Shadow Prowler

20. ON THE WAY

Avendoom had been left behind. The majestic, forbidding walls built of gray stone from the Quarries of Ol had dissolved in the morning mist that the waking sun had startled from the earth and then left to tremble in the air for a few minutes like a frightened white moth. And after that the morning had simply flitted past, like some elusive, phantom bird, and disappeared beyond the horizon to make way for a scorching hot noon.

All the Wild Hearts had taken off their jackets and were wearing just their shirts. The only exception was Arnkh, in the eternal chain mail that he never removed even for a second. Perhaps if I’d been born beside the Forests of Zagraba and was used to expecting an attack by orcs at any minute, I would have put on Markauz’s armor, let alone chain mail, even in this heat.

I had also unfastened the collar of my shirt and rolled up the sleeves-something that I greatly regretted when the evening came and my skin had turned a magnificent shade of crimson, so that for the next few days it became a serious obstacle to my enjoyment of life.

Markauz and the elves led the way along the road, followed by the Wild Hearts, in twos and threes. At first Marmot kept me company-and he proved to be a rather talkative and interesting companion-then we were joined by Hallas and Deler.

The sure-handed dwarf had managed to make a long tube out of the materials at hand and stick it into his cask of wine. Now, when Uncle wasn’t watching them, the dwarf and the gnome took sly sips of the nectar of the gods, occasionally exclaiming in delight at this heavenly bliss vouchsafed to them. They were both gradually getting merrier and merrier, and I began to feel worried that one of them would overdo it, slip out of his saddle, and smash his head on the ground. But no, they simply got a bit red in the face and started singing a bold soldier’s song about some campaign or other. Uncle, who was talking to Eel, kept casting suspicious glances at these new singers and his face gradually turned darker and darker. The platoon leader clearly sensed that there was something shady going on, but he simply couldn’t figure out how his soldiers could suddenly be drunk.

The dwarf discoursed with the air of a connoisseur on Miralissa’s good points as a woman. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who looked upon her forthright but very feminine grace with pleasure and interest. He and Hallas agreed that she had quite a few good points, only the fangs spoiled the general impression. After a moment’s thought, the gnome said that you could always put a cloth over her face and then proceed as Mother Nature prompted, to which Marmot, who had kept silent all this time, suggested that the two learned theoreticians should shut up, or at least lower their voices half a tone, otherwise Miralissa would draw her s’kash from its scabbard and slice the beard off one of them and something a bit lower off the other. I couldn’t have agreed more. There was silence for a moment, and then the dwarf said, “I didn’t mean any offense. I only decided to talk about the elfess for a bit of relaxation.”

“You can relax in the Forests of Zagraba, when the elves hang you upside down from a tree for insulting a princess of their house,” Marmot retorted, and stroked his pet ling.

That finally soured the discussion of the elfess, and the gnome and the dwarf launched into a two-hour philosophical debate about the advantages and disadvantages of weapons with long handles. As always, Hallas and Deler contradicted each other furiously, constantly clenching their fists and trading lavish insults.

As was only to be expected, the argument between the gnome and the dwarf ended in a tie. And after another hour or so, Deler made a truly difficult decision and declared that enough wine had been tasted for one day, otherwise they’d soon have to start looking for another cask, and the likelihood of finding one on the road was illusory to say the least, not to say equal to zero. For some reason Lamplighter, who was riding last in our unit, found this last phrase highly amusing. He was tootling some simple little tune on his reed pipe, and I must admit that this music was better than the first time I had heard Mumr play-this time it only made me want to howl mournfully at the moon.

I jabbed my heels into Little Bee’s sides, hurried forward, and quietly fell in behind the horses of Miralissa and Markauz.

“According to my calculations, if we keep moving at this pace, we’ll reach Ranneng in less than two weeks. From there to the Iselina is no distance at all, and then it’s another two weeks to the Border Kingdom. And another week to the Forests of Zagraba,” the elfess said to Markauz, who was listening carefully.

“That means a month and a half, then?” asked Milord Alistan, chewing thoughtfully on his mustache, before he noticed that I had joined their group.

“That’s not allowing for any unplanned events,” said Egrassa, who seemed inclined to look on the dark side.

Well, well, so there were pessimists among the elves, too. And I thought only human beings were capable of doubting and expecting the worst.

“And in addition, we can’t stay in the saddle round the clock. I think we’ll need at least a couple of days’ rest in Ranneng.”

“I don’t think we ought to go into Ranneng,” I put in.

“Thanks for your advice, Harold,” Alistan replied rather impolitely.

I could see he didn’t feel he needed advice from anyone, especially not from a thief.

“I beg your pardon, Milord Alistan, but you don’t understand,” I continued insistently. “We’re already attracting unwanted attention by traveling along one of the busiest high roads in the kingdom, and we’re attracting it because elves, a gnome, a dwarf, and ten men armed to the teeth make rather unusual company. Believe me, milord, the peasants and ordinary travelers will find plenty to chatter about. Such a strange party. And rumors spread like wildfire. Anyone who finds those rumors interesting could easily draw certain conclusions and arrange a welcome for us. And yet, as I understand it, you wish to enter the second largest city in the kingdom! I think that certain rather unpleasant gentlemen are already looking for us. Whoever let the enemy into the royal palace has had more than enough time to report that our expedition has set out. We should not be seen in Ranneng.”

“What the thief says makes sense,” Ell said with a gleam of his fangs. “We need to avoid places where there are too many people.”

“Then what do you suggest?” asked Miralissa. She spoke to the elf but was looking at me thoughtfully. “Should we leave the central highway and head farther to the southeast?”

Ell gave an almost imperceptible shrug, indicating that the decision was up to Alistan.

“Farther to the southeast?” Alistan didn’t much like the suggestion. “Turn off a good road, which is busy, I admit, and head across open fields and forests with fallen trees? We’ll lose so much time, we won’t even reach Zagraba in September!”

“The highway is heading due south at the moment,” Egrassa replied. “After Ranneng it turns to the west. And farther south there are no more cities, only barons’ castles and small towns or, rather, villages with garrisons. No humans wish to live near Zagraba. And so, in order not to lose time, we shall have to take a risk and keep following the same road. It’s a little more than a week to get to Ranneng. If we travel along the highway, that is. From the city we can turn to the southeast, toward the Iselina. There’s a ferry there that will take us across. And then it’s not very far to the Border Kingdom and the Forests of Zagraba.”

“We can’t avoid the cities. We’ll have to renew our supplies,” said Alistan, making it clear that the conversation was at an end.

Miralissa nodded at me. I nodded back and smiled but she just turned and walked off with the others.

From the very beginning of the journey Count Markauz set the pace for the horses, and they moved at a brisk trot. Let’s say that we weren’t exactly hurrying, but we weren’t creeping along like blind snails, either. And every few leagues the horses were given a rest.

The areas we passed through were quite populous, with messengers darting this way and that way along the highway, carts carrying goods to and from Avendoom. There were peasants, artisans, and members of guilds going about their business. Once we encountered a unit of soldiers riding toward us-Beaver Caps on their way to the Lonely Giant.

Little Bee proved to be an amazingly sturdy horse. I didn’t really notice her getting tired at all. Her stride was the same as it had been in the morning-smooth and light. In fact I was more tired than my horse was.

By the evening my entire body ached and I knew just how criminals in the Sultanate felt when they were set on stakes. Not a very pleasant sensation, I must say.

When it was already twilight, Alistan decided to halt at a neat, clean village by the name of Sunflowers, located not far from the highway. Tidy little white houses, clean roads, and friendly locals. It was clear that the people round here lived well. And the sight of so many sunflowers growing everywhere, with their heads already bowed under the weight of ripe seeds, was dazzling.

The local tavern had a huge inn, and rooms were found for every member of our expedition. It was called the Golden Chicken, and its name was well deserved, for two reasons. First, it earned its owner a very decent profit and, second, there were about fifty chickens wandering around in the yard. I climbed down off Little Bee with an effort and allowed one of the inn’s servants to take the horse to the stables. May I never hold gold pieces in my hand again if horse riding is not a very dubious pleasure for the unaccustomed. My backside was scraped raw all over. But that wasn’t all. The sun had also done its work, roasting me gently from all sides, and I felt old, battered, and sick.

“Hey, Harold!” Honeycomb separated off from the group of Wild Hearts and came toward me with a cunning smile on his face. He showed me his fist.

The other soldiers observed me with interest. I carefully inspected the… er… object that he had stuck almost right under my nose. There were several straws sticking out of it.

“What’s this?” I asked Honeycomb with cautious curiosity, in no hurry to touch the straws just yet.

“Lots!” The tall Wild Heart chuckled merrily. “The lads and I consulted and we decided you should join in, too.”

“Join in what? And, by the way, why are the elves and our glorious count already in the inn, while we’re standing out here drawing lots?”

“The elves and Alistan are high society,” Uncle answered for Honeycomb. “But our little draw’s very simple. Whoever draws the short straw shares a room with Lamplighter.”

“Until the end of the journey,” Arnkh added quickly.

Mumr followed all these preparations with poorly concealed hostility.

I didn’t really care who else I had in my room and so I took the nearest straw out of Honeycomb’s fist with the most casual air I could muster. It was short.

There were loud sighs of relief on all sides. Someone gave me an encouraging pat on the back; someone else winked at me merrily. I had no idea why no one wanted to spend the night in the same room as Lamplighter, and I didn’t get a chance to ask-the tables in the tavern were already set for supper and the hospitable host was filling the glasses with his finest wine. There weren’t many guests at the inn, and most of the people in the hall were from the village.

And the only food they served was chicken. In all its forms. Roasted chickens, chickens baked with apples, steamed chickens, chicken wings with pepper. The sheer abundance of chicken was enough to make you jump up and start crowing like a rooster. So if you take into account the fact that I don’t like chicken very much, it should be easy enough to understand why I wasn’t exactly in the best of moods. By contrast, the Wild Hearts were in fine fettle, as if they hadn’t spent the entire day in the saddle, so I said I was tired, went off to my room, and lay down on one of the beds, regretting yet again that I had allowed myself to be drawn into such an insane venture.

In the middle of the night I found out just what a dirty trick cruel fate had played on me. Lamplighter showed up very late, when I was already asleep, and I was so exhausted after a day in the saddle that I didn’t even hear him arrive.

But I did hear Mumr very clearly when he started snoring with enthusiastic gusto. Never mind good old Gozmo, with his gentle nocturnal trilling and tweeting-by comparison with this warrior’s snoring, Gozmo’s was like the buzzing of a little mosquito compared with the roar of a hungry obur.

Naturally, I woke up and, of course, I tried to drown out the terrible sounds. I tried whistling. I tried singing a song. I even threw a boot at him.

It was hopeless. He had absolutely no intention of waking up, or even turning over onto his other side.

After an hour of torment, when I was beginning to get used to the snoring and was just about ready to sink back into sleep, Lamplighter changed the order of the sounds he was making and everything started all over again. Eventually I stuck my head under the pillow and at long last managed to get to sleep, after swearing to myself that next time I would find a more comfortable spot to take my rest.

Mumr woke me up in the morning. I gave him a surly glance, quite certain that no one had come between him and his dreams.

Amazing enough, I felt better after the night. No doubt thanks to Ell, who had noticed the state I was in the evening before and splashed something out of his own flask into my glass of wine. Whatever it was, it had certainly helped.

“We’re up a bit late this morning,” I said to Mumr. “Aren’t we in a hurry?”

“Lady Miralissa is waiting for a messenger,” Lamplighter replied, groping around under his bed. He pulled out the bidenhander, set it across his shoulder, and walked toward the door of the room.

“Let’s go and get breakfast, Harold.”

“I’m coming.”

I reached out one hand for my crossbow and knife. Hmm… Strange… Very strange… The knife was there all right, but my little junior with the double sting had completely disappeared. And at that very moment I heard the twang of a crossbow shot outside in the yard, followed by the frightened clucking of chickens. I glanced out of the window and swore, then dashed out of the room and started down the stairs to the ground floor.

Some of the Wild Hearts were already having breakfast in the large hall of the tavern. They said good morning and asked politely how I had slept. I replied politely that I had slept well, but I didn’t really fool either myself or them.

“Harold, where are you going? It’ll all get cold!” Hallas exclaimed in surprise, clutching a lump of fatty bacon in one hand and piece of smoked sausage in the other. The gnome seemed to be having some difficulty in deciding what to start his meal with.

“I’ll just be a moment,” I told him, and dashed outside.

Arnkh, Tomcat, and Loudmouth were absorbed in watching an original competition between Eel and a certain little individual whom I knew only too well. And to the innkeeper’s considerable dismay, this competition consisted of trying to shoot as many as possible of the chickens running around the yard in the shortest possible time. There were already about fifteen motionless bundles of feathers, little chicken corpses, lying here and there on the sand.

Eel was shooting with a sklot taken from Markauz. Kli-Kli-yes, it was him all right, I would have known that face with my eyes closed now-was felling the chickens with my crossbow.

“Having fun?” I asked the goblin.

“Good morning, Harold,” Kli-Kli replied, and brought down another unfortunate bird with a well-aimed shot. “Ten-six. I win!”

That was addressed to Eel, who nodded in agreement without even trying to argue.

“Thanks for letting me use your crossbow,” said the jester, handing the weapon back to me.

“I don’t recall giving you permission.”

“Oh, don’t be so finicky,” the goblin said with a frown. “I galloped all night and scraped my backside raw before I caught up with you! I have to relax a bit somehow.”

“And why, if I may ask, have you come?”

“Am I imagining it, or did I hear a note of irritation in your voice?” the jester asked, looking me straight in the eye. “I came to pass on a certain item to Miralissa, something the king didn’t have yet when you left.”

“So it’s due to your good services that we’re in no hurry to go anywhere?” the taciturn Garrakan asked gruffly.

“And basically,” said the goblin, brushing aside all possible objections, “I’m going to join you for the rest of the journey.”

“As our jester? Well, how about that!” snorted Loudmouth.

He and Tomcat had come across to us while Arnkh was pulling the bolts out of the birds’ little corpses and sorting things out with the aggrieved owner of the Golden Chicken.

“Do you see any cap?” Kli-Kli asked, jabbing a finger at his own head.

The goblin was not wearing a jester’s cap with little bells, or a leotard. He was dressed in ordinary traveling clothes with a cloak on his shoulders.

“I’m going with you as a guide, not a jester. The place we’re going to is my homeland. And I’m just as much at home there as the elves are. I also happen to be the king’s authorized representative.”

“If I were in the king’s place, I wouldn’t authorize you to guard my chamber pot!” said Loudmouth.

“Why, you’ve never had a chamber pot in your life,” Tomcat said, laughing at Loudmouth.

“Whether I have or I haven’t makes no difference!” Loudmouth retorted to his colleague with the mustache, and then scratched his long nose. “I’m sorry, goblin, but guarding one more civilian in these difficult conditions is just too much. Especially since we know the kind of dirty tricks you like to play on us.”

“My name’s Kli-Kli, not goblin, Mr. Griper-and-Grouser,” the jester snapped. “And I don’t need protection from anyone. I’m quite capable of looking after myself.”

And with that he flung aside the flaps of his cloak to allow us to see a belt with four heavy throwing knives hanging on it-two on the right and two on the left.

Nothing important happened for the next few days. We carried on heading south, stopping for the night in the fields round about.

The nights were warm and nobody suffered at all from the vagaries of the weather. If it had been the usual kind, that is, the same as it had always been in July for the last ten thousand years, we would all have felt a bit chilly at night. But as it was, you could quite happily sleep on the grass, or lie there looking up at the starry sky. If not for the mosquitoes, who had gone absolutely crazy in this unexpected warmth, life would have been splendid.

The reason we had spent the night in the fields was simple. For two days now the highway had avoided all the villages as it looped elegantly round to the southeast. We would only reach the next village on the road in the evening of the next day. Amazingly enough, out in the open air Mumr didn’t snore. Marmot told me that Lamplighter only performed his raucous concerts when he had a roof over his head. So by now I had completely caught up on my sleep.

Little Bee and I had gradually grown accustomed to each other and, to my great delight, I discovered I didn’t feel any fatigue even after an entire day’s riding. No, that’s a lie. I did feel some fatigue, but it was by no means fatal. Not the sort of fatigue that makes you want to collapse on the ground and lie there for four years and not get up again for all the jewels in the kingdom.

At first Markauz didn’t want to take the jester with him, but the goblin, with a perfectly innocent expression on his roguish face, handed the count a paper with the king’s seal on it, and then there was nothing the stern warrior could do but allow Kli-Kli to travel on with us.

The jester’s horse was every bit as large as Alistan’s mount, and while the undersized Hallas and Deler looked-how shall I say it?-rather amusing on horses, the goblin looked simply comical on the huge black monster that had been dubbed Featherlight. Kli-Kli’s feet didn’t even reach the stirrups. But I must say that Kli-Kli felt perfectly confident in the saddle, and Featherlight responded to all his master’s commands at the first asking.

The jester was incredibly quiet. By “quiet” I mean that when you woke up in the morning, there was no need to be afraid of a snake in your boot or a briar in your horse’s tail. But the little goblin creep spent all day long dashing from the head of our unit, stretched out along the road, to its tail, and then back again from its tail to its head. Kli-Kli had time to get everywhere. In the course of the day he could be seen singing songs with Deler and Hallas, telling one of his stories to Tomcat and Eel, conducting an abstruse discussion with the elves, or arguing with the unyielding Alistan Markauz until his throat turned hoarse.

On the third day after Kli-Kli’s arrival we came into a town. And that’s when disaster struck.

The tavern in this little village was a lot worse than in Sunflowers. But there was no choice. And after the nights under the open sky I was glad to accept any bed.

The villagers cast curious glances at us-it wasn’t every day that they saw so many new people and nonpeople. The elves and the goblin provoked the most oohs and aahs, but the other races were only rare visitors to the lands of Valiostr, so the locals felt that they had to drop everything else and come running to gape at these freaks from the world outside. When would they ever get another chance?

The master of the nameless inn was simply overwhelmed by this great influx of guests and stood there on the porch with his mouth hanging open. Fortunately for us, the innkeeper’s burly wife jabbed her husband under the ribs with her elbow and set him and his two drowsy daughters, who had already attracted an extremely interested glance from Arnkh, about their work. Naturally, despite their mother’s prods and pokes, the drowsy daughters were still moving slowly and lackadaisically, until the ling suddenly took matters into its own hands by leaping from Marmot’s shoulder onto one girl’s head, and there was Kli-Kli, who had arranged the whole scene, to shout:

“A rabid rat!”

In the tumult that followed, Invincible was almost trampled underfoot, while Kli-Kli was honored with a cuff round the back of his head from Marmot. After that the goblin sulked and he wouldn’t talk to anyone. At the end of supper the jester expressed a desire to sleep in the same room as Harold and Lamplighter, and he was very surprised when nobody raised any objections.

“Harold.” Egrassa had approached unnoticed and was leaning down over my ear. “Her Tresh Miralissa would like to have a word with you. Come on. I’ll show you the way.”

I got up from the table and followed the tall elf.

A word? What about? And why now, not earlier? Lucky Harold, going to see elf royalty, but, really, I was intrigued by her invitation.

There in the room with Miralissa were Markauz, who was gazing thoughtfully out of the window, and Ell, who was peeling an apple with his knife.

“Good evening, Harold.” The elfess’s slanting golden eyes sparkled in the candlelight. “Do you know what this is?” she asked, holding out some object to me.

As I took it, I barely managed to stop myself exclaiming out loud in admiration.

“Is it not beautiful?”

I could just manage a nod as I examined the precious item that was lying in my hands.

It was a key, the size of my palm and very heavy. But more than a key, it was a genuine work of art. The blasphemous thought flashed through my mind that people who knew about such things, the kind who collect old artifacts, would be willing to pay me several mountains of gold for the right to possess this key.

The ancient item looked as if it were made of crystals of ice, so frail that I was afraid to breathe on it, in case it might melt. But I knew that even if I took Deler’s poleax and battered the trinket nonstop all day long, nothing would happen to it, but I would have to buy a new poleax.

“Dragon’s tears? Is it dwarves’ work?”

“Yes, you’re right,” Egrassa said with a nod. “This is the handiwork of dwarves; only they can work this mineral like that. Do you see how delicate the work is?”

Delicate was not the word for it! It was ideal, elegant, perfect, and ancient. In our time no one would be able to create anything like it. Working that most rare of minerals, dragon’s tears, which possesses the enduring strength of the very mountains that created it, requires magic in addition to the usual tools. And unfortunately the magicianship of the dwarves was in a state of decline and not even the masters would be capable of such creations. Far too much had been forgotten during the Purple Years.

“What is this the key to?” I asked as I reluctantly handed the precious thing back to Miralissa.

“Have you ever head of the double-doored level?”

“The third level of the Palaces of Bone?” I asked, remembering my recent conversation with For and the ancient maps of Hrad Spein. “And then, carry on! The twin doors stand open…”

“Absolutely right. The double-doored or third level of Hrad Spein, with its magic doors. The doors are sealed with very powerful spells, but this key, created by dwarves two and a half thousand years ago at the request of the Lord of the Dark Houses, will open the way down.” She was all business. I could almost see her thinking, comparing possibilities, planning the moves in this deadly game. Somehow, I found this comforting: You want to know that your leaders are working hard, thinking ahead. All the best thieves-like Harold-know that preparation, hard work, imagination, and adaptability make for a successful job… and vastly increase the odds that you would be alive to enjoy it.

“This object was brought to us by Kli-Kli,” said Alistan, turning away from the window. “When the jester left, he was… But that doesn’t matter now. The most important thing is that we now have the key, and if the doors that Lady Miralissa mentioned to you are locked, we shan’t have to waste time looking for the way round them.”

“If the way round exists, that is.”

“It does, Harold. Or it did. The magicians of the Order who took the Horn to Hrad Spein managed to reach Grok’s grave somehow. The magicians didn’t have the key then, it was in Zagraba,” said Miralissa.

“The artifact has already been in Hrad Spein this spring,” said Alistan, folding his arms across his chest. “Before setting out for the Desolate Lands, Lady Miralissa gave it to the king, and Stalkon gave it to the magicians of the second expedition. We must thank the gods that the only unfortunate to return from the burial chambers managed to bring the key out, even though he lost his mind.”

“It was thanks to the key that the magician survived,” said Egrassa, lighting another candle and setting the candlestick on the table beside the first two. “Whatever it is that dwells there, it didn’t touch the man with the key.”

“It’s no great joy to be alive, but insane,” I muttered. “So, you have this thing now, and that’s wonderful. But why tell me about it?”

“The key is not a toy.” Ell finally stopped peeling his apple and came across to me. “Before it will open the doors, it has to be harmonized with its owner. Made to comply with his will.”

“Marvelous,” I responded with no great enthusiasm.

Stay well away from those who work magic-that’s always been one of my many mottoes.

“We have to harmonize it with you. Everything is ready. Here, hold it.” Miralissa handed the artifact to me again, ignoring my sour grimace.

With or without my consent the elves intended to indulge in a little shamanism, and there was no point in getting uppity, or they might get some word confused and I’d be left wearing horns on my head for the rest of my life, or something even worse.

“Sit down on the bed.” Egrassa lit another candle, but he stood it in the headboard of the bed instead of on the table. “Milord Alistan, if you would be so kind, please leave us while the ritual is taking place.”

The count left the room without the slightest objection, closing the door firmly behind him.

“What are you waiting for, Harold? Sit on the bed!” said the elfess, taking some bundles of dried herbs out of her traveling bag. I was on the bed, sitting before I could think. There was real iron in that voice.

A sweetish scent of bog flowers and late autumn drifted through the room. I sat down and Miralissa came up to me with a cup in her hand. She dipped one finger in it and then drew some signs on my forehead and cheeks. At her touch, a light current went through my body starting at my face and quickly sparking down to my toes. It was a madly pleasant sensation. Ell was already standing over one of the candles, whispering and tossing dust up into the air. It looked to me like some kind of powdered herb.

Somehow the dust seemed to fall very slowly, touching the flame of the candle, giving off a thin streamer of white smoke and disappearing. So this was the shamanism of the dark elves. Long whisperings, dances, signs, and all sorts of rubbish like dried bat dung. Yes, sometimes this art could do things that wizardry could never manage. The ancient magic, correctly performed, is far more powerful, but its cost…

A single mistake, a single mispronounced word, the absence of the most unnecessary-seeming ingredient-and nothing will happen. And the most important thing is the time required for working the shamanic magic. Time is invaluable, and the need for it puts the magic of the dark elves at a disadvantage compared with human wizardry.

Some elves understood this and became the light elves, but others, like the orcs, goblins, and ogres, do not wish to abandon their ancient knowledge and stubbornly continue to use this ineffective anachronism, as the magicians of the Order call it. But then, I’m certain that wizardry also has another, weak side to it, which the Order of Magicians, in its polite fashion, simply forgets to mention.

Meanwhile, Miralissa began singing. Her low, resonant voice began twining itself into the air, swirling through it in a taut spiral of words. Her singing was spellbinding. For all its native coarseness, the orcish language, or rather its elfish dialect (the elves thought of themselves as too proud to use the language of the orcs) was like a mountain stream. Its gurgling was very pleasant to listen to.

The elfess sang as she approached me, and I felt as if she and I were alone in the room with her voice. Egrassa and Ell had moved back and away, become just one of the many shadows hemming me in on all sides.

The voice, the shadows… And the eyes. Miralissa’s golden eyes, with tongues of amber flame flickering in them. They drew me in, leading me away to distant places and times. They filled the entire room. The signs she drew on my face began burning, and the key clenched in my fist was also getting warmer and warmer.

The walls of the room flared up in bright fire, trembled, collapsed outward, then began falling in blazing banners into endless darkness. I cried out, my feet searching hopelessly for support that was not there; I flung my arms out in a futile attempt to fly. The darkness burst into flame and the furious flames born in the darkness came rushing toward me from all sides, scorching my neck, my back, my shoulders. The unbearable heat licking at my body set my hair ablaze. The pain ran through me like a blunt knife. I don’t remember, I think I screamed, but then an ink-black shadow that had appeared out of nowhere in this hell of amber fire touched my back and pushed me forward. Into the yellow eyes, into that roaring heat.

A single instant.

Flight. Blindness. Silence.

Night.