Алексей Пехов - Shadow Chaser

For a few moments there was silence in the arena.

Meilo became too involved with pressing and Lamplighter ducked smartly under his sword and pushed his opponent away from him. Tumbling forward, Meilo began spinning round faster than a goblin shaman after a breakfast of magic mushrooms, turning into a blur too fast for the eye to follow. A streak of lightning, a shrill whistle in the air …

Lamplighter guessed what was coming and jumped up in the air.

“Oh, mother!” said the jester, covering his eyes with his hands and watching the fight through the gaps between his fingers. “Tell me that he’s still alive!”

“He’s alive!” said Hallas, who was clutching his battle-mattock with white knuckles.

The gnome was right. Mumr was still standing, although there was an expression of furious annoyance on his face. He had almost been caught out.

“The score’s not looking good for us,” Honeycomb rumbled. “It’s time for Mumr to stop playing with him.”

Cla-ang! Cla-ang! the swords sang.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, went the clock of the gods, counting away the seconds of life.

Meilo straightened his arms suddenly and stabbed at Mumr’s neck. And then again my eyes were too slow to follow what was happening in the arena. In an instant Lamplighter’s gloved left hand was clutching the center of his blade. As if he were holding an ordinary staff, he pushed his enemy’s sword away from him and tried to strike at his throat with the point of his bidenhander. Surprised by this audacity, Meilo recoiled. But that didn’t stop Mumr. Still holding his sword like a battle-staff, he tried to hit Meilo with the knob of the hilt, aiming at his face. Mumr’s blows were “incorrect” and reckless, and Trug retreated in confusion, barely managing to avoid them.

“Ha-a! Ha-a!”

The wide-swinging movements of the Wild Heart’s “staff” gave his opponent no chance to gather himself for a single moment. The very air seemed to groan as the blades clashed. The sweat was streaming down Trug’s face.

Mumr resorted to cunning. He shifted his right hand onto the blade of his sword, too, setting it close to the guard, and holding the sword like a cross, then struck a hard blow at Meilo’s head with the heavy hilt.

“Ra-a-a-a!” A wave of sound ran through the lines of spectators.

After that everything happened very quickly.

Lamplighter pulled back, and immediately Meilo was there beside him, preparing to attack.… I missed the blow that followed; all I could see was that Mumr had been quicker and struck his opponent in the chest with the heavy hilt.

The crowd gasped and started to buzz. I swear by Sagot that even I heard the crunch of bone!

“A hit!” Hallas gasped, with his eyes glued on the fight.

Meilo cried out in pain, staggered back, and pressed his left hand against his chest. Lamplighter stepped forward, hooked a foot round his ankle, and jerked it upward sharply, using a wrestling move.

The tug on his leg threw Meilo off balance. Lamplighter dropped his sword and shoved his opponent hard on the chest with his free left hand, adding speed to his fall.

Trug crashed down onto the trampled earth with his full weight, striking the back of his head against the ground. Balistan Pargaid’s warrior seemed to lose consciousness for a moment, or at least he lay there without moving, although he was still clutching his sword in his right hand.

Mumr picked up his own sword, stood on his opponent’s bidenhander, cast a quick glance at Algert Dalli, and thrust his weapon hard into the chest of his opponent just as he was trying to get up, pinning him to the ground. Meilo twitched once and stopped moving. A puddle of blood began spreading out under the warrior’s body.

Lamplighter pulled his sword free with an effort, stepped back a few paces from the body of the defeated man, and bowed, swaying once, but still remaining on his feet.

Algert Dalli rose and his voice rang out across the courtyard.

“By steel, fire, blood, and by the will of the gods I confirm that judgment has been given and the guilty party punished! So be it!”

“What do you mean, punished?” howled Balistan Pargaid, beside himself with fury.

“Do you doubt the judgment of the goddess, milord?” asked Algert Dalli, raising one eyebrow in an expression of surprise.

“No. I do not doubt it,” the count said, forcing the words out.

Whatever else he might be, Balistan Pargaid was certainly no fool.

“Good, then I invite you to a festive dinner to celebrate the passing of judgment.”

“Thank you,” said Count Pargaid. “But I have business to attend to. My men and I will leave immediately.”

“As you wish.” Algert Dalli had no intention of trying to detain him. “A safe journey to you.”

Count Balistan Pargaid replied to these words with an irritated nod and left the arena without even glancing back at the body of Meilo Trug.

The Wild Hearts crowded round Mumr, fussing over him. Hallas was as pleased as if he had won the victory over the adversary all on his own.

“You know what, Harold-Barold,” said Kli-Kli, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of carrot, “I’m a bit worried about our mutual friend, Balistan Pargaid, withdrawing like that after he just spent two weeks chasing us. He gave up a bit too easily, don’t you think? And then Lafresa has disappeared somewhere.… Oh, I have the feeling they’re preparing some dirty trick for us!”

“Just chew on your carrot and shut up, Kli-Kli. Let Alistan and Miralissa do the worrying,” I told him.

But I had a feeling Kli-Kli was right.

That day Lamplighter was the hero of the castle. It’s no secret that what the inhabitants of the Border Kingdom value most in a man is his mastery of a weapon, and that morning Mumr had demonstrated that he certainly knew how to use a sword. All day long the soldiers of the castle garrison treated our hero with respectful deference, as if he were made out of the finest Nizin porcelain.

In the evening Milord Algert Dalli held a feast at which all the warriors of the castle were present. Mumr was seated in the place of honor and enough food for an entire regiment was heaped up around him.

Some of Lamplighter’s glory was even reflected onto me and the Wild Hearts. We sat beside him, at the same table as all the noble-born. Frankly, I’d rather hide away in the darkest corner of a hall, at the very farthest table, otherwise I feel too exposed. I think that pair of gluttons, Hallas and Deler, took the whole thing more simply than anyone else—they just gobbled up and swilled down everything that they could lay their hands on without the slightest embarrassment, belching deafeningly and constantly striking up new arguments with each other.

All the endless toasts raised to Milord Algert Dalli, his lovely daughter, Milord Alistan Markauz, the glorious elves, Master Lamplighter, the death of the orcs, the Border Kingdom, and so on and so forth had already set my head spinning.

Deler was red-faced from so much drinking, Hallas was feeling drowsy, Marmot’s tongue seemed to be tied in knots and, to Kli-Kli’s intense delight, he roused squeals from the lovely ladies by trying to stuff Invincible into a jug of wine. The goblin was really enjoying life, and he shared his joy with everyone else around him. The only ones displeased with his performance were Algert Dalli’s own personal fools, who watched the little jester with poorly concealed envy and hatred. It looked as if they could well end up giving Kli-Kli a good drubbing by the end of the evening’s festivities.

One dish followed another, one song followed another, and when it became absolutely unbearable to sit at the table any longer, Honeycomb nudged me with his elbow: