by Alexey Pehov
The guardsman raised his halberd and struck out at the nearest sorcerer with all his might. For a brief moment he glimpsed a pale and utterly astonished face, and then the shaman fell at the raging guardsman’s feet with his head split open.
“You can kill them!” Jig barked. “You can kill the sorcerers! Kill them, lads!”
He swung his halberd again, and the men, suddenly intoxicated with their own courage, broke formation and dashed forward, each trying to get to the accursed shamans first. Jig hooked his halberd onto the leg of a shaman who had already started to work a spell and pulled, felling the man to the ground, then stabbed him in the stomach. His comrades finished off the final shaman and roared as they went dashing at the enemy infantry, which had faltered at the sight of such powerful sorcerers being dispatched so cruelly.
* * *
“The spells have stopped, Your Majesty! The sorcerers must have been killed!”
“What does it matter now?” the king asked bitterly.
The right battalion no longer existed. The enemy had struck the running men in the rear, and a few minutes later there were no more than nine hundred of them left. Fortunately the reserve of two thousand and the two hundred Beaver Caps he had given to young Markauz had got there in time.
That lad would make something of himself. His father would be proud of him. He could only hope that the guardsmen could help to save the elves. But that was unlikely. They wouldn’t be in time.
* * *
Epilorssa of the House of the Black Moon cursed and reached for another arrow from his quiver. The men had got carried away in the heat of the battle and completely forgotten about the second detachment of the second line. About two thousand men were deploying at the Wine Brook with the clear intention of wiping out the small group of elves by the Luza Forest.
“Duple! Duple!”
They couldn’t expect any help from anywhere. The neighboring battalion was finishing off its surviving opponents, the central battalion was still fighting on, despite the Nameless One’s shamans (Epilorssa had felt the magic), and the right battalion had been completely annihilated by sorcery and panic. The elves could have taken cover in the forest, but it wasn’t all that close, and it was not their way to show their backs to the enemy when they could still fight.
And they fought, firing arrow after arrow at the enemy. The enemy ranks broke into a run, shouting to urge themselves on. Many of them fell with an arrow in the face or a joint of their armor, but there were too few elves, and the distance between them and their enemies was too short. They wouldn’t have time to kill them all in any case.
The elves were standing in four lines. The first line fired from one knee, while the elves standing ten paces behind them fired from a standing position. Ten paces farther back there were more elves firing from one knee, but the archers had been shifted two body-widths to the right, so that they would not accidentally fire into the backs of the comrades standing in front of them. Behind this line was the final one, in which the warriors were standing once again.
Epilorssa gave another order and the front line jumped up, dashed back, positioned itself behind the back line, and started firing again.
Then it was the second rank’s turn to withdraw. Then the third rank, then the fourth. And then the first rank ran back behind its comrades again.
The elves withdrew, firing at the enemy continually. Almost every shot found its target. But the line of shields was very close now.
The crossbows clicked. The dark elves in the first and second lines fell, struck down by the metal bolts. Something hit Epilorssa in the chest and he fell, too. The elf couldn’t understand why he was in so much pain, why he wasn’t fighting and the snow was burning his face so fiercely.
The red snow.
* * *
“At those bastards as they run! Straight at their backsides! Fire at will!”
The bowmen standing behind the infantry of the center, which had beaten back the enemy, once again started showering arrows down on their retreating foe.
* * *
“Grapeshot, fire!” Pepper barked, and stuck his fingers in his ears.
There was a roar of cannons, the wall at Slim Bows was wreathed in blue-gray smoke once again, and a moment later the sound of the three weapons was echoed by the Crater on the hill dispatching its generous gift of fire.
* * *
A wedge formation of Jolly Gallows-Birds suddenly separated off from the left battalion, which had now disposed of its opponents completely. The men dressed in black set the entire Field of the Fairies ringing to their roar of “Wa-a-a-a-a-a-tch your back” and struck at the right flank of the detachment of the Nameless One’s army that was preparing to crush the surviving elves.
* * *
“There they are! There they are! Oh, damnation!” shouted one of the swordsmen, pointing toward the Kizevka. “Look how many of them there are!”
“Fire!” the officer ordered, and the crossbow bolts set the river water dancing.
* * *
“One finger of arc! All together! Fire!”
Bang! Bang! The cannons replied to the archers.
* * *
The wedge of “marines” sliced into the unprotected side of the enemy detachment without encountering any resistance and plowed on toward the center, sowing terror and death as it went. Their Jolly Gallows-Birds battalion was hurrying across to support them, and the central battalion, which had already polished off the first detachment of the second line, hit the enemy from the rear. The enemy forgot all about the elves and started defending themselves.
* * *
“Hey, Honeycomb! You were right! Those lads really did decide to take a dip!”
“Just keep firing!” the Wild Heart growled. “Pepper! What are you doing?”
“Give me a hand!” the gnome panted. He was holding a massive cannonball in his hands. “When will those lads ever reload my cannon? How far can you throw this?”
“What’s on your mind?” asked Honeycomb, taking the cannonball from the gnome.
“You’re as strong as a horse, centurion. Can you toss it over the moat?”
“With a good swing.”
“Go on then,” the gnome said, and lit the fuse.
* * *
If not for the Gallows-Birds, the dark elves would never have seen Zagraba again. Izmi Markauz reined in his horse in front of them and yelled.
“On the horses. Behind the cavalry, lads! Quickly!”
The elves didn’t waste any time, and leapt up onto the horses behind the guardsmen. Some of them even carried on firing as they did so. The enemy’s crossbowmen woke up and several guardsmen fell, but most of them were already galloping off, carrying their allies away to a safe distance. Izmi was the last to leave. Now he had to offload the elves and overhaul the enemy who had attacked the right battalion.
The retreating men still hadn’t crossed the Wine Brook, and the lieutenant of the royal guard was hoping to finish off the ones who were left. Vartek was galloping along, leaning down against his horse’s neck. Izmi saw a crossbow bolt in his back. The armor hadn’t saved him.
“Are you alive?”
The marquis nodded feebly. Izmi Markauz grabbed the bridle of the wounded man’s horse. He had to get him to the healers as quickly as possible.
* * *
Despite the unrelenting mass attacks, Slim Bows was holding out magnificently. It was a good thing the king hadn’t begrudged paying the gnomes properly. Fighting without the cannons would have been an awful lot harder. The left army had returned to its positions and completely restored its line of battle. But now, of course, it had no reserve, and the central battalion had been badly mauled in the fighting.
“What kind of surprise will the Nameless One have for us now, my prince?” asked Ash, slipping his beautiful blade of back steel back into its scabbard.
“What would you say about them, Wild Heart?”
Ash screwed up his eyes and looked toward the Rega Forest, where a
bout thirty huge figures were striding across the field with clubs over their shoulders.
“Just as I thought,” the commander of the Wild Hearts chuckled. “If there are no ogres, then the giants go into action.”
“Get ready!” the prince ordered. “Bowmen! Into the front ranks!”
* * *
The sound was heard by everyone who was in the Field of the Fairies. It was like a string snapping in the frosty air. The gentle, melodious note rang out above the earth, and a few seconds later purple fire came crashing down on Nuad.
* * *
“D-damnation!” exclaimed Pepper, grabbing the spyglass. “Did their powder explode?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Honeycomb, shaking his head, still unable to believe what had happened.
Nuad was entirely engulfed in flames.
“It’s the Nameless One! It’s the Nameless One!” shouted Roderick, gaping wide-eyed and white-faced at the warriors.
“Don’t talk nonsense!” Rott snapped.
“It was the Nameless One who struck them! The Order has failed! Something has disrupted the balance!”
* * *
“My prince, the Order is leaving the hill!”
“What on earth is going on up there?” Stalkon Junior raged.
* * *
“Can you see anything?”
“No, first the ground shook, and then there was a billow of smoke,” Jig answered.
“I can see that much myself!” growled the centurion standing beside him.
From behind the tongue of Rega Forest, from the spot where Nuad stood, a column of blue-black smoke was rising up into the sky.
Suddenly the sky above the right army, which had been restored by using the reserve, started flickering. Everybody raised their heads and marveled at this wonder. A minute later the flickering stopped and a massive gout of fire fell on the battalion, consuming several thousand men instantly.
The ground shook again and the ranks of Jig’s battalion tumbled against each other. There were screams of fear.
“Easy now! Everybody on your feet! On your feet, I said!” a centurion roared.
The terrified men were already getting up. They were all staring at the spot where the right battalion had been. There was nothing there now but a gaping black hole. The ground itself seemed to be on fire.
“What was that?”
“Let’s get out of here!”
“May they dwell in the light!”
Jig looked up and saw the sky above them start flickering.
“Up there!” he barked, raising his arm to point.
“Everybody back!” shouted the magician, who had recovered his composure. “We have enough time. Back! Centurions, give the order!”
“Back! To the beat of the drum! At the double! Maintain formation, you apes! Let’s go!”
The central battalion sprinted away from the spot. The one that had been standing by the Luza Forest followed. The men ran as hard as they could, but not one dropped his weapon or tried to push his comrade in the back. Everyone realized that panic would lead them straight to the grave.
A minute later two gouts of fire crashed into the positions where the left army had been standing.
* * *
“The left army’s running, Your Highness!”
“I know that, and … darkness!”
The prince saw the two fireballs go hurtling into the places where the retreating army should have been standing. Then he was almost deafened by a crash behind him. He swung round and stared at the spot that had been the top of the hill a minute ago. Now it was a smooth, smoking platform. No cannons, no Crater, no royal pavilion.
“The king’s dead…” The word ran through the ranks of soldiers.
“Damnation!” Stalkon Junior cursed through his teeth, then he took himself in hand and roared: “Ash, stop them! If they run, all is lost! We have to retreat through Slim Bows!”
Even a fool could see that the Battle of the Field of the Fairies had been lost.
“I shall do everything necessary, my king!”
* * *
The buglers at Slim Bows almost burst their cheeks sounding the retreat. The army was withdrawing in haste, but without panic, behind the hill in the direction of Avendoom. Everybody had seen what that blow had done to the top of the hill. Everybody knew the king had been directing the battle from up there. Everybody realized that no one could have lived through that.
Honeycomb had seen the two balls of purple fire crash into the positions of the left army, but he didn’t know if any of the soldiers had survived. It was too far away, and the hill was in the way.
“The men are formed up, commander!” Rott reported.
“Leave the hailstorms, lads. Or we won’t be able to run if a thunderbolt comes our way.”
“It won’t,” said Roderick, who had stopped panicking and was calm again.
“How do you know?”
“If the Nameless One could have vaporized us, he would have done it a long time ago. Not even he’s all-powerful.”
“In any case, we have to get going. They’ll start storming us again soon. Pepper! Let’s go!”
“And the cannon? What about the cannon?”
“Let’s go! We haven’t got time to drag it along! I’ll buy you a new one later!”
“Oh no!” the gnome muttered, and started scattering powder out of a small barrel. “He’ll buy me one! Well, at least the enemy won’t get my precious darling! I’ll blow her up!”
Honeycomb was wondering how well the army would hold up at Avendoom. It had lost a battle, but not the war.
20
THE PLAYER
My laughter woke everyone up, but I just couldn’t stop. All that effort wasted, all those lives lost, and it had all been in vain! We were too late.
Kli-Kli seemed to be more frightened for me than the others. I think you’d probably be frightened, too, if some idiot suddenly started laughing in the middle of the night for no reason at all. Eel was the one who found the remedy for my laughter. He gave me a couple of hefty slaps to the face, and I calmed down.
“I’m all right,” I said, catching my breath. “You can stop pummeling me now. Sorry, lads.”
“What happened, Dancer? Not ill, are you?” Kli-Kli asked in concern.
“Everything’s all right,” I said. “It was just another bad dream.”
“Somehow I don’t recall bad dreams ever making you laugh before,” Hallas growled. “Mostly you just yelled blue murder. Come on, let’s hear what you dreamed about this time.”
So I had to tell them about the battle. Not everything, naturally, but certainly the fact that we lost.
“If the king’s dead, that’s bad. It won’t exactly inspire the army,” Mumr said pensively. He believed in my dream straightaway.
Apart from not inspiring the army, it would also cancel out my Commission. If the client was dead, the deal was dissolved. So I didn’t have to take the Rainbow Horn to Avendoom, where bloody war was just about to break out under the city walls. And I could forget about my pardon and the fifty thousand gold pieces that His Deceased Majesty had promised me.
“If the battle happened yesterday, then we still have a little time. It’s not very far to the capital now. We can try to make it.”
“We’ll make it, gnome! I swear on my house, we’ll make it! Eel, Mumr, saddle up the horses. Hallas, pay the innkeeper!” said Egrassa.
The Wild Hearts dashed to carry out his instructions.
“Listen, Harold, could you let me have the Horn just for a moment?”
“What do you want it for, Kli-Kli?” I asked, but I took the artifact out of my bag and handed it to her anyway.
She took hold of it, turned it this way and that, sniffed at it, muttered some gibberish over it, took some kind of powder out of her pocket and sprinkled some on it.
“Egrassa? What do you see?”
“I am not skilled in shamanism. I don’t see anything.”
“I didn’t see anythin
g, either,” she sighed. “Take it, Harold. Now I understand your dream.”
“And?”
“You said there was a sound like a string breaking. That was the Rainbow Horn losing its power.”
“Do you mean to say…?”
“Exactly what I said. This is just a horn now. Nothing special about it. At least, not until the Order gets to work. The artifact has lost its power and the balance has been shaken. The Nameless One is now free to use magic here in Valiostr.”
“That means we have to hurry. Get your things, we’re moving on!” the elf said brusquely.
“Valder!” I called. “Valder! Is this true?”
“Yes,” the dead archmagician condescended to reply about a minute later. “The Rainbow Horn has lost its power.”
“But that means the Fallen Ones have escaped from the Palaces of Bone!”
“It’s not that simple, my friend. Yes, the Horn is useless, and the Fallen Ones are able to move up to the top levels of Hrad Spein, but not to leave it. The Horn is a Key. Until the Key is turned and the scales of the balance are destroyed, the Fallen Ones will not come pouring out into Siala. And only the Master can turn the Key. Or another Master, or … the Player.”
“Do you know the name of the Player?”
No reply.
* * *
All I remember of the days that followed is the wild galloping and the cold that crept in under my clothes. On the road to Avendoom we exhausted three pairs of horses each. We had to buy new ones. The terrible catastrophe had sent prices for all sorts of goods, and especially means of transport, soaring sky-high, but Egrassa doled out the gold without any complaints.
The news got worse and worse. Unfortunately, my dream hadn’t lied—the army had been defeated on the Field of Fairies. But it hadn’t been routed—most of the soldiers who survived the Nameless One’s attacks managed to retreat to Avendoom. The king had been killed—may he dwell in the light. Almost the entire headquarters staff of the army and at least two archmagicians had been killed along with him. The country had a new king now, the younger son of Stalkon the Ninth, Stalkon of the Spring Jasmine.
