The advocates of the Wolf Kings sat astride white horses at the edges of the battle, watching. When the last defenders were slain, they rode forward to inspect what was left of the city. Cautiously, they investigated the subterranean labyrinths, whose entrances had been exposed by destruction. What they found in these places confirmed their fears and suspicions concerning the Lyyrians’ true nature. They could not fathom what the bizarre machines and tools could have been used for exactly, but they reeked of torture, of pain and perversity.
The advocates of the Wolf Kings quickly sought the open air once more. Hurriedly, they gathered spoils for their lords, who had not deigned to leave the safety of their fortresses across the plains. They took precious metals, they took jewels, but all the books and machinery were left behind to be destroyed. Once the carts were loaded with treasure, the advocates ordered that every surviving inhabitant of the city should be put to the sword. All should be destroyed. All, but the hard, cold, unforgiving treasures of metal and stone. These things had no memory and no volition, or so the advocates thought, whereas flesh was dangerous. The smallest child held within it the seeds of power. None must live.
Hailaz, Prince of Lyye was perhaps the member of the royal family least deserving of being spared. On that final day, he spent the entire battle hiding behind sacks of flour in one of the palace basements. As screams and the thunder of toppling stone resounded overhead, Hailaz knelt on the dusty flour, praying fervently for deliverance to his goddess, Meluvia, but painfully aware of Her absence. The gods, he knew, had abandoned the city. But perhaps Meluvia was not as distant as she seemed. A group of courtiers, charged by the King to take the most precious and powerful artefacts from the city to safety, had been crossing the basement on their way to the sewers, where a team of horses awaited them. Hailaz had been discovered, cowering amid the flour. He had begged them to help him, a request that at first had provoked only outraged refusal. In Lyye, Hailaz enjoyed a less than savoury reputation. His cowardly disposition was legendary, as were his petulance and his licentious behaviour, which were considered excessive, even in Lyye. One of the courtiers had even said to him that in her opinion he did not deserve to be saved, especially as his brother, Liraiz, far braver and more respected, and certainly far worthier of escape, had just been disembowelled by a Fenilict sword. Liraiz had never lifted a weapon in defence in his life, but nevertheless had attempted to help defend the city, paying with his life. Why should Hailaz, grovelling and snivelling in the cellars, be spared a similar fate?
Hailaz had implored and wept.
Finally, one of the men, an old friend of the King, suggested that any member of the royal family should be saved, even if it was Hailaz, and reluctantly the others had agreed. With scant consideration for his rank, they bundled him between them into the evil-smelling dark beneath the city.
Although the impartial Fates had granted Hailaz a questionable character, they had at least bestowed upon him the gift of beauty, which was his greatest, if not his only, asset. Well moulded of body, he was accustomed to carrying himself with arrogant dignity. He had a lean, sculpted face and a mane of wild white hair. Like his entire race, his eyes were orange, resembling the eyes of the great spoiled lynxes that had once lounged carelessly around the palace gardens.
Hailaz had been petrified to a kind of mindless numbness, and let himself be pushed in whatever direction his rescuers pleased. Several times, he had fallen face down into the noxious runnels, to be dragged up, retching and gasping, and pushed onward. Eventually, the company had emerged into daylight, stinking, filthy, and in fact not that much different in appearance from the Fenelix. By this time, most of the invaders were within the city walls, and the three soldiers with the party were able to steal several mangy-looking pack-horses, who were guarded only by what appeared to be a gang of imbecile children.
With four of the party riding two to a horse, they galloped downstream, fetlock-deep in the foul shallow waters.
Hailaz was not aware of their plans, but soon realised they were heading in the direction of the wilderlands that lay beyond the fertile plains. He knew little of this place, other than that it was an infertile and arid territory, flanked by peeling, scabrous mountains. Fairy-tales, which he had heard as a child, suggested it was an area inhabited by monsters, both supernatural and human. If anyone should be stupid enough to brave venturing across the wilderlands, they could look forward only to a terrible death, made all the more terrifying because so little was known about what could kill a person there. Hailaz’ nurse had once told him that whatever life stirred in the dust was warped and hostile. The only water that flowed there was thick with poisonous salts or blanketed with sour scum. Because it was this shunned place, Hailaz could understand the logic of fleeing there, but surely such a route would only serve to delay an inevitable extinction. Perhaps the swords of the Fenilix would be preferable.
The Lyyrians rode through the night, pausing only at dawn to rest the horses, which showed symptoms of imminent collapse. It was then that the signs of pursuit were noticed, far nearer than was thought possible. It was clear that the urchins guarding the horses had alerted the Fenilix to the theft. Now the pursuers, catching sight of their quarry, increased their speed. Even from a distance it was possible to hear their yelling and perceive their waving weapons. Hastily, the Lyyrians remounted their exhausted horses and lashed them into a stumbling gallop, towards the first humped foothills of the Mountains of Morstar, which surrounded the wilderlands and hid them from the outside world.
Hailaz did not think they would escape their pursuers, but once the Lyyrians ventured into the shadow of the rocks, the Fenilix gave up the chase, contenting themselves with a few last, shouted insults before heading back to the devastation of Lyye. Later they would joke about the slow deaths that waited for the pallid Lyyrians in the wilderlands. No one could survive long in that place, especially weaklings.
Hailaz had enough sense not to complain too much as the party descended into the gloom of Morstar, but despite this restraint, the atmosphere was a glowering, simmering one, cored by terrible grief. Hailaz, being sensitive, was well aware of the barely veiled hostility the others felt for him. Once it became clear they were no longer being pursued, the party paused in their flight again, and an argument began.
The woman, Hailaz’s main detractor, claimed the cowardly prince might prove a hex upon their progress and should be abandoned.
Hailaz’s defender, the friend of the king, repeated his solemn words concerning the succour of the last heir of Lyye.
At this point, the woman had uttered a claim that had turned opinion in her favour. It seemed she was carrying the child of Liraiz, Hailaz’ brother, who was of course the true heir of Lyye, and guardian of the artefacts.
Wearily, Hailaz realised why she had been so furious he had lived while Liraiz had died. In his heart, he could not blame her for her feelings. As time went on, he was beginning to sympathise more and more with way the others saw him. He hated himself, and could hardly censure others if they shared his opinion.
‘Leave me here,’ he said. ‘I will only impede your flight.’
He meant these words, but nevertheless felt very hurt that no one tried to argue with him.
At the injunction of the king’s friend, they left him one of the horses and a small supply of water, before riding off without a backward glance.
For several hours, Hailaz sat in a dazed stupor on the damp sand of the canyon floor. He could not imagine that he had a future, and in this bleak prospect, he discovered a kind of courage. If he was to die, then he would do so in the wilderlands, at least discovering what they were like before he died. He harboured a faint glimmer of hope that he might find something completely unexpected beyond the mountains; water, food, friendly faces. It was not impossible, only very unlikely.
Little daylight ever found its way down to the sandy path where Hailaz crouched, but he could tell by the deepening gloom that the sun was sinking. The expanding shadows seem
ed thronged by unseen eyes, and Hailaz noticed the bony nag, who waited patiently beside him, was casting nervous glances around herself. Shuddering, Hailaz forced himself painfully to his feet. His body ached and his head throbbed with pain, but he was filled with an urge to escape the canyon.
It took him some minutes to hoist himself onto the saddle, and once there, he had to vomit a dark brown liquid, which undoubtedly he had imbibed during his torment in the sewers. Perhaps he would die of poisoning before any monster of the wilderlands attacked him.
As he rode out from the clutching shades of Morstar’s rocks, into the pebbled lip of the waste, Hailaz looked wholly unlike a prince. His argentine hair was matted and dulled, his posture slouched and defeated. The sight of the wilderlands did nothing to lift his spirits. It was, as had been rumoured, a dull and lonely landscape. There was no sign of any vegetation, just a spreading vista of tumbled rocks, that might, in daylight, reveal themselves to be ruins. Hailaz let the pony have her head. Maybe she could scent water or life. Of his erstwhile companions he could find no trace at all. He muttered a brief prayer to Meluvia, knowing even as he intoned the sacred verses, that Her patronage was utterly lost to him in this place.
Whatever spirits or malign deities held sway among the bare rocks hid themselves in the silence, but Hailaz could feel their scrutiny. What genuflection, what prayers, could buy him passage across the land? He had no idea.
It seemed he rode for many hours, half drowsing in his saddle. However, the swollen yellow moon never passed her zenith, and neither did the air grow colder with the expected first hours of the dawn. A pallid glow continued to flood down from halfway up the sky, and constellations Hailaz did not recognise pulsed across the velvet vault of night. Endless night, thought Hailaz. Perhaps the sun never rose over the wilderlands.
The soaring barrier of Morstar disappeared into the distance. Now, Hailaz faced a limitless sea of grey stones, which stretched to all horizons. He could perceive no plant life, never mind buildings or roads. Even the stones were all of a similar size; that of man’s clenched fist.
After a few hours, Hailaz considered that perhaps he had died, either during the sacking of Lyye or else later during his flight from the city. Perhaps this was a kind of eternal underworld, and his punishment for his cowardly ways would be to travel it endlessly, not even haunted by the ghosts of the slain for company. The only reassurance came from the regular crunching of the nag’s hooves upon the stones. Hailaz buried his frozen hands in her rough thick mane for comfort.
Just when he thought he would fall from his saddle, unable to remain upright because his limbs were so cold, Hailaz suffered a fit of panic. He lifted his arms above his head and shrieked out a wordless invocation to the spirit of the land, promising his body, his life, his soul, to anything or anyone who could end his torment now. Presently, he exhausted himself; the horse still plodded on relentlessly, seemingly unmoved by his outcries. Tears fell down Hailaz’ face to freeze upon his cheeks. Eventually, he dozed, his dreams filled with screams and smoke.
When Hailaz awoke, he thought he must be hallucinating, for upon the far horizon rose the stately spires of some forgotten city. Had he crossed the wilderlands, then? Was this the beginning of the other side? The spires rose black and lightless against the sky, but, whatever they might hide, Hailaz was relieved to see them. Even if monsters lived within its walls, their company was preferable to the pressing desolation of the waste. With a boyish whoop of delight that echoed in the silence, Hailaz kicked the mare into an exhausted canter.
Strangely, the alien buildings wavered before Hailaz’ eyes. As they drew nearer to the ponderous walls of the city, the young prince could not be sure whether those lofty minarets were fabulous examples of opulent luxury or but a sad, skeletal ruin of what once might have been. There was insubstantiality like the flicker of bat’s wings that hovered half-seen beyond his vision. He pleaded aloud, ‘No, let it be real, Nameless Spirits of the Waste. No matter what lies beyond its walls, let it be real.’
He screwed up his eyes and clasped his hands, allowing the reins to flap unheeded as he prayed. When he opened his eyes once more, the city seemed surprisingly nearer than he had thought it to be and undeniably real. Its walls were constructed of black and gleaming stone, with porphyritic glisterings caught by the moon. Beautiful and sombre, it reared against the sky, cloaked in a breathless, waiting silence. Surely that was uncanny for a town so large? Even at night, there should be some sign of habitation. But the lofty walls kept their secrets, revealing nothing of what lay behind their cyclopean stones.
Hailaz could see no way into the city and rode a little way round the wall, seeking some mode of ingress. Suddenly, without warning, his mare stopped dead. The prince could see a great portal hanging open a little further forward, and no guards, who might challenge his entrance, appeared to occupy its wreathing shadows. Hailaz’ mount seemed strongly against the idea of entering the doorway, and it was with a great deal of goading and cursing that Hailaz tyrannised the poor beast into hesitantly braving whatever she felt lay beyond.
Hailaz passed beneath the musty gloom of the overhanging eaves and found himself in the centre of a small cobbled square, flanked by brooding black-stone dwellings and barred shop fronts. He drew in his breath as his benumbed brain took in his surroundings. The city towered over him, so that its tall and exalted towers seemed to scratch the stars. Perspective crushed him with the illusion that the buildings leaned right over him. Tearing his eyes from the soaring summits, he stood up in his stirrups, comforted by the familiar squeak of the worn leather. He attempted to discern some sign of life down any of the labyrinthine streets that swept away like snakes into shadows. He hoped to find a friendly inn, whose proprietor might be kind enough to accommodate him, perhaps in exchange for one of the heavy jewels that still adorned his fingers. But the city was sepulchrally quiet, and a blanket of darkness lay over the houses; it crept in black tendrils through the columns of the mighty temples and assaulted the alabaster caryatids that sneered down from the fronts of hilltop palaces. Darkness. Deep and rich as the thick black oil that once burned in the lamps of Lyye. Even the water in the fountains was stilled here.
Hailaz shivered. Obviously, this was no normal city. It seemed completely deserted and pregnant with a terrible atmosphere, that of an expectant hunger. Hailaz’ mare danced upon her black hooves, as if a pack of terriers were snapping at her heels, and thick, frothing sweat bubbled behind the leather at her ears. Her fear was infectious; terror gripped Hailaz’ heart with gelid claws. He also became aware of the pangs of discomfort in his body: howls of hunger and the dull ache of fatigue.
As he contemplated his discomforts, a thread of sound impinged itself gradually upon the air. It was a thin and plaintive melody that insinuated itself all along the stilled and darkened lanes. As its subtle fingers closed about the mare’s ears, she quieted strangely and ceased to shiver. Hailaz tried to trace the source of the bewitching strain, but it seemed to come from every direction at once.
The mare began to walk again, head lowered almost to her knees. She made her way into a tiny, overhung street that was totally shrouded with blackness. Not a single rat scuttled in the gutter. In fact, the utter cleanliness of the pathways was uncanny. No rats ran here because there was no human waste for them to explore, not even an occasional twirl of fruit peel. The streets were meticulously clean, almost polished.
Eventually, after riding through a labyrinth of alleys, Hailaz found the spectral melody had lured and delivered him to the forecourt of a great white palace, set high above the rest of the city on its own hill. A forest of thick snowy pillars, in whose pristine depths dwelt traces of scarlet fire, fronted it. The formless melody that had seemed to direct the mare’s footsteps had now changed into a sweet and simple song that was full of sorrow. The song conjured images in Hailaz’s mind, and he fancied it was the lament of some wretched creature, who was doomed to live forever alone, a prisoner of the silent city. He tried to dismo
unt from his horse, but his legs were weak and he fell heavily to the floor, cracking his head upon the huge flagstones.
Groaning, Hailaz crawled slowly forward, towards the columns. He was driven to enter the palace. As the shadows closed over him, the song slowly died away. Behind him, the mare pricked up her ears. Following an unseen call, she walked away into the night.
Hailaz found himself kneeling in a gargantuan hall. It was so immense, his senses could barely take it in. He looked back at the entrance, and it seemed to be incredibly far away. Hailaz wondered how he could have dragged himself so far. Still, for all the palace’s silent strangeness, he could not perceive any threat. The air was hushed and still and smelled of nothing. The floor was constructed of enormous slabs, carved with unearthly runes and symbols. Flickering roches of amber light illumined a festival of bizarre carvings on the wall. They seemed to be lewd; strange beasts cavorted with one another. Around them, drapes of inky velvet that were fringed and tasselled cascaded from the high shadows to the floor. Otherwise, the hall was completely devoid of furniture. Hailaz sensed it was a sorry, empty place that once had witnessed great merriment and flooding light. It seemed as if a sad receding echo of those times still bounced from wall to wall.
Hailaz curled up on the floor, and a strange and dreamless sleep came at last to his tortured frame.
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