by Alexey Pehov
Sitting there on the ground was a creature that looked like a strange mixture of a grasshopper, a dragonfly, and a goat. That’s right. This little creature had the legs of a grasshopper, the head and body of a goat, and the transparent, segmented wings had been inherited from a large dragonfly. Its entire body was covered with yellow and black stripes. In other words, sitting there at my feet was an actual legendary dragoatfly. The little beast was no larger than the palm of a man’s hand.
“Well, how much longer are you going to go on gawping at me?” the same voice asked.
It was only then I saw there was a tiny man, the size of my little finger, sitting on the dragoatfly’s neck. Curly golden hair, a tearful-looking face, a little suit of velvet lilac, a small bow, and a quiver. This creature was looking at me with an expression of high dudgeon.
“A flinny,” I gasped.
“How very perceptive, may the forest spirits drink my blood! Are you always so bright, or is it just in the mornings? Take me to elfess, quick!”
“What elfess?” I asked, staggered by the little minnow’s cheek.
The dragoatfly shot up into the air and hovered in front of my nose, fluttering its wings. The flinny on its neck gave me a hostile look. “Are all beanpoles this stupid, or did they dig you out especially for me? Tresh Miralissa of the house of the Black Moon. Ever heard of her?”
“Yes…”
“Then wake up and take me to her, you idiot!” the little man yelled.
“What’s the noise?” asked Kli-Kli, who had joined us unnoticed. “Ah, a flinny’s shown up!”
“I’ll give you ‘shown up,’ greeny,” the midget fumed.
“Greeny, you say?” Kli-Kli asked ominously. “You just shut your mouth, you golden-haired half pint, or it’ll be worse for you!”
“All right, all right, keep your hair on,” said the flinny, backing down immediately. “I was just introducing myself.”
“Well, now you have. So what have you shown up here for?” asked Kli-Kli, deliberately emphasizing the two words “shown up,” but the flinny pretended not to hear the insult and he sang out: “A message. Information. News.”
“Well, go and pass it on. The elves have already got up—look!”
“I have to be introduced, you know yourself, it’s the custom,” said the flinny, making a face as if someone had stuffed sour gooseberries into his mouth.
“I know,” Kli-Kli sighed, “your kind are all full of dragoatfly’s milk! Come on, then.”
The dragoatfly’s wings hummed as it flew alongside the goblin’s shoulder. I walked behind them as a guard of honor.
“Lady Miralissa, permit me to present the flinny.… What’s that your name is, titch?”
“Aarroo g’naa Shpok of the Branch of the Crystal Dew, you blockhead,” the flinny hissed, stretching his lips out into a smile.
“Aarroo g’naa Shpok of the Branch of the Crystal Dew.”
“I am glad to greet my brother of the little people at my campfire. What brings you here, Aarroo g’naa Shpok of the Branch of the Crystal Dew?” Miralissa asked with a nod of greeting.
“A message. Information. News,” Aarroo answered with his ceremonial phrase, and set the dragoatfly down on the ground.
“Have you sought me out especially, or is your knowledge for any of the dark elves?”
“I have sought you out. The head of the House of the Black Moon sent several of my brothers to look for you, Tresh Miralissa, but I am the only one fortunate enough to have found you. And that is all because I can think.”
“Luck serves the worthy,” the elfess replied seriously to the little braggart. “Would you care to taste our food and drink our wine?”
“Gladly,” Aarroo shouted, rubbing his little hands together in anticipation of the forthcoming banquet.
Egrassa had already brought the food, and the delighted flinny was presented with a tiny little golden plate of gruel cooked by Hallas and a tiny little goblet of fragrant wine. The elf obviously carried these miniature items around with him especially for little loudmouths who rode around on dragoatflies.
I touched Kli-Kli’s elbow and led him aside to make sure that the flinny couldn’t—Sagot forbid—overhear our conversation.
“Why are they making such a fuss of that little squirt? Wouldn’t it be easier to first find out why he came to us, and then feed him?”
“Oh, Harold,” the goblin said, clicking his tongue in disappointment. “Of course it wouldn’t be easier. He’s a flinny. You should never forgive their rudeness, or those flying nosey parkers will hound you to death, but you can’t just dispense with the ancient rituals, either. If it was something urgent or dangerous, he would have told us already, but since it can wait a bit, it’s best to stick to their silly rules. He’ll eat up his gruel and tell us everything. You should just be thankful that he was sent to us with a message, otherwise we wouldn’t have got away with just food. Freelance flinnies usually take something more substantial than a full stomach for their information. Let’s go back, I want to hear what the little gasbag has to say.”
The flinny had almost finished his meal. The little fellow ate with the speed of a ravenous giant, while the dragoatfly peered over its master’s shoulder at the plate and mewed gently, making a sound like the squeaking of a drowning mouse. Aarroo whatever-his-name-was shoved the dragonfly-goat’s face aside yet again.
“Have you got anything left in that great big cooking pot? Flolidal won’t leave us in peace until he gets fed,” the flinny said peevishly, taking a swig from his goblet.
Egrassa took a wooden spoon and scraped it round the pot, and the dragonfly-goat fell on the spoon with its wings humming, like a hungry vulture attacking a chicken.
Meanwhile Hallas woke up. The gnome yawned, then he spotted the flinny eating breakfast; he slammed his mouth shut so hard that his teeth clattered, and rubbed his eyes furiously. After this slapdash procedure Hallas took another look at Aarroo but, as was only to be expected, the flinny was still there, and he carried on chewing and gave the astonished Hallas a dour look.
“Strange,” the gnome declared thoughtfully, nudging the sleeping Deler in the back with his elbow. “Hey, hathead! I don’t remember us drinking anything yesterday. So why in blazes am I seeing little men?”
Deler woke up, took a look at Aarroo and said, “That’s a flinny, you bearded woodpecker!”
“In the name of the Nameless One, what do you mean, a flinny? Deler, flinnies only exist in children’s stories, and they don’t eat the gruel that I cooked!”
“Gnomes are even worse than people,” Aarroo declared in annoyance, apparently addressing everyone in the meadow at the same time. “As for the gruel, dear sir, it’s only my respect for Tresh Miralissa that prevents me from throwing this swill into your beard. I’ve never tasted such disgusting muck in my life!”
The gnome almost choked on this insolence and couldn’t come up with an answer.
“Well, then,” the flinny said with a sigh, pushing his plate away. “All the laws have been observed.”
Aarroo whistled to summon his dragoatfly, climbed onto its neck, circled round above us, then hovered in the air and announced in a singsong voice:
“A message. Tresh Eddanrassa, the head of the House of the Black Moon, sends his daughter Miralissa greetings and a mournful message. Tresh Elontassa has been killed in a skirmish with the Clan of the Bloody Axes. Tresh Epevlassa was killed at the same spot. Tresh Miralissa is now the third in line for the leafy crown, after only Tresh Melenassa and Tresh Epilorssa. Tresh Eddanrassa asks his daughter to abandon other business and return home as speedily as possible. The message is concluded. Do you wish to send a reply?”
“How did this happen?” Miralissa asked abruptly.
“The message is concluded. Do you wish to send a reply?” the flinny repeated stubbornly.
“The reply is: Until the business entrusted to me last year by the united council of the houses is completed, I shall not return home.”
&nbs
p; “It has been heard,” the flinny said, nodding solemnly, and the dragoatfly flew another circle above us.
“Just like a dragonfly,” Mumr said with an envious whistle, following the flight of the magical creature.
“Information. Unpaid,” the flinny chanted, and made a wry face. He clearly didn’t like doing anything without pay. “In the Red Spinney, which lies beyond the city of Chu, all the birds have disappeared. And also the wild boar, the elk, the bears, the wolves, and almost all the forest spirits.”
“Why?” Egrassa asked curtly.
“If I knew, the information would not be unpaid,” Aarroo replied irritably. “I was told about it by the spirit of a large tree stump, who lives three leagues’ journey away from this spot. He didn’t know anything himself, but in recent times the small inhabitants of the forest have tried to keep as far away as possible from that area. And they keep their mouths tight shut about it, too.”
“Stupid information!” said Hallas, tugging on his beard in annoyance.
“The information is every bit as good as the porridge,” the flinny said furiously, and his dragoatfly buzzed angrily. “If the gnome wishes to taunt, then get your news from someone else! Let beard-face here tell you about it!”
“Shut up, Hallas,” Eel said immediately.
“Please forgive my servant, honorable Aarroo g’naa Shpok of the Branch of the Crystal Dew,” Miralissa said in a conciliatory tone of voice.
“Servant?” the gnome asked with a silent movement of his lips.
Deler waved his fist at Hallas. The gnome turned redder than a red-hot sheet of metal in a blacksmith’s forge, but he didn’t say a word.
“That’s a bit better,” the flinny said with a satisfied grin, and the dragoatfly made yet another circle in the air above our heads.
“Will we be passing through this Spinney, Lady Miralissa?” Alistan Markauz asked while this was happening.
“Unfortunately, yes. It’s the shortest route.”
“But there are others?” the count inquired, emphasizing every word.
“Yes, but if we go through the Red Spinney, we shall be at the Palaces of Bone tomorrow evening. By taking a detour we shall lose five or six days. And the path will lie right along the edge of the orcs’ inhabited lands. It is far too dangerous.”
“No more dangerous than a place from which all the forest spirits have disappeared,” Egrassa contradicted his cousin.
“We’ll take the risk,” said the elfess with a flash of her eyes.
“You are the senior in our line, it is for you to decide,” said the elf, raising his hands in the air to indicate that he did not intend to argue with her.
“News,” said the flinny, after waiting for the end of the conversation. Then he sang out: “Three pieces of news. The price of the first is a dance by that obstinate gnome.”
“What?” Hallas bellowed. “Gnomes never dance for anything!”
“Then I am doubly fortunate!” the flinny laughed mischievously. “If you wish to know the first piece of news, the gnome has to dance. If you do not wish to know it, I shall fly. I have already completed the assignment I was given and am only talking to you out of simple politeness.”
“Ah, you little…,” said the gnome, jumping up and clenching his fists.
“He will dance,” Alistan Markauz said firmly.
“What? Why, may I be—”
“That is an order, soldier! Dance!” said the captain of the guard in a voice with a steely ring to it.
“Dance, my friend,” said Deler, putting a reassuring hand on the gnome’s shoulder. “It’s only a dance for a flinny, after all. Imagine you’re dancing for me.”
That settled the matter. The gnome snorted disdainfully. “A gnome dancing for a dwarf! I’d rather dance for a flinny.”
And he did dance. It looked like some kind of gnomish military dance. At least, Hallas performed it with his battle-mattock in his hands, and it resembled a fight more than a dance of celebration. The Golden Forest had probably never seen a performance like it before. Lamplighter played along, helping the gnome out with his whistle. Kli-Kli clapped his hands merrily. Deler almost burst his sides laughing.
“That’s all!” the panting gnome declared.
“You gnomes dance even worse than you cook,” the flinny declared.
Deler managed to grab Hallas by the arm just in time and drag him out of harm’s way.
“Now, how about the news?” said Miralissa, trying to be polite despite everything.
“News. People have been seen in the Golden Forest. They are two days ahead of you. More than twenty men. All armed. One woman. I saw no crests on their clothing.”
“Which way were they headed?”
“They were moving toward the Red Spinney. Two days ago it was still calm there.”
“I’d wager my soul that’s Balistan Pargaid and his men,” Milord Alistan said with a frown.
“And Lafresa. They’ll be at the entrance a lot sooner than us,” Kli-Kli sniffed.
“After their blunder with the Key, do you think they’ve decided to arrange an ambush for us at the entrance?”
“Perhaps, Harold, or perhaps not.” There was an anxious glint in the elfess’s eyes. “They might take the risk of trying to grab the tastiest morsel of all.”
“The Horn?”
“Yes. If you tell anyone about our conversation, I shall find you,” the elfess said, turning to the flinny.
“I understand that it is best not to interfere in elves’ secrets. I shall be as silent as the grave,” the flinny muttered discontentedly.
“Were any of the men wounded?” I asked him.
“One of them was missing his left hand.”
“It’s them.”
Well, if his hand was missing, it was definitely Paleface. That rat had been hunting me for ages, and during his last attempt to dispatch me into the light, Hallas had cut off his left hand. Paleface worked for Influential, or Player, as the Master’s servants called him. Player was some bigwig in Avendoom and it was thanks to his loving care and attention that I had almost lost my life. And for the time being Paleface was a member of Balistan Pargaid’s retinue.
Count Balistan Pargaid, for those who don’t know him, was a servant of the Master, and it was from his house in Ranneng that I stole the Key that we hoped to use to reach the very heart of Hrad Spein. Lafresa was supposed to deliver the Key to the Master in person, but I stole the Key, and then Balistan Pargaid and Lafresa set off after us in hot pursuit.
So far we had somehow managed to get the better of them, and not even a trial by combat had done them any good. Mumr had carved up his lordship’s prize warrior, and then everything had suddenly gone quiet. Balistan Pargaid and his retinue had disappeared. We had been wondering where he could have gotten to. Lafresa had already disappeared sometime during the trial by combat, and now it seemed likely that she had set out for Hrad Spein, and the count had caught up with her along the way. It was clear enough why Lafresa wasn’t afraid of entering Zagraba—she hoped that her shamanic skills would keep her safe. And she had no other choice anyway: The artifact had been lost, and the Messenger, who had instructed her to deliver the Key, would be very upset, not to mention the Master himself.
“What is the second piece of news?” Egrassa asked, looking at the flinny.
“The price of the second piece of news is a pinch of sugar.”
“We don’t have any sugar,” Hallas said spitefully. “We’re not confectioners, you know. Maybe I should do another dance for you?”
The gnome’s words sounded like a challenge.
“Oh, no! My heart couldn’t stand another spectacle like that! What do you have instead?”
We looked at each other. Darkness only knew what might interest this dealer in news.
“I have a sweet!” Kli-Kli suddenly announced.
“Show me it,” said Aarroo, leaning forward.
Kli-Kli hastily rummaged through the many pockets of his outfit and took out a batte
red-looking sweet, still wrapped in its bright golden paper. He must have been saving it since Avendoom.
The flinny studied it closely and then, with a bored expression on his face, as if he was doing us a humongous favor, declared, “Garbage, of course, but it’ll do. Throw it on the ground.”
I thought it was all an act, and the flinny actually liked the sweet. He lowered his dragoatfly right onto the sweet and started tying it to the belly of his mount.
“News. A man has been seen in the Golden Forest. Wearing a gray cloak, his face was not visible. Armed with a spear. Walking quickly, almost without stopping at all. Four hours’ flying away from you. Coming straight here. Seems like the Golden Forest has been smeared with honey; I haven’t seen so many outsiders in a long time. Ah, yes! I advise you not to interfere with him—the forest spirits say he’s a warrior.”
“We’re not exactly cobblers,” Deler protested.
“When the forest spirits say that someone’s a warrior, we usually take notice, but that’s up to you. The price of the third piece of news is the ring of that beanpole over there with the long mustache,” said the flinny, with a nod toward Alistan Markauz.
“Which one?” the count asked.
“Well, certainly not the silver one with your crest,” the little extortionist quipped. “You people are too sensitive about those little family knickknacks. It’s stupid to ask for them—you won’t give them up anyway. I like that one, with the red ruby.”
Alistan took the ring off his finger without the slightest objection and put it on the ground. The flinny smiled contentedly and the ring joined the sweet under his dragoatfly’s belly.
“Is your news worth it?” I asked.
“That’s for you to decide, not me. News. There are orcs nearby.”
“Where?” asked Egrassa, reaching for his bow.
“In the ruins of the city of Chu. Six of them. Ordinary scouts. They’re not waiting for you. They’ll stay there for another five days.”
“How do you know that?”
“I heard,” the flinny said with a grin. “One of them fell into a trap and broke his leg, and now he’s delirious, so only five of them are fit to fight. You can finish them off, or you can just avoid them.”
