Dark Paths

by Markus Heitz

  Am I dreaming? Tirîgon was wide awake now. He sat up.

  He found himself on a bright sandy beach, less than three paces from the waterline and in the shadow of a tree with large foliage. A little further away he could see the remains of the cage he had travelled in, broken and squashed out of shape, as if it had withstood tremendous forces. The door hung open.

  I must have been thrown clear. He sat up gingerly, groping for something to hold on to. He leaned against the smooth bark of the tree. I wonder where I am?

  The light originated from countless little spots above his head glowing through low clouds and it was indeed as warm as a summer’s day. His armour, his long black hair and his clothes all seemed to be dry; his helmet was lost, he noted. No idea where Sisaroth and Firûsha have ended up.

  He decided to climb the tree to get a better idea of where he was. The view was amazing – but deeply worrying. He was on an island, no more than four hundred paces by four hundred in size.

  Nothing but water all around.

  It shimmered turquoise, green and dark blue in the light, intensely beautiful but completely empty.

  I must be dreaming. He strained to see if he could make out anything in the distance. I’m supposed to be in Phondrasôn, not on an island – how did I get here?

  Feeling rather more sober, Tirîgon climbed down and explored the tiny plot of land, looking for any other living creatures. But apart from the trees, a few malodorous flowers and an inexplicable skeleton, he found nothing. Nothing to eat. Nothing to drink. He didn’t care how he had got there, but it was clear he must get away before his strength failed him. He’d have to build himself a raft out of tree trunks. If necessary, he could take his armour apart and use that. With plant fibres to bind the tree trunks together, it could work. There were already two fallen trees at the edge of the water, he’d start with those.

  He took off his armour and all his clothing, apart from his undergarments, and started work. He managed to fell another tree and cut the three trunks into pieces the length of a man, slicing off the enormous leaves. He took a short rest every so often to conserve energy.

  A sword isn’t the best tool for logging. If I were a blade I’d be furious at being used so disrespectfully. Hot from his work, he eyed the cool waves. It was as warm and bright as ever – the lighting shone down on him, but strangely, did not turn the whites of his eyes to black.

  He walked down to the water’s edge, removed his boots and dived in.

  The water refreshed his body as he rinsed off the sweat, but he quickly spat out the mouthful he had taken. Salt. It won’t be any use to me at all. It will pickle me from the inside if I drink that.

  He came up to the surface and swam until he was out of his depth. Looking back at the island he laughed to himself as he realised it represented an exile within an exile. Brilliant low-hanging white clouds swept slowly across overhead. I wonder if it gets dark here? He was pretty sure he was underground, despite all the signs to the contrary.

  Their mother used to tell them stories about the miraculous and horrendous landscapes of Phondrasôn and he had always loved to listen to her tales. He wasn’t frightened by being in one of the idiosyncrasies of the place, but he was forced to admit he had no idea how to find his siblings – or how to get out.

  It doesn’t make a blind bit of difference that I told Gàlaidon I was coming here of my own free will; if I can’t find the way out, I might as well be an exiled criminal.

  Feeling refreshed, Tirîgon began the swim back to the island to get on with his raft building. Within a couple of strokes, he caught sight of a long shadow, and then a second. Three parallel rows of dorsal fins cut swiftly through the water’s surface as the creatures increased their speed and he realised he was being hunted. More fins appeared: the predators scented their prey.

  With a curse Tirîgon accelerated to a fast crawl, not stopping till he was safely sprawled on the beach. But a hasty glance over his shoulder ascertained that his pursuers had fanned out in a wide arc, driving a foaming, two-pace-high wave ahead of them. He could vaguely see their fish-like forms and the dorsal fins through the water, their long, gaping muzzles rearing up, ready to bite.

  Tirîgon realised their intention. That wave they’re making will carry them right up onto the shore!

  He struggled to his feet, panting heavily, and raced up the sandy slope towards the trees, but the rushing water overtook him and he was swept off his feet.

  He managed to avoid the first two sets of snapping jaws and sharp teeth before the world transformed itself into spray and the wave sucked him under.

  He could see almost nothing, but he pushed against his pursuers as they buffeted him, scraping his sides painfully.

  He went down, head over heels, but then felt solid ground under his feet. Propelling himself out of the water with a spurt, he turned and narrowly avoided the next wave and a huge set of jaws snapping in vain at his legs – his whole body could have fitted inside that giant maw. But before he could make his escape for good, he was dealt a powerful tail-fin blow that sent him hurtling through the air into the safety of the trees.

  He lay there groaning for some time trying to catch his breath. Why did I think swimming was a good idea? Examining the grazes on his body, he saw he was bruised and bleeding. Stumbling to his feet, he studied the sea and horizon.

  His attackers seemed to have disappeared. Waves were lapping innocently on the sand, but there were plenty of tracks and marks on the shore that proved how close the monsters had been to devouring him. If he hadn’t reacted so quickly, his hero’s adventure in Phondrasôn would have been very short indeed.

  This makes the crossing more difficult. He swept his hair back out of his eyes. I wonder how far I’ll get before they attack me again? Tirîgon returned to the place where he had left his armour and sword after felling the tree. I hope the sword isn’t too blunt. He was hungry and thirsty now. That’s it. I have no choice.

  He was heading towards the flowers he found earlier, to see if their stems would be strong enough to make ropes, when he heard the low thunder of a mighty waterfall. What can that be? He raised his head and looked around.

  A short distance away from his sanctuary, water was cascading down from the clouds into the sea, causing it to boil and froth. The previously gentle waves grew wilder and began to creep up the shore.

  By the gods of infamy! What . . .? There was a new noise and Tirîgon spun to see a second waterfall, this one even closer to the island. Wiping spray from his face, he noticed that this water was not salty. Fresh water!

  He quickly grabbed one of the enormous leaves and folded it to collect enough water to slake his thirst, but his immediate sense of relief turned to dismay when he saw how quickly the water level was rising.

  Whilst he had been distracted, other huge waterfalls had appeared, pouring down through the cloudscape, adding to the problem.

  Tirîgon cried out in horror as he realised the shoal that had attacked him was circling the island, waiting for a second chance at their prey. The water was now lapping around the base of the tree trunks.

  The young älf hurriedly donned his clothing, boots, armour and weapons belt, realising he wouldn’t have time to finish making even the most rudimentary of crafts. The fish-like beasts were no doubt capable of easily overturning a raft. Climbing the tallest of the trees, he drew his sword in readiness. He had no time to make a plan, he knew he was dead. I’ll kill at least one of them before the others pull me down and devour me.

  From his vantage point he had an impressive view of the waterfalls. As he gazed out, a gap in the low clouds opened up, allowing Tirîgon a glimpse of the cavern’s ceiling. It must be miles high!

  A layer of shining mist coated the ceiling, hanging like a translucent veil and producing the light and warmth that kept the cavern feeling like a summer’s day. The cascades of water came from clefts in the exterior dome. Clouds of spray shimmered brightly where they impacted the sea.

  Is there no li
mit to this cave system?

  The water level continued to rise until only the topmost branches of his tree were above the water.

  Below him, Tirîgon could see the predator shoal crashing against the trunk, frustrated that he was still out of their reach. They snapped at branches lying on the surface and dragged them into the depths.

  Clinging to the treetop, he was under no illusion that it would save him. This was it. But I had such plans for the future.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement. Turning, he saw a shape gliding towards him. A ship!

  It appeared to be a metal-hulled ferry boat, fifty or sixty paces long. The craft wove skilfully through the enormous gouts of falling water, using the ensuing down-draughts to fill its sails. Its course, however, was not going to bring it within the älf’s reach.

  ‘Hey!’ he shouted. Tirîgon waved wildly. ‘Hey! Over here!’

  The water crept closer to the top of his tree.

  If the crew don’t spot me, I’m done for! He took the risk of balancing on two narrow branches. ‘Over here! Can you see me?’ he yelled for all he was worth. ‘I’ll give you . . . riches . . . gold! I’ve gold for you!’ he lied, to entice the helmsman to come to his rescue.

  Finally, the vessel changed course, skirting around the closest waterfall; the sharp ramming spar on the prow now pointed straight at him, only two hundred paces away.

  The surface below him foamed violently as one of the fish monsters surged up out of the water, showing its armoured back and three dorsal fins. It sank back under the water and Tirîgon knew it was about to leap for him.

  If I don’t get out of the way, it will— Tirîgon was about to duck to avoid the creature’s snapping jaws when he noticed another of the beasts shooting up directly underneath his precarious perch.

  Launching himself up into the air, he pulled his feet close to his body. The fish scraped the soles of his boots with its dorsal fin.

  This knocked him off balance and he fell awkwardly – narrowly avoiding the snapping jaws of the second beast. He crashed down into the turbulent waves. Lashing out, sword still in hand, he forced his way up to the surface, where he could see the ship’s broad keel was finally within reach.

  He grabbing the bowsprit and let himself be dragged along, yelling for a rope to be thrown before the ravenous creatures reached him. He was at a hopeless disadvantage.

  No rope came, so Tirîgon scanned the runed sides of the hull for crevices and scaled the ship’s side with the aid of his dagger and his sword. It cost him enormous effort, but he reached the railing. He tumbled onto the deck, the muscles in his arms burning and his legs shaking with the exertion. He lay there for a moment, catching his breath and looking around.

  There were no armed soldiers, no crew, and no captain. The sail overhead was richly decorated with symbols and suspended from brightly coloured ropes in the absence of complex rigging. Whose abandoned ship have I landed on?

  Tirîgon felt the ship judder under him and he struggled to his feet to look down over the gunwale.

  One of the monsters must have attempted to ram it. Two of the runes on the iron cladding flared and the fish-creature’s ugly head exploded. Bloody bits of brain drifted on the water and the corpse floated away, with the rest of the shoal following in a feeding frenzy.

  A spell! That must be how the boat protects itself. As an älf he could perceive the presence of magic energy. His hands had tingled as he’d climbed up the sides of the ship, but at the time he had put it down to adrenaline.

  ‘Welcome on board,’ said a voice behind him, speaking in the language of the barbarians. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I take you to my home? You can rest, my friend.’

  Tirîgon turned, and froze: the stranger’s white clothing, false smile and the way his long blond hair was dressed made it all too clear that Tirîgon was facing his kind’s arch enemy: an elf.

  ‘Come with me, I’ll show you—’

  Sitalia’s brood are here? His sword flashed.

  The blade whirred through the air and severed the elf’s head from his shoulders before he could even finish his sentence. The arm that had been held out in welcome dropped to the elf’s side as his head rolled off, then the torso itself crashed to the deck.

  Blood soaked into the weathered planking.

  Chapter II

  Aïsolon, brave comrade of the hero Caphalor,

  was a robust and loyal governor,

  known for uniting his people and

  representing order and the law.

  He led his kind and chose a place where survivors would be safe.

  Thus he created Dsôn Sòmran,

  no more than a dip, a funnel in the rock,

  but the site rendered it invulnerable.

  The surrounding wall he built

  protected the city

  but caused its isolation.

  No one entered it and no one left.

  Splinters of time turned into moments,

  moments became divisions,

  and the waiting went on, and on.

  Whatever projects älfar undertook

  seemed doomed to fail.

  No road led towards Tark Draan

  to others of their kind.

  Yet one expedition dared to break out.

  Excerpt from the epic poem Young Gods

  composed by Carmondai, master of word and image

  Phondrasôn, 5427th division of unendingness (6241st solar cycle), spring.

  Sisaroth opened the door of his cage and crawled out.

  It was darker than a sealed well-shaft. The damp warmth meant he was not cold, but it offered no protection against hunger and thirst.

  Curses. Where am I? His leg wound hurt more than ever and he seemed to have injured his right shoulder in the fall. The slightest movement caused him to grunt with pain and the wound throbbed terribly. There was absolutely no way he could fight in this condition. And in Phondrasôn, there will be enemies round every corner. . .

  He got to his feet and felt his way forward gingerly until he reached a wall. Feeling his way along it, he tried to make as little noise as possible. Älfar could move silently when they needed to, but here, a single stone displaced by a foot could betray his presence.

  Occasionally he caught the smell of fresh blood; not a good sign. Nobody liked to bleed, not even monsters. Then his foot struck something on the ground and made a clattering noise. He froze, but it didn’t seem like anyone heard him.

  I’ve got to find some light. He didn’t dare call out to his brother and sister for fear of what else he might attract and his concern for his siblings’ welfare grew with each beat of his heart. What do I do if I’m attacked? I’ve only got one serviceable arm, a leg that doesn’t work, and a dagger.

  He had no idea how long he had been moving along like this. In the blackness he had no sense of time or space. The surrounding odours didn’t change and there were no other clues to be garnered. He limped on.

  At the sound of a low rumble, like the thump of a millwheel or the workings of a pulley, he stood stock still. What is that?

  Multiple rays of light without warning shone down on him and his surroundings were revealed. He heard guttural voices coming from behind him, arguing, and he wheeled towards the sound.

  He saw that he was at the bottom of an extensive cave with hundreds of stalagmites, their ends sharpened artificially to look like spears. It’s a wonder I wasn’t impaled when the cage fell!

  Dozens of rope bridges were suspended overhead, criss-crossing the expanse of the upper cave in all directions. Sisaroth couldn’t see any exits at floor level so he guessed the only way out would be those rope walkways. But some of them didn’t look very safe. Whilst many were brand-new or appeared to have recently undergone repairs, others were distinctly moth-eaten.

  What is this place? Is this the central hub of Phondrasôn? He ducked into a niche and was about to use his älfar powers to hide in a cloak of darkness when something approached his position. He froze.
His physical state would not allow him to join battle with any assailant.

  The torchbearers came nearer, travelling upwards in some sort of lift, yelling orders at each other every few moments. What an ugly language.

  With the torches lighting the scene, Sisaroth saw why they had come into the cave: piles of bones lay between the stalagmites. That was what he’d kicked earlier. The blood he’d smelt had come from an óarco stuck on two stalagmites under one of the rope walkways.

  The unknown figures approaching seemed to be human. The barbarians were wearing crude chainmail over their leather clothing and they had apparently come to scavenge what they could from the injured beast.

  The óarco’s few possessions disappeared into the barbarians’ pockets and bags. When the badly injured creature groaned and tried to move, they slit its throat and took its armour apart while it uttered its death-rattle. Finally, the great óarco mouth-tusks were broken off and distributed.

  So it’s a carefully arranged trap. Sisaroth looked up at the walkways. They’ve arranged it so wayfarers will fall to their death, then they can steal their belongings at leisure.

  Once the óarco’s loot was exhausted, the humans began to look around for further trophies. Sisaroth suddenly realised they would come across the cage and know—

  ‘Men!’ one of the barbarians shouted from a far corner. ‘Come over here. I’ve found a cage.’ His speech was crude and ugly but easy enough to understand.

  ‘Great! It’ll be another of those pointy-ears. Is it still inside?’ barked one of the others.

  ‘They always have good stuff with them,’ chuckled a woman. ‘I want the shiny things – got it, you lot? I want it all.’

  Sisaroth fumed. No imagination was needed to see how these unscrupulous robbers would deal with a helpless or badly wounded älf. I ought to slay the lot of you! He pulled out his dagger, but the sudden movement caused pain to shoot through his shoulder joint. He couldn’t fight like this.

  ‘Do you think it’ll still be here?’ whispered one of the others. ‘You know they love to hide in the shadows.’