Shadow Blizzard

by Alexey Pehov

  One of the orcs halted the bowmen and started conferring with the other warriors. The count waited and prayed. Then he suddenly felt someone’s insistent gaze on his back, and swung round sharply.

  She was standing behind him. A woman wearing a simple sleeveless dress, with a luxuriant mane of white hair scattered across her naked shoulders. The stranger’s face was hidden behind a half-mask in the form of a skull. She was holding a bouquet of pale narcissi and gazing at Alistan Markauz out of her empty eye sockets.

  “No!” he said, shaking his head in furious anger. “No! Not like that! Not with an arrow!”

  She said nothing.

  “I need time! Just a little bit! And then I will go with you. Grant me just a few minutes in the name of Sagra! I will take as many with me as I can!”

  For a second he thought that Death would refuse him, but she thoughtfully tore the petals off the narcissi and silently walked away, back toward the gates.

  “I shall wait, but not for long.”

  He did not really hear her words; he felt them. Gripping the hilt of his sword even more tightly, he roared in anticipation of the battle to come. The orcs finished conferring and one of them called the bowmen back.

  “We offer you one last chance to surrender, rat!”

  Rat? Well now. He really was the Rat; he had been granted the honor of bearing a rat in his coat of arms. “Never drive a rat into a corner”—that was his family motto. Then it has nothing to lose, and it sells its life dearly.

  “Forward, Firstborn! I’ll show you what rats are capable of!”

  Those words decided the matter. His enemies stepped onto the bridge and moved toward him, taking their time.

  At the front was a tall orc with a yataghan and a round shield. Good weapons, but the orc didn’t even have chain mail, just a jacket of thick, coarse leather and a light half-helmet. Alistan Markauz walked toward him. It was better to meet in the middle of the bridge; he would have room to fall back.

  At that moment Milord Alistan remembered his childhood. The count had first picked up a sword at the age of five, but found the art of swordsmanship hard to master. He could not sense the rhythm, the music, the dance of the blade. Things had gone on like that until his teacher had the idea of bringing a flute to the Armory.

  The old warrior played well, the flute sang in his hands, and the music flowing through the Armory helped the boy get a feel for his weapon. The music of the flute led him and his sword after it, prompting him when to strike, when to change his stance, or defend himself against a thrust. And the old master was pleased with his sovereign’s son.

  The years passed, and the grave of Alistan Markauz’s first teacher had long been overgrown with flowers, but the song of the flute remained in the count’s heart forever. The moment he took the hilt of his sword in his hand, it awoke and sang in his ears, helping him in battle and in tournament duels. It must have been the song that eventually made him one of the finest swordsmen in Valiostr.

  And now the flute was singing to him for the last time. The jolly, swaggering melody picked Alistan Markauz up and flung him into battle.

  Sing, flute! Sing!

  He met the first orc and struck first, without waiting for an attack. His opponent, unfortunately for him, was in a left-sided stance, holding the shield out in front of him. His left leg was exposed, a dainty morsel, and the battery sword swooped downward in a flash of pink, slicing through flesh and bone. The orc cried out and fell. Milord Alistan struck several rapid and powerful blows at his opponent’s helmet.

  Sing, flute! Sing!

  Although his comrade had been killed, the second orc came dashing forward. A “right-sided bull” and a rapid thrust, the orc covered himself with his shield and immediately struck a rapid counterblow. The yataghan cleaved through the air with a repulsive hiss and struck against a “crown.” The count’s blade accepted the blow on the flat, pushed the yataghan away, struck for the face, changed direction, and smashed into the shield.

  Sing, flute! Sing!

  The orc staggered back, stumbled over the body of his comrade, and immediately parted with his yataghan and his right forearm.

  Sing, flute! Sing!

  He had no chance to finish off the Firstborn. The next orc jumped over his wounded comrade and threw himself into a furious attack. He had a yataghan and a long dagger in his hands. Other Firstborn carried the orc who had lost his arm away from the raging skirmish. This time the count was facing an experienced opponent, and the lack of a shield did not make him any more vulnerable. Yataghan and dagger danced in the air, weaving an intricate pattern of silver that was impossible to strike through.

  A clash of blades. And another. Every time it met the enemy’s steel, the battery sword screeched furiously and its song was echoed by the flute that the orcs could not hear.

  Sing, flute! Sing!

  The orc moved into the attack, the yataghan came sweeping down, encountered a “window” and tried to avoid the unexpected obstacle, and at that moment Alistan Markauz spun his enemy’s blade, threw it off to the right and “entered,” striking the orc a mighty blow on the chin with the pommel of his sword.

  Sing, flute! Sing!

  The heavy ball set on the hilt of the sword crushed the bone, and the orc collapsed limply to the ground. Alistan Markauz had no intention of sparing his opponent’s life. This was no time for noble acts of chivalry; he had only one goal now—to take as many Firstborn with him as he could. The heavy battery sword twirled round the count’s right wrist as lightly as if it was a feather. He shifted his grip to hold it like a staff and thrust the blade into his prone enemy with all his strength.

  Sing, flute! Sing!

  Not time to die yet! A little more dancing and singing!

  His left cheek was damp for some reason, and something was dripping off his chin. He brought his eyes together in a squint—the entire front of his jacket was soaked in blood. Ah, darkness! That orc had been quick with the dagger. The count had not even noticed when his opponent managed to reach him. It was strange, but he did not feel any pain at all now. Even though the left side of his face was quite definitely sliced open. Sagra be praised that the blow had caught him below the eye, or the blood gushing from his forehead would have hindered him in the fight.

  Sing, flute! Sing!

  The flute sang, and the sword sang in harmony with it. The yataghan sliced through the air; the shield took the mighty vertical blows. When the battery sword came down again, the orc didn’t stand there stupidly, he drew the shield back toward himself, taking the sting out of the blow. The sword stuck in the shield and the Firstborn drew his yataghan back triumphantly, opening himself up. The dagger that suddenly appeared in Alistan Markauz’s left hand struck into the open gap, easily pierced the orc’s jacket, and stuck in the place known to warriors as the “bloody apple.” The count jumped back, freeing his sword with a sharp twist.

  Sing, flute! Sing!

  His cheek was burning, as if torturers had sewn a handful of blazing coals into it, but he had no time for pain now—two opponents flung themselves at him at once. The first one, with a spear, came charging at him like a wild boar. The second, with an ax, jumped up agilely onto the left shoulder of the bridge, and made to strike at him from above. Alistan Markauz skipped under the descending ax and struck the orc standing on the narrow border between his legs with all his might. The Firstborn lost his balance and tumbled into the ravine.

  Sing, flute! Sing!

  Holding his weapon above his head in both hands, as if it wasn’t a spear, but some kind of battle gaff, the orc struck in rapid jabbing thrusts at Alistan Markauz’s neck and chest. The count managed to parry the blows, but with great difficulty.

  The sweat streamed off his face, mingling with the blood flowing from his wound. His ears were ringing, his legs were filled with lead, there was no air to breathe. He could not tell how long he had been backing away. The count’s attention was completely focused on his opponent’s golden eyes. The sharp sting
of the spear described circles in the air, then came hurtling at his shoulder, changed direction to aim at his knee, darted up toward his chin. It was becoming harder and harder for him to parry the blows. All he could do was knock the spear away to his right or his left. And slicing through the orc’s weapon was out of the question—the shaft of the spear was clad in iron for almost a quarter of its length.

  Each of them waited for his opponent to make a mistake, to open himself up a little, lose his focus, stumble unexpectedly, or simply fail to cover himself against a blow. The sword in Alistan Markauz’s hands grew heavier and heavier with every second that passed. He barely managed to push the thrusting sting of the spear away to the right, then carried through the movement of his blade into a hacking blow, trying to reach the Firstborn.…

  The orc was quicker. He almost lay down on the ground and thrust his short spear forward with both hands. The narrow four-sided point pierced Alistan Markauz’s chain mail and struck the count in his right side. And again he felt no pain.

  He grabbed the spear sticking in his side with his left hand, pushed it hard away from him, and was delighted to see the sharp butt end of the spear strike the orc in the chest, taking him by surprise. Then he shifted the spear to the right, giving himself the opportunity to move close to his dumbfounded opponent.

  Sing, flute! Sing!

  The Firstborn parted with his head, and the count pressed his left hand to his right side. It was bad. The count knew what happens when steel pierces the liver. It is the end.

  Demanding hands with slim elegant fingers were laid on his shoulders. He roared furiously and jerked his shoulders to throw them off, forcing Death to step back.

  “It’s not time! I can still take another one!”

  The bridge came to an end. He had to hold his sword in one hand and squeeze his wounded side with the other. At least that would stop the bleeding and give him one more minute.

  Sing, flute! Sing!

  Make Death laugh! Gladden her with his song, so that she would remember this battle forever. How annoying that apart from her and these yellow-eyed reptiles, no one would see his finest fight of all! And the flute sang, and the Singing Steel of the sword sang its fierce and furious harmony. Step back, strike, catch on the counterstrike, step to the side. Another strike. And another. Press his back against the gates. Strike. Cover himself.

  He threw his left hand out in front of himself, and the blood from his glove flew into the orc’s eyes. The orc lost momentum for an instant and the count, grasping his sword with both hands and ignoring the bleeding, chopped at the orc’s leg and charged him.

  Sing, flute! Sing!

  The song of the flute rang out over Zagraba and spread out across the world. He wondered if the group could hear it. Probably not, they were far away now. Very far away. The count smiled triumphantly.

  Everything went dark. There was a roaring in his ears and for some reason he felt dizzy. He swung out blindly, acting intuitively, anticipating the next blow every time. Oh, just a little bit longer.

  The blade of his sword struck something hard and halted for an instant, and the hilt was almost torn out of his hands, then he heard someone’s short gurgling shriek.

  Sing, flute! Sing!

  Well, Death, do you see? This is much better than arrows. He was going to fight a little longer. The orcs would remember this battle, and they would tell their grandchildren about him.

  Why is it so dark? Why do I feel so bad? Are those your hands again, Death? It’s not time yet! It’s not time! Can you hear the flute singing? Can you hear the music?

  Sing, flute! Si—

  17

  OUT OF THE FOREST

  The next morning Sunpatch didn’t say a word about what I’d seen the night before, and I didn’t ask her any more questions. Kli-Kli obviously suspected something, because she kept giving me suspicious glances all morning, but—Sagot be praised—she didn’t try to pick my brain. The mist that had lingered in Zagraba for the last two days had disappeared overnight. Hallas was a lot better; at least he wasn’t as pale as the day before and his breathing was stable. Sunpatch whispered spells over the gnome, while Fluffy Cloud handed out fresh bread, meat, and cheese (goodness only knows where all that came from!) to our somber little band. But just as we were about to start eating, the elk came back and we were forced to eat our rations on the move—Runner in the Moonlight wasn’t going to wait while we satisfied our hunger sitting on the grass.

  The four elk ran all day long, stopping only twice at the dryads’ request. Even after all that crashing through the densest thickets in the depths of the forest, the massive beasts didn’t seem to tire at all, which is more than could be said for us, although we were just sitting on their backs. The dryads hardly spoke to us, limiting themselves to brief meaningless phrases, although the little Daughters of the Forest were emphatically polite and affable with Egrassa.

  The gobliness Kli-Kli had been pensive and dejected. There was no more of the tomfoolery that had become so familiar. The jester had disappeared. Kli-Kli had become herself, and I wasn’t used to that. To be honest, I sometimes caught myself thinking that I rather missed the relentlessly cheerful fool.

  A brief break was followed by more furious galloping through the autumn forest. The huge creatures hurtled along as if they were fleeing from a fire, and we had to hold on tight. They didn’t stop until it was twilight, and I had the impression that our horned steeds could have run without stopping for a couple of days, and the darkness didn’t bother them at all.

  * * *

  The campfire was burning. Mumr was quietly playing his reed pipe. The dryads and the elk had disappeared into the dark forest, leaving us to ourselves.

  “Where do they go off to?” asked Eel.

  “To talk to the forest,” Egrassa replied after a short pause. “They find out the news, ask for advice, maybe something else as well. I don’t know.… Neither we nor the orcs have ever learned to listen to the voice of the forest. So I can’t really tell you. Maybe Kli-Kli knows more.”

  “No, I don’t. I know just as much as Egrassa. The forest’s daughters are the only ones who can talk to it. Well, and the flinnies … sometimes. Our old folks say the goblins used to be able to talk to Zagraba, but that was in the distant past. Zagraba doesn’t speak to us now, the only ones we can talk to are the most gossipy forest spirits.… Too much was lost during the Gray Age.…”

  * * *

  Lamplighter had gone to see how the gnome was, and suddenly we heard him shout: “Hallas is awake!”

  Lucky was sitting slumped against a tree, feeling at his bandage. When he spotted us, the gnome gave a crooked grin and then hissed at the pain.

  “Who wrapped me up so nice and tight?”

  “Lie down,” said Kli-Kli, darting across to him. “You were wounded.”

  “Well, since I’m talking and I’m alive, it can’t be too serious,” the gnome chuckled, but he stopped fiddling with the bandage. “Who did this to me?”

  “Don’t you remember anything?”

  “I do remember something,” the gnome said thoughtfully. “But abyss of the depths! My head’s spinning and my face is all on fire! Why don’t you say something?”

  “You’ve lost an eye,” Eel said harshly, deciding not to hide anything. “You were badly hurt. If we hadn’t had help, we’d have sung you the ‘Farewell’ by now.”

  Hallas chewed on his lips and thought for a moment.

  “Then I was lucky. An eye’s not a head. I’ll get over it somehow.… But where’s Deler? And I don’t see Milord Markauz anywhere, either.…”

  “They weren’t as lucky as you were,” said Eel, telling the hard truth again. “They’re dead.”

  “Deler … How did he…?”

  Eel told him.

  “Leave me,” the gnome mumbled after he heard the story, and turned away.

  Lamplighter was about to say something, but Eel just shook his head gently. We all went back to the fire, but Kli-Kli stayed wit
h the gnome, despite his request.

  “They were very close. It’s strange, really,” Eel said unexpectedly. “When Lucky came to the Lonely Giant, he and Deler very nearly came to blows. And then during a raid Hallas’s platoon was caught in an ambush set by the Crayfish Duke. A magician of the Order led them into it. They were going to string the gnome up, but Deler saved him, almost took him down off the scaffold. After that the gnome got his nickname of Lucky, and he and the dwarf were absolutely inseparable, although never a day went by without them quarreling over something.…”

  “Well, you please yourselves, but I’m going to bed,” Mumr sighed. “We’ll be galloping all day long again tomorrow.”

  “Egrassa!” I said, taking the Key out of my bag, “I think you’d better keep this.”

  The elf looked at the artifact and hung it round his neck without saying a word. Then he asked: “What are they like, Harold?”

  “Who?”

  “The Doors.”

  I thought about it.

  “I can’t describe them properly.”

  “I understand,” Egrassa said, and suddenly smiled. “No one can describe them. Probably someday I’ll get the chance to go down and see what the master craftsmen of my people created. It’s very beautiful there, isn’t it?”

  “Not all the time,” I replied cautiously. “I’m no great lover of beauty that can bite you, if you understand what I mean.”

  “They say there are many hoards of treasure. Did you pick up anything for yourself?” Eel asked, and the corners of his mouth trembled in a faint smile of mockery.

  “Not very much,” I muttered, remembering the emeralds that I’d lost. “The orcs took everything I brought out of Hrad Spein.”

  “My sympathies,” said Egrassa.

  I wondered if he was mocking me or being serious.