Authors: Alexey Pehov
Demons, as everyone knows, are immune to almost all kinds of magic, and therefore represent a substantial and dangerous mystery. A mystery that many generations of magicians have puzzled over. After all, there’s nothing a battle magician would like more than to acquire immunity to
his enemy’s spells. And if the Order had a real live demon, then it would do everything in its power to discover the secret of invulnerability to magic. It takes very special objects like the Stones to set the demons trembling. And, of course, demons can also be trapped using the spells on scrolls written by anonymous know-it-alls or the demonologists of the Order.
“How should I know?” I asked, shrugging and raising my honest glance to Artsivus’s face. “That brute disappeared. And what difference does it make now who has this Horse?”
“It can be used, not just to drive demons away, but also to summon them,” the archmagician said wearily, and started coughing again.
“But what have the Doralissians got to do with all this?”
“Well, it happens to be their artifact. The Filanders took it from the goat-men about twenty years ago for trying to cheat them in a horse sale. It was all fair and square, of course, according to the terms of the contract, but this Stone was something like a holy relic to the goat-men. They’ve been trying to get it back any way they can. Time and again they’ve tried to buy it back, offering immense sums of money and entire herds of the finest horses, but the Order of Filand has always refused. And it is right to do so. The Stone contains a great power, although only magicians with a diploma in demonology can control it. And also the demons themselves.”
“You mean to say that if this Stone falls into the hands of a demon . . .”
“No one knows what would happen then. The demon could release all his brothers from the Darkness or, if he’s clever, keep the Horse for himself. And then no spell in the world could do him any harm. He would be stabilized. Magically neutral, if you know what that term means.”
“Then why hasn’t one of those brutes already grabbed the Horse for himself?” The question was simply begging to be asked.
“I don’t know where the Doralissians got the Horse from. Perhaps one of the gods gave it to them on a whim, but the Stone has a special property: No demon can take it in his hands unless a human or a Doralissian gives it to him voluntarily.”
Vukhdjaaz is clever
. The voice in my head had a superior ring to it now.
“And now I have to find this bauble for you?”
“You get on with the king’s Commission,” the Master of the Order
said dismissively. “We’ll search for the Horse ourselves, since you have nothing to do with the business.”
“That’s not what the Doralissians think,” I said, shaking my head.
The goat-men could be a real problem for me in the days ahead.
“I wonder why they decided that Shadow Harold was involved? Either they drew the same conclusions as I did, or someone has set you up, thief.”
“I’ve got plenty of enemies,” I admitted as casually as I could, but something clicked in my head. The cogwheels were already creaking and groaning as all the pieces of this dwarves’ puzzle gradually slipped into place.
“Be careful. The king needs you. Perhaps I ought to give you an escort of magicians of the Order?”
“No,” I retorted hastily. “Thanks for the offer, Your Magicship. It would only be an unnecessary burden for me. I’ll deal with the Doralissians myself.”
“Very well, very well.” Artsivus had recovered his good mood. “It’s your choice, and I shan’t insist, although I ought to.”
“Can I ask a few questions?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What can you tell me about the Stain?”
“The Forbidden Territory?” the old man muttered. “The Order knows practically nothing about it. A white patch on the map of the city and a black stain on the reputation of magicians. We can see the streets and buildings from the tower, but you understand that in this case the eyes should not be trusted.”
“Well, can you tell me at least something about it?”
“You already know how it appeared. . . . Afterward, a black blizzard came swooping down on Avendoom. And then all sorts of things started appearing out of it. The Order of Magicians created the circle with the help of the only archmagician left alive. Artsis was his name. The circle made it possible to erect the wall, and that served as a boundary. No one can creep out of the Forbidden Territory into the residential quarters of Avendoom anymore, and the city folk don’t go poking their noses inside the wall.”
“But what’s happening in there now?”
“Who knows, Harold? After the Rainbow Horn produced such a
different effect from what the Order had calculated, the archmagician who had managed to save it died on the way out. His apprentice, who later became the Master of the Order, carried the Horn out of the territory while the blizzard was gathering. And another five magicians were left behind forever in the tower. What happened to them, I don’t know. Or what happened to the inhabitants of the district. As he was dying the archmagician said they had been mistaken about someone.”
“What did those words mean?”
“I don’t know. In one day, or rather, night, the Order of Valiostr lost six archmagicians, including the master, Panarik. When everything calmed down and the wall was erected, they decided to get rid of the Horn, put it somewhere out of harm’s way. Hrad Spein was the ideal place. By that time it was already abandoned and nobody ever went in there. They carefully added power to the Horn so that it would hold the Nameless One at bay, and took it there.”
What a fascinating conversation this was! My head was spinning. How much nicer to be conversing with a pretty woman . . . or with an exotic creature like Miralissa. “But then how did the information about the Horn end up in the tower?”
“After the artifact was buried in Hrad Spein, one of the magicians took the journals recording its hiding place to the old Tower of the Order. At least, I hope he got them there. He never came back from the Forbidden Territory. You see? I know no more than the old women gossiping in the Market Square. I can only give you one piece of advice. Set out at night. I know it seems far more dangerous, all the creatures of darkness are terrified of sunlight, and the night is their natural realm, but . . . The thing is, thief, that those who have gone to the Forbidden Territory during the hours of darkness have sometimes actually come back.”
Yes. I’d heard stories about that, too. Many men had decided to take the chance for the sake of the treasure. There used to be a gnomes’ bank on the Street of the Sleepy Cat. And there was still a lot of gold in it.
“But those who went during the day have never come back.”
“Where in the tower should I look for the information on Hrad Spein?”
“If it’s there, it’s on the second floor. In the archivist’s room.”
“Traps, locks, guards?”
“No need to worry about that,” the master sniffed. “It all happened too suddenly.”
The old man began coughing into his fist and Roderick came in again with a glass, but the archmagician frowned and waved it aside.
“I’m tired, Harold. The long years hang heavy on my bones. Relieve me of your presence, if you would be so kind.”
When I was already out in the corridor and the archmagician’s apprentice was closing the door, I heard the old man’s weary voice again:
“Hey, Harold.”
“Yes?”
“When are you planning to set out for the Forbidden Territory?”
“In about three days, when I’m fully prepared.”
“Good. Don’t forget that the king is expecting you. Now be on your way.”
I shrugged in irritation—I’d never had any trouble with my memory—and left Artsivus’s apartments without saying another word.
Now I had to see about finding a new place to live, and I knew someone prepared to provide me with one for an unlimited period of time, absolutely free of charge.
“We’re here, milord.” The coachman decked out in velvet livery politely opened the door of the carriage and bowed.
It was several seconds before I realized that my own humble personage had been referred to as “milord.” It felt strange, somehow—no one had ever called me that before.
Well, of course, I could understand the coachman. A man who had been visiting the sick archmagician couldn’t be some kind of low thief, could he? He was more likely some rich count in disguise, someone who had decided to take a ride around Avendoom incognito.
I got out of the carriage and set off toward the main gate of the Cathedral of the Gods on Cathedral Square, which was located at the meeting point of three parts of Avendoom: the Outer City, the Inner City, and the City of Artisans and Magicians.
The priests had managed to grab themselves a huge piece of the city, every bit as large as the grounds of the king’s palace. In fact, to be
perfectly honest, Cathedral Square could quite easily have held two of Stalkon’s palaces.
The cathedral was the largest site in all the Northern Lands at which all the twelve gods of Siala were honored. So there was no need to tramp across half the city to find the particular shrine that you were interested in, the temporary residence of some individual god: You could simply come to the square, go in through the main gates that were open by day and night, and then choose the one to whom you wished to address your prayers.
The gods!
I smirked blasphemously.
The gods were not very generous when it came to gracing the world they had created with their own presence. In earlier times, when Siala was young, during the beginning of beginnings, when people had only just appeared, following the elves, the orcs, the ogres, the gnomes, and the dwarves, the gods still walked the roads, working wonders, punishing evildoers, and rewarding the righteous.
But eventually they tired of the vanity of earth, and they left to concern themselves with their own “important” affairs, as the priests called them, affairs incomprehensible to mere humans. I don’t know, maybe they are important, but I don’t have too much faith in the power of the gods. Nothing but stories for snot-nosed little kids, and the ravings of crazy fanatics. Well, naturally, I believe in Sagot and his power, but I don’t really think he was a god. Some say he was just a successful thief in the old times and many stories about his adventures are still preserved to this very day. But the sly priests were quick to promote him to the rank of a god, in order to increase the flow of gold into the coffers of their shrines. Because thieves and swindlers are a superstitious crowd, and they really need to believe in someone.
“Do you struggle with the Darkness within yourself?” one of the two priests standing at the main gates asked me.
“I annihilate the Darkness,” I replied, with the standard ritual phrase.
“Enter then, and address Them,” the second priest pronounced solemnly.
Naturally, I followed this brilliant recommendation from these two old men who had nothing else to do but roast themselves in the hot sun while greeting and seeing off every visitor.
Interestingly enough, there were no guards at the entrance of the cathedral. I’d heard the priests had forbidden it. And in principle they were right, since the plug-ugly faces of the servants of the law could very easily frighten away half of the city’s residents, depriving the cathedral of a substantial element of its income.
But there were guardsmen strolling about inside the grounds—around the flower beds and whispering fountains, the statues of the gods and their shrines—gradually going insane from the heat in their cuirasses and helmets. Of course, they were all as bad-tempered as orcs on the march. And the reason for their bad temper was no great secret, either. The guards sent to the cathedral were those colleagues of Frago Lanten’s who had committed some offense or been caught taking bribes and extorting money.
A pair of the poor souls in orange and white went parading past me. Their glances slid searchingly over my figure, probing for something to take objection to, an opportunity to stick the handle of a halberd in my side without a priest noticing. But I simply smiled amiably and couldn’t resist giving the dourly furious martyrs a cheery wave.
Ah! How I love teasing a giant in a cage!
The guards frowned darkly, took a firmer grip on their weapons, and started toward me, with the clear intention of battering my sides. But, just as I expected, they didn’t get very far.
A priest appeared in their path as if out of thin air and started reciting the divine moral teaching. The soldiers’ unshaven faces immediately assumed such a bored and weary expression that I very nearly shed a tear for them. The lads were strictly forbidden to argue back or to show any disrespect to the servants of the cathedral. On pain of losing their pensions. And so all they could do was listen, listen, and listen again for the thousandth time.
I walked along a neat pathway paved with square slabs of stone, rounded a sparkling and foaming fountain in the form of a knight running his lance through a massive ogre at full gallop, and came out into the cathedral yard, where the statues of the gods stood, with supplicants and visitors from the city and the neighboring regions constantly weaving around them.
There weren’t many pilgrims from other parts of the kingdom to be seen as yet. They usually came flooding in for the spring festival of the gods, and so right now the yard wasn’t very crowded. There were just a
few men standing beside the statue of Sagra. From the way they were dressed I recognized them as soldiers.