Алексей Пехов - Shadow Chaser

“Honeycomb, cover me!” I roared, trying to shout above the din of the battle. I had to reload the crossbow as quickly as possible.

The orcs were still busy with the men up at the front. They weren’t really expecting an attack, and that gave those of us at the back of the column an extra twenty precious seconds to shower a deadly rain down on the Firstborn.

I don’t think I have ever loaded a crossbow so fast in life. Put the bolts in the channels, pull the lever toward me, take aim, hold my breath, press one trigger, then the other.

The battle moved from the street into the cabbage field, and before the orcs could reach me, I had taken down four of them, another three bolts had missed, and two had just bounced off our enemies’ armor as if it was enchanted. One of the orcs tried to break through to me, but he was stopped by Honeycomb’s ogre-hammer. The heavy flail caught him in the side and flung him away.

Bang! My ears were struck by a strange new sound.

Little Bee reared up in fright and I crashed to the ground. I had to roll aside in order to avoid my own horse’s hooves.

Jumping up off the ground, I found myself face-to-face with a massive orc. I had dropped the crossbow when I fell and there was no time to get my knife out. The Firstborn was clearly intending to remove my curly head and cut the ears off it. His yataghan whistled repulsively. I pulled my head down into my shoulders and my enemy’s blade passed over it, merely ruffling my hair.

The battle was raging on all sides, our enemies were pressing hard and the men were all busy trying to survive, so I couldn’t expect any help. The orc struck again, and in reply I dropped to the ground, rolled over in the dirt, grabbed the nearest cabbage, and flung it at my opponent’s head. The Firstborn contemptuously knocked the cabbage aside with his yataghan, slicing it neatly into two halves. I had to jump back again, this lad was incredibly agile and—

Bang! I heard that loud sound again.

Something went whistling past me and the orc’s head flew apart as messily as a ripe melon from the Sultanate, spraying me with hot blood.

I turned toward the sound. Hallas was standing on the ground, with his precious sack now dangling on his stomach. He was surrounded by rapidly thinning, bluish, foul-smelling smoke, and he still had his pipe in his mouth. In each hand my savior was holding a short, thick object that looked very much like a miniature cannon.

I’d never seen a wonder like that before.

Meanwhile three Firstborn came dashing at Hallas, realizing that he represented the greatest threat to them. Without any fuss, the gnome threw his terrible little cannons aside, took out another two exactly the same, raised one of them to the smoking pipe in his mouth, lit the fuse, and pointed it at one of the orcs rushing toward him.

Bang!

The enemy performed a most amusing aerial kicking movement and fell down.

Bang!

A hole the size of a fist appeared in the second orc’s coat of mail and he swayed and collapsed facedown in the dirt.

The third orc stopped as if he was suddenly rooted to the ground, and was immediately run through with a lance by one of Fer’s soldiers.

One-Eye could barely stay on his feet as one of the orcs crashed an ax down onto his shield. I pulled out my knife and committed the most insane act of my life. I took a run, jumped up, and hit the foul creature in the back with my feet, so that I ended up on the ground again. The orc, who wasn’t expecting anything like this, dove forward, fell to his knees, and immediately parted with his head.

One-Eye nodded gratefully and jumped into the next scrimmage.

Darkness, I had to get back and pick up my crossbow.

“Die, little monkey!” Two orcs in helmets had noticed the solitary, innocuous man with a knife. I despairingly flung the knife at one of them, but he playfully knocked it aside with his shield.

“Harold, behind you!” called Honeycomb, leaping over to me. “Pick up the ax!”

I sprang back to make way for his ogre-hammer. The battle-flail swung low. Honeycomb was aiming for the legs. The Firstborn jumped up smartly, trying to avoid the heavy studded club. The Wild Heart changed the angle of his blow and the flail flew upward, putting an end to the less agile of the two orcs. The second orc tried to attack, but I was already there with the dead orc’s ax. I struck out clumsily, but put everything I could into it.

The ax sliced into his shield and stuck there.

“Get out of there!”

The orc took a step back, taking my weapon away with him. I took the Wild Heart’s advice just in time and jumped aside. In desperation the Firstborn held his yataghan out in front of him in an attempt to fend off Honeycomb’s blow. The striking head of the ogre-hammer flew higher this time, wound its chain round the orc’s yataghan, and stopped, tying the two weapons together.

Honeycomb tugged, but the orc kept his nerve and started tugging, too. Honeycomb let go of the handle of his ogre-hammer, stepped forward, and stabbed his dumbfounded opponent with his dagger just below the helmet, in his chin.

“Harold, what did I tell you? Clear out, go back to your horse!” Honeycomb had already picked up someone else’s sword and was fighting the next Firstborn. The entire cabbage field was seething with clashing weapons, shouts and screams, and blood. The battle had only been going on for a minute, or maybe two, but it seemed to me like an eternity since the start of the attack.

I picked my knife up off the ground, looked round, spotted Little Bee, and made a dash for her. One of the orcs flung a spear that pierced the links of Sergeant Mouth’s chain mail and stuck in his back. Another two orcs finished off Servin, who was desperately trying to hold them off. One distracted his attention and the other chopped off his arm with an ax.

I was overwhelmed by fury.

May the darkness take me, I swear by Sagot that I am a calm man, not given to suicidal acts, but this really got to my liver! Our men were being killed, and I was just rushing round the field, dodging the Firstborn’s yataghans.

I jumped up on the back of the one with the ax and literally drove the knife into the back of his head. He shuddered, went limp, and started to fall.

His comrade howled in fury and rushed at me. I was saved by the shield that had fallen from the hands of the orc I’d killed. I held it up in front of me, using both hands. The Firstborn struck once, twice, three times. His yellow eyes were blazing with fury.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I realized there was plaintive singing in a language I didn’t know weaving itself into the noise of the battle. With every blow that descended on the shield I took several steps back. The orc was beginning to enjoy it, and I could barely manage to raise the shield fast enough against his yataghan. Chips of wood were flying everywhere—this lad ought to have been a woodcutter, not a soldier. I trod on a cabbage, slipped, and almost fell.

Clang-bash! Clang-bash!

After the tenth clang-bash, when the accursed shield started pulling my arms out of their sockets and the orc had just swung back for another blow, I resorted to cunning: I didn’t defend myself against the blow, but simply stepped aside when the next attack came.

The orc put all his strength into the blow, and when he didn’t encounter the usual resistance, he went flying forward, growling viciously. To avoid falling to the ground, the Firstborn took a few more steps, and I smashed the shield against his back. The blow distracted him and then Hallas turned up to help me out.

The back section of his battle-mattock, the part that looked so much like a punch for working metal, pierced the Firstborn’s armor with a resounding cla-ang and killed him on the spot.