them somewhere safe, I’ll pick them up before I leave,” I said to him.
“That’s up to you,” said For, raking the papers back across the table. “Ah, by the way. I found an amusing little page among these notes, look.”
I took the old, yellowed piece of paper.
“What is it?”
“It’s ancient orcish. I had to sweat over the dictionary a bit to translate it. There’s a lot I still don’t understand—the orcs’ language is a bit of a tangle—but I managed it, even though it’s probably not quite as fluent as it ought to be. It was in verse. Something like a series of clues. A total riddle. Read it.”
For handed me a piece of paper with the translation.
First born of an ogre on the wide snowy plains,
It dwelt for centuries with elves in the Greenwood,
And was given to Grok in token of the peace
Concluded between races during the Long Winter.
It was laid to rest by the might of the Order
At the time of Avendoom’s survival in battle.
Sharing the grave of one of the glorious dead,
It lies in the dark caverns upon ancient bones.
As the years pass it lies there in Hrad Spein
Calling the wind of the tombs to its resting place
The hour will come when it bares its secrets, consuming
The magic of the cursed with the fire of truth.
If you are artful and brave, bold and quick,
If your step is light and your thought is keen.
You will avoid the tricks we have set there,
But be wary of earth and water and fire.
And then, carry on! The twin doors stand open
To the peace of the halls of the Slumbering Whisper,
Where the brains of man and elf and orc alike
Dissolve in unreason. . . . And so shall yours.
Through the halls of the Slumbering Echo and Darkness
Past the blind, unseeing Kaiyu guards,
’Neath the gaze of Giants who burn all to ash.
To the graves of the Great Ones who died in battle.
In serried ranks, embracing the shadows,
The long-deceased knights stand in silence,
And only one man will not die ’neath their swords,
He who is the shadows’ own twin brother.
The cold frozen body of pallid Selena
Will raise you up to the sacred bed.
No sun has warmed stone here for thousands of years,
For centuries here the cold wind has howled.
Remember, intruder, in the Horn dwells a soul
That will give you strength in the name of men.
But the greed of the thief it will punish severely
And you will rot in the terrible darkness forever.
“Mmm, yes. I can hardly understand a thing.”
“Which bits do you think you did understand, my pupil?” For asked in surprise.
It had turned dark outside, and even the candles could not dispel the persistent darkness. It would soon be time to go about my business.
I drummed my fingers on the table thoughtfully.
“I think I began to understand the point of Sagot’s advice. This poem mentions some Selena who bears you up, and Sagot warned me I’d better not just stand on her, but keep my feet moving fast.”
“Hmmm . . . ,” For muttered, and scratched his chin.
Then he grunted and poured himself some wine from a dusty old potbellied bottle. He offered me some, but I refused—today my head had to be crystal clear.
“Yes, well, I noticed the reference to Selena, too. This all requires a bit of serious thought. And by the way, don’t forget to show it to the elfess; she should know the ancient language of the orcs. She might be able to translate this page better than I have.”
“All right.”
“There’s absolutely no doubt that it’s about the Rainbow Horn. Look here: ‘First born of an ogre on the wide snowy plains’—that’s a reference to the shamans of the ogres creating the Horn, the final artifact of their race, before they all turned into animals. ‘It dwelt for centuries with elves in the Greenwood’—I’m sure you remember the old story about the head of the House of the Black Rose trying to invade the Desolate Lands. It was on that campaign that the elves took the Horn from the ogres. What comes next is clear enough, too: ‘And was given to Grok in token of the peace concluded between races during the Long Winter.’ The dark elves gave the Horn to Grok as an assurance of the peace between elves and men that came into force after the great invasion of the orcs that became known as the Spring War.”
“That’s clear enough.”
“Then there’s a bit of standard nonsense. This may be ancient orcish, but it was obviously written by a