by Markus Heitz
‘I’d say it was at least a mile in diameter.’ Sisaroth peeked over the rock they were hiding behind.
‘It reminds me of a nest.’ Marandëi put down her skull casket and scrutinised their target, which was now less than one hundred paces distant.
‘That thing probably contains a second cocoon containing this veyn we’re supposed the steal the items from.’ Tirîgon looked at the free-standing helical staircase which wound its way upwards like a rearing snake about to strike; it had neither central post nor handrail. On each of the stone steps stood an armoured guard holding a shield and a spear.
Tirîgon found his mind wandering back to Esmonäe in spite of himself. He missed her and his feelings for her were still strong. It occurred to him that she, as an accomplished assassin, would have been an immense help in the present circumstances. However hard he might try to fill in the gap her absence left, the wounds kept reopening. And bleeding.
The only thing he could do by way of diversion was to concentrate on the task at hand. Open combat is useless here. It would take us a long time to fight our way up and the alarm would be sounded immediately. The gods only know how many troops they have in reserve. He cast a sideways glance at the cîanai. I’m glad I insisted she come with us. ‘Can you get rid of the guards with a spell?’
Sisaroth spoke up. ‘Brother, I’ve no idea what Acòrhia did to you but you seem to want everything to happen yesterday. You’re rushing at this like the north wind in Dsôn. What happened to your cool temperament?’ He nodded at the floating interlocking caves. ‘What if they are all full of waiting troops?’
‘Do you suppose that thought hadn’t occurred to me?’ Tirîgon looked amused. ‘Then our nice little skull will have a chance to show it really is the remains of an infamous god.’ And I’m not convinced that’s what it is. During the course of the journey his brother and Marandëi had been chattering away together, practising gestures and sing-song prayers. He had had enough.
The skeleton head had no effect on him, as far as he was aware. It did not seem to be imbued with magic or power; it did not make him quake with fear. What happened to the skull when it was shattered will have destroyed any force it once had. What a fate – to be unmanned by a candlestick.
‘No need to mock,’ Marandëi said.
‘I’m not. I’m waiting for some sign to show me the light,’ he answered.
‘You will have your sign when I have made Shëidogîs his first living sacrifice. I’m afraid Acòrhia was gone too quickly for us to use her.’ She kept up the friendly tone of voice. ‘I have been able to generate enough magic power to use for my spells. There must be a force field hereabouts.’
‘Then get to work.’ Tirîgon drew his sword. ‘We may have the gift of eternal life but time is passing fast.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re basing your strategy on Marandëi killing all the guards, and us storming up the staircase?’ Sisaroth was not happy with the plan. ‘This has not been thought through. It’s not worthy of a brother of mine.’
Tirîgon turned his head to his sibling. It felt as if he were looking at his own reflection in a mirror. ‘I should prefer it if we had a layout of the interior of the double cave, but I’m afraid we don’t.’ Who does he think he is? ‘So unless you have a better plan, we’ll get inside and see what’s there. Then we look for this veyn. You can draw a map as we go, Sisaroth. It’ll be just as much help as the ones you’ve got plastered over the walls of our library in the palace. They’ve got us nearer getting home, haven’t they?’ He had spoken more loudly than he intended to, and an echo went round the cave. The pain of his loss had shortened his temper; he had allowed himself to get irritated. That was the wrong time to let off steam.
His brother studied his face. ‘I hardly know you, you’ve changed so. It’s as if your form had been taken over by a karderier.’ He drew his own sword. ‘Right. Let’s go for it. I don’t have a better idea. But I had hoped you would approach this more calmly. You are always so level-headed.’ He nodded to Marandëi. ‘You’ve heard what we want you to do.’
The cîanai got to her feet, rotated her staff and intoned some cryptic syllables.
Three fine cracks appeared in the stone at her feet to extend and race across the intervening ground towards the staircase.
The guards noticed what was happening; one by one they turned to where she stood. Behind their visors their faces glowed green. Each in turn banged once on his shield with his mailed fist so that a continuous metallic clanging tone resounded, drowning out Marandëi’s voice.
Tirîgon wondered what her spell was designed to do, if the ground was the only thing touched by it. Furrows – is that it?
The cracks had reached the first step, ebbed away in the speed of their progress, then spewed out a crackling whirlwind of sparks to attack the guards. As soon as one of the armoured soldiers was hit by one of the glowing, dancing sparks he turned into a ball of fire.
That’s quite impressive! Tirîgon watched in awe.
Exploding clouds of ash sent limbs, armour-plating, and helmets into the air. Figures plunged down off the steps to whirl around like nothing more than rag dolls, with arms and legs forced into unnatural angles.
And there was something else he noticed.
‘Time to attack!’ Sisaroth jumped up and was about to rush off but Tirîgon grabbed him by his armour and pulled him back down. ‘What’s the idea? Just now things couldn’t go fast enough for you and now you’re holding me back?’
‘Tell Marandëi to destroy the whole staircase.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Sisaroth was crouching down behind a boulder. ‘Tirîgon, how are we going to get up there to explore and find the veyn if we do that?’
‘Trust me. Trust my tactical abilities. You wanted me to employ them, didn’t you?’ What he had in mind was a radical, but simple solution. If I am right, this staircase bears the entire double world and it is supported on a force field of magic. ‘We don’t have to climb up there to get to it. We will bring it down to us.’
‘Make up your minds!’ Marandëi was keeping her gaze fixed on the double cave. ‘And do it fast!’
Sisaroth exhaled and indicated to the cîanai that she should demolish the whole flight of stairs.
He will see what I’m trying to do. Tirîgon rose and took a look over the rock that protected them. His brother stood at his side.
Marandëi went into action once more. She executed sweeping gestures with her arms and used her staff like a cudgel. There was a dull thud. A pressure wave shot out from the end of the staff and sent stones hurtling through the air.
The invisible wall swept towards the stairway. At the same time new soldiers were storming down to replace those lost in the first attack.
Marandëi’s spell collided with the steps – and resolved itself into an opalescent bolt of lightning that dazzled and blinded the älfar.
Is it done? When Tirîgon’s sight returned he could see the lower portion of the stairs had gone. There were huge gaps all the way up. It would be impossible to climb up or down. The enemy warriors stayed where they were and took counsel with each other.
Sisaroth turned to Tirîgon. ‘What did you hope to get from that?’
‘Look over there,’ he countered. ‘And take your hat off to me. Me and my bright ideas.’
The floating double cave was starting to lower with audible creaks and rumbles, as if it were being crushed under the weight of its own stones. Then it tipped to one side and flipped over, its entrance swallowing up the waiting troops.
The floating steps, drenched with blood, now burst apart under the pressure from above. Corpses and rubble rained down.
Neither Sisaroth nor Tirîgon could tear their eyes away. Marandëi was also staring in amazement at the effect of her spell. ‘How did you know that would happen?’
I hoped it would. Just as Tirîgon was opening his mouth to reply, a double sphere collapsed to the ground as if the cords suspending it had suddenly snapped. It buried the r
emains of the stairs.
The cocoon-like case crashed down, making the entire cavern rock and quake. It split open like a pottery vase dropped onto a stone floor. Black and red clouds of dust swirled up on all sides.
Shrapnel from the explosion shot through the surrounding space. Sisaroth and Tirîgon both felt impacts on their helmets as they ducked.
Why is she still standing up like that? Tirîgon pulled Marandëi down under cover and they threw themselves to the ground.
The ground shook under their feet and the rumbling noise did not stop.
When the cloud of dust reached the älfar’s shelter they were swamped in it. A storm-like wind howled past their ears.
This is more violent than I had imagined. Tirîgon kept his eyes tightly shut and wrapped his arms around his knees so he wouldn’t be blown away. He had no idea where his brother and Marandëi were.
Thunder claps sounded.
It seemed as if the whole of Phondrasôn was in turmoil, shaking itself in fury. Boulders fell from the rock ceiling, crashing to the floor and sending up sharp splinters.
When the noise gradually abated, Tirîgon opened his eyes and looked around. Now to look for the veyn. It will be out there somewhere. Somewhere under all that rubble. ‘I told you the being would come to us and we wouldn’t have to go up and get it.’
Then he saw Sisaroth. He was bending over Marandëi, who was lying full length by the rock wall with her torso crushed under a rock that had fallen from the cave roof. Her staff lay in several pieces at her side. It seemed that only the casket with the skull had remained intact.
That should never have happened! Tirîgon stood up and raced over to help his brother try to lift the huge stone. Blood was trickling out from under it, making a line through the ubiquitous dust.
Her white eyes were wide open but they saw nothing at all. She turned her head from side to side.
‘Mistress!’ Sisaroth cried to her in despair. ‘Save yourself! Try a spell! You must have one!’
Tirîgon gave up trying to move the boulder. It is far too heavy. He picked up part of the staff and attempted to use it as a lever, but it did not work. No! We can’t afford to lose her! We’ll need her spells and magic for our journey home to Dsôn. ‘Marandëi, you must do something to save yourself! We can’t help you,’ he urged. ‘Do you hear? Use a spell. Your people need you!’
‘And who but you will bring Shëidogîs the fame he deserves?’ added Sisaroth, kneeling at her side. He held her head as she tossed it constantly from one side to the other. ‘Marandëi! Marandëi! You must . . .’
She focused on him. ‘Take the Infamous One back,’ she breathed. Blood came out of her mouth and she choked on it and coughed. Red droplets spattered his face. ‘You must promise me that you will be his priest.’
Sisaroth shook his head. ‘No. I cannot do that. My training . . . you have to . . .’
‘Back in the palace locate the secret door behind the library. In the second chamber you will find my writings,’ she explained. ‘Study my instructions, give Shëidogîs his blood sacrifice and he will protect you and lead you.’ She coughed up more blood and it ran down the side of her face.
Noises became audible through the clouds of dirt that were starting to retreat. Some figures stumbled coughing and swaying out of the fog of dust. There was the clattering of armour and weapons to show that some soldiers had survived the collapse of the double cave.
They won’t put up much of a fight. Tirîgon had his sword in his hand. With his foot he slid the casket over to Sisaroth. His level-headed temperament led him to his next inspiration. ‘You could use her for your sacrifice, couldn’t you? She’ll die anyway. And if she self-sacrifices, it won’t trigger the death curse. I’ll make sure you have the time you both need.’
Tirîgon took several steps forward, and came round the side of the rock. He struck off the head of the first figure to come near. He pierced the next through the stomach and cut off a third warrior’s raised sword arm. He sent the badly injured barbarian to the ground with a kick and stamped on his neck. Just what I needed! Your death bears the name of Tirîgon!
The älf made steady progress.
The sandy fog that gritted between his teeth started to dispel.
Tirîgon could only see about thirty opponents struggling through the clouds of dust, and all of them were injured in some way. You belong to me. He could see scratched and broken limbs sticking out from the remains of the broken hollow spheres. The scene reminded him of a sea of stone with drowning mariners wading through petrified waves.
He had no mercy for them. I shall tell Tossàlor where the cave is. He’ll be pleased to get all this new material.
As soon as any soldier came too close, Tirîgon struck him swiftly down with a precise blow. None of the enemy could match him for skill. ‘I want the veyn,’ he called out. ‘The gålran zhadar, lord of Phondrasôn and sovereign ruler of these caves, has sent us. I challenge the veyn to surrender to us and then your survivors will remain survivors.’ He stabbed an injured warrior to death as he lay on the ground. ‘If he does not surrender, my name shall be the death of many, many more of you.’
A barbarian in dusty, battered armour came up and fell to his knees. ‘Mercy, Shadow Lord. The one you seek is dead.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I saw the corpse.’ The barbarian pointed towards the place. ‘I can show you.’ He stumbled off across the rubble.
Tirîgon followed him. This time he did not pause to stab any wounded warriors he came across. I can do that on the way back.
He found himself confronting a humanoid creature whose skull consisted of a single lump of an indefinable mass. Severe injuries to the ruined body made it impossible to see the original form. Two arms, two legs, a wiry trunk with bloodied rags that must once have been clothing. At once he recognised the items the Zhadar had described. Relief flooded through him. Are the pieces of jewellery intact? He told the barbarian he was to go and bent over the cadaver.
Tirîgon prodded around with his sword tip in the remains of the creature’s head until he found the tongue. With deep distaste he took hold of the dripping flesh and cut it out, placing it in a bag he found amongst the stones. He tossed the bangle and circlet into the same bag and went back to his brother. He spared the wounded. Not because he was benevolent but because he was in a hurry.
Sisaroth was still seated by the body of Marandëi, whose throat had been opened up. It looked as if the reconstituted skull had bathed in her blood and the decorative grooves in its surface were bright red.
Tirîgon knew what had happened – or rather, hadn’t – when he caught sight of the disappointment on his brother’s face. Shëidogîs has not returned to the artefact despite the brilliant sacrifice that has been made. He raised the bag. ‘I have what we came for. Let’s get going. There’s a lot to do.’
Sisaroth looked up with an expression of sheer grievance before getting to his feet, packing the skull away in its casket and striding out of the cave.
He can’t hold me responsible for her death? Tirîgon guessed there would be more to contend with than a silent accusation.
With this second loss, the brothers’ hard-won unity was already in jeopardy.
Phondrasôn.
Firûsha and her fifty soldiers soon found the entrance to the cave where the älfar from Dsôn Sòmran were awaiting death. The charts and Crotàgon’s descriptions had been meticulously exact.
We need a miracle now. The gods have tested me for long enough. Firûsha sent out four scouts to appraise the situation. They created passwords they were to use on their return to certify that their forms had not been usurped by shapeshifters. She and the remaining troops would conceal themselves and wait.
One of the spies returned quickly and stated his keyword. ‘I’ve found the groundling. The Zhadar’s envoy. He’s in a terrible state. Looks like he’s been in combat with a formidable enemy.’
This was news she had not expected. She frowned. So he di
d not get far when he made his escape. ‘Where is he?’
‘I found him floating in a shallow pool by a waterfall. Over there. I pulled him out, thinking he might be useful. His heart is still beating.’
Alive! Wasn’t it said that he knew the way out? ‘Bring me to him.’ She told her unit to follow her and they moved slowly into the main cave.
The squat figure of the groundling lay almost naked at the side of the pond. His body showed such serious injuries that they could have been inflicted by any barbarian or even an óarco.
Firûsha bent over him. These mountain maggots are tremendously tough. It must come from the rock they live in; it must get into their blood.
The eye patch for the left eye was missing. There was only an empty socket of pink flesh where the old wound had been. The process must have been overseen by a competent healer.
He needs another specialist now if he’s ever going to recover from this. Tungdil had taken a violent blow to his forehead. The bone of the skull was visible beneath a vicious cut on his brow. It was difficult to assess through all the dirt and clotted blood but Firûsha thought she could see a fracture. The wound reached up from the right eye through his brown hair to the top of his head.
The groundling gods must be with him to let him survive thus far. Firûsha gave instructions to carry the half-dead Tungdil back to the fortress, where he should be carefully tended to and watched. If his mind has been affected he will be of no use to us. If that’s the case, Tossàlor can have him.
The other scouts came back and made their reports, sketching out a map to show exactly where the cages of the captives were located.
The reports sounded encouraging. There were not more than five hundred barbarians, though ten of those were of colossal size and wearing wild animal skins over their armour. There were also three karderiers in their natural six-armed formats.
It’s do-able. ‘I want ten of our archers to deal with the big ones and the karderiers when I give the signal. The rest of us will approach quietly in a circle formation. As soon as the first arrows have flown, we attack the guards.’ Firûsha gave her orders and divided her force into groups. Each group was to target a different cage. ‘Make sure our archers know that the karderiers must be their priority. If they change shape and hide amongst the älfar, we’ll never know friend from foe.’