wise, truthful, just, and chivalrous. In real life . . .
In real life anyone who knew no better could take an elf from the forests of Zagraba and I’alyala for an orc. Because the fairy-tale beauty of the elves lauded to the heavens by drunken storytellers in the taverns simply doesn’t exist.
Well of course, there are some attractive faces even among this race, but they’re certainly no paragon of beauty. Elves look like people, except for their swarthy skin, yellow eyes, black lips, and ash-gray hair. And those protruding fangs put a real scare into the unsophisticated philistine and the lover of old wives’ tales.
Don’t believe in the kindheartedness of the elves. One day, if you are unlucky, you may be present at an elfin torture session, when they apply the Green Leaf to their closest relatives, the orcs.
That’s right. Orcs and elves appeared in Siala in the very same year. But the orcs arrived here just a little before the elves, for which the ashen-haired ones can never forgive them. And, apart from the ogres, the elves and the orcs were the first to be brought to Siala by the gods. The race of orcs was granted pride and fury, and the elves cunning and guile. But both of them received yet another gift—hatred. To this day they still make war, slaying each other in large numbers in the thousands upon thousands of bloody battles that take place in the boundless Forests of Zagraba.
The gnomes and the dwarves, Doralissians and men, centaurs and giants, and the multitude of other races that inhabit Siala only appeared later. But the first arrivals were the unsuccessful children—the orcs and elves. Afterward the elves divided into dark and light, although the only difference between them is that the dark elves employ shamanism, and the light elves use wizardry.
The dark and light elves are not hostile to each other; they simply regard each other with a considerable degree of contempt. Even now the dark elves cannot understand why their relatives use an alien magic, not original to their race. About two thousand years ago they found themselves unable to live together, and so they separated. The dark elves remained in the Forests of Zagraba, while the light elves moved away to the Forests of I’alyala, which lie beside the Crest of the World.
“Allow me to introduce you, Harold,” said the king, indicating the elfess. “This is Lady Miralissa from the House of the Black Moon.”
I bowed with restraint. A name with the ending
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, milady.”
“Likewise.”
“The pleasantries can wait,” the king declared. “We have very little time and you, Harold, will have to help us.”
“To stop the Nameless One?” I asked skeptically.
If that’s it, then the king or his advisers really have lost their grip.
“Yes,” said the archmagician.
Then everybody in this room is definitely deranged!
Alistan was observing me closely, trying to discover any sign of mockery of his king. I refrained. It was hard, certainly, but I refrained. The jester didn’t, though. The goblin burst into laughter and fell on the carpet, clutching at his stomach.
“The life of the kingdom is in the hands of a thief! Watch out that he doesn’t filch it!”
I personally didn’t find that at all funny.
“Quiet, Kli-Kli,” Alistan said sternly, keeping his eyes fixed intently on me.
“All right, I hold my tongue, I repent, I die.” The goblin flung his arms out in a tragic gesture.
“Of course, I am flattered by such an honor,” I began cautiously, trying not to provoke the lunatics. “But does it not seem to you that I have rather less power and experience than the Order and the Wild Hearts, and it will be rather difficult to stop this wizard single-handedly?”
The goblin tittered and collapsed onto the carpet again. “Oh, Harold!” said the jester, wiping away genuine tears. “Not only are you clever and bold, you are cocksure, too.”
“Then what does my task consist of, Your Majesty?” I carried on playing the fool, waiting for the moment when they might let me go.
And then I’ll run for it. I don’t give a damn where, anywhere will do, even the Sultanate, just as long as it’s as far away as possible. To lands where there are no insane kings, crazy jesters, and senile geriatric wizards.
“We need the Rainbow Horn,” the elfess said. “It is the only thing that can halt the Nameless One. I fear that even the army will not be able to stand against the full battle host of the Desolate Lands.”
“The Rainbow Horn?” I echoed stupidly. “What has it got to do with this?”
“I have already explained,” Artsivus said with a frown of annoyance. “Is your fear beginning to affect your hearing?”
“Understand this, Harold. The magic of the ogres is not ideal and in many ways it is crude, even though it is very powerful, but the law of equilibrium . . .” The elfess pursed her black lips ironically, exposing her fangs even more. And still she possessed an exotic beauty. “As time passes, the Horn loses its magical properties. It has to be . . .”
“Reactivated,” the archmagician prompted, staring into the flames that were merrily consuming the wood in the hearth.
“Yes, magically charged after a certain period of time. Otherwise nothing will remain of its special properties. The Horn is weakening at this moment, that is why the Nameless One has begun to stir beyond the Needles of Ice. We need you to get the artifact for the Order.”
“You mean you don’t have it?” I asked, astounded.
