Alexey Pehov - Shadow Prowler

I walked straight through an illusion of a dragon and found myself in front of a perfectly ordinary-looking house. There weren’t any showers of fiery rain or horrific monsters or magicians in brightly glowing silver cloaks on show here. Never mind that-there wasn’t even a shop sign. This little trading establishment didn’t need to attract simpleminded clients with more money than sense. And the prices here were so high that not many people were willing to buy.

But people in the know came here, to this modest little establishment-they didn’t go to the shops bursting at the seams with magical baubles and bright-colored phantoms on the Street of the Sparks.

I pushed the door, and the little bell jangled merrily. Many visitors would have been astonished at the total absence of goods on display. But when someone came here, the owner himself carefully selected the things the customer needed from the storeroom at the back of the shop.

“Who’s that the Darkness has dragged in now?” exclaimed a low, none-too-polite voice, sounding like a bumblebee buzzing over a field of clover. “We’re closing, clear out!”

A short, stocky figure emerged from the dark inner room. If I stood beside him, the top of the shopkeeper’s head would barely have reached up to my chest.

Like all dwarves, he had a massive forehead, small, deep-set black eyes, and a heavy, protruding lower jaw. A powerful, barrel-shaped torso. Strong, muscular arms. And an obnoxious personality.

For some reason, many ignorant philistines from the deep provinces always get dwarves and gnomes confused. In fact, dwarves are fundamentally different from their relatives the gnomes. Gnomes are smaller and look less robust, and they also do something that no dwarf would ever do even under pain of death-they wear beards.

“Good evening, Master Honchel,” I said.

“Ah-ah-ah,” the dwarf drawled, wiping his huge hands on his leather apron. “Master Harold. Good evening to you. And I was just about to fling you out of the shop. Haven’t seen you in a long time. How’s your eyesight?”

“No complaints.” Honchel was referring to my night vision, which I had improved with the help of an elixir bought in his shop six months earlier.

“And what brings you to me, especially at closing time?”

“Purchases.”

“Large ones?” The dwarf screwed up his eyes cunningly, already figuring out how much money he could squeeze out of me.

“That depends how things go: what the goods are like.”

“Come now, Master Harold, have you ever had reason to be dissatisfied with the range of goods in my shop?”

“Not so far, but you must admit, dear Master Honchel, that there’s always a first time for everything.”

“Not in my shop!” The dwarf laughed and led me into the back room. “I get my goods from the very finest magicians in the Order. And there are numerous items that I get from distant lands.”

What’s true is true. Master Honchel was one of the few dwarves who had stayed in Valiostr and not gone back to his mountains after the king concluded a treaty with the gnomes for the purchases of cannon. I don’t know how long it will take before the dwarves overcome their resentment and return to Valiostr, together with all their goods, but in the meantime the ones like Master Honchel will certainly be able to make their fortunes three or four times over.

“What are you interested in, Master Harold? Something standard or something special?”

“Both,” I said, stopping behind the dwarf at a large table piled high with crates, large boxes, small boxes, chests, and caskets.

We sat down at the table and, as always, the bargaining began, which I can’t stand. Because bargaining with a dwarf is harder than killing a h’san’kor, for instance.

“Be more specific, it’s getting late,” Honchel said with a frown, pretending to be terribly busy.

Like hell he was; you couldn’t have lured him away from me now with all the treasure of the dragons.

“Twenty-five crossbow bolts with spirits of fire, the same number with spirits of ice, a hundred standard, armor-piercing. Part of the order to be delivered. I can’t take everything away with me.”

“Oho,” said the dwarf, whistling and opening his eyes wide. “Are you going to drive the gnomes out of the Steel Mines?”

I didn’t answer, and no answer was required in any case. Honchel knew who I was, what trade I was in, and what kind of goods I required for my work.

“Good. Anything else?” the dwarf added with a nod.

“Lights, one bundle. Forty crackers. Traveling companion string, about ten yards.”

“What kind?”

“Cobweb.”

“Elfin? Where would I get that from?” the dwarf asked in mock surprise. “How can you ever get anything out of that fang-mouthed crowd?”

“Come now, Master Honchel, you’re no simple shopkeeper; if you poke about in your boxes and chests, you might just find some.”

“I will,” Honchel agreed, realizing that this time I had no intention of bargaining. Or almost none. “Is that all?”

“Can you suggest anything else?” I said, answering his question with a question.

The dwarf thought for a moment with his chin propped on his huge fist, then laughed. “I do have a little something here for connoisseurs like yourself, Master Harold.”

He disappeared under the table, rattled the lock of a trunk hidden away down there, and grunted as he clambered back out holding a crossbow in his hands. I couldn’t help myself, I gave a sigh of sheer delight, immediately raising the price by at least ten gold pieces.

The crossbow had a rather unusual design-it was double. The first bolt was installed in a lower breech and the second bolt in an upper one. The bowstrings on both mechanisms were tensioned by using a short lever. A smooth, polished handle, twin triggers. The weapon was elegant, black in color and a lot smaller than mine. A dream.

“Would you mind, Master Honchel?”

The dwarf smiled and handed me the wonderful thing and two bolts. The little object was incredibly light. I set a bolt in its special slot, then a second one, and pulled on the lever. It was incredibly easy to move. One click, and the heavy bolts were locked in their breeches. Those clever dwarves had come up with a way to make tightening the bowstring simpler.

I looked round for a target, spotted an old helmet covered in dust on a cupboard in a distant corner, glanced at Honchel to ask permission, aimed, and pressed the trigger.

Click! The first bolt struck the helmet, pierced the steel, and stuck in the visor.

Click! And the second bolt was right beside the first one.

The miniature weapon was very easy to use. I fell in love with the baby at first glance.

“Just look at that workmanship, that steel! No one will be able to make anything like it. I made it myself, with these very hands.” As if in confirmation of his words, the dwarf thrust his massive paws under my nose. “And it’s my own design.”

He could have rattled on like that for hours, even if it wasn’t a crossbow, but just a dead rat’s skin. The most important thing for Honchel was always to sell his goods for as high a price as possible.

“How much?” I asked.

“Three hundred gold pieces.”

“How much?” A dozen knights could easily have been kitted out for that sum.

“Three hundred, it’s a fair price. I’m not going to haggle, either take it or I’ll find another buyer.”

“Ah, but will you, my dear Honchel? For a price like that? It’s simpler to hire a squad of bowmen. For a hundred and fifty gold pieces.”

The dwarf shook his head and bit his lip. Then he scratched the-back of his head.

“You don’t need bowmen. But since you’re a regular, well-respected client-two hundred and fifty.”