‘Oh, it was far more than that, child. The craft has not yet come to claim you, yet already magic flows strongly in your veins.’
‘Katchka always said that I was a witch.’
‘You have great power, but unless you are able to master it the craft will destroy you.’
Maybe that’s what happened to my mother. Iwa left the thought unspoken as she let the demon guide her across the bridge, casting hateful glances at the water as she passed. Katchka was right about water being shiftless. That’s the last time I trust so much as a puddle.
They were in the central part of the hall, so vast that it stretched off into the blackness. On either side there was a row of statues, far larger than the ones that guarded the doorway. These were carved from some blue stone that Iwa had never seen before. Strange shapes rose above her, with the bodies of men and the faces of animals, or else the faces of men with the bodies of birds and the wings of insects. Many were so tall that their faces were shrouded in darkness and, here and there, a few figures leered out at her that were so jumbled that she could hardly make out their features.
As she walked between them, she glanced back to where her magic had shattered the paving and hoped that the stones had learnt their lesson. All around them the water lapped, but at least it was careful to keep its distance. Once or twice she imagined that the river had changed its course and had ebbed closer. A sharp look kept it in check, or so she hoped.
Suddenly the pig-faced creature stopped and motioned for her to stay still. ‘We have arrived,’ it said.
‘Here?’ Iwa looked about her. There was nothing but the hall and the statues. She was so caught up in the sights around her she missed what happened next. Fleetingly she realised that the pig-faced demon had cast another spell. There was a sharp grating sound and the floor parted by her feet to reveal a narrow flight of steps.
Not another passageway. Iwa shivered, but the creature had already begun to go down. Will I ever see the sun again? She glanced over her shoulder to check that the statues were behaving themselves, and then started quickly down the steps.
This time Sturmovit stayed at the top, his teeth grinding as he watched them disappear into the darkness. Iwa paused, some part of her wishing that he would follow. Anything was better than being left alone with this strange pig-faced demon.
She reached the bottom, almost bumping into the creature in her haste. Before them was a small rectangular room with a curved ceiling, so low that the pig-faced demon almost had to stoop to stop its head scraping the roof. Iwa stayed on the last step, her feet lingering as if scared to move. After all those statues, she was actually glad to be somewhere more confined: so long as this room wasn’t going to try and close in on her. Yet something held her back, an odd feeling that cat-pawed across her spine.
Cautiously, she touched the floor with her toe and heard someone sobbing in the dark. ‘Where are you?’ she called out as loudly as she dared.
‘I am here,’ the pig-faced creature replied.
‘But there’s someone else as well,’ Iwa whispered, hardly daring to raise her voice. ‘Can’t you hear them crying?’
‘It is the stones that cry: they weep with ancient evil.’
The creature walked over to a doorway set at the far end of the room. Or at least it had once been a doorway. There was a heavily carved lintel, and stone snakes twisted over the archway or wrapped themselves around other lizard-like creatures, but the actual doorway had long been filled in. ‘So close now,’ the pig-faced demon whispered almost to itself as it raised its arms to begin another spell.
Iwa stepped off the bottom stair and, as her foot touched the ground, the stones began to weep. Another trick, she thought as she walked into the room. More tears, the sound of moaning, distant prayers mumbled to forgotten gods… the cries swirled around her as her spine tingled with fear. If this was another trick of the stones, then it was a very good one. She was ready to take off and run, each step bringing with it another cry. She could almost see them now, the tears of the long dead, or was it just some macabre game of the stones?
It took all her courage to stop herself from fleeing. And then, when I’m alone, the stones would have me at their mercy. She shivered as the sound continued. It was like a hundred voices, all pleading. Somewhere a mother called for her child, a father begged for pity. Another step and the sounds grew louder. Behind her someone cracked a whip and she couldn’t help but turn to find that there was nobody there.
Then, in the gloom, there was another sound, a strange moan that drifted through the air. It was like a single howl, soft and low that pricked along her spine. And it was only then that she realised how much she was trembling. But she had to keep on.
Before the blocked door, the pig-faced demon stood, its eyes flickering with an eerie intensity as it muttered an incantation, the words hard and guttural so that they appeared to scrape from between its jagged teeth. And Iwa didn’t know what scared her the most, the demon or the stones.
In the dark recesses shadows began to form, the shapes of men and women, glimpsed only as half formed silhouettes. The stones are scared. They don’t want me here.
But it wasn’t a trap. It was a memory, like the ones locked away in the cave where Yaroslav had nearly died. Iwa could almost see them now, lines of men and women, bound hand and foot as they were herded past
