Shadow Chaser: Book Two of The Chronicles of Siala

by Alexey Pehov

  “Oh, mother!” squeaked Kli-Kli, who was standing beside me, and at that very second the priest pulled up his sword, took a long step back, and said:

  “Begin!”

  Neither of the warriors began until the priest had left the arena. And all the time Meilo kept eyes his fixed fiercely on Lamplighter, who gazed idly at a spot that only he could see, somewhere up above his enemy’s head.

  After six long heartbeats, Meilo gave a menacing growl and attacked first.

  He took a sweeping stride forward, at the same time setting his left hand on the long handle of his sword, and the bidenhander flew off his shoulder as lightly as a feather. Meilo added speed to the sword’s flight by twisting his body, and struck a terrible blow, lunging at the chest.

  As soon as Meilo started to move, the Wild Heart defied my expectations by stepping toward his opponent. I think I gasped, expecting the flying blade to slice him in half, but the Wild Heart’s huge bidenhander, which only a second earlier had been cradled in his arm like a sleeping baby, suddenly awoke and blocked his enemy’s thrust.

  Cla-ang! The sound echoed round the courtyard, and the count’s servants took a step back.

  Lamplighter grunted and attacked his opponent’s unprotected flank. And this time Meilo surprised me—he moved almost right up to Mumr and turned his back on the flashing sword.

  The crowd gasped out loud.

  Meilo flung his weapon behind him and caught the thrust of Mumr’s sword on the flat of the blade. Cla-ang!

  Without pausing for a moment, Meilo completed his turn; his sword flew out from behind his back and started to descend, threatening to chop off his opponent’s hands. Lamplighter deftly covered himself by thrusting the point of his blade at the other man’s face, countered the blow, and immediately pushed his sword farther forward. My eyes were not fast enough to follow what was happening in the arena. The huge swords flashed to and fro like demented moths, whistling through the air and colliding with a loud crash, parting and then clashing again. At times all the opponents’ movements fused into a single blur, and I could only tell that they were both still alive a few seconds later, when an attack from one of the swordsmen ran into a block.

  “Phew-ew-ew!” Clang! Clang! “Phew-ew!”

  “Aaah! Ooh! Oh!” the crowd sang in response to every stroke and every thrust.

  Meilo began spinning like a top again and swung hard, putting his very soul into the blow. Mumr jumped back and dropped the hilt of his sword down low, so that the blade rose up vertically, and Meilo’s blow ran into a wall of steel.

  Cla-ang!

  The swords wove cobwebs in the air, spinning round in a glittering blizzard of steel, striking against each other, soaring upward and threatening to wound the very sky and then descending, dreaming of slicing through the earth. The two warriors were not fighting, they were dancing, dicing with death, and their own lives were the stakes. Meilo’s sword leapt high in the air, as if it were alive; Lamplighter dashed into the breach that opened up and tried to strike home.

  But he could not …

  Balistan Pargaid had certainly not wasted his money on this servant. Meilo stepped back quickly, while continuing the movement of his sword, and now Mumr’s bidenhander went flying upward, allowing his opponent to strike.

  Lamplighter squatted down and caught the blow almost on the crosspiece of his sword. Then he straightened up sharply and thrust his hilt hard forward. Meilo’s sword very nearly struck its master in the face, the attack was so unexpected. To avoid the deflected stroke, the villain recoiled and started backing away as Mumr came at him.

  Only a few minutes had passed since the beginning of the duel, but the faces of the two warriors were already gleaming with sweat.

  Balistan’s dog had been seriously startled by the sudden assault and now that Lamplighter had almost sent him to join his fathers, he was watching him with more caution and respect, noting every movement, no matter how small.

  “It’s time to kill him,” Hallas growled. “You can’t wave those wagon shafts around for very long.”

  The gnome was right. The immensely heavy swords might be flying around like feathers now, but fatigue would come sooner or later, and then the one who was more tired would lose.

  Cla-a-ang!

  With a pitiful groan, the swords came together in a fleeting kiss and immediately leapt apart again.

  And then there were more lacy cobwebs woven in the air, creating a beautiful, glittering pattern that had to end in death.

  Meilo jumped at Mumr, grunting as he struck blow after blow, pressing him back.

  “Ha-a-a!”

  Cla-ang!

  “Ha-a-a!”

  Cla-ang!

  “Ha-a-a!”

  Cla-ang!

  Meilo’s final blow was especially powerful. Lamplighter’s sword flew upward, opening up a breach, and his enemy instantly struck at his unprotected head. Mumr pushed his sword forward, and the two blades froze in the air, with each opponent pressing against the other’s sword, trying to force it back into his face.

  For a few moments there was silence in the arena.

  Meilo became too involved with pressing and Lamplighter ducked smartly under his sword and pushed his opponent away from him. Tumbling forward, Meilo began spinning round faster than a goblin shaman after a breakfast of magic mushrooms, turning into a blur too fast for the eye to follow. A streak of lightning, a shrill whistle in the air …

  Lamplighter guessed what was coming and jumped up in the air.

  “Oh, mother!” said the jester, covering his eyes with his hands and watching the fight through the gaps between his fingers. “Tell me that he’s still alive!”

  “He’s alive!” said Hallas, who was clutching his battle-mattock with white knuckles.

  The gnome was right. Mumr was still standing, although there was an expression of furious annoyance on his face. He had almost been caught out.

  “The score’s not looking good for us,” Honeycomb rumbled. “It’s time for Mumr to stop playing with him.”

  Cla-ang! Cla-ang! the swords sang.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock, went the clock of the gods, counting away the seconds of life.

  Meilo straightened his arms suddenly and stabbed at Mumr’s neck. And then again my eyes were too slow to follow what was happening in the arena. In an instant Lamplighter’s gloved left hand was clutching the center of his blade. As if he were holding an ordinary staff, he pushed his enemy’s sword away from him and tried to strike at his throat with the point of his bidenhander. Surprised by this audacity, Meilo recoiled. But that didn’t stop Mumr. Still holding his sword like a battle-staff, he tried to hit Meilo with the knob of the hilt, aiming at his face. Mumr’s blows were “incorrect” and reckless, and Trug retreated in confusion, barely managing to avoid them.

  “Ha-a! Ha-a!”

  The wide-swinging movements of the Wild Heart’s “staff” gave his opponent no chance to gather himself for a single moment. The very air seemed to groan as the blades clashed. The sweat was streaming down Trug’s face.

  Mumr resorted to cunning. He shifted his right hand onto the blade of his sword, too, setting it close to the guard, and holding the sword like a cross, then struck a hard blow at Meilo’s head with the heavy hilt.

  “Ra-a-a-a!” A wave of sound ran through the lines of spectators.

  After that everything happened very quickly.

  Lamplighter pulled back, and immediately Meilo was there beside him, preparing to attack.… I missed the blow that followed; all I could see was that Mumr had been quicker and struck his opponent in the chest with the heavy hilt.

  The crowd gasped and started to buzz. I swear by Sagot that even I heard the crunch of bone!

  “A hit!” Hallas gasped, with his eyes glued on the fight.

  Meilo cried out in pain, staggered back, and pressed his left hand against his chest. Lamplighter stepped forward, hooked a foot round his ankle, and jerked it upward sharply, using a wrestling move.

/>   The tug on his leg threw Meilo off balance. Lamplighter dropped his sword and shoved his opponent hard on the chest with his free left hand, adding speed to his fall.

  Trug crashed down onto the trampled earth with his full weight, striking the back of his head against the ground. Balistan Pargaid’s warrior seemed to lose consciousness for a moment, or at least he lay there without moving, although he was still clutching his sword in his right hand.

  Mumr picked up his own sword, stood on his opponent’s bidenhander, cast a quick glance at Algert Dalli, and thrust his weapon hard into the chest of his opponent just as he was trying to get up, pinning him to the ground. Meilo twitched once and stopped moving. A puddle of blood began spreading out under the warrior’s body.

  Lamplighter pulled his sword free with an effort, stepped back a few paces from the body of the defeated man, and bowed, swaying once, but still remaining on his feet.

  Algert Dalli rose and his voice rang out across the courtyard.

  “By steel, fire, blood, and by the will of the gods I confirm that judgment has been given and the guilty party punished! So be it!”

  “What do you mean, punished?” howled Balistan Pargaid, beside himself with fury.

  “Do you doubt the judgment of the goddess, milord?” asked Algert Dalli, raising one eyebrow in an expression of surprise.

  “No. I do not doubt it,” the count said, forcing the words out.

  Whatever else he might be, Balistan Pargaid was certainly no fool.

  “Good, then I invite you to a festive dinner to celebrate the passing of judgment.”

  “Thank you,” said Count Pargaid. “But I have business to attend to. My men and I will leave immediately.”

  “As you wish.” Algert Dalli had no intention of trying to detain him. “A safe journey to you.”

  Count Balistan Pargaid replied to these words with an irritated nod and left the arena without even glancing back at the body of Meilo Trug.

  The Wild Hearts crowded round Mumr, fussing over him. Hallas was as pleased as if he had won the victory over the adversary all on his own.

  “You know what, Harold-Barold,” said Kli-Kli, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of carrot, “I’m a bit worried about our mutual friend, Balistan Pargaid, withdrawing like that after he just spent two weeks chasing us. He gave up a bit too easily, don’t you think? And then Lafresa has disappeared somewhere.… Oh, I have the feeling they’re preparing some dirty trick for us!”

  “Just chew on your carrot and shut up, Kli-Kli. Let Alistan and Miralissa do the worrying,” I told him.

  But I had a feeling Kli-Kli was right.

  13

  CROSSROADS

  That day Lamplighter was the hero of the castle. It’s no secret that what the inhabitants of the Border Kingdom value most in a man is his mastery of a weapon, and that morning Mumr had demonstrated that he certainly knew how to use a sword. All day long the soldiers of the castle garrison treated our hero with respectful deference, as if he were made out of the finest Nizin porcelain.

  In the evening Milord Algert Dalli held a feast at which all the warriors of the castle were present. Mumr was seated in the place of honor and enough food for an entire regiment was heaped up around him.

  Some of Lamplighter’s glory was even reflected onto me and the Wild Hearts. We sat beside him, at the same table as all the noble-born. Frankly, I’d rather hide away in the darkest corner of a hall, at the very farthest table, otherwise I feel too exposed. I think that pair of gluttons, Hallas and Deler, took the whole thing more simply than anyone else—they just gobbled up and swilled down everything that they could lay their hands on without the slightest embarrassment, belching deafeningly and constantly striking up new arguments with each other.

  All the endless toasts raised to Milord Algert Dalli, his lovely daughter, Milord Alistan Markauz, the glorious elves, Master Lamplighter, the death of the orcs, the Border Kingdom, and so on and so forth had already set my head spinning.

  Deler was red-faced from so much drinking, Hallas was feeling drowsy, Marmot’s tongue seemed to be tied in knots and, to Kli-Kli’s intense delight, he roused squeals from the lovely ladies by trying to stuff Invincible into a jug of wine. The goblin was really enjoying life, and he shared his joy with everyone else around him. The only ones displeased with his performance were Algert Dalli’s own personal fools, who watched the little jester with poorly concealed envy and hatred. It looked as if they could well end up giving Kli-Kli a good drubbing by the end of the evening’s festivities.

  One dish followed another, one song followed another, and when it became absolutely unbearable to sit at the table any longer, Honeycomb nudged me with his elbow:

  “Did you hear? Tomorrow we set out bright and early; if the gods are kind to us, we’ll be in Zagraba in two days’ time.”

  “I can’t say the idea pleases me all that much. I reckon it’s a lot safer sitting between stone walls than wandering through some gloomy old forest.”

  “There are no safe places, Harold,” Honeycomb chuckled. “Death will creep in even through stone walls, it just depends what fate was written down for you when you were born. I remember there was a witch who predicted that Arnkh would drown. Arnkh just laughed at her, but now you see the way things have turned out.… If you’re afraid of wolves, don’t go to Zagraba.”

  “If there were only wolves there…”

  “True enough,” the giant agreed, taking a mouthful from his mug of beer. “Like I said—it’s fate.”

  “I’ll go and get some sleep,” I said, getting up from the table. “I can’t sit here any longer.”

  “Stay there, Harold-Barold, swig your wine,” said Kli-Kli, jumping to his feet. “No point in tempting fate!”

  “Meaning what?” I asked, puzzled.

  “There’s a rumor going round the guards at the gates that Balistan Pargaid has left.”

  “So what?”

  “When he arrived here with his men, there were twenty of them, but when he left, somehow there were only eighteen. One was run through by Mumr, and that leaves nineteen. Where’s the other one got to?”

  “Paleface!” I felt my mouth turn dry instantly. “Maybe I’ll stay and drink a little more after all.”

  “That’s right,” the goblin said with an approving nod, “wandering around the castle on your own would not be good for you.”

  “Have they tried to find him?”

  “Are you joking? They’ve crept into all the nooks and crannies.… But in a humungous place like this, you could hide a mammoth and no one would find it until it died and started to stink. So imagine how hard it is to find a man.”

  “And you didn’t tell me this before?”

  “I didn’t want to upset you and spoil your appetite,” Kli-Kli said, giving me an innocent look.

  “Scat, get out of my sight. You’re worse than the plague.”

  “Don’t take it so badly, Dancer, after all, we’re with you. I think I’ll take a drink as well, to keep you company. Do you think they’ll bring me some milk if I ask?”

  “Maybe…” The only thought in my head right now was of Paleface.

  For some reason I never doubted for a second that he had stayed behind after the count’s detachment left in order to dispatch your humble servant into the light. Thoughts like that did nothing to improve my mood, and I could barely wait for the end of this dreary rigmarole of pompous speechifying and singing to the health of all the warriors. When I did finally get back to my room, to settle my nerves I checked the windows, the doors, and the chimney. The chimney was too narrow; there wasn’t much chance Paleface would be able to get in that way. The bar on the door was a hefty oak beam, and the windows were fifty yards above the ground; there was no way Paleface could climb up that way—not unless he could fly, that is.

  Kli-Kli, Hallas, and Deler had fallen asleep long ago, but I still couldn’t nod off. I just lay there on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, until eventually sleep overcame me, too.
r />   * * *

  I was woken by a fiendish howl of pain that made me tumble out of bed, grab my crossbow, and squat down. I swung my head around drowsily, trying not to make myself a target and wondering what exactly was going on.

  “What happened?” yelled Deler.

  “Hey! Is everything all right in there?” someone shouted outside the door.

  “Who screamed like that?” Deler asked again.

  “Let’s have some light!”

  “Open the door!” Honeycomb shouted, pounding on it with his fists.

  There was a scraping sound and a shower of sparks, and a candle lit up in Hallas’s hand.

  “Why are you yelling like fishwives at the market, it’s all over,” the gnome grumbled, lifting the candle to light a torch.

  “Hey, you! Do you hear me? Open the door!” Honeycomb shouted, straining his lungs to the limit.

  “Stop yelling! Just a moment!” said Hallas, moving the bolt to open the door and let Honeycomb and Eel into the room. Some of Algert Dalli’s soldiers peeped in at us from the corridor.

  “What happened in here?”

  “Some mountain-climber tried to get through the window and I swelped him with Deler’s ax, to teach him not to go disturbing decent folks at night by climbing in their windows,” Hallas muttered.

  The window was open, Deler’s bloody ax was standing by the wall, and there was a severed hand lying on the floor. Someone had just lost the end of his left arm.

  It turned out that Hallas had woken up in the night and taken a walk to answer a gnomish call of nature. When he came back to the room, he had decided to light up his pipe, but he opened the window so that the room wouldn’t get smoky. Literally a minute later a hand had appeared from outside, followed by another. Hallas had quite correctly decided that normal people sleep at that time of night, and don’t go climbing up sheer walls like spiders, so he’d picked up the dwarf’s ax and hit the hand that was nearest to him.

  “And then you lot started yelling,” the gnome concluded.

  “Honeycomb, let’s go and check,” said Eel, making for the door.

  “What for?” Hallas asked in amazement. “After a tumble from this height, he’s not just going to get up and walk away.”