Night Amongst Whispers - Part VIII

ight finally fell upon the Magyars shortly after Nemgas finished telling Hanaman what he had learned from the squire. The wagons continued to wind their way through the mountain path, finding their way by the hooded lanterns that each driver kept upon a hook. The stars above were bright, sparkling with dazzling alacrity, as if they were deliberately watching the flight of the Magyars from the knights of the Driheli. They could not yet see the moon in the east, but it would not be long before it finally rose past the summit of the peaks that still towered above them.

Hanaman was at times pleased with the information that the squire provided, and other times his lips were set in the fiercest line that Nemgas could ever recall. The leader of the Magyars was especially displeased when told that the knights were hunting after Kashin, the man who’d been killed upon Cenziga. Naturally, Nemgas was unable to phrase it quite that way, as even hinting at the ash mountain made his fellow Magyars extremely uncomfortable. But there was little doubt in Hanaman’s mind that the man who was Kashin was still dead.

But as the last bit of twilight faded to midnight blue upon the western horizon, Hanaman excused himself form the roof of the rear wagon, saying that he was going to keep watch with Adlemas for any further signs of where the road might be blocked. The older Magyar climbed down, and began to walk at a brisk pace up along the line of the wagons, quickly swallowed up into the cloak of night.

“They wouldst not believe us shouldst we say that Kashin wast killed?” Kaspel asked once their leader was lost to sight.

Nemgas shook his head. “I hath already told the boy Golonka this, and he didst call me a liar.”

Chamag snorted then, resting his chin upon his pick as he sat with legs curled up before him. “They hath great hubris to think they couldst attack so many with so few. With but four pitted against six they didst fall in seconds.”

“Aye, but they wert surprised by our ambuscade. ‘Twould be luck shouldst they be led so easily astray again,” Nemgas pointed out. “And where wouldst we stage such an attack? Upon the Steppes there wast nowhere to hide. Here amongst the cliffs we hath no place to hide either. We shouldst keep on this road until we dost see a place of refuge.”

Chamag narrowed his eyes. His face was shadowed and lit only by the pale illumination of the stars. It was strangely ætherial to see his fellow Magyars limned so. “I hath ne’er hid form the foul Tagendend. I doth not wish to hide from foolish knights.”

“‘Tis not ours to decide. That hast been the decision of Hanaman,” Nemgas reminded him gently. He knew how Chamag could be when his anger was riled. His was the direct approach, sure in his ability to win when it came to a fight. Not simply in his own strength, but also in that of his fellow Magyars.

“Thou wert the one they seek,” Kaspel said then, his voice filled with strange unspoken thoughts. “Dost thee not wish them dead?”

Nemgas bristled at those words. He did not think of himself as the same man as Kashin, and he never had. He could remember his own past, a past of life as a Magyar. It was true he could remember Kashin’s life, but it was not his, and he had never been that man. He hated hearing Kaspel, his fellow Magyar and wagonmate, tell him that he was once that other man.

“I hath no wish for any to die in this world, unless they shouldst wish ill upon us or any Magyar,” Nemgas stated brusquely. “I wouldst rather the knights leave the Steppe, but I know ‘tis not to be. But we shalt convince them otherwise.”

They all fell into silence then, each staring off the ends of the wagon at the dimly illuminated path. Nemgas griped his pick in both hands, rolling it back and forth through his fingers. He no longer wished to speak with his fellow Magyars just then. The sting of Kaspel’s words filled his every muscle. Though there was another idea gurgling to the surface of his mind, a simple thought that seemed interwoven between all the other disparate notions, he could not reach it through the mulling over the matter of Kashin.

What he could ponder was the road their wagons traversed. After several minutes of just listening to the wagon wheels grinding, he realized something that had been eluding him. Not even on the Steppe itself had Nemgas had the pleasure of such a smooth journey. The road itself was completely flat, smoothed to make travel easier. The road was not natural at all, but forged by ancient hands, just as the mirrors of Cheskych had been forged. Though it seemed an impossible feat, so high up within remote Vysehrad, it had nevertheless be accomplished.

Armed with that knowledge, Nemgas found himself staring at the road, and the walls on either side of the wagon with a keen eye. But it wasn’t until the gibbous moon finally showed over the line of peaks in the east that he was able to make out the delicate carvings into the sides of the rock. They were faint, worn by years of neglect, and sometimes shattered completely, but they were there. Along the walls strange scroll work had been fashioned, frescoes and murals of lines and grooves delicately composed in that high mountain pass, depicting scenes that Nemgas could only guess at.

Perhaps during the daytime they would have been clearer, but with a sigh of disappointment he knew he would never have that chance. Never again would the Magyars travel this road - they only travelled it now because of the knights of Driheli. Of course, this made Nemgas wonder how long it had been since any had travelled that road, or who had built the road in the first place.

But the stories he had heard of Vysehrad came back to him then, even as he made out a few shapes in the verisimilitude of people and animals within those walls. This was, or at least was rumoured to be, the road to Hanlo o Bavol-engro, once called Carethedor. He remembered chiefly the story of Pelain riding down this road to face that evil dragon that had laid claim to the dead city of the Åelves. Would they too find themselves at the footsteps of that ancient place? Would Nemgas see the bones of the dragon himself, or even the bones of Pelain? He felt a sudden thrill at the very thought of it.

And it was then that he noticed something strange up ahead. The line of the wagons was lost to him after the first three, but he could see stars up ahead and to the right. The wall of the mountains would only be on their left for a time it seemed. Nemgas moved a little bit on the wagon, trying to peer closer at the emptiness, but it was not until their wagon reached the open space that he knew what it was. There, only a few feet away was a sheer drop into darkness. Smaller mountains rose up from that darkness, but only their peaks were illuminated by the moonlight.

Nemgas could see that the rest of the Magyars were watching as well. The lower mountains seemed to shine as if there was another light in the sky, but they could not see nothing but stars and moon. Listening in the silence, they could hear the slow treadof the wagon wheels, the clopping of the Assingh hooves, and the whispered awe of their fellow Magyars ahead. The road itself made an abrupt turn to the left only a short ways along the escarpment, and immediately, they understood, and marvelled.

The cliffside road continued on in a slightly zigzagging manner upwards further into the mountains for at least four or five miles, always with the sharp drop on the right. But along that edge on the right set every hundred ells or so was a standing obelisk that towered fifteen, twenty feet in the air. Cradled at each apex was a large multifaceted crystal, and each crystal glimmered with a pale silvery light, bringing the entire area into a phosphorescent glow. Nemgas stared openmouthed at the sight, his hands nearly losing their grip on the pick.

“By all the gods,” Kaspel murmured quietly. “Hath we entered a different world?”

“Aye,” Chamag said slowly, his own voice subdued. “‘Tis a land of legend, ancient Vysehrad.”

Nemgas could only nod as he gazed at the first of the obelisks that neared them. It appeared to have been fashioned from marbled clay, as there was the slightest hint of red in the moonlight. The crystal itself was so bright, he had trouble looking directly at it. What he could see was that it had been cut with thousands of faces, diffusing the moon’s light so evenly that it seemed a teardrop of blue flame.

“I wishest we couldst stop and take one,” Lenoras, the driver said softly as he stared at the giant crystal.

“Aye,” Nemgas breathed softly. “‘Twould feed us to the end of our children’s years but one of these.” Even so, a part of im could not bear the thought of removing them from their resting places. They seemed too strange to belong in any world but this moonlight mountainscape beyond the reach of civilization.

As the obelisk began to recede behind them, they grew quiet once more. Nemgas rolled the pick between his fingers as he stared out over the now illuminated cliffside. Past the escarpment lay several smaller mountains, all bathed in that silvery light. Most of the peaks rose higher than their road, even though their bases were still lost in deep shadow. The peaks themselves were bare of snow, though a few of the slopes sported grass and trees amidst the rock. Beyond was another line of taller mountains, and in the far distance he could make out snatches of the great Steppe. Even so, it surprised Nemgas how far they had ventured into Vysehrad already.

To his left the mountains continued to rise, but at least now he could see the snow-topped summits. Extending up the wall at least ten feet was more of the scroll work he’d seen earlier. It looked to be in better condition through this long stretch of road, and with the pale light, he could actually begin to make out the scenes depicted. Most of the images were of nature itself, of many mountain animals, rams, smaller creatures, and giant winger birds that flew overhead. Though he could see the lines that they were carved from, Nemgas still felt as if their eyes were alive, and they would leap from the rock at any moment.

Other pictures he saw depicted various people dressed in exotic robes and wild armour. They were invariably engaged in some sort of ritual, but the purpose of which he could not discern. There were long robed men holding forth bubbling censers while surrounded by others bearing weapons that appeared to be dual bladed swords. Others had their arms spread wide, as if they were leaping from the escarpment and attempting to fly. Those figures usually held strange objects in their hands, from fig leaves to bundles of grapes, as well as many-tailed strips of cloth and chisels.

There were also images of strange buildings that were faceted much like the gems that shone within the obelisks. Though there were no figures to give them any sense of scale, Nemgas felt as if those crystal spires stretched to the very sky itself. Most of them were so alien in their design that he could not grasp their purpose. Some seemed almost recognizable, though he could not quite say why. Most especially a set of three towers arranged in a perfect triangle. It was set off by itself, implying it held some importance, though what it might be, Nemgas could not fathom.

As they neared the end of the lighted cliff-side road, they could see that it led straight into a mountainside, a tunnel leading away deep beneath the rock. The inside of the tunnel glowed in that silverly light as well, so either it was a small tunnel, or it was lighted with those same crystals as well. But it appeared that for a short time, the wagons simply stopped moving.

“Hath something happened?” Kaspel asked as he sat a bit taller atop the wagon. Nemgas felt his breath catch as Chamag shifted about, very nearly slipping and spilling over the side, the side where the precipice opened, but the large man dug his fingers into the wood and righted himself.

“Perhaps,” Nemgas murmured, looking to his friend to see if he was well. Chamag pulled himself closer to the centre of the wagon then, but did not acknowledge Nemgas’s concerned glance. “Perhaps they hath found something, or perhaps the path hath been blocked ahead.”

“I dost not like that last,” Chamag muttered darkly. He cast his gaze back over the long road that they had come along. “The knights hath not gained on us.”

“Perhaps they didst not follow us,” Kaspel suggested hopefully.

Nemgas shook his head, wishing that Kaspel were right, but knowing that he was not. “They wilt follow us until they hath reached us. Knights of Driheli ne’er abandon a chase. ‘Tis one thing I know of them.”

“Could they hast taken the wrong path?” the archer asked.

“Perhaps,” Nemgas said with a shrug. Their wagon finally caught up with the rest and Lenoras tugged on the reins, bringing the Assingh to a stop. The beasts appeared grateful, kneeling their heads down, but finding no grass upon which to graze, and no water to drink. Lenoras took advantage of the brief stop to hop down from his seat and provide a little bit of feed and water to the beasts.

But even as the driver had set foot to the road, the first wagon resumed moving, slowly entering the cave ahead before disappearing behind the bend of the walls. The wagon line was long enough though, so Lenoras was able to attend to the Assingh as much as he wanted before he had to return to his perch and set them to moving again. Nemgas glanced back but saw that the road behind them was still empty. He breathed a little easier at that. The longer it took for the knights to catch up, the better chance they had of finding a place of refuge until they could strike back.

Yet there was something else that he knew he’d considered, or at least tried to consider that was still nagging at the back of his mind. The further along they continued on that road, the nearer to his mind it became, Nemgas realized. There was something that he was missing, but he could not figure out what it was. Staring at either the silver gemstone lights or the carvings in the wall made him only more certain of this.

But his musings came to an end when they made the last turn before reaching the cave entrance. There to the left side of the entrance stood Hanaman and Zhenava, while Dazheen herself was sitting upon a small cushion while her driver Fethan crouched before her, allowing her to use his back like a table for her cards. Zhenava’s face was set in a desolate grimace, staring at the curve of the cave opening, running her fingers across the smooth hewn stone. Hanaman had his arms crossed, watching her studiously.

Nemgas held his pick out to Kaspel, who took it readily enough. Chamag did not bother to give his pick to his fellow Magyar as he followed Nemgas down to the road, walking by his side up to where the figures worked. Hanaman glanced up at them as they approached and nodded his head, smiling oddly and glancing at the aperture. “‘Tis an ancient door,” he said as they neared. “Look and see for thyselves.”

They did. The cave entrance was shaped much like an oval, the top being only five or six hands higher than the wagons, giving it the appearance of a natural opening in the rock. But beyond it was clearly artificial, the rock ceiling vaulted in a narrow arch, while pillars had been carved from either side, strange crenellation winding all the way up like staircases for ants. Yet what caught their eyes foremost was the strange thick line of silver cord that filled a small indentation just beyond the cave mouth, and the two large stone walls connected to that track.

“‘Tis a door!” Chamag said with obvious delight. “Canst we close it?”

Zhenava gave him an arched look. “What dost thou think we hath been attempting, oh Chamag?”

The larger man bit back a blush and nodded his head. “Pardon me, lady Zhenava. Wilt thee be able to close it?”

She nodded then, returning her attention to the slab of rock that was hidden back within a recess in the wall. Nemgas could see that once the mechanism was activated, those two slabs of rock would slide out form the wall, sealing off the entrance and locking into place where they met in the middle. How it was to be opened or closed, he could not see. The walls themselves were full of carvings and design, but none of them seemed to suggest anything other than a decorative mural.

Hanaman gestured the both of them to step within the cave itself. He then guided them a few paces further, away from the women. The road within the cave sloped downwards, though at a gentle angle. The silvery glow radiated down from gems set at the points of the arches, their light reflecting from the polished stone, rendering them all without shadows. “Dazheen dost consult the cards to understand the door. Once she hast understood it, Zhenava wilt do what e’er she can that needs be done with magic. I wilt call upon thee if strength art needed.”

“Wilt the knights be able to open the doors from the other side?” Nemgas asked quietly, not wishing to disturb the old Magyar’s scrying.

“Dazheen hast asked it of the cards, and she hast said that they canst only be opened from this side.” Hanaman smiled then, confidence filling him anew. “‘Tis a strange road that hast led us here. A stranger door even. But I shalt give thanks to the gods for this blessing.”

The last of the wagons finally slipped under the cave entrance then, Kaspel having to duck his head as he passed through. He smiled down to them once the ceiling rose up high again. “Wilt we be safe soon?”

“Aye,” Nemgas called back, smiling as well. “And then we canst sleep.” Even mentioning sleep brought to ind how tired he felt. The midnight hour had to be near. He yearned to check on Pelurji.

“I wilt need thee to assist Dazheen to her wagon once all is done,” Hanaman said. His eyes went past them a moment as the final wagon rolled on. The two horses they had claimed from the knights were still hitched to the back, trotting along helplessly. “Unhitch the horses. We shalt use them as well once we hath finished here.”

Nemgas and Chamag did as instructed. Neither horse was terribly cooperative, rearing and snorting, waving their forehooves in the air when they were first released. But both Nemgas and Chamag held onto their reins tightly, and after several strong tugs, and a few sharp words, they managed to bring the beasts to bay. But there was little else either Magyar could do but wait. And so they did, watching out over the long road and its myriad of sparkling silvery lights, the stars turning in the heavens above.

“The knights,” Chamag said in a hushed whisper, his voice catching heavily in his throat. Nemgas stared harder then at the long road, following each light as it swept down the escarpment. There, amongst the pale silver were several pinpoints of gold, flickering and shifting as they moved along the winding road.

“So they come,” Hanaman murmured, his smile gone. He looked to his wife, but she did not meet his gaze, continuing to focus upon the wall. Dazheen was no help either, still running her fingers over each of her cards in turn, flipping one over every once in a while, and then quietly muttering to herself. Fethan of course said nothing, remaining as still as possible, hands crossed over his head as he pretended to be a table.

Nemgas tightened his grip on the reins as he watched. It had taken them over an hour to traverse the cliff-side road, it would surely take the knights at most half that. They had a little time left, but if they could not close the door soon, they would have to abandon those efforts completely. The horse beside him nudged his neck forcefully with its head, but he pushed the muzzle aside with his free hand. He did not need the beast to become unruly again, not now.

Instead, he found himself counting the number of obelisks that the knights had passed. There were roughly fifty altogether along that cliff-side road, and very soon, he’d counted twelve obelisks that the knights had managed to pass. His grip on the reins became so tight that his nails began to dig into his palms. Any further and he’d begin to draw blood.

“We shouldst not tarry much longer, Hanaman,” Nemgas stated, unable to remove his eyes from the bobbing golden lights.

“Nay,” Chamag agreed. “We shouldst do what we canst with this door and be off.”

But Hanaman shook his head. “We shalt wait a while longer.”

“They hath crossed nearly a third of the road,” Nemgas pointed out, even as he counted the thirteenth obelisk. “If they shouldst reach halfway, we wilt need to leave if we art to return to the wagons ere they come at us.”

But Hanaman did not say anything, returning his attention to his wife and the seer. Nemgas gritted his teeth and kept watch, wishing he still had the sword at his side. They had left them in the final wagon along with the bodies and armour. But now the final wagon had long since disappeared down the turning of the tunnel. It was merely the six of them waiting in that tunnel mouth for the arrival of the knights of Driheli.

As te minutes continued to pass, Nemgas counted past fifteen, and then to eighteen obelisks. He shifted form one foot to the other, fearing how long Hanaman would give his wife and the seer. Although he had heard that Hanaman had made his amends to Zhenava for keeping her in Cheskych during her flow, Nemgas could not help but wonder if there was still some lingering resentment between them. Would Hanaman risk them all merely to appease his wife? Would Zhenava expect that of them? He feared the answers to those questions just as much as he feared the approaching knights.

“Ah, they hath been terribly clever,” Dazheen said ina croaking laugh shortly after Nemgas counted to twenty. He did not dare glance back, but he felt a surge of hope within his chest.

Chamag did turn, shifting the pick he still carried from one hand to the other. “What hast thee found?”

“‘Tis but a simple trick,” Dazheen said, spreading gnarled fingers across her cards. “The latches must all be opened at the same time.”

“Where art the latches?” Hanaman asked, te urgency in his voice only slightly less obvious than that in Chamag’s.

“There art four latches,” Dazheen said slowly, still studying her cards. “Two dost reside inside the door on either side, and two dost reside outside.”

“How quickly dost this door seal?” Hanaman asked, knuckles cracking.

Dazheen turned another card over, even a Fethan did his best to remain absolutely still. It was clear that their fellow Magyar had become horribly tired and strained. Nemgas could only imagine the yowl of agony that would escape from his lips when he finally attempted to stand again. But the seer was thankfully not long in answering, her cracked voice the dry rasp of leaves. “They hast time to pull the latch and enter the tunnel. But they shouldst be quick.”

“I shalt take one of the outside latches. Chamag, wilt thou join me?” Hanaman announced, striding just outside the tunnel entrance, taking the side nearest the cliff. Nemgas felt as if he’d been rebuked at not being the one asked to venture outside the tunnel, but kept the grimace inside.

Dazheen made no attempt to move her cards, and Fethan understood that to mean he was to remain a table for a bit longer. Zhenava crossed to the inside of the wall nearest Dazheen, so Nemgas went the other way. “What dost these latches look like?”

“Towers of crystal,” Dazheen said after turning one more card over. “Thou shouldst be able to lift them.”

Nemgas scoured the wall for the device, as there were several images of towers carved into the wall. But there, just at eye level, he found that one of the carvings actually lifted up from the wall. “I hath found mine,” he called out, and his voice was echoed moments later by the others.

“We wilt pull on them at once. I shalt count to three,” Hanaman said his voice tight with urgency. “One.” Nemgas gripped the pillar in his hand tightly, testing the tension. It seemed to resist him, but he could feel a catch waiting to release. But he did to pull it too hard. Beside him, the oppressive weight of the massive door seemed to loom even larger than before.

“Two.” His breath came slowly, each one measured and timed. He felt as if he was not alone in breathing, but that the mountain itself was waiting to exhale. There was a palpable reticence in the walls of stone and light, an uncertainty at having any within its walls after so many years of solitude. Nemgas wondered if the door would even work then. How long had it been since it had ever been used? How long had it been since any who’d known how to use it had even walked upon the face of the world?

“Three!” The final number nearly caught Nemgas by surprise, but he gave a pull at its utterance. The tower slid ever so slightly from the wall, and the entire chamber resounded with a mechanical click. The grinding of long forgotten gears came to them from out of the stone, and the massive walls began to slide along their track, drawing together like two pieces of lodestone.

Both Chamag and Hanaman darted through the narrowing aperture each taking a moment to glance out along the road. The knights were very nearly to the twenty-fifth obelisk, but now it didn’t matter. The doors themselves were completely smooth slabs of marble about a foot thick. But when the door itself finally clamped shut, sending a vibration through the mountain so severe that it knocked them all from their feet, he could not tell that at all.

“‘Tis done! We art safe!” Chamag cried in delight, brushing himself off as he clambered back to his feet.

“Aye,” Nemgas said, rising and stretching his knee where he’d bumped it against the stone. He turned back to the tower he’d used, and pressed it back into the wall. “Shouldst they discover the latches outside, we dost not want them to move the door.”

“I shalt leave mine as ‘tis,” Zhenava said, relief clear in her voice as well. “Perhaps putting it back opens the door.”

Nemgas felt too elated to feel abashed then. Dazheen had collected her cards and was touching them with a fond smile. Hanaman helped Fethan get to his feet, and the poor man groaned as his muscles objected to being stretched. Nemgas returned to the two horses that had backed off down the corridor some, quite startled by the sealing of the tunnel. He gripped the one’s rein, even as Chamag snatched the other.

“Come,” Hanaman said, “The wagons dost wait.” He hoisted Dazheen onto one of the charger’s backs, and then they all began their way down the long ancient tunnel, knowing that the knights could not reach them now. Nemgas would check on Pelurji at long last as soon as they reached the wagons, this he promised himself.

“Damn them! Damn them to the lowest blackest pits of hell!” Sir Poznan screamed from atop his destrier as he stared at the immovable door blocking the tunnel entrance. “Those bastards! I shall slay every one of them! Every one!”

The knights under his command were also swearing their own epithets, though none so loudly as Sir Poznan. It had not taken them long before they had discovered the locking mechanisms on either side of the colossal door, but no matter which way they turned them, the door remained shut. When Sir Ignacz had said he could see no way that they could get through it, all of the pent up anger that had been building in Sir Poznan’s chest finally let loose.

“They will rot in hell those blasphemous heathens! Damn them all!” Sir Poznan swung his sword in a wide arc at the obelisk that stood sentry before the doorway, but his blade did not even knick the stone. He swore again, seeing the dent it had left in his blae. It would take him hours to sharpen it.

Father Athfisk looked more afraid then angry, his goggle eyes casting back and forth between the doorway and the Knight Commander. “What do we do now?” he asked in a timid voice.

When Sir Poznan wheeled on him, eyes wild, the priest flinched. Obviously he had not expected to be heard amidst the swearing. “We find another way around, father! There has to be some other way through these damnable mountains.”

“Shouldn’t we rest first?” Sir Ignacz asked, though his own brow was clouded by barely concealed rage.

Sir Poznan spat at the door. “Not while that is still in sight.” He turned his charger about then without another word, and set off at a gallop back down the cliff-side road, his whole body trembling.

The tunnel itself extended down through the mountain for a good mile before it finally broke out into the starlight again. Along the way, Nemgas saw more of the strange relief work fashioned into the walls of the cave, each carving shaped to the veins of mineral, bringing contrast and life to the images it held. Some of the scenes were clear, such as the mountains rising to reach the sun and stars, and also the many towers that filled the places where mountains had once been. But when people filled those images, they became strange, esoteric, and Nemgas could not discern their meaning.

Nor did he spend a great deal of time contemplating them. His body was sore, tired, and he wished only to find his wagon again far ahead and sleep. They had to move quickly if they were to catch up with the wagons, as Hanaman had told them to press ahead until they had returned. He’d said nothing about what they should do should the knights have overtaken them, but that was thankfully now nothing they needed to worry about, at least for now. Nemgas knew that the knights would seek another avenue through the mountains, another path to bring them to their quarry. But the Vysehrad was treacherous, such a search could take weeks.

And so, Nemgas let his mind relax, thinking only of his weariness and of how pleasant the feel of his bunk in the wagon would be. His eyes would close and sleep would take him once more into her arms. And he would awake the next day well after noon he was certain. Of course, they’d have to do something with the squire Golonka, but that could be decided later.

The only other things that Nemgas wished to do was to find Pelurji and see that the boy was all right. He had been with the Magyars for so little time, and what of their ways he had learned he was already seeing broken. How could he ever grow into a true Magyar if his first memories of his new life were of this flight into forgotten lands of yore?

None of them spoke during the trek through the tunnel, each preferring the silence of their own minds as they wound downwards. It was not until the tunnel itself ended and they were once more under the stars that any spoke, Fethan sighing happily, murmuring “Sky,” quietly. The younger Magyar’s back had stopped bothering him sometime ago, and he was walking briskly along beside the two horses that bore Dazheen and Zhenava.

Though they were no longer in the tunnel, the mountains were still far different than before. On either side of them walls of stone rose up ponderously high, the great effulgent crystals that shone their silvery light were suspended from slender arches of stone overhead. The arches themselves were carved just as were the walls, giant animal heads clutching the crystals between their jaws, or in their forelegs.

Nemgas watched them all as they passed, noting the variety and oddity of some. A few were familiar, that of a giant ram whose horns curled inwards like a conch, or the proud eagle whose talons clutched the gem, its wings the arch that kept it aloft. But others were unrecognizable, such as a giant reptilian beast with three horns sprouting from its forehead, and a large crest that spread out like a palm frond behind it, or the spindly shape with glistening jade eyes at either side of its head, but bore no other sign of a face that Nemgas could discern.

But the strangest of all the faces he saw upon those arches through that close valley, was one that was familiar to him, though still not the same. It was a strange shape, nebulous in form and construction, the lines of its carving seemed thin as gossamer, spider webs traced and held immovable by lines even thinner. It was a strange agglomeration of faces, all blending into one another, what for one was a nose was another’s ear, or mouth, or eye. Nemgas pondered long at that image, counting nine faces in all, each of them seeming to touch the crystal that was embedded in their mist, yet never actually holding it.

He had a name for those faces, or at least, where they had come from. Yet how they had come to be upon an ancient archway in a long forgotten road in Vysehrad, he had no inkling. This was the road to Hanlo o Bavol-engro, or so the legends said. Perhaps there he would find some answer to that series of faces that he’d seen once before atop a twisted black spire at the edge of all reality.

“Nemgas?” Dazheen said slowly then, her old voice strangely supple in the glow of starlight. “What ails thee?”

Nemgas turned towards the seer sitting astride the horse. Her withered legs could not spread wide enough to properly mount the beast, and so they had taken turns holding her up on one side. Chamag was there now, rubbing at his arm as he kept her aloft.

“‘Tis but a memory,” he said slowly, glancing back at the arch. It had been the last one before the path led them to another tunnel. The carvings were no longer mere curiosities to him now, but puzzles that could not be solved. He smiled to Dazheen to comfort her, though he could see by the look in her grey eyes that she knew better. “Aye, ‘tis but a memory.”

It was not the Magyar’s way to pry. There was nothing private in their lives except that which resided in their own minds. And what was there was sacrosanct; only with great reservation would any seek that which was not given.

As they continued on into the new tunnel, Nemgas felt that image nagging at him, tugging at the strings of his mind, but he could not follow where they led. Instead, he thought of Pelurji, wondering what the boy must be doing at that moment. Probably tucked in his bed with the other boys, listening to the grinding of the wagon wheels and the plodding of the Assingh as they continued on their way. Had they been told of the knights? Hanaman had never said. He would wait and see for himself.

The new tunnel continued to descend further into the heart of Vysehrad, though not nearly to the extent that the first had done. It was only half a mile at best though, and when they finally emerged from the other side, they saw that the path had widened, mountains reaching for the sky on either side of them. Both sides of the road were lined with the brilliant gemstones and far ahead, they could make out the silhouette of the last of the wagons. All of their hearts were thrilled at the sight, and so they all began to run, knowing they were nearly home.

For their part, the wagons slowed once they realized who it was that was following them. It took only another five minutes before Nemgas could reach out and touch the well-travelled wood with his fingers. There was much laughter at their return, and Hanaman gave the order for the wagons to stop for the night. The order went up the line, and soon, all of them were stopped in the street. The drivers set stones beneath the wheels to keep them from moving and then attended the Assingh, feeding them and watering them.

Nemgas, though still disturbed by the shimmer of faces in the arch, walked along the line of wagons until he came to Pelurji’s. Inside he crept, quietly so as not to wake them, but smiled as he found them all still awake anyway. They were playing a small game with dice and cards, though each looked tired. It surprised him to find the boys awake, but it shouldn’t have, he knew. The wagons were moving. The Magyars did not sleep while the wagons moved, it was simply not done. And so the boys, being boys, had used it as an excuse to stay up far later than they aught playing boyish games.

Pelurji jumped to his feet when he saw Nemgas come in and urged him forward. “Look, master Nemgas! I hath won this hand!”

Nemgas smiled then, kneeled down and studied the cards and dice that were arrayed between the boys. He nodded happily and said, “Thou hast indeed won this hand, my boy. But hast thou won the game?”

The boy shook his head then, sitting back down with his friends who all regarded Nemgas with a bit of awe. They had heard the tale of his ascent of the ash mountain after all, and of the grave terror that it contained. The fear it held for them was less now, but it still held fear.

“I shalt soon though,” Pelurji added confidently a moment later as he picked up his cards.

Nemgas examined them for a moment and chuckled lightly. “Aye, thou shalt. But knowing that thou shalt win wilt hath to suffice for thee this night, my boy. The wagons hath stopped for the night, and all Magyars must sleep now. I hath come only to see that thou wert well.”

Pelurji and the other boys looked disappointed at the news, though they could all feel that the wagons had stopped. “Where art we, master Nemgas?” the boy asked, setting the cards down for the night. They obviously intended to pick it up again in the morning. “Master Nagel wouldst not let us sit with him.”

So, they hadn’t been told, Nemgas thought wryly. “We hath ventured into the mountains. ‘Tis unexpected, but necessary. I shalt tell the more on the morrow. But for now thee must sleep. As must I.” He leaned forward and patted Pelurji on the head, tousling his hair. “Sleep, my boy. Thou shalt see me again when thou hast arisen.” With that Nemgas rose up and took the two steps back to the wagon door. He looked back over his shoulders once more, seeing the boys carefully arrange their cards. “‘Tis a good game, stemon. E’en shouldst one lose every hand but the last, one can still win. Dream well.”

With that thought on his mind, Nemgas walked back to his own wagon, eager to find sleep for himself.