Shadow Blizzard

16 The Song Of The Flute

I had no more strength to run and I collapsed and fell. What I needed now was to lie there for a while, get my breath back, recover my strength. But my dreams were not fated to come true. I was grabbed by the arms from both sides and jerked back onto my feet.

We will catch you.… We will kill you! the drums sang behind the wall of mist.

“Run, Harold!” Eel hissed.

“Just a little farther!” said Lamplighter, adding his plea to his comrade’s. “Run, lad! You can do it!”

Gulping, I nodded. I had an unmerciful stabbing pain in my side, but I had to run, I had to.

“Take him!” Eel barked, and he and Mumr dragged me on.

I set one foot in front of the other as best as I was able. Hallas and Deler followed the example of their two comrades and grabbed the exhausted Kli-Kli. She didn’t have any strength to resist. So the gobliness and I were the only two who had broken down after the two-hour chase. But the warriors were tired, too, and now we were weighing them down. I accepted the support from Eel and Lamplighter for about ten minutes and then ran on my own.

“Can you manage?” the Garrakian asked me uncertainly. “Give me the spear.”

I nodded weakly.

We will catch you.… We will kill …

At noon the mist was still hanging all around us, as if Zagraba had decided to hide us forever from the eyes of the world and its own primeval thickets. But I didn’t care anymore. An eternity later, when Egrassa realized he was the only one who could maintain the pace he had set and everyone else urgently needed a rest, the elf ordered a halt. I dropped where I stood.

“How d’you like dashing about like this?” Kli-Kli wheezed.

“I’m not used to such long-distance sprints,” I answered. “How about you?”

“I’m all right, but Deler was carrying me piggyback for the last forty minutes, and he was suffering.”

“Don’t worry, my friend, I’m all right,” said Deler, breathing like a punctured blacksmith’s bellows—as we all were.

“The drums have stopped!” Eel said, interrupting us. He was sitting on the ground, leaning back against an old golden-leaf.

“Have they really gone?” Mumr asked in relief.

Lamplighter had had it harder than anyone else. Running through the forest with a bidenhander and looking after me at the same time was no easy job.

“Either the Firstborn have decided to pursue us in silence, which isn’t like them at all, or the goblin has managed to put them off our trail,” Egrassa mused thoughtfully. “How much time do you need to rest, milord?”

“How much time do we have?”

“A little more than ten minutes, then we’ll have to set out again if we don’t want the orc patrols to find us. We’ll go along the stream—it flows northward. The orcs aren’t gods, they could quite easily lose our trail, and if we hurry, we’ll be out of the Golden Forest in a week.”

“And then it will take us another week to get out of Zagraba. We’ve stirred up the Firstborn, Egrassa; they probably won’t stop following us at the edge of the Golden Forest,” Eel objected.

“Maybe you’re right, and maybe you’re not,” the dark elf told the Garrakian. “If we don’t make any noise and attract attention to ourselves, I’m quite capable of leading us out of Zagraba. Only in the name of all the gods—move quietly. The mist is thick, the orcs are very close, and I’d prefer it if we noticed them before they know we’re here.”

I’d have said the eight orcs were moving very quietly, but to Egrassa’s keen hearing they sounded very noisy, so we had no trouble concealing ourselves and falling on the enemy en masse. We couldn’t afford to let the Firstborn go—they might come across our tracks and realize we’d duped them and then come after us again or, even worse, warn their friends. In that case the element of surprise would be completely lost, and we’d find ourselves back in the role of foxes running from a pack of hounds.

It was all over before it even started. The orcs hadn’t been expecting our ambush, and the element of surprise was decisive—and fatal. Kli-Kli and Eel threw knives at the same instant, and Egrassa used his bow. Before the orcs realized what was happening, four of them were dead. The other four drew their yataghans and one dashed toward Egrassa, as the most dangerous of our group. But the Firstborn’s way was blocked by Mumr, who had been ordered to protect our only bowman at any cost. Lamplighter met the Firstborn, struck him in the groin with a rapid jab, immediately dodged aside so that he was behind his opponent, and sliced off the Firstborn’s leg with a single smooth stroke.

The skirmish was so brief, I didn’t have time to join in. Alistan, holding his sword with both hands, clashed with another orc, but the two enemies had only exchanged one blow apiece when Egrassa put an arrow in the orc’s back. The same fate overtook the orc who went for Deler.

The last of the four was felled by Hallas. The Firstborn tried to hit the gnome with an ax, but Lucky grabbed hold of the handle and struck the orc on the leg with his mattock. When the Firstborn let go of his ax and fell over on his back, the gnome brought his mattock down on his enemy’s head. The whole battle lasted just over twenty seconds.

“Kli-Kli, pull out your knives and my arrows; everyone else grab these orcs by the arms and drag them well away from the stream,” the elf ordered. “I’ll risk using a little bit of magic, perhaps it will put them off our trail.”

We hid the bodies among the roots of two old oaks that were almost intertwined with each other and then piled a heap of moldy leaves over them. Eel and Hallas went back over the site of the battle and tried to eliminate all traces of blood. Meanwhile Egrassa put some kind of spell on the improvised grave.

“It’s a waste of time,” Mumr sighed, wiping off the blade of his sword with a bundle of leaves. “It looks like it’s been trampled by a herd of mammoths. You can’t put the soil back in place or spread the leaves out again. If only Lady Miralissa was here.…”

The gods were kind, and for the rest of that day nobody found us. Once Egrassa thought he could hear a distant rumble of drums, but it was only the wind wandering through the branches of the trees that had lost most of their leaves. The stream that had been our escort for the last two days had grown to the size of a small river and the river flowed into a large lake, which we reached in the twilight. The mist and the advancing darkness made it impossible to see the opposite shore.

We settled in for the night beside the lake, making our resting place among the dense growth of tall reeds. It was a restless and very chilly night. Cold gusts of wind swirled through the rustling sea of reeds, chilling me to the marrow of my bones. I woke up several times, shuddering from the cold, and then went back to sleep, but the moment I did, I started dreaming there were orcs creeping through the tall reeds, about to attack us. I woke up again and stared for a long time at the swaying wall of dry grass.

Milord Alistan got us all up when it was still dark and, still shrouded in thick mist, we moved on toward the north.

By the time it grew light we’d covered quite a distance. The lake was far behind us now, but the cursed mist showed no signs of dissolving in the first rays of the sun, and Zagraba looked like a forest out of some ghost story.

The dark forms of tree trunks loomed up out of the thick mantle of white. Everything around us seemed to be dead or hiding, waiting for the mist to clear out of the forest. The only time I’d heard silence like this in Zagraba was when we were crossing the Red Spinney. And the moment I thought about what had happened there, I seemed to feel a blunt needle jab into my heart. I pulled myself up short and tried not to think about bad things. The last thing I wanted to do was call down the disaster of a h’san’kor on our heads. But the harder I tried not to think about anything frightening, the faster all sorts of unpleasant thoughts came crowding into my head. That blunt needle was still there, and I winced and gasped whenever it jabbed me really hard. Eventually I stopped trying to ignore it and turned to Kli-Kli, who was the first to sense something the last time.

“Kli-Kli, isn’t there anything bothering you?” I asked in a whisper.

She stopped, sniffed at the air, thought for a moment, and replied, “A cold in the nose.”

“That’s not what I mean!” I protested, just a little bit annoyed by her slow-wittedness. “You sensed something was wrong in the Red Spinney, didn’t you?”

“I did,” she agreed. “There was real danger there. But I don’t feel anything like that here. If there’s danger here, it’s perfectly ordinary, and I can’t sense that kind. But you … you’re the Dancer in the Shadows, maybe that’s why.… Deler, go and tell Egrassa that our Harold’s feeling uneasy.”

Deler didn’t argue, in fact he wasn’t even surprised, he just gave me a quick, sharp glance from under his ginger eyebrows and went off to the elf at the front of our group.

But the dwarf didn’t have time to warn anyone. It all happened quickly and very unexpectedly. Shadows with naked yataghans came diving at us out of the mist, another two or three jumped down out of the trees beside our track, and, to top it all, in two places the ground exploded into fountains of leaves as raging beasts emerged from concealed pits. They looked like a cross between a monkey and a wolf. The ambush had been planned brilliantly. They must have been waiting for us for a long time, and this time we were the ones taken by surprise.

“Orcs!” yelled Mumr, swinging his bidenhander down off his shoulder.

“Didre draast! Pu’i edron!” [Take them alive! Apart from the elf!] yelled one of the enemy.

One of the Firstborn blew a small hunting horn and the surprisingly loud sound resounded through the forest, startling the mist. Egrassa’s bow was already in his hands, and the orc dropped his horn and clutched at the arrow sticking out of his chest. But it was too late. Another horn sounded somewhere far away, at the very limit of hearing. Before the battle swept me into its deadly vortex, I had time to see Eel holding off two orcs who were trying to reach Egrassa. Then I had my hands full myself.

Kli-Kli and I were closest to the pits, and the wolf-monkeys came dashing at us, growling. They moved very nimbly, but almost sideways, like crabs. They had gaunt bodies, covered with dirty-yellow fur with reddish patches, an impressive set of wolfish teeth, and heavy collars with metal studs.

“Gruns!” Kli-Kli squeaked, and flung one of her throwing knives at the nearest creature. The knife stuck neatly in the side of the orcs’ beast, which turned a somersault over its head and started twitching, scraping at the soil and the leaves with its paws. The others kept coming at us, not bothered at all by their comrade’s death.

Bang! The loud noise came from behind my back.

Hallas had used his last pistol shot. The sudden sound made one of the gruns stop dead in its tracks, and Deler, who had just polished off his orc, took his small throwing ax out from behind his back and flung it at the beast. The weapon shattered the grun’s head with a dull crunch. But it didn’t kill it. In its pain and fury, the beast fastened its teeth in the leg of the nearest orc.

“Look out!” yelled Kli-Kli.

Purely by instinct, I held the krasta out in front of me, and the grun impaled itself on the sharp blade at full speed. Kli-Kli threw another knife, but not so neatly this time, and it stuck in a beast’s thigh. While it was whining and spinning round on the spot, the ones that were still alive came at me from both sides at once. In desperation I jerked the krasta toward me, freeing the weapon from the heavy body that was stuck on it. One of the gruns leapt through the air, aiming for my throat, and got an arrow in its side. My thanks to Egrassa. The beast crashed into me at full speed and we fell to the ground. I rolled aside smartly, almost losing my spear, and the last of the gruns landed with all four paws on the spot where I had just been lying.

But I hadn’t moved far enough, and the beast just caught me with its front paw. Its claws easily ripped through the jacket, and the only thing that saved me was the chain mail I disliked so much—I was wearing it under the jacket. Ignoring the pain from the blow, I kicked the grun in the face with both feet. The beast whined and went flying off, but somehow it managed to land on its paws and jumped at me again. I was already up on my feet and I had time to prepare myself. The spear met the grun in midair and the Smoky Steel easily sliced the monkey in half. I didn’t even feel any resistance.

Meanwhile Kli-Kli had finished off the wounded grun and was hastily extracting her knives from the bodies. I could hear Milord Alistan’s sword whining somewhere over on the right. Egrassa had swapped his bow for a s’kash and he and Eel were standing back to back, fighting off attacks from orcs who were pressing them hard.

“Behind you, Harold,” they barked at me.

I leapt to one side with no delay. The orc who had been about to slice my head off was obviously terribly upset by this, and he came blundering straight at me. One of Kli-Kli’s throwing knives whistled through the air, but it hit the center of the Firstborn’s shield, which had a picture of some weird and wonderful bird on it. A spear is longer than a yataghan, and I had a slight advantage—I held the orc off until Kli-Kli threw another knife.

This one hit him in the shoulder. Hit him and bounced off. The orc obviously had armor concealed under his yellow jacket. I slashed at him with the krasta and the orc nimbly covered himself with his round shield, but the Gray One’s spear sliced straight through this obstacle, and the orc’s arm as well. I spun round, and the orc lost his other arm.

“Karade tig su’in tar!”[Dispatch them to the darkness!] someone barked in orcish.

Right, so much for that, but how were the others getting on? Eel and Egrassa were still holding out. I couldn’t see Deler. Mumr was managing to hold three orcs at bay with his wagon shaft of a sword. Hallas had just finished off a Firstborn by smashing his mattock into his face. Kli-Kli was dashing to help Lamplighter.… But Milord Alistan was in trouble. That lad with the spear creeping up behind him was about to skewer our count like a chicken on a spit.

I yelled to attract the orc’s attention and started running with the krasta to help Alistan Markauz. The orc accepted the challenge, grasped his spear with two hands like a staff, and stepped toward me. He struck with the sharp blade on the butt of the shaft, and I was barely fast enough to parry his blows. Trying to counterattack was out of the question. It was a matter of survival. The Firstborn was incredibly agile and he almost caught me in the face with the butt of the spear. I just barely managed to jerk back in time. But in the process I lost my balance and the orc attacked, pushing me away with the center of the shaft between his hands.

I almost fell, and smacked the orc on his fingers with the krasta as hard as I could. The orc howled in pain and let go of the spear with his left hand. I struck at his knees with the shaft of the krasta. My enemy collapsed and I pinned him to the ground without a second thought. Then I pulled the krasta out and hastily looked around.

Milord Alistan was finishing off the last of his opponents. The orc was fending off the blows of the sword with a well-battered shield, but his minutes were already numbered. Kli-Kli seemed to be unhurt. Egrassa and Eel were already hurrying across to help us, after finishing off their opponents. Hallas, who was farthest away from me, was harrying an orc.

The gnome had smashed the yataghan out of the Firstborn’s hand, and now the orc had only a dagger to defend himself. The gnome took a step forward to put paid to his enemy, but stumbled over the body of a grun and lost his balance for a moment. The Firstborn immediately took advantage of the gnome’s blunder. Moving in close to Lucky, he grabbed hold of his beard, pulled the gnome toward himself, and struck at his unprotected face with the dagger.

Lucky fell, bleeding heavily, and the orc raised his dagger for the final blow. I went dashing to help him, although I knew I’d be too late, but Deler beat me to it. With a mighty roar, he flung his terrible poleax at the orc with both hands. The weapon flashed through the air in a glittering circle and crashed into the orc, slicing through his head and upper body.

“Deler, behind you!” Eel shouted, but it was too late.

An orc who was behind Deler struck the dwarf with a short, broad sword that was quite different from the orcs’ usual yataghans. The blow was so powerful that the tip of the sword emerged from the warrior’s chest. The Wild Heart swayed and collapsed to his knees. Before the orc could free his sword, Egrassa took up his bow again and turned him into a pin cushion.

It was all over.

The orc who had stabbed Deler with his sword was the last one. We all rushed to Hallas or Deler. The grun that Egrassa had shot in the side was still alive and whimpering as it tried to reach the arrow with its teeth. I paused for a moment to finish the vicious beast off. The orcs’ hunting horns gave voice again, but this time much closer.

“Oh, light!” Kli-Kli groaned, falling on her knees beside Hallas. “Oh, light! So much blood! So much blood!”

She kept on repeating those words, and there was panic fluttering in her eyes. It was the first time I’d ever seen our jester in such a state.

“Oh, light! How can this be?” the gobliness wailed. There was an orcish dagger with a notched blade lying beside her.

The moment I saw the gnome, I realized he was in a bad way. The blow had struck his right cheek and the notched blade had made an irregular wound. In fact, the whole right side of Hallas’s face was one ragged wound. The orc had struck upward with his weapon and now there was a gaping bloody hole where Lucky’s eye used to be.

And there was blood everywhere. Lots of blood. The gnome was still alive, but he seemed to be unconscious.

Egrassa unceremoniously pushed Kli-Kli aside and started trying to do something, whispering some mumbo-jumbo in orcic and sprinkling yellow powder straight onto the wound.

“Eel! How’s Deler?” croaked Lamplighter, who was fussing over Hallas.

“He’s dying,” was the answer.

“Ah, darkness! Darkness! The darkness take them all!” Mumr howled. “Harold, run over to Eel, maybe there’s still something…”

Without waiting for him to finish, I dashed across to help Eel. Milord Alistan was there, too. The Garrakian hadn’t taken the risk of pulling the sword out of the dwarf’s back—that would have increased the already powerful loss of blood. Deler was conscious and he was trying to say something, but he could only move his lips without making a sound.

“How can we help him?” I asked.

“Only a miracle can help,” Alistan Markauz muttered darkly.

But no miracle happened. A minute later the ginger-haired dwarf died, without having said anything.

“May you dwell in the light,” Eel murmured as he carefully closed Deler’s eyes.

How had we managed to get caught out so badly? Deler was dead, Hallas was at death’s door.

“Harold, we’ll mourn later!” said Eel, thumping me fiercely on the shoulder. “Wake up!”

The Garrakian was right. Mumr had found some clean rags somewhere and he was bandaging the gnome’s wound. The rags were immediately soaked in blood, but after Egrassa’s magical first aid at least the bleeding had slowed down.

Orcish horns on the left warned us that the Firstborn were coming as fast as they could, and they were answered by other horns on the right.

“We haven’t got much time, Mumr,” said Egrassa.

“I know,” the warrior growled as he bound up the gnome’s head. “I’m almost finished!”

“How’s Deler?” the elf asked.

“Dead.”

Kli-Kli gasped and lowered her face into her hands. I patted her on the shoulder, trying to comfort her a little.

“Time to be going! They’ll be here soon!”

“I’m done!” said Lamplighter, with his hands covered with blood. “But he won’t hold on for long. We’ve only postponed the end.”

“We have to hope for the best. There’s no time to make a stretcher, the gnome will have to be carried,” said Alistan.

“Kli-Kli,” I said to the sniffling gobliness. “You take the krasta.”

I had to carry the gnome, because if the orcs caught up with us, the warriors would have to be ready to fight them off.

“You won’t manage on your own,” Lamplighter said. “Eel, you carry my sword.”

The Garrakian nodded and put the bidenhander over his shoulder.

“Here we go, Harold. But in the name of all the gods, be careful!”

We lifted the wounded man cautiously.

“What about Deler?” Kli-Kli sobbed. “Aren’t we going to bury him?”

“We don’t have time for that, goblin. The forest spirits will take care of his body,” Egrassa replied.

Kli-Kli nodded reluctantly and she seemed to shrink somehow. The orcs’ horns called to each other through the mist.

“Let’s go!”

As we left the battlefield, I cast a final glance at Deler. Eel had attended to the dead man while we were trying to save Hallas. He had pulled out the orc’s sword, set the dwarf’s poleax on his chest, and folded his hands over it. As he walked along, Mumr whispered the words of the funeral song of the Wild Hearts. When we had gone about twenty yards, Kli-Kli suddenly turned round and went dashing back.

“Stop, Kli-Kli,” I barked, but she completely ignored me. “Stop, you fool.”

She came back a minute later, carrying the dwarf’s bowler hat in her hand.

You can’t run all that fast carrying a wounded gnome, but we were managing pretty well … so far. When my arms were just about ready to fall off, Mumr and I were replaced by Eel and Alistan Markauz. As we moved on, we swapped round again twice, and stopped twice to check on the gnome’s condition. Hallas was still holding on by some miracle, but Egrassa only shook his head in disappointment: “It’s only a matter of hours. Hallas won’t make it through the night.”

“We’ll see about that!” growled Eel, furious with the whole wide world.

“We can’t carry him forever. That way we only make it worse for him.”

“Are you suggesting we abandon him?”

Egrassa’s yellow eyes glinted in fury and he put his hand on the hilt of his crooked knife.

“You forget yourself.” The elf’s tone was very cold.

“The last thing we need now is a duel!” Milord Alistan roared furiously. “Eel!”

Eel worked the muscles in his jaw, but he said, “I’m sorry, Egrassa, I spoke hastily.”

The dark elf gave a slight nod. “I understand. But we can’t go on running forever. The Firstborn are only ten minutes away. We won’t survive another battle like the last one, and they might have bowmen.”

“We’ll have to give battle,” the Garrakian agreed. “Better do it now, before we collapse from exhaustion.”

“This battle will be the last.”

“So be it, elf. So be it. But I’m not just going to wait to be slaughtered, I’m going to put a few holes in some Firstborn.”

Egrassa turned to Alistan Markauz.

“Milord?”

“Give me one minute, I’m thinking,” said the count, knitting his brows together.

“Very well. Harold, Kli-Kli, stay beside Hallas. Eel, take the right. Mumr, take the left. Try to hold out for as long as possible and not let them through until I run out of arrows. Do you see that golden-leaf?”

The elf carried on giving instructions, but I wasn’t listening any longer. May the Nameless One take me! Could this really be the end?

“We just have to hope there aren’t any bowmen,” Kli-Kli said in a quiet voice.

Her fingers were flickering desperately as she wove some complicated sign.

“Are you sure of what you’re doing?” I asked her cautiously.

“I’ve never been so sure of anything, Dancer. Of course, it’s not the Hornets of Vengeance, but I don’t think they’ll like the Hammer of Dust much better.”

“How many of them are there?”

“The same number as attacked us. Only seventeen.”

“We were attacked by seventeen orcs?”

“And five of their grun dogs. Didn’t you notice? If not for Egrassa and his bow, they’d have us given a far worse mauling.”

“Listen to me,” said Alistan Markauz, suddenly breaking his silence. “We don’t need to give battle now. Kli-Kli, catch!”

He threw something small to the gobliness and she caught it deftly. It turned out to be a silver ring with the count’s personal crest.

“Milord, don’t!” she cried out in fright.

“I must, jester, it’s your only chance. If you get back, give it to my son.”

“What’s going on?” asked Mumr, not understanding a thing.

He wasn’t the only one who didn’t understand. Not everyone’s as bright as Kli-Kli and Eel.

“Are you sure?” the Garrakian asked. “Perhaps I should go?”

“I’m sure,” replied the captain of the royal guard. “The shaman knew, that’s why he gave the thing to me. I’ll try to lead them as far away from you as I can. Egrassa, lead the unit on!”

“Don’t worry, milord, I’ll lead them all the way to Avendoom,” the dark elf said with a solemn nod. “Will you take the krasta? You’ll be able to hold out longer with it.”

“No, I’m used to a sword. Harold!”

“Yes, milord?” For some reason my mouth had gone dry.

“Give the Horn to Artsivus so that he can drive that snake back into the snow. If you don’t, be sure I’ll get you, even from the next world!”

I just nodded. The count took Glo-Glo’s gift and squeezed the lump of earth in his fist. Our phantom doubles appeared out of thin air. Milord Alistan swung round and ran off to the west without looking back. Our doubles followed him, leaving perfectly real tracks on the ground.

“Egrassa, we have to hurry. Glo-Glo’s spell won’t last forever; we’ll soon start leaving tracks again.”

“You’re right, Kli-Kli. Harold. Mumr! Pick up the gnome!”

The sound of the horns had faded away a long time ago, but we kept on running and running. I had a terrible empty feeling—we were only alive because Milord Alistan had led the orcs away from us. I realized in my mind that none of us would ever see the count again, at least, not in this life … but hope was still glimmering somewhere in my heart. Maybe he’d manage to outwit the orcs and then catch up with us?

“Until I see his body, I shall believe milord is still alive,” said Kli-Kli in a quiet voice as she ran beside me. She might have been reading my thoughts. “What am I going to say to the king?”

Her question was left unanswered.

“We have to stop,” Mumr panted. “His wound’s started bleeding again.”

I squinted at Hallas. Yes, blood was oozing from under the bandage.

“Egrassa! Eel!” Kli-Kli called to the warriors ahead of us. “Stop.”

“This isn’t the time.”

“If we don’t stop the bleeding, Hallas will die!”

“All right, but do it quickly. The hunting units have lost our trail, but that’s only a brief respite.”

We put Hallas down on the carpet of autumn leaves and Kli-Kli and Eel started attending to the wounded gnome.

“Harold, Mumr, one moment,” the elf called to us. “I’ll stand guard, and you get two long, strong poles. While we have time, we’ll try to make a stretcher.”

“We need more than just two poles, Tresh Egrassa.”

“I know. We’ll tie drokr cloaks between them. The material should take the weight. Don’t waste any time, we have almost none left.”

Mumr took Hallas’s mattock off his belt, put it beside the krasta, and picked up his two-handed sword. It didn’t take long to find what the elf wanted. Lamplighter cut down two young trees with his bidenhander, then chopped off their branches, and we were left holding two poles that we carried back to the spot where Kli-Kli was still looking after the gnome. With the elfin cloaks and the two poles we made a pretty good stretcher and then put Hallas on it.

“How is he?” I asked Kli-Kli.

“In a bad way. If only Miralissa was here.…”

“Miralissa’s gone,” Egrassa snapped ruthlessly. “Put your hope in the gods, not the dead. The gnome’s life is in the hands of the gods. Eel, let’s go.”

And now the gnome was carried by the elf and the Garrakian. Kli-Kli led the way and Lamplighter and I followed the stretcher. An hour later I took Eel’s place and Mumr replaced Egrassa. It was a lot more convenient carrying Hallas this way than in our arms. We moved faster, especially when Kli-Kli led us out onto a wide animal track that ran due north.

During the afternoon a dank autumn drizzle started to fall, and I had to cover Hallas with my cloak—I still had the jacket, and that was fine. Now our substantially reduced group was led on by Egrassa. Kli-Kli, freed from her honorable duties as guide, kept getting under our feet and checking on Lucky’s condition. Sometimes the gnome groaned, and the gobliness took hold of his hand and started whispering quietly to herself.

When the wounded gnome quieted down, Kli-Kli walked along beside him, occasionally glancing back. She was clearly hoping Milord Alistan would come back, just as I was. Kli-Kli noticed my fleeting glance.

“The mist’s thinning out.”

“Yes, a bit,” I agreed. “Probably because of the rain.”

The gobliness snorted quietly at that, but she didn’t say anything.

“How long will it take us to walk through the Golden Forest?”

“If Hallas lives, a week and a half, or maybe even longer. If…” She paused. “If he doesn’t live, a week.”

Such were the facts of life—the wounded gnome was slowing us down. Of course, abandoning Hallas was out of the question, but … Egrassa could decide to do it if we were really up against it. If he had to choose between his duty as a comrade and his duty to all the rest of the world, I was sure the elf would choose what he saw as the lesser evil, and Eel might not like that at all. I tried not to think what would happen then.

We walked on through the cold rainy forest for two hours. I thanked the gods that this was the south of Valiostr. In the north of the kingdom the first ground frosts should have started some time ago, and in the morning the puddles were probably covered with a thin crust of ice. I hoped we could get out of Zagraba before the start of November, when it would be really cold and uncomfortable.

Hallas wasn’t groaning any longer. His face was almost the same color as the snow in the barren wastes of the Lonely Giant. Neither Kli-Kli nor Egrassa could do anything to help the gnome. We had all known for a long time that Hallas wouldn’t survive the night, but we stubbornly carried the stretcher, as if we were trying to overtake death itself.

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

“Orcs! Very close,” Kli-Kli gasped, snatching out her knives.

Ah, darkness! The rumble of the orcs’ drums seemed to be coming from behind those golden-leafs over there. Close. Very close. Egrassa did his familiar trick of listening to the ground. When the elf got to his feet, the expression on his face promised nothing good.

“The Firstborn are no more than a fifteen-minute run away. And there are many of them.”

“How many?” I said, asking the question that was on everybody’s minds.

“More than forty. We are on the land of the Grun Ear-Cutters now.”

Lamplighter uttered a picturesque description of the mothers of all orcs. Nobody needed to be told that we couldn’t hold out against that many of them. Fifteen would have been enough to dispatch us into the light. We were too tired after all this running through Zagraba without a break.

“We need a clearing!” Kli-Kli said suddenly. “Egrassa, I need a large clearing!”

“What have you got in mind?”

“I’ve prepared the Hammer of Dust, all I still have to do is draw the activating rune. The spell is our only chance of holding out now. For it to work properly, there shouldn’t be any trees around. We need a clearing, a big one if possible.”

“Are you sure of your spell?”

“May the forest spirits take me, I am! This time you’ll have to trust me. It’s the spell or your swords! I’d put my money on the spell.”

“We’ll do it your way. A clearing, you say?”

The drums were rumbling like demons’ hearts. Kli-Kli ran on ahead, and the four of us carried the stretcher.

“Stop!” Egrassa barked. “Off the path! To the left!”

I didn’t know what the elf had sensed there, but the gobliness immediately did as he said and dashed into a dense fir thicket.

“Set him down!” Egrassa ordered.

We put the stretcher on the ground and the Garrakian grunted as he picked the gnome up in his arms.

“Forward! Get the branches out of the way!”

Egrassa reached for his s’kash, but I handed him the krasta. The Gray One’s magical spear cleared the branches away as if they were blades of grass, and the elf easily cut us a path through the thick fir grove, without bothering at all about the orcs finding our trail. They’d find us in any case.

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

The fir grove came to an end, and we emerged into a large black clearing veiled in trembling mist.

“How did you know?” Lamplighter blurted out.

“I smelt it,” said the elf, and suddenly smiled. “I think Kli-Kli did, too. There’s been a fire here. Look, the trees are scorched.”

Black mud born from the meeting of rain, ash, and soil squelched under my boots. It was slippery, which meant that fighting would be difficult. When we stopped in the middle of the clearing, the trees surrounding it seemed like black phantoms hiding in the mist. We couldn’t see a thing. Mumr put a cloak on the ground and Eel laid Hallas on it.

“When it starts, stand behind me and don’t move forward, until I say so. All right?” Kli-Kli asked us as she hastily used her finger to draw something in the mud that looked like a fat caterpillar with little wings.

“All right. When you finish, go over to Hallas and stay there,” said Egrassa, changing the string on his terrible bow. “Eel, you cover me as well as you can. Mumr, Harold, take the flanks. Don’t move forward, thief.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” I answered him hoarsely.

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

“They’re close. Now’s the time to start praying.”

“This isn’t a very good time that you’ve chosen. Especially for magic like that.”

The clear young voice from behind our backs came as a complete surprise. For a moment it even seemed to drown out the rumbling of the drums. Egrassa swung round sharply, with an arrow poised to go flying from the string of his bow. Eel’s “brother” and “sister” rustled out of their scabbards, the bidenhander circled round above Lamplighter’s head. Kli-Kli looked up from her drawing and gave a quiet gasp. We had been taken by surprise in the most blatant manner possible, and the sensitive goblin and experienced elf hadn’t sensed a thing.

When I saw the speaker, I was amazed. I was expecting anything at all, up to and including a h’san’kor riding a bubblebelly, but not four young girls, not in this place.… This was absolutely absurd!

There were four of them and they all looked very much like each other. Like sisters. A thought flashed through my mind: How could four twelve-year-old girls have come so far into the forest, and what were their parents thinking of?

They were just children. Not very tall, with short black hair soaked by the rain. Their eyes were large and round, almost black. The strangers had a zigzag line painted in red on their left cheeks—it looked very much like a bolt of lightning. In fact, only three of the girls had a single lightning bolt. The fourth, who had spoken to us, had lightning bolts on both cheeks and two thin red lines drawn under her eyes.

The little girls were dressed in jackets of leather, wool, and fur. Short skirts made out of long strips of leather. No shoes. They clearly weren’t bothered in the slightest by the autumnal chill or the rain. But I would certainly have thought twice before wandering about barefoot in this weather.

The only jewelry they had were strings of carnelian beads and bracelets. And their only weapons were straight daggers with broad blades narrowing to a fine point.

Egrassa lowered his bow and unexpectedly went down on one knee. Kli-Kli bowed very respectfully indeed. Eel, Lamplighter, and I looked rather surprised. Well, never mind Kli-Kli, but for an elf of a royal family to bow the knee before a bunch of little girls! This really was amazing!

“The son of the House of the Black Rose greets the Daughters of the Forest!” Egrassa declared.

I gaped wide-eyed, unable to believe it.

The Daughters of the Forest! That was what the elves and the orcs called the dryads. Was this really yet another legend of Zagraba standing right here in front of me?

All sorts of things were said about the dryads, but very few men had ever met the Daughters of the Forest, and not even the elves, orcs, and goblins were very far ahead of us when it came to that. Those who had the blood of Zagraba flowing in their veins were never quick to reveal themselves to others’ eyes.

The elves and orcs regard themselves as pretty much the masters of Zagraba, but there are many other inhabitants of the forest kingdom. The dryads are really part of the forest, and they are the ones who rule it. They merely tolerate the presence of others in their forest, and the young races understand this and try not to annoy them. Even the proud and intolerant orcs bow their heads to the Daughters of the Forest.

At least, that’s what they say. The dryads weren’t interested in squabbles between the orcs and the elves until they started to cause damage to the forest. And they were even less interested in men. Dryads were concerned with the life of Zagraba itself. They took care of the forest and helped it, from the moths and the broods of mice to the families of oburs and the groves of golden-leafs.

And I had imagined all sorts of things, but not that they would look so much like ordinary human girls.

“The Black Moon…,” said the dryad standing in front of the others, and laughed. “Proud as the flame and passionate as the water.” This was a reference to the House of the Black Flame and the House of Black Water. “What is your name, elf?”

“Egrassa, madam. I am at your service.”

“At our service? We have no need of anyone’s services. The forest helps us. But I am forgetting my manners, forgive me. My name is Babbling Brook,” said the little girl, looking at the elf with a serious expression.

He bowed his head even lower.

“We are pleased to meet the Mistress,” Kli-Kli squeaked in a shrill voice.

The drums were rumbling behind us, and Mumr couldn’t help looking round. Babbling Brook noticed this and said, “Do not be afraid, man. We have a little time before what has been predestined happens. Arise, elf. It is not fitting for a king to kneel, even before the Mistress.”

“Madam is mistaken, I am no king,” Egrassa said guardedly, rising from his knees.

“Madam is merely running ahead of events,” the dryad replied, imitating the elf’s tone. “I am looking into the future, although I cannot see very much. Everything is covered in ripples because that man carries a blizzard within him.”

Babbling Brook looked at me. “You took something from the cradle of the dead that should not have been taken, and now it is in my forest. Before, when the elves had it, I closed my eyes to the matter, but now, when its power is failing, I do not wish to see Zagraba destroyed. You must leave the forest, and go as quickly as possible.”

“Believe me, my lady,” Kli-Kli replied meekly. “That is what we wish. We have not the slightest desire to harm the forest.”

“As is clear from the fact that you were about to work a battle spell capable of reducing a grove of golden-leafs to splinters,” said Babbling Brook, shaking her head, but, fortunately for Kli-Kli, none of our group paid any attention to the Mistress’s words. “I see your comrade is injured.”

“Orcs.”

“Orcs.” She shook her head sadly. “A flinny told me what was happening, but I was not able to come any sooner. Sunpatch will attend to your friend.”

One of her three companions went to the injured man and leaned down over him.

I thought about the flinny. The little lad had promised to warn those who should be warned, but how could I have guessed that he meant the dryads?

The drums kept rumbling.

“The orcs are proud and stubborn,” Babbling Brook sighed. “The Horn has blinded them. They refused to listen to me and leave the artifact to its fate.”

“The orcs dared to disobey?” Kli-Kli whispered in horror. “But—”

“And they are coming here to take what you have in your possession,” the Mistress declared in a severe tone.

“But surely madam will not allow the Firstborn to take possession of the Horn?” Kli-Kli squealed plaintively.

“I will not allow it, although I would have preferred if it had never left the dark depths of the Cradle of the Dead. The Firstborn have made their choice, and I have made mine. The forest stands above all other things, and I shall help you leave Zagraba.”

“Please pardon me for interrupting. I mean no harm by it, I’m only a simple man,” Lamplighter said slowly. “But how can four little girls stop the Firstborn?”

Kli-Kli hissed at this sacrilege, but the dryad only smiled sadly. “Where steel cannot help, the forest will, man.”

There was a deafening smashing and cracking sound from behind the trees, and Eel snatched his two blades out again.

“Put away your weapons!” one of the dryads told the Garrakian in a cold voice.

Eel cast a questioning glance at the elf. Egrassa nodded gently, keeping his eyes fixed on the trees. Something big was crashing its way through the forest toward us. Babbling Brook’s lips were set in a mysterious smile. The bushes at the edge of the clearing swayed and collapsed with a crack. Immense shadows loomed up out of the mist.

“Sagra, save us!” Eel gasped. “They’re…”

“They are Thunder, Whirlwind, Hail, Hurricane, Blizzard, and Boomer,” said Babbling Brook, and I thought I heard a note of pride in her voice. “They have agreed to help me.”

I hadn’t noticed when Kli-Kli took hold of my hand. She seemed to be every bit as frightened as I was. And there was certainly something to be frightened of!

When our group first entered Zagraba, we came across a wild boar. He was a large, mature tusker, and I thought he was the king of boars, that no beast could possibly be any larger.

But I was clearly mistaken. And very badly mistaken. There was absolutely no comparison between that boar and the six standing there in front of us. They were gods of the forest. Boar kings. Each of them stood four and a half yards tall, and I couldn’t even begin to imagine how much they weighed. They were monstrously huge, so huge that next to them, we were no more than pitiful bugs. Long knobbly snouts, immense dark yellow tusks that could have ripped a mammoth’s stomach open with a single thrust, reddish gleaming fur, cunning little black eyes. I’m sure I’ll remember the magnificence of those beautiful animals until the day I die. They surrounded us in a semicircle and waited for the Mistress of the Dryads to utter her command.

“We do not command, man,” said Babbling Brook, looking into my eyes. “We cannot command the forest. We can only ask for its help. Lead on your warriors, Boomer!”

One of the boars opened its terrible jaws, roared so loudly that I was almost deafened, and went dashing toward the sound of the orcs’ drums. The other five boars followed their leader, screeching belligerently. The six forest gods ran to the trees, smashed their way into the dense undergrowth, and disappeared.

“Boomer and his warriors will stop the Firstborn. It is not likely that any will escape their fangs and hooves, so now you have several days.”

“My thanks, Mistress,” said Egrassa, pressing his hand to his heart. “My house is irredeemably in your debt.”

“I shall remember your words, elf, and I shall ask you to return the favor when the time comes,” the dryad said with a serious nod.

“Madam, if the orcs find the bodies of their comrades, they will realize what has happened and pursue us once again.”

“They will not find the bodies,” said Sunpatch, walking away from Hallas. “Boomer’s warriors always eat their enemies.”

The thought of those giants devouring the bodies of the orcs sent cold shivers running down my spine. Just at that moment the orcs’ drums fell silent and a second later the plaintive song of a horn rang out. But the sound broke off when it had barely begun, and silence returned to the forest.

“That is done, now it is time for you to leave,” the little girl said to the elf. “Sunpatch?”

“A serious wound, Mistress. I have done everything that I could.”

“Will he live?” Lamplighter blurted out.

“Yes. He has a fever now, but in two days he will be able to stand. Unfortunately I was not able to save his eye.”

“The forest is not all-powerful,” sighed Babbling Brook. “But the important thing is that your friend will live.”

The forest is not all-powerful? Somehow I doubted that very much. At least, the most skillful of healers could not have done what the dryad had done. Not every member of the Order could have healed a wound like that and plucked the gnome out of the tenacious embrace of that beauty, Death. But this dryad, who looked so much like a twelve-year-old girl, had done it.

“Harold, take Mumr and fetch the stretcher,” Egrassa said in a quiet voice.

“No need,” Babbling Brook interrupted. “I do not intend to tolerate the Horn in my forest any longer than is absolutely necessary. On foot it will take you too long to find your way out. That does not suit the forest. If the power abandons the Horn close to the Cradle of the Dead, something terrible will happen. The farther you are from the place called Hrad Spein, the better for the forest. And I shall not be obliged to meddle even more in the affairs of men, elves, and orcs.”

“Are you going to give us horses?” I asked in surprise.

“No. They would not move through the forest very quickly. I have something else for you. Fluffy Cloud?”

The dryad standing beside Sunpatch nodded and gave a loud whistle. Four elk walked out into the clearing.

“Thank you for answering my request, Runner in the Moonlight,” Babbling Brook said with a smile. “These strangers must be taken to the lands of men as quickly as possible.”

The brown eyes of one of the elk looked us over. Then the beautiful animal lowered its horned head and snorted in agreement.

“Thank you, friend. There is no time to be lost, Egrassa of the House of the Black Moon. It is time for you and your men to set out.”

“How shall we sit on them and guide them?”

“There is no need for you to guide them. Fluffy Cloud and Sunpatch will go with you.”

Mumr peered once again at the motionless elk in front of him and gulped, but he didn’t say anything.

We mounted the elk in total silence. The first to leap up onto the back of the nearest beast was Eel. He held out his hand to Mumr and helped his friend settle behind him. My elk was a match for the size of Runner in the Moonlight and I was just trying to figure out how I was going to clamber up on it, when the animal went down on its knees. I quickly settled on its back, which was wet from the rain. Kli-Kli, determined not to let me get away, sat behind me and grabbed hold of my jacket.

The elk straightened its legs out smoothly, and to avoid falling off, I grabbed hold of one of its horns with my hand (the other hand was holding the krasta). The beast didn’t seem to object to this familiar treatment. With the elf’s help, the dryads loaded Hallas onto a third elk. Sunpatch stayed with the wounded gnome, holding him tightly round the waist. Egrassa and Fluffy Cloud were on Runner in the Moonlight.

“I thank you once again, Mistress, for the help that you have given us,” Egrassa said in farewell. “The doors of my house are always open to the Daughters of the Forest, and no malice will be found in it. This I swear on the honor of my clan.”

“Do not thank me, king. Thank the forest,” said the little girl with wise eyes, looking up at the elf towering over her. “Perhaps I shall find the time to come to your house when there is peace and nothing threatens the balance. I hope so. But enough, I can already hear Boomer and his warriors on their way here. You should leave. After battle they are always hungry, and there were too few orcs to satisfy the Children of the Forest. If they decide to dine on you, not even I will be able to stop them. You had better go.”

Waving her hand in farewell, Babbling Brook turned away from us. Taking this gesture as a command, Runner in the Moonlight set off at a fast trot toward the trees shrouded in mist.

Babbling Brook was right—the elk were much better than the finest of horses. The four animals raced through Zagraba, without stopping, until nightfall. In places where horses would have fallen, broken their legs, or simply not been able to get through, the elk just kept going.

Runner in the Moonlight forged straight ahead, smashing through the bushes and undergrowth with his mighty hooves. Swampy hollows, swollen by the continuous rain, and stretches of fallen trees were crossed at a run, or in mighty bounding leaps. The elk were tireless, and in half a day we covered a distance that would have taken horses at least three days, or even four.

At first I was afraid of falling off, but my misgivings proved groundless. Even in the densest thickets, the beast moved so smoothly that the king’s horses would have died of envy if they could have seen it.

When twilight started drawing in, Fluffy Cloud asked Runner in the Moonlight to stop, and jumped down lightly to the ground. We followed her example and then took Hallas down off the elk. The gnome had still not recovered consciousness, but now at least he was not as pale as in the morning. The wounded warrior was groaning quietly.

“He has a fever,” said Sunpatch. “The wound has almost healed over, but he is still weak.”

“Light a fire,” Egrassa told Eel.

The Garrakian glanced at the dryad, but the elf shook his head.

“She has nothing against fire.”

The elk disappeared into the forest, and Fluffy Cloud said they would come back at dawn. Sunpatch attended to the gnome, with Kli-Kli hanging around nearby. Fluffy Cloud handed out fresh flapjacks, so we didn’t go hungry. Then the dryad went up to the golden-leaf, laid her hand on its trunk, and asked the tree to protect us from the rain. I swear on my first Commission that the tree did as she asked! It seemed to lean down over us, and its branches wove themselves into something very much like a huge awning.

“You have a heavy day tomorrow,” Fluffy Cloud said. “You need a good night’s sleep, if you do not wish to fall off your mounts.”

Egrassa tried to appoint sentries for the night, but the dryad made a disdainful face at that.

“You can sleep easy. You are in no danger while we are here.”

“What about the Firstborn?”

“They would not dare to attack Daughters of the Forest. Have no fear.”

Egrassa seemed perfectly satisfied with what the dryad had said, and he lay down to sleep without wasting any more time. Eel followed his example. Mumr sat beside the fire for a little while, sighing to himself, and then also settled down for the night.

“What’s the matter, Harold?” Kli-Kli asked me.

“I’m not sleepy,” I lied. “You go ahead, it’s all right. I’ll sit here for a while.”

“I’m not sleepy, either,” the gobliness replied.

Sunpatch sat opposite us and stared without blinking into the flames of the fire. Fluffy Cloud disappeared into the darkness of the forest. We didn’t speak, and Kli-Kli’s head gradually began nodding. Then Glo-Glo’s granddaughter was completely overcome and she dropped off, snuggled up against my shoulder. She even started snoring. She was tired, and no wonder—we were all very tired after that day.

A hard day. An appalling day. A black day. Like so many others in recent months. Our group had suffered grievous, irreparable losses. I still couldn’t believe that the ginger-headed dwarf was dead and had been abandoned to the mercy of the forest spirits.

Deler had paid for Hallas’s life with his own, and if not for the dryads, that terrible price would have been paid in vain. Deler was gone now, like so many other members of the small band of brothers that had set out with me to retrieve the Rainbow Horn. Alistan had walked away into the mist, leading the orcs after him, and disappeared. And the most terrible thing was that now we would never know what had happened to the count, how he had died.

Died?

I was burying the captain of the royal guard too soon. I hadn’t seen his body, so for me he would always be alive. Perhaps Milord Alistan had managed to get away from the Firstborn. Sensing someone’s glance on me, I looked at the Daughter of the Forest.

“He will not come, man.”

“How do you know … madam?”

“The forest and the forest spirits told me. You do not hear them. Believe me, I am very sorry that we could not come sooner.”

“How…” I suddenly felt a lump in my throat. “How did he die?”

“Do you really wish to know?” she asked, with the flames of the campfire reflected in her big black eyes. “Why do you need that pain? He is dead, is that not enough?”

“No, not for me.”

“Very well, look. And do not tell me afterward that I did not warn you.”

Her black eyes suddenly blazed up in a flash of intense green light and, before I realized what was happening, the world was plunged into darkness.

The hunting horns called triumphantly to each other behind his back, but he ran on and on, leading the orcs farther away from the group. He hoped very much that Egrassa would be able to lead them out of this accursed forest, and then there would be some hope for Valiostr. The phantoms created by the old shaman’s spell glided silently along at his back, leaving clear tracks on the earth and the leaves.

He ran quickly, but tried to husband his strength, so that he would not be winded for the battle ahead. Count Alistan Markauz had no illusions that he might escape. He knew that sooner or later the Firstborn would catch him, and there was little chance that he would survive the encounter.

The forest went on and on, with no gaps between the close-growing maples. There was mist on all sides and the long run that had brought him to the limit of his strength was no longer important. It was time to find a place to die. He had never thought he would die like this, out in the rain and mist of the bleak autumn forest.

The captain was not afraid of death; he had seen more than his share of it in his time. But he regretted that no one would know how he had died. In his young days he had seen himself dying as a hero on the battlefield, defending the banner or shielding the young king with his body. A beautiful death, worthy to be celebrated in song. But Death was not to be chosen; she decided for herself when to come to a man and take him to the light. Or the darkness. The end was the same for all, and what difference did it make where you died—at the heart of a raging battle, or in a misty forest?

He would sell his life dearly—for him the most important thing was that the orcs must not use their bows, but engage him in combat. Of course, the captain need not have drawn the pursuit after him, he could have given that task to Eel or Lamplighter, but then how would he have been able to sleep at night, knowing he had sent another into the embrace of death instead of himself? Alistan was used to being the first into a battle, the first to ride his horse against the ranks of pikemen. Always the first, always at the cutting edge of the thrust. That was why the soldiers respected him.

The horns sounded again, and the count swore by the darkness. The pursuers had cut down his lead, and he would have to hurry, unless of course he wished to give battle with his back against a maple tree. Alistan Markauz had never appealed to the gods in prayer, believing that it was not worth troubling them over trifles. He had saved his only prayer for the occasion when it was right to call on Sagra. And he called on her with all his heart and soul, asking the fearful goddess to grant him a place for combat so that she might rejoice in the sight of the most important battle of his life.

And the goddess heard him.

After he left the maples behind, the forest opened up and Milord Alistan Markauz found himself beside a deep ravine with its bottom hidden under thick mist. There was a bridge across the ravine, and it reminded him of the one in the Red Spinney. It was just as narrow, and just as convenient to defend.

Built of stone, ten yards long and two yards across. If they wished to do so, two men could walk across it together side by side, but there was only enough space for one to launch an effective attack. Along the sides, taking the place of railings, there were tall rectangular barriers half the height of a man. Every two yards, tall columns rose up out of them to twice the height of a man.

Ten yards is no distance at all, and despite the mist, he had a clear view of the opposite bank, where there was an ancient city, almost entirely untouched by time. The walls ran right along the edge of the ravine, and the bridge ended at stone gates that were, unfortunately, closed.

Now he had several minutes to take a rest and draw breath. He had to stand on the bridge, and then the battle would take place one-to-one; the orcs would not have any room to attack in numbers or outflank him, and the gates would protect his back.

Markauz slowly walked across the bridge, and when he turned to face the maples, the shamanic phantoms disappeared. Glo-Glo’s spell had stopped working. Well, it had done its job, now the count had to do his.

Just for a moment the captain of the guard regretted that he was only wearing light armor, not his heavy battle plate. No helmet, no shield that would have allowed him to hold out for a very, very long time. Only a sword and a dagger for weapons. Despite the rain, the count took off his cloak and dropped it at his feet. Then he threw his scabbard away and took his sword in both hands.

The sword was somewhat longer than ordinary blades, and there was room on the hilt for the second hand. He was ready. All he had to do now was wait.

A horn sounded very close, and then the orcs emerged from the shroud of mist. Six, ten, fifteen, seventeen. Alistan Markauz’s enemies spotted him, and one of them raised a clenched fist in the air. His pursuers slowed from a run to a walk, looking around suspiciously, clearly fearing an ambush.

“Where are your companions, man?” one of them shouted.

“Far away,” the count said in a quiet voice, but they heard him.

“Surrender, or you will die!”

Milord Rat shook his head very slightly. Two bowmen stepped forward.

“Are you scared?” Alistan Markauz roared at the top of his lungs, and the sound of his voice carried across the ravine and the abandoned city. “Or are you not really orcs? You consider yourselves the superior race, and yet you are afraid of a man? Oh, come now, Firstborn! Do you not have the courage to face me with a yataghan, is that why you pick up the weapon of children, cowards, and elves? There are seventeen of you, and I am alone! Prove to me that you really are the Firstborn! All you have to do is bare your blades and cross the bridge!”

One of the orcs halted the bowmen and started conferring with the other warriors. The count waited and prayed. Then he suddenly felt someone’s insistent gaze on his back, and swung round sharply.

She was standing behind him. A woman wearing a simple sleeveless dress, with a luxuriant mane of white hair scattered across her naked shoulders. The stranger’s face was hidden behind a half-mask in the form of a skull. She was holding a bouquet of pale narcissi and gazing at Alistan Markauz out of her empty eye sockets.

“No!” he said, shaking his head in furious anger. “No! Not like that! Not with an arrow!”

She said nothing.

“I need time! Just a little bit! And then I will go with you. Grant me just a few minutes in the name of Sagra! I will take as many with me as I can!”

For a second he thought that Death would refuse him, but she thoughtfully tore the petals off the narcissi and silently walked away, back toward the gates.

“I shall wait, but not for long.”

He did not really hear her words; he felt them. Gripping the hilt of his sword even more tightly, he roared in anticipation of the battle to come. The orcs finished conferring and one of them called the bowmen back.

“We offer you one last chance to surrender, rat!”

Rat? Well now. He really was the Rat; he had been granted the honor of bearing a rat in his coat of arms. “Never drive a rat into a corner”—that was his family motto. Then it has nothing to lose, and it sells its life dearly.

“Forward, Firstborn! I’ll show you what rats are capable of!”

Those words decided the matter. His enemies stepped onto the bridge and moved toward him, taking their time.

At the front was a tall orc with a yataghan and a round shield. Good weapons, but the orc didn’t even have chain mail, just a jacket of thick, coarse leather and a light half-helmet. Alistan Markauz walked toward him. It was better to meet in the middle of the bridge; he would have room to fall back.

At that moment Milord Alistan remembered his childhood. The count had first picked up a sword at the age of five, but found the art of swordsmanship hard to master. He could not sense the rhythm, the music, the dance of the blade. Things had gone on like that until his teacher had the idea of bringing a flute to the Armory.

The old warrior played well, the flute sang in his hands, and the music flowing through the Armory helped the boy get a feel for his weapon. The music of the flute led him and his sword after it, prompting him when to strike, when to change his stance, or defend himself against a thrust. And the old master was pleased with his sovereign’s son.

The years passed, and the grave of Alistan Markauz’s first teacher had long been overgrown with flowers, but the song of the flute remained in the count’s heart forever. The moment he took the hilt of his sword in his hand, it awoke and sang in his ears, helping him in battle and in tournament duels. It must have been the song that eventually made him one of the finest swordsmen in Valiostr.

And now the flute was singing to him for the last time. The jolly, swaggering melody picked Alistan Markauz up and flung him into battle.

Sing, flute! Sing!

He met the first orc and struck first, without waiting for an attack. His opponent, unfortunately for him, was in a left-sided stance, holding the shield out in front of him. His left leg was exposed, a dainty morsel, and the battery sword swooped downward in a flash of pink, slicing through flesh and bone. The orc cried out and fell. Milord Alistan struck several rapid and powerful blows at his opponent’s helmet.

Sing, flute! Sing!

Although his comrade had been killed, the second orc came dashing forward. A “right-sided bull” and a rapid thrust, the orc covered himself with his shield and immediately struck a rapid counterblow. The yataghan cleaved through the air with a repulsive hiss and struck against a “crown.” The count’s blade accepted the blow on the flat, pushed the yataghan away, struck for the face, changed direction, and smashed into the shield.

Sing, flute! Sing!

The orc staggered back, stumbled over the body of his comrade, and immediately parted with his yataghan and his right forearm.

Sing, flute! Sing!

He had no chance to finish off the Firstborn. The next orc jumped over his wounded comrade and threw himself into a furious attack. He had a yataghan and a long dagger in his hands. Other Firstborn carried the orc who had lost his arm away from the raging skirmish. This time the count was facing an experienced opponent, and the lack of a shield did not make him any more vulnerable. Yataghan and dagger danced in the air, weaving an intricate pattern of silver that was impossible to strike through.

A clash of blades. And another. Every time it met the enemy’s steel, the battery sword screeched furiously and its song was echoed by the flute that the orcs could not hear.

Sing, flute! Sing!

The orc moved into the attack, the yataghan came sweeping down, encountered a “window” and tried to avoid the unexpected obstacle, and at that moment Alistan Markauz spun his enemy’s blade, threw it off to the right and “entered,” striking the orc a mighty blow on the chin with the pommel of his sword.

Sing, flute! Sing!

The heavy ball set on the hilt of the sword crushed the bone, and the orc collapsed limply to the ground. Alistan Markauz had no intention of sparing his opponent’s life. This was no time for noble acts of chivalry; he had only one goal now—to take as many Firstborn with him as he could. The heavy battery sword twirled round the count’s right wrist as lightly as if it was a feather. He shifted his grip to hold it like a staff and thrust the blade into his prone enemy with all his strength.

Sing, flute! Sing!

Not time to die yet! A little more dancing and singing!

His left cheek was damp for some reason, and something was dripping off his chin. He brought his eyes together in a squint—the entire front of his jacket was soaked in blood. Ah, darkness! That orc had been quick with the dagger. The count had not even noticed when his opponent managed to reach him. It was strange, but he did not feel any pain at all now. Even though the left side of his face was quite definitely sliced open. Sagra be praised that the blow had caught him below the eye, or the blood gushing from his forehead would have hindered him in the fight.

Sing, flute! Sing!

The flute sang, and the sword sang in harmony with it. The yataghan sliced through the air; the shield took the mighty vertical blows. When the battery sword came down again, the orc didn’t stand there stupidly, he drew the shield back toward himself, taking the sting out of the blow. The sword stuck in the shield and the Firstborn drew his yataghan back triumphantly, opening himself up. The dagger that suddenly appeared in Alistan Markauz’s left hand struck into the open gap, easily pierced the orc’s jacket, and stuck in the place known to warriors as the “bloody apple.” The count jumped back, freeing his sword with a sharp twist.

Sing, flute! Sing!

His cheek was burning, as if torturers had sewn a handful of blazing coals into it, but he had no time for pain now—two opponents flung themselves at him at once. The first one, with a spear, came charging at him like a wild boar. The second, with an ax, jumped up agilely onto the left shoulder of the bridge, and made to strike at him from above. Alistan Markauz skipped under the descending ax and struck the orc standing on the narrow border between his legs with all his might. The Firstborn lost his balance and tumbled into the ravine.

Sing, flute! Sing!

Holding his weapon above his head in both hands, as if it wasn’t a spear, but some kind of battle gaff, the orc struck in rapid jabbing thrusts at Alistan Markauz’s neck and chest. The count managed to parry the blows, but with great difficulty.

The sweat streamed off his face, mingling with the blood flowing from his wound. His ears were ringing, his legs were filled with lead, there was no air to breathe. He could not tell how long he had been backing away. The count’s attention was completely focused on his opponent’s golden eyes. The sharp sting of the spear described circles in the air, then came hurtling at his shoulder, changed direction to aim at his knee, darted up toward his chin. It was becoming harder and harder for him to parry the blows. All he could do was knock the spear away to his right or his left. And slicing through the orc’s weapon was out of the question—the shaft of the spear was clad in iron for almost a quarter of its length.

Each of them waited for his opponent to make a mistake, to open himself up a little, lose his focus, stumble unexpectedly, or simply fail to cover himself against a blow. The sword in Alistan Markauz’s hands grew heavier and heavier with every second that passed. He barely managed to push the thrusting sting of the spear away to the right, then carried through the movement of his blade into a hacking blow, trying to reach the Firstborn.…

The orc was quicker. He almost lay down on the ground and thrust his short spear forward with both hands. The narrow four-sided point pierced Alistan Markauz’s chain mail and struck the count in his right side. And again he felt no pain.

He grabbed the spear sticking in his side with his left hand, pushed it hard away from him, and was delighted to see the sharp butt end of the spear strike the orc in the chest, taking him by surprise. Then he shifted the spear to the right, giving himself the opportunity to move close to his dumbfounded opponent.

Sing, flute! Sing!

The Firstborn parted with his head, and the count pressed his left hand to his right side. It was bad. The count knew what happens when steel pierces the liver. It is the end.

Demanding hands with slim elegant fingers were laid on his shoulders. He roared furiously and jerked his shoulders to throw them off, forcing Death to step back.

“It’s not time! I can still take another one!”

The bridge came to an end. He had to hold his sword in one hand and squeeze his wounded side with the other. At least that would stop the bleeding and give him one more minute.

Sing, flute! Sing!

Make Death laugh! Gladden her with his song, so that she would remember this battle forever. How annoying that apart from her and these yellow-eyed reptiles, no one would see his finest fight of all! And the flute sang, and the Singing Steel of the sword sang its fierce and furious harmony. Step back, strike, catch on the counterstrike, step to the side. Another strike. And another. Press his back against the gates. Strike. Cover himself.

He threw his left hand out in front of himself, and the blood from his glove flew into the orc’s eyes. The orc lost momentum for an instant and the count, grasping his sword with both hands and ignoring the bleeding, chopped at the orc’s leg and charged him.

Sing, flute! Sing!

The song of the flute rang out over Zagraba and spread out across the world. He wondered if the group could hear it. Probably not, they were far away now. Very far away. The count smiled triumphantly.

Everything went dark. There was a roaring in his ears and for some reason he felt dizzy. He swung out blindly, acting intuitively, anticipating the next blow every time. Oh, just a little bit longer.

The blade of his sword struck something hard and halted for an instant, and the hilt was almost torn out of his hands, then he heard someone’s short gurgling shriek.

Sing, flute! Sing!

Well, Death, do you see? This is much better than arrows. He was going to fight a little longer. The orcs would remember this battle, and they would tell their grandchildren about him.

Why is it so dark? Why do I feel so bad? Are those your hands again, Death? It’s not time yet! It’s not time! Can you hear the flute singing? Can you hear the music?

Sing, flute! Si—