Part 28 (1/2)
”So there you are,” grumbled Uncle, giving the gnome and the dwarf a look of disapproval. ”Where did you get to?”
”We've been having some fun,” said Deler, casually wiping the blade of his poleax on the rag hanging at his belt.
”All right, Vartek!” Izmi shouted from the far end of the hall.
The eight crossbowmen moved forward and the army sklots froze in predatory antic.i.p.ation, ready to spew bolts at the target at the first word of command.
”Hey you!” barked Markauz. His voice sounded m.u.f.fled, coming from under his helmet, which was so much like a rat's head. ”Surrender, and the king promises you a fair trial.”
The reply that followed from the ranks of the Nameless One's supporters advised the king what he could do with his extremely fair trial and where he could stick it. These lads had committed at least three crimes against the crown, and so they had absolutely no grounds to hope for the king's mercy. You could say they were as good as dead already.
Markauz gave a barely perceptible nod, and the sklots all clicked in unison. Eight bolts flew straight through eight enemies. The captain of the guards had no intention of throwing his warriors into a b.l.o.o.d.y battle: he thought it easier to shoot the traitors from a distance.
”Reload!” Vartek commanded loudly.
Resting their crossbows on the ground, the guardsmen set their feet in the stirrups of their weapons and furiously set about winding the mechanism that drew the bowstrings taut.
While the soldiers were making their crossbows ready for action, a man emerged from the ranks of the enemy. Without speaking, he lifted up his arms and slowly turned round his own axis, at the same time swaying from side to side, like a tree battling against a gusty autumn wind. I'd already seen this happen once that night, and it looked to me like we were about to have serious problems. If someone didn't do something during these few seconds, the power of this ogric shamanism would come cras.h.i.+ng down on our heads like a ma.s.sive club.
”Alistan!” I roared. ”They have a shaman!”
The crossbowmen had only just finished tightening their strings and now they were putting in the bolts, but they were too late. Far too late.
I fired. First one bolt, then the other. And I missed. Either my hands were shaking too much, or death had decided to spare the shaman just at that moment, but the bolts went flying wide, with the second one just nicking the sorcerer's gray and blue guards uniform.
We were all saved by some soldier from Izmi's unit who threw his spear. The shaman was either half-witted or lacking in skill, but in any case he was too slow to put up a barrier. The heavy weapon flew the length of the hall like a swallow and struck the sorcerer in the stomach, throwing him backward into the crowd of the Nameless One's supporters.
And that was when it happened.
I don't know why it became active just then-perhaps it was angered by the death of the shaman, or perhaps it had been under the sorcerer's control-but the hall suddenly echoed with a furious roar, and the creature that had been hiding under the black drapery torn down from some wall in the palace pushed aside the last remaining intruders and stood there before us.
”An ogre!” the guardsmen shouted.
Their voices were full of genuine terror.
I stared hard at this creature that I had only ever seen before in pictures. These villains had managed to bring a genuine, live ogre into the palace! A member of a race that had not set foot on the land of Valiostr for thousands of years.
It is hard for the uninformed to believe that an ogre is a distant relative of the orcs and the elves. It is three and a half yards tall, with gla.s.sy, blue-black agate skin and a face in which the only similarity to the elves and orcs lies in the black lips, the huge fangs, and the ash-gray mane of hair.
The little black pupils of the ogre's eyes almost fused into the irises against the background of the light-blue whites. The muzzle, like a wild boar's, and the immense pointed ears, each the size of a large burdock leaf, were repulsive. The ogre had no neck at all, and its head seemed to grow straight out of its shoulders. Its muscles rippled like steel-hard cables across a powerful, square-set body that was clad in the skin of a polar bear. And to add to the list of our problems, the monster was holding a ma.s.sive ax in its hand. With a bit of effort, that notched blade could easily have chopped through the column supporting the facade of the Royal Library.
”Everybody back!” Honeycomb growled. ”Against the walls! You crossbowmen, look lively now!”
The guardsmen all darted aside and started withdrawing into the corridors. The crossbowmen fired another salvo. And as malevolent fate would have it, only one of them hit the target. The bolt slammed into the upper right section of the ogre's chest, forcing it to take a step back and ...
And that was all, actually. The entire effect. According to rumors, these creatures had two hearts, and in order to kill an ogre, you had to destroy both. So what could you expect if the bolt had not even nicked any vital organs? I took a magical bolt out of my bag. It looked as if I was going to use up all my emergency supplies before I even got to Hrad Spein.
”Marmot, from the right! Loudmouth, move in from behind! Now we'll carve up this tough little nut!” Honeycomb was already advancing on the ogre, whirling his terrible ogre-club above his head. The chain connecting the handle and the striking head of the weapon hummed angrily.
Marmot and Loudmouth had already circled round the ogre, clutching their hand-and-a-half swords with both hands. The monster growled, swung round sharply, and struck downward with its ax, aiming for Loudmouth's head. He jumped aside and the ax hurtled down, smas.h.i.+ng the elegant tiles on the floor. Fragments of stone flew in all directions.
Marmot took advantage of the ogre's miss to dart up to it from behind and run his sword across its leg in an apparently casual stroke that severed the tendons below the knee. The ogre immediately thrust the handle of its ax backward and hit the s.h.i.+eld held out by the warrior. The blow was so powerful that Marmot was sent flying and then slid about eight yards across the floor on his back.
”Stikhs!” Hallas swore, clutching his mattock tight in his hands, but he didn't go das.h.i.+ng into the battle, in order not to get in his own men's way.
”Tomcat, lend a hand,” Uncle ordered curtly, and the fat man went bounding forward like a round ball, coming between the stunned Marmot and danger.
Just then the enemies who were still left alive realized that this was their chance, while everybody was busy with the ogre, and they tried to break through to the corridor where Izmi's men were standing. If Alistan's men hadn't dashed to cut them off, ignoring the danger of running into the monster's ax, then the curs would have got away.
A fight broke out in the hall. Only the jester and I were left in the corridor.
”Harold, don't get involved, they'll manage without you,” Kli-Kli suggested.
It was an excellent idea, so I did just that and observed the skirmish from a distance. Meanwhile, the ogre had become really furious. He had only one target-that cursed man with yellow hair who was spinning the heavy ogre-club above his head. Limping on its right leg, the monster flailed the ax about in front of itself like the sails of a windmill, hoping to catch the Wild Heart. The giant Honeycomb, who looked tiny compared to the ogre, waited, drawing all of the ogre's attention to himself.
Then the right moment came. Loudmouth ran in from behind with a crooked grin and slashed his sword across the ogre's other leg, then darted back out of range of the ax. The monstrous beast fell to its knees with a dull groan and Honeycomb's ogre-club slammed into its head, crus.h.i.+ng the bones of its skull.
Loudmouth walked up to the ogre's body and kicked it.
”Yu-uck,” Honeycomb drawled, wiping his sweaty forehead with his sleeve. ”Bringing down one of them takes years off your life!”
”And I hear that from someone who once did away with six of them in a single day?” Loudmouth chuckled. ”Strong, mature ogres, too, not young and green like this one.”
It was all over. Our enemies had been crushed. Tired after their night battle, guardsmen started sitting down on the floor. Not a single supporter of the Nameless One had survived; they had all preferred to die fighting.
”Harold, come on!” the jester cried, wriggling his way between the soldiers like a little fish. He climbed up on the ogre's body. ”Hey, how about this!”
”I'll give you hey!” Lamplighter said, and spat. This time Mumr didn't have his huge bidenhander with him and he had had to fight with an ordinary sword. ”Just what am I doing fighting ogres so far away from the Desolate Lands?”
”Hey there!” Arnkh protested. ”I thought whining was Loudmouth's favorite pastime, not yours. ...”
”We must check all the corridors and every room. Some of the villains might have survived,” the prince said.
”I'll give instructions immediately,” Alistan said with a nod.
I tried not to push myself forward, so that I could slip away as inconspicuously as possible, but I was afraid of going back to my room on my own. What if I ran into someone? It didn't really matter who it was-enemies who had survived or zealous guardsmen, ready to thread anyone on their spears just to rack up the numbers. Then they could figure out later who I was-friend or foe.
”Come on, Harold, we're not appreciated here,” Kli-Kli said, walking over to me.
”And where are we going?”
”We can have a drink at least!”
”Oh, no! I have to be on the road this morning, and I intend to get a bit of sleep first.”
”Ah, you're always such a bore!” the goblin complained, but even so he tagged along to see me to the door.