by Alexey Pehov
“I beg your pardon, milady, but this is nonsense.”
“I told you it was still too early and he wouldn’t understand a thing,” said the goblin, looking reproachfully at the elfess. “The Order would pay us a wagonload of gold for the story that we’ve just told you.”
“That does not speak well for the wizards,” I said.
“Pah, you fool,” the jester said irritably, and walked away.
I thought he was reacting a bit too sensitively to my skepticism.
“Perhaps you will understand some time later, Harold,” Miralissa sighed, also standing up.
“Wait,” I said to her. “Why did you think that I might know something about the House of Power?”
“You are the Dancer in the Shadows.… But take no notice, I made a mistake.”
“And the Master? Why did you decide that the Master is in this House of Power?”
“He has a distinctive magical signature.… You would not understand that, Harold, you have no skills in shamanism. The things that attacked us in Hargan’s Wasteland, the thing that struck the ferry … They are quite different, nothing like our magic … Things like that can only be created with the help of the legendary and mythical House of Power.”
She walked away, treading gently on the soaking wet grass, and I was left alone.
To think.
After what the elfess and the goblin had told me, there were even more riddles, not fewer.
* * *
Ranneng was awash with flowers. Sweet-scented roses of every possible color had invaded the entire town. The festival was in its second noisy day, and those who could still stand had spilled out into the streets, bawling out songs and dancing together in circles, gorging themselves on the free food laid out on tables and washing it down with the wine or beer that gushed out of huge barrels in torrents. It had always been this way and it always would be. Once a year, at the end of August, all the people glorified the gods.
Voices singing and yelling, the laughter and the music, the smells of wine, fine fresh bread, and roasted meat—it all mingled together into an atmosphere of vital festive joy.
Djok Imargo was walking down the street with a smile on his face.
He was a tall young man with broad shoulders and a firm jaw, brown eyes, absolutely black hair, and a mischievous smile. He radiated a feeling of calm confidence and high spirits.
People recognized him and waved to him, they shouted to him, inviting him to join one group or another, to drink a mug of beer or take a turn in some antic dance. It was hard not to notice him—tall and well-built, with a quiver of arrows on his hip and a powerful two-yard bow in his hands. Who did not know Djok Imargo, everybody’s favorite, the champion bowman at the last four royal tournaments?
“Hey, Djok, come over here!”
“Djok, dance with me! Oh, Djok!”
“Djok, it’s the royal tournament today! Good luck.”
“Hey, Djok! Let’s have a beer!”
“Five in a row, Djok!”
He smiled, nodded, waved his hand in response to the greetings, but he didn’t stop. Right now he wasn’t really interested in mugs of beer with foaming heads, or accommodating young beauties. At five o’clock today, he would become the champion archer for the fifth time, and only then would he be able to relax and celebrate his success.
It was still too early as yet—the tournament was not due to begin until after midday, and the archery contest was supposed to take place before the final jousts between the knights, just after the general combat and the swordsmen’s competition. Djok still had time to spare, and at the moment he was following the call of his heart.
The Street of Fruits was as crowded as every other part of town. People called to him a few times and slapped him on the shoulders, but he politely refused their invitations.
Djok stopped outside a large shop trading in fruits and vegetables, then pushed open the door and went inside. The bell jingled in greeting to let the owner know that he had a new customer. But then, it was a holiday, and no one was actually selling anything. The center of the room was occupied by a table, with people sitting round it and drinking beer.
“Ah, Djok, my boy!” said one of the men at the table, waving in greeting. “How good to see you! Come on in, don’t be shy. Someone pour the lad a beer.”
“Thank you, Master Lotr, but not just now. I have to keep a clear head today.”
The shopkeeper clapped a hand to his forehead.
“And I forgot, what a memory! Well then, my boy, will you show them all again?”
“I’ll try my best,” Djok replied.
“Plant one in the bull’s-eye for me,” said the scrawny Lotr, handing Djok a peach.
“It’ll be tough for you today, lad,” croaked the innkeeper whose establishment was next door to Master Lotr’s shop. “With a challenger like that!”
“Don’t talk nonsense, pudding head. Where will they find anyone to challenge Djok Imargo?” asked Lotr, raising his mug of beer.
“Nowhere, among the men, but the elves, now … I wouldn’t put my gold piece on Djok, begging your pardon, lad.…”
“What are you talking about, may the gods save you? What elves?” Lotr chuckled.
“The usual kind. Perfectly ordinary dark elves, with fangs. They fire bows much better than men do.”
“But what have elves got to do with the tournament, darkness take you!” the owner of a meat shop put in.
“You mean you still haven’t heard? Don’t you know that there’s a legation of dark elves arriving today to see the king, from the House of the … what is it now … the House of the Black Rose, that’s it. And who’s leading the legation? The crown prince of that house, with a name darkness only knows how to pronounce. And this crown prince has expressed a wish to take part in the tournament; to be precise, in the archery competition. And that’s why you’ll have a tough time of it, ay, lad. You won’t find an elf that easy to beat.”
“We’ll see,” Djok said with an indifferent shrug. He didn’t really believe in the rumors going round the town. “Master Lotr, where’s Lia?”
“In the garden. Go and see her,” the girl’s father replied amiably.
When Djok left, the innkeeper grinned and said: “Did you see how upset he was when I told him about the elf?”
“Ah, nonsense. Djok’s a good lad, he wasn’t upset at all.”
“You know best, Lotr. It’s your daughter he’s chasing, not mine.” The innkeeper chuckled, getting up from the table. The fat man had nothing more to do here, he had said what he had been told to say, and the Master would be pleased with him.
Lotr had the reputation of being a rich shopkeeper. Selling fruit had proved a profitable trade; he supplied his goods to the tables of many noblemen in the capital, even to the king’s. The money poured in, and there was nothing strange about the fact that the inner yard of the shop had been transformed into a flower garden with three gently murmuring fountains. A girl was sitting on a bench beside one of them.
She was busy with her embroidery, and a bloodred poppy and a sky blue harebell had already blossomed on the white fabric. A boy about seven years old was sitting beside the girl. He was launching a little boat into the fountain.
“Lia?” Djok called.
She looked up from her task, smiling the smile that he loved so much.
“Djok! How glad I am to see you!”
“Surely you didn’t think I’d forgotten you?” he asked.
“No, but the royal tournament is today, and you have to be there.”
“Your eyes are worth more to me than any tournament.”
Lia lowered her gaze modestly and smiled. Then she put down her embroidery, got to her feet gracefully, and took a strawberry out of a huge dish of fruit.
“Do you want it?”
“Thank you, your father gave me a peach.” He showed her the succulent fruit with its velvety skin.
“A pity, it’s very good,” said the girl, taking a bite out of the ripe s
trawberry.
“I’m going to win this tournament for you, Lia,” Djok said, sitting down with her little brother, who was completely absorbed in playing with his boat.
“Ah, Djok! But haven’t you heard what they say about the elf?”
“I’ve heard. But elf or no elf, I’m going to win this tournament for you. Everyone in the town knows that Lotr’s daughter Lia is the most beautiful girl in Ranneng. No prince is going to put my arrow off its mark!”
Lia picked a flower from one of the beds and started pulling off its petals.
“What are you doing?”
“Fortune-telling. To see if you’re going to win today.”
“That’s nothing but a flower.”
“You’re right,” she said with a sigh. “I’m so nervous. Let’s not trust a stupid little flower. Lun, Lun, come here!”
“What is it?” Lia’s brother asked in annoyance, looking up from his game.
“Come over here quickly, Djok’s going to show us how he fires his bow.”
The little boy immediately abandoned his game and ran across to them.
“Here’s an apple. You see that statue of a soldier right down at the end of the garden? Put the apple on his spear and run back here.”
“Just a moment,” said Lun, running off to do as his sister asked.
“What are you doing?” the young bowman asked in surprise.
“I made a wish—if you hit that apple, it means you’re going to win the royal tournament.”
“It’s a lot closer than the target at the field will be,” said Djok, shaking his head.
“Oh, please! Do it for me!” Lia begged him.
Djok smiled and nodded. He put on his glove, set the string on his mighty bow, and took an arrow out of the quiver. The flights were purple with gold stripes. Everybody knew what Djok Imargo’s arrows looked like. Lun came running back, leaving the apple behind, a green spot on the end of the statue’s spear.
Djok set his arrow on the string, pulled the string back smoothly, held his breath, and released the string just as gently. It slapped loudly against his glove and the arrow took off with a furious buzz. A second later it split the apple in two and disappeared into the garden.
“Hooray,” Lun cried merrily, jumping up and down.
“Ah, well done!” cried Lia, clapping her hands happily. “You’re going to win that tournament. You’re bound to! Where are you going?”
“To get the arrow.”
“Wait!” She grabbed hold of his hand, stood up on tiptoe, and whispered, “Leave it. I’ll give it back to you later.”
He gave her a look of joyful surprise. Lia smiled, kissed him on the cheek, and cooed: “And now go! We’ll celebrate your victory tonight.”
He was going to say something else to her, but the girl put her finger to his lips, smiled enchantingly once again, and walked to the fountain without looking back. Djok hesitated for a moment and left the garden. It was time for him to prepare for the tournament, and Lia was expecting him to win.
The girl waited for five minutes, then walked down the garden. She pulled up the arrow that was stuck in the ground and examined it carefully.
Excellent. Lun was busy with his little boat, her father was with his friends, nobody would miss her for a while.
She had to get the arrow to a certain person as quickly as possible, and then there would be a reward waiting for her from the Master. She smiled the smile that Djok loved so much.
* * *
“What do you make of this town, Eroch?” Endargassa asked.
“A barbarous place, Tresh Endargassa,” the elderly guard riding beside the prince replied deferentially.
Eroch was an elf of the old school, and his attitude toward humans was highly disdainful. Endargassa did not agree with his old friend and k’lissang. The houses of the dark elves had to maintain relations with humans. No matter how strange, uncultured, aggressive, and treacherous people were—they had power, and only their warriors, acting together with the elves, were capable of annihilating the orcs.
And this was why the leaders of the nine dark houses had taken counsel together and decided that the time had come to unite the forces of men and elves into a single army to oppose those who dared to call themselves the Firstborn. This was why the eldest son of the head of the House of the Black Rose had come to Valiostr with a formal missive for the king. This was why Endargassa’s younger brother had been sent on a similar mission to the Border Kingdom.
“You are wrong, Eroch; men hold power, and without them we will never finally deal with our cousins.” This was not the first time that Endargassa had begun this conversation.
“Perhaps they do hold power, Tresh Endargassa, but men are avaricious, cruel, and very dangerous. We will deal with the orcs without their help.”
“Thousands of years of war with the Firstborn prove that this is not true, my friend Eroch. We are equally matched, and nobody can gain the upper hand. The army of men is the force that can alter the course of centuries of war in our favor.”
“Men fight in ranks, they have cavalry, they are not accustomed to fighting in the forest. Or at least, most of them are not.”
“Then we shall have to drive the orcs out of the forest,” Endargassa said with an indifferent shrug.
“Before he sent us on our way, your father should have remembered ‘The Legend of Soft Gold,’” Eroch sighed.
“‘Best defend your own house yourself’?” the prince cited. “Of course, I remember that. But that is only a song. And the events in it never really happened.”
“Of course, Tresh Endargassa, of course. But the legend expresses the wise lesson that one should not trust men. Otherwise, after the orcs they will set about us.”
Endargassa merely grinned. Eroch was certainly no great supporter of an alliance with men.
“Men can be dangerous. And you haven’t even put on your armor!” The bodyguard’s words had a reproachful ring to them.
Endargassa was dressed in a light silk shirt with a black rose embroidered on the chest, and he certainly looked vulnerable among his forty-nine-warrior escort, with their glinting armor of bluish metal.
“If you wish to swelter in a case of iron in this heat—that is your business,” said Endargassa. “And then you are here with me, so what could possibly happen?”
Eroch did not say anything, he just assumed an even more somber expression and glanced around with his yellow eyes at the human crowd that had lined the streets in order to gaze at the honored guests.
“And here is the reception party,” said Endargassa when he saw a group of twenty horsemen clad in heavy armor galloping toward his party.
“Tresh Endargassa, in the name of our glorious King Stalkon of the Broken Heart, I am happy to welcome you and your companions to the capital of Valiostr!” declared a horseman in white and green armor. “I am Count Pelan Gelmi, captain of the royal guard, and I have been instructed to escort you to the royal palace.”
“Very well,” said the elf with a nod. “We will follow you, Milord Gelmi.”
The knight nodded, and they rode on. The horsemen parted the festive crowd, making way for the honored guest. Milord Gelmi reined back his horse and rode alongside the prince.
“As you may have noticed, Tresh Endargassa, today is a holiday in our town, that is why the streets are so full of people.”
“And I thought they had all come out to welcome me,” the elf jested.
“Naturally, that as well,” Milord Gelmi replied, embarrassed. “Are you aware that today is the annual royal tournament? His Majesty has invited you to join him in the royal box.”
“Most certainly.”
“At the end of the tournament our bowmen will try their skill. They say you are a fine shot, Tresh Endargassa. Would you care to join the contest?”
“No, thank you,” said the prince, with his features set in a faint smile. “I think that would not be entirely honor—”
There was a sudden movement in the air
, and an arrow struck Endargassa in the neck. The elf swayed, clutched at his throat, gasped, and fell from his steed onto the street.
The dark elves grabbed their s’kashes, the men clutched their swords, the crowd scattered wildly, trampling each other underfoot, someone dashed to the body, hoping to stop the blood, but it was already too late. Endargassa, the crown prince of the House of the Black Rose, was dead.
“The marksman’s on the roof,” someone shouted.
“Men will answer for the death of my lord!” roared Eroch, holding the body of his prince tight against himself.
Count Pelan Gelmi was pale-faced and frightened. He was surrounded by fifty grim and furious dark elves, who had just lost their noble kinsman.
We have to act, or swords will be drawn! he thought.
“Chuch! Cut off the street! Brakès, gallop to the king with the news. Darkness, find that marksman! Paru, summon the entire guard here! Don’t just stand there! Do something!”
The men went dashing off to carry out their orders; the count dismounted and leaned down over the dead elf. Eroch was kneeling in a puddle of blood, with his s’kash lying beside him. He had broken the arrow and pulled it out of Endargassa’s neck, and the two harmless pieces were lying in the blood.
“If you do not find the assassin, we shall take our own revenge for the death of Tresh Endargassa,” Eroch said with bitter hatred.
The count picked up the pieces of the arrow, getting bloodstains on his expensive formal gloves.
“Chuch!”
“Yes, milord.” One of the knight’s men rode up and reined in his horse.
“Do you recognize that?” the count asked the lieutenant of the guard, sticking a piece of the arrow under his nose.
“Ye-es…” Chuch was just as surprised as the count. “That arrow…”
“I think we shall catch your lord’s killer within the hour,” Lord Gelmi interrupted, turning to Eroch.
“We will wait … for an hour.”
* * *
There was still at least an hour to go until the beginning of the royal tournament, but Djok was already hurrying on his way to the field where the main competitions were due to be held. For one thing, he was curious to find out who would compete in the general combat, and for another, he needed to prepare—check the wind and inspect the area where all the competitions would take place.