Dark Paths

by Markus Heitz

  Tirîgon realised what the scars on the elves’ forearms were from. He cuts through their flesh to look at the bones.

  The two of them left the artist’s house and headed back through the wood to where the vineyards started.

  ‘Ye gods of infamy!’ Tirîgon exclaimed. ‘How insane is he?’

  ‘He’s an artist. Some people say art is just a different form of insanity,’ Esmonäe answered.

  ‘That would mean that nearly all älfar are mad,’ he conjectured. And it’s not like that. ‘In my opinion, Tossàlor is as crazy as it gets.’ Despite his interest in the topic, Tirîgon left the subject of art and started to work on his campaign. ‘We’ll climb that slope at the entrance and take a good look round,’ he said to Esmonäe. ‘Have you ever been inside the fortress?’

  ‘No, there’s never been any reason to. And I don’t want to get too close to a monster like that one.’ She laughed. ‘I’ll have to now, thanks to your suggestion. It was very brave of you, of course . . .’

  ‘I’m not going to let some beast hold me up.’

  ‘I meant it was brave of you to trust what he said,’ Esmonäe amended. ‘Tossàlor might be tricking us.’

  She’s saying just what I fear myself. ‘If he tries that, he will die.’ Back in Dsôn, Tirîgon would have demanded some kind of surety from a new ally. A pawn. They do things differently here. ‘Our advantage is knowing the beast is trained to not attack älfar,’ he said as they made their way along the winding path up the incline. He looked over to the fortress. ‘So it will be . . .’

  She halted suddenly and grabbed him by the arm. ‘Look!’

  Tirîgon had been concentrating on the distance and had not seen the large ship she was pointing to. The vessel was floating over the top of Tossàlor’s bone-clad wooden house.

  Figures were ascending the ropes and ladders and a cage was being pulled up on deck. A captive in bright purple clothes was protesting loudly before the cage disappeared through a trapdoor into the belly of the ship.

  What’s happening? Tirîgon could see that the runes on the mast and on the vessel’s stern started to glow when the last of the crew had swarmed back over the railings. They have taken Tossàlor prisoner!

  The ship gained height, swung round and headed for one of the clefts in the rock wall. ‘Elves!’ cried Esmonäe in horror. ‘He always thought he would be safe among the barbarians because of their beast. But they found him at last! And we have only escaped by the skin of our teeth!’

  Smoke rose from the artist’s house; soon orange flames leaped from the rooftop.

  There goes our only real chance to learn how to navigate Phondrasôn. Disappointed and unsure what to do next, Tirîgon watched the ship pass close overhead. All his hopes of finding his siblings quickly were now dashed.

  I cannot let this happen.

  The elves did not seem to have noticed their presence. Or perhaps the two älfar were not thought worthy of attention. The air vessel inclined slightly to one side and then undertook a course correction and came nearer. Three ropes were still hanging down and as the ship moved, they swung to and fro in the direction of the slope where Tirîgon and Esmonäe were watching.

  It’s now or never! He gave Esmonäe a quick kiss. ‘Follow me!’ he said and ran to the edge of the ridge they were standing on.

  With a mighty leap he launched himself into the air and stretched his arms out towards one of the dangling ropes. The abyss yawned far below him.

  The heartbeats in which he hung in the air seemed endless.

  The dangling rope swung closer with a jolt of the ship.

  Tirîgon’s fingers grabbed it and he reinforced his hold by making a loop for his foot. Wherever you are going with our guide, you’ve got me on board now and I’m not letting you have him. If Tirîgon succeeded, Tossàlor would be indebted to him – much more so than if he brought him the carcass of some weird beast.

  He turned to Esmonäe – but he could not see her anywhere. Neither on the ridge nor below on the plain.

  Phondrasôn, some time after the 5427th division of unendingness.

  Acòrhia came to her senses because of the intensity of the awful smell. She opened her eyes.

  Her cage lay in a puddle of excrement that must have issued from a monster of the most terrible kind; the little lantern she had been allowed to take with her shone on half-digested food items, bones, and rags of familiar clothing.

  Isn’t that Nomirôs’ robe? Acòrhia released the bolt on her cage door and clambered out, lugging the rucksack packed with her meagre supplies. She waded through the mire. How did he get here before me? And how did he manage to get eaten so quickly?

  She jogged over to the shelter of a rock and took a look around from its relative safety.

  The little light she had was enough to show her the extent of the cave. She was at a crossing of five ways. A hole two paces up explained how her cage had arrived. The ground was sandy and drenched with urine and faeces. She gagged at the stink and nearly vomited.

  Only now did the story-teller notice the second cage – the one that Nomirôs had arrived in, she realised. Yes, and there is his food-pack. The beast must have turned its snout up at that.

  She ventured cautiously out of the shelter and held her lamp and a dagger aloft as she ran over to the abandoned cage through the disgusting puddle.

  She rifled through the large sack until she found the small phial with the remedy. There was a chinking sound. It’s broken! Curses! The disappointment made her check on the whereabouts of her own flask of medicine. Where can it be? Before she was heaved over the wall in that cage she had hung the phial round her neck. She felt her throat.

  The leather necklet was missing.

  No! No! I need it! Acòrhia patted her clothing, checking the folds in her robe and the pockets of her undergarments, desperate to find the vital elixir. Did it . . .? She looked at the puddle of excrement. Surely it can’t have fallen in there?

  There was nothing for it. It was a matter of life and death.

  Groaning and gagging, she made herself sift through the muck with her bare hands. She almost passed out, the smell was so bad. Her eyes were streaming and she heaved again and again, adding the contents of her stomach to the mire. She examined every tiny object she came across.

  It was all to no avail. Soon she was seated by the edge of the pool, filthy from head to foot, with nothing to show for her trouble.

  It means I’ll be dead soon and what’s more, I’ll stink worse than any decaying óarco carcass.

  She got up and trotted back to the rock where she had put her things. More than anything, I want a bath in clean water. She presumed the beast that had eaten Nomirôs tasted the poison and spat most of him out again. The monster will probably not touch me, the way I must smell.

  She took the bag of provisions and slung it over her shoulder before marching off with her lamp aloft. Which way shall I go? The toxin will kill me soon. Even if I were to find the triplets, my fate is sealed. She might as well sit down and wait for death.

  She dragged herself along the tunnel, following the sound of running water. Perhaps she could at least get something to drink and have the opportunity to clean herself up a bit.

  In the lantern’s flickering light, she saw an alcove with a fountain spurting brownish water that ran down the reddish rock to sink into a small basin full of pebbles on the ground.

  Acòrhia tossed her rucksack from her back, sniffed at the water and decided that it did not smell too bad, despite the unwholesome colour. And what if it isn’t safe? I’m going to die, anyway, and it has to be better than what I’m currently covered in.

  She washed her arms then splashed her face and tasted the water carefully. It was slightly salty and had a grass-like essence, but it was better than nothing.

  She pulled off her stinking clothes and washed properly from top to bottom; she then scrubbed her dress to get the excrement out. Leaving the garment in the water to rinse, she wrapped herself in the mantle tha
t had been stowed in her rucksack. She settled on a rock to wait, warming herself as much as she could by the lantern.

  She heard a loud oath and then a splash.

  That was Phodrôis’ voice, I’m sure. Acòrhia drew her dagger, but concealed it under the folds of her mantle. To be on the safe side. ‘It’s me,’ she called. ‘Follow my voice and you’ll find me. There’s water here to drink.’

  The light of a second lantern approached and she found herself facing the älf with the dyed purple hair.

  Unlike herself, he had only got shit on his shoes and the hem of his black robe. His white shirt and his mantle had stayed clean. ‘That is so disgusting,’ he said. He put his rucksack down and went over to the water source to wash his things. The story-teller watched him. His physique showed that he was not used to exercise or hard work. He was one of the audio-art specialists of the city; he liked to use special metallic paints for his pictures. When the paint was dry it would emit different tones when hit softly with a beater. Themes, colours and sounds acted in harmony to produce a comprehensive artwork. However celebrated he was, though, his reputation had not saved him from banishment.

  ‘Good to see you, too,’ Acòrhia said sarcastically, nodding in his direction. ‘Did you meet Nomirôs?’

  ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘He was in that cave. Parts of him were floating in that ghastly puddle you’ve just splashed through. He was half-eaten and then sicked up.’

  ‘No! O ye gods of infamy! Dead?’ Phodrôis sat down opposite her and had the air of an älf ten divisions of unendingness older than he was in reality. ‘So soon? Phondrasôn doesn’t give one much time to get used to things.’ He looked at her. ‘I am glad to see you, you know. Not being alone is good. Your cage ended up in the mess, then?’

  ‘Difficult to avoid on landing, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘Do I still smell awful?’ She already had a plot hatching in her head; it was instinct from her former life.

  Phodrôis motioned a yes. ‘On the bright side, we shan’t be attending any formal functions for a while, so it doesn’t matter. Bit annoying, though.’ As he surveyed the surroundings his expression was one of disbelief and despair. ‘Passages, caves and then tunnels. And more passages. How are we going to find the governor’s three children, I wonder? We’ve got about as much chance as if we’d chucked a gold coin down off the wall with our eyes shut and expected it to turn up again all by itself.’

  Acòrhia held her mantle tightly closed, but stole her hand out to run it through her red hair. ‘I’ve got no answer for you. All the gods of infamy, Samusin and Inàste will have to be on our side or we don’t have a hope of fulfilling our task.’

  Phodrôis thought hard. ‘We’ve lost Nomirôs. That leaves six of us. Perhaps the others won’t be far off. We stand a better chance of survival if we can find them and stay together.’

  Oh yes, that’s exactly what I want. ‘I can’t wait to see Wènelon again,’ she said sarcastically. Now she had rested a little she was aware of the pain in her face from the ill-treatment she had received during the interrogation.

  ‘It was hardly his fault. Anyone would have given in under pressure. Apart from you, of course.’ He gave her a friendly look. ‘Under the circumstances, I think the punishment the governor handed down was reasonable.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Acòrhia was furious. ‘Aïsolon was acting outside the law – breaking all the rules of governance!’

  ‘We broke the law ourselves by taking bribes,’ Phodrôis reminded her. It was as if he was relieved to have received punishment. ‘We hid and lied about a murder. No one in Dsôn will be on our side.’

  ‘If we had not done what the masked älf demanded, we would all have been killed. Like Sémaina. Like the älfar in that attic. Like the ones on the platform.’

  The story-teller despised the älf for his cowardice. ‘Without Wènelon and his botched confession, we could still be sitting in Dsôn at our ease, counting out the tionium coins we earned.’

  Phodrôis’ mouth narrowed. ‘It wasn’t supposed to be like this,’ he said, speaking quietly and placing his hands on his thighs. ‘I for one want to do everything possible to get back home.’

  ‘Me too.’ She smiled. And how! ‘It will work out.’

  ‘Yes, it will,’ he said, not suspecting anything. ‘I hope our disappearance is causing Aïsolon a whole load of trouble right now.’ He paused for a moment and then shook his head. ‘No, perhaps not. It would not help our cause any. Perhaps it’s for the best that we simply find the triplets and get back home without anyone knowing the true reason for our absence.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Acòrhia pointed to her robe that was lying in the water. ‘Would you be good enough to fetch my dress and wring it out for me? I don’t want to expose myself unnecessarily.’

  Phodrôis laughed. ‘I could always wait out there in the tunnel.’ He got up and went over to the fountain to lift the dress out of the water. He leaned forward and twisted the roll of fabric in his hands, then slapped it against the rock a few times to expel the moisture. ‘I’m pleased to tell you it doesn’t smell too bad now, though there’s still a definite aura about it. They should use the beast’s urine as a weapon of war.’

  ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to dirty your fingers for my sake.’ While he was still preoccupied, she moved behind him and stabbed him between his neck and collarbone. Blood sprayed out of the gaping wound and when he tried to defend himself, she kneed him in the face, leaving him to sink unconscious to the ground. His life’s blood mingled with the water in the fountain basin and almost disappeared on the red stones.

  ‘Your death bears the name Acòrhia,’ she panted. ‘By dying you safeguard my own survival.’

  She searched his body and found his leather-covered phial with the restorative. All praise to the gods of infamy! she rejoiced, holding it tight in her fist. This would preserve her from the effects of the poison for the present.

  Without a second’s regret she dragged the dead älf to the edge of the cave and ripped off his outer garment; she scrubbed out the fresh bloodstains and put it on. It did not smell of piss like her own soaking wet dress. The hem was sullied but she cut that off with her dagger.

  Then she transferred her own food supplies into his rucksack and shouldered it, grabbing his dagger as well. Equipped with double provisions, two lamps and the remedy, she set off – but almost immediately stumbled over a small object.

  She saw it was another of the little bottles, caught on her boot by its leather strap.

  But that’s mine! It must have been in her rucksack after all and fell out when she transferred her stuff. She picked it up and hung it around her neck. The gods have granted me a double dose. They obviously set more store by me than by him.

  ‘Acòrhia!’ It was Wènelon’s friendly voice greeting her. ‘I was beginning to think I was on my own here!’ As he approached he exclaimed in horror, having seen the body in the light of his lantern. ‘Is that . . . Phodrôis?’

  ‘Yes.’ The story-teller had not turned round yet and she placed her hand on the handle of the dagger. She bent over and groaned as if racked with pain. ‘We were just resting and some óarcos attacked us. They killed him and wounded me.’ She stretched out an arm as if wanting help, drawing her weapon cautiously. The infamous ones really do love me. They’re sending me a third phial. ‘Can you give me a hand? I don’t think I can walk otherwise.’

  ‘Of course! Let me have a look at your wound.’ He dropped his rucksack. ‘I’m so sorry. I really did not want to betray us all. But I couldn’t help it. I’m not as strong as you are.’ Wènelon set his lantern on the ground.

  It was this sound that alerted Acòrhia. Why is he putting the lamp down over there when he says he’s going to come and look at the wound in my leg?

  She threw herself to one side.

  His sword whizzed over her head, slicing off two long strands of red curls before clanging against the rock wall, splintering the stone. Wènelon kicked at her
but she had her dagger ready.

  The blade passed through the sole of his boot, went right through the foot and came out the other side covered in blood. She let go of the handle. ‘You were trying to kill me!’ she fumed. But it was my idea to kill all of you.

  Wènelon hopped backwards in agony. He could not put his foot down with the knife still in it. ‘You were about to do the same to me! Admit it,’ he hissed. He tripped over his own rucksack and fell.

  The story-teller pulled out the second knife and set after him. ‘And I’m not finished yet!’ She kicked pebbles into his face, slid her rucksack off her shoulders and hurled it at him.

  He rolled to one side, waved his sword about and managed to make Acòrhia keep her distance. ‘Wait! Wait! We really should not be trying to kill each other,’ he groaned. ‘Let’s stick together and get rid of the others. If we do that we’ll have plenty of the antidote; that’ll give us enough time to find Aïsolon’s brood and get them home again.’

  ‘What a good idea, Wènelon.’ Acòrhia was four paces away. He’s tougher than I thought he would be. Because his own life is at stake. ‘That means we each get three phials. I’m afraid one of them got broken.’

  ‘Right you are,’ he replied and took a quick look at his injured foot, moaning with pain. The knife was still sticking out of it. ‘Do we have a pact?’

  ‘You won’t be able to walk,’ she commented, putting her dagger away. ‘And you certainly won’t be able to fight. Don’t you think that using the remedy on yourself would be a terrible waste?’

  Wènelon glared at her. ‘I’ll soon recover from this.’ He put out his hand and lifted his leg so that he could pull the blade out of his foot.

  ‘I don’t think so. I just used that knife to cut the dirty hem off my clothes. It was covered in waste,’ she told him callously. ‘The wound will become infected and you’ll die unless you cut your foot off.’ Acòrhia gave him a cruel smile. ‘I shan’t have to do anything except sit and wait.’