Shadow Blizzard (51 page)

The forest went on and on, with no gaps between the close-growing maples. There was mist on all sides and the long run that had brought him to the limit of his strength was no longer important. It was time to find a place to die. He had never thought he would die like this, out in the rain and mist of the bleak autumn forest.

The captain was not afraid of death; he had seen more than his share of it in his time. But he regretted that no one would know how he had died. In his young days he had seen himself dying as a hero on the battlefield, defending the banner or shielding the young king with his body. A beautiful death, worthy to be celebrated in song. But Death was not to be chosen; she decided for herself when to come to a man and take him to the light. Or the darkness. The end was the same for all, and what difference did it make where you died—at the heart of a raging battle, or in a misty forest?

He would sell his life dearly—for him the most important thing was that the orcs must not use their bows, but engage him in combat. Of course, the captain need not have drawn the pursuit after him, he could have given that task to Eel or Lamplighter, but then how would he have been able to sleep at night, knowing he had sent another into the embrace of death instead of himself? Alistan was used to being the first into a battle, the first to ride his horse against the ranks of pikemen. Always the first, always at the cutting edge of the thrust. That was why the soldiers respected him.

The horns sounded again, and the count swore by the darkness. The pursuers had cut down his lead, and he would have to hurry, unless of course he wished to give battle with his back against a maple tree. Alistan Markauz had never appealed to the gods in prayer, believing that it was not worth troubling them over trifles. He had saved his only prayer for the occasion when it was right to call on Sagra. And he called on her with all his heart and soul, asking the fearful goddess to grant him a place for combat so that she might rejoice in the sight of the most important battle of his life.

And the goddess heard him.

After he left the maples behind, the forest opened up and Milord Alistan Markauz found himself beside a deep ravine with its bottom hidden under thick mist. There was a bridge across the ravine, and it reminded him of the one in the Red Spinney. It was just as narrow, and just as convenient to defend.

Built of stone, ten yards long and two yards across. If they wished to do so, two men could walk across it together side by side, but there was only enough space for one to launch an effective attack. Along the sides, taking the place of railings, there were tall rectangular barriers half the height of a man. Every two yards, tall columns rose up out of them to twice the height of a man.

Ten yards is no distance at all, and despite the mist, he had a clear view of the opposite bank, where there was an ancient city, almost entirely untouched by time. The walls ran right along the edge of the ravine, and the bridge ended at stone gates that were, unfortunately, closed.

Now he had several minutes to take a rest and draw breath. He had to stand on the bridge, and then the battle would take place one-to-one; the orcs would not have any room to attack in numbers or outflank him, and the gates would protect his back.

Markauz slowly walked across the bridge, and when he turned to face the maples, the shamanic phantoms disappeared. Glo-Glo’s spell had stopped working. Well, it had done its job, now the count had to do his.

Just for a moment the captain of the guard regretted that he was only wearing light armor, not his heavy battle plate. No helmet, no shield that would have allowed him to hold out for a very, very long time. Only a sword and a dagger for weapons. Despite the rain, the count took off his cloak and dropped it at his feet. Then he threw his scabbard away and took his sword in both hands.

The sword was somewhat longer than ordinary blades, and there was room on the hilt for the second hand. He was ready. All he had to do now was wait.

A horn sounded very close, and then the orcs emerged from the shroud of mist. Six, ten, fifteen, seventeen. Alistan Markauz’s enemies spotted him, and one of them raised a clenched fist in the air. His pursuers slowed from a run to a walk, looking around suspiciously, clearly fearing an ambush.

“Where are your companions, man?” one of them shouted.

“Far away,” the count said in a quiet voice, but they heard him.

“Surrender, or you will die!”

Milord Rat shook his head very slightly. Two bowmen stepped forward.

“Are you scared?” Alistan Markauz roared at the top of his lungs, and the sound of his voice carried across the ravine and the abandoned city. “Or are you not really orcs? You consider yourselves the superior race, and yet you are afraid of a man? Oh, come now, Firstborn! Do you not have the courage to face me with a yataghan, is that why you pick up the weapon of children, cowards, and elves? There are seventeen of you, and I am alone! Prove to me that you really are the Firstborn! All you have to do is bare your blades and cross the bridge!”

One of the orcs halted the bowmen and started conferring with the other warriors. The count waited and prayed. Then he suddenly felt someone’s insistent gaze on his back, and swung round sharply.

She was standing behind him. A woman wearing a simple sleeveless dress, with a luxuriant mane of white hair scattered across her naked shoulders. The stranger’s face was hidden behind a half-mask in the form of a skull. She was holding a bouquet of pale narcissi and gazing at Alistan Markauz out of her empty eye sockets.

“No!” he said, shaking his head in furious anger. “No! Not like that! Not with an arrow!”

She said nothing.

“I need time! Just a little bit! And then I will go with you. Grant me just a few minutes in the name of Sagra! I will take as many with me as I can!”

For a second he thought that Death would refuse him, but she thoughtfully tore the petals off the narcissi and silently walked away, back toward the gates.

“I shall wait, but not for long.”

He did not really hear her words; he felt them. Gripping the hilt of his sword even more tightly, he roared in anticipation of the battle to come. The orcs finished conferring and one of them called the bowmen back.

“We offer you one last chance to surrender, rat!”

Rat? Well now. He really was the Rat; he had been granted the honor of bearing a rat in his coat of arms. “Never drive a rat into a corner”—that was his family motto. Then it has nothing to lose, and it sells its life dearly.

“Forward, Firstborn! I’ll show you what rats are capable of!”

Those words decided the matter. His enemies stepped onto the bridge and moved toward him, taking their time.

At the front was a tall orc with a yataghan and a round shield. Good weapons, but the orc didn’t even have chain mail, just a jacket of thick, coarse leather and a light half-helmet. Alistan Markauz walked toward him. It was better to meet in the middle of the bridge; he would have room to fall back.

At that moment Milord Alistan remembered his childhood. The count had first picked up a sword at the age of five, but found the art of swordsmanship hard to master. He could not sense the rhythm, the music, the dance of the blade. Things had gone on like that until his teacher had the idea of bringing a flute to the Armory.

The old warrior played well, the flute sang in his hands, and the music flowing through the Armory helped the boy get a feel for his weapon. The music of the flute led him and his sword after it, prompting him when to strike, when to change his stance, or defend himself against a thrust. And the old master was pleased with his sovereign’s son.

The years passed, and the grave of Alistan Markauz’s first teacher had long been overgrown with flowers, but the song of the flute remained in the count’s heart forever. The moment he took the hilt of his sword in his hand, it awoke and sang in his ears, helping him in battle and in tournament duels. It must have been the song that eventually made him one of the finest swordsmen in Valiostr.

And now the flute was singing to him for the last time. The jolly, swaggering melody picked Alistan Markauz up and flung him into battle.

Sing, flute! Sing!

He met the first orc and struck first, without waiting for an attack. His opponent, unfortunately for him, was in a left-sided stance, holding the shield out in front of him. His left leg was exposed, a dainty morsel, and the battery sword swooped downward in a flash of pink, slicing through flesh and bone. The orc cried out and fell. Milord Alistan struck several rapid and powerful blows at his opponent’s helmet.

Sing, flute! Sing!

Although his comrade had been killed, the second orc came dashing forward. A “right-sided bull” and a rapid thrust, the orc covered himself with his shield and immediately struck a rapid counterblow. The yataghan cleaved through the air with a repulsive hiss and struck against a “crown.” The count’s blade accepted the blow on the flat, pushed the yataghan away, struck for the face, changed direction, and smashed into the shield.

Sing, flute! Sing!

The orc staggered back, stumbled over the body of his comrade, and immediately parted with his yataghan and his right forearm.

Sing, flute! Sing!

He had no chance to finish off the Firstborn. The next orc jumped over his wounded comrade and threw himself into a furious attack. He had a yataghan and a long dagger in his hands. Other Firstborn carried the orc who had lost his arm away from the raging skirmish. This time the count was facing an experienced opponent, and the lack of a shield did not make him any more vulnerable. Yataghan and dagger danced in the air, weaving an intricate pattern of silver that was impossible to strike through.

A clash of blades. And another. Every time it met the enemy’s steel, the battery sword screeched furiously and its song was echoed by the flute that the orcs could not hear.

Sing, flute! Sing!

The orc moved into the attack, the yataghan came sweeping down, encountered a “window” and tried to avoid the unexpected obstacle, and at that moment Alistan Markauz spun his enemy’s blade, threw it off to the right and “entered,” striking the orc a mighty blow on the chin with the pommel of his sword.

Sing, flute! Sing!

The heavy ball set on the hilt of the sword crushed the bone, and the orc collapsed limply to the ground. Alistan Markauz had no intention of sparing his opponent’s life. This was no time for noble acts of chivalry; he had only one goal now—to take as many Firstborn with him as he could. The heavy battery sword twirled round the count’s right wrist as lightly as if it was a feather. He shifted his grip to hold it like a staff and thrust the blade into his prone enemy with all his strength.

Sing, flute! Sing!

Not time to die yet! A little more dancing and singing!

His left cheek was damp for some reason, and something was dripping off his chin. He brought his eyes together in a squint—the entire front of his jacket was soaked in blood. Ah, darkness! That orc had been quick with the dagger. The count had not even noticed when his opponent managed to reach him. It was strange, but he did not feel any pain at all now. Even though the left side of his face was quite definitely sliced open. Sagra be praised that the blow had caught him below the eye, or the blood gushing from his forehead would have hindered him in the fight.

Sing, flute! Sing!

The flute sang, and the sword sang in harmony with it. The yataghan sliced through the air; the shield took the mighty vertical blows. When the battery sword came down again, the orc didn’t stand there stupidly, he drew the shield back toward himself, taking the sting out of the blow. The sword stuck in the shield and the Firstborn drew his yataghan back triumphantly, opening himself up. The dagger that suddenly appeared in Alistan Markauz’s left hand struck into the open gap, easily pierced the orc’s jacket, and stuck in the place known to warriors as the “bloody apple.” The count jumped back, freeing his sword with a sharp twist.

Sing, flute! Sing!

His cheek was burning, as if torturers had sewn a handful of blazing coals into it, but he had no time for pain now—two opponents flung themselves at him at once. The first one, with a spear, came charging at him like a wild boar. The second, with an ax, jumped up agilely onto the left shoulder of the bridge, and made to strike at him from above. Alistan Markauz skipped under the descending ax and struck the orc standing on the narrow border between his legs with all his might. The Firstborn lost his balance and tumbled into the ravine.

Sing, flute! Sing!

Holding his weapon above his head in both hands, as if it wasn’t a spear, but some kind of battle gaff, the orc struck in rapid jabbing thrusts at Alistan Markauz’s neck and chest. The count managed to parry the blows, but with great difficulty.

The sweat streamed off his face, mingling with the blood flowing from his wound. His ears were ringing, his legs were filled with lead, there was no air to breathe. He could not tell how long he had been backing away. The count’s attention was completely focused on his opponent’s golden eyes. The sharp sting of the spear described circles in the air, then came hurtling at his shoulder, changed direction to aim at his knee, darted up toward his chin. It was becoming harder and harder for him to parry the blows. All he could do was knock the spear away to his right or his left. And slicing through the orc’s weapon was out of the question—the shaft of the spear was clad in iron for almost a quarter of its length.

Each of them waited for his opponent to make a mistake, to open himself up a little, lose his focus, stumble unexpectedly, or simply fail to cover himself against a blow. The sword in Alistan Markauz’s hands grew heavier and heavier with every second that passed. He barely managed to push the thrusting sting of the spear away to the right, then carried through the movement of his blade into a hacking blow, trying to reach the Firstborn.…

The orc was quicker. He almost lay down on the ground and thrust his short spear forward with both hands. The narrow four-sided point pierced Alistan Markauz’s chain mail and struck the count in his right side. And again he felt no pain.