Shadow Blizzard

by Alexey Pehov

  “A hill?” I asked in amazement.

  “A hill!” Kli-Kli teased me, pulling a silly face. “Open your eyes, will you! What kind of hill, may you choke on a bone, is that? Go on, walk round it!”

  “All right! All right! Just stop yammering,” I said, trying to calm the goblin down. “I’ve got a splitting headache from that squeal of yours.”

  It really was the entrance to Hrad Spein, or at least, on closer examination the hill turned out to be artificial. It was hardly surprising that I hadn’t realized—the structure was so old (from the start of the Dark Era, after all!) that the back of it was all overgrown with grass and bushes. When I walked round it to the other side, though, I realized I’d got the era wrong.

  Of course the gates weren’t from the Dark Era at all (although that was when unknown beings had founded the first and deepest levels of Hrad Spein). The gates had appeared much, much later, during the period when the orcs and the elves were in their heyday. It was just that after the ancient evil awoke in the Palaces of Bone and elves and orcs (and, after them, men) left the burial chambers to be demolished by the centuries, the gates fell into decay and were overgrown by the forest.

  After all, Zagraba, and especially the Golden Forest, hadn’t always been here. The trees had been advancing for thousands of years. And they advanced until they swallowed up the gates and concealed them from prying eyes.

  From this side the hill looked as if it had been sliced vertically with a knife. And instead of grass and bushes there was a gaping square entrance four times the height of a man. The rays of sunlight slanted into it and fell on a stone floor.

  I shuddered.

  “Well, how do you like it, Harold?” the Garrakian asked again.

  “Are we really here, then?” I still didn’t believe it.

  “The corridor stretches for a thousand yards, gradually sloping down. It’s a long tramp from here to the first level,” said Kli-Kli, waving his hand jauntily.

  “You’re a real expert on the subject, jester. So can you tell me what’s written over the entrance and what those statues are at the sides?”

  “I don’t know orcic, Harold, ask Egrassa what that scribble says. And as for the statues, they were carved out of the solid rock, see? And they’re so badly decayed, there’s no way to tell who they once depicted.”

  “Hey, you historians!” shouted Hallas. “Let’s go and get the camp laid out, you’ll have time enough to feast your eyes on that!”

  * * *

  “And so,” Alistan Markauz began when everyone was gathered together (apart from Lamplighter and Eel, who had been sent to stand guard at the entrance to Hrad Spein), “Balistan Pargaid and his men are already down below.”

  “May something down there gobble them up!” was the kind-hearted goblin’s sincere wish for our enemies.

  “They’re two days ahead of us, thief. You have maps of the Palaces of Bone. Where do you think they could be now?”

  “Anywhere at all, milord,” I answered the count, after a moment’s thought. “It’s a genuine maze starting from the very first level, if they don’t have maps.…”

  Everyone understood what I had in mind. In Hrad Spein without maps you were a dead man for sure. Fortunately, I did have maps; I’d made a special excursion into the Forbidden Territory in Avendoom to get them. So I would find the way to the eighth level, where the Rainbow Horn was. That is, I’d be able to find the way, but would I actually get there?

  “I think we should start out straightaway,” said Alistan Markauz, tugging on his mustache.

  “It will be night soon, milord. Let’s wait until morning,” Hallas began cautiously. “I don’t like the idea of climbing down that hole in the dark.”

  “Night, day … what’s the difference? Down below it’s always night anyway. Pargaid and that woman want to steal a march on us and take the Horn, in order to take it to the Master.”

  “They won’t be able to steal a march on us, milord,” I said, chuckling sardonically. “They don’t have the Key, and the Doors on the third level can’t be opened without it. If they don’t have a map, and Lafresa decides to make a detour … Well, that will take them a couple of months.”

  “A couple of months?” the dwarf asked incredulously.

  “This is Hrad Spein below us,” said Egrassa, stamping on the ground. “I hate to shatter your rosy illusions, Deler, but the Palaces of Bone are a lot bigger than all your underground cities in the Mountains of the Dwarves. Hrad Spein is like a gigantic layer cake, it’s dozens of leagues deep and wide. It was worked on by ogres, orcs, men, and others we don’t even know about. So Harold is right. If you don’t go through the Doors, you can lose a great deal of time searching for ways round them.”

  “And run into some very big problems,” Kli-Kli bleated.

  “So do you suggest we should wait until morning, too,” the captain of the guard asked the elf, ignoring the goblin.

  “Best go down well rested.”

  Milord Rat pursed his lips and nodded reluctantly.

  “All right. That’s what we’ll do. Then let’s decide who’s going with Harold, and who’s staying up here.”

  “I think that’s for Harold to decide,” said Egrassa, and looked at me.

  “The thief should decide?” Alistan Markauz said in amazement.

  “Certainly. He knows best who should go with him and who should stay.”

  “All right,” the count hissed. “What do you say, thief ?”

  I took a deep breath and said, “No one’s going with me.”

  “What? Have you gone completely insane?”

  I was afraid Alistan Markauz was about to have a stroke.

  “No, milord.” I decided to say exactly what I thought about our crazy excursion to Hrad Spein. “When you led us out of Avendoom, I didn’t interfere and I did what you said. And when we were walking through Zagraba, you did what Egrassa told you. I don’t need anyone else to go into the Palaces of Bone with me. You’d only be a burden to me.”

  “We’re soldiers, Harold, not a burden,” Deler said resentfully. “Who’s going to save you from those zombies?”

  “That’s just the point,” I sighed. “On my own, I’ll slip past a corpse unnoticed or simply run away, but with you I’ll get into a fight every time. I won’t be able to look out for you in there, too.”

  “We can look out for ourselves, thief.” Alistan Markauz didn’t like what I’d said very much. “How am I going to protect you if I stay up here?”

  “You have led us to Hrad Spein and performed your duty, milord. And in addition, they say the lower levels are flooded and I’ll have to swim, and you’re wearing too much heavy metal.”

  “Then I’ll take off my armor.”

  “Milord, I’ll move fast, but with you … Just don’t interfere with me carrying out the Commission.”

  “What about Balistan Pargaid’s men?”

  “The chances of meeting them in a maze like this are not very high.”

  It took me an entire hour to persuade the captain of the guard that it was easier for me to go alone. He ground his teeth and frowned, but in the end, he gave up.

  “All right, thief, have it your own way. But I’m not very happy with my own decision.”

  * * *

  “Do you have the maps of Hrad Spein?” Kli-Kli asked.

  “Yes,” I sighed.

  Since first thing in the morning the goblin had been getting on my nerves worse than a crowd of priests chanting their sacred rubbish.

  “What about torches?”

  “I’ve got two.”

  “Are you joking?” the fool inquired acidly.

  “Certainly not. Two torches will be more than enough to reach the first level.”

  “And after that are you going to grope your way along?”

  “You told me yourself that there’s plenty of light in the underground palaces.”

  “If the magic’s still working, but what if it isn’t? And not all of Hrad Spein is palaces.�
��”

  “I have my lights, too.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that straightaway? Instead of treating me like an idiot!” he said, genuinely furious. “All right. What about food?”

  “Kli-Kli, are you deliberately to trying to get my goat? You’ve asked me that twice already!” I groaned. “I’ve got plenty of magic biscuits. I don’t have to worry about food for two weeks.”

  “Warm clothes?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Darkness only knew what it was like down in the depths. I’d taken Eel’s double-knitted wool sweater—it was the kind that Wild Hearts wear in winter on patrol in the Slumbering Forest. Wearing it was as good as sitting in front of a hot stove. And its greatest advantage was that it could be rolled up into a slim little bundle that fitted easily into the half-empty canvas sack hanging over my shoulder.

  “And have you…”

  “No more!” I implored him. “You and your questions will drive me into my grave! Take a break for half an hour at least.”

  “In half an hour you’ll be beyond my reach,” Kli-Kli objected, and carried on mercilessly. “Do you remember the poem?”

  “Which one?”

  “He still has to ask!” the goblin exclaimed, appealing tragically to the heavens. “Have you forgotten the scroll you showed us at the meeting with the king?”

  “Ah! You mean the verse riddle? I remember it perfectly.”

  “Repeat it.”

  “Kli-Kli, believe me, I remember it perfectly.”

  “Then repeat it. Don’t you understand that it’s the key to everything? It mentions things that aren’t in the maps.”

  “Darkness take you.” It was easier to recite it than to argue with the detestable little goblin. “From the very beginning?”

  “You can leave out the flowery bits.”

  “All right,” I growled. “But if you don’t leave me alone after this, I’ll strangle you with my bare hands.”

  So I strained my memory and recited the verse riddle for Kli-Kli.

  I came across the poem purely by chance. It was scratched on a small scrap of paper lost in among the maps and papers about Hrad Spein that I found in the abandoned Tower of the Order. The poem was written by a magician who took the Rainbow Horn to the Palaces of Bone. And it was thanks to this work of literature that I’d been able to see my future route as I looked through the maps of Hrad Spein during our group’s evening halts.

  “That’ll do,” the pestiferous goblin said with a satisfied nod when I finished declaiming the final quatrain. “Don’t forget it. And, by the way, remember that one section has been changed, I already told you about it. In the Book of Prophecies…”

  “I remember,” I interrupted him hastily. Believe it or not, but by this time I couldn’t wait to dash into Hrad Spein so I wouldn’t have to hear any more good advice.

  “You’re rotten, Harold,” said Kli-Kli, offended. “I’m trying my best for you! All right, damn you, someday you’ll remember this goblin’s kindness, but it’ll be too late. Bend down.”

  “What?” I asked, puzzled.

  “Bend down toward me, I tell you! I can’t reach up to you, I’m too short!”

  I had to do as the jester asked, although I was expecting some farewell trick from him. Kli-Kli stood on tiptoe and hung a drop-shaped medallion round my neck—the one he found on the sorceress’s grave in Hargan’s Wasteland. The medallion had one invaluable quality—it could neutralize shamanic battle spells directed specifically at the wearer.

  “In olden times the elves and orcs filled the palaces with magical traps. And this bauble can keep you safe from at least some of them.”

  “Thank you,” I said, genuinely moved by his unexpected generosity.

  “You bring it back to me,” the goblin said peevishly. “And bring yourself along with it, preferably with that Horn.”

  I gave a brief chuckle.

  “Well then, thief, it’s time,” Milord Alistan said.

  “Yes, milord.” I ran through my equipment in my mind for the tenth time to check that I hadn’t left anything out, and then slung the crossbow over my shoulder. “Expect me in two weeks.”

  “We’ll wait for three.”

  “All right. If I’m not back by then, leave.”

  “If you’re not back by then, someone else will go in. I won’t go back to the king without the Horn.”

  I nodded. Milord Rat was a stubborn man and he wouldn’t give up until he got what he wanted.

  “Here, Harold,” said Egrassa, holding out a bracelet of red copper, “put this on your arm.”

  It looked just like an ordinary bracelet, although it was very old, and it had badly worn orcic runes on it.

  “What is it?”

  “It will let me know that you’re alive and where you are. And it will get you past the Kaiyu guards safely.”

  I gaped at the elf in amazement, but he just shrugged and smiled.

  “They say that it protects against them, that’s what it was made for, but don’t rely on it too much. I haven’t tried it myself.”

  I nodded gratefully and put the bracelet on my left arm. Sagot had obviously decided this was Harold’s day for collecting trinkets. Well, I didn’t mind, the verse riddle mentioned the Kaiyu guards, and if the elf believed this artifact could save me from the blind guardians of the elfin burial chambers, I should definitely accept his gift with gratitude.

  “May the gods be with you,” the elf told me as we said good-bye.

  “Don’t let your king and his kingdom down, Harold,” Milord Alistan declared pompously, calling me by my own name for once.

  “Good luck!” said Eel, shaking me firmly by the hand.

  Deler, Hallas, and Mumr did the same.

  “Good luck, Dancer in the Shadows,” the jester said with a sniff.

  “Expect me in two weeks,” I reminded them again, then swung round and walked toward the black hole that led to the heart of the ancient burial chambers.

  4

  THE ROAD TO THE DOORS

  The torch hissed and spat furiously. It obviously didn’t like the idea of being carried down into the murky gloom of the world underground.

  I stopped twice to look back. The first time was when I’d only walked a hundred and fifty paces along the corridor. I just wanted to take one last look at the sunlight.

  A long, long way behind me, I could see a tiny bright rectangle.

  The way out.

  There it was, left behind now, the world of sunlight, the world of the living, and below my feet lay the world of darkness and the dead. When I looked back for the second time, the light had disappeared and there was nothing but the darkness all around.

  My huge black shadow slid along the wall, dancing in time to the flames. After a while pictures and inscriptions in orcic appeared on the walls. At first they were faint and I could barely make them out (despite the constant darkness in this place, the colors used for the paintings and writing had faded very badly), but after I walked another two hundred yards, I could distinguish the images and letters.

  I didn’t look very closely at the pictures, and I didn’t understand the writing. I only stopped once, when the torch picked out of the darkness a huge painting of an epic battle between ogres and some other beings, who were the spitting image of the creatures shown on the casket where Balistan Pargaid used to keep the Key.

  The creatures—half birds, half bears—were fighting the ogres between the trunks of stylized trees. There was a squiggly inscription below the scene, but what it meant was a total mystery to me.

  I walked for quite a long time. The corridor had no branches, and it bit deeper and deeper into the earth. I didn’t know exactly how deep I’d gone, but I took the opportunity to thank Sagot that I wasn’t afraid of underground places.

  My steps echoed hollowly off the floor, bounced off the walls, and died away under the high ceiling. The torch started to fade and I had to stop to light a new one. I hadn’t even noticed the time passing. How long h
ad I been tramping along this corridor?

  The surprising thing was that it didn’t feel cold in here at all. Dry warm air blew into my face as it rose up toward the way out. I didn’t bother wondering where a breeze could come from at that depth. It could have been ventilation shafts, magic, or something else. Darkness only knew. All I knew was that there was a draft. And the most important thing was that it wasn’t chilly.

  The flights of steps began. At first only three or four steps at a time, then they got longer and longer. Corridor, then steps, another hundred yards of corridor and then another stairway. Getting deeper and darker all the time.

  I decided to make a halt and stopped. Leaning back against the wall, I arranged the torch so that it wouldn’t go out, stretched out my legs, and took a swallow of water from my flask. I’d tramped all this way and still had not reached the first level yet! I took the piece of drokr out of my bag, unfolded it, and took out the maps of Hrad Spein. I didn’t know exactly where I was at the moment, but soon the corridor would start twisting round into a spiral. Six huge turns leading down into the abyss, toward the first level of the Palaces of Bone. But I had to go on farther than that—to the eighth level. That was where the grave of General Grok was, and the Rainbow Horn was lying on his gravestone.

  Long weary days of travel lay ahead before I could reach the eighth level. At least a week, even if I was lucky. A week to reach the eighth level—then how long would it take to get to the forty-eighth? Or even deeper, to where the levels had no names, where no living creatures had set foot for nine thousand years?

  The corridor took a twist, and then another. I started winding round and round, getting deeper and deeper all the time.

  The light picked another inscription out of the darkness and I stopped dead—it was written in human language.

  I moved the torch close to the wall. Just as I’d thought—the letters were dark red. They were written in blood. Someone had patiently traced out just three words in large letters: DON’T GO DOWN! I stood there for a moment, looking at this warning, then walked on a few more paces and came across another two words: GET OUT!