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.