Free Shadow Chaser by Alexey Pehov Page A

had not blessed with the gift of generosity.
    “But I am,” the beggar said with a tragic sigh. “I spent ten years wandering the deserts of the distant Sultanate, and I left all my strength and my fortune behind in the sand.”
    “Right,” Deler chortled mistrustfully. “In the Sultanate! I don’t think you’ve ever been more than ten yards away from the walls of Ranneng.”
    “I’ve got proof,” said the old man. He was swaying on his feet a bit; he’d obviously already taken a good skinful that day. “Look!”
    With a theatrical gesture the old man pulled something from under his old patched cloak, something that looked a bit like a finger, only it was three times bigger and it was green, and it had thorns on it, and it was in a small flowerpot.
    “What kind of beast is that?” Deler asked, moving back warily to a safe distance from this strange object.
    “Ah, these young people,” said the old man, shaking his head. “Haven’t been taught a thing. It’s a cactus!”
    “And just what sort of cactus is that?” the dwarf asked.
    “The absolutely genuine kind! The rare flower of the desert, with healing properties, and it blossoms once every hundred years.”
    “What a load of nonsense!” Arnkh pronounced after inspecting the rare flower of the desert suspiciously.
    “Aw, come on, buy grandpa some beer,” good-natured Lamplighter put in.
    “And not just grandpa,” Hallas muttered, opening his eyes. “Me, too! Only not beer, but that stuff I was drinking already. My tooth’s started aching again!”
    “Go to sleep!” Deler hissed at the gnome. “You’ve had enough for today.”
    “Aha!” the gnome snorted. “Sure! Some old-timer can have a drink, but I can’t! I’m going to get up and get it for myself.”
    “How can you get up, Hallas? Your legs won’t hold you.”
    “Oh yes they will!” the gnome protested. He moved his chair and stood up. “See!”
    He was swaying quite noticeably from side to side, which made him look like a sailor during a raging storm at sea.
    Hallas took a couple of uncertain steps and bumped into a Doralissian who was carrying a mug full of krudr back to his table; the entire drink spilled on the goat-man’s chest.
    The bearded drunk glanced up at the Doralissian towering over him, smiled sweetly, and said what you should never say to any member of the Doralissian race: “Hello there, goat! How’s life?”
    On hearing what his people regard as the deadliest of insults (the word “goat”), the Doralissian didn’t hold back: He socked the gnome hard in the teeth.
    When Deler saw somebody else hit his friend, he howled, grabbed a chair, and smashed it against the Doralissian’s head. The Doralissian collapsed as if his legs had been scythed away.
    “Mumr, give me a hand!” said Deler, grabbing the goat-man under the arms.
    Lamplighter rushed to help him. They lifted up the unconscious Doralissian and on the count of three launched him on a long-distance flight to the chasseurs’ table.
    The soldiers accepted this gift with wide-open arms and immediately dispatched it homeward, to the table where several rather angry goat-men were already getting to their feet. The Heartless Chasseurs didn’t have as much experience as Deler and Lamplighter in the launching of unconscious bodies, so the Doralissian fell short of the target and came crashing down on the stonemasons. That seemed to be just what they had been waiting for. They jumped to their feet and went dashing at the chasseurs, fists at the ready. The Doralissians ignored the brawl between the soldiers and the masons and attacked us.
    Kli-Kli squealed and dived under the table. Knowing the incredible strength possessed by the mistake of the gods that is known as a goat-man, I grabbed the legendary cactus plant off the table and threw it into the face of the nearest attacker. The owner of the cactus and my target both cried out at the same time. One in outrage, the other in pain. The old-timer dashed