Алексей Пехов - Shadow Chaser

The tops of the monuments on the graves stuck up out of the water like little islands. We rode past them, trying to make the horses follow each other so that, Sagot forbid, they wouldn’t fall into some deep pit that could easily be concealed under the layer of water.

“Now where have we got to?” Honeycomb asked gloomily, talking to himself.

“The land of the dead, can’t you see?” muttered Hallas, who didn’t understand that some questions are simply rhetorical.

“What would a graveyard be doing in a place like this, one that gets flooded?” asked Honeycomb, casting an indifferent glance at a half-submerged coffin floating past us: It had obviously been washed out of a recent shallow grave.

“The village is near now,” replied Marmot, adjusting the edge of his hood to protect Invincible from the rain.

“The sooner the better,” said Deler, whose hat had long ago been reduced to a shapeless, sodden mass. “I want to be inside, in the warm, with a fire and mulled wine and a warm bed and all the pleasures of life.”

“I don’t think we’ll be able to find you an inn out here in the back of beyond. Be grateful if they let us spend the night in the barn,” Marmot replied, wiping the drops of rain off his face.

“This rain’s set in to last for the rest of the day,” Bass said in a hoarse voice, trying to get his horse to walk alongside Little Bee.

“Do you want to end up in a grave? Either get back or move up,” I told him.

He gave me an angry glance from under his hood and reined back his horse.

The graveyard ended as suddenly as it had begun. Something that looked like a road appeared from under the water, rising up to the top of the next hill.

I took an instant dislike to the village—about fifty low wooden houses standing along the wall of a black forest of fir trees. Soaking wet fields that had been cleared and turned, thick mud in the streets, smoke from the stove chimneys hanging over the roofs, and the rain into the bargain.

A boy walking toward us with a bucket dropped it into the mud when he saw our group, and ran off, howling. Bass swore through his teeth, apparently not realizing that armed men on horseback suddenly appearing from behind a curtain of rain might be enough to frighten a grown man, let alone a ten-year-old boy.

When we reached the center of the village, all the locals were sheltering from the rain and the street was deserted. The raindrops trickled down the roofs, drummed on our hoods, splashed in the puddles. We were surrounded by their quiet whispering. A big hefty man with an ax came out of one house and looked at us in alarm.

“What is the name of this village?” Honeycomb asked him.

“Upper Otters,” the peasant replied glumly, toying nervously with his ax. “We don’t want any trouble.”

“You won’t have any. Is there an inn in the village?”

“Straight on, about two hundred yards. The gray house with the sign. You can’t miss it.”

Honeycomb gave the man a nod of thanks and set his horse moving. We rode in the direction the man had indicated. I couldn’t resist glancing back, but the peasant with the ax had already disappeared.

The inn was as dreary and unprepossessing as all the other houses in Upper Otters. There was a tin signplate hanging above the door, but I couldn’t make out what was written on it—it was too old, the paint had worn off ages ago, and the innkeeper hadn’t bothered to paint it again.

“Wait here,” said Alistan Markauz, jumping down into the mud and holding out his reins to Marmot. “Let’s go, Honeycomb.”

They went into the house, leaving us outside, soaking in the rain. Deler was groaning, dreaming about a hot fire and hot food. Hallas asked the dwarf to be quiet in a most unusually polite manner.

Alistan and Honeycomb came back out looking glum and angry.

“The inn’s closed, we can’t spend the night here. Nobody in the village sells anything, especially not horses. They have less than a dozen of them.”

“And if we insist?” Egrassa inquired.

“I think, my cousin, that that is not a good way to win the love of men,” Miralissa replied to the elf.

Egrassa’s face made it clear what he thought of the love of men.

“But will they let us in for the night or not?” Bass interrupted. “I’m sick to death of this rain!”

“We’re all sick of the rain,” Honeycomb boomed as he mounted his horse. “Milord Alistan, perhaps we could try to find a place in the houses? Someone might agree to take us in for five pieces of gold?”

“It’s not worth the risk. The innkeeper said these are Balistan Pargaid’s lands.”

Marmot swore out loud.

“Let’s get out of here.”

But before we had gone a hundred yards, the street was blocked off by a crowd. A surly, angry, silent crowd. Almost all the inhabitants of the village were there, and many of them were holding pitchforks, axes, scythes, flails, or clubs.

“Oi!” the jester squealed quietly.

I immediately looked back—the road was blocked off by two wagons. Very smart.

“What is the problem?” Alistan Markauz shouted.

The man we had seen with the ax stepped forward out of the crowd.

“We don’t want any trouble!”

“We are leaving the village, let us through!”

“Gladly, but first throw down your weapons and give us the horses!”

“What!” roared Hallas, waving his mattock in the air. “No gnome hands over his weapon to a pack of mangy, stinking peasants. Never!”

The crowd began buzzing threateningly and moving toward us.

“We’ll break through,” said Alistan Markauz, striking his horse on the hindquarters with the flat of his sword.

The massive warhorse bounded forward at the men and flattened the ones who were at the front. The sword flashed, repulsing a blow from a flail. The peasants howled and ran in all directions.

I set Little Bee moving forward, trying not to fall behind the others. Our group sliced through the peasants like a hot knife through butter. Those who were too slow to jump aside were trampled.

One lad there almost managed to stick a pitchfork in my side. But Hallas split his head open with his mattock before I even had time to feel afraid. A second later, I had broken out of the crowd, desperately pounding my heel against Little Bee’s sides and leaning down low on her neck.

The menacing cries were left behind and we hurtled along the line of gloomy gray houses, keen to get out of this cursed village as quickly as possible. What had gotten into them? I wondered. There was a kind of crossroads ahead of us, with about fifteen men standing directly in our path. Unlike the peasants, though, these men were armed with lances and bows. And they were dressed a lot better, too—in wool and steel.

Alistan set his horse hurtling to the left, past the lances held out toward him. Miralissa managed to burn up one of our enemies with a spell. While the rest of them were blinking their eyes and yelling in fear, our group darted past after Alistan. I was galloping along last but one, immediately after Hallas, and I saw the sharp tips of the lances flash by just five inches from my face. Little Bee reared up on her hind legs and whinnied. It was a miracle that I wasn’t thrown out of the saddle into the mud.

“Oh, bravo!” roared Bass, when he saw that the road to the left was already blocked off by men with lances.

With an effort, I managed to make Little Bee follow Snoop’s horse. The two of us would have to break through together. Now we were galloping in the opposite direction from our comrades. I heard the twang of bowstrings behind me, and one of the arrows whistled past just above my ear and bit into the hindquarters of Bass’s horse, which was galloping ahead of me. It reared up and threw its rider to the ground.