Slowly the young man’s mind cleared completely. This experience was like the one two years before, when he had woken up in a field in the middle of nowhere, except that this time, thank goodness, he could still remember everything that had happened before he’d fallen asleep in the clearing. He studied the room more carefully. The light was dim. Besides the two bizarre chairs, the place had no other furniture and told him nothing about his captors. He tried to wriggle free, to break his bonds, but in vain. On the contrary, the vines gripped him all the more tightly.
Then Elfohrys woke up, just as confused as his companion.
“Where are we?” he asked groggily.
“I don’t know. You can’t remember how we got here either?”
“I can’t recall a thing.”
The young man heaved a sigh of relief. So he wasn’t alone in having no recollection of their capture, and there must be some explanation for their loss of memory.
The door opened with a sudden crash. Treading heavily, a Ghibdul haughtily entered the room. He was short and stooped, but this did not make his appearance any more reassuring. A kind of natural armour like a dark green shield covered his body. The only parts not concealed were his repulsive hands, sharp–clawed feet and purplish neck and head. His wrinkled face was particularly frightening: his nose had three nostrils and his eyes, two folded slits, were an unclean, muddy colour, glittering with intelligence and cruelty, while his mouth, of the same green as his armour, was twisted and so translucent it was almost invisible. Unruly hair like the vines binding the two prisoners stuck out from under the Ghibdul’s rusty helmet, and from his back grew two flimsy, blackish wings, now folded.
He was terrifying.
“A Ghibdul,” Elfohrys observed aloud.
“Do you have a problem with that, prisoner?” growled the creature.
“Where are we?” asked the Nameless One. “What do you want from us?”
“Be quiet, vermin. It is beneath my dignity to speak to beasts such as you. No one, no prey, has ever had that honour.”
“I would willingly have done without it,” grumbled Elfohrys.
“Quiet! I speak, you listen. If you do not obey me, I will behead you here and now and you will have to wait until Deaths strike is over for me to kill you for good!”
The prospect of waiting with their heads cut off to be dispatched at some uncertain date by this gruesome creature persuaded the two captives to remain silent.
“Right,” continued the Ghibdul in his hollow voice. “This is the situation. You are our prisoners and you have no chance of escaping. First you should know that you are within our city, which I am sure must seem breathtaking to you inferior animals, unaccustomed as you are to our refined civilisation. In a few hours, you will be fed. Then we will bring you to a place that will delight your uneducated minds—”
“What place?” asked Elfohrys without thinking.
“Silence!” thundered the Ghibdul. “How dare you defy me, inferior being!”
“I didn’t mean to,” replied Elfohrys placidly.
“You miserable creature! If you only knew how much I long to tear you limb from limb this very moment…”
The Ghibdul went over to Elfohrys and passed his hand lightly across the Clohryun’s face, slicing it open with curving claws. Golden blood welled up on the prisoner’s silvery skin, but he never made a sound.
It was the Nameless One who spoke to the Ghibdul.
“You’ll be sorry for that, I promise you.”
“You dare threaten me?”
Surprisingly, their tormentor seemed almost thoughtful, even curious.
“I don’t make empty threats,” continued the young knight. “I always prefer to give fair warning.”
“I’ll show you on the spot what I’m capable of,” declared the Ghibdul.
“That’s fine with me,” said the hovalyn firmly.
“We’ll fight barehanded, but I will spare your life, so as not to disobey my orders.”
“Very well,” replied his adversary, not in the least intimidated.
The Ghibdul uttered a few unintelligible syllables and the vines binding the young man untied themselves. Elfohrys glanced uneasily at his friend.
The Nameless One knew that one or two swipes from those fearsome claws would be enough to defeat him, yet he stepped forwards, serene and almost nonchalant.
The Ghibdul’s expression changed hideously, stretching his face with what could only be interpreted as an evil smile. Without warning, he lunged at the young man who seemed so frail and harmless in comparison, and his hands slashed repeatedly through the air; but whenever his opponent seemed within reach, the agile young knight would evade his attacker. The Ghibdul gradually ran out of breath, but not wanting to admit defeat, he kept trying to wound the hovalyn.
Elfohrys watched his nimble young friend with admiration as he skilfully dodged every blow.
At last the panting Ghibdul muttered a few incomprehensible words that propelled the hovalyn back into his chair, where the vines twined around him once again.
“Man,” said the Ghibdul in a harsh voice with a hint of grudging respect, “if you have managed to avoid my attacks barehanded, that does not make you in any way superior to me.”
“I never claimed I was,” replied his prisoner evenly, “but you have no reason to think me inferior to you, either.”
“Wait and see what we Ghibduls can do! Our telepathic strength is unequalled and, armed, we are formidable!”
“Very interesting,” observed the young knight.
Visibly offended, the magic creature left without another word.
“Why did you challenge the Ghibdul?” asked Elfohrys reproachfully.
“I wasn’t going to let him attack you without saying anything.”
“A rash reaction to a few drops of my blood! I have strong natural defences, and my wounds will swiftly heal without leaving any marks. But you, you’ve just earned the enmity of that Ghibdul, which won’t vanish so quickly, believe me!”
“Well, he didn’t seem particularly well disposed towards us from the beginning,” replied the hovalyn lightly.
Frustrated by the bonds imprisoning them, the two captives tried in vain to free themselves as the minutes ticked by, and they could not help wondering anxiously what fate lay in store for them.
When the door finally opened, it was a woman who entered. Elfohrys and the Nameless One stared at her in amazement. She was human! Clothed in a clumsy patchwork of fabrics made from forest plants, the woman was dirty and her bare feet, like her hands, were covered with scars. Her face, although disagreeable, nevertheless showed clearly that she was human. She had high, prominent cheekbones, an aggressive gleam in her slanting black eyes, and thin lips. Her complexion was dull and her flat nose seemed to take up most of her morose face. Tangled brown hair stuck together with mud and filth fell to her broad shoulders.
Setting down a wooden tray bearing a few fruits, she undid the vines binding the two prisoners’ hands, complaining all the while.
“Eat,” she said in a gravelly voice, “but don’t be thinkin’ ‘bout escapin’! You can do as you like, but those ties round your feet, they won’t come undone!”
“You’re human?” asked the young knight politely.
“Yeah, but the Ghibduls need servants like me. Women lost in the forest — they take them into service. They ain’t mean to me, not ‘tall.”
“What’s your name?” asked the hovalyn, trying to strike up a conversation with the woman and gain her confidence.
“Naïlde. Eat, don’t ask questions! I ain’t to speak to you. I ‘ave it good ‘ere, and I don’t ‘elp prisoners. You think I’d run ‘way, maybe? Well, sorry — nah.”
“You let people like you die? You don’t feel bad hearing them scream under torture?” asked Elfohrys.
“The Ghibduls treat me better’n humans did, so me, I serve ‘em right, that’s all.”
With that, Naïlde swore and spat contemptuously at the young
hovalyn’s feet. Then, with a strand of spittle still on her lips and a sour, disdainful look on her face, she turned on her heel and left, slamming the door behind her.
“Unbelievable,” marvelled Elfohrys. “That woman has even adopted the Ghibduls’ charming customs!”
“Who knows what her life among her own kind was like,” replied the Nameless One kindly. “Before becoming an inhuman woman, she must have been a simple soul, perhaps misunderstood. She has probably suffered a great deal. We cannot say what comfort she has found among the Ghibduls, but judging from what she says, she’s satisfied with her life here.”
Elfohrys looked at his friend curiously. He was speaking sympathetically about a woman who had just refused to set him free! “The nature of humans,” concluded the Clohryun, “is definitely even more incomprehensible than I’ve been told.”
The young man was quietly eating some of the fruit brought by Naïlde. When he’d had enough, he handed the tray to Elfohrys, who devoured everything that was left. Since his hands were still free, the hovalyn tried to remove the bonds around his legs, but with no success.
“Ah, you humans,” sighed Elfohrys, almost resignedly. “Ever hopeful! If you ask me, it’s what ensures your survival. No matter how many times you’re told it’s no use, you keep trying anyway.”
When Naïlde returned to get the tray, the Nameless One held his breath, wondering if the servant might have changed her mind, won over by pity. Elfohrys noticed the gleam of hope in his eye and thought, “Still just as naive, still trusting in others. Humans are convinced that they’re filled with goodness even when they’re striving to do one another in. Strange…”
Naïlde let loose another barrage of insults at the young man, whom she seemed to take a personal satisfaction in humiliating. Clearly she had not changed her mind one whit, and the disappointed hovalyn realised he’d failed to convince her to set him free.
Grumbling, the servant left the room.
The two prisoners began to feel apprehensive after Nailde had gone, and almost immediately, four imposing Ghibduls appeared, one of whom muttered a few words that released the captives from their bonds.
“Follow us,” ordered a Ghibdul gruffly.
As they were led through sombre rooms towards an exit, the two companions were able to observe the building where they had been imprisoned. It was a gloomy place, its bizarre architecture lending it a dark air of isolation. And yet, inside, the place was swarming with Ghibduls.
The captives were escorted by their jailers through narrow, winding streets. They soon discovered what no outsider could have suspected: the active and organised Ghibdul capital, hidden away. Its location had clearly been carefully chosen, for this small city was surrounded by huge trees that formed a natural defence.
An immense building gradually appeared before them, and the Ghibduls escorting them smiled proudly when they caught sight of it. It was built of stones painted black, decorated with embellishments, and resembled a theatre. The small party entered a crowded hall decorated with striking sculptures and paintings that revealed the Ghibduls to be capable of fine and original art — not a gift that any outsider would have credited them with.
The jailers escorted their prisoners through the throng and up endless stairs until they reached a copper door. Opening it, they thrust in their charges, slammed the door shut, and left.
Without even the vaguest notion of what was happening to them, the two companions tumbled into a void. After falling through a sort of spongy bubble, they landed unhurt to a wave of applause.
Dumbfounded, they rubbed their eyes at the incredible sight of a gigantic theatre, very elegant and well-lit, where thousands of Ghibduls were comfortably ensconced in seats covered with dark velvet. Newcomers were streaming into the audience from all directions. The theatre was elliptical in shape, with countless rows of spectators leading up to a ceiling that depicted the forest beneath an azure sky. In the centre of the theatre was a spacious stage atop a short, wide marble column surrounded by transparent glass: enabling the spectators to see the stage from any direction.
The only problem was that Elfohrys and the Nameless One found themselves on this very stage. Looking up at the ceiling, they could see the almost invisible trapdoor through which they had plummeted into the heart of this theatre.
“Elfohrys, where are we?”
“I have no idea, and it wouldn’t help a bit if I did.”
“But this is incredible!” said the hovalyn. “Everyone says the Ghibduls are barbarians, and here we are in the middle of an unimaginable place!”
“You know, Nameless, it’s a shame, but I don’t think we’re ever going to get a chance to tell anyone about it.”
Ghibduls were flying around the theatre offering refreshments to the audience. The concept of money was alien to them: buying, selling — none of that existed. Nature provided them with everything.
The young hovalyn noticed that a small section of the theatre was a standing room area reserved for a few dozen coarse women, some of them human, and even at a distance he recognised Naïlde among them, screaming and shaking her fist, perhaps at him.
The lights went out. A powerful voice echoed through the theatre.
“Welcome, my dear Ghibdul friends! Today I have the honour of presenting to you an authentic Clohryun and a man — a hovalyn would you believe! Who will be the victor? How long will they hold out? The betting is open. As usual they will undergo the trials we have prepared for your entertainment. And so I wish you a pleasant afternoon — and I hope you enjoy the show!”
The audience clapped enthusiastically.
Elfohrys and the Nameless One exchanged worried looks. Before they could say a word, while the spectators were still applauding their entrance, they both felt a sharp pain stab them in the left arm. The young hovalyn already had a wound inflicted in battle by the Bumblinks, and now this wound reopened and began to bleed. He stifled a cry, but almost at the same time came another attack, this time battering his whole body. It caused no wound, but he could hardly keep himself from collapsing and writhing in agony on the stage.
The Ghibduls laughed, commenting on the scene with amusement.
The expression on his face showed that Elfohrys was in atrocious pain, and at the third assault, directed at the left leg of the two victims, the Clohryun fell fainting to the ground.
The audience booed him disdainfully.
The young hovalyn was staggering, seriously wounded in the leg. The unbearable odour of his own blood was choking him, strangling him, he was drowning in it, and his eyes rolled upwards with anger. Why were these Ghibduls so savagely eager to see him suffer? Determined to behave with dignity, he stayed on his feet while his left arm was lacerated by an unseen power. Murmurs of astonishment began to ripple through the crowd.
A fresh barrage of bodily pain was launched at the hovalyn, knocking him down, to shouts of disappointment from the audience.
The Nameless One immediately plucked up his courage and strength, however, and staggered to his feet once more. His eyes shone with such determination that the spectators were shaken.
When he felt an invisible dagger pierce his abdomen, the hovalyn did not flinch. After all, he wasn’t risking anything, because Death was on strike. All he had to do was resist the attacks. But he was exhausted, and when agony surged through his body again, he had to lean against the glass wall surrounding the stage. With a last effort he tried to draw himself up, to shout a threat, something brave and dignified that would give him back a little of his pride — but everything was growing hazy around him: images, sounds, smells, all his perceptions were fading, vanishing, leaving only suffering.
Still he resisted, when all of a sudden the same voice from before resounded throughout the theatre: “The moment has come — it is time to choose.”
A thrill of excitement swept the public. The Nameless One made a superhuman effort to stay on his feet. Everything seemed so far away…
“Hovalyn!” continued the voi
ce. “Kneel, renounce what you are, give up the fight. You can never vanquish us. If you submit, your torture will cease, you will be one of us. We know the identity you seek so desperately. We will reveal it to you. You will have a place among us. But if you defy us and refuse this offer, the pain will torment you to the point of madness. And when Death ends her strike, we will kill you. So, do you admit defeat? Will you serve us?”
“Never,” gasped the Nameless One.
A new wave of pain flooded instantly through him.
A distant voice, solemn and harsh, but filled with admiration, then echoed through the theatre.
“It’s him… It’s him! Stop, it’s him!”
The Nameless One fell unconscious.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Nalyss
THE SUN HAD barely risen when the three travellers all woke up. They ate a meagre breakfast; Amber tried a strange fruit that turned out to be delicious. No one spoke for they were still quite tired.
Opal was the first to see the two girls coming towards them. Their fresh, dainty faces seemed quite carefree, yet Amber could not help noticing their conceited, almost disdainful expressions. It was impossible to tell how old they were. They both had short brown hair, attractively tousled, but one had liquid brown eyes while the other’s eyes were periwinkle blue – with a gleam of malice. They looked very much alike: small, narrow, slightly upturned noses; full lips set in an innocent pout. Their features and attitude suggested that the girls were charming and angelic, but they could not disguise a certain arrogance.
At first the two newcomers simply studied the three travellers in silence. Then the blue-eyed girl piped up, “Loorine! Do you think they’re humans? Real live humans?”
“Could be,” replied the other in a rather snooty tone. “What luck!”