by Markus Heitz
I cannot let this happen. We can’t shed älfar blood. Firûsha leaped forward and grabbed at the skull.
Marandëi must have been expecting this move and she yanked the precious object out of harm’s way. Sisaroth grasped his sister’s arm and pulled her back.
The warrior training she had undergone with Crotàgon served her well now. She twisted out of his grasp with a nimble movement and drew her sword out of its sheath, striking at the skull . . .
. . . but the thrust was parried by Tirîgon’s armoured forearm and her blade shattered.
Her jaw dropped as she stared at the useless hilt and guard. She dropped the ruined weapon at her brothers’ feet. ‘You are making a terrible mistake.’ She turned and ran out of the room. Am I the only one thinking clearly here?
An idea occurred to her.
Firûsha ran through the palace as quickly as she could until she reached the courtyard nearest the troops’ quarters. She knew where the three newcomers would be.
If I can get them away, there’ll be no sacrifice. Firûsha wanted to make use of the head start she had. She could use the extra time to talk to her brothers and make them realise how wrong their decision was. She had to make them see sense.
Phondrasôn.
I have come so far. Acòrhia held the little flask up to the light to look at the contents. I shall manage the rest as well.
‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ Bephaigòn came up to her wearing wide black trousers. His feet and torso were naked; drops of water that had escaped the towel ran down his skin.
‘It’s a souvenir of Dsôn,’ she replied, putting the phial back into its protective leather cover. She was kneeling by her rucksack, which she had been looking through again. However carefully she searched, this was the only bottle remaining. The others lay discarded and empty in some corridor or in a far part of the labyrinth. In her quest to find the triplets, she had used up nearly all her supply of the precious remedy, even counting those of the fellow conspirators she had killed. The dose we were allowed would not have kept a single one of us alive to the end of our mission. Aïsolon was sending us all to our deaths.
Bephaigòn scraped his wet hair away from his face. ‘What’s it got inside?’
‘My mother’s tears,’ the story-teller invented. She did not like this brown-haired älf. He was constantly eyeing her. It was obvious he had not enjoyed an intimate touch for a very long time. Acòrhia did not find him attractive and he was not going to get anywhere with her. She sent him packing. ‘Get back to your own bed.’ She stood up and adjusted the clothing and armour she had been given to replace her own ruined robe.
Bephaigòn withdrew to the lower bunk. Iòsunta was sitting upright on the top bunk thumbing through a book with a tattered cover: another souvenir of home. ‘There’s no need to be nasty. He was only showing an interest,’ said the blonde älf-girl, turning slowly to face Acòrhia. ‘This is such a godforsaken place. Is it wrong to seek comfort and affection?’
Acòrhia made a dismissive gesture. ‘I’ll be the one to choose whose affection I want. I’m not as desperate as you seem to be.’ She placed a hand on her belt where her new sword and her old dagger hung.
Iòsunta closed the book and gave her a challenging stare before lying down and turning on her side to sleep. ‘I shall get to see the triplets before you do.’
‘Is that what you think?’ Acòrhia leaned against the bunk beds. I am sure only one of us will meet them.
Iòsunta was one of the group who had borne false witness against Sisaroth and Firûsha. Back home in Dsôn she had earned her living as a caterer. She could conjure up a dish that was a delight for both palate and eye from the simplest of ingredients. The most powerful citizens would engage her to cook for them. She had arrived at the palace just after the story-teller and had likewise been told she must wait to see the leaders of the älfar colony. It was said that the two brothers were on a mission and Firûsha was too busy to speak to new arrivals. However much they insisted that their affair was of vital import, their pleas fell on deaf ears. Bephaigòn had been brought in first thing in the morning. Three new recruits for the small army.
‘Of course.’ Iòsunta sat back up and put the book aside. ‘How many did you kill to get their phials?’
The redhead smiled. ‘All the ones that escaped from your clutches.’ She looked at Bephaigòn, steadily snoring on his bunk. He’s making a show of being asleep. ‘We’ve come far. The gods of infamy have been with us all the way.’
‘They will have to decide which of us they favour,’ said Iòsunta, indicating Acòrhia’s rucksack. ‘I don’t have any more reserves than you do. That means that we either die together, or . . .’ She pulled her legs up under her.
Is she preparing to launch an attack? ‘Oh, that’s where you are wrong. It’s only you that will die.’
‘Because you are going to kill me?’ Iòsunta spoke calmly, playing with the hem of her underskirt.
‘No. Because I know a way home.’ This was a lie but the other girl did not know it. ‘I don’t care if you get to Sisaroth, Tirîgon and Firûsha before me. You’ll never see Dsôn again. I shall take the triplets back to the light of the sun and you will be rotting here in Phondrasôn.’
Iòsunta frowned. ‘What’s to stop me coming with you?’
Acòrhia gave a sly grin. ‘I’ve had a look at your phial. You have less in your bottle than I do. Do you suppose I shall select a route that permits you to make it all the way? I will return home triumphant with the triplets and Aïsolon will heap praises on me. He will give me the proper antidote and any reward I care to name. Or the triplets themselves will pay me for my efforts and the time I have spent here in their cause.’ Particularly Tirîgon. He will be especially pleased to see me.
Iòsunta slipped nimbly down from her mattress. ‘That means I shall only survive if you do not leave this room.’ She drew both sword and dagger from their sheaths hanging off the end of the bed. ‘I must kill you for your flask and my reward. I also know the way back up to the light.’
The älf in the lower bunk muttered, apparently in a deep sleep, and turned over to face the wall. The sound of his snoring increased in volume.
Acòrhia laughed. ‘You’re nothing but a cook. You won’t be any good with a blade.’
‘You’re mistaken. I can butcher you like a trussed boar and cut out the best bits to throw to the beasts. Why should I be afraid of someone who can only make up stories?’ She took a step backward and raised her weapons. ‘We have established that the gods of infamy have so far supported us both equally. Shall we see which one of us they favour now?’ Iòsunta attacked.
Acòrhia ducked, allowing the sword to pass over her head and strike the bedpost, where it jammed in the wood. Iòsunta thrust her dagger and kicked upwards.
The story-teller avoided the knife-tip but the kick hit home, hurling her backwards onto one of the other beds. She did a backwards roll and landed on her feet on the far side, while Iòsunta took a flying leap over the bed, aiming both feet at Acòrhia’s face.
It was a surprise twist too far for the story-teller: the heels crashed into her face, felling her. A hundred stars exploded inside her head, tears coursed down her cheeks and she could taste blood.
Where did she learn to fight like that? Only half-conscious, she dodged a plunging shadow. The knife clanged to the floor, but Acòrhia had received a cut to her upper arm, initially deflected by her armour. She stifled a cry and slid under the nearest bed for shelter.
Iòsunta shoved the bed to one side and stamped on her. ‘I will have your phial!’
Acòrhia wrenched her opponent’s foot and twisted it until it snapped. ‘That should put an end to your attack.’
The other fighter staggered back, howling; she wrenched her sword out of the wooden post.
Acòrhia used the bedframe to lever herself up and she was able at last to bring her own weapons into play. Iòsunta was handicapped by the broken ankle, but Acòrhia could only see out of one ey
e and her head was bursting. She began to suffer double vision. The two circled each other, neither daring to make the next move.
Bephaigòn had placed a pillow over his ears so as not to hear the sounds of their struggle. He was an outlaw and knew when to keep his counsel. It was wise to avoid getting involved.
Acòrhia passed her injured left arm over her face and groaned with pain. The side of her head was badly swollen and her nose felt broken. She started to feel unsteady and nauseous. If I wait too long, I shan’t be able to defend myself at all. She spat and launched herself on her opponent. Gods of infamy, stand by me! she implored, with a silent promise to make a sacrifice to them if they helped her win.
Iòsunta tried to avoid the onslaught but was badly compromised by her ankle. She managed a side-step shuffle but tripped when her sound foot caught on the leg of a chair.
I’ve got you! Acòrhia followed through, smashing first her opponent’s defensively raised dagger and then her sword aside. Iòsunta was struck as she fell. She lay convulsing on the floor, where blood from her head wound collected in a pool.
‘I told you you’d never reach Dsôn alive.’ Acòrhia revelled in the other’s distress. She sauntered over to the rucksack by the bed. ‘You won’t mind if I help myself to the remedy? To the victor the spoils, and all that?’
Iòsunta’s heels continued to drum on the wooden floor. The death agony was a long process; the body shook with tremors, the eyes wide open.
Don’t look at me to put you out of your misery. Acòrhia located the precious phial and placed it inside her armour.
She caught sight of Bephaigòn sitting bolt upright in bed, his face on a level with her own. He stared at her expectantly.
Just as I thought. He was only pretending to be asleep. As swift as lightning she saw that if she were not compliant he would blackmail her. She was disgusted at the prospect of having to buy his silence in his embrace.
Her decision took no time. She stabbed without warning.
But Bephaigòn avoided the blow and landed a murderous uppercut that threw her off her feet to land against the wooden frame of a neighbouring bed. ‘You are a murderer,’ he said bluntly. ‘But I don’t understand why.’ Through a red film she could see him approaching. ‘Tell me why you did it. And what’s in it for me if I . . .’
At that very moment the door opened.
A young dark-haired female älf in a green and black embroidered dress stepped into the room, to pull up short in horror as she took in the scene.
‘He’s trying to kill both of us,’ Acòrhia moaned. It was only then that she realised that it was Aïsolon’s daughter. ‘Firûsha! I . . .’
Bephaigòn catapulted himself up, grabbed a spear from the wall and stormed at the defenceless Firûsha, who just managed to dodge the attack. ‘That was easier than I thought it would be,’ the älf chortled. ‘Hold still. It will soon be over! And then I will be beautiful, too!’
Acòrhia pushed herself up. What is happening? Holding her sword as firmly as she could, she began a steady advance on Bephaigòn, distracting him from his attack on Firûsha.
Bephaigòn was good with the spear. He used the blunt end to strike Acòrhia in the solar plexus, driving the air sharply out of her lungs in spite of her armour’s protection, then twirled it and felled Firûsha with a blow to the head using the sharp end.
Acòrhia lay gasping. Why didn’t he kill her? He could have split her skull in two.
Bephaigòn then did something she could not understand. He put his fingers onto the young älf-woman’s face. She screamed as black lines of fury shot across her visage and her eyes turned black.
Acòrhia was exhausted and weakened by her injuries but she attempted a renewed assault on Bephaigòn.
The älf had seen her coming. He jabbed at her, catching her with the blade-end, which pierced leather and shoulder and kept her at a distance, like a speared fish.
I’m not going to let you jeopardise my return to Dsôn! Moaning, Acòrhia hacked at the spear shaft with her sword, falling forward. Blinded by blood and pain, she stabbed in the vague direction she thought the älf would be standing.
A vicious blow struck her on the temple, and Firûsha screamed anew . . .
*
‘. . . she comes round, I’ll explain,’ she heard an älfar voice.
Acòrhia opened her eyes and saw Tirîgon in armour, seated at her side. She was in a different chamber now and a number of älfar were standing staring down at her. Their eyes were full of admiration. I am still alive! And I have found him. ‘What . . . what happened?’ she stuttered. The blow to her temple had made the whole side of her face swell up, making her speech slur like a drunkard’s.
‘Get out, the lot of you,’ said Tirîgon with an imperious wave of his hand. As the door closed, he turned towards her. ‘Well, this is a surprise. I would never have thought to find you here in Phondrasôn.’
‘I did not expect to be here, either,’ she responded. My thanks, o gods of infamy! ‘And where am I, exactly? And what did that älf do to your sister?’ Acòrhia struggled up and then sank back into the cushions with a groan. ‘His name is Bephaigòn and he . . .’
‘My sister sends her greetings and her apologies. She needed to get her injuries attended to. She will come by later.’ Tirîgon placed his hands in his lap. ‘She did not recognise you; she thought you were some banished criminal from Dsôn.’
‘Well, that’s what I am.’ Acòrhia made an effort to get her eyes to focus. I have barely escaped endingness. ‘But I’d like to know what Bephaigòn had in mind with your sister. He was acting oddly.’
‘Because he wasn’t an älf at all; it was a shape-shifting karderier. He had taken on the form of an älf he had killed elsewhere in Phondrasôn. The karderiers are after us for our magic. They’re assembling an army. I assume he was sent here as a spy. Or as an assassin.’
‘Or to be a doppelgänger.’ Acòrhia recalled what the shapeshifter had done and said. That was it! He had wanted to take on Firûsha’s external form! ‘Just think what harm he might have caused.’
‘That’s why we are so grateful to you.’ Tirîgon smiled. ‘Now. About you. What was the reason for your exile? What can a story-teller have done to make my father banish her?’
‘Your father and your mother . . . they uncovered some of the truth concerning Sémaina’s death. Aïsolon sent everyone who had given false witness – all seven of us – to Phondrasôn, to bring the three of you home.’
Tirîgon’s eyes were narrow slits. ‘What do you mean, they uncovered the truth?’
‘They know it wasn’t Sisaroth and Firûsha who killed Sémaina and her family. It was some other älf they are now trying to track down. Your mother was very . . . persistent.’
He went pale. ‘Persistent?’
They haven’t heard the news. ‘She was making her own enquiries. She came to see me. She interrogated a couple of the witnesses, and . . . then she was dead.’
‘Dead? How? An accident?’
Acòrhia shook her head. ‘A paid killer, they think. He must have stalked her halfway across the city to an attic where he stabbed her to death. He did not manage to obliterate his tracks. Aïsolon took over the investigation she had begun. Wènelon caved under questioning. He told them about an unknown figure who had given us money and threatened us.’
Tirîgon’s face was frozen. ‘Dead,’ he repeated to himself.
Acòrhia regretted having to break this news to him. I wish I could have told you something nicer. ‘Your father made us all take a slow-acting poison and gave us each a small amount of a remedy to keep the effects at bay for a short time, to encourage us to find you quickly and bring you home,’ she continued. ‘I’m the only one to have made it. Iòsunta was killed by that karderier.’ She stroked his face. ‘I’m sorry about your mother.’
Tirîgon got unsteadily to his feet, like someone many times his age. ‘Did they find the murderer?’ His question was spoken so softly that she had difficulty making out th
e words.
‘No, they didn’t. That is to say, they hadn’t by the time they banished us.’
‘How long ago was that?’
‘Time is different here in Phondrasôn.’
‘I said how long, Acòrhia?’ he barked at her, grasping her by the shoulders and shaking her violently. ‘Two divisions? Four? Or . . .’
Waves of pain swept through her and she felt her head was on the verge of exploding. ‘Very soon after you three left. I warned your parents not to do anything.’
‘By all the gods of infamy!’ Tirîgon released his hold and sank down on the chair. ‘What have I done?’ He stared right through her. ‘My plan . . .’
‘It was a good plan. Many welcomed Sémaina’s death.’ Acòrhia attempted to rally his spirits. ‘Nobody could have guessed your mother would get involved. There was no reason for her to doubt the evidence.’
His eyes raced here and there. ‘All I wanted was to make a little more of myself. With my siblings at my side. We could have been undisputed rulers here in Phondrasôn. It was all going so well, too,’ he said tonelessly. ‘We had a palace. We had an army. Successful conquests. But now there’s the Zhadar. And the shapeshifters bringing war . . . and –’ he said, turning to face Acòrhia, ‘– you bring me this horrendous news about our mother.’
‘I can’t help that.’ She gave him a sympathetic look.
‘I was so foolhardy!’ he exclaimed in sheer despair. ‘What right did I have to inveigle my siblings into this Phondrasôn adventure, with the murder claim and the false evidence against them? I should have gone on my own, without telling anyone.’ Black tears slipped down his cheeks. ‘My guilt would have been nothing in comparison.’
‘It is not your fault that your mother . . .’
‘Yes, it is. It is my fault. I should have known how she would react. I knew how tenacious she was. All the precautions I left in place closed as traps around the ones I love.’ He wiped away the dark tears. ‘I must get back there immediately.’
‘That would suit me. The medical remedy I have is running out. And Phondrasôn is a dreadful place. Why did you want to found an empire down here in these awful caves?’