Shadow Blizzard (46 page)

“Master Goblin!” Egrassa called to Glo-Glo. “Have you rested?”

“I’m coming!” the shaman replied. “Resting’s all very well, but now I won’t be able to work any magic more complicated than a fireball for a week. Harold, do I need to tell you there’s no need to spread the word about our conversation?”

“No, you don’t.”

“Well then, that’s just wonderful. Now help an old man get up. Creating that damned spell of mine has swallowed up all my strength.”

I gave the goblin my hand and helped him get to his feet.

“Thank you, my boy. I’ll go and have a word with the elf and your marshal with the mustache.”

Glo-Glo plodded off toward the warriors, who were waiting for him impatiently. I was about to follow him, but Kli-Kli called to me.

“Hey, Harold!”

“Yes?”

“Are you really not angry with me? You know, for … You know what I mean.”

I paused for a moment, trying to find the right words, and she kept her cautious glance fixed on me all the time.

“I’m really not angry, Kli-Kli,” I said eventually. “It’s impossible to stay angry with you for long.”

Did I imagine it, or did I catch a glimpse of relief in her eyes?

“Wordofonner?”

“On the noble word of honor of a master thief, Kli-Kli.”

“Okie-dokie!” she said, more cheerful now. “Only don’t tell anyone, or they’ll all start worrying about me. Trying to take care of me, make sure nothing happens to me. Deler’s worse than a broody hen, if he found out the truth.…”

My lips curved into an impish smile as I imagined Deler’s face when he learned that Kli-Kli was not he, but she. And Hallas would probably be so surprised, he’d swallow his own beard. Kli-Kli obviously read my thoughts, and she gave me a good-natured poke in the ribs. Life is never boring when there’s a goblin around—boy or girl.

*   *   *

The rain didn’t stop until the next morning. In that time we’d tramped darkness only knows how far and built up a pretty good lead over any possible pursuit. At least we hadn’t heard the rumbling of the orcs’ drums again. We stopped to rest for the night beside some huge boulders that gave us some protection against the rain. The halt was appallingly brief. I felt as if I’d only just closed my eyes, and there was Lamplighter shaking me awake.

Milord Alistan finally deigned to notice that I had no more weapons than a nun of Silna. Mumr immediately presented me with his dagger, and Deler attempted to give me the small ax that always hung behind his back, with his shield, but I refused. That’s not my weapon.

“Can you handle a battle staff, Harold?” Egrassa asked unexpectedly.

“No,” I said, rather surprised by the question. “A walking staff, maybe, but only a little bit.”

“It’s all the same. In that case, you’ll be able to manage the spear.” The elf handed me the Gray One’s krasta. “The s’kash and the bow are enough for me, but this will suit you better. At least you can hold your enemies off for a while.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking the weapon.

“Only, if you’re going to swing it, don’t forget that one end’s weighted. I wouldn’t like to see it go flying out of your hands at just the wrong moment,” Egrassa warned me, and after that the question of the weapon never came up again.

With the gray vampire’s legacy in my hands, I felt more confident. And the chain mail that had been left in Mumr’s safekeeping while I took my trip round Hrad Spein inspired me with some hope, too. We had to eat on the march, whatever the gods provided. And that day the gods weren’t very well disposed toward us, or you could say my stomach was never anywhere near full. Kli-Kli ambled along up at the front, behind Glo-Glo, and I kept catching myself thinking I couldn’t get used to the idea that the goblin was really a gobliness.

The group was in fairly high spirits, which was understandable enough—the orcs didn’t seem to be planning to chase us. In his joy, Hallas even started crooning “The Song of the Crazy Miners.”

To build his dam across the stream

The beaver gnaws the bark

The badger digs to build his set

And we carve out the rock!

In arrogance that does not speak

The haughty mountains stand.

Behold our fury surge and seethe

As our mattocks pound and pound.

Who fears the mountains’ arrogance,

With beer himself consoles,

But we drink fury for our strength

And the laughter in our souls.

The granite trembles as we swing

And we hack and hack away.

Beneath the mountains in our mines

No god could last a day.

We are the mountains’ only Kings,

The depths defer to the gnome.

Be wary, then, of entering

The vastness of our home.

We level mountains to the ground,

Make rivers seethe and surge,

And death and blood can only feed

The fury of our rage!

The fire and flood we both do scorn

For the distant battle’s story.

We are the true Bones of the earth—

Behold the Miners’ fury!

“Well, well,” Deler muttered good-naturedly after listening to the song all the way through. “Lucky’s started his crowing again.”

“You’re just envious because your race doesn’t have any songs like that, even in the Zam-da-Mort,” Hallas chuckled in anticipation of an old familiar quarrel.

“You can find all sorts of things in the Castle of Death, and you know that perfectly well,” the dwarf said, avoiding an argument with the gnome.

“So I’ve heard,” said Hallas, suddenly serious, and he didn’t sing any more songs.

By lunchtime the sun peeped out, which made the walking much more pleasant. Glo-Glo suddenly started veering farther and farther left, and the stream that had been our companion for so long was left behind among the trees. Now we were not walking south, but west. Milord Alistan seemed rather unhappy with this circumstance, and Glo-Glo had to explain that there was an orc city nearby, and we had to make a detour. Unless, of course, we wanted to enjoy the hospitality of the Firstborn.

After trudging a fair distance through the forest undergrowth, by evening we were back beside our old friend, the stream, and while it was still light, we reached a dense grove of fir trees that held the stream tight in its shaggy, prickly embrace. We spent the night there, safely concealed from prying eyes by the huge fir trees. Egrassa forbade us to make a fire—there were orcs nearby—and we had to spend the whole night without any warmth. Twilight fell in the forest suddenly—but then, it always does in autumn.

Halas and Deler went to sleep straightaway (they were on sentry duty for the second half of the night). I started settling down to sleep, too, but as soon as I lay down and snuggled up tight in my warm blanket, someone shook me by the shoulder. Mumr.

“Yes?”

“Show me it, eh?” he asked in a plaintive voice.

“What?” I asked, puzzled.

“The Horn. We never had a chance to get a decent look at it back at the Labyrinth. I’m really curious to see what we’ve done all this for.”

“But it’s dark! Egrassa said we can’t light a fire. The Firstborn might smell the smoke.”

“I’ve got a way out,” Egrassa said unexpectedly, and a small glow appeared between the palms of his hands. “I don’t know much shamanism, but I can give you three minutes of light.”

The magical light lasted just long enough for us to take a good look at each other’s faces. Apart from Deler and Hallas, nobody was even thinking of sleeping. Everybody was waiting for Harold to show them the Horn. I had to get up and open the bag that never left my side.

“So that’s it…,” Eel murmured, examining the artifact with an amazed expression.

“May I…,” Milord Alistan inquired timidly.

I gladly handed him the Rainbow Horn. As far as I was concerned, he could have it. He could keep the tin whistle safe for his beloved king.

The old shaman was standing closest to the captain of the guard, and the Horn ended up in his hands. He closed his eyes, held the artifact against his forehead, made a face as if he’d eaten a whole plateful of sour gooseberries, and delivered his verdict:

“It is weak. Very weak. The power has almost left it; it will only hold out for a few more weeks, and then…” Glo-Glo didn’t finish what he was saying, but everybody knew what would happen then.

“So we need to press on,” said Alistan Markauz.

“We still have masses of time, milord. In early November the S’u-dar is already snowbound, and it will be very difficult for the Nameless One to leave his lair. And then it’s a long journey from the Needles of Ice to the Lonely Giant. The sorcerer’s army won’t reach the fortress before mid-January,” Lamplighter reassured the count.

“Mumr’s right, milord. A winter campaign is too difficult. The Desolate Lands are completely snowbound. In winter the Slumbering Forest is a dangerous place, even for servants of the Nameless One. The Crayfish Dukedom will take another two months to start moving,” said Eel, shaking his head thoughtfully. “The enemy will wait until spring, when the passes will be free of snow.”

“And what if he doesn’t?” Egrassa asked.

“If he doesn’t wait, then this winter campaign will cost him a quarter of his army, Tresh Egrassa.”

The warriors argued and discussed the various possibilities for an attack by the enemy. Kli-Kli yawned frantically, covering her mouth with her hand, and to be honest, I must confess that I was struggling to stay awake, too. But the others seemed just fine. Were they made of iron, or what? Before going to sleep, I put the Rainbow Horn back in the bag and checked on the other things, too. The Key was there all right, but the emeralds I had carried so diligently halfway across the Palaces of Bone had disappeared without trace. I would have laughed, but I was far too sleepy. Those cursed orcs had stolen what was rightfully mine, may the darkness take them.

*   *   *

I was the last to wake up; all the others were already on their feet. Hallas was handing out the meager ration. When he noticed me, the gnome winked and thrust a piece of stale bread and a slice of dried meat into my hand. That was all there was for breakfast.

“What time is it?” I moaned.

“Darkness only knows, Harold,” Deler answered, sharpening the blade of his beloved poleax with a whetstone. “The mist’s incredibly thick, so I can’t really say, but dawn was no more than fifteen minutes ago.”

“We’re moving out, Harold, roll up your blanket,” said Alistan Markauz. He didn’t intend to wait until I was wide awake.

We walked slowly now. Who knew what might be hidden in the mist, and running into an orc outpost would be the easiest thing in the world. So we had to be on the lookout as we advanced. It was absolutely silent all around. The shroud of mist swallowed up all the sounds, and even the babbling of the stream sounded strangely subdued and ominous. Kli-Kli shuddered and kept turning her head warily this way and that. When she caught me looking at her, she said, “I hate the mist. It makes us all blind.”

“Don’t be afraid, Kli-Kli,” Hallas said to cheer her up. “If there was anything here, we’d have run into trouble a long time ago.”

“I know,” she muttered. “But even so, I’ve got a bad feeling. Something’s going to happen. I can smell it.”

“Please don’t start spreading panic, Jester,” Eel implored her. But despite his skeptical tone of voice, he still checked to make sure his “brother” and “sister” came out of their scabbards easily.

Forty minutes later we remembered her warning. It was already quite light, but the mist was showing no sign of disappearing, and so we couldn’t make the sound out clearly at first.

Boo-oom! Boo-oom! Boo-oom!

The mist swallowed up the sounds, and we felt the rumble of the drums more with our skin than with our ears.

“Orcs!” Deler hissed, grabbing his poleax.

“They caught up after all!”

Hallas uttered a long, florid curse combining human and gnomish. His brief oration included a mention of the orcs appearing in Siala through some misunderstanding, and that was followed by a listing of the kinds of intercourse orcs indulged in when they weren’t banging on their drums.

“Hallas, shut up!” Milord Alistan growled.

The gnome stopped in the middle of an especially florid turn of phrase, and Egrassa lay down on the ground, parted the leaves, said a few words in his guttural language, and started to listen. The drums carried on.

“They’re an hour and a half away. Moving very quickly.”

“How many of them are there, Tresh Egrassa?” the count asked, gripping the hilt of his sword and straining to see something through the wall of fog.