Dark Paths

by Markus Heitz

  But the young älf felt he was being watched . . .

  Am I imagining it? Sisaroth stopped what he was doing and turned round slowly.

  He found Tossàlor in his purple robe immediately behind him, a cool smile playing on his lips. He was looking not at Sisaroth, but at the lovingly restored skull. His eyes shone with eager delight.

  None of the älfar of the inner circle were forbidden from moving freely within the concealed rooms and corridors, but Sisaroth was indignant at this interruption. ‘Did you want me for something?’

  Tossàlor shook his head.

  ‘Were you looking for my brother or my sister?’

  This question was also met with silence and a shake of the head. Tossàlor’s pupils were dilated as he stared fixedly at the relic.

  This was too much for Sisaroth. ‘Then I must ask you to return to your studio and get on with your carving –’

  ‘Since being allowed to touch the skull and work on its restoration, I have become totally fascinated. The artefact is uniquely beautiful. Sensational. It should not be confined to a secret room where only you can view it, Sisaroth.’

  His tone of voice was a warning; Sisaroth realised that the bone-carver was in a state of trance and unable to formulate clear thoughts. Is it Shëidogîs? Has the god affected Tossàlor’s mind? ‘I needed to conceal it from my sister. She might attempt to destroy it again.’

  ‘I would have ripped out her heart. No one must harm the skull.’ Only now did Tossàlor focus on Sisaroth. ‘It was a good hiding place. I had been trying hard to find it.’

  Sisaroth was starting to fear that the artist’s brain was being manipulated in the same way Firûsha’s had been, but to the opposite extreme. The relic has dragged him here.

  ‘I felt such longing.’ Tossàlor shyly stretched out an arm to brush the skull with his fingertips. He touched the gold leaf and the pearls reverently, a satisfied smile on his face. He kept his hand on the artefact. ‘Marandëi would never let me borrow it, no matter how I begged.’

  ‘I shan’t let you have it, either. It might get damaged.’ The other’s attitude and conduct made Sisaroth more wary than ever. Marandëi never breathed a word to me. Maybe she had not taken his effusive enthusiasm seriously.

  ‘But why would I want to damage it?’ asked Tossàlor, suddenly outraged. ‘I would put it on a shelf where it could watch me working. It would be my inspiration. I would work with the best bones available and create a shrine dedicated to the god. Shëidogîs would love it.’ He stroked the top of the skull and then enclosed the item in his long fingers.

  ‘I told you: it’s to remain here!’ Sisaroth grabbed his wrist.

  ‘Without me, it would still be smashed to smithereens. I have a right to it.’ The sculptor stared angrily down at Sisaroth. ‘Permit me to take it. Please.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You have to! I made it what it is. It calls me!’

  Sisaroth stood up without releasing his hold on Tossàlor’s hand. ‘Your behaviour is unacceptable. You are aware that my word is law.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m an outlaw,’ Tossàlor responded, his piercing eyes fixed imploringly on Sisaroth. ‘Give me the skull. I’ll ask you again one more time . . .’ He bit his lip.

  ‘Or what? Was that a threat?’ Sisaroth increased the pressure on Tossàlor’s wrist. ‘Let go at once or I’ll break it myself and you’ll never be able to mend it. Is that what you want?’

  ‘I’d get Crotàgon to kill you, if you did,’ Tossàlor hissed.

  ‘And the death vow curse would kill him.’

  ‘He would still do it for my sake. There could be an accident. The curse would not be invoked if you fell into a trap.’

  Vicious, raving maniac! ‘You take advantage of him all the time. Do you think he doesn’t realise? Do you think he enjoys it?’

  Tossàlor laughed in his face. ‘Do you think I care about him? He’s useful. That’s all.’ He looked past Sisaroth and grinned. ‘Oh, there you are! Kill him for me,’ he commanded into thin air.

  Curses! Sisaroth whirled round, dagger drawn.

  No Crotàgon to be seen.

  A hefty blow to the back and a burning hot pain. His legs threatened to fold under him and he felt warmth streaming over hip and thigh. He slumped down, gasping for breath, to see Tossàlor beside himself with merriment.

  ‘He really believed it!’ In his hand he held a slim carving tool he had pulled from inside his robe. ‘Fine warrior you turned out to be. Not wearing your armour? It would have saved you having your back split open.’ He cradled the skull in his other hand. ‘You should have let me have it straight away. Saved yourself a great deal of trouble. I regret the fact of your death, which carries my name, of course, but there was no other way.’ He turned to leave.

  ‘Wait!’ groaned Sisaroth. It cannot end like this. ‘My death should not be in vain. I will sacrifice my life to Shëidogîs. That will bring his power back. You must swear to become his priest from this day forth.’

  Tossàlor considered the prospect.

  ‘Make haste,’ said Sisaroth, sinking back under the waves of pain from his back. The blood loss was weakening him. ‘My life force is ebbing away. Don’t make a second-rate offering to the god.’ He shut his eyes. ‘My dying is my final service to him as his high priest.’

  ‘That shall be so. Shëidogîs will be gratified at the extent of your offering.’ There was a rustling of material as Tossàlor knelt by his side. ‘Tell me what to do.’

  Without opening his eyes Sisaroth stabbed upwards, his aim guided by the sound of the artist’s voice.

  The blade pushed through against little resistance. Sisaroth opened his eyelids. His knife had struck through the breastbone and entered the solar plexus. ‘You die for the god,’ he mouthed, tasting blood on his own lips.

  Wrenching out the blade, he took the skull from Tossàlor’s grasp and drenched it in blood. He was beyond caring that his actions would bring down the cîanai’s curse. He was dying anyway.

  ‘The god of infamy accepts your generous sacrifice, Tossàlor.’ Sisaroth recited the formal words Marandëi had taught him. He was trying not to faint but knew he was powerless to survive his injuries.

  It was essential that he place the relic on his own breast, but its weight felt like that of a thousand óarcos perched on his body.

  I hope Tirîgon finds me before Firûsha does. He will know how to handle the skull. His greatest fear was that his sister would find him and destroy the artefact after the infamous soul had returned to it. They will need his power to conquer Tark Draan.

  Sisaroth’s vision was failing and darkness closed in on him.

  Tossàlor collapsed in a heap on top of him, muttering something incomprehensible, and causing sudden gouts of blood to gush over the skull. Its black eye sockets were turned towards Sisaroth. Then the skull of the Infamous One tumbled to the ground.

  Sisaroth lost consciousness.

  Phondrasôn.

  Tirîgon stared at the sparkling ring on Gàlaidon’s hand. The assassin! Can it be that he has come all this way to Phondrasôn to follow me?

  Back in Dsôn he had always dealt with a masked individual who would identify himself as Virssagòn’s student by presenting this ring for inspection. He had long been investigating how best to engage a paid killer without being observed doing so. It was better for both sides, the masked figure had maintained, if he stayed anonymous and did not display his features. Dsôn was a small city and they might meet again. I would never have believed it was him!

  ‘I completed my mission and accomplished the task you gave me,’ intoned the älf smoothly. ‘I prevented the truth coming to light. It was not revealed who was behind Sémaina’s murder; all the witnesses are dead. As are those who proved too inquisitive.’ He threatened Tirîgon with his dagger. ‘I have come for my payment.’

  ‘What?’ Tirîgon felt as if he were trapped under a huge boulder. The room started to spin and he had to sit down. ‘You . . . killed my mother . . . a
nd you are demanding . . .’

  The blond-haired älf raised his eyebrows, his green eyes cold. ‘I kept to my side of the bargain. My orders were to silence everyone in Dsôn who could reveal the truth. Not just the original witnesses, but also anyone who was set on investigating the incident. Don’t blame me for taking you at your word. Believe me, Tirîgon, I really did not want to kill Ranôria. And it was a pity about your father and Cèlantra. Though, if truth be told, I’m sure the two of them would have died in the landslide anyway. Better to be safe than sorry.’

  Dead? Murdered, too? And all because of how I worded my instructions? Earliest memories flashed into his mind: images of his mother and of Aïsolon. A childhood of warmth and safety, love and adventure. Tirîgon stared at the hired assassin. This is merely a bad dream. I am imagining this!

  ‘Your silence speaks volumes,’ said Gàlaidon. ‘If you are considering asking me to carry out subsequent contracts I must insist on payment of the outstanding amount, Tirîgon.’

  ‘Subsequent . . .?’ he croaked incredulously.

  ‘In case anyone else starts to get suspicious. But disguising a death and disposing of a body is simpler here in Phondrasôn – in fact, you could do the deed yourself if you prefer. Name your victim and I’ll create a backstory. Perhaps before Aïsolon died, he had accused your target of Sémaina’s murder; I could implicate them in hatching the plot against Sisaroth and Firûsha. It would all be over and done with.’

  Tirîgon was unable to think clearly. He was overcome with encompassing feelings of guilt, as his mind flooded with sacred memories of his childhood and dread intimations of the future. I had Mother and Father put to death! He could hardly breathe, so sharp was the pain in his breast.

  ‘Did you have anything else in mind?’ Gàlaidon was growing impatient. His grip on the knife hilt tightened and the metal grated audibly against his ring. ‘If you want me to do away with your siblings, just let me know. You can’t kill them yourself. Family blood doesn’t wash off.’ He held out his free hand. ‘But my payment first,’ he insisted.

  ‘You get nothing,’ Tirîgon whispered.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I’m not paying you for turning us into orphans.’

  The killer laughed contemptuously. ‘Are you trying to rid yourself of guilt? I told you beforehand you ought to think about the consequences.’

  ‘But not the death of my parents!’ he yelled, leaping to his feet.

  ‘You never specifically excluded that.’ Gàlaidon took a couple of steps back. ‘My fee. Now. Or I’ll kill you for free.’

  I’ll have to do it. I owe it to them. Tirîgon swallowed and drew his sword. ‘I carry your fee on my person, assassin.’

  Gàlaidon stood tall and drew a second dagger from the sheath on his leg. ‘You have no moral strength or honour, my young älf. Otherwise you would pay me what you owe before attacking me.’ With these words he kicked a chair on his right, propelling it towards Tirîgon, who fended it off with his plated forearm. Before he could recover his balance, he was struck on his side and thrown. He heard a metallic clang and a clinking echo when a broken blade fell to the floor. The assassin’s blade had been foiled by the armour. His life had been preserved by the groundling’s superb forging skills.

  Without knowing exactly where Gàlaidon was standing, Tirîgon did a circular sweep with his sword to gain time. He took his own dagger in his other hand.

  The assassin leaped back and jumped at a bookcase, which tipped forward under his weight so that books cascaded onto Tirîgon. He vaulted to one side to avoid being hit by the heavy shelves that crashed down behind him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see his adversary on his left. He ducked back out of the way.

  A jabbing blade narrowly missed his throat and then he was kicked in the mid-section, sending him flying across the room to land on the conference table.

  ‘You stand no chance against me.’ The assassin leaned over him, gripping his arm to immobilise the dagger, and head-butting him.

  Stunned, Tirîgon shook his head to clear his vision; his eyes were watering and he was seeing stars. But he was not going to give in. A sudden instinct urged him to move his head to the side.

  The plunging dagger lodged in the wooden table surface. Gàlaidon uttered a curse. ‘You make it harder for me than your father did.’

  Tirîgon was able to bring one knee up under his opponent’s torso to push him off, but the trained assassin forced the leg aside and launched himself onto Tirîgon – and straight onto the tip of Tirîgon’s drawn sword. Given his own momentum, Gàlaidon effectively impaled himself.

  ‘Your death,’ the younger älf intoned grimly, ‘bears the name Tirîgon!’ He delivered a kick to force Gàlaidon backwards, pulling the blade out before thrusting again, using his sword as a lance. Half the length of the blade sank through his body.

  Bounding up from the table, Tirîgon placed one hand at the nape of Gàlaidon’s neck and his other on the sword. ‘Here, take your fee!’ He shoved the weapon brutally through the assassin’s torso and hurled him to the ground.

  He had no inclination to watch him die or listen to his dying words. He could not face hearing further implications of his own guilt.

  Sure that life had left Gàlaidon, he dragged the corpse to the fireplace and left it to the work of the flames to burn off any identifying features. After that he alerted the guards and said he had found and killed another karderier.

  Tirîgon did not enjoy the praise he was heaped with.

  Phondrasôn.

  ‘Wake up, Sisaroth!’

  At the sound of the friendly voice he opened his eyes. He was lying in the chamber with Tossàlor’s dead body on top of him; he shoved it off and sat up with some difficulty.

  The first thing he noticed was that there was no trace of any pain or discomfort.

  What can have happened? He felt the place where his back had been sliced open and noted warm blood sticking to his fingers – but there was no incision. He explored with his fingers, but no injury was found. Was that him? He focused on the skull, which was sending off a soft red glow.

  ‘I accepted your offering,’ said the voice. ‘I was impressed at your willingness to sacrifice your own life in addition. Marandëi chose well in selecting her successor.’

  I hardly dare believe it. Sisaroth lifted the relic carefully. ‘Shëidogîs?’

  ‘That is my name. I have returned to support you and to lead the älfar to Tark Draan. They will worship the gods of infamy, they will pray to me and they will make you the most powerful of their number in the älfar realm that is to come. You and your siblings will become gods.’ The voice insinuated itself into Tirîgon’s head; the skull’s eye sockets glowed red and the inset pearls and rubies shone with an inner fire.

  ‘You have healed my wounds!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘To indicate my favour. It was a beginning, merely a beginning,’ the Infamous One replied. ‘We shall have to work quickly if we are to get you up to Marandëi’s standard. You have many enemies in Phondrasôn. Your race is in need of a cîanoi like yourself or it will not survive. But you are young and bright and quick on the uptake. It will not be hard for you to follow what I tell you. Marandëi was sometimes slow to understand.’

  ‘How . . .’

  ‘Pay attention to my voice,’ he heard in his thoughts.

  Sisaroth listened, waited, listened, waited. ‘I can’t hear anything yet.’

  It started with a repeated whisper increasing in volume until it became a roar that was hard to tolerate. That is far too much . . . too loud! He was moved to release his hold on the skull and press his hands up against his ears – to no avail.

  The books in the chamber all sprang open and the pages flapped and fluttered, causing a mighty draught that quelled the candles. Whole sentences, words, syllables and letters floated out shimmering, forcing themselves through his eyes and into his mind.

  All the concentrated knowledge that was being infused into his brain threaten
ed to rob him of his sanity. The pressure in his head intensified. There was no room for all the texts and the sentences jostling urgently for admittance.

  The stress he was under released itself in a wild cry.

  Then it was done.

  Sisaroth was crouched down with his head in his hands to stop it bursting open. He sat up gingerly, noting how his head was buzzing and his fingers were twitching. He felt hot. Incredibly hot.

  But I feel . . . splendid! He stood up with his bloodied mantle about him.

  ‘I have given you all the researched wisdom that Marandëi recorded. All her knowledge and skills are now yours. You must work to increase your own store of knowledge, but first you will need to process this new information,’ the skull told him. ‘Hold me in your hands and you will be capable of any magic.’

  Sisaroth was overwhelmed and desperately keen to experiment. All that effort was worth it! I can . . . He thought of the älf-woman who had taught him, he thought of his siblings and of the future that would compensate in untold measure for all the ordeals and privations Phondrasôn had imposed. He lifted the relic reverently. ‘I thank you, Shëidogîs,’ he said.

  ‘I accept your thanks. Now hurry and put your preparations in place. Gather all the things your people are going to need before they leave these depths and return to the surface to make a new and glorious beginning.’

  ‘This I shall do!’ With the precious skull in his right hand he left the chamber to find his siblings and report to them about this astonishing turn of events.

  After that he would hasten to the groundling.

  I shall make of him an ally such as the world has never seen. Tark Draan will not stop him or us.

  He thought it best not to let on that the death curse no longer existed.

  Third Book

  The Conquerors

  And so it was that the Young Gods

  were given support in many forms.

  Shëidogîs, the Infamous One,

  instructed Sisaroth

  in the magic arts.

  Random älfar encountered in the caves

  were offered in all secrecy in sacrifice.