Dark Paths Read online

  According to the report, on the evening in question Sémaina had held a celebratory supper at the house she shared with Tênnegor. The seven witnesses had been among the attendees. Everyone had been enjoying themselves immensely and things had been going well – the guests had been laughing about the beasts, the terrible weather, the god Samusin and . . .

  Me? They were laughing about me? She was indignant.

  She knew she was envied for having birthed triplets – truly a miracle in Dsôn – and for her singing talent, but it didn’t make it any easier to bear. Sémaina had never tried to hide her feelings and was convinced her own voice was superior, often spreading the rumour that Ranôria’s talent had faded after the birth of her last three children.

  The notes said that when the laughter was at its highest, the doors flew open and Sisaroth had come storming in, dagger in hand. He had looked furious and demanded a public apology from Sémaina for the insult to his mother.

  Sémaina had refused to back down and had assumed Sisaroth’s threatening behaviour was either a prank or youthful overreaction, but the young älf had seized her, pushed her down against the table, pulled out her tongue and sliced it off, shouting, ‘You will not insult my mother again!’

  Could it be true? He certainly has a temper on him, but surely he would never do anything like this! Her hands shook as she turned the page.

  It went on. All the witnesses agreed that Firûsha had then joined in, holding the supper guests back with a fragile petroleum lamp, threatening to throw it and set the place on fire if anyone intervened. When one of the guests had doused the candle flame Sisaroth had slit Sémaina’s throat.

  The siblings had escaped under cover of darkness. Later, the bodies of the other members of Sémaina’s family were found in an upstairs room.

  Seven witnesses. Ranôria felt giddy and faint. They can’t all have been mistaken. And they can’t all have been lying.

  She knew three of the witnesses personally and the others were all well known and well respected members of the community. She might have suspected some kind of rivalry with her children in the case of a couple of the younger ones but the sheer number of statements made her dismiss this idea.

  She raised her head and looked at Aïsolon. ‘Now I understand why you acted as you did,’ she said, hoping he heard the unspoken apology for her conduct in her voice. ‘I should have asked to read the records before accusing you of heartlessness.’

  He nodded and sat down, pouring flavoured water into a cut-glass beaker and drinking it. ‘Can you imagine how I felt when I condemned our own children to exile in the dark realm of Phondrasôn?’

  ‘I only wish I could have said my farewells.’

  ‘I had to move swiftly, to stop an outraged mob stringing Firûsha and Sisaroth up before my guards could get there,’ Aïsolon answered. ‘I had to protect them.’ He leaned back and stared at the weapons on the walls. ‘It sounds strange, but it is the truth.’

  What could have led them to commit such a violent crime? Others have spoken harshly of me before.

  Sisaroth was well known for his temper and she could almost believe him capable of the offence. During training exercises he had once become so angry he had killed two of the household slaves. Aïsolon had been forced to wrestle his weapons away before their son could rampage through the servants’ quarters.

  Firûsha also occasionally acted unwisely, but only where her singing was concerned. She would disappear for long periods while practising and often might forget to eat and sleep, until she collapsed with exhaustion. But Ranôria couldn’t imagine her gentle daughter threatening anyone, let alone holding off seven grown älfar intent on restraining her brother. And no one would leave their weapons behind just because they were at a formal dinner in the house of someone like Tênnegor. Weapons were one’s status symbols – she carried a decorative dagger at all times. Everyone knows Firûsha is no warrior. They should have overpowered her easily.

  The more she tried to picture the events of that night the less convincing it all sounded. Something is wrong. She read through the list of witness names. ‘Did you conduct the interrogations yourself or was it a sytràp?’

  Aïsolon was intently studying a triple-hooked knife with a broken grip. He stroked the broad side of the blade absentmindedly. ‘I took their statements. They gave exactly the same account and I could tell from their expressions that the incident had shocked them severely. It was a ghastly crime, the like of which has never occurred before in our empire.’

  ‘Their stories were the same, word for word? Exactly? All of them? No slight deviations? That’s very odd.’

  ‘What are you implying?’ He turned to face her. ‘We found a piece of Sisaroth’s shirt at the scene and a talisman . . .’

  ‘Do you think they could have colluded? Could it be a conspiracy?’

  ‘No, I don’t. They were just in shock from witnessing the attack.’ Aïsolon shook his head slowly. ‘I thought the same as you at first and refused to believe them. But I went there, saw the evidence, saw the tongue that had been cut off, saw the bodies. It was all exactly as described. However unlikely the whole incident sounds, it can’t be disputed. There’s no question: Sisaroth and Firûsha carried out these murders.’ He picked up his drink and turned the glass in his fingers.

  He is horrified by this. Ranôria learned the witness names off by heart, replaced the sheets of paper into the folder and tied the bundle neatly. ‘Thank you for your time.’

  Aïsolon turned to her. ‘Thank you for your understanding. And for forgiving me.’

  ‘Did I say I had forgiven you?’ Ranôria stood up. ‘I do understand, Aïsolon. You can stop worrying. I wouldn’t wish to carry your burdens on my shoulders.’ She sketched a bow. ‘Just keep your guards close at hand.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, surprised.

  ‘In case I return with new information that makes it necessary to arrest someone.’ As she started across the room, she said, ‘I think our children have been framed and that we have been deceived. I shall find out the truth.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ he called after her. ‘Don’t let your feelings run away with you and do something rash.’

  She turned to face him. ‘I will find out what happened. What really happened. Even if it means I have to admit my children are guilty of murder and deserve their punishment.’ But that won’t be the case. I’m sure of it. Ranôria closed the door behind her and put on her cloak when the sytràp handed it to her. Gods of infamy, bear witness: I shall kill whoever plotted against my children. I shall fling their pernicious hearts into the abyss for the monsters to devour.

  She crossed the courtyard. Gàlaidon walked out of an adjacent building and lifted his hand in greeting, but she ignored him. It was ridiculous to snub the First Sytràp – he had only being carrying out the governor’s orders – but she couldn’t bring herself to trust him.

  She strode out through the main gate and made her way to one of the funicular lifts the älfar used to reach different levels.

  The weather had worsened and heavy rain poured down from the dark clouds that often hung at the top of Dsôn’s cliffs. The rain spattered on the paving stones and ran from her waxed cloak in rivulets.

  The names of those who had borne witness against her children had burned their way deep into her memory. Who shall I start with?

  She stepped onto the gondola-like lift platform, deciding to visit Wènelon first. He was not an älf she would have described as an enemy. He normally kept well clear of unpleasant arguments and intrigues and she thought he might listen to her with an open mind.

  ‘Fourth circle up, please,’ she instructed the attendant. He nodded and moved the levers to put the lift in motion.

  Ranôria pushed back her hood. I wonder what Wènelon was doing at a dinner like that? He doesn’t normally socialise much and he never takes sides in a dispute. And what was Sémaina celebrating? There had been no indication in Aïsolon’s records. I’m sure Wènelon
will fill me in.

  The lift slowly worked its way upward, stopping occasionally to take on or let off more passengers. The älfar city was divided into eleven rings, each one designating the approximate status of any particular family. The higher your circle, the grander you were.

  Ranôria thought back to Dsôn Faïmon with nostalgia. She was homesick for the old capital of the empire, with its radial arms, each dedicated to a different aspect of their civilisation – warriors, artists, scholars, and more.

  The same divisions did not apply to this interim state – the different professions were all mixed up together. She didn’t approve. We have no clear ethos, no distinct leadership and no real home.

  She respected what Aïsolon had managed to achieve here. He had imposed a certain amount of order in the chaos of the initial settlement, but Ranôria had always been aware that something was missing. She saw it each and every day.

  Waiting made them disheartened. The älfar had lost confidence and were abandoning traditional ideals and attitudes. Society had changed and so had the älfar way of thinking.

  Her race was in danger. Particularly the young älfar being born in Dsôn Sòmran and only knowing this life and these oppressive and demoralising surroundings.

  She had tried to bring up her youngest children – the triplets – in the old ways, but now it was all for nothing. Her joy, her pride, had been banished to Phondrasôn.

  I shall bring you back!

  The platform stopped; they had arrived at the fourth circle.

  She stepped off, pulling her hood back over her dark hair, covering her eleven white strands. She wondered how Wènelon would react when she questioned him about the fateful evening.

  And what she would do if the witnesses were telling the truth.

  Chapter III

  The expedition made its way through the Stone Gateway

  where the beasts were now no more.

  The dust lay knee deep

  and the discarded óarco armour and weaponry

  made it difficult to proceed

  along the tunnels and through the shafts.

  The monsters must have been destroyed by some magic power!

  They marched through the groundlings’ deserted realm

  and just as they reached the gate

  in order to enter Tark Draan and find the Inextinguishables

  a new dwarf army confronted them.

  Although they defended themselves courageously

  the älfar were forced to withdraw,

  with heavy hearts and the knowledge

  they had been routed so close to their goal.

  The doors of the Stone Gateway

  closed again behind them.

  Excerpt from the epic poem Young Gods

  composed by Carmondai, master of word and image

  Phondrasôn, 5427th division of unendingness (6241st solar cycle), spring.

  Tirîgon wasted no time contemplating the decapitated elf. He looked round quickly, expecting to be attacked by the captain’s crew.

  But nobody came to exact revenge.

  Where did the elf come from? Looking around, Tirîgon noticed a small door in the forecastle. There was no sign of a ship’s wheel either. How is this thing steered? Levers, perhaps, like the lifts at home?

  He hurried up the steps to find out.

  What little he knew about ships and sailing had been picked up from books or pictures. Boats had no place in land-locked Dsôn Sòmran. They only had one stream, crossed by seven short bridges. They didn’t even have a ferry. So he didn’t have the slightest idea about shipboard procedure. But even he knew it was odd not to have any rigging.

  The ship carried on, moving past the few branches that were now the only visible sign of Tirîgon’s little island. The vessel seemed to know its course and destination – with or without its master to direct it.

  Tirîgon reached the upper deck and still saw nothing that looked like it might be used for steering the ship. In fact, the entire deck seemed to be bare. It’s as if they forgot to equip the ship.

  He listened out for any sounds from below decks.

  Nothing. Could that elf have been by himself? He must have thought I was an elf too, otherwise he wouldn’t have been so welcoming.

  He stood there, confused, watching the mighty waterfalls discharge themselves into the turbulent sea. Spray continued to be tossed into the air while the waves grew more powerful. What a bizarre world! Phondrasôn is too strange for words.

  He needed a plan of action. He must find his siblings. They obviously hadn’t landed on the same island as him, but he had no way of knowing if they could be floating somewhere in these dangerous waters, nearby but unseen.

  The ship creaked and swung suddenly to the right, the sail sweeping over the deck. As it did so, a selection of unfamiliar runes flickered. That must be what controls the ship. Where are we heading?

  The bow cut through the water as the craft gathered speed. Tirîgon jumped down to the main deck, searched the dead body of the elf – finding three rings and a neck-chain with a key-shaped pendant – and then threw the corpse over the side. He would scrub the blood away using a bucket of sea water – he didn’t want to leave proof of his own guilt on board.

  A loud splash had him whirling round – behind the ship he saw a huge marine monster rearing up out of the waves. It looked like a giant pike but with a flatter head. It was twice the length of the ship and currently devouring the body of the elf. After swallowing, it uttered a roar and dived back down towards the seabed.

  Have I attracted the monster by feeding it the elf’s body? He followed the shape under the water as it approached the ship once more. It’s fast, I must make sure I’m faster! Perhaps I could charge it and spear it on the bowsprit? He studied the mast. But how do I control the ship? A mighty thump echoed through the vessel and the deck started to tilt, the planks creaking and protesting but holding up. The hull’s metal plates were standing it in good stead.

  Another blow reverberated through the ship and Tirîgon was knocked off his feet, colliding with the bulwark. The craft righted herself and raced across the water, but the runes didn’t seem to have much of an effect on the creature.

  The älf got to his feet and made his way to the quarterdeck, but was horrified to see a huge chasm opening up ahead of the vessel. The ship was heading straight for the top of a waterfall.

  Theoretically it should be possible to steer the ship round this danger. Infamous ones! How am I expected to manage that? Tirîgon had no idea what to do. If he jumped overboard he’d either be eaten by the monster or sucked into the abyss, but if he stayed on board he would be lost with the ship.

  I need a barrel! Maybe there’s one in the hold. I might survive the fall inside it and with luck get back to the surface – wherever that might be.

  He ran for the companionway but there was a bellowing roar and the ship was rammed again. He fell over the railing onto the main deck, and lay for a moment, stunned and winded. It was too late. The ship tilted and began to plunge over the edge.

  And then a miracle occurred. The vessel sank a mere handful of paces before the magic runes on the mast flashed, and the ship rose above the water.

  We’re sailing . . . through the air! Tirîgon gave up trying to make plans and decided to wait and see where the voyage would take him: a voyage with no helmsman and no crew.

  He glanced over the railings, down into the foaming chasm. The amount of water plunging over the edge seemed to make no difference to the upper sea level because of the waterfalls still gushing behind him.

  The ship carried him up, past the falls and through shimmering clouds of spray.

  ‘Hey! Pointy-Ears!’

  He spun round.

  ‘What’s happening? Are you trying to sink the ship? Will it take much longer?’ The discourteous voice peppered him with questions. It sounded like a female barbarian and seemed to be coming from the lower deck. Her accent was atrocious, but she was using the älfar tongue. ‘I
don’t want to hang around forever. Hurry up and take me to your people to be killed!’

  So the elf wasn’t alone. Tirîgon drew his sword and moved down the ladder, noting the smell of damp wood and metal. Who was he holding prisoner down here? The interior of the ship appeared to consist of a single corridor with rows of doors on each side.

  ‘So, what’s the story, Pointy-Ears?’ she went on, this time in her own language. ‘Cat got your tongue?’ Tirîgon’s acute hearing located the female at the end of the corridor, behind a slightly ajar door. A dim light shone from inside the cabin. He headed over. He would check the other rooms later.

  Thin wisps of grey smoke stole from the bunk and there was a definite smell of incense and dried herbs, together with a further, unidentifiable sweet tang. Did the captain not store his meat provisions correctly?

  He kicked the door open and levelled his sword at the figure inside. She stood in a cage and emitted a strong stench of decay, not quite covered by the burning incense in the corner.

  Tall and slim, the barbarian female took a step back in surprise. ‘You’re an älf?’

  Her clothing was made from scraps of skin, roughly sewn together to make a tight-fitting body suit. Her hollowed-out face was crossed with scars and the cheekbones were set too high; it was clear that she had experimented in altering her appearance. The sharp ends on her ears were false and had been stitched to her own flesh with ugly black thread, and her eyes had been coloured with dark dye.

  An obboona! Tirîgon felt close to vomiting with disgust.

  His mother had told him about these creatures. They worshipped the älfar as quasi-divine beings and wanted, in their sick fantasies, to resemble them bodily. But they also hunted the objects of their desire, flaying them in order to steal their skin, their organs, their hair.

  Is she dressed in my brother and sister’s skins? No, the garment is too old and decayed. He raised his sword with both hands to strike the obboona from above. ‘I should be grateful to the elf who took you captive. Now I have the pleasure of dispatching you.’

  She raised her hands in protest. ‘No! Please! Revered godhead, spare me! I am not wearing the skins of your kind! I would never presume! I would gladly give my life to save yours.’ She stroked her ears. ‘I hunt elves and give them to the god I worship! That’s why the Pointy-Ears took me prisoner!’