Dark Paths

by Markus Heitz

  Sisaroth’s power thrived.

  And with this power

  he made a friend of the groundling

  whose race are deadly enemies to the älfar.

  He scored älfar runes in his skin as he slept,

  laid spells upon him and gave him potions

  that effected transformation.

  On rising from his sickbed he saw the Triplets as friends

  and did not doubt the story that they told him.

  They named him Balodil

  and from then on he was on the älfar side.

  Balodil was untiring at his forge,

  making weapons and armours of the best.

  Thus equipped, the Siblings feared no enemy.

  He was tutored in the älfar tongue

  and shown the cîanoi magic

  with which to reinforce his metals.

  With his blacksmith skills and magic art

  he produced the strongest plates and mail.

  Nothing approached the standard of the armour

  he had fashioned for another.

  Designed for the Zhadar, and thought of as his own.

  The Young Gods worked tirelessly at their task

  – to lead the älfar to Tark Draan.

  They sent out scouts

  and abandoned their conquests;

  ignored commands from the Zhadar.

  All efforts were expended on the Quest:

  The Flight from Phondrasôn.

  But despite themselves

  they proved an inspiration

  to the plotters and insurgents –

  those the Zhadar kept oppressed.

  Murmurs of protest soon became a steady roar.

  A front was formed in Phondrasôn

  and Balodil nurtured their rebellion.

  He befriended the älfar,

  forging alliances like steel.

  He furnished the foes of the Zhadar

  with the tools of insurrection

  and in secret watched the progress of their battles

  as he had so often done before.

  A storm broke in the land,

  and the Zhadar’s mighty towers were attacked.

  Firûsha, Sisaroth and Tirîgon held sway

  but did not use nor want their power,

  choosing to ignore the war

  and chaos at their feet.

  Until the time arrived

  when all was set to change.

  Excerpt from the epic poem Young Gods

  composed by Carmondai, master of word and image

  Chapter I

  Only the veritably dead

  know what it is to die.

  ‘Aphorisms’ from the epic poem Young Gods

  composed by Carmondai, master of word and image

  Phondrasôn.

  Firûsha stood at the window and looked out on the waves of liquid glass. How glorious! How unique!

  The waters played around the mighty pillars of the bridge, forming a transparent crust like ice or sugar-coating on the stone. Sisaroth was responsible for the miracle of recalling the god of infamy and restoring the previous conditions in the cave. As cîanoi to Shëidogîs, he was servant and master alike to an ancient godhead now manifested in the gruesome artefact.

  I would not hesitate for an instant to destroy the relic once again. Firûsha kept her thoughts, however, to herself; it was essential her brothers did not know her attitude. She simply did not believe that they were being aided by a god. It is a demon, a terrible spirit. She feared Shëidogîs (or whichever spirit dwelt within the skull) would destroy them all, turning against them at some vital point in battle.

  Firûsha suspected Sisaroth was offering sacrifices to the skull and was firmly opposed to it. Tirîgon, on the other hand, accepted the practice, seeing the benefits. Thinking strategically, he preferred to ignore any possible disadvantages.

  Her only ally in the palace was Crotàgon. The death of the object of his secret passion, Tossàlor, had led him to utterly reject the gods of infamy.

  Crotàgon had heard Sisaroth tell how he and the artist had struggled over possession of the skull. Stony-faced, he talked about the change he had noticed in Tossàlor’s behaviour following the intense period of reconstructive work that the artist had done on the relic. The word obsessive was used.

  Crotàgon demanded the artefact be destroyed, but the brothers refused: one of them for purely personal reasons and the other from tactical considerations.

  Firûsha found the sight of the ochre-coloured waves fascinating.

  She raised her voice in song, creating the lyrics spontaneously: an ode to the Sea of Glass, where beauty merged with danger. The slightest contact with the waves would suffice to lose a finger, a limb, a life. The heat of the molten glass would ensure nothing would remain. Yet Firûsha was thrilled by the thought of immersion in this lethal material.

  Her song ended but her train of thought continued.

  How would it feel to be swallowed up by liquid glass? What kind of favoured creature might survive? She leaned against the window frame, enjoying the warmth reflected upwards by the sea.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Crotàgon entered, dressed in light attire. He bowed and approached. ‘It is time.’ He had brought wooden swords with him in a long sack.

  Firûsha stared in surprise. ‘Already?’

  ‘The watch have been given their duties, the scouts are still out, and the gates are invulnerable, thanks to Sisaroth’s magic security measures. What could go wrong?’ He had arrived earlier than arranged. He laid the sack on the table, removed the cord and shook the practice weapons out. He threw two of them over to Firûsha, and took one for himself. ‘I know you don’t need any more instruction. You are at least as good as I am, and you are certainly much more agile. The training practice is for my benefit now.’ He tensed his muscles. ‘I enjoy a challenge.’

  Firûsha laughed. ‘Flatterer!’

  ‘Not at all. You beat Tirîgon recently. And I’m sure you could beat Sisaroth, too, especially now that he spends all his time with that wretched skull and neglects his swordsmanship.’ He took up a stance in the centre of the room. ‘Firûsha, show me what you are made of!’

  She was wearing only a flimsy robe so a strike would be painful. She might suffer a broken limb. Here’s to the challenge. She grinned. ‘Let’s see how many hits I can score, my dear Crotàgon.’ They were about to proceed when they were interrupted.

  From the doorway came the sound of someone clearing his throat. It was Balodil.

  ‘Training?’ The groundling was carrying a wooden crate and was followed by a female älf guard bearing an extra-length sword. ‘I seem to have arrived at the right moment,’ he joked.

  Balodil appeared to have come directly from his workshop. His boots and breeches had scorch marks and his torso was bare under a battered leather apron. The empty eye socket was hidden under a decorated golden patch fixed directly into his skin with thin wire, obviating the need for leather fastenings.

  ‘You are always welcome, Balodil,’ said Firûsha, but her words were not sincere. She glanced at Crotàgon, who looked annoyed. They both shared the same concern that the groundling might someday regain his full senses and overcome the combined effects of the potions, tattooed runes and incantations that bought his loyalty. They always went through the motions of welcoming him as a friend but neither of them trusted the relationship.

  They watched him carefully any time he was near. If his old identity, answering to the name of Tungdil, were to re-emerge and become aware of what Sisaroth had been doing to him, there would be hell to pay. And he is enormously strong.

  Balodil came over and put the crate down on the floor. ‘I’ve given it all a thorough overhaul,’ he announced proudly. The long scar on his face and forehead had healed but would never go away, Horogòn the Healer had said.

  ‘Is it my body armour?’ At this Firûsha was excited. ‘That’s wonderful! And you had
so much other work to get through in the forge.’

  ‘A labour of love while I’m waiting for my next commission from whatever tribe or race calls on me for help. They’re all coming together in the name of the Young Gods, though of course in secret. We don’t want to risk alerting the Zhadar at this stage.’ He smiled and bowed his head. ‘It is an honour for me to serve the three of you and to call you my friends.’ The groundling opened the crate.

  The Young Gods. Firûsha looked at the symbols tattooed on Balodil’s skin. The pictures seemed to come alive with the play of his muscles. Sisaroth and Tirîgon had created excellent work. The runes and symbols incised on his skin would stay with him until the end of his days. ‘Is the sword for me as well?’ she asked.

  ‘It is,’ he replied, taking out the pieces of armour, which had been carefully wrapped in fabric to protect them. ‘I’ve followed the original design but it’s better balanced now. The tip has been tempered several times over. You won’t find it breaking or bending or ever getting blunt.’ He stood up and motioned the female soldier over. ‘Because the cross-guard is so long, you can use the sword to help you vault. I know the älfar don’t just hack away with their swords like a barbarian might. You like to show your expertise in combat.’ He tapped the steel. ‘This should guarantee your skills can be fully deployed. Take care with the tips of the cross-guard. They are sharp.’

  Firûsha took the weapon the soldier handed her and practised a few sweeps. It is perfect! ‘You are a Master of Steel, Balodil! It feels like an extension of my own arm.’ She passed it to Crotàgon and he nodded approvingly. ‘Excellent handiwork!’

  ‘I’m delighted you are pleased with it.’ He undid the cloths to reveal the armour.

  ‘Do people really call us the Young Gods?’ she asked, inspecting the items. How swiftly we have risen! The Zhadar will not like it. He will hate the idea that we might be more powerful than he is.

  Balodil nodded and polished a few places on the metal before gesturing to his companion to come over and help attach Firûsha’s armour. At first glance it looked as if it had been fabricated from burnished black leather. ‘Some use that name. Since you have rebelled and have been supplying the insurgents with arms, sometimes I go along when there’s a fight, to see if I can win over a few of the Zhadar’s men to your cause.’

  ‘Your hatred of the Zhadar should not lead you to actions that would make him take up arms against us. Provoking him would be unwise,’ Crotàgon advised. ‘We have Tirîgon’s army, it is true, but . . .’

  ‘I would never do anything to endanger my friends,’ said Balodil sharply.

  Spiky black lines shot out from under the eye patch and covered the weathered face, similar to an älf’s anger lines. That must be the effect of the potions and the rituals my brothers have been subjecting him to.

  The groundling gasped, pressing a clenched fist against the eye patch until the lines faded.

  He’s been turned halfway into an älf! Firûsha picked up the sword again.

  ‘The Zhadar has no proof of my involvement,’ he said, in a quieter voice, lowering his hand. ‘The weapons could have been supplied from anywhere.’

  ‘But they’ve got älfar runes?’ Crotàgon was not convinced.

  ‘We can say they’re from some fallen älfar city,’ said Balodil. ‘There have been plenty of those recently, after all.’

  We have so many deaths to mourn. Mother and Father are foremost in our minds. Firûsha, stepping into her armour, was hurt by the groundling’s thoughtless remark.

  Balodil assisted where necessary and observed carefully to see if adjustments would be necessary.

  ‘It fits tightly,’ Firûsha said. ‘Very tightly.’ The armour let her breathe freely and did not restrict her movements but it crushed her breasts like a laced bodice.

  ‘I wanted to make it as slim-fitting as possible with no jutting shoulder plating so it can’t catch on anything,’ he explained. ‘In battle your opponents will see you not as an attractive female älf but as a female warrior. But they will hold their breath in admiration when they catch sight of you.’ Balodil noticed there was a long mirror in the corner of the room. ‘Have a look and see if I’m not right.’

  She had to agree with him. The armour emphasised her slim figure without letting it become a diversion. The älfar engravings and inlaid metal patterns led the eyes upwards to her face. The dark combination of tionium and steel brought out the brilliant blue of her eyes and clear features, framed by her long black hair.

  Crotàgon made appreciative noises. ‘Any male keen on women will be distracted by the sight of you.’

  Firûsha picked up her sword and checked her reflection. ‘. . . and will receive his death from me,’ she added grimly. The armour suited her and it was lighter than she had expected. She noted the iron comb arrangement along the backbone for extra protection.

  Balodil took out two double-bladed daggers and affixed them to unobtrusive fitments on the thigh-guard plates. ‘These should complete the picture.’

  There was further weaponry in the form of palm-sized discs, which clicked easily into place on the metal upper arm coverings.

  ‘Your brothers recommended I make these throwing discs for you. Practice is essential but you will find them easier to handle than knives. They fly well and the weight makes for a strong impact.’ The groundling stood back to admire his handiwork. ‘Yes,’ he judged. ‘That is exactly how a Young Goddess would look.’

  ‘Armed with a lethal sword and a magnificent singing voice,’ added Crotàgon. ‘You are beautiful enough to be knelt to.’

  Firûsha was pleased. I can think of worse titles than that of Young Goddess.

  The girl-soldier said, ‘The Zhadar will be afraid of you. Phondrasôn’s people would still flock to your banner, though death were a certain outcome.’

  Balodil gave a quiet laugh. ‘She’s right. And my ex-master was always afraid of the Triplet Siblings.’

  Firûsha sheathed the long sword in its fastenings behind her back. ‘Why? He treated my brothers like useless servants, come begging at his door.’

  Balodil was surprised. ‘I thought we had discussed that?’ He touched the scar on his brow. ‘Or did I imagine it?’

  Crotàgon and Firûsha exchanged looks. They sent the female soldier out of the room. ‘No, my dear Balodil. We have not talked about it. Your mind is still affected by the Zhadar’s attempt on your life.’ She drew on her deceptively fragile-looking decorative metal gauntlets.

  The armoured gloves slipped like a second skin lovingly around her hands and wrists. There were raised surfaces over the knuckles and these proved at second glance to be equipped with tiny blades, so that a punch would split open an unprotected face. Fantastic!

  The groundling muttered, ‘The bastard! Curse him! I’ll take my armour and I’ll kill him! I’ve got plenty of reasons. Then the four of us will be rulers here.’ His right eye was focused on the surface of the lake.

  Firûsha watched the eye change. The brown disappeared, supplanted by bright green rings and yellow spots for a while. The inner transformation will continue to progress as long as he takes his medicine – the potion Sisaroth gives him. ‘Balodil,’ she asked gently. ‘Why does the Zhadar fear us?’

  He was still deep in thought. ‘Some melody, if you would?’ he murmured. His right arm underwent a sudden tremor. ‘The pain is excruciating but your voice always helps. Your singing calms my troubled spirit.’

  Firûsha had to suppress the pity she felt. They had, after all, saved his life. He should be glad he is still breathing. She granted his request and intoned her ode to the glass sea.

  When the last note died away Balodil shook himself out of his daze. ‘Sometimes,’ he said quietly, ‘I feel quite strange. It is as if there are two of me. One sees you as my enemy and wants to leave and the other . . . the other one is stronger. I know you are my friends. My family. My allies in any battle.’ He looked at Firûsha. ‘When you sing the discord in my soul is settled and I
know I am in the right hands.’ He smiled a little. ‘I thank you, Firûsha.’

  In order not to have to answer and perhaps be caught in a lie, she merely nodded.

  Balodil got on the window seat to look out, fascinated by the sight of the molten glass. ‘The Zhadar knows of a prophecy about the three of you,’ he told her. ‘That’s why he enticed you with promises to show you the way home after you complete your service to him. He wants to keep you here and make you dependent on him.’

  Firûsha’s eyes grew wide. ‘This prophecy . . . What does it say?’ she urged.

  The groundling rubbed his scar. ‘I can’t remember all the details. There used to be an oracle in Phondrasôn and all his predictions came true. Mostly they were riddles that had to be deciphered. The saying went that the Three would come, young in age-cycles, and accompanied by loyal allies. The Three would accomplish great things beyond the capacity of others. Beyond the powers of the Zhadar himself.’

  That could mean anything. Firûsha was disappointed, having hoped for something more specific. ‘I see,’ she said, downcast. ‘So that is all?’

  ‘All?’ Balodil laughed. ‘The Zhadar is the mightiest figure in the whole of Phondrasôn. He can be stopped by no one. No one can defeat him.’ His expression became enthusiastic. ‘Don’t you understand? The prophecy could mean that you three may vanquish him!’

  A wave of heat swept through her.

  ‘Is that why they call them the Young Gods?’ Crotàgon was getting equally excited.

  ‘Of course. It was all kept secret for ages. But every time there was a battle I would help to spread the rumour,’ Balodil admitted slyly.

  ‘Wouldn’t the Zhadar be better served if he had us killed?’ Firûsha poured drinks from the carafe on the table. ‘We must have represented a threat from the day we arrived.’

  The groundling shook his head. ‘You are a useful and effective tool. The prophecy can be interpreted as meaning that with your help he can achieve any goal he had previously found impossible.’

  ‘I thought you said he was all-powerful?’ Crotàgon took the cup Firûsha offered him.

  ‘He holds supreme power in Phondrasôn and he likes to claim it all belongs to him.’ The groundling waved a hand over the territory shown on the maps that covered walls, floor and ceiling.