Shadow Prowler

by Alexey Pehov

  The little old man sitting in an armchair beside the hearth, muffled in a thick woolen blanket, was clutching a silvery staff encrusted with ivory in his right hand. A magician, as far as I could judge. An archmagician, in fact, bearing in mind that his staff bore four silver rings of rank. Or even more precisely, a master, since he had a small black bird sitting on the top of his staff instead of the usual stone.

  The old man appeared small and puny. He looked like an old, fragile hazelnut, and he was shuddering in annoyance, as if the heat from the fireplace right beside him could not warm his ancient bones. It seemed that if you just prodded the magician with your finger, or a strong wind blew on him, he would simply fall to pieces.

  A deceptive impression. A none-too-pleasant end lay in store for anyone who prodded Artsivus, archmagician and master, the head of the Order of Magicians. This man was one of the most influential figures in the kingdom and the king’s first adviser, although many, seeing the puny old man for the first time, might have doubts about the soundness of his reason.

  The person sitting in the armchair opposite Artsivus and elegantly cradling a goblet of white wine was a woman, wearing the very expensive, magnificent, lightblue dress of a female inhabitant of Mirangrad. A rather risky choice of garment in our kingdom, especially since the war with Miranueh had not actually ended, but was only lying dormant for the time being while the two sides recovered from the bloody battles that had broken off five years earlier. Miranuehans are liked no better than the Nameless One in Avendoom, but I could see that the lady was not concerned about that.

  The female stranger’s face was covered by a veil that completely concealed it from my curious gaze. And those golden eyes, though covered by the veil, still sparkled. Amazing. I had encountered this unknown noblewoman two days earlier, on that memorable night when I had a little job to do in Duke Patin’s town house. Judging from her jewelry, she must be the same woman who had ridden along the narrow street, surrounded by the king’s personal guards.

  Standing by the wall was a man armed with a sword of Canian forge-work. This gentleman examined my humble person with disdainful curiosity, as if what he was looking at were, in the very best case, a rat. Although it was he who was the Rat. That was what his foes called him. Count Alistan Markauz, captain of the king’s personal guards, who had chosen a gray rat as his crest. He could always be recognized from his heavy knightly armor with the rodent’s head engraved on the breastplates and the helmet, which itself was in the form of a rat’s head. Vicious tongues had it that the Rat even slept and washed in his armor, but I believe this assertion was not entirely correct.

  Alistan was the finest swordsman of the kingdom, the rock on which our most dear king relied. He was the head of the security service and a man of honor, defined in terms that only he understood, who hated and exterminated all who plotted evil against his glorious lord. His whole life was military routine, skirmishes with ogres and giants beside the Lonely Giant fortress, war with the orcs of Zagraba, and a couple of border wars with Miranueh when their king felt like moving on to bigger things after a few skirmishes with the western clans of the Zagraban orcs.

  Having survived all these battles, Alistan Markauz had become the man he was at that moment—the king’s right arm and a bulwark of the throne. The soldier looked at me with his steely gray eyes, chewing on his luxuriant, dangling mustache, styled in the manner of the inhabitants of Lowland. I responded to his narrow-eyed gaze with a sour look and transferred my attention to the fourth person in the room.

  Well, of course, when I say “person,” that’s something of an exaggeration. There, staring at me with arctic blue eyes, was a green-skinned goblin. The genuine article. One of those who live somewhere in the Forests of Zagraba, side by side with orcs and elves.

  The goblins are an unfortunate and downtrodden race. They are no taller than the smallest of gnomes. That is, they come up to about my navel, no higher than that. From the dawn of time men, confusing things in the way they always do, believed that goblins were the orcs’ allies, and for century after century attempted to exterminate this universally persecuted tribe of Siala.

  The systematic extermination of the race of goblins was so successful that this once multitudinous, peaceful race, which had suffered from the scimitars of the orcs as well as the swords and pikes of men, was almost completely wiped out. And when men finally realized the truth (that is, when they swallowed their pride and asked the elves), there were only a few small tribes left, hiding in the remotest thickets of Zagraba with the help of their shamans’ magic.

  And so, we had even begun taking them into service. They proved to be very intelligent and resourceful, their little claret-colored tongues could be very sharp, and they were adroit and nimble, therefore perfectly suited for service as messengers and spies.

  And in addition, the Order of Magicians was very interested in goblin shamanism, which derived from the rites of the orcs and the dark elves.

  Shamanism, for anyone who doesn’t know, is the most ancient form of wizardry in this world. It appeared in Siala together with the ogres, the most ancient race. And therefore the magicians of men are tremendously curious about the primordial source, which was borrowed from the ogres by the orcs, then the elves, and then the goblins.

  By the way, the little green-skinned lad on the carpet in front of me happened to be a jester. That was clear from his cap with little bells, his jester’s leotard in red and blue squares, and the jester’s mace that he was clutching in his green hand. The goblin was sitting there with his funny little legs crossed, occasionally turning his head, so that his little bells tinkled in a gay melody.

  Noticing me studying him in astonishment, he laughed, with a bright flash of teeth as sharp as needles. He sniffed through his long, hooked nose, winked his blue eye, and showed me his claret-colored tongue. Magnificent! That was all I needed to really make my day!

  I transferred my gaze to the final stranger in the room, sitting in the armchair in front of which the goblin had positioned himself. To look at, this man was very much like a prosperous innkeeper. Fat and short, with a bald head and neat, tidy hands. And his clothes were more than modest: the spacious brown trousers worn by ordinary guardsmen, and simple thick sweater of sheep’s wool, very suitable for the frosts of January—the kind knitted by the peasants who live beside the Lonely Giant fortress. I wondered if he felt hot in it.

  All in all, the man in front of me was entirely gray and undistinguished. Especially if you failed to notice the thick gold ring with an enormous ruby on his right hand, and his eyes. Those brown eyes were full of intelligence, steel, and power. The power of a king.

  I bowed low and froze.

  “Just so,” Stalkon the Ninth said in a deep, resonant voice.

  It was the voice I had heard when they led me into the room.

  “So this is the thief famous throughout the whole of Avendoom? Shadow Harold?”

  “Yes indeed, Your Majesty,” Baron Lanten, who was standing beside me, replied obsequiously.

  “Well now.” The king patted the seated jester on the head and the jester purred in pleasure, imitating a cat. “You found him quickly, Frago. Far more quickly than I was expecting. I thank you.”

  The baron lowered his head modestly and pressed his hand to his heart, although any fool could see that he was absolutely delighted to be praised.

  “Wait outside the door, baron, if you would be so kind,” Archmagician Artsivus said from his chair with a cough.

  The commander of the guard bowed once more and went out, closing the door firmly behind him.

  “I have heard a lot about you, Harold,” the king said, looking intently into my eyes.

  “I did not think my reputation was so great, Your Majesty.” I felt awkward in the company of the leading figures of the state.

  “Ah, but he’s bold,” the jester declared squeakily, pulling yet another face at me and turning his eyes in toward his nose.

  “And modest,” the mysteri
ous woman said with a laugh, running the finger of a gloved hand along the edge of her crystal goblet. You always hear about women whose laughter sounds like music in all those silly love songs. I always thought it was just the bards singing through their hats. I never imagined it was true. And fancy hearing it in this company. She would bear watching, this one. Oh, not because Harold is so taken with a pretty lady. I like ladies enough—in their place. No, no, this lady was commanding, dangerous . . . different. You could tell just by her demeanor that she was the equal of anyone in the room—even the king. And they all knew it, too. Let us not say that cranky old Harold was suspicious . . . no, not suspicious, exactly . . . but she would bear watching, this one.

  I felt like a cow at market, being discussed by two peasant buyers.

  “Have a seat, Harold,” said the king, gesturing graciously in my direction, and I sat down in an armchair with a tall, carved back depicting some episode from the battle that took place on the Field of Sorna.

  “With your permission?” the king asked casually, picking my crossbow up off the little table standing beside his armchair.

  The knife, lock picks, and razor were lying there, too.

  “Made by dwarves?”

  Without even giving me time to nod, His Majesty aimed the weapon at the ancient suit of armor standing in the farthest corner of the room and pressed the trigger. The string twanged and the bolt whined as it flew straight in through the eye slit of the knight’s helmet.

  The jester clapped his hands in a caricature of applause. Stalkon knew how to fire a weapon. In general there were many things he was good at. Especially maintaining a firm grip on the kingdom. The simple people adored him, although he had ruthlessly repressed the rebellions that had flared up several times during the spring famine. And everybody also knew that, in addition to the crown, His Majesty had inherited knowledge from his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. The great intellect of the dynasty of Stalkon was legendary throughout the land.

  He hadn’t raised taxes excessively, but neither had he reduced them to paltry levels. He had loosened the traders’ and merchants’ leashes, but arranged things so that if they wanted to trade in Valiostr, then they paid taxes. He also took money from the guilds of thieves and assassins. He did not oppress the other races that were friendly to men, and they repaid him, if not with friendship, then at least with tolerance toward humans, and they obeyed the laws of the kingdom.

  The king’s only mistake, or so his enemies whispered, was the idea of an alliance with the gnomes: When it was concluded the dwarves fell out with Valiostr and locked themselves away in their mountains. Of course, a small community of dwarves had remained in Avendoom, basically the most greedy of them, dreaming of raking in a little more gold from the sale of expensive craftwork, although even they disapproved of the fact that men had come to terms with the gnomes, the enemies of all dwarves. In this matter, however, I was on the king’s side. If the choice was between the swords that dwarves made for the richest inhabitants of the kingdom and the cannon that the gnomes made, naturally you had to choose what was more effective in battle and cheaper—the cannon.

  “An interesting toy. But we’re not here now to talk about your crossbow,” the king said, setting the discharged weapon back down on the small table. “Could you tell me, thief, how you came by this item?”

  The delighted jester took out a gold statuette of a dog from behind the armchair and showed it to me. My back was instantly bathed in cold, sticky sweat. Although I managed to hold my face in a mask of polite respect, a note of panic appeared in my voice. There in the goblin’s hands was the trinket from the duke’s house. So that was where Gozmo’s man had taken it. Good old Gozmo! If we happen to meet again, there’s a very unpleasant conversation in store for him.

  So now all the clues pointed to me. Now I was implicated in a crime against the crown. The quartering they would administer would be regarded as the grace of the gods and the mercy of the king’s court. If only they didn’t do anything worse to me! I decided I had better say nothing and listen.

  “Clever and cautious. Rare qualities,” said the woman, surveying me from behind her dense veil.

  The jester giggled quietly at some joke only he understood, and scuttled round the room. Then, still clutching the statuette in his hand, he stood beside Alistan, copied his pose and serious expression, and froze, setting his hand on the head of the golden dog and transforming it into an improvised sword. I almost burst out laughing. It really was just like the Rat and very funny. The goblin certainly earned his pay.

  “It was on our instructions, Harold, that you found yourself in the home of my most dear departed cousin. Before deciding if you were suited to a certain job, we had to test you. And a setting more ideal than my cousin’s town house, with a garrinch roaming around freely at night, is hard to imagine. Don’t you agree?”

  “The royal treasure house would be even more ideal,” I blurted out.

  Shadow Harold had nothing more to lose. It was obvious anyway that in the morning I would be taking the journey to the Gray Stones. I reminded myself once again to have a word with Gozmo when I got the chance—to thank him for palming off this “Commission” on me.

  “Oho! Shadow Harold has a sweet tooth!” the goblin squeaked.

  I cast a caustic glance at him, but he only laughed mockingly and stuck his tongue out again.

  “I know that, Kli-Kli,” Stalkon replied to the jester, then he picked up my knife, drew it out of its scabbard and, as he studied it, asked casually, “What happened in the house that night? How did he die?”

  I swallowed the spittle that had thickened in my mouth and launched into my story under the gaze of five watchful pairs of eyes. No one interrupted me, Archmagician Artsivus seemed to be dozing in his chair and, remarkably enough, the goblin’s face was thoughtful and troubled. When I finished my story, an oppressive silence filled the room, with only the fire crackling quietly in the hearth.

  “I told you, Your Majesty, not to trust the duke,” Alistan blurted out angrily. For some reason he had believed my story straightaway, and now his eyes were glittering with fury. “I’ll double the guard.”

  The king stroked his chin thoughtfully, studying me intently for a while without saying anything. Then he nodded his head abruptly, clearly having made up his mind.

  “We’ll talk about my safety later, good friend Alistan. But first I have a proposition for our guest. Harold, do you know who the Nameless One is?” Stalkon asked, taking me by surprise.

  “He is evil and darkness.” The question had perplexed me.

  The Nameless One, the Nameless One. The one they used to frighten you with in your distant childhood, when you wouldn’t go to bed on time.

  Alistan snorted, as if he had expected no more from a thief.

  “That depends on how you understand the word,” the monarch said. “Evil. Hmm . . . But are you aware that, outside of Valiostr, the Nameless One is known only in the Border Kingdom, and then only because the orcs attack those lands with his name on their lips? Well, and perhaps also in Isilia, and somewhat in Miranueh, but there the Nameless One is no more than a terrible fairy tale. He is actually not entirely black evil, and far from being darkness, merely a very powerful wizard who settled in the Desolate Lands and has been dreaming for a long, long time of seeing Valiostr reduced to ruins.”

  “By your leave . . . ,” said the archmagician, breaking his silence and butting into the conversation for the first time. “Young man, let me tell you a legend that is really not a legend at all, but the plain truth. . . . Five hundred years or so ago, when our kingdom was not yet so great and powerful, two brothers lived in Avendoom. One of them was a magnificent general, the other a talented magician who studied the various aspects of shamanism. At that time magic was still a mysterious art to men—it was constantly being improved, we were still learning, borrowing from the experience of the dark elves, orcs, and goblins. Later we added a little something of our own to produce what
we have now. Unfortunately the stone magic of the gnomes and dwarves is beyond us. Hmm . . . But I digress. . . . It happened in the final year of the Quiet Times, as that period is now known. The general Grok . . . I hope you know that name?”

  I nodded. Everyone knew Grok Square and the general’s statue. The old man grunted approval, fidgeting in an effort to make himself more comfortable in his chair, and then went on with his story:

  “In the final year of the Quiet Times an army of orcs attacked our city and attempted to take it by storm. The famous Avendoom walls did not yet exist then and Grok, in command of only a few thousand weary soldiers who were still alive after a number of battles, was holding back the onslaught of the enemy who had emerged from the Forests of Zagraba. Mmm . . . His brother did not come to support him. I do not know why, unfortunately history is silent on that question. A quarrel, envy, illness, some stupid accident—whatever it was, the most powerful magician of the time failed to come to the aid of the embattled warriors. But even so, Grok and his men held out. They stood their ground until the arrival of the dark elves. By which time the army of Valiostr had been reduced first to a thousand men, and then to something less than four hundred. After the victory the magician was seized and executed for treason.”

  The old man stopped speaking and stared at the fire with his weepy eyes.

  “What was that magician called?” I asked, intrigued.

  “He bore the same name as his twin brother—Grok. It was a disgrace for the Order of Magicians. A terrible disgrace. We struck out the name of the reprobate from all the annals. After that he became known as the Nameless One. But he managed to survive. Or rather, his spirit survived. During his lifetime the wizard had studied Kronk-a-Mor, the forbidden sorcery of the ogres. The use of this form of shamanism can enable the spirit of a man who has died to live for a certain time without any physical body, and then inhabit a new one. And that is what happened. He went far away to the north, deep into the Desolate Lands, nurturing plans of vengeance. The power of the Kronk-a-Mor was so great that ogres, giants, and some orcs recognized the Nameless One as their lord and master. Although, to be honest, I have serious doubts concerning the orcs. As a race they are too cunning and independent; most likely it is simply convenient to make themselves out to be cruel barbarians and appeal to the Nameless One when they attack their enemies. High politics, the elfin houses call it! But as for the ogres, giants, and some individual humans, they are devoted, body and soul, to the Nameless One. These enemies of Valiostr would long ago have left their own lands to wage war against us, if they were not held back by the Lonely Giant fortress. And even though the Nameless One has acquired eternal life, so far he has not dared to invade Valiostr, because we were canceling out his power. That is, until the equilibrium was disrupted.”