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.
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.
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
