by Alexey Pehov
Something glinted brightly in the center of Selena. I screwed up my eyes, trying to make out what it was, but unfortunately I couldn’t. After Lady Iena’s death I didn’t feel too keen to approach that dangerous spot, but on the reasonable assumption that I wasn’t in any danger until I actually stood on the magical moon, I walked right up to it—and there was the Key lying in the middle. Either the magic of the dwarves and the Kronk-a-Mor were inimical to the magic used to create this hall, or I was simply lucky, but the artifact was there, I could simply reach out and take it. At least now Egrassa wouldn’t wring my neck for losing the elfin relic. I hung the Key round my neck, since Lafresa hadn’t taken it off the chain.
R-r-oo-oo-oo-aa-aa-aa!
It was time to be going. There had to be another way up. At least, that was what Sagot had said, and he had advised me to use my legs. I just had to find the path.
I strode across the starry sky, looking for a stairway leading upward.
R-r-r-oo-oo-oo-too-doo-oo-oo!
“I hear you, I hear you,” I muttered, walking along the wall.
I couldn’t really call that a stairway. It was nothing but a series of square stone steps set into the sky between the masses of stars. And very awkward steps, too. Climbing them would be sweaty work. But there was nothing to be done about that; the Rainbow Horn wasn’t going to come down to me.
I stood on the first step, jumped, grabbed hold of the second, and pulled myself up. I stood up again, jumped, and pulled myself up. The world blinked and the magic of the starry sky disappeared. The space below me was once again a perfectly ordinary, unremarkable eighth-level hall, brightly illuminated by the light streaming from its walls.
I had to climb for a long time and I was puffing and panting. Balancing on narrow steps where there was barely enough space to set my feet was very difficult. I tried not to look down. I’d climbed so high now that if—Sagot forbid—I started feeling dizzy, I would fall just like Lafresa. When my arms were just about ready to fall off, I found metal brackets hammered into the wall. That made climbing a lot easier, and after a while I reached a wide stone platform.
There was quite a substantial wind blowing up there.
Oo-oo-oo-oo-aa-aa-aa-aa!
At this level the call of the Horn sounded a lot deeper and clearer. That damned tin whistle was somewhere close now. The world blinked again, and once again I seemed to be in the center of a starry sky. Somewhere below me I could just make out the purple spark of Selena, barely visible among the scattered stars. I hadn’t realized just how high I’d climbed.
Right. Which way now? There were no more brackets. The wall above me was smooth, and I could barely even see it because of the magical stars. The ladder leading upward turned out to be where I was least expecting to see it—it was hanging in midair three yards away from the platform I was standing on. And for the thousandth time during my tour of the Palaces of Bone I regretted having lost the cobweb rope.
Now I had just one try at it, a single chance to make the leap.
I studied the stairway leading up into the starry sky carefully again. I could certainly give it a try—and I had no other option in any case. Sagot preserve me!
The stars flickered past below my feet, the ladder grew larger and seemed to go rushing upward, and I just managed to grab hold of the very bottom rung. It turned out to be terribly slippery and it was only by the will of the gods that my fingers held their grip and I wasn’t launched into my final flight to a meeting with Selena.
I jerked my arms, wriggling like a grass snake and gritting my teeth, pulled myself up, threw my left arm over the next rung, then heaved myself up again, swung my feet onto the bottom rung, and started climbing.
Oo-oo-oo-oo-aa-aa-aa-aa!
The wind started getting frisky and the Horn was singing all the time now, filling the Hall of Stars with its mighty battle roar. I tumbled into a brightly lit corridor, leaving the stars behind me.
Oo-oo-oo-oo-aa-aa-aa-aa-r-aa!
The Horn’s roaring made the floor tremble, but I was in no hurry now. Nothing would happen to it, it could wait for me to get my breath back. After twenty yards of corridor, a new starry sky spread its canopy out over my head. Hanging among the lights of the stars was a pearly bridge. I walked across it and came to Grok’s grave.
It was a beautiful structure of amethyst. Something between a summer arbor and a memorial chapel. Four slim, elegant columns supported a dome of delicate blue. Below the dome was a gravestone with the following words carved into it: To Grok, the great warrior, from a grateful country.
“I made it,” I sighed, still not able to believe that I had reached my goal.
I was standing at the grave of the famous military leader and the brother of the Nameless One. But I felt no sacramental tremor, or anything of the kind. So he was a great general, a legend, and he saved the country from the orcs during the Spring War.
So what?
I’d almost saved the country, too, and from the patchy information I had, Grok wasn’t such a great hero, since he was responsible for the appearance of the Nameless One.
The goal of my quest was lying in full view on the grave. The Rainbow Horn. It hadn’t changed at all since the first time I saw it in my waking dream in the Forbidden Territory. A large twisting horn gleaming with a shimmer of bronze, encrusted with mother-of-pearl and bluish ogre bone. A beautiful, skillfully made object. A genuine battle horn that any king would be proud to own.
“May I?” There was a note of pleading in Valder’s voice.
“Go ahead,” I said, opening up and giving him complete freedom.
And now I saw a completely different Horn, surrounded with a rainbow halo that glimmered faintly in the power emanating from the artifact. The power that held the Nameless One in the Desolate Lands. The power that held the Fallen Ones in the depths of Hrad Spein and prevented them from returning to Siala. The power created by the ogres. The power that had destroyed that race and saved others.
It was failing, disappearing, like water draining away into sand. The hours of the magic that filled the Horn were numbered.
“Can you bring back its magic?” I asked the archmagician, keeping my eyes fixed on the treasure.
“No, that would require the power of the entire Council. I’m sorry.”
“Never mind,” I said, although in my heart I had been nursing a vague hope that Valder could do it and I wouldn’t have to carry this dangerous toy with me. “Can you leave now?”
“No.… It’s too weak. Perhaps later, when they fill it with power. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Your company’s beginning to grow on me. It’s better than talking to myself.”
The reply was a quiet little laugh. And then:
“Take it, Harold, and let’s go home.”
Valder was right, there was no time to waste on thinking things over. I licked my lips, which had suddenly gone dry, and approached the grave with my heart pounding in my chest.
There it was. Lying right in front of me. The salvation and the destruction of this world. The trump card in the stupid games of the Masters. What would happen if I dared to carry it out of Hrad Spein? Would that save anyone, or just cause more grief and woe? What should I do? The choice was such a terrible one! To decide the fate of the world and hold power in your own hands. To know that what you do could tip the scales completely and everything could go straight down the ogre’s throat.
Should I really take this thing? Was it worth the lads from our group giving their lives for it?
I stood there, not knowing what I ought to do. I was in some kind of stupor. I couldn’t move a hand or a foot, as if I was spellbound. I stood there looking at the artifact, and it lay there, waiting for the man who had come to Grok’s grave to make up his mind.
“With no doubt or hesitation,” I said, repeating the promise I’d made to Egrassa as if it was an incantation, then I sent the world and its brother to the darkness, stepped forward, and picked the Horn up off the grave.
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The last thing I remembered was the sky flashing and weeping a fiery rain of falling stars for the second time that day.
12
THE MOTH
Sleep is always a relief. It’s like a waterfall that washes away the traveler’s accumulated fatigue. Everyone needs sleep, but sometimes sleep brings nightmares with it. They are its eternal companions, never far away. Waiting for you to drop your guard and give them free rein—and that’s when the nightmares that have been building up their strength really come into their own, bursting into your mind like a tornado and fastening onto your resting brain like ticks.
Every nightmare has its own purpose. One creeps up to frighten and to drink its fill from the well of its victim’s fear, another is no more than an echo of your own conscience, yet another will tear open old wounds, and another will awaken doubt and uncertainty. There are nightmares that will drive you insane and make you want to commit suicide, and there are some …
* * *
Bright. Blinding. Radiant. Unreal. Astounding. Glittering. Sparkling snow.
Lying on the streets of Avendoom in a thick blanket, luxuriating in the rays of the good-natured winter sun. The snow crunches as a myriad beautiful, perfectly formed snowflakes break under the soles of my boots. I walk through the empty streets, listening to this crunching. Trying to hear some other sound in the city, but the city is either asleep or lying low in anticipation of what is coming, and it doesn’t wish to make any noise.
There is no one in the Inner City of Avendoom, either, not even the guards who watch over the peace of the rich men in this district and are always so eager for a gold coin or two. The blanket of snow looks absolutely untouched, as if no one has dared to walk across for an entire week.
I make a few turns and walk away from the central street, through two neighborhoods where the snow is banked up against the houses, and they are just as empty as the city streets and squares. Three hundred yards ahead of me the beautiful Tower of the Order rises up majestically into the air. In the winter, the tower looks as if it is carved out of a single massive block of light blue ice. Another one of the Order’s many tricks that make the stones of the tower look like ice, or wood, or fire, according to the season.
Standing between me and the tower is a figure wearing a gray cloak. The stranger pulls back his hood and I recognize him. I have had the pleasure of making this man’s acquaintance.
Man? No. Vampire.
A pale, bloodless face, thin lips blue with cold, chestnut hair. A gray cloak that’s torn, a coarse shirt of undyed wool. A thick chain on his chest, with a long, smoky-gray crystal hanging on it, sparkling in the sun as brightly as any diamond or dragon’s tear. The vampire is holding a krasta carelessly in his hands. He is not threatening me, there’s no need for that, and the tip of his bizarre weapon is pointing up at the sky.
I stop and look into the Gray One’s impassive eyes. We say nothing. I don’t know how much time goes by, but neither of us wants to speak first.
The face of the sun is suddenly hidden behind a thin veil of gray, and a few seconds later the blue sky has been replaced by low gray clouds. Something white and pitifully small falls to the ground between us.
A snowflake. Others follow the first down from the sky, falling through the completely still air in absolute silence. The world darkens and the winter twilight captures the city with the speed of light cavalry.
“You know why I’m here.” He isn’t asking, he’s telling me.
“I can guess,” I say reluctantly, and pull a wry face.
“You have all taken things too far. The chains restraining the Fallen Ones could snap at any moment, and the world will tremble. Give it to me, before the balance of the scales is finally overthrown.”
It’s not even worth thinking of trying to fight this warrior. I know what will happen if I refuse and don’t give him the treasure—the krasta will slice me in half in the twinkling of an eye, and the Gray One will take the Rainbow Horn anyway. This lad’s far too good for me. It’s painful to lose the prize I struggled to get for all those months when I’m only a few steps away from completing the Commission. Without saying a word, I take the canvas bag off my shoulder and hold it out to the vampire.
“Is it in here?”
“Yes.”
He takes one step, reaches out his hand, and takes the thing that is the goal of my life.
The sparse snowflakes have given way to a thick blizzard and a wind has sprung up, swirling powdery snow across the square. The snow turns the Gray One’s chestnut hair white, but he doesn’t seem to notice. The bright winter day that held the city in its power only a few seconds ago is replaced by a deep, impenetrable night that has crept up unseen.
One more heartbeat, and fiery stars are born in the night sky. They appear on the horizon, move closer, and fall onto the square. Almost all of them fall in the snow, hiss angrily, and go out. One almost hits me, just missing my foot.
It’s an arrow with red and green flights. The Gray One is less fortunate than me; four blazing arrows strike him in the chest at once, as if the bowmen know what their target is.
The warrior sways and goes down on his knees, but he doesn’t let go of the krasta and the bag with the Horn. The first volley of “stars” is followed by a second, far more numerous and in tighter formation. But this time the arrows don’t reach the square, they fall on the roofs of houses in the distance.
A third wave immediately descends on Avendoom, but this time instead of arrows there are huge balls of flame fired from catapults. They smash through the roofs of the houses and explode with a loud whoo-oosh! splashing out tongues of flame and setting buildings on fire. I spot a ball of fire that’s falling into the square and dash away as fast as I can, forgetting all about the Gray One and the Rainbow Horn.
Behind me a giant sighs, a soft hot hand pushes me in the back, and I realize that against all the laws of nature, I’ve learned how to fly. I fly … for a second … an instant … for one heartbeat I soar above the square like an eagle, then I crash at full speed into a snowdrift that has sprung up along the wall of one of the houses.
* * *
Whoo-oosh! the giant sighs belatedly.
I crawl out of the snowdrift into islands of snow and fire. The wind rages, driving the herd of snowflakes this way and that, tossing the unfortunates into the fire, where they die in their thousands, but still can’t extinguish the rampant flames.
The Gray One is still on his knees, he isn’t even trying to get up, and I realize that no more than ten seconds has gone by since the first volley of arrows. The vampire and I are separated by flames, but I can see a way through, marked out in little white islands of snow. It’s now or never! I take out my crossbow, and by some miracle it is already loaded with two ice bolts. I have to risk it. I take my first step toward the vampire.
The silence bursts like a soap bubble, and from somewhere in the distance I hear the sound of battle horns calling the inhabitants of Avendoom to arms. The bell of the Cathedral sounds the alarm.
Alarm! Alarm! Get up! Get up!
About thirty soldiers go running past. Holding spears, swords, halberds, and crossbows. Some have blue and gray bands on their arms—the royal guard; some have black and orange bands—the municipal guard. Taking no notice of me, the guards form up at the entrance to the square and block off the narrow street. The front row goes down on one knee and holds out its spears, the second row is made up of men with halberds and men with crossbows. The crossbowmen fire a volley from behind their comrades’ backs. Some of the soldiers start reloading their weapons, some fling the crossbows aside and take out swords. A flood of soldiers appears through the veil of snow with a roar. They have red and green plumes waving on their helmets. Darkness! The soldiers of the Crayfish Dukedom are in the city! How did that happen?
The battle starts. The crossbowmen fire another volley and several of the enemy fall. And then the hand-to-hand fighting starts. Red and green soldiers die on the spears and halberds
, but Avendoom has too few defenders, and the enemies keep on pouring out from behind the curtain of snow in an endless torrent. In a minute or two the “crayfish” will break through into the square.
I have to take the Horn and carry it into the tower, before it’s too late. I spin round and run toward the Gray One. The vampire is leaning on his krasta, trying to get up. I run as hard as I can, but someone gets there before me.…
The figure emerges from the tower of the Order … is it a phantom? I can see the silhouette of a figure. I know it’s a living man, but I can only make out a blurred patch. He skims across the fire and the snow until he is beside the Gray One.… Despite his wounds, the vampire is quick, quicker than any man, his krasta explodes into a blur, howling like a scalded cat, but the man veers to one side, ends up behind the Gray One’s back, and attacks.
The crimson sphere tears the vampire warrior in two and the man, who has already completely forgotten about his enemy, leans down nimbly and picks my bag up off the ground.
The unruly wind blows snowflakes straight into my eyes. I can’t hear the bell, or the battle horns, or the battle. Everything has disappeared. He and I are the only ones left in all the world. The stranger looks at me. It’s only a fleeting glance, but I realize that the Gray One’s killer has given victory to one of the Masters. I blink to clear the detestable snowflakes off my eyelashes, and the man takes his chance to disappear. I pluck up my courage and approach the Gray One lying on the snow. As I expected, the vampire is still alive.
“The Master’s Player has gone over to the other side … and taken possession … of the chain.… You shouldn’t have … taken the Horn … now the balance … has been disrupted.…”
I look at him, puzzled, and can’t understand a thing. The Player has refused to serve the Master of Siala? Could the Gray Ones’ prophecy really have come true? Could the Dancer in the Shadows who created Siala really have lost? And then the world stops. The snowflakes stand still. The tongues of flame freeze in the square and in the skeletons of the blazing houses, the fiery arrows hang in the air, the warriors pause, with their swords and spears held still. A moment of nothingness that consumes everything.