Dark Paths

Book 3: The Legends of the Älfar

by Markus Heitz

Genres: Fantasy; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

There are four races: the Elves, the Dwarves and the Humans and the ?lfar. The other three all know the ?lfar to be dark, relentless warriors, set on conquest; they have been deadly enemies since time immemorial. But are things about to change? The young ?lfar triplets Sisaroth, Tirigon and Fir?sha have been banished to the deadly underground realm of Phondras?n, two of them exiled for a murder they did not commit, the third determined to stay with them, to help them survive this terrifying place full of monsters. Then Sisaroth meets a dwarf, Tungdil, who has been locked up in the Dark Abyss (Tungdil will be well-known to readers of the Dwarves series!) - and their unexpected relationship will change the fate of the ?lfar and the dwarves - for ever.

Release date: August 4, 2016

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 656

Sample

Ishím Voróo (Outer Lands), Dsôn Sòmran, Dsôn, in the northern foothills of the Grey Mountains, 5427th division of unendingness (6241st solar cycle), spring.

The soft music of bone flutes, drums, fiddles and many other instruments came drifting up to Firûsha’s open window.

She revelled in the nocturnal serenade, the strands of sound weaving harmoniously. As she listened with eyes closed, it seemed the musicians were vying with each other to achieve perfection, embodying heart, soul and a deep longing to reunite with distant älfar.

The musicians are excelling themselves tonight. It is as if they know. Firûsha’s excitement grew. Soon the three siblings would be together again; as triplets they had always enjoyed a special status in the city.

Firûsha had taken care in choosing her attire. She was dressed in a white robe with black embroidery that emphasised her slim figure. The long sleeves and train rustled slightly when she moved.

She was keen to enjoy every instant of her siblings’ company, aware they would not be staying long. After this short break for physical and intellectual rest they were all due to return to the next stage of their demanding apprenticeships with the masters of their chosen paths. She was training to be a singer; her brother Sisaroth was to become a priest for the gods of infamy, while Tirîgon was proving a promising warrior.

It can’t be long now. Firûsha did not have to open her eyes to see Dsôn. She knew the city view as well as she knew her childhood home, which she would soon be leaving to further her education in the art of song, with which to delight Dsôn Sòmran’s citizens.

The building where Firûsha had spent her early life was composed of eleven modest rooms for her family. Of course, there were also the slave quarters, guest lodgings, reception galleries and the halls for martial arts practice.

Their house was situated at the highest point of Dsôn’s stone basin, towering over most of the other buildings and emphasising the family’s status. There were no more than a score of other älfar families with names more important than theirs.

Mother never liked to boast about her rank and fame. Firûsha’s thoughts turned to those envious souls who had tried and failed to find grounds to topple Ranôria and to turn the city’s governor Aïsolon against her. Live births were so rare that producing the triplets had enhanced Ranôria’s reputation; she was now almost akin to a deity, held in nearly as high esteem as the Inextinguishables.

No one will be able to denigrate her in Aïsolon’s eyes – he still holds her in great affection. She is the mother of his children, after all. This made Firûsha laugh. My father will love her forever. I’m sure he’ll be thinking of her when he hears the songs of the bards.

Firûsha heard the door handle being quietly turned, as if someone were hoping to surprise her, but her hearing was far too acute for that. She turned her head towards the entrance, where fine tapestries hung from the wall. The carpets were hand-knotted by guild masters of the craft, presented to her mother in honour of her wonderful singing voice.

The door swung open to reveal a tall älf of serious mien, trying to hide the joy sparkling in his steel-blue eyes. He had chosen a shimmering dark red robe for his meeting with his siblings, and an elaborately worked ceremonial dagger hung at his side.

‘By all the gods of infamy! Sisaroth, you look so . . . different!’ Firûsha hurried from the window and ran into her brother’s embrace. Her bare feet made no sound on the grey patterned mosaic floor. ‘But you’re finally here!’

He laughed, kissing her brow under the diamond tiara perched on her long black hair. ‘I know what you mean. My physique has improved with all the training – my muscles are like taut ropes! They work us hard, but I have no complaints.’ He hugged her. ‘My darling sister!’

Firûsha gave a sigh of relief, stroking his face, so like her own, but manly and distinguished. ‘It feels like so long since I’ve seen you, but I suppose it is really only a hundred moments of unendingness.’

Sisaroth released her from his embrace, took her hands and looked her up and down approvingly. ‘A proper grown-up älf-woman now. How many hearts lie shattered at your feet? I bet you’re fighting off every älf in Dsôn Sòmran capable of passion for a female.’

She grinned in delight. ‘No, not quite all of them. But come and see what Dsôn has in store for us tonight.’ Hand in hand they strolled across the long gallery to the open window, breathing in the blossom-perfumed air the south wind had sent.

Sisaroth wondered what to expect. It can’t be anything more delightful than Firûsha herself. As he walked, his new dagger bumped against his thigh. He had received the award only two moments of unendingness previously, for bravery and fighting prowess. He was immensely proud to know that, in spite of his youth, he was as good as many more experienced warriors. It can’t hurt, can it, to be known for my swordsmanship, even if I am going to be a priest?

He was delighted to see how well his sister was looking. She had remained in Dsôn, to be tutored in singing by their mother. Her voice was already magical. What will she sound like once her training is complete?

‘Would you sing for me tonight?’ he asked. ‘Show me what Mother has taught you.’

She hesitated. ‘Let’s wait for Tirîgon. I’ll have to owe you a song for now.’ She led him over to the cushioned window seat and together they looked out onto the majestic city, enclosed on all sides by the high grey rock walls of the vast natural basin. Dsôn – the centre of the älfar empire, Dsôn Sòmran, spread out before them in all its sparkling glory.

Light from windows, candles, torches and lanterns shone through the darkness and reflected on the clouds of smoke released from the flammable powder and burning fuses that had been catapulted into the sky for effect.

The festival was in honour of the west wind: the more lavish their offerings of fire and light, the more favour they hoped to receive from the god of wind, Samusin. Extravagant handfuls of petals and coloured feathers were also tossed in the air, to be burned by the fireworks or to drift upwards to land on rooftops and cliffs. It was a fascinating spectacle, full of grace and poetry.

How wonderful it all looks. Firûsha clasped her brother’s hand for a moment. ‘Would you ever have thought we could enjoy such harmony and freedom after the destruction of Dsôn Faïmon?’ she asked, leaning out into the night, her blue eyes lit with enthusiasm as the wind played with strands of her long black hair.

‘We might be too young to have known the old älfar empire,’ Sisaroth replied, moved by the beauty of the scene, ‘but it can’t have been more beautiful than our own Dsôn.’ He looked out towards Tark Draan in the north, where another älfar realm lay and the Inextinguishables remained.

Every time he thought about the distant Sibling Rulers on the other side of the Grey Mountains, he was filled with resentment. They had fled the plague of sickness affecting their people and had never shown any interest in the survivors. Sisaroth imagined their fame and glory in their extensive empire while he and his siblings were stuck in the claustrophobic confines of Dsôn Sòmran. It’s like living in a glorified dungeon – it might have magnificently decorated walls, but it’s still a prison.

His father Aïsolon had occasionally spoken to him about the heroes, Sinthoras and Caphalor, who had once been highly placed nostàroi commanding the älfar army in the victorious campaign against Tark Draan. His father and Caphalor had been close friends, until, all of a sudden, all communication with the other side of the mountains had ceased. There had been no news for dozens of divisions of unendingness.

Troops that had been sent to Tark Draan through the Stone Gateway either never returned or had been forced back by vicious attacks from monsters – and Dsôn needed every single soldier to protect its citizens from the hordes of óarcos determined to wipe out the city.

Sisaroth battled dejectedly with his thoughts.

He knew he shouldn’t hate the Inextinguishables and those älfar safely ensconced in Tark Draan – but why had they not come to Dsôn Sòmran’s aid? What was stopping the rulers from returning to their subjects – or at least sending messages of hope and support?

I bet I know what happened: they just forgot all about us. They’re all fine, revelling in luxury there – but it’s not right. We were supposed to be one people. We are älfar too, and we deserve a better existence than this.

The optimists among them called Dsôn Sòmran the ‘Empire’, while cynics had termed it the ‘Offshoot’, though the settlement had been founded and commanded by Aïsolon and defended by courageous warriors.

The city had been constructed here, deep in the mountains, in this funnel-shaped hollow only half a division of unendingness after the catastrophe that destroyed the Star State. It was isolated and impregnable – and totally insignificant. It was just a colony, a mere enclave – that was how many of its citizens saw it.

We are wasting away here. Sisaroth laid his hand absentmindedly on Firûsha’s shoulder. The plague survivors buried themselves here, where they live like groundlings. We’re just clinging to our houses chiselled into the cliff, waiting for the Inextinguishables to come and save us and lead us to Tark Draan – if the new älfar realms even exist. They’d be magnificent great empires – nothing like this pathetic little settlement in Ishím Voróo. Dsôn Sòmran was surrounded by dangerously unpredictable mountains that hung over them like dark storm clouds, and almost constant rain that felt like it wanted to wash the älfar off the mountainsides. Whole families had been already wiped out, homes swept away in mudslides that ripped out foundations and dragged the victims to their deaths.

Sisaroth clenched his hand into a fist. We are not groundlings and we shouldn’t have to live like them. What do the Inextinguishables think they are doing?

As if the dark grey clouds above their heads had intercepted his thoughts, fat drops of rain began to clatter against the panes of the open window.

Sisaroth stared down at the festive flames, his face a dark, immobile mask. ‘It’s time they returned,’ he muttered. ‘They owe it to us.’

‘Who?’ Firûsha turned to face him.

Don’t spoil things for her. She’s been looking forward to this. ‘I’m sorry. My thoughts were wandering,’ he said, forcing a smile. ‘I was just thinking that it’s time Tirîgon turned up. Our brother should be here by now.’

‘He’ll have his reasons.’ She caught raindrops in her outstretched hand. ‘The west wind doesn’t like our festival, does it? What a shame. I hope this isn’t a bad omen—’

The door crashed open and the two of them whirled around in surprise, Sisaroth’s hand flying to the hilt of his ceremonial dagger.

Instead of being joined by the brother they had been expecting, they found themselves confronted by the drawn swords of a troop of armed soldiers fierce enough to repel an army of wild óarcos.

Their leader, a blond älf with bright green eyes, was the only one not carrying a weapon. His elaborately decorated coat of black tionium armour and the silver chain he wore around his neck signified that he was the deputy governor of Dsôn Sòmran and that his orders carried practically the same weight as Aïsolon’s.

‘Gàlaidon?’ Firûsha mouthed his name. But he is the First Sytràp. What can he want from us? The warriors surrounded Sisaroth and Firûsha, their swords raised threateningly, looking as if they meant business.

What can have happened? ‘You must have a very good reason for this,’ said Sisaroth sharply, stepping in front of his sister to protect her, his hand firmly on the hilt of his dagger.

Gàlaidon held up his hand for silence. ‘I am here at the behest of Aïsolon, Governor of Dsôn Sòmran. I have come to arrest you in the name of the law,’ he declared.

Sisaroth frowned. ‘There must be some mistake – we have not been accused of anything.’ He looked over to the doorway to see his mother emerge, evidently attracted by the noise.

Ranôria, an older version of her daughter, looked over at her children with obvious concern. She was wearing a black dress with white embroidery and had fine bone jewellery at neck and wrists; eleven white strands in her black hair indicated the number of children she had given birth to. She was accompanied by two veiled slave-girls. ‘What is happening here?’

The soldiers stepped forward to block their way, knocking one of the slaves to the ground.

‘Ranôria, I insist you keep out of this,’ said Gàlaidon sternly, speaking over his shoulder. ‘It was Aïsolon himself who sent me. Only he can rescind his own orders.’

I must put a stop to this. Sisaroth stepped forward. ‘Show some respect towards my mother. Who do you think you are? Behave yourselves, or—’

‘Hold your tongue, Sisaroth. Accept your punishment!’ thundered Gàlaidon, hurling two white stones to the ground. The stones shattered on the mosaic floor, leaving pale dust on the leather of Sisaroth’s fine shoes and the immaculate skin of his sister’s feet.

‘No,’ whispered Firûsha in horror, covering her mouth with her hand to stop herself from screaming. ‘Not . . . that! NO!’ I don’t understand what’s happening – banishment? She cast a terrified glance in her brother’s direction.

Sisaroth held a hand up to their mother, indicating she should not worry. ‘Sytràp, I demand to know what this is about. You need to tell us what this performance is in aid of.’ He searched feverishly for some reason for the verdict. It makes absolutely no sense. Why are we being sent to Phondrasôn?

Gàlaidon met his gaze. ‘Three murders have been committed this evening: the venerable Tênnegor, his life-partner Sémaina, and their daughter Liphelis. There are witnesses,’ he said, his voice level and cold, ‘who saw you kill them.’

‘What? I contest this.’ Sisaroth drew his dagger out of its sheath and pointed it at the First Sytràp. In a flash, the soldiers stepped forward to aim their blades at the young älf’s throat.

‘The witnesses have given sworn evidence to Aïsolon and proof of your involvement was found at the scene.’

‘Someone is lying!’ It must be some conspiracy to harm our mother – if we are both sent into exile it will be she who suffers most.

Gàlaidon remained unmoved, his eyes devoid of sympathy. ‘The decision is Aïsolon’s, not mine,’ he retorted. ‘We could all see it was not made lightly. But he interrogated the witnesses at some length and apparently their testimony left no room for any doubt in the matter.’

‘I don’t believe it!’ Ranôria spoke up. ‘I’m going to see Aïsolon straight away. He must be made to see that this is all a mistake. They’re all wrong – him and the witnesses! Sytràp, I implore you, do nothing until you hear from me!’ She turned and rushed away with her slaves.

Gàlaidon looked round. ‘Do you know where your brother is?’

‘Is he accused with us?’ Sisaroth almost laughed. This is utter madness! He found himself unable to think clearly. He certainly hadn’t killed anyone, and he couldn’t imagine that his brother or sister had either. They were surely not capable of such an outrage. His brother was the most rational being he knew and he never rose to provocation. ‘This is—’

‘I don’t know why you are denying it.’ Gàlaidon lowered his voice. ‘As I see it, the two of you were protecting your mother’s name, trying to stop the scandalous tongues once and for all. But however much I might approve of your actions privately, there is no way you’ll escape banishment for it.’ Ranôria’s pleas had obviously left him cold. ‘I am tasked with taking you both straight to the tunnels,’ he went on. ‘Your exile in Phondrasôn begins this very night. And you will go there separately.’

No – I will never survive on my own! ‘But our mother begged you to wait,’ Firûsha objected.

‘And I told you only Aïsolon can change my orders. No one else.’ Gàlaidon gave a signal to the troops and the soldiers strode forward and surrounded the condemned pair.

How could Aïsolon condemn his own flesh and blood? And what is all this ‘evidence’ he mentioned? ‘We are innocent!’ Dark lines like cracks in old porcelain crossed Sisaroth’s furious face, and his steel-blue eyes turned black. His feelings overwhelmed him and he sprang forward to attack the nearest soldier.

The warrior warded off the dagger thrust with his own blade and his comrade in arms brought Sisaroth down with a blow to the back of the knees. A third soldier stepped in, his sword raised.

‘Stop!’ shrieked Firûsha, tears streaming down her face. They must not kill him! But the soldier, ignoring her, gave Sisaroth a deep cut to his right leg and blood seeped out through his boot to drip onto the mosaic floor, covering the grey and black pattern in bright red spots.

‘My orders are not to kill you,’ was Gàlaidon’s unsympathetic comment as he struck Sisaroth in the face with his gauntleted fist, cutting the flesh over his cheekbone, ‘but I am at liberty to inflict as many injuries as necessary, if that is the way you want it. That was for hitting my man. Stop struggling or you’ll be sorry. You’ll need your strength to survive in Phondrasôn. There are creatures down there that can smell blood a hundred miles away.’

If I give up they will have me and Firûsha dragged off before our mother has had a chance to talk Father round. We need time. ‘I will not give in!’ yelled Sisaroth, struggling to his feet, about to launch himself on the soldiers again, but his sister moved to stand between them. They were armed with swords – there was no chance of Sisaroth defeating them with his paltry dagger. He must not, cannot, die in a fit of anger.

‘How long are we to be exiled?’ Firûsha croaked, unable to comprehend the harsh sentence. ‘How many divisions of unendingness are we to be banished from Dsôn Sòmran for something we haven’t done?’

Gàlaidon replied, ‘You can return to Dsôn after twenty divisions of unendingness. That is your sentence.’

Twenty? She groaned. ‘By all the gods of infamy! We’ll never survive that long down there, especially if we are not even together.’ She had heard enough ghastly stories about the netherworld of Phondrasôn to be petrified at the idea; the prospect of being killed by beasts might be the least of her worries.

I’m not much good at fighting, and . . .

Firûsha turned to Sisaroth, who was glaring at the soldiers. His leg appeared to have stopped bleeding. ‘You have to find me below, brother. You have to!’ She hated sounding so pathetic but couldn’t stop herself. ‘Please! I’ll never survive on my own. All I have is my voice and my songs – what good will they be against monsters and their weapons?’

She speaks the truth, I— His face still crisscrossed by anger lines, Sisaroth was about to answer her when a gust of wind swept through the room, lifting the curtains.

‘Is our mother giving a party tonight? What are all these people doing here?’ Tirîgon’s voice from the corridor cut through the evening air. ‘What is this? Some sort of joust for the festival of the west wind?’

Firûsha whirled to see Tirîgon stride into the room in tionium-reinforced leather armour, helmet under his arm and his left hand on the pommel of his sword. She screamed a warning at him: ‘Run, brother, run! They’re sending us to Phondrasôn!’

‘What is this nonesense?’ Tirîgon stared at Gàlaidon in challenge. ‘I’m curious as to what we are supposed to be guilty of? Perhaps we didn’t kill enough óarcos last time we were on defence duty at the wall?’

The Sytràp nodded a curt acknowledgement of his presence. He gave a brief summary of the charges. ‘But you are not charged, Tirîgon,’ he stressed. ‘Only your brother and sister are accused. Perhaps you should go and help your mother? She’s on her way to see the Governor.’

Any question about this being a silly prank disappeared when he saw his sister’s terrified expression. Tirîgon scowled as he took in the sheer number of armed älfar surrounding his siblings; for a brief, automatic moment he considered who he’d attack first in order to liberate them.

‘I advise you not to try anything, young älf,’ Gàlaidon warned. ‘My men here are veteran soldiers. Children stand no chance against them. Your brother has already learned that the hard way. Don’t do anything stupid.’

May the infamous ones be praised! At least Tirîgon will be spared. ‘He is right,’ said Sisaroth. ‘Go and find out who is behind this plot – it must be aimed at our mother. She is the true target, I’m sure. We all know how she will suffer if she loses us.’

It’s already decided, then? Tirîgon slowly put on his helmet. Four of the warrior escort turned towards him. Leather armour creaked and there was the sound of metal scraping on metal as they took up fighting stances.

A deathly hush fell inside the room. The only sound to be heard was the rain splashing onto the windowsill outside. The festival musicians had long ceased playing so they could take refuge from the torrential downpour.

He is getting ready to fight – but he cannot win. ‘No, brother!’ Firûsha’s frightened cry broke the silence. She could not bear the tension. ‘You’ll never—’

Tirîgon strode past the warriors, shoving three of them out of his path, pushing their drawn swords aside with his gauntleted right hand. He moved to stand by his siblings. ‘I have no intention of fighting against Gàlaidon and his troops,’ he declared, his voice muffled by his helmet, ‘but there’s no way I’m letting the two of you face the horrors of Phondrasôn on your own. I shall follow you there.’

But— Sisaroth was lost for words.

Firûsha sobbed. If only this were all just a terrible dream. O great Samusin, I beseech you: let me wake up now in my own bed.

‘The three of us have always stood side by side and nothing will change that. Mother will get to the bottom of all this and will clear your names.’ He drew a circle round them in the air with his hand. ‘Our task is to survive this ordeal and return to take our revenge on those evil älfar who have treated us so shamefully.’ He held his hand out flat. ‘Let us swear to find each other in Phondrasôn.’

Sisaroth laid his own hand on Tirîgon’s. Firûsha followed suit.

‘Let us swear that we will spare nobody when we return to take our revenge, no matter who the guilty party may prove to be.’

‘We swear it,’ they intoned solemnly.

I am so relieved, though my heart is hammering away in my breast. Tirîgon was only at the beginning of his military training, but the prospect of having to fight his way through the labyrinths of Phondrasôn did not dismay him, for he knew he could always rely on his native ingenuity when faced with a difficult situation. He had a fertile imagination, steadfast reason and an adamantine will. I shall not leave them, he swore to himself. Firûsha is even less of a warrior than me, and Sisaroth will need my help. We’ll be spending a very long time in that maze of passages and tunnels.

He turned to Gàlaidon. ‘You have heard that I go with them of my own free will. I am thus free to return at any point to learn how investigations into these false accusations are proceeding.’

‘Of course,’ the Sytràp agreed, showing respect for Tirîgon’s selfless decision. He ordered his troops to stand in formation, enclosing the triplet siblings in a prison cell of living black steel. ‘Move on.’

‘Can’t we take—?’ Firûsha started, unable to believe that they wouldn’t be allowed to take anything, not even food to eat on the journey, but Gàlaidon was already striding off.

He turned back and said, ‘I regret that my orders are to take you directly to the entrance.’

The small procession left the house and marched up the steep cliff path to the north, turning away from Dsôn and towards the massive defensive wall that kept the compact city safe from attack.

The walls were five hundred paces high: a combination of chiselled stone blocks and natural rock. There were periodic watchtowers and lifts to the walkways on top. Älfar runes invoking protection from Tion, a god of infamy, and the Inextinguishables were carved into the stone.

The monsters on the far side did not possess catapults powerful enough to send missiles over this great defensive structure. There was no gate that could ever be stormed. Älfar troops going out on scouting missions had to be conveyed to Ishím Voróo in freight containers lifted and let down by huge cranes.

This was how the three young älfar would begin their exile.

Sisaroth, Firûsha and Tirîgon were soaked to the skin by the time they reached the wall. Their hands were clasped firmly, as Firûsha trembled with cold and fear.

Sisaroth clenched his jaw as he vowed to himself, I shall kill the evildoers who have borne false witness. He was determined to show no weakness from his injury even though red-hot pain shot up his leg with each step. The chilling rain had cooled his fury but not his resolve.

Gàlaidon turned his party of condemned älfar and their escorts to the west, where a huge crane could be seen. It was constructed from heavy wooden beams reinforced with iron cross-bars and metal plates. It was obviously strong enough to lift the heaviest weights into the air, using a series of interlocking gear wheels.

They approached the base of the crane and after a shouted exchange of orders, the sound of chains moving over cogwheels greeted them. The crane tower swung slowly round through the cold night air. They were obviously expected: instead of the usual freight container, three älf-size cages hung from the crane cables. They were lowered onto the walkway and the soldiers rushed to open their heavy, metal doors. Gàlaidon locked the siblings into their separate cages and gave a signal.

As the cages were hoisted up, icy gusts of wind tugged at the triplets’ drenched clothing.

Cupping his hands to make his voice carry against the wind, Gàlaidon called up to them, ‘May the gods of infamy support you on the other side. They will decide whether or not you can survive in Phondrasôn. And may you soon find each other.’

Let me wake up safe now! Please, Samusin and all the gods of infamy, help me! Firûsha dropped sobbing to the floor of her cage.

Sisaroth grabbed the iron bars and gave a cry of helpless rage while Tirîgon stood resolute and calm, his natural balance countering the sway of the cage floor.

The crane arm swung out over the wall until the cages, rocking and colliding with each other, had travelled forty paces and were suspended over a yawning black chasm. Nothing could be distinguished in the utter darkness – even the stars were hidden by clouds.

This will not be the end of things. ‘You still owe Tirîgon and I a song, sister!’ said Sisaroth, though he was well aware of what lay in wait for them: a narrow cleft in the mountain base, a smooth fissure that could have been formed by a god’s piercing spear. At the bottom of that chimney in the rock there was a second ravine leading directly down to Phondrasôn itself.

‘You shall have your song,’ she vowed quietly. ‘And it will be—’

The cages shot vertically down into the abyss.

Firûsha screamed, and her brothers’ voices echoed her.

The fall ended abruptly as the cages broke from the retaining hooks and tumbled down the slope, somersaulting over and over into the dark.

‘We will find each other,’ Tirîgon shouted. ‘We will! Can you hear me? We will find each other. We have to!’

But Firûsha’s reply came from far away and he could not hear his brother’s voice at all.

His own cage crashed into a rock face, rolled over and slid through a loose scree before slowing and finally coming to a halt.

Everything is going round . . . and . . . have I broken any bones? Tirîgon peered out into the blackness.

And then his cage tipped over the edge . . .

Born from urgent necessity

a refuge for the healthy

a place of hope, in the midst of surging madness

among the mountains of Ishím Voróo

hoping they might hear news of their own kind,

the älfar in command in Tark Draan.

Know this: waiting is worse

  than death if you live forever.

Excerpt from the epic poem Young Godscomposed by Carmondai, master of word and image

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

Firûsha blinked in the warm, honey-coloured light. At first she thought she was looking at a lantern, then the sun. How ever did I get back to the surface?

Her senses returned slowly and she shaded her eyes from the glare. There was none of the usual tightening in her face and her eyes did not turn black, as they did in daylight. It could not be the daystar after all.

What can it be? Peering through her fingers, Firûsha could see the bars of her cage and long, reddish-green stalks of grass swaying in the breeze round her prison. She could smell the earth, sweet blossoms and ripe fruit.

Then the pain surged in. Her whole body must be covered in bruises and she could feel the sting of a cut on her forehead. Luckily, th