Shadow Chaser tcos-2

by Алексей Пехов

  “The answer has been heard,” the marchioness said hurriedly. “You will be given the chance to prove your lord’s case.”

  “We will do it here and now!” Balistan Pargaid intervened again.

  “No, according to the laws of Sagra, the owner of the land on which the challenge was issued must be present at the judgment. We are now on the lands of my lord and father, and for the court to be held we shall have to go to Mole Castle, where the rules of combat will be announced.”

  Combat? Did she say combat? I definitely did not like the sound of that.

  “But…,” Balistan Pargaid began in annoyance.

  “You can withdraw the challenge, that is up to you,” Alia Dalli said imperturbably. “The rules do not forbid it.”

  “No, we will go with you, milady.”

  “As you wish, milord. I wish to remind you that if your men dare to attack my guests before the duel, there will be very serious trouble indeed,” the girl replied.

  She did not offer the count and his men her protection.

  We continued on our way, with the marchioness’s men keeping an inconspicuous eye on the count’s men, who were observing them. The count rode beside Oro Gabsbarg without speaking. Paleface’s glance gave me an unpleasant, cold feeling in the back of my neck.

  “Marmot,” I asked. “What is the Judgment of Sagra?”

  “I don’t know. If Arnkh was here, he could explain the laws of this country to us.”

  “The Judgment of Sagra? I’ve heard something about that business, lads,” said Lamplighter. “The court of the goddess of war … It used to be very common among the warriors of the Border Kingdom. When some questionable decision was made or a warrior’s honor was insulted, then the Judgment of Sagra decided the matter. A duel, in other words. The lad with the big ears has challenged us to a fight, and no warrior in the Border Kingdom would deny him the right to do that.”

  “Is it a duel to the death?” asked Marmot, glancing sideways at Meilo Trug.

  “That all depends on what the man who challenged us says to the lord of the land. If he says to the death, then to the death it is.”

  “You talk about it so calmly, Mumr,” I said with a crooked grin. “That Meilo has turned out to be very cunning.”

  “It could have been worse,” Lamplighter replied philosophically, taking out his reed pipe.

  “How could it?”

  “If the count hadn’t interfered, then his servant could have chosen any opponent he wanted. But then Milord Pargaid said he accused everybody.”

  “And now this … what’s his name?” asked Marmot.

  “Meilo,” I prompted him. “So now this Meilo will have to fight all of us?”

  “No, it will be decided by drawing lots. No need to be so nervous, Harold. You’re not involved in this business.”

  “Why?”

  “The Judgment of Sagra is only for soldiers. You, Kli-Kli, and Miralissa aren’t soldiers.”

  “I’m not a soldier?” exclaimed Kli-Kli, ablaze with righteous indignation. “Why, I’m a better soldier than any of you! I even know what the combat pension is!”

  “All right, Kli-Kli, well done. Just calm down, will you,” Honeycomb said in a conciliatory tone.

  “Hey, goblin,” called a soldier with a gray mustache, who had heard Kli-Kli’s howling. “Sing us your song.”

  “And why not? Right away!”

  And he did sing it. In fact, he kept on going for a good ten minutes.

  “A good song,” Dalli’s man croaked approvingly. “Plenty of heart.”

  “Well then? Am I a soldier?”

  “Sure you are!” he said quite seriously.

  The Border Kingdom warriors laughed—in a single day’s march they had grown fond of Kli-Kli’s jokes and songs.

  How naïve they were! They hadn’t yet experienced the charm of a nail in their boot or a tub of cold water in their bed.

  The empty region was behind us now, and we passed a little village at least once every hour. But, unlike our villages in Valiostr, they were surrounded by stockades and they had watch towers with archers on them. Every peasant in the Border Kingdom can swap his plow for a battle-ax at a moment’s notice when he needs to repulse an attack by the enemy.

  “How’s your health, Harold?” asked Paleface, drawing even with me on his horse.

  “Just fine, thanks. How’s yours, Rolio? Have you recovered after that skirmish with the demons?” I replied.

  “So you…,” Paleface said slowly, and grinned. “I don’t recall ever telling you my name.”

  “You were never that strong on etiquette. I had to find out for myself.”

  “All the more reason for you to be concerned about your health.”

  “Oh, I’ll take good care of myself. Very good care. What brings you out on such a long journey?”

  “A problem by the name of Harold. The way you stole that Key was very clever. I found that impressive, believe me.”

  “I feel flattered, on my word of honor.”

  “Well then, I’ll be seeing you again soon.”

  “I hope not.”

  Paleface was not likely to try anything here. There were too many men around; he’d never get away with it if he tried to dispatch me to the light now. The moment I suddenly fall off my horse and start bleeding, they’d slit the killer’s throat for him. And naturally, he didn’t want that. So I could expect him to wait until I was alone before he tried his tricks.

  We spotted Mole Castle easily from the distance—a huge gray bulk with walls rising up forty yards into the sky and twenty square towers set in a full circle.

  The walls were bristling with ballistas and catapults, the wide moat was filled with running water; anyone who tried to take the citadel by storm would have a hard time of it.

  When we stepped onto the drawbridge, the walls towered up above us menacingly. I raised my head and the men on the top looked like little beetles. The mighty gates of oak, clad with sheets of steel, quickly opened wide in invitation and the portcullis was raised, but in an attack, only the mightiest of battering rams could ever have broken through that barrier.

  About twenty soldiers were on guard duty beside the gates. The head of the watch greeted Lady Alia and we rode into the castle. I found myself in a short tunnel with its walls studded with loopholes for archers.

  Standing by the wall like a predator ready to pounce was a huge crossbow engine that fired forty bolts at once. And hanging on chains up under the ceiling there were basins that the defenders could fill with tar and hot oil. Yes, Algert Dalli’s home was certainly a tough nut to crack, not to be taken easily.

  We rode into the courtyard of the castle, but to call it a yard was a joke—it was the size of a large town square.

  “Milady Alia,” one of the soldiers said, bowing, “your lord and father is expecting you.”

  “Thank you, Chizzet,” said the marchioness, jumping down off her horse. “Follow me, noble gentlemen. And those who seek judgment, too. Chizzet, arrange accommodations for our guests.”

  Naturally, a plain ordinary thief was not invited to an audience with Milord Kind Heart, and, to be quite honest, I didn’t even suggest it. Milord Alistan, Baron Oro, the elves, Count Pargaid, and Meilo followed Lady Alia, and the rest of us set off after Chizzet, who had promised to find beds for us.

  * * *

  We were given rooms in the Tower of Blood, as the inhabitants of the castle called it. Good rooms, with beds, rushes on the floor, and windows overlooking the courtyard.

  Eel told me that a citadel of this size could hold as many as six hundred people at once. A huge swarm of people. Kli-Kli, who never slept in a bed, laid out his blanket on the floor and ran off to stick his curious nose into every corner of the castle. Ell turned up and told us that the duel would take place the following morning.

  “To the death,” he added in a steady voice.

  That immediately spoiled my good mood. But there was more to it than that. If we lost, then the Key that
had been recovered with such difficulty would go back to Balistan Pargaid—that was the law of the Judgment of Sagra.

  “And what if we leave under cover of darkness?”

  “Leave the castle, Harold? The Judgment of Sagra is sacred to the warriors of the Borderland. We either win or we lose the Key. There is no third way.”

  “I’ll smash that fancy popinjay’s head open in person!” Hallas threatened. “Have they decided who’s going to fight in the duel?”

  “The lots will decide that. Come with me, Milord Algert is waiting for us.”

  “Can I come with them?”

  “You’re not involved in the drawing of lots, Harold.”

  “But can I come?”

  “Yes,” he said with an indifferent nod.

  The hall to which the count led us rivaled the castle’s courtyard in size. There were quite a number of people there—all wool and steel, swords and shaven heads. Every man in the kingdom seemed to have gathered together. Kli-Kli was running about, getting under people’s feet, amusing the soldiers, but as soon as he saw us, the performance came to an end, and the jester joined our group.

  “Where did you get to?” I asked quietly.

  “I was touring the local sights. By the way, they have carrots in the kitchen.”

  “Congratulations.”

  Miralissa, Egrassa, and Alistan were already there, and so were Balistan Pargaid and Meilo Trug. Oro Gabsbarg clutched a beer mug in his huge paw of a hand. When he spotted me, the baron nodded solemnly.

  Alia Dalli was standing behind a short man with broad shoulders, whose cheeks were covered with a two-week growth of stubble. Like all the soldiers in the castle, this man had a shaved head and was dressed in chain mail and coarse soldier’s trousers. He was toying thoughtfully with a dagger that had an expensive handle of ogre bone. Count Algert Dalli the Kind Heart, unless I was very much mistaken.

  We walked up to the table at which his lordship was sitting.

  “And so, you have not changed your decision?” Milord Algert asked Meilo after looking intently at each of us in turn.

  “No, I demand the Judgment of Sagra.”

  “Very well. All that remains is to choose an opponent. Bring in the straws!”

  “Hey, Garrakian! Catch!” said Meilo Trug, throwing a copper coin to Eel. “I think I owe you that.”

  Eel caught the copper and calmly tucked it under his belt.

  “Thank you. A bit of extra money always comes in handy.”

  “You suggested that I ought to be whipped. I shall pray to Sagra to meet you in combat.”

  “Whatever is your pleasure,” Eel said, bowing imperturbably. Hallas muttered angrily to himself and gave Trug a dark look.

  And then a soldier came in with the straws sticking out of his fist.

  “Whoever draws the short straw will face this man for the Judgment of Sagra tomorrow morning,” said Algert Dalli. “Let me remind you that you are free to refuse to take part in the draw, but by doing so you acknowledge your guilt.… I can see that no one wishes to do that. Draw lots, and may Sagra be with you!”

  Ell was first. He reached out boldly and drew a long straw.

  Egrassa. A long straw.

  My heart was pounding as loudly as if I was drawing lots myself.

  Milord Alistan. A long straw.

  Honeycomb. A long straw.

  Hallas. A long straw. The gnome looked disappointed. He had really wanted to take part in the duel. He wasn’t bothered at all that one of the opponents would have to be carried out feet first. Like any gnome, Lucky was overflowing with confidence.

  Eel. A long straw. Meilo Trug thrust out his lower jaw in disappointment.

  That left only Deler and Lamplighter.

  Mumr. A short straw. Short. Sagot save us all! Lamplighter’s going to fight.

  Algert Dalli’s soldier opened his fist to show the whole hall that the last straw, which would have been Deler’s, was long.

  The dwarf spat angrily. He had been keen to fight, too.

  Mumr did not seem at all upset that the next day he had to fight a duel to the death. He cleared his throat, shrugged indifferently, and put the straw away in his pocket.

  “So be it,” said Milord Algert. “The weapon?”

  “The long sword,” Meilo Trug replied, glaring hard at Mumr.

  “The long sword,” Mumr said with a nod.

  “Tomorrow morning you will be sent for, but now I invite you to share bread and honey with me.”

  I didn’t know about the others, but I couldn’t eat a single bite, and I got up from the table leaving the food on my plate untouched.

  * * *

  “Any moment now,” Kli-Kli said with a nervous little jump. He sniffed and took a large bite out of his carrot.

  “Can you stop chomping for a little while?” I growled at him irritably.

  “No, I can’t,” said the royal jester, shaking his head. “When I get nervous, I want to eat.”

  “Calm down, Kli-Kli,” Honeycomb told him. The commander of the Wild Hearts was just as jumpy as I was.

  “What do you think, Honeycomb?” asked Kli-Kli, biting off yet another piece of carrot. “What are Mumr’s chances?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It all depends on how well he handles his sword,” said Hallas, puffing away on his pipe.

  “Believe me, Meilo was born with that piece of steel in his hand,” Kli-Kli sighed. “It’s not that easy to win a royal tournament.”

  “Our Lamplighter’s no pushover, either,” the gnome replied. “You don’t get an oak leaf on your sword handle for nothing.”

  I paid no attention to them. I wasn’t interested in their arguments.

  The morning had turned out cool, and the sun was hidden behind the clouds that covered the entire sky. Together with many inhabitants of the castle, we were standing round a large open area of hard-tamped earth in the center of the courtyard. There were no fanfares and no festive streamers; this was not a tournament, but a trial by duel. Milord Algert and his daughter, the elves, Balistan Pargaid, and Alistan Markauz … all of them were probably as nervous as I was, but you couldn’t tell it from their noble features.… Darkness take me, I felt as if I was the one who had to go out there and fight. Oro Gabsbarg was the only one who seemed to be bored.

  A whisper ran through the rows of spectators, and I turned my head and saw Meilo Trug. He walked unhurriedly out into the arena, turned to face the nobility, and bowed.

  Even for this occasion Meilo had dressed like a dandy: a red silk shirt with wide sleeves, maroon breeches, boots polished until they shone, black leather gloves. The bidenhander was resting on his left shoulder. The long sword was almost as long as the man. Stick it in the ground and the massive round knob at the end of the handle would reach up to Meilo’s chin.

  Mumr appeared a minute later. He entered the arena from the other side of the castle courtyard and halted facing his opponent. Like Meilo, Lamplighter was wearing a shirt, but it was black wool, not silk. Coarse soldier’s trousers and a pair of soft boots … The only thing the duelists had in common were the leather gloves on their hands and their heavy bidenhanders.

  Neither of the warriors wore any armor—no armor was allowed at the court of the goddess. Lamplighter was a master of the long sword, and so was Meilo, so the duel would be fought until one of them made his first serious mistake. One good blow from a blade like that is enough to dispatch any opponent straight to the light.

  Lamplighter had a black ribbon round his forehead to hold back his long hair and prevent any sweat running down into his eyes. He casually set down his sword with the point on the ground, holding the crosspiece lightly with his fingers.

  Meilo glared fiercely at his opponent. Mumr replied with an indifferent glance. He looked as if he had come out for a morning stroll, not for combat. Beside Trug, Lamplighter looked skinny and puny. In his hands the bidenhander seemed absurdly huge and heavy.

  “Are you ready?” Algert Dalli’s voice ran
g out above the arena.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes.”

  “Challenger, do you still wish to dispute this right of ownership for your lord?”

  “Yes,” Meilo Trug replied, nodding firmly.

  “The trial will conclude…”

  “In death,” Meilo continued.

  “So be it,” Algert Dalli announced, and nodded, thoughtfully twirling his beloved knife between his fingers. “By steel, fire, blood, and the will of the gods, I declare that Sagra is looking down on you, and she will decide who is right and worthy!”

  I have already told you that the sword is not my weapon. Apart from the crossbow, the only weapon I have more or less managed to master is the knife. For was a great specialist in matters of swordsmanship and he tried to teach me, but after a few lessons even he gave up.

  The only benefit I did get from those painful exercises with a wooden stick was a superficial knowledge of stances and the names of the various strokes. That was as far as my knowledge of swordsmanship, and my skill in it, goes. But I am grateful to my old teacher; when I see guards fencing in a castle courtyard or warriors at a tournament, I can at least understand why one man covers himself with his sword this way and another thrusts that way.

  Meanwhile, a priest of Sagra, dressed in chain mail and wool, like all the soldiers of the Border Kingdom, walked out into the arena where judgment would be given. He drew his sword from its scabbard, thrust it into the ground between the two opponents who were standing facing each other, and started reciting a prayer, calling on the goddess of war and death to bear witness to this duel, punish the guilty party, and protect the righteous. Meilo did not move, and Lamplighter, cradling his sword in the crook of his left arm, slowly chewed on the straw that had brought him to this place.

  “Oh, mother!” squeaked Kli-Kli, who was standing beside me, and at that very second the priest pulled up his sword, took a long step back, and said:

  “Begin!”

  Neither of the warriors began until the priest had left the arena. And all the time Meilo kept eyes his fixed fiercely on Lamplighter, who gazed idly at a spot that only he could see, somewhere up above his enemy’s head.