Алексей Пехов - Shadow Chaser

The other detachment had also run into orcs, but there were far fewer of the Firstborn there, so Fer and his men had managed to deal with their enemies and come to help.

“They gave us a good mauling,” Fer said to Alistan.

“How many?”

“Eighteen killed, not counting your two men, milord. Hasal, how many wounded?”

The healer looked up from bandaging a casualty.

“Slightly wounded—almost everyone. Four seriously. They chopped off Servin’s arm and pierced his stomach. I’m afraid he won’t last the night, commander.”

“And how many orcs?”

“No one’s counted them,” Fer said, with a grimace. “No more than thirty.”

“Thirty orcs after an advantage of fifty. We got off lightly after all.”

“Commander, what shall we do with the two prisoners?” One-Eye shouted.

“We’ll deal with them in a moment,” Fer said somberly.

“Come on, Harold, let’s take a look,” said Kli-Kli, jumping to his feet.

I wasn’t really interested in looking at orcs. I’d have preferred to dispatch them straight to the darkness, it’s a lot safer that way.

“Oh, come on!” he said, tugging on my arm. “What’s the point of just sitting around?”

Cursing the restless goblin to the high heavens, I got up off the ground and plodded after him.

The two Firstborn had been wrapped round with so much rope that it looked as if they had fallen into some gigantic spider’s web. One was wounded in the leg and the blood was still flowing, but no one had bothered to bandage the wound. Four soldiers were keeping a close watch on the prisoners, one of them holding the point of a lance right against the neck of a Firstborn. Egrassa was standing beside them, toying with a crooked dagger.

Orcs and elves. Elves and orcs. They look so much alike that at first glance it’s hard for someone inexperienced to tell the two races apart. Both of them have swarthy skin, yellow eyes, ash-gray hair, black lips, and fangs, and they speak the same language. The differences are too small for a casual observer to notice.

Firstborn and elves are blood relatives. Orcs are a little bit shorter than elves, a little bit stickier, their lips are a little bit thicker and their fangs are a little bit longer. And sometimes that simple “little bit” can cost a careless man his life. The only clear difference is that orcs never cut their hair and weave it into long braids.

“If you want to die quickly, answer my questions. We’ll start with you,” Fer said to the wounded orc.

The orc set his jaws, jerked, and gave a gurgling sound. Blood poured out of his mouth.

“Sagra!” one of the soldiers exclaimed in horror. “He’s bitten off his own tongue!”

The orc suddenly arched over sideways, and the point of the lance that was just pricking his skin ran right through his neck. The Border Kingdom soldier swore and recoiled, pulling out the lance, but it was too late—from the fountain of blood shooting up toward the sky it was clear that the Firstborn was dead.

“Kassani, darkness take you! Stop acting like a little kid!” Fer swore at the soldier.

“They’re all crazy, commander! He stuck himself on it,” said the soldier.

“Well then, your friend has departed for the darkness, but I won’t give you the chance to do the same,” Egrassa said to the remaining orc. “You will answer this man’s questions, or our conversation is going to last for a very long time.”

The orc looked contemptuously at the elf and spat in his face.

“I don’t talk to lower races.”

Egrassa calmly wiped the gob of spittle off his face and broke one of the orc’s fingers. The Firstborn howled.

“You will answer, or I will break all the rest of your fingers and toes.” The elf’s voice was as cold as the frozen Needles of Ice.

I turned and walked away. It doesn’t make me feel good watching someone’s fingers get broken. Kli-Kli came with me.

“Harold, I still can’t believe that we survived.”

“Well then, pinch yourself on the ear,” I advised him.

The soldiers who were still on their feet had already put the bodies of the fallen on a wagon found in one of the yards. They put the wounded into another one.

Honeycomb was still as pale as ever, and grim-faced Miralissa was whispering spells over him and the other warriors who had been hit by the shaman’s spell.

“How is he?” Kli-Kli asked anxiously.

“Very bad. The life is leaving him, I can see that, but I can’t stop it. We need a magician’s help here. And as soon as possible.”

“There’s an experienced magician at Cuckoo, milady,” said one of the wounded soldiers on the wagon.

“Crud, take some lads and harness horses to the wagons!” Fer shouted.

The soldiers set to it and led over horses that had lost their masters in the fighting. I went back to the Wild Hearts.

Hallas was sitting on the ground, carefully tipping gunpowder out of a large silver horn into his little cannons.

“So that’s what you’ve been hiding in that sack all this time.” Deler sniffed disdainfully. “What other fantastic nonsense have you lot invented now?”

“We invented what we wanted,” the gnome muttered, and started hastily packing his mysterious weapons away in the sack.

“Hallas, would you mind?” Alistan Markauz asked, reaching out his hand.

The gnome gave the Rat a resentful look, but there was no way he could refuse the count, and he reluctantly handed him one of his toys. Milord Alistan turned the little cannon over in his hands and asked, “How does it work?”

“That’s a gnome secret, milord,” Hallas said with a frown. “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, any fool can figure that out,” Deler interrupted. “There’s the wick, and there’s the trigger. Press the trigger and it lowers the wick, lights the powder, and the ball flies out! Tremendous gnomish cunning, my foot! It’s just a little cannon.”

Hallas ground his teeth in annoyance.

“You’re a cannon, you thickhead! It’s a pistol, our new invention. Just you wait till we turn up in the mountains with weapons like these to take our land back!”

“We’re always glad to see you, call any time! If the Field of Sorna wasn’t enough for you beard-faces, we can give you more, we’re not greedy!” Deler’s voice sounded boastful, but his eyes were fixed on the pistol in Alistan Markauz’s hands.

“If we had a few hundred pistols like this, it would make fighting the Nameless One’s army a lot easier,” the captain said pensively, handing the weapon back to the gnome. “What do you think, Hallas, would your kinsmen fulfill an order like that?”

“Pardon me for speaking plainly, Milord Alistan,” Hallas said in a flat voice, putting the weapon away in his sack. “But gnomes have never been fools. If we let you have things like this, first you’ll kill all your enemies, and then you’ll come after us, out of sheer boredom. You people are not all that bright, all you want to do is fight wars and let your enemies’ blood. A weapon like this in your hands … Our rulers would never make such a bargain.”

“A shame, we’ll have to take it with our swords.”

Egrassa came back and shook his head.

“He didn’t say anything.”

“Damn the orc to the darkness! Let’s go.” Miralissa was in a hurry to get to the castle as quickly as possible. “Are you ready, Fer?”

“Yes, milady.”

The detachment set off, with the wagon wheels creaking, and we left behind Crossroads, the place that had sent another two of our number to the light.

The detachment moved as fast as it could. The elfess rode alongside one of the wagons, constantly checking the condition of the wounded men.