Shadow Prowler

“Are the two of them related?” I asked Kli-Kli, leaning down as far toward him as I could.

“Mm, yes, I think he’s her cousin. But he’s definitely a relative of some kind and definitely from the royal line—that’s a fact! Even you can tell that from the idiotic ssa in his name. Right. I’ll go and say good-bye to the dwarf and the gnome,” the goblin muttered, and disappeared.

Miralissa sensed my glance and looked round. The luxurious Miranueh dress was gone, replaced by ordinary male elfin clothes. The tall hairstyle was gone, too, transformed into an ash-gray braid that reached all the way down to her waist. And the elfess, like her companions, had an elfin sword, or s’kash, hanging behind her back and, nestling beside it, a formidable bow and a quiver full of heavy arrows fletched with black feathers.

Unlike human soldiers, the elves have a conservative attitude to weapons, and they normally use only crooked swords or longbows. Other weapons are employed only on an occasional basis.

Uncle’s platoon, however, had all sorts of death-dealing devices with them, from the ordinary swords and crossbows hanging beside their saddlebags to ogre-clubs, battle-mattocks, poleaxes, and bidenhanders. And then every second man had a round shield, too. An impressive little arsenal for an impressive team.

I was greatly surprised by Milord Alistan’s appearance as he gave final instructions to Lieutenant Izmi, who was taking over his command of the guards. He wasn’t wearing his famous armor. It had been replaced by a jacket just like the ones the Wild Hearts were wearing, with metal badges sewn onto it. Of course, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had chain mail or something even heavier on a pack horse, like all the Wild Hearts, but the very fact that the Rat was setting out without the armor that had become like a second skin to him . . .

Meanwhile Alistan finished briefing Izmi and leapt up into the saddle of his huge black steed.

No, really, what was I so worried about? In company like this? With the protection of their swords I was in for a pleasant outing, perhaps with a little miraculous adventure.

“Forward!” shouted Count Markauz, slapping his heels against his horse’s flanks.

“Good luck, Dancer in the Shadows!” The jester whispered his farewell to me in an absolutely normal voice.

May a h’san’kor tear me to pieces. At long last we’re on our way, may all the gods of Siala help us.

20 ON THE WAY

Avendoom had been left behind. The majestic, forbidding walls built of gray stone from the Quarries of Ol had dissolved in the morning mist that the waking sun had startled from the earth and then left to tremble in the air for a few minutes like a frightened white moth. And after that the morning had simply flitted past, like some elusive, phantom bird, and disappeared beyond the horizon to make way for a scorching hot noon.

All the Wild Hearts had taken off their jackets and were wearing just their shirts. The only exception was Arnkh, in the eternal chain mail that he never removed even for a second. Perhaps if I’d been born beside the Forests of Zagraba and was used to expecting an attack by orcs at any minute, I would have put on Markauz’s armor, let alone chain mail, even in this heat.

I had also unfastened the collar of my shirt and rolled up the sleeves—something that I greatly regretted when the evening came and my skin had turned a magnificent shade of crimson, so that for the next few days it became a serious obstacle to my enjoyment of life.

Markauz and the elves led the way along the road, followed by the Wild Hearts, in twos and threes. At first Marmot kept me company—and he proved to be a rather talkative and interesting companion—then we were joined by Hallas and Deler.

The sure-handed dwarf had managed to make a long tube out of the materials at hand and stick it into his cask of wine. Now, when Uncle wasn’t watching them, the dwarf and the gnome took sly sips of the nectar of the gods, occasionally exclaiming in delight at this heavenly bliss vouchsafed to them. They were both gradually getting merrier and merrier, and I began to feel worried that one of them would overdo it, slip out of his saddle, and smash his head on the ground. But no, they simply got a bit red in the face and started singing a bold soldier’s song about some campaign or other. Uncle, who was talking to Eel, kept casting suspicious glances at these new singers and his face gradually turned darker and darker. The platoon leader clearly sensed that there was something shady going on, but he simply couldn’t figure out how his soldiers could suddenly be drunk.

The dwarf discoursed with the air of a co

“You can relax in the Forests of Zagraba, when the elves hang you upside down from a tree for insulting a princess of their house,” Marmot retorted, and stroked his pet ling.

That finally soured the discussion of the elfess, and the gnome and the dwarf launched into a two-hour philosophical debate about the advantages and disadvantages of weapons with long handles. As always, Hallas and Deler contradicted each other furiously, constantly clenching their fists and trading lavish insults.

As was only to be expected, the argument between the gnome and the dwarf ended in a tie. And after another hour or so, Deler made a truly difficult decision and declared that enough wine had been tasted for one day, otherwise they’d soon have to start looking for another cask, and the likelihood of finding one on the road was illusory to say the least, not to say equal to zero. For some reason Lamplighter, who was riding last in our unit, found this last phrase highly amusing. He was tootling some simple little tune on his reed pipe, and I must admit that this music was better than the first time I had heard Mumr play—this time it only made me want to howl mournfully at the moon.

I jabbed my heels into Little Bee’s sides, hurried forward, and quietly fell in behind the horses of Miralissa and Markauz.

“According to my calculations, if we keep moving at this pace, we’ll reach Ra