by Alexey Pehov
The caps of the mushrooms looked like huge cathedral domes and they gave off a steady yellow light that lit up the area for twenty yards around them, and I could clearly see the grass growing in the cave and a path that led off somewhere into the gloom. I could also see four … hmm, I suppose you could have called them ants, bustling around.
At least, the creatures looked more like ants than anything else, although you’re not likely to see ants the length of a man’s arm anywhere else in the world, and completely white, as if they had been rolled in flour. Six legs, eagerly twitching feelers on long heads, massive mandibles, and nothing at all that looked like eyes.
They took no notice of me and it didn’t look as if they meant to attack, which was very cheering for my own peaceable and by no means aggressive personage. I walked round the brigade of oversized ants and set off toward the strange mushrooms. An ant was sitting on one of the mushroom caps and I stopped, uncertain whether to go any closer. Sagot only knew what kind of tricks the insect might pull if it was distracted from what it was doing and caught my scent.
Meanwhile the ant cut a piece out of the mushroom’s cap, which had already suffered plenty of damage, and clambered down the mushroom’s stalk, clutching the trophy in its jaws. I waited until the ant and its edible lantern were out of sight and then walked toward the mushroom. Why was I any worse than an ant? I ought to cut off a small lantern for my own needs as well.
No chance. An ant appeared out of nowhere and blocked my way. And this wasn’t a worker, he was a soldier, I could tell that from his size (a cubit longer than his brothers) and his massive mandibles (they could easily cut through your leg). I waved my hand, trying to attract his attention, but it had no effect, except that his feelers twitched. I took a step toward the ant and he clattered his mandibles irritably in response. Clear enough. I wasn’t going to be allowed anywhere near the mushroom.
“If I had my crossbow, you’d be a bit more polite.”
The guard didn’t respond to that, either. Why bother talking to me, if I didn’t have the crossbow?
Well, now we could try a different approach. I walked back a bit and waited for the ant to leave. Eventually, he did.
I then approached the mushroom, cut off a piece the size of my fist, and set off along the path.
The mushroom gave off even more light than my magical lanterns and, after the long dreary corridor between the hall and the underground lake, it was a gift from the gods.
The path was like a convolution in a Doralissian’s brain. No intersections, no branches.
What about food? May Sagot have mercy! I could have wolfed down an entire bull, stuffed with three sheep, and they had to be stuffed with wood grouse or whatever it was such dishes are supposed to be stuffed with. I was desperately hungry. The piece of mushroom I was holding gave off a divine aroma, and every so often I had to gulp down my saliva to avoid choking on it and dying the death of the bold and the brave. Or the death of the hungry. But I still hadn’t gone completely insane from hunger, and my reason refused to let me try the mushroom. In the first place, I wasn’t a goblin shaman, going around guzzling raw mushrooms and writing crazy books of prophecies. In the second place, I didn’t want to end up writhing on the grass in my death agony if the mushroom turned out to be a poisonous toadstool.
The cluster of mushrooms I’d come across when I left the corridor wasn’t the only one in the cave. From time to time my gaze fell on new islets of light. Naturally, every mushroom had already been claimed and had one or even two soldier ants guarding it.
The deeper I went into the cave, the more ants I met. Most of them were workers dashing about their business, but sometimes I met guards. They took no notice of me, as long as I didn’t make any sudden movements or go too close to them. The workers were obviously busily maintaining the welfare of their own anthill. I reined in my curiosity and didn’t bother the insects. Why provoke the local inhabitants, especially since I’d never get away from them if they decided to tear me to pieces? No weapon could save you against numbers like that.
But later I broke my vow and came into very close contact with the ants’ property. It happened when the number of insects dropped pretty sharply, to no more than two or three insects a minute, instead of fifty.
By the light of the mushroom I saw the following picture: Low thorny bushes growing alongside the path with a couple of worker ants crawling around them. The lads were plucking small green fruits about the size of an apple off the bushes. I waited until they’d eaten their fill and gone on their way, then I looked around and, since I didn’t notice any guards, I started picking the fruit and stuffing it into my bag, on the reasonable assumption that if it didn’t kill the insects, it wouldn’t kill me … probably. The huge thorns on the branches pricked my hands even through my gloves and I winced, but didn’t stop until my bag was crammed with fruit. As soon as it was, I got out of there as quickly as I could, before the ants could catch me at the scene of the crime.
But actually tasting the fruit still required great courage. It was covered with a thick skin and I had to use my knife on it. My nostrils were tickled by the aroma of plums and raspberries. My stomach started gurgling insistently. I took one bite and only came to my senses again after I’d wolfed down four of the fruits. Amazingly enough, my hunger disappeared as if I’d devoured an entire roasted goose. If the fruits turned out to be poisonous after all, at least I was going to die feeling satisfied.
Things looked better immediately. I cheered up a bit and the road ahead no longer seemed weary and endless. About forty minutes later I’d left the Cave of the Ants—as I’d decided to call the place—behind me and walked up a broad stairway into the next cave. The columns here reminded me of dragon’s teeth, and I felt as if I was somewhere in the mouth of a huge monster.
The mushroom was still shining away, and the path wasn’t showing any signs of disappearing, so Harold arrived at the final goal of his present journey without any problems or sudden surprises.
The teeth-columns parted to reveal the entrance to a rather small room. The path divided into eight branches, leading into eight corridors. But they weren’t for me—if what the Messenger had said could be believed, my journey through the Level Between Levels would end here.
The walls were covered with doors cast from bronze that had turned dark green with the passage of time. They had massive handles of the same metal, and there was no sign of any locks or bolts.
I stepped off the path and walked over the grass to the nearest door. After a spot of difficulty, I found what I was looking for. A small blue circle in the bottom corner. Now all I had to do was find a door with a red triangle, pray to Sagot, and walk into the eighth level. I set off along the doors, looking for the right mark.
A green circle, a yellow square, a red square, a black rhomboid, a purple circle, and a triangle—but it was orange. I walked past doors marked with circles, squares, and rhomboids of every possible color. But there wasn’t a single red triangle. Eventually I reached the last door on my tour. There was a green line on it.
Could I possibly have missed the sign I needed? Or maybe no such sign existed? Maybe this was one of the Messenger’s jolly jokes? I’d have to check the marks carefully again. I suppose I could simply have missed it.
The first door. There was a red circle on it.
What was going on? I remembered clearly that there was a blue circle there before. The next door—and now, instead of a yellow circle there was a white rhomboid. The next door—and instead of a yellow square there was a brown triangle. Once I went all the way round, all the signs changed.
Keep calm, Harold! I inspected all the doors again and still didn’t find what I needed. Every single shape and color imaginable, like the Great Market in Ranneng, but there was no little red triangle to be seen anywhere.
Round the circle a third time. The first door. A green square. How much longer could this go on?
I accidentally touched a cold bronze surface and recoiled sharply�
��the door had turned transparent for a moment. I’d seen what was on the other side! My curiosity was too powerful to resist, and I pressed my palm against the cold surface again. For a couple of seconds nothing happened, then fine ripples started running across the surface and the door turned transparent and I saw the Doors to the third level in front of me.
I went up to the next door and put my hand on it, too.
A huge, brightly lit hall filled with heaps of diamonds. I didn’t know where in the Palaces of Bone this wonder was, but anyone who could get to it was an incredibly lucky man. He’d be rich until the end of time.
I moved on, looking through the doors and not forgetting to search for the red triangle at the same time. Dozens of faceless halls on all levels. But after the Doors, I didn’t see a single place that was even vaguely familiar. In the time I spent walking round those doors, so many pictures of Hrad Spein appeared that my head was filled with a total muddle. The only thing I remembered was a skeleton striding from corner to corner in some vestibule and crimson sparks in some large hall. Imagine the smooth black velvet curtain of night, with crimson sparks scattering across it in the distance, looking very much like the fiery snowflakes of the world of Chaos. I had no doubt that this door led to one of the deepest levels of the Palaces of Bone.
Another door. I put my hand on it and gasped out loud in surprise. It was a night scene. The light of the slim moon was barely enough to light up the clearing surrounded by majestic golden-leafs. There was a small fire glowing close to the entrance to Hrad Spein. Its timid flickering awoke a strange yearning in my heart. There were soldiers sleeping beside the fire. There was just a still figure of the sentry standing on the boundary line between the firelight and the night. The sentry stirred and I recognized Eel.
This was my chance! I could escape from Hrad Spein this very moment! All I had to do was open the door and step through it, and I would be free! No more cursed stone walls, coffins, catacombs, fear, weariness, endless nightmares, and lack of sleep, no more hunger, no more running.
I could send the quest for the Rainbow Horn to all the demons of darkness, send the Commission even farther, and forget these last few days, as if they were nothing but a terrible dream. My hand reached out for the door handle against my will, and the door opened very easily.
A breath of the fresh autumn night and campfire smoke blew into my face. I breathed the aroma in like a gift from the gods. One step, and the nightmare would be over. Just one step, that was all. I opened the door a little wider and the hinges creaked gently. The sound was enough to alert Eel and make him start walking toward me. I didn’t know if he’d seen anything or was simply following the sound, but I wanted very much to shout out and attract his attention.
“Look to the right, Harold,” Valder whispered to me.
His voice broke the spell, and I looked. In the lower corner of the door to my right, there was a triangle. A red one.
Cursing all the gods and the Master, and fickle fate into the bargain. I slammed shut the door to freedom, lifted my hand off the handle, and took a step back. I was trembling convulsively, and no wonder! I’d almost ruined everything. Almost burned my bridges. Curses! What on earth had come over me?
“Thank you, Valder.”
“I just thought you might not like to walk through all eight levels again,” he said with a gloomy chuckle.
“You thought right,” I replied, still unable to gather my wits. “Thanks again.”
“Don’t thank me too much, I have my own interest in this business.”
“And what’s that?”
“My non-death started with the Rainbow Horn, when … well, you know what I mean.”
I certainly did. That was the very first dream vision I’d had.
“I console myself with the hope that—” He paused, as if afraid of extinguishing this timidly flickering flame of hope. “—that when I’m somewhere near the Horn again, I shall be able to leave this world and find peace.”
“Let’s hope you’re right, Valder, and the artifact does help you.”
“I hope so,” he sighed.
“Did you hear my conversation with the Messenger?”
“Yes.”
“Is he telling the truth?”
A long pause, and then …
“Yes, the Rainbow Horn is the force that can disrupt the balance.”
“What about the Master? Is what the Messenger says about him and those other beings, and about me, true?”
“I don’t know.”
“But if the Horn is capable of disrupting the balance, perhaps we shouldn’t…”
“The balance can be disrupted whether you take the Horn or not. It doesn’t depend on the Horn any longer.”
“But what should I do?”
“Fulfill the Commission and pray to Sagot,” Valder said, and stopped talking.
Fulfill the Commission and don’t think about a thing.… Hah! I walked up to the door with the red triangle on it, took a deep breath, opened it wide, and walked into the eighth level of the Palaces of Bone.
11
THE RAINBOW HORN
I found myself in a small room that smelled of age, dust, and candles. Whatever else might be lacking, there were certainly plenty of candles—the entire room was crammed with candlesticks.
A hefty metal table piled high with books and scrolls, heavy drapes of dark claret velvet on the walls, a faded Sultanate carpet on the floor—it almost came unraveled under my feet. In the far corner, beside the way out, a small cupboard with shelves packed with jars and flasks. A picture in a heavy, ornate, gilded frame on one of the walls. It was impossible now to tell what the unknown artist had originally painted—all the colors had faded. Two bronze-bound chests standing beside the table.
I looked back, but the door I had come through to enter the room was gone. There was no way I could get back to the Level Between Levels now.
I walked over to the table and lifted the lid of the nearest chest out of curiosity. No, there wasn’t any treasure inside. The trunk was filled right up to the top with fine quality wheat. A very strange choice. Who on earth could have got the idea of bringing something so useless down from the first level? The second trunk was filled halfway up with wheat berries.
I slammed the lid down in annoyance and turned my attention to the table, with its books and yellowed scrolls, covered with an immensely thick layer of dust. I had no intention of touching them, but for some reason Valder decided to say something.
“Wait. Go back to them.”
I walked back to the table and picked up the first book that came to hand.
“I can’t read these squiggles,” I said, looking at the book without the slightest interest.
“I can. It’s old orcish. A magical book. It’s priceless.”
Well, maybe it was priceless, but I wasn’t going to lug it back up to the surface. The book was as heavy as Kli-Kli after a binge on cherries.
“Pick up that one, with the yellow cover.”
I raked aside the scrolls, raising a thick cloud of dust, and fished out the book that Valder wanted. It was a bit larger than my palm and about two fingers thick. There was gnomish writing on the cover.
“The Little Book of Gnomish Spells.”
Was that a note of awe I heard in Valder’s voice? Well, I supposed that wasn’t so very surprising. All the gnomes’ books were hidden away in the Zam-da-Mort and neither the gnomes nor the dwarves could get at them. The dwarves wouldn’t let their closest relatives within a cannon-shot of their mountains, but they couldn’t figure out how to open the magical depository without them.
That was why what I was holding in my hands was immensely valuable to both the races. I twirled the book this way and that, then carefully put it back in its place. I certainly wasn’t going to take it with me, or even tell Hallas and Deler about my find. There was no point. The little book in the yellow cover could easily ignite a conflagration that would end in a new Battle of the Field of Sorna. I certainly wasn’
t going to be the one who unleashed another round of slaughter between the dwarves and the gnomes.
“Is there anything else that interests you, Valder?”
No reply.
I shrugged and walked toward the door. It was time to grab the Rainbow Horn and get out of this inhospitable place … fast.
* * *
Now that was talking big! “Grab the Rainbow Horn”! I had to get to the lousy tin whistle first! And getting to it turned out not to be so simple.
When I stepped out of the library room, I stepped into a wide corridor or hall. It was shrouded in shadows and semidarkness, just like the sixth level. Wax torches spluttered in an attempt to illuminate the underground Palaces, but unfortunately they didn’t have the power for it. Everything seemed to be quiet, but I stayed alert and kept stopping to listen. Thank Sagot, there was nothing terrible or mysterious. The eighth level was cold, though, and the constant drafts blowing out of the side corridors cut straight through me.
I didn’t have any maps, but, remembering what the Messenger said, I kept walking straight on without turning off. Of course, it was stupid to trust a servant of the Master, but so far everything he said had been true, and I thought that improvising was probably not the best way out of the difficult situation I was in.
After I’d walked for half an hour, the torches on the walls were spaced wider apart and I had to take my mushroom lamp out again. Then came a series of halls with rows of massive, squat columns along the walls, vaulted ceilings, and buttresses. The architectural style was quite crude and careless, very hasty, although I was certain that the halls had been created by orcs and elves. This was the slapdash way all the Young Races had done things when they were desperate to get out of here. But, strictly speaking, that was a perfectly sane desire for any rational being—although I only started to understand what the reason was forty minutes after I left the last torch behind me.