vents twisting inwards into darkness – entering one of those vents, a dragon or even one of the Neversh would have looked like a gnat flying into a mammoth's mouth.
Higher still, a delicate tracery of arches and linkways patterned the sky; rising through this spiderweb fantasy, seventy-six towers soared skywards, each swelling suddenly toward zenith. Stronghold Handfast, then: made by masters so long forgotten that it was no longer possible even to say whether they had been human.
This entire structure was made of building blocks no larger than a man's thumb, and, in their millions, they changed colour with a slow, crawling rhythm, so that at any one time some were blue, some green, some red, some yellow. This gave the impression that the structure was, in some ominous way, alive.
'It looks deserted,' said Blackwood.
'Maybe,' said Hearst.
They had spent a long time concealed amid rocks near one of the entrances to Stronghold Handfast, but their scrutiny had told them nothing more about what they might be faced with.
'Let's charge,' said Alish, rising, 'and see how far we get.'
'We could wait for darkness,' said Garash. 311 'Wait if you wish,' said Alish. 'All right then, I'll come. But maybe we should go in through the back door.' 'For all we know, this is the back door.' 'Oh.'
'Wait a moment,' said Hearst. 'What's the hind legs?'
By which he meant: what's plan B?
This Rovac idiom sounded very peculiar in the Galish Trading Tongue, which they were using out of courtesy to the wizards, who spoke no Rovac. if we don't get in through the nearest entrance,' said Alish, 'it'll be because we're dead, so we don't need any hind legs.'
'That's just as well,' said Garash, 'because I was born without them in any case.'
'Yes,' said Alish. 'Like the rest of the chickens. Now run!'
They sprinted across the open ground to the nearest entrance, boots crunching in the crisp snow. Garash, whose sprint was rather leisurely as there was no dragon or similar to inspire him – in the traditional story about the tortoise and the old, old wizard, there is no mystery at all about why the tortoise won the race – was last to gain the entrance. It was doorless.
'Which way now?' said Blackwood, finding he had no empathy whatever with the utterly alien maze confronting them.
'Silence,' said Hearst. 'Listen.'
They waited: listening, watching. Hearst, Alish, Gorn, Garash, Blackwood, Miphon: they were all tense, apprehensive, on edge.
Hearst drew Hast, but the balance of the blade gave him no confidence. He was unnerved by Stronghold Handfast. Unlike any architecture he had seen before, it had no symmetry. From where they stood they could see into a great hall where in some places the roof dipped low but where in other places it soared upward into dizzying heights. Pillars rose at random to support the weight of the roof: some square, some arched, some twisting upwards in spirals.
– A pile of rocks, but. Who are we to be frightened of a pile of rocks? But what hands? What feet? Strength, man of Rovac, strength. Are you not a hero?
Hearst failed to draw comfort from his own thoughts.
Somewhere along their long journey – perhaps when he had inspected the corpse of his first dragon-kill – he had begun to have his doubts about the merits of the ethos of the kind of ruthless, sword-slaughtering heroism celebrated by the songs of Rovac.
Still… he had sworn his oath, so he could hardly turn back now. Whatever his thoughts about heroism, he had no doubts whatsoever about the sacred nature of an oath.
So, sword in hand, he followed when Alish advanced. The others also followed, glancing back from time to time at the daylit entrance, which steadily receded behind them. Suddenly a coil of liquid black light flickered to life in the air in front of Alish. His sword outpaced his scream: 'Ahyak Rovac!'
Trembling, blade in hand, heart sprinting, Alish confronted the twisting coil of black light. His challenge echoed from wall to wall, repeating itself time and time again, growing louder with each repetition, until it sounded as if a giant was bellowing out the traditional challenge of Rovac. Then the echoing scream began to diminish, at last falling away to a whisper, then to nothing.
Slowly, the twisting coil of black light began to slide away, hissing softly. It hesitated when it was twenty paces away: waiting for them? Alish glanced round at the others: none dared to speak, lest that place amplify their merest whisper to a shout. Hearst shrugged, and gestured to indicate they should proceed.
And what else could they do?
Not knowing the nature of that softly hissing entity of 313 black light, they could not hope to outwit it and enter Stronghold Handfast unseen. And it was already too late to enter unheard!
Alish darted forward. The others followed.
The black light led them through halls and corridors to a region of Stronghold Handfast where the air felt dead and cold, and where the writhing colour-shifts shaping their way across the walls seemed slow and lethargic. Here Garash, losing his nerve, hesitated.
'Come on,' said Alish.
His voice seemed muffled. Irritated, he spoke louder: 'Come on!'
His voice had no echo in that dead place. So cold. No smell of living thing. No life-sign: no husk of insect, no feather of bird, no leaf of tree.
The black light – spirit? ghost? messenger? servant of the stronghold's long-dead masters? – led them onward. Finally they reached a hall where they could breathe more easily, and where their footsteps no longer sounded muted and muffled.
They looked down the length of the hall. And saw:
Heenmor.
He sat far away at the end of the hall, seated on a throne of sorts. He had not seen them. Garash raised his hand.
'Forward now,' said Garash, his voice hardly more than a whisper. 'If he moves to raise his hand, I'll kill him. Miphon: watch for the snake.'
As they walked forward, the coil of black light did not accompany them. Instead, it: disappeared. Uneasily, Hearst looked back to see if it was following them – but it was nowhere to be seen.
As they drew nearer to Heenmor, still the immensely tall wizard did not move.
'Is he dead?' said Gorn.
'Forward,' said Garash.
They advanced with a rush. Hesitation could not save them now. Closing with Heenmor, they saw that his body had been turned to stone. Near him lay the stone egg, the death-stone. Experimenting with its powers, he had risked too much, bringing about his own death. 'Hold!' said Blackwood.
They halted abruptly. The copper-strike snake still guarded Heenmor's body. It moved: menacing them: supple, lithe, quick and flexible, swaying this way and that.
'Miphon,' said Garash. 'Draw it away from us.' 'I… I can't!' 'What's wrong?' i don't know,' said Miphon. 'Perhaps this hall's built to stop my kind of power. I can't make contact with the mind of the snake.'
Garash swore.
Til kill it myself,' he said.
And said a Word.
Fire blazed from his hand.
But the snake survived: it was faster than any fat wizard. Garash spoke again: a Word. And again. And again. Stone cracked and splintered. Fire blazed in fury. Waves of heat swept through the hall. But the snake dodged, ducked, twisted: and survived.
Garash raised his hand again and said a Word.
Nothing happened.
The snake moved to the left, menacing Gorn and Blackwood. They fell back, and it moved to the right, menacing Hearst and Alish. They in turn retreated. It threatened Miphon and Garash, who also drew back.
'Blackwood,' said Alish.
'Yes?'
