Shadow Blizzard (9 page)

“I’m sorry she was killed, too.”

“Why do things like that happen, Harold?”

“I don’t know, my friend. I don’t make a very good comforter. Everything is decided by the will of the gods.”

“The gods? That gang of bandits only exists because some Dancer allowed them to move in when he created this world!” He sighed. “All right, let’s not talk about that.”

A Dancer …

That’s my curse. According to the goblin, I’m a Dancer in the Shadows, too. At least, that’s what the goblin shamans’ famous
Book of Prophecies
says. I don’t know how Kli-Kli figured out that I’m a Dancer (the first one for ten thousand years), but if a goblin says you’re a sheep, proving to him that you’re not is about as easy as making the sun run backward—one thing is as impossible as the other. So sometimes the jester called me Dancer in the Shadows. I tried for two weeks to shake out of him exactly who this Dancer was and what he was supposed to do, and eventually the infernal little blackguard gave way and fed me his half-witted tribe’s old campfire yarn.

Apparently there used to be a world of Chaos, the first and only world in the Universe, and people lived there. Some of these people possessed the strange power of being able to create new worlds. And to do this they required any shadow from the world of Chaos.

So these special people were called Dancers in the Shadows. They created thousands of worlds and eventually made so many of them that the world of Chaos had almost no more miraculous living shadows left, and Chaos died. But that’s not the point. If the goblin’s theory is right, then our world was created by one of the Dancers in the Shadows. And the lad was obviously a little crazy—otherwise would our world have turned out to be such a rotten, lousy place?

And as for me, I didn’t feel like any kind of Dancer, no matter how much Kli-Kli harped on about it. Although it would be fun all right, to create a world of my own, where mountains of gold would just appear, and there wouldn’t be any rotten skunks of guards or municipal watchmen. But anyway, there’s nothing I can do about that, because to create new worlds, you need shadows from Chaos.

Ah, darkness! Who can make any sense of these goblin superstitions?

Egrassa suddenly threw his arm up in the air as a signal for us to stop. Another slight gesture—and everyone reached for their weapons. With an arrow already on his bowstring, the elf took a step forward and one to the side in order to let the warriors past him.

The track had led us to a small forest clearing with two bodies in it—a h’san’kor, slit open from the neck to the groin, and a man in a gray cloak who had been torn to pieces. His legs and the lower half of his trunk were lying beside the h’san’kor, and his upper half had been tossed a few dozen yards away.

“Both dead,” Alistan Markauz declared, thrusting his sword back into its scabbard.

“What a stench its innards give off!” Hallas said, making a face and covering his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his shirt.

The gnome was right, the dead h’san’kor stank worse than a hundred corpses decomposing in the heat.

“We-ell now,” Lamplighter drawled, “this lad gutted the beast very neatly. Putting paid to a h’san’kor single-handed sounds like a very tall tale, in fact.…”

“A legend,” put in Eel, who was carefully examining the spot where the fight had taken place. “He put paid to it all right … but look at the signs here.… Egrassa?”

“Yes, he slit its belly open with this.” The elf was holding the stranger’s black spear. “But that still didn’t save him. The mortally wounded monster was still dangerous. Even as it was dying, it was able to tear the man in half.…”

“A blow for a blow,” Eel muttered, studying the flattened grass.

“What do you mean?” asked Milord Alistan.

“They each struck only one blow, milord. You see these marks here on the grass? I’m not Tomcat, but I can read them quite clearly. It was over very quickly. The man stepped forward, struck upward, and spilled out all the flute’s innards.”

“He must have been very agile to do that. He’d have to move as fast as the h’san’kor,” said Deler, refusing to believe what Eel had said. “Men aren’t capable of that.”

“Did you see how fast this man in gray ran past us? And you see what he did to the monster? What more proof do you want, in the name of darkness,” Hallas asked Deler.

“I don’t know,” the dwarf muttered reluctantly. “I just can’t believe it.”

“But it’s true,” Eel continued. “The lad killed the beast all right, but it was the first time he’d come across a h’san’kor, and his ignorance of the monster’s ways was what killed him. He thought he’d struck a fatal blow and he let his guard down. Before the flute died, it had one second to tear its killer in half.”

“Come on, Deler, chop the horns off its head,” said Hallas, thoughtfully stroking the handle of his beloved mattock as he looked at the dead beast.

“What?” asked the dwarf.

“You heard! Is that a battle-ax or a stick in your hands! Chop the horns off the head!”

“Why should I, may the darkness take me?”

“Because! Do you know what a h’san’kor’s horns are worth?”

“No, I’ve never sold any to anyone.”

“There, you see! You’ve never sold any! They’re priceless! Just think how many gold pieces the Order, may it burn in the abyss, will shell out for a wonder like this! Imagine it, we’ll buy a hundred barrels of the finest elfin wine, that Amber Tears, for example.”

“You’ll burst, Hallas,” said Lamplighter, teasing the gnome.

“No, I won’t. I won’t buy it just for myself! We’ll take it to the Lonely Giant, it’s high time we fill our cellars up with some good wine.”

“Wine for the Giant, you say? Well then, let’s give it a try!” Deler spat on his hands and picked up his battle-ax.

“Ah!” Hallas exclaimed regretfully. “We should have grubbed out the first beast’s horns, too!”

“Harold!” Kli-Kli called, indicating the man’s body with his eyes.

“What?” I asked, knowing what the goblin had in mind.

“I want to see his face. Eel, coming with us?”

“Let’s go,” Eel replied curtly.

The man was lying facedown with his arms flung out.

“Harold,” Kli-Kli said warily, “you turn him over.”

“Turn him over yourself.”

“Hey, Mumr,” Eel barked. “Light a torch and get over here!”

“Coming!”

“Harold, the body won’t turn over just because you’re standing there,” said Kli-Kli, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other, as if he had a sudden urge to visit the bushes.

“Let Eel turn him over,” I said, trying to get out of it again.

“I won’t do it, I’m not interested. But at least it’s obvious he’s the same lad the flinny told us about,” said Eel.

Just as soon as there’s any dirty work to be done (say, going down into Hrad Spein to collect the Rainbow Horn, or turning over a dead body) everyone suddenly remembered Harold. Now, why would that be?

I sighed and did as I’d been asked, and just at that moment Lamplighter arrived with the torch.

“What’s all this, never seen a dead man before?” he growled ill-humoredly.

“Bring the torch closer,” Kli-Kli said instead of answering. “Pull back his hood, Harold.”

I did as the goblin said and saw the dead man’s face. This was the last thing I’d been expecting—the warrior was no more than a boy. There was no way he could have been any older than eighteen.

A pale bloodless face, thin bluish lips, chestnut hair sticking to his forehead. A torn gray cloak, a coarse shirt of undyed wool. A thick silver chain hanging down across his chest. And hanging on the chain—a long, smoky-gray crystal.

I leaned down over the dead man, trying to get a closer look at the mysterious stone.

“Kli-Kli, get Egrassa over here, quickly!” Eel suddenly blurted out.

“What for?” the goblin asked in amazement.

“I don’t like this—he was torn in half, but there isn’t a drop of blood anywhere.”

And then the dead man, who only had the top half of his body left, opened his eyes. His hand darted out as fast as a striking snake and grabbed the collar of my jacket.

“You must not … take the Horn … the balance could be … disrupted!”

I tried to break free, but his hand had a strong grip. The gray eyes were looking straight at me, and the young guy’s pupils were no larger than pinheads.

The dead man had come to life! But that wasn’t what really frightened me. The man (and it was a man lying in front of us) had four long, thin white fangs glittering in his mouth.

“Don’t take it … do you hear? The balance…,” he wheezed.

Someone pulled me back hard by the shoulders and the stranger’s hand released its grip.

Kli-Kli yelled for Alistan and Egrassa.

“Are you all right, Harold?” asked Eel.

“Yes,” I said, trying not to let my voice tremble.

The elf came running up.

“What’s happened here?”

“He came to life and grabbed Harold!” Kli-Kli babbled, nodding at the man with a frightened expression.

“Don’t talk bunk, fool,” Milord Alistan said with a frown. “He was torn in half, how could he grab anyone?”

“It’s true, milord,” I said, confirming what Kli-Kli had said, and earning myself a suspicious look from the captain of the guard.

“It’s not so very strange; they’re telling the truth,” said Egrassa, going down on his knees beside the body.

“Careful!” Lamplighter warned him.

“Don’t worry, he’s dead,” said the elf, staring impassively into the stranger’s eyes.

Egrassa was right, the veil of death had clouded the warrior’s eyes and they had a glassy sheen.

“How could he have stayed alive for so long?” asked Alistan Markauz, still unable to believe it.

“That’s easy to explain, look,” said Egrassa.

Without the slightest sign of squeamishness, the elf raised the man’s upper lip. I hadn’t imagined it—the lad really did have thin fangs, like needles.

“That’s incredible,” Milord Alistan exclaimed, stunned.

“But it’s a fact. ”

“In a single night we encounter a h’san’kor and…” Markauz hesitated.

“Why are you so shocked? A vampire, milord. A genuine vampire.”

“Vampires don’t exist!” Hallas snorted contemptuously, twirling one of the flute’s severed horns in his hands. “That’s just a story, like…”

The gnome glanced at the horn and stopped in confusion.

“A story? Then who was it that grabbed hold of me? A ghost?” I asked. My heart was still pounding away furiously.

“Vampires do exist, and if you haven’t seen them, that doesn’t prove anything. That’s why he was able to make such short work of the flute and stay alive until we got here,” said Egrassa, cautiously feeling at the vampire’s fangs.

“Harold, he didn’t bite you, did he?” the dwarf suddenly asked out of the blue.

I automatically raised my hand to my neck.

“No. I’m all right.”

“Milord Alistan, perhaps we ought to … put a stake through this … vampire … to make sure he stays quiet?”

“He’s dead, don’t talk nonsense,” Eel replied instead of Alistan.

“He’s dead now, but what if he suddenly jumps up and starts drinking our blood?”

“Hallas, you’ve heard too many horror stories. Vampires are almost like people, they’re just faster and stronger, and they drink blood. You can kill them with plain ordinary steel, but not with aspen stakes, silver, garlic, or sunlight. All that’s just absolute nonsense, like the idea that a vampire can turn into mist or a bat. All right! Now, what’s this?”

Egrassa had spotted the crystal. He took it off the body and showed it to us.

“Milord?”

“Now this is getting absolutely absurd,” said Alistan, shaking his head.

“What is that thing?” Lamplighter asked, looking at the smoky crystal as if it were a poisonous snake.

“It is the badge of the Order of the Gray Ones,” Eel answered his comrade.

Hallas grunted in shock and amazement. Deler whistled, took off his helmet, and scratched the back of his head.

The Order of the Gray Ones.

I didn’t know much about them. But then, neither did anyone else there. All my knowledge came from hushed conversations in taverns, unconfirmed rumors, and a book that belonged to my teacher For, which devoted one brief passage to the Order of the Gray Ones.

Far away in the Cold Sea there is an island that is known to the common folk as the Island of the Gray Ones. It is protected by magic and no ship can land there if the island’s masters don’t want it to. This little scrap of land got its name because it is where the Order of the Gray Ones made its home.

They say they are great warriors, invincible. They are trained from early childhood, and rumor has it that a single Gray One can take on fifteen experienced soldiers and dispatch them all to the darkness with ease. Of course, every tavern has its own bright spark who has met one of these mysterious warriors in person, and if you pour this bright spark a brimming glass, then he’ll tell you a colorful tale of how the Gray One killed a hundred knights and then defeated a dragon into the bargain.

I don’t know just how much truth there is in all these rumors. But even the most stupid rumor and the most fantastic story are based on at least a tiny grain of truth.

They also say that the Gray Ones are the guardians of equilibrium—the balance—in Siala. They only leave their island when the world is threatened by some really serious danger that could tip the balance in one direction or the other. To put it in simple terms (although this is not quite right), it doesn’t matter to the Gray Ones which way the world is tilting—into good or evil, toward the white side or the dark side.

They maintain the balance and in any particular situation they join the weaker side. When good is winning, they’re on the side of evil; when evil is winning, they’re on the side of good. It’s a matter of indifference to them what goals or ideals you pursue and what it is you want—peace throughout the world or evil throughout the Universe. If you threaten the balance, they will try to persuade you to stop. If persuasion doesn’t work, then … The Gray Ones have a reputation as dangerous warriors and superb magicians, and they will find other ways of changing your mind. The order of mysterious warriors has no ambitions of its own and stands above all sides. It is not white, it is not black.