Shadow Blizzard

by Alexey Pehov

  “A strange situation, don’t you think, Harold?” Kli-Kli said thoughtfully, speaking through her teeth. “Our landlord is as nervous as if someone was holding a knife to his throat.”

  “Maybe he just doesn’t like the look of your face.”

  “Maybe,” the little gobliness said with a serious nod. “Or maybe it’s something else.”

  “What, for instance?”

  “Haven’t you noticed something odd? There are ten horses in the stable. There are ten men in this room. They’re sitting in twos at five tables. And sitting so that they cover the way out of the inn.”

  A little bell started sounding the alarm in my head.

  “Coincidence,” I said, but I realized I didn’t like this, either.

  “Uh-huh,” she said, inconspicuously lowering one hand onto the handle of a throwing knife. “Precisely, coincidence. Mumr, are you listening?”

  “Oh, yes!” said Lamplighter. He had his eyes screwed up and was gazing into a metal dish leaning against the wall. It was polished like a mirror and reflected the entire room very clearly.

  “Well then, another strange thing is that, although they’re sitting in twos, they’re not saying a word. It’s as silent as the grave.”

  “We get the idea, Kli-Kli. Why don’t you sing us a little song, and sing loud,” I suggested.

  Kli-Kli helpfully started crooning a simple melody.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Drink our beer and wait for the others to come,” Lamplighter answered.

  “It looks like that’s what they’re waiting for, too.”

  “I know. They’ve decided to take us all at once. Is your crossbow loaded?”

  “As always. Who are they?”

  “What does it matter who slits your throat?” asked Mumr, keeping his eyes fixed on the “mirror.”

  Kli-Kli sang and wove her fingers into a pattern that I couldn’t make out.

  “Don’t even think about it!” I hissed.

  She didn’t seem to hear me. Loud footsteps in the corridor leading to the barroom told us and the unusual strangers that at least two guests were approaching. I recognized Hallas’s shuffling step. The innkeeper ducked smartly down under the bar. And that was the signal for action.

  Kli-Kli casually snapped her fingers and a bright flash lit up the room behind us for a split second. I heard howls of pain and fury. Two of the scum put their hands over their eyes and another one just howled and rolled around on the floor. The others had been shocked by the unexpected shamanic spell, but they came rushing at us just the same. They were each holding something very sharp and deadly.

  Without wasting any time, Kli-Kli flung her first two knives. I fired the crossbow and started reloading it while the gobliness sent another two knives flying through the air. Mumr blocked the attackers’ advance, waving his bidenhander from side to side. Afraid of being sliced to shreds, the lads halted their frontal assault, and at this point Hallas and Eel walked into the room.

  The two Wild Hearts didn’t bother inquiring what the dustup was all about. Seeing us pinned back against the bar by five unpleasant types who were armed to the teeth was enough to spur them into action. They piled into the brawl. Mumr was no slouch, either. Tables and benches were sent flying. I was wary of firing the crossbow, in case I hit my own side. But Kli-Kli flung my beer mug and hit one of the attackers full square on the head.

  Hallas pitilessly finished the man off when he fell, and the last bandit left alive, realizing that things were looking bad, made a dash for the door. I fired, but, as bad luck would have it, I missed. The lad jumped out into the street and Eel chased after him. There was a howl, and a moment later Egrassa walked in, looking sullen and holding a bloody dagger.

  “Just don’t tell me that was the last one, and you didn’t leave anyone alive.”

  “He was the last one, Egrassa. Did you climb out through the window?”

  The elf didn’t answer Kli-Kli’s question, he just cursed.

  “It was all a bit unexpected. We never even thought of taking one for questioning.”

  “It’s my own fault. I shouldn’t have finished off the one who was trying to get away. Well, what are we going to do now?”

  “What did these goons want?” said Hallas, giving the bodies on the floor a fierce look. “Look what a mess we’ve made of the place!”

  “Where’s the innkeeper?” I asked, suddenly realizing I couldn’t see him.

  “I’m here, noble gentlemen,” a frightened voice jabbered from under the bar.

  Mumr reached in and hoisted the trembling owner out into the open.

  “Now, you tell us what it was your friends wanted!”

  “They’re not my friends! Oh, no!” the terrified man bleated. If Lamplighter didn’t stop making those terrible faces this gent was going to throw a faint.

  “Not your friends? Then who are they?”

  Lamenting and wringing his hands, the innkeeper told us. The lads had arrived at the inn the evening before, frightened him to death, put a knife to his throat, and advised him to be as meek as a lamb and act just as if nothing had happened. The guests of the inn, not being stupid, had all sensed the danger and cleared out, without bothering to pay. There were no guards or Chasseurs anywhere near, so all he could do was pray to the gods and hope that everything would be all right. He’d never seen these lads before, but they definitely weren’t bandits. You could see right away that they were serious people.

  “Serious!” Mumr snorted, releasing his grip on his prisoner. “Maybe they were serious, but they were real fools, too, letting themselves get killed that easily.”

  “Maybe they weren’t looking for us?” I suggested.

  “No, it was us they were after,” said Eel, who had been going through the dead men’s pockets. “It’s just as I suspected.”

  Lying on the Garrakian’s open palm was a slim golden ring with a poison ivy crest.

  “Servants of the Nameless One.”

  I’d forgotten all about them, but they couldn’t have forgotten about us.

  “Servants of the Nameless One!” the innkeeper repeated in horror, instantly turning pale. “No, good gentlemen! I don’t know these murderers! What a disaster! If the local folk find out who I have lying in here, they’ll set the inn on fire. The red cock will crow here, as sure as death!”

  “Stop whining!” said the gnome, interrupting the poor man’s lamentations. “If you want your inn to stand for another hundred years, get rid of the bodies. And tidy the place up! And then tomorrow we can forget we ever saw you and not say anything to the Heartless or the Sandmen.”

  Singing the praises of all the gods and all good gentlemen, the innkeeper dashed off at speed to carry out these instructions.

  “How did they find us, that’s what I’d like to know.”

  “What difference does that make? They found us, and that’s what matters, Harold. The Nameless One is still hoping to get his hands on your tin whistle.”

  “It’s not mine. What do we do now?”

  “What do we do? What do we do? I don’t know about you, but I’m going to bed,” Hallas sighed, getting down off the bench. “It’s late.”

  “What about supper?” Kli-Kli asked in amazement.

  “Somehow I’ve lost my appetite.”

  “There’s one good thing,” Egrassa said with a chuckle. “We won’t have to look for horses. Or pay for them.”

  * * *

  This time I knew I was asleep; even though it seemed so real, I could stop this nightmare—all I had to do was open my eyes and it would be gone. I could, but I didn’t want to wake up. Valder kept whispering quietly in my head, telling me that this dream was very important. I tried to protest, I struggled to resist his voice, but the archmagician could be very convincing.

  I gave in. All I could do was just watch and listen, constantly telling myself that everything that could happen to me had happened already, even if it was a long time ago. That it wasn’t happening to me …
Not to me … It was just a dream.…

  * * *

  It promised to be a clear day, even though snow had fallen again yesterday and the entire sky had clouded over. Even the frost that had held the whole of the north in its cold embrace for the last week had retreated, and the soldiers had stopped worrying that their weapons would freeze to their hands.

  Stalkon’s army had been waiting since early morning for the Nameless One’s army to appear. Mounted scouts had reported that the enemies’ advance units were no more than two hours away. They had also said that the Nameless One would confront Valiostr’s army of less than twenty-eight thousand with a force of at least sixty thousand. Lieutenant of the Royal Guard Izmi Markauz took a deep breath of the fresh morning air. They were in for a tough time today. In the absence of the two Armies of the North, the king and his commanding officers had already worked a miracle by assembling eighteen thousand regulars, three thousand mercenaries, and seven thousand members of the militia. The king was also waiting for another fifteen thousand men who were on the march to Avendoom from the border with Isilia, but any fool could see that they would only get there after the battle had already been won or lost.

  “What do you think, lieutenant? Will things get hot?”

  “They will, Vartek.”

  “It’s a bad spot, though.”

  “Nothing better could be found. Can’t greet our visitors at Avendoom, can we? The walls won’t save us, and the lay of the land is on our side here. How are the lads?”

  “They’re betting on who’ll be the first to kill one of the enemy.”

  “But they know the royal guard won’t go into action unless things get really bad. Our task is to protect the king.”

  “And what are the Beaver Caps for?” Vartek grumbled. “I’ve heard they’re putting all of us in the left reserve.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard, too,” Izmi said with a shrug. “But we’ll get a chance to swing our axes. Or are you impatient?”

  “You should put your armor on, milord,” the marquis said instead of answering.

  “There’ll be time enough for that.”

  “The light cavalry is already involved in skirmishes with the advance forces, just beyond that wood. Perhaps there won’t be any time.”

  “Milord!” cried a soldier, running up to them with a piece of paper in his hand. “From the commander of the center!”

  Izmi ran his eyes over the lines of writing and nodded to tell the messenger that he was free to go.

  “Vartek, get over to our men. Leave a hundred, no, better a hundred and fifty guards with the king, and take all the rest over onto the left slope.”

  “So we are being stuck in the reserve!” Vartek said, frowning discontentedly.

  “Just do it, guardsman!” Izmi’s voice suddenly had a hard edge.

  “Yes, lieutenant!” Vartek picked his snow-dusted helmet up off the ground and ran to carry out his orders.

  Before he went to the king for his final instructions, Izmi looked round the field one last time. For some stupid reason someone had called this huge open space, almost a league in length, the Field of Fairies. The lieutenant didn’t know how they had come up with this name, and he didn’t want to know. So it was the Field of Fairies. Would it have been any easier to fight here if it was called the Field of Ladybugs, for instance? Or the Field of the Great Prophecy?

  Of course it wouldn’t.

  So what difference did it make now? The military council hadn’t chosen this place for the general engagement by accident. It was four days’ journey from Avendoom, and the Nameless One’s army had to pass through it. At the southern end of the field stood the Pimple, a tall hill with shallow slopes. The king’s headquarters were on its summit. The gnomes had set up two of their long-range cannons up there, and another monstrosity that hadn’t been seen before—a Crater. Unfortunately there hadn’t been enough time to bring a second Crater and its crew of gnomes from Isilia.

  The huge hill was the basis of the entire defense, and the core of Stalkon’s army was there. Two thousand infantry of the line, five thousand cavalry, and six thousand Wind Jugglers. A powerful force, especially taking into account that the enemy would have to climb the hill under fire from the bowmen on the summit, and a cavalry charge downhill had a more shattering impact.

  Izmi wasn’t too concerned about the center. Six thousand bowmen could stop anybody. And there were a thousand light cavalry on each flank of the center. He and his men were on the left, and on the right there were the Moon Stallions, brave lads. If anything went wrong, the archers would help out, and they could always be moved across to the army on the right.

  The transports and the healers were behind the hill.

  Half a league away, directly opposite the Pimple, was the dark Rega Forest. Two roads came down from the north, skirting round the forest on the left and the right. They ran parallel to each other for the full length of the field.

  The left road cut across the Wine Brook and ran between the Pimple and another forest—the Luza. The right road ran between the hill and a narrow but deep and swift-flowing little river—the Kizevka. Standing on the road right between the hill and the river was a village—Slim Bows.

  The village had provided the base for the army on the right. It had been a good decision to position soldiers in Slim Bows. If the enemy came along the road on the right, he would have to pass through the village, unless he wanted to storm the hill under fire from the bowmen, or sail along the river. And there was no need to worry about the flanks of the right army—they were securely defended.

  In one week the army had transformed Slim Bows into a small fortress. They dug out a moat and ran water into it from the river, built an earthen rampart and stuck enough stakes in it to make every hedgehog in Siala jealous, dismantled all the houses and used the materials to build walls and towers for bowmen.

  They built two walls, and if the enemy happened to take the first one, the defenders would have time to pull back behind the second. Now there were two thousand crossbowmen and three thousand swordsmen, selected from various detachments, ensconced in Slim Bows. The gnomes had put three cannons on the first wall. About nine hundred yards behind Slim Bows stood the dark wall of the two-thousand-man reserve.

  Izmi was far more concerned about the left army. Nine thousand infantry, of which four thousand were militia and guardsmen from Avendoom, standing in the road between the Pimple and the Luza Forest. The soldiers had been divided up into battalions so as to completely cover the space between the hill and the forest. The battalions were stationed about fifty yards beyond the Wine Brook.

  Although it wasn’t very wide—only about a yard—the brook was deep, and it was not going to freeze. There had been a bridge here, but the eager soldiers had dismantled it, and now the enemy cavalry would have its work cut out to cross the brook. In any case, they wouldn’t have enough space to get up a gallop. And the enemy infantry would have to break formation crossing the obstacle and then, before they could raise their shields again, they would be treated to thousands of welcoming crossbow bolts.

  The three hundred elfin bowmen had been positioned between the battalion on the left (based on Jolly Gallows-Birds taken from twelve ships) and the Luza Forest. The dark elves themselves had insisted on being placed there. Izmi hoped that their bows would help the left army to stand firm.

  But Stalkon’s left army was the most vulnerable spot in the forthcoming defensive action, so two thousand of the reserve had been placed here.

  Izmi looked into the distance, to where he could just make out the wall of the Rega Forest. On the bank of the Kizevka, right beside the road snaking out of the forest, stood the Castle of Nuad. Its twelve-yard-high walls and four round towers rose up menacingly above the road. The castle’s garrison of four hundred men had been reinforced with five hundred Wind Jugglers. The enemy would either have to take the citadel by storm and delay his attack on the right army, or cover this section of the route under constant bombardment from t
he defenders of Nuad. There was another unpleasant surprise waiting for the Nameless One in the form of two gnomish cannons. And if the enemy did get by, he would be hit from the rear by three hundred horsemen lying concealed within the walls of the castle. No great force, but even so it was capable of causing plenty of trouble.

  Izmi’s arms bearer appeared in front of him.

  “Milord?”

  “Prepare my armor.”

  The young lad nodded his hatless head, and Izmi set off for the king’s tent. Stalkon’s headquarters were surrounded by a formidable ring of Royal Guards and Beaver Caps. Several other warriors, holding flambergs—terrible two-handed swords with wavy blades—were guarding the royal standard.

  The king was in the tent with his younger son, Stalkon of the Spring Jasmine, who was in command of the cavalry in the center, and the head of the Order of Magicians, Artsivus. There were also two magicians unfamiliar to Izmi—a man and a woman. Both of their staffs were marked with three rings. So they were powerful, even if they weren’t archmagicians.

  The king noticed the lieutenant, nodded in greeting, and gestured for him to wait until the conversation was over.

  “It is a real solution to the problem, Your Majesty,” Artsivus continued, huddling under his warm rug.

  “And what if the wind blows in our direction? Blows it onto us? We’ll lose the army before the battle has even started!” the king’s son blurted out abruptly.

  “I assure you,” the unfamiliar magician droned, “this spell will not affect people and—”

  “Please remind me, Mister Balshin,” the king interrupted. “Are we talking about the same spell that wiped out the entire population of a village to the south of here only this summer? What was the place called, now?”

  “Vishki, Your Majesty,” the woman replied reluctantly.

  “Thank you, Madam Klena. You are most kind. It was Vishki. The very same village where you almost captured the people who were carrying out a special Commission for me?”

  “That was a regrettable misunderstanding,” said the head of the Order, interceding for the two magicians. “The thief and the elves were not in any danger.”