Shadow Prowler

by Alexey Pehov

  “Harold, do you need a special invitation?” asked the goblin, riding up to me on Featherlight. “Where’s your chain mail?”

  “What chain mail?”

  “The chain mail we chose for you,” Kli-Kli responded irritably.

  “I’m not going to cover myself in metal,” I said rudely.

  “You really ought to,” said Marmot, who had already taken his chain mail off the packhorse and was putting it on over his shirt. “Armor, you know, can be quite wonderful for saving your life.”

  “Ordinary chain mail won’t save you from a crossbow anyway. A sklot will shoot straight through it.”

  “Not everybody has sklots, and the enemy doesn’t just use crossbows. It’ll stop you getting scratched, if nothing else.”

  Rip me into a hundred pieces, but I have a prejudice against wearing metal on my body. I’ve been used to managing without armor all my life, and I feel no better in chain mail than some people do in the grave. Cramped and uncomfortable.

  “Just look at all the others,” Kli-Kli persisted.

  The warriors of the platoon were already dressed up in the armor that had so far been left on the packhorses because of the rather hot weather. But in my view an ordinary fire, even if it was rather big, didn’t merit such precautions.

  The elves were sporting dark blue chain mail and steel breastplates with the emblems of their houses engraved on them. Miralissa had the Black Moon and Ell had the Black Rose. He put on the helmet that hid his face and Miralissa threw a chain-mail hood over her head, concealing her thick braid and fringe. Hallas, dressed up in something that looked more like fish scales, was helping Deler button up his steel leg plates. The dwarf set his hat aside and put a flat helmet on his head. It had protruding sections at the front to cover his cheeks and nose.

  To avoid being the odd Doralissian out, I had to take my “packaging” out, too. It weighed down uncomfortably on my shoulders and I winced in annoyance. Because I wasn’t used to it, it felt cramped and uncomfortable.

  “Ah, stop going on like that. You’ll soon get used to it,” Lamplighter consoled me.

  He was wearing armor that consisted of strips of steel fitted closely together. Catching my curious glance, he smiled: “A magnificent thing for anyone who likes swinging a bindenhander from side to side. It doesn’t cramp your movements and your grips.”

  Instead of a helmet, Mumr tied a thin strip of cloth round his forehead to prevent his hair from getting into his eyes.

  “Are we off?” asked Uncle, looking at the elfess.

  “Yes,” she commanded tersely, but then she thought for a moment and added: “You take over command.”

  Uncle accepted the suggestion as only natural. Unlike the platoon sergeant, Miralissa didn’t know what his men were capable of.

  “Hallas, Deler—to the front! You have the strongest armor, in case . . .”

  Uncle didn’t say any more. Everybody understood in case of what. If disaster struck, the soldiers in the strongest armor might survive a hit from a heavy crossbow bolt and distract the crossbowmen’s attention from their less well-protected comrades.

  “Have you forgotten about me, sergeant?” I heard a muffled voice say behind me. “I’m with them.”

  I turned round to see who it was. Instead of his old chain mail, Arnkh had put on heavy armor. Plus a helmet that looked like an acorn and completely covered his face, with narrow slits for the eyes. Then there were the leg pieces, shoulder pieces, chain-mail gloves, and the round shield. A real wall of steel.

  In fact, almost everybody had a shield, including Lamplighter, Honeycomb, and the elves. My companions were all set for a good fight, and they would be very disappointed if it turned out that the fire in the village was just another ordinary blaze caused by the negligence of some drunken peasant.

  This time we didn’t hurry, but moved along slowly, gazing attentively into the undergrowth, anticipating a possible trap. There was already a smell of smoke and soot in the air, and we still had a long way to ride to Vishki. Kli-Kli was pulling faces as if he had a toothache—the smoke was tickling his throat and stinging his eyes. And, by the way, the goblin himself was not wearing any chain mail. Since when has a traveling cloak been considered any kind of protection?

  “Kli-Kli, why did you pester me like that and not put anything on yourself?” I hissed, jabbing a finger at the chain mail covering my chest.

  “Oh, they don’t have a size to fit me anyway,” the goblin answered casually. “And apart from that, I’m very hard to hit. I’m too small.”

  “Quiet there!” Loudmouth hissed in annoyance.

  We crossed a wooden bridge over a wide stream, or a little river, whichever you prefer. The water was flowing under it at the speed of an obese snail, and the streambed was overgrown with some kind of swamp grass. A bend and a sudden halt.

  “Mother of mine!” Uncle explained with a quiet whistle.

  The road was blocked with tree trunks. The straight, neat young pine trees with their branches trimmed off had been placed on top of each other and there were banners waving in the air behind them. The first was gray and blue—the banner of the kingdom—but the sight of the second set the hair on the back of my neck stirring. A yellow field with the black silhouette of an hourglass.

  The flag of death. The banner of the most terrible illness that existed in the world of Siala—the copper plague. I also saw thirty soldiers dressed in white jackets and crimson trousers. The Heartless Chasseurs in person. The nose and mouth of every soldier was covered with a bandage.

  As soon as they spotted us, the men behind the barricade raised their bows at the ready. And behind our backs pikemen crept out of the trap that we had not even noticed and lined up quickly and busily, like ants, cutting off the road.

  “Halt!” a harsh voice shouted. “Keep your hands in sight! Who are you?”

  “We come in the name of the king!” Miralissa shouted, and to confirm her words, she waved a paper with the gray-and-blue seal of the royal house of Stalkon.

  Even at the distance of thirty yards that separated us from the blockage, the seal was clearly visible. The bows in the soldiers’ hands relaxed a little.

  My first fright at the unexpected encounter passed. These were not bandits, and they would listen to us before they sent arrows whistling past our ears. And as for the banner . . . Who could tell what was going on here? Perhaps the peasants were in revolt. Perhaps they hadn’t been able to find any other banner, so they’d taken this one out, and there wasn’t any plague in the village at all.

  “How do I know that royal seal isn’t false?” the same voice called out.

  “I’ll draw you a dozen as good as that one!” one of the pikemen standing behind us shouted.

  No one was in any hurry to come out to us.

  “Then take a look at this!” Uncle barked. “Or do you want me to ride closer?”

  Despite his chain mail, the platoon leader had managed to bare his arm up to the elbow. The tattoo on it was clearly visible.

  “Or will any of you white-and-crimson lads dare to say that the Wild Hearts don’t serve the Stalkons?”

  No one said so. How could they? If the Wild Hearts were traitors, then who could you trust? Nobody even doubted that the tattoo was genuine. As I said earlier, impostors usually had their tattoos removed together with their arm. Or even with their head.

  The bows and pikes were lowered, no longer threatening us. But the chasseurs were in no hurry to put their weapons away. They kept hold of them, just in case they might come in handy.

  A soldier with a corporal’s badge on his sleeve came out to us.

  “You’re a long way from the Lonely Giant,” he said. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  Like the rest of them, the corporal had his face hidden behind a bandage.

  “Is there plague in the village?” Miralissa asked unhurriedly.

  “Yes.”

  How could some ordinary piece of rag save you when not even the much-vau
nted magic of the Order was any help? There was only one thing that anyone who caught the copper plague could do—try to dig his own grave in the time he had left. In ancient times entire cities had died of this terrible illness. Not just cities—entire countries! It’s enough to recall one of the most terrible epidemics, when the still unified Empire was hit by the plague. Nine out of ten people died. And then half of the survivors died. And the next year half of those who were left followed them.

  Nothing had been heard of this curse for a very long time. No one had thought about the plague for more than a hundred and fifty years. And now the old disease had reappeared all of a sudden, out of the blue, in the very heart of Valiostr? There was something fishy going on here.

  The plague usually appears on the borders of the kingdom, brought in by refugees from another state, and then spreads like wildfire into the central areas of the country. But on the other hand, it has to appear somewhere first. For instance, if some clever dick digs up the old burial sites. . . .

  “Everything is written here,” said Miralissa, holding up the royal charter.

  The corporal didn’t even reach out to take the document.

  “There is pestilence in the village, milady. We have been forbidden to touch other people’s things in order not to spread the infection through the district. We have also been forbidden to allow anyone either in or out, no matter who they might be. Anyone who disobeys will be executed immediately as a traitor to the king and a propagator of pestilence. I ask you once again: Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  “None of your business, you damn chasseur,” Hallas muttered to himself, but fortunately the corporal didn’t hear him.

  “We are on a mission for the king,” said Miralissa, with a hint of anger in her voice. “We are on our way to Ranneng. That is all you need to know, corporal. And any hindrance caused to us is regarded as a crime against the crown.”

  “There is nothing I can do,” the corporal muttered, caught on the horns of a dilemma.

  The problem was clear enough: on one side an order not to allow anyone through and on the other the royal seal. So try to figure out what to do: Let them through and you’ll lose your head; don’t let them through, and you’re in for big trouble anyway.

  “I have my commander’s orders,” said the corporal, clutching at his last straw.

  “What can supersede a command from the king?” Miralissa insisted, sensing that her opponent’s defenses were cracking.

  “A threat to the life and prosperity of the kingdom,” said a voice behind the barrier.

  The ranks of soldiers parted and two figures came out to join the corporal. Their faces were concealed by bandages, but they were still easily recognizable as members of the Order. A magician and an enchantress.

  “The plague sets all of us on the same level. If the disease escapes from this localized pocket, the country will face catastrophe, Tresh Miralissa.”

  “I don’t believe I have had the pleasure,” the elfess said coldly.

  “Magicians of the Order of Valiostr, Balshin and Klena,” said the man. “Of course, you did not recognize me in this protective mask, but we have met, Tresh Miralissa, at one of the receptions in his majesty’s palace.”

  “Anything is possible,” Miralissa said with an indifferent nod. “What has happened here? Can you tell me, magicians?”

  “Do you mind if I take a look?” the enchantress asked, holding out her hand.

  As Miralissa coolly handed the document to the woman, I saw her nostrils flaring in fury. The elfin princess was not accustomed to having obstacles put in her way.

  “You are free to go, corporal,” Balshin said in a low voice. The chasseur gave a sigh of relief and withdrew to join his men, leaving the magicians of the Order to deal with us.

  “Genuine,” said the woman, after making a few passes over the paper.

  For a split second the royal document flared up with a pink glow.

  “That ought to eliminate any possible infection,” said the enchantress, handing the paper back to Miralissa.

  “What is going on here is as follows,” said the magician, not disconcerted in the least by having to throw his head back to look up at the riders on their horses. “Enchantress Klena and I were riding past the village when the first case of infection appeared. That was three days ago—”

  “How did the illness come to be here?” Ell interrupted.

  Ah, so I wasn’t the only one who was confused about the strange way the pestilence had appeared so dangerously close to Ranneng. Just a few days’ journey from the second-largest city in Valiostr.

  “We do not know. That still has to be investigated,” said Klena. “But the symptoms are authentic. We were able to summon a regiment of Heartless Chasseurs quartered in the city. They closed off all the roads and paths to make sure that not a single inhabitant was able to leave the center of infection and spread the plague across the country.”

  “And have there been any attempts?” Arnkh boomed from under his helmet.

  “There have,” the magician said with a perfunctory nod.

  A very perfunctory nod. Nobody asked any more questions, although it was clear to all of us what must have happened to the desperate people who found themselves caught in the trap with the victims of the infection. They had been shot with arrows from a distance, that was what. And it made no damn difference who was trying to break through the chasseurs’ blockade—healthy peasants with pitchforks or women with children. No one blamed the Heartless Chasseurs, though—it was a matter of kill a few dozen now or expose thousands more to danger.

  “And what of the chasseurs themselves?” Miralissa asked.

  “Securely protected by magic.”

  “And since when has magic protected against the Copper Killer?”

  “Magic is constantly developing,” Klena declared pompously. “The Order has learned how to prevent the illness from infecting people, but there is no way to help those who have been infected before we can protect them.”

  The longer this conversation went on, the less I liked it. There were just too many things in the story the magicians had told us that didn’t fit. And apart from that, they weren’t even telling us half the story. If that kind of protective magic did exist, it was clear enough why the chasseurs were still here, and not running as hard as they could away from the plague spot. But then why had the magicians used their wizardry to protect an entire regiment of soldiers, but not done the same for the villagers at the very start of the epidemic when, according to the magicians, only one person was infected?

  “How many people in the village are not yet infected?” Miralissa inquired.

  “Not a single one,” the magician said dispassionately, turning away from her.

  Not one? How could that be? Everyone knew that people died on the seventh day, and it had only started three or four days ago.

  “Some new form of the disease?” asked Ell. He still had his helmet on.

  “Precisely,” Balshin replied in the same dispassionate tone.

  Miralissa didn’t say anything. She was thinking and twirling a small charred stick between the fingers of her left hand. The stick she had used to draw spells in the ash.

  Oh no!

  What was she thinking? To start a fight with the magicians was madness! I was quite sure she only had to break that stick, spit on it, lick it, or do something else very simple, and the slumbering shamanic magic would awaken. I glanced back, as if casually, at the road. The pikemen were still there, but they were already standing nonchalantly along the sides, talking to each other. Our group wasn’t any danger to them, especially since both magicians were dealing with us, so why not have a little chat and leave your cumbersome three-yard pike leaning up against a tree?

  “You are on your way to Ranneng?” Klena asked.

  “Yes,” Miralissa replied curtly.

  “For what purpose?”

  “On the king’s business.”

  “And why did you travel
along a deserted side road, and not the main highway?” the magician asked scathingly.

  Now what were they after, may snow vampires tear me apart? Wasn’t it clear that our document was genuine and by hindering us this magician was letting himself in for big trouble, not only from an angry king, but also from the Order, which would never condone such headstrong behavior by its members?

  “Nobody warned us that it was closed,” Hallas growled impatiently.

  “All the worse for you,” Balshin said, and shrugged.

  “And so we cannot pass here?” Miralissa asked, to make absolutely certain.

  “Neither pass nor leave. Unfortunately,” said the magician, spreading his hands in a gesture of feigned regret. “You will have to stay here until we have defeated the disease. We cannot put the welfare of the kingdom at risk. Naturally, you will be afforded every possible comfort.”

  “But we are healthy!” Lamplighter exclaimed indignantly, speaking for the first time.

  “Perhaps so,” the enchantress agreed. “But you have already been told that we cannot take any risks. We shall have to detain you.”

  “And how long will it take you to defeat the disease?” Ell spat out venomously.

  “Three or four months. Then, if there are no new cases, we will lift the quarantine.”

  “Three months!” Hallas exclaimed, choking on the words.

  That left our plans in tatters. If we complied, it would be well into autumn before we reached Hrad Spein, and that meant we wouldn’t get back in time. What could we do? Break out the way we had come? But how many men would we lose in breaking out? How many would be felled by arrows, pikes, and the magicians’ spells? Almost all of us.

  Our last remaining hope was the shamanic spell that Miralissa had prepared. I kept my eyes fixed on that small charred stick twirling between her fingers.

  “Quiet, Hallas,” she said sharply. “Do you intend to detain us, regardless of the king’s order?”

  “Yes.”

  “You may find yourselves in trouble with the Council of the Order. I shall certainly inform Master Artsivus of this,” said the elfess, making one final attempt to avoid a fight.