Hrot scrambled up and wallowed through the disgusting mass whose stench told of innumerable victims decomposing under the surface. He felt as if dozens of tiny needles pierced his skin: blood was leaving his veins in buckets as a horde of fat leeches turned him into their feasting table.
A hideous shriek made him look up. A flock of bats with feathered wings and swinish heads charged at him from all sides. They toppled him and raked his flesh with their tusks and claws. Their weight made him sink deep into the revolting mass. Then he plunged as if a giant hand had uncorked the bottom of the mire and let him slide through the drain.
Hrot fell head first into a deep pile of snow that filled his mouth and nostrils and made him choke. As he tried to scramble out of the freezing tomb, the snow suddenly melted, and he began to drown. Increasingly hot, the water started to bubble. Whenever he managed to pull his head above the surface, he screamed in pain as the boiling water peeled the skin off his flesh. When the steaming sea finally evaporated, a headless, six-legged creature came rushing at him. It was the size of a bear, and dozens of eyes glared at Hrot from the sores of its leprous body.
The monster grabbed Hrot by the hair and dragged him over the parched and cracking wasteland. Hrot tried to kick and punch, but his limbs wouldn’t move. A giant gate opened in front of them. The creature dragged him through an arched doorway and down a wide tunnel. Giant balls of fire swung madly under the vaulted ceiling like chandeliers during an earthquake. They spat volleys of sparks that scorched Hrot’s skin.
At length, they arrived at the end of the tunnel and halted on the top step of a vast, open-air theater. It resembled an ancient Roman amphitheater, but not even the most insane and sadistic emperor could’ve ever devised such a devilish spectacle as the one Hrot saw below. Hrot’s own suffering seemed to be a trifle compared to this display of all the tortures of the world he’d left behind—and all the atrocities that mankind had yet to invent, and to which humans like him were being subjected by the worst monsters imaginable.
The six-legged creature finally unclenched him. Hrot crawled away, weeping for himself and all humanity. That was when a large hand, or rather claw, grabbed him by his forearm and yanked him to his feet.
Hrot tottered like a man on a rocking boat. When he lifted his head, he found himself staring into the face of the Emissary. This time, it wasn’t the smooth talker from the riverbank, but the antlered monster from his nightmares.
“You’ve come early, fluffy chin,” the Emissary growled in a hollow, unearthly voice. His talon seared into Hrot’s forearm like a pair of sizzling pincers. “But no matter, you’re welcome here. Come! I’ll show you your new home.”
“It’s not time yet!” Hrot managed to wheeze out, but the Emissary was already dragging him past the amphitheater. The screaming of the tormented and the hollering of the tormentors died out as they entered a dead forest. The sight of white feet swinging all around them sent a fresh wave of terror over Hrot’s soul.
“Anath!” he screamed. And suddenly he heard her call back.
Hrot pricked his ears. Anath screamed his name again, and then she began to screech the magic words engraved into the crimson wall. Her voice was getting stronger and stronger.
It was as if a merciful fog descended on the Emissary’s terrible realm. The forest disappeared behind a grayish veil. The scowling face of the Emissary dimmed as well, and so did his furious growling. The pressure on Hrot’s forearm eased. He fell on his back and rolled in complete whiteness. Something pulled him backward as if he were sliding head first down a steep, icy slope. The sudden weightlessness made him faint.
When he came around, he realized the pull had ceased. He opened his eyes and saw Anath kneeling nearby, her tears sparkling in the light of the lanterns. It seemed she was right beside him, but he saw her as distorted as if she were floating under water. She was still reciting the magic words, but her voice was like a faint echo carried by gusts of wind across a valley. When he tried to touch her, his fingers jabbed at an invisible barrier.
His mind must have fluttered away again. When he came back to, he felt something salty on his lips. Anath was kneeling right above him, and her tears streamed down her cheeks and dripped on his face. “It is all right now, my poor dear Hrot,” she whispered as she stroked his feverish forehead. “You are back with me.”
Hrot looked around. The crimson wall towered on one side, the ruined shrine on the other. Although he was half dead from fever, he felt no pain, and his body was apparently in one piece. Had it all been just a vivid nightmare?
“What happened?” he wheezed.
“The Emissary somehow managed to take over. It was a mistake to take your lost soul into the regions so close to his.”
Hrot gave the crimson wall a wistful look. Krverah no longer seemed powerful enough to protect him, and he’d never dare return to her magic world.
“But what is this?” Anath asked, peering at his arm. A few more tears slid down her face.
Hrot raised his hand, half expecting to see a bloody stump with missing or mangled fingers, but the candlelight did not show a scratch. His eyes wandered up across his immaculate wrist, and then he saw it. It seemed that at least one of the horrors had been real.
Anath kept stroking his hair and crying. Just before his own tears blinded his eyes, Hrot lifted his arm again to take one more look at the dreadful memento of his journey to the magic worlds: the blistering wound the Emissary’s talon had seared into his skin.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Hrot never ventured beyond the crimson wall again. The mark on his forearm never faded, but it wasn’t just his skin the Emissary had scorched and ravaged. Lost and branded, Hrot plunged into despondency. He wallowed in fear.
Although he was technically the wealthiest man on earth, he was more unkempt and undernourished than the most wretched beggar. He rarely shaved or cut his hair, and he preferred to go hungry for days than to get dressed and go to the market.
Anath’s sorcery failed him as badly as alchemy had, and so he turned to occultism as his last hope of salvation. He made Albius the librarian send him heaps of scrolls, parchments, and manuscripts, which he studied desperately. His reading desk was buried under a hillock of sheets, which he’d covered with seas of ink. There were enough used quills under his desk to dress a fat swan. But he couldn’t find a way to wriggle out of the pact.
Hrot spent handfuls of the unclean coins on candles, and he lit dozens of them every night before he went to sleep. Unfortunately, the flickering light could never chase away the nightmares about his visit to the magical worlds. He often woke up screaming in the dead of night, with his left forearm hurting as if he were having a heart attack.
Time galloped fast. It nibbled hungrily at the months, seasons, and years that were left until the expiration of the pact. The world went through changes Hrot might not have even been aware of.
Rudolph II was dead, and his brother Matthias—who had invaded the kingdom the previous year—was the new king of Bohemia. Rudolph had died in disgrace; Matthias had imprisoned him at Prague Castle and forced him to cede the crown.
Felix had knocked on Hrot’s door several times to renew their friendship, but Hrot never opened for him. At times, Hrot even refused to admit Anath, and he never crossed the river to visit her.
Toward the end of September of his tenth year, Hrot woke up shortly after he’d fallen asleep. This time, the whole left side of his body throbbed, and his branded skin stung and tingled. All the candles were out. The bedchamber was utterly black, as no moonlight poured through the oiled linen that covered his window. All the dogs in the Lesser Town were howling as if the darkness had transformed them into wolves.
Hrot sat up and lit one of the candles. What was it that had woken him up? Was it the dogs, or was it something that had come from inside the house? And what had happened to the candles?
The sensation that somebody was in his quarters tiptoed into his mind and wouldn’t leave. The feeling of being watched s
hook him awake like a splash of icy water. A grunt, soft but ominous, slithered into his ears. A swine squealed somewhere behind the house, and others joined in.
The Emissary! Hrot was certain the monster was around, gliding through the blackness like an all-seeing nocturnal beast. That was when he realized tonight was the night of the autumn equinox. Only three months until the pact expired.
Wheezing with panic, Hrot threw the duvet aside and sprang up. He shed his nightgown and started to throw on his clothes. Not only his hands but also his entire body shook, and he tripped and fell down as he was pulling on his breeches. Unable to find his shoes, he decided to make his escape barefooted. His only thought was to get out, to flee his home that had turned into a black trap.
He grasped the candle and rushed to the front door. As he reached for the latch, he saw the fireplace in the drawing room was burning bright. He hadn’t lit it since last spring.
“Where are you going at this hour, fluffy chin?”
Although uttered softly, each word pierced Hrot’s spine and nearly sent him to his knees. With his heart punching his ribcage like a mad prisoner, he turned around, half expecting to see the antlers and the horrid, furry face. His terror didn’t ease much even when he saw the backlit silhouette of the smooth-talking fellow from the riverbank. The Emissary was sitting in Hrot’s armchair, his gentle lips stretched into a malevolent smile. Hrot’s hopes of escape poured through his skin in cold sweat.
“How did you get here?” Hrot stammered.
The Emissary chuckled the way an adult would laugh at a child’s asking where babies came from. “Come and sit by the fireplace, fluffy chin. I need a word with you.”
Hrot was too scared to disobey him. A repugnant stench sent his head into a spin as soon as he entered the drawing room. It was the smell of millennia of evil, malice, and hate. It was the smell Hrot remembered from his ill-fated voyage beyond the crimson wall. The reek made the fire roar and sputter. At times, he thought he could see the Emissary’s antlered shadow wander around the walls.
“You don’t seem too happy to see me after all these years, dear friend.” The Emissary grinned as Hrot collapsed into the other armchair. “It’s been nearly ten years, Hrot. Nine years and three quarters to be exact, apart from our shamefully brief encounter in my dominion. Anyhow, I’m here to make sure you haven’t forgotten our pact—and to tell you that because you tried to hide from me behind that cunt Krverah, I’ve decided that making you my servant would be too merciful. You must be punished, fluffy chin.”
The monster’s eyes probed Hrot like the heated points of a pitchfork. In the light of the restless fire, the blue veins under the pale, papery skin on the Emissary’s face twisted like tiny snakes. A tide of terror lifted Hrot from the armchair and tossed him at the Emissary’s feet.
“Oh, please, don’t take me to that terrible realm!” Hrot whimpered like a beaten dog, his trembling hands clutching at the hands of the Emissary. “Oh, please, please, have mercy! What are you going to do with me?”
“Unhand me!” the Emissary growled. The agitated fire spat a barrage of sparks. The Emissary’s eyes glowed like embers. When they bored into Hrot’s branded forearm, Hrot felt as if sizzling lava poured over the mark. Screeching, he let go of the monster’s hands and rolled in pain on the filthy straw.
“Look at you squirming here like the worm you are,” the Emissary mocked. “Your beard has finally started to grow, and you’ve seen the worlds beyond the crimson wall. And what else? Ten years in one of the most progressive periods of human history, and you’ve achieved absolutely nothing.
“You’ve failed, fluffy chin, and you surely regret ever making the pact with me. But it’s too late for regrets. Now, do you remember where the portal is—the strange rock behind the river?”
Hrot shook his head, and he winced in fear as the Emissary stood up. Hrot crawled to the nearest wall and pressed his back against it.
The Emissary looked at him and scowled. “Wait for me at the Ruins, then, on this winter solstice. If you fail to come to the vault where you met that whore Anath, your punishment will be even more severe. You remember the people in the amphitheater, don’t you? You have seen the bones sticking from the morass; you have heard the souls howling in the tunnel. They all had something in common: they were all too unfaithful or forgetful for their own good.
“So farewell for now, fluffy chin. Enjoy your last weeks on earth as a free man. There aren’t too many left!”
The flames sputtered and died in the fireplace. The Emissary’s laughter rang through the drawing room before he disappeared into nothingness. The dogs howled; the swine squealed.
Hrot’s face had grown as emotionless as a dead, chiseled stone. The Emissary’s visit had slain his will to live and fight. It was as if the monster had already taken his soul. What was the point of waiting for the winter solstice, and clenching to something as miserable as a few weeks of human life? Only death could be stronger than the Emissary. Only death could prevail where alchemy, sorcery, and occultism had failed. Death was the gate to salvation, to blind, blissful oblivion.
The beasts outside finally quieted down. It was starting to rain, and big drops splashed angrily against the oiled linen in his windows.
Hrot recalled a story he’d once heard from Albius. It was about a prisoner who had killed himself by stuffing his undershirt into his mouth and nostrils. That seemed too slow and dreadful. There had to be a better way.
THE AUTUMN EQUINOX happened to fall on the night of the new moon, which was an important night for the cult of Krverah. Since time immemorial, the worshipers of the three-headed goddess had withdrawn into enclosed spaces to learn ancient wisdom or to push aside the curtain of time and glimpse into future.
Krverah’s only surviving worshipper, Anath, had been performing these rituals for nearly three decades. She usually retired into a disused hermitage in the woods near Prague or to the vault at the Ruins. Today, however, she decided to stay at home and do the ritual in a little shaft under her drawing room.
An inner voice had been telling her since the early morning she might be needed in town tonight. She was restless the whole day as if she sensed that the Emissary was on his way to pay a visit to the unfortunate Hrot. She meditated in front of the statuette as much as her agitated mind allowed her. When the last sunset of the summer painted the world crimson, she set to prepare the ritual fire.
The youthful energy with which she chopped the firewood would surprise anyone who knew she was nearly fifty. Although most of her contemporaries were already withering and bending toward their graves, the years had stolen little out of Anath’s strength, wit, and beauty. Only her skin had grown dryer and paler, and her fern-green eyes were set deeper in their sockets. Direct sunlight would reveal the lines which the passing time and her regrets had carved into her face. And she had quite a few—lines and regrets alike.
Fifteen years ago, Anath had made the horrible mistake of letting the late King Rudolph seduce her. Although she’d lain with him only once, she got pregnant. In spite of her protests, threats, and supplications, the king sent baby Yasemina to the mansion of his former adviser, presumably to receive a proper education.
The mansion was in the town of Trebon, more than eighty miles south of Prague, near the Austrian border. Anath couldn’t bear to be so far from her daughter. During one of her occasional visits, she tried to smuggle Yasemina to Prague. The guards prevented it, however, and the next time she came to see her daughter, they turned Anath away.
Although he was fond of Anath, the stubborn king wouldn’t allow her to visit Yasemina again. Shortly before his imprisonment, he transferred the girl away from Trebon. Anath never found out where she was, and the secret died with the king. Anath had often pleaded with Krverah to reveal Yasemina’s new location. The goddess kept her silence, however, almost as if she felt the girl would be safer without her mother.
On top of that, Anath also worried about Hrot, and she blamed herself for his despondenc
y. He was galloping toward doom, and she had yet to think of a way to prevent the Emissary from taking over his soul.
Today, Anath fretted more than ever. “Krverah will send me a gruesome message,” she murmured as she brought the wood into the house. “I can feel it!”
She pulled aside a mat that lay near the fireplace and uncovered a wooden trapdoor. She opened the trapdoor and pushed the firewood into a small shaft.
At twilight, Anath walked to the pen behind her cottage, grabbed a black goose by the neck, and dragged it to the shaft. The goose flapped its wings and tried to kick her belly and peck her face. So full of life it was that it wriggled even long after Anath had severed its head with a dagger. The stumped neck squirmed like a black adder. Blood spurted out of the jugular vein and peppered her face.
Having thrown the twitching body into a corner, Anath put the head on the pile of kindling and lit a fire. The flames bit into the firewood and devoured the goose’s eyes and feathers. Thick smoke filled the shaft before it rushed upstairs and out of an open window. She gasped when the smoke that billowed from the goose’s head turned black. It was a bad omen.
When the flames began to die, she pushed the head out of the fire. The feathers had burnt down to tiny sticks, and even the beak was as black as the rest of the head. Murmuring a supplication to Krverah, Anath broke the skull with the point of the dagger to release clairvoyant steam from the simmering brain. The vapor that escaped from the crack coiled and curled. Then it modeled itself into the form of a man hanging from a piece of rope.
“No!” Anath shrieked. She couldn’t believe her eyes when the image sharpened and she saw the face of the man. This was not what she’d feared and expected. For a second she wondered what she should do. Then she rushed up the stairs and out of the cottage.
The stable was just a shadow that was a little blacker than the surrounding darkness. Anath groped for the latch, opened the door, and reached for the silhouette of the horse. Her chestnut stallion had died last year, and now she had a restless bay colt. Smelling the blood on her face and sensing the dread in her soul, the colt reared and whinnied.
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