Алексей Пехов - Shadow Chaser

The castle stood on a low hill, and the view was magnificent. Out there, beyond the castle’s earthen ramparts and three moats, beyond a small river with a lazy current and a field about three hundred yards across, overgrown with scrubby bushes, the forest started.

Zagraba.

The massive wall of trees gazing back at me from the far side of the river was magnificent and beautiful. A forest whose size rivaled the whole of Valiostr. It stretched on for thousands of leagues.

There before my eyes was the land where the gods had walked at the dawn of time, the kingdom that had existed in Siala before the times of the Dark Age, when orcs and elves had not even been heard of. The mysterious, fabulous, magical, enchanting, and also bloody, terrible, and sinister Forests of Zagraba.

How many legends, how many myths, how many endless stories, riddles, and mysteries were hidden beneath the green branches of the forest country? How many beautiful, outlandish, and dangerous creatures roamed its narrow animal tracks?

The beautiful towns of the elves and the orcs, the famous foliage and the labyrinth, the abandoned idols and temples of vanished races, the remains of the cities of the ogres, almost as old as time itself and, of course, the wonder and the horror of all the Northern Lands—Hrad Spein.

“My homeland,” Kli-Kli declared in a ringing voice. “Can you just feel that smell?”

I sniffed the air. There was a cool, fresh smell of forest, honey, and an oak leaf crushed in the palm of your hand.

“Yes.”

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” I answered quite sincerely.

The immense carpet of green stretched out in front of us all the way to the horizon, disappearing into the evening mist.

Zagraba seemed to be endless. I screwed up my eyes, and for a moment I thought I could see the majestic summits of the Mountains of the Dwarves wreathed in violet haze and propping up the sky. Of course, I only imagined it; the great mountains were hundreds of leagues away and impossible to see from there.

“Why do they call it the Golden Forest?” I asked Kli-Kli, who was pressed right up against the loophole.

“Golden-leaf trees grow there,” the jester said with an indifferent shrug.

“It’s getting dark, let’s go back,” I said, casting a last glance at Zagraba. “I don’t want to break my legs on the way down.”

Twilight was creeping up on the castle and torches were lit in the courtyard. There were not many men there, the bodies of the dead had already been unloaded from the wagon and carried away. I couldn’t see Eel, or Alistan, or Miralissa.

“Now how can I find our group? I don’t intend to go wandering all over the citadel like a fool.”

“We’ll think of something,” Kli-Kli said cheerfully.

An old man in a baggy, shapeless robe came up to us:

“Master Harold, Master…”—a brief pause—“… Kli-Kli?”

“That’s right.”

The old man gave a sigh of relief and jerked his head.

“Follow me, they’re waiting for you.”

He shuffled into one of the towers, led us through a long hallway where the walls were hung all over with weapons, and turned onto a narrow spiral staircase, from which we emerged into a hall where the Wild Hearts, Milord Alistan, and Egrassa were already eating.

“Where’s Mumr?” asked Kli-Kli, sitting down on a bench and pulling a plate toward him.

“Sleeping, he’s not feeling well,” said Hallas, stuffing a piece of sausage into his mouth and chomping on it.

“Is he all right?”

“A slight fever,” said Eel, taking a sip of beer. “He’ll be fine in a couple of days. I’m more worried about Honeycomb.”

“Miralissa will do everything possible to save him,” said Egrassa, without raising his eyes from his plate.

The rest of supper was spent in silence.

When the elfess joined us, Egrassa jumped to his feet and moved up a chair for her. Lady Miralissa nodded gratefully, and it was clear that she was absolutely exhausted. She had dark shadows under her eyes and deep creases running across her forehead; her hair was loose and tangled.

Milord Alistan poured her some dark wine without speaking, but she merely shook her head and smiled sadly.

“Wine and food can wait, I have another job to do. Egrassa?”

“Yes, the men have already made everything ready. We can begin.”

“Have you eaten?” she asked, turning to us.

“We are ready, milady,” Milord Alistan answered for all of us.

Kli-Kli nodded hastily, with his mouth full.

“Let us go,” she said briefly, and stood up. Egrassa dashed to her and supported her by the elbow.

“Lady Miralissa,” Hallas said plaintively. “You haven’t said a word about Honeycomb. Is he all right?”

“Yes, the danger has passed, the warrior will live. He is sleeping now, but I am afraid he will not be able to continue on the journey. It will be two weeks before Honeycomb can get out of bed, and we cannot afford to wait that long. We will leave him in the castle.”

“Where are we going, Kli-Kli?” I asked the goblin, when Miralissa had left the hall.

“They’re going to have Ell’s funeral now, so hurry up, Dancer. And don’t forget to pick the ling up off the table, or someone will think he’s a rat and kill him.”

I grabbed Invincible and set him on my shoulder. I had no idea what I was going to do with him now.

It was completely dark outside, but the gates of the castle were not locked. The detachment of soldiers that we had met on our way here had only just returned. They had four people from Crossroads with them—the only ones who had managed to hide in the forest when the orcs attacked the village.

Miralissa led us out through the gates and down to the river. On the other bank Zagraba rose up as black as an inkblot against the starry sky. A funeral pyre had been built right at the water’s edge. They had been generous with the wood, and the heap was two yards high. Ell’s body lay on the very top, clad in a black silk shirt. His s’kash and bow lay beside him.

We halted at a distance, watching as Miralissa and Egrassa approached our dead comrade.

“And now one more has left us,” said Alistan Markauz.

“Two, milord,” Eel corrected the count. “Tomorrow we shall have to commit Marmot to the earth.”

“I’m afraid we shall not even have time for that; we leave at dawn,” the captain of the guard said with a guilty shake of his head.

“But a funeral—,” the dwarf began. Alistan Markauz interrupted him:

“They will take care of Marmot’s body, Deler.”

Miralissa and Egrassa walked back to us.

“Sleep well, k’lissang. Egrassa and I will take care of your kin,” Miralissa said, and snapped her fingers.

The fire took immediately. The flames roared up to the sky like a red horse that became a red dragon, roaring as it consumed the wood and the body of the dead elf. Reflected in the water, the magical fire strained upward toward the stars, it howled and wailed, bearing the elf’s soul away into the light. The pyre was more than twenty yards away, but we all moved back, because the heat was unbearable.

The flames gave a sudden sob, the burnt-out platform on which Ell was lying collapsed down into the open jaws of the heat, and the pyre tossed a shower of sparks up to the cold stars.

Miralissa began singing in a low, throaty voice, chanting the song that elves sang over a deceased kinsman.

Nobody said a word until the pyre had been reduced to a heap of winking coals radiating heat.

“That is all,” said the elfess. She made several passes with her hands and a sudden gust of wind picked the coals and Ell’s ashes up off the ground and swirled them up into the air, filling the night with hot fireflies, then tossed the remains of the pyre into the river.