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Authors: Alexey Pehov
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something the Walkers could do.
He was riding slowly down the town’s only street when three riders appeared from beyond a turn and made their way toward him. He remained calm. The soldiers rode by him slowly, disinterestedly glancing at the emblem of one of the Nabatorian companies sewn into his cloak, and went on their way without saying a word.
That worked out quite well.
All at once, the citadel emerged from the shroud of rain. Four of the six towers were in ruins and the Wings were flung wide open. Until this moment Ga-Nor hadn’t really entertained the notion that the Gates could really have fallen. He could not imagine how this happened. Who was to blame for such a blunder? Who was responsible for the fact that the enemy had entered the lands of the Empire?
“Hey, you!”
He pulled at the bridle and turned around. Two men with crossbows were standing in the road.
“Are you from the tower?”
Ga-Nor couldn’t deny that, so he nodded.
“With a message for the commander?”
He nodded again. One of the Nabatorian soldiers frowned.
“Why so shy, friend?”
“Would you feel like chatting after bumping along for an hour in the rain?”
Ga-Nor tried to soften out his hard “r,” which would give him away as a native of the north.
“Well, all right. On with you.”
He thanked Ug that the war dogs hadn’t bothered to peek under his cloak. There’s no way he could explain away his red hair. Redheads are a rarity in Nabator, where almost everyone is swarthy and black-haired.
It would be smart to turn back while he still could. The mountains were vast; he could easily hide himself there. But it would be even better to head west. Sooner or later he’d reach the Golden Mark, and from there he could reach the Empire by sea. But … There they were, the Wings. Five more minutes and he’d already be home.
Ga-Nor came to a decision.
At the turn they tried to stop him but he hollered, dug his heels into the horse’s sides, and, not paying any heed to the outraged cries behind him, galloped through the inner courtyard. He trampled an idiot who didn’t have time to jump aside, hacked away at a fumbling halberdier with his sword, and then passed through the gate of the Viceroy into the lands of the Empire.
Horns sounded behind his back.
4
Vzzzzzick … Vzzzzzick … Vzzzzzick …
The whetstone scraped repulsively along the knife’s edge. Whip watched Midge’s daily ritual incredulously. He thought there was no point in such activity, and that the stunted assassin was merely expending time and energy for nothing.
“Aren’t you bored of that yet?”
“Why? You think it’s sharp enough?”
“Sharp enough?” said Whip indignantly. “That’s all you’ve been doing since we left Al’sgara. Soon you’ll be able to carve stone like butter.”
“Is that really a bad thing? And anyway, you’re exaggerating like always. You can’t even shave with it. Here, look.”
As proof, Midge tested the knife on a lock of his own hair, which was instantly shortened by an inch.
“Oh,” said the man, looking at his reflection in the knife with dismay. “It seems it really is sharp enough.”
Shen came in from the street. Midge caught sight of him and picked up his whetstone once more. Glaring wickedly at Mols’s young protégé, Midge once again began sharpening his knife, which still emitted that repulsive sound, much to Whip’s dismay.
“Where’d you lose Bamut?”
“He’s following our friend, while Midge here screws around.”
“It’s curious that you left him. You get bored, little boy?” replied the runt. Whip scowled.
These two just wouldn’t leave each other be. He tried not to pair them up, but what else could he do? Put them on opposite ends of the village? Ah, thanks, Mols! You did me a bad turn, make no mistake!
“Enough!” growled Whip, running out of patience. “I told you yesterday—if you wish to draw each other’s blood, you have to wait until after the
He was riding slowly down the town’s only street when three riders appeared from beyond a turn and made their way toward him. He remained calm. The soldiers rode by him slowly, disinterestedly glancing at the emblem of one of the Nabatorian companies sewn into his cloak, and went on their way without saying a word.
That worked out quite well.
All at once, the citadel emerged from the shroud of rain. Four of the six towers were in ruins and the Wings were flung wide open. Until this moment Ga-Nor hadn’t really entertained the notion that the Gates could really have fallen. He could not imagine how this happened. Who was to blame for such a blunder? Who was responsible for the fact that the enemy had entered the lands of the Empire?
“Hey, you!”
He pulled at the bridle and turned around. Two men with crossbows were standing in the road.
“Are you from the tower?”
Ga-Nor couldn’t deny that, so he nodded.
“With a message for the commander?”
He nodded again. One of the Nabatorian soldiers frowned.
“Why so shy, friend?”
“Would you feel like chatting after bumping along for an hour in the rain?”
Ga-Nor tried to soften out his hard “r,” which would give him away as a native of the north.
“Well, all right. On with you.”
He thanked Ug that the war dogs hadn’t bothered to peek under his cloak. There’s no way he could explain away his red hair. Redheads are a rarity in Nabator, where almost everyone is swarthy and black-haired.
It would be smart to turn back while he still could. The mountains were vast; he could easily hide himself there. But it would be even better to head west. Sooner or later he’d reach the Golden Mark, and from there he could reach the Empire by sea. But … There they were, the Wings. Five more minutes and he’d already be home.
Ga-Nor came to a decision.
At the turn they tried to stop him but he hollered, dug his heels into the horse’s sides, and, not paying any heed to the outraged cries behind him, galloped through the inner courtyard. He trampled an idiot who didn’t have time to jump aside, hacked away at a fumbling halberdier with his sword, and then passed through the gate of the Viceroy into the lands of the Empire.
Horns sounded behind his back.
4
Vzzzzzick … Vzzzzzick … Vzzzzzick …
The whetstone scraped repulsively along the knife’s edge. Whip watched Midge’s daily ritual incredulously. He thought there was no point in such activity, and that the stunted assassin was merely expending time and energy for nothing.
“Aren’t you bored of that yet?”
“Why? You think it’s sharp enough?”
“Sharp enough?” said Whip indignantly. “That’s all you’ve been doing since we left Al’sgara. Soon you’ll be able to carve stone like butter.”
“Is that really a bad thing? And anyway, you’re exaggerating like always. You can’t even shave with it. Here, look.”
As proof, Midge tested the knife on a lock of his own hair, which was instantly shortened by an inch.
“Oh,” said the man, looking at his reflection in the knife with dismay. “It seems it really is sharp enough.”
Shen came in from the street. Midge caught sight of him and picked up his whetstone once more. Glaring wickedly at Mols’s young protégé, Midge once again began sharpening his knife, which still emitted that repulsive sound, much to Whip’s dismay.
“Where’d you lose Bamut?”
“He’s following our friend, while Midge here screws around.”
“It’s curious that you left him. You get bored, little boy?” replied the runt. Whip scowled.
These two just wouldn’t leave each other be. He tried not to pair them up, but what else could he do? Put them on opposite ends of the village? Ah, thanks, Mols! You did me a bad turn, make no mistake!
“Enough!” growled Whip, running out of patience. “I told you yesterday—if you wish to draw each other’s blood, you have to wait until after the
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