“We shall pass through Valiostr, cut across the Iselina, and enter the forests from the side of the Border Kingdom,” Miralissa said.
“Those are dangerous parts,” Markauz said with a frown of disapproval. “That’s orc territory.”
“But that is where our nearest entrance to the Palaces of Bone lies; we would have to travel through the Forests of Zagraba for another three weeks to reach the other entrance,” said Miralissa, adjusting a strand of ash- gray hair that had come loose from her tall hairstyle. “So we shall have to take the risk, just as the previous expeditions did.”
Alistan Markauz said nothing, but it would have been obvious to a hedgehog that he was not very pleased at the prospect of making his way to Hrad Spein through the forest of the orcs. Neither was I. My preference would have been to stay at home and drink wine.
“I think that you will reach the goal of your journey in a month. That is, you should arrive during the first days of August,” Artsivus declared.
“That is if there are no unforeseen circumstances,” Stalkon objected.
Everybody understood what kind of unforeseen circumstances he was talking about—the kind that had prevented the first two groups from completing the expedition.
“I hope that everything will go well. And while we are on our expedition, the army will have to be made ready. Not too much hope can be placed in our undertaking.”
Count Alistan was not really all that keen on setting out on the journey. And his reluctance was quite understandable. Not only would he have to pass the time in the company of a thief, he had to leave the king without his protection, too.
“You know that I am already doing everything I can,” Stalkon retorted irritably. “But there are still too few of us anyway. Catastrophically few. What are a few tens of thousands against the countless hordes from the Desolate Lands? King Shargaz has sent us his apologies, but he will not send us a single soldier. All the forces of the Borderland are now beside the Forests of Zagraba; the orcs are running wild. The Border Kingdom is expecting an invasion and they will need every soldier. By the way, Harold, I have heard everything that I wanted to hear from you. You are free to go. I don’t suppose matters of state are of any great interest to you. Kli-Kli, take our guest and show him his room, his things, and all the rest of it.”
Realizing that the conversation was at an end, I got up, bowed, and followed the jester out of the room.
“Follow me, Dancer in the Shadows.” The depth of seriousness in the jester’s voice was ominous.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why?” asked the goblin, peering at me innocently.
“Because I don’t want you to!”
“Oh,” the jester said considerately. “Then I won’t.”
We walked back through the massive throne room and out into the corridors of the palace.
“What would you like to see first? Your temporary quarters or a new friend?”
“What new friend?”
“Come on, I’ll show you.”
I had to walk for quite a long time. First we went out of the building and past the garden, which was now almost empty—the only Wild Heart still there was Loudmouth, already on his fourth dream, if not his fifth.
“Kli-Kli,” I said as we walked along, “these Wild Hearts, where are they from?”
“The Lonely Giant, of course,” the goblin snorted.
“No, I don’t mean that,” I snorted back. “What unit of the Wild Hearts?”
“Oh! Apart from Arnkh, they’re all from the Thorns. Arnkh’s from the Steel Foreheads.”
The Thorns . . . Now I really felt that my skin was safe. And there were any number of stories about the skill of the Thickheads, as the other soldiers called the Steel Foreheads.
Eventually the jester led me to a outbuilding standing quite a long way from the palace. Or to be absolutely precise, the goblin led me straight to the stables. There was a smell of fresh hay and dung (also fresh, as a matter of fact). The horses in the stalls peered out curiously at the uninvited visitors. Every now and then one of them would reach its face out toward us in the hope of getting a treat.
There were about fifty horses here. Elegant Doralissian steeds, imperturbable draft horses, the powerful war horses of Nizina that seemed so terrifying to the ignorant . . .
“Here, let me introduce you,” said the jester, putting his hand on the muzzle of a large ash-colored mare. “This is Little Bee. She’s yours now.”
“Oh, yes?” I asked uncertainly.
“What’s wrong, Harold?” Kli-Kli asked with a frown. “Don’t you like the king’s gift?”
“What makes you think I don’t like it?” I asked, stroking the Nizin breed horse behind the ear when it reached its head out toward me. “I like it very much. It’s just that I’m not very good at riding them.”
“Mmm, all right, I’ll teach you today.”
I gave the jester the same look I would have done if he’d asked me to kiss a poisonous snake.
“Calm down, Harold. I really can help you. It’s fairly simple. Little Bee’s clever, she’s been trained. And what’s more, she’s a war horse, or a war mare, or a steedess. . . . Well, you know what I mean. . . . Here! Give her a treat.”
Kli-Kli took out a huge red apple from somewhere and handed it to me.
