Shadow Prowler

“Gold won’t save my head,” Markun muttered.

“Nothing will save your head if you sell the Horse!” Paleface growled, begi

Several of Markun’s minions looked round from their mugs of beer to see what was going on at their chief’s table.

“I’ve no intention of selling the Horse!” Markun snapped, slamming his plump hand down on the table. “We’ll just take the money and leave the buyer floating under the piers! Do you really think I’m stupid enough to give that Stone to anyone except the servant of the Master? You’d do better to handle your own assignment and put an end to our common problem at long last.”

“I’ll put an end to him,” Paleface growled in a more conciliatory tone. “Harold won’t be in this world for much longer.”

“That’s what you said five days ago,” Markun said with a repulsive giggle. “I’m begi

“You’d do better to think about how to keep the Horse safe and sound until the client comes to collect it.”

“What’s so hard about keeping it safe?” Markun asked with sincere surprise. “I keep it with me all the time.”

The head of the guild snapped his fingers casually and one of his bandits immediately placed the Horse of Shadows on the table.

I’ve always said that the Doralissians are rather strange creatures. Only they could have called something that looks like the phallus of some ancient pagan god the Horse of Shadows. If that’s a Horse, then I’m the emperor of the Lakeside Empire.

“Hey, Gozmo!” Markun shouted across the entire room. “Where’s this buyer of . . .”

Unfortunately, he never finished what he wanted to say. Several things happened at once.

Bleating repulsively with that remarkable skill that they have, Doralissians started ru

This time the Doralissians almost managed to surprise me. Ten of the goats had been bright enough to bring crossbows, but they were still too stupid to make use of their advantage. They should have fired first and then got involved in the fighting. But as the goats always do, they got everything backward. The ones without crossbows went charging forward stupidly, leaving their archer brothers behind them. And the ones with crossbows turned out not to be blessed with the gift of patience either: They decided that the sooner they fired, the better.

So they fired. Of ten bolts, three hit the wall, six hit the backs of the charging goat-men, and only one—clearly by complete accident—pierced the shoulder of one of Markun’s men.

The Doralissians just don’t know how to play their trump cards. Having killed six of their own kind, the goats stopped in amazement, wondering how they had managed to hit their brothers-in-arms. Markun’s lads, who hadn’t been expecting to find themselves in the middle of a goat farm, jumped up from the tables—knocking over their chairs—and grabbed hold of their weapons. They had more than enough time while the Doralissians were dithering like genuine . . . er . . . Doralissians.

At the very begi

“The Horse! Our Horse!” Glok started yelling when he spotted the Stone standing all alone on a table.

“Thieves!” the Doralissians suddenly started bleating, waking from their stupor.

And then the fun really began!

Howls, yelling, a genuine ruckus with weapons clashing. Dead and wounded, blood flowing everywhere. The goat-men were really wound up and intent on a

The bandits fought back desperately against their advancing enemies, swinging swords, knives, and stools, but the sides were still unevenly matched, and the ranks of the guild were thi

Markun was squealing something in a cowardly voice from behind the backs of his cutthroats, while they howled and swore, trying to keep the furious avengers away. Paleface was spi

One of the Doralissians managed to reach the Horse. With a jubilant bleat, he tossed his ax aside and lifted the sacred relic high above his head, like some triumphant knight who has been awarded the cup at a tournament. One of Markun’s lads immediately took his chance and used his knife, grabbing the Horse out of the dying goat’s hands.

And at that moment new actors appeared on the stage.

Vukhdjaaz came leaping out of the wall, frightening the besieged men to death, but the goats didn’t realize what was happening, or they simply didn’t care who they battered with their clubs—those creatures had absolutely no instinct of self-preservation.

“Vukhdjaaz is clever,” the demon a

The demon roared in triumph and reached out for the treasure. But the boldest of the Doralissians, despising the danger and the likely consequences, dashed at the demon who had dared to lay claim to their holy of holies. Vukhdjaaz was seriously upset and he began a genuine goat slaughter. The demon was obviously a bit on the blind side, too, because a couple of times he missed and his hands hit the walls, gouging out large holes. So large, in fact, that two of the bandits who realized that guarding Markun’s corpse was not very interesting and actually rather dangerous for their health, slipped out through these newly created doorways into the street.

Vukhdjaaz was engrossed in the sporting exercise of reducing the number of Doralissians in Siala. I saw the clever demon grab Glok by the back of the neck and bite off the one-horned goat’s head, then start flailing left and right with his hands.

Surprisingly enough, I even spotted Paleface in the melee of those still left alive. The bright lad was sneaking along the wall toward one of the holes that Vukhdjaaz had made. I swear on Sagot himself, he was about to slip away yet again!