Shadow Prowler Part 37

"A gnome doesn't need to see. We work with fire from when we're kids, and you only get smoke like that if you burn a heap of earth's bones in the furnaces. That's magical fire! I can smell it. That's why they brought the cha.s.seurs here, so they could detain everybody until the magicians finish what they're doing!"

"All right," said Loudmouth, interrupting Hallas's accusations. "Whether there was plague there or something else, we'll never know now, but in any case, we have to get as far away as possible. We can't be too careful."

"But did you see that beast they'd lured in?" Deler asked thoughtfully. "Maybe there are as many hands like that in the village as there are gnomes in the mountain caves!"

"That beast wasn't theirs; Tresh Miralissa created it!" said Kli-Kli. "By the way, milady, how did you know that we'd need a hand like that?"

"I did not know, inestimable Kli-Kli." The elfess's black lips stretched into a venomous smile. "I actually prepared a sleeping spell. They should all have fallen asleep."

"But then where did that beast come from, Tresh Miralissa?" asked Ell, genuinely surprised.

"Ask our green companion that, my faithful k'lissang. He was the one who drew beside my spell! The credit for the appearance of such a creature must go entirely to Kli-Kli."

"How was I to know?" the goblin said with a guilty sniff. "I didn't think you'd written anything special there."

"You ought to be isolated from society, Kli-Kli." Deler chuckled good-naturedly.

"Why, you ought to thank me!" the goblin declared indignantly. "If not for that hand, who knows how the whole business would have turned out? I told you my grandfather was a shaman. It's hereditary!"

"Playing rotten tricks?" asked Marmot. "If you're a shaman, I'm the leader of the Doralissians!"

"I tell you, I have the blood of the finest goblin shamans running in my veins, including the great Tre-Tre! He's an ancestor of mine through my mother's grandmother."

"That's enough. Loudmouth is right. We need to get as far away as possible," said Miralissa, interrupting Kli-Kli.

"Shall we try the forest?" Honeycomb suggested.

"Go round the village? I don't think that's a very good idea," Uncle said. "The cha.s.seurs could have traps under every tree, and if we run into them again, they won't let us go so easily."

"Do you suggest going back?" asked the elfess, clearly not pleased with this idea. "The ride to the highway is a lot farther than to Ranneng. We would lose a huge amount of time."

"There is another road," said Honeycomb. Like me, he had already removed his chain mail, and now he started drawing a simple map in the sand. "This is the highway." A straight line ran across the sand, looping in its middle like a horseshoe and then straightening out again. "This is Ranneng."

The line ran straight into the blob that represented the city. From the point at which the highway looped, another line ran down and to the right. It crept farther and farther away from the highway until at one point it started running parallel with it, and then converged with the highway again, meeting it right beside the city.

"There's an abandoned track here. Or at least, there used to be."

"You suggest that we ought to take it?"

"Yes, Lady Miralissa. At least it offers us a way out of our situation. The road through Vishki is closed and it is too far to go back."

"It is decided then," the elfess agreed. "We will go back to the place where the track starts and await the return of Milord Alistan, otherwise he will ride on and fall into the hands of the magicians."

"Won't we lose more time, making our way over the hills?" Lamplighter asked doubtfully.

"No," said Honeycomb with a shake of his head. "We'll leave the hills on our left. The area is known as Hargan's Wasteland. Thin forest, ravines, clumps of heather, and not a single person for twenty leagues in all directions. A desolate area. If our enemies are trying to find us, they'll have to look very hard."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Loudmouth growled, putting one foot in a stirrup.

It was already late evening; the July sky was gradually turning paler and the sun had almost set. We set out along the road back with the twilight treading on our heels. All of us were in a subdued mood. The men didn't speak. Hallas puffed on his pipe and swore quietly to himself and Kli-Kli tied knots in a piece of string, threatening to show us all the famous shamanism of the goblins.

24

HARGAN'S WASTELAND

It took us a long time to find that almost invisible track in the total darkness. Several times Honeycomb stopped the group, dismounted, and walked along the wall of bushes, thoughtfully scratching the back of his head. Then he climbed back into the saddle and we galloped on, moving farther and farther away from the hills and the unfortunate village of Vishki. The point came when we had to light torches-the moonlight was simply not enough-and Loudmouth immediately started grumbling that now even a blind man could see us.

When Honeycomb dismounted for the tenth time, even the imperturbable Marmot started groaning: "So where is this track of yours? How long can we carry on prowling about in the dark? Let's put it off until tomorrow! We're all tired, and the ling needs to be fed."

"Just wait a bit with that mouse of yours," the huge man retorted. "It's somewhere near here. I think we need to turn round and ride back a bit."

"You said that half an hour ago," muttered Hallas.

"Let's look for it in the morning," said Kli-Kli, supporting Marmot.

The goblin had been tying knots in his string almost without a break. Now he had hundreds of them, and he claimed that very soon they would produce some terrible goblin magic.

No one took any notice of his blather, except for Deler, who asked to be warned when everything was ready so that he could hide as far away as possible from the place where the failed shaman planned to demonstrate his abilities.

"Are you sure this track is here? Have you walked along it yourself?" Eel asked.

"No. I was still a little kid then. My grandfather showed me it. The shepherds used it to take their sheep out to graze all summer in the wasteland. The gra.s.s there was really something."

"That's hardly surprising," Kli-Kli commented dryly.

"Do you know something about this place?" Miralissa asked.

"I'll tell you all an interesting story at the halt, if you don't fall asleep."

"I remember!" Honeycomb suddenly howled and slapped himself on the forehead. "I remember! It began beside two trees that leaned toward each other like a pair of drunks!"

"There was something like that," said Ell, brushing aside a lock of hair that had fallen over his eyes. "About fifty yards back."

Everyone heaved a sigh of relief, realizing that the halt they had been antic.i.p.ating for so long would soon arrive. I myself was barely able to stay in the saddle and my dearest wish was to get down from Little Bee.

"That's it! There they are, the darlings!" Honeycomb exclaimed when the silhouettes of two aspens emerged from the darkness, looming up in isolation above the bushes. "The track starts right between them."

"Right then, a halt." Hallas climbed gratefully out of his saddle and I followed his example. "Uncle! Are we going to eat anything today or do we bed down on an empty stomach?"

"You never think of anything but filling your belly, longbeard." Deler laughed.

Do I need to tell you what the gnome said to that? Everything had come full circle.

"Someone promised to tell us a story," said Arnkh some time later, when we were all sitting round the campfire with hare stew in our bellies.

"If you wish," said Kli-Kli, setting aside his bundle of knotted strings. "What would you like to hear?"

"You mean you know a lot of stories?"

"I am the king's jester, after all," the goblin said, offended. "I have to know them for my job."

"You promised to tell us about Hargan's Wasteland, if I'm not mistaken."

"Ah-ah ... ," Kli-Kli drawled. "Have none of you ever heard about Hargan's Brigade?"

Some shook their heads, some shrugged indifferently. The name didn't mean anything to anyone.

"You people have such short memories." The goblin sighed. "You know, it all happened only a little less than five hundred years ago."

"Come off it," Loudmouth laughed. "That's time enough to forget anything at all."

"But not the Dog Swallows Brigade to which Avendoom probably owes its very survival to this day."

"Dog Swallows?" Uncle echoed with a frown. "I don't recall any such unit. At least, it doesn't exist in Valiostr ..."

"It doesn't now, and it never will again," Kli-Kli said in a sad voice. "It all happened during the Spring War. The orcs came pouring out of the Forests of Zagraba in an endless flood, taking everyone by surprise. Tens of thousands of them descended on the Border Kingdom, but the main thrust of the blow was directed at Valiostr-"

"You don't need to tell us that," said Arnkh, interrupting the goblin.

"Who's telling this story, you or me?" Kli-Kli asked furiously. "If you're so smart, you do the talking, and I'll go to bed! But if you can't, keep quiet!"

Arnkh raised both hands in a gesture of submission.

"Grok set his army on the march and gave battle on the banks of the Iselina. For six days the Firstborn tried to force the river, but the men held firm. On the seventh day, at the cost of enormous losses, the orcs broke through Grok's defenses in four places and threw back the army of men, forcing it to retreat to the north. The whole of south Valiostr was lost. There was no news from Shamar, and Grok thought that the Borderland had already been annihilated."

"Ha! The Borderland doesn't surrender that easily! We withstood that siege!" said Arnkh, but fell silent when he caught Kli-Kli's eye.

"Isilia, as usual, did not get involved in the war, hoping that the cup of woe would pa.s.s it by. It was pointless to ask for help from Miranueh-your state had never lived at peace with that country. It made absolutely no sense to say anything to the dark elves after the Long Winter came, following the grotesque death of their prince; none of them had even been seen in Valiostr for many years. ... The kingdom was left to face the enemy alone. Only destiny and the army, gentlemen, could halt the flood of orcs."

"The Firstborn had never attacked in such numbers before. That was a terrible time," Uncle said with a nod.

"The humans despised the other races too much. How could they accept half animals as their allies? And then this happened. No one had antic.i.p.ated the coming of the orcs, and they paid a heavy price for their lack of vigilance. After a long retreat, the weary army engaged the Firstborn under the walls of Ranneng and lost the battle. The capital was taken and then destroyed. The army and the king retreated to the north. The exhausted men, constantly hara.s.sed by the advance units of the enemy, fell back toward Avendoom in order to fight its final battle there-they had nowhere else to retreat to. Except to the Cold Sea, or past the Lonely Giant into the Desolate Lands.

"Either of those would have been suicide. All they could do was to die with dignity. Grok needed time to prepare for the final battle-time which, unfortunately, he didn't have. The army had to rest, if only for one day.

"This area used to be covered with thick forest. There weren't any villages yet ... that is, there were some, of course, but pitifully few. In those times, no one thought about building a road or a main highway, there was only a fairly large track from Ranneng to Avendoom. And it happened to pa.s.s straight through the area that is now known as Hargan's Wasteland. In our times the old road has been forgotten and abandoned, but then it was the vital thread that connected the central cities of Valiostr. The army retreated along it. A council that included both soldiers and members of the recently founded Order of Magicians decided that part of the army had to be sacrificed so that it could hold up the invaders for at least a few days. The area was advantageous-full of forests and marshes, with just one road, which was the only way the enemy could advance. At one point the road crossed a deep ravine with impa.s.sable swamps on its left and its right. It was decided to hold the enemy back here for as long as possible. To allow the main human forces to get as far away as possible."

The goblin broke off, wrapped himself in his cloak, and continued.

"They put out the call and looked for volunteers. People who would decide to stay and give battle. You men are amazing creatures. Sometimes you'll tear each other's throats out for a copper or some piece of rubbish, and sometimes you decide to cover your comrades' backs, knowing that you'll never get out alive. Just over three thousand soldiers volunteered. Three thousand men willing to condemn themselves to death, to dig their nails into the slopes of that ravine, but not let the orcs pa.s.s. Four hundred of them were chosen; it would simply have been stupid to sacrifice the rest."

"Well, I would have argued with that," Hallas, who was sitting beside me, muttered to himself-but quietly, so that the goblin wouldn't hear.

"The men who were chosen to stay behind were named the Dog Swallows. I don't know why. The main army left. The new unit was commanded by an old soldier who had commanded a regiment with Grok. He was called Hargan, and a grateful posterity later named this place after him. The defenders' primary goal was to hold back the enemy for at least one day, no more than that. But they managed to halt the orc army's advance for a full four. In that time not a single orc got through. Hargan's soldiers gave Grok's army precious breathing s.p.a.ce, and time to prepare for the encounter at Avendoom. If not for the Swallows, there's no knowing how the history of the kingdom would have gone.

"The subsequent events are well known to you. Grok gave battle and the orcs broke into Avendoom, but then the dark elves arrived on the scene. No one had been expecting them. Neither the men nor, in particular, the orcs. The elves forgot their quarrel with men and came to their aid at the very last moment. The dark ones could not ignore such a good opportunity to settle scores with their cousins. The Spring War was won. And that, I think, is all."

"And this wasteland?"

"The wasteland?" the jester echoed. "The wasteland remained a wasteland. A new road appeared somewhere else, of its own accord. No one wanted to disturb the bones of the fallen warriors. But then, to be quite honest, most of them were not actually buried. People had too many other things to deal with, setting the country to rights after the war. The years pa.s.sed and Hargan's Brigade gradually began to be forgotten. The road gradually fell into disuse. Only the shepherds used it to move their sheep. The land round here is really rich, and so the gra.s.s is high. Only the name was left-Hargan's Wasteland-and with time people even forgot where that had come from. Now not even the old men remember those soldiers' feat of heroism."

An oppressive silence fell round the campfire. Each of us was thinking about those men who stood firm against the crooked yataghans of the orcs and did not retreat.

"Gnomes would never have forgotten something like that."

"Or dwarves!"

I felt shame for my race. Probably for the first time in my life I feltashamed of people for forgetting such a sacrifice. ...

"Come on, Loudmouth," grunted Lamplighter, getting up off the ground. "We're on the first watch tonight."

No one spoke to anyone else. One by one we all went to bed, leaving only the solitary figure of the jester still sitting beside the small camp-fire, gazing at the dance of the flames. ...

The slanting downpour from the sky was like whips lashing at their clothes, it soaked them with its soft hands, it was cold, warm, angry, p.r.i.c.kly, stinging, caressing, biting.

The soldiers were tired, cold, and soaked through. The bowmen squinted furiously up at the sky-moisture spoiled the bows, and no elves' tricks for preserving the condition of the string did any good.

"Wencher!" Hargan called in a low voice, wiping his wet face with his hand.

"Yes?" responded the commander of the swordsmen, running up to him.

"Take your lads. Grab every ax you can find in the brigade and cut down the trees on that side of the ravine."

"Very well," said the soldier, without batting an eyelid.

"Drag the trunks over to this side, and then we'll dismantle the bridge. We'll arrange a pleasant welcome for the Firstborn."

The other man gave a gap-toothed smile, clenched his fist in the military salute, and ran off to rouse his men.

Hargan sighed.

It was hard. Ye G.o.ds! It was so hard to look at them! He was an old man, almost sixty years old-he wasn't afraid of dying. But the men fate had decided that he should command ... boys. Twenty-year-old, thirty-year-old boys. He regarded them all as too young to die in front of this bridge thrown across the abyss of a nameless ravine.