Dark Paths

by Markus Heitz

  By the time dawn announced the return of the sun, he had caught up with his enemy. Tirîgon found him asleep at the edge of a clearing, huddled under a blanket of leaves.

  He thought he had escaped. He approached cautiously, sword in hand. He placed the tip at the elf’s throat. ‘Wake for the last time,’ he whispered, sending a cloud of fear towards his victim.

  The metal against his skin and the panic startled the elf awake. Any further movement on his part was prevented by the pressure of the blade on his unprotected throat. He stared at the älf with eyes full of hatred and enmity.

  ‘I can see you are wanting to ask certain questions,’ said Tirîgon, drawing his double dagger. ‘So let me answer them for you: we came through the Moon Pond from the depths of Phondrasôn in order to avenge the deaths of the Inextinguishables and to exterminate your race.’

  ‘You have done that,’ spat the elf. ‘That village – they were the very last of my people. The dwarves had already wiped out the rest of us.’

  Tirîgon raised his eyebrows. So he had been correct in his assumption. ‘I am sorry to hear it.’ He grinned. ‘Not out of sympathy, but because I had expected to enjoy killing more of you.’

  The sun rose over the horizon and sent its beams shining through the tops of the trees. Tirîgon felt the pull around the iris of his eyes that denoted the change in light. The white of the eyes was replaced with black. How I have missed this sensation!

  The elf uttered a loud curse, his face contorted with loathing. ‘Sitalia will destroy you! Girdlegard will rise up and attack you and send you back into the dark waters you came crawling out of!’

  ‘We have thrown off all the old gods,’ he replied. ‘Away with Samusin and the gods of infamy and Tion. We are our own gods. Let others worship us. If you want to let higher beings decide your fate you’ll be waiting a long time. I learned that much in exile.’ Tirîgon let his eyes rest on the sword hanging from the elf’s weapons belt. ‘Tell me about the map.’

  For the space of one heartbeat the elf’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The rolled parchment concealed in the handle. If you unscrew the pommel you can shake it out. I watched you studying it.’ He observed the expression on the other’s face closely, to assess how close he was getting to the truth. Will he be provoked? ‘You were working out the quickest way to one of the other settlements, weren’t you?’

  It was obvious how horrified the elf was. ‘No. No. I was going to an ally of ours, a prince . . .’

  ‘You are a miserable liar. Are there more elves elsewhere?’

  ‘No. I told you, the dwarves. . .’

  ‘You are trying to deceive me just like you tricked the groundlings,’ barked Tirîgon. This elf is easier to read than a child’s story-book. He gave a quiet laugh. ‘Oh, so that was your strategy. You made Tark Draan believe your race had been wiped out. You wanted to gather secretly and hatch new plans. You are a messenger, setting out to warn the others. I expect we killed your regular messenger when we attacked the village, so they sent you instead,’ he said, noting from the reaction that his hypothesis was correct. ‘That’s why you were unsure of the way. If I hadn’t seen you look at the map, I’d never have known about the other elves, would I? You can rest easy – the groundlings shall never learn your secret from me. The älfar always carry through their plans. What we begin, we see through to the end.’

  The elf thrust Tirîgon’s sword aside with his bare hand, ignoring the resulting cut. He pushed himself backwards into a roll, drawing his own weapon ready to fly at Tirîgon.

  Tirîgon dodged the lightning rapier thrusts and kicked the elf’s side where he had been wounded. ‘I wanted to draw your attention to the steel greeting I gave you not so long ago.’ The injured elf groaned and doubled up, failing to follow through with his next attack.

  Pinioning the elf’s sword arm, Tirîgon kneed him repeatedly in the same place until he saw blood flowing from under the armour. ‘I see the wound remembers me.’ He avoided a head butt and slammed the hilt of his dagger against the elf’s nose. ‘Here! Take that! Another souvenir!’ He let go of his adversary and, putting his dagger away, stepped back far enough to be able to use his long sword.

  The elf wiped the blood from his nose. ‘Sitalia stands by me!’ he cried, charging wildly.

  The combination of stabs and sword strikes he employed caused Tirîgon great difficulty. No one in Phondrasôn fought like that.

  An unexpected kick on his right knee swept the legs from under him and he could only deflect the oncoming blade with his forearm protector. The elf’s sword plunged into the leaf mould of the forest floor uncomfortably close to Tirîgon’s head.

  Tirîgon thrust a metal-plated gauntlet under the elf’s armour and tore at the open wound.

  The elf rolled to one side, screaming with pain and dropping his weapon.

  There’s the end to it! crowed Tirîgon. He raised his own sword in both hands and slammed it down with all his force, so that it cut through the elf’s leather breastplate, straight into the torso. At the level of the solar plexus the cut ran parallel to the belt, slicing through heart, lungs and, finally, spine. The elf lay at Tirîgon’s feet in two halves. The light in the eyes fluttered and broke.

  ‘Your death,’ he panted, ‘bears the name of Tirîgon. You shall not be the last of the elves my people will kill. And remember, it was you,’ he said, staring into the elf’s blind pupils, ‘who gave us all the help we needed.’ He drew himself to his full height and shouted his triumph to the day star.

  His initial elation was followed by disappointment at having no more elves to slaughter. He consoled himself with having won the map that would lead his siblings and him to the secret elf refuges.

  Tirîgon took the elf’s sword and head as his trophies.

  He did not know what he would do with the head, but Tossàlor had taught him well. A decorated elf skull on the roof of my house, perhaps. I like that idea.

  Time was short but he stopped to cut the largest bones out of the corpse, wrapping them in the elf’s tunic to carry. Let the scavengers and crows deal with the rest.

  Tirîgon started his return journey in a state of euphoria.

  *

  The smoke caused by the burning settlement guided Tirîgon on the last stage of his journey.

  When he reached the ruined village towards sunset, he was met with an eager reception by a concerned Firûsha. Sisaroth also hastened over to greet him, relieved that he had returned safely.

  The älfar had set up camp and elf corpses were being prepared, with individual body parts set aside for future use. This was a procedure many of them had never seen carried out; they needed detailed instruction.

  ‘I’ve come back but not empty-handed.’ Tirîgon placed his trophies aside and showed his siblings the chart he had stolen, on which seven further settlements were marked. I wonder what they’ll say? He took an apple and bit into it with gusto. What a wonderful taste! No fancy banquet food can come close!

  Before he was given a chance to tell them what he had experienced, his brother and sister grabbed him by the arms and escorted him into the wood in the direction of the Moon Pond. They were being very mysterious.

  ‘We’ve sent scouts to spy out the land,’ said Sisaroth, who was much more cheerful today. ‘They’re disguised as elves and will bring back news from the barbarians.’

  ‘There were three elves that escaped, but we’ll soon have them rounded up. I’ve dispatched small units to go after them,’ Firûsha chipped in.

  ‘And what if they reach the other settlements?’ Tirîgon asked. The idea did not appeal to his tactical mind. We’ll lose the advantage of surprise.

  ‘It doesn’t matter if the villages are warned about us. It won’t make any difference. They’ll still be wiped out.’ Firûsha was too excited to wait any longer. ‘Brother, something wonderful has happened!’

  ‘Over there. Be careful. Don’t get too close. There might be a further landslip,’ S
isaroth warned him as he pushed the undergrowth to one side to allow a good view.

  Tirîgon turned, expecting to see the dark waters of the Moon Pond – but it had vanished!

  Where the pond had once been there was now an enormous cavity a good mile in depth and width. Tumbled bushes and rubble cloaked the slopes of the new crater, and just a few remaining trickles of water were gradually seeping away into the subsoil. Piles of water lilies lay jumbled at the bottom, catching the evening light.

  Could this be the crater for our new Dsôn? Tirîgon gave a joyous laugh. ‘It’s a sign!’ he exclaimed, embracing his brother and sister and kissing them on the forehead. The cavern below the Moon Pond must have collapsed and the water had drained away through the cracks. ‘This will be our new home. A new Black Heart, beating strongly for all to hear. Every creature in Tark Draan will quake before us!’ He studied the excavation. ‘It won’t be big enough for what I have in mind. We are the Gods of Dsôn, after all! We’ll increase its size until it is the most impressive crater ever!’

  ‘And we have Carmondai to do the town-planning for us,’ Firûsha continued eagerly. ‘We’ll be continuing in the traditions of our forefathers and of the Inextinguishables.’ Her darkened eyes shone with excitement. ‘Mother and Father would be proud of us.’

  ‘Yes, they would.’ Sisaroth was less enthusiastic than his sister. ‘We are their legacy. They waited so long for the chance to go to Tark Draan. If they had been able to come with us, Father would be the new ruler.’

  ‘And he would have been an excellent ruler indeed.’ Firûsha took a deep breath.

  Sisaroth sighed. ‘No. He already was an excellent ruler,’ he amended, choking with emotion.

  Their words dealt a red-hot needle stab to Tirîgon’s heart. He tried to think of a suitable rejoinder but guilt rendered him incapable of speech.

  They stood around in silence, contemplating the huge natural basin, while the sun sank further and the älfar’s elongated shadows reached the centre of what was to be their new empire. The siblings each followed their own trains of thought and memories. The wind rose and played with their long dark hair.

  Tirîgon could see the new city in his mind’s eye. Proud and mighty, sombre and magnificent, full of art and beauty. Towers, houses, bridges, decorative runes, sculptures and statues! There was so much he wanted to plan with his brother and sister. The most important item right now though was the coming negotiations with the Thirdlings. Talks would have to be held in secret. It would be an alliance such as Tark Draan had never known.

  ‘I wonder,’ said Sisaroth quietly, ‘what our Balodil is up to at the moment? Do you think he has defeated the Zhadar yet?’

  ‘I hope he doesn’t ever get back through the Black Abyss,’ said Firûsha. ‘We don’t need someone trying to steal our thunder in Tark Draan.’

  Tirîgon could not help thinking of Esmonäe and how they had talked together of the future. We had such dreams. Now she is a spirit, roaming Phondrasôn forever. ‘Forget about the groundling.’ Tirîgon placed his arms round his siblings’ shoulders.

  In close embrace and in silence they stood at the edge of the crater, thinking of the future.

  The day star disappeared and the älfars’ eyes turned white.

  White with steely blue.

  We have so many plans. For Father and Mother. Tirîgon cleared his throat. ‘No matter when it may be,’ he said, ‘let us make certain that by the time Balodil returns, nothing in Tark Draan will be the same as when he left it.’

  . . . you think they achieved their goals?

  You think they exterminated the elves?

  You think they subjugated Tark Draan

  in an alliance with the Thirdlings?

  The Young Gods dispensed with their old title

  and became known as the Dsôn Aklán,

  the gods of Dsôn.

  And out of the small hole

  that the Moon Pond left when it emptied

  they created Dsôn Bhará,

  the true Dsôn.

  And even if they were now Aklán,

  the genuine gods were above them,

  however strongly the Siblings denied this.

  Samusin, the god of justice and the winds,

  laughed with joy as he put them in their place.

  And so there appeared on the scene, mightier still than the Dsôn Aklán,

  Aìphaton, child of the Inextinguishables,

  and from the south he led a second älfar people,

  born of elves and älfar who had left Tark Draan

  many divisions of unendingness in the past.

  These enemies had become one folk,

  wild, stormy, filled with inner discord, hating themselves and others.

  And so the Aklán had to accept him as their overlord,

  their emperor, although they considered themselves the sole rightful rulers

  of the älfar people.

  The wild älfar attacked landur and the one-time Dsôn Balsur.

  The Aklán remained in Dsôn Bhará and feigned subservience.

  Samusin took pleasure in punishing the Aklán

  for their arrogance.

  Together the älfar ruled the east

  but the north belonged to a beast by the name of Kordrion,

  the south to a malcontent sorcerer who went by the name of Lot-Ionan,

  and the west to a dragon called Lohasbrand.

  The Aklán did not cease in their endeavours to gain total power.

  Together with their cousins they wiped out the last of the elves

  and waged war,

  making an alliance with the Thirdlings.

  Sisaroth used his knowledge about potions

  to win over a special unit from the ranks of the Thirdlings.

  They were the backbone of the insurgency.

  The preparations advanced,

  the intrigues became more complex,

  and when Firûsha, Tirîgon and Sisaroth

  forged ahead with their plans against all-comers,

  their forgotten one-time ally arrived from the Dark Paths:

  Tungdil Goldhand.

  This changed everything.

  End of the epic poem Young Gods

  composed by Carmondai, master of word and image

  Afterword

  This was the third instalment . . .

  After dealing with the prelude to the first attack on Girdlegard in the first two parts of the Legends of the Älfar, now I had to enter the netherworld.

  Phondrasôn.

  This was the place of banishment and the site of significant events touching the whole of the älfar race, and also Firûsha, Tirîgon and Sisaroth in particular, as well as Tungdil Goldhand.

  If you have read the Dwarves cycle of novels, you will now understand why Tungdil, on his return, knew the Triplet Siblings and why their reunion was, relatively speaking, friendly.

  The present novel explains the marvel of the älfar’s return and how they arrived through the Moon Pond.

  I took enormous pleasure in connecting up the threads of the two novel cycles.

  I concerned myself primarily with the back-story of the Triplets, who will go on to be the greatest adversaries. I wanted to show what had happened to them before they rose to become rulers of the älfar and were designated the Dsôn Aklán. More of their adventures and what happened to them you will find next in the fourth Dwarves novel: The Fate of the Dwarves.

  The fourth instalment will follow.

  The last of the individual Legend novels (without excluding the possibility of publishing anthologies penned by Carmondai) will deal with Aìphaton and will pick up the story from the end of the fourth Dwarves novel. There is much excitement to be had about events in Girdlegard!

  . . . if you are wondering what happened to Tungdil Goldhand during the attack on the Zhadar castle, and about the truth concerning a possible doppelgänger for the dwarf, you must be patient.

  I know there are many eager Tungdil fans out th
ere, but I must ask you not to pester me with questions.

  At this point I should like to refer you to the project led by the group BLIND GUARDIAN.

  The musicians asked me for a story to go with a particular orchestral album; there is obviously a dwarf in the story. Further details will be made available later on the website www.mahet.de

  My special thanks as always to my much-appreciated test-readers: Yvonne Schöneck, Tanja Karmann and Sonja Rüther.

  I don’t want to forget our top fantasy master and editor at PIPER, Carsten Polzin, whose comments helped the älfar wander through the pages of the novel with typically evil style and grace.

  Many, many thanks also to Anke Koopmann from the guterpunkt agency for her wonderful cover again.

  And last but not least, my thanks to my many loyal readers, without whom I would not be able to devote myself to my calling to the same extent.

  Without you, the protagonists are mere actors in an empty theatre.

  Thank you for reading!

  Markus Heitz

  Summer 2012