Shadow Blizzard

13 In Captivity

My companions were not distinguished by refined manners, and while the one who had been sitting on my legs merely hurried me along, the other one kept pushing me in the back so that I almost fell. Eventually we came out into the large forest clearing where the fire was burning. There were about ten men (or not men) sitting round the fire. A few more were standing or lying some distance away, and I simply wasn’t able to count them. A large group.

“Ghei Bagard! Masat’u ner ashpa tut Olag’e perega!” [Hey, Bagard! Look who me and Olag have caught!] Hefty shouted.

The figures round the fire stirred and got to their feet. I was shoved closer to the fire. The lads who had captured me had dark skin, yellow eyes, black lips, fangs, and ash-gray hair.

“Elves!” I thought delightedly, and then I took a closer look and felt very, very disappointed. My fears had been justified. Of the two possible evils, I’d ended up with the worse one. Elves never gathered their hair into ponytails, elves weren’t so heavily built, and elves never carried yataghans.

Firstborn! I’d fallen into the hands of the orcs! But I had been just a little bit lucky; the badges on the yellowish brown clothes of the Firstborn belonged to the clan of Walkers Along the Stream, and that was a lot better than running into the Grun Ear-Cutters. At least they wouldn’t kill me straightaway.

“Where did you find this?” asked a short orc.

“He was wandering round the fire, Bagard,” said Hefty’s friend, switching into human language.

“Was the little monkey alone?”

“Yes. Before we took him, we checked the whole area. He was alone. Olag can confirm that.”

Hefty’s friend nodded. The orcs switched back into their own language, talking fast. I stood there like a sheep, waiting to see what would come of all this rigmarole. Bagard seemed to be in charge of this detachment; he spoke a few abrupt phrases and six Firstborn disappeared into the dark undergrowth.

“Weapons?” Bagard asked, switching back to human language.

Olag handed the commander my knife. Bagard twirled it in his hands impassively and handed it to one of the orcs standing beside him.

“Is that all, Fagred?” The Firstborn seemed a little surprised.

“Yes,” said Hefty, nodding.

“Have you searched him?”

“Kro.”

“He doesn’t look much like a warrior,” said one of the orcs.

“We’ll soon find out, bring him over to the fire!”

Fagred and Olag grabbed me by the arms and dragged me to the fire. Naturally enough, I thought they were going to roast the soles of my feet, and I started to resist, but the orc who had taken my knife hit me hard under the ribs and I suddenly didn’t feel like resisting anymore. The only concern I had now was trying to breathe. They sat me down by the fire and Fagred started asking questions.

“Who are you? How many of you are there? What are you doing in our forest?”

The orc backed up each question with a resounding slap to my face. Bearing in mind the size of his mitts—and the orc was every bit as big as Honeycomb—I felt justified in worrying whether my head could take the strain. Unfortunately, I didn’t get a chance to answer, because the slaps rained down on me as fast as the questions. And the questions followed one another at a very brisk rate indeed. When Fagred started asking them for the fifth time, growing more and more enraged at my silence, Bagard’s voice interrupted.

“That’s enough!”

Fagred muttered discontentedly and walked away.

“Search him.”

They stood me on my feet again, took my bag, and rummaged adroitly through my clothes.

“Nedl kro.” [Nothing there.]

“I told you he didn’t look like a warrior,” one of the orcs muttered, and threw some fir-tree branches into the fire.

By this time the six warriors sent to reconnoiter by Bagard had come back. One of the Firstborn shook his head and put an arrow back in his quiver.

“If he doesn’t look like a warrior…” Bagard’s yellow eyes studied me intently. “Shokren, check this monkey!”

An orc walked out of the shadow, and I turned cold—the lad was wearing a strange headdress that looked far too much like a shaman’s cap. And a shaman was just what I needed to make my day complete! Shokren resembled Bagard in some elusive way; they must have been relatives. The shaman came over and ran his open palm over me without touching me.

“His neck,” Shokren murmured, and someone’s deft hands relieved me of Kli-Kli’s drop-shaped medallion. The shaman nodded contentedly. “The left arm.”

Egrassa’s bracelet joined Kli-Kli’s medallion on the ground.

Shokren took his hand down to the level of my boots and said, “That’s all, he’s clean.”

“What are these trinkets?” asked Olag, twirling the bracelet of red copper in his hands.

“That’s a long story,” said Shokren, putting the droplet medallion away in his bag. Then he took the bracelet out of Olag’s hands.

He held it for a while, studying it closely, then threw it on the grass and said, “Everybody get back!”

The orcs obediently stepped away and Olag took it on himself to take care of me and dragged me with him. Meanwhile the shaman muttered something, formed the fingers of his left hand into a complicated sign, and Egrassa’s bracelet melted, turning into a small puddle on the ground.

“They won’t find you now, little monkey,” the shaman sneered.

“A leash?” Bagard asked Shokren with a knowing air.

“Yes.”

“The inferior ones?

“Probably.”

The inferior ones? Unless I was mistaken, that was what the Firstborn called the elves. Anyway, now it would be rather difficult for Egrassa to find me.

“So our moth is mixed up with that bunch, is he?” Fagred said with an ominous leer.

“Give me his bag,” the shaman suddenly said.

One of the Firstborn immediately handed my bag to Shokren. Do I need to say what happened when the shaman took the Rainbow Horn out of it? Naturally, the ordinary orcs didn’t understand a thing, but Shokren, Bagard, and Olag exchanged pointed glances. And the shaman’s hands were actually shaking.

“What is it?” asked Fagred, craning his neck.

“It’s something that will help the Hand in his battle with the inferior ones,” Bagard said reverently. “Remember this day, warriors.”

“Well done, moth!” Olag said with a crooked sneer. “What other treasures have you brought for us?”

Shokren carefully set the Horn down on a cloak that one of the warriors had spread out, and turned his attention back to my bag. The handful of fruit was flung aside disdainfully, and then the Key emerged from the bag. The dragon’s tear glinted in the light of the campfire and the Firstborn all gasped as one in wonder and delight. They seemed to know what the shaman was clutching in his hand. He took the relic between his finger and thumb, as if he was afraid it might simply disappear.

“The Key to the Doors!” one of the warriors gasped.

“Correct. But how did a man come to have the inferior ones’ relic?” said Shokren, looking at me. “Have you been in Hrad Spein?”

“Yes.” I couldn’t see any point in lying.

“Is that from there?” the shaman asked, nodding at the Horn.

“Yes.”

“All right.” The shaman seemed to be quite satisfied with my monosyllabic answers.

“Has the moth brought us any more presents?” Fagred inquired.

The shaman turned my bag upside down without saying anything, and an emerald rain cascaded down onto the orcish cloak. One of the Firstborn cleared his throat quietly.

“What shall we do with him, Bagard?” Fagred asked.

The commander of the detachment shrugged indifferently.

“We don’t need any extra mouths.”

The huge orc gave a knowing chuckle and put his hand on his knife.

“Wait, Bagard,” said Shokren, unhurriedly putting all the treasures back into the bag. “This little monkey’s not as simple as he seems. When we have time, I’ll have a talk with him, and I think the Hand will, too.”

“The Hand is far away,” Bagard said with a frown.

For some reason the orcs didn’t seem to want to talk their own language.

“I’ll send him a message by raven, he can decide what to do with all these things. In any case, the moth will make a good wager at the mid-autumn festival. Put the little monkey with the others.”

“All right,” Bagard agreed, and started speaking in orcish.

The Firstborn seemed to have lost all interest in me; they talked excitedly, and started rearranging themselves round the fire. The shaman hung my bag over his shoulder, and I thought that now he wouldn’t part with it even if he was attacked by all the dark elves in the Black Forest.

Curses! Now the orcs had the Rainbow Horn and the Key! If Egrassa found out, he’d be devastated; he’d have an apoplectic fit. The orcs didn’t seem to be paying any attention to me, and I decided to risk it and take off. Running around Zagraba with my hands tied behind my back would be better than staying in the company of the Firstborn.

Well, of course, every stupid mistake has to be paid for, and I paid for mine. Fagred had kept his eye on me all the time, and I only got six yards. That lousy yellow-eyed skunk overtook me, knocked me off my feet, and smashed his fist into the back of my head so hard that five moons flared up in front of my eyes and I passed out.

“Leave him, none of us is going to live very long anyway.”

“That’s my business. Get me some water, man.”

I felt something cold and incredibly pleasant on my forehead. It seemed like a good idea to open my eyes.

“Welcome back.”

I stared at the speaker in amazement. I didn’t think I was dreaming, but I was still having visions. Or was it a dream after all?

“Kli-Kli, is that you?” I wheezed, trying to sit up.

I shouldn’t have done that. The ground and the trees started spinning around, and I collapsed on the bed of fir branches with a groan.

“You’re mistaken, son,” the goblin chuckled, and took the wet cloth off my forehead.

Yes, I could see for myself now that it wasn’t Kli-Kli. This goblin was much older than my royal jester. His green skin was duller and a lighter green, he had bushy eyebrows and a hooked nose, half his teeth were missing, and his eyes weren’t light blue but violet. In general he looked like a wrinkled little green monkey.

“I…”

“It was rather stupid of you to try to escape from the Firstborn. I’m absolutely amazed that huge brute didn’t kill you. How are you?”

“My head hurts,” I said, wincing, and made a second attempt to get up. This time I managed it, and the ground didn’t even spin.

“Don’t worry, they’ll lop your head off soon, and then nothing’ll hurt,” someone beside me said, coughing.

I made the effort to squint sideways and saw the speaker. He was a huge man with a black beard growing right up to his eyes. He returned my gaze defiantly and started coughing again.

“That’s Kior,” the goblin explained, and I didn’t hear any love for this shaggy natural wonder in his voice. “And this is Mis.”

There was a skinny man about forty-five years old sitting beside Kior. Bald, with brown eyes and a mustache. His right shoulder was bandaged up in a slapdash fashion. He gave me a friendly nod.

“Welcome to our unfortunate little group, lad.”

“A warrior?” I asked, finding the strength from somewhere to nod back.

“Yes,” Mis replied, and closed his eyes.

How had a warrior from the Border Kingdom ended up out here in the wild?

“Do you have a name?” the goblin asked me.

“Harold.”

“And I’m Glo-Glo,” the goblin said with a grin. “Pleased to meet you.”

Morning was waking over Zagraba, but there wasn’t much light because the sky was blanketed with clouds, and it was about to start raining at any moment. How long had I been out, then? All night? That Fagred had a heavy hand, all right! There was a dull throbbing pain in the back of my head and I winced as I put my left hand to it. That was when I realized my hands weren’t tied anymore.

“There’s no need,” the goblin said as if he was reading my thoughts. “Where can you run to? Look over there.”

I looked in the direction the goblin had indicated. And saw a man suspended by the legs dangling from a branch of the nearest tree.

“That’s Kior’s partner,” Glo-Glo explained cheerily. “Yesterday he got it into his head to run off, so they hung him up there to teach the rest of us a lesson. And they slit his belly open for good measure.”

“Why don’t you shut up and keep quiet, greeny!” said Kior, and his eyes flashed angrily.

“I’ve kept quiet long enough, no more!” The goblin sat down beside me and started whispering in my ear.

“Take no notice of him, Harold. Kior’s a poacher, he hunts golden cats in the orcs’ territory, and the Firstborn caught him. Actually, they caught him yesterday, about three hours before you turned up.”

“I see,” I muttered.

“But how do you come to be in Zagraba?”

“I was just taking a stroll,” I chuckled.

Glo-Glo sighed. “You can tell Kior you were out for a stroll. Do you think I didn’t see what the Firstborn took out of your bag?”

“How do you know what those things were?” I asked curiously.

“I just happen to be a shaman.”

I cleared my throat doubtfully.

“Shamans don’t get caught by the orcs that easily.”

“As long as they stay alert, that is,” Glo-Glo sighed regretfully. “I really am a shaman, though.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

I figured that if the goblin was a shaman, he ought to have been able to find some way to do a vanishing act.

“The same as you. Look.” The goblin showed me his hands, and they were covered with mittens.

Strange mittens they were, too, I must say. At least, each one had a restraining chain and a lock, so they looked a bit like manacles. Taking them off would be pretty hard. Although they were rubbishy locks, and I thought I could have picked them if I really tried. The mittens had runes drawn on them, too.

“What are they for?”

“So I can’t work any spells,” the shaman groaned miserably. “The mittens restrict the movements of my fingers, and the runes prevent magic from working, so spells are out of the question. I can try, but the forest spirits only know what will actually happen.”

“And some people still claim that shamanism is better than wizardry!” I muttered.

“Just give me time. I’ll get my hands free, and then they’ll be dancing to my tune!” the goblin hissed, narrowing his eyes and peering at the orcs.

“If they don’t cut your hands off first,” Mis said encouragingly.

“They won’t do that,” the goblin said, waving one hand blithely in the air. “I don’t have anything to worry about until the mid-autumn festival.”

“And then what happens?” I asked.

“You’ll see,” snapped Glo-Glo.

Meanwhile it had started to rain, and that’s never the most pleasant start to a morning. The camp was gradually waking up. Despite the rain, the orcs relit the fire. The Firstborn went about their business, and we sat in the rain and got soaked. An idyllic scene. Two hours went by like that, and despite the continuous drizzle, I somehow managed to doze off. I was woken by Glo-Glo poking me violently in the ribs.

“It’s started,” said Mis, and added a foul oath.

“What’s started?” I asked, confused, but none of my comrades in misfortune saw fit to answer me.

They were all staring at the center of the clearing. Since I hadn’t been given any explanations, I started watching the orcs bustling about, too. Some were dousing the campfire, some were hastily packing up their things. Two of them dragged a huge tree stump out of the forest—what on earth was that for?

“How many of them are there?”

“How many of who?” Mis was kind enough to reply.

“The orcs.”

“Nineteen. They’re an advance detachment, they were pursuing dark ones.”

“Dark ones?” I asked.

“Dark elves. A detachment of elves was running riot in the orcs’ territory and Bagard’s unit set off in pursuit. In the end they caught the elves and all of us as well,” Glo-Glo said, and spat.

“They caught elves?” I was definitely very slow on the uptake today. But then that quite often happens when someone applies something heavy to my head.

“Well, not all of them…” Glo-Glo drawled, watching Fagred set the stump in the center of the clearing. “Only those who were unfortunate enough not to be killed in the fight. And there they are.”

Eight orcs pushed four elves out from behind the tree that one of the prisoners was hanging on. They were too far away for me to make out the prisoners’ faces and the crests of their houses, but one of them was definitely a woman. The elves weren’t a very pretty sight; they looked as if they’d spent the night in a room crammed full of deranged cats. The Secondborn were bruised and battered, they’d been worked over really well. One of the elves could hardly walk, and two of his comrades had to support him. The dark ones were led out into the middle of the clearing, where all the orcs were gathered together, and Bagard gave a brisk nod.

“What are they going to do with them?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.

The executions were bloody and swift. The orcs didn’t bother with subtle tortures. The Firstborn simply set each of the elves on the improvised block by turn and the huge Fagred chopped their dark heads off with his ax. The orcs watched the executions impassively, and when it was all over, they dragged the bodies across to the dead man hanging on the tree.

“Well, that’s over,” said the goblin, clearing his throat.

“Not quite, I think,” Mis hissed.

I followed his glance and my stomach turned to ice. Bagard was directing some of the Firstborn to our hushed little group. Three warriors separated off from the detachment.

“I won’t let them take me that easily,” the Border Kingdom warrior muttered. “They can find themselves another sheep to slaughter.”

Mis was clutching a short pointed stick in his hand. I had no idea where he’d got it from, but it could easily be used to strike at an eye or a neck. The question was, would the orcs give him a chance to do it?

Two of the warriors came over to us, and I pulled in my feet in case Mis decided to try something and I had to kick the nearest orc. But the Firstborn took no notice of me or Mis, they just grabbed Kior and dragged him off toward the block. The trapper kept yelling and trying to break free until the third orc smashed the shaft of his spear into his stomach.

“Why him?” I asked in a hoarse voice.

“He’s a poacher,” Glo-Glo said reluctantly. “When they caught him, they found several gold cat skins. And to the orcs a poacher is as bad as a woodcutter.”

They dragged Kior, howling, to the block, but they didn’t put him on it, just stretched him out on the grass as if they were going to quarter him, and Fagred raised his terrible ax. Two quick blows—and the poacher’s howls were reduced to a wheeze.

“Sagot save us,” I muttered, and turned away.

The orc had cut off both of the man’s arms at the shoulder.

“Sagot won’t be much help here,” said Mis. “What’s needed is twenty of our lads from the Forest Cats brigade, with their bows.…”

Kior had gone quiet. None of the orcs even thought about binding up the appalling wounds, and the poacher bled to death very quickly—and if the gods were merciful, he lost consciousness immediately. Meanwhile the orcs had hung the elves’ headless bodies up beside Kior’s friend, and now they were setting the dark ones’ heads on spears stuck into the ground.

Olag walked across, looked intently at all three of us, and said: “Take a look at the hanging meat and remember: The same thing will happen to you if even one of you tries to get away. Do you understand me, little monkeys?”

“Don’t think we’re more stupid than you are, orc,” Glo-Glo said, coughing. “We’re not stupid, we understand.”

The shaman didn’t seem to be at all worried that the Firstborn would hurt him. Olag chuckled and looked at the goblin as if he was seeing him for the first time.

“Well, since you understand everything, greeny, get the monkeys ready to leave, we’re moving on.”

And he walked away.

“Where are we moving on to?” I asked, shuddering in the cursed drizzle pouring down from the sky.

“Somewhere else,” the goblin muttered vaguely, and wrapped himself up in his cloak.

Any thought of escape was absolutely out of the question. The three of us were put in the center of the line, which made running off without being seen a pretty difficult proposition. And then, how could I forget that Olag was striding along behind us, crooning a little song to himself, and Fagred was there, too, with his ax. He made me feel distinctly nervous, because every time our eyes met, the orc smiled wistfully and stroked his terrible weapon.

It was clear enough what the lad had on his mind. He wouldn’t be happy until he could chop my head off. I had to try to put off the time when he could have that pleasure for as long as possible.

Fortunately, the rain stopped, but I still wasn’t warm and dry enough to feel comfortable. My teeth chattered and I shuddered and prayed to the gods to drive away the clouds and let us have some sunshine. I knew I had to keep going, keep myself alive—I wouldn’t have Miralissa’s sacrifice be in vain … I wouldn’t let that happen. Little Glo-Glo ambled along in front of me, coughing, grunting, and swearing quietly to himself. The orcs seemed to find this amusing.

“Hey, lad!” Mis called to me.

“What?” I asked without turning round—no point in attracting unnecessary attention from the Firstborn.

“You mentioned Sagot. Are you a thief, then?”

“Bull’s-eye,” I said, stepping over a thick branch lying on the animal track.

“How did you end up here?”

“No talking, monkeys!” Fagred roared. “You can talk as much as you like at the halt!”

I shut up—I already knew that Fagred had no sense of humor and Olag wasn’t the most patient orc in the world.

Bagard led the detachment to the south, into the heart of Zagraba. I couldn’t exactly say we strolled through the forest, but we certainly weren’t in any great hurry. Even Glo-Glo, with his short legs, was able to keep up with the pace set by the orcs.

But to give Bagard his due, he wasn’t careless at all, and there were always several orcs walking ahead of us, scouting out the territory for any possible problems like elfin bowmen or a h’san’kor taking a doze. Shokren tramped past, hurrying up to the head of our little column. The shaman had a huge raven perched on his shoulder. I gazed longingly at my bag dangling at the orc’s side. Shokren noticed my interest and frowned. I saw the shaman overtake Bagard and say something to him, pointing to me. Bagard nodded thoughtfully and stopped, waiting for me to hobble up to him.

When I drew level with him, he said, “My brother told me we ought to give you a jacket.”

I must admit, I didn’t know what to make of that.

“I’d be very grateful,” I said cautiously.

“I don’t need any monkey’s gratitude,” the orc snapped. “You’re inferior beings, and the most amusing thing is that you don’t even realize it. Fagred, skell drago s’i llost!” [Fagred, give him your jacket!]

Darkness only knew what Bagard had barked, but Fagred moaned discontentedly behind me: “Prza? Shedo t’na gkhonu!” [What for? He’s going to croak anyway.]

“Not yet. The Hand might have some use for him, or do you want the monkey to freeze to death on the way?”

The huge orc immediately stopped arguing and a minute later he handed me a leather jacket with a hood that he had fished out of his shoulder bag. It turned out to have a fur lining as well. This was a day full of surprises! Of course, the jacket was a bit bigger than necessary, but, naturally enough, I didn’t complain. I started feeling warmer straightaway. But the expression in Fagred’s eyes somehow didn’t suggest that he was overjoyed about sacrificing his jacket.

We made three halts to rest. Once they actually fed us, and then drove us back onto the track. By the time evening came we’d covered quite a distance, and when Bagrad halted the detachment for the night, I collapsed on the ground.

“It’s not sleeping time yet, little monkey!” said Fagred, planting a painful kick in my side. “First you have to make up your bed.”

I had to get up, grinding my teeth in anger at the orc, and scrape the fallen leaves together into a heap. Then Mis and I were told to break branches off the fir trees, and after that the orcs left me alone. Shokren showed up, made a few passes with his hands, and cleared off again.

“What was that?”

“A kind of alarm,” Glo-Glo explained reluctantly. “If you step outside the circle, there’ll be a loud noise, and all the orcs will come running.”

Darkness fell. The orcs lit a campfire and seemed to forget about us. And why shouldn’t they? Shokren’s magic did all their work for them. Then the Firstborn started cooking supper, and I started drooling. But surprisingly enough, when the food was ready, Olag and another orc came over, and they left us a decent serving of meat and a flask of water. So, the Firstborn certainly weren’t planning to starve us to death.

We got talking as we ate. Glo-Glo started pestering me about the Rainbow Horn, and I had to give the pushy little goblin the short, edited version of the adventure. The old shaman seemed satisfied with my story and he left me in peace.

“And how did you get here, Mis?” I asked the Border Kingdom warrior when we finished our food.

“Well, these…,” the elderly warrior began reluctantly, nodding toward the Firstborn. “Do you know what a long-distance raid is?”

“I have a good idea,” I answered. “Isn’t it something like that game the Wild Hearts play when they march all the way to the Needles of Ice?”

“That’s it,” Mis agreed morosely. “The very thing. But for us a long-distance raid is an outing to the Golden Forest to see if the orcs are behaving themselves or if they’re thinking of getting up to some of their tricks. Well, anyway, me and the lads got into a fine mess. This lot dropped down on us out of the trees like overripe pears and finished everyone off like sitting ducks before we even had time to say boo. But that sorcerer of theirs tied me in a knot. Just for the fun of it.”

“I see,” I said sympathetically. “Glo-Glo, you still haven’t told me why they want us alive and where they’re taking us.”

“Why they need you alive is obvious enough. They’re going to have a serious talk with you. But they want us alive to amuse themselves with, though I think you’ll probably suffer the same fate,” the goblin replied, lounging back on the fir-tree branches.

“What do you mean?”

“As if you couldn’t guess!” Glo-Glo cackled merrily.

“Believe it or not, but I don’t understand a thing.”

“They’re taking us to the Labyrinth. The Labyrinth, lad! Have you heard of it?”

“Yes, I have,” I said, frightened out of my wits.

“He has,” the goblin teased me. “These yellow-eyed rats have their mid-autumn festival soon. And what kind of festival would it be without a goblin in the Labyrinth? Do you think they’re kind-hearted, just because they haven’t killed us all yet? They’re saving me for their shitty Labyrinth, that’s why they’ll put up with any crap I throw at them.”

“Hey you! Monkeys! Have you eaten? Then sleep, we’re marching again tomorrow!” one of the sentries growled.

It was the middle of the night, and I still couldn’t get to sleep—that was obviously the effect of the news that they were going to stick us in the Labyrinth.

The Rainbow Horn was in the hands of the orcs, I was a prisoner, the somber prospect of the Labyrinth was looming on the horizon, and my friends and brothers-in-arms couldn’t come to my rescue because the shaman had melted my bracelet. Trying to escape was impossible, at least as long as Shokren and Fagred were around. And where would I run to anyway? There was thick forest on every side, and the orcs were at home here, they’d find me in no time, and then it would be good-bye, Harold. And the shaman would still have the Horn.… What did that leave? All I could do was wait for my chance and hope that fortune would smile on me. I fell asleep, still trying to console myself with this pale illusion of hope.

The next day was no different from the one before. The lousy drizzle was still falling, but I was feeling quite comfortable, because Fagred’s jacket protected me against the whimsies of the autumn weather. We tramped on through the yellow and red forest that still hadn’t fully woken from its slumber.

“I hope there’s going to be a halt soon,” said Mis, who was walking behind me. He spat, earning himself a dig from Fagred.

“Tired, little monkeys?” the orc inquired. “Just let me know and I’ll put an end to your suffering. Forever.”

Naturally, no one thought of answering him. No one wanted another clout from that massive brute.

“It’ll be dark in half an hour,” Mis muttered.

“We’re almost there,” said the goblin, rubbing his aching back. “You’ll see for yourselves in a moment.”

Less than ten minutes later, the bushes gave way to red maples, then they gave way to mighty oaks. The rocks stopped looking like rocks and started looking like ruins. And a few minutes after that I was walking through a city, although that city was in a far worse state than Chu.

All that was left on the ground were the skeletal outlines of the old foundations of buildings and massive blocks and slabs of stone scattered around among the trees. I didn’t see a single complete building. I only saw a fallen column once, more than half buried in the ground. We reached a point with oaks growing so close it was like a solid wall, and I had to squeeze through between the trunks to get into the center of the ring formed by the trees.

Another of nature’s jokes, or had these trees been planted by someone’s caring hands? This place reminded me very much of the ring of golden-leafs at the entrance to Hrad Spein. If I’d been wandering around here on my own, without the orcs keeping a keen eye on me, I’d never have guessed anything could be hiding behind the trees.

Right in the center the wide clearing that was overgrown with young oak saplings, there was a round raised stone platform, with a tall, brilliant-white, needle-like obelisk growing up out of it. It seemed to absorb the light from all around, and even against the background of majestic oaks it looked absolutely perfect.

“The only thing that has survived in this city,” said Glo-Glo, nodding indifferently toward the building, with no sign of the admiration that Mis and I felt at the sheer beauty of the place. “Time has reduced everything else to rubble.”

“Is this the city of Bu?” I asked the old goblin, remembering what Kli-Kli had once told me.

“No, this is the Nameless City,” Glo-Glo replied. “But how do you know about the city of Bu?”

“A goblin I know enlightened me.”

“Ah, yes, some people have goblin friends. What did you say his name was? Kli-Kli?”

“Yes.”

“And where is he now?”

“Somewhere near the entrance to the Palaces of Bone.”

Glo-Glo frowned discontentedly, but he didn’t say anything.

We prisoners had been seated right at the edge of the circle of oaks, and Shokren had traced out his magical circle again so that we wouldn’t—may the gods forbid—slink off. Nobody intended to let the monkeys go near the obelisk. A pity. I really wanted to touch that strange stone. I could physically feel the warmth radiating from it.

“Glo-Glo, do you know who built this wonder?” I asked the goblin, who was already settling down for the night.

“Those who were here before the orcs and the ogres,” the shaman answered. “Let’s sleep, I don’t think they’re going to feed us today.”

Glo-Glo was wrong. Exactly an hour later they brought us food and—may the gods of Siala save me—wine! Genuine orcish wine, which not many men have ever tried.

So when it got dark, we had a real little feast. Olag was even kind enough to bring a torch on a long pole and set it up beside our prison with no walls or bars.

“The Firstborn have even decided to give us light for our meal,” said Glo-Glo as he chomped on the food (he’d woken up in an instant when it arrived).

“Wait!” snorted Mis, sniffing at the wine in the flask. “This is to make it easier to keep an eye on us!”

“The man’s no fool!” Glo-Glo chuckled, stuffing a huge piece of meat into his mouth.

“Why are they so generous all of a sudden?” I asked, looking at the obelisk glowing in the darkness.

That was a real sight, let me tell you!

“We’re valuable prisoners. And tomorrow we don’t have to walk. We’ll probably hang about here for at least six days. We can relax.”

“But how do you know all that, greeny?” asked Mis, handing me the flask. I nodded in thanks.

“I’m a shaman, after all,” the goblin said resentfully. “Two hours ago, just after the swamp, a raven arrived with a message for Shokren.”

“Can you read at a distance, too?” I asked in amazement.

“Of course not!” Glo-Glo retorted. “But we goblins have good hearing. Much better than you hulking brutes. I heard Shokren telling Bagard about it. Basically, the instructions were to lead the detachment into the Nameless City and wait at the Obelisk of the Ancients for another detachment to arrive. And that detachment is still at Bald Hills, so they have to walk for at least six days to get here.”

“By the way, you don’t happen to know how far it is from here to the Eastern Gates of Hrad Spein, do you?” I asked the shaman, trying to sound casual.

Glo-Glo shot a quick glance at me from under his knitted brows and answered, “If you mean in your leagues, I don’t know; I don’t understand your distances. But in days … well, you’d be tramping for two full weeks or more, but I’d get there in a week and a half, if I really wanted to. And the orcs and elves could do it in a week, if they were desperate. Do you think your friends are still waiting for you?”

I shrugged. “Even if they are, they think I’m still underground.”

“Or dead,” Glo-Glo said to cheer me up. “Your bracelet’s been destroyed, and the one who gave it to you might think you’re deceased.”

“Couldn’t you get a message to them?” I asked the goblin, hoping the shaman would work a miracle for me on the spot.

“How? Ask a little bird, or a moth? Things like that only happen in fairy tales. Come on, let’s get some sleep. We can talk as much as we want tomorrow. It’s almost midnight.”

Nightmares are the bane of my life. And after Hrad Spein there wasn’t a night that passed without some beastly horror descending on me. That night I dreamed I was back in the room with the ceiling moving down, only this time there was no hole in the floor, and all I could do was run from one corner to the other, waiting to be flattened.

I woke up. Judging from the moon, there were still about three hours to go until dawn. The torch left by Olag had gone out, and no one had thought to replace it with a new one. Four campfires were blazing away merrily in the clearing, and the obelisk was giving off quite enough light for me to see the orcs lying around here and there. The only one not sleeping was the one tending the fires.

Everyone was asleep, and it would have been a magnificent chance to escape, if not for Shokren’s cursed magical circle. I wondered if Glo-Glo could have broken the orc shaman’s magic, if he didn’t have the mittens on his hands. I’d been pondering a crazy idea for two days, thinking about freeing the old goblin from his magical shackles. Unfortunately, on closer inspection, the locks holding the mittens on the goblin’s hands had proved to be pretty tricky, and there was no way I could ever get them open with an ordinary sliver of wood. I needed some thin piece of metal, and neither I nor Mis nor Glo-Glo happened to have a little trinket like that. There was nothing I could do but wait for a stroke of luck that would allow me to open the miniature locks.

Purely by chance, I happened to glance at the remains of our meal, and my jaw dropped open. Sitting there on a piece of fried salmon was a dragoatfly. And nearby there was a flinny, struggling to open the tightly closed top of the flask of wine. My heart started pounding furiously. Whatever I did, I mustn’t frighten him off!

I cautiously propped myself up my elbow and whispered, “Hey, flinny!”

He jumped and swung round, pulling out his miniature dagger. The dragoatfly also abandoned its meal and flew across to its master, trembling slightly. Unfortunately, this flinny was a stranger and he didn’t look anything at all like Aarroo g’naa Shpok. Even the little fellow’s curly hair was black, not gold.

“Push off, beanpole!” the flinny said, waving his ridiculous little weapon menacingly.

“I didn’t think flinnies were thieves.”

“I’m no thief!” the lad exclaimed resentfully. “This food doesn’t belong to anyone!”

I clicked my tongue reproachfully. “It belongs to me, and you know that perfectly well.”

“Oh, all right!” the flinny growled irritably, mounting his dragoatfly.

“Wait!” I whispered hurriedly.

“What do you want?” he asked rather impolitely, but the dragoatfly stopped and hovered in the air.

I struggled desperately to find the right words. “I want you to take a message for me.”

“No way!” the little squirt snorted. “I don’t want anything to do with your lot!”

“I’ll pay!”

“No way! What could a prisoner have that’s worth anything, when the orcs search him five times a day?”

But the little rotter was still in no hurry to fly off. He waited. Just in case I might suddenly manage to find something.… And I did find something. Shokren had missed the gift from the dead elfin king. Perhaps he hadn’t sensed it, or perhaps the ring didn’t have any magical powers, and the heartbeat in the black diamond was just some kind of trick. Whatever the reason, the ring had been on my hand all the time, hidden under my glove. But now I would have to part with it.

It was a shame to let the precious thing go when I’d had it for such a short time, but at least now I could put the dead king’s gift to good use. I remembered Kli-Kli saying that flinnies were crazy about all sorts of rings. I took the glove off my hand and even now, in the light of the white obelisk and the cold moon, the little light was still flickering in the depths of the stone, following the crazy rhythm of my heart.

“Oo-oo-ooh!” the flinny exclaimed in a surprisingly shrill voice.

The little creature couldn’t take his eyes off the ring. I sat down, and the dragoatfly landed at my feet. I took the ring off my finger and rolled it in my hand, allowing the black diamond to catch the sparse rays of moonlight and transform them into a spectacular display of icy flame. I think the flinny was in a state of absolute ecstasy.

“Is that valuable enough for you to do a simple little job?”

The lad pulled himself together enough to nod, but he didn’t take his eyes off the prize.

“I am Iirroo z’maa Olok of the Branch of the Lake Butterfly. What do I have to do for this?”

“Can you free us and lead us away without the orcs noticing anything?”

“No,” he said with a sigh of regret. “Perhaps there is something else I can do for you?”

The flinny was politeness itself.

“I will give you the ring, if you will deliver a message.”

“Agreed! What is it, who is it for, and where are they?” the little news peddler rattled off.

“Fly to the Eastern Gates of Hrad Spein, find Egrassa of the House of the Black Moon or Milord Alistan Markauz, and tell them that that Harold is alive, and a prisoner of the Firstborn. The orcs also have the Horn, and they are taking me to the Labyrinth. And also tell them where you met me. Is that clear?”

The flinny repeated every single word like a parrot. I nodded and put the ring down on the ground. The dragoatfly immediately landed on the precious item, and the flinny, hurrying in case I changed my mind, tied the ring to the belly of his little flying mount.

I watched all the details and, to be quite honest, I felt a bit nervous. The doubts gnawing at my heart were perfectly understandable—the lad had been paid in advance, but would he do the job or just fly straight home, and then laugh with his relatives at how smartly he’d diddled one of the beanpoles?

Something must have shown in my face, because the flinny cast a quick glance at me and chuckled sympathetically.

“Relax, man. We always do the job, that’s professional etiquette.”

What damn fancy words he knew! Well, if it was “professional etiquette,” I definitely could relax.

“They might not be at the gate.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” the flinny said with a nonchalant shrug. “I’ll look around for them. How long ago could they have left?”

I reckoned it up.

“Three or four days.”

“Excellent! Good health, man!”

“When will you reach the entrance to Hrad Spein?”

“At noon today,” the flinny replied. Seeing my look of amazement, he chuckled. “We have our own little secrets when it comes traveling round Zagraba, otherwise the news we carry would be too old to have any value.”

“Hurry, flinny.”

“Don’t teach a cock to crow, man! What you have given me is priceless, so, out of simple politeness, after I find your friends, I’ll warn the right people. Forward, Lozirel!”

Before I could even ask who the flinny had decided to warn, the dragoatfly had disappeared into the night sky, bearing away the tiny little rider and my great big hope.

“Let’s hope the flinny will find your friends and they can get us out of this in time,” said a voice behind me. I started and swung round.

Glo-Glo was gazing at me with a mocking smile. The old goblin had been awake all the time I was talking to the flinny.

In the thieves’ profession, one of the indisputable virtues is being able to wait. On the roof of a building, in a dark, dusty cubbyhole, up to your throat in shit—it doesn’t matter where you are or who you’re waiting for, but if you’re patient, you’ll always be lucky. So after the flinny flew off, I tried to put him out of my mind, otherwise the time would have dragged catastrophically slowly.

Four days went by, and the orcs still weren’t thinking of leaving. The Firstborn didn’t pay any attention to us, except for Olag checking to make sure we weren’t getting up to anything, and Fagred casting dark glances in our direction. It’s no secret that all our knowledge of orcs is based on idle fantasy and legend. Not many of the authors of scholarly works on the race of the Firstborn have actually seen any Firstborn in the flesh. And so in my mind (especially after my brief encounter with orcs in the cabbage field and in certain waking dreams), the Firstborn were cruel, coarse, unrefined creatures, and all in all …

All in all, their personalities were so much like elves’ that sometimes I was absolutely amazed. But then, what was so very astonishing? They were close relatives, the darkness take them! The only difference was that the orcs couldn’t bear even the smell of outsiders and thought all other races were greatly inferior to themselves.

I personally had been expecting them to keep us on starvation rations, give us a thrashing every day, stick red-hot needles under our fingernails, and commit other similar atrocities. But that wasn’t the way things were at all—no one had any intention of touching us (a couple of pokes from Fagred didn’t really count), they fed us remarkably well, and our food was exactly the same as what they ate, although we didn’t get us any more wine.

The weather improved, the wind carried the clouds away to the south, toward the Mountains of the Dwarves, and once again the sky had that astounding autumn blueness that harmonized so well with the yellow leaves of the trees. And it got a bit warmer, too. It was probably the last, or perhaps second-to-last, more or less warm week in the year.

Ravens arrived for Shokren twice, but we could only guess at what was in the messages that were delivered. Glo-Glo spent all day huddled up under his old patched cloak, replying sarcastically to our questions or making meaningless remarks about my conversations with Mis. The old shaman’s main occupation was mumbling to himself. Either the old goblin had gone completely gaga, or he was preparing some kind of spell, despite the mittens. The second assumption was probably the right one, since Glo-Glo shut up the moment any of the orcs appeared, and when Shokren’s face hove into sight on the horizon, the old shaman pretended to be asleep.

At first Mis wasn’t much inclined to make heart-to-heart conversation, but after a while the man from the Borderland proved to be a fine conversation partner. The warrior’s wound was gradually closing up and the orcs paid him absolutely unheard-of attention by giving him a clean rag and some kind of ointment to help it heal. Glo-Glo stuck his nose in the ointment, seemed satisfied with the result, and advised Mis to change the bandage as often as possible, then he went back to playing his whispering games.

On the fifth day Olag came over with Fagred, who was smiling and had a coil of rope in his hands. The unpleasant thought immediately sprang to mind that someone was going to get eliminated.

“Get up, moth!” Olag told me.

As you’ve probably already guessed, this suggestion distressed me so much that I stayed sitting on the ground.

“Where are you taking him?” the goblin interceded for me.

“None of your business, greenie!” Fagred growled.

“Get up, moth! Shokren doesn’t like to be kept waiting! Or do I have to get you up?” Olag asked.

Sensibly accepting the fact that Shokren was not the gallows, I got up, and Fagred immediately put a noose round my neck and wound the other end of the rope round his hand. I was led off to the shaman on this improvised lead.

Shokren was talking to Bagard about something, but when he saw they’d already brought me, he cut the conversation short.

“Pero at za nuk na tenshi,” [Lead it after me.] the shaman said, and set off toward the obelisk.

There are times when I really regret not knowing orcish.

Fagred tugged on the rope, almost breaking my neck, and dragged me off after Shokren. Olag walked alongside and gave me an occasional push in the back. They led me along just like a sheep to the market fair! Naturally, I didn’t wax indignant, because being stubborn was a very good way to get a poke in the teeth from Fagred.

They brought me to the edge of the forest, and Shokren sat down on the ground and fixed his thoughtful gaze on me. Of course, no one suggested that Harold could sit, so I had to stand there with that stupid lead round my neck and act like a bored idiot. The shaman seemed a bit upset that his hard-stare treatment hadn’t produced the desired result. He frowned and said, “I need to clarify a few details of the way you appeared in our forest and find out how you managed to get the Horn. Will you answer me, or shall I tell Fagred to hang you up for a little while?”

“I’ll answer,” I blurted out hastily.

“Sa’ruum,” [Shaman] hissed Olag, who was standing behind me.

“I’ll answer, sa’ruum,” I repeated obediently.

“Good. If I sense that you’re lying to me, Fagred will hang you up.”

I squinted at the huge orc’s happy face. The bastard was just dreaming of Shokren catching me out in a lie.

Then the questions came thick and fast. Naturally, despite the orc’s threats, I had no intention of blabbing about the Commission. Four days of idleness had been quite enough time to invent a plausible cover story, go over all the moves, and modify a couple of them, so that in the end not even my inestimable acquaintance, the head of the Order of Valiostr, Artsivus, could have told the truth from the lies, let alone some orc shaman. And so Shokren and my two guards were treated to the heartrending story of an old and very rich count who commissioned this thief to get a Horn I had never heard of for his collection.

I was given heaps of gold, helped to get to Hrad Spein, and after that it was in the hands of the gods. I took the Horn, collected the emeralds along the way, and then somehow found myself in Zagraba. How had I got there? I had no idea at all, not a clue. Some sort of magic, tricks of the darkness. How had I got hold of the Key? That was very simple, Mr. Sa’ruum, sir. It was already in that count’s collection, the elves must have sold it to him.

At that Olag snorted loudly, letting the entire forest know what he thought of the idea of elves selling their own relics to men, but Shokren told the warrior to be quiet and started asking me his endless questions again. How had I got to Hrad Spein? With what kind of group? Were there any elves in the group? Sure, if I told you there were elves, you’d mark me down as one of the elves’ cronies.

“There weren’t any elves,” I blurted out, and immediately regretted it.

Fagred’s face suddenly had a really, really pleased expression.

“That’s a lie,” Shokren answered me in a bleak voice. “In the city of Chu you and your monkey friends killed some of our warriors. Fagred was the only one who managed to get away. Hang him up!”

“You killed my brother! He was wounded!” Fagred yelled, and tugged on the rope so hard that I fell to my knees, scrabbling at the tightening noose.

What a shame we didn’t finish you off, too! I thought. Darkness, what a stupid way to get caught out! Talking to the shaman was as hard as talking to Vukhdjaaz. I had to improvise again.

“There were elves! There were!” I squealed as I saw Olag throwing the rope over a branch of the nearest tree. “Only they weren’t real elves.”

Shokren held his hand up to tell the warriors to delay the torture for a moment.

“What nonsense is this, little monkey! What do you mean, not real elves?”

What was that I used to say? If you tell a lie, make it a really big one!

“They were bastards!”

“We know without you that all elves are bastards!” Fagred said, and he tugged on the rope again.

“No! I mean their fathers were men, and their mothers were elfesses!”

The more incredible a falsehood is, the more like the truth it sounds. I didn’t know if what I’d just made up was even possible (I hadn’t heard of anything of the sort anywhere), but the orcs swallowed the bait—hook, line, and sinker. The Firstborn didn’t have a very high opinion of elves in any case, and when they heard something like that, they believed it was true straightaway. I think Olag cursed, and the very sight of Fagred was frightening, but absurd at the same time: I thought he was going to be sick. Shokren rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“I knew they were sadists, but to do … that … with monkeys…” Olag didn’t even bother to say it in orcish.

“All right, bring it back. I have a few more questions for it,” Shokren snapped.

Realizing that the hanging was postponed for the time being, I cheered up a bit. The “few questions” went on for a good hour, but in all fairness, I must say that I never got confused even once, although the shaman was pushing me really hard. Eventually he got up and said, “Take it away, I’ve found out all I wanted to know.”

So saying, the orc set off toward the obelisk, and I was led back to Mis and Glo-Glo, who were at the other side of the clearing. Halfway across Fagred decided he wanted to play games—he started jerking on the rope and chuckling, and asking me if I wanted to play doggy.

“Come on, now, moth, say ‘woof’! That’s not too hard for you, is it? Oh, come on! Say ‘woof’!”

Every phrase was accompanied by a tug on the rope. I maintained a stoic silence.

“Bad dog! Bad dog! Say ‘woof’!”

“That’s enough, Fagred,” his comrade warned him. “This one might still be useful.”

“Shokren found out everything he wanted from him. Say ‘woof,’ moth, or I’ll have to punish you!”

“And when the time comes, who are you going to bet on?” Olag suddenly asked. “A greeny or a wounded monkey?”

Fagred frowned, thought for a while, and then nodded.

“Okay, you’re right, Olag. You don’t have to bark right now, moth. But your time will come soon. Ah, the eternal forest! That’s Bagard calling. Keep an eye on the monkey, I’ll be back in a moment.”

Fagred handed the rope to Olag and trudged off toward the commander of the orcs.

“Sit down,” Olag ordered, and set me an example by sitting on the yellow leaves that covered the ground.

I had to sit down. In theory, at this point I might have been able to handle the orc, one to one, but two things stopped me—the dagger that Olag took out as soon as his partner left, and the fact that we were in open view. They’d simply stick me full of arrows while I was running for the trees. So I had to sit beside the Firstborn and wait for Fagred to come back.

“You’re a silly little monkey,” Olag said unexpectedly. “Why couldn’t you have just played along with Fagred?”

“I don’t think of myself as a silly little monkey and I don’t want to amuse your friend.”

When I was talking to Olag I could get away with things I would never have said when I was talking to Fagred.

“Not a monkey?” the orc said, and a faint spark of curiosity lit up in his eyes. “Then who are you?”

“Me? Certainly not a monkey.”

“All men are monkeys!” Olag declared. “You’re worse than animals, you’re inferior beings, you’re a mistake of the gods, like the elves who appeared straight after us. This world should belong to us! We were its only masters until the inferior beings appeared. Yes, you can talk, but give me two months, and I’ll teach a raven to talk. Just because you can talk, it doesn’t mean you can think! All of you who have appeared on our land, you, who fell our forests and keep us out of our own land, you’re no better than stinking monkeys who’ve learned to talk and make weapons! A herd of crude beasts! If you weren’t here, Siala would be a much better place. We orcs are the first children of the gods. The superior race! Why should we share Siala with elves, who came to Zagraba when all the work had already been done, when we’d already run the last ogres out of here, losing thousands of orcs in the process? That was very convenient for the elves, wasn’t it? They’re cruel and cunning, they’ve made my brothers’ lives a misery, but sooner or later we’ll crush them. And as for men … You were the very last to appear; even the Doralissians, those brainless oafs with goats for mothers, arrived before you did! You appeared in our world, and we didn’t realize what a threat you were. We were fools. While we were fighting the elves and trying to drive the dwarves and the gnomes out of the accursed mountains, you spread all round the world, and then it was too late. All you can do is kill and destroy everything beautiful that there is in our world! Men are stupid little monkeys, and you won’t stop until you tear Siala into a thousand pieces, you’ll never have enough blood and wine to satisfy you!”

He paused for breath.

“It’s our duty to do everything we possibly can to stop you, to wipe the human race off the face of Siala, so that there isn’t even a trace of you left behind! And when the last of your children drowns in the ocean, we’ll come back and settle our accounts with the elves, and all the others who are your friends. If we overthrow you, then we can crush the others, too! What we failed to achieve in the War of Shame, we shall achieve now. While I’m talking to you, little monkey, the Hand is leading my brothers in arms out of our cities and soon, very soon, we’ll march out of Zagraba and we’ll march as far as Avendoom and Shamar, and then it will be the turn of the other lairs of men. We won’t leave a single stone standing, because there’s no place in our world for anyone like you. And what you brought here will help us in the battle!”

I listened carefully without speaking. A heartfelt speech from a true fanatic, but then, they were all fanatics. The orc’s eyes blazed with golden fire and he kept clenching the dagger, clearly preparing to use it, if I raised any objections. The Firstborn, the Firstborn. I wondered what he’d say if he knew about the Fallen Ones.

“And you animals, who have no sense of honor, demand admiration from us, you demand an alliance! You say we have to give you our forest, which belongs by right to the Firstborn, the first to come to Siala! How can you demand anything at all from us? How are you any better than animals? How? The elves deserve to die, although at least they know the meaning of honor and pride, but cattle like you simply deserve to die. Even your king’s own eldest son is insane!”

“Leave him, Olag,” Fagred said in a surprisingly gentle voice. He’d walked up while I was listening. “He won’t understand anything anyway.”

“No, he won’t,” Olag sighed, and tucked the dagger behind his belt. “Get up, moth, and remember—if you dare to open your mouth again before we reach your pen, I’ll cut your tongue out.”

But I wasn’t thinking of making conversation. I was alarmed by the very bad news the orc had let slip while he was talking. I was afraid that this autumn the Firstborn had decided to feel out the boundaries of the kingdom and launch a new Spring War.