by Alexey Pehov
There was a grinning orc protecting a fallen comrade with his shield, but he hadn’t noticed the elf armed with an orcish ax standing behind him. There was a Secondborn struggling to stay in the saddle, and a Firstborn had grabbed his horse’s bridle and was just about to hack off the elf’s leg with his yataghan. There were an elf and an orc, twined together in a knot of death, each struggling to hold back the other’s arm and at the same time reach him with his dagger.
I forgot all about being cautious and looked at the statues as if I was spellbound. Waiting for frozen time to thaw out again, for the underground hall to resound with the clash of weapons and roaring of the warriors.
There, at the very center of the hall, was a small brigade of Firstborn with spears, drawn up into a circle to form a round “hedgehog” and trying to hold off elves on horseback. Over there a group of elves had fired arrows into ten orcs who were attacking them, and now they were reaching to take more deaths out of their quivers. Six Firstborn were already lying on the floor, despite their chain mail, but the other four—one of them was wounded in the leg—were still running toward their enemies. I wondered whether, if this was a real battle, they would manage to reach the Secondborn before the bowmen could fire another volley.
I walked on.
There was an elf desperately trying to protect himself with his arm against an ax that was being swung down on him by a brutal orc wearing the clan badges of the Grun Ear-Cutters.
I walked on.
An elf with his arms raised, and his open palms upward. But he wasn’t thinking of surrendering. There were heaps of orcs lying around the elf, like trees felled by a fierce hurricane. The elfin shaman had swept away a whole detachment of Firstborn, like a vicious dog that has come across a litter of blind kittens.
I walked on.
An orc was protecting himself with a shield that had a picture of some mythical bird as he tried to repulse an attack from three very young and very eager elves. Four of the Secondborn had already lost their lives, and a fifth was grimacing in pain as he tried to bind up the stump of his right arm.
I walked on.
An elf sinking his fangs into an orc’s throat.
Farther …
An elf trying to hold in the entrails tumbling out of his gashed stomach.
Farther …
An orc smashing an elf’s head with a spiked club.
Farther …
An elf firing an arrow at point-blank range into an orc who was looking the wrong way.
A new scene …
The commanders of the Firstborn and the Secondborn have launched into a duel with spears; orcs and elves have forgotten their own mutual hostility and are standing around together, watching the fight.
An elf holding a Firstborn by his braid and raising his s’kash to hack off his enemy’s head.
An elf lying crushed under his own horse, with his arm twisted at an unnatural angle.
An orc standing alone in the shadow, aiming his bow at the commander of one of the elfin detachments.
I walked on.
Like a weightless shadow, I slipped between the figures, under the spears poised to thrust and swords suspended in the air.
I looked at the elves and the orcs trying to deal with an ogre that had appeared out of nowhere, clutching a stone hammer.
My gaze fell on an orcess. It was the first time I’d seen a woman from the race of the Firstborn. She looked a lot like Miralissa, except that her hair wasn’t gathered into a braid, but a long tail. The orcess was armed with two crooked swords and the sculptor had caught her as she was spinning round. One crooked sword had slit an elf’s throat and the other was thrusting forward toward another enemy.
I walked right up to the orcess and gazed into that smooth face with its imprint of wild beauty and desperation. I couldn’t resist touching her cheek with my finger. For a second nothing happened, and then a series of thin, winding cracks ran across the statue’s cheek. The cracks ran across the entire face, branching and spreading, and small pieces of stone started to fall away, revealing the true face of this female warrior.
Staring out at me through empty eye sockets was a skull bearing the remains of rotted flesh. The orcess’s wild beauty had disappeared in an instant.
And then I realized that it wasn’t stone, but only a thin glaze, covering bodies that had once been alive. I realized that the figures in the halls were not statues, but orcs and elves who had once been alive and had been frozen instantly in eternal sleep. Someone had played a vicious joke, forcing the dead soldiers to continue with a never-ending war that had been going on for thousands of years now. I stopped admiring the battle and tried to get out of the halls of “toy soldiers” as quickly as possible. I made my way through the ranks of elves, trying not to touch anyone, in order not to break the dead warriors’ covering.
But I still wondered if there really had been a battle here. If there had, then what power and what magic could have instantly transformed all the soldiers into statues that had stood there for thousands of years? Of course, I couldn’t come up with an answer to that question, so I simply walked faster, quite reasonably assuming that the foulest surprises happen at the most unexpected moments, and I could easily get caught by some nasty magical trap, too. It wasn’t very pleasant to think of somebody seeing me in a thousand years’ time as a statue entitled Harold, who tried to reach the Rainbow Horn but never got there.
The Halls of the Warriors ended as suddenly they had started. There were no more statues ahead. Well now, it was the first time I could remember when not a single line of a verse had come true. Nobody had tried to stick a knife or a pair of fangs into me. And I didn’t understand those phrases “tormented by thirst” and “undead sinners,” either. I wasn’t particularly upset that nothing genuinely unpleasant had happened, but … the verses had never been wrong before, and then suddenly here was this surprising discrepancy between the word and the fact. Maybe I’d just walked through at a safe time?
“More likely someone walked through before you and made the path safe,” Valder whispered, and I shuddered in surprise.
“Valder!” I whispered. “You want to stay inside my head for a bit longer, don’t you? Then please don’t frighten me like that again, or I’ll die of a heart attack, and you’ll have to look for a new refuge!”
No reply.
It was only then that I realized what the archmagician had been talking about.… Who could have walked through ahead of me and made the path safe? The answer was obvious.
“How would I know?” the archmagician said, and fell silent.
Well, that was the worst possible news. The very last thing I needed was that sorceress right in front of me! Even if the Messenger did say that the Master had abandoned his grudge against me, I wasn’t stupid. I didn’t want to come face-to-face with a witch who had risked entering Hrad Spein to get the Key from me. And, of course, there was no reason to believe that Lady Iena felt any particular love for me, so I really ought to keep as far away from her as possible.
A sequence of faceless, dimly lit halls with stairways leading down into the depths of the Palaces of Bone. I walked through a gallery, then came to another hall. As I walked into it I quietly flipped my lid, as Kli-Kli would have said. A round hall about sixteen yards across. Mirror walls, a mirror ceiling, a floor concealed from my eyes by a thin layer of dense white mist. Strange. Very strange.
The world blinked and I felt the pressure of the air against my eyes. An instant later, the strange sensations had disappeared. And so had the way out. Where it had been there was an unbroken mirror wall. I turned round. The way in had gone, too. Someone had decided to seal me in the round hall.
Trying not to panic, I walked over to the place where the way out had been, put my hand on the mirror, and tried in vain to push it aside and open up the passage to freedom. On closer inspection it turned out that the walls of the hall weren’t made of mirrors, but of silver.
They were built of massive slabs of pure silv
er that had been polished for a long, long time with river sand so they gleamed like a mirror. But the most interesting thing was that the ideal mirrors of the walls reflected everything else in the hall, but for some reason they had forgotten to show my own thievish personage.
I moved along the wall, walking round the circle and trying to guess the hall’s secret, trying to find the way out. One full circle. Two. Three. No clues. Something in the hall had changed, but I couldn’t understand what. Then I noticed that the mist had disappeared, and now the floor was covered with the small pieces of a red and yellow mosaic.
I walked on round like a man under a spell. After another circle, the mosaic was yellow and blue. Another round—and it was black and white.
What sort of nonsense was this? Either the floor had decided to change color, or … Oh no, that was nonsense! Although … although it could be the right answer—by walking on and on round the circle in the little mirror hall of Hrad Spein, I was also moving forward. Did that mean I could reach the way out like this? I had nothing better to do.
A few more times round the circle, and a man appeared out of thin air in front of me. I grabbed my knife, because my walking had led me to Paleface. The Master’s hired killer and running dog wasn’t moving, and his attention was focused entirely on the mirror he was facing. I called his name. No response. But what if my dear old friend Rolio, who had been hunting my carcass ever since Avendoom, was only pretending and waiting for his chance? No, it didn’t look that way.
Holding the knife at the ready, I walked up to my sworn enemy. I was right beside him, but he didn’t move. I only had to reach out my hand, and Paleface was a dead man. I’d been wanting to do it for so long, but I didn’t hurry, I just stared at his face in amazement.
He was gazing into the mirror, mesmerized. Out of curiosity, I tried doing the same thing, but I didn’t see anything special. Just Paleface and the hall. Still no reflection of me. A strange mirror in one more strange and mysterious place in Hrad Spein.
Rolio’s clothes were tattered and torn in places, and he had several bruises on his face. The only weapons he had were a dagger and a few throwing stars on his belt. After thinking for a moment, I took the stars for myself. I wasn’t very familiar with this kind of weapon, but if your pockets were empty, it was a sin to complain when you found a copper coin. I clicked my tongue in disappointment when I saw the assassin didn’t have any food or personal belongings on him.
I didn’t kill him. I don’t know what stopped me, but … I just couldn’t do it! Rolio was absolutely no threat now. His mind was wandering somewhere far, far away, and I’d never been trained to slit a defenseless man’s throat. So I just left Paleface there in his world of dreams with the mirror. But, naturally, I didn’t turn my back as I walked away from him.
When I finally did turn away from the assassin and walked on for another three steps, I suddenly heard someone gurgling and wheezing. Paleface was lying on the floor and scarlet blood was gushing out of his mouth. Reason had returned to Rolio’s eyes, together with horror at the realization that death was near. He noticed me, tried to twist his lips into that eternal sneer of his, and died.
His eyes glazed over and rolled up, the blood stopped pouring out of his mouth onto his clothes and the floor. I looked calmly at the body of the man who had been trying to dispatch me into the darkness, and walked on.
As was only to be expected, on the next circuit, Rolio and his blood had simply disappeared. I cast a glance of annoyance at the mirror and froze in absolute amazement. This was the very last thing I was expecting the mirror to show me.…
* * *
A familiar room. A massive table, chairs with ornate backs, and a deep armchair by a window covered with a fancy wooden grille. A picture on some spiritual theme painted onto the nearest wall. The table was groaning under plates of food and bottles of wine. The man sitting there was gobbling a whole chicken. He looked up from his plate, reached out a huge, fat hand for his glass of wine, and noticed me.
“Hey kid! What’s been taking so long?” asked For with a friendly wave. “Come on in, before the food gets cold, don’t just stand in the doorway!”
I stared at him in astonishment.
“Well, how are you, Harold? How did it all go? Don’t just stand there, I wanted to tell you it seems like our little deal is going to be quite profitable, and we ought to—”
I leapt back from the mirror as if it was a man with the copper plague. I was shaking. A h’san’kor! I’d really been taken in! Almost fallen for it completely! But that really was For! My old teacher! Only he wasn’t in Avendoom any longer. He’d taken off to Garrak just as soon as I left with my group. It was a lot safer in Garrak than in our capital city. I looked hard into the mirror, but I couldn’t see the room or For in it anymore. The mirage had disappeared, and once again the silver reflected nothing but the hall.
I walked on.
* * *
The sunset on a clear summer evening is always beautiful, especially when you’re up on top of a high hill, and you can see the area all around. There was a broad river running past below, and the rays of the setting sun had turned its water the color of molten copper. On the opposite bank there was a settlement—either a big village or a small town. The gentle evening breeze was blowing in my face, bringing with it a scent of water, clover, and the smoke of a small campfire. I could hear a herd of cows lowing in the distance as the cowherd drove them home.
There was a large tree with spreading branches growing on the hill. The campfire was burning under the tree, and there was a cooking pot in it, bubbling away merrily and giving off an incredible aroma of fish soup. There were three men sitting round the fire. The oldest, who had a thick gray beard that looked like matted sheep’s wool, was solemnly stirring the food with a wooden spoon. The other two—a tall, bald soldier with a scar right across his forehead and a small plump man with a funny mustache—were playing dice and swearing at each other good-naturedly. A fourth man appeared from behind the tree. He had a net in one hand and a pike in the other.
“A fine catch, Marmot,” Arnkh said with a nod of approval as he tossed the dice.
“Ah, Sagra! You win again!” Tomcat exclaimed, shaking his head in disappointment. “What rotten lousy luck! Uncle, when are we going to eat?”
“When everyone’s here,” the sergeant of the Wild Hearts growled into his beard.
“A-a-ah, that’s no good!” Marmot drawled, dropping the pike and the net on the grass. “We’ll be waiting forever!”
“Look, Harold’s already here,” Arnkh announced, getting up off the grass. “Are you here to stay or just dropping by?”
“Just dropping by,” I mumbled stupidly.
“Like some fish soup, Harold?” asked Uncle, trying the broth with his spoon and grunting in delight as he took the pot off the fire.
“But you’re all dead,” I said stupidly.
“Really?” Marmot and Tomcat glanced at each other in surprise.
“I’m more alive than all the living, and I’m very hungry,” Tomcat eventually replied. “Are you joining us?”
I shook my head and backed away from the fire.
“Well then, if you’re not hungry, we’ll get started, and you go down to the water to get the others; we can’t wait for them forever!”
I nodded, but kept on backing away. This wasn’t where I belonged! This was only a dream! It was a different world! A different reality! Where my friends were still alive and had no intention of dying.
“Hey, Harold! Tell Hallas I wasn’t supposed to be cooking today!” Uncle’s shout reached me just as the picture in the mirror started to disappear.
* * *
I walked on and saw Lafresa. She was staring into the mirror about ten yards ahead of me.
Lafresa tore her gaze away from the mirror, noticed me, and narrowed her eyes. Then she took a step away from me and froze in front of the mirror wall. I followed her example and found myself …
* * *
A forest meadow, surrounded by a stockade of tall fir trees. The grass was completely covered with the bodies of elves. Only two of them were still alive, standing there without speaking, looking at the prostrate body of a h’san’kor. I couldn’t make out who these two were, I could only see that they were an elf and an elfess. Then I understood.…
I involuntarily took a step toward them. They both heard the rustling of the grass and turned round. The elf drew his bow, and the arrow pointed straight into my face. The elf’s one golden eye carefully followed every movement I made. The other eye was missing—an old injury from an orcish arrow.
Ell.
“What do you want here, man?” Miralissa asked in a hoarse voice.
“I…”
“Get out, this is our forest!” said the k’lissang, and his one eye glinted brightly.
“Why have you come here?” asked Miralissa, wiping away the blood streaming out of her ear.
“For the Rainbow Horn.”
“The Rainbow Horn?” she asked, shaking her head sadly. “Too late. The Firstborn have the Horn now, and even we can do nothing. The elves lost the battle, and Greenwood is destroyed. This is no place for you.”
“Very well,” I said, and stepped back.
The elves in front of me were not the ones I had known. They were quite different. Alien.
Ell kept his one eye firmly fixed on me and said something in orcish. His words sounded like a question.
“Dulleh,” Miralissa answered, and turned away, no longer interested in me.
Dulleh. I thought I’d heard that word before. I jumped at the very same moment as the elf shot his arrow at me.…
* * *
I fell on the floor and looked at the empty mirror in horror. In orcish dulleh means “shoot.” If I hadn’t remembered the word that Miralissa once said to Egrassa, I would have been lying dead with an arrow in my head. I walked on, hurrying after Lafresa, who always managed to be ahead of me, waiting to see what surprises the mirrors had in store.…