by Alexey Pehov
Yes, yes! An absolutely genuine fortress!
Walls about twelve yards high, gates torn off their posts and shattered. Four ethereally elegant towers with spires as sharp as spears. (Correction—three with spires; the fourth seemed to have been flattened by a magical fist: all that was left of it was a stump.)
Another tower set right at the very center, with the same architecture as the other four, but incomparably larger. If someone suddenly got the urge to move in there and set up defenses, even professional soldiers would have a hard time trying to storm the fortifications (in my ignorant view as a thief).
The reason I hadn’t noticed the citadel straightaway was that its walls were almost the same color as the walls of the cave. I had to walk a long way before I reached this bastion that was sited so mysteriously, tramping along the reddish path that wound its way between the tall outcrops of stone sprouting up all over the floor like fingers. The path was littered with fine fragments of stone and every now and then one of them crunched under the soles of my boots.
When I got closer, I realized there was no way to go round the fortress. Its walls ran into the walls of the cave, and without the lost cobweb-rope, there was no way I could storm a barrier that was twelve yards high.
The only way to get to the other side was to walk through that yawning gap and hope there were gates on the other side of the fortifications, too.
I wasn’t exactly happy with the idea of going inside. There were far too many bones outside the entrance.
They were fearfully old … many of the dead had arrows stuck between their ribs. The archers defending the place had reaped a rich harvest. There were plenty of weapons, but they were so old and rusty that the touch of a boot was enough to make them crumble into dust.
Shields, helmets, bows with their strings rotted away, armor with barely visible engravings of a Black Rose, a Black Flame, a Black Stone, a White Leaf, or White Water. Elves from the dark and light houses, who had fought shoulder to shoulder, attacking the fortress.
And I knew the only enemy the elfin houses could reunite against. It had to be their eternal and most important enemy, their closest relatives—the orcs. There was a battering ram lying beside the smashed gates.
I stood there weighing up my chances, then sighed and took out the crossbow. I removed one of the ordinary bolts and replaced it with an ice bolt. There was nothing else for it; I had to go back or go on into the fortress.
Surprisingly enough, nothing grabbed me, either in the gateway or the narrow corridor with loopholes for firing arrows at uninvited guests. Now there were old bones crunching under my feet instead of small stones. The elves had been given a warm reception in here, too. The corridor smelled of mold and damp from the old wooden ceilings and of bitter almonds. A strange aroma for a place like this, to say the least.
I walked out into the courtyard and the red column of the central tower was directly opposite me. The entire space was littered with bones, like the area in front of the gates.
A serious battle. The skeletons of orcs and elves were sometimes intertwined in the most incredible poses. The rusty crescents of s’kashes and yataghans were scattered around under my feet. In many places the ground, the walls, and the bones were covered with soot, or even fused and melted. In the western part of the yard there were heaps of red blocks and fragments of stone from the ruined tower. Magic had been used, as well as arrows and swords.
Many elves had laid down their lives, very many, but I had no doubt about who had been victorious. The bodies of eight orcs were embedded in the wall of the central tower at a height of about ten yards above the ground. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the orcs had suffered for a very, very long time, even after the elfin shamans and magicians had finished the execution. It was surprising that time didn’t seem to have touched the dead orcs; for some reason it had spared them. I had the impression that they could have died only a minute earlier.
Their flesh hadn’t melted away like the wax of a candle or rotten meat, and it hadn’t dried up like a salty plum from over the sea. After traveling round the Border Kingdom, mixing with Algert Dalli’s men, and fighting that battle at Crossroads, I knew a little bit about the badges of the most famous clans of orcs. The defenders of the fortress had badges that were white and black, almost completely faded. I’d never come across clan insignia like that before. If I ever got out of Hrad Spein, I’d have to ask Egrassa what clan of orcs wore black and white.
There was a large old tree growing right in front of the tower. It looked a bit like a dwarf warrior resting after a long journey: short, stocky, and sturdy. And as old as the red fortress that now enshrined the bones of the fallen warriors. But unlike the dead fortress that had been abandoned for so very long, the absurd old plant was still alive. All the branches of this long-lived tree were covered with small white flowers and it seemed to be nestling under a fluffy blanket of snow.
The flowers had a scent of almonds, and I could even taste the bitter aroma in my mouth. The smell was beginning to give me a headache, so I moved on in a hurry. I couldn’t afford to stay any longer than necessary.
I took long, careful strides, trying not to step on any bones. Stupid really, but I couldn’t help myself—something told me it was best not to disturb the remains of the elves and orcs without good reason. But I wasn’t always able to avoid the yellowish bones encased in rusty armor. There were too many skeletons and sometimes my foot had no choice but to press the bones down into the crumbly sand of the fortress’s courtyard. Then I misjudged the distance and stepped on a skull.
CRUNCH!
It burst with a deafening sound, as if it was an overripe Garrakian melon under my foot, not a skull. I winced squeamishly and looked up from the bones for a moment at the tree.
My heart performed a crazy somersault in my chest, soared up into the sky, then fell back and got tangled up in my guts.
The flowers on the tree weren’t white anymore—they were red! Bloodred! The blood built up into huge drops on the petals and then fell down, sprinkling onto the bones and the sand. Like rain in some madman’s nightmare, the heavy drops fell from the branches and oozed out of every pore of the tree’s trunk. In a few seconds a small pool had already formed under the tree. The pool grew wider and wider, consuming the bones lying on the sand like some eerie predator.
A tormented, endless, spine-chilling howl of pain rang out from somewhere above me, making me stoop down and pull my head into my shoulders. I raised my eyes to look up, expecting to see a gryphon-dragon-manticore-harpy-Messenger-of-the-Master-or-the-Nameless-One swooping down on me, but … there wasn’t anyone.
It was one of the orcs fused into the wall of the tower, screaming continuously in agony. His face was contorted in incredible pain. That was more than I could take.
I ran for it, without even looking to see where I was going, scattering bones. The orc screeched like a pig under the knife of a clumsy butcher. I dashed to the other side of the courtyard and jumped over the stones from the ruined tower that littered the ground, lost my footing and fell, almost tumbling into the blood flowing across the courtyard, rolled away, jumped up, pressed my hands to my ears, and set off again at a run.
I realized I’d dropped the crossbow, went back, flung aside somebody’s ribs, grabbed the weapon, and ran for it.… The howling of that creature in torment was driving me insane, stirring up icy rafts of terror from the bottom of my mind.
My memory of the courtyard as I ran through it is a blur of the red column of the tower, the bitter smell of almonds, the bleeding tree, and the scream of an orc doomed to eternal agony.
Fear made me whimper as I ran. It took over almost all my mind; it was a miracle that I managed to leap out through a hole broken in the wall on the opposite side from the gates. The orc’s screams pushed me along from behind, forcing me to run faster and faster along the red path. I fell twice, skinning and bruising my knees, but I jumped up again and ran on.
I only stopped after the howling of
that eternally living and eternally dying creature had faded away into the distance.
I leaned my hands on my knees and tried to get my breath back. Ah, darkness, all I ever seemed to do was run. Where would I ever get the strength to survive the Palaces of Bone like this?
I looked back at the derelict fortress. From that distance it looked just like one of those little caskets that some dull-witted individuals use to keep their brain-rotting weed in.
The sunlight that had been shining down on the orange cave throughout this part of my journey was gradually fading, losing its brightness and vitality. Looking up all the time at the darkening ceiling, I set off along the red path toward the distant wall of the cave. The small slivers of stone squeaked under my feet like a crust of frozen snow or fragments of ancient bones.
When I reached the wall of the cave, the sparse rays of sunlight were too weak to light up the entire space. But just when I was about to use another little magical lamp, a miracle happened. All the stone-finger columns that the path had wound through suddenly flashed, then flared up and started glowing with a cold, pale blue light.
There were exactly the same kind of stone fingers, only smaller, growing straight out of the wall, and in their bright glow I spotted a path that I hadn’t noticed before, which led upward in a whimsical, winding spiral.
What else could I do—the path ought to lead me to the way out, and it looked like the only one, unless I wanted to walk along the wall, hoping to find another way out of there. But why waste time on that kind of nonsense, if the cave wasn’t even marked on the maps? And what if there was no other way out?
Even though I was walking uphill, it was quite easy, and after nine tight twists and turns I reached quite a height. The path was narrow and I had to lean back against the wall in order to feel reasonably secure. If I lost concentration or stepped awkwardly on a stone, I would have gone tumbling down over the edge.
Of course, the drop beside my feet wasn’t an abyss of a hundred yards, but if I had fallen, I would have smashed every bone in my body. I tried not to look down until the winding path that was carved straight into the sheer cliff face finally led to the way out.
It was time for a rest. I made myself comfortable, took out a biscuit, shook my flask to check how much water I had left, and clicked my tongue in disappointment when I realized there was no more than three or four mouthfuls. I had to find a spring or a pond quickly to replenish my scant resources.
As always, the biscuit was as tough and tasteless as the sole of an old army boot (but—thanks be to Sagot—it didn’t smell the same way). As I chewed on my ration, I admired the vista before my eyes. From where I was it was only about six yards to the ceiling, and about fifty to the floor. I could see the whole cave laid out in front of me. The entire expanse was lit up by the bright points of hundreds of columns blazing with a steady magical light like cold, bright glowworms. The floor and the walls were covered in circles of bright blue light radiating from the columns, and the light columns farthest away fused into a single bright line. These islets of blue light transformed the cave into a fairy-tale dream. Not even the lights in Zagraba at night could come anywhere close to this beautiful sight.
I could have sat there enjoying the view forever, but if I did, I’d never get the Rainbow Horn. I got to my feet regretfully, shook the crumbs off my hands, put away the flask, and walked into a spacious corridor with its walls marked by soot from torches.
I scraped it with a fingernail, and it was fresh. I was sure it was Lafresa. She must have conjured up wings for herself and now she was increasing her lead on me all the time.
* * *
Warm, sunny amber walls and a few magical torches, just barely keeping the shadows of the halls at bay.
Endless patterns on the walls, weaving together into carelessly drawn pictures—something like a chronicle. The story of every more or less significant event in the history of Siala, for the Nameless One only knew how many thousands of years, unfolded before me. But I had no time and no desire to examine all these artistic efforts by the orcs and the elves. I didn’t have a million years to spare.
The floor, made of the same red mineral as the walls, was polished as bright as a mirror, and so now two Harolds walked through the halls together, only one of them was up here and the other was down there, in the reflecting floor. For some reason or other the flagstones were slippery. Giving way to a childish impulse, I took a run up and then slid along, as if it was genuine ice under my feet.
After about an hour’s travel through the Amber Sector (the name I had decided to give this place), I realized where I was when I came out at two four-yard-high statues standing beside the entrance to the next hall. On the right an orc, and on the left, an elf. Both dressed in equally loose robes belted with chains, both with untypical double-handed swords with wavy-edged blades. The elf and the orc had their hands over their ears. There was some kind of inscription on the floor in orcish, but I ignored the incomprehensible squiggles, just as I had done before.
A warning? A wish for a safe journey? Sagot only knew what it was! Why in the name of darkness should I rack my brains and worry about it, if I couldn’t understand anything anyway?
So without thinking too much, I walked past the frozen sculptures into the next hall. Although I must admit that since those gargoyles had come to life, I naturally regarded statues with a certain suspicion.
… bang! Boom! BOOM! BangBOOM! BaBANG-ng-ng!
Now that really was a surprise! I was almost deafened by the thundering echo of my own footsteps. It got louder and louder, until it turned into the roar of a deluging torrent, a waterfall, resounding like the thunder of the gods and then disappearing without a trace, leaving nothing but a ringing in my ears.
“Quiet,” I whispered, and the echo immediately took up the word and seemed to spread it to every corner of Hrad Spein.
Quiet! quiET! QuiET! QUIET! QuiET! QUIET! ET-et!
I winced as if I had a toothache. The best way of informing the entire world of your existence is to yell in the Halls of the Slumbering Echo. The slightest sound roused an echo that should have made the dead leap out of their graves a league away from the place.
I tried taking a couple of steps, making as little noise as possible. Useless. Even walking carefully produced the same magically amplified echo.
I had to take off my boots and walk barefoot. Surprisingly enough, this actually helped, and the echo was hardly awoken at all, so I was able to carry on without worrying about being heard on the next level of Hrad Spein. But that damned mirror-polished floor was very cold on the feet.
After a while, when my toes had simply stopped feeling anything at all, the path brought me to an underground river imprisoned in banks of marble. The black ribbon of placid water flowed out of a hole in an amber wall, divided the hall into two halves, and disappeared into an identical hole in the opposite wall.
As it ran across the hall, the underground river cut off my path. There had been a bridge over it once, but now all that was left was a stone stump about a quarter of a yard long. The water was only half a yard below the marble bank, so I could reach it with my hand, and I took advantage of the opportunity to fill my flask.
The canal was about three or three and a half yards wide, so it was quite possible to take a run up and jump across it, and that’s what I did, after putting my shoes on first. The floor was still as slippery as ever, and the jump turned out rather awkward. My heart skipped a beat when I thought I was going to fall short and land in the water, but a second later my feet touched the opposite bank. The floor promptly slid away from under me and I collapsed and slid at least ten yards on my side. Just like I said—it was exactly like ice in January! But least I didn’t break anything.
“Ah, darkness!” I swore, and suddenly realized that the echo hadn’t repeated my words.
I was past the Halls of the Slumbering Echo.
* * *
I walked on and found myself just two paces away from the edge of
a precipice. There was a final torch burning beside the door, and that was what stopped me from stepping into the abyss. I was on a small platform about six paces across. The wall was smooth and it ran straight up into the darkness and the platform merged into a narrow track, carved straight into the wall. A step to the left, and my shoulder struck the cold basalt of the wall, a step to the right and … nothing.
Empty space. An abyss.
The path looked as if someone had gnawed it into the cliff with his teeth. It was crude, careless, slapdash work. The surface was uneven and there were protruding rocks, so I had to press myself tight against the wall and creep along like a tortoise. Every now and then I came across dark openings leading into the cliff and I tried to get past as quickly as possible. Darkness only knew what might come leaping out of them.
The path narrowed to a quarter of a pace. Now I could just barely set my foot on it, and the danger of tumbling off the cliff was much greater. I had to cling on to the basalt with my nails in order to stay up there.
Ahead of me and a little to the right a string of six lights appeared. The path ended right beside them, at a small platform in front of an opening. There was no point in clambering into the hole—I needed to go in the other direction. I turned toward the lights and something that the map showed as a thin line barely visible on the yellowed paper. It was called Nirena’s Thread.
It was just a bridge, but it was no wider than the last few yards of the path. And what’s more, it was rounded! A genuine hair, with barely even enough space to set my foot on it, and it stretched for thirty yards and more.
I’m not afraid of heights, but this miracle of architectural design was more than I could manage. I wouldn’t have been able to take more than ten teeny-weeny steps before the inevitable moment came and I fell. There were six large magical lamps, trembling and winking, suspended in the air above the bridge.
Well, gazing at the bridge wasn’t going to make it any wider or get me any closer to the other side. I decided not to try anything too fancy and to cross the bridge in the simplest way possible—I simply lay down on Nirena’s Thread, wound my legs round it, and started pulling with my hands.
