Shadow Prowler

“Ah, stop going on like that. You’ll soon get used to it,” Lamplighter consoled me.

He was wearing armor that consisted of strips of steel fitted closely together. Catching my curious glance, he smiled: “A magnificent thing for anyone who likes swinging a bindenhander from side to side. It doesn’t cramp your movements and your grips.”

Instead of a helmet, Mumr tied a thin strip of cloth round his forehead to prevent his hair from getting into his eyes.

“Are we off?” asked Uncle, looking at the elfess.

“Yes,” she commanded tersely, but then she thought for a moment and added: “You take over command.”

Uncle accepted the suggestion as only natural. Unlike the platoon sergeant, Miralissa didn’t know what his men were capable of.

“Hallas, Deler—to the front! You have the strongest armor, in case . . .”

Uncle didn’t say any more. Everybody understood in case of what. If disaster struck, the soldiers in the strongest armor might survive a hit from a heavy crossbow bolt and distract the crossbowmen’s attention from their less well-protected comrades.

“Have you forgotten about me, sergeant?” I heard a muffled voice say behind me. “I’m with them.”

I turned round to see who it was. Instead of his old chain mail, Arnkh had put on heavy armor. Plus a helmet that looked like an acorn and completely covered his face, with narrow slits for the eyes. Then there were the leg pieces, shoulder pieces, chain-mail gloves, and the round shield. A real wall of steel.

In fact, almost everybody had a shield, including Lamplighter, Honeycomb, and the elves. My companions were all set for a good fight, and they would be very disappointed if it turned out that the fire in the village was just another ordinary blaze caused by the negligence of some drunken peasant.

This time we didn’t hurry, but moved along slowly, gazing attentively into the undergrowth, anticipating a possible trap. There was already a smell of smoke and soot in the air, and we still had a long way to ride to Vishki. Kli-Kli was pulling faces as if he had a toothache—the smoke was tickling his throat and stinging his eyes. And, by the way, the goblin himself was not wearing any chain mail. Since when has a traveling cloak been considered any kind of protection?

“Kli-Kli, why did you pester me like that and not put anything on yourself?” I hissed, jabbing a finger at the chain mail covering my chest.

“Oh, they don’t have a size to fit me anyway,” the goblin answered casually. “And apart from that, I’m very hard to hit. I’m too small.”

“Quiet there!” Loudmouth hissed in a

We crossed a wooden bridge over a wide stream, or a little river, whichever you prefer. The water was flowing under it at the speed of an obese snail, and the streambed was overgrown with some kind of swamp grass. A bend and a sudden halt.

“Mother of mine!” Uncle explained with a quiet whistle.

The road was blocked with tree trunks. The straight, neat young pine trees with their branches trimmed off had been placed on top of each other and there were ba

The flag of death. The ba

As soon as they spotted us, the men behind the barricade raised their bows at the ready. And behind our backs pikemen crept out of the trap that we had not even noticed and lined up quickly and busily, like ants, cutting off the road.

“Halt!” a harsh voice shouted. “Keep your hands in sight! Who are you?”

“We come in the name of the king!” Miralissa shouted, and to confirm her words, she waved a paper with the gray-and-blue seal of the royal house of Stalkon.

Even at the distance of thirty yards that separated us from the blockage, the seal was clearly visible. The bows in the soldiers’ hands relaxed a little.

My first fright at the unexpected encounter passed. These were not bandits, and they would listen to us before they sent arrows whistling past our ears. And as for the ba

“How do I know that royal seal isn’t false?” the same voice called out.

“I’ll draw you a dozen as good as that one!” one of the pikemen standing behind us shouted.

No one was in any hurry to come out to us.

“Then take a look at this!” Uncle barked. “Or do you want me to ride closer?”

Despite his chain mail, the platoon leader had managed to bare his arm up to the elbow. The tattoo on it was clearly visible.

“Or will any of you white-and-crimson lads dare to say that the Wild Hearts don’t serve the Stalkons?”

No one said so. How could they? If the Wild Hearts were traitors, then who could you trust? Nobody even doubted that the tattoo was genuine. As I said earlier, impostors usually had their tattoos removed together with their arm. Or even with their head.

The bows and pikes were lowered, no longer threatening us. But the chasseurs were in no hurry to put their weapons away. They kept hold of them, just in case they might come in handy.

A soldier with a corporal’s badge on his sleeve came out to us.

“You’re a long way from the Lonely Giant,” he said. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

Like the rest of them, the corporal had his face hidden behind a bandage.

“Is there plague in the village?” Miralissa asked unhurriedly.

“Yes.”

How could some ordinary piece of rag save you when not even the much-vaunted magic of the Order was any help? There was only one thing that anyone who caught the copper plague could do—try to dig his own grave in the time he had left. In ancient times entire cities had died of this terrible illness. Not just cities—entire countries! It’s enough to recall one of the most terrible epidemics, when the still unified Empire was hit by the plague. Nine out of ten people died. And then half of the survivors died. And the next year half of those who were left followed them.

Nothing had been heard of this curse for a very long time. No one had thought about the plague for more than a hundred and fifty years. And now the old disease had reappeared all of a sudden, out of the blue, in the very heart of Valiostr? There was something fishy going on here.