Алексей Пехов - Shadow Chaser

Those who were most sober and could still stand firmly on their feet got up and started dancing. Arnkh grabbed a serving wench by the arms, setting her squealing in indignation and then in delight, and launched into the swirling dance. The stonemasons sang along merrily, the Doralissians banged their fists on the table, and we stamped our feet, trying to keep time with the music. Only Hallas paid no attention to the general merriment and systematically drank his swill.

A gnome or a dwarf can drink as much as an entire crowd of men and still not get drunk. But Hallas had had more than enough, his speech was getting noticeably slurred, his nose had turned red, and his eyes were glittering. The apotheosis of the cure came when he made a confession of genuine love to Deler.

“Hey you! Hatface! What would I do without your ugly mug to look at?” the gnome muttered drunkenly and tried to kiss his friend. “We-ench! Hic! The same again!”

A little more time went by, and my comrades were no longer even thinking of going anywhere else. They had a new entertainment now—Mumr and Marmot were trying to stare down the Doralissians. Each side was trying to drill a hole in the other. The stonemasons, realizing that they might have acquired new allies, started getting a bit livelier, and the chasseurs started wondering whose side to take in the fight ahead.

The gentlemen students came pouring into the tavern in a jolly crowd to celebrate passing their exam. Hallas fell into a doze on Lamplighter’s shoulder and Deler heaved a sigh of relief—the irascible gnome had finally shut his mouth.

Rather unexpectedly a quarrel sprang up at our table about the cuisines of the various races of Siala. The dwarf thumped himself on the chest and said that no one knew how to cook better than his race, to which Kli-Kli replied by suggesting we should wake Hallas and ask his opinion on the matter. Deler said rather hastily that it probably wasn’t worth waking him up, gnomes didn’t have a blind notion about food in any case—it was enough to remember the chow the gnome had cooked up during our journey.

“In general, the goblins are masters at preparing any kind of food,” Kli-Kli claimed.

“Right, only normal people can’t eat your grub,” Lamplighter snorted.

“It’s hard to call you Wild Hearts normal people,” Kli-Kli objected. “I’m sure you eat all sorts of garbage on your raids into the Deserted Lands.”

“There have been times,” Lamplighter agreed. “I remember once we had to eat the meat of a snow troll, and that, I tell you, is some chow!”

“Aw, come on, now,” Kli-Kli said impatiently, taking a sniff at the beer in his mug to pep himself up. “What kind of exotic food’s that? Troll meat! Ha!”

“Have you tried anything more unusual, then?” Eel asked the goblin.

“Sure I have!” Kli-Kli declared proudly. “We even have an old drinking song about food like that.”

“Right then, give us a blast,” Mumr suggested.

“No, don’t,” said Deler, waving his hands in the air. “I know what you greenskins are like. Worse than those bearded loons! If you start to sing, you’ll have every dog within a league howling.”

“It’s an interesting song. It’s called ‘The Fly in the Plate,’” the jester said with a grin.

“Drink your beer, Kli-Kli, and keep quiet,” Lamplighter warned the goblin in a threatening voice. The little ratbag sighed in resignation and stuck his nose into his mug.

“Good gentlemen!” said an old fellow who had come up to our table. “Help a poor invalid, buy him a mug of beer.”

“You don’t look much like an invalid,” growled Deler, whom the gods had not blessed with the gift of generosity.

“But I am,” the beggar said with a tragic sigh. “I spent ten years wandering the deserts of the distant Sultanate, and I left all my strength and my fortune behind in the sand.”

“Right,” Deler chortled mistrustfully. “In the Sultanate! I don’t think you’ve ever been more than ten yards away from the walls of Ranneng.”

“I’ve got proof,” said the old man. He was swaying on his feet a bit; he’d obviously already taken a good skinful that day. “Look!”

With a theatrical gesture the old man pulled something from under his old patched cloak, something that looked a bit like a finger, only it was three times bigger and it was green, and it had thorns on it, and it was in a small flowerpot.

“What kind of beast is that?” Deler asked, moving back warily to a safe distance from this strange object.

“Ah, these young people,” said the old man, shaking his head. “Haven’t been taught a thing. It’s a cactus!”

“And just what sort of cactus is that?” the dwarf asked.

“The absolutely genuine kind! The rare flower of the desert, with healing properties, and it blossoms once every hundred years.”

“What a load of nonsense!” Arnkh pronounced after inspecting the rare flower of the desert suspiciously.

“Aw, come on, buy grandpa some beer,” good-natured Lamplighter put in.

“And not just grandpa,” Hallas muttered, opening his eyes. “Me, too! Only not beer, but that stuff I was drinking already. My tooth’s started aching again!”

“Go to sleep!” Deler hissed at the gnome. “You’ve had enough for today.”

“Aha!” the gnome snorted. “Sure! Some old-timer can have a drink, but I can’t! I’m going to get up and get it for myself.”

“How can you get up, Hallas? Your legs won’t hold you.”

“Oh yes they will!” the gnome protested. He moved his chair and stood up. “See!”

He was swaying quite noticeably from side to side, which made him look like a sailor during a raging storm at sea.

Hallas took a couple of uncertain steps and bumped into a Doralissian who was carrying a mug full of krudr back to his table; the entire drink spilled on the goat-man’s chest.

The bearded drunk glanced up at the Doralissian towering over him, smiled sweetly, and said what you should never say to any member of the Doralissian race: “Hello there, goat! How’s life?”

On hearing what his people regard as the deadliest of insults (the word “goat”), the Doralissian didn’t hold back: He socked the gnome hard in the teeth.

When Deler saw somebody else hit his friend, he howled, grabbed a chair, and smashed it against the Doralissian’s head. The Doralissian collapsed as if his legs had been scythed away.

“Mumr, give me a hand!” said Deler, grabbing the goat-man under the arms.

Lamplighter rushed to help him. They lifted up the unconscious Doralissian and on the count of three launched him on a long-distance flight to the chasseurs’ table.

The soldiers accepted this gift with wide-open arms and immediately dispatched it homeward, to the table where several rather angry goat-men were already getting to their feet. The Heartless Chasseurs didn’t have as much experience as Deler and Lamplighter in the launching of unconscious bodies, so the Doralissian fell short of the target and came crashing down on the stonemasons. That seemed to be just what they had been waiting for. They jumped to their feet and went dashing at the chasseurs, fists at the ready. The Doralissians ignored the brawl between the soldiers and the masons and attacked us.

Kli-Kli squealed and dived under the table. Knowing the incredible strength possessed by the mistake of the gods that is known as a goat-man, I grabbed the legendary cactus plant off the table and threw it into the face of the nearest attacker. The owner of the cactus and my target both cried out at the same time. One in outrage, the other in pain. The old-timer dashed to rescue his precious plant from under the goat’s hooves and the Doralissian made a repulsive bleating sound as he pulled the quills out of his nose.