“Where did you get all your brains from, Kli-Kli?”
“From my grandfather, he was a shaman.”
“Yes, so you’ve told me a hundred times. So you think that whoever was plotting against us will simmer down now?”
“Why?”
“Well, you just said that the shamanism didn’t work.”
“If it didn’t work the first time, it will the second,” the goblin said with a shrug. “Working magic’s no problem for these lads, they’ll send some terrible monster with big teeth after us and then just disappear, as if they’d never even existed. The job’s done, their Master’s instructions have been carried out, they can hide away until the Nameless One comes out from behind the Needles of Ice.”
“They don’t have long to wait.”
“That’s what I’m saying. We need to get to Hrad Spein as quickly as possible and spoil the Nameless One’s mood for another five hundred years or so.”
Hallas came up to us.
“Listen, lads,” said the gnome, taking his pipe out of his mouth and blowing smoke rings. “It’s time to wake everyone up, or they’ll sleep until the coming of the Nameless One.”
“Well, let’s wake them up then,” said the jester, jumping to his feet and completely forgetting all his worries. “Don’t happen to have a bucket of cold water handy, do you?”
The complete absence of wind promised a very hot day. Almost as hot as the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that, and . . . I could carry on for a long time.
No one was particularly surprised when at noon we found ourselves roasting in a charming oven.
I personally always anticipated that time of day with a shudder. Neither a wet rag nor the goblin’s jokes and jingles were any help. But even so, everyone listened to the jokes and even laughed. Kli-Kli really pulled out all the stops in his efforts to demonstrate the skills of a royal court jester.
The group was complete once again and, despite the heat, we were in an exceptionally good mood . . . even me. Only every now and then a shadow of anxiety ran across Miralissa’s face. Once, as I drew level with the elfess’s horse, I heard a snatch of her conversation with Egrassa. She was still concerned about the shamans cooking up something horrible in their pots far behind us. From what she said it seemed that they wouldn’t rest until they had completed their sorcery.
I trusted the elfess’s intuition completely. The Nameless One’s minions could send some kind of filthy garbage crashing down on our heads at any moment. As they say, the laws of universal beastliness always take effect just when you’re not expecting anything.
That was why, to keep my nerves nice and calm, I kept glancing sideways at Tomcat in case he sensed anything in advance. But the overweight Wild Heart and failed magician of the Order remained serenely calm, even cheerful. And so the uneasy feeling that had overcome me gradually eased.
Hargan’s Wasteland was a welter of tall grass and low tangles of heather. Sometimes the narrow line of the path was completely hidden under the grassy covering. Our ears were set buzzing by the chirring of thousands of crickets. When we rode into particularly thick grass the gray-green trilling insects cascaded out from under the hooves of the horses, complaining at our invasion of their kingdom.
After a while, we made our way between massive boulders of black granite, each the size of a small house, and came upon a rickety old hut. Honeycomb said that the scythe men who made the winter hay for the surrounding villages spent the nights in it. The long rows of mown hay lying across the grassy meadows confirmed what he had said.
“It’s a long way to the next village; how long will they have to cart it?” Uncle asked in surprise.
“This is the best grass in the whole district. They come here from twenty leagues away,” said Honeycomb. “And the scythe men come for the whole summer. There’s plenty of hay for everyone and to spare.”
“But no cart will get through here. Look how far they have to drive from the road. Half a day at the least,” Uncle protested.
“Ah, it’s plain to see that you’re no country boy.”
“You’re the country boy here, graybeard. I spent all my young days in Maiding,” said Uncle.
An hour after that, when the track completely disappeared and our group had to advance through the meadows of grass and mazes of bushes without being able to see the way, Loudmouth spotted a large herd of cows, about two hundred head. The animals were solemnly browsing on the juicy grass, flicking their tails lazily to drive away the buzzing clouds of midges hovering around them. We were seen, and a dozen shaggy, black-and- white herdsmen’s dogs came dashing over, barking at the uninvited travelers.
Arnkh hissed through his teeth and reached for his crossbow, but a sharp whistle rang out across the meadow and the dogs ran back, growling in annoyance. Only the largest of them, no doubt the leader, stopped not far away from us and began observing our group with cautious interest.
“Just look at the way that beast is watching us,” Deler muttered.
“Didn’t you know they feed on dwarves?” Hallas chuckled, earning himself a dark look from his partner.
“You’ll open your mouth once too often someday, longbeard. I’ll take my favorite chair and belt you.”
The gnome didn’t even feel it necessary to respond.
The herdsman who had called off the dogs was also observing us, shading his eyes against the sun with one hand. He stared as if he was watching some kind of marvel, as if we were no ordinary horsemen riding by, but the twelve gods of Siala with the Nameless One in tow. The boy herdsman standing beside his older comrade had his mouth open so wide I felt afraid one or two hundred flies would go flying in.
