Shadow Prowler

by Alexey Pehov

  Uncle’s platoon, however, had all sorts of death-dealing devices with them, from the ordinary swords and crossbows hanging beside their saddlebags to ogre-clubs, battle-mattocks, poleaxes, and bidenhanders. And then every second man had a round shield, too. An impressive little arsenal for an impressive team.

  I was greatly surprised by Milord Alistan’s appearance as he gave final instructions to Lieutenant Izmi, who was taking over his command of the guards. He wasn’t wearing his famous armor. It had been replaced by a jacket just like the ones the Wild Hearts were wearing, with metal badges sewn onto it. Of course, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had chain mail or something even heavier on a pack horse, like all the Wild Hearts, but the very fact that the Rat was setting out without the armor that had become like a second skin to him . . .

  Meanwhile Alistan finished briefing Izmi and leapt up into the saddle of his huge black steed.

  No, really, what was I so worried about? In company like this? With the protection of their swords I was in for a pleasant outing, perhaps with a little miraculous adventure.

  “Forward!” shouted Count Markauz, slapping his heels against his horse’s flanks.

  “Good luck, Dancer in the Shadows!” The jester whispered his farewell to me in an absolutely normal voice.

  May a h’san’kor tear me to pieces. At long last we’re on our way, may all the gods of Siala help us.

  20

  ON THE WAY

  Avendoom had been left behind. The majestic, forbidding walls built of gray stone from the Quarries of Ol had dissolved in the morning mist that the waking sun had startled from the earth and then left to tremble in the air for a few minutes like a frightened white moth. And after that the morning had simply flitted past, like some elusive, phantom bird, and disappeared beyond the horizon to make way for a scorching hot noon.

  All the Wild Hearts had taken off their jackets and were wearing just their shirts. The only exception was Arnkh, in the eternal chain mail that he never removed even for a second. Perhaps if I’d been born beside the Forests of Zagraba and was used to expecting an attack by orcs at any minute, I would have put on Markauz’s armor, let alone chain mail, even in this heat.

  I had also unfastened the collar of my shirt and rolled up the sleeves—something that I greatly regretted when the evening came and my skin had turned a magnificent shade of crimson, so that for the next few days it became a serious obstacle to my enjoyment of life.

  Markauz and the elves led the way along the road, followed by the Wild Hearts, in twos and threes. At first Marmot kept me company—and he proved to be a rather talkative and interesting companion—then we were joined by Hallas and Deler.

  The sure-handed dwarf had managed to make a long tube out of the materials at hand and stick it into his cask of wine. Now, when Uncle wasn’t watching them, the dwarf and the gnome took sly sips of the nectar of the gods, occasionally exclaiming in delight at this heavenly bliss vouchsafed to them. They were both gradually getting merrier and merrier, and I began to feel worried that one of them would overdo it, slip out of his saddle, and smash his head on the ground. But no, they simply got a bit red in the face and started singing a bold soldier’s song about some campaign or other. Uncle, who was talking to Eel, kept casting suspicious glances at these new singers and his face gradually turned darker and darker. The platoon leader clearly sensed that there was something shady going on, but he simply couldn’t figure out how his soldiers could suddenly be drunk.

  The dwarf discoursed with the air of a connoisseur on Miralissa’s good points as a woman. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who looked upon her forthright but very feminine grace with pleasure and interest. He and Hallas agreed that she had quite a few good points, only the fangs spoiled the general impression. After a moment’s thought, the gnome said that you could always put a cloth over her face and then proceed as Mother Nature prompted, to which Marmot, who had kept silent all this time, suggested that the two learned theoreticians should shut up, or at least lower their voices half a tone, otherwise Miralissa would draw her s’kash from its scabbard and slice the beard off one of them and something a bit lower off the other. I couldn’t have agreed more. There was silence for a moment, and then the dwarf said, “I didn’t mean any offense. I only decided to talk about the elfess for a bit of relaxation.”

  “You can relax in the Forests of Zagraba, when the elves hang you upside down from a tree for insulting a princess of their house,” Marmot retorted, and stroked his pet ling.

  That finally soured the discussion of the elfess, and the gnome and the dwarf launched into a two-hour philosophical debate about the advantages and disadvantages of weapons with long handles. As always, Hallas and Deler contradicted each other furiously, constantly clenching their fists and trading lavish insults.

  As was only to be expected, the argument between the gnome and the dwarf ended in a tie. And after another hour or so, Deler made a truly difficult decision and declared that enough wine had been tasted for one day, otherwise they’d soon have to start looking for another cask, and the likelihood of finding one on the road was illusory to say the least, not to say equal to zero. For some reason Lamplighter, who was riding last in our unit, found this last phrase highly amusing. He was tootling some simple little tune on his reed pipe, and I must admit that this music was better than the first time I had heard Mumr play—this time it only made me want to howl mournfully at the moon.

  I jabbed my heels into Little Bee’s sides, hurried forward, and quietly fell in behind the horses of Miralissa and Markauz.

  “According to my calculations, if we keep moving at this pace, we’ll reach Ranneng in less than two weeks. From there to the Iselina is no distance at all, and then it’s another two weeks to the Border Kingdom. And another week to the Forests of Zagraba,” the elfess said to Markauz, who was listening carefully.

  “That means a month and a half, then?” asked Milord Alistan, chewing thoughtfully on his mustache, before he noticed that I had joined their group.

  “That’s not allowing for any unplanned events,” said Egrassa, who seemed inclined to look on the dark side.

  Well, well, so there were pessimists among the elves, too. And I thought only human beings were capable of doubting and expecting the worst.

  “And in addition, we can’t stay in the saddle round the clock. I think we’ll need at least a couple of days’ rest in Ranneng.”

  “I don’t think we ought to go into Ranneng,” I put in.

  “Thanks for your advice, Harold,” Alistan replied rather impolitely.

  I could see he didn’t feel he needed advice from anyone, especially not from a thief.

  “I beg your pardon, Milord Alistan, but you don’t understand,” I continued insistently. “We’re already attracting unwanted attention by traveling along one of the busiest high roads in the kingdom, and we’re attracting it because elves, a gnome, a dwarf, and ten men armed to the teeth make rather unusual company. Believe me, milord, the peasants and ordinary travelers will find plenty to chatter about. Such a strange party. And rumors spread like wildfire. Anyone who finds those rumors interesting could easily draw certain conclusions and arrange a welcome for us. And yet, as I understand it, you wish to enter the second largest city in the kingdom! I think that certain rather unpleasant gentlemen are already looking for us. Whoever let the enemy into the royal palace has had more than enough time to report that our expedition has set out. We should not be seen in Ranneng.”

  “What the thief says makes sense,” Ell said with a gleam of his fangs. “We need to avoid places where there are too many people.”

  “Then what do you suggest?” asked Miralissa. She spoke to the elf but was looking at me thoughtfully. “Should we leave the central highway and head farther to the southeast?”

  Ell gave an almost imperceptible shrug, indicating that the decision was up to Alistan.

  “Farther to the southeast?” Alistan didn’t much like the suggestion. “Turn off a good ro
ad, which is busy, I admit, and head across open fields and forests with fallen trees? We’ll lose so much time, we won’t even reach Zagraba in September!”

  “The highway is heading due south at the moment,” Egrassa replied. “After Ranneng it turns to the west. And farther south there are no more cities, only barons’ castles and small towns or, rather, villages with garrisons. No humans wish to live near Zagraba. And so, in order not to lose time, we shall have to take a risk and keep following the same road. It’s a little more than a week to get to Ranneng. If we travel along the highway, that is. From the city we can turn to the southeast, toward the Iselina. There’s a ferry there that will take us across. And then it’s not very far to the Border Kingdom and the Forests of Zagraba.”

  “We can’t avoid the cities. We’ll have to renew our supplies,” said Alistan, making it clear that the conversation was at an end.

  Miralissa nodded at me. I nodded back and smiled but she just turned and walked off with the others.

  From the very beginning of the journey Count Markauz set the pace for the horses, and they moved at a brisk trot. Let’s say that we weren’t exactly hurrying, but we weren’t creeping along like blind snails, either. And every few leagues the horses were given a rest.

  The areas we passed through were quite populous, with messengers darting this way and that way along the highway, carts carrying goods to and from Avendoom. There were peasants, artisans, and members of guilds going about their business. Once we encountered a unit of soldiers riding toward us—Beaver Caps on their way to the Lonely Giant.

  Little Bee proved to be an amazingly sturdy horse. I didn’t really notice her getting tired at all. Her stride was the same as it had been in the morning—smooth and light. In fact I was more tired than my horse was.

  By the evening my entire body ached and I knew just how criminals in the Sultanate felt when they were set on stakes. Not a very pleasant sensation, I must say.

  When it was already twilight, Alistan decided to halt at a neat, clean village by the name of Sunflowers, located not far from the highway. Tidy little white houses, clean roads, and friendly locals. It was clear that the people round here lived well. And the sight of so many sunflowers growing everywhere, with their heads already bowed under the weight of ripe seeds, was dazzling.

  The local tavern had a huge inn, and rooms were found for every member of our expedition. It was called the Golden Chicken, and its name was well deserved, for two reasons. First, it earned its owner a very decent profit and, second, there were about fifty chickens wandering around in the yard. I climbed down off Little Bee with an effort and allowed one of the inn’s servants to take the horse to the stables. May I never hold gold pieces in my hand again if horse riding is not a very dubious pleasure for the unaccustomed. My backside was scraped raw all over. But that wasn’t all. The sun had also done its work, roasting me gently from all sides, and I felt old, battered, and sick.

  “Hey, Harold!” Honeycomb separated off from the group of Wild Hearts and came toward me with a cunning smile on his face. He showed me his fist.

  The other soldiers observed me with interest. I carefully inspected the . . . er . . . object that he had stuck almost right under my nose. There were several straws sticking out of it.

  “What’s this?” I asked Honeycomb with cautious curiosity, in no hurry to touch the straws just yet.

  “Lots!” The tall Wild Heart chuckled merrily. “The lads and I consulted and we decided you should join in, too.”

  “Join in what? And, by the way, why are the elves and our glorious count already in the inn, while we’re standing out here drawing lots?”

  “The elves and Alistan are high society,” Uncle answered for Honeycomb. “But our little draw’s very simple. Whoever draws the short straw shares a room with Lamplighter.”

  “Until the end of the journey,” Arnkh added quickly.

  Mumr followed all these preparations with poorly concealed hostility.

  I didn’t really care who else I had in my room and so I took the nearest straw out of Honeycomb’s fist with the most casual air I could muster. It was short.

  There were loud sighs of relief on all sides. Someone gave me an encouraging pat on the back; someone else winked at me merrily. I had no idea why no one wanted to spend the night in the same room as Lamplighter, and I didn’t get a chance to ask—the tables in the tavern were already set for supper and the hospitable host was filling the glasses with his finest wine. There weren’t many guests at the inn, and most of the people in the hall were from the village.

  And the only food they served was chicken. In all its forms. Roasted chickens, chickens baked with apples, steamed chickens, chicken wings with pepper. The sheer abundance of chicken was enough to make you jump up and start crowing like a rooster. So if you take into account the fact that I don’t like chicken very much, it should be easy enough to understand why I wasn’t exactly in the best of moods. By contrast, the Wild Hearts were in fine fettle, as if they hadn’t spent the entire day in the saddle, so I said I was tired, went off to my room, and lay down on one of the beds, regretting yet again that I had allowed myself to be drawn into such an insane venture.

  In the middle of the night I found out just what a dirty trick cruel fate had played on me. Lamplighter showed up very late, when I was already asleep, and I was so exhausted after a day in the saddle that I didn’t even hear him arrive.

  But I did hear Mumr very clearly when he started snoring with enthusiastic gusto. Never mind good old Gozmo, with his gentle nocturnal trilling and tweeting—by comparison with this warrior’s snoring, Gozmo’s was like the buzzing of a little mosquito compared with the roar of a hungry obur.

  Naturally, I woke up and, of course, I tried to drown out the terrible sounds. I tried whistling. I tried singing a song. I even threw a boot at him.

  It was hopeless. He had absolutely no intention of waking up, or even turning over onto his other side.

  After an hour of torment, when I was beginning to get used to the snoring and was just about ready to sink back into sleep, Lamplighter changed the order of the sounds he was making and everything started all over again. Eventually I stuck my head under the pillow and at long last managed to get to sleep, after swearing to myself that next time I would find a more comfortable spot to take my rest.

  Mumr woke me up in the morning. I gave him a surly glance, quite certain that no one had come between him and his dreams.

  Amazing enough, I felt better after the night. No doubt thanks to Ell, who had noticed the state I was in the evening before and splashed something out of his own flask into my glass of wine. Whatever it was, it had certainly helped.

  “We’re up a bit late this morning,” I said to Mumr. “Aren’t we in a hurry?”

  “Lady Miralissa is waiting for a messenger,” Lamplighter replied, groping around under his bed. He pulled out the bidenhander, set it across his shoulder, and walked toward the door of the room.

  “Let’s go and get breakfast, Harold.”

  “I’m coming.”

  I reached out one hand for my crossbow and knife. Hmm . . . Strange . . . Very strange . . . The knife was there all right, but my little junior with the double sting had completely disappeared. And at that very moment I heard the twang of a crossbow shot outside in the yard, followed by the frightened clucking of chickens. I glanced out of the window and swore, then dashed out of the room and started down the stairs to the ground floor.

  Some of the Wild Hearts were already having breakfast in the large hall of the tavern. They said good morning and asked politely how I had slept. I replied politely that I had slept well, but I didn’t really fool either myself or them.

  “Harold, where are you going? It’ll all get cold!” Hallas exclaimed in surprise, clutching a lump of fatty bacon in one hand and piece of smoked sausage in the other. The gnome seemed to be having some difficulty in deciding what to start his meal with.

  “I’ll just be a moment,” I told him,
and dashed outside.

  Arnkh, Tomcat, and Loudmouth were absorbed in watching an original competition between Eel and a certain little individual whom I knew only too well. And to the innkeeper’s considerable dismay, this competition consisted of trying to shoot as many as possible of the chickens running around the yard in the shortest possible time. There were already about fifteen motionless bundles of feathers, little chicken corpses, lying here and there on the sand.

  Eel was shooting with a sklot taken from Markauz. Kli-Kli—yes, it was him all right, I would have known that face with my eyes closed now—was felling the chickens with my crossbow.

  “Having fun?” I asked the goblin.

  “Good morning, Harold,” Kli-Kli replied, and brought down another unfortunate bird with a well-aimed shot. “Ten-six. I win!”

  That was addressed to Eel, who nodded in agreement without even trying to argue.

  “Thanks for letting me use your crossbow,” said the jester, handing the weapon back to me.

  “I don’t recall giving you permission.”

  “Oh, don’t be so finicky,” the goblin said with a frown. “I galloped all night and scraped my backside raw before I caught up with you! I have to relax a bit somehow.”

  “And why, if I may ask, have you come?”

  “Am I imagining it, or did I hear a note of irritation in your voice?” the jester asked, looking me straight in the eye. “I came to pass on a certain item to Miralissa, something the king didn’t have yet when you left.”

  “So it’s due to your good services that we’re in no hurry to go anywhere?” the taciturn Garrakan asked gruffly.

  “And basically,” said the goblin, brushing aside all possible objections, “I’m going to join you for the rest of the journey.”

  “As our jester? Well, how about that!” snorted Loudmouth.