by Markus Heitz
Firûsha refused immediately before her brothers could respond. ‘I want you to continue questioning them, but you are to use the power of words, not violence. We cannot risk harming or even mutilating innocent parties purely because they have kept silent. They could still be in shock. They have been through a terrible ordeal and will need time to get over what they have seen.’
She’s saying that because she feels so guilty about that young boy. Tirîgon had tried, as had Sisaroth and Crotàgon, to talk her out of this self-castigation, but she remained immovable. Nobody had reproached her, not even the child’s mother. They all knew it had been unintentional, a chain of unfortunate circumstances. Quite different from Esmonäe.
Gàlaidon continued, ‘We can add a good two hundred of the survivors and cleared älfar to our army, but given how low we are on equipment, I felt it would be wiser to keep them here in the fortress or use them as scouts rather than a fighting force.’
A fighting force that can’t fight. Tirîgon started doodling in the margins. At first he drew abstract shapes, but then he realised he was sketching things that had belonged to his mother. He gave a heavy sigh, scribbled through his drawings and laid his quill aside. I sent death to her. If Sisaroth kills an innocent älf, too, like my sister has done, then we’ll all be guilty of murder and will deserve to spend our lives in exile.
‘What about this Carmondai character?’ Crotàgon wanted to know if his identity had been verified.
‘We’ll be talking to him after this meeting,’ Sisaroth announced, sending his brother a questioning look. He seemed well aware that Tirîgon was not taking any active part in the discussion. ‘As soon as the troops get back here with the food we need we will seal the entrances. We’ll treble the number of sentries on duty at the gates and I want high alert status for the defenders along the first rampart.’
Gàlaidon was surprised. ‘Are you expecting the karderiers to strike back? So soon?’
Tirîgon raised his head. ‘He’s expecting the Zhadar to turn up as soon as he finds out how we got the veyn’s tongue and valuables. He might not like the fact that we’ve destroyed the triple caves of Whifis.’ He kept the rest of his thoughts to himself. There’s nothing we can do to defend ourselves against his magic. Without Marandëi we’ve no chance.
Sisaroth reached for his goblet and saw it was empty. ‘We’ve got nothing to fear. He didn’t expressly tell us not to damage the area. He told us to get the circlet, the bangle and the tongue, and we did as he asked. He seemed pleased enough and he said we could go.’
‘If he is a threat, then we need good weapons and we need them now,’ said Gàlaidon. ‘According to what I’ve heard, the Zhadar is not known for his generosity.’
‘What we need is the way out of here,’ Crotàgon corrected him. ‘That’s our only hope. We stand very little chance against him in direct conflict.’ Firûsha agreed.
They’re talking as if it was that simple. Tirîgon slammed his fist down on the table. ‘The way out? The way out to where, exactly? Where are we going to go?’
The others looked dismayed but said nothing.
‘There you have it, you see. There’s your answer,’ he said glumly, pointing to the expanse of the Phondrasôn map that covered the walls, the floor and the ceiling of the library. ‘We’ve explored and explored but we’re going round in circles. Or we come across a new tunnel, a new cave, a new region that has to be conquered. But has anyone ever found an exit? The älfar who used to come down here in the past for a challenge – to prove themselves worthy as warriors – how did they get back to Dsôn?’
‘Well, for a start it would have been Dsôn Faïmon they went back to in those days,’ said Gàlaidon. ‘I expect Phondrasôn would have been quite different from that area. And where the groundling came through, as well. In the Black Abyss.’ He looked over at Sisaroth. ‘That’s what he called it, didn’t he?’ The young älf nodded. ‘We have no choice but . . .’
‘But what?’ objected Tirîgon’s defiantly. He’s only just arrived and he’s already muscling in on decision-making. ‘Listen. We are never, ever, going to see the moon and the stars again. Get used to it.’
‘Tirîgon! Don’t give up!’ implored his sister. ‘Our beleaguered people need to trust in our leadership.’
‘We are three young älfar. Any of the survivors from Dsôn would be able to carry out our tasks.’ He leaped to his feet. ‘Why don’t we ask Crotàgon to decide? Or Tossàlor? He could slaughter his way through the lot of us and produce some nice little carvings before the Zhadar turns up and hacks him to pieces.’ His voice cracked and his fists were tightly clenched with desperation. ‘Can’t you see? It doesn’t matter what we decide. It makes no difference at all. It’s all over. We are lost down here. It is utterly ridiculous for immortals to be discussing a future that is not going to happen. For the älfar in Tark Draan perhaps, but not for us.’
‘There are no älfar left in Tark Draan,’ a sonorous voice announced from the library door. Everyone turned and saw Carmondai on the threshold escorted by two guards. ‘You are the last of our kind.’
Sisaroth gave a derisive snort. ‘Come off it! Tungdil tried to sell me that one, too. He also said the Inextinguishables were no more.’ Gàlaidon and Crotàgon both laughed and Tossàlor joined in. ‘The groundling even carries a weapon he claims to have made out of our ruler’s sword. He calls it Bloodthirster.’ He motioned the guards to let the celebrated älfar poet step nearer. ‘But please, enlighten us. Or entertain us, rather. My brother Tirîgon could do with cheering up.’
A murmur went around the table.
Tirîgon studied the famous älf’s features. All of them were aware of Carmondai’s reputation as the famous master of word and image, whose tales from the first Tark Draan campaign were so well known in Dsôn Sòmran.
He had been one of those who had never returned, remaining on the far side of the Stone Gate to found a new älfar state. Before contact with the other side broke down when the groundlings re-conquered the gateway, it was even rumoured that Carmondai had provided the initial concept for the new Dsôn, or at least had been a major contributor in the design process.
More bad news. Tirîgon wanted to leave them to it. Wanted to get away from the all-pervasive misery and guilt. He slumped back down in his seat. There is no god for the älfar. Tion has abandoned us. Inàste has forsaken her people and the gods of infamy have turned away their faces. Are the älfar truly doomed to disappear without trace?
Carmondai remained standing at the head of the table and let his gaze take in the assembled leaders. In fresh but simple clothing and with his long brown hair loose on his shoulders, he had a distinguished and authoritative air. He addressed them with dignity. ‘I could not wait to be summoned any longer and asked the guards to bring me here.’ He bowed to them. ‘I speak the truth. The groundling speaks the truth. Much has occurred in Tark Draan in recent divisions of unendingness. Hear what I shall relate and you will understand your own vital role.’
More dead älfar. More despair. Tirîgon at first refused to listen. But the poet’s compelling narration conjured up such a vivid picture of the tragic events that he was forced to pay attention. He could not escape the power of the words.
Carmondai told them of the immense successes the Inextinguishables had achieved; he told of the progress made into the Dead Lands; of the fall of the elf-kingdoms; of the beauty of the älfar state in Dsôn Balsur; of the desperate struggles against the combined armies of Tark Draan; of the collapse of the whole älfar empire; of the devastation caused by the Testing Star when it struck, wiping out the majority of all óarcos, trolls and beasts, as well as the älfar; he spoke of the Inextinguishables’ attempt to seize power. And he spoke of their end.
‘The dwarf in your sickbay is Tark Draan’s greatest hero. Humans and elves alike owe their deliverance to him. It was he and his companions who killed the Inextinguishables. The weapon he bears did indeed belong to our ruler.’ Carmondai concluded his narrative. Gàl
aidon passed him a cup of water. ‘You and the few remaining survivors in the fortress are the last älfar in the whole of Ishím Voróo and in Tark Draan. You have a duty to safeguard the continued survival of your whole race.’
Tirîgon blinked a few times to moisten his eyes. I must have almost held my breath to hang on his words. He had no idea how long Carmondai had been speaking, but he realised he was hungry.
Sisaroth was visibly shaken. ‘How is it that you survived the Star?’
Firûsha had tears glistening on her cheeks. ‘How did you get here? Can you lead us out of this place?’
Such, then, is the fate of Tark Draan, the land free of monsters. Tirîgon’s mind was fizzing. Carmondai’s report had renewed his hope and he was coming up with a plan as bold as it was reckless. A project ideally suited to the new circumstances.
He exchanged glances with Crotàgon. The one-time rebel was of a similar opinion. No one in Tark Draan will be expecting us to come back. Following the strike of the Testing Star and the loss of the Inextinguishables, they think they are safe. We could take them completely by surprise. And we have their greatest hero in our own ranks.
In his mind’s eye Tirîgon saw a new älfar empire emerging, its dark splendour and fearful reputation surpassing that of any previous Dsôn.
He had no need of the gods that had deserted them. Gods who had failed to protect his mother and who had allowed his father to die crushed under rubble. Gods who abandoned their people to the clutches of the karderiers. We will be our own gods!
‘At the moment the Testing Star flashed out and sent its rays of destruction throughout the lands, burning all the älfar to ash, I was below the surface, spying in the groundling tunnels. That is what saved my life. I learned what had happened and decided to leave Girdlegard – Tark Draan – when the Inextinguishables ceased to be. I went to Ishím Voróo to see who had survived. On my journey I fell through a cleft in the rocks and found myself in Phondrasôn.’ He pointed at Gàlaidon. ‘The two of us met and we ended up here. I’m afraid there’s no chance I could ever find my way back to the gap I came through.’
Gàlaidon, whose right hand was still bandaged, offered Carmondai his seat. ‘That was very moving, poet-master. I’ll carry on from where you left off, though I shan’t be able to compete with the way you told your story.’
Not more horror. I can’t bear it. Tirîgon clenched his fists. His guilt at the death of his mother was eating him up from inside.
The longer Gàlaidon spoke about Dsôn Sòmran, the more Tirîgon felt the urge to stab his father’s friend through the heart to stop him – to wipe out the terrible truth that he alone knew. Firûsha sobbing at his side made his pain all the greater. It is my doing that my siblings were sent to Phondrasôn and it is my fault our mother met her death. How could I ever wash my soul clean of this guilt?
‘Aïsolon and I were in the guardroom. He had arranged to have all the conspirators sent secretly to Phondrasôn to look for you. Shortly thereafter, the mountain took issue with us and threw all the buildings off its back. The landslide buried us. When the dust settled, the beasts stormed in. I fought them off and came here with the others in search of a safe haven. That’s why I can’t tell you whether or not your father is alive.’ It was difficult for Gàlaidon to speak of these terrible events. He cast his eyes down to the bandage on his arm. ‘I can only second what Carmondai told you: we are under an obligation to survive.’
‘We must do more than survive,’ Crotàgon spoke up passionately. ‘Let us go to Tark Draan. They think they have nothing to fear from us. It will be so easy to attack them. We will avenge the Inextinguishables.’ He looked at the others to assess their opinions. ‘What do you say?’
No one answered.
I will have to back him up. Tirîgon stood up. ‘Are we going to spend the remainder of unendingness skirmishing with the Zhadar over turf and having to submit till he grows tired of us and slaughters us? Let us show Tark Draan that all attempts to vanquish our älfar spirit have failed. And let us exterminate the elf-brood once and for all!’
‘I would not attempt the break-out if we are not sure of a safe passage.’ Horogòn was not convinced. ‘Too many of our people are still in a vulnerable state. And we would have to leave behind all those whose identity remains in doubt – the ones who might be karderiers.’
‘Or we could process them, of course,’ Tossàlor suggested. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for you healers doing what you can, but if there are any wounded that need putting out of their misery, let me know. I’d be happy to help.’
Tirîgon did not like the mood round the table. They will need time to digest Carmondai’s words. ‘I suggest we postpone our decision. Carmondai, you are no longer a prisoner, but a guest. No need to return to your cell.’
Firûsha got to her feet. ‘I’ll come to the dispensary with you, Horogòn. Songs from the homeland will raise their spirits.’
‘A noble offer. It will indeed improve morale amongst the sick.’
The company broke up, with the brothers being the last to go.
Sisaroth went over to look at the map. ‘All that work creating this,’ he murmured. ‘The time Tossàlor and I invested in exploring every inch of Phondrasôn we could reach. All wasted.’
‘As were my attempts to conquer as much territory as I could lay my hands on. An equal waste of effort. All we have to show for it is some paltry barbarian tribute and the wrath of a local lord.’ And we have lost Esmonäe. The only winner in all this is the wretched Zhadar. Tirîgon joined Sisaroth by the map. ‘What are you thinking?’
His brother smiled. ‘It seems to me there are two missing keys to open the prison called Phondrasôn. One of them is very much alive right here.’ He drew a throwing knife from his belt and stabbed at the chart. ‘The Zhadar. It would be hopeless to think that he might open the locks for us, even though he has promised. I don’t trust him an inch.’
So Sisaroth is going to support me and Crotàgon, after all! Tirîgon was relieved. ‘And the second key?’
‘Is in our fortress and is in dire need of repair. Whatever it costs.’ He tapped his brother on the chest. ‘And I think the time has come.’ Sisaroth went over to the bookshelves and took out two volumes. Then he stepped through the secret door.
‘Time for what?’ Tirîgon was at a loss to understand. What’s with the riddles, Sisaroth?
‘May I have a word?’ Gàlaidon’s voice came out of nowhere. ‘I need to speak to you without the others.’
He whirled round and saw the sytràp coming from behind a set of bookshelves. Didn’t I just see him leave the room? ‘Of course.’ With increasing astonishment, Tirîgon watched Gàlaidon remove the bandage from his right hand. ‘I’m not much of a healer, if that’s what you’re after.’
‘No,’ Gàlaidon replied coldly as he unravelled the remains of the long strip of material.
The fingers that emerged were strangely unaffected in any way. There was no visible bruising, cut or scar. A spectacular ring made of silver and tionium sparkled on his forefinger; there was an inlay of ivory and a deep purple stone.
Immediately Tirîgon knew who it was facing him now. The ring had been the sole means of identification connecting perpetrator and contractor of the murders.
Gàlaidon placed his hand on the grip of his dagger. ‘That’s not what I’ve come for.’
Phondrasôn.
Sisaroth entered the chamber where he had installed the skull of the Infamous One. He lit the candles and then laid his armour aside and put on an embroidered dark brown vestment.
He had placed the artefact here for safekeeping, not trusting Firûsha. As long as he was not being followed, the skull was safe from discovery.
Climbing up a set of steps, he reached into a false wall, pulled the casket towards him and jumped back down with it.
How are you faring, Shëidogîs? He opened the lid and took the skull reverently in his hands.
Sisaroth saw it as Marandëi’s legacy. The cîanai
had deepened the apprentice-priest’s rudimentary knowledge and since her demise he had been religiously studying the tracts in her archive. She had collected information about the cult of the gods of infamy and he was learning the necessary symbols and rituals.
But all my book-study is no good if the god’s soul cannot be enticed back into the relic. Sisaroth examined the decorated surface of the ancient skull, noting where Marandëi’s dried blood still adhered. Whereas his sister had been terrified of its empty eye sockets, he experienced only fascination. Why did the sacrifice not work?
Tossàlor’s proposal had given him an idea and he wanted to attempt a new invocation, using as offerings those älfar who were beyond the healers’ powers. He reasoned that sheer volume of sacrificial blood was probably the key. The god desired more lifeblood and more energy before deigning to reappear. This, at least, was what Sisaroth hoped.
He had read in Marandëi’s notes that the Infamous One could work miracles. And it would be a true miracle if the groundling’s mind were restored and he were able to lead us out to Tark Draan. A certain amount of persuasion would also be necessary. Dwarves were known, as a race, to be extremely stubborn.
He sat down at the desk and started searching through the notes.
He was intending to win friendship by magic means. The cîanai had made a collection of recipes for potions suitable for winning over hearts and minds.
In combination with the correct runes inscribed on the groundling’s skin, the effect would be permanent. The dwarf, on awakening, would consider himself a lost brother to the Triplet Siblings. Until the end of his days.
But for this I shall need Shëidogîs to grant me the power that Marandëi had. He skimmed through the handwritten pages, comparing paragraphs, trying hard to decipher illegible sections that might well be the ones holding the secret.
A sudden draught made the candles flicker.
This was, in itself, nothing strange in the draughty chambers concealed behind the palace.