more. This time it would be final.
I cannot allow the god to be destroyed. ‘Wait!’ cried Sisaroth, drawing his double dagger. I have to do this. Shëidogîs is worth more than my life. His emotions were running riot. So near their goal, and forced to do away with himself to save the Infamous One, the god to whom he had planned to sacrifice Crotàgon. In Tark Draan. ‘Here! Do you see?’
‘I know that dagger well. It would be good if you sank it into your flesh.’ Crotàgon increased the pressure on the skull in his hands. A crack started to open up where the skull had been mended.
‘No! Stop!’ Tears of anger and self-pity obscured his vision. I shall never see Firûsha or Tirîgon again. I hope they will think of me and put up a statue to my memory. ‘Look! I will slit my own throat!’ Sisaroth placed the double blade against his throat and chin. God of infamy, protect my soul. Let there be some miracle . . . He observed the tense expression on Crotàgon’s face.
The crunching sound grew louder and another pearl rolled out of its mounting.
He will break his word! He hates Shëidogîs!
A thunderclap sounded and the roof fell in. The falling boulders crashed into the lake causing a tidal wave that swamped the two älfar.
Chapter VII
Co-operation
is important
Even more so
is the strength of each individual
Make sure you are not a bundle of flimsy twigs
but a bundle of mighty trunks!
‘Aphorisms’ from the epic poem Young Gods
composed by Carmondai, master of word and image
Phondrasôn.
I can’t get left behind! I would be the only female älf in Phondrasôn, and surrounded by enemies. Firûsha hurried through the tunnel. After what she had done in the Sojól cave there would be no warm reception for her anywhere. I could not even apply to re-enter the Zhadar’s service.
A riderless night-mare came snorting up to her. The stallion already had the breathing equipment with the leather bag fastened to its bridle but the älfar rider seemed to have gone astray before affixing the animal’s mouthpiece properly.
A gift from the gods! She took hold of the reins and mounted, turning the animal back in the direction it had come. She once more followed the signs her brothers had left for her.
The thundering quake did not recur, but now there was water rushing down the tunnel, steaming and hissing when the lightning flashes from the creature’s hooves met the wet element.
What has happened? Firûsha was afraid the cave must have partially collapsed.
The night-mare carried her onward. The stream at its feet swelled until the water reached the creature’s knees.
But suddenly the current seemed to alter. The water was sucked back, the level getting lower and lower.
What is happening? Did Shucto trick us? At last she reached the entrance to the cave and rode through.
What Firûsha saw made her distraught.
The small aperture in the ceiling had opened up to a large hole and the water was being sucked out of a lake that was practically empty. The shimmering column of water was now no more than a hundred paces wide. The last of the chests and boxes dragged upwards by the current were heading out through the opening on an uncertain journey.
Firûsha saw shattered wooden crates, sacks that had burst open and any number of twisted älfar corpses drifting on the water. They must have been thrown violently against the stone rim by the force of the surge, only to fall. Her eyes searched the cave ceiling, where cracks and fissures were testimony to its imminent total collapse. I have to get away from here!
Firûsha turned her mount’s head towards the base of the upturned waterfall.
‘Sister!’ She heard a familiar voice shout through the noise of the cascade.
‘Sisaroth?’ Firûsha stopped and sat up tall in the saddle, craning her neck to see. ‘Where are you?’
‘Under the overturned cart,’ came the answer, the voice low and pain-filled.
Locating the semi-destroyed vehicle high on the bank, she cried, ‘Wait! I’m coming!’ Fate delayed me. What luck! She raced up the incline, passing discarded items and debris, and jumped out of the saddle to look for her brother. There he is!
He was lying under the axle covered in mud. He looked more like a monster than an älf. Blood trickled from his mouth and the right side of his face was badly swollen as if he had been struck.
‘Let us thank the gods for sending me to save you,’ she said cheerily, touching his hand before attempting to lift the heavy axle. ‘How did this happen?’
‘Huge blocks of stone fell, sending a massive flood wave that swept everything away,’ he explained. It was obvious he was in pain. ‘Can you see Crotàgon anywhere?’
‘Is he still here?’ Firûsha applied all her strength to the axle. The wagon is heavy. ‘I could use his help for this.’
‘Not me. He tried to kill me.’
‘What?’
‘About the skull. I hid the relic before he could smash it.’ He placed his hand protectively round a mud-splashed object which she had thought was a stone.
My good Crotàgon. Determined to the last. He was right. The skull should not survive. Firûsha stopped for a second while she tried to think but then she noted the cascade stream was growing weaker. She redoubled her efforts. The pull of the current is decreasing. Soon there’ll be no water left at all. ‘Come on!’
Sisaroth dragged himself out from under the vehicle. ‘Thank you. Thank you, my sister! And thanks be to Shëidogîs!’ He gave the muddy artefact a kiss and then wiped it to free the eye sockets of the slime and filth from the flood. The inlays glowed faintly in return. ‘The god has closed the wound I suffered to my groin. I was stabbed –’
