Dark Paths

by Markus Heitz

  Firûsha saw the elf waiting expectantly. My lute-player! She cut her way through the lily stems. You belong to me!

  The elf came nearer to the edge and stared into the dark waters, looking for his mistress.

  You will be getting a surprise. Firûsha shot up out of the Moon Pond to face him. Beautiful and deadly!

  Firûsha was obscured by a high splash of water when she surfaced and the elf didn’t immediately realise she wasn’t his girl. He smiled at her happily and placed his hands on her shoulders. But when he felt her armour and the water fell away, he looked at her in horror, realising that this was not who he had thought he would be embracing.

  Firûsha thrust the broad blade of her sword into his abdomen up to the hilt. This is what I shall do with all the elves I find. Pushing him backwards, she wrenched her weapon out of his guts, widening the cut. A rush of blood and liquid from the intestines shot out of his belly.

  The musician collapsed and sank into the shallows.

  His sweetheart will soon come looking for him. Firûsha climbed out of the Moon Pond, and raising her left hand to sweep the long black hair out of her eyes, she took in her surroundings. No one to be seen. Excellent. I’ll lie in wait here. If the girl doesn’t turn up of her own accord, my brothers will drive her towards me when they arrive. Silently, she slipped into the wood.

  At that very moment the elf-girl leaped out of the pond.

  The noises she made were intended to sound like the cries of a monster, but she burst out laughing. ‘I can’t do it,’ she spluttered in a dialect Firûsha roughly understood. The young elf stopped to rub the water out of her eyes. ‘Did I scare you to death, my darling?’ she giggled, catching sight of the body at the edge of the pond.

  She bent over him, still laughing, and turned him onto his back. When she saw the wound, guts spilling from his body, she dropped to her knees with a cry. ‘Sitalia, save him!’ she cried, distraught. ‘Fanaríl, open your eyes! Wake up! You’ve got to wake up!’

  Firûsha was about to step out of her hiding place when she saw her two brothers emerging silently out of the deep. I’ll wait. If she runs away I’ll go after her.

  The elf-girl was alerted by the sound of dripping water and looked back over her shoulder to find Tirîgon’s night-mare standing over her, snorting.

  What will you do now? Firûsha waited. Go on! Run away and show us where the village is. That will save us the trouble of looking for it. Then I will enjoy your death. The elf was drawing her dagger with quivering fingers.

  Night-mare after night-mare rode out of the pond, hooves flashing, lighting up the water; älfar forces surrounded the elf-girl, who had frozen, staring at the brothers, unable to take her eyes off their dark armour and the night-mares’ red glare. Firûsha was sure the elf-girl knew who it was that had come to kill her.

  Tirîgon drew his long sword and placed its tip against the centre of her back. Drops of water ran down the blade and onto her skin. She began to tremble.

  ‘Tell us who you are, elf-woman,’ he commanded.

  ‘Alysante,’ she breathed. She was unable to get over the paralysis that had struck her. Seeing her people’s deadliest enemies appear out of the depths of the Moon Pond like avenging demons was too much of a shock.

  ‘Is your settlement far from here?’

  Alysante did not reply – and Tirîgon applied pressure with his sword, so that the tip pierced the gossamer-thin clothing and her skin, driving a little way into her flesh.

  From where she was hiding, Firûsha watched the dress staining red. Don’t go too far! Her life belongs to me!

  ‘Answer me!’ he snapped, urging his night-mare forwards.

  The elf-girl came to her senses and realised this was not some bad dream. She turned away, jumped up and ran past Firûsha into the heart of the wood.

  At last. Firûsha took up the silent pursuit.

  She could hear Alysante sobbing and the rustling of twigs and branches as she ran through the trees. Sometimes she paused to wipe her bloodied hands on her shift, or to stare at the blood that had come from her lover’s body.

  Firûsha watched carefully. Oh, I can imagine what you are feeling. You are trying to understand how we got round the groundlings’ defences.

  She remembered the prophecy Balodil had mentioned as the reason the Zhadar had insisted on pressing the Siblings into his service. The Three will achieve what no one else can. Not even the Zhadar. Firûsha was ecstatic. The oracle spoke true!

  Alysante was beginning to struggle for breath and her pace slowed. She stopped and climbed a tree, continuing her journey at tree-top height, flitting from branch to branch.

  She’s trying to avoid leaving any prints. Firûsha followed her up. As if that would prevent me tracking her!

  The chase was on.

  Firûsha spotted light shimmering through the upper branches. That’s it! You have led me well, little lute-player’s mistress.

  Alysante climbed down and headed for the edge of the village. There was the illusion of safety and a warm glow from lanterns on the carved façades between the ancient trees.

  So, here we are. This will be the site of our first victory. Firûsha swung down from the branches, landed on soft earth and charged at the elf-girl, seizing her and hurling her to the ground. In the dirt where you belong! You and the entire brood!

  Before Alysante could recover, Firûsha put her boot on her arch-enemy’s neck and mercilessly pressed her face into the forest floor, then knelt down next to her. ‘Tirîgon asked you whether the village was far from the pond,’ she whispered in her ear. ‘I shall be bringing him your answer, elf-woman.’ She took her double dagger slowly out of its sheath, enjoying the threatening metallic noise, creating as much fear as possible. ‘Now I am going to send you to your sweetheart. Rest assured that all your relatives will follow you this very night.’ She used her special powers to put terror into the elf’s soul.

  Alysante attempted to cry out to alert the settlement.

  I am enjoying seeing you flounder. Firûsha stabbed the girl in the back, all the way through to the racing heart, sending her to endingness. It begins. Now to retrieve my brothers; the blood harvest draws near.

  She got to her feet and ran straight back to the Moon Pond.

  By the time she reached the bank, the älf-warriors were in formation on the grass; the young and the weak who would not be taking part in the fighting were to remain in the shelter of the trees and follow later.

  ‘Do we have everyone?’ Firûsha asked, out of breath, as she wiped the sweat from her brow.

  ‘Yes. All of us got through safely to Tark Draan.’ Tirîgon took a deep breath and addressed his soldiers. ‘Taste that air! So pure! And look at the stars! Drink your fill of these sensations and rejoice that you will never have to lose them again,’ he encouraged. ‘Did your little elf mistress lead you to her home?’

  ‘She did, indeed. And she has received her reward.’ Firûsha mounted her night-mare. Sisaroth seemed frustrated. He still hadn’t come to terms with the loss of his special priestly status and the destruction of the unholy artefact. That is all right by me. He deserves to suffer after what he did to Crotàgon.

  Carmondai was sitting on a log writing and sketching like one possessed. He looked up in delight. ‘What joy to be able to see the stars once more! If I remember aright we must be in the elflands of Lesinteïl. It’s just as I thought: the elves would not have found shelter anywhere else.’

  Firûsha gave a wicked smile. ‘Samusin knew it was time for the two races to meet in conflict. Why else would he have allowed us to find this passage out of Phondrasôn?’ And Inàste held her hand over me. More than once.

  Sisaroth opened his mouth and was about to object, but then he thought better of it, his sister noted with some satisfaction. It would be unwise to speak the name of the gods of infamy and bring up unfortunate memories. They had achieved the most perilous part of their escape without the slightest intervention from Shëidogîs.

  ‘I s
ay again: we do not need a god.’ Tirîgon raised his sword so that all might see, then used it to point the way over to the wood. This was the signal to move off. ‘Let us prove this to ourselves. And to our enemies – the elves.’

  ‘We shall prove it to the whole of Tark Draan.’ Firûsha took the lead and led her small army towards the elf settlement.

  Epilogue

  The light

  that shines on your path

  may betray you to your foes.

  Use it wisely!

  If your foes can see you,

  use the light

  to set fire to them.

  ‘Aphorisms’ from the epic poem Young Gods

  composed by Carmondai, master of word and image

  Tark Draan.

  ‘Left! To your left! There is another one . . .’ Tirîgon uttered a curse and flung the throwing disc with all his might.

  The missile spun through the night and cut into the elf’s side as he fled. Blood spurted out, staining the large green leaves; the elf disappeared into the murk.

  ‘Firûsha, give the last instructions. I don’t want to lose this one.’ He ran off in the direction his victim had taken. My sword needs to drink elf-blood this night! I swore this to my parents.

  ‘Will do, brother!’ she called back. She gave the command to set fire to the houses.

  Tirîgon’s ambition was aflame. He had not yet killed a single elf during the battle. The village their army had forged its way into had been so small. Once the command was given, there were soon seventy elf corpses, from the youngest to the oldest, slaughtered in their beds or killed in combat. Sisaroth had enjoyed cornering a large male elf and slitting him up the middle. His death brought him some respite from his dark mood.

  Now it’s my turn. Tirîgon saw the elf’s shimmering hair. There you are! The dim starlight was enough for him to get his bearings. He was helped further when he spied dark drops on the ground and foliage.

  The blond-haired elf did not seem to be hampered by the wound he had received. He hastened through the undergrowth along a rarely used path, fastening his leather armour as he went.

  He knows he’s being pursued and that he’s going to have to turn and fight. Tirîgon was considering throwing a second disc when the elf suddenly turned and leaped at least two paces. I wonder why? Tirîgon copied his victim’s movements.

  He did not land exactly in his quarry’s footsteps – there was a loud click under the soles of his feet.

  Before he could leap ahead, the ground opened up.

  An enormous trap! The pit split open, revealing blades shining below. Tirîgon balanced on the last support just as it started to fold under him.

  This could mean the end of me! Jumping up, he tried to reach the edge of the hole. He failed.

  Positioning his sword horizontally under his feet, Tirîgon landed on the broad edge as if he were on a wooden spar.

  The knives set into the pit floor were bent flat by his blade and weight and none of them penetrated his boots.

  That was a close thing. Tirîgon hurried over the floor of the pit back to the edge, crunching over small skeletons of rodents or game animals. He sheathed his sword and climbed back up using his daggers and ran along the path, being more cautious than before.

  He could no longer see the elf he was chasing, but the spots of blood made it clear which way to go.

  He assumed the path was planned for emergencies, and designed to trap any attacker who took it. That was probably not the last snare. He needed to moderate his pace; the hunt had become more of a challenge.

  Just as he was thinking this, he felt something like a spider’s web brush across his face. The ensuing faint click alerted him to the direction the danger would come from.

  He executed a sideways roll and almost escaped the crossbow bolts that shot out of the darkness. Balodil’s perfect armour absorbed two hits but a third bolt got past the neck shield and scored the skin on the back of his neck.

  It could be poisoned. How will I know? Tirîgon swore – and when he stood up he trod on a further trigger.

  Toothed metal jaws came snapping down out of the trees. Only his efficient forearm protectors saved him from serious injury. Dirt and moss came raining down on top of his helmet.

  Tirîgon took a deep breath and looked at his arm. If it hadn’t been for Balodil’s skill, he would have been killed or at least badly mutilated.

  He used his sword to lever the trap open and release his arm and then he climbed the nearest tree, moving, as Firûsha had done, from branch to branch. It seemed safer than taking the path below him. He could now see exactly what that path threatened: further surprises and ambush devices easily triggered by an incautious pursuer. He could see that the ropes and chains strung across the path would strike an älf at hip height or below. He came to the conclusion that the mechanisms were not designed for defence against his own race.

  Perhaps it’s to keep out the groundlings? If so, Tirîgon was surprised. He knew the elves could not stand the mountain maggots, but he was stupefied to think they were afraid of an attack by the short-legged brigades here in their own territory.

  What has happened in Tark Draan? Carmondai’s knowledge could not have been completely up to date.

  Tirîgon decided to find a barbarian to interrogate on the subject. But first he had unfinished business to take care of.

  Beneath him he spied his chosen quarry.

  The blond-haired elf was covering his wound with leaves and using his belt to secure them. Then he replaced his armoured jacket and pulled the buckles tight.

  Then he did something that intrigued Tirîgon.

  The elf upturned the pommel of his sword and shook out a map from a hidden compartment. He unfurled it and raised his head to refer to the stars.

  Tirîgon enveloped himself in darkness so that he would not be spotted.

  A messenger, I suppose. He’s probably making for other settlements to warn them of danger. He was surprised that the elf was consulting a map. They can’t visit each other very often. Or he’s a young one and hasn’t travelled widely before.

  The elf rolled the parchment up and stored it back in the hilt of his sword.

  Tirîgon was most keen to get hold of the chart. It will save us a lot of work and give us the advantage of surprise. He hurried through the trees, following the elf as before. He noticed something glittering in the starlight and heard the sound of rushing water.

  Spying through the foliage of the branches below him, he saw a swift-running river, the black wavelets crowned with silver.

  The elf stepped into a hollow tree and vanished.

  Curses! Tirîgon jumped down and cautiously approached the tree trunk. As he did so, he noticed a movement on the water.

  It was the elf, standing upright on a boat, pushing it away from the bank and manoeuvring it out into the current. When he looked back to the river’s edge he saw Tirîgon. He pulled the punting pole inside the boat and picked up his bow and arrow and started shooting.

  Tirîgon took cover – but the metal tip caught him on the breast. It broke open on his armour as if made of glass and the fine splinters pricked his face, stinging badly. It was painful, but could be tolerated. Now I wish we hadn’t left Balodil back in Phondrasôn. His work is irreplaceable.

  He slid over to the tree trunk, slipped inside and, after feeling around, found a hidden opening. A ladder led down to a concealed boathouse where ten more boats were rocking on the water.

  He shan’t escape me that easily. Even though Tirîgon had absolutely no idea how to steer a boat, he threw off the tether on one of them and pushed the craft through the reeds and hanging plants covering the entrance.

  He leapt nimbly on board, pushing off with the long pole and taking the boat into the middle of the river. The current caught him and carried him off.

  Doesn’t seem to be particularly difficult, after all. He spied his target up ahead, standing at the back of his craft, using the pole to speed his progress.

&
nbsp; The pursuit continued. Neither was at any advantage, it seemed. The current treated both boats equally. The elf’s efforts with the pole were not making any difference.

  Dense woodland skimmed past on either bank and here and there shelters and small houses could be seen. They were overtaken by an enormous collection of tree trunks bound together as a raft, floating downstream with no passengers. It bobbed harmlessly behind Tirîgon’s vessel.

  We can’t go on like this forever. Tirîgon was getting impatient. It was important for him to get back to his siblings quickly. He would have to work against the current on his return journey or go back on foot. What can I do to catch up with the elf?

  The elf fired a volley of arrows in quick succession, but he was not aiming at Tirîgon’s boat. Instead, he was firing at the ropes connecting the tree trunks!

  Released, they came rolling through the water, going much faster than their boats.

  He knew I couldn’t steer. Tirîgon found himself surrounded dangerously by these enormous logs, some of which crashed into his boat. Thus far no damage had been caused, but he could hear the noise of rapids about half an arrow-flight away. The unruly tree trunks would present a lethal threat in those whirling waters.

  I shan’t survive this! Tirîgon racked his brains. What can I do?

  He jumped overboard and landed on one of the rolling logs. Balancing carefully, he jumped from log to precarious log as they thundered downriver. He was losing so much time.

  The bank is too far away! He catapulted himself up into the air just short of the rapids, grabbing hold of a thin willow branch. The tree protested but the branch held his weight.

  His muscles were screaming at having to pull his armoured weight up, but he was immensely relieved to be away from the water. Seconds later, his boat smashed to pieces in the rapids, crushed by the floundering logs.

  That would have happened to me. Tirîgon was exhausted but he did not give up. I must get that map! He climbed out onto the bank to search for the elf’s tracks. At last he came across tiny spots of blood. Filled with renewed confidence, he resumed his pursuit.