by Alexey Pehov
I only stopped flapping about when a second enemy sat on my legs and twisted my left arm behind my back. I howled—the lad had almost twisted my arm out of its socket. Then it was my right arm’s turn, but I’d already wised up and stopped resisting, so this time the procedure wasn’t quite so painful.
Whoever it was sitting on my back didn’t say anything, he just kept his huge paw on the back of my neck, making me breathe the smell of moldy leaves and damp earth. Meanwhile, the second one tied my wrists securely with rope. It was all done quickly and without a single word being spoken.
Wonderful! Eventually the one who was sitting on my legs got up, but his comrade grabbed me by the hair, jerked my head up, and then put something sharp and horribly cold against my throat. I thought it wisest to stare up at the sky and say nothing.
“Well, well, well,” said the one who was standing. “It looks like a foolish moth has come fluttering to the flame.… Who have the forest spirits sent to our fire?”
“A little monkey, I think,” said the one who was holding me by the hair.
“Turn him over.”
I was turned over rather offhandedly, but just to make sure I didn’t start thrashing about, a foot was prudently placed on my chest so that I could hardly draw breath.
I couldn’t make out who was standing over me. They were just dark silhouettes. Either men, or elves, or orcs.
“It really is a monkey,” chuckled the one who had turned me over. “Karadr drag su’in tar?”[Shall we dispatch him to the darkness?]
“Kro! Alle bar natish, kita’l u Bagard.” [No! Let’s take him to the fire. Bagard can get to the bottom of this.]
Darkness only knew what the lads were bantering about, but that language was definitely orcish. On the rational assumption that men were unlikely to chat in such a disgusting language, I struck them off the list. That only left elves and orcs. Meanwhile the two of them kept on yakking to each other, and one of them kept saying “kro” all the time, while the other kept mentioning some “tara” or other. The lads didn’t seem able to agree about something. I tried to weigh in with my own sound opinion, and moved a little. The lad standing with his foot on me immediately pressed it down a bit harder and I gave a disappointed croak and shut up. Eventually the one who kept saying “tara” gave in.
“All right, what’s one more or less? We’ll take him.” These words were spoken for my ears.
I was jerked to my feet.
“If you so much as twitch, little moth, you’ll never reach the fire. We’ll singe your wings for you right here. Is that clear, or do I have to hit you?”
“I understand.”
“That’s just great.” I was pushed in the back rather impolitely. “Misat’u no alddi Olag.” [Keep an eye on the moth, Olag.]
“Misat’a.” [I’ll keep an eye on him.]
What a fool. Somehow it hadn’t even occurred to me that there could be listening posts and sentries around the fire.
Well, my captors were right—I had fluttered to the flame like a moth, and I’d got my wings singed.
13
IN CAPTIVITY
My companions were not distinguished by refined manners, and while the one who had been sitting on my legs merely hurried me along, the other one kept pushing me in the back so that I almost fell. Eventually we came out into the large forest clearing where the fire was burning. There were about ten men (or not men) sitting round the fire. A few more were standing or lying some distance away, and I simply wasn’t able to count them. A large group.
“Ghei Bagard! Masat’u ner ashpa tut Olag’e perega!” [Hey, Bagard! Look who me and Olag have caught!] Hefty shouted.
The figures round the fire stirred and got to their feet. I was shoved closer to the fire. The lads who had captured me had dark skin, yellow eyes, black lips, fangs, and ash-gray hair.
“Elves!” I thought delightedly, and then I took a closer look and felt very, very disappointed. My fears had been justified. Of the two possible evils, I’d ended up with the worse one. Elves never gathered their hair into ponytails, elves weren’t so heavily built, and elves never carried yataghans.
Firstborn! I’d fallen into the hands of the orcs! But I had been just a little bit lucky; the badges on the yellowish brown clothes of the Firstborn belonged to the clan of Walkers Along the Stream, and that was a lot better than running into the Grun Ear-Cutters. At least they wouldn’t kill me straightaway.
“Where did you find this?” asked a short orc.
“He was wandering round the fire, Bagard,” said Hefty’s friend, switching into human language.
“Was the little monkey alone?”
“Yes. Before we took him, we checked the whole area. He was alone. Olag can confirm that.”
Hefty’s friend nodded. The orcs switched back into their own language, talking fast. I stood there like a sheep, waiting to see what would come of all this rigmarole. Bagard seemed to be in charge of this detachment; he spoke a few abrupt phrases and six Firstborn disappeared into the dark undergrowth.
“Weapons?” Bagard asked, switching back to human language.
Olag handed the commander my knife. Bagard twirled it in his hands impassively and handed it to one of the orcs standing beside him.
“Is that all, Fagred?” The Firstborn seemed a little surprised.
“Yes,” said Hefty, nodding.
“Have you searched him?”
“Kro.”
“He doesn’t look much like a warrior,” said one of the orcs.
“We’ll soon find out, bring him over to the fire!”
Fagred and Olag grabbed me by the arms and dragged me to the fire. Naturally enough, I thought they were going to roast the soles of my feet, and I started to resist, but the orc who had taken my knife hit me hard under the ribs and I suddenly didn’t feel like resisting anymore. The only concern I had now was trying to breathe. They sat me down by the fire and Fagred started asking questions.
“Who are you? How many of you are there? What are you doing in our forest?”
The orc backed up each question with a resounding slap to my face. Bearing in mind the size of his mitts—and the orc was every bit as big as Honeycomb—I felt justified in worrying whether my head could take the strain. Unfortunately, I didn’t get a chance to answer, because the slaps rained down on me as fast as the questions. And the questions followed one another at a very brisk rate indeed. When Fagred started asking them for the fifth time, growing more and more enraged at my silence, Bagard’s voice interrupted.
“That’s enough!”
Fagred muttered discontentedly and walked away.
“Search him.”
They stood me on my feet again, took my bag, and rummaged adroitly through my clothes.
“Nedl kro.” [Nothing there.]
“I told you he didn’t look like a warrior,” one of the orcs muttered, and threw some fir-tree branches into the fire.
By this time the six warriors sent to reconnoiter by Bagard had come back. One of the Firstborn shook his head and put an arrow back in his quiver.
“If he doesn’t look like a warrior…” Bagard’s yellow eyes studied me intently. “Shokren, check this monkey!”
An orc walked out of the shadow, and I turned cold—the lad was wearing a strange headdress that looked far too much like a shaman’s cap. And a shaman was just what I needed to make my day complete! Shokren resembled Bagard in some elusive way; they must have been relatives. The shaman came over and ran his open palm over me without touching me.
“His neck,” Shokren murmured, and someone’s deft hands relieved me of Kli-Kli’s drop-shaped medallion. The shaman nodded contentedly. “The left arm.”
Egrassa’s bracelet joined Kli-Kli’s medallion on the ground.
Shokren took his hand down to the level of my boots and said, “That’s all, he’s clean.”
“What are these trinkets?” asked Olag, twirling the bracelet of red copper in his hands.
“That’s a long story,�
�� said Shokren, putting the droplet medallion away in his bag. Then he took the bracelet out of Olag’s hands.
He held it for a while, studying it closely, then threw it on the grass and said, “Everybody get back!”
The orcs obediently stepped away and Olag took it on himself to take care of me and dragged me with him. Meanwhile the shaman muttered something, formed the fingers of his left hand into a complicated sign, and Egrassa’s bracelet melted, turning into a small puddle on the ground.
“They won’t find you now, little monkey,” the shaman sneered.
“A leash?” Bagard asked Shokren with a knowing air.
“Yes.”
“The inferior ones?
“Probably.”
The inferior ones? Unless I was mistaken, that was what the Firstborn called the elves. Anyway, now it would be rather difficult for Egrassa to find me.
“So our moth is mixed up with that bunch, is he?” Fagred said with an ominous leer.
“Give me his bag,” the shaman suddenly said.
One of the Firstborn immediately handed my bag to Shokren. Do I need to say what happened when the shaman took the Rainbow Horn out of it? Naturally, the ordinary orcs didn’t understand a thing, but Shokren, Bagard, and Olag exchanged pointed glances. And the shaman’s hands were actually shaking.
“What is it?” asked Fagred, craning his neck.
“It’s something that will help the Hand in his battle with the inferior ones,” Bagard said reverently. “Remember this day, warriors.”
“Well done, moth!” Olag said with a crooked sneer. “What other treasures have you brought for us?”
Shokren carefully set the Horn down on a cloak that one of the warriors had spread out, and turned his attention back to my bag. The handful of fruit was flung aside disdainfully, and then the Key emerged from the bag. The dragon’s tear glinted in the light of the campfire and the Firstborn all gasped as one in wonder and delight. They seemed to know what the shaman was clutching in his hand. He took the relic between his finger and thumb, as if he was afraid it might simply disappear.
“The Key to the Doors!” one of the warriors gasped.
“Correct. But how did a man come to have the inferior ones’ relic?” said Shokren, looking at me. “Have you been in Hrad Spein?”
“Yes.” I couldn’t see any point in lying.
“Is that from there?” the shaman asked, nodding at the Horn.
“Yes.”
“All right.” The shaman seemed to be quite satisfied with my monosyllabic answers.
“Has the moth brought us any more presents?” Fagred inquired.
The shaman turned my bag upside down without saying anything, and an emerald rain cascaded down onto the orcish cloak. One of the Firstborn cleared his throat quietly.
“What shall we do with him, Bagard?” Fagred asked.
The commander of the detachment shrugged indifferently.
“We don’t need any extra mouths.”
The huge orc gave a knowing chuckle and put his hand on his knife.
“Wait, Bagard,” said Shokren, unhurriedly putting all the treasures back into the bag. “This little monkey’s not as simple as he seems. When we have time, I’ll have a talk with him, and I think the Hand will, too.”
“The Hand is far away,” Bagard said with a frown.
For some reason the orcs didn’t seem to want to talk their own language.
“I’ll send him a message by raven, he can decide what to do with all these things. In any case, the moth will make a good wager at the mid-autumn festival. Put the little monkey with the others.”
“All right,” Bagard agreed, and started speaking in orcish.
The Firstborn seemed to have lost all interest in me; they talked excitedly, and started rearranging themselves round the fire. The shaman hung my bag over his shoulder, and I thought that now he wouldn’t part with it even if he was attacked by all the dark elves in the Black Forest.
Curses! Now the orcs had the Rainbow Horn and the Key! If Egrassa found out, he’d be devastated; he’d have an apoplectic fit. The orcs didn’t seem to be paying any attention to me, and I decided to risk it and take off. Running around Zagraba with my hands tied behind my back would be better than staying in the company of the Firstborn.
Well, of course, every stupid mistake has to be paid for, and I paid for mine. Fagred had kept his eye on me all the time, and I only got six yards. That lousy yellow-eyed skunk overtook me, knocked me off my feet, and smashed his fist into the back of my head so hard that five moons flared up in front of my eyes and I passed out.
* * *
“Leave him, none of us is going to live very long anyway.”
“That’s my business. Get me some water, man.”
I felt something cold and incredibly pleasant on my forehead. It seemed like a good idea to open my eyes.
“Welcome back.”
I stared at the speaker in amazement. I didn’t think I was dreaming, but I was still having visions. Or was it a dream after all?
“Kli-Kli, is that you?” I wheezed, trying to sit up.
I shouldn’t have done that. The ground and the trees started spinning around, and I collapsed on the bed of fir branches with a groan.
“You’re mistaken, son,” the goblin chuckled, and took the wet cloth off my forehead.
Yes, I could see for myself now that it wasn’t Kli-Kli. This goblin was much older than my royal jester. His green skin was duller and a lighter green, he had bushy eyebrows and a hooked nose, half his teeth were missing, and his eyes weren’t light blue but violet. In general he looked like a wrinkled little green monkey.
“I…”
“It was rather stupid of you to try to escape from the Firstborn. I’m absolutely amazed that huge brute didn’t kill you. How are you?”
“My head hurts,” I said, wincing, and made a second attempt to get up. This time I managed it, and the ground didn’t even spin.
“Don’t worry, they’ll lop your head off soon, and then nothing’ll hurt,” someone beside me said, coughing.
I made the effort to squint sideways and saw the speaker. He was a huge man with a black beard growing right up to his eyes. He returned my gaze defiantly and started coughing again.
“That’s Kior,” the goblin explained, and I didn’t hear any love for this shaggy natural wonder in his voice. “And this is Mis.”
There was a skinny man about forty-five years old sitting beside Kior. Bald, with brown eyes and a mustache. His right shoulder was bandaged up in a slapdash fashion. He gave me a friendly nod.
“Welcome to our unfortunate little group, lad.”
“A warrior?” I asked, finding the strength from somewhere to nod back.
“Yes,” Mis replied, and closed his eyes.
How had a warrior from the Border Kingdom ended up out here in the wild?
“Do you have a name?” the goblin asked me.
“Harold.”
“And I’m Glo-Glo,” the goblin said with a grin. “Pleased to meet you.”
Morning was waking over Zagraba, but there wasn’t much light because the sky was blanketed with clouds, and it was about to start raining at any moment. How long had I been out, then? All night? That Fagred had a heavy hand, all right! There was a dull throbbing pain in the back of my head and I winced as I put my left hand to it. That was when I realized my hands weren’t tied anymore.
“There’s no need,” the goblin said as if he was reading my thoughts. “Where can you run to? Look over there.”
I looked in the direction the goblin had indicated. And saw a man suspended by the legs dangling from a branch of the nearest tree.
“That’s Kior’s partner,” Glo-Glo explained cheerily. “Yesterday he got it into his head to run off, so they hung him up there to teach the rest of us a lesson. And they slit his belly open for good measure.”
“Why don’t you shut up and keep quiet, greeny!” said Kior, and his eyes flashed angrily.
&nbs
p; “I’ve kept quiet long enough, no more!” The goblin sat down beside me and started whispering in my ear.
“Take no notice of him, Harold. Kior’s a poacher, he hunts golden cats in the orcs’ territory, and the Firstborn caught him. Actually, they caught him yesterday, about three hours before you turned up.”
“I see,” I muttered.
“But how do you come to be in Zagraba?”
“I was just taking a stroll,” I chuckled.
Glo-Glo sighed. “You can tell Kior you were out for a stroll. Do you think I didn’t see what the Firstborn took out of your bag?”
“How do you know what those things were?” I asked curiously.
“I just happen to be a shaman.”
I cleared my throat doubtfully.
“Shamans don’t get caught by the orcs that easily.”
“As long as they stay alert, that is,” Glo-Glo sighed regretfully. “I really am a shaman, though.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
I figured that if the goblin was a shaman, he ought to have been able to find some way to do a vanishing act.
“The same as you. Look.” The goblin showed me his hands, and they were covered with mittens.
Strange mittens they were, too, I must say. At least, each one had a restraining chain and a lock, so they looked a bit like manacles. Taking them off would be pretty hard. Although they were rubbishy locks, and I thought I could have picked them if I really tried. The mittens had runes drawn on them, too.
“What are they for?”
“So I can’t work any spells,” the shaman groaned miserably. “The mittens restrict the movements of my fingers, and the runes prevent magic from working, so spells are out of the question. I can try, but the forest spirits only know what will actually happen.”
“And some people still claim that shamanism is better than wizardry!” I muttered.
“Just give me time. I’ll get my hands free, and then they’ll be dancing to my tune!” the goblin hissed, narrowing his eyes and peering at the orcs.