Shadow Prowler (58 page)

“Brrrr! I don’t understand a thing.”

“You’re not the only one.” The jester sighed. “The count and the elves were talking all night. It seems there are more shamans in Valiostr than Doralissians in the Steppes of Ungava. And the Nameless One’s supporters are absolutely countless. And then there’s your Master and his henchmen, and the strange magicians in the plague village. All hunting us, and all using magic to do it. It’s quite likely that if Tomcat and Egrassa hadn’t interfered in time with the spell those shamans were working, our group wouldn’t exist any longer.”

“But someone has worked the magic. You told me that someone else could have replaced the dead sorcerers.”

“So what?” The jester shrugged. “You have to understand that shamanism isn’t the wizardry of the Order, its laws are quite different. It only has to be knocked slightly off course and it turns out quite different from how the person working it intended. Remember the hand monster! Well, it’s the same thing here. There’s no knowing what it eventually turned into. We’re still alive, anyway.”

“Where did you get all your brains from, Kli-Kli?”

“From my grandfather, he was a shaman.”

“Yes, so you’ve told me a hundred times. So you think that whoever was plotting against us will simmer down now?”

“Why?”

“Well, you just said that the shamanism didn’t work.”

“If it didn’t work the first time, it will the second,” the goblin said with a shrug. “Working magic’s no problem for these lads, they’ll send some terrible monster with big teeth after us and then just disappear, as if they’d never even existed. The job’s done, their Master’s instructions have been carried out, they can hide away until the Nameless One comes out from behind the Needles of Ice.”

“They don’t have long to wait.”

“That’s what I’m saying. We need to get to Hrad Spein as quickly as possible and spoil the Nameless One’s mood for another five hundred years or so.”

Hallas came up to us.

“Listen, lads,” said the gnome, taking his pipe out of his mouth and blowing smoke rings. “It’s time to wake everyone up, or they’ll sleep until the coming of the Nameless One.”

“Well, let’s wake them up then,” said the jester, jumping to his feet and completely forgetting all his worries. “Don’t happen to have a bucket of cold water handy, do you?”

The complete absence of wind promised a very hot day. Almost as hot as the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that, and . . . I could carry on for a long time.

No one was particularly surprised when at noon we found ourselves roasting in a charming oven.

I personally always anticipated that time of day with a shudder. Neither a wet rag nor the goblin’s jokes and jingles were any help. But even so, everyone listened to the jokes and even laughed. Kli-Kli really pulled out all the stops in his efforts to demonstrate the skills of a royal court jester.

The group was complete once again and, despite the heat, we were in an exceptionally good mood . . . even me. Only every now and then a shadow of anxiety ran across Miralissa’s face. Once, as I drew level with
the elfess’s horse, I heard a snatch of her conversation with Egrassa. She was still concerned about the shamans cooking up something horrible in their pots far behind us. From what she said it seemed that they wouldn’t rest until they had completed their sorcery.

I trusted the elfess’s intuition completely. The Nameless One’s minions could send some kind of filthy garbage crashing down on our heads at any moment. As they say, the laws of universal beastliness always take effect just when you’re not expecting anything.

That was why, to keep my nerves nice and calm, I kept glancing sideways at Tomcat in case he sensed anything in advance. But the overweight Wild Heart and failed magician of the Order remained serenely calm, even cheerful. And so the uneasy feeling that had overcome me gradually eased.

Hargan’s Wasteland was a welter of tall grass and low tangles of heather. Sometimes the narrow line of the path was completely hidden under the grassy covering. Our ears were set buzzing by the chirring of thousands of crickets. When we rode into particularly thick grass the gray-green trilling insects cascaded out from under the hooves of the horses, complaining at our invasion of their kingdom.

After a while, we made our way between massive boulders of black granite, each the size of a small house, and came upon a rickety old hut. Honeycomb said that the scythe men who made the winter hay for the surrounding villages spent the nights in it. The long rows of mown hay lying across the grassy meadows confirmed what he had said.

“It’s a long way to the next village; how long will they have to cart it?” Uncle asked in surprise.

“This is the best grass in the whole district. They come here from twenty leagues away,” said Honeycomb. “And the scythe men come for the whole summer. There’s plenty of hay for everyone and to spare.”

“But no cart will get through here. Look how far they have to drive from the road. Half a day at the least,” Uncle protested.

“Ah, it’s plain to see that you’re no country boy.”

“You’re the country boy here, graybeard. I spent all my young days in Maiding,” said Uncle.

An hour after that, when the track completely disappeared and our group had to advance through the meadows of grass and mazes of bushes without being able to see the way, Loudmouth spotted a large herd of
cows, about two hundred head. The animals were solemnly browsing on the juicy grass, flicking their tails lazily to drive away the buzzing clouds of midges hovering around them. We were seen, and a dozen shaggy, black-and-white herdsmen’s dogs came dashing over, barking at the uninvited travelers.

Arnkh hissed through his teeth and reached for his crossbow, but a sharp whistle rang out across the meadow and the dogs ran back, growling in annoyance. Only the largest of them, no doubt the leader, stopped not far away from us and began observing our group with cautious interest.

“Just look at the way that beast is watching us,” Deler muttered.

“Didn’t you know they feed on dwarves?” Hallas chuckled, earning himself a dark look from his partner.

“You’ll open your mouth once too often someday, longbeard. I’ll take my favorite chair and belt you.”

The gnome didn’t even feel it necessary to respond.

The herdsman who had called off the dogs was also observing us, shading his eyes against the sun with one hand. He stared as if he was watching some kind of marvel, as if we were no ordinary horsemen riding by, but the twelve gods of Siala with the Nameless One in tow. The boy herdsman standing beside his older comrade had his mouth open so wide I felt afraid one or two hundred flies would go flying in.

The sight really was an amazing one for them. It’s not every century that you come across an entire platoon of strangers from different races, all armed to the teeth, in the heart of a wasteland so far away from the nearest inhabited village that not even every shepherd would risk going into it.

Kli-Kli couldn’t resist the temptation, and he stuck his tongue out at the young herdsman, frightening the boy half to death. It was obviously the first time the village lad had ever seen a goblin.

“Well now, Kli-Kli,” said Eel, opening his mouth for the first time that day, “now there’ll be talk all winter long. The boy will tell everyone he saw a live ogre.”

“Who’s an ogre?” the goblin said resentfully. “Me? Ogres roar like this!”

The goblin set up a miserable howling, frightening not only the little
herdsman and the dogs, who began barking again, but also half the horses of our group.

“Quiet down, Kli-Kli!” Marmot said irritably. “You’ll spoil Invincible’s appetite for a whole month.”

“I was only showing how ogres roar,” the goblin explained.

“Ah, come on. You’re useless,” Deler grumbled. “That’s the way your dear departed granny roars, not a full-grown ogre. Show him, Mumr.”

Lamplighter, who was riding behind me, was only too delighted to do as the dwarf asked, and he produced a sound that almost made me fall off my horse. The herdsmen’s dogs started howling in fright behind our backs.

“Hey you lot!” Uncle shouted to our little group. “You dratted comedians! Stop frightening the crickets!”

“Oh, come on, Uncle,” Deler shouted. “There’s nothing else to do.”

The sergeant just flapped his hand at us and gave up.

For the rest of the day nothing important happened to our party.

Another two days of riding across the wasteland flew by. We were crossing a huge area at the heart of Valiostr that people had never got around to developing. The famous impenetrable forests were on our right.

“The day after tomorrow we ought to reach the highway,” Honeycomb said on the third day of the journey.

“Eh, the sooner the better. I want some beer.” Deler sighed. “I start to get vicious without my beer.”

The song of a lark trilled out in the sky.

“There’s going to be rain,” Tomcat said after a long silence.

Everyone looked round at the same time. There was a line of storm clouds expanding along the horizon: dark violet, with occasional patches of blue-black.

“Hoo-ray!” said Marmot. “The coolness we’ve all been waiting for is on its way.”

The ling on his shoulder livened up and twitched its pink nose excitedly. Obviously it could sense the approaching storm, too.

“I just hope we don’t get caught out,” Tomcat muttered, casting a concerned glance at the black line of cloud.

It had already swollen up, like a goatskin filled to overflowing with water, and seemed to have moved a bit closer. This was not just rain coming toward us, it was a genuine tempest.

No one heard what Tomcat had said. Well, almost no one.

Deler set his hat dashingly on the back of his head and started singing:

If you have a rope on your neck—there will be treason under the mountains.

If you tread clay with your feet—you’ll get a sharp knife in your back.

If you fall asleep in disgrace—your dreams will be shattered by an arrow.

And you will not forge strong fetters for holding your friends or your enemies!

If you do not wish to enter the world of shadows—strike first and kill if you can!

Strike first and kill if you can!

“Why so gloomy?” Kli-Kli asked after listening to the dwarf’s simple little song.

“That’s the way it ought to be,” Deler said solemnly. “That’s the war march of the dwarves.”

“It sounds better for marching to the chamber pot than against the enemy,” Hallas said scornfully.

“Some connoisseur of war marches you are!” Deler retorted. “You bearded midgets don’t even have any like that.”

“Shut up! Right now!” Tomcat growled.

The gnome and the dwarf stopped arguing and gaped at him in astonishment.

“Oh, come on, Tomcat,” Deler said, clearing his throat. “Nothing terrible’s going to happen. We’ve already made up, haven’t we, Hallas?”

Hallas nodded eagerly.

“It’s nothing to do with you!” the tracker exclaimed, stopping his horse and staring fixedly up at the sky. The storm clouds were closer now; they had licked away a quarter of the blue sky. A distant rumble of thunder was carried to us on a light wind.

“What’s disaster?” asked Loudmouth, who also had his eyes fixed on the horizon. He had been infected by the tracker’s alarm.

“Shut up, will you!” Tomcat growled irritably, sniffing at the air.

Speaking for myself, I couldn’t smell anything at all. So what if it did rain a bit and we got wet? What was there to get all alarmed and excited about?

“And the day started so well,” Kli-Kli said dejectedly.

“Those bastard children of lowdown skunks did it after all!” Tomcat whispered. He dug his heels into the sides of his horse and hurried to catch up with the elves and Alistan, leaving us behind, bewildered, at the back of the group.

“Who was that he was swearing about?” Hallas asked, staring in amazement at Tomcat’s wild gesticulations as he spoke to Miralissa.

Whatever it was that Tomcat had sensed, Miralissa and Markauz both looked alarmed. And Ell kept glancing at the advancing clouds.

“What did I tell you, Harold,” Kli-Kli whispered.

“What?” I asked mechanically, trying like everyone else to see what Tomcat had spotted in the sky.

“Do you ever listen? I said the shamans would never stop until they managed to work their magic.”

Meanwhile the tracker had finished explaining something to Miralissa. She looked at Alistan, and he nodded decisively.

“What’s happened?” asked Uncle, barely able to contain himself.

“Let’s go and ask,” Arnkh suggested wisely.

During our journey a certain order of travel had been established. Alistan and the elves always rode at the front. They spoke about subjects that only interested them and made decisions for us about matters of importance for the group. The Wild Hearts kept company with each other, trying not to butt into the conversations between the elves and Markauz. There could be no question of simply talking to them on the road, without any special reason. The only exceptions were Eel’s long conversations with Ell.