Shadow Prowler

The rest of the guards were following the prince into another corridor.

“An extra crossbow won’t come amiss,” Vartek said with a nod, accepting our company into his little unit.

We turned into a wide, dark corridor where there were no torches or lanterns burning. They had either been put out or quite simply never been lit. The only light was about a hundred paces ahead of us, so we almost had to feel our way along. Fortunately, no one attacked us, only Deler started groaning and hissing when someone stood on his foot in the darkness. In this part of the palace four corridors came together all leading into an immense hall with mirror walls. Of course, it wasn’t as gigantic as the throne room, but it was quite big enough for the remaining supporters of the Nameless One to assemble in. They were crowded together in the center, waiting with their weapons drawn. About forty men in a circle. There was something large and dark behind them, covered with a black cloth. I couldn’t really see what it was—the defenders’ backs screened the unknown object very securely.

We had cut off all four corridors: the prince and his guards were approaching from one side, Izmi’s unit from a second, Alistan Markauz, in his beloved armor, was creeping up with his spearmen from a third, closing the ring. And we were on the fourth side, with five guards and the Wild Hearts. Now there was simply nowhere for the intruders to go.

“So there you are,” grumbled Uncle, giving the gnome and the dwarf a look of disapproval. “Where did you get to?”

“We’ve been having some fun,” said Deler, casually wiping the blade of his poleax on the rag hanging at his belt.

“All right, Vartek!” Izmi shouted from the far end of the hall.

The eight crossbowmen moved forward and the army sklots froze in predatory anticipation, ready to spew bolts at the target at the first word of command.

“Hey you!” barked Markauz. His voice sounded muffled, coming from under his helmet, which was so much like a rat’s head. “Surrender, and the king promises you a fair trial.”

The reply that followed from the ranks of the Nameless One’s supporters advised the king what he could do with his extremely fair trial and where he could stick it. These lads had committed at least three crimes against the crown, and so they had absolutely no grounds to hope for the king’s mercy. You could say they were as good as dead already.

Markauz gave a barely perceptible nod, and the sklots all clicked in unison. Eight bolts flew straight through eight enemies. The captain of the guards had no intention of throwing his warriors into a bloody battle: he thought it easier to shoot the traitors from a distance.

“Reload!” Vartek commanded loudly.

Resting their crossbows on the ground, the guardsmen set their feet in the stirrups of their weapons and furiously set about winding the mechanism that drew the bowstrings taut.

While the soldiers were making their crossbows ready for action, a man emerged from the ranks of the enemy. Without speaking, he lifted up his arms and slowly turned round his own axis, at the same time swaying from side to side, like a tree battling against a gusty autumn wind. I’d already seen this happen once that night, and it looked to me like we were about to have serious problems. If someone didn’t do something during these few seconds, the power of this ogric shamanism would come crashing down on our heads like a massive club.

“Alistan!” I roared. “They have a shaman!”

The crossbowmen had only just finished tightening their strings and now they were putting in the bolts, but they were too late. Far too late.

I fired. First one bolt, then the other. And I missed. Either my hands were shaking too much, or death had decided to spare the shaman just at that moment, but the bolts went flying wide, with the second one just nicking the sorcerer’s gray and blue guards uniform.

We were all saved by some soldier from Izmi’s unit who threw his spear. The shaman was either half-witted or lacking in skill, but in any case he was too slow to put up a barrier. The heavy weapon flew the length of the hall like a swallow and struck the sorcerer in the stomach, throwing him backward into the crowd of the Nameless One’s supporters.

And that was when it happened.

I don’t know why it became active just then—perhaps it was angered by the death of the shaman, or perhaps it had been under the sorcerer’s control—but the hall suddenly echoed with a furious roar, and the creature that had been hiding under the black drapery torn down from some wall in the palace pushed aside the last remaining intruders and stood there before us.

“An ogre!” the guardsmen shouted.

Their voices were full of genuine terror.

I stared hard at this creature that I had only ever seen before in pictures. These villains had managed to bring a genuine, live ogre into the palace! A member of a race that had not set foot on the land of Valiostr for thousands of years.

It is hard for the uninformed to believe that an ogre is a distant relative of the orcs and the elves. It is three and a half yards tall, with glassy, blue-black agate skin and a face in which the only similarity to the elves and orcs lies in the black lips, the huge fangs, and the ash-gray mane of hair.

The little black pupils of the ogre’s eyes almost fused into the irises against the background of the light-blue whites. The muzzle, like a wild boar’s, and the immense pointed ears, each the size of a large burdock leaf, were repulsive. The ogre had no neck at all, and its head seemed to grow straight out of its shoulders. Its muscles rippled like steel-hard cables across a powerful, square-set body that was clad in the skin of a polar bear. And to add to the list of our problems, the monster was holding a massive ax in its hand. With a bit of effort, that notched blade could easily have chopped through the column supporting the façade of the Royal Library.

“Everybody back!” Honeycomb growled. “Against the walls! You crossbowmen, look lively now!”

The guardsmen all darted aside and started withdrawing into the corridors. The crossbowmen fired another salvo. And as malevolent fate would have it, only one of them hit the target. The bolt slammed into the upper right section of the ogre’s chest, forcing it to take a step back and . . .

And that was all, actually. The entire effect. According to rumors, these creatures had two hearts, and in order to kill an ogre, you had to destroy both. So what could you expect if the bolt had not even nicked any vital organs? I took a magical bolt out of my bag. It looked as if I was going to use up all my emergency supplies before I even got to Hrad Spein.

“Marmot, from the right! Loudmouth, move in from behind! Now we’ll carve up this tough little nut!” Honeycomb was already advancing on the ogre, whirling his terrible ogre-club above his head. The chain co