Shadow Blizzard

by Alexey Pehov

  Another cold flash in the sky—and another fiery trail streaked between the stars. The orcs called September Por Za’rallo—the Month of Falling Stars.

  One more star.

  If you looked at the sky for a long, long time, you could see dozens of falling stars that could become our wishes, even if those wishes will probably never come true.

  I turned my head and saw Deler. The dwarf couldn’t sleep, either. He was sitting huddled up by the fire, staring intently at the flames. Hallas was snoring quietly beside him.

  I got up, carefully stepped over Lamplighter, and walked across to Deler.

  “Can’t sleep?”

  He broke off from contemplating the dancing flames and looked at me. “You should sleep while you have the chance; I’ve got to stand watch for another hour until beard-face gets up.”

  “I can’t get to sleep,” I said, sitting down beside him.

  “I can understand that. After all this…”

  He paused for a moment and then said reluctantly, “It’s so stupid … an absurd way to die … killed by your own magic…”

  I didn’t say anything, and no words were needed anyway. Everyone was mourning for Miralissa, although they tried not to show it. It was just … just that that was the way things were with the Wild Hearts: When a friend dies, don’t give way to your tears; find the enemy and take revenge.

  Deler grunted as he turned round, picked up a small log off the ground, and threw it into the fire. The flames recoiled and then cautiously licked at the offering, getting the taste of it, and finally fed themselves on the fresh food voraciously.

  “You know, a Gray One came to the Mountains of the Dwarves once,” Deler said unexpectedly. “It was a long, long time ago, in the very last year of the Purple Years, when we’d almost defeated the gnomes. The final victory was very close, we had our relatives pinned back against the Gates of Grankhel, and he turned up. Well, we dwarves are no fools; we welcomed our guest with every possible honor and courtesy, took him to the Council … And then the Gray One told us it was in our own best interests to make peace with the gnomes, and the sooner the better, otherwise in hundreds of years the balance would shift. He warned us that if the gnomes left the mountains and moved away, sooner or later they would come back. Some hothead immediately said: ‘Let them come back, we have enough battle-axes for all of them.’ Do you know what the Gray One’s answer was? That we’d sing a different song when the gnomes came to the mountain with the gunpowder, pistols, and cannons that they would invent because we drove them out. And he said that someday the gnomes’ inventions would be seized by men, and sooner or later the dwarves and the gnomes would both be left weeping bitter tears. He told us all that and then he went away. He didn’t even wait for our answer—but then the answer was obvious even to a Doralissian.”

  “He just went away?” I asked, unable to believe it.

  “Yes, imagine that, Harold. He just went away. He didn’t try to persuade us, he didn’t hack us to pieces.… He just went on his way. The Council thought about that, and then decided that even if everything he’d said was true, there were still hundreds of years before the balance shifted. The Gray Ones had decided to wait.… We won that war, the beard-faces left the mountain and went to the Steel Mines of Isilia, and for the time being everything more or less settled down. One generation followed another and this story was almost forgotten.… Until the moment came when the gnomes invented that darkness-damned powder. And then the cannons. And then our wise old heads remembered the old story, and when they remembered, it set them thinking. It turned out that the Order of the Gray Ones had told us the truth. It all happened—the powder and the cannons … only no one had heard anything yet about those strange pistols. But now I’ve seen Hallas holding one of them in his hands. And that means the day’s not far off when the gnomes will decide to return to their old home.… And then you’ll grab their weapons, and then we’ll all be in a bad way.…”

  “Why are you telling me all this?”

  The dwarf looked at me thoughtfully.

  “Darkness only knows, Harold. It’s just that this story shows the Gray Ones don’t often make mistakes, and if that vampire told you that when we fish the Horn out of Hrad Spein the balance will be disrupted, then that’s probably exactly what will happen.”

  “He said it could be disrupted.”

  “Do you understand the old gnomes’ fable? You’re sitting on a keg of gunpowder and the fuse is burning. And your only hope is that it will start to rain and put out the fuse. Do you understand what I’m getting at?”

  “Perfectly,” I chuckled.

  “That Horn was created by the ogres to protect them against their own magic, right?”

  “That’s what the Order says.”

  “Well then, I don’t have to explain to you how dangerous things that were made in the Dark Era are.”

  “So you think like Mumr, that the artifact should be left where it is now? In Grok’s grave?”

  “I don’t know, Harold. The Rainbow Horn neutralizes the magic of the Nameless One. If the Horn is in Avendoom, the sorcerer will be forced to retreat forever. Without his magic, he’s nothing.… So, we need the Horn. On the other hand, that phrase ‘could be’ … Perhaps we’ll be bringing something even more terrible into the world? There must be a reason why it was so well hidden, mustn’t there?”

  “More terrible than the Nameless One?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s nothing we can do but trust in the gods, Deler.”

  The dwarf chuckled quietly and stirred the embers with a stick, frightening up a cloud of sparks.

  “I shouldn’t have started this conversation. Now you’ll have doubts. Get that thrice-cursed Horn, and then we’ll figure out what’s what.… Go and sleep.”

  “In a moment,” I said.

  “Did you see the spear that Gray One had?” the gnome asked.

  “The one that Egrassa took?”

  “Our elf knows a good thing when he sees it.” Deler laughed. “Yes, that’s the one.”

  “A spear like any other,” I said with a gentle shrug. “Just a bit strange.”

  “Ah, you men.… You’re always boasting about how superior you are, but in so many things you’re just like little children,” Deler grumbled. “When you say ‘strange,’ do you mean the shape or something else?”

  “The shape,” I replied, although I knew it was the wrong answer.

  “That’s what I thought,” the dwarf sighed. “It’s not really a spear, it’s a krasta, a kind of pike. You can slash with it and stab with it. You don’t come across them very often, especially in the Northern Lands. It was invented in Mambara, a country way beyond the Sultanate. But that’s not important right now. None of you men took any notice of the handle and the metal of the blade. But Egrassa and I spotted it straightaway. And Hallas probably did, too, although the dratted beard-face isn’t saying anything.”

  “What about the handle and the metal?”

  “There are ancient runes on the handle. You can barely even see them, but it’s the first language of the gnomes. The language of the time of the great ones Grahel and Chigzan—the first dwarf and the first gnome. Don’t ask me what it says, I’m a warrior, not a Master, and I could only recognize a few runes. With a spear like that you can strike through any magical shield.”

  “Oho!”

  “Yes indeed, ‘oho.’ And as for the metal that was used for the blade, in the old days, back in the Age of Achievements, it used to be known as Smoky Steel. Ever heard of it?”

  “No.”

  “That’s not surprising. We forgot a lot of things during the Purple Years. The secret of smelting … it has been lost—forever, I’m afraid. But there was a time … there was a time when gnomes and dwarves worked together. Some prospected for ore and made steel, others gave it the required form and invoked the magic. Ruby Blood can never compare with Smoky Steel. It cut through everything. Anything the blade fell on—a silk handkerchief, stone,
or the finest armor.”

  “How much did it cost?” I blurted out.

  “A lot,” Deler chuckled. “So much that only a king … or the Gray Ones … could afford a blade made out of it. Imagine you’re facing a front-line knight-at-arms. Heavy armor, a full-length shield. Like a tortoise in a shell. You could sweat yourself to death trying to get at him with a sword. But you just take a blade of Smoky Steel and hit him across the helmet, and it will slice through the man like a knife through butter, split him into two neat halves. And his helmet, armor, and shield, too.”

  “So it’s very valuable?”

  That earned me a suspicious glance from the dwarf.

  “Valuable? It’s priceless! Give it to the king and you can ask for a dukedom and a hundred ships and a summer palace, and anything else you might fancy.”

  Deler tossed more wood into the fire.

  “Come on, Harold, get some sleep. It’s a hard day tomorrow. Or are you trying to follow the elf’s example?”

  “Where is he, by the way?”

  “Over that way, not very far.”

  “I’ll take a stroll that way,” I said, getting up off the log.

  Deler just waved his hand: Okay, take a stroll.

  The night was coming to an end; the stars had faded and the full moon was already turning pale. The elf was a dark silhouette against the pale background of a golden-leaf’s trunk. He was sitting on the ground, with his hands on his knees, and his eyes were closed.

  The grass rustled under my feet. Egrassa made a movement too fast for me to follow, and there was an arrow pointing straight at me, already poised on his bowstring. I froze to let the elf take a good look at me.

  “What are you doing here?” Egrassa asked in a surly voice, but he put the bow away.

  “Deler said you were here.”

  “So what?”

  I hesitated. Yes, so what? What in the name of darkness had brought me this way? Those yellow eyes were watching me closely.

  “I’m very sorry about what happened to Miralissa, too.”

  Silence.

  “She has a daughter, doesn’t she?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She told me.”

  “She told you.… She trusted you people so much … she respected you, she didn’t think you were really that bad. She should never have left the House of the Black Moon. None of us should have.”

  “I…”

  “Just get that Horn, Harold. Just get it. Prove to me and my kinsmen that Miralissa was not mistaken. Now go, you’re bothering me.”

  That was it. Who can ever tell what’s going inside these elves?

  “Harold!” he called to me.

  “Yes?”

  “Will you get it?”

  “Yes, I’ll get it.”

  “No doubt or hesitation?”

  “No doubt or hesitation,” I answered, after a pause.

  He seemed satisfied with my answer; at least, he didn’t say another word about it.

  * * *

  “We don’t have to worry about the Firstborn any longer,” said the elf, leaning on his new weapon.

  “But we do have to worry about Balistan Pargaid and his men; there are more than twenty of them,” said Milord Alistan, checking to make sure that his sword left the scabbard smoothly.

  “And Lafresa,” Kli-Kli reminded him. “She’s worth twenty warriors.”

  The fool was right: Lafresa was dangerous, especially now, when we didn’t have Miralissa with us.

  “Let’s go, but quietly, it’s not very far to the gates now,” the dark elf warned us, and set off along the track.

  We walked through a grove that consisted of nothing but golden-leafs, trees beyond compare with anything we’d seen before. The huge, ancient trunks were more than fifteen yards around, the crowns of the trees soared so high that they seemed to prop up the very sky. Here and there orange roots protruded from the ground, each of them four times as thick as a grown man’s thigh. The sun’s rays pierced the golden crowns like arrows, flying down through the morning mist that had still not dispersed and striking the ground. This was how I had pictured Zagraba in my imagination—majestically beautiful.

  D-r-r-r-r … d-r-r-r-r-r …

  “That woodpecker’s working hard,” Deler croaked admiringly.

  “Quiet!” Egrassa hissed, listening to the sounds of the forest.

  The wind quietly rustled the murmuring crowns of the golden-leafs, and the woodpecker continued with his tireless search for food, setting the forest ringing with his dr-r-r-rr-r. Little birds chirped and insects buzzed in the grass; the forest was as alive and busy as if it was midsummer, not early autumn.

  “There are men … nearby.”

  The elf leaned the krasta against a tree, set a new string on his bow, and took an arrow out of his quiver.

  “I’ll go to check … if you hear any noise, be ready.…”

  “Eel, go with him,” Alistan Markauz ordered.

  “Yes, milord. Harold, will you lend me your crossbow?”

  “It’s loaded,” I said, handing the Garrakian the weapon and two extra bolts.

  “If everything’s all right, I’ll whistle,” said Egrassa.

  The elf and the man disappeared into the dense undergrowth of gorse. For a long time we heard nothing apart from the sounds of the forest, and everyone listened to the trilling of the birds and the rustling of the branches. Eventually we heard a faint whistle in the distance.

  “Forward!” ordered Alistan Markauz. “Kli-Kli, don’t get under our feet.”

  “When do I ever get in the way?” Kli-Kli grumbled. “That’s what Harold does.”

  I laughed, but didn’t say anything and picked up the elf’s spear.

  Egrassa and Eel were waiting for us in a shady meadow surrounded by a neat circle of golden-leafs … with three men lying at their feet. Two of them were dead. The elf’s arrow had easily pierced the chain mail of one of Balistan Pargaid’s soldiers and stuck in his heart. The other, who was still clutching a small ax, had taken an arrow in the eye. The third man was alive—squirming on the ground with a crossbow bolt in his leg.

  “Who have we got here?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out, milord,” Eel said, clearing his throat and handing me the crossbow. “Egrassa killed the first one straightaway, the second one grabbed an ax and got shot in the eye. The third one tried to run; I had to shoot him in the leg.”

  “Who are you and what are you doing here?” Alistan Markauz asked sharply, turning to the prisoner.

  The man just wailed and clutched at his wounded leg.

  “Why do you ask, milord, as if you didn’t know?” Kli-Kli asked in surprise. “These are Balistan Pargaid’s dogs, you can tell from their faces!”

  “He’ll tell me everything he knows,” said the elf. He stepped on the man’s injured leg and the man howled and lost consciousness.

  Hallas took out a flask of water and splashed some in the man’s face. No response. He had to slap the man hard on the cheek. The man shuddered and opened his eyes.

  “And now we’ll have a talk,” said Egrassa, holding his crooked dagger to the man’s chest. “How many of you are there?”

  “What?” said the man, licking his lips.

  “How many of you are there?” Egrassa repeated, pricking the man with his dagger.

  That worked.

  “Three, there were only three of us! Don’t kill me, milord! I’ll tell you everything!” the man babbled, staring wide-eyed at the dark elf and obviously taking him for an orc.

  “Where are the others?”

  “They all … went away.”

  “You’re lying,” said Egrassa, pressing in the dagger.

  The man squealed and yelled.

  “I’m telling the truth, they all went and left us here on guard! I haven’t done anything, honestly! Don’t kill me!”

  “Perhaps this goon really doesn’t know anything?” Deler boomed.

  “Of course he doe
s! Egrassa, you leave him to me and I’ll soon shake him out of his trance!” Hallas suggested, rolling his eyes furiously.

  “Where did they go?” asked Egrassa, ignoring the gnome.

  “Into the burial chambers, they all went into those burial chambers cursed by the darkness, milord orc!”

  “When?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “How many men went down there?”

  “Ten.”

  “He’s lying,” said Kli-Kli, performing simple calculations in his head.

  “That’s not important.… Did the count go with them?”

  “Yes, milord.”

  “And the woman?” I blurted out.

  “The witch? She’s with them, too. It was all her idea! She was the one who decided to go down there!”

  “Why did they go?”

  “They didn’t tell us. Me and the others were just supposed to stay here and wait for the rest of them to come back. That’s all. I don’t know anything else.”

  “That’s a shame,” said the elf, plunging the dagger into the man’s chest up to the hilt.

  The prisoner shuddered and went limp. Without showing any sign of emotion, Egrassa pulled the dagger out and wiped it on the dead man’s clothes.

  “Deler! Hallas!” Alistan Markauz called to the dwarf and the gnome. “Bury these three. There’s no point in us hanging about any longer.”

  And that was the end of the matter, except for the dwarf and the gnome muttering discontentedly that they were soldiers, not gravediggers.

  “Well, how do you like it, Harold?” Eel asked me when I walked away to one side.

  “Elves,” I said with a shrug, thinking he was asking how I felt about the recent killing.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Eel said with a frown. “I meant the entrance to Hrad Spein.”

  “Why, where is it?” I gasped.

  Kli-Kli heaved a tragic sigh. “Harold, you’re hopeless! What do you think that is, if not the entrance?”