Although Nemgas was just as excited by the prospect of walking amongst the crystal towers of Carethedor, he found it difficult to restrain Pelurji’s desire to run amongst them. The boy had scarfed his stew down so quickly that Nemgas had only had the time to eat a few bits of potato. Nemgas made him wait -- told him to juggle in fact - while he finished his own dinner. Pelurji juggled his balls faster than he’d ever done before, pleading anew every few moments. But Nemgas kept him there until the last of the stew was in his gullet. Once Nemgas had buckled a sword at his side, as well as a dagger, the two of them left the camp to wander the city.
They were not the only ones sent out to scout the demesnes, but Pelurji was certainly the only child. Many of the other boys looked on in jealousy as Pelurji ran along Nemgas’s side as they crossed from the grasses to the stone causeways once more. But they were all rebuked and those that persisted were sent to their wagons. Nemgas and Pelurji saw none of this of course, as they were busy exploring the city.
The fog that had surrounded the lower portions of the city when they had first emerged from the tunnel had lifted somewhat, but it was still hard to see any of the smaller buildings. Amidst the fog, golden lights glowed though, so they knew they would be able to find their way about. Nemgas aimed them for a nearby light, and the two of them made their way into the fog bank. At first, Nemgas feared that the fog would be like the fog that had surrounded Cenziga, but it was not. It parted before them like it should, and soon, when they looked back they could only make out indistinct blurs of light where the cookfires burned.
What did surprise Nemgas was that there seemed to be a slight wind in the air, always trickling past, tugging at his patchwork jerkin in places, pulling on his hair, especially the two white locks that constantly fell into his face. His ears tingled with each brush of air, as if there was somebody breathing into them. Pelurji did not seem to notice this, so wide were his eyes, and eager his expression as they made their way towards that bit of light.
The building, when they finally saw it, seemed to lurch towards them from the mist. It was wide at its base, straining upwards about five times Nemgas’s height before tapering off into a small dome. The structure was fashioned from tightly packed stone, small grooves lining across its surface, some of them filled with colourful paint. But most of the paint had worn away, revealing the dull grey of the stone. In most of the grooves, a thin layer of dust had settled. The lines of marble that filled the ground passed through and over the roof of the building. They followed one of the lines around, where the ground abruptly lowered several feet. A small slender staircase with ivory railing led them down to the lower level where they found an entranceway into the building.
Nemgas examined the doorway, noting hinges but no door. “‘Twas made of wood,” Nemgas observed, smiling to the boy who was imitating him by examining the other side of the jamb. “The door hath rotted away, but the stone remains.”
Pelurji nodded at that, smiling. “Canst we go in?”
“Aye,” Nemgas said, slipping beneath the transom. The room beyond was dark, but enough light was coming in through the doorway and several high windows that they could see about. The dust was thicker inside, and the room itself was quite empty. What appeared to be chairs of stone were within the room, arranged at a table. Exquisite goblets were set upon that table filled with dust. A closed ewer was sitting beside them. Nemgas saw two other open doorways leading off into other rooms. A spiral staircase followed along one wall. The banister was fashioned from marble and ivory.
Nemgas waled to the table while Pelurji raced up the stairs. The goblets were empty apart form the dust, but a putrid liquid filled the ewer. He stoppered it tightly after only wedging the stopper free for a single moment. The bad airs it held made him gag and stumble backwards. It had been wine once, he assumed, but a thousand years of fermenting had made it horrid beyond belief.
Drink, if you want
Or don’t.
Nemgas turned about then, looking to see who had spoken. Pelurji was upstairs though, and the rest of the room was completely empty. Engraved into the walls were various faces, but they were merely engravings and nothing more. Nemgas took several steps from the table, kicking up dust as he went. He rubbed at his nose, the dust was already beginning to irritate him.
The voices mus have just been his imagination, he assured himself. In a place as strange as this, the mind was bound to conjure forth all sorts of unnatural phenomenon. Nemgas went to investigate the other two rooms, but saw nothing except more of the carvings and other bits of stone furnishings. If this had once been a home, it must have taken a century’s time for all of the intricate carving he’d seen to be accomplished.
When he went back out into the main hall, he saw Pelurji sliding down on the banister, his legs to either side. “Anything above?” he asked with a smile once more on his face.
Pelurji shook his head. “There wast some pretty stone beds, but that wast all.”
“Didst thee hear anyone speaking while thee wast up there?” Nemgas asked slowly, his own voice uncertain.
“Nay,” Pelurji shook his head again. “Didst thee hear something, master Nemgas?”
Nemgas smiled and shook his head. “Nay. ‘Twas just the wind. Let us see if we canst find that dragon.”
This delighted the boy naturally, and soon they were continuing towards the light. Now that they had seen one building and been through it, others started to appear form the fog. Most were like the first, appearing to be abandoned homes, but others seemed to have different purposes, smaller establishments with wrought iron furnaces that had long gone dark, or huge stone kilns still bearing the scars of flame. Some, Nemgas could not even identify what they might have been.
The light they followed through the fog was set upon another of the large obelisks. When they finally stood at its base, Pelurji picked another light to follow, and they did so, venturing deeper and deeper into the gloom. The sound of rippling water brought their attention away from the light for a time as they investigated a small water garden. It was one of the small inlets that fed into the lake, though it had been allowed to pool, and ivory trestles had been built allowing one to cross to a small island of jade in the centre. The ground where once exotic flowers had bloomed was now overgrown with weeds.
Pelurji when he stepped onto the jade isle swung himself off of the bridge, gripping the ivory bannister tightly in one hand. “Nae do that again,” Nemgas scolded suddenly, a cross look upon his face as he joined the boy. “‘Tis thousands of years old. Thou wouldst not want to damage it.”
He plays. He plays!
Nemgas looked up sharply, turning his head from side to side, listening to the air, but felt only the wind.
Pelurji bore a chastened moue. “Forgive me, master Nemgas.” He then noticed the shocked look on the Magyar’s face. “Art something wrong?”
Unable to hear anything, Nemgas shook his head. “Nay, ‘tis the wind and nothing more.” He smiled, though still unsettled by the voices he’d heard. Perhaps there were restless spirits wandering the ruins, he thought ruefully. But as long as they could not harm him or the boy, he did not care what they said.
They stayed for several minutes more at the jade isle. Pelurji knelt down and splashed his hand in the water a few times, laughing as he managed to get a bit of the ice cold spray on Nemgas’s legs. But with the garden full of nothing but weeds, there was little else to hold them to the isle. And so they continued on their way, Pelurji casting one disappointed look backwards as they went.
But that moment passed soon for the boy, as they happened on several more strange buildings as they walked deeper into the ancient city. Several times their path would end in a sudden wall that rose up for several feet, and they would have to walk along that wall until they came to a gilded staircase or slope that led them up to the next level. But each time they would follow the nearest golden light that shone through the fog. Invariably, this light would lead them deeper within the city, though, much to Nemgas’s consternation, they never seemed to approach the great towers of crystal that he’d seen from afar.
Pelurji however was not dismayed in the slightest at not finding any of those huge towers. The boy’s growing unrest came from not being able to find the bones of the dragon that Pelain had slain. And he said so plainly after they reached the base of yet another obelisk. “I dost not know where the bones art,” Nemgas pointed out, glaring into the fog curious. Though the golden lights still shone all around, he found it hard to tell which of them was the sun.
And then, he began to spin about on his feet, looking in each direction, seeing many shrouded lights dim in the distance, all of them golden, and he realized that he had no idea which of them was the light they had followed into the fog. Nemgas felt his chest tighten. There was no doubt in his mind that they were lost. But the valley they were in was only so large. He merely had to pick a single direction and follow it and they would eventually emerge from the fog. It would then simply be a matter of following along the edge of the valley the city was built within, and they would return to the wagons.
“Master Nemgas!” Pelurji’s insistent voice brought him back to the fog-filled night. He turned and looked down at his boy. “Wast thee listening?”
“Not well enough,” Nemgas admitted with a playful smile to the boy. He had no intention of worrying Pelurji. “What didst thee say?”
“Where art the bones of the dragon? Dost the stories say?”
Nemgas laughed lightly then. “The first I heard of the dragon that Pelain hath slain wast that night in Cheskych.”
At the mention of the boy’s hometown, he became rather quiet. Nemgas felt like he’d misspoken then, seeing the subtle change in the boy’s face. Pelurji looked suddenly forlorn, as if he’d only now realized that he’d left that home forever. Forcing a smile to his face, he gripped the boy’s shoulder tightly and gave it a firm shake. “We shalt find it, my boy. Hath faith in that. I shalt ne’er let thee down.”
Pelurji’s smile slowly returned. “Thou meanest it?”
“Aye, Pelurji. I shalt find thy dragon for thee.” He had no idea how he intended to accomplish it, but strangely enough, he knew he meant it.
The smile blossomed fully then, and the uncertainty of a moment before was forgotten. “Well, what way shalt we go then?”
Nemgas scanned about, deciding that following the lights had not been a wise course after all. But they were certainly the only landmarks he could make out in that thick fog bank. Though he could feel a slight wind prickling at the back of his ears, tugging on the strands of his hair, it did not seem to dislodge the fog at all from that ancient city. Was the fog merely the graying of a beard, one more sign of the city’s age? Was it so old that it had grown the fog?
Lost!
Blood and Ash, lost!
Nemgas turned about then, looking back behind him. The globe that he’d thought would have been there was not, only more of the endless fog. And there was none behind him to have offered up those voices. Pelurji still did not seem to notice the voices, looking about in any direction, hoping always to see some hint of the dragon’s bones.
“We art not lost,” Nemgas said aloud, glaring into the fog. But the voices did not reply to him, making him wonder anew whether he wasn’t just imagining them. But he had heard voices that weren’t there before. While these did not feel like the pounding of Cenziga in his mind, he still knew that he’d heard them.
“Nay!” Pelurji cried, smiling still. “We hath to find the dragon!”
Nemgas gave a short nod. “Aye, find the dragon. ‘Tis what we must do.” He smiled down once to the boy, wondering why Pelurji couldn’t hear the voices. But that thought was struck short as his eyes alighted on something just beyond the boy. He knelt down, and traced his fingers along the line of marble in the stone, noting how smooth it remained even after years of neglect. But it was not the smoothness that concerned him - the line of marble appeared to be perfectly straight in either direction.
“Let us follow this line,” Nemgas announced as he stood back up. “Canst thee walk upon this line, my boy?” Pelurji nodded, and demonstrated that he could, holding either arm out to the side and walking along the line almost as nimbly as a tumbler might. With a smile, Nemgas urged him to continue. “We shalt follow this path then. Methinks it will lead us to the dragon! But only if thou stays upon it always.”
“I shalt not fall!” Pelurji cried defiantly, stepping with both feet on the line, and moving forward slowly, one foot over the next. Nemgas smiled at that, watching his boy slowly press into the fog. He followed quickly after, though did not stay on the line. There was no sense in wasting such a good opportunity to train him in one of the ways of the tumbler. Perhaps he would be able to one day walk across a strand of rope, something that even Nemgas found impossible to do.
Eventually, Pelurji managed to find a simple rhythm in his steps and they began to move much faster. Nemgas noted that the line led them very close to several more of the strangely built homes, but he no longer had any interest in them. At one point the line passed between two walls, so close together that he had to walk sideways just to get through. Along the wall, more of the ancient carvings were set about, though there was something very different about these.
“Pelurji! Stop!” Nemgas commanded, and the boy did so, turning about, both feet still firmly planted upon the marble. But the Magyar did not take notice, as he was running his fingers along the slender carvings, some of the markings shallow, very near the surface, while others were deep and jagged.
But it was not the artwork of the strange city that captured his eyes. It was the long scratches that had been rent into the wall that he worried about. “Look at these,” Nemgas said, drawing his finger along one such scratch. It extended several feet into the slender hall, and then simply stopped. As he traced along, he felt his finger fit into the groove of one, and he let it flow naturally. Up along the wall it slid, shifting up and down here and there, and then, his finger reached the end of the mark, and he thought he would stop. But he did not, there seemed to be a bit of a sudden curve to it, and then his finger flowed back, slipping along another set of scratches, until it retreated back out the wall altogether.
“What made those?” Pelurji asked as he ran his fingers of another scratch set lower in the wall.
“I dost not know,” Nemgas admitted as he stared at them. A similar set occupied the other wall, and it too only went in through the slender passage a few feet. “But we art not the first to tread this way.” He smiled a bit then. “Dost thee think these art the dragon’s claws?” He held both of his hands menacingly towards his boy, teeth bared. Pelurji laughed then and made a face back at him, growling and snarling.
Nemgas laughed then, and looked back to the wall with its strange scratches. “Nay, I dost not think ‘twas a dragon that made these,” he gestured to them, and then began to tap along the wall, starting from the top and going down, touching each scratch mark once. “There art too many for it to be the scratches of dragons. And they dost change in places. Dost thee see that this one ends, and another begins beneath it? Methinks something was rubbing against this wall.”
Even as he said it, an image flooded his mind, one that was strong and clear, of a night in which the fog had been newly settled upon the city. There, a man dressed in gleaming armour, a wolf’s head for his helm, was leading a horse slowly, following one of the lines of marble for his guide. He came to an opening in a wall of stone, and attempted to pass through. But the wall caught at his armour, and he was forced to wiggle his way free, and lead his steed along the wall for some other way around. Yet, he also saw another armoured man helping Pelain break free, but that was not as clear.
You will see.
Nemgas blinked then as the image faded, and found himself hunched up against those close walls. His hands were resting upon his knees, and he felt strangely cold. He held his arms close to his body for a moment until the feeling passed. Glancing up, he scanned about for Pelurji, but his boy was no longer between the walls. “Pelurji!” he called, a strange fear filling his voice. “Where art thee, Pelujri?”
A laughing voice drifted down to him from above, and he glanced upwards suddenly, fearing that it was another of those desultory voices that had begun to haunt him. But instead, there was Pelurji, hands holding one lip of the wall, his feet the other, bracing himself as nimbly as any tumbler might. Though Nemgas still felt the worry in his heart, he felt a bit of pride as well.
“Didst I scare thee?” Pelurji asked, shifting his grip slightly.
“Aye, thou rascal. Now climb down here. We must find the dragon.”
Pelurji gave his arms a push, and then lifted his feet form the other edge of the wall, slipping to just over the carvings, using them to walk down, until he could go no further. He then fell against the wall he clung to with his hands, and climbed the rest of the way down, the carvings his handholds. When he was only two feet from the ground, he pushed off, and planted both feet firmly upon the marble line that went through the middle of the passage. He held his arms before him and beams brightly at Nemgas.
Nemgas patted him on the head and laughed. “Thou art a fine climber! Thou dost surprise me every day with what thee hath learned, Pelurji. A finer Magyar I hath ne’er seen!”
The compliment brightened the boy’s mood even more, and soon he was off through the passage, and out the other side at a brisk pace. Nemgas waited until he emerged from the other side of the wall before he spoke again. “‘Twas Pelain, I dost believe,” he announced then, catching his boy’s attention.
“Pelain?”
“Aye,” Nemgas said, nodding and smiling. “‘Twas Pelain that didst try to go through that wall methinks. With his great armour, he wast too large to fit, and so didst scrape the walls.”
Pelurji’s face filled with a profound awe. “Truly?”
“Truly. Thou hast done something that Pelain couldst not do, my boy. Thou hast been greater than Pelain!”
“Do not jest so,” Pelurji intoned, looking about into the fog as if he were afraid that ancient hero would emerge. But the fog was impassive and still as before.
“I do not jest lightly,” Nemgas said slowly. “But thou art of Pelain. And now thou hast walked where he hast once been.” This did seem to make a smile twitch at the boy’s lips. “And also,” Nemgas added, bending over to stare him in the eye, “Pelain wished to go this way. The dragon must be this way, so we art going where we shouldst!”
That last made Pelurji quite a bit happier. Without anymore words, they both continued on their way along the marble line. Nemgas looked form side to side regularly as he followed after his boy. The lights seemed to swim past them on either side, even the ones that had appeared to be before them. On a whim, he looked up towards the heavens, and could see faintly the golden glow of the crystals. The towers, he realized with a bit of excitement. They were there to his left somewhere. He thought briefly about leaving the line to find them, but decided against it. They had a path now, it would be folly to change it.
You will go there anyway, Ash.
Blood will lead you.
Yes, Blood and Ash, lost!
They will see.
Nemgas tensed as the play of words filled his ears. The voices themselves seemed each subtly different, like the various tunes a dulcimer string could have if the tuning knob were twisted ever so slightly this way or that. They each held the same ephemeral quality, as if they were words spoken centuries ago that had been caught on the wind, finally delivered to an ear that could hear them just then. But they were nevertheless, different voices.
“Couldst thee move a bit faster,” Nemgas asked, clutching his arms about himself more tightly. “I fear night shalt come soon. The others wilt worry if we hath not returned by then.”
“But we shouldst find the dragon! Thou promised.”
“Aye, we shalt find the dragon. But then we must return to the wagons.”
Pelurji nodded, moving as fast as he could and still keep his feet upon that line. Nemgas patted him on the back a few times to urge him to move more quickly, but the boy simply couldn’t handle it any faster just yet. Finally, Nemgas reached beneath the boy’s arms and hoisted him up onto his back. Arms wrapped around his neck, legs crooked through arms, Pelurji rode upon Nemgas’s back.
You cannot run.
His flesh tingling, Nemgas did just that, he picked his pace up until he was jogging at a swift pace across the strange city, following that single line of marble always. Sometimes it would intersect other lines, but it ever went straight. The lights of each globe passed him by, the towers themselves remaining resolutely at his left. And the wind continued to trickle past him, feeling much the same as it had when he was simply walking or standing still. The bounce of Pelurji on his back was a pleasant weight, but it did keep him from going as quickly as he would have liked. But the boy was at least quiet for now, simply watching.
You will see.
Nemgas blinked his eyes, and kept running.
Sir Poznan rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he looked first to the south and then to the north. The path that they had been following hard all day long had finally come up through some lower tunnels to a fork here. And while he decided on which fork to take, he allowed his fellow knights to rest their horses.
“Father Athfisk,” he called. “I wish your blessings once again on this venture.”
The goggle-eyed priest stumbled in his black robes a moment before he reached the knight’s side. “Of course. Do you need Eli’s guidance?”
“And His blessings,” Sir Poznan said, kneeling a moment in his armour to allow the priest to do his work.
Father Athfisk made the sign of the tree over Sir Poznan’s head then, and said a few words in the Ecclesiastical tongue. He waited until the priest was finished before standing up again. He nodded his thanks to the black-robed priest before looking over the paths once again. One of them would lead him to the Magyars, the other would lead him away. This he knew. He would pick the right one.
“We will go north,” Sir Poznan declared with a shout to his men. “Mount and ride. Sunset is coming.” Gripping the reins of his destrier, he pulled himself once more into the saddle. It took only another minute before the rest of his company was ready and they were on their way, following the northern fork.
He just hoped that they had overtaken the Magyars as he suspected they had.
“Hath Nemgas returned yet?” Hanaman asked Chamag while the larger Magyar was busy oiling his axe blade.
Chamag shook his head, grunting unpleasantly. “They hath not returned yet. All the rest hath done so.”
“Aye,” Hanaman said, his weathered face hard as he gazed at the fog-filled city. The gem towers stood massive and unyielding in their midst. “I shouldst not hath allowed him to take the boy there. ‘Tis almost sunset.”
“I shalt search for them,” Chamag offered, letting his axe rest across his knees for the moment.
The elder Magyar considered that for a moment before he finally nodded. “Aye, thou shouldst. But not yet. If they hath not returned in an hour’s time, take torches, and a few other men and venture into that city. Take a spook of string with thee as well. Lay it out as thou dost search that thee may not become lost as well.”
Chamag nodded. “I shall take two spools for each man that dost come with me. ‘Tis a large city.”
“Aye, ‘tis very large,” Hanaman said, gazing at it uncomfortably.
Sunset came upon them both suddenly. One minute Nemgas was rushing along that line of marble, golden globes providing them with a warm light throughout the fog. And then suddenly that light simply vanished completely, leaving them in utter darkness for a single moment. Nemgas came to an abrupt stop then, holding tight, eyes wide, offering prayers that the lights would come back. Even with the fog, they’d barely been able to see much, but at least they could see the straight line of marble. Now, they could not even see that, and he knew he would not be able to tell the difference between the marble and the rest of stone without getting down on his hands and knees.
But the light returned only a few seconds later, this time, silver in character, sublime and soft. Nemgas stared at the newly illuminated globes for a moment before he understood what the significance was. Night had settled upon Hanlo o Bavol-engro, and at night the city was lit with the same silvery glow that had kept the road bright the night before. But the oddest thing of all was that the globes did not seem to be in the same places they had been when they were still golden.
“What happened?” Pelurji asked in a whispering voice.
Nemgas looked about, making sure that he was still on the marble line. He’d taken one step off of it while trying to stop, but it was still there beneath him. “Sunset methinks,” he said at last. He took a few tentative steps forward, waiting to make sure the lights would not go out again, and then began to run once more.
It was at first quite subtle, but the further that Nemgas ran along that marble line, the more and more differences he began to catalogue in the shape of the buildings, and in the appearance of the various walls and staircases he came to. Differences from what he’d seen during the day, and now what he saw at night. During the day, every detail had been important, each place built as a home or place where things were made. The jade isle that they had examined had seemed a thing forgotten, filled with weeds, something left untended for scores of years.
Now, when the marble line led them past buildings, they seemed to be open to the air more, their carvings fashioned like festooning wild flowers, the silvery light bringing out muted colours. Nemgas could well imagine dancers performing strange rites within those halls, while others gazed up at the stars through strange compound lenses built into the very architecture themselves. Giant airy pavilions greeted him, the fog clearing enough for him to see to their end before swallowing up the distance once more. And even more isle sand fountains where strange midnight flowers still blossomed, the ivory railings that led to these isle glistening with starlight of their own.
The city he had seen during the day, one of work and home had simply vanished, replaced at the fall of night by this city of celebration and festival. He could not help but wonder if that indeed had truly happened, that in that single moment of darkness when all light had simply ceased, that the very city of Hanlo o Bavol-engro had changed. Had he stood in one of those buildings, might he have been uprooted a well, cast into a shadowy realm to await the return of daylight to the world. The very thought of it made him shudder and shake his head, pressing forward relentlessly. What would have poor Pelurji done had he witnessed him disappearing like that? What could he have done then to get his boy safely form the city?
Whispered, Ash.
The words came as gently as before, as if spoken by something small resting upon the edge of his ear. His heart beat harder in his chest, and he felt a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead. Nervously, he picked up his pace. His legs were beginning to get sore, and the pressure of Pelurji’s arms at his neck was beginning to make him short on breath.
Run Blood and Ash! Run!
Does it matter where you run?
Or from what you run?
Just run! You will see.
Nemgas steeled himself and continued on. Pelurji bounced along on his back, not making a sound, just turning his head from to side to peer into the thick fog. It continued to encircle them, keeping them from seeing anything that was more than fifteen feet away. Though there was a great deal of beauty around them, his mind was focussed upon the voices that he continued to hear. It bothered him because Pelurji did not seem to be able to hear them at all. Perhaps the boy was keeping them to himself, but Nemgas did not think so. He trusted Pelurji to tell him everything, he always had after all.
The line of marble led up a series of steps towards a higher landing of stone. Nemgas rushed up those steps, but his foot caught on the edge of the top most step, and he fell forward, sprawling to the ground. Pelurji sailed over his head, giving out a sharp cry. Nemgas grunted as his chest slammed into the stone, face meeting the marble line they had been following. His flesh stung, and he winced as he felt a bit of blood upon his cheeks when he sat back up.
“Art thee all right?” Nemgas asked, shifting over towards where Pelurji lay. The boy was cradling his left arm in one hand, and doing his best to hold in a whimper. Nemgas saw that the boy’s arm was bleeding, but thankfully nothing but the skin was broken. He quickly tore a bit of his shirt free and wrapped it about the boy’s wound. Pelurji smiled in thanks then, but his smile faded when he looked into the Magyar’s face.
“Thou art bleeding too!”
“Aye,” Nemgas said, wiping a bit more form his cheek. He could feel the sting in his face, but he’d seen worse done with a razor. “‘Tis nothing to worry about. Once thee art ready we shalt continue.”
Pelurji nodded, staring around at the plateau they’d risen too, his eyes curious. “Where art we?”
Nemgas shook his head. “Hanlo o Bavol-engro, ‘tis all I know.”
“‘Tis a very large city,” Pelurji opined then, looking down at his bandages then. He rubbed at them, but did not remove them. Already they were beginning to stain red.
Nemgas sat for a moment, staring at the boy. The simplicity of his statement did not immediately register, but as he thought about, he had to agree. How many hours now had they been following the marble line? How long had they walked and run in that time, heading in a single direction? How he wished for a lodestone, yet somehow he knew that should he possess one, it would merely spin in all directions. Looking to the left, he saw that the towers were there, still on his left exactly as they had been when they’d begun to follow that line.
“I know not how,” Nemgas said slowly, looking at the globes of silvery light, traitors all, “but we hath been led astray. This line shouldst hath brought us out of the city by now. It looks straight, but ‘tis not in some way. ‘Tis as crooked and deceiving as any.”
“But I thought we wert going to find the dragon,” Pelurji said, blinking in surprise at Nemgas’s vehemence.
“We shalt,” Nemgas said, nodding his head. “But I hath fear in my heart that we shalt ne’er do that unless we canst first find our way back to the wagons.”
Lost! Blood and Ash Lost!
“Nay!” Nemgas screamed at the air then, getting to his feet and turning about. A broad intricate lace-work structure seemed to be situated on top of the plateau. The base of which was supported by strong buttresses, while higher up, the lacework became fragmented, filling several different levels that seemed able to shift against each other. The higher he looked, the clearer it became. The fog, at least inside the buildings, seemed simply not to exist.
“Master Nemgas?” Pelurji asked, his voice suddenly frightened.
You will see.
“What shalt I see?” Nemgas called out into the air. “Thou hast said it many times. What wilt I see?”
But the air was still, quite apart from the voice of Pelurji asking, “Who dost thee speak to, master Nemgas?”
Nemgas balled his hands into fists, the sting still fresh upon his cheek, although the blood was no longer flowing. “I canst not say. I hath heard voices in my ears, whispering to me all the while we hath been in this city. They hath told me I shalt see, but they hath not said what I shalt see. And with that damnable fog, I canst not barely see anything! What shalt I then see?”
Pelurji still appeared quite frightened, clutching his bandaged arm in one hand. Nemgas stared at the boy for several moments then and his anger began to abate. “Come here,” he said, kneeling down and holding out his arms. Pelurji climbed to his feet and rushed into them, wrapping his own arms once more around Nemgas’s neck, burying his face in his shoulder, “I hath frightened thee, my boy, and I art sorry.”
“‘Tis well,” Pelurji said, though his voice was muffled by the Magyar’s shoulder. “They scare me too.”
Nemgas shuddered at that and broke the embrace, holding Pelurji at arm’s length. “They scare thee too? Who dost scare thee, Pelurji?”
The boy shifted his feet about. The strip of cloth about his arm was quite red, but it appeared to have finally staunched the flow of blood. “Thy voices. They talk to me too.”
“Why didst thee not tell me?” Nemgas asked, eyes lowered.
“I didst not want thee to think me scared. I want to be a Magyar.”
Nemgas smiled affectionately then and pulled the boy back into the warm embrace, wrapping his arms about his head. “Thou art a Magyar, Pelurji. Hath no fear of that.” After a moment, he set the boy at arm’s length again. He then had to brush one of the white locks from his face to keep it from being bloodied by his cut. “Now, what dost the voices say to thee?”
“They hath said I wilt find two.”
“Two? What two?”
“They just hath said I wilt find two,” Pelurji repeated, shrugging a bit. “And that thee art lost.”
Nemgas frowned at that. “That I art lost? How dost thee know they speak of me?”
Pelurji shuffled his feet once more. “I just know they speak of thee, master Nemgas.”
“What dost they call me?” Nemgas asked, leaning in a bit closer. “Thou mayest tell me, Pelurji. ‘Tis important.”
“Ash,” Pelurji said, his voice low. “They call thee Ash.”
Nemgas took a deep breath and nodded slowly. “And I think they hath called thee Blood. ‘Tis strange, and I canst say what it might mean. But I think that thou must lead us again. I hath gained us nothing by following this line. If thou art meant to find something, and I merely meant to see, then I shalt let thee lead.”
The boy nodded, and was about to turn about, when the walls of the strange structure began to glisten with a silvery light. Strange sparkles descended form each beam, each drops of brilliant mercury that shone with aetherial light. The vast lenses above began to shimmer and glow, evanescent light cascading between them until the entire arena was bathed in molten silver. The lace work slid along in unseen tracks, making that light focus like a piece f glass along a circle in the centre of the arena, where it sizzled for a moment. And then, just as suddenly as it had come, the light vanished, and the structure was still once more.
“What?” Pelurji asked, but his question went answered. Nemgas rose to his feet and crossed through that arena, following where the light had burned in his eyes. He could still see the image of it if he looked away, making it hard to see anything else. But when he looked at that spot upon the ground where it had burned, all was clear.
It did not take him long to cross beneath the open structure. There was no fog within after all, and now with the strange sudden light gone, there seemed little that could harm him. The stonework beneath the arena, much to his surprise, changed from the typical granite to a basalt in a large circle. The basalt itself was clean of any markings, save near the centre. In the centre a strange silvery spiral was formed. It was fashioned from a single wavy line, and it spread outwards slowly. There was perhaps the width of his smallest finger between the lines themselves. The only other markings upon the basalt were two red dots that appeared to have been burned into the basalt.
Nemgas lowered himself on hands and knees and felt over the end of the silvery spiral. It was so hot that he yanked his hand back in surprise. That must have been where the light had been focussed. It had burned some new part to the spiral. One of the two red dots was very nearly next to it, only a small space existed between the end of the spiral and the red dot. The other was already on the spiral, roughly a third of the way from the beginning. Nemgas was unsure what those two might mean, or what the machine might do. The entire structure seemed attuned to this one act, the burning of silver into the basalt.
Time. It is time.
You will see.
Nemgas looked up abruptly then, his flesh tingling. “Time for me to see?” he asked, but the voices had vanished once more. Frowning, Nemgas looked back at the spiral. Apart from the silver, there were only the two red dots. One was already upon the spiral, the other very nearly so. Two. Pelurji was to find two. Two red dots? No, Nemgas had found those. But two what?
Slowly, Nemgas crept back along the basalt to where the boy stood watching him, his face staring emptily at the massive lens. Nemgas rubbed at his eyes, seeing that bright light still burned into his eyes when he closed them. “‘Tis marking time, methinks,” Nemgas said at last, giving the strange configuration of lenses a backwards glance. He frowned for a moment. “I dost not know why, but ‘tis what it seems. Wilt thee lead us on, Pelurji?”
The boy nodded then, and turned about, following the marble line from the building. Nemgas did not object when he saw the young Magyar taking the same route he’d led them on. Perhaps it would be different with him leading instead. Given the strangeness of the city, it might very well be possible. He watched and listened as they continued on their way, but only the fog and their own footsteps met his senses.
“Father Almighty,” one of the knights said, his voice hushed. Several made the sign of the tree, including Sir Poznan himself.
Before them, the rock had opened up, revealing towers of gem and crystal that shone with the silvery light of the moon. Beneath them lay a valley filled with fog and mist. They could see nothing amidst it, but there were a few glimmering lights that spoke of more obelisks.
“If we venture in there, we might become lost,” Sir Ignacz said at last, his voice breaking the stillness like a boulder crashing into a lake. “We should wait until the fog burns away in the midday sun.”
Father Athfisk looked positively repulsed by the sight. “There’s something wrong with this, Knight Commander. This should not be in Eli’s world.”
Sir Poznan tore his eyes from the spiralled jewels. How could anything so impressive exist in lands outside the Ecclesia’s demesnes? It did not make sense to him in the least. “The Magyars are hiding in there somewhere, that is what I think. We should not delay, but go in.”
“But the fog!” Sir Ignacz objected, his voice uncharacteristically strident.
“We will walk our steeds for now, and we shall say nothing. Move as quietly as we can. But we must find them.” Sir Poznan declared. But none of the knights made any move to dismount, nor did the riders or squires. Disgusted with their lack of courage, Sir Poznan dismounted himself, nearly jumping to the stone below. His metal boots made a hollow thunk when they struck the stone.
At seeing their Knight Commander dismount, the rest of the company did as well. Sir Lech Poznan of Bydbrüszin smiled as they did. “Good. Now let us find them.”
“But how will we find our way in that?” Sir Ignacz asked.
Grunting, Sir Poznan glanced about, and then pointed towards one of the lines of marble that crossed through the stone road. “I shall follow this. You will all follow me, and we will go where it leads. No in the name of the Ecclesia and the Driheli, let us find those damn Magyars!”
Without waiting for any other objections, Sir Poznan plunged into the mist, dragging his stallion along after him.
Though the marble line that Pelurji followed never once curved, still, the towers that had once been on their left were suddenly directly in front of them after only an hour of walking. And it had occurred even as Nemgas had watched them. Only minutes ago, they had stood as resolutely at his left as if they were following after him. And then, as Pelurji had followed that marble line up a short gossamer staircase, the towers had begun to slide forward.
Disoriented, Nemgas had looked to his feet to watch that line, and then back at the towers. How could anything move so, he wondered, staring in disbelief at those giant beacons of crystal. What could they truly be? And could this place, Hanlo o Bavol-engro, Carethedor, change so fluidly, where straight lines lead one in curves, and the city changes wholly form day to night?
You will see.
But still lost!
Even the voices, whispering as they were, no longer bothered him nearly as much as they once had. Somehow, he now knew they did not mean him harm, no matter how mocking or mysterious they could be. Yet he still did not trust them completely. His greatest wish was to bring Pelurji form this city. Yet somehow, the path he’d chosen, and that now the boy led them upon, had taken them straight to the very heart of Carethedor. Perhaps the only way to leave the city was to go through it, he wondered. It made as much sense to him as did everything else that this strange whispering place held.
The fog lifted as they both neared the towers. Their bases were fashioned from the same crystal as the rest of them was, a crystal faceted millions of times, so much so that it appeared to be dragons scales racing up along their entire length. They stood at least twenty feet wide at the base, tapering slowly as it ascended far into the starry sky above. Nemgas blinked as he saw the stars, the first time that night that they’d been visible at all. While everywhere outside the towers was still occluded by the fog, the towers themselves, and all between them was clear.
Pelurji stopped just before he passed between the two nearest towers, looking back to Nemgas first. Nemgas came up to his side, and stared into the open space between the towers. There were a total of twelve towers, arranged in a circle like the numbers on a clock. No designs other than the faceting were placed upon the towers. Far above, the tops of the towers shone with a brilliant silver light, as if they were capturing the moon itself in their rays.
Nemgas let his eyes trail back to what lay between the towers and a gasp escaped his lips. To one side, just a short ways from the centre lay a massive black draconic skeleton. It lay on its side, bones hard and cold, baring its neck and chest to them. Several of the ribs were broken and splintered, but it appeared mostly intact. Atop the dragon’s chest lay a gleaming suit of armour. Nemgas felt his flesh tremble anew as he saw the shape of the helm. It was shaped like a wolf’s helmet.
“Pelain...” he murmured softly.
“We found it!” Pelurji suddenly cried, leaping forward into the midst of the towers, racing towards the long slain dragon’s bones. Nemgas tried to snatch at the boy’s shoulder, but was not quick enough. He laughed lightly then. How could he restrain a youth’s enthusiasm?
Nemgas strode quietly after him into that flat field. The ground was marked only by lines of marble that stretched from the towers themselves to the centre where they met in a ring. Lines of marble also extended from between each of the towers to that ring. Before each of the towers lay a plot of earth, though nothing grew from the ground. Apart from the dragon and the suit of armour that lay atop the dragon, clearly depicting the last scene in the tale that Pelokan had given of Pelain’s death, there was only one other thing that seemed out of place. A headstone rose above a bit of earth near one of the towers, and against that headstone rested a gleaming silver and black sword.
“Caur-Merripen,” Nemgas whispered, remembering well the name of the blade that Pelain was said to have fashioned from the very rock of the Vysehrad itself. So the legend of Pelain’s death was true. He had come to Carethedor to slay a dark and evil dragon, a dragon blackened and corrupted by some terrible force. And there, after having slain that beast, he too had died. The grave must have been his own, the one he’d dug even as he’d felt the poison of the beast coursing through his flesh.
While Pelurji was poking around the strange black bones of the beast, reaching out to touch them, but snatching his hand back as he neared it, Nemgas walked along the line of marble until he came to the ring in the centre. Pelain was said to have fought the dragon at the very foundations of Hanlo o Bavol-engro. Then these towers must have been the foundations, he mused. Turning about, he stared out past those spires of crystal, looking at the stars in the distance. With a start, he recognized the shape of the mountain that they had entered from. It lay to the North, it’s twin peaks easily recognizable. Between them, at their very centre, was the Northern Star, shining brightly.
Strange, he thought, that the Northern Star, the star that pointed due North, would be so perfectly positioned between those peaks. The ancient builders of this city must have sculpted those peaks for that very purpose.
But the stars move.
The voice caught him by surprise, and he glanced around, eyes finally settling on Pelurji, who was trying to move the body of the ancient warrior. No, not quite, Nemgas realized. The boy was actually trying to move that great black and silver sword that was still clutched within the bones of Pelain’s hand.
Do you see?
Nemgas stared at the sword that Pelurji was trying to free from the dead hand. He turned, and stared at the sword that rested against the headstone of the grave. Black and silver. Dark black blade, the edges of which shone like polished silver, even after years of neglect. He looked back to the boy finally having wrestled the end of the blade from the bones, and it clattered to the stone, bright, the edges of the blade a shimmering silver, but the blade itself was black.
“Nay, ‘tis not possible,” Nemgas murmured. How could there be two blades? Two Caur-Merripens?
Do you see?
Can you see, Ash?
“Ash,” Nemgas murmured slowly. That nagging thought, that single idea that connected to all others, blossoming at last within his mind. “Nay!” he cried out, racing across the courtyard between the towers until he knelt before the headstone. He ignored the characters scored into the stone, and set himself to digging into the Earth with feverish intensity. It simply couldn’t be possible, he knew that. After all, he’d been the only one to climb Cenziga and live.
Hadn’t he?
“Damn this place!” Sir Poznan snarled as he swatted at the clinging fog. It had grown thicker the further in they had pressed. Now, it seemed only a few feet from him at all times, a suffocating vapour that blinded them to all but the brilliant lights atop the spires in the distance.
“I do not think we are welcome here,” Father Athfisk murmured quietly. He could barely see the priest through the fog, but he must be there somewhere behind.
“We should withdraw,” Sir Ignacz counselled. “We can see nothing. How are we to know we won’t simply happen up the Magyars surrounding us?”
Sir Poznan bit his lip before answering. With the fog as thick as this, he could not discount what his fellow knight had said. If they somehow stumbled into the midst of the whole host of Magyars, they would surely be killed. They would certainly slaughter a great number of the Magyars themselves, but their own deaths would be assured. He was no fool to think that merely by their arms and their knighthood they would survive.
He had hoped that the fog could be their ally. His intent had been to discover the location of the Magyars, and then creep up on them in the fog, charging forth when they were unawares, taking out several of their wagons before fleeing once more into the fog to strike again from another flank later. But if they could not even find their own way, such a plan could never come to fruition.
“No, I will not withdraw now,” Sir Poznan said at last, his voice quiet. “Even if we wished to, where shall we withdraw to? Every direction in this place looks the same. Nay, we should instead head towards the one place that looks different.” He lifted his arm and pointed towards the glimmering towers that loomed silently in the distance. Then realising that most of his men likely could not see his arm, he added, “The towers.”
“Very true. Lead on, Knight Commander,” Sir Ignacz said. Sir Poznan imagined him nodding his head in agreement, though he could not make him out amidst the fog. His own men appeared as nothing more than spectral shadows in that dark grey mist, only faintly limned by the silverly light of the crystals.
Gritting his teeth, Sir Poznan turned his charger towards the distant towers, and began to walk once more into the mists.
“Well,” Chamag said as he indicated the boot prints in the dust inside the building, “I wouldst say that they hath been this way.”
Adlemas nodded as he let the spool of string out some more to mark their trail through the fog. “But the trail hath disappeared once again once they hath left this place. Where hath they gone?”
Chamag shook his head, cursing the fog and the stone walkways smoothed so well. “I canst not say. ‘Tis fortune that we hath found this. Methinks they hath gone further into the city.”
“And why dost thou think that?” Adlemas asked of the younger Magyar. Though Adlemas was the oldest of the Magyars that had accompanied Chamag on the search, he nevertheless deferred to Nemgas’s wagonmate.
“Nemgas hath a curious mind,” Chamag said, grinning ruefully. “He wouldst hath gone deeper to see more.”
Adlemas nodded, glancing back at the others of their company, each of them looking about into the fog warily, listening for the sounds of spirits. They had thankfully heard none so far. “Let us be off then. We shalt need to tie off this spool ere long, methinks.”
Chamag glanced at the rapidly dwindling spool in Adlemas’s hand and nodded. “Aye. Tell me when it hast run out.” The large man stood once more and continued on past the house, delving deeper into the fog shrouded city of Hanlo o Bavol-engro.