Shadow Chaser

12 The Judgment Of Sagra

After Upper Otters, the weather started to improve. The gods in the heavens snapped their fingers and in a single night a strong wind drove the clouds away. The sun peeped out in the morning and started drying out the land with its warm caress, freeing it of all that superfluous moisture. I was finally able to take off my cloak and revel in the glorious weather.

According to Alistan Markauz, our detachment was due to reach the Border Kingdom before that evening. With a bit of luck and some help from the gods, we ought to come across one of the garrisons—in the Borderland no one would refuse us shelter for the night.

After the incident with Bass, Miralissa spent a long time asking me questions about what had happened. The elfess nodded knowingly and exchanged glances with Kli-Kli, who rode up to join us, but she didn’t make any comments; at the end of my story all she said was:

“As you humans say, you were born under a lucky star.”

And that was the end of the conversation. Neither she nor the goblin condescended to explain anything to me.

I waited for the right moment and approached Ell. The elf gave me a surprised look, but waited for me to start the conversation.

“Ell … I…”

“Don’t bother, Harold, your gratitude is not that important to me.”

“That wasn’t actually what I wanted to talk about,” I said, embarrassed.

“No?” A quick glance. “Well, now you intrigue me. Go on.”

“You’re from the House of the Black Rose.… I know this question might surprise you, but do you know anything about Djok the Winter-Bringer?”

“The prince-killer? Every child in our house knows about him. A magnificent story to encourage hatred of the human race.” He grinned and I couldn’t tell if he was joking or serious.

“What happened to him?”

“He was executed.”

“That’s what you tell outsiders, but what really happened to him?”

“You are an outsider yourself,” Ell replied harshly, then he paused and asked: “Why are you so interested in this?”

“I had a dream in which he wasn’t executed. At least, not in the way that was planned.”

“If you’ve had a dream, then why are you asking me?” the yellow-eyed elf asked. “That young lad was lucky; some soft-hearted individual slit his throat from ear to ear.”

The elf ran his fingers across his own throat to show how it was done.

“We don’t like to go into that story very much. Djok managed to slip through the fingers of our executioners just before the actual execution. A lucky bastard. We never found out who dispatched him into the darkness. There was a rumor that one of the orcs crept in and played a joke on us. But I don’t really believe that.”

“And…”

“Harold, it was more than six hundred years ago, there have been so many generations, and you want me to remember the old men’s stories? I don’t know any more than that.”

“I understand … but couldn’t you tell straightaway that he wasn’t guilty?”

“You know the saying anger clouds the judgment? You humans looked for … er, what do you call it … a scapegoat. Why bother trying to find the guilty party if the elf was killed by Djok’s arrow? Or an arrow very much like his? Your people had a choice. Either try to find the real killer and get involved in a war, or sacrifice one human life and forget the whole thing. Your king at the time acted wisely—the scapegoat was found, the arrow was shown in court, there was a confession, even if it was beaten out of him, witnesses…”

He pulled a wry face.

“My ancestors were no better, grief and fury clouded their reason, and we wanted revenge for what happened in Ranneng, even if the man accused wasn’t guilty. We tried to question him further, but after your beatings and our tortures … He just kept begging us not to beat him … At the time he had been found guilty; it was only three months later that they started digging deeper and discovered it was a different archer and Djok was somewhere else at the time.”

“A different archer?”

“You people don’t like to talk about your mistakes any more than we elves do. He confessed. Voluntarily. Came and told us how it all happened, where he had been hiding. How he fired. The only thing he didn’t say was why he did it.”

“He?”

“The real killer.”

“Did no one think that he was simply a madman with nothing better to do?”

“How would I know, Harold? Perhaps that’s how it really was.”

“But it was too late. Djok was already dead.”

Ell shrugged.

“One human life wasn’t very important.”

“You’re wrong,” I said quietly. “You don’t know what happened because of that terrible mistake.”

“Oh?” He looked hard at me. “Then tell me, if I’m so stupid.”

“Forget it, it’s just idle talk now.”

The elf nodded and immediately forgot about our conversation.

But I didn’t. Now I knew who, what, and why.

Milord Alistan decided to send out scouts, and now Eel and Marmot moved off far to the right or the left, in search of possible danger. So far all was quiet, and I personally would have been perfectly happy for the peace and quiet to continue for a long, long time, all the way to Hrad Spein, but all good things come to an end. Marmot came back in the afternoon and reported that there was an armed detachment moving in our direction.

“Horsemen,” he reported to Milord Rat. “About a hundred or a hundred and twenty, maybe more. All wearing armor. About half a league from here.”

“Balistan Pargaid’s men!”

“They don’t look like his, but I could be wrong, it was too far to see.”

“Did they see you?”

“You offend me, milord.” Marmot chuckled. “If we hurry, we can still get away and avoid them.”

“I don’t think we’ll be able to do that,” said Ell, pointing to a horseman who had appeared in the distance. The man noticed us, swung his horse away, and galloped off in the opposite direction. They had their scouts, too.

“Then we’ll see who comes off best,” said Deler, picking up his poleax.

“You’ll have time enough for fighting,” Honeycomb rebuked the irascible dwarf. “Keep calm. And Hallas, that means you especially.”

“Right,” said the gnome, beating out his pipe and putting it away in his saddlebag. “I’m as silent as the grave.”

Then Eel joined our group, and he had seen a little more than Marmot.

“It’s definitely not Pargaid, unless he’s trying to confuse us. They have two banners—a green field with a black cloud and lightning, and a yellow field with a clenched mailed fist in a flame.”

“I can’t say anything about the first, it’s some petty landholder, but I do know the second banner. It belongs to Count Algert Dalli, Keeper of the Western Border,” Alistan Markauz replied.

“What is he doing on someone else’s lands, milord?” the jester asked.

“It’s not necessarily him, it could just be a detachment of men who serve him.”

“I can tell you who the first banner belongs to, milord,” I interrupted. “Unless I’m mistaken that is the crest of Baron Oro Gabsbarg. We saw him at Balistan Pargaid’s reception, Kli-Kli.”

“Ah, yes, the big shaggy one! Of course, of course, now I remember.”

The atmosphere became a little less tense. I didn’t really think that the warriors of the Borderland and the baron’s men would hack us all to pieces. They were not like the bloodthirsty Count Pargaid, whose men had been waiting for us at Upper Otters—Ell had caught a glimpse of the nightingales embroidered on their clothes. The count’s henchmen had turned the inhabitants of the village against us after someone had forwarded a message. I didn’t know how the message had overtaken us—perhaps with a pigeon, or a raven, or by magic, but they had certainly arranged a warm welcome for us.

The column of horsemen appeared up ahead. They were galloping straight toward us, and I can’t say I felt very happy about that. When that kind of force is moving straight at you, you can’t help wanting to be as far away as possible. The banners fluttered in the wind, the armor and lance points glittered in the rays of sunlight, the horses’ hooves hammered on the ground … The column was approaching rapidly.

“Steady, lads,” Honeycomb said through his teeth and, without even realizing it, he reached for his ogre hammer.

Two knights wearing heavy armor were riding at the front. One was wearing a closed helmet in the form of a cock’s head with green plumes. The other was not wearing any helmet and had a thick black bushy beard, which made him easily recognizable as my acquaintance Baron Oro Gabsbarg. These two were followed by their arms-bearers, then came the standard-bearers, and after them the warriors in chain mail and half-helmets with broad strips of metal protecting their noses. Many of them had lances and shields.

When the horsemen were only twenty yards away from our group, the man in the helmet raised his right hand with the open palm upward, and the column halted. The baron, the knight, arms-bearers, and standard-bearers rode toward us.

“Name yourselves,” the “cock” said as he approached. The helmet made his voice sound dull and lifeless.

“Bah!” cried the baron when he saw me. His expression was very astonished indeed. “May I be damned if I do not behold before me the Dralan Par in person!”

Oro screwed up his eyes, glanced at Eel, and asked uncertainly:

“Milord duke?”

Eel didn’t look like a duke at that moment, and the magic mask that Miralissa had applied to his face had faded long ago, so that Duke Ganet Shagor was now swarthy skinned and dark haired, and no longer concealed from the baron’s gaze.

“Not entirely,” said Alistan Markauz, riding forward. “Gentlemen…”

“I can’t believe my eyes. Count Alistan Markauz in person, may lightning strike me! You’re here, too! I am genuinely flattered! Have you decided to take up my invitation and visit Farahall after all? Lieutenant, allow me to introduce my guests. This is Count Alistan Markauz, our glorious King Stalkon’s right hand and captain of the royal guard, this—”

“Please allow me to introduce the others to your noble companion, baron,” Alistan said, politely interrupting Gabsbarg.

“I shall be honored,” the “cock” rumbled, and removed his helmet.

Marmot gasped, because the knight was a woman—a young girl with her head completely shaved in the fashion of warriors from the Border Kingdom.

“This is the Marchioness Alia Dalli, lieutenant of the guard, daughter of Count Algert Dalli,” the baron bellowed.

“Gentlemen,” the girl said, bowing her head in polite greeting.

“Milady, allow me to introduce my companions to you. Tresh Miralissa and Tresh Egrassa are from the House of the Black Moon. Ell is from the House of the Black Rose.”

“Ah…,” the baron rumbled in amazement, gaping at Eel and me, and wondering why Alistan had not given our names.

“Eel is a soldier, Harold is a thief,” Milord Rat explained with harsh simplicity.

“A thief?” Oro looked as if someone had smashed him over the head with a log. “A thief?”

“Now that’s a pleasant surprise, isn’t it?” Kli-Kli put in. “By the way, as usual, everyone’s forgotten about me. Allow me to introduce myself, the king’s jester Kli-Kli. I’m on leave at the moment.”

“A thief!” Oro repeated in an even more astonished voice, and then out of the blue he suddenly burst into thunderous laughter. “And does the dear Count Balistan Pargaid know about this? I wonder what all those high-society leeches would say if they knew they spent the evening in the company of an ordinary soldier and a criminal.”

“That’s just the beginning of it,” Kli-Kli declared modestly.

Baron Oro Gabsbarg was not at all upset at being told the truth. These Borderland nobles are certainly a strange breed.

“Gentlemen,” said Alia Dalli, “may I inquire what has brought you to the Borderland?”

“We’ll tell you gladly. We are on our way to Zagraba.”

“Zagraba? But the elves’ territory lies far to the west; you can only reach the orcs’ lands from here.”

“That is where we are headed,” Miralissa answered the girl.

“But in the name of the gods, what do you want there?” the baron exclaimed. “There are much easier ways to commit suicide.”

“Yes, Zagraba certainly has little to recommend it,” Alia Dalli agreed with him.

“Forgive me, my lady, but we are on a mission of state importance, and the fate of all the Northern Lands depends on it. That is all I can tell you, only your noble father may learn the rest. I trust that you will take us to him.”

“Of course,” Alia said with a nod. “The gates of our castle are always open to you and your companions, Milord Alistan. We are on our way there at the moment and will be glad to lead you to Mole Castle.”

“Then let us not delay, milady, we have a long journey ahead.”

“In a few hours we shall be in the Border Kingdom, and we shall reach the castle by tomorrow evening,” said Lady Alia, and put her helmet back on, once again becoming an anonymous knight. “Follow us, gentlemen.”

Our group set off again, together with the column of soldiers. Alistan and Miralissa joined Alia Dalli, and all the others tried to stick together. But Kli-Kli decided to have a bit of fun, since there was so much new company. Within an hour the ranks of soldiers were ringing with raucous laughter—the jester had finally found a place to display his talents.

Baron Oro Gabsbarg rode up at the front, just behind Alistan Markauz, who was talking to Lady Alia, and sometimes he cast curious glances in my direction. To be honest I must say that they got on my nerves a little. Sagot only knew what kind of man he really was: He seemed friendly and warm-hearted, but he might just turn round and chop your head off for no reason.

Eventually he couldn’t hold back anymore and he waited for me to draw level with him and asked:

“A thief, then?”

“Yes, milord.”

“Hmm … well, you certainly fooled me. This mission of Milord Rat’s … er, er … I meant to say Milord Alistan Markauz’s—”

“It’s the king’s project,” I lied, in order to make myself completely safe.

“Oh,” he said, and chewed on his mustache thoughtfully. “I’ve never had any thieves as friends before.”

Oro Gabsbarg pointed a finger at me. It was the size of a thick stick of sausage.

“I beg your pardon, if your honor has been offended, milord,” I replied, choosing my words carefully.

He flashed his small black eyes at me, suddenly broke into a smile, and slapped me heartily on the back. I almost went flying off Little Bee.

“All right!” the baron boomed amiably. “The most important thing is, you’re a good fellow. And it will give me something to boast about to my lady wife when I get back to Farahall.”

Did I already mention that the barons of the Borderland are rather strange people?

“But I do feel truly sorry for you … er … what’s your name again?”

“Harold, milord.”

“I feel truly sorry for you—wandering around in Zagraba is no fun.”

“I understand that.”

“Not very well, I think, otherwise you’d be traveling in the opposite direction. Perhaps Algert Dalli can persuade Milord Alistan to drop this plan of his.”

“What kind of man is he?”

“Hmmm?” the baron said, glancing at me. And then he told me anyway. He wasn’t embarrassed by talking to the lower classes, and he liked to chat, all he needed was a willing listener.

“Made of stone, not a man at all. Algert Dalli is a bulwark of the throne, the keeper of the Western Border of the Kingdom. The soldiers have dubbed him Kind Heart as a joke. In battle he flies into such a furious rage that he lays out everyone, right and left, and in the kindness of his heart he doesn’t even notice that he’s not leaving enemies for his soldiers. He finishes them all off himself—a born warrior. But he does have one little oddity—he’s crazy about knives…”

I looked at the baron in surprise.

“Well, they say that he always carries some sharp piece of metal around with him. He’s always holding the knife in his hand, he eats with it, sleeps with it, takes it with him into his bath and when he goes to a woman. But these are all trifles, eh, thief? Everyone has his little quirks.”

“Indeed so, milord. And what about his daughter?”

“Lady Alia? She commands the garrison at Mole Castle. Her daddy’s right hand. A fine girl, plenty of spirit, but shaving her head … I reckon that’s just sacrilege … Milord Algert sent her to Farahall with some soldiers. Remember, we were talking about it at the count’s reception? Milord Algert has promised what Balistan Pargaid wouldn’t give me, and that’s why I’m riding with them now, taking twenty of my own men to Mole Castle, it’s not far.… All right, I’m talking too much. We’ll meet again, thief!”

“Most definitely, Your Grace, most definitely.”

That evening we were in the Border Kingdom. We knew that from the pillar of black basalt standing by the side of the road.

The undulating plain was behind us now and the coniferous forests began, alternating with wide open expanses. The road wound between the fir trees, and the detachment spread out along it in a long column. Along the way we passed two wooden fortresses with tall stockades and watch towers. We stopped for the night out in the open, when it was almost completely dark.

We laid out the camp in an hour. A large number of campfires sprang to life and food started bubbling in the cooking pots. A dozen soldiers made a successful raid on the forest and captured firewood and long young tree trunks, from which they made an enclosure for the horses.

There was a small river flowing nearby, so we had plenty of water. Lady Alia’s men put up a large tent and the elves, the baron, and Alistan were invited into it. High social standing does have some things to recommend it, after all—you can spend the night with all the comforts. Tired out after his long day, Kli-Kli slumped onto my blanket and fell sound asleep on the spot. I had to pass the night on my cloak, but that didn’t really cause me any great discomfort.

It was very warm, and if not for the ubiquitous mosquitoes, I could say with a clear conscience that it was one of the best nights I’d spent out in the open during the whole of our trip from Avendoom. As I fell asleep, I realized what I had been missing all that time—a feeling of security. When you have more than a hundred armed soldiers around you, you feel as safe as if you were surrounded by a stone wall.

The next morning Lady Alia Dalli drove the detachment hard, intending to reach her father’s castle before the evening. We moved at a good pace, and I was at the front of the column, right behind the nobles, arms-bearers, standard-bearers, and personal guards, so I didn’t get too much of the dust raised by the horses’ hooves up my nose, unlike the soldiers riding farther back. The heavy rainfall that had fallen in the Borderland seemed not to have touched this region at all. The road that we followed was dry and dusty.

After a few hours of riding, immediately after yet another argument between Hallas and Deler, this time over a small sour apple, a sergeant came riding up to Lady Alia from the rear of the column. I was close by and so I heard the entire conversation.

“Milady, the scouts have spotted horsemen.”

“How many?”

“Twenty or so. They’re right behind us, they’ll be here in a few minutes. They have no banners, but they’re not our men.”

“We’ll wait for them,” said the girl. “We have to find out who the darkness has set on our trail.”

“They’re following us, milady,” said Miralissa. “These men have been following our group ever since Ranneng.”

“Enemies?”

“To us, yes.”

“Then they are to me, too,” the girl said with a nod. “Dron, tell the men to be ready for action.”

“I don’t think they will attack us, milady. The numbers are too uneven,” Egrassa said slowly.

“We shall see.”

Twenty men? On the other side of the Iselina there were twenty-eight of them—if Miralissa is right and they really are Balistan Pargaid’s men. Where have the others got to?

When they came flying round a bend in the road and saw a horde of men dressed in metal, they were surprised and pulled back on their reins, forcing their horses to slow to a walk. The man at the head of the group spotted us and moved forward, the others followed him.

Count Balistan Pargaid in person. The Nightingale’s face looked tired and angry; all trace of that mocking smile had disappeared. I also recognized two of the count’s companions.

The first was the warrior who had met us at the gate—Meilo Trug, I thought he was called. A black silk shirt, a leather jacket, and not a trace of armor. And also his sword—a bidenhander exactly like Mumr’s, with a golden oak leaf on the black handle. Kli-Kli had said that Meilo was a master of the long sword. Lamplighter gave Meilo’s sword an appreciative glance, but he didn’t say anything.

The second was my old friend Paleface. He hadn’t changed, except that his face still hadn’t healed up after the magical burn. Rolio spotted me and glared as if I owed him a hundred gold pieces. I smiled amiably. There was no response.

I was delighted and indescribably relieved not to see Lafresa in their group.

“Well, I swear on my sword, this is getting really interesting now. Count, are you and your men just out for a ride, too?” Oro Gabsbarg asked in amazement.

“Baron, I am glad to meet you. Arrest those people!”

“On what charge?” asked Alistan Markauz.

“Ah, so you are in this gang, too, milord? I wonder what the king will say when he finds out that one of his men has committed common theft?”

“Go gently, count, or we shall cross blades,” Alistan said sternly, lowering his hand onto the handle of his sword. “I expect to hear your apologies.”

“Apologies? These are my apologies! I accuse all these people of stealing my property and killing my men. Arrest them, baron!” Balistan Pargaid’s voice rang out triumphantly.

“Alas, milord,” Oro Gabsbarg laughed. “I am not in command here and can do nothing to help you.”

“What difference does that make, darkness take me? Are you in command of this detachment, lieutenant? Good! Tie these scoundrels up and hand them over to me. Or at least do not interfere and my men will do it themselves!”

“I regret,” Alia Dalli said from under her helmet, “that they are my guests and under my protection. I have no intention of handing them over to your bullyboys, count.”

“How dare you? I am a count, and will not be spoken to in that manner by some ignorant young puppy.”

“And I am the Marchioness Alia Dalli, milord!” She took off her helmet and looked at the startled Balistan Pargaid with a furious glint in her eyes. “You are not at home now. You are in my country! And you have just insulted me. Be so good as to apologize.”

Balistan Pargaid broke out in red blotches, but he apologized. I don’t think he was actually frightened—Milord Alistan had said that this weasel handled a sword like a true nobleman—but he knew there was no point in making the situation any more difficult.

“Excellent,” the girl said with a nod. “Then I shall not detain you any further. Good day to you.”

“But these people have mortally offended me. They must pay for it.”

“Not today. Good-bye.” Alia turned her horse away to indicate that the conversation was over.

“These people have insulted my lord,” Meilo Trug suddenly hissed. “In his name I demand the Judgment of Sagra! In the name of steel, fire, blood, and by the will of the gods!”

The effect of these words on the warriors of the Borderland was like an exploding powder barrel. I even heard Milord Alistan’s teeth grind together. Had this Meilo said something important?

“I heard you, soldier,” Lady Alia said with a nod. “Do you accuse one particular person of the crime or all of them?”

The shadow of a smile flickered on Meilo’s lips and he was just about to answer when Balistan Pargaid intervened:

“All of them! He accuses all of them!”

The smile on Meilo’s face turned sour, as if the count had just committed some stupidity without realizing it.

“The answer has been heard,” the marchioness said hurriedly. “You will be given the chance to prove your lord’s case.”

“We will do it here and now!” Balistan Pargaid intervened again.

“No, according to the laws of Sagra, the owner of the land on which the challenge was issued must be present at the judgment. We are now on the lands of my lord and father, and for the court to be held we shall have to go to Mole Castle, where the rules of combat will be announced.”

Combat? Did she say combat? I definitely did not like the sound of that.

“But…,” Balistan Pargaid began in annoyance.

“You can withdraw the challenge, that is up to you,” Alia Dalli said imperturbably. “The rules do not forbid it.”

“No, we will go with you, milady.”

“As you wish, milord. I wish to remind you that if your men dare to attack my guests before the duel, there will be very serious trouble indeed,” the girl replied.

She did not offer the count and his men her protection.

We continued on our way, with the marchioness’s men keeping an inconspicuous eye on the count’s men, who were observing them. The count rode beside Oro Gabsbarg without speaking. Paleface’s glance gave me an unpleasant, cold feeling in the back of my neck.

“Marmot,” I asked. “What is the Judgment of Sagra?”

“I don’t know. If Arnkh was here, he could explain the laws of this country to us.”

“The Judgment of Sagra? I’ve heard something about that business, lads,” said Lamplighter. “The court of the goddess of war … It used to be very common among the warriors of the Border Kingdom. When some questionable decision was made or a warrior’s honor was insulted, then the Judgment of Sagra decided the matter. A duel, in other words. The lad with the big ears has challenged us to a fight, and no warrior in the Border Kingdom would deny him the right to do that.”

“Is it a duel to the death?” asked Marmot, glancing sideways at Meilo Trug.

“That all depends on what the man who challenged us says to the lord of the land. If he says to the death, then to the death it is.”

“You talk about it so calmly, Mumr,” I said with a crooked grin. “That Meilo has turned out to be very cunning.”

“It could have been worse,” Lamplighter replied philosophically, taking out his reed pipe.

“How could it?”

“If the count hadn’t interfered, then his servant could have chosen any opponent he wanted. But then Milord Pargaid said he accused everybody.”

“And now this … what’s his name?” asked Marmot.

“Meilo,” I prompted him. “So now this Meilo will have to fight all of us?”

“No, it will be decided by drawing lots. No need to be so nervous, Harold. You’re not involved in this business.”

“Why?”

“The Judgment of Sagra is only for soldiers. You, Kli-Kli, and Miralissa aren’t soldiers.”

“I’m not a soldier?” exclaimed Kli-Kli, ablaze with righteous indignation. “Why, I’m a better soldier than any of you! I even know what the combat pension is!”

“All right, Kli-Kli, well done. Just calm down, will you,” Honeycomb said in a conciliatory tone.

“Hey, goblin,” called a soldier with a gray mustache, who had heard Kli-Kli’s howling. “Sing us your song.”

“And why not? Right away!”

And he did sing it. In fact, he kept on going for a good ten minutes.

“A good song,” Dalli’s man croaked approvingly. “Plenty of heart.”

“Well then? Am I a soldier?”

“Sure you are!” he said quite seriously.

The Border Kingdom warriors laughed—in a single day’s march they had grown fond of Kli-Kli’s jokes and songs.

How naïve they were! They hadn’t yet experienced the charm of a nail in their boot or a tub of cold water in their bed.

The empty region was behind us now, and we passed a little village at least once every hour. But, unlike our villages in Valiostr, they were surrounded by stockades and they had watch towers with archers on them. Every peasant in the Border Kingdom can swap his plow for a battle-ax at a moment’s notice when he needs to repulse an attack by the enemy.

“How’s your health, Harold?” asked Paleface, drawing even with me on his horse.

“Just fine, thanks. How’s yours, Rolio? Have you recovered after that skirmish with the demons?” I replied.

“So you…,” Paleface said slowly, and grinned. “I don’t recall ever telling you my name.”

“You were never that strong on etiquette. I had to find out for myself.”

“All the more reason for you to be concerned about your health.”

“Oh, I’ll take good care of myself. Very good care. What brings you out on such a long journey?”

“A problem by the name of Harold. The way you stole that Key was very clever. I found that impressive, believe me.”

“I feel flattered, on my word of honor.”

“Well then, I’ll be seeing you again soon.”

“I hope not.”

Paleface was not likely to try anything here. There were too many men around; he’d never get away with it if he tried to dispatch me to the light now. The moment I suddenly fall off my horse and start bleeding, they’d slit the killer’s throat for him. And naturally, he didn’t want that. So I could expect him to wait until I was alone before he tried his tricks.

We spotted Mole Castle easily from the distance—a huge gray bulk with walls rising up forty yards into the sky and twenty square towers set in a full circle.

The walls were bristling with ballistas and catapults, the wide moat was filled with running water; anyone who tried to take the citadel by storm would have a hard time of it.

When we stepped onto the drawbridge, the walls towered up above us menacingly. I raised my head and the men on the top looked like little beetles. The mighty gates of oak, clad with sheets of steel, quickly opened wide in invitation and the portcullis was raised, but in an attack, only the mightiest of battering rams could ever have broken through that barrier.

About twenty soldiers were on guard duty beside the gates. The head of the watch greeted Lady Alia and we rode into the castle. I found myself in a short tunnel with its walls studded with loopholes for archers.

Standing by the wall like a predator ready to pounce was a huge crossbow engine that fired forty bolts at once. And hanging on chains up under the ceiling there were basins that the defenders could fill with tar and hot oil. Yes, Algert Dalli’s home was certainly a tough nut to crack, not to be taken easily.

We rode into the courtyard of the castle, but to call it a yard was a joke—it was the size of a large town square.

“Milady Alia,” one of the soldiers said, bowing, “your lord and father is expecting you.”

“Thank you, Chizzet,” said the marchioness, jumping down off her horse. “Follow me, noble gentlemen. And those who seek judgment, too. Chizzet, arrange accommodations for our guests.”

Naturally, a plain ordinary thief was not invited to an audience with Milord Kind Heart, and, to be quite honest, I didn’t even suggest it. Milord Alistan, Baron Oro, the elves, Count Pargaid, and Meilo followed Lady Alia, and the rest of us set off after Chizzet, who had promised to find beds for us.

We were given rooms in the Tower of Blood, as the inhabitants of the castle called it. Good rooms, with beds, rushes on the floor, and windows overlooking the courtyard.

Eel told me that a citadel of this size could hold as many as six hundred people at once. A huge swarm of people. Kli-Kli, who never slept in a bed, laid out his blanket on the floor and ran off to stick his curious nose into every corner of the castle. Ell turned up and told us that the duel would take place the following morning.

“To the death,” he added in a steady voice.

That immediately spoiled my good mood. But there was more to it than that. If we lost, then the Key that had been recovered with such difficulty would go back to Balistan Pargaid—that was the law of the Judgment of Sagra.

“And what if we leave under cover of darkness?”

“Leave the castle, Harold? The Judgment of Sagra is sacred to the warriors of the Borderland. We either win or we lose the Key. There is no third way.”

“I’ll smash that fancy popinjay’s head open in person!” Hallas threatened. “Have they decided who’s going to fight in the duel?”

“The lots will decide that. Come with me, Milord Algert is waiting for us.”

“Can I come with them?”

“You’re not involved in the drawing of lots, Harold.”

“But can I come?”

“Yes,” he said with an indifferent nod.

The hall to which the count led us rivaled the castle’s courtyard in size. There were quite a number of people there—all wool and steel, swords and shaven heads. Every man in the kingdom seemed to have gathered together. Kli-Kli was running about, getting under people’s feet, amusing the soldiers, but as soon as he saw us, the performance came to an end, and the jester joined our group.

“Where did you get to?” I asked quietly.

“I was touring the local sights. By the way, they have carrots in the kitchen.”

“Congratulations.”

Miralissa, Egrassa, and Alistan were already there, and so were Balistan Pargaid and Meilo Trug. Oro Gabsbarg clutched a beer mug in his huge paw of a hand. When he spotted me, the baron nodded solemnly.

Alia Dalli was standing behind a short man with broad shoulders, whose cheeks were covered with a two-week growth of stubble. Like all the soldiers in the castle, this man had a shaved head and was dressed in chain mail and coarse soldier’s trousers. He was toying thoughtfully with a dagger that had an expensive handle of ogre bone. Count Algert Dalli the Kind Heart, unless I was very much mistaken.

We walked up to the table at which his lordship was sitting.

“And so, you have not changed your decision?” Milord Algert asked Meilo after looking intently at each of us in turn.

“No, I demand the Judgment of Sagra.”

“Very well. All that remains is to choose an opponent. Bring in the straws!”

“Hey, Garrakian! Catch!” said Meilo Trug, throwing a copper coin to Eel. “I think I owe you that.”

Eel caught the copper and calmly tucked it under his belt.

“Thank you. A bit of extra money always comes in handy.”

“You suggested that I ought to be whipped. I shall pray to Sagra to meet you in combat.”

“Whatever is your pleasure,” Eel said, bowing imperturbably. Hallas muttered angrily to himself and gave Trug a dark look.

And then a soldier came in with the straws sticking out of his fist.

“Whoever draws the short straw will face this man for the Judgment of Sagra tomorrow morning,” said Algert Dalli. “Let me remind you that you are free to refuse to take part in the draw, but by doing so you acknowledge your guilt.… I can see that no one wishes to do that. Draw lots, and may Sagra be with you!”

Ell was first. He reached out boldly and drew a long straw.

Egrassa. A long straw.

My heart was pounding as loudly as if I was drawing lots myself.

Milord Alistan. A long straw.

Honeycomb. A long straw.

Hallas. A long straw. The gnome looked disappointed. He had really wanted to take part in the duel. He wasn’t bothered at all that one of the opponents would have to be carried out feet first. Like any gnome, Lucky was overflowing with confidence.

Eel. A long straw. Meilo Trug thrust out his lower jaw in disappointment.

That left only Deler and Lamplighter.

Mumr. A short straw. Short. Sagot save us all! Lamplighter’s going to fight.

Algert Dalli’s soldier opened his fist to show the whole hall that the last straw, which would have been Deler’s, was long.

The dwarf spat angrily. He had been keen to fight, too.

Mumr did not seem at all upset that the next day he had to fight a duel to the death. He cleared his throat, shrugged indifferently, and put the straw away in his pocket.

“So be it,” said Milord Algert. “The weapon?”

“The long sword,” Meilo Trug replied, glaring hard at Mumr.

“The long sword,” Mumr said with a nod.

“Tomorrow morning you will be sent for, but now I invite you to share bread and honey with me.”

I didn’t know about the others, but I couldn’t eat a single bite, and I got up from the table leaving the food on my plate untouched.

“Any moment now,” Kli-Kli said with a nervous little jump. He sniffed and took a large bite out of his carrot.

“Can you stop chomping for a little while?” I growled at him irritably.

“No, I can’t,” said the royal jester, shaking his head. “When I get nervous, I want to eat.”

“Calm down, Kli-Kli,” Honeycomb told him. The commander of the Wild Hearts was just as jumpy as I was.

“What do you think, Honeycomb?” asked Kli-Kli, biting off yet another piece of carrot. “What are Mumr’s chances?”

“I don’t know.”

“It all depends on how well he handles his sword,” said Hallas, puffing away on his pipe.

“Believe me, Meilo was born with that piece of steel in his hand,” Kli-Kli sighed. “It’s not that easy to win a royal tournament.”

“Our Lamplighter’s no pushover, either,” the gnome replied. “You don’t get an oak leaf on your sword handle for nothing.”

I paid no attention to them. I wasn’t interested in their arguments.

The morning had turned out cool, and the sun was hidden behind the clouds that covered the entire sky. Together with many inhabitants of the castle, we were standing round a large open area of hard-tamped earth in the center of the courtyard. There were no fanfares and no festive streamers; this was not a tournament, but a trial by duel. Milord Algert and his daughter, the elves, Balistan Pargaid, and Alistan Markauz … all of them were probably as nervous as I was, but you couldn’t tell it from their noble features.… Darkness take me, I felt as if I was the one who had to go out there and fight. Oro Gabsbarg was the only one who seemed to be bored.

A whisper ran through the rows of spectators, and I turned my head and saw Meilo Trug. He walked unhurriedly out into the arena, turned to face the nobility, and bowed.

Even for this occasion Meilo had dressed like a dandy: a red silk shirt with wide sleeves, maroon breeches, boots polished until they shone, black leather gloves. The bidenhander was resting on his left shoulder. The long sword was almost as long as the man. Stick it in the ground and the massive round knob at the end of the handle would reach up to Meilo’s chin.

Mumr appeared a minute later. He entered the arena from the other side of the castle courtyard and halted facing his opponent. Like Meilo, Lamplighter was wearing a shirt, but it was black wool, not silk. Coarse soldier’s trousers and a pair of soft boots … The only thing the duelists had in common were the leather gloves on their hands and their heavy bidenhanders.

Neither of the warriors wore any armor—no armor was allowed at the court of the goddess. Lamplighter was a master of the long sword, and so was Meilo, so the duel would be fought until one of them made his first serious mistake. One good blow from a blade like that is enough to dispatch any opponent straight to the light.

Lamplighter had a black ribbon round his forehead to hold back his long hair and prevent any sweat running down into his eyes. He casually set down his sword with the point on the ground, holding the crosspiece lightly with his fingers.

Meilo glared fiercely at his opponent. Mumr replied with an indifferent glance. He looked as if he had come out for a morning stroll, not for combat. Beside Trug, Lamplighter looked skinny and puny. In his hands the bidenhander seemed absurdly huge and heavy.

“Are you ready?” Algert Dalli’s voice rang out above the arena.

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Challenger, do you still wish to dispute this right of ownership for your lord?”

“Yes,” Meilo Trug replied, nodding firmly.

“The trial will conclude…”

“In death,” Meilo continued.

“So be it,” Algert Dalli announced, and nodded, thoughtfully twirling his beloved knife between his fingers. “By steel, fire, blood, and the will of the gods, I declare that Sagra is looking down on you, and she will decide who is right and worthy!”

I have already told you that the sword is not my weapon. Apart from the crossbow, the only weapon I have more or less managed to master is the knife. For was a great specialist in matters of swordsmanship and he tried to teach me, but after a few lessons even he gave up.

The only benefit I did get from those painful exercises with a wooden stick was a superficial knowledge of stances and the names of the various strokes. That was as far as my knowledge of swordsmanship, and my skill in it, goes. But I am grateful to my old teacher; when I see guards fencing in a castle courtyard or warriors at a tournament, I can at least understand why one man covers himself with his sword this way and another thrusts that way.

Meanwhile, a priest of Sagra, dressed in chain mail and wool, like all the soldiers of the Border Kingdom, walked out into the arena where judgment would be given. He drew his sword from its scabbard, thrust it into the ground between the two opponents who were standing facing each other, and started reciting a prayer, calling on the goddess of war and death to bear witness to this duel, punish the guilty party, and protect the righteous. Meilo did not move, and Lamplighter, cradling his sword in the crook of his left arm, slowly chewed on the straw that had brought him to this place.

“Oh, mother!” squeaked Kli-Kli, who was standing beside me, and at that very second the priest pulled up his sword, took a long step back, and said:

“Begin!”

Neither of the warriors began until the priest had left the arena. And all the time Meilo kept eyes his fixed fiercely on Lamplighter, who gazed idly at a spot that only he could see, somewhere up above his enemy’s head.

After six long heartbeats, Meilo gave a menacing growl and attacked first.

He took a sweeping stride forward, at the same time setting his left hand on the long handle of his sword, and the bidenhander flew off his shoulder as lightly as a feather. Meilo added speed to the sword’s flight by twisting his body, and struck a terrible blow, lunging at the chest.

As soon as Meilo started to move, the Wild Heart defied my expectations by stepping toward his opponent. I think I gasped, expecting the flying blade to slice him in half, but the Wild Heart’s huge bidenhander, which only a second earlier had been cradled in his arm like a sleeping baby, suddenly awoke and blocked his enemy’s thrust.

Cla-ang! The sound echoed round the courtyard, and the count’s servants took a step back.

Lamplighter grunted and attacked his opponent’s unprotected flank. And this time Meilo surprised me—he moved almost right up to Mumr and turned his back on the flashing sword.

The crowd gasped out loud.

Meilo flung his weapon behind him and caught the thrust of Mumr’s sword on the flat of the blade. Cla-ang!

Without pausing for a moment, Meilo completed his turn; his sword flew out from behind his back and started to descend, threatening to chop off his opponent’s hands. Lamplighter deftly covered himself by thrusting the point of his blade at the other man’s face, countered the blow, and immediately pushed his sword farther forward. My eyes were not fast enough to follow what was happening in the arena. The huge swords flashed to and fro like demented moths, whistling through the air and colliding with a loud crash, parting and then clashing again. At times all the opponents’ movements fused into a single blur, and I could only tell that they were both still alive a few seconds later, when an attack from one of the swordsmen ran into a block.

“Phew-ew-ew!” Clang! Clang! “Phew-ew!”

“Aaah! Ooh! Oh!” the crowd sang in response to every stroke and every thrust.

Meilo began spinning like a top again and swung hard, putting his very soul into the blow. Mumr jumped back and dropped the hilt of his sword down low, so that the blade rose up vertically, and Meilo’s blow ran into a wall of steel.

Cla-ang!

The swords wove cobwebs in the air, spinning round in a glittering blizzard of steel, striking against each other, soaring upward and threatening to wound the very sky and then descending, dreaming of slicing through the earth. The two warriors were not fighting, they were dancing, dicing with death, and their own lives were the stakes. Meilo’s sword leapt high in the air, as if it were alive; Lamplighter dashed into the breach that opened up and tried to strike home.

But he could not …

Balistan Pargaid had certainly not wasted his money on this servant. Meilo stepped back quickly, while continuing the movement of his sword, and now Mumr’s bidenhander went flying upward, allowing his opponent to strike.

Lamplighter squatted down and caught the blow almost on the crosspiece of his sword. Then he straightened up sharply and thrust his hilt hard forward. Meilo’s sword very nearly struck its master in the face, the attack was so unexpected. To avoid the deflected stroke, the villain recoiled and started backing away as Mumr came at him.

Only a few minutes had passed since the beginning of the duel, but the faces of the two warriors were already gleaming with sweat.

Balistan’s dog had been seriously startled by the sudden assault and now that Lamplighter had almost sent him to join his fathers, he was watching him with more caution and respect, noting every movement, no matter how small.

“It’s time to kill him,” Hallas growled. “You can’t wave those wagon shafts around for very long.”

The gnome was right. The immensely heavy swords might be flying around like feathers now, but fatigue would come sooner or later, and then the one who was more tired would lose.

Cla-a-ang!

With a pitiful groan, the swords came together in a fleeting kiss and immediately leapt apart again.

And then there were more lacy cobwebs woven in the air, creating a beautiful, glittering pattern that had to end in death.

Meilo jumped at Mumr, grunting as he struck blow after blow, pressing him back.

“Ha-a-a!”

Cla-ang!

“Ha-a-a!”

Cla-ang!

“Ha-a-a!”

Cla-ang!

Meilo’s final blow was especially powerful. Lamplighter’s sword flew upward, opening up a breach, and his enemy instantly struck at his unprotected head. Mumr pushed his sword forward, and the two blades froze in the air, with each opponent pressing against the other’s sword, trying to force it back into his face.

For a few moments there was silence in the arena.

Meilo became too involved with pressing and Lamplighter ducked smartly under his sword and pushed his opponent away from him. Tumbling forward, Meilo began spinning round faster than a goblin shaman after a breakfast of magic mushrooms, turning into a blur too fast for the eye to follow. A streak of lightning, a shrill whistle in the air …

Lamplighter guessed what was coming and jumped up in the air.

“Oh, mother!” said the jester, covering his eyes with his hands and watching the fight through the gaps between his fingers. “Tell me that he’s still alive!”

“He’s alive!” said Hallas, who was clutching his battle-mattock with white knuckles.

The gnome was right. Mumr was still standing, although there was an expression of furious annoyance on his face. He had almost been caught out.

“The score’s not looking good for us,” Honeycomb rumbled. “It’s time for Mumr to stop playing with him.”

Cla-ang! Cla-ang! the swords sang.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, went the clock of the gods, counting away the seconds of life.

Meilo straightened his arms suddenly and stabbed at Mumr’s neck. And then again my eyes were too slow to follow what was happening in the arena. In an instant Lamplighter’s gloved left hand was clutching the center of his blade. As if he were holding an ordinary staff, he pushed his enemy’s sword away from him and tried to strike at his throat with the point of his bidenhander. Surprised by this audacity, Meilo recoiled. But that didn’t stop Mumr. Still holding his sword like a battle-staff, he tried to hit Meilo with the knob of the hilt, aiming at his face. Mumr’s blows were “incorrect” and reckless, and Trug retreated in confusion, barely managing to avoid them.

“Ha-a! Ha-a!”

The wide-swinging movements of the Wild Heart’s “staff” gave his opponent no chance to gather himself for a single moment. The very air seemed to groan as the blades clashed. The sweat was streaming down Trug’s face.

Mumr resorted to cunning. He shifted his right hand onto the blade of his sword, too, setting it close to the guard, and holding the sword like a cross, then struck a hard blow at Meilo’s head with the heavy hilt.

“Ra-a-a-a!” A wave of sound ran through the lines of spectators.

After that everything happened very quickly.

Lamplighter pulled back, and immediately Meilo was there beside him, preparing to attack.… I missed the blow that followed; all I could see was that Mumr had been quicker and struck his opponent in the chest with the heavy hilt.

The crowd gasped and started to buzz. I swear by Sagot that even I heard the crunch of bone!

“A hit!” Hallas gasped, with his eyes glued on the fight.

Meilo cried out in pain, staggered back, and pressed his left hand against his chest. Lamplighter stepped forward, hooked a foot round his ankle, and jerked it upward sharply, using a wrestling move.

The tug on his leg threw Meilo off balance. Lamplighter dropped his sword and shoved his opponent hard on the chest with his free left hand, adding speed to his fall.

Trug crashed down onto the trampled earth with his full weight, striking the back of his head against the ground. Balistan Pargaid’s warrior seemed to lose consciousness for a moment, or at least he lay there without moving, although he was still clutching his sword in his right hand.

Mumr picked up his own sword, stood on his opponent’s bidenhander, cast a quick glance at Algert Dalli, and thrust his weapon hard into the chest of his opponent just as he was trying to get up, pinning him to the ground. Meilo twitched once and stopped moving. A puddle of blood began spreading out under the warrior’s body.

Lamplighter pulled his sword free with an effort, stepped back a few paces from the body of the defeated man, and bowed, swaying once, but still remaining on his feet.

Algert Dalli rose and his voice rang out across the courtyard.

“By steel, fire, blood, and by the will of the gods I confirm that judgment has been given and the guilty party punished! So be it!”

“What do you mean, punished?” howled Balistan Pargaid, beside himself with fury.

“Do you doubt the judgment of the goddess, milord?” asked Algert Dalli, raising one eyebrow in an expression of surprise.

“No. I do not doubt it,” the count said, forcing the words out.

Whatever else he might be, Balistan Pargaid was certainly no fool.

“Good, then I invite you to a festive dinner to celebrate the passing of judgment.”

“Thank you,” said Count Pargaid. “But I have business to attend to. My men and I will leave immediately.”

“As you wish.” Algert Dalli had no intention of trying to detain him. “A safe journey to you.”

Count Balistan Pargaid replied to these words with an irritated nod and left the arena without even glancing back at the body of Meilo Trug.

The Wild Hearts crowded round Mumr, fussing over him. Hallas was as pleased as if he had won the victory over the adversary all on his own.

“You know what, Harold-Barold,” said Kli-Kli, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of carrot, “I’m a bit worried about our mutual friend, Balistan Pargaid, withdrawing like that after he just spent two weeks chasing us. He gave up a bit too easily, don’t you think? And then Lafresa has disappeared somewhere.… Oh, I have the feeling they’re preparing some dirty trick for us!”

“Just chew on your carrot and shut up, Kli-Kli. Let Alistan and Miralissa do the worrying,” I told him.

But I had a feeling Kli-Kli was right.