Authors: Alexey Pehov
“By the hundred sublunary kings!” Deler exclaimed, slapping himself on the forehead. “We’ve forgotten Hallas, burn his rotten beard!”
The tavern was already crammed with so many guards that they outnumbered the brawlers, and Hallas had to be dragged out from under the very feet of servants of the law.
The gnome had more or less snapped out of it and he started hobbling toward the back entrance, supported by Deler and Mumr. We slipped through the kitchen, frightening the cook on the way, and out into a dark back alley. Deler sang the dwarves’ military march and Kli-Kli backed him up in a shrill little voice. Lamplighter grunted contentedly. The lads had really enjoyed the little set-to.
We must have been sitting there with our beer for quite a long time, because it was dark outside. Once out in the alley, we started scuttling away from the tavern, but then Hallas stopped dead in his tracks and yelled: “My sack!”
Shoving aside anyone who tried to stop him, the gnome went dashing back to the tavern.
“What an idiot!” Marmot hissed.
“He’ll get into trouble! As sure as eggs he will,” said Deler, preparing to rush after his friend.
“You stay where you are!” Eel snapped. “I’m not going to drag two of you out of the slammer.”
Deler muttered an obscenity through his teeth. But he stayed where he was, staring impatiently at the bright rectangle of the open door. That minute seemed like an eternity.…
Eventually Hallas appeared, carrying his beloved sack.
“It’s a pity that goat didn’t smash your stupid head in!” Deler exclaimed, but there was a note of relief in his voice.
“Let’s go,” Eel said tersely, assuming command of our small unit.
“Marmot, you didn’t forget your mouse in the tavern, did you?” Kli-Kli asked in alarm.
“I’ll forget you before I forget Invincible,” Marmot growled.
“Oo-oo-oh, you’re mean,” said the goblin, offended. “And it’s been a bad day today all round!”
“And why’s that?” Arnkh asked in surprise. “By definition you don’t have any bad days.”
“Well, think about it,” said Kli-Kli, trying to match Arnkh’s stride. “We wandered into the city and spent the whole day staggering around, Hallas still didn’t get his tooth pulled out, and tomorrow we have to move on.”
“Absolute disaster!” Marmot said.
“Hey,” Hallas sighed in distress. “I forgot something.”
“What else have you forgotten now?” Mumr asked in annoyance. “You’ve got your sack.”
“I forgot my pipe! My pipe! It must have fallen out of my mouth when that damned goat poked me in the face!”
“Why, that’s excellent,” said Deler, who couldn’t stand tobacco smoke. “Now you can take a break from smoking.”
“It’s a briar pipe,” Hallas exclaimed, continuing his lament. “A family relic! Maybe I should go back for it?”
“Just you try it. Then you can sort things out with Uncle yourself,” Eel warned the gnome.
“All right,” said Hallas, spitting on the ground. “I’ve got a spare in my saddlebag.”
“How’s your tooth?” I asked the gnome. Hallas hadn’t done any howling for a suspiciously long time.
“It’s gone, Sagra be praised!”
“What?”
“That goat thumped me so hard he knocked the rotten thing out!”
“There now, Hallas.” Deler laughed. “See what a noble barber you found for yourself. Thick-headed, with horns and a little beard, too! Why, just like you!”
The dark alley rang to loud roars of laughter, and Hallas laughed along with everyone else.
Three times guards who had been put on the alert went running past and we had to hide in the shadows of the buildings. Eel decided not to take any risks, and we took a long detour to avoid running into the guardians of public order, who were as ornery as wasps in early autumn. Eventually we came out onto the street leading to the Learned Owl.
3
THE TROUBLE BEGINS
We got back to the tavern without any adventures. When I say without any adventures, I mean nothing terrible happened on the way home: Mumr didn’t try to conjure the call of a deliriously happy donkey out of his reed pipe; Hallas didn’t get into an argument with anyone; Kli-Kli didn’t hike up the skirts of any venerable matrons, sing vulgar little songs, or make faces at the guard; and Eel didn’t slit anyone’s throat out of the kindness of his heart.
Walking through the city with my comrades was like dancing a djanga with the Nameless One on a bone-china plate suspended over a chasm full of boiling lava—at any moment the sorcerer might roast you alive, or the plate might shatter, leaving you to take a rather unpleasant bath.
“Home, sweet home!” Kli-Kli sang as he slipped in through the gates of the Learned Owl. “Hey, get off! That hurts!”
These last remarks were addressed to Eel, who had grabbed the jester’s shoulder in a crayfish-tight grip.
“Don’t move,” Eel whispered. “There’s something wrong here. Harold, do you notice anything?”
“It’s too quiet,” I replied, looking round the dark courtyard. “The lantern over the door isn’t lit. I think it’s broken.… There’s not a single attendant, and this morning they were as thick as flies in the yard. The only lights are on the ground floor.”
“Trouble?” Marmot’s dagger jangled quietly as it slid out of its sheath.
“I don’t know,” Eel muttered, letting go of Kli-Kli and taking out his daggers. “But somehow I don’t recall seeing any crossbow bolts in the wall this morning.”
That was when I noticed the bolt sticking out of the wall of the inn, which was brightly lit by the moonlight.
“Split up,” Deler commanded. “Harold, you’re a thief, creep across and try to take a look in the window. We need to find out who came visiting.”
I may be a thief, but I’m not suicidal. I didn’t get a chance to say that out loud. A dark silhouette stirred in the shadow beside the door, a pair of amber-yellow eyes glinted, and a voice asked: “Where have you been all this time?”
My heart tumbled into my boots and lay there like a frightened rabbit, skipping three beats—I thought the color of the messenger’s eyes had changed to red, and I didn’t recognize Ell’s voice straightaway.
“What’s happened, Ell?” Kli-Kli asked, and was just about to go dashing over to the elf, but he was stopped by Eel’s cool command.
“Don’t move, Kli-Kli.”
The goblin froze on the spot and looked round at the Garrakian warrior. Eel hadn’t put his daggers back in their sheaths yet.
“Don’t you recognize Ell?”
“Come out into the light, Ell, if you wouldn’t mind,” the Garrakian said softly instead of answering the goblin.
Far too softly and calmly! Eel was as tense as a taut bowstring, poised to discharge its arrow at the enemy.
Why did he suspect the elf?
A stupid question. Like me, the warrior surely remembered Miralissa telling us that some of the Nameless One’s servants could change their shape so that they looked like your friends, or even make themselves invisible. It was one of those creatures that Tomcat and Egrassa had killed near the shamans’ camp during our journey.
“What’s wrong, Eel?” the elf asked in a rather unfriendly hiss.
The Garrakian didn’t trust anyone, but for an elf unjustified mistrust is a serious insult. So serious that it can even lead to a duel. But Eel wasn’t easily frightened, he knew what he was doing.
“Just come out into the light, that’s all. You know as well as I do what strange things have been happening to us recently.”
Ell stopped arguing and did as he was asked. He cast a quizzical glance at Eel. Swarthy skin, black lips, ash-gray hair with a fringe falling down over his yellow eyes, a pair of huge fangs, a black rose—the emblem of his house—embroidered on his shirt, a heavy elfin bow, and the inevitable s’kash behind his back. Miralissa’s k’lissang gently extended his lips out into a faint mocking smile.
“Well? Do I look right?”
Eel maintained a gloomy silence, studying the elf’s face. Almost casually Deler darted to the left and Arnkh to the right, outflanking the dark elf.
“If I wanted to stop you, you wouldn’t get ten steps,” said the elf.
What’s true is true. Unlike Miralissa and Egrassa, Ell had no knowledge of shamanism (magic is a matter for the higher clans of the elfin houses), but he was a superb shot. All seven of us would have got an arrow in the eye before Kli-Kli could even say “Boo!”
“Yes, it’s you,” Eel said with a nod, and put his daggers away in their sheaths, while keeping his eyes on the elf’s bow. “Sorry.”
I couldn’t hear any remorse in the proud Garrakian’s voice.
“Praiseworthy caution.” Ell’s lips curved into a genuine smile.
“What’s happened?” Kli-Kli asked with a sniff.
“Go inside, Miralissa will tell you everything. Then one of you can relieve me.… We have to find Honeycomb, too.”
“Where’s he gone off to?” asked Deler, as puzzled as all the rest of us.
“Ask Miralissa,” the elf said curtly, and disappeared into the darkness.
“He’s hiding in the shadows. Ha! But see the way his eyes glow! A blind man could spot him, and a gnome certainly could,” Hallas declared boastfully.
“You’re wrong,” said Eel, shaking his head. “He wanted us to see him. Never underestimate an elf, gnome.”
Hallas grunted, tugged on his beard, and walked into the inn, but I didn’t think he had changed his opinion about an elf’s skill when it came to lying in ambush. I followed him in and froze in the doorway—the floor was wet with wine that had soaked into the boards. The reason for this disgraceful state of affairs was a large wine barrel on a stand, into which some swine had fired five crossbow bolts. Naturally, all the wine had spilled out onto the floor, almost flooding the inn.
There were lots of bolts stuck in the oak door leading to the kitchen, and we saw at least as many in the walls. Most of the tables and chairs had been overturned or moved. And there were six bodies lying beside the bar counter.
I recognized one of the dead—it was the innkeeper, Master Pito. I could tell that three others were members of his staff. The final two were unfamiliar to me, and they had been slashed with a sword instead of shot with bolts like the master of the establishment and his employees.
Miralissa, Egrassa, and Alistan were standing in the very center of the large room. Milord Markauz was impassively cleaning the blood off his Canian-forged battery sword, while the elves were talking to each other in low voices. Uncle was sitting on the bar, clutching a beer mug in his left hand. The sergeant’s left shoulder was bandaged up and there was blood seeping through the white material.
“So there you are, rot your souls!” he swore as soon as he saw us. “In the name of the Nameless One, what are you doing wandering the streets when I need you here? I’ll tear your heads off, damn you, you assholes. Do I have to carry the can for all of you, may a stinking goat dance on your bones!”
“What happened?” Deler asked guiltily.
Quite uninhibited by Miralissa’s presence, Uncle proceeded to say what he thought of us in a style that we would understand, one best suited to conversation between stevedores in the Port City. The only more or less normal words I made out in his monologue were “have,” “on,” “go,” and “to.”
No one risked trying to interrupt him, and when he finished blowing off steam the sergeant finally condescended to explain.…
* * *
Alistan, Uncle, Loudmouth, and Honeycomb had been the only ones left in the inn. Less than an hour after we left, a group of strangers with crossbows had broken in and without any explanation started trying to dispatch everyone to the next world.
Honeycomb had pulled Uncle off his chair just in time, and the sergeant had taken a crossbow bolt in the shoulder instead of the heart, but the unfortunate Master Pito and his staff had been riddled with bolts. Honeycomb and Uncle had made a dash for the safety of the kitchen and Alistan had followed the two Wild Hearts, after first putting his sword to use and killing two enemies who had already emptied their crossbows. The Wild Hearts had barricaded the oak door of the kitchen, and the attackers had not even attempted to break it down.
But Loudmouth had been unlucky—when his comrades retreated to the kitchen, he was on the other side of the hall with three crossbows trained on him.
“When we came out after they left,” Uncle continued, “the whole wall where those bastards caught him off his guard was studded with bolts, and the floor was covered in blood.”
“I don’t see his body,” said Eel, nodding toward the dead men lying beside the bar.
“We didn’t see it, either.”
“You think they took him with them? But what for?”
“I don’t know, perhaps he’s still alive.”
Alive? Miracles are too rare in this world to hope that things could have worked out like that.
I had no doubt at all that Loudmouth was dead. If the attackers had killed the harmless innkeeper without the slightest qualm, they would surely have shot an experienced soldier on the spot. As for the body … who could tell what they might need it for? Yet another irretrievable loss for our little band. Good-bye, Loudmouth.