“In the forests to the north of the castle. We’ll find them.”
“Then Godspeed. Farewell, Samson. Farewell, countryman Reinmar. Don’t forget about our agreement.”
“We shan’t. Thanks for everything, master and countryman… If I may ask: what part of Silesia are you from?”
“Poznań. Go now. The lantern is magical, but not everlasting.”
The corridor they were walking along was without doubt of natural origin, hollowed out by water. Only the first section, under Trosky itself, bore the marks of human interference. The walls had, however, been worked so primitively and the remains of pickaxes and other tools lying around here and there were so corroded that it was apparent it had been excavated centuries before. Trosky Castle, the beginning of the construction of which dated back more or less to 1370, wasn’t built on virgin rock. There was no doubt that the Old Woman and the Maiden had been erected on some ancient construction reaching deep into the earth.
The further they went, the fewer were the traces of mining activity, until they finally vanished altogether. The floor became uneven and they had to walk more slowly and carefully. Until, yet again, something crunched under Samson’s foot and the giant bent over and brought the lantern closer. And gasped.
The traces of human activity had vanished. But not the traces of humans themselves. Or more precisely their remains. They were treading on scattered human bones.
For some time, Reynevan had been keeping the Visumrepertum periapt at the ready and now he activated it with a slightly trembling hand and a spell.
He wasn’t mistaken—the subterranean cavern lit up with an intense blaze. The light of the lantern cast baleful shadows, flickering on the walls like great bats. Paintings covering the walls could now be discerned. Dizzying spiral meanders whirled around, horses and stags seemed to rear up and tangles of snakes coiled and uncoiled. Horned people danced.
“Celts,” said Samson. He was probably right.
“Let’s not tarry here.”
Human skulls rattled under their footsteps and shinbones crunched.
Another high-ceilinged cavern opened up in front of them, so high that the roof faded into the darkness. The light of the lantern and the glow of the periapt illuminated another rock relief. They gasped in unison.
Under a burial mound built of skulls, a horrendous face, a demonic mask, the horned visage of the Devil himself grinned and goggled at them. The faded red pigment which had once coloured the macabre idol shone through a layer of pale moss. Human bones were lying around, piled up.
“It isn’t the Celts.” Reynevan swallowed.
“No,” Samson agreed. He spoke with effort, as though greatly fatigued. “Let’s not stay here. It’s time we left. Some kind of evil is hanging over this place. Over the entire area.”
They walked on, acutely mindful to turn right, always right, and the forks multiplied as the corridor grew narrower.
Finally, it became so cramped they had to walk in single file. Reynevan clearly heard the sound of running water somewhere behind the rock wall.
It might have been the stream Rupilius had mentioned. They had been walking underground, he calculated, for well over an hour and must have been a considerable distance from Trosky Castle, at least a quarter of a mile, perhaps even more.
“I believe I can feel a breeze on my face…” he said, suddenly stopping. “Cover the lantern. Perhaps we’ll see light?”
“We won’t. It’s still dark outside.”
The tunnel was becoming narrower and narrower. They couldn’t even walk in single file now but had to shuffle sideways, step by step. Reynevan kept scraping his belly against the rock, scratching the buttons of his jerkin. For someone much bulkier like Samson Honeypot, the cramped conditions of the passage must have been sheer hell. Reynevan could hear the giant moaning and cursing.
“Samson?”
“Go on, go on… I’m behind you…”
“Will you get through?”
“I will… Somehow… You go on… Find the exit… Let me know… When you’re close…”
The cold current of air on Reynevan’s face became so tangible he thought he could also smell the scent of a forest, fir needles and pine cones. He began pushing his way through more quickly, making more and more vigorous movements. Suddenly, the passage widened and he saw stars. He felt he was barely a step from the exit.
“It’s the cave mouth!” he yelled. “Samson! I made it! I got thr—Aaaagh!”
He lost his footing and tumbled downwards with a cry. Fortunately, he only fell a short distance onto stony scree. Pebbles worn smooth by water shot out from under him. He carried a landslide down the steep slope with him, tumbled off a precipice, banged against a boulder as he fell and finally landed on some moss with both hands in the foaming and icy water of a stream.
And realised at once that he wasn’t alone.
He understood before he even heard the wheezing of a horse and the clatter of a horseshoe against stone. And a voice.
“Reinmar of Bielawa. Welcome. How glad I am to see you.”
He recognised the voice. The moon emerging into a gap between the clouds gave enough light for Reynevan to be able to see a black horse with a gleaming coat and the silhouette of a man holding the reins, his pale, birdlike face shining in the darkness and his shoulder-length hair. Reynevan had seen that man and heard that voice before. And Jan Smiřický of Smiřice had disclosed his name. It was Birkart Grellenort, the bishop’s confidant and thug. The man who had killed Peterlin. Reynevan grew anxious.
“Does it surprise you?” asked the Wallcreeper, grinning. “That I’m waiting here? I’ve known of this passage for years, you poor fool. I knew you’d try to escape this way. And I was informed that you were at Trosky. I have ears and eyes everywhere. And I have caught you, Bielawa. I’ve finally caught you—”
The scree rattled and Samson Honeypot came hurtling down the slope. Like a hurricane. An avenging angel. Suddenly, there was a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder—in November! The Wallcreeper’s horse reared up, neighing frantically, and Grellenort jerked his sword out of its scabbard. And in front of Reynevan’s eyes dropped it, taking several rapid steps backwards.
“Reayahyah!” he bellowed. “Bartzabel! Ha-Shartatan!”
Lightning flashed again. Before he was temporarily blinded, Reynevan saw the Wallcreeper’s face contort in panic-stricken fear, squint his eyes and wave his arms clumsily. And suddenly begin to shrink, melt, change shape, until finally he flew away in the form of a loudly croaking bird.
“Adsuuumus! ” resounded from somewhere nearby, and other voices answered the call from nearer and further away. Neighing and the thudding of hooves reverberated.
“Adsuuumuuuus! Adsuuumuuuuus! ”
“Take the horse,” panted Samson, pressing the reins of the black steed into his hands. “Into the saddle and ride…”
“And you?”
“Don’t worry about me. We have to split up. We’ll find each other at dawn. Flee! Ride!”
Reynevan swung himself into the saddle, Samson slapped the horse’s rump and the black horse neighed and galloped off between the firs. Although galloping through a dark forest could have been fatal, Reynevan, stupefied by recent events, knew how to adjust his riding to the conditions and cope with obstacles. Somewhere behind, and then to the side, he heard the tramping of hooves and wild cries. Reynevan pressed his cheek against the mane.