by Markus Heitz
‘Tell me later. We have to get away now or it will be too late.’ She helped her brother onto the night-mare and urged the stallion into the water.
Firûsha was dismayed at the thought of leaving her mentor behind. She thought it more than probable that he had tried to kill her brother. And while she condemned him for it, she could understand his motives: he had been robbed of the one he loved and he was convinced the skull had played a decisive part in his loss. Who knows what Sisaroth might have said to him. ‘Did you challenge him to a fight?’
‘What?’ he shouted against the roar of the cascade.
‘Crotàgon. Did you challenge him? You said he tried to kill you?’
Her brother said nothing and gestured to imply that he could not hear what she was saying.
I bet you provoked him. Firûsha’s mouth narrowed to a bitter line. She had long forgiven Crotàgon for his initial coercion when they first met. After all, he had taught her all she knew of swordsmanship. It wasn’t her brothers that had made sure she could handle herself in combat. Such a shame. A terrible shame. I have lost my friend. And all on account of the evil demon skull.
She considered continuing the mission that Crotàgon had pursued.
But it mustn’t look deliberate or my two brothers will hate me and we will sacrifice our unity. They were invulnerable if they stayed united. They could only provide the älfar folk with a new home, a new realm, by working together. Let Samusin decide whether the skull should travel to Tark Draan or not. If I see an opportunity I shall take it.
The mud at their feet started to spurt up and a broadly built creature emerged to fling itself on them.
Firûsha and Sisaroth were dragged from the night-mare’s back. The animal neighed and snorted and moved aside.
‘I promised you the demon would remain here in Phondrasôn,’ said the mud-encrusted figure, grabbing Sisaroth, punching him twice and flinging him three paces away. Sisaroth landed in shallow water and choked and spluttered in the mire. He was too dazed to get to his feet but he pressed the relic tight against his chest.
He’s sure to use a magic spell! That would truly bring the cave down! ‘Crotàgon!’ Firûsha was on her feet, sword drawn. She took up a stance in front of her brother to protect him, and she pointed the blade towards her one-time fencing master. It occurred to her in that instant she did not know which of the two älfar she was trying to protect. ‘Don’t touch him! Don’t either of you do anything!’
‘I won’t hurt him. I shan’t hurt your brother unless he insists on dying for the sake of the skull,’ replied the warrior, brandishing his spear-cudgel. ‘The same goes for you, Firûsha!’
Is this our chance to get rid of the skull? Firûsha glanced over at the waterfall and back again. ‘We don’t have time for this. If we don’t leave now, we’re exiled forever.’
‘Then get out of my way!’
Firûsha saw how steadfast and full of integrity Crotàgon was. I will have to choose. ‘You will have to kill me too if you want to kill my brother.’ I only hope he can understand what I’m trying to tell him. Or Sisaroth and I will both die.
‘Your decision, Young Goddess.’ Crotàgon made a startling attack with the heavy cudgel.
Two things came together now and chance had no part in it. Firûsha parried the blow more slowly than she could have and her mentor put less force behind the blow than he could have.
She was struck lightly on the helmet and dropped to the ground, giving Crotàgon an imploring look, warning him to remember his vow. Don’t kill him!
He gave her an almost imperceptible nod and rushed past.
She turned over to see what would happen. Her sword was ready to throw if she needed to intervene for Sisaroth’s sake.
Crotàgon had reached her brother. Sisaroth had rolled himself into a ball, with the skull pressed to his middle. He felt for his knife.
The warrior pulled him up by the nape of the neck and shook him violently. ‘Give me the demon and you can become a god in your own right in Tark Draan!’ Crotàgon dropped his spear and tried to grab the skull.
Sisaroth kicked out, striking Crotàgon on the chest and in the groin, but the warrior hardly seemed to notice. ‘Die like your lover died!’ Sisaroth yelled, wielding his dagger blindly. The double blade sliced the warrior’s upper arm but his grip remained strong. ‘Except I’ll let you die in your armour!’ Sisaroth closed his eyes.
‘So you will accept death for your demon!’
No, he won’t. Firûsha leaped up, preparing to throw her sword, when Sisaroth muttered a spell.
The relic’s eye sockets glowed red and a deep blue flash settled round Crotàgon, who sank to the ground with a moan, releasing his hold on Sisaroth.
There was a hiss and the smell of burning flesh. Every piece of armour the warrior bore turned red-hot and scorched away the skin underneath, fusing metal with flesh, causing intense agony.
Sisaroth staggered to his feet. ‘There you have it. You have seen what the god of infamy will do for his servant,’ he said triumphantly. ‘You shall roast in your metal armour as long as I please.’
Firûsha suppressed an oath. She was dismayed for Crotàgon. He deserved a different end.
Unexpectedly and with a tremendous effort, the burning warrior reached into the mud and grasped hold of his own discarded weapon.
Only the armour he wore prevented Sisaroth from being slit open by the spear-blade, but the hefty cudgel homed in on the skull Sisaroth was clutching under his arm.
The relic flew through the air and landed in the mud at Crotàgon’s feet.
Yes! Do it! Firûsha ran toward them, but did not know what she intended to do. Please, for the sake of Tossàlor. Don’t leave it up to me.
‘No! You won’t harm Shëidogîs!’ Sisaroth hurled his dagger, striking the warrior full in the face.
Crotàgon fell forward, burying the skull under his broad torso and the glowing armour. There was a sharp noise and a dull hissing sound as the muddy puddle below him boiled and turned to steam. The fiery heat was abruptly halted and the armour restored to its normal metallic hue.
The skull has been destroyed! Firûsha was enormously relieved and felt such gratitude towards her one-time tutor. Crotàgon had gone to his Tossàlor in the endingness, having avenged his loved one’s death. That will be the end of the demon.
She could not allow herself to brook a second’s further delay.
Firûsha hurried to her brother and dragged him along after her. ‘Come on! We must get to the cascade before it fails entirely. Let’s hope it still has the power to send us up to Tark Draan.’
Sisaroth offered little resistance. He stared at the bone fragments round Crotàgon’s body in dismay as they were gradually sucked into the watercourse. He knew perfectly well there was no chance of repeating the masterly work Tossàlor had produced. ‘Shëidogîs,’ he murmured, distraught. ‘Shëidogîs! Don’t abandon me! Pardon me. Forgive me for not preventing . . .’
‘You are not alone, brother. You have me and you have Tirîgon,’ Firûsha told him as she manhandled him onto the night-mare. She inflated two pig bladders and gave one to her brother, then she fixed the apparatus round the horse’s muzzle. Samusin, my thanks! You have allowed three gods to be born rather than letting their unity be destroyed by hatred.
Firûsha rode the stallion into the dwindling flow just as the cave roof collapsed. She heard a deafening crunch and crash as it fell and the passageway through to the Moon Pond disappeared forever.
The siblings were drawn up into the wild, mud-filled torrent.
We are a good eighty paces above the ground! If we fall from this height, we’re done! Firûsha clutched her night-mare’s mane as the animal struggled in the flood of murky water and debris. She held tight to her brother and concentrated on not losing the breathing mouthpiece. If I can’t breathe I’ll arrive in Tark Draan as a dead body.
It turned dark around her.
She was travelling deep inside the stone chimney, hopin
g desperately the journey would end well.
Tark Draan.
‘Where are they?’ muttered Tirîgon impatiently, his bent spear held at the ready. He had been using it as a type of boathook. He was worried about Sisaroth and Crotàgon. And how is Firûsha ever going to find her way to us?
He blocked his growing despair and went back to watching the troubled surface of the muddied water.
It was dark brown in colour and there were broken crates and the remains of supply containers and weapons chests floating everywhere. Drowned älfar and night-mare cadavers bobbed, face-down in the water, limbs at unnatural angles.
He thought once he recognised his Esmonäe’s features on a dead body but it had been his imagination. It served to show him that the älf-woman still had a hold on him.
Fifty bodies and thirty lost night-mares. There was a small cave in the sandstone cliff behind him. The walls and ceiling were running with moisture which splashed down on the sheltering älfar. This was where the remains of their force had gathered to wait.
According to his calculations, they were in an intermediate cave under the actual Moon Pond. Scouts he had sent out came back with reports about a further opening in a second basin they would all have to dive through to get to Tark Draan and their foes, the elves.
I feel for Balodil, being terrified of water. He’s got a point. Tirîgon watched the rescue squad, who had previously been occupied with dragging survivors to the safety of the bank.
But recently there had been no more survivors arriving.
He saw cracks in the ground where fine sand was drizzling away and vanishing. ‘We won’t be able to wait much longer,’ he told the others. He felt deeply troubled. He did not know how he could rescue his sister. If necessary, he would have to go back to Phondrasôn on his own to fetch her. It’s my fault she went to Phondrasôn in the first place. I have to make sure I can get her out again. And if . . .
He noticed a strong disturbance in the water.
‘Over there!’ he called. ‘I think . . .’
The first thing they saw were two red glowing dots and then a night-mare’s head broke the surface. Snorting wildly, the stallion charged up the steep bank, pulling two älfar behind him: Firûsha was hanging down sideways, her fingers caught tight in the mane. Sisaroth was attached to one of the stirrups. His sister still had her breathing equipment but Sisaroth’s had gone missing.
The rescuers hurried up from all sides to give aid, calming the night-mare and pulling off its breathing mask, freeing Sisaroth’s foot from the stirrup and wrapping the disorientated young älf-woman in blankets.
Tirîgon would not have been able to describe his relief when he saw his siblings. Laughing, he embraced his sister and then quickly moved to where his brother lay.
He waited in vain for a sign of life. No choking or coughing.
‘He’s not breathing!’ he shouted in horror, turning his brother onto his side to let the water run out. ‘Quick! I need two of you over here!’
With combined force they unstrapped his armour and pressed on his abdomen and chest until the cîanoi vomited a gush of brownish fluid and gasped for air.
I have not lost him! Tirîgon patted his brother’s cheek. ‘Can you hear me? You’ll soon be in Tark Draan. Together with me and our sister.’
Sisaroth tried to sit up, grabbing his brother by the shoulders. His grasp was so desperate that it was painful. ‘Did you collect the skull fragments?’ he mumbled before being sick again.
Tirîgon knew what he must mean and looked over at the slurried mixture of brackish water, corpses and debris. We won’t find anything in that mess.
‘It has been annihilated,’ said Firûsha, her lips quivering.
Sisaroth looked straight ahead emptily, his face falling in like that of a corpse. ‘It is my fault,’ he whispered. ‘I . . . my knife . . . he fell on top of the Infamous One. I have lost all my powers! My magic arts, gone!’ He shut his eyes and sobbed like a young child. ‘I have extinguished Shëidogîs. The other gods of infamy will surely punish me . . .’
Firûsha knelt at his side, stroking his black hair and humming softly.
Tirîgon weighed up the situation objectively. Should I be pleased? Crotàgon could have become difficult, stirring up trouble, and Shëidogîs, and the attendant blood sacrifices, would certainly have been a problem. On the whole, yes, I think this was a good outcome. Outwardly, however, so as not to upset his brother, he pretended to be dismayed at the news.
Carmondai came over with his notepad. ‘There are no more infamous gods – or at least, no more within Tark Draan. I told you that the Inextinguishables had forbidden their worship, even in emasculated form without blood-sacrifice.’ He started to make initial sketches of the scene. ‘So the old beliefs will remain in Phondrasôn. The Young Gods will have no competition.’ He smiled. ‘It’s better like that, isn’t it?’ Carmondai showed them what he had been drawing: the Triplet Siblings together, united, side by side.
Tirîgon looked down at his weeping brother, beside himself with loss and mourning the forfeit of his special powers. ‘Don’t distress yourself. We are gods in our own right, just as we were in Phondrasôn. All we need is each other.’
His sister acknowledged his words with a smile and went on humming. Sisaroth gradually calmed and stopped sobbing.
Tirîgon imagined how his initial vision might yet, in altered form, become reality. I shall rule over an älfar realm as I always wanted to do. To this end he had sacrificed lives, crossed Phondrasôn, forged unlikely alliances, and had been forced to bend the knee before the Zhadar. But now, together with his beloved siblings, he emerged as the saviour of his people, rising up out of the dark depths. He would found a new state.
He was marked with an unforgivable blemish that could never be removed, but only the gods knew about it.
I shall never forgive myself for what happened to our parents. And I shall never admit to causing their deaths. Tirîgon turned his clear blue gaze on his brother and sister. Father, Mother, I swear to you that I shall dedicate the rest of my existence to you. I want to make you proud and I shall preserve your memory. Statues will be raised in your honour.
Firûsha’s humming turned into a song, one that gave courage and spoke of heroism and victory, carrying a message of hope and strength.
Her dulcet tones reverberated round the sandstone cave, driving out any doubt or despair or concern about what was to come. The melody reinforced the survivors’ certainty that they were, indeed, invincible.
When her song came to an end, joyous cheers rang round. Her performance had fully transformed the mood.
‘It is time.’ Sisaroth rose to his feet, rinsed out his mouth, and went with the others into the larger cave where the majority of the älfar were waiting.
The reception was tremendous.
Tirîgon looked proudly at his sister and nodded to his brother. It is time to plant seed for the harvest. ‘You who were once citizens of Dsôn Sòmran and Dsôn Faïmon! You who were sent to Phondrasôn in exile! Three things unite us all,’ he addressed the crowd. ‘We are älfar. We have waited long. And we have survived. We have escaped the netherworld depths together and we rise to rule! It is no lie when I foretell: the elves shall perish under our sword, and humans, groundlings, sorcerers and other creatures will bow down to us. No älfar realm in history will have been more glorious or powerful than the empire we will found!’ He drew his sword and pointed it at the roof. ‘Up there lies the Moon Pond. Let us dive once more. When the hooves of our night-mares and our own boots touch ground again it will be the soil of Tark Draan under our feet. Our new home with our own new Dsôn! Follow us! Follow the Young Gods!’
‘Follow us!’ Firûsha drew her sword and stretched it to the roof.
Sisaroth copied them. ‘Follow us!’
The cave filled with the rumble of numerous weapons being unsheathed.
I shall rule! Tirîgon was overcome with emotion: his flesh had goose-pimples and his eyes filled with t
ears. A sense of his own supremacy flooded his being.
Tark Draan.
Firûsha found the swim pleasant this time; she had had sufficient practice underwater. Here there was no relentless pull of current causing the mass of air bubbles that had masked their vision in the other body of water, and she was in control of her trajectory. I can see where I am.
As on her previous visit, she found large-leaved water-lilies bobbing on the Moon Pond. The setting sun sent blood-red beams down through the surface to the army that was marching underwater toward the elves. The night-mares’ saddlebags were filled with stones to stop the animals shooting straight up to the top, thus alerting their foe.
Unseen, unnoticed, they slipped straight into the heart of enemy territory.
Firûsha had taken command at the head of the column because she knew the lie of the land. The air in her breathing equipment would last for eight hundred heartbeats. She took her time and enjoyed each step of the way. We are returning to Tark Draan and we shall be avenging the Inextinguishables.
Two figures were moving about in the water above their heads. It seemed they were teasing each other.
An elf and his girl at play. Is that my lute-player?
The male elf dived down and headed in their direction without noticing the älfar and then he swam around under the lilies to hide from his girlfriend, who was climbing out of the water.
The sun now dipped below the horizon, giving way to star shine. Silver light penetrated the water and welcomed the approaching älfar force.
The elf swam underwater over to the bank and left the Moon Pond.
A night-time arrival. Firûsha gave the signal to move forward. Her army was only minutes behind her. It could not be better.
She saw the elf-girl splashing into the water as if she had been pushed. She concealed herself under the leaves. Perhaps this time it was she who wanted to frighten her lover.
I can help her there. Firûsha had a wicked idea. We are masters of fear. She slid from the saddle, and taking a final deep draught of air from the air bag, put her knife in to deflate it. She drew her sword and strode up towards the bank.