Dark Paths Page 7

  She’d lie through her teeth to save herself. He refrained from answering. But perhaps she can be useful and tell me how the ship is steered. ‘How many did you kill?’

  ‘I stopped counting when I got to ten times ten hands,’ she told him excitedly, pressing her body up against the bars of the cage. Madness shone in her eyes. ‘Oh, what a blessing I am granted,’ she enthused, looking him up and down. ‘You have not been in the netherworld long, I see. Why did they banish you, young god?’

  Tirîgon ignored her question. ‘Can you tell me how to steer the ship?’

  She shook her head, and the dead skin she wore rustled as she did so. Her ugly face took on a sly expression. ‘I can’t explain, young god. But I can show you. I’ve stolen some of their ships and used them on foraging trips. It’s the signs on the mast that control everything. They have to be selected in a certain order.’ She laughed. ‘We’re flying right now, aren’t we?’

  I know she just wants me to release her from the cage. He looked at her intently. But do I really have a choice? Her wording implied she served another älf in Phondrasôn and had been killing elves for him. ‘Who is your master?’

  ‘You mean my god? His name is Tossàlor!’ she said, enthusiastically. ‘I’ll take you to him. He knows everything.’

  ‘Apart from the way out of here, obviously.’

  ‘No, he knows that too. He told me so. But he doesn’t want to leave.’

  ‘What? Why not? Who in their right mind would choose to remain in Phondrasôn?’ Tirîgon didn’t believe anything she was telling him. But that name is familiar. Tossàlor. Where have I heard it before?

  ‘You can ask him yourself.’ She indicated the cage, craftily. ‘But you’ll have to let me out first. My god is sure to like you and treat you well.’

  Tirîgon suddenly realised where he knew the name from. Tossàlor was an älf who had been banished long ago, after a spectacular court case that had kept Dsôn in an uproar for many moments of unendingness. And not because the charge was unfounded, but because his arguments in his own defence had been so brilliant that many älfar thought he should be pardoned.

  His father had once related these events, holding a small box in his hands while he shared the story with his children. The inlay pattern on the lid was composed of sliding panels that could be moved and rearranged. The shape of the box was also flexible, changing from a square to an egg-shape that stood upright due to its centre of gravity.

  Aïsolon had told them the box was brilliantly designed, extremely valuable and made by Tossàlor’s own hand. But despite the fact that it had been given to him as a gift, he was going to burn it as a sacrifice because it had been made from the corpses of his own people. Using slaves or beasts as his raw material was one thing, but using his own people was a step too far. Art shouldn’t overstep the mark.

  Originally, he had stolen corpses to use their bones, Tirîgon remembered. But when he ran out of legitimate sources he had killed half a dozen älfar, including several wall guards, and attributed their deaths to monsters. He had been caught red-handed and arrested.

  Until the moment of unendingness when the true origins of his materials were discovered, his art had sold for extremely high prices. I wonder how many älfar in Dsôn still have work that he produced?

  It had to be the same Tossàlor. Could he truly know the way home?

  However unlikely, I have to investigate. At the very least I should be able to convince him to point me in the right direction. But what he really wanted from Tossàlor was his knowledge of Phondrasôn. The artist had survived here a very long time and he’d know much about the tunnels and shafts . . . and where his brother and sister might be.

  His only concern was that Tossàlor might want to make art out of him and his siblings, but he would worry about that when he actually came face to face with the artist-älf. It might not be an issue; it seemed he was specialising in elves nowadays. I wonder if it was a change of heart or if he just ran out of älfar down here?

  ‘Swear by your god you will not try to trick me,’ demanded Tirîgon, using his älfar powers to instil fear in the obboona.

  ‘Of course, young god! I swear in the name of Tossàlor. I would never even entertain the idea of deceiving you!’ She swore, bowing.

  Using the key-shaped pendant he had taken from the elf’s corpse, he opened her cage door. ‘Now take me to Tossàlor.’

  ‘Of course. There’s nothing I would rather do.’ The obboona ran past him into the corridor, dashed into one of the cabins and came out with a sword. ‘In case we need to defend ourselves,’ she said in answer to Tirîgon’s suspicious glare.

  He kept a careful eye on her as they continued to the main deck. I would be a fool to trust her word.

  The obboona moved to the base of the mast and knelt, caressing it gently and mumbling some unintelligible syllables that vaguely resembled the älfar language.

  Over the rails, Phondrasôn continued to produce a range of miracles as they sailed through the sky. Massive islands drifted past the ship as if a giant had torn them from the ground, hurled them into the air, and for some unfathomable reason they stayed there, floating like clouds. Dark soil and roots trailed from their undersides.

  Tirîgon made his way to the edge of the ship and looked down.

  For a good hundred paces below them there was nothing but the flying islands and the sea, huge waterfalls still gushing into it. How high is the ceiling in this confounded cavern, anyway?

  Whatever the obboona was doing seemed to work, as the runes changed colour and the ship’s bow swung to one side. The ship changed course and began to move towards an island that had several buildings with smoke coming out of the chimneys. ‘Is that it?’

  The obboona nodded. ‘Yes, young god,’ she said happily. ‘We’ll arrive any minute.’ She stood up and marched forward to the bow of the ship, showing no fear of the dizzying drop and held her sword up like a conquering heroine. ‘Make ready!’

  She was too confrontational for Tirîgon’s liking; she didn’t sound much like a servant returning to her master. The ship turned again and headed directly for what appeared to be a landing stage on the edge of the island. He could see five other vessels moored at the jetty, floating just like theirs. ‘So, where is your god?’

  The obboona gave no answer.

  It was a trick. ‘Your word is short-lived indeed.’ She walked to the rails and he followed swiftly on her heels. ‘Pernicious scum! What is this place? Have you brought me to an obboona settlement so you and your friends . . .?’

  ‘This is where Jamenusîl lived,’ she interrupted him gleefully.

  ‘Jamenusîl?’ Tirîgon lowered his sword.

  ‘The elf you killed,’ she explained without turning round to face him. He didn’t know what to make of her – her crazy state of mind coupled with her frenzied excitement made her reckless and unpredictable. ‘Tossàlor instructed me to find the village where the pointy-eared filth live, kill them all and bring him the bones. But Jamenusîl took me by surprise when I was off guard and captured me. Now they all know who I am.’

  She fought all of them? She must be more of a warrior than I first thought. ‘How many live there?’

  She shrugged, and the top layer of stolen decaying skin crackled. ‘A lot, I hope! They’ll be waiting for us on the quay, young god. Well . . . They’re expecting Jamenusîl, but we’ll make a nice suprise. We’ll be swifter and stronger than all of them and after I’ll take you to Tossàlor.’ She raised her weapon. ‘It was Tossàlor who trained me in combat. Just wait and see how good I am.’

  The ship slowed and came to rest against the jetty, where Tirîgon saw four long-haired elves in white robes, waiting. He had no idea what elves were doing in Phondrasôn in the first place.

  She’s completely mad! Against his better judgment he followed her. She alighted, laughing, and ran to the elves, stabbing each one through the heart before they had time to react. I’ll have to stay with her and keep myself alive or I’ll ne
ver get off this island.

  Her surprise tactics had worked and she met no resistance. The stricken elves sank to the wooden planks of the jetty, blood soaking through their robes.

  As Tirîgon joined her on the quayside, a bugle sounded and elves began to pour out of their houses to stand in formation on the village square, armed with spears and bows.

  Ten, twenty, thirty . . . far too many. Tirîgon stopped counting. ‘Are you good enough to take on this kind of number?’

  ‘I was taught by a god! How could you doubt me?’ The obboona gave a loud laugh and ran towards the heavily-armoured elves, her bloodied sword in her right hand. Tossàlor is an artist, not a warrior. He took a deep breath and raced after her. He had no other choice.

  He would never have admitted it to his siblings or his mother but he was frightened. His hands felt icy cold and his forehead was bathed in sweat. More than fifty elves had gathered in the square, all appearing to be experienced warriors.

  But Tirîgon had to stay alive. He had to find Sisaroth and Firûsha. I will overcome any hurdle and vanquish any foe in Phondrasôn for the chance to see them again, o gods of infamy!

  He ran faster.

  Badly aimed arrows hissed past his head, but two grazed his leather body armour. One nicked his throat and a second lodged in his breastplate without hurting him.

  He stepped aside to avoid a spear and then threw himself into the fray with a resounding battle cry.

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

  Firûsha crouched at the bottom of the cage and let the flames warm her. At least I won’t freeze to death.

  There was a crudely fashioned platter next to her covered in crumbs that were the only remains of her meal. Bread and salted butter had never tasted so good. Her captor had also made her a hot drink, sweetened with honey to help her voice and relieve her sore throat.

  Her masked rescuer had brought her here after a long march through icy caves. The stone house was solidly built and its walls were thick enough to withstand a battering ram. He had carried her, prison cell and all, into the kitchen and lit a fire. She had seen no sign of him since.

  She considered the demands he had made of her. I’m to be his little singing bird, am I? Firûsha smoothed down what was left of her dress to ensure she was not unwittingly revealing too much. She didn’t mind singing but didn’t want him to get the idea he was entitled to more than a few songs from the homeland. Unfortunately, her tugs didn’t do much – the dress was in rags and barely covered her. I’ll have to sing particularly well to distract him.

  Firûsha sighed and turned her back to the fire to dry her long hair, still partly frozen from the journey. She drank more of her tea and tried to think.

  She had, of course, tried to get the door of the cage open again, using the knife from her supper, but her efforts were in vain. If her brothers didn’t find her soon she’d be facing life as an entertainer.

  And what happens if he dies? she wondered. A festering wound, a fall, an arrow – anything could put an end to his life. And that would mean an end to her own. She’d starve to death without him.

  She pulled herself together. I am the daughter of Ranôria and Aïsolon, and I am not giving up. My brothers and I will be reunited and return to Dsôn. I am innocent of the crime I was banished for and we will see that whoever accused us is punished. We’ll do it together! United and unbeatable.

  Firûsha replaced her mug and dragged her fingers through her hair. As she did so the bodice of her dress slipped down. Glad of the warmth of the flames on her naked skin, she didn’t pull it back up. I’ll notice if he—

  ‘Would you like a comb?’ Her captor’s voice came from the shadows.

  Startled, she quickly spread her hair over her exposed breasts and rearranged her clothing to cover herself as well as she could. He’s seen too much! She had that little knife in her cage but she was not confident she’d be able to repel any unwelcome advances.

  ‘Surely it would help with those wonderful tresses.’ His laugh was friendly and reassuring. He was standing in the dark by the door. ‘Did I frighten you? You are an älf, surely you’re not frightened of anything?’

  ‘I was startled by your lack of manners, watching me when I thought myself alone,’ she responded, unsure whether she would get away with this recrimination.

  ‘Well said.’ He stepped out of the gloom. He had discarded the mask and Firûsha was surprised to see that his features conformed to the highest älfar standards of attractiveness. Only a sculptor could have produced more symmetry. ‘I know you are afraid of me.’ He was considerably older than Firûsha – around the same age as Aïsolon. His body was hidden in the darkness, but she assumed he was no longer wearing that unspeakably awful fur costume. ‘You don’t need to be . . . as long as you do what I ask.’ He smiled. ‘And by that I mean that I want you to sing for me, nothing more.’

  I’d be a fool to trust him. She sniffed and reached for her drink. ‘I’m sure my voice will recover.’

  ‘I am looking forward to hearing songs from my homeland, but I can wait.’ He ran his light brown gaze over her approvingly. ‘You are obviously from a good family where polite behaviour is important. Riphâlgis, I’m guessing.’

  Riphâlgis? He must have been exiled in the time of the previous empire, when the Inextinguishables still reigned over Dsôn Faïmon. ‘No, not Riphâlgis. It was destroyed. The radial arms . . . they’re all gone,’ she ventured. ‘Well, they did not disappear exactly, but the whole city was flooded with a toxic brew—’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ He strode into the firelight and she saw that apart from a black loin cloth, he was naked, his skin recently oiled with a fragranced herbal salve. He had bound his long grey hair into a braid fastened around his head. ‘When did this happen?’

  Firûsha was impressed with his appearance; he was taller and more powerfully built than any älf she knew. It’s as if the strange light in Phondrasôn has made him grow. She reckoned he was at least half a head taller than her father, and when he moved, the muscles on his arms and upper body rippled.

  ‘So you don’t know?’ she said, deeply affected. ‘It happened many divisions of unendingness ago. We all had to flee Dsôn Faïmon. The Dorón Ashont attacked, and then there was a plague . . . and then a river of acid destroyed the entire city.’ She related what her parents had told her about their former homeland. ‘Ever since, the survivors have been waiting in Dsôn Sòmran, waiting for the Inextinguishables to come for us.’ I don’t know his name. ‘So you see we share a certain fate, you and I; we are both imprisoned in places we are not supposed to be.’ Her tone was sweetly appealing. I will pretend to be docile until I can convince him to open the bars of my cage. There’ll be an opportunity to escape at some point, I’m sure.

  He sat down heavily on a vacant chair near the table and put his head in his hands. He gazed at the fire with empty eyes. ‘I . . . all my friends, family were in Dsôn Faïmon . . . I can’t believe they’ve all been swept away, expunged from the earth. Dissolved in acid,’ he repeated.

  ‘There is no one left to send you back here if you came to Dsôn Sòmran,’ she wheedled. ‘Your judges are dead. And even if they weren’t, they’d be glad to welcome the return of such a strong warrior.’

  ‘Dsôn,’ murmured the älf. ‘I only know of one Dsôn and it is not the one you name.’ He closed his eyes and the muscles on his back twitched. ‘Why would I want to go there? My home has gone. I might as well stay where I am. It is not a bad life, all things considered, if you know the rules.’

  ‘But the survivors need älfar like you,’ Firûsha slipped closer, holding the bars tightly. ‘The monsters of Ishím Voróo threaten our city every day. If we had a warrior such as yourself . . . we all long for strong leadership!’ She gave him an encouraging smile. ‘My father can get you pardoned – he is a powerful älf, the governor.’

  He shot her a tired, sad look. ‘You have no idea what I was banished for and
yet you assure me I shall be pardoned?’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘I can see you are terribly young, but you are quite clever.’ There was a pause while he stretched out to take a cup from the table and fill it with tea from a pot by the fire. He drank. ‘Tell me. What were you guilty of? I’m wondering what sort of horror you hide behind that pretty face.’

  ‘I am innocent.’

  He gave a patronising laugh.

  ‘It’s the truth! My brother and I were framed for murder and our other brother came down with us for protection,’ she protested. ‘Someone schemed against us to break our mother’s heart by getting us exiled. There are many in Dsôn who envy her.’ She emptied her own beaker of tea. ‘She must not be allowed to suffer. I beg you: let me go, and help me find my brothers and return home so I can find those who plotted this. They must be punished. If you help me I’ll make sure you are given everything you could possibly want when we are back.’

  ‘And yet you still choose not to ask me why I was banished.’ He got to his feet, put down his cup and came up close to the bars of her cage. ‘What do you think?’ His eyes narrowed. His features took on a threatening aspect. Intimidating.

  Firûsha started to doubt she wanted his help. She leaned back and gulped; it was difficult to swallow. ‘Murder?’ she stuttered.

  ‘Do you think I’m capable of it?’ he asked her.

  She had the impression that her answer would be completely immaterial. ‘Does it matter? If I’m falsely accused of the crime, I’m sure the same might be said of you.’

  He broke into a grin. ‘You are beautiful, wise and quick-witted, even though you find yourself in a difficult situation where you might be well advised to act in a more subservient manner. I believe you; I don’t think you killed anyone. But being innocent doesn’t help you. You’re still stuck in a cage and I decide what happens to you now.’ The älf turned and placed more wood on the fire. ‘Sing for me.’